Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 30

The light of dawn filtered through the curtains and fell in dusty beams across the little upstairs bedroom. Farren turned with a rustle of sheets and buried her face in a patchwork quilt, inhaling its fresh, sunny smell. With bleary eyes, she took in the interior of her room on the upper floor of their little two-storied house at Fallmead. Home.

The ceiling was sloped, not unlike an attic; there wasn't much in the way of furniture except for a bed, a desk and a wardrobe. In a corner sat a forlorn rag doll, collecting dust on its smiling face. That was one of the few things she'd been able to take with her from Larton.

She closed her eyes. Those were simpler times, when all she needed to worry about was taking care of her toys.

The detour from Byton to Fallmead had been a tiring journey, yet every moment of it was worth seeing the surprise on Finnian's face when she'd turned up on the doorstep in the dead of the night.

"Farren?" There he'd stood in an oversized shirt that once belonged to Father, his hair a mess and eyes wide.

Farren took the moment of disbelief to take in his appearance. His features, although strikingly similar to her own, resembled Mother more in his longer nose and icy blue eyes. He stood nearly a foot taller than her. His chestnut hair had gotten longer, nearly reaching his shoulders.

"I'm home," she said.

Farren tried to muster up a smile, but tears stung her eyes instead. Before she could decide whether to hide them or burst into wails, he had pulled her into a hug.

"Rhilio's mercy, we heard something had happened in Kinallen-- another raid. Gran's worried sick," he said, "I wrote to you, but you never answered."

"Please don't tell me you sent the letters via the Dark Saints too."

"Well, yes. That's the best one there is," said Finnian. "Ain't it?"

Farren let out a laugh, wiping what remained of the tears. "You might as well tie your letters to Bessy's bell and she'll deliver them with more responsibility."

From the barn across the fence, Bessy let out an affirmative moo.

Once inside, Farren inhaled the familiar smell of home. Woodsmoke, warm bread and an earthly smell of old floorboards that now resided permanently beneath a thin layer of flour ever since Finnian had found his passion in baking.

He'd set up an oven rather hastily, although not even half of that enthusiasm had gone into cleaning the mess that came with baking. Farren's room upstairs was no better than the ground floor. The flour had seeped in through the cracks in the flooring, all looking as though coated with snow.

"I'm surprised Gran hasn't kicked you out yet," Farren said, raising clouds of flour with every step she took.

"But she does make sure to threaten me ten times a day," said Finnian with a broad grin, "but let's be honest. No one wants a master baker like me wandering the streets, homeless. Think of all the talent that would go to waste."

"Think of all the flour that we gotta breathe in because you can't be bothered to clean up," said old Mrs. Clearstrike as she ambled out of her room, a grey shawl draped across her shoulders, her silver hair in a bun.

She turned to Farren, an annoyed expression painted across her beautiful, lined face. "And you, girl, can't be bothered to send a word back home, can you? No letters for months, then dropping in the middle of night like that!" She pulled her in a hug nonetheless.

"Good evening to you too," said Farren, throwing her arms around Gran.

Hours slipped by like seconds as they talked, Farren stretched out on the armchair before the hearth, a warm mug of tea clutched in hand. Knowing the inevitable turn their conversation might take, Farren tactfully glossed over the events of the past few days, including the reason for her journey to Byton-- after all, what good was there in worrying them about things they couldn't help control?