Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 65

Farren paused in the little sliver of light glimmering through the door to Linder's room. Inside, she did not hear the peaceful breaths or soft snores of someone fast asleep after a long, tiring day, as the way it should have been.

Before she raised her fist to knock however, the door swung open a crack by itself and Linder peered down at her.

The tired smile he gave her reached even his ever-exhausted eyes. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, the adorable sort when one tried hard to ward off sleep. "Still awake?"

"No?" said Farren. "I sleepwalk."

He blinked slowly. "You know...I don't get paid enough to deal with this. I should ask Commander Del for a raise."

"Ask for a year-long break from all this mess while you're at it," she said, raising her eyes to his weary, shadowed ones. "You need it."

"We both do, I believe." He gave her a grin, the saddening kind which held no mirth, given only to fill the silence.

He reached out and took her hand in his, thumb rubbing gentle circles on her wrist, his touch cold against hers--an alien feeling, for he was almost always in his armour, hands covered in gloves and cloak billowing.

She looked up. The man before her now, unarmed, in a plain white shirt and breeches, dark hair down and mussed, seemed so far from her usual image of him, yet more within reach than the armoured sword-wielder.

Farren did not notice herself stepping forward, nor did she see the door swing wide open and click shut behind her. The squealing of rusty hinges, wood slamming into a rickety door-frame, a slender yet strong arm snug around her waist and the scent of coffee were all that flooded her senses the next moment.

He held her in his arms.

He held her close and he meant it.

This was no game played in stable roofs and dark alleys, leaning away from kisses never supposed to mean anything, stolen glances and suggestive remarks passed only in jest. No, this was something real, real like the bruises on her wrists from the shackles, real like the crisp chill in the air and the cold stone floor beneath her bare feet. Real.

It unnerved her a little.

She buried her face in his chest, taking in the fresh smell of sun-warmed linen, and the steady rise and fall of his breaths.

"I would ask if you missed me, but that's pointless. It's hard not to, eh?" she said, for a moment longer in a silent embrace--and things would get rather sappy and mushy and generally too sentimental--which was anathema to Farren Clearstrike. "Am I right?"

"Gods, why can't you ever stay out of trouble?" he murmured into her shoulder, his cheeks coarse from a day-old stubble, arms holding onto her as though for dear life.

Moments passed in silence, a thousand unspoken words conveyed nonetheless--until she shivered as a cool draught whistled through the cracks of the windows. Winter's silver talons cut across the lands only deeper each day, the faint signs of spring obliterated long past. The fire in the grate had gone out, smoke fizzling out from embers. He broke the hug and looked at her with concern.

"How selfish of me to keep you standing in the cold," he said, gesturing at the blankets piled atop the straw-mattress. "Let's get us warmed up."

Farren smirked, a hand already reaching to loosen the knot holding the neck of her shirt aloft. "Never knew you were one for innuendos. Hidden depths, I suppose..."

His arms were still snug around her waist, eyes boring into hers in a hooded gaze from which she could glean that the plan of fleeing the tiresome reality, just for a night, was not on her mind alone.