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Balor hasn’t seen Gwen all day.
It’s not particularly cause for any concern. She’s not due to help him with his deliveries today, nor is she one to frequent the town very often, even despite her mission to engage more with the locals. If anything, her tentative, newfound camaraderie with Terithia has taken her further away from the town. He’ll often spy the pair sitting out on the docks as the older woman regales the younger with tales of adventure. Sans fishing rods, he’s noticed – Gwen tends to leave Terithia alone on days when she has her line cast out to sea – but otherwise she seems content in the elder’s presence, be it to talk or to learn how to play various card games over the evening sunlit sand.
“She’s a real shark, once she’s picked up the rules. I don’t let her handle the deck anymore,” Terithia confessed to him, one Friday night over ale and poker. She said this moments before belting that hearty laugh of hers that always carries up into the rafters of the inn, and revealing her hand: a full house. “Not as good as me, though!”
She gutted the wallets of everyone at the table, that night.
No, he’s not concerned about Gwen, necessarily. No more than is standard, anyway. It’s hard not to maintain a baseline minimum when he frequently finds her camouflaged in the bushes for the umpteenth hour in a row, well into the colder nights, patiently staking out some rare insect whose name eludes him. Or when he catches her staggering past his wagon on her way to the mines as he’s setting up shop, long before sunrise, even though she’s littered in cuts and bruises from the previous day’s forays and sporting some mean eyebags from doubtless too little sleep.
Or when she admits to being hunted by her past, sat on the dimly-lit floor of his room with his stolen keys and a pair of well-worn lockpicks.
Balor, and the whole town, hold some consistent level of perturbation for the new farmer, who, in two whole seasons, has mastered the art of growing potatoes, cucumbers, and very little else. In fact, she appears more adept at killing her crops than she does nurturing them, if the rows of withered stalks crumpling in front of her house are anything to go by.
None of these events are at the forefront of his mind, however. Today, he’s more preoccupied with the Shooting Star Festival, and whether she’s even aware of its existence.
Apparently, Elsie had pottered down to the farm that morning to extend the invitation, but she’d returned to the inn with a shake of her head and a pensive frown.
“There was no one home, so I wrapped the brooch up with a note and popped it in her postbox,” she explained over breakfast at the counter, “I do so hope she’ll join in on the festivities, tonight. It’s such a romantic night – it’s a shame to only see it once a year.”
“Makes it all the more special though, right?” Hemlock placed a cup of tea down in front of her, its jasmine aroma as delicate as the teacup itself. “Maybe she’ll even bring the brooch a certain someone’s way.”
And then he winked at Balor.
Now, for the more senior folk in Mistria, gossip is a favoured pastime – even the slightest shakeup in the town will have them chomping at the bit with heated discussion, conspiracies abound and playful teasing. They’ve got to make the most of what they have, after all – even if all they have at present is a few weeks’ worth of Balor and Gwen’s Monday deliveries.
He can’t say he wasn’t expecting the insinuation. This is far from the first unsubtle nudge this season. He pastes on a smile. “Only time will tell.”
In truth, he’s considered it, once or twice before. Just a fleeting fancy, here and there, in times of weakness when he allows himself the fantasy of being able to put down roots. Of not constantly moving, hustling, and going to sleep with a dagger underneath his pillow each night.
Gwen is… straightforward. That she could divulge to him so readily such a private reason for invading his privacy – it’s so starkly unlike the verbal dance to which he’s learnt all the steps. She challenges him directly, when she probes for any and all personal details he’s willing to give. She’s quietly passionate about her interests, and he can’t help but be suckered in whenever she starts explaining, in her curt, matter-of-fact manner he’s becoming used to, the insects she’s found that day and their various quirks. And, well. He’s never been one to turn down an intriguing mystery.
All this to say, he's self-aware enough to know when he’s developing an interest. But that’s where it must end. It would be reckless and unfair to act on it, to rope her into his mess. To make her a potential target.
Being able to call her his friend is, and will be, enough. He can allow himself that much.
Putting her out of his mind is easier said than done, however. All throughout the day, and into the evening, he finds himself on the lookout, in case he spots a flash of tattered dungarees or blonde, leaf-knotted curls. Elsie is right: it would be an awful shame to miss out on the shooting stars.
It’s how he finds himself sat on the blanket alongside Hayden, Valen and Juniper, absentmindedly petting Dozy, unable to squash the nagging thought inside his head. Does she know? Or is she busy digging away in the mines, blissfully unaware?
Clearly, he needs something to take his mind off this. Maybe he’ll take a walk. Just a circuit of the area. Mistria’s a small town – he already has the patrol route planned out and he’ll have cleared it before the night’s even truly begun. With that in mind, he reluctantly withdraws his hand from Dozy’s buttery soft fur and stands up.
“Going somewhere?” Juniper asks, eyebrow raised.
He gives her an innocent grin. “Just off to stretch my legs! I shan’t be long.”
Her flat look tells him exactly what she thinks of his response. “Worried I might be scaring off your little business partner?”
She’s not… entirely wrong. In all the shifts Gwen’s ever worked with him, Juniper’s bathhouse is the one building she’s refused to step foot into. If they ever spot the woman herself waltzing through town or approaching Balor’s wagon, Gwen will duck behind his counter. When pressed about it, the farmer will only say to him: “I don’t want to explain.”
And for all the times she challenges him, she does back off when he starts employing evasive strategies, so he extends her the same courtesy. It helps maintain their status as friends, and nothing more.
He knows better than to feign ignorance with Juniper – especially when she already has him figured out. “You are quite the terrifying force to be reckoned with, Juniper.”
She titters, covering the sound with a coy hand. Then, her eyes sharpen. “Aren’t you curious why it is that she avoids me?”
“Do you mean to say that you know?”
“Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool?” Then, in yet another change of tone that gives Balor whiplash, she brightens back up. “That’s a matter that stays between me and the silly girl, however.”
Valen saves him the trouble of taking the bait. “Why did you bring it up to begin with, then?”
“So I could bask in the pleasure of shutting him down, obviously.”
He barely resists rolling his eyes. “Valen, Hayden–” he skips over the witch to nod at her much more preferable companion, “Dozy. I shall see you all shortly.”
Juniper shoos him away, unphased. “Tell her, if you like, that when she hides from me, it only makes her stand out more.”
As he walks away, he wonders if her parting words are meant just as much a warning for him as they are for her. Careful getting involved with her.
Alternatively, she just being petty because he won’t reveal his witchroot sources. It’s the far more likely option.
To his surprise, it doesn’t take nearly as long as he expected to run into Gwen. His first stop, her own farm, reveals her lying flat on her back on the soil, next to the ancient dragon statue she and Eiland unearthed in her first few days here. Her eyes are trained on the sky, so she must be aware of the event after all.
“Gwen?” he calls.
Without looking his way, she raises her arm in greeting, then drops it back to the ground. So be it, then. He goes to her, careful not to block all of her view when he leans over her form. “I take it you received Elsie’s missive about the festival?”
She raises her other hand – this one fisted around a letter. “The stars are very pretty.”
“You’d be very welcome to join us in town, you know, rather than lie here on your own.”
“I’m not on my own. I’m with Caldarus.”
He gives her farm another cursory assessment. They are decidedly the only people here. “Caldarus?”
She waves a hand lazily at the statue, as if it’s obvious. “Caldarus.”
He mentally increases the Gwen concern meter by a few notches, and then takes a seat next to her, careful not to sit on his cloak. “Right. I hope you and Caldarus don’t mind a third, then.”
“Sure.” It doesn’t seem to occur to her to be concerned about whatever plans for the evening he might’ve had prior. He’ll certainly be grilled by the entire town about his change of plans tomorrow, but at least he’ll be saved from one by his present company tonight.
He realises that sitting back and craning his neck is less than comfortable, so he adjusts to lie back next to her. The earth is cool against his back, as Gwen’s neglected to lay out a blanket. He’s no stranger to roughing it, however, so he settles in for the ride. The odd streak of light splashes across the night sky’s canvas every so often, but the night is still young; if it’s anything like the previous years, the real show has yet to begin.
Before he can stop himself, he glances at his companion. Then, all while internally berating himself, he forces his gaze away. It lands on her sword instead, chucked haphazardly and unsheathed into the grass a few feet away. “Did you have a productive day in the mines?”
“Depends what you consider productive,” she says, attempting to roll her shoulders and meeting resistance from the ground they lie flat against. “I got chased out by a sentient, murder-hungry rock. But I also found this.”
She shifts onto her side, angling to face him, and shows him her gently cupped hands. Inside, predictably, is a bug. It has… legs. So many spindly legs. It’s using every single one of them to scuttle its long, stripey body round in leisurely concentric circles in her palms.
He shudders. “I must say, this is a particularly… grotesque one. Have you found out what it is?”
The mines bugs are new territory, for Gwen. He still remembers the first time she brought him a bug completely unknown to herself – copper-coloured, with a disconcerting antler-esque little horn. He’d granted it the polite amount of attention, but his eyes had been drawn more towards its holder, buzzing with uncontained excitement and eyes shining. Typically, her expression is blank by default and often still blank by exception, but a small upturn had quirked her lips, and he’d wanted to imprint the sight into his memory.
That was the day he first became aware of some feelings he couldn’t afford to nurture.
His revelation aside, he’d directed her to Errol’s museum, where the man keeps any and all books and research notes on the mines. Ever since then, it’s been her first port of call the moment she discovers a new minibeast.
But tonight she shakes her head, folding the bug and all of its wriggly legs back into her dungarees pocket. “Haven’t checked yet. I came home, then got distracted by the stars.”
She rolls to her original position on her back, as if to emphasise this – and then winces. Balor’s tense in an instant. “Are you alright?”
“Peachy,” she replies, carefully monotone in the way she becomes whenever the topic of Juniper is brought up. He sits up to assess her. She follows suit, adjusting her legs in the process, and he manages to catch sight of the problem just before she can pull it out of view. Her right ankle is bruised and swollen. If it hadn’t been for the cover of night, it would’ve caught his attention from the beginning.
The puzzle pieces click together. “You skipped visiting the museum and came straight home because of your ankle, I presume?”
As if it’s not already too late, she twists the ankle even further behind her. She watches him warily, unspeaking. He sighs. “May I see the injury?”
She straightens her back, shielding it. Her next words are spoken like they’re recited. “I’ve looked over it. I just need to rest it.”
“Be that as it may, I’d appreciate being able to confirm your diagnosis for myself, if you don’t mind. It would put me at ease to look over it.”
She curls in on herself. Then, after some consideration, she allows her leg to rejoin the other in front of Balor. She also pulls up her knees, just enough to tuck the lower half of her face behind them.
Puzzled, he makes sure to catch her eyes and shoot her a friendly smile. What is she so afraid of?
The conclusion, after some gentle prodding and bending and some appropriately timed hissing on Gwen’s end, is that it is indeed sprained. He lowers it back to the ground. “Well, you were right about needing rest. Consider yourself off the hook from deliveries tomorrow. A cold pack and elevation would also go a long way. I can ask Valen to stop by the farm tomorrow as well, to see if she can prescribe some medication for the swelling.”
Gwen blinks. Then she blinks some more. Then, her shoulders slump. “Oh.”
“Were you expecting a worse verdict?” he asks uncertainly. She doesn’t strike him as much of a hypochondriac.
“No,” she shuffles in place, puffing out a harsh breath of air. “I just forgot I wouldn’t be in trouble anymore. I wasn’t allowed to talk about my injuries when I was younger.”
He lets that statement sink in for one unsettling moment. “Whyever not?”
“It was considered attention seeking, and we couldn’t attract attention.”
An answer with no answer. He feels like a parrot as he asks, “And you couldn’t attract attention because…?”
“I think he was a criminal, my caretaker. One laying low. I didn’t consider that at the time, though.”
Forget his concern meter. Gwen has just broken it in spectacular fashion by sending it shooting to the ceiling. Is this the past she’s running from?
Before he can even begin to interrogate that, however, she volunteers a new question. “If I give you this, do we have to walk up a big hill?”
In her raised hand is a star brooch. He can feel his lips flapping gormlessly as he tries to process it all. Sometimes, he just cannot keep up with her. Should he forcibly turn the topic back?
Extend her the same courtesy, he reminds himself. If there’s any sign of real danger, and she’s still not forthcoming, he can always ask around his contacts for information on her relations. “Not on your foot, we won’t.”
“Good.” And then she grabs his hand and plonks the item down into it. “It’s yours now. It felt weird to give you something that someone else gave me, so I personalised it.”
Hold on. He frowns. “Who gave you a star brooch?”
“Elsie, with the letter.”
Oh. Of course. He’s being foolish. He blames it on his abrupt loss of footing in this conversation.
When he finally catches up with the latter part of her sentence, he gazes down at the brooch. As it turns out, ‘personalisation’ manifests in the form of a hastily scratched, off-centre engraving of a firefly. The snicker escapes him before he can stop it.
Gwen tilts her head. “Are fireflies funny?”
“It’s just very you, that’s all,” he says, pulling himself together. She doesn’t make it easy for his heart by being impossibly endearing. “Why a firefly?”
“They’re bright,” she says plainly. She points at the sky. “Stars are bright.”
There goes his composure, once again. Gwen’s voice is affronted, but there’s a tiny, telling grin on her face, too. “Hey. This is serious business.”
He manages, between chuckles, “I hope this business hasn’t invested in your poetry.”
“It’s withdrawing its investment in you, right now. Give that back.”
She goes to snatch the brooch, but he reacts faster. He’s already clocked her rocking forward, and instinct compels him to catch her calf before she can put any weight on the sprain. He hikes it up, reversing her momentum and sending her toppling ungracefully onto her back with a muted grunt.
He finds a safe spot in his satchel to nestle the brooch comfortably. “Do you really believe I’d give back this one-of-a-kind product?”
She makes a vague grumbling sound. Unable to wipe the smile off his face, he rejoins her to resume stargazing.
They’re really picking up the pace now. There’s a flurry of light pealing across the night, each star intersecting and dancing amongst one another like a reunion of old friends. He hears her let out a soft oh, and feels inclined to agree. Throughout Aldaria, this show can be seen every year – but in all the places Balor has travelled, Mistria is by far where they shine brightest. This, alone, almost makes him hesitant to move on.
It's why he’s always determined to appreciate them to the fullest, each year, while he still can.
Maybe it’s his sentimental mood which dictates what he says next. “It’s tiring, isn’t it? Keeping our distance.”
He hears the dirt shift as she turns her attention to him. At first, he’s resolved not to look back, but she waits long enough that he feels her stare burning against his cheek. Eventually, he folds, dragging his eyes away from the stars to meet hers.
Almost immediately, she breaks the contact. Then her jaw sets, and she meets it again. “I don’t feel tired right now.”
To say it catches him off-guard is an understatement. He feels blood rising to his face, and finds himself at a loss of how to respond. It’s hard to tell, with someone as inscrutable as Gwen, if she knows how the words come across. Surely not.
“Does that mean your shifts at the wagon have been working as intended?” he jokes. Anything to diffuse the tension.
He fights not to fidget as she continues to stare. Then she turns back to the sky. “Must be.”
There’s a lapse in their dialogue. He can’t quite shake the feeling that it’s unfinished, that something was left unsaid. But Gwen, as she does, takes a sledgehammer to the course of the conversation by commenting on a uniquely coloured star, and Balor wilfully plays along. Over time, the straggling remnants of tension ease as they let the stars captivate them.
By the time the show has petered out, they’ve settled into comfortable, silent companionship. Only when they’re certain they’ve seen the very last twinkling light, does Balor offer his arm to Gwen to assist her inside.
“Night, Caldarus,” she says, waving to the statue. When she gets no response, she elbows Balor.
“Right, of course. Goodnight, Caldarus,” he yields. She nods, mollified.
She’s a warm weight against his side as he helps her into the house. Despite the lack of anyone to hide it from, he notices she tries to hide the limp the best she can. Old habits die hard, he suspects.
But as they make their way from the statue to the front door, her rigidness in his hold eases. Once inside, she’s all but sinking into the plush material of his cloak. He worries he’ll have to extract her when he seats her on the bed, but she withdraws on her own initiative, albeit reluctantly.
She yawns. “Thank you. You can go now.”
Since their first shift together, Balor has learnt that she’s abysmal at ending social interactions. Once, after an especially early delivery of plant pots to a barely-awake Celine, she left the girl bewildered on her doorstep with a faintly ominous “Don’t break them. Go back to bed.”
As such, he lets the blunt dismissal wash straight over him. “I trust you’ll be staying here all day tomorrow, so I’ll let Valen know to stop by when she has a free moment. Will that suffice?”
“The afternoon is best. I’m going to the museum in the morning.”
He saw that coming a mile away. It’s why he asked his last question in the first place. “No need!” he chirps sunnily, “I’ll ask Errol during my deliveries if he can bring the appropriate material down for you.”
Contrary to what he expected, she pouts. “You don’t normally reach the museum until the afternoon.”
At first, he doesn’t grasp her meaning. Then, he sighs, a little in disbelief. “Not soon enough for you?”
“This bug should be returned to the mines as soon as possible,” she says, patting her pocket, “That’s its home. Which means I should satisfy my curiosity as soon as possible.”
All that Balor really hears from that explanation is ‘I’m also planning to go into the mines on my sprained foot’. Naturally, there’s no way in hell he’s going to allow that. He snaps his fingers and says, “Then I’ll reverse my usual delivery route tomorrow. That way, you’ll have those books from Errol in the morning.”
She covers her mouth with her hand, as if she’s in deliberation, but he catches the corners of her eyes creasing. Once they’ve smoothed back out, she removes the hand and nods with exaggerated compliance. “Those terms are acceptable.”
He gets the distinct impression he’s been played. His eyes narrow. This isn’t the role he’s used to playing, he must say. A flare of competitiveness burns in his chest – a desire to tip the balance, just as a smidge of revenge.
Later, in his room, he’ll overanalyse his past actions. He’ll try and justify them by telling himself that the easiest way to get the upper hand in a conversation is to fluster his opponent. He’ll ignore the blatant truth: that the true easiest way is blackmail, and he could’ve easily threatened any number of methods of putting her in contact with Juniper. By sending her down to Gwen’s house with a potion remedy, perhaps, or by carrying Gwen up to town for a medicinal bath.
Instead, he crouches down to eye level, reaches out a hand, and brushes her cheek with his knuckles, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then, he lets his hand linger, fingertips skating at the edge of her jaw. “Then it’s settled. It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Gwen.”
She freezes. Any other reaction is delayed, but it’s not long before he gets to indulge in the deep satisfaction of watching colour bloom across her cheekbones. That’s more like it.
But before he can pull away, she tilts her head. The palm of his hand feels startlingly warm and soft as she presses her cheek into it. She may be flushed, but her glare is no less firm. She says, voice low, “I look forward to our future partnership.”
Reality sinks in, like a cold weight in his stomach. Really, what is he doing?
His fingers twitch against her skin. He needs to stop this, but he also refuses to surrender. It takes everything in him not to jerk his hand away, to run it smoothly along the line of her jaw before pulling it away and standing up. “I’m counting on it. Sleep well, Gwen.”
He strides out of her house before she or he can say or do anything else. Stubborn fools, both of them.
He speedwalks all the way into town before realising, with a groan, that he needs to go back to the farm to collect from her shipping bin. He’s rather hopeless at this, isn’t he?