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“How has Nettle been doing?”
I did not stop in my tracks, but it was a very near thing. My heart leapt over a beat at Beloved’s question, and the cold air rushed to engulf me in the split moment when I lost my pace. The wind was gentle, but even the mere kiss of it felt like a smear of frost against my bare face. The mention of my daughter’s name always caught me in the same way, like a step missed in the dark, when one thought he was secure until that illusion was stripped away from him and left him panicked and daunted. And like one needed to reacquaint himself with his surroundings after the plummet, to remind himself he is still whole and undamaged, so did I.
My gaze wandered upward to the abundance of green that surrounded us. Pine and cedar and spruce met hands and interlocked above us, letting in what little sunlight remained past the vast clouds that obscured the sky. We were at the threshold of true winter, as every piece of the earth was not yet covered in layer upon layer of snow. I watched as the wind made the higher branches shake and produce a sound like a child’s rattle toy. The earth was damp under my feet, which were carrying me forward without my noticing, and my breath fogged like a mist ahead of me. And finally, my seeking eyes returned to Beloved.
His gaze had not left me while my heart recovered from the unexpected assault. He was swathed from head to toe in wool, in an array of colors that would’ve looked cluttered on anyone else, but harmonic on his person, of teal and violet, indigo and deep rose, and even a burst of orange on his shawl. His scarf had thin tassels that swayed as he walked, and a wool-knit cap adorned his head like an ornament, the loose waves of his hair cascading down to his covered shoulders.
“She’s been doing well,” I said, and knew the words were far too succinct to ever be believable, especially to Beloved. I stared at my feet as they troddened the damp earth littered with fallen leaves, and a storm rose in my heart at the half lie. Was it a half lie? I had Skilled to Chade a while ago, but not often enough, no. Should I have reached out to him every week? Every other day? Should I have taken his advice to visit Buckkeep once a moon, to get caught up in the recent politics at the castle, and get a glimpse at my daughter as she learned the ways of court? But I had not yet told her who I was, and would she recognize me as the shadow wolf from her dreams if our eyes met, and—
“Fitz, stop glaring. I didn’t mean to upset you. I haven’t seen you Skill to Chade lately and thought to ask, that is all.”
Beloved’s voice ceased the unraveling of my thoughts, like a hand reaching out to pull one from a nightmare, and my head snapped up to behold him. His eyes held a mixture of resolution and hurt; it was not the first difficult topic we had broken up between us, and I knew he would not let me brush it aside if the end was beneficial to us both. Sometimes it was better to leave a wound open to allow it to heal, rather than to let it fester beneath a bandage. I was grateful beyond words for his steadfastness and belief in me, even if I was uncomfortable at first.
I did not realize I was breathing as if I had run the whole way from our cabin, and slowly drew in my next inhale. “I’m sorry,” I said, and ran my mittened hands over my face. Do better. “She has been doing well, truly. Chade told me she’s been excelling at all of her Skill lessons. Her Skill is the most powerful of the coterie, but controllable despite its strength. She’s passed all of the other students at her other studies at this point, and her teachers are impressed with her abilities, considering she never received formal education. As for her court behavior, well… let’s just say she’s left more than one noble stunned.”
A soft smile rose on Beloved’s lips. Despite the many layers that cloaked him, his cheeks were painted pink by the cold. “Much like you did, in her age,” he said, and wrapped his arm around mine.
“Yes,” I answered, and covered his hand with me. With a wild chase down the corridors and blood gushing on the stone floors. “Much like I did.”
It was our second winter at our cabin. Apprehension filled our cabin to a near suffocating degree as soon the last touch of summer warmth vanished from the air, and the color of the world around us burned down to hues of crimson, amber, and copper. The cold and the blanketing of snow did not wake easy memories in either of us. The previous winter, only a couple of moons after we had settled in our cabin, was passed in Beloved’s convalescence. My nights were spent being woken up by screams, taking him into my arms as he trembled, wiping away his tears and kissing his brow, telling him again and again that he was safe and alive, and simply holding him when no word was enough. And my days were spent coaxing him to eat after his sobbing had killed his appetite, or being lashed out when he was angry at himself for not recovering fast enough, or watching him sit in pained silence. At the time, I thought it was a cruel jest that he was trying so hard to get better when the world around him only reminded him of what he had suffered. But come spring, his nightmares had lessened, and he looked like his old self again. And I would carry him through these dark days again without a moment's hesitation.
When summer left us again, I did not ask if he was alright. He showed me he was, for the most part, by continuing to carve the beads, pendants, and jewelry he sold at the nearest town market. By preparing our meals with a contentment I never found, and tending to his beloved garden as always. We drank apricot brandy by the fire, and he soothed my shivering as much as I did his, and this winter I slept next to him as my lover, with whom my heart and soul belonged, not just my dearest companion. Little brought me as much as joy as waking up to him resting on my chest, and kissing his face, lax and warm from sleep.
It was after we had cleaned breakfast dishes that he asked if he could join me in my forest gathering. His voice was calm to the point of near neutrality, as if he had rehearsed the question, in fear I would either pity him or be over enthusiastic he would finally join me. He had gone as far as the river from our cabin only when the chill had left the air last spring, and accompanied me to the market for the first time when the peak of summer was upon us. I knew doing so in the winter was no easy feat for him, and I tried not to let surprise show when I answered that of course he could join me, although I imagine he must have spotted some measure of it on my face anyway.
But my gratefulness to have him by my side and my pride in him did not lessen my worry. I had pulled our warmest garments from the clothing chest and cloaked him in them, starting with linen undergarments, a lilac tunic I had recently bought for him, a woolen hose above his stocking, the scarf, and the sturdier pair of the boots we had. It was only when I tried to give him my fur cloak that he had finally snapped at me. “Fitz, enough! I won’t be able to take a step if you put one more layer on me, and you’ll certainly freeze before we can pluck a single berry. I’ll be fine.”
His voice had softened at the end, granting me some mercy, and I let out my tension with a breath. Our bedroom was a chaos of garments tossed over the bed and the floor. I took both of his hands in mine and lowered my brow to rest upon them, then kissed his knuckles, willing my heart to calm. “Will you tell me if you wish to return?” I asked, needlessly.
“Of course. And I will demand you’ll carry me in your arms the entire way back here, and deposit me by the fire, and fetch me many cups of tea for the rest of the day. How would you like that?”
“Very much, actually,” my voice was light with laughter, and he joined me, and we met each other in a kiss.
“Come on, now,” he ushered me outside of our bedroom. “Before we lose the light.”
We were deep in the forest by now. It had rained in the previous evening, the earth still damp underneath our feet, and the rich, comforting smell mingled with the citrus aroma of the trees. Deeper we went, side by side, not quite touching, but I could feel our bond flowing between us, like a peaceful string before it is plucked, or the gentle rippling of the waves at low tide. The hint of a sensation, an awareness. It rose a protective, and perhaps a fatuous urge in me to lace his hand in mine, but I did not. We had an objective in mind. I would have plenty of time to hold him by the fire for the rest of the day if he wished me to.
Crimson outshined the forest colors like blood gushing from an open wound on a white-sand beach. I flinched at the memory, but Beloved ran forward to admire the roses. “They’re beautiful,” his gloved hands cupped the delicate petals of one rose, which looked nothing like the kind sold at the market, or placed at every table during Spring Fest. Rather, it was a flimsy little thing, made of five lone petals, and had neither the intricacy nor the brilliance of a rose, but it was lovely all the same. “I’ve never seen red wild roses, they are usually pink. They’ll be a wonderful addition to the kitchen table.”
“They are,” I dug my hands in the inner pockets of my cloak for warmth. “I saw plenty of red ones in the Mountain Kingdom. It must be the quality of the minerals in the earth.”
Beloved waved his hand around as if admonishing himself for some silliness. “We were too busy running for our lives to get to Jhaampe, there was no time to appreciate the scenery. Do you think I’ll be able to grow some in the garden?”
I considered it. Aside from our vegetable garden, last spring Beloved had started a flower garden as well, on the other side of our cabin. We had lilacs and marigolds as bright as his hair had been, blushing geraniums, the most adoring zinnias, and a single sunflower that Beloved placed all his hopes in to be as tall as either of us. And our darling apricot tree, which would give fruit before the year was out, I hoped. Once I got Beloved to the market, he was an unstoppable force at the flower stall, and I loved him all the more for it.
“You’ll need to plant them in a separate bed before you can integrate them with the others, I imagine. And you might need to plant them more than once until they adjust to the soil, but I’m sure you can do it, Beloved.” This time, I did take his hand, and squeezed it in reassurance, although my heart sank a bit at the thought of Patience. One of her strongest passions had always been plants and flora, and her endless chattering taught me that, sitting on her hearthstones or in a chair by her and Lacey. I thought I didn’t listen, but I always did.
Always reading my thoughts, always seeing something in my face I did not know I allowed to show. “Patience taught you that, didn’t she?” he asked, mutely.
My mother, who yelled at me the first time she saw me after fifteen years, then cried, and kissed me, then yelled at me again. “She did.”
Beloved’s hand tightened around mine, before he turned my face to his and kissed my lips sweetly. “Write to her,” he said, more softly than he had asked about Nettle, and tugged the collar of my cloak to better drape it around my shoulders. “She’d love to hear from you. Not to mention the garden.”
That cracked a smile from me. “I will,” I resolved. “This evening. Pester me if I don’t.”
“As you wish,” he replied, and returned to the roses. He slung his pack from his shoulder, and with his belt knife cut the stems of several and carefully bound them in a string before placing them in the pack again. The small drawstring on his belt he filled with a handful of fallen petals to make an oil of, and what little seeds we found for the garden. The rest of the roses he left for the animals, and insects, and simply for the beauty of them.
And so we carried on. The further the forest engulfed us, the more my Wit unfurled and outstretched, like shallow waves rushing to touch the shore. Songbirds sang to one another above us while unseen worms and beetles slithered in the earth, and bushes rustled with the smallest movements of critters. With each rise and fall of my chest, my awareness of every living creature in my surroundings expanded and washed over me, and I entered a peaceful state of simply knowing and feeling. The sharp ache for my wolf was a singular, distant thunder at the core of my soul.
It didn’t take us long to find the berries. Lush green bushes with textured leaves bowed towards the earth with clusters of the burgundy berries, some so dark they were almost the color of the night sky. Beloved popped one into his mouth, and for a moment his lips flashed enticingly crimson as the juice coated them. If he noticed that for a heartbeat, my thoughts traveled to entirely different pursuits, his smile didn’t give away anything as he handed me a plump berry.
“Did you know that I never did this with my family?” He glanced at me as he let the first plucked berry roll down his gloved fingers into the basket he carried.
“You never went foraging?” I reached forward to join him.
He shook his head. “Mercenia doesn’t have forests. Oh, my sisters and I used to play in the wheat field, or run down to the meadow to pick up bouquets of flowers, but there was never anything like this,” he smiled as he tore free another handful. “The closest we got to foraging was walking an hour to where a group of peach trees grew, perhaps.”
I inched closer to him, and lightly bumped my shoulder with his. I always cherished the moments when he told me of his childhood, like a child receiving an unexpected pastry. “And are you pleased that fate has led you to finally experience it?”
He turned his head to look at me, and his smile was so sweet I felt like I was one of the berries he would place over the fire to make a preserve out of, slowly simmering and melting under his care. “I am. Very much so.”
We continued ahead. Blueberries and pecans we found, the latter littered across the forest floor underneath the vast tree. Beloved exclaimed in delight over our unexpected find. Roasted over the fire and sprinkled with salt, the nuts made a treat so common it reached both Mercenia and Buck. My drawstring bag was heavy against my leg as we left the tree, and my basket full of berries.
We walked companioningly ahead, Beloved’s arm in the crook of mine, and my hand resting on top of his own, as if we were strolling into a feast rather than endeavoring in the cold to make our shared life a tad sweeter. Our errand was done, but the cool wind was pleasant, and the walk an energizing break from our routine duties at the cabin. I swung my gaze towards Beloved; in his colorful garments and wool knit hat, suddenly almost seventeen years were wiped away, and we were boys again questing through the mountains to my lost king; only that instead of supplies for our survival, each of us had little more than a gardening knife, and instead of fragile hope that only weakened as another dusk closed on us without a sign of Verity, a contentedness I could not quite describe settled over my heart. We would return home to our blazing hearth, and I would make our lunch and try to stay out of Beloved’s way while he worked on his preserves, and later we would fall asleep in each other’s arms, as we did every night.
If I cast my eyes down, I could almost see my wolf stalk ahead of us, could almost hear the breaking of the leaves under his paws, and see and taste with his senses what my own, lesser human ones could not. But it was a hurt that existed, always, at the deepest waters of my heart, and I did not have to prod at it if I did not wish to.
My momentary sorrow must have leaked into our bond, because Beloved tightened his hold on my arm. He leaned to glance at me, but whatever question was on his lips was lost to a rustle in the bushes. Nighteyes was gone, but something of my wolf still remained with me, and every nerve in my body prickled as I threw my arm across Beloved’s body, my meager knife in my other hand, ready to defend him from whatever crossed our path. “Fitz, what—” he began, and then the intruder became known to us.
It was a deer, tawny-brown like fresh soil warmed from the sun, with spots like fallen snow. It was a slender, frightful thing, its ear flickering against every sound of the forest, and it eyed us with caution, on the verge of fleeing should we make the slightest move. It craned its head forward and its fawn emerged from the bush, and gave way to his mother’s cleansing under our gaze.
All the tension seeped out of me like a rag being squeezed free of water, and Beloved closed his hands around my arm, still outstretched across his body. I felt how his muscles loosened as well, and he leaned some of his weight against my arm, but indignation soon soured my mind. “Should’ve brought my dagger. El’s balls,” I quietly hissed. Were Nighteyes still with me, I would’ve made an easy job out of the deer with little more than my bare hands. But with the near kitchen knife I clutched, the chase would be a long and tiring one, more so with so many layers of clothing cumbering me.
With his eyes still fixed on the pair, Beloved softly replied, “we’ve still got plenty of meat from your last hunt, Beloved, you needn’t fret.” Slowly, as to not frighten neither mother or fawn, I glanced at him, and found a most tender smile on his face, one that shone through his eyes. A most rare one, bestowed upon me when he was incandescently happy with something I had said or done. I cherished those smiles as little else in my life.
By nature, prey animals are frightful creatures, and so the mother trotted away after her cleansing was done, having heard, perhaps, a rustle too quiet for my human ears to perceive, and her fawn followed. In their wake, I sheathed my knife. I did not mention the loss of good meat, but Beloved took my hand that had held the knife and asked, “do you remember when I told you about how fragile the path of fate is? That the bread we eat and the water we drink might be taken from another’s table, and they might fail to do what they were destined to, because they lacked them?” I nodded, not yet making the connection, but refusing to interrupt him. “Perhaps it is in our path to have let the deer and fawn be. Perhaps, someone else is in need of them more than us. Shall we go home now?”
It was as if his words summoned the change. A drop fell on the side of my face and rolled to soak the front of my coat, and then another, and another. I had been engulfed in this stroll with him, this task that would’ve been much more colorless and colder without him, that I lost the track of time. And the canopy of the forest was so dense overhead that we did not notice how the sky had darkened; the realization struck Beloved the same time it did me, and he turned to run. “Hurry!”
I followed him, but the rain turned into a downpour in a matter of seconds. My layers of wool that kept me warm and sheltered were soon drenched like a flimsy piece of paper; my heart spiked and my legs burned with the sudden effort I forced on them. We only had a few precious minutes before the forest ground would turn into slippery mud beneath our feet.
Ahead of me, Beloved was a spot of color, and I heard him exclaim when the first wave of rain hit him, but when I reached him, a completely different countenance met me. He was laughing. Rain plastered his hair to his face and neck, dripped from his eyelashes and heavied his clothes, but he was laughing as we rushed through the forest. And I realized what we were, two grown men who had gone berry picking and got caught up in a storm because we so cherished each other’s company, we did not mind the sky. Our gazes met, and I did not need to offer him my wrist for his silvered fingers to know his heart. It was written in his smile. As always, his happiness was infectious, and I began to laugh as well.
The run felt endless. We had traveled far, but I didn’t grasp how far, and the walls of rain battered us and blinded the path ahead. I found myself glancing not at my own feet, but Beloved’s, fearful of him stumbling on some hidden log or rock, but he was agile as ever, my Fool. Rivulets ran down my back from my soaked hair, but I was not terribly cold despite it all. In the back of my consciousness, my Wit stretched out and found the few animals around in the same state as us, hearts thundering to find shelter from the rain and cold.
Thunder cracked the clouds above, and we emerged from the forest. While the canopy had swallowed us in darkness, it had also protected us from the worst of the deluge, and now that protection was stripped away. Beloved paused right at the edge, grasping both basket and his hat, waterlogged into a shapeless strip of knitted wool. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly in the relentless rain. My own lungs felt like they were burning. I stepped to him, and cupped his face with my leaking gloves. “Come on, just a little further.”
I saw his resolve harden. He nodded, and then took my hand, and began to run again. I let him lead me. He had always been so swift, swifter than me, my northern star, my hearthfire. When we were dry and warm in our home, I would bundle him in his favorite robe and all the blankets we had to keep him warm. I would press my body to his beneath the covers and kiss the cold from his cheeks and brow.
But we had a hill to crest first. Wet grass turned out to be treacherously slippery, and my knees folded beneath me a moment before Beloved spun to face me and grabbed my arms so I wouldn’t fall. Through a break of lightning, I heard him laugh. “Careful, Beloved!”
At last, the turn to our cabin appeared, and with it our home came to sight. The promise of a hearth and dry clothes to warm us gave sudden strength to our wearied feet, and Beloved carried us through the threshold. We shut the storm behind.
Rain hammering against the walls of the cabin. The low fire crackling in the hearth. The smell of bread rising on the countertop. All that blessed simplicity my mind tried to comprehend after that dreadful run. At once, water pooled at our feet as if someone had upended a bucket over us, and we stood with the door at our backs, gasping.
Raindrops fell from the crown of my head to obscure my vision, and I blinked them away. In partial exhaustion, my head fell against the door, then tilted to look at Beloved. He was more animated than me, wringing out his hair, almost chestnut colored in its sodden state, as he caught his breath. Water streamed from his clothes onto the planks of our home. By his side, miraculously, his basket of berries rested. I did not remember when I had let go of mine. As if feeling my gaze on him, he opened his eyes and set them on mine. A smile rose on my frozen cheeks, one that he matched, and we were soon laughing incredulously at our luck, until we were breathless. I reached out and took our hand just to feel him.
And then the cold hit us. Not the cold of the storm, but the cold in the absence of it, when we were no longer exerting our bodies to get away. The cold that made itself known in the presence of the little fire we left, that had seeped into every crevice in our bones. Our laughter was interrupted by deep shudders, and we shed our clothes like actors between scenes of a play, mindless of our floor.
Beloved disappeared into our room, and I quickly crossed the room to rekindle the hearth, berries forgotten. By the time Beloved returned with two towels, the flames were blazing again behind the small metal gate, painting the cabin in an orange, flickering glow. Without a warning, he threw one towel at me, and it landed square on my face. Nonetheless, I took joy in his grin.
I began to dry myself, pressing the towel in a haste against my arms, chest, over my undergarment and down my legs. By now, the fire had warmed not just my body, aching from both effort and cold, but the room as a whole, and the last of my shivering gave way. I had thrown the towel over my hair to dry it roughly when I heard Beloved’s voice, but could not make out his words. “What did you say?” I asked after emerging.
In perfect contrast to my carelessness, Beloved had wrapped his towel around the length of his hair and was gently squeezing it, one handful down after another. “I said that perhaps not being able to tell if it rains was too big of a price to pay for saving the world,” he said. I knew how much he grieved the loss of his prescience, how it troubled him to move through the world blinded, as he put it, but there was nothing fragile in his smile, for once.
Yet no matter how many times he had spoken of his loss, I could not grasp its vastness. To see so many divergences in the path, minute and enormous ones, and then to perceive nothing at all. I could not conceive it. “Did you know you wouldn’t be able to see into the future after you fulfilled your role?”
He shook his head, hair thrown over one shoulder, slowly curling and brightening as it dried. “I didn’t. They never spoke of it in Clerres. And if they did, it was certainly not to me.”
A log snapped in the fire and filled the silence that hung between us. Another point of pain was the abuse he had suffered by the hands of his teachers, how he was disbelieved and isolated as a result. I wished to wrap my arms around him and shelter him from those memories, like a coat given to a freezing child. Seeking to turn his mind from his school, I asked, “do you remember when we were boys at Buckkeep, and you told me not to go to the beach on a certain day?”
His eyes brightened in an instance. “And you did anyway, and got bit by a crab in the ankle? Serves you right for not listening to your prophet,” he crossed his arms in smug satisfaction. My ploy successful, I was about to smile, but a shiver overtook him and I stirred him closer to the fire by the shoulders, and rubbed warmth into his arms.
He sighed as I caressed him, the firelight dancing across his features, and it occurred to me I was so caught up with my body I did not mind his own. And mind it now, I did; the indents of his collarbones, the way his chest expended with a breath. Those long, graceful arms that carried such strength only I knew, the narrowness of his waist and the suppleness of his thighs. The sight of his naked body, be it when he was undressing to bathe or to bed with me, always colored my cheeks with want, and this instance was no different than all the previous ones. I longed to kiss every bare part of him, to drop to my knees and worship his body with the reverence he deserved. I wanted to pleasure him until the only word he would call was my name. So lost was I in my imaginings, that I did not feel his hands until they were soothing my errant curls, and then gently cupped my cheeks.
A drop of water slid down the exposed side of his neck. I longed to trace its path with my mouth, to nibble at his pulse point until I left a mark. Our eyes met, and he knew.
We met each other in the middle, as we often did. It was a graceless, heat-filled kiss. I laid my hands on all I could touch, buried them in the cascade in his hair, and he devoured me in the same way, fully shamelessly. The towels were flung to the hearthstones, and we stumbled upon them as we tried to remove the last of our garments from one another. I hooked my arm around Beloved’s waist, and we tumbled to the floor, laughing.