Chapter Text
You were tending to your garden when a monster burst out of the forest.
He was enormous, with a skull for a face and a body full of scales. You startled, grabbing your shears to defend yourself, but as his shimmering form staggered forward, you came to your senses and realized that the scales were just chainmail. He was in full armor, winking silver in the daylight, and his breastplate engraved with the king’s insignia.
Not a monster, then, but rather a knight. Likely injured, given his ragged breathing and the uneven sway of his gait.
You dropped the shears and leapt to your feet, sprinting to catch the knight before his legs buckled. Lowering him into the grass felt like trying to lay a boulder to rest, but you managed regardless, aided by the familiar rush of strength that always overtook your limbs in times of urgency.
“Where are you hurt?” you asked, kneeling at his side to survey his body. His armor was scuffed yet devoid of bloodstains. Any number of maladies could be hiding beneath—cracked ribs or heat stroke, contusions or fever. You had a fix for most of them, but you couldn’t work without proper examination first.
“Back off,” the knight groaned, weakly lifting a gloved hand. To swat you away, presumably, but he was so sluggish that you dodged it with ease.
You dipped your head low and peered into his black-rimmed eyes, the only part of his face he’d left uncovered. The skull was nothing more than bits of silver metal studded to dark fabric, giving the impression of bones.
You’d never met this man before, but you’d heard enough stories over the years to recognize him. The masked knight, brutal and revered, a member of your King's most trusted Guard. Him and three valiant others, traversing distant lands and seas to fight for your Kingdom. He kept his face hidden from the world, the girls at the market had prattled, but they spoke of his handsomeness as an irrefutable truth. How could a man with such an alluring tale be anything less?
“Sir Ghost,” you pleaded, testing the name you’d learned from the market girls, dodging another swipe of his paw. “I’m a midwife, and I have knowledge of medicine, but I’m not a doctor. I’m just a woman—I mean to say, I have no authority to cause you harm. Please let me help you.”
His gaze darted about, taking in what little he could of his surroundings while laid flat on the ground. You prayed that he’d catch sight of something that would lend your words some credibility, whether it was your stout cottage at the forest’s edge or the red raspberry plants you’d been pruning before his arrival.
“Somethin’ I drank,” he finally rasped. “Poison.”
“Poison,” you repeated. You looked over his body again, but there was no exposed skin to check for rashes or measure his pulse. “Do you know what kind?”
He managed a slight shake of his head, glaring at you all the while. You were too deep in thought to fully register his animosity. Given that he was still lucid, the dose couldn’t have been too potent, but you needed to act quickly. You knew the antidotes for common poisons in your region, and you could just administer them all in hopes that one would take, but fetching them from your cottage would cost time you weren’t sure you could spare.
You combed through the knowledge the previous midwife had imparted you with, a strong-willed woman who had also been your mother. She’d taught you medicine by spoken word alone, by having you recite her own sweeping principles instead of facts from dusty books. She’d insisted the finer details were intangible, that you’d pick them up with experience. If she were still around to guide you now, her instructions would’ve been simple: if it shouldn’t be there, remove it.
Swiftly, you repositioned yourself behind the knight, gripping the straps of his breastplate to hoist his head into your lap. You settled one hand on the back of his neck and scrabbled at his front with the other, searching for the edge of his mask. He thrashed in protest, attempting to knock you over with what little strength he had left. You braced yourself and held your position, even as his armor dug into your thighs, scraping over the thin cotton of your skirt.
“I’m sorry for this,” you said, as gently as you could manage. You yanked his mask upward, dislodging his metal skull. “I promise I won’t look.”
Except you did, just for a fraction of a second, to confirm that you’d exposed his mouth and the lower half of his nose. Then you screwed your eyes shut, willing your mind to forget the sight of him, blindly feeling around for his lips. You pressed two fingers against the seam of them, catching the bumpy edges of what you knew to be scar tissue.
His breath was hot on your skin. After a heavy moment of hesitation, he relented and opened his mouth for you.
You promptly shoved your fingers down his throat, twisting his head just in time for him to vomit into the grass.
***
Once the knight regained enough energy to sit, you hauled him up to his feet, draped one of his tree-trunk arms over your shoulders, and guided him to your home.
He collapsed in your bed with a pained sigh while you busied yourself with scouring your shelves, searching for the vial rack that held your antidotes. You’d brewed them a month ago for the sake of refreshing your skills, another practice instilled in you by your mother. You were grateful for her now, grateful for her always.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, lifting his mask a second time to tip the contents of each vial down his throat. Fervently, you prayed that your treatment would prove effective, that the knight hadn’t fallen victim to a poison you couldn’t cure. Your village existed at the fringes of the Kingdom, and you couldn’t begin to fathom how far you’d have to travel to find him help otherwise, or if you’d even have enough time to do so.
You quelled the anxiety the same way you handled stressful deliveries, by staying on your feet and keeping your hands productive. You brought him water in the only unchipped cup you owned—the earthenware was turning brittle, having been in your family for generations—and a damp rag to wipe his mouth, pointedly looking away until you heard the rustle of fabric being tugged back down. Then you inspected him for a third time and fought back a laugh.
A living, breathing mountain of a knight, the first you’d ever seen in your lifetime, laying sick in your tiny bed. For a moment, you allowed yourself to wish that your brother still lived with you. He would’ve been delighted with such a visitor, would’ve attacked this strange man with a thousand curious questions at once, injured or not.
“You must be uncomfortable, laying in your armor like that,” you said, crouching on the stone floor to level your gaze with his. If he were a regular patient, you would’ve taken his hand as you spoke, but his glower alone was more than enough to deter you. “Sir Ghost, may I—”
“Touch the mask again and I’ll slit your throat,” he warned. His voice was drowsy, slurring at the edges, a sure sign of the medicine taking effect.
Slowly, you pulled the gauntlet off his massive right hand, oddly elated when he made no effort to resist. You felt his wrist for a pulse—the rhythm consistent but harried, quicker than it should’ve been. His skin was pale and scarred and shone with sweat. It was truly sweltering in here, with the combined heat of the summer day and two adult bodies jammed into a room meant for one.
“You’re burning up,” you murmured, more to yourself than him. You set the gauntlet on the floor beside you, then reached for the other.
You carefully removed each item of his armor, fumbling with the complicated buckles and straps, feeling as though you were shelling a behemoth river crab. The knight was complacent as you worked, having drifted into a feverish sleep even as you jostled his body in your efforts. Beneath the armor, he wore a simple black tunic and pants, sweat-drenched and pulled taut over muscle. He smelled like it’d been some time since he’d last bathed, like sweat and dirt and leaves.
You fetched a second rag, dipped it in a bucket of cold wellwater, and ran it over all the bare skin you had access to. His hands and feet and collarbones, his eyelids and the visible sliver of neck between his mask and shirt. You wanted to do more, but not without receiving his permission, so you resigned yourself to waiting.
The sun had set a while ago, your only indication of how much time had passed. You scrounged up a hunk of stale bread and a handful of berries for dinner, eating at the old wooden table that doubled as your workstation. Then you fell asleep, slumped over in your chair while dazedly contemplating what you’d feed the knight once he was awake.
***
You rose at dawn. The knight was right where you’d left him, still asleep in your bed with his armor neatly arranged on the floor. His breathing was even and steady, his skin dry and warm. You checked his pulse again, relieved to find it slower.
There was no telling how long it’d take him to return to consciousness, so you went about your chores like usual. You tidied your workstation and drew more water from the well, tended to your garden and started a fire at your small outdoor hearth. You chopped vegetables for a simple stew, something for both of you to eat once he woke up. It would’ve been nice if you had some meat to add, but you didn’t want to venture all the way to the butcher’s in case he woke in your absence.
Around midmorning, you stepped into the very line of trees the knight had stumbled out of. You weren’t sure what your objective was, but you felt compelled to follow the trail of footprints he’d left in the dirt, as if they’d lead you back to wherever he came from.
Since childhood, you’d regarded the forest as sacred, wild and unruly and belonging to no individual. You loved the cool shade of the trees, the chatty birds and squirrels and hares, the clumps of wildflowers that bloomed each summer. Today, however, the beauty was marred by the sight of a broadsword abandoned in a patch of grass, right where the footsteps ended.
Your breath caught in your chest as you stared at it. Silver and sleek, undoubtedly belonging to the man in your cottage, the blade crusted over with a thick layer of dried blood. You were near the riverbank, but the rush of water was barely louder than the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your ears. Why was such a violent weapon here, so close to where you lived, and whose blood was on the blade?
You lifted the sword with considerable effort, swallowing down your unease. It was more unwieldy than you’d expected it to be, clearly forged for someone significantly taller and stronger than yourself. You persisted anyway, lugging it all the way back home.
When you opened the door, you took two steps and came face-to-face with the knight. He loomed over you, deathly silent, poised like he’d been waiting for your return all this while.
“You’re awake! How are—”
He took you by the throat and slammed you against the wall so harshly that your shelves rattled, followed by a short cacophony of glass shattering. The sword clattered to the floor as your hands flew to your neck, clawing at his grip. He pushed back harder, choking you with enough force to make your vision swim.
“Stop,” you cried, flailing uselessly, kicking at his legs to no avail. “Please—please, Sir Gho—“
“How’d you know who I am?”
“Every—everyone knows,” you wheezed. You dug your nails into his forearms, rewarded by the slightest release of pressure to take a single gasping breath. “They tell stories of—of you and the Guard—please—”
He released you without warning. You collapsed to your knees, coughing and sputtering at his feet. Then he was the one crouching down to meet your gaze, except you were too busy reacquainting your lungs with the air to make sense of his sudden shift in behavior.
“Didn’t realize I was so popular ‘round here.”
His voice was rougher than it’d been yesterday, no longer thin with sickness. The black around his eyes had rubbed away to a faint grey, revealing the pale, pinkish skin beneath. You sucked in another greedy breath and tentatively felt your neck, terrifyingly aware you were being watched. Your skin was tender, likely bruised.
“The forest separates us from most of the Kingdom.” Each word made you wince, scratching your throat on its way out. “You’d think people would be less interested in its happenings, but the distance only makes them even more curious. You could buy a loaf of bread with a good enough story.”
He leaned in even closer, settling one hand beside his fallen sword. “Is that what you were looking for? A good story?”
“I was just looking to help!” you yelped, scrambling back against the wall as his fingers curved around the handle. “I have no ill intentions, I promise—”
“Dunno if I can believe that,” he said. The blade looked natural against his frame, less like a weapon and more like an extension of his own limb. “Already broke your first promise.”
You thought back to yesterday, when you’d briefly exposed his face to save him. The rising fear in your chest was replaced with a hot burst of indignation. Your floor was a mess, broken vials and discarded armor strewn about. You’d toiled an entire day to save this man, had retrieved his sword for him while he slept in your bed, had imbued each of your actions with as much kindness and reverence as his status deserved. And then he’d nearly strangled you in your own home.
“Are you a fish?” you blurted out.
The knight went still. “What?”
“Show me where your gills are,” you snapped. This was becoming dangerous, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop speaking. “Next time I’ll help you drink from there instead. Our village has no doctor—even if someone else found you, they still would've called on me to tend to you. Just look.”
You swept an arm out, inviting him to inspect the single room that held your entire life. The shelves along the wall, chock-full of herbal remedies and supplies; the blemished worktable with its mortar and pestle and two rickety chairs; the chest at the foot of your bed that held your scissors, linens, and what little valuables you owned; the birthing stool tucked away in the darkest corner of the room, draped in white cloth to protect the wood from insects and dust.
Except the cloth was askew, and one of the latches of your chest was undone. The shelves you’d spent hours upon hours organizing were haphazardly arranged at best. Had he gone through your things while you were out?
“Already did,” he said gruffly, confirming your suspicion.
You gaped at him. “Then how come—why’d you attack me?”
“Had to make sure.” Of what, he didn’t say. He stood with his sword in hand, impassively peering down at you. “Should watch your tongue, girl. A mouth like that’ll get you in trouble.”
“And if I don’t, Sir?” you asked. His words were unsettlingly familiar, reminding you of how your mother used to chide you for talking too much, for behaving too untoward. “Will you choke me again?”
He loudly exhaled through his nose. “I just might.”
***
You hadn't shared a meal with a man in ages. Ghost followed you outside, sitting opposite the hearth as you served him a bowl of stew and the last of your bread. Both of you were barefoot and quiet, the midday breeze a reprieve from the stuffiness of your cottage.
Ghost ate like he was afraid his food would grow two legs and run away. He’d peeled back his mask just enough to reveal a strong jaw and lips bisected by a large pink scar, the same one you’d felt yesterday. You would’ve found it endearing, had he not squeezed your neck so hard that it currently hurt to swallow.
“Do you know where you’ll go next?” you asked, in lieu of asking how on earth he’d ended up in your tiny, backwater village. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious about him, attack notwithstanding, but you also knew better than to directly pry at political matters.
“Can’t say,” he grumbled. You set your own bowl aside when you noticed his was empty, reaching for the pot over the hearth. “Have to wait ‘til my Guard finds me.”
His Guard. You ladled him a second serving as you wracked your memory for what you knew of the other men involved, but all you could think of was the market girls speculating what it’d be like to have a knight for a husband. Some immature, ugly part of you wanted to scorn them for it, but it wasn’t as if they had a choice the way you did. How could you fault their interest, when marriage was the most surefire path towards securing a comfortable life? When knights were known to be good, honest men, leagues better than the ones you’d all grown up with?
“There’s a tavern further in the village. I can take you there, if you’d like.”
His reply was stiff. “Don’t have much coin on me.”
“I doubt they’d make you pay." Your village hadn’t seen such a well-ranked, intriguing visitor in years—they'd be falling over their own feet to host him, laud him with more comforts and fineries than you’d ever be able to afford. “But you’re welcome to stay with me, if you prefer that instead. Though it won’t be as lavish.”
“‘S fine,” he muttered. A bird flew overhead, cawing loudly before disappearing into the trees, while your stomach turned at the realization that he was legitimately accepting your offer. “Best to stay by the forest.”
“And I'd be able to watch over your recovery,” you added lamely, unsure whether it was for his sake or your own.
A woman like yourself, housing a formidable man like him—if he really did stay with you, the rumors would be salacious and inevitable. The pretense of his illness might’ve provided you some shelter from scrutiny, if his condition hadn’t already drastically improved. Thanks to your own hands, you noted, with no small amount of pride.
“Where’s your husband?”
The pride went away.
“I don’t have one,” you said, gritting out a smile. Given that he’d rifled through your belongings, he must’ve already known this. You chalked the question up to him testing your trustworthiness; a mental trial to complement the physical one. “I have a younger brother—this land is in his name—but he lives with our aunt on the coast.”
He might’ve known this detail, too, if he’d seen the sheaf of letters in your chest. You’d never read them, but you knew their contents like the back of your own hand. Joyful and lilting, so full of light that just thinking about them made your chest ache.
“A bit old to still be unwed, aren’t you?”
“Are you sure you’re a knight?” you thoughtlessly asked. “I thought they were supposed to be gentlemen.”
He glared at you. It was tiring you out, having to gauge his expressions based on his eyes alone. You stuck your spoon in your mouth to keep yourself from digging the hole any deeper.
***
On Ghost's third day with you, you took him down the winding path to the market square. Occasionally, you came here to peddle your own homegrown herbs and remedies, but this time you had a list of tasks to complete. You first dragged him to the tailor for new clothes, paying extra to have them made in the darkest available fabric, then to the butcher's and baker's shops. To nobody’s surprise, you drew attention everywhere you went, stares clinging to you both like burrs.
Somewhere in between, he finally slunk away from you, muttering something about a horse. You breathed a sigh of relief and finished the rest of your shopping like normal, blissfully alone.
When you finished, you caught sight of the girls you usually spoke with, all clustered near the center of the square. Though you were several years older and had little in common, you enjoyed their company—they were bright and energetic, albeit a little too eager to gossip about other villagefolk. Today, however, dread curled in your stomach as they approached, already knowing who their target would be.
You lingered awkwardly at the edge of their huddle, scanning the rest of the market for your new houseguest, but it seemed as if he'd vanished into thin air. Maybe he really was an apparition and you had finally gone crazy. Except the girls had seen Ghost too, and now they were expounding on each and every one of their observations about his appearance and demeanor, forcing you to listen and accept that the brute existed in the same reality you did.
“He’s so tall,” one of them gushed.
“And so strong,” echoed another.
“He must be fed well in the King’s castle,” you said mildly, forcing indifference. It was one thing to badmouth Ghost to his face, another to disrespect a knight in public; insulting a man opposed to insulting the Kingdom.
“How’d you meet him?”
It felt traitorous to admit the full truth, so you didn’t. But what lie would you tell instead? That you'd found him in the forest while you were mindlessly frolicking about? That he'd been sent by the King to resolve some nonexistent matters in your irrelevant village? That your paths had crossed unexpectedly, but he'd treated you with so much kindness and benevolence that you'd offered up your own home in exchange for absolutely nothing?
“He was passing by and needed some…assistance," you settled for saying. A simple statement, not technically untrue.
“Is he injured?”
“How long is he staying for?”
“Can you convince him to speak with us?”
“Are you done?”
The last question was lower than the rest, spoken close to your ear. You nearly jumped out of your skin, whirling around to find Ghost standing behind you with his arms crossed. The muscles in his forearms were firm and flexed, the silver of his mask glinting in the sunlight as if it were jewelry, simultaneously pretty and intimidating. How long had he been lurking there? You hadn’t heard even a single footstep in your direction.
“Yes, Sir Ghost,” you said breathlessly, gripping your basket tighter. You ignored the girls’ stunned faces and headed back together.
***
The following evening, you were called to a neighboring village to assist with a delivery. Ghost was sitting on the floor, polishing his armor with one of your rags and some sort of oil he’d gotten at the market. You scurried around him as you packed your things, performing your usual ritual while doing your best to avoid encroaching his space. The expecting mother’s eldest son was waiting outside, having brought his horse to fetch you.
“I’ll be out for a while,” you said, rummaging through your chest for your scissors. “If things go well, I should be back in the morning.”
He made a short noise of acknowledgement, sweeping the cloth over one of his greaves. A single leg of his was capable of more force than your entire body—with how many patients you’d tended to over the years, you were no stranger to human anatomy, both male and female, but Ghost was another specimen entirely. Broad and impendent, perpetually tense.
“Have you ever seen a woman give birth?" you asked, just for the fun of it.
His hands didn’t stop moving, but you could’ve sworn they faltered, just for a faint moment. You held your breath for his reply, waiting for him to scoff and call you stupid or simple or daft.
“Once,” he said roughly. “Helped my mum.”
“Really?”
In the four days you'd spent with Ghost, this was the first scrap of information he’d offered up about his life. But this wasn't an inconspicuous fact, like his surname or where he'd grown up, but rather one that was disturbing, borderline morbid. Even in the most dire of circumstances, childbirth was an affair strictly reserved for women; Ghost’s family must've been truly isolated—or impoverished, or both—if he had to assist his own mother. It was difficult to imagine him in such a situation, to imagine him witnessing a process so gruesome and complex as a mere child. To imagine him having a mother, a father, a younger sibling.
He carried himself like he didn’t exist beyond his knighthood. But maybe that was typical for men of his status, and you were just ignorant of the custom. You finally found your scissors resting above your collection of letters, wrapped in tight layers of cotton. You retrieved them and skimmed your fingers over the covered blade. Ghost’s sword was propped against the wall beside your bed, clean and polished and close enough for him to grab in his sleep.
“It’s a violent experience,” you said. “Don’t you think?”
He didn’t reply.
***
You returned home just before dawn. The early morning air was crisp and cool, clouds rolling over the sky as it began to lighten. You tiredly pushed open the door, baskets balanced on your hip. The room was cloaked in shadow, only partially obscuring Ghost at your table. His eyes were open and trained right on you.
You nearly keeled over right then and there. “You’re already awake?”
“‘S morning, isn’t it?”
You weren’t sure why you were so surprised. Ghost usually woke even earlier than you did, moving about so quietly that it never disturbed your sleep. You’d given him your bed and set up your own small bedroll on the floor each night, as far away from him as possible to give the illusion of decency. There wasn’t enough distance in the world to make this an appropriate arrangement, but it wasn’t as if there was anyone else around to bear witness. Besides, you’d aged out of the marriage market a long time ago. You didn’t have much of a feminine reputation to protect.
You sat your baskets down and collapsed in the chair across from him. Your body was exhausted, but your mind was still deliriously alert. After a night of nonstop work, the familiar sights and sounds of home should've been enough to settle your thoughts, but Ghost’s presence had you feeling even more jittery, like he was another problem you’d been called upon to solve.
The last person you’d sat at this table with was your brother, before you’d sent him away to live by the sea. You’d tossed berries for him to catch in his open mouth, taught him how to grind herbs with your pestle, arm-wrestled him until he’d grown strong enough to defeat you. And now you were sharing the very same space with a knight. One who choked you, kept his identity a secret, and addressed you as girl instead of woman or midwife or any other decent moniker. Your situation had become so ridiculous that it was almost funny.
“It was my favorite kind of delivery,” you said, even though he hadn’t asked. “Simple, with no injuries. The baby took her time coming out, but she and her mother both ended up healthy and well.”
He said nothing, just like you'd predicted. You folded your arms on the tabletop and rested your head atop them. It was less than comfortable; your back was sore from travel, and your dress reeked of blood and honey, the latter of which you’d slathered on the mother’s skin to cleanse her after delivery. You desperately needed to wash, but the mere prospect of drawing water had your limbs aching in protest.
“What’s your least favorite?”
You picked your head back up. While Ghost’s mannerisms were nothing short of impossible to understand, his words were much easier—he was either gruff or goading, only bothering to speak to you out of necessity. But this question of his was wholly unnecessary, bizarrely sounding like genuine interest. You mulled over your response, wondering if you should lie, spout something silly or charming. You were a poor liar, though, and he didn’t seem like he had the temperament for silliness or the willingness to be charmed.
“When only the mother dies,” you said.
He blinked at you once, twice. His lashes were pale like butter. “Not the child?”
“They don't—a baby has nothing to lose.” The sleep deprivation was jumbling the words in your brain, but you didn’t want to stop talking, not when you'd finally gotten him to start. You rubbed your eyes, cringing at the scent of copper clinging to your hands. “But a mother has so much—I mean, if she dies, there’s a lot more she’ll be leaving behind.”
This was a soldier, you reminded yourself. A man who fought and killed other men in battle. You didn’t have to explain the weight of death to him.
“You’re dark,” Ghost groused, as if he was any better. “Thought midwives were supposed to be…”
“Be what?”
His eyes narrowed at your prodding. You shrunk back on instinct, then firmly squared your shoulders. If your poor manners or contrarian beliefs truly affronted him, you’re sure he would’ve punished you by now. He was a dog with blunt teeth, you thought, all bark and no bite, until you remembered the sword by your bed and the yellowing bruises on your neck.
“Tender,” he said finally.
“I can be tender!”
He exhaled. “Prove it.”
You pushed yourself forward, leaning in until your legs jostled his beneath the table. Entirely improper, just like the rest of your behavior, like the rest of your life. Ghost's form had become more visible as the sun rose, the light muted by the cloudy overcast, but still bright enough to reveal how easily he dwarfed the chair. His large hands rested on his large knees, the skin of them crisscrossed with large, faded scars.
“My good Sir,” you said, pouring as much sweetness into your voice as you could muster. You sounded more crazed than kind—you didn’t talk like this often, and by often you meant ever. “Please allow me to express my utmost gratitude for your service. Thank you for protecting our beautiful Kingdom. May I serve you breakfast?”
“Stop that,” Ghost immediately said. “Stick to being rude.”
You couldn’t help but laugh.