3 - For Her

  A month.

  That was how long Garrick had waited for the Monster of Savidor to awaken. Poor Amelia, who had only just welcomed her husband home from war with eyes shimmering and voice tight, chased him from public view.

  “Better to brood where you won’t scare the servants,” she had said.

  She had not said it unkindly, but he still felt the sting of it. She was right. Now, he paced a hole in the floor of his study rather than the front foyer.

  When he had first ridden through the streets of Bastion’s Reach at the head of a train of soldiers - the weary and the wounded - he had underestimated how long it would take for the monster’s recovery. Every day ticked by, leaving them in further uncertainty. He remembered their return - the scent of flowers, the flash of ribbons, the sound of bells ringing in the distant chapels as the soldiers marched, their weary steps becoming buoyant at the prospect of coming home. Children ran through the streets, laughing and singing. Soldiers reunited with loved ones. And the people cried, “The Monster is dead!” their voices tinged with hope.

  It felt like a lie.

  The longer it took for the monster to heal, the more he felt like he had made the wrong choice.

  And then a breakthrough. It woke. Fear was expected. Resistance, expected. Pain, too. One didn’t burn like that and feel no pain. And all of that had come.

  But so had the silence. Not defiance - that he could have worked with. Not rage or calculation - he was prepared for that, too. But this silence was something worse. The tilt of its head, every flex of its fingers, every ragged gasp and wild scream - these were not the sounds of some calculating warrior waiting for a chance to break free. These were the actions of a wild dog. Directionless and lacking strategy. No bargaining, no hatred, no meaning but raw instinct.

  It wasn’t even resistance like he expected. It was useless.

  The floorboards were beginning to look well-worn as his steps carried him back and forth. The night the monster had become lucid long enough to see him, Garrick had a little hope - but nothing. Not one blessed thing worth any of this headache. Since then, it had been three days. Three days of this bullshit. Three days of nothing but growls and snaps.

  Fenric’s letter lay on his desk, unopened. He knew what it would say and that was why he didn’t touch it.

  “I am growing restless, Garrick. I want to know you have the situation handled. We lie to the people everyday, telling them the Monster of Savidor is dead. Yet everyday you give us no answers. It is becoming more and more difficult to back you.”

  Another from Veylan sat beside that one. Most likely a repeat of the last.

  “Is the creature awake yet? I eagerly await news so we may understand further what this weapon is capable of.”

  And finally one from Varne, the envelope weathered and worn from its journey here from Rising City, where Garrick had left the Field Captain in charge. It was the only one Garrick had opened with any level of comfort.

  “The situation remains the same. Savidor is watchful but they have not crossed their borders. We remain steadfast, but there is no telling how long this peace will hold.”

  Garrick didn’t know what to tell them. His steps quickened. Seven to the fireplace. Seven to the desk. He had been confident in telling Fenric he would take the blame should things go wrong, confident because he thought he would have answers by month’s end. He almost wanted to growl himself. Savidor’s forces would not stay idle. The ceasefire had definitely been a saving grace, but people grew more complacent the further the war got from their immediate experiences. He knew Savidor was actively looking for it now. They hadn’t believed the bluff quite as much as he had hoped. And if they couldn’t find it, how much longer before another monster showed up? What if he was putting too much effort into this? He already had Varne running all possible scenarios, but maybe that wasn’t enough either. He didn’t want to abandon this thread, but right now it felt more like his pride talking -

  A sharp crack sounded in the hearth. Garrick flinched towards the sound, heart pounding. Then he saw the wood collapsing, sending up small sparks through the chimney. The heat of it rippled on his skin. He let out a shaky breath.

  He remembered the heat from that day, the burning and the screaming. He remembered when they first captured the Monster. Ten weeks of secrecy, hiding in the shadows, purchasing the fire balm from the west in small increments to hide the intent from Savidor’s eyes, and planting the jars around the clearing where they planned to detonate them with magister’s fire. He could smell the smoke - heavy and acrid - see the figure thrashing as the fire engulfed it in a never-ending flame.

  Only, it did end.

  They hadn’t been able to approach it for hours, and for the first half it screamed, the sound muffled behind the black mask it wore. The heat itself prevented them. And afterwards, when the fires finally died and the smoke finally cleared and the heat was tolerable and the air only slightly distasteful, they found him - half burned as if he had jumped, as if he had taken the explosion below him, already moving away.

  And alive. Against all odds. Alive.

  Garrick didn’t know what overcame him then. Still didn’t. Damn if Fenric was right about something - he didn’t have time to be a bleeding heart. He needed answers, needed understanding. And the damn thing was still in and out of consciousness, so he couldn’t even call upon Veylan to assist if he wanted. The healers had done their part, but herbs and tinctures could only do so much. Should he have just ended it then and there? Justice demanded execution. Perhaps mercy did as well. But this - this was neither. This was cruelty born of indecision disguised as strategy. A delay. He couldn’t afford this.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He stepped over to the desk and reached out to brush his fingers over the small silver medallion coiled at the front.

  “What would you have done, I wonder,” he said, eyes softening.

  Absently he picked up the medallion and began rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.

  He ended up brooding anyway at the dinner table that night. The medallion remained in his hand, turning this way in that. His eyes were dark, his gaze distant, and as predicted the servants skirted around him for the most part, casting nervous glances his way. The food on his plate remained untouched long after the servants had brought it, the duck going cold. Amelia sighed. She placed her fork down and lifted a napkin to dab at her lips before looking at her husband.

  “I thought I told you to do that elsewhere,” she said.

  “Hmm.”

  She paused. Smiling patiently, she reached over and squeezed his hand. The contact helped shake him from his stupor, and his eyes flickered with something other than displeasure. He rumbled in his throat and reached up with his other hand to cover hers. For the first time that night since sitting down to eat, he looked up at her. Thumb rubbing the back of her hand, he smiled ruefully.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I seem to be lost tonight.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it but wouldn’t let her go. Garrick’s heart quickened, grateful suddenly for this woman. The sleepless nights they spent just holding each other, her hiding her tears every night before he rode off to war, the ache in his chest that grew every passing moment she was not at his side, the shuddering breaths he took fighting to keep the wounds from taking him away from seeing her beautiful face again - all of it was worth it for this touch.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind,” she said.

  Garrick’s lips twitched down at the corners. A sharp, pointed look and a raised brow answered.

  “Either that, or I will call Fenric over and you may talk to him. Though, judging from the way you’ve been avoiding the messengers every morning, I’d wager you’d rather not,” she teased.

  His jaw tightened with guilt. He looked away, hand gripping hers tighter. Her smile fell.

  “Did something happen between the two of you?” she asked gently.

  “No. Or rather, nothing has happened, and that is the problem,” he said.

  She looked at him, reading between the lines.

  “Ah, so what you hoped would happen hasn’t happened yet. And both of you are anxious about it.”

  He smiled ruefully.

  “That is the gist of it, yes. And I’m afraid I’m running out of time to produce results.”

  “And Fenric is losing patience.”

  Garrick chuckled. “Fenric was born without patience.”

  She laughed softly with him. “You know that’s not what I meant.” She squeezed his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Come. You aren’t going to eat until this is solved, so let’s go somewhere a little cooler to clear out that head of yours.”

  A gentle tug was all Garrick needed to get him to his feet. He groaned through a smile, slipped the medallion into his pocket, and stood. She brought him to the terrace, where a soft evening breeze brushed the silvering strands of hair from his forehead. They came to the railing where he took her in his arms and embraced her from behind, staring out over the garden.

  “I missed this,” he whispered in her ear.

  “I missed this, too,” she said, holding his arms tightly and leaning back into his chest.

  A sweet, fragrant scent wafted from the roses. The fountain bubbled. But the couple had their eyes closed, just holding each other. For a moment, it was just this. Just them.

  Then Garrick sighed.

  “I’m sorry for tonight, Amelia. I just feel so helpless. Frustrated. Nothing seems to be going right.”

  “Fenric wouldn’t have entrusted this to you if he didn’t trust you,” Amelia reassured him.

  He hesitated. “He may have trusted the wrong man this time.”

  Amelia’s eyes flickered open and she turned in his arms, taking his face in her hands and kissing his cheek. She stroked his bristle, thumb steady and sure. He gazed down at her, throat tight.

  “Don’t say that. I don’t like it when you say things like that,” she said.

  He nodded, but his arms tightened around her all the same.

  “What is happening?” she asked, more insistent this time.

  He sighed. “I’ve been asked to get information. But the source is…uncooperative. Resistive. I’m not certain how to…get what I need. I’ve tried every tactic I know, but I still can’t get a clear read on it.”

  Amelia nodded thoughtfully. “And it’s important, what you need.”

  He nodded. “It could very well mean an end to the war, or at least a fighting chance.”

  “Very important, then.” She paused and frowned thoughtfully. “What do you think the problem is?”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know what it is,” Garrick said, a little of his frustration bleeding into his words. “It’s just…growling, snapping.”

  She looked taken aback. “Are you training some kind of animal?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm, that sounds more like a misunderstanding, then.”

  Garrick pulled back slightly and looked at her, his gaze intent. “You believe so?”

  Amelia nodded. “Don’t you get frustrated when you don’t understand something?”

  He blushed, remembering how he had acted all day around the manor.

  “That’s different…” he said, but trailed off, thoughtful.

  She smiled patiently at him. “Is it all that different?”

  He didn’t have an answer. Instead, he leaned forward and put his forehead to hers. “You are gorgeous and brilliant. Have I ever told you that?”

  “Often,” she laughed. “Are you feeling better now? You need to eat something.”

  He pulled her forward, nuzzling her neck. His breath tickled her skin and she laughed.

  “I have all I need to sustain me right here in my arms,” he said confidently, kissing her cheek.

  “Not here!” she said, swatting his shoulder, but she didn’t resist when he kissed her again, lips brushing against his softly.

  That night, as Garrick lay beside his wife, sleep did not come as easily. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, stroked her graying chestnut hair braided loosely down one shoulder.

  A misunderstanding. Could it really be as simple as that?

  He rumbled deep in his throat and wrapped an arm around his beautiful wife, pulling her close to him. She shifted naturally, head falling back against his chest. A pang, sharp and fierce, pierced his heart. This. This was why he was doing this. Not for Fenric. Not even for Adern. He loved both fiercely. But it was this moment. This woman. He would do anything in his power to savor this, to protect this. And if it meant laying aside his pride and admitting he had been doing this wrong all along, so be it.