Chapter 23: Chapter 21: To Live is So Startling

Chapter 21

To Live is So Startling

> "Where the fields are wide and time runs slow,

>

> In silence, the heart finds space to mend."

>

> — From the writings of Seneca the Younger

Griffon silently took Godfrey in, his eyes showing years of hard living and harder choices. Godfrey could feel the embers that had ignited within him, that stubborn flame of anger and revenge, still burning. He met Griffon’s gaze—steady, unwavering—the eyes of a man who would do anything to protect his family, his land.

Finally, Griffon spoke, his voice low, almost weary. “Revenge, is it, kid? That’s a heady draught you’re chasing.” His lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head slowly. “You speak as if you understand what it means.”

There was no scorn in Griffon's tone, but the faintest hint of sadness lingered behind his words, as though he’d seen the same fire in others before—and knew its toll.

Godfrey's gaze faltered, and he turned away, staring off into the middle distance. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet, tired, and edged with a bitterness that he couldn’t quite hide.

“I don’t know, Griffon,” he murmured. “I have nothing left. What else should I do? Would you simply accept the deaths of your family? Of your friends?”

But even as the words left his mouth, Godfrey felt the hollowness in them. He was lying to himself. Deep down, he knew—he had played a part in Oakvale’s fate. The fire that consumed his life might have been lit by Elara, and spread by Corvin, but he had fanned the flames.

Griffon’s eyes softened as he watched Godfrey wrestle with the storm inside him. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice low but firm.

“There’s more to life than death, kid. More than blood and revenge,” he said. “True vengeance isn’t about taking lives or bringing ruin. It’s about being unlike the one who hurt you. That’s how you rise above it.”

Griffon let his words linger in the cold air, watching as they settled on Godfrey like a shadow. After a pause, his voice dropped lower, more somber. "There’s no peace in following their path. Say you kill the Knight, and all his Soldiers. You hunt down his bonded Speaker, and every last one of her Listeners too. What will be left to drive you then? I’ll tell you, because I’ve seen it."

Griffon leaned in slightly, his gaze sharp. "You’ll either crumble like a wagon without wheels, or you’ll find someone else to hate. And it won’t stop. You’ll keep climbing, higher and higher, until you’re waging war against the whole world."

At that, Godfrey could only frown, his brow furrowed as he grappled with Griffon's words. The fire of vengeance that had seemed so clear now flickered uncertainly. Griffon, seeing Godfrey’s expression, nodded, as if that reaction was enough for now.

Without another word, he stood, his movements unhurried as he crossed the larder. He opened the smokeroom door, the rich aroma of cured meats spilling into the air. With practiced ease, he began putting together a meal, moving between shelves and counters, selecting dried goods, cured meats, and smoked vegetables from the stores. The rhythmic clinks of his work filled the quiet space, but the silence between them remained.

Griffon returned with a plate piled high with various meats, vegetables, and a thick chunk of hard bread. As he set it down on the bench beside Godfrey, he wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disgust. Without a word, he snatched up one of the sausages and tossed it toward Godfrey, who caught it instinctively.

Pointing to a bucket of water that hadn’t been there the night before, Griffon chuckled. “Eat that while you wash up, boy,” he said, his voice laced with humor. “You won’t be spending another moment in my larder stinking like that.”

Godfrey smiled then, a small thing, for the first time since Oakvale. "Where do you want me?"

Griffon gestured with his chin. "Out back, near the rain barrel. There's a washing stand by the shed. Use the water from the bucket first, I don’t want you fouling up my rain water. And make sure you scrub off proper, there should be a bar of soap somewhere around there. No half-measures."

Godfrey nodded, rising from the bench, gathering his pack, and taking the sausage with him. He stepped outside, feeling a strange relief as the crisp air greeted him, sharp but refreshing against his skin. At the back of the building, just as Griffon had indicated, stood the washing stand near the rain barrel. The small wooden ducts running from the eaves of the thatched roof guided the melted snow and rain into the barrel. The water inside was murky; if this was the water Griffon thought too clean for his first rinse, he must be truly filthy.

He set the sausage down on the stand, eyeing it like a reward for after the task ahead. With a sigh, he began peeling off his travel-ruined layers. First, his cloak—a once sturdy garment of dark wool, now tattered and frayed at the edges, smeared with dirt and the grime of the road. He draped it over the edge of the stand, where it sagged under its own damp weight. His woolen jacket followed, heavier than it looked, its lining matted and rank from too many nights spent in the open.

Next came his linen undershirt, its thin fabric clinging to him with the sweat and muck of endless days on the move. He tugged it over his head, the chill of the air striking his bare skin like a jolt, gooseflesh rising along his arms. He paused, looking down at his hands—cracked, bleeding, calloused.

His breeches were next. Sturdy, practical, but torn at the knees and stained beyond recognition. The leather patches he’d sewn on himself were worn through, evidence of a man who had traveled long roads with few stops for comfort. He kicked off his worn boots, then hesitated for a brief moment before removing his underclothes. They were a thin layer of wool, threadbare and stiff from days without washing. He felt strangely exposed as he stripped them off, the cold biting into him more keenly now that he stood fully bare under the open sky.

His body, though lean and hard, was marred with bruises, cuts, and the grime of his journey. Muscles sore, joints aching, and skin dry from the harsh winter air—he was a far cry from the well-kept traveler he must have looked fleeing Oakvale.

The thought sent a shiver through him, or maybe it was the bucket of water he poured over himself. He located the rough brick of lye soap beside the stand and grabbed the hard-bristle brush next to it. Each scrub felt like scraping away more than just dirt. His skin, reddened by the effort, began to sting, but he welcomed the discomfort.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Godfrey caught a flicker of movement near the main house. Turning his head, he saw the shutters on a nearby window swing closed with a soft thud. He paused for a moment, water dripping from his hair and shoulders, but then turned back to his task.

XXX

Godfrey finished scrubbing himself clean, the cold air biting at his damp skin as he reached for the change of clothes he had salvaged from his pack. They were hardly "fresh," having been soaked through during the journey and left to dry out in the biting wind, but they were the only option he had. He shook out his shirt first, the fabric stiff from exposure and damp to the touch despite his efforts.

He tugged the shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to his still-cold skin. His pants, though slightly drier, were just as uncomfortable as he pulled them on, the material stiff and unyielding. He ignored the chill and the discomfort, focusing instead on the simple act of dressing.

With a deep breath, Godfrey straightened up and grabbed the sausage, biting into it without hesitation. The rich, smoky flavor hit his tongue, and he realized just how ravenous he was. He devoured it in four quick bites, barely pausing to savor the taste, as hunger gnawed at him.

Godfrey shuffled back inside, the cold air still clinging to his skin. His eyes immediately fell on the plate of food Griffon had left for him, piled high with meats, vegetables, and a chunk of hard bread. Without a word, he sat down and began to dig in, his hunger making quick work of the meal.

Griffon grunted from the other side of the room, watching him with a faint smile. "Enjoy it," he said with a chuckle, “I’ll be right back, you stay here.” Griffon left through the door, a sudden gust of wind blowing it closed with a slam.

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Godfrey barely registered the command or the loud noise, his focus entirely on the food in front of him. His body ached with exhaustion even after sleeping, but the hunger overpowered everything else. He shoveled the food into his mouth, not caring about the world around him, his mind consumed by the gnawing pit in his stomach.

The plate emptied faster than he anticipated, and when he was done, he found himself licking the last bits of grease from his fingers, scraping the plate clean with his thumb. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, broken only by the sound of his breathing as he sat back, finally feeling the faintest echo of satisfaction in his belly.

Just then, the door swung open again, and Griffon returned, this time with a woman beside him. Stocky and sturdy, she moved with a certain determination, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, streaks of gray running through the chestnut brown. Though her frame suggested a life of hard work, there was an undeniable comeliness to her features, a warmth that softened her strong presence. She carried a bundle of linens in her arms, her eyes assessing Godfrey with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"This here’s Mary, my wife," Griffon said, stepping aside as she bustled forward. He gave her a slight, amused glance, the kind of look a man gives his wife when he knows she’s about to take charge.

"He just passed out there," Griffon began, rubbing the back of his neck, "but—"

"Nonsense," Mary interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. "A guest should have a proper bed, even if it's not much of one. He’s not sleeping on a hard wooden bench with nary a blanket." She gave Griffon a pointed look, and he simply shrugged, clearly used to this exchange.

Without another word, she set to work, laying out the linens across the bench Godfrey had rested on. The smell of clean cloth, faintly scented with lavender, filled the room as she tucked the fabric carefully, smoothing it down with practiced hands.

"There," she said, stepping back with a satisfied nod. "It’s not much, but it’s better than the floor."

Godfrey, feeling more grateful than words could express, managed a small smile. "Thank you," he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. He felt a strange warmth at the kindness being shown to him, something he hadn’t experienced since Oakvale.

Mary gave a curt nod, her eyes softening as she looked at him. "Get some rest. You look like you need it." She shot a final glance at Griffon, then left the room.

Griffon watched Mary leave, then turned back to Godfrey. His usual gruff demeanor softened slightly as he nodded toward the makeshift bed.

"She's right, you know," Griffon said, his voice low. "You need the rest. Get some sleep, lad. We’ll talk more in the morning."

Godfrey nodded, his exhaustion far too deep for words. He sank into the makeshift bed, the linens surprisingly soft against his aching body. He closed his eyes, and slipped away. He was finally warm, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt a small sliver of peace.

XXX

Godfrey woke to the soft sound of singing drifting in from outside the door. It was a gentle, lilting tune, one that made him blink in confusion for a moment, unsure if he was still dreaming. His body felt sore, but the overwhelming exhaustion that had weighed him down seemed to have lifted.

He rubbed his eyes, realizing with some surprise how much better he felt. His limbs, though stiff, moved with a renewed energy. It was incredible what two days rest and some food could do. He shifted beneath the linens, the faint ache in his muscles a reminder of how long he had been running.

The singing continued, and curiosity tugged at him. It was a woman’s voice—young, by the sound of it—light and clear, rising and falling like a breeze through the trees. Godfrey stretched, groaning softly as his joints protested, and swung his legs off the bench. He glanced around the room, feeling more present now, more aware.

Pushing himself up, he padded quietly toward the door, the soft floorboards creaking underfoot. As he reached the door, he cracked it open slightly, just enough to peer out and see the source of the singing. Through the gap, he saw a young woman standing near the well, filling a bucket with water. She had her back to him, but he could see her long hair, braided down her back, and her sturdy, farm clothes.

The song she sang was something simple, perhaps an old folk tune, but there was a warmth to it.

Godfrey watched her for a moment, captivated by the ease with which she moved, the way her hands worked in rhythm with the song as she hauled the bucket up from the well. There was something peaceful about the scene, something that felt so removed from the chaos that had filled his life for the past few weeks. He felt a pang of longing—this was the kind of normalcy that had been stolen from him.

The woman turned slightly, and Godfrey caught a glimpse of her face. She was young, probably close to his age, with a soft but determined expression. Her features were sharp, but not unkind, and her brow furrowed slightly as she adjusted the bucket, her sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious about standing there watching her, Godfrey cleared his throat softly. The young woman startled, nearly dropping the bucket before turning to face him. For a moment, they just stared at each other—Godfrey unsure of what to say, and the woman clearly surprised by his sudden appearance.

“You must be Godfrey,” she said, breaking the silence. Her voice was clear, matching the song she had been singing moments before. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked him over with an appraising eye. “Father said you were still resting.”

“Uh, yeah... I just woke up,” Godfrey replied, his voice still a bit hoarse from sleep. “I heard you singing.”

The woman smiled, a small but genuine expression. “That’d be me. I’m Emily. You’re lucky—Mother usually gets up earlier to start the day. I’m a bit of a late riser.”

Godfrey nodded, feeling awkward now that the conversation had started. He shifted his weight, unsure of what to say next. “Thanks… for letting me stay. Your father… he’s been very kind.”

Emily waved it off with a casual flick of her wrist. “He’s gruff, but he’s got a good heart. Don’t let him fool you. Besides, we don’t get many visitors out this way.” She studied him for a moment, then added, “You look better. Mother said you were half-dead when they brought you in.”

Godfrey chuckled softly. “I felt like it.”

Emily smiled again, this time with a touch of humor in her eyes. “Well, you’re on your feet now. That’s something.” She hefted the bucket and motioned toward the door. “Why don’t you come help me bring this inside? You’re looking like you could use a little more work to stretch those muscles.”

Godfrey hesitated but then nodded, stepping fully outside into the crisp morning air. He was still sore, but it was nothing compared to the days before. He moved toward Emily, taking the bucket from her hands with a grateful nod. As they walked back toward the house together, Emily’s singing resumed.

“What are you singing?” Godfrey asked, almost nervously.

Emily glanced at him, then smiled softly. “It’s an old song my mother used to sing to me when I was a child,” she said, her voice light. “Something about the wind and the trees… and time passing us by.”

Godfrey nodded, feeling the words settle over him like the cool morning air. “It’s nice,” he murmured, unsure of what else to say but oddly comforted by the melody.

Emily shrugged, clearly unbothered by the compliment. “It’s simple. But simple things tend to last the longest, don’t they?” She gave him a sideways glance, her eyes sharp with thoughtfulness. “Father says songs are a good way to keep your mind from wandering too far into dark places.”

Godfrey stared ahead, feeling a deep, inchoate sense of longing rise up within him. “Yes,” he agreed quietly. “I think I understand that.”

They reached the house, the warm smell of cooking drifting toward them from within. Emily pushed open the door, motioning for him to follow. “Come on, let’s get this inside before Mother fusses at me for being late with the water.”

Inside, the kitchen was modest but cozy, with a fire crackling in the hearth and the smell of fresh bread mingling with the savory aroma of sausage and eggs. Mary Hartwell was busy at the stove, her back to them, but she turned when she heard the door creak open.

"Ah, you’re up," she said, giving Godfrey a once-over. “You look a sight better. Come sit, breakfast is just about ready.”

Godfrey hesitated at first, unused to such warmth from strangers, but Emily nudged him forward with a grin. “Go on. Trust me, you don’t want to miss out on breakfast around here.”

Griffon, seated at the table with a gruff look, gave Godfrey a nod as he took his place. “Morning,” he grunted, as if the effort of speaking before breakfast was too much. His tone was neutral, though there was an underlying edge of watchfulness.

Godfrey sat, feeling awkward but comforted by the simple, homely environment. Mary quickly placed a plate piled with sausages, eggs, and slices of freshly baked bread in front of him. "Eat up," she said, brushing her hands on her apron. "You need the strength."

Griffon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching as Godfrey tentatively picked up a fork. “Don’t just look at it,” Griffon muttered, “put it away.”

Godfrey couldn’t help but chuckle, albeit quietly, and dug into the food. It was delicious, simple but hearty. The warmth of the food seemed to seep into his bones.

Emily chattered about small things—stories from the farm, some old gossip from the nearby villages. Mary kept the plates full, occasionally offering a motherly comment or chuckle at Emily’s stories. Griffon remained mostly silent, eyeing Godfrey occasionally, though he didn’t say much.

As breakfast drew to a close, Griffon cleared his throat, cutting through the easy conversation. “Mary, Emily,” he said, his voice firmer now. “I’d like to have a word with our guest. Alone.”

Mary exchanged a glance with Griffon, wiping her hands on her apron. Emily raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. “Come on, Em,” Mary said, guiding her daughter toward the door. “We’ll get to the chores.”

Emily lingered for a moment, curiosity dancing in her eyes as she looked at Godfrey. “Don’t let him scare you,” she teased lightly, before following her mother out of the room. The door closed with a soft thud, leaving Godfrey alone with Griffon. The mood in the room shifted, the warmth from the hearth suddenly feeling more distant.

Griffon leaned forward, his sharp gaze locking onto Godfrey. "Now," he said, his voice quiet but commanding. "Let’s talk."