There is a belief among my people that if you have too much of something then the balance of nature is unhinged and will right itself by any means possible. My excitement to visit my old home must have been a tad too much for dear nature to handle.

I waited (I thought patiently, but I was wrong) through two full days of rain and then a third for the water to soak back into the earth and the mud to dry. On the fourth morning, the rise of a bright white sun meant the roads were sure to be passable.

And I awoke with a blistering fever. And a headache to rival the grip of a vice.

This is now my second day abed. I feel healthy enough to sit up for short bursts of time. And so I sit, watching out my window, as the final embers of a deep orange sunset fades.

I am soon left staring at a black sky, but I have nothing else to do as I have studied every stone around me these past two days.

A soft knock sounds at the door and my lord peeks his head in a moment later.

"Charis?"

I pull my blanket up to my chin as he enters.

"I thought perhaps you were bored, so I brought something to read to you, if you'd like."

"Oh, yes please!" I answer quickly.

Now is the time, when spring is well underway, that the nights are warm enough for people to venture from their homes. The villagers often congregate around the common fire during this season, taking turns telling the new tales that had birthed in our minds during the long, cold winter months.

My friends, my neighbors, my father and cousins, are most likely helping to build the fire at this very moment, throwing on logs and sharing news, as I sit here. It hurts to think of it.

A story is most welcome, being both a similarity and a distraction.

There is a chair in a corner he makes himself home in.

"I have not read this one before. We are both hearing it for the first time," he seems pleased at this, like we are sharing a secret.

He begins and his deep voice fills my room, so stark in contrast with my many hours of silence.

He is reading about a brave young man and his grandmother. Some pages in, our little hero goes head to head with a beast that is dragon in nature and devil at heart. As my lord reads, he is so entrenched in the story that the characters seem to leap out of the page. As the battle turns dire, he reads with more and more zest.

The dragon is not kind, but I suppose they never are. He rips into the flesh of the man-child and a bloody arm flies here, a bloody stump of a leg flies over there. There is much wailing, which my lord rises his voice to match and the hairs on the back of my arms stand up. The battle ends when he tricks the dragon to the edge of a cliff. After the dragon falls, our hero then dies, while the thanks from his grandmother falls cold on her lips. She drops to her death next to him.

I shift uncomfortably and attempt to push the grotesque images away before they settle firmly into the recesses of my mind. What a tale. I'd rather that one found its way into the fire! At least the stories we told had some semblance of morality, even if they were grisly at times.

"I am glad you are sitting up. I've been checking in periodically and was worried when I heard your fever was still raging."

Ulra told me he is at my door every hour, but I can hardly tease him about this.

"Thank you, but the fever is gone now."

"Well, I hope you will be able to rest well tonight," he says, gently.

"Yes, I suppose I will, dreaming of flying severed limbs and such." This I feel I can tease him for.

I try to fight the smile. It works, for he looks so alarmed, as if I turned to ghost right then and there.

"I...I.." His tongue must have knotted. "Was the story too much? Will you be ok?"

"I will be fine," I assure him with a smile."I have Lord Vane here to protect me all night."

He flushes at this and I wonder at his acute embarrassment until I realize what I said.

"Oh...the...the dog, remember?" I point to where the puppy is sound asleep on his bed. As fate would have it, little Lord Vane began to whimper terribly in his sleep.

"Don't let that fool you; he is not afraid of a measly dragon. He must be dreaming his food bowl is empty. That would be a tragedy."

It's the first thing I can think to say. And when my lord laughs, I congratulate myself on dispelling the awkwardness so adeptly.

"So my little wife has a sense of humor."

There is a light I do not recognize in his eyes. I want to look away at their directness, but am caught by a hold both invisible and fascinating.

He stands and closes the distance between us, settling himself on the edge of my bed, bringing with him the awkwardness I was too early in celebrating the death of.

It is not the images of blood and gore and death that steals my sleep. No, not at all. It is Gavriel himself who is my thief.

~End of Chapter 6 ~

Thanks to LaceShorts, a family friend who introduced me to Wattpad. She's a fun person with lots of creative projects!

Here's a short gift from Gavriel & Charis (eh...mostly Gavriel)...
~❤️ LuckyPlum~