Osric

Tall and stark stood the fortress of Swanstone. Its steep battlements, overtopped with moss and seaside centaury, tumbled towards the shore. Beyond the ramparts shivered an agitated sea. White waves crested like knife-cuts before collapsing into black water. The tide was rising.

Outside the tallest window of the tallest tower sat Osric Mordaunt. Bastard by birth, Fyren by profession, scoundrel by inclination.

Inside the tallest window of the tallest tower sat Aurienne Fairhrim. Respected Haelan, preeminent scholar, and champion of moral good.

Once upon a time, Osric had regarded Fairhrim as purely functional, as a Means to an End whose sole merit was that she was the only one who could heal his disease. He had considered her haughty and cold, insufferably high-handed, and—most damning of all—pretty at best.

He had thought he hated her.

He had been wrong. He had been wrong about many things.

Fairhrim asked, “Is something the matter?”

Osric shook his head, but it was a lie. Something was the matter. He was falling for her. Thrilling. Sickening. He held the truth unspoken. He tasted it on his tongue.

The sun rose like a lover, languid and sublime, and ambered the sea. On the windowsill between Osric and Fairhrim sat a row of glass cloches covering medicinal plants and rare orchids. The orchids caught the dawn on petals of apricot and white. The shadows that protected Osric from detection by patrolling Wardens shrank.

Fairhrim—always the sensible one, Fairhrim—said, “Shouldn’t you be going?”

Osric said, “I ought to. I’ll send my deofol to you in a few days to make arrangements for the Færwundor.”

“Thank you, again, for everything.” Fairhrim lifted a cloche and picked a bloom from one of the orchids. “Take this.”

He asked, “Why?”

She said, “You’re an appreciator of beautiful things.”

She gave him the flower. He contrived to brush his fingers against hers as he took it.

Home he floated.