Page 6 of Bound

She was tired, and there was work yet to do, and her shins hurt. She did not wish to grow curt, but she had no intention of returning to the Proctor or the mess of it all, and she sighed a little. “You may remind the Proctor that he will receive no trouble from me. I would appreciate the stall being put to rights. That’s more than enough.”

The woodcutter’s mouth turned ever so slightly downward. His hair was as dark as his wings, his eyes equally so. There was a severity to his nose, the set of his mouth, and she found she did not like to look at him for too long. It made her nervous, made her all too aware of just how alone she was, and...

“May your afternoon be fairer than your morning,” she offered in way of parting, determined she would continue on her way rather than be subjected to yet more questions. The Proctor knew where to find her. He could come himself if it was so very important.

“Wait,” he called, and it was too close to a command and he must have noticed as she turned her head back with an arched brow and watched him grimace. “Wait,” he tried again, this time with something nearer to an entreaty. She didn’t. But she kept her steps slow and her head turned just enough.

And heard a rumbling sound from his chest as he moved toward her, and her lips thinned ever so slightly.

“Your name,” he insisted. “For the Proctor.”

Oh. “Wren,” she offered. “He’ll know me.”

He nodded, his steps lagging, looking all the while as if there was more that he wished to say. And maybe she should have lingered. Should have told him how he’d insulted her. That she could not help if her wings were small and somewhat useless, but that it certainly did not make her a fledgling.

She was a woman grown, and she was going home.

To her own home.

Where she’d happily allow Merryweather to bully her for minced meat or affection alike.

Where there were books brought by her father, read through more times than she could name, yet still felt like old friends.

She did not need him to think well of her. Did not need him to think her capable and competent.

“The next... event. Will you be in attendance?” The words were spoken in a stilted manner, as if ground from somewhere deep within that had no interest in bringing them from his unwilling throat.

She stopped then. Turned once, just briefly, then glanced away again when she felt the same nervous tightening in her belly that suggested he was dangerous. “No.” She laughed, and if it was filled with a humourless resignation, then... “No, of course not.” Wren did not elaborate. She owed him nothing. Let him think what he willed.

And when he stopped following her, she was not disappointed. And if she tried not to limp, to keep her steps even and of a normal gait, then... well... she simply did not wish to appear weak.

Yet the walk was long, and no matter how many times she tried to dismiss the events of the day from her mind, they replayed themselves over and over. What she should have done. What she might have said.

But the lessons had started early. Had started when she was just a fledgling. When her mother bundled her up and hid her wings, and took her to the market. Better for them to think her just a human baby, another merchant from another land.

It had worked for a while. Even as Wren had chaffed and argued, not understanding why it mattered at all.

When her father visited, he said her wings were lovely. He would laugh as she made them flutter as she sat upon his knee, and he would kiss the top of her head and insist she was the prettiest Harquilhe had ever seen.

It was different as she grew. When... when he’d found his bond-mate, after all.

There was a sadness about him that he could not fully put aside, even for her. She’d asked if she had brothers and sisters somewhere, and the look he shared with her mother was enough to quiet any further inquiries. It was enough that he was there. That he’d brought provisions and an afternoon. That he would take her twirling above the pasture so she might know what it was to be a proper Harquilafter all.

Temperance batted her head against the gate when Wren approached. “You should not be complaining,” Wren chided as she rubbed against the woolly head that tried to bat at her through the wooden slats. “I wasn’t supposed to be home for ages.”

Calliope gave a bellow across the field, a low sound that never failed to send a shiver through Wren. It was visceral, a warning, even if Calliope merely meant it as a greeting to the one that might give her an extra helping of grains.

They needed milking. She should check on the other field. She turned towards the house after giving Temperance one last rub. Her legs needed her attention, and these clothes would be added to the ever-growing pile of mending.

And she would forget anything about hurt feelings and damaged legs and a stall that was no longer shared.

And it was easier to do when she’d finally allowed herself to tuck in for the night. When Merryweather took her place on the old woollen blanket on her side of the bed and set to washing her foreleg and paw.

When the lamplight was low and the book in her hands was worn and familiar.

Contentment settled. The way her body only seemed to fully relax when she went back home again. Tucked into her own bed, surrounded by memories. Some sweet, some that sent little aches in her heart. But they were hers.

It was only later, when she’d doused the light and pulled the covers up to her nose, that she realised she had not even asked the man’s name.