Every leaf that passes over the river stones is another breath taken.

Quilleran had made a habit of watching during brief moments of free time, the small stream of water carrying anything from tadpoles to greenery to sediment. Saruya had possessed true vision when she had chosen this property for their home: a variety of grasses whispered through the clearing, trailing gracefully into the outer border of Sapwood Forest’s shady caress, with a small tributary from Merle River dribbling behind. It was a humble stream, only coming up as far as her knees on a good day, but it was just enough to aid with chores and the watering of animals, and overall contributed to the area’s peaceful atmosphere.

The noise was another in the list of sounds to acclimatize himself to since leaving his life on the mountain behind. The mountains were not without their quiet moments—wide stretches of latent, living earth with no company but the wind—but the Sordid stronghold had almost never been without noise, not until the silence that emerged in the wake of their conquest. The first adjustment had been to the sounds of the forest surrounding Saruya’s treehouse, where calls of birds, squirrels, frogs, and countless other creatures resounded at all hours day or night, then the frequent evolutions of sound that accompanied each region traveled along the Guardians’ journey. Camping riverside in passing was one thing, living mere steps away from the creek’s constant chatter was another. It was still a welcome change nonetheless.

The canopy of trees to the west breathed with another rush of wind, branches and trunks swaying in silent melody. Below the surface, the percussion of his own heartbeat.

Between his fingertips, a folded stack of papers dense as tungsten placed a weight on his arms and his chest simultaneously, rooting him in place amid the foxtails and reeds. To press open the enveloped folds of the parcel would be to peel away the layers of his thoughts like the rind of a grapefruit, baring the pink flesh of heartfelt expression too unfamiliar to his palate to put to tongue.

Saruya had once said of him that he spoke in three languages: the first in common, using the same words as everyone else (though decidedly more eccentric), the second in subtext, a delicate crafting of statements sounding direct on the surface yet cutting beneath, and the third in silence, a tactful language of expressions and lingering stares differing from each other by increments of millimeters. It was far easier to use the third, to allow his thoughts to piece together with no need for incessant dialogue. It was a feeling lacking definition, an instinct, so beyond the level of conscious thought that it could exist without pressure of external expectation. But the need for such subtlety was in the past, when speaking out of line posed grave danger, when a misstep between intent and delivery meant hostile interrogation. Here, where sun and stream worked together to turn stone and sand into shining works of art, where his ponderings were met with open arms and curious hearts, here he was safe. It was a comfort that still required practiced, cognizant acceptance.

As Guardian, people cared for what he had to say. Whatever number of words small or great he could muster, they hung on each like disciples in desperate search of direction. For the past seven months since the end of the war, he had worked diligently alongside the mayor of Llora to create a roadmap for the continued rebuilding of the town and the eventual repossession of Talon Hill. The poor town, standing closest in proximity to the Stronghold, had suffered most from the Sordid across centuries of history, and as such he was of the mind that there were no people more deserving of the mountain’s resources. The vision was to one day transform Talon Hill into a town of its own (a mining town, most likely,) remaining in close relationship with Llora, but that would take time, supplies, and manpower he could not possibly source on his own. The best strategy was to establish a partnership with Llora from the ground up.

Quilleran had one such meeting with the mayor today, but couldn’t bring himself to leave home just yet. Not with the weight of his own written word still weighing him down. Truthfully, the folds holding the pages together were far from fresh—the words contained within had been checked and double checked multiple times already, pages of addendums and rewrites drafted and scrapped. Every day that passed was another unit of space the contents of the envelope occupied in the back of his mind, but the thought of allowing the pages to leave his hands still gave him pause. Failure to relinquish the letter, however, would get him nowhere, a conflict of logic and emotion that flayed his spirit. Troublesome, really.

He was almost distracted enough to miss the sound of the back door opening and closing—almost. With another leaf tumbling down the river rocks and another deep breath taken, alertness found its way back to him as he swiveled to watch Saruya striding through the grasses behind him, arms stretched over her head to shed away the sleep and welcome the sun.

“Good morning,” came his simple statement. The letter in his grasp once again found its way to his pockets.

“I was wondering where you were.” Her arms dropped, swinging lightly back to her sides. She pushed up onto her toes, expectantly awaiting a kiss. “You weren’t in any of your usual places.”

He stooped to meet her, lips brushing quickly together in greeting. “I have to leave promptly this morning for a meeting with the mayor, but you looked too peaceful to disturb.”

“You’re leaving already? You should have woken me, I could have made breakfast.” She stepped up alongside him, leaning her head against his arm to join him in his spectating of the creek. “Will you be alright? I could at least send you off with some jerky.”

“I will be fine, we will be meeting over a meal.”

“Cheese and bread, then?”

He chuckled. “Do not trouble yourself.”

“Who said it was trouble?” 

In truth, it was merely another sign of her consideration. Her observational skills rivaled his at times, as she was always utilizing her skillset in different ways to show that she cared—simple routine things, like cooking and mending and trimming his hair, as well as more intricate gestures. Once she had noticed that the charcoal pencil that held his place in his journal was nearing closer and closer the back cover, and set to work binding a fresh set of pages and leather together by hand (complete with custom colored stitching and pyrography of his initials). When she had gleefully presented it to him, it had put him at a complete loss for words. No one had ever done such a thing on his behalf.

He turned to look at her, watching how sleep-tangled threads of golden hair waved to and fro with the breeze, single strands catching against the tips of her ears and the fibers of his shirt. When she snaked both her arms around his large one, cementing her in place at his side, contentment draped over his shoulders like an old favorite blanket. A sigh eased its way from the tension in his chest. “You are right. No one did.”

The acuity of his focus shifted from the thought of her, to the feeling of her body against his, to the weight of the collection of papers erupting from his back pocket. He loved her beyond words. But by golly, with how much he had written for her, he was sure willing to try.

He jaggedly stepped away from her, reaching back to withdraw the parcel from its resting place. It felt hot like molten iron in his grasp as he fought through his own hesitation. “I, ah,” he stammered, brain jumping from word to word to conclude the sentence with any amount of grace, “I wrote something. For you.” A pause to clear his throat. “I wish I could be here for the moment you finish reading it, but I really must leave straight away. Forgive me.”

“For me?” Saruya’s awestruck expression at the gesture couldn’t overpower a giggle once the envelope was placed in her hand. There was a noticeable heft to it. “Quill, this is a novel. I’ll be lucky to finish it before you get back.”

The sound of her laugh lifted a mote of apprehension from him. “Well, I hope you will try. I am unsure when I will return tonight; you know the mayor does go on.”

She held the letter at eye-level, measuring its height, a sarcastic brow creeping higher. “No idea what that’s like.”

He chuckled, stooping to press a parting kiss to her forehead. “Enjoy your morning. I will see you later, my love.”

“Good luck today! I know you’ll be great!” And she waved him off with a smile.

Saruya watched his figure slowly slip away into the tall grasses that would soon give way to the roads and thoroughfares leading towards Llora, passing the shape of the letter between her fingers mindlessly. Once he had disappeared over the horizon, she glanced down at it again, instinct and temptation pushing her to open it immediately.  However, being as familiar with his writing style as she was, she knew reading something of this length required some preparation—a cup of tea at the least. And perhaps a dictionary. She retraced her steps back to the house.

Quill’s letter was something to behold. The pages unfurled one after the next after the next, as was his character, the man of few words but many thoughts. His penmanship elegantly crossed from margin to margin (tight margins, it should be added,) with the occasional scratched-out change of trajectory ensuring proper flow between sentences and ideas.

Saruya pointedly took a breath, evaluating the daunting nature of the text. She knew she would be here for a while, but the steep upward climb of the literature ahead was assuaged slightly at the sight of her name in his handwriting at the very top. No better place to start.

My heart, Saruya,

Since the instant I first awoke on this earth, I have been trained to speak with eloquence, a skill that has aided me in navigating everything from the fickle whims of tyrants to the enduring spirit of communities displaced by war. Putting my own feelings to words, however, has always posed an unexpected challenge, so I do hope you will forgive my unorthodox method of communicating them to you. In return, I will strive to filter myself as little as possible, for better or worse, to provide you a window into my truest sincerity.

Saruya smeared the side of her face with one hand, chuckling aloud. ‘Filter as little as possible’? Quite the understatement. Entering the kitchen, she prodded at the embers from yesterday’s fire in the stove, getting a healthy flame going before setting a kettle to boil—a task long enough to buy her a few minutes of reading time. Perhaps she could even get a pot of porridge going.

On the day I stumbled into your life, we faced each other worlds apart, yet simultaneously and unbeknownst to us, on more even ground than we could have imagined. You, smallest of your ilk, in constant flight of judgmental eyes and hardened hearts, and me, protruding amongst the Sordid like a lighthouse in a tempest—and equally juxtaposed to every bystander who would call me their enemy. By no account would you have been placed on my side of history, nor I yours. Still even whilst your knees quivered, you stood with such passionate conviction that I was shaken. You believed so strongly that no one required permission to exist exactly as they were, and that no “defect” could devalue that blessing: not one’s birth, stature, or anything else that would be considered a deviation from the status quo. I was so caught off kilter that the heat of embarrassment prickled at the ends of my ears, but the smile that followed—chaste though it was, hidden to all but you, as I would not have dared show the Sordid alongside me—was the most genuine smile I think I had ever had the opportunity to express. You have always carried with you a kindness the world did not deserve, much less I. The choice you made that afternoon called to question my place on my life’s path. That I, Sordid that I believed myself to be, was worthy of your kindness not just once in the town square, but again and again over the duration of the summer that followed, necessitated a complete reevaluation of my own beliefs. I would call it the best summer of my life were it not for the fact that they continue to improve thanks to your company.

It hardly felt like a brag, even if the statement did bring her joy. After all, around this time last summer they would have been mid-trek to the White Wood in search of Krane and the fabled harpy city in the sky, still weary from their stint in the deserts of the northeast. This summer had so far been fully occupied with community repair efforts and the last of the construction on their home—no less exhausting, but markedly more uplifting by nature. It was refreshing to work without the threat of survival looming overhead, and to instead cast one’s focus toward an increasingly bright future.

I cannot believe I was so lucky to find you again after that day, and luckier still that you gave me even a moment of your time, followed by many more moments after that. Nothing enraptured me more than the thought of what you might have to share with me at the end of each day. I would have listened to you explain anything, from foraging to equine maintenance to the ideal composition of river clay for refining into pottery. I have never filled the pages of my journal so quickly, nevermind that the information was entirely irrelevant to the Sordid’s cause. I was enthralled. Every story, every discussion, every excursion was a degree of your trust I could earn, trust for which I was desperate and yet painfully cautious, my infatuation developing at a rate I could not control. I am unsure which idea terrified me more: that you might come to dislike me, or the realization that the opposite was occurring, instead. I knew that regardless of what happened with the Sordid, I could not afford to lose you under any circumstance.

We cannot possibly have prepared for the adventure for which we were destined. The longer I spent at your side, the heavier the secret of my treason against Fyros lay on my shoulders and the more constant my fear for the day that you might be taken from me; a concern exacerbated by the discovery of your Guardian bloodline. I remember feeling ill the moment I began to suspect the correlation—before you confirmed my suspicions, that is—fully conscious of the risks it would pose for both of us.

You, too, bore burdens too great for any one person (or five, or six, for that matter,) tasked with the salvation of all mankind, including those who had previously slighted and spurned you. I know the attention that comes with your role is foreign to you, but despite your unfamiliarity being lauded, you have still opened yourself to believe in the goodwill of the forest-dwellers and all others in need of your aid. Your tender heart for all living creatures exceeds you, and convinces me further of your deserving of your Guardian title. Additionally, courage has shaped you and forced you so far from the comforts to which you were accustomed, pushing you all the way across the nation and back. I have witnessed the growth in your character and also the ways in which you have stayed the same: so expressive of the trepidations and anxieties we all experienced but refused to acknowledge, yet still so willing and determined to persevere. What others might call weakness served as a reminder of our humanity despite our impossible mission, a reminder for which I, for one, felt grateful. You have always been stronger than I in that regard. There was much I could learn from you at that point in time, and still do to this day. You have taught me that there is so much more nuance to existence than can be covered in any text, introduced so many small but notable joys to my days, and allowed me space to become a fuller version of myself beyond the one I was ordered to be. Perhaps you saw it in me the whole time. It is a lesson I am still learning, and I count myself lucky to be the benefactor of your ceaseless patience during the process.

It pained her often to watch him struggle with the past. Old habits from years spent living under Sordid rule had sunk their claws deep into him. She could see it in the way he jumped to appear productive in every quiet moment, when he paused midsentence to choose his words with excessive levels of care, and how his focus lingered in every stray shadow and spiral of smoke. It would take a great amount of time to convince himself that he had permission to rest, that not every moment demanded impeccable efficiency and poise. She hoped that if anyone could show him how to relax that it could be her.

A low, hollow whistle emerged from the spout of the kettle, intensifying little by little with each passing second. The letter followed Saruya back to the stove, and she spread the pages flat against the nearby countertop as she set about pouring herself a cup. Eyes glanced back and forth between the rapidly filling water level and the lines on the page, and continued to multitask as she gathered some manner of ingredients for breakfast. Each step of the process earned a few more words as reward.

Leaving Talon Hill behind me was the most difficult yet beneficial decision I have ever made, which may never have come to pass without your intervention in my life. I will never forget how liberating it felt to tell Fyros he no longer had control over me—even if in doing so I invoked his wrath upon our slowly growing group. For this I apologize a thousand times over. I had little to offer but the knowledge in my brain in exchange for the proverbial mountain of trust required from you all to chance allowing me along the journey. The alternative would have been to remain at the Sordid castle, continue the façade, gather information to feed you and whatever Guardians you may have gathered by when next I saw you…but therein lies the problem, as seeing you again at all was an uncertainty. I could not bear the thought of any one meeting being our last. I suppose there was a part of me that believed I could keep a better eye on you were I at your side. So, too, the part addicted to the vigor I felt in your presence, a byproduct I now know to be a consequence of Guardians’ proximity to each other. (Without failing to mention, of course, the enlivening effects stemming from my affections for you.) To think that I am privileged enough to wake up each morning with that same feeling now fills me with immense relief. To think there were several instances where I nearly lost you, or vice versa, is a personal hell.

My hands still shake at the recollection of Fyros putting his hands on you, of the ambush in the desert, of the dragon rider that sought to take your life. If this journey upon which I had embarked thanks to your existence had ended in your fatality, it would have been rendered pointless in its entirety, and not merely due to the collapse of our world, but of my world.

Death brings with it a hollowness in the eye and a choke in place of voice. The gasps and terror that accompany it haunt the memory, and it breaks my heart to know how these recollections plague your mind, as well. I see the distance in your gaze as the feelings resurge—already perturbing enough from my perspective of the events, so I am left only to imagine how they must feel from yours. I cannot rid you of the evils that lurk in your thoughts, but you can be certain that I will always be here to listen or hold your hand. I hope that promise is enough for now, as I continue to learn each day how to care for you better. Rest assured that I will.

Saruya could feel the heaviness in her chest at the mention. Sometimes the memories came in flashes, sudden visions of her own blood on her hands, shrieks of Sordid dragons swimming through her mind. Sometimes they were dreams, complete recreations of the nightmare she had experienced, a painful and vivid recollection that set the heart racing upon waking. Sometimes there was no mental image at all, but instead a heavy fog that clouded her thoughts and shut her off from the world. There were moments when bystanders had nearly shouted to get her attention, as even her heightened hearing was smothered by the void in her spirit. It felt shameful to appear in such a state in front of anyone—forest elders, local inhabitants, Quilleran. Though he alone was the only one who could possibly understand what it was like.

She backtracked a couple of sentences, rereading his words of assurance. He gave himself too little credit for how much comfort he provided her already. There was no better place to chase away the shadows of the past than the warmth of his embrace. A sip of her tea, piping hot but no longer at the point of scalding, was enough to help her remember the feeling perfectly. Somewhere deep in her heart, she could still feel the faintest trace of his Guardian energy even as he journeyed further away—a reminder that he would be back in her arms soon enough.

The teacup gained new use as a paperweight as she rummaged about the kitchen again, fetching a cooking spoon. A humble porridge now bubbled away on the stovetop, but she could at least keep the bottom from burning and read onward at the same time.

There was never any option but to stay with you when all was over. It was the single most sensical choice, and beyond that, the only one that felt right. A harmony of emotion and logic that is nearly unachievable anywhere else. The route from the castle to your treehouse, by then long-embedded in thoughtless habit, unwound as easily as it had every instance previous. No longer was I sneaking out and away from my post, but going home. (It feels childish to phrase it as such—“sneaking out”. Though I suppose with you, I feel more like a boy than I have ever previously been allowed. It brings a transcendent lightness to my spirit and a smile to my visage.) 

Saruya smiled, too.

In the days following the end of the nightmare, arduous hours of work acquiesced into evenings spent growing drowsy by the heat of your stove and the sound of your voice. Your tone of speaking leaves me with a resounding feeling of peace regardless of the topic, from discussing personal areas of expertise to crafting plans for the path ahead, and I look forward to it all as the sunlight wanes and the moon rises. The duty of Guardianship has brought with it a sense of fulfillment that I could never have anticipated, and every project that allows our collaboration bestows upon me such joy; I can honestly say that I feel excited for what the future holds, and mean it, too. So long as my day ends in the comfort of your bed, it will have been a good one.

“Home” is an interesting concept for a man born of earth and ether. For years, in my days spent lurking town halls and taverns, I listened to the manner in which others would describe the idea: the building or town or region of one’s birth, the place where their parents lived, or spouse, or dearest friends. A place to stake one’s identity, a place associated with collections of memories, or eras of one’s life, happiness and sorrow, life and loss. I often evaluated what these definitions meant for someone such as I. The Sordid Stronghold was no place for family by any sense of the word, often leaving me feeling more like a conscript than a son of anyone dwelling therein. It encapsulated a critical phase of my life, though the word “home” was hardly appropriate. Laughable, almost. In contrast, upon our return to your treehouse after months of travel, your first thought was of how you could make the environment more of a home for me, and beyond that, you set plans in motion to create a new home on my behalf. Around that time I began to comprehend what the word “home” meant, and began seeing it in other experiences, as well—in the laughter of stories swapped fireside, the remembrance of strengths and support of weaknesses, the shared successes and failures and collective memories formed. Though we Guardians are once again separated by notable distance, I find a sense of family in the knowledge that they are there, and that I am known and cared for reciprocally. I look around the home that you have crafted from air and the inspiration of your brilliant mind, and see love in every detail. No one has ever cared for me in the way you do, and I would work to the end of my being to show you the same kindness. You are my home. I feel it in the calm of your eyes, an ever-changing array of shades that graduate with the sun and the twilight, embodiment of the forest itself. It lives in the callouses on your hands and the determination of your heart, the passion that you stake in everything you do. The patterns on your skin are like the footpath leading to our front door, your hair like the grassy clearing during golden hour. 

The ground feels pure beneath my feet, a woven blend of the forest radiating life with your guiding hand and the thrum of earth resting far below. I feel it is the way that our Guardian spirits mix and work together—quite frankly, I feel it everywhere, no matter the distance. Bethara’s magic in the atmosphere hides even amidst pockets of soil, the erosion of Seph and Krane’s respective currents brush past solid stone, particles of sand shift with each sweep of Eophis’s tail. It is a connection so special that I relish every moment. I could be anywhere so long as I have this feeling, and you by my side magnifying it. At this point, to be without you would be to live without air.

The letter now traveled back to the dining table, followed by a steaming bowl of porridge, a plate of sliced fruit, and a half-drank cup of tea now at a more ideal drinking temperature. The compliments brought more heat to her cheeks than the beverage did as she read onward, pages in one hand and utensils in the other.

She could feel it, too, the blend that he was describing. It was nowhere near as powerful anymore as it had been when all six of them were traveling together, but even with just the two of them, each new day brought with it a wealth of energy that helped shoulder the weight of every task. She firmly believed it made the mountain of Guardian duties that faced them more approachable.

The home she had created was much better with Quilleran in it. His stature and presence brought a sense of stability that overpowered naught, but murmured in the floorboards with each step he took, resounding gentle reminders of their safety. With him, preoccupations melted into peaceful silence, a quiet understanding of each other that required little proving. Sometimes, when the moonlight was the only thing illuminating his features next to her in bed, when company was more cherished than sleep, sometimes, she felt she was perhaps learning that silent language of his, too. It was like she could converse with him at any volume, even with only the thrum of her heartbeat and the earnest shine in her eye. He surely understood.

It is here where I feel I begin to approach the heart of the matter, my reason for capturing these thoughts in writing at all. Each day we are achieving more and more in our work as Guardians. Plans are being conceived and realized in seemingly rapid succession as time flies ever onward. We have laid the groundwork for our communities and our nation. My thoughts chase after ideas with a verve I have never before experienced, but I am resigned to admit they have adopted a recent tendency to stray. They wander in favor of wishes for what the future holds solely for the two of us, a future which we approach hand in hand, day by day. We have already surpassed the insurmountable, traveled the far reaches of these lands, and found home in each other. It is hard to ponder what “left” there is to be done, but to me, it matters not. I would rejoice in the most monotonous of moments so long as I am beside you. I am incapable of envisioning a minute without you there, or at the very least the promise of returning to your side.

In the infancy of my reconnaissance below Talon Hill’s treeline, I devoted much time to the researching and spectating of relational dynamics across cultures and social groups. The Sordid, understandably, knew nothing of such things, having no concept of fellowship beyond a mutual tolerance for the sake of their shared purpose. I realized that if I were to blend in with the masses of society, I would require an intricate and thorough understanding of these implicit social hierarchies. I could easily understand my place in the stronghold’s court: below Fyros and his generals, yet highly more important than a soldier. But as a stranger in a throng of other strangers, what separated anyone? What drew certain individuals together and estranged others? What made any single person more or less worthy of respect? Every interaction casts a wide net in the sea of interpersonal relations, each link connected by minutiae of distinctions ranging from age and familiarity to the nature of the interaction. Even, say, the exchange of a service differs between the first-time customer and the known regular. The combinations within every arrangement of variables can compound without end. It was not until I began involving myself further with society at large that I came to understand how little text can truly convey these types of connections (and shockingly, sometimes, how little is recorded at all).

The longer I dwell on this thought in writing, the more tangential it seems, though I swear there is relevance. Allow me to narrow myself closer to the point.

Suffice to say, seeing as the Sordid viewed love as little more than a frivolity of humans, I was left to answer any questions on its nature and the traditions of its display myself. I would say that perhaps only a third of my inquiries were answered on the page—books held plenty of information on the art of courtship, coupling, marriage, and so on. Anything beyond drowned in the syrup of flowery language, prose, and the impression that, “when you feel it, you will know,” which is an unknowingly, unwittingly cruel anecdote. However, the more I spent time with you, the more I began to relate to the sentiment, a glimpse into hindsight that had me chuckling and fuming all at once. That even my verbosity would find the phenomenon impossible to describe is testament to how truly special it is.

Love is the culmination of our experiences, from the moment your voice rang out on my behalf in that plaza to the time when next you wish me a good morning. It existed in every instance that you gave this stranger a chance. It was present in every hours-long diatribe of mine you endured in response to comparatively small questions—the whole time, your attention offered willingly. It walked silently between us as we journeyed across hill and valley (or perhaps not as silently as we thought, as our fellow Guardians have been all too eager to alert me,) and stood watch over us in every skirmish. It will be what takes the first step before even us in every endeavor of days yet to come, and I am determined to ensure such a future. I want you there for every moment moving forward, great or small.

It would make me unfathomably, indescribably happy if you would consider joining me in marriage. As I understand it, both humans and elves (as well as many other tribes and cultures) have similar iterations of the concept. Regardless of whose traditions you would prefer to follow, let the point stand that I wish to be yours in everything for as long as the heavens continue to shine on us.

Nightmares of the past cannot overpower the peace I feel in dreams of a future where we stand together. I have become intimately familiar with so many abstractions because of you—home, family, love—so please allow me to expand the definitions of each with your hand in mine, and perhaps add “forever” as the next term to be more fully defined.

I love you dearly.

Yours (forever, if you will have me),

Quilleran

There was a shake in Saruya’s fingertips as she reached the end. She couldn’t help herself from reading, and re-reading, and re-reading, leaving the last scraps of breakfast cold and neglected.

The answer was yes, of course, without a shadow of a doubt—but if anyone had asked the Saruya from three summers ago, five, ten, whether she thought this was a question she would ever be asked, she couldn’t possibly have imagined it. So many years spent alone, with little else but Bethara’s friendship, had led her to believe such an outcome to be impossible.

The war had unraveled the threads of change for everyone. Lives lost, property and nature caught in the crosshairs of wanton destruction, armies and politics shifting rapidly in reaction to every evolution of crisis. But at the same time, Saruya had witnessed the ways in which families, communities, workers, and volunteers all bonded and worked together to persevere and overcome. Becoming Guardian brought the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, and every moment in between that made the life of every individual worth protecting. It connected her with an ancestry that had previously been unknown to her, lost with the disappearance of her parents, and forged lifetime friendships with her fellow Guardians, all coming from vastly different backgrounds. Her past self, shy and wary, would hardly recognize the person she had become. There was no better version of herself to go into the future with than who she was now.

Her heart thrummed with excitement. How could he possibly leave her with this question when he wouldn’t be home to hear her answer for hours? Further, how long had he been leaving the question unasked? How long had this loomed over him? And finally, what on earth was she supposed to do with the rest of her day now?

There were many ways that Saruya spent her time since the end of the war. At the start, much of her attention was devoted to rebuilding and rehabilitation efforts on the edges of Sapwood and the neighboring towns. For a while she had ventured on field surveys with Quilleran, taking notes on the flora and fauna native to Talon Hill and its adjacent peaks, all to help him plan for the region’s future in a manner that was sustainable both to the beings already living there as well as the citizens who would someday call it home. On days where she lacked a project to manage as Guardian, she occupied herself with other duties—typically, walking through Sapwood in whatever direction her spirit called her, coming to the aid of any plants, creatures, or inhabitants in need of her assistance. Otherwise she spent her days for herself, returning to the artisan work she had set aside for so many months during her travels. The return to her workstations was not without its own hurdles, as a fine layer of (metaphorical) rust had accumulated in her absence, but the fundamentals engrained in her muscle memory were quick to reactivate with a bit of practice.

No amount of busywork could reduce the hum in the back of her mind today. Though she eventually left the house and meandered through the familiar paths and clearings of the forest she loved, still remained the persistent feeling in her heart that drew her back home. It was as if the sun couldn’t possibly set more slowly.

...

Twilight had a unique way of making itself known at the forest’s edge. It seemingly arose through the underbrush, the space between the trees enveloping any bystanders in a blanket of dusk before the sun even had the chance to disappear past the horizon. On the outskirts where Saruya and Quill’s house stood, one could draw a line between sun and shadow, where the last rays of light still shone over each blade of grass before disappearing in the labyrinth of branches and trunks beyond.

Quilleran chased the last of the sun as he journeyed home, the plains behind him changing in character as fireflies swam through the shade growing in his wake. Calls from cicadas and crickets filled his ears, a sound profile distinctly more relaxing than the palavering of Llora’s mayor but equally as persistent. As relieved as he was to be returning home, the reminder of how he had left it reverberated through his body with the impact of each footfall on the dirt below.

He had really given her the letter. The feeling of her fingers as the pages passed between their hands was no false memory. By now, there was nothing left but to await her reply whenever he stepped through the door.

The vibration of each step shook his bones, coursed through his blood, quickened his heart rate and the racing of his thoughts. They were incomprehensible even to him, buzzing at such a rate it sounded more like a bustling banquet hall than the insulated chambers of thought to which he was accustomed. Even as the winds whispered through the trees overhead, requesting that he remember to breathe, the ringing in his ears dulled the message. Sapping his focus, instead, was a constrictive feeling tightening its grip on his throat.

In truth, Quilleran wasn’t even certain which aspect of the situation was bringing him such malaise. He knew Saruya loved him greatly. But for as much as they had talked at length on the intricacies of life and its relationships therein, baring his innermost feelings so vulnerably for her (and in a format that she could scrutinize not just once, but as many times as she pleased,) left him exposed in a way he had never allowed previously. He could only hope for her continued gentleness in this matter, the same gentleness she offered him in everything else. In times like these, his habitual thought would be that he was undeserving of such treatment, but if they were truly to be married, well…perhaps his acceptance of her graciousness was long overdue.

The murmur of the creek slipped in among the background noise, joining the trees and the bugs and the frogs in their nightly orchestra.

Further beyond, a set of pointed ears more perceptive than his perked upright.

She heard him before she saw him, of course. It was faint, nothing more than a subtle disturbance in the grass with each stride, but it was a pattern Saruya could recognize instantly as his, set apart from the sound of any other animal she could name in the region. It sent her flying from her seat and right up to the windowsill, eager to see if his figure had yet emerged from the distance’s edge. No such luck.

Her feet refused to stay still. She fluttered from the window, to the doorway, back to the window, away to fetch the letter, to the window again, all the while pondering her approach. Should she wait for him to reach the door? Ask him how his day was, perhaps, before bombarding him with her thoughts? Let him speak first? In her frenzy, she wondered if she would even have any words at all.

Any and all planning was abandoned the moment she could finally spot him. Her body propelled her out the door before she could think to stop it, letter clutched in one hand, the bottoms of her feet pounding against cool soil as they carried her toward the horizon, her heart pounding in echo.

He heard her before he saw her. She had called out to him, the wave of the grasses carrying her voice to his ear, sweet as the summer breeze. Before Quilleran knew it, she was in his line of sight, the sea of foliage underfoot practically parting of its own accord to make way for her as she charged forward. The moment she had gotten close enough for him to catch a glimpse of the smile across her face was the moment he could feel the shadow of worry dissolve into the dusk behind him. His arms opened to be welcomed by her without a single thought more.

She leapt into his arms with a flourish, the crinkle of the pages in her hand distant in Quill’s perception as her squeal of joy filled the air. When he slowly returned her feet to the ground, he opened his mouth to speak, but only air and a reciprocal smile rushed out of it.

“Please don’t make me say anything,” he uttered, his expression bashful. “If I open my mouth again I fear you will have ten more pages out of me before the evening is concluded.”

“Quill,” she responded, the excitement in her chest swelling as she regarded him warmly, “I would take a lifetime of pages from you.”