Archive of Our Own

I was warm when I awoke, almost uncomfortably so. Cradled, too, though one might argue I was also being crushed by the bulky deadweight of a massive, snoring man. That, I didn't mind too terribly much. 

Fitz's arm cast about in his sleep, hooking around my ribs heavily and tugging me ever-nearer, for comfort more than heat, I suspected. Sunlight streamed in from his single, modest casement, bathing the worn blanket enswathing us with mellow, golden light. The scent of flowers wafted in on the heels of a gentle morning breeze. It was springtime in Buck, and I was sleeping in my Catalyst's bed. Or rather, I had been, until his sawing breath and grasping hands had awoken me. My dearest love, reaching out for me, even in his sleep. 

I had gone to bed in his shirt last night, as often was my habit these days. It rasped comfortingly against my arms now, that excess of fabric, homespun and plain. It smelled of him, and the bed smelled of him, and he, sprawled atop me, smelled most himself of all. It was akin to awaking in paradise, if paradise's breath was sleep and brandy-soured, and if the trilling background song of such a place was the startlingly noisy timbre of a hibernating bear's somnolent growling. I stretched my toes, filled with bliss, and listened, contentedly, to the hubbub occurring just outside our window and several stories below.

It was the first morning of Springfest, and I was tentatively looking forward to the day ahead. We both were. Visitors had come from far and wide to celebrate in the keep, and many of them were welcome faces to spy at court, or at the very least, most welcome to us. 

Lady Patience and Lacey, her ancient handmaid, had made the journey from Tradeford Hall and were running Fitz ragged, but leaving him all the happier for it, and his boy, the new minstrel Gladheart, had come home to perform for the festival with his apprentice master, Sawtooth. It had been a joy, meeting the foster son Fitz had been allowed to raise, and I privately surmised that he'd done a spectacular job of it. Hap was sweet and earnest, all boyish energy and hopeful spirits and too much enthusiasm for his own good. In some ways, he reminded me of Fitz, back when Fitz had still been small, and his soul a bit less broken.

Starling had come back to court too, on the arm of her pretty young husband, visibly pregnant and uncouthly smug about it. But her condition was destined to be eclipsed by a far more notable one: Prince Dutiful's Narcheska bride was expecting, and they intended to announce as much that day to all their subjects in attendance. What would follow would surely be a celebration for the ages, I reflected, smiling into Fitz's neck. One fit to match their dragon-graced wedding, most certainly. 

"Are you awake?" Fitz's voice was groggy and low, and I pecked his ear indulgently upon hearing it. 

"I am. You, however, I've still got my doubts about. Are you certain you do not talk in your sleep?"

He huffed, stretching over me rather more intentionally and flopping his weight atop me entirely. I pretended to try and push him off, though we both knew it was playful pretense only. If I'd wanted him gone, he'd be flat on his back on the floor by now. Gratified that I didn't mind his pestering, he crushed me closer and kissed my forehead in a more formal greeting. 

"Good morning, Fool," he said with a sleepy, achingly sweet smile, pressing a new kiss onto the tip of my nose before capturing my lips greedily. "Happy Springfest to you, my dear," he added buoyantly as he did.

My dear.

He'd taken to calling me such shortly after we'd consummated our affections on that fateful Winterfest night, and though it felt unexpectedly domestic, hearing such sugar-tongued endearments from so gruff a deliverer, I could hardly pretend I didn't cherish the title. 

I, for my own cowardly part, still called him mostly ridiculous things, or Fitzy, but he, he indulgently called me Fool, and dear, and Beloved, and sometimes even his, when the urge to be saccharine struck him most keenly. Once in a great long while, he might slip up and call me his love or his darling, and always, then, did he blush like a nubile maiden, as if taken aback by the force of his affection. I made a point to torment him for it, but gently, so as not to discourage him from doing it again. I thought I might perish, if he never did it again. 

I might perish from lack of breath, first, if he didn't lift himself off my chest. I wheezed suggestively and he grunted and heaved himself off, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes. He looked like a mischievous boy in an older man's skin, this morning. It made all the sense in the world to me. He loved festivals, and loved, too, celebrating them with those he held dear. This would be his first Springfest in nearly twenty years, not counting his stint as my servant, and with all his children gathered 'round him and a fresh, new lover to boot, he was a thoroughly contented man. 

"A happy one," he had told me seriously the night before when I'd observed as much to him drolly. He'd been conscientiously slathering salve onto my back before bed with steady, comforting hands while we spoke. It had become something of a nightly ritual we shared, meant to ease my scarring and encourage my skin's regrowth, and, I suspected, serve as a way he might further assuage his contrition for the sorry state of it in the first place. "I am a happy man tonight, Beloved."

And this morning, he was a squinting, groggy man, one whose hair badly needed brushing, and perhaps even a wash as well. 

"You've gone and tangled it hopelessly again, I see," I chided wryly, and he lifted his hand to touch his impressive mane of curls, shrugging lackadaisically. 

"It's just as well. You shall fix it for me," he said spoiledly, lolling back onto me like a great, meddlesome wolf, and I scoffed and really did shove him off in earnest. 

"Only if you plead on bended knee," I returned tartly. In reply, he unceremoniously shoved me, and before I knew up from down, we were wrestling in earnest, grappling in bed like a pair of children fighting over the last sweet on the supper table. It was, no doubt, supremely foolish behavior. I suppose he expected nothing less from me, at this point in our acquaintanceship. 

I marveled at how much happier I was, in that moment, than I'd ever thought I'd be again. How much stronger. How painless it was, to move with him that way, to test the limits of my body in play and not be met with more than twinges and warning creaks. My skin was finally healing, truly, and my nails were nearly as long as they'd been before being torn away. 

Scars remained, of course. Many of them. My new teeth, a shocking regrowth that I hadn't expected, still ached tenderly from time to time, but the worst of the discomfort had subsided once they poked through the skin of my gums. Fitz fussed over them endlessly, and I pretended it was a chore, opening wide my mouth and letting him feel along inside it with his big, warm fingers, and only sometimes gave in to the temptation to suck on them suggestively in order to make him jump.

It was all for show, mostly. We'd hardly done anything so breathtakingly daring together, not yet, anyway. Perhaps we never would. Fitz was undereducated regarding such acts, still, though less shy about trying them than I might have suspected he'd be, before ever we'd bedded together before. 

In some ways, I was more bashful concerning the subject than he was. It wasn't that I feared his rejection, exactly, although I'd have been the worst sort of liar to insinuate that I nevermore experienced such trepidation following our initial coupling. But more than that, I feared spooking him too badly or too soon, for he had grown so open with me, so amiable and trusting, and I did not wish to lose our newly regained closeness for anything, and certainly not in pursuit of some commonplace act I could have sought from any discrete man in the back of a disreputable tavern. 

And it was not as if Fitz didn't offer me the relief of his body in the ways he knew how. Why, just the night before, after tending my back, he had used the remainder of the comfrey-scented salve to send me off to sleep with his hand between my legs, working his slippery fist in the way he'd come to understand I best liked, steadily and patiently, kissing my neck and murmuring for me to take all the time I needed. He did that often, when we were abed. He knew intimately, by now, how long it took my mind to still and my body to believe that it was truly safe. When it was over, he'd wrapped me into his own shirt, his chest smeared with comfrey, and waved me dismissively away when I reached backward to reciprocate. 

"Tomorrow," he said, nose squashed into my nape. "I'll take my turn on the 'morrow, perhaps. Go to sleep now, Fool. And rest easy. I'm here."

It was far from the first time such an uneven exchange between us had been reached. I wondered, sometimes, if he put me off because he did not want me half as ardently as I wanted him, now that he understood what he would be getting. I knew it was far more likely that he was only trying to be noble and kind, and possibly because he wished for me to sleep more soundly, but years of being passed over had taken an unfortunate and embarrassing toll on my mind, and I couldn't help but fretfully consider the alternative. 

He loved me, it was true. Adored me even. Of that, I was utterly certain. I could not doubt it, not any longer. But him wanting me in the same, all-encompassing way that I wanted him? That was difficult for me to believe, still, regardless of how many times he said or demonstrated otherwise. 

Not that he had said as much lately, for I was loath to raise such a topic of discussion unnecessarily. Bad enough that I was latched to him constantly like a limpet to stone. I could scarcely begin in on such histrionic lines of questioning, too. There was only so much a man like Fitz could take, I would wager, before he began questioning the wisdom of his decision in casting in his lot with me. Better to hold my peace, and take whatever he deemed acceptable to give me. This morning, that was cruel, tickling fingers dug between my ribs and snuffling kisses into my throat. Not a bad fate, all things considered. 

Eventually, once I was thoroughly reddened by beardscratch and parched from whooping with mirth, we dragged ourselves away from our playful scuffling and I shoved Fitz toward the door, bidding him go wash his hair and let me dress myself in peace. He went, draggletailed and beaming with excitement for the day to come, and I turned my attention forcefully aside from the philosophical question of my own plumbing and if its reality was, as I had so often previously suspected, too much for my duchies-raised lover to bear, and focused solely on the fit of my new garments, instead.

I'd had them made with care for the festival, by a tailor in Buckkeep Town whom I had long ago grown to trust, and was pleased to see now that my faith was not in vain. The clothing, though not nearly as showy as Lord Golden's costuming once might have been, was still elegantly made and flattering on me, and suited my body as well as my face. It offset, too, my newer, darker coloration, just as I had shrewdly surmised it might.

The colors I had chosen for it were not Lord Golden's usual bold, strategic selections, either, but rather hues that one might find in nature, meant to help me melt into the background. The muted green of fresh, furry sage leaves. The golden glow of a setting sun reflecting off the water. The robust, piney color of evergreen needles embroidered delicately into the fabric. The clothing was subtler than a Jamaillian lord's would have been, but no less well made, and no less mine, for many were the finishing touches I had elected to embroider myself. It was not ill-suited, either, but simply quieter, as was I, at present. The fabric draped over me well, and flowed along the lines of my body nicely. I was satisfied that it suited. 

I had thought, initially, to perhaps wear blue for this occasion, but grew abruptly sheepish and bashful when the time came to actually put in my order for the fabric. Too vibrant a blue, and I would risk attracting more attention than I found I could currently imagine stomaching. But not blue enough, or too dull a blue, and I might clash with the colors of the keep and look amiss, garnering the same unwanted attention as before. 

The solution, of course, was to wear buck blue and blend in entirely, but for some reason, the thought of doing as much without Fitz's invitation, or at least his express permission, horrified me unspeakably. In the end, I did not wish, or perhaps more accurately, I did not dare to presume it was a thing he'd welcome, and so instead, I wore the green. 

It was no loss, I thought, examining myself in the mirror with a detached, critical sort of satisfaction. I appeared, if not beautiful, exactly, at least somewhat dignified. Healthier than I'd been over the winter, certainly. I lifted my chin, tilting my head from side to side slowly and conceitedly, trying to accurately ascertain what Fitz might spy from various angles, and attempting to judge if it was comely or plain. I saw more plain in that glass than comely, truth be told. That was little surprise to me. But what was there to do about it?

I could always paint my face, I supposed, and accentuate the features I still found most promising. But suddenly, standing there in his room, before his humble looking glass, such frivolous pretexts felt vaingloriously dishonest. They never had, before that moment. Perhaps it was only my newfound and unwelcome companion, shame, that colored them in such an ungenerous way now. The voice in my head telling me such venomous things certainly didn't resemble my own. Still, it was loud, and my confidence wavering, which had the troublesome effect of causing noisy things to sound very much like the truth, even when I was certain they were not.

It didn't matter, I decided, frowning at my reflection in the glass. A somber, older stranger stared back at me. I could not bear the accusation in their eyes, and so I looked away from them. I did not reach for my cosmetics. Let Fitz admire me for what I was, or not admire me at all. Biting my decidedly unpainted lips, I turned aside and began the arduous task of braiding back my hair intricately for the celebration. I hadn't the energy for curls, just yet, but I could still attempt to dress up the coarse curtain of tresses I stubbornly insisted on dragging around. I owed them that much, at least, if I would not allow them the mercy of a swift chop. 

It was just as I'd perfected and was oiling the coiffed ends of my braid that Fitz reappeared, his own hair dewy with careless moisture and his newly freshened curls already forming into maddeningly perfect coils, ones that would have taken me hours to achieve. I sighed to see them, only half-admiringly. He correctly guessed the source of my woes and grinning, shook his head above me, splashing me with renegade droplets. 

"Back so soon?" I asked dryly, watching with interest as he sauntered over to his rickety wardrobe and flung it open, presumably to decide between which of his three favorite jerkins to wear for this occasion. Sa knew it would probably be his oldest and patchiest one that emerged the victor. 

To my surprise, Fitz defied my dire predictions and glanced over his shoulder at me, studied me with one eye squinted shut, then chose instead his least threadbare jerkin, a green one. It was a different shade than mine entirely, bright as a fern and cheaply made besides. The obvious gesture tugged at my heartstrings all the same, then tugged lower still as he shucked off his old clothes in order to replace them. 

I had yet to grow tired of admiring his body in the daylight, unencumbered by the burden of trying to pretend I was not. The gift of looking could not be overstated. It was a breath of relief, every time he bared himself to me and thought not twice about it. I shivered, watching the way his muscles rippled around the starfish-shaped scar on his upper back, light catching in his glossy, wet hair. Seemingly oblivious to my ogling, he tossed his discarded things to the side carelessly and shimmied into his new shirt, thighs flexing temptingly as he bent to pull on a fresh pair of stockings. 

As he lifted his head, he must have noticed the tail end of my quivering, though not its cause, for he straightened at once, darting a worried glance first toward me and then the open window, from which a gentle draft still blew in, before shutting and latching it at once with a brisk, decisive click. 

I smiled at his thoughtfulness, though tightly, for of course it had been rooted in my weakness and my fear. I worried, sometimes, that he was only with me this way out of pity. It was a paranoid concern to harbor. He'd probably balk in offense to hear me speak it aloud, so of course, I never spoke it. But wondering as much in the privacy of my own mind surely did not count.

"Shall I get your cloak?" he asked, eyes still trained on me, and without waiting for my reply, reached deep into the wardrobe to find it, digging frantically around amidst our mingled clothing that hung within. I shook my head, then motioned more firmly to stop him. 

"No need. I had a cape made to match the rest of this. It's lighter. More suitable for the season." 

As I spoke, I fetched and affixed said cape to my shoulders, its silky fabric and familiar embroidery slipping between my naked fingers pleasingly. I had done the delicate needlework in the manner of my people, a private reminder of those I loved which could be carried near during this, a celebration when I might have sore need of them. There were scatters of golden guiding stars, like the ones my mother had always worn on her own clothing, and, more secretly still, small, triangular rows of wolves' teeth lining the thin cape's edges, which symbolized to my people protection, and thus, in their own way, represented in my heart my most tireless protector, Fitz.

It had been my only true Springfest indulgence, this celebratory speck of drama and sentimentality, meant more for peacocking than for warmth, for the spring had proved temperate and balmy, not too windy nor too damp. It promised to be an oppressive summer. I was glad. Such scorching heat was ideal to me. But today, I was glad, too, for an excuse to be cocooned in reminders of those I loved dearly, too. I hoped their warmth would sustain me for the daunting day to come. 

Satisfied that I was garbed warmly enough, Fitz turned his attention back to dressing and I stood before the window waiting on him, fiddling with the hem of my cape and watching idly as young men and women strode about below arm in arm, some already deep in their cups. No doubt they'd be miserable by evening's end, but for now they were laughing, red-cheeked and tipsy in the morning sun, without a trouble or care in the world. A wistful smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. It must be lovely, to be so young and carefree. I wondered what it would feel like, to hold Fitz's arm in public and sway together drunkenly that way, and meet in the midst of it all for a kiss.

I was so occupied imagining it that I flinched when Fitz wrapped an arm around my middle and pulled me backwards into his arms. "It's only me," he said softly as I relaxed. Then, more hesitantly, he added, "Are you sure you're up for all of this? You do not have to join me, you know. I know that during Winterfest-"

"It's nothing. I'm fine, only startled," I said, the words sounding more forceful than heartily. I did not need to see him to know he was staring at me skeptically. He could be overbearing, sometimes, in his concern. I did not wish to begin the day with a quarrel, though, however mild, so I let his dubiousness bide, certain he would not press the issue if I spoke willfully enough. 

I was right. He offered no objection to my claim, only squeezed me hard and dropped a kiss onto my shoulder. "Alright," he said, voice unreadably neutral. "Then let's go. I'm so hungry I could eat five breakfasts."

"Let's start with one and see where that gets you," I replied, jabbing his belly lightly with my elbow, and he pretended to bite my arm in retaliation. Then, more seriously, he took hold of my wrist and turned me, so that I might see his face. I was surprised to find, for all his teasing, that his expression was austere and watchful. 

"If you need to depart, just say the word, and I'll bring us someplace quiet, far away from the crowds. You don't need to run off on your own any longer, you know. I can come with you. I don't mind it. Truly, I don't. I understand how it can all feel like too much, sometimes."

My cheeks burned, embarrassment filling me. He thought me so incredibly fragile, still. My pride stung terribly. Was a time when I'd have been the center of attention in a crowd so large, and reveled in it, and so, too, would've Fitz, to see me. He'd so rarely been able to keep his eyes to himself, back then. And pity had never been what I saw reflected back at me, when I chanced to catch his gaze across the overflowing room. 

"It will be fine," I repeated, stiffening, and he stared back reproachfully, then reached onto the bed and handed me a pair of gloves I had lain there earlier and promptly forgotten. 

"Of course," he replied, sounding unconvinced, then smiled at me begrudgingly as I absentmindedly tugged the gloves on, then fixed his askew collar for him. 

"You look handsome," I couldn't resist telling him as I did, and his smile turned shy, uncertain and hopeful around the edges.

"So, ah... So do you," he stammered, then sniffed hard and wiped a hand over his mouth, playing with his beard nervously, clearly unsure of what else to say. I bit back a grin as he tugged restlessly at his newly straightened collar. I so cherished flustering him this way. It always proved so easy to do.

"I know I do," I lied, secretly thrilled that he thought so. "I dressed up especially for you today, you know." 

That last bit, at least, was the honest-to-goodness truth. Everything about this day, I was doing for him. It was an opportunity to try again, after nearly everything about the last festival had gone so thoroughly awry. I was grimly determined to put on a brave face and make the most of this second chance. 

"Oh," Fitz replied, somewhat stupidly. It was charming, how addlepated he became in the face of a spot of harmless flirting. Perhaps he did want me, after all, despite how nervous and flighty he found me. My spirits lifted, and with them, so did my hand to cradle his handsome face. 

"You wore me out last night," I dared to intimate, smiling coyly and feeling like both a fraud and a muse in the same bated breath. Gods, he was staring at me so intently. For what purpose, I could not possibly venture to guess. It didn't matter. It was always a good sign, when Fitz could not take his dark eyes off me. "By rights, you owe me sustenance to revive myself. Accompany me to breakfast, then."

I was gratified when his hand lingered on my lower back for a long, agonizing moment as he ushered me out the door, though I knew it would not stay once we joined the throngs of visitors. It was little matter, in the end. I felt Fitz with me, whether touching or not, and that gave me the courage I needed not to turn and flee back into the safety of our rooms, but rather step out into the hallway and enter the land of the living once again. If I could not do it for myself, then I would simply do it for Fitz. I scarcely knew where I ended and he began most days, anyway, so the sacrifice was not truly a great one. 

It was a worthy one, however. And for my love, I would strive to be the same.

•••

The grounds of the keep were frothing with activity, and I did my best to melt seamlessly into it, rather than being swallowed whole by the crowd. We had gathered, following a somewhat haphazard and predictably lukewarm morning meal in the great hall, together with Lady Nettle and her peers to listen to the youngest and most inconsequential minstrels perform on the edges of the massive room. 

This, of course, included Hap, who was grinning from ear to ear and plucking out a cheery tune on his harp, darting a glance out toward his father every third note to make sure he was still watching, and another every fourth note at Nettle, who had noticed his interest and turned her nose up to it at once, clearly horrified by his graceless attempts at charming her. That did little to dissuade Hap from trying again, and again, and again and again. Fitz, for a wonder, had not seemed to notice this absurd exchange at all.

I did not customarily spend much time around Nettle or the other young ladies currently at court. Not since my return, in any case. Attempts on my attention were still made occasionally, of course, though I was hardly an attractive match any longer, what with my squandered fortune and my no longer quite-so-exotic color. If one squinted, I might even be able to pass for one of their fellow Buck countrymen, an assuredly boring prospect, after the lavish foreign glamour Lord Golden had wielded. 

Quickly had my admirers abandoned me, when my carefully cultivated image I, in turn, had abandoned. It had turned me into somewhat of a pariah in court, more a figure to avoid rather than a presence to seek out. It was rather like being a king's fool all over again, though my clothing was far more suited to my current taste, and, as I liked to falsely flatter myself, I had grown somewhat into my strange looks, though I doubted I would ever again be as easy on the eyes as the illustrious Lord Golden had been. All at court seemed hellbent on keeping me humble and proving me correct in these uncharitable assumptions. 

Indeed, Lady Sydel Grayling, soon to be Bresinga, could not even be bothered to spare a look in my direction. I could not fault her for the slight one bit. Shame swirled in my gut, to recall how I'd been cornered into enchanting and then disillusioning the girl only a scant few years before. Clearly, she had not forgotten the humiliation of being taken in by an older suitor who was not all that he seemed. Even these many months later, it seemed that the mortifying memory set her gaze solidly to the floor whenever I was present. I regretted that. She seemed like a sweet and clever girl. But it could not be helped, and now, could not be changed.

Civil shared with her no such similar avoidance. Quite the opposite, in fact. Never far from his intended, he lurked like a restless cat behind the pair of young women with a permanent glare pasted on his face, Pard lying at his heel in the sun contentedly. His eyes shot daggers at Fitz and me, and it was little wonder why. Briefly, I recalled how I had awoken in Fitz's shirt and stifled a smile of unflattering self-satisfaction. I wondered how many times Civil might try to strike me, were he to realize that now my Catalyst was, in fact, my scandalous, if entirely age-appropriate, lover, too.

Swift, Nettle's only other family at court and a clear hanger-on of both her and Civil, his fellow Witted coterie member, stood beside his sister stiffly, hovering on the outskirts of their loosely formed group. He was smaller than the rest of them, a fresh-faced boy, and seemed impossibly young to my eyes. I found his countenance grave, as his late father's had been, but open and pleasingly lively, also, as I seemed to recall his mother's was. 

Nettle, for all that Fitz claimed otherwise, bore a striking resemblance to her father, too, though not nearly as strong a one as Dutiful did. Hap, with his mismatched eyes and lighter hair, looked least like Fitz of all, for obvious reasons, yet still somehow managed to remind me of his father the most. It was surreal, to stand surrounded by these young people, and know so many of them had been raised, shaped, or otherwise formed, by ones I had known when I, too, had been as young as they were now. 

Had I ever really been so young as they were? I observed them in their tittering little cluster and did not honestly think I had. Certainly, I'd never had a group of peers so earnestly close-knit as these. Were Fitz not an instructor of sorts for most of the youth there, it would have been passing odd that the two of us stood there beside them now, keeping company with what was essentially a crowd of lanky children. 

But we were afforded no second glances, for Fitz was the Skillmaster, and I... Well, it tended to be that wherever Fitz went, so, thence, did I. Folks had grown accustomed to the sight of us together, and had come to accept it quickly, though I knew what they whispered when we were out of earshot, and sometimes even still within it. Would that he and I engaged in half so many trysts as they claimed we did. His family kept him too busy for that sort of leisure, and I tried my best to stay out of their way, unless of course it proved more amusing to stick myself squarely in their midst instead. Today, however, I felt too unsteady on my feet to find the prospect of stirring pots anything but unappealing and decidedly unnecessary. 

Apropos of nothing, a wave of dizziness washed over me at the vastness of the room where we stood and the sheer quantity of people crammed inside it. The scent of the place was fantastically overwhelming, flowers and stale air and roasting meat and greenery, with an undercurrent of strong perfume and ale and too many unwashed bodies to count. Before long, the King-in-waiting and his queen would descend and make their happy announcement, and then, I knew, the festivities would begin in earnest. I could scarcely fathom enduring even more activity in the great hall than it was currently housing already.

I tried valiantly not to borrow trouble from the future by dreading it. It was difficult. I was accustomed to looking ahead, even when such doings inspired in me great trepidation. But I could fruitlessly predict what might come to be until I turned blue in the face, and it still would not bring back my visions. I was forced to live now as everyone else always had: painfully aware of the overhanging plethora of possibilities whose shadows we constantly rested beneath, with no way of knowing which might bear fruit and come to pass, and which would wither away and die. 

It was crippling, sometimes, knowing I could guess for an age, but never again know for sure. There is a perverse comfort to be found in being presented with the worst possible outcomes of a journey before you have the opportunity to take even a single step. It reminds one to walk with exceeding caution, for while one can never fully know which misstep may lead them to ruin, one might proceed extra diligently, if they are aware that the risk of one is ever on the horizon. I found it far too easy to tromp thoughtlessly down life's winding, wending paths without that constant, sickening reminder of impending doom heeding me to tread very lightly, and very, very carefully.

These were bleak thoughts to be having at a party. I tried, for Fitz's sake, to discard them. At the same time as I was summoning the wherewithal to stop my stewing, Hap strummed a particularly discordant note and his apprentice master smacked him lightly upside the head. 

"Quit distracting yourself with pretty girls," Sawtooth griped, for undoubtedly, the unwise lad had been making eyes at Nettle yet again. "You do this everywhere we go."

"Oye! I do not!" Hap protested good-naturedly. "And besides, there's no girl that's got my eye. It's Tom that's sidetracking me, this time. He's watching us perform. You know that."

Fitz held up his hands, shaking his head. "Don't blame me for your failings, lad," he said, cracking a broad grin. "If you can be distracted by a face this worn in, then I pity your master fiercely." 

"He could be distracted by a blade of grass or a funny-looking cloud, this one," Sawtooth agreed, with long-suffering ill humor. "If he weren't so useful with a cookpot, I'd have thrown him out on his ass ten times over. But I can't afford to lose the help. Hard worker he is, if nothing else. Can fry an egg without splitting the yolk, too, just how I like it."

"He's a good boy," Fitz agreed seriously, looking Hap in his mismatched eyes as he said it. He was the only person I'd seen today who had, and it rattled something about hollowly in my heart. Fitz used to look me in the eyes that way when we were children, too. Sometimes he still did. It was an expression that told you he could see you, and that no matter where you tried to hide, he would find you, all the same. It could be a comfort just as easily as a threat, when you lived your life as invisibly as I had. Hap clearly found in the gesture something similar, for he straightened his shoulders and played the note again, this time beautifully and clearly. 

I clapped my hands together lightly, and Hap saw, and dipped into a flourished little bow, still playing. Fitz saw too, and nudged my side affably, lip curling upward in approval of my appreciation. Hap was his easiest child to please, and I was happy to oblige them both. 

His other in attendance was far pricklier, as her daunting name implied. I found I liked Lady Nettle all the more for it, for she did not comport herself with the tireless, bland geniality so often found in the gently reared noblewomen of Buck. Her words held a bite, one that often sent FitzChivalry reeling, but usually also served to help him further consider how best to chart conversational courses in the future. She was very blunt and economical with her words. She reminded me of Burrich, in that way. 

Watching her and Fitz interact fascinated me ceaselessly, near as strongly as it panged my heart. It was a bit like observing two wary dogs circling one another, one reactive and prone to nipping, and the other easily daunted, its tail wedged permanently between its legs. I wished it could be easy for them, this belated coming to know one another, but understood why it was not. Not for the first time, I wondered if things between them might improve, were I to excuse myself from the situation altogether. 

Fitz hated when I insinuated such things and found the notion of my retreat both galling and upsetting in the extreme. The only time since Winterfest that I'd spoken of it, he'd grown irate and beside himself, quivering first with rage and then, on its heels, with obviously wounded feelings. 

"You must never say that," he admonished me heatedly after I'd finally calmed him down, astonished and chastened by his horror. I had not even said I'd intended to go. I'd only asked him if it might be better that I did. "It would spell disaster for us both, if one of us should leave the other now. You know it, and so do I. Don't ever suggest such a thing again. I refuse to be without you."

I had no wish to be without him either. I only wanted his life to be easy. I had said as much, and held him all night, and he had, when morning came, forgiven me. It had taken far longer to forgive myself, for I came to realize, in the weeks and months that followed, how much my fear had driven that foolish notion. To be his was also to be known, and not only by Fitz, but, to a degree, by the people around him. That, I found far more frightening than fleeing cravenly into the night. 

But for the love of him, I would try. Turning my attention from Hap, I said to Nettle, in what I hoped was a charming, gentlemanly tone, and not an unambiguously false one, "How is your Springfest thus far, my lady?"

"Only just begun, same as yours," she replied shortly, and Fitz glanced at her sidelong, clearly irked by her lack of decorum when addressing his... whatever he considered me to be. 

I didn't rightly care, myself. I knew enough of people to know what not to take personally. She was only a teenage girl, in the end. I'd had elder sisters. In fact, Nettle's disinterest reminded me keenly of the sister that had been closest to me in age, though close was a supremely generous term. She'd been well over ten summers my senior, and had never been one for pretexts, either. I had believed her the bravest person in all the world, up until I met my Catalyst. Even then, she still came incredibly close. 

"So it has," I said, forcing the conversation forward, wishing I did not have to. It was entirely self-inflicted. Glut for punishment that I was, I pressed obstinately onward anyway. "And what a fortunate thing, indeed. All the best is yet to come. I always find it pleasant to have something to look forward to."

Nettle stared straight ahead, eyes fixed above Hap's tousled head. She looked angry, but then again, she always seemed a bit angry, ever since I'd met her. It was little mystery why. She resented the world, and I could not blame her. Whatever way one looked at it, she had been treated quite unfairly. Perhaps it had, in great part, been for her own good. Certainly it all had been, Fitz would insist. But I knew, too, the humiliation of being kept in the dark, and however well-meaning the secret keeper, it did not detract from the mortification of being the last to know a thing that by rights, you should have been informed of first. I could not help but grant her grace for it. My experience with such subterfuge had lasted but a few short months. Hers had spanned her entire life. 

"I suppose so," Nettle said at last, and then turned to Sydel, who had been shifting on her feet nervously for the whole of our stilted, uncomfortable conversation. I took her disinterest as the rightful sign it was, and turned aside too, smiling grimly at Fitz, who was caught midway between glowering and wincing in dismay. I set a hand gently to his forearm, in a bid to assure him that no harm had been done, and he relaxed marginally, then made a face of profound alarm. 

It was all the warning I got before we were unceremoniously separated by a veritable flurry of activity. Lord and Lady Fisher, it would appear, newly arrived in the great hall, fashionably late and clinging to one another fondly, in a way that toed the line of impropriety and made clear their great affinity for one another. 

We are a love match, their posture seemed to shout, from the tender way he walked with his palm at the small of her back to the proud hand she rested on her conspicuously large stomach. We are smitten with one another, and will gladly face the shame of all the world knowing it, rather than stifle our mutual affection for even a single moment. 

Jealousy seized me so violently that I experienced an instant of inexplicable nausea. It took much longer than it should have to regain my composure. "Tom," I could hear Starling saying in the meantime, making a face of exaggerated surprise, "Why, I am amazed to find you here! I always thought you hated crowds."

Fitz looked remarkably like a cornered rat as he cleared his throat and replied with a courteous bow. "Ah. Lady Fisher. Lord Fisher. I hope that you are both faring well. I was just watching Hap perform." 

He looked toward his foster son desperately, clearly uncomfortable in the couple's presence. I felt for him. I truly did. He took great offense to Starling's having lied to him about her marital status, and felt personally responsible for deceiving her husband, whom by all accounts appeared to be a perfectly decent man. And furthermore, he was Fitz, and tended to be very awkward around lovers, both former and current. I could not imagine how he felt right now, speaking to a pregnant one. I wondered if it was the closest he'd ever been to an expecting woman before. I couldn't imagine another reason he'd have to keep the company of one. 

Our child will be beautiful. 

It took me almost as violently by surprise as Starling's dramatic arrival, that sudden, vivid flashback to being hung like a trophy upon Ilistore's icy wall. Before me now was Fitz, bathed in springtime sunlight and trapped by a perfectly standard, if unfortunate, set of trying social circumstances. But as he looked not into my face, but Starling's, I saw only eerie light casting a golden glow against the shadows, and his avid gaze locked vacantly on the woman who would go on to gleefully torture me to death. 

I know everything that you have ever wanted, and I will give it all to you. 

I would have bolted mindlessly at the memory, one I had not dwelt upon in a relievingly long time, but my feet seemed rooted to the floor. So instead of fleeing, I stared at Fitz helplessly, and waited pathetically for him to remember I was there. 

It took him a moment, an excruciatingly long one. He was engaged in what looked to be an agonizing nexus of forcedly polite chatter, broken only by Hap's performance reaching its conclusion. When Starling turned her illustrious attentions on the boy, Fitz jerked forward, like a puppet whose strings had been slackened too abruptly, made a feeble-sounding excuse to Lord Fisher and, smilingly sickly, stepped widely around him, rejoining me in the corner I had crowded myself into. 

As he did, his face went momentarily blank. I felt a tingle in my silvered fingers, the telltale sign someone nearby me was employing Skill magic, and then, abruptly, Nettle huffed with indignation and turned on her heel, sweeping away into the crowd without a word and dragging Sydel along with her. 

Civil cast a suspicious glare toward Fitz and me, then followed suit, stalking after the ladies. Pard skulked liquidly along behind him, looking as discomfited by the crowd as I was growing, and Swift was last to fall in line and depart, appearing more confused by his sister’s sudden exit than anything else. When I turned back to Fitz, his eyes were clear, and his face troubled as he watched his daughter's retreating back.

"What did you say to her?" I asked, and he pretended, badly, not to know what I meant. I stared at him, unimpressed with the apparent deceit of this lifelong spy, and at last he sighed in defeat and steered me a little closer to the wall, where we would not be overheard. 

"Nothing that warranted so much outrage. I told her to be more courteous to you. That's all. She oughtn't take out her temper on my friends. Her quarrels are with me alone. You never did her any ill."

"What quarrel has she with you?" I demanded, keeping my voice low. The last I'd heard, they had made tentative peace. Their shared Skill studies had even been progressing, if not with complete success, then at least with a modicum more smoothness than at their start. He'd breathed not a word to me of any dissent between the two of them in recent weeks.

I found his circumspection more bothersome than I ought. It was hardly out of character, Fitz keeping his problems to himself. But I had thought perhaps, now that he and I were once more in accord, that he might not see the need to clutch his troubles so closely to the chest. I knew it was none of my business what he and his daughter discussed. But I had hoped he trusted me enough to know that he could come to me, were there ever discord between them. I wondered, worrisomely, why he had not. "You can tell me about it, if you wish," I added, trying not to sound wounded that I had to offer. It was a stupid thing to be wounded over. As stupid as my fretting over our bedding the night before.

Fitz shook his head sharply, which did little to dispel my anxiety. "Not here. I'll tell you about that later. When we are alone."

Ah. So it was a delicate matter, then. I nodded my understanding, resigned, then said, perhaps terribly, "How was it, seeing Starling?"

His throat bobbed. "You have eyes, do you not?" he muttered sparely, as behind his shoulder, Starling threw back her head and laughed at something Hap told her animatedly. Her dark, shining hair caught in the sunshine, crowning her in an aspect of radiance, one only furthered by her gravid condition and rich, showy garb. 

She was drawing quite a crowd, as those passing by began to recognize her as the queen's former minstrel, and were subsequently pulled into her orbit. It stood to reason. Her very presence was magnetic, as ever it had been, and as she matured, she had only grown more dexterous at wielding her signature performer's charm. I could not help but admire her technique. She was stunning, I thought, feeling plainer than I had in an age. Never mind not recognizing me any longer. Starling Birdsong had not even seen me.

"That's Starling," I said lightly, despite the dismayed plummeting of my heart. Let her bask in the crowd's fond attentions. Sooner rather than later, those attentions would be aimed elsewhere. I felt no smugness over that. Only pity, surprisingly and sharply. I had once basked in the glow of this crowd's adulation too, after all. And now here on its edges I cowered, naught but a forgotten wallflower once more. 

Fitz's eyes had taken on that familiar, glassy stare again, and I waited, mostly patiently, for him to come back and apprise me of the latest situation. I could only hope some sudden responsibility would not drag him from my side today and up the narrow stairs to Verity's tower to conduct gods only knew what sort of business on behalf of the crown. It could be anything, really, ranging from dull to perilously important, and always, it needed attending right away. When it came to the quiet work it took to run a kingdom, my Shadow King seemed to be endlessly sought after, somehow having a hand in it all. I found it rather compelling, seeing what that hand might choose to do, without my whispered guidance directing it. The advice I gave him now was granted only by request. I had little appetite, anymore, for the machinations of the Farseer throne.

But it was nothing so urgent today. As his eyes cleared, Fitz smiled reassuringly, then took my elbow and steered me forward, plunging us directly into the heart of the crowd. We eeled through loose knots of carousers, edging our way toward the royal dias, where Kettricken was enthroned, awaiting her son and his bride to join her. 

"They intend to make their announcement soon," Fitz told me, speaking directly into my ear so that I would not lose his words in the din. "I wanted to have a better view. Somewhere Prince Dutiful can see me."

It was a kind gesture. The Prince looked up to Fitz immensely, and slowly, Fitz was softening to him, as well. It was worlds better between them now than it had been at the start, with Fitz snarling at Dutiful angrily, begrudging the boy merely for existing, or so it had appeared at times. The circumstances of Dutiful's conception represented too much hurt, I think, for it to have gone any other way, at least at the beginning. 

Fitz still refused to acknowledge Dutiful as his son, and I understood his discretion perfectly, even if, in a fashion, I disagreed with him over its necessity. Fitz was a loving father, and at times, a painfully sacrificial one. He would never jeopardize Dutiful's birthright in such a selfish way. But I could no more look at the Prince and see only Verity than I could look out at a desert and glimpse the endless sea. The boy wore his birth father's face for all to see, plainly and unambiguously. 

Son of my body, Fitz had once called him. But when I watched the two of them together, it was apparent to me that Dutiful was the son of far more than only that. There was a space carved into Fitz's heart for the lad, and secret though he tried to keep it, I had seen inside his being too completely to be entirely unaware of its existence. I hated that he kept it so locked away, though I knew he only did it to protect himself and his son, both.

I tightened my grip on Fitz's arm, a painful, inexplicable warmth filling me. To watch him be present for his children this way, different though that looked for each of them, was like watching a baby learn to walk. He stumbled often and was slow to find his balance, but eventually, I had faith that he would find it. And I would be there, to push him forward and prop him up when he stumbled, and see that he never landed so hard he could not get back up at all. It was the least I could do, after everything my prophecies had put him through. Had put all of them through, truth be told. 

A murmur rippled through the crowd as Dutiful and Elliania ascended the dias, crowned heads held high, Dutiful bearing his rack of antlers with his signature solemnity and the Narcheska wearing the narwhal horn of her clan with the cool, self-assured pride I had come to expect from her. Gods, they were but children, still. Two children having a child. Strange, how that was celebrated here, so long as it was the right children begetting another, and for the right political reasons. 

Of all the things about Buck that I had never fully understood, this subject was chief amongst them. Their views on love, and parenthood, and sex. A woman must always have a father to claim her child, lest it be labeled a bastard, but if there was more than one father, it was deemed unnatural, an occurrence to shame and a mystery to solve. I could not imagine, before coming to this place, a land where they might deny one father's claim over his child, but not the other. Fitz and Verity's son baffled me. Dutiful was the child of both men, the same as I had been for my fathers and mother. The same, in a sense, as Fitz and Burrich had been to Nettle. Perhaps, in a kinder life, as Burrich and Prince Chivalry might have been for Fitz, who was raised by one and fathered by another. A son shared, as was natural for my people. I had thought, until I left Clerres, that such practices were common everywhere. How wrong I had been. How utterly wrong. 

Behind me, a group of obnoxiously loud young guardsmen jostled forward, trying for a better view behind mine and Fitz's tall shoulders. I hunched on instinct, then forced myself to straighten my back, holding myself as proudly as the King and Queen-in-waiting were standing. I still had to remind myself not to cower in public, at times. This was a particularly trying circumstance, for I was painfully aware of the press of the crowd at my back, and how little room there was to maneuver, should I wish to make a sudden escape. 

Uneasy, I slipped my hand into Fitz's, our brushing fingers hidden by my cape and the swarm of restless limbs surrounding us. I hated the way they could all reach out and touch me, regardless of my say in the matter. Despite the uncomfortably rising temperature in the hall, I longed to fling myself under the safety of Fitz's warm arm, but feared the crowd's reaction, suddenly. It was early, still, and neither Fitz nor I could pass for blind drunks quite yet. 

I was aware, distantly, that were I Starling, or Molly, or any other person the keep might deem a suitable companion for Fitz, that I would have been free to collapse into his waiting embrace without explanation or plausible deniability. The thought was like bitter poison to my mind. Yet another thing I would never understand about his people. Their derision of love, should it not look the way they thought it ought, nor conduct itself in a manner they deemed natural or appropriate. 

But they knew very little of love, in this land that was not my own. They had never seen my fathers quietly clearing the dishes away from our supper table as Mother rocked me to sleep, telling stories of the White Prophets who had come before me, and all the things they had accomplished. They had not seen them walking arm in arm in the market, laughing together as one held my hand. They'd not see the three of my parents huddled in their big bed, one Father had built by hand with love, jostling each other blearily in the night to make room for one more after I'd had yet another nightmare. They'd never witnessed the way Father kissed Mama and Papa farewell every morning, nor how Papa sang to them both in the afternoons, when our family would sit in the cool shade and take a rest from the day's labors. They didn't know a single thing about that kind of love. They only erroneously thought they did. 

It was a dangerous game to play, letting my childhood memories take hold of me that way. It almost never led to anything good. I'd long ago learned to store such thoughts away safely and handle them with care, frequently enough to keep them sharp, but not often enough to let them flood back. For once the floodwaters began rising, there was never any fighting them off. Water had to flow somewhere, and so, too, did my recollections. And their path, today, was directly above my head, as I was already fighting for every breath I drew.

I felt Fitz tighten his grip on my fingers and step a little closer, crushing our joined hands between his body and mine. I must have been panting lightly, for he muttered, his deep, soft voice scarcely audible over the chatter surrounding us, "Breathe, Fool. And slower than that. What is it? Is anything the matter?"

Nothing that couldn't be shoved down with enough force. "I'll bide," I replied, the words strangled. 

Dutiful stepped forward, preparing to address the crowd, and I girded myself, determined not to drag Fitz away from this momentous occasion. I would not cost him more time apart from his family, more moments he might never get back. I clutched his hand so desperately that my fingers went numb, trying to stave off my rising panic. It was the sort that sometimes seized hold of my body and stole me away from my mind for a time, and for once, I welcomed the relieving emptiness that came with that strange ceasing to exist, however temporary the reprieve. My last thought, before a wall of white light and the absence of sound overtook me, was that I wished it had happened after, so I could have seen Fitz's face when Dutiful formally announced the impending arrival of his first grandchild. 

I have no idea how long that nothingness lasted. It was never a thing I could predict. It must have been a solid while, for when I returned to myself, my hand in Fitz's was hot, sweaty in my glove, and my ears rang almost unbearably. The cacophony of noises assailing my senses was appalling after such utter, frightening nothingness. But this overabundance of scents and light and sound was frightening, too. I could not win, and I certainly couldn't breathe. I felt as if I was going to faint. 

I swallowed, my throat scratchy and dry. "I have to go," I rasped, and Fitz turned swiftly to look at me. "I'm sorry," I said weakly, feeling like a complete idiot. "It's too much. You were right. You stay here. Please. But I must go."

Fitz glanced over me, his eyes the assessing ones of a healer, his brows the sharply furrowed brows of a scholar. I had no idea what conclusion he drew, only that he drew one, and did it decisively, for without another word, he turned, shouldering through the guardsmen behind us like they were nothing. I knew not if it was his surly reputation, his face full of scars, or the determined expression that he wore, but all reason aside, the lads parted at once, granting me passage to squeeze through their midst. Undeterred by the ocean of people who surrounded us, Fitz confidently carved a path for me to follow, leading me by the hand out of the maze of bodies and the threatening crush of the great hall, and out into the glaring light of the early afternoon. 

When at last we broke free from the final scatterings of the gathered crowd, on the very cusp of the huge shadow Buckkeep's soaring towers cast, I gasped with relief, dropping Fitz's hand and setting both palms to my knees as I doubled over. My silky cape brushed my arms, or I thought it did, until it occurred to me that the touch was Fitz's, gently rubbing my forearms and watching silently as I caught my breath. 

"I'm sorry," I bit out, so ashamed I could barely speak the words. "I'm sorry. I thought... I was stupid to try and do this. I wasn't ready. I'm truly sorry."

Fitz's hands stilled. After a moment, he dropped down on his heels, crouching before me. "Come with me," he said, very softly, as if he were speaking to a child, and not a particularly bright one. "Follow me, Fool. I'm going to take you someplace quiet. It's alright."

I shut my eyes against the tears rising in them. They burned, and so did my face. But I slowly straightened up, all the same, and took hold of his proffered arm. "Where are we going?" I managed around the inconvenient lump in my throat. 

Fitz smiled mysteriously. I was surprised that he was not upset with my interruption, or at the very least perturbed by it. "You'll know that once we arrive," he said conspiratorially. 

My curiosity ignited, despite my distress. "Have I been there before?" I quizzed him, feeling the miasma of dread beginning tentatively to lift. 

"We both have," Fitz replied, and steered us away from the looming shadow of the keep, out into the harsh, blinding sunshine. "Take as much time as you need," he added, slowing when he noticed my shaky gait. 

I smiled wryly, and his lip twitched. "I'm a patient man," he added. "I can wait."

"As can I," I countered, and he laughed, a rumbling, low noise that soothed me tremendously. 

"Don't I know it," he agreed mystifyingly, and we walked, side by side, through the front gate of the keep and out into the wide world beyond. 

•••

Instead of following the steep, cobbled road down into Buckkeep Town, as I'd been expecting him to, Fitz veered off almost at once onto a scrubby but decently well-defined path that disappeared into a copse of sorts, perched along the rocky hillside. At first, the course struck me as oddly unfamiliar, for I'd little ventured beyond the walls of the keep during my time as his grandfather's fool. 

Usually, I'd only departed the castle when I had express purpose for it, for Shrewd hadn't much liked me to stray far from his side, and I hadn't much liked to leave him for long. But as we followed the path's gentle perambulation into the forest, stepping beneath the shelter of a profusion of towering birch and alder trees, it became apparent to me that I had, in fact, taken this pathway at least once before, many, many years ago. 

"Fitz fixes feist's fits," I recalled under my breath, light dappling our heads as the blooming buckbrush rustled faintly in the breeze. 

"Fat suffices," Fitz agreed, and led me to a particularly large alder, one whose branches had diverted low enough to offer a comfortable-looking seat, one that backed up to a sturdy birch that might serve as a comfortable backrest. 

I hoisted myself onto the limb gratefully, legs still a touch unsteady, and then leaned back against the birch tree's trunk and blew out all the air in my lungs. When I inhaled again, it was the clean, restorative scent of deciduous forest, and the musky sweetness of blossoming buckbrush. My mind felt clearer, now that we were alone. Relieved, I allowed my rigid shoulders to drop and bid my stubborn muscles unclench, and as I did, Fitz sank back against the tree trunk beside me. 

I couldn't bear to look at him yet. My ignominy was still fresh, and so instead, I peered up at the sky between the newly budded leaves, flashes of cerulean blue peeping through charmingly, and tried unsuccessfully to find my tongue. Fitz had never been one who was opposed to sitting in extended silence, but in this case, I felt I owed him some sort of explanation for my behavior, erratic and unpredictable as it had been. One that went beyond a simple apology. Something he could understand. 

But an apology was all I could bring myself to muster on such short notice. "I'm sorry you missed the announcement on my behalf. I had no intention of turning you aside from your duties," I said, forcing myself to look up at him. Sitting as I was, he was angled above me, as he'd been when first we had ever met here. He didn't look half as idiotically confused as he'd been that day, thankfully. It had been akin to pulling teeth, trying to make him stop and actually listen to what I said back then. Sometimes it still was, but we were closer friends now, and what was more, I could take him by the shoulders and shake him robustly without fear of consequence these days, and had, on more than one occasion. 

But today, he only shrugged said shoulders and replied, "You didn't. Dutiful's speech had already concluded when you told me you needed to depart. The cheering was so deafening that I could scarcely hear you. Isn't that why you wanted to leave? You were overwhelmed by the press of the crowd?" He paused, expression darkening considerably. "That was why you needed to go, was it not, Fool?"

It had been, in a way. But there was more to it than that, significantly more. Since lying to him that morning had thus far proven to do me more harm than good, I humbled myself and unwillingly offered him a more unabridged truth, instead. 

"That was part of it. Not an insignificant part, I can assure you. But I was already eager to be gone from that place before ever the Prince's speech began. I'm not certain why, but memories were beginning to overtake me. Memories of..." 

I trailed off meaningfully and Fitz made a quiet, wounded animal noise, then engulfed me unexpectedly in his arms, blocking out the sky and sun. It was no great loss. He was warmer by far than any sunlight, anyway. Defeated, I dropped my forehead against his chest, sheer determination the only thing stopping me from sobbing like a weakling, and inhaled deeply again, this time of his scent, the sweetest smell I knew. 

"You should have told me sooner," Fitz admonished bleakly, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and neck and drawing me nearer with strangling force. "You should have told me as soon as it happened. I never would have forced you deeper into that crowd had I known. I wish you'd said you were suffering right away. There was no reason to put yourself through such agony solely on my account. Eda and El, you're too hardheaded for your own good, you nit."

Despite his swell of irksome fussing, Fitz's touch served to draw the poison from my proverbial bloodstream, transfusing me with peace and calm. Here, enclasped, I was safe without my armor. Here I could let down my defenses and allow another to protect my soft underbelly in my stead. It was an unnatural sensation, to trust someone else so entirely to guard my wellbeing. I never had before, not since I was a helpless child. But then again, who except Fitz had been deserving of that honor? He had been me, for a time, had cared for my body and soul as if they were his own, ushered them from death back into life with healing hands and love in his heart. I could count on him to forfend me, always. I need never fear when he was keeping watch. If only I could place as much blind faith in myself.

"I thought perhaps I was finally strong enough to withstand it, this time," I admitted, and then, because I could never stand to dwell seriously on my own shortcomings for too long, added wryly, "It seems I was astoundingly wrong. I am a terrible coward, still. Not even death can cure me of that particular affliction."

Fitz drew back with as little warning as he'd given before seizing me, eyes ablaze. "You're anything but a coward, Beloved," he said harshly, enough indignant protestation in his deep voice that I flinched upon its impact. "Don't say such wretched things about yourself."

"Well, I am not brave either, am I, Fitz?" I replied tiredly, for I wasn't, and never had been. "How else might one possibly define the alternative?"

"You are brave. Brave and an imbecile for being so unable to reckon that against all the torments you've survived," Fitz said, folding his arms across his chest, his scowl redoubtable and his exasperation clear. "Did you expect it to be easy, living again after all you were put through?"

"All I put myself through," I corrected him, mildly and petulantly. 

"Exactly!" He spoke over me loudly. "You knew precisely what would become of you, and still moved forward and met your fate anyway. You did it even despite your fears. You are a more courageous man than any I have ever known, Fool. Few, nay, none other would do what you did willingly, be it for the world or for their best friend. Even fewer could survive what you have without their minds shattering entirely. It takes time to heal from such torture. So much time. Years. Decades. A few short seasons are nothing. They are nothing at all. It may as well be a drop of rain to the ocean. That you are walking, and talking, and able to feel at all while you do is..." 

He shook his head, eyes distant and haunted. "It is far more than I was ever capable of. I cannot pretend to know how you stand the pain. But I am here to help you bear it. You needn't pretend not to feel it around me, nor must you suffer through it alone. I brought you home to Buckkeep so that you would not need to. Let me carry you, when you cannot stand up on your own. I've done it before, after all. You are part of my pack. That is my duty, too. You have always carried me, at my worst. Allow me the same courtesy now. Please. Set aside your pride. It has no place between us, not any longer. I think no less of you for your suffering. I only wish to ease it, where I can."

They were astonishing words, and kind ones. Words of growth, and eloquence, and newly rediscovered passion. But one rang dissonant against all the others, catching and trapping itself in my mind, bouncing off the walls of my head and settling like a rock in my stomach. I brought you home to Buckkeep. 

Home.

But Buckkeep had never been my home before. It was merely a place where I’d resided for a time. Home was Mercenia, and my family there. Home was a group of people I would never see again, and alongside my other pains, I felt their loss again anew, as keenly as I'd once felt Ilistore's knife slicing into my back, peeling away flesh and leaving me raw and hemorrhaging blood beneath. 

"I want to go home," I blurted out without meaning to, and then shut my eyes. I felt like a vacuous, inconsolable child. "I want to go home, Fitz. I miss my family. I miss who I was before these things were done to me."

It was folly to expect tears not to fall, but I was surprised to feel them sliding down my cheeks, anyway. Fitz tugged me closer again, expression so brokenhearted that for a moment, I was afraid I had offended him with my pain. But then he was crowding me close, kissing my head as I wept, and saying, "I know. I miss that person too. You will always miss him. Always. But you will carry him with you, too. Just as you carry your family. Just as I am going to carry you through the worst of these days. Believe me. I do not lie. I swear it."

I did believe him. It cost me greatly to do so, but I did it gladly, all the same. "I know not who I am any longer," I told him, thankful I had donned no cosmetics as I cried into his fern-colored jerkin. At least the only marks I would leave on it would be tear stains. "Each time I think I've figured it out, it slips away from me again. I am lost, Fitz. I don't know who I am, without prophecies to guide me and fate to make me bold."

"You are Beloved," Fitz replied simply, his lips in my hair. "You are mine. For now, let that be enough. You are Beloved, and you belong to me."

"A poor acquisition on your part," I told him as he wiped my eyes with his shirtsleeves. 

"That is for me to decide, I think," Fitz retorted, smiling down at me with concern. Then he bent and kissed my forehead. "I will take you to your family, if you wish it," he offered sincerely, and I nearly cracked in half like a poorly fired piece of pottery. "I will take you home to them."

Mind reeling, I dared to imagine it, Fitz sitting at the table between my fathers, listening to my mother's stories before bed. Fitz, his arm around me as we sat in the apricot orchard, the sheep grazing lazily on the hill and horseflies buzzing sedately around our heads in the hot, still air of the afternoon. Fitz showing my sisters how to write in his tongue, and my sisters teaching him how we carded our wool. He would pick up on the method quickly, I thought. His mother had raised sheep too, after all. He'd likely been taught such tasks before. 

It was an impossibility. It could never be. My parents were long dead, and my sisters' whereabouts remained a mystery to me, one that must never be solved. I was alone and lost forever to my kin. Fitz was all the family I had now, so long as he continued to choose to be it. 

"There is no home any longer. Don't you recall?" I asked, voice cracking as I tried and fell astoundingly short of a smile. "They are not there anymore, Fitz. My parents are long dead. They were old when they had me, and elderly by the time I bid them farewell at Clerres. By now, my sisters are surely the same."

"You are far from elderly, Fool. They cannot be so old as that," Fitz said soothingly. I laughed emptily at his uncharacteristic optimism. In this, he was sorely misguided. 

"I wear my years differently than humans wear theirs," I reminded him, though I knew he'd resent the reminder. "I was twenty when I saw them last, and that was easily twice your lifetime ago."

I watched his face as he tried to calculate my age, came to what was likely an accurate conclusion, then discarded the notion as impossible and frowned instead. Some things, it seemed, never changed, forged or not. 

"Besides," I added, when the uneasy silence stretched long. "You have your own family to concern yourself with. I will never take you away from them again. I couldn't."

At this, Fitz nodded concedingly. "I won't force you to do it," he said. "I only wished for you to know that I was willing." 

He was dear to my heart for telling me so. With a long sigh, I rested my cheek against his collarbone. It was idyllic out here in the forest. So serene and blessedly silent. I longed ardently to live with him someplace like this. Somewhere quiet, and sheltered, and still. Perhaps in time, when Dutiful reached his majority, Fitz might be convinced to acquire us a cabin some distance from the castle, a place we might secret away to now and again to be left entirely alone. It was a most enticing thought. 

Since the topic of families had already arisen naturally, and I was eager to shift the subject away from my own woes, I judged it as good a time as any to satisfy my earlier curiosity. "How long have you been quarreling with Nettle, Fitz?" I asked, when perhaps five minutes of quiet contemplation had passed us by. I felt his whole frame tense at the question. "What are you two bickering about now?" 

His reply was careful in a way that I had long ago come to recognize as purposeful reticence on his part. "It's about her mother," he said, and did not further elaborate. So it was to be that way, then. How naive I had been, to hope that the days of extracting information from him like a healer removing rotten teeth were over, simply because he and I kissed now before his fire. Nothing could ever be that easy. Not when it came to Fitz and me. 

"And how fares Molly? Is she well?" I asked offhandedly, trying to approach the topic from a route he might not anticipate, and catch him where his guard was lowest. 

It proved a most successful attempt. "As well as she can be, I suppose," Fitz returned, more easily. "I've only heard secondhand from her children, mind you. She's refusing to move into Withywoods, likely out of pride. I cannot say I blame her for it."

"Nor can I. A house is a poor substitute for a husband, however grand that house may be."

Fitz made a pained face as he grunted in agreement. I had hit a mark, clearly, but it wasn't one I'd been aiming for. "Nettle thought something similar?" I hazarded, and Fitz held still and wordless for an exaggerated moment. I wondered what could possibly be going through that head of his, for his mind was clearly racing, though his broad body did not twitch. 

"She did," he said at last, refusing to meet my eye. "She believes I am shirking my responsibilities to their family. She says her mother is lonely, and that if I were a good man, I would court her properly instead of waiting around like a coward for Molly to invite me to do it."

"Ah." Something cold and empty began filling my chest. I could feel my body starting to stiffen, pulling subconsciously away from his. Fitz felt it too, and clamped down around my shoulders like a vice, bullishly but not unkindly constraining me.

"I told her that wasn't possible. That it wouldn't be right, nor fair, for I was otherwise engaged. To court her mother would force me to be false to another. That made her angry. She asked who I might possibly want to court, if not Molly, and I said that it was private. She hasn't spoken to me since."

The coldness in my chest dissipated as quickly as it had gathered, flooding me with an unflattering abundance of calidity instead. "You told your daughter we were courting?" I whispered, delighted. 

"I didn't tell her anything. That's the problem," Fitz replied heavily. "But what was I supposed to say?"

"That you have chosen to woo your grandfather's fool, of course," I replied, perhaps more triumphantly than I should have. It was never truly a contest, when it came to his love for Molly and me. At least, I had tried never to view it as such. It was simply love, and love did not always look or act the way people expected it to. That did not stop me from being exceedingly glad, in that moment, for my generous share of his.

"I chose what I could not live without," Fitz returned unexpectedly, and at that, I melted into his arms, too moved by the straightforward statement to make light of anything anymore. All felt right and good in my world. I was sorry he and his daughter had fought over me. But I was not sorry at all to be the one he had chosen.

As we lingered in that embrace, I felt, as I sometimes did when we lay close in bed, the natural way his body reacted to the proximity of mine. That, too, was still a novel occurrence, commonplace though it had become between us to hold one another near. I wondered musefully what had brought it on. It could have been anything, truth be told, even the scented air around us. Buckbrush smelled like more than merely sweet, mellow springtime, after all. I nestled just a breath closer to him, so he'd know I knew his secret. Fitz cleared his throat afflictedly when I did, and I smiled into his whiskers, more pleased than I ought to have been that he still found me appealing, even despite my dolorous tears. 

"You like it when I cry, then?" I could not forbear to tease him, lifting my face away so that I could see his when I made the jest. Horror flashed across it, adorably, as he rapidly shook his head. 

"No," Fitz objected, vehemently and wholeheartedly. "That isn't it at all. Trust that this has very little to do with your misfortune."

"What has it to do with, then?" I prodded him mercilessly. "The sturdiness of the tree we lean against? The abundance of leaves upon the bushes?"

He huffed, as if indignant that I'd even bother asking him a question with so obvious an answer. But the answer was anything but obvious to me, and I was vain and eager for further distraction, and wished to hear his reasons for desiring me.

"It has naught to do with your suffering," Fitz repeated, looking upward as if searching the sky above for strength. "Rather, you might concern yourself with your choice of dress today, should you be seeking answers to that particular riddle. Everything, ah..." His face was a charmingly patchy red beneath his beard, ruddy and bright. 

"Everything shows?" I supplied, and he nodded, martyred. Jollity, giddy and fey, overtook my chest, its warmth a sort that was welcome after so much melancholy shared. "It's meant to," I intimated, scarcely able to contain my amusement. "I chose these things to suit my figure. How was I to know they'd have such an effect on you?"

"How could you possibly not?" Fitz replied, aggrieved. "It's clinging to you like water. You look... Well, not indecent, because you're dressed. But it leaves very little to the imagination."

I was mystified by this, seeing as I was clothed from head to foot, and shrouded in a cape besides. "You must be in possession of a rather active imagination," I told him. 

"I have little need for one," he retorted, anguished, "When you purposefully don trousers so tight, just to taunt me."

To taunt him? I recalled my flirtatious comments in his room, and then it was my turn to flush, most unexpectedly. He viewed this as a premeditated seduction, and obviously saw my blushing as a blatant admission of guilt. "I meant no harm," I offered, still biting back my rising amusement. 

"And you've done none," he agreed. "But you've made me eager for the sun to go down. And I cannot help but suspect that was your intention all along."

Such credit he gave me! I smiled mysteriously and let him, head set to his shoulder and buckbrush rustling in the breeze. The flower's perfume was sometimes compared to the mating scent of bucks during rut, overpowering and heady with musk. I wondered if it had the same effect on Fitz as it did on me, or if that, too, had been a happy coincidence, a small gift of fate to further bolster our affinity for one another. 

"I am eager for that too," I admitted. "But there are many hours left to go before sunset, and I fear I've been selfishly monopolizing your time already, as it is. And on the first day of Springfest, no less. We probably ought to be getting back."

"In a while," Fitz replied, unconcerned. "Besides, it's only the first day of the celebration. There will be plenty more of them, further on. I'm not missing anything just now. The jugglers won't perform until this afternoon, and the Night of the Minstrels isn't for days, yet." 

I smiled at his reasoning. That particular night was of utmost importance to him this year. Hap would be performing for the first time before our Queen, as would all the minstrels gathered in attendance at Buckkeep. Fitz was beside himself that Hap had been given the honor. 

Thinking of Kettricken brought another concerning thought to my mind, one that had been niggling unpleasantly at me for quite some hours, and I had been trying my best to ignore. Nevertheless, it did not seem to be fading, so I gave it a reluctant voice, with far less enthusiasm than its frolicsome predecessors, hoping I did not sound like a neglected playmate in the doing.

"But what if Kettricken or Chade have need of you?" I asked, plucking distractedly at Fitz's collar, which had once again gone askew. As I did, I examined the dark hair curling from his beard and, because we were alone, kissed the hidden dimple beneath his chin. It wasn't meant to be an invitation, exactly. More of a kiss of thanks, if anything. Even so, he ducked and pressed his mouth to mine, adjusting me in his arms until we were interlocked, kissing deeply in the dappled light. 

It was all I could do not to wrap my legs around his comely waist, but we were still in public, and even Fitz's Springfest boldness surely had limits. But surprisingly few of them, I thought with some satisfaction, as he slid his arms beneath my cape so that he could better feel the lines of my body. His fingers caught on the threads of embroidery in my shirt, the ones I'd left there just for him, their calloused pads ghosting across the shapes and patterns as if learning them by touch. I felt like a pair of clandestine teenagers. But this, I wagered, was far better than it would have been when we were young, for many reasons, not least of which being that the two of us actually knew what to do with one another now, or at minimum, had a fairly decent idea. 

Still. It would have been grand, figuring such things out together back then. Until today, I had never kissed anyone during Springfest before. I'd seen nearly every other youth at the keep do it, over the years, but never had a suitor of my own. That had mostly been fine with me, but I'd still wondered what it would be like, occasionally, and now was juvenilely gratified that I knew. It was just like kissing someone on any other day, but somehow more exhilarating, and involved a great deal more flowers, even if ours were simply sprouting from the surrounding bushes, and not surrounding us by way of hanging garlands and indoor greenery.

Restless with excitement, I found myself kicking my feet gently against the large alder branch I was seated upon. Fitz was holding me like his life depended on it, and I was smiling, and, it occurred to me, with much mollification, that I could breathe entirely normally again, and felt present in both my mind and body once more. What was more, I wanted to stay there. I wanted to be myself entirely, and felt no urge to hide away. 

I will come and find you, Fitz had said to me once. It was a promise he had kept. In his finding, I so often found myself again, too. It was as amazing as it was frightening, being bound back together by him, season after season, day after day. To be known beyond the scope of my own fear, down to the very heart, was a revitalizing, horrific thing. I thought, perhaps, it was the root of all love. I wondered if Fitz thought the same.

As we finally drew apart, he told me, "There is no harm in my taking a day's rest from my labors. It's Springfest, after all. No one works who doesn't have to, even royalty. Any task they have for me can surely wait until the morning."

Brave words, coming from a man who dropped everything at the briefest of injunctions from the crown. But I sensed he did not lie to me today. "You anticipate that they will all be too occupied to need you?" I guessed, and Fitz smiled sheepishly and nodded. "Ah. So this is stolen time, then." I grinned up at him, hands at his waist. "To go along with the stolen kisses."

"Were they taken unwillingly, then?" Fitz replied mildly, his brow furrowed in a failed attempt to mask his good humor.

"On the contrary. Given, and far too willingly." I leaned in, so that I could whisper in his ear. "I've never kissed a handsome man at Springfest before. Nor a homely one either, for that matter."

"I can't say that I've ever kissed a man at Springfest, myself," Fitz replied ruefully, and I cackled. 

"But you have done it? Kissed someone during the celebrations?" I replied, as much for nosiness's sake as for flirtation's. 

"I have," Fitz said, with surprising levity. "Only the one year, though, the spring that I was courting Molly. And it's been a long, long time since then."

"You first came to the keep on a Springfest, did you not?" I recalled, and he nodded, glancing up in the direction of the castle. 

"I did," he confirmed, voice distant with memory. "I had no idea it was a celebration. I just assumed the keep was always that crowded. I remember finding it very overwhelming. It made me want to hide away."

"I can imagine so." Memories of the tiny mountain-born boy he'd been back in those days, so silent and watchful, besieged me. He really did understand how overwhelming things were in the crush of that sort of crowd. Gently, I took his hand and kissed his knuckles. "I know how unkind it is to say," I said, "But even so, I shall still say it. I am forever grateful that fated Springfest carried you here to me. I am sorry for what you left behind, though. No child should go through the things you did."

"It was long ago," Fitz said softly. "They are very old wounds, now."

"And old wounds never ache?" I replied, just as quietly. At that, he merely rubbed my back and then bent and kissed my forehead again. 

"Are you ready to try again?" he asked, his expression warm and boyish as he offered me a gentlemanly hand to descend my branch. I did not take it, but hopped down lightly of my own accord instead. I was gratified when I landed gracefully, unassisted, and was more gratified still by his look of faint admiration, presumably for my athletic prowess. It made me wish to do cartwheels, just to show off for him. I quashed the urge, but only just.

"I was born ready," I replied instead, settling for a showy little flourish of my cape, and he shook his head at me long-sufferingly.

"Fool," he muttered, and I wrapped a hand around his bicep and squeezed it appreciatively in agreement. 

"For you, my heart, I shall always be," I quipped, and in reply, he plucked out a clump of buckbrush blossoms from a nearby bush and pushed them into my hand, shaking his head at my perceived folly. 

"Happy Springfest, Beloved," he said as I tucked them into my buttonhole. 

"It may yet be," I agreed, picking out one of the flowers delicately and sticking it into his hair. "Only time will tell, my gorgeous one."

He snorted but left my gift where it was, tolerant of my pestering of it meant seeing me happy. Much bolstered, we ascended the rocky hillside together toward the keep, carrying with us lighter spirits, the seductive scent of buckbrush, and resplendent spring sunlight dappling our winter-darkened heads.

•••

The rest of the afternoon was far more enjoyable, and that we spent much of it outdoors wandering between fair booths and enjoying the open air market that had been raised in the keep's courtyard was not lost to me at all. Here, under the open sky, the dispersal of the crowd was far more tolerable, and I found movement easier, without swarms of people standing elbow to elbow inciting in me a helpless panic. 

The stalls were freshly painted in bright, cheery colors and hosted all manner of mercantile and food vendors, come from across all six of the duchies, as well as the Mountain Kingdom and the Outislands, to peddle their wares after a long winter spent indoors. Toymakers sold colorful tops to children, and hedgewitches hawked their charms to passersby, while fortune tellers of questionable talent boasted palm readings and offered futures for a penny. 

It reminded me of my days working the dockside markets of Clerres, and I could not help the distaste I felt, watching scads of revelers flock to the garishly adorned charlatans, eager to cast aside their hard-earned coin at the prospect of being lied to. 

I could imagine precisely what they were being told, as I surveyed the sea of hopeful faces, dressed in anything from the threadbare work uniforms of servants to the stately garb of visiting nobility, for I'd once been trained in that showy deception myself. Give them hope, Capra had often instructed us luriks, But never offer too much of it. Only tell them what they already wish to believe. Appeal to their hopes and dreams and quiet their anxieties. People don't seek their fortune to be told the truth, they seek it to be told the most comforting lies they can find. 

"Have you ever gotten your fortune read?" I asked Fitz as we wandered past the ever-growing line outside a particularly popular fortuneteller's tent. It was purple and gauzy, bedecked with tinkling silver chimes and gaudy golden tassels that were clearly intended to make it look exotic and enticing. It merely appeared shamelessly cheap to me. Less was more, when it came to the art of foreseeing the future. I knew simply from looking that the medium within was a fraud. 

"I had my palms read once, not so long ago," Fitz replied, and I raised a disbelieving eyebrow. It surprised me that he would tolerate such a practice. He seemed to find all portents highly suspect. Palmistry was a particularly intimate practice, one he scarcely seemed the type to abide. 

"Oh?" I replied, adjusting my thin cape in the sun. "And what did you learn?"

"Not much. It was a queer thing, all said and done. 'Twas Jinna who read them. She said my hands seemed to belong to two different men. One whose life was cut short before his prime, and another whose days stretched out far ahead of him. They were not easy hands to read, she told me."

I lifted his hands to examine them in the bright sunshine, palm up, first his left and then his right. Reading palms had never been my talent, nor was it treated with much respect where I had been educated, but Jinna's magic was potent enough that I didn't doubt what she saw held some merit. She was right. Little though I knew about palmistry, the lines on Fitz's hands were distinctly different from one another. I traced each of them thoughtfully, then asked, "What else did she say about them?"

"That fear and anger followed my lifeline. And that I was an avid gardener, though that, I would wager, was due to the fact that she'd already seen my garden."

I laughed uneasily. "Could be. I did not know hedgewitches were prone to so bleakly read fortunes."

"Nor did I," Fitz said wryly. "It wasn't all bleak, though. She spoke a bit of love, as well. Two loves, in fact. A sweet, true one that ended with my first lifeline, and a longer one, one she said came and went, but stayed faithful and true all through my days. She said it would return to my life soon."

"Did she?" My heart skipped a beat, unexpectedly. "And when, pray tell, did she predict that?"

"The summer that you returned as Lord Golden, as it would happen. Strange timing, isn't it?" Fitz replied, eyes sparkling with something I didn't dare label comprehension, but couldn't refute was much akin to it.

"Most mysterious, indeed," I replied, glancing down at the fingerprints on his wrist. Dusky but luminous, they shone, a reminder of closeness shared, regardless of distance. I freed his upturned hands unwillingly, lest someone catch me grasping them with more tender intimacy than I ought. 

I did it none too soon, for as I let them go, someone gave a shout of recognition, and by the time I could parse out what direction it had come from, Hap was already sauntering over, harp slung over his back and a parcel of pickled fish in one hand, dripping a messy trail of vinegar backward toward the nearby vendor he'd purchased them from. "I've been looking for you," he said to Fitz accusatorily, mouth full of pungent fish. "You disappeared in the middle of a song, and now I find you here, wandering around with a flower in your hair!"

"Duty called," Fitz replied cryptically, shaking his head at the state of his boy and ignoring his flower allegations altogether, true though they might have been. "I'm sorry to have missed the rest of it, though. You and Sawtooth were a fine-sounding pair."

"Someone ought to tell him that," Hap grumbled, eliciting a forbidding scowl from his father. 

"Is he unkind to you?" Fitz asked, and I swear, when he asked the fatherly question, his already impressive size seemed to double before my eyes. All the danger he kept so habitually close to the chest surfaced, displayed clearly and without pretense. He did not look like any man I would ever wish to cross. But were I a lowly apprentice, I thought I would much appreciate having someone like him take my part.

Hap was far less impressed by Fitz's inadvertent show of force. "Not really," he admitted, eyes lingering on a group of girls who passed by us, their arms linked and their giggles contagious. "No more than is to be expected, anyway. He's tough with me, but always fair. He doesn't let me shirk my duties or lessons, though! Not even for Springfest. He says it's bad practice. He can't abide a lazy musician. Says it gives our vocation a bad name. But he doesn't mind taking a rest once our obligations are completed. He told me to come find him later this evening, but run along and enjoy the celebration in the meantime." 

Hap paused long enough to take another large bite of his fish, craning his neck as the girls disappeared around the corner. "I think he just wants an excuse to get drunk and meet with the local ladies in peace, though, without me underfoot," he concluded, wiping a shirt sleeve across his dripping chin.

"Perhaps," Fitz said, eyeing his son speculatively. He'd know all about how distractible Hap could be, I thought with some bemusement. Well did I recall his agonies, trying to convince the boy to take his last apprenticeship more seriously, and treat his previous courtship less so. "Whatever the case may be, I'm glad to hear he's treating you well. If that changes, you'll let me know. I understand that you're a man grown, now, but that doesn't mean I'm not still here, should you ever need my help."

"I know," Hap said, with all the dismissive, blithe confidence of a child who'd never been given a reason to doubt it. "Starling told me the same thing earlier." He crumpled the seaweed parcel his fish had come in and tossed it over his shoulder, having made quick work of his snack. As he wiped his sopping hand on his trousers, he added, "Oh! Are you having your fortunes told? Can I join? I haven't had mine read since Jinna did it last. Have you seen her here yet, Tom? She might be selling charms at a stall. I first met her at Springfest, do you remember?"

Fitz nodded. "I do," he said. "But I haven't seen her at this one. She and I don't travel in the same circles often, anymore." It was a demure dodge, one that worked well on a distractible teenage boy, but I didn't miss the tightness at Fitz's throat as he spoke. He and his hedgewitch had not parted, it seemed, on the kindest of terms. 

Hap's attentions were too divided by the excitement of the festival to pay much heed to his foster father's private woes. "She told me to steer clear of these tents," he informed us, indicating the purple, draping gauze. "She says they're traps meant to swindle travelers out of their money, and that the folk who run them are fraudsters with no respect for the craft they claim to practice. She said if you want your fortune told true, always find a hedgewitch to tell it."

I bit back a laugh. It was cleverly done by her. Fitz made a doubtful noise, and I could not help but offer my own opinion on the matter. "Better still, save your money for more fish, Hap. The art of predicting futures is far too delicate to be entrusted to someone you meet in passing at a crowded fair. It requires decades of study, and far more trial and error than can be reckoned to a single encounter or a glance into your palm." 

"What!" Hap laughed. "You don't believe in telling fortunes? Not even for fun?"

"There is no fun to be had in such a task," I replied, well aware I sounded like a stuffy, wet blanket. But it couldn't be helped. I, alone, in that entire market, knew the true cost of predicting the future. Hap was so new to the world, merely a baby toddling about on shaky legs. Every cent he earned was precious, and I did not wish for him to spend them in vain. 

"Listen to the Fool and save your pennies," Fitz advised, to my surprise. "He knows a thing or two about such matters."

"Do you tell fortunes, then?" Hap pestered, looking delighted by the prospect. I smiled at his persistence unwillingly. 

"Not as a practice, but as a favor to a friend, Hap, I will gladly tell you yours, if it means saving your pockets from those who might seek to lighten them dishonestly. Give me your hands."

Like his father before him, Hap thrust out his palms trustingly. They stunk of vinegar and fish, and were riddled near indecipherably with harpstring callouses, but it hardly mattered. I knew what I would tell him before ever laying eyes on a single line. "I see in your future moderate success," I said, after a dramatic moment spent staring down, ostensibly, at what his jumbled lifelines indicated, "A long string of lovers, all of them passionate, and a life lived entirely on your own terms. You will live up to your name, and make your father very proud."

Hap's grin was pink-cheeked and pleased. "You're just guessing," he said, obviously fine with that. 

"You'd be surprised," I told him, tossing a knowing wink over my shoulder to Fitz, "How much of that goes into predicting the future."

Fitz shook his head at us chidingly, but there was a touch of childlike commendation in his eyes that I could not help but preen beneath. He'd always enjoyed it when I put on a show catered especially to him. I was glad that some things never changed between us.

Hap tagged along with us after that, and made for pleasant company as well as a surprisingly robust source of gossip, having spent time amidst the other minstrels and listened in on their idle chatter. With him by our side entertaining us, afternoon faded fast into evening, and with the fading daylight went my remaining timidity and doubt. I found, by the time dusk had begun creeping across the makeshift market in earnest, and the first torches were being lit along the castle's outer wall, that my lingering sense of apprehension had all but vanished, and I was unequivocally enjoying myself. The only thing that might have made it better would have been draping myself across Fitz like so many other lovers had begun to do as darkness fell, softened by a day of indulgences and sweet carris seed topped egg cakes.

"Do you want a cake?" Hap asked us as we ducked back inside the great hall in search of our supper, the food at the market not substantial enough to satisfy mine and Fitz's growing appetites, which were decidedly more whetted than Hap's, who had spent the better part of the afternoon stuffing his face with whatever delicacies he stumbled across. Those were plentiful, considering the breadth of the day's festivities, and he had inhaled them like a bottomless pit, exactly as one would expect a teenage boy might. That, too, brought a far younger Fitz to mind for me, and endeared me to his boy all the more. As I tilted my head to consider Hap's question, the lad exclaimed, "Your earring! It looks carved of wood. Did you make it yourself? Tom tells me you're an accomplished woodcarver."

As Fitz coughed sheepishly at his son's relaying, I lifted a gloved finger to touch the earring in question instinctually. It was an inconsequential trinket, a pair of suspended plum blossoms that had felt right, if a bit obvious, for the occasion. I had carved them from a blonde bit of honeywood I'd found some weeks ago as a private reminder to myself that life could still be sweet, even in the midst of turmoil. Fitz, who was so well versed in plants that it apparently appeared on his lifeline, had surely recognized the flowers immediately. I was less sure he was aware of the symbolism they held for me, or how much his own actions had influenced it. 

"I did," I nodded, making a mental note that I should give Fitz grief later for his glowing accolades, which clearly embarrassed him, and watching with interest as behind Hap's shoulder, a sturdy, red-faced serving woman heaved a massive tray of carris seed cakes onto a banquet table, fresh and still steaming from the oven. 

I'd never indulged in the treat before, myself. Shrewd had, likely correctly, thought me too young and delicate for them when I'd still been his charge, and had worried I might grow too excitable and exhaust myself, should I eat one. "You tumble and leap enough for ten boys your age already," I recalled him saying, stroking my hair affectionately as I sat at his feet before the fire. "You must take care of yourself, little fool. Perhaps someday, when you are older and have grown into these gangly limbs of yours, you can see what all the fuss is about." 

As Lord Golden, I had preferred to keep my wits firmly about me, save for brandy, whose effects I could predict with little irregularity, and had thus declined any offers of cake on the grounds of some outlandishly untrue claim that to consume carris seed was a grave slight against my chosen deity, a lie my fellow nobles had swallowed with sheeplike gullibility.

But I was beholden to nothing now, and could do, I realized with exhilaration, anything I liked, minor consequences be damned. It was not as if the future was at stake. There was no time like the present to take advantage of that fact. 

"I think I shall have one, if you please, Hap," I declared, and Hap nodded, then looked to Fitz, who made a face of distaste and shortly shook his head. "Still haven't recovered your taste for the stuff, I take it?" I asked under my breath as Hap sauntered over to the table to fetch the freshly-baked treats for us. 

Fitz pressed his lips together in a flat, thin line. "You could say that," he murmured back, sotto, as Hap returned to our side balancing a stack of warm cakes in his palm. They were dusted generously but loosely with seeds, and seeing as much, I selected two, then brushed the toppings from one into my palm and, once it was divested of the offending seeds, offered it to Fitz with an encouraging nod.

"The oil will still be soaked into the cake," he protested halfheartedly, then despite that, took and bit the soft cake in half, all the same. Hap, who had no such carris-related qualms, was already on his second cake as I nibbled curiously at my first, dropping Fitz's share of the candy-sweet seeds into my mouth as I did. 

"Careful," Fitz warned me, sounding more fretful than I'd expect over a harmless little confection. "You aren't used to such things. Don't eat too much of it at once."

"Why not?" Hap asked, crumbs sticking to the corners of his lips. "The worst he could get is hot-blooded and worked up, and there's plenty of willing ladies about if that proves to be a problem for him."

"Aren't you a paragon of wisdom tonight?" Fitz replied, unamused, brows furrowing unhappily at the mention of willing ladies and me in the same sentence. He ate the second half of his cake with a scowl, then took the last one from Hap's hand, wiped the seeds pointedly onto the floor, where they disappeared amongst the bedraggled rushes, and ate it in one bite, looking between Hap and me with despair, as one might a pair of recalcitrant children. 

I had not realized he felt so strongly about the seeds, still. It made me, in turn, feel inappropriately giddy, to have done something even Fitz found risky, though, what he deemed a risk fluctuated wildly from what everyone else in the great hall might. As my light spirits rose, alongside my energy, it occurred to me that perhaps it was not only thrill that was causing the change. I turned to Fitz to ask how swiftly the seeds took effect, only to find him vanished, and Hap alongside him. 

I searched for a disorienting moment before spotting his retreating back. He was being hustled along by a much, much smaller woman. Patience had spotted her stepson in the crowd and laid claim to him, at least for the duration of the next round of dances. He darted a look over his shoulder apologetically and I waved him away, then glanced around for Hap, only to find him back at the cake table, entertaining a young woman of his own. Or rather, it seemed, annoying her. Nettle stood, looking irritated, as Hap tried and quite obviously failed to drum up conversation with her. 

Though I didn't particularly wish to get involved, I thought Fitz would appreciate someone stepping in on his behalf. Little good would it do anyone if two of his two children ended up in a passionate embrace by the evening's end, although, to credit Nettle, I much doubted that would be the case even without my intervention. Unnatural lightheartedness still tickling my mind, I forced myself to sober and strolled over to the two youngsters, setting a hand on Hap's shoulder when I reached them and steering him back, inserting myself directly between him and Nettle. 

"I thought I'd lost you for a moment. I should have guessed you'd be off somewhere distracting yourself," I said to Hap playfully, and he grinned lopsidedly in response. 

"I didn't mean to abandon you. But I recognized this fine lady from my performance earlier, and wanted to introduce myself. Formally," he added, twinkling a downright charismatic look toward Nettle. She folded her arms across her chest, unmoved. A girl with six little brothers wouldn't be, I supposed. "I'm Hap Gladheart," he said anyway, eternally optimistic, and offered her a cake, which she did not accept.

"Lady Nettle," said Nettle, with great dignity. Then, to my surprise, she looked at me from under her long fringe of lashes. With her hair still short from mourning, she looked more like Fitz than she ever had before. Oft were the times he had shot me a similar, pleading glance. 

"Lady, Hap," I said meaningfully, and for all his caddish, youthful airs, he took my meaning at once. 

"Of course," Hap replied, much less teasingly. "I meant no disrespect to you, truly. I do hope you enjoyed the performance, even if it wasn't my best one. It was my first time playing for my father, you see. I was very nervous."

"Your father is Tom?" Nettle said, and Hap brightened. 

"You know him?" he asked.

"He's my instructor," Nettle replied, then glanced at me again, those dark eyes as commanding as they were entreating. 

"Speaking of Tom, Hap, I seem to have lost him in the crowd. Go and track him down for me?" I asked, and Hap, helpful boy that he was, leapt at once to the task, clearly having grown used to obeying his betters in an instant or risking a cuff on the ears, as so many apprentices did. When he was well clear of us, I turned back to Nettle ruefully. "The coast is clear," I said. "You can make your escape now, should you wish to."

Nettle, whom I had never taken for a timid person, did not flee my company as swiftly as I might have assumed she would, our earlier encounter considered. Instead, she folded her hands together, grasping tightly to the blue material of the Skill-coterie robe she wore, and said, in an utterly unparsable tone, "Forgive me if this is too forward, but would you join me for a dance, Lord Golden?" 

It was the last thing in the world I'd expected any young woman, least of all my lover's daughter, to beseech of me. "I am a trifle old to accompany one so young and lovely as yourself, my lady," I began, unsettled by her invitation, and Nettle rolled her eyes heavenward. 

"Oh, don't be an idiot. It's not for that reason and we both know it. I want to talk to you. Uninterrupted. That's all."

My trepidation only grew. To obviate the increasingly inevitable, I took another cake and ate it pensively, avoiding her gaze. Once I had masticated it into oblivion and forced the last bite down a throat gone dry with nerves, I asked, with no little dread, "What about, Nettle?"

In reply, she boldly took my hand and, in a move eerily reminiscent of her father's earlier that day, guided me, much against my will, out onto the ballroom floor, which was littered with dancers, the King-in-waiting and his expectant queen front and center. When Dutiful spotted Nettle, he waved, and when he saw whose arm she was on, his eyes widened comically. I nodded deeply to him, teeth gritted, then turned my attention back to my more pressing charge, the girl-child with her jaw set stubbornly and her hand wrapped like a vice around my forearm.

Smoothly, I corrected her posture and my own in a single motion, taking one of her hands in mine and setting my other as properly as I was able on her waist, wishing desperately it was her father's, instead. I hoped Fitz would not be furious with me for being caught in such a strange, compromising position with his child. As the music started, and with it came our movement, I said, my voice pleasant but muted, "Well, Nettle? What is this all about?"

Despite her outward display of ironclad calm, Nettle's movements were jerky and unpracticed. She was still new to this life, and had neither the lifetime of practice that other ladies did, nor the years of careful study that those who often rose above their stations boasted. This world was unfamiliar to her, and I could tell it infuriated and mortified her, being so at odds with those around her, and so clueless in a court where sure footing and canniness meant everything. 

"You're doing fine," I said to her softly as she stumbled awkwardly over her own feet. "If you do not acknowledge your missteps, neither will they. Behave as if everything you do is purposeful, but step lightly, so that it makes less of an impact when you choose wrong. Do not watch what those around you are doing. It will only serve as a distraction. They are of no consequence, anyway. You outrank them. They may not know that, but you do, and so do I."

"I don't need your help," Nettle hissed, though even as she said it I felt her steps change, growing less heavy and more confident, though no less shaky and underpracticed. After a few moments of this, she squared her shoulders and said, peering into my face unsettlingly, "You are very close with Fitz, aren't you?" 

"I am." I feared I knew precisely where this was going, and cursed that this dance was not a more energetic one. I felt like I might crawl out of my skin with anxiety. 

"You know him well?" Nettle pressed, and I strangled the helpless laugh that welled in the back of my throat, recalling how we'd kissed in the trees hours early, and how I'd woken that very morning half-naked in his bed. 

"Quite well, I'd say," I agreed, for it was pointless to dissemble. The entire world, it seemed, was well aware, at this juncture, of how close her father and I were.

"Then perhaps you might tell me who it is he is courting?" Nettle continued, artfully bland in her query's delivery, though any dullard could see that she was all but rabid in her quest for the answer. 

"Perhaps I might. Or I might ask you why you do not bring the matter up to him directly, instead?" I returned smoothly, glad, suddenly, for the movement the dance provided, however slight and frustratingly sedated. 

"If you know him well then it surely goes without saying that any effort to that effect is useless. He lies as easily as he breathes," Nettle returned bitterly, and without meaning to, I chuckled, a short, ugly, choking sound. 

"Why do you wish to know who he's courting, anyway?" I tried, hoping for success in the realm of sidestepping, if outright refusal was not an option. 

"Because I do not think he is courting anyone at all," Nettle declared baldly. "I never see him in the company of ladies, and neither does Prince Dutiful, nor Thick, and he and Fitz are the closest of friends. Swift says Fitz is always working, and Civil says-" At the warning expression on my face, Nettle had the good grace to look aside without finishing her sentence. 

"Oh," I said evenly, "I am well aware of what Civil Bresinga says."

"Is there any truth to it?" Nettle asked boldly, her curiosity outweighing her shame, as I found was so often the case in youths. Her bluntness with me, while unearned, made me think of Fitz at her age. Everything, it seemed, made me think of Fitz today.

"Absolutely none," I said firmly. "There is much he misunderstands, and he does not wish to be corrected. Believe me when I tell you I have tried. And believe this, too. If Fitz says he is involved, then trust that he is. He is utterly unswayable on the matter of fidelity, and would never wish to be false in affairs of the heart."

"You speak as if you know," Nettle said, expression keen, and I cursed myself for how easily she had cornered me, simply by virtue of her straightforwardness and persistence. I wondered, with sudden horror, if she'd been using the Skill at all during this conversation, then tried valiantly to discard the concern. She was powerful, but still untrained, and Fitz would have felt it from miles away if she had been prying into my mind. He'd have felt it and stopped her at once. He would shield me from her. He shielded me from everyone. 

Would that I could justify doing the same for him now. But as I stared into Nettle's insistent face, I felt no urge to lie to her. Perhaps it was how indelicately she treated me, after months of being handled like breakable crystal. Maybe I liked her spunk and saw in her shades of myself when I had been young and determined to suss out the truth, regardless of personal cost. Or mayhaps it was pity, and I wished to put her out of her misery and quash her childish hope that somehow, impossibly, the destruction caused to her family could be undone by allowing Fitz to step in as Burrich's body double and serve as a pale imitation of what had been lost to them. It could simply have been the carris seed, making me loose-lipped and incautious. Whatever the case may have been, I did not lie to Nettle that night, and I will likely never know why.

"I do know. It is I whom he is courting, after all," I said, exceedingly gently. The giddiness of my head overtook my entire body momentarily as I said it, blood fizzing and heart leaping like a bullfrog in response to my own daring. I was expecting disgust on her face, anticipating it, even, but Nettle instead looked so startled that she nearly stopped in the middle of the ballroom floor. "Keep going," I reminded her, smiling encouragingly, more for show than anything else. "Stopping now would create a spectacle, intentional or not."

She recovered quickly, gathering her bearings with remarkable poise. "So the rumors are true then? About Lord Golden and his bodyguard?" she asked, when she could speak again, and I shook my head. 

"No. They never were. This came after, once he'd brought me back from death. Many things changed between us, following that day. Many things shifted for him, especially. But the choice was always his, Nettle, and it was his alone. I did not make it for him, nor did I ever expect that he would choose me."

"I don't understand," Nettle interjected, sounding frustrated. 

"You do not need to," I replied. "He and I know what is real between us. He told you this was private. Now, I think, you understand why, and why he cannot court both your mother and me. And besides, Nettle, your mother expressed to him no desire to rekindle their former flame. Should he go against her wishes, for the sake of yours? Should she not have as much say in her own life as anybody else does?"

For that, Nettle had no reply. My mind was racing, the gravity of my own admission settling over me damningly. It had not been my secret alone to tell. But Fitz had not forbidden me from sharing it. He'd only said he didn't know what to say. I had. I hoped he could forgive me for my unpardonably loose tongue. Perhaps he'd been right. I was unused to the strong effects of carris seed. But more than that, I was unused to the idea of keeping shared regard a secret. I was not afraid to tell the world he was the love I'd chosen. I hoped, in time, that he would feel safe enough to claim me, too. I didn't mind waiting until he was. He'd waited many a time for me.

The music was ending, and I could feel our chance at conversation slipping away. Part of me longed, pathetically, to beg Nettle not to spread the secret I had shared, but knew I could never expect her to honor such a promise. Besides, what would she gain from circulating it? She and Fitz's relationship was tumultuous, still, but I got the sense she wished for it not to be. I doubted she would sabotage it over so sensational a rumor, one Chade and Kettricken would have a vested interest in putting to rest at once. 

And I was not so interesting a figure in gossip, any longer. Since my inglorious return and the quiet repayment of my debts, Lord Golden had lived a reclusive and mostly forgotten life, and Fitz had in turn been elevated, as it should have been from the start. There was far less to sensationalize, now that the balance in our power had shifted so monumentally. Of course, in the eyes of the court, we were both still men. But when you are othered enough, even that becomes a secondary concern, in the end. The rumor mill would still circulate, and likely do so heavily. But it would cast Fitz in a better light now, the conqueror versus the conquest. I did not care. It had never been about conquests for me at all. Only ever had it been about love.

"Thank you," Nettle said, entirely unexpectedly. "For telling me the truth. It would have been easier, I think, for you to lie. Everyone else at court does all the time. But you were honest. I will not forget it."

It was as close to a promise of discretion as I would get, and I accepted it graciously. "Keep your chin held high and stay watchful," I advised her by way of reply. "I know none of this comes naturally to you, but you hide it convincingly, and would do well to continue. The ways of court can be learned, after all, even belatedly. I am living proof of that. If you find yourself wishing for further insight on the matter, I'd be happy to assist you. Discreetly, of course. You know how to find me."

Something like relief flashed through Nettle's eyes. She held her head up proudly, gracing me with a regal nod of acknowledgment, then said, "My thanks, Lord Golden, for the dance. And my apologies, for earlier. Fitz was right. My quarrel isn't with you. You've been a gentleman to me." She paused, then touched my hand gently as I bowed, dismissing her from our dance. Her fingers were calloused, just like her father's. 

"Happy Springfest," she said, and smiled tentatively. I smiled back, genuinely and widely, and then we parted, her to one side of the room, where her group of tittering young friends waited anxiously, and I back to the table of cakes, where a much older, weathered face was awaiting me. It was no less beautiful for its wear. I grinned, relieved, to see Fitz standing with crossed arms, surveying the dance floor with a wine glass in one hand. 

"You and Nettle appeared to be getting on better than before," he commented briefly before taking both a pause and a minuscule sip of wine, holding his tongue in the spy's way which invited a natural overexplanation in the absence of other words. 

I'd known him too long to fall for such elementary ploys. Still, the truth would out, and I'd rather that it came from me than a hurt, indignant teenage girl. Having no wish to upset him nor ruin the lightness of spirits we'd both, at long last, cultivated, I selected my words with supreme care. Let it not be said I was speaking in riddles about a matter so grave as this. "There was a thing she wished to speak to me about. One I believe the two of you discussed not so long ago, and you relayed to me this afternoon."

"Ah." Fitz stared across the floor of swaying dancers toward the place his daughter was standing, unwilling understanding overtaking his mien, then just as quickly, vanishing again. "And what did you tell her, regarding the topic?"

"The barest truth of the matter, and very little else," I replied. "She understood. Or at least, she did not misunderstand. The rest can be untangled another time. A far more private one, methinks."

I waited for his signature frown, but he only smiled at me ruefully. "Far more private, indeed. Ah. Well. It cannot be helped now, can it? Thank you for doing what it seems I could not. I told you that you've always been braver than I."

"Not braver," I refuted, wishing I could peck the faint indent on his cheek, the one that promised to turn to a dimple, if I could only coax him into a wide enough smile. "Only more foolhardy, perhaps."

"Perhaps," Fitz said, and for a heartbeat or two, we let the matter silently settle. Someone else knew that we two were in love, and the roof of the keep had not caved in above our heads. No one was jeering, nor was an angry mob chasing us away with pitchforks. And Fitz was not angry with me, which was easily the greatest triumph of all.

Once I'd deemed it mostly appropriate, I took the liberty of shifting the topic decidedly elsewhere. "You managed to escape Lady Patience's clutches after a few measly dances?" I asked jokingly, stealing his glass and availing myself of its contents most generously. 

Unperturbed by my thievery, Fitz swiped another cup from a passing kitchen boy, then said, "She has never been one for overmuch socializing. A few dances were all she needed, before beginning to complain about sore joints. Hap offered to escort her and Lacey up to bed. I think he's a bit fascinated by the concept of having a grandmother. We told him it was Lacey who helped raise me, of course, but that I paged for Patience as a lad, too. It didn't matter much to the women whose he was." Fitz grinned then, too, much pleased. "They took him under their wing immediately. It reminded me of my chickens, when they'd stumble upon a motherless little hatchling. There was every bit as much clucking over Hap tonight, I think."

I snorted. Privately, I thought that kind of female companionship might far better serve Hap than any of the sort he was seeking earlier. And that it left Fitz free to attend to me without distraction was no particular hardship, either.

Against my better judgment, I selected another fresh egg cake, my last one of the evening, I decided. I was far less hungry than I'd been when we'd entered the great hall, but a morsel more wouldn't go amiss. And besides, the seeds proved easy enough to discard, leaving behind a bite every bit as scrumptious on its own. 

I said as much to Fitz, who inclined his head in agreement, following suit and helping himself to a few more, his appetite overriding his suspicion. As he brushed away the remainder of the seeds and finished off the last bite, he confided, "Even without the carris, they take me back to boyhood in an instant. But that's all of Cook Sarah's sweetmeats. A finer baker I've yet to find all the world over."

"It ain't Cook Sarah what's made these cakes, though," piped up the ferret-faced little kitchen boy who'd been running to and fro, refilling wine cups and offering them to resting dancers. "These 'uns is Cook Duff's new recipe. Extra strong, he says they are. He added extra seeds to the batter, and splashed carris oil in with the egg. Says it'll keep the lords and ladies dancing all night long, and so it has. More wine, milord?"

Fitz blanched, still mid-chew. For a second I thought he might spit the cake out onto the floor, but mercifully, he swallowed it with great care instead, then said, entirely neutrally, "That's fine, lad. I think I've had my fill. Run along."

At the same time as this exchange was happening, I was becoming further and further aware of our proximity, or, more curiously, the lack thereof. Every finger's breadth between myself and Fitz felt like a veritable ocean of distance, and I was consumed, rather alarmingly, with the overwhelming urge to remedy it at once. I wanted to touch him fervently. It was with no little horror that it occurred to me that my form-fitting clothing likely reflected as much, and as subtly as I could, I adjusted my cape to maintain whatever dignity I was able, one eye on Fitz and the other on a panicked lookout for any passing jugs of water, with which I could cool my sudden and perpetual sweat. 

When the kitchen boy retreated, Fitz stepped into my space, leaving far less room between us than I personally felt was wise, given the rapidly developing circumstances. "We should retire," he said, "Promptly." 

I could hear how hard he was working to keep undue urgency out of his voice. I felt a thousand shades of a fool. Of course he'd want to depart this room at once. When last he'd found himself here, locked in carris seed's boisterous grips, it had led to his torturous, untimely demise. 

"Whatever you wish," I said, deflating in more ways than one. I felt wholly responsible for his distress. I might as well have fed him the cakes by hand. It was a terrible way to repay his months of careful protection. First I shared his secrets, and now this? Unwise, unwise, unwise, unwise. I had made an utter mess of things. This was what came of unpredictable, ill-conceived decisions. People were hurt, and usually those I wished to wound the very least. Ashamed, beside myself, and altogether too aware of my own skin, I turned aside from the dazzling flower garlands and tipsy merrymakers, and followed my Catalyst's clipped steps up the stairs, towards the silence that he sought, and the inevitable reckoning I knew deserved. 

•••

It was the shock of my life that upon closing his chamber door, Fitz did not round on me in a furor, or at the very least, in a pique. On the contrary, he sat down on the end of his bed calmly and began unlacing his boots with near supernatural stillness. Warily, I watched him from the threshold, palms clammy. I was uncomfortably warm, and could not tell if guilt or carris seed was to blame. 

Eventually, I discarded my superfluous glove and my silky cape along with it, too overheated to bear either of their slight weight. I bent to set in on my boots, too, and Fitz said, rather mellowly for a man who'd taken the stairs three abreast in his retreat, "Come here, Fool. You're rattling with energy. Let me undo those laces for you."

"I'm perfectly capable-" I began, hands twitching. The refusal came out more prickly than I'd intended it to, and he gave me a long and pointed look. "Fine," I grumbled, chastised by his silence, and sat down on the bed beside him. Still silent, Fitz folded down to his knees below me, and began, with woefully unpracticed fingers, to work my far more intricate lacings open, one agonizing step at a time. My mind was working so quickly that by contrast, all motion happening around me seemed impossibly sluggish. 

My blood was boiling in my veins, watching him undress me, however innocently meant. He should not have been serving me this way, but that was Fitz, forever doing what I least expected him to. "I'm sorry about the carris seed cakes," I said, dread sousing me, and he did not even look up from his task. “And I’m very sorry about Nettle, Fitz.”

"Do not be," he said, tugging the first boot from my foot. "Nettle asked you a question, and you answered it. I do not expect you to lie for me. I am a selfish man, and that cannot be denied, but I hope you do not think me so selfish as that. Sometimes, I wish you would lie. I will not pretend otherwise. But that is my own cowardice speaking, and you are not beholden to it. This is my knot to untangle with my child. If anything, you likely accelerated the process. And as for the carris seeds, you couldn't have known. But I could've. I've tasted the oil before, after all. You have not. You meant me no harm."

"To intend no harm does not negate the reality of harm unintentionally done," I pointed out as he set to work on my other boot. He glanced up at me then, his eyes startlingly dark in the low light of the bedroom, and his lashes every bit as long and fringed as Nettle's. 

"What have I told you about speaking clearly?" he scolded me, tugging the other boot slowly away. 

"Should I speak any more clearly, my words would be transparent," I replied in disgust, and to my immense surprise he chuckled, a warm, low sound that shot straight to my guts, stirring them wildly and sending my heart into an even more frenzied racing. 

"Is that so?" he asked, and began removing his fern colored jerkin. I could see the way his pulse was leaping at his throat, and felt a mixture of regret and lust over it, the latter of which I tried to quash at once. However novel this experience was for me, and novel it surely was, he had lived through it before, and it had left him a changed and burdened man, one I would not take advantage of. 

But I could still watch, and enjoy without touching.

He made it impossible not to. I swear, he removed his jerkin and shirt with exaggerated care, tugging them off seductively, solely for my benefit. I crossed my legs, toes curling with effort as I attempted to remain unaffected by his disrobing. Slivers of errant moonlight anointed him as he walked past the shuttered window to his wardrobe, catching on his scars and casting them in the same lucent silver as his marked wrist. I wanted him so badly that almost, it felt like a dream when he finally tossed his discarded clothing aside, clad merely in his trousers, spread his hands invitingly, and said, "Well? It is nightfall. We are all alone again. Are you going to kiss me now, or make me wait on you all night?"

I don't even recall standing, though I do seem to remember stumbling over my boots in my haste. My next clear memory was pressing his bare back into the cold stone wall, one hand braced beside his head and the other wrapped possessively around his hipbone. It was not so different a position as I'd been in when I'd danced with Nettle earlier. It was with much irony that I reflected how this one, whilst toeing innumerably more lines of impropriety than its innocent predecessor, still felt leagues more natural to assume. Everything felt so natural with him. I did not need to try at all.

We kissed savagely for a long breath, and then Fitz slipped a hand between our mouths, brushing his pointer finger against my lower lip with obvious concern. "Don't hurt your teeth," he admonished, winded, and in response I took said finger into my mouth, biting down on it firmly. He growled, tormented, and then shoved off the wall, walking me backwards toward his- toward our waiting bed. 

He landed on top of me with a heavy thump, but I didn't let him remain there. My blood was pumping far too hotly to merely lie back and wait on him to act. Instead, I nudged him meaningfully, and he was all too eager to comply with my demands, rolling over so that I could sit astride him, like a rider on a horse. As I leaned over him, my braid tickling his bare, muscled shoulder, he said, words hushed and clearly labored, as if even speaking them was a trial, "You're so beautiful, my love."

If I was beautiful, he was otherworldly. I could not decide between speaking and ravishing him, so I settled on kissing his lips while ineloquently replying, in no less than a slur, "So are you, Fitzy. So are you." 

We kissed that way until there was no doubt at all as to what either of our aims might be, and then kissed for longer still than that as I tried to decide what to do about it. Fitz, who had proven to be downright demanding when under the carris seed's stirring influence, once again defied my expectations as he spread his legs wider, our bodies pressed together indecently, then stated, his voice hushed but entirely unwavering, "I want to make love with you tonight, Beloved."

It would be dramatic to say that all eternity and time immemorable froze in response to that heartfelt and uncomplicated petition, but it also would not be entirely untrue. I felt myself hovering outside my own body, sure I was dreaming, intimately aware that I was not. I stared down at Fitz as if I'd never laid eyes on him before, as if that was the very first time I'd seen the scar that gashed across his proud cheekbone, or the crooked set of his handsome nose, or the way his full lips twisted when I took too long to answer what he found to be an extraordinarily simple question. 

"I want us to make love tonight. What about you? Do you want to do that?"

His pupils were blown wide from carris seed as he repeated the question, melting into his brown-black eyes like slicks of oil. I could feel the seed's honey-sweet buzz on the back of my own tongue, the energetic humming it fed into my mind, the rushing blood that coursed through me far lower. 

"Fitz," I whispered hoarsely. "I can't. It wouldn't be right. We're both as good as drunk right now."

He seized my hand in his and drew it down until I was pinning his arm to the mattress, dark irises catching in the creases of moonlight the way large puddles that gather between the cobblestones sometimes garner the light on cloudless evenings. 

"No," he said with certainty. "No, we are not. But we've both had a fair bit of carris seed, which promises to leave us with energy to spare for the next several hours, unless we endeavor to use it up in some way. Come, Beloved. Let's use it on this. I'd like to try that. Please, try it with me."

I was, momentarily, left without words. Fitz lying beneath me, half unclothed and senseless and begging prettily to make love all night was enough of a long-held, secret fantasy of mine that I couldn't decide if I was hallucinating or not.

"I want to feel it," he added, tightening his fingers around mine as if he could tell. Assassin that he was, he knew exactly where to press that final blade in order to be the swift, certain death of me. "I want so much to know what it'd be like. When you..." He blushed profusely. "When it happens. You know what I mean. I know you do. I want to feel that. In me. Inside."

I wondered if a person could black out from a lust too intense. I thought perhaps I'd be the lucky one to discover for certain. 

"It takes me so long," I started to object anyway, despite my gnawing hunger, recalling all the nights before this one, the ordeal it became for me to relax, much less find any release at all. His constant and unwavering patience had no limits, it seemed, but his body surely still would, inexperienced as it was with such things. 

"I know," he said obstinately. "I'm offering to try, all the same. I don't care. Isn't it supposed to be better, anyway, the longer that it lasts?"

I couldn't fault his logic. But he spoke from the experiences of men who customarily took women as their lovers. Not men whose lovers were... like me. 

"Yes. So they say. And often, it is true. But first times... Well, you know how trying they can be, surely?" I ventured, staring down at him, lain out like a feast before me. Oh, I longed to kiss his pouting lips until he cried out from want. I wanted to lick his scars, lap at those old wounds like a starving beast. I wanted to fall upon him like a vulture to carrion. Like a wolf to its prey. 

"Trying how?" he asked, projecting an air of innocence that felt purposefully mocking. Felt. I didn't think that it was, though, watching him. 

...Or was it? Either way, it left me mute and flabbergasted. Was he... teasing me? About this? I couldn't bear to believe he was. But the alternative was equally appalling, for if he truly didn't know, that meant I'd have to explain to him, in terrible, minute detail, all the reasons he should not want this endless night with me, and every reason he had to fear it. 

In the end, he didn't give me the quarter to do either. "Bed me, Beloved," FitzChivalry Farseer, the bastard prince of the Six Duchies and the Catalyst for my prophetic age invited me instead, utterly without fear, fluttering his long, dark eyelashes sweetly. "Go ahead. I think that I would like you to." 

I froze with indecision. I wished that I could leap into action, but in truth, that came very unnaturally to me, more from lack of practice than anything else. Even drugged as I was, I found myself trying desperately to search the threads of our shared future for some sign or portent of what I ought to do, entirely in vain. All I could see laid out before me was him, no forking of a path nor clear signal to move forward in sight. This was my decision alone. Nobody else could make it for me.

Well. Nearly nobody. 

Gingerly, insistently, Fitz pushed my hand up, still guiding it with his own, and set it in the center of his chest, then slipped, eel-like, from my grasp. It left me bare-palmed, grasping at a handful of his dark, curling pelt. Beneath my fingers, his heart thunked along, steady and wholesome and happy to be there. 

"You would like me to?" I repeated, trying to be brave. "You want me to?"

My voice came out broken, unsure and weak. There was pain laced through the question, pain I hadn't even fully known I felt, pain I had not realized I'd been carrying like a millstone about my neck all day long. Fitz stared up at me sincerely, those watchful eyes tracking me as his hand, a scholar's hand, a killer's hand, the hand of a would-be king, lifted to cup my cheek like a fistful of treasure. Sometimes, I could scarcely believe he loved me at all. 

This time was not among them. His love was a living thing between us, bigger than the moon that glowed silver outside our window. A moonbeam caught on his wrist, illuminating my marks there. A mark of my new beginning, branded into my other half's skin. 

"I want you to," he replied softly, cheeks bright and smile tentative. It faltered but an instant later, when I was hesitant to reply. "Unless... That is, I mean, if you do not want to-"

Heat flooded my body, and amazement too, that he could ever doubt for a moment that I wanted such a thing with him. "Oh, you fool," I said quietly. "My beautiful, beautiful fool."

"My Fitz," he replied, smiling lopsidedly, and I decided to give him what he'd asked for. I decided it with all my heart, entirely of my own accord. I decided it with both my shaking hands, which had already begun the gentle work of further unclothing my prize, unwrapping him like a gift I was giving to myself. My fingers shook with anticipation. My lips trembled. My entire body was set alight.

Fitz lay so docilely, hips rolling in restless interest as I peeled back the remaining layers of his clothing, breath baited and spirits high. When I had him naked, I paused, caught midway between anxious and addled, and asked, "You are sure you want this, Fitz? You know what I must do? What you must accept from me to have it?"

He swiped his tongue across his lower lip and nodded. 

"I know enough," he said simply. "And I've certainly heard plenty of men talking about it like they know. But you are the only one I trust to tell me the truth. Will it hurt me, Fool? It's alright if it does. Like this, I know that I can bear it. For you, I gladly would. I only want to know what I ought to expect."

My heart smote at his willingness to be used. I seized his hand, brought it to my mouth palm first, and kissed his aborted lifeline, filled with horrible contrition for a thousand ways I had never protected him. 

"I will never hurt you again," I said, choking. "No, Fitz. It will not hurt you. Not in any way you need to bear. I will not let it. Do you hear me? I will not allow that. All you must bear from me is pleasure, my heart. From this day forward, that is all you ever need fear from me."

"Why would I fear something good like that?" he asked, as if I was spouting utter nonsense.

Why, indeed. I smiled at him, painfully, perhaps, and he smiled ruefully back at me. Then he laced his fingers through mine, one at a time, and squeezed reassuringly, his huge hand engulfing my own.

"I'm not afraid of you," Fitz said. "I know you will always take care of me."

He was so relaxed. It was easy to forget how susceptible he was to things like carris seed and smoke, until I saw him under their influence. They turned him into a sweet, oversized boy, and in this case, an energetic one. I kissed his fingers in reply, then sucked the tip of one into my mouth suggestively, and he shuddered, his broad body below mine lax and pliant. He trusted me. He was giving himself to me without fear or equivocation. Perhaps he had never been afraid of me at all, and only ever frightened of the unknown. He clearly wanted to do this, after all, tonight, and together. 

"I shall," I said, and then ducked, feeling daring. His faith made me brave. I bent low, and this time, it was not his fingers I closed my mouth around suggestively. He let out a deep groan, and I wrapped my arms around his waist as best I could while tending him. I felt such immense affection for him that I could scarcely think. His abdomen flexed against my forehead. His scrambling fingers sought out and found my hair, unbraiding it lazily as I worked.

When I was sure his body had surrendered up the worst of that day's tension, I rose, fetched what would be needed, and knelt between Fitz's legs, the blankets he lay upon rucked up and messy below me. He gazed up at me unblinkingly as I uncorked my tiny bottle. 

"Should I turn over?" he asked me, rather curiously. 

I poured rose oil onto my fingers. "Only if you want to."

"It can be done this way, then? Face to face?" He brightened so tremendously at the prospect that I felt my throat catch. 

"Did you think it could not be?" I asked, nudging his thighs apart. He spread them so unthinkingly that my pulse leapt. 

His legs were blanketed in dark hair, fit to match his chest. Soft. Furred. I'd never dared dream of seeing them this way, wrapped around my thighs and inviting me between them. Even after having had him that way, I still didn't dare dream it. It was just as well. Such dreams would have fallen woefully short of this reality, anyway.

"I wasn't sure. If it was different, that is, because we... Since both of us are... That is, that we both have..."

I could scarcely help my bemusement. 

"There's still plenty of room to work, all plumbing aside," I teased, and he flushed crimson. I was unsure if it was my words that caused the color change, or my fingertip, slowly probing him. 

"I'm glad. I like it better when I can see your... see your, ah..." 

He whimpered as my full finger slid inside, catching precious little resistance, and then, to my amazement, he rocked back, onto my hand. 

"That's good," he said, sounding as surprised as I felt. "That's good. It feels good. I think... I believe I like that. Or I'm going to."

I knew not if it was the carris seed talking or him. I didn't care, at the moment. He liked me touching him, in intimate, vulnerable ways. He was not panicking or flinching. I wasn't hurting the man I loved. I was pleasing him. I was doing well. I was caring for him properly. At least, I badly hoped I was.

I didn't want him to know how inexperienced I was. To come across as fumbling would be unbearable, when he was staring up at me so expectantly. I let the carris seed make me confident. I stole false courage, and with it, I served my Catalyst. 

"I knew you would," I lied, so convincingly and smoothly that even I began to believe I had known so from the start. 

"You would, I suppose," he replied, so assuredly that I felt a pang of remorse for my harmless falsehood. "You know me better than anyone ever has. Except the wolf, perhaps. I think he knew me better than you do. I housed him within me far longer than I have you. Well, for now, anyway."

The joke took me aback. It glanced with remarkable lightness over so many sore subjects neither of us usually dared touch. Perhaps the seeds were making Fitz braver, too.

"Carris oil turns you into quite the jester," I pointed out, trying to keep my voice from cracking when he clenched abruptly around my finger. Gods, he was molten, inside. And soft. And the fit was... It was going to feel so...

Fitz made a derisive face at the mention of the seeds. "Carris is a terrible drug. Not even half worth the temporary rush it provides. You'll feel as much in the morning, I'm sure. We both will. I can't stand the stuff." 

"And yet you have encouraged me to make the most of it tonight," I mused thoughtfully, working my hand rhythmically as I spoke.

"No sense in wasting a night trying to sleep when we both know we won't be able to, and furthermore, we both know we want one another," Fitz pointed out practically, glancing meaningfully down. My lips twitched at his unexpected pragmatism. 

"It would be far from the first night I wasted ensnared by such desires," I teased boldly, and Fitz huffed in begrudging appreciation as I expanded my exploration with another oiled finger. 

"Is it supposed to feel so large?" he asked suddenly, voice weak and uncertain as my second finger joined my first, and he tightened, momentarily, before his muscles eased once more. I rubbed his flank, hoping it was comforting. I knew well the temporary sting he was likely experiencing, just then.

"I can imagine anything there would feel large, having gone untouched for thirty-six long years. Is it not good anymore? Does it merely hurt you, now?" 

That "mere" hurting was a sensation I was all too familiar with. I'd felt it countless times before, and wouldn't wish to inflict such discomfort on anyone. Especially not on my brave, stoic Fitz, who I knew would do his best never to complain about it. Especially not on him.

"No. Not exactly. It's very strange," Fitz replied, choosing each word with immense care, his muscles flexing involuntarily as he spoke. "And it is sore. But the soreness isn't pain, precisely. And it feels better and better, the longer that you're there." 

"You're getting used to it," I supplied. "You know what to expect, now. With each unknown uncovered, what you cannot predict no longer has the power to frighten you." That, and I had begun to feel around for a certain location, one I knew would further aid us both. As I spoke consolingly, I found it. "Let me show you something," I said, and touched it. 

Had blacking out from lust been possible, I think that would have been the moment when one of us finally did it. As it were, Fitz simply grabbed my arm, so tightly I could feel his fingernails digging into my skin. It was the most carelessly he'd touched me since I'd died. He would never touch a breakable thing that way. 

He stared up at me blankly, and I smiled broadly without meaning to. I loved Fitz, and nearly as much, loved knowing things that Fitz did not, and getting to lord over him my knowledge. Or demonstrate it, in this case. 

"What did you do?" he demanded, eyes blazing and stomach flexing with arousal. "Fool! I've never... How did you do that?"

"What? This?" I asked, and gently pressed upward with both fingers. He covered his face with his free hand, groaning. He twisted, too, as if to hide himself from the sensation. "Is it nice?" I taunted him, shocked at myself even as I did it. "Or do you hate it? For if that is the case, Beloved, I can stop..."

"No!" He shook his head violently. "No. No, don't. Don't stop. Oh, Fool, don't ever stop."

"I won't," I assured him, then bent to take him back down my throat. It would make the rest much easier, to distract him. Sleight of hand. Keep him looking one way, whilst I carried out the less pleasant work in the background. He was doing well, but if two fingers already vexed him, I knew we had much further to go until he was ready for what he had requested. 

It didn't take quite as long as I'd suspected it might, but it was still a slow, crawling ease into lovemaking. I did not mind, even if my body screamed for momentum. Let these precious moments of discovery last all night. I would be grateful if they did. 

I tried to impress upon Fitz the importance of taking our time. He'd done as much for me dozens of times over. It felt right, now, to return such a favor. As such, I purposefully forestalled bringing him relief too quickly. His desire kept the worst of his discomfort at bay. Without it, I knew all too well how swiftly pleasure could veer into pain. 

It was a difficult temptation to resist, though, bringing him to the cusp of satisfaction but never fully allowing it to be realized. All I wanted was to hear him sigh and say my name, soft-eyed and slack-jawed. He was doing both, still, but there was a sharp-edged quality to his sighing and a grit to the lovenames on his tongue. To do this together required very much surrender from him, and he was a man taught never, ever to give up any fight that still might be won by sheer, brute strength. 

"I know it's challenging, my darling," I said to him, the borrowed endearment falling out of my mouth unthinkingly as I worked the second knuckle of my third finger inside. "I know it is. But you must let it happen. Don't try to force it. The worst thing you can do is force it."

When finally I deemed him as ready as he'd ever be, I withdrew my fingers, as gradually as I could, and began to remove my shirt. He was up on his elbows in an instant, reaching to help, ever eager to get his hands beneath my clothing. 

How had I ever imagined he did not want me as desperately as I wanted him? I marveled at my own shortsightedness. He, too, was shaking with desire, his beautiful curls haloing his face like a crown and his lips lush from being worried between his own teeth in a fruitless attempt to muffle his moaning. "I woke up this morning thinking you might not want me anymore," I told him with a self-deprecating laugh as he shoved my tight leggings down my thighs impatiently. 

"Why would you ever think something that stupid?" Fitz asked unsparingly, pausing his slow denuding to give me a look so withering it rivaled even his teenage daughter's. "Did I not have a hand 'round your manhood in this very bed mere hours before? You create in your mind such calamities, worse even than the ones I can conjure. It's as if you cannot be satisfied unless the world around you is falling to pieces. Your propheting days are behind you, Fool. Not everything is a dire omen. Some nights, I just haven't the energy to keep up with your endless appetites, that's all. I'm an old man these days, don't you remember?"

"You're really not," I laughed, carding my hands indulgently into his hair. "You're a beautiful, fresh, young thing, and you don't even seem to realize it. Gods. To be as young as you are now." I kissed the temple above his brow when he made a dismissive noise. "To be as radiant as you," I crooned, and kissed the spot between his eyes. 

He wriggled me out of my shirt, making cantankerous huffing sounds, mostly for comedic effect, I thought, and then said, gruffly, "Are you going to be warm enough? Do you need your robe tonight?" 

The temperature was the last thing on my mind. I was simmering from the inside out, thanks to carris seed and wine and him. "I'm fine," I whispered, folding my new clothes so that they would not get wrinkled and then setting them gently on the ground, so they would not be stained or ruined, either. 

Fitz watched this now familiar ritual with a slightly irreverent roll of his eyes, then, as I made to push him back, raked a stray curl behind his ear and asked, almost in a mumble, "Should I put my mouth on you first, do you think?"

Regardless of what he said in its opposition, I wanted to sing the Springfest seed's praises until my final, dying day just then. "I suppose I could allow it," I said magnanimously, to which Fitz shoved me lightly and then turned a downright unbecoming shade of purple. "But not for long," I added, more glibly. "Or I fear I shall make a dreadful cad of myself, and none of this fuss will have been worth a minute of your time."

"I'm not worried about that," Fitz replied modestly. "And I don't have to do it, either. Not if you think I'd be useless at it. I just thought perhaps the extra wetness might, ah, help matters, when the time does come."

I saw his own insecurity then, worn plain as day in the hunch of his shoulders and his unwillingness to look me in the eye. Fitz feared not being enough for me, either, and I could scarcely blame him, for I had once given him ample reason to do so. Do not flatter yourself, I had told him, purposefully and entirely untruthfully, I doubt you would have been worth the wait.

"I think the only way to master a task is to begin it," I told him, with less levity. "You need not be all-knowing. Only willing to be taught." 

Visibly eased by my reply, Fitz nodded and wordlessly pushed me backward, then crawled between my legs and practiced to, perhaps not to his heart's content, but until I could bear his experimental ministrations no longer, and felt I must do something more to him, or combust. He was not nearly as bad at the act as he had erroneously feared he might be.

Before we continued, I felt compelled to ask for a final time, as much to assuage my own fears as to quiet any of his, "You're sure you want it this way, Beloved? It does not have to be, you know. I would never ask it of you, nor expect it, though I am overjoyed to give it to you. But only if you're sure, beyond the influence of any seeds or celebrations, that you desire me this way."

"I know you'd never ask for it," Fitz said, exasperation and anticipation commingling in his words. "You never ask me for anything. You think you don't deserve to. But you do, and you deserve to be asked, and I'm tired of waiting for you to believe it. Let me show you. Be at ease, Fool, knowing you did not seek this from me unwillingly. I asked for it, of my own accord, so that you and I could share it together. I waited for as long as I was able. I tried to hold off asking until you were completely well. But I cannot seem to wait any longer. I hope you are able to forgive me for it. Now come, before the carris seed wears off and I am left to face this entirely without fortification."

I absorbed his words as if standing on the edge of a barren, empty cliff, wind rushing past my ears so sonorously that all other noise present evaporated into nothing. It seemed I'd once again misread his intentions terribly. He treated me gently with the expectation that I would heal, not the doubt that I ever could. All these months, he had been nurturing me back to health while fighting against his rising desire for me, not slowly losing it the closer that we two became. 

I did not ask his permission again. That did not mean I stopped paying attention. Even with fortification, as he so eloquently called it, this would be difficult for him, and we both knew it. Perhaps not so difficult for his body, but his mind, where so much self-hatred lurked, and so much fear, was a different story altogether. "I'm going to do it now," I said, and in reply, he touched my cheek. He was touching it still when he yielded to my advances, his body admitting mine, and I felt a tremor pass through his hand as I settled into him, though he never once winced in pain, nor did he turn his eyes from me, his black as night, amorous eyes.

He wanted me to move as soon as was feasible, and so I did, hellbent on pleasing him. It took some time, discovering what did that, and less time, as is so often the case, in discovering what did not. I bid him touch himself as we tried, to make it easier, or at least, less agonizing, but he was either too stubborn or too shy to oblige me, and just kept touching me, instead. Perhaps he was following my earlier lead. I tended to suspect he was simply overwhelmed. It was an inarticulable stroke to my battered, weary ego, to know I was the cause of that overwhelm, never mind how predictable a result it might be. 

But all things considered, he liked it, and liked it sooner than I ever had, when it had been me in his position. He did not hide his enjoyment, either, bodily or otherwise. I do not think he even knew how. Fitz was a sensitive man in far more ways than one. Some lovers might have seen that as a curse. For me, that night, it seemed a boundless, wondersome blessing. He loved to be touched, to be caressed, to be kissed. He took whatever I offered him as if it were a gift, and not a burden to be borne. He asked me, mid thrust, for more and more and more of the same. He wanted it deeper, and faster, and harder, and-

"Ah.... ah!"

It was that night I learned that men really could finish from lovemaking alone, using none of the accoutrements that so habitually accompanied it. I never had, myself, but Fitz did, and during his very first time, no less. I would have envied his ease terribly, were it not so unbearably pleasing that he had done it partially on my account. That in mind, I felt like no less than a demiurge of love. "Is that..." he panted, still dripping, his every word coming with much exertion and difficulty, "How it customarily happens?" 

"It can be. I've never seen it before," I said, caught between staring into his face and down between our chests, where proof of his gratification was leaking obscenely, still. I kissed him tenderly in congratulations, unrepentantly in love. "You were my first to have this way, you know. All of this is new to me, too."

"You're lying," Fitz murmured, pleasantly aggrieved. "You're mocking me, Fool, and that's very unkind."

"I'm not. Not about this, love," I promised. "Even I can be serious, when it is absolutely necessary to be." I bent again to kiss his forehead, and he made a soft, whimpering noise, this time of discomfort. I looked down at him, lips to his brow, and added, slowly easing my hips away from his, "It is time now, I think, for this act to be done."

Fitz clearly did not feel the same. In response, he pulled me back into him, hard enough to make himself gasp. He was too new to this sort of lovemaking to understand his own limits yet. Despite that, he lifted his head marginally, as much as his pleasure-limp muscles would allow, and demanded into my ear, "Stay right where you are. You're close now, too. I know you are. I can feel it."

"How could you possibly know that?" I whispered, for speaking aloud felt suddenly undoable. I was so caught between minding his wellbeing and chasing my own satisfaction that I couldn't tell, at the moment, if I'd ever successfully do either.

"Because I know you. I know how it feels. How you look, just before it happens. And you look..." He dropped his head back onto the pillow with a sigh, staring up into my face with hugely pupiled brown eyes. He stared worshipfully, like a priest of Sa might regard the altar of their deity. I was sure I'd never been looked upon with such reverence before, not from any follower of the White Prophet, and certainly not by any lover. "Luminous," Fitz finally said, his voice cracking. "You are as beautiful as the moon. And you're close. So please, keep going."

Something about his command spoke to my body, loosening the last tethers of fear encircling it. A thousand worries slid away into the night and once more, the hungry buzz of the carris seed engulfed my mind, just as Fitz was engulfing me with his body. Arousal boiled in my blood. I made a peculiar noise in the back of my throat, one, to my recollection, that I had never made before. Fitz's dark eyes darkened even further. "There it is," he rumbled, the words forming at the base of his hoarse, roughened throat. "It's right there, Beloved. Don't stop. Keep going."

It became his low-voiced chant as I found the rhythm that best pleased me and fell into it, the pleasure it brought a near-meditative thing. I listened to Fitz, distantly, until his words lost their meaning and only their sentiment remained. Keep going. I can take it. I want to. It's no trouble. You're not a burden. I'm glad to be here. You look so beautiful. This feels so right. I'm thankful that we're lovers. I want no one else in this moment but you. None but you, my love. There is none for me, save you.

It was easy, in the end, to finish that way. It was not swift, but it was easy. For the first time, I think, since we'd begun to make love to each other, I felt no self-consciousness at all. I did not fret that he was doing this merely to placate me, nor did I assume he was getting nothing for himself. His bitten back cries and breathy, intermittent whining left little question of his enjoyment. He held onto me with a sincerity of affection that could not be emulated. The bonelessness of his satiated frame, the judders against me as we rocked, even the frightened, overwhelmed gleaming of his eyes were all proof that Fitz was exactly where he wanted to be when his body was beneath mine. 

When I finally reached my peak, his expression was endearing, one of beatific comprehension and gratification both. He'd wanted to feel it, he'd told me at the start. Now, at last, he had. "What was it like?" I asked, after collapsing on top of him with a sigh and nuzzling his face. I felt his cheekbone lift in a smile. 

"Warm," he said, voice bliss-drunk and giddy. "I've never felt you so warm before. Or so near."

It was because the room was as hot as a furnace, and I had spilled very deeply inside him. "Are you sore?" I asked him, realizing it. "Are you in any pain right now?"

"Yes, I'm sore," he replied, grinning at the ceiling like a madman. "I'm going to feel you with me for weeks."

"And you're glad about that?" I replied, with disbelief. 

"Of course I am," Fitz returned, still grinning idiotically. "Every time I ache, I'll remember why. I'll think about you. And I'll smile."

How had I ever thought him anything but a hopelessly lovesick romantic? I kissed his mouth, laughing, and he kissed me back needily, fingers buried in my hair as if he could somehow possess more of me if he gripped it tightly enough. When I slipped from within him, it was accidentally, and I do not think it hurt, though he still breathed a sigh of deep relief. 

I held him for a long time in my arms after, petting his hair and talking about all manner of silly, stupid things. It was a way to ease us back into lesser intimacy, now that vulnerability had rendered us both so bare, and herbs had further stripped away our defenses. It was a bit like being comprised entirely of flayed skin, though not nearly as torturous or horrific. I felt every touch of his keenly, and was painfully aware of each breath he took. It seemed the same for Fitz, and perhaps even moreso, for he lay with his head against my heart for a long while, listening to it beat and matching his breathing pattern to mine, subtly enough that I was sure he thought I wouldn't notice. But I did, and I loved him all the more for it. 

"I don't regret doing this," he told me, tracing sleepy, mindless patterns into my bicep as I played with his hopelessly flattened curls.

"Nor do I," I agreed breezily. "Would that we were both a dozen years younger, that we might do it again right now."

"It wasn't too soon for you yet, was it?" Fitz asked, more somberly. "I know what it's been like these last months, for your mind as well as your body. I didn't wish to push you beyond what you could bear."

I took stock of myself, so that I might answer him with honesty. My limbs did not ache, nor did my fingers. There was no soreness in my mouth, nor did my back sting. My breathing came easily, and my muscles felt well used, but not overexerted, and my mind was as clear and pristine as an icy mountain stream. "I feel perfectly well," I said. "And I very much hope that you feel the same."

The worst that could be stated was that I was too warm. It was a wonderful problem to have, when everything else was said and done, and an easier one than most to remedy. When Fitz and I rose from the bed to wash, sluggishly and, in his case, limping slightly, I flung open the casement and sighed with delight at the cool night zephyr that filled the room, lifting the sweaty hair away from my neck and stirring Fitz's curls as he lifted a dampened cloth to wash me. 

We cleansed each other thoroughly, and I was as ginger with Fitz as he'd let me be, for the longer things went on, the less he would abide my babying. "I'm still a man, you know," he told me, biting at my neck, stallionlike. "You need not treat me like a freshly-birthed foal."

"Trust that I am fully apprised of that," I replied suggestively, which earned me a hearty, boyish laugh, one I cherished with all my heart. It had been, against all odds, a very nearly perfect day. 

As we made to climb back into bed, to sleep this time, Fitz turned toward the shutters, fluttering half-open on the breeze. "Shall I close them up before bed?" he asked, water runnelling down his chest and brown eyes as huge as my heart currently felt. 

"Leave them open," I said, staring at the way the moonlight dappled him, not unlike the sun had earlier, in that old familiar grove of trees. "I shall like waking up to the light on the 'morrow." 

"I doubt either of us shall like waking up at all," Fitz warned me, flinging the shutters open further and setting a preemptive jug of water on the table beside his bed. 

"I know I will, if I wake beside you," I replied, and patted the bed invitingly. "Even if you snore like a rabid bear."

"Well, you steal my covers and kick like a rabbit," he countered, dropping on top of me, and then kissed me soundly and shut his eyes. "You are my dearest friend," he added. "And I love you. Things will get better. I'll see that it's so."

"You already have," I told him, hunkering down into his waiting arms. Then we slept beneath the pale light of the silver moon, our window open wide and the effusive sounds of celebration drifting in like a lullaby from below, and both of us were plenty warm, and happy, besides, that whole night long.