The Grace Year(65)
The winter that came in like a lion has gone out like a lamb. The snow has melted under a clear mellow sun. The birds are singing, chlorophyll fills the air, and the full moon is upon us. Every night I see it growing through the hatch in the roof, which seems to mirror my own feelings for Ryker. Sometimes, when I look at him, it feels like my rib cage is being pried apart, expanding for extra air—it hurts, but it’s a feeling I’m not sure I want to let go of.
To pass the time, keep our minds occupied, our curious hands busy, Ryker and I toss a dagger back and forth. At first, I could hardly bend my fingers enough to grasp the hilt, but I’ve gotten rather good at it. Quick. I’ve also taken to helping him rig up traps, fine finger work that takes a steady hand, using an entirely different set of muscles. Ironically, Ryker told me that I would make for a decent poacher.
When he’s out hunting, I practice standing, walking, building my strength back in my legs, but it’s also an excuse to explore the space around me. He’s tidy, every nook seems to serve a purpose, but there are small personal touches here and there. A piece of driftwood in the shape of a swallow, a series of polished stones he’s collected from the shore. The small figurines that he whittles away at when he’s missing home. At the end of the hunting season he takes the figurines back to his family and then starts all over again to mark how much they’ve grown over the year.
At night, we talk for hours about everything and nothing. He teaches me about herbs; I teach him about the language of flowers. He knows a little from Anders. That’s the one thing Anders’s mother hung on to from the county.
There are days when it’s enough to stand beneath the open hatch in the roof, feeling the spring air sink deep into my bones, and there are others where I long to be outside, when the soles of my feet begin to itch with the desire to explore, to be on my own. To answer to no one but myself. But that was never really the case. We all answer to someone.
We agreed that as soon as I was better, I’d return to the encampment.
I’m better now, and yet here I stand.
The second I hear his footsteps on the bottom rung of the ladder, I slip back into bed and feign weakness. I tell myself it’s survival—here I have a warm bed, food in my belly, protection, but I know it’s more than that. It’s about him.
I don’t know what his favorite color is, his favorite hymn, if he prefers blueberries over boysenberries, but I know the way he clenches his jaw when he’s thinking, the rise and fall of his chest right before he drifts to sleep, the sound of his footsteps on the forest floor, the smell of his skin—salt, musk, lake water, and pine.
We come from completely different worlds, but I feel closer to him than I’ve ever felt to anyone.
We don’t speak of the future or the past, so it’s easy to pretend. When he leaves to hunt, I tell myself he’s simply heading off to work—maybe a neighboring island. Or sometimes I make believe we’re in exile, hiding from evil forces—which isn’t entirely off base, but even that feels too close. Dangerous.
During twilight, that shadowy place between sleep and dreams—that’s when it hurts the most. When reality worms its way between us.
In my weaker moments, I let myself fantasize that we could find a way. Maybe we could meet in the northern forest every year on the day of the unveiling ceremony, but it would never be enough.
The fact of the matter is, if I don’t return to the county at the end of my grace year, my sisters will be punished in my stead, and if he goes missing, his family won’t receive his pay. They’ll starve.
Ryker and I may be many things, but we could never willingly hurt the ones we love.
This will have to end before it even begins.
* * *
Tonight, when he returns, he takes off his shroud, his boots, unstraps his knives, pulls his shirt off, hanging it by the hearth, and then pauses. He’s probably making sure I’m asleep before unbuttoning his trousers. I close my eyes, keeping my breath as even as possible. As soon as I hear them drop to the floor, I can’t help but look. I remember feeling so afraid when I saw him like this on the first night he brought me here. I saw violence in the scars covering his body, I saw brute force in the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, but now I see something else. There is strength, but also restraint. There are scars, but also healing.
He kneels beside me, pressing the inside of his wrist against my forehead. Force of habit, or maybe it’s just an excuse to touch me. Either way, I don’t mind.
I pretend to stir awake.
Grabbing a pelt off the bed, he covers himself. “I hope I didn’t scare you,” he says, a beautiful flush covering his neck and cheeks.
“You don’t,” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine. And what should be an innocuous gesture feels entirely electric.
“Ryker, you there?” A voice pierces the air between us.
He presses his finger to my lips to keep me quiet, but I don’t think I’d be able to utter a sound even if I wanted to.
It’s not until we hear a foot hitting the bottom rung of the ladder that Ryker reacts. Bolting to his feet, he says, “Anders, sorry, I was sleeping.” He gives me a look of apology before ducking behind the door covering.
“You’re just wearing a rabbit skin now?” Anders asks, a lightness in his voice.
“Guess so.” Ryker lets out a nervous laugh.