Warrior of the Wild(51)

My wound is essentially healed, but I’ve made no plans to return to my little fort in the wild. There seems to be little point when I spend my days helping Iric and Soren, especially when there’s room for all of us in the tree house.

It surprises me how much I’ve come to trust them, but I remind myself not to get too attached. We’re exchanging services. I teach Iric to swim, and he helps me with new armor so I can enter the god’s lair. It’s a trade-off, and when all is said and done, Iric and Soren will return to Restin, while I will go home to Seravin. Assuming the villages really do welcome us back home and don’t treat us as forever outcasts.

When Iric insists that he needs to start spending more time in his forge, I let him. There are traps that need mending, and Iric needs to work on my armor.

So as not to be a distraction, I spend the time with Soren. The summer months won’t last forever, so we need to start stocking up on firewood for winter—just in case we’re not returned home by then.

“Don’t dull your weapon by using your own ax on the firewood,” Soren insists.

“But the other axes have wooden shafts,” I say, staring at the tools Iric designed. I’m still not used to the idea of long-lasting wood, despite having lived in the tree house for the last few weeks.

“They won’t break,” Soren says. “I promise.” He grabs a piece of wood, places it on the stump in front of him, and takes a hearty swing.

I sling my ax on my back and stare warily at the axes Iric has made for chopping. Eventually, I decide to give them a try. Even so, I start off by making kindling, grabbing smaller pieces of wood and placing the ax carefully to cut the pieces lengthwise into even thinner segments.

“Coward,” Soren says playfully. “What do you think is going to happen? The ax head will go flying?”

“Yes!”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Sounds like an excuse to get out of doing work.”

“I am not afraid of work.”

“Says the privileged village leader’s daughter.”

“You know what? I’m going to outchop you,” I say. I grab a large round of wood, chop it in half, then cut those halves into quarters.

“Fat chance,” Soren says. He throws down his ax to grab a heavy piece of wood and place it on his stump.

I focus on my own wood pile for the next minute, cutting through segment after segment.

After a while, Soren says, “I think we need to place some wagers. Make this more interesting. Whoever gets through their pile last has to wash the winner’s clothes for the next week.”

I drop my ax to the ground, place my hands on my knees.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Is there anything that won’t remind me of Torrin?

The trial blazes behind my eyes. Our competition to see who could kill the most ziken. And after that—

He—

I shut my eyes as tightly as they will go, as though I can will the memories away. I don’t want to think of it. Torrin won that day at the trial, and he keeps winning every time I think of him in the wild. Every time I feel like I can’t do something because it reminds me of him.

I will not let him win anymore.

“Rasmira, are you all right?”

I open my eyes, focus them on Soren’s face.

I’m with Soren.

Not Torrin.

Soren is banished with me, and he will help me because he also wants to go home. He’s not setting me up. He’s not going to betray me.

I’ve let Torrin win long enough.

“I’ll be fine,” I say. And though it hurts me to say it, though everything in my body screams at me to run away, to strike out on my own and not trust anyone, I add, “You’re on.”

I pick up my ax and resume chopping. Soren watches me for a moment, as though he’s unsure what he should do.

“Do you have a strong desire to do my laundry, Soren?”

He smirks before returning to his own ax.

When I chop through my last piece of wood, I look over at Soren’s pile. He still has five large rounds to get through.

I won.

I beat Soren.

And I beat Torrin’s memory.

I’m getting my life back.

“I’ll just add my clothes to your dirty pile, then,” I say with a grin.

Soren stares at my mouth for just a beat longer than necessary, but before I can do anything about it, he says, “Or maybe we could just slip everything into Iric’s pile.”

“Are you kidding? Iric hasn’t laundered his clothes in weeks.”

“Good point,” Soren says. “Fine. You win this time, but next time we’re raising the stakes.”

“Loser does laundry for a month?” I ask.

“Laundry and cooking.”

“Better sharpen your ax before then.”

“Oh, I will.”

Soren and I stack the wood in the storage shed, until the large space is fit to bursting. There’s something so satisfying about staring at the work I’ve done and knowing how it will keep me alive for the next several months.

Just as we finish loading in the last of it, Iric races up one of the trails, holding long metal rods in his hands. “I’ve done it. I know how we’re going to kill the hyggja!”

“Are those spears?” Soren asks, eyeing the weapons.