I want to adventures with you

Robby crouched down in front of Mr. Abbot, scratching him behind his ears. He started purring instantly, falling onto his sides, exposing his fluffy belly. He closed his eyes and started treading milk against the chair cushion. 

Robby chuckled. “Okay, cat, I need to get some food and that diner over the street doesn’t allow pets inside. I know, I know-” he added hastily. “You’re not a pet per se, more like an… emotional support cat but they don’t know the difference, okay?”

Mr. Abbot opened his eyes for a second before closing them again, still purring ridiculously loud.

“So, I go over there, eat something, maybe have a couple of beers and then I’ll be back, okay?”

The cat didn’t care.

“Okay, good. Please don’t commit crimes while I’m gone. I filled your bowl and left the bathroom window open. So, no revenge shitting on my bed.”

Robby stood with a groan, holding his back. “I need to look into nicer accommodations” he muttered to himself. “My back is killing me.”

As soon as these words left his mouth he stopped. Perfect choice of words, Robinavitch. He shook his head, then grabbed the room key and left, while Mr. Abbot blinked at him slowly from the chair.

Two hours later Robby was walking back across the parking leg. He felt good for a change - after a burger with fries, washed down with a couple of beers which gave him a pleasant warm buzz in his chest. He was humming softly to himself while the motel sign flickered overhead. Somewhere nearby he could hear a TV blaring through an open window.

He fumbled with the room key, dropping it two times (and picking up with very creative swear words) when he heard it.

A low, ugly yowl.

Another sound followed - higher this time. Sharp. Angry.

Robby stopped and listened.

There was hissing, then another high-pitched cry.

Cats.

“Oh fuck.”

He started walking faster toward his room. He could hear another hiss cut through the night followed by a loud crashing noise.

“Jesus Christ.”

Robby broke into a jog the last few yards and fumbled with the key for a minute before shoving the motel door open hard enough that it slammed against the wall.

The first thing he saw was chaos. Absolute chaos. 

Mr. Abbot was standing on the bed completely puffed up, back arched like one of these silly Halloween decoration, screaming absolute murder at a massive gray tomcat crouched on the dresser.

The fat gray cat screamed back.

Neither of them seemed to acknowledge Robby’s existence because apparently they were seconds away from a duel until death.

“WHAT THE FUCK-”

Both cats froze, the hissing continued low-key. Mr. Abbot was the first to whip around, his enormous eyes flickered to Robby. Then he immediately screamed again - this time directly at Robby like this whole situation was somehow his fault.

“DON’T YELL AT ME!” Robby shot back automatically. “You invited him in!”

The gray cat turned his head around slowly, fixing Robby. He started hissing, slapping his paw into the air towards him. Then he apparently made the decision that this situation was about to escalate and fled through the open door.

A gray shadow, gone in a second.

Mr. Abbot lunged after him with murderous intent.

“NOPE!”

Robby intercepted him mid-flight with both hands before the cat could throw himself out into the night after his new arch enemy. Mr. Abbot lost his mind about this immediately. He twisted in Robby’s grip, yowling dramatically while his tail doubled in size.

“FUCK CAT - it’s over, okay?”

Mr. Abbot disagreed violently, scratching Robby’s arm, trying to free himself.

“HE LEFT!”

The cat craned his head toward the open door. Robby tightened his grip slightly and kicked the door shut. Then he lowered Mr. Abbot on the ground carefully.

“You’re a fucking nuisance” Robby snarled toward him, then looked around the destroyed room in disbelief.

His pillow was on the floor, the fabric ripped. The curtains were half torn down. The motels bible lay on the ground, papers ripped out and scattering around. His bag was thrown over and the contains had fell out.

“How long was this happening?” He turned toward the cat with wide eyes.

Mr. Abbot looked up at him, meowing furiously.

“Oh, come on, don’t lie to me. That’s… that’s a fucking crime scene. Please tell me that gray fucker didn’t pee there.”

Robby stepped closer to a wet patch on the carpet. He closed his eyes for a moment then crouched down and took a whiff.

“Okay, that gray fucker did pee in here.” Robby made a face when the sharp distinct smell of cat urine hit his nose. “That little asshole. No wonder you wanted to murder him.”

He straightened again, rubbing a hand across his face. “We have to sleep in here and now it smells like… like… like a gutter.”

Mr. Abbot was still breathing hard, tiny body tense, ears flicking toward the door every couple of seconds. You could feel the territorial rage and injured pride radiating off of him.

Robby sat down on the bed with a deep sigh. “How you if I’m not allowed to invite strangers into my motel room, neither are you.”

Mr. Abbot stared at him for a moment, then hopped onto the bed, immediately stepping onto his lap. Robby started scratching his ears almost without thinking. 

“But I’m proud you didn’t back off” he went on with a shrug. “You don’t have to take shit from anyone. Especially not from a bastard coming into your home just to piss on the rug.”

Mr. Abbot shoved his head under Robby’s arm and started purring. The cat pressed his body against Robby’s belly, still bumping his head into Robby's hand.

“Unbelievable.” 

Robby rubbed his free hand over his face, then reached for his phone.

Robby: Came back from dinner and found the cat trying to fight another cat in the motel room. Jack: Is he entertaining an illegal cat fight club?

Robby chuckled softly, then took a picture of the mess that was his room and sent it over. The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Jack: You sure that was a fight?

Robby tilted his head, blinking.

Robby: What else could that have been? Jack: Maybe you interrupted his date?

Robby looked down at Mr. Abbot, who was purring but still radiated homicidal energy. Then he started laughing, scratching under his chin.

Robby: Nah. That wasn’t romantic. Jack: Don’t know. Orange cat courtship probably looks like attempted murder. (It’s the same with all the gingers, honestly.)

Robby laughed out loud.

Robby: Too much information, brother. And honestly - he looked ready to kill for territory.

Jack’s answer came immediately.

Jack: Sounds like typical Abbot behavior. Robby: No wonder you don’t have a girl.

This time the answer took longer. Robby watched the typing bubble for a long time before a reply came.

Jack: Look who’s talking.

Robby frowned, his finger hovering over the screen, unsure what to reply. Another message came in.

Jack: Send me a picture of your murder kitty. Bet he looks proud as hell.

Robby took a picture of Mr. Abbot, who was, indeed, looking pretty proud of himself. Then he sent it over to Jack.

Jack: Hell yeah, that’s a beautiful pussy. Jack: Sorry, wrong number. Jack: ;)

--- --- ---

Jack had no idea why he was still awake. Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew exactly why he was still awake - he just didn’t really like the answer.

The television played quietly across the room, some late-night documentary about serial killers. He didn’t really pay attention instead he picked up his phone again.

No new messages. Not surprising.

He opened their conversation even though he already knew exactly what he would find.

Please tell me you didn’t fuck that girl from Instagram. - Read. No reply.

Jack stared at the screen for a moment longer before locking it again.

“Fine” he muttered.

Obviously Robby didn’t owe him an answer. He was a grown man. A single man. If he wanted to sleep with an attractive woman he had met in some diner that was entirely his business.

Good for him.

Seriously.

It had probably been a while.

And that Amy girl seemed nice. Jack didn’t know her obviously but her post had been nice. She had called him lovely which was… fine. Kind of accurate. Not the first word Jack would’ve used to describe Michael, but yeah, he was kind of lovely.

Jack picked up his phone again and opened Instagram. 

That damn post appeared almost immediately. Of course it did - apparently that fucking algorithm had decided that anything involving @MRobinavitch5384 was now relevant to him.

Robby’s comment was at the top: Thanks for the lovely chat. Take care! 10/10 Human.

Jack frowned.

Ten out of ten human.

Robby had known that woman for a couple of hours and apparently she already received complete sentences and numerical ratings. Meanwhile Jack got thumbs-up emojis. Or sometimes just an Okay. Once Jack had sent him an entire paragraph and an incredibly hilarious story only for Robby to reply with Fair.

Nearly thirty years of friendship and Jack apparently ranked somewhere below an Instagram follower and slightly above an automated appointment reminder.

Not that he cared. It was merely an observation.

Jack scrolled through the comments.

CAT DAD MADE A FRIEND!!! Wait they actually look so cute together?!!! He looks happier. But hear me out - the height difference?!!! Are we witnessing the beginning of a ROADSIDE ROMANCE?!!!!

Jack made a face. “Jesus Christ.”

He closed Instagram and dropped the phone back onto his chest. This was ridiculous. The internet knew absolutely nothing about Michael Robinavitch.

They had seen a couple of pictures of him - and a damn coffee cup, for fuck’s sake - and somehow they seemed to think they knew him. That they understood his whole personality.

Mysterious.

Sad.

Wholesome.

Husband-shaped. Whatever the hell that meant.

They knew nothing about him. 

Jack on the other hand - Jack knew Robby.

He knew Robby hated raisins but ate oatmeal cookies without checking first and then complained every single fucking time. He knew how Robby liked his coffee. (Unsurprisingly black.)

He knew he got quiet when he was worried, sarcastic when he was scared and he rubbed the back of his head when he was emotionally overwhelmed.

He knew Robby had been making the exact same annoyed face at cameras since they were twenty.

Jack stopped and frowned, then opened his photo gallery. He scrolled past hundreds of pictures - a picture Parker had sent him of some ridiculous injury a couple of weeks ago, several gym selfies, pictures of sunrises on the hospital roof.

Then he found it.

The picture had been scanned years ago from an actual photograph. The quality wasn’t the best - the colors were slightly faded and one corner had a pale crease running through it.

It had been taken in the university library. Two young men in wrinkled clothes sat at a table covered with notebooks, empty coffee cups and the remains of something that might once have been dinner.

Jack was leaning toward the camera, grinning. His hair was still ginger back then - thick, unruly curls that refused to stay where he put them. Robby sat beside him - dark hair, glasses, a tired expression that suggested whoever had taken the picture had interrupted him in the middle of something. 

He looked almost exactly the same. Well, not physically. Life had changed him. Gray hair, deeper lines, exhaustion that no amount of sleep seemed to touch anymore. But the expression was the same. 

They were twenty-three maybe. Twenty-four at most. And they looked young, exhausted, incredibly stupid and hopeful. 

Jack smiled, something in his stomach tightening. He opened Instagram without thinking about it, uploaded the picture and typed:

JAbbotMD: Around 1998. Back when we both still had our natural hair color. (Michael hated pictures then. Still hates them now. Some things never change.) @MRobinavitch5384

Jack looked at it, hesitating for a second before hitting Post.

People seemed interested in Robby - they would probably enjoy it. And maybe it would distract them from turning one innocent dinner into some kind of romance novel.

He locked his phone, put it down again and turned his head toward the television. The serial killer documentary had ended. Something about ancient Egypt played now.

He didn’t even notice falling asleep - but when he woke up again, the first light of dawn was pouring into the living room. He groaned, sat up and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Fuck Abbot” he muttered. “That was fucking stupid.”

He stood slowly, shuffled into the bathroom, took a piss and brushed his teeth. After taking off his prosthetic leg he crawled into bed. He unlocked his phone - more out of habit than need… and stopped dead in his tracks.

He had hundreds of Instagram notifications.

Jack opened the app, still baffled. “What the fuck?”

His post already had several hundred likes and dozens of comments. He had thousands of new followers and his inbox showed dozens of new messages.

He opened the comments.

Oh my God, they have lore!!! WAIT IS THIS REALLY CAT DAD? HE LOOKS LIKE A BABY THEY WENT TO MED SCHOOL TOGETHER? Excuse me, Sir, but these ginger curls?!!! Are you brothers?!!

Jack started grinning despite himself and pressed reply without a second thought.

JAbbotMD: Thankfully not.

He scrolled farther down.

How long have you known each other?

Jack tilted his head.

JAbbotMD: Twenty-nine years. I’m starting to think he’s permanent.

More notifications came in.

That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said!!

Jack frowned.

Romantic?

It wasn’t meant romantically. It was obviously a complaint. People on the internet didn’t understand the fine nuances of his humor, obviously.

Pls tell cat dad we love him!!! Jack: Um, no. He’d be weirdly uncomfortable with this information.

Wait are they exes? JAbbotMD: No. Would’ve made life much easier.

Jack chuckled quietly to himself. He was on fire and he was funny as hell. And he didn’t even think about falling asleep again. He had something better to do.

— — —

Robby had been awake since the first sunlight filtered through the blinds of the motel room. He didn’t even know exactly why but he was wide awake, mind racing, heart racing.

Mr. Abbot slept beside him, curled against his thigh with one paw stretched across Robby’s leg like he owned him now. Which, to be fair, he did.

The motel room was quiet. No television, just the faint humming of the A/C. Robby had tried to go back to sleep again but every time he closed his eyes his thoughts became even louder.

Eventually he grabbed his phone. He had no new messages. Of course not. He hadn’t replied to Jack’s last text - and he didn’t intend to answer that question of his. He didn’t even have a clue if they were fighting now. Or if they were still on speaking terms.

He opened Instagram - more out of habit than anything else. Maybe Amy had messaged him. Not that he wanted to see her again, but it would probably feel nice.

Instead:

@JAbbotMD mentioned you in a post

Robby frowned. “What the hell?”

He clicked - and immediately regretted it, because Jack had apparently decided to become funny online.

Robby studied the picture and blinked. “What the actual hell?”

Mr. Abbot opened one eye and stretched lazily. Robby ignored him because he was too busy zooming into the picture.

He remembered it - or at least he thought he did. It had been taken shortly before their exams. They had both been awake for far too long, fueled on horrible coffee and somehow Jack had convinced a complete stranger to take a picture of them.

Robby stared longer than necessary. He suddenly felt way too old, looking at that young version of him he had outgrown long ago.

Then he opened the comments. Because, yeah, the internet had already found the post.

They are best friends. Or soul mates. Can’t decide. Probably both. The HISTORY HERE IS CRAZY!! Okay, respectfully, Young Dr. Abbot could absolutely get it.

Robby snorted despite himself. Little did they know that Young Dr. Abbot had been deeply obsessed with Magic: The Gathering, which had never exactly been the most erotic hobby.

Then he read another comment - Wait are they exes? - JAbbotMD: No. Would’ve made life much easier.

Robby stared at the screen for so long his screen dimmed. He tapped it again. “What the fuck does that even mean, Abbot?”

Then he read Jack’s other reply: I’m starting to think he’s permanent.

Something about that one landed strangely. It felt… nice and warm in a place Robby had been trying not to look at too closely. But also… he felt a wave of guilt crash over him. Because Robby didn’t intend to become something permanent for much longer. And Jack had no clue about this.

He shook his head, trying to get rid of that thought.

Mr. Abbot shifted sleepily against his leg. Robby looked down, scratched his ears for a moment then opened the chat with Jack.

Robby: Why are you embarrassing me online?

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately. Of course Jack was awake.

Jack: Because that’s what I do. Someone has to keep you humble. Robby: Stop feeding strangers pictures of me. Jack: Funny. Didn’t see you complaining when that member of your little cat cult posted pictures of you from that roadside diner. Jack: Also I’m enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame. Robby: It’s not your fame. Jack: Excuse me? The internet also thinks I’m hot now. Which honestly feels overdue.

Robby snorted.

Robby: Don’t try to bullshit me, Abbot. You were already aware you’re attractive. Robby: For your age. Jack: Did you just compliment me? Robby: Don’t make this weird. Jack: Too late. Already screenshotted it. I’ll print it out tomorrow and hang it in the staff room. Robby: Whatever. Need to sleep. Jack: Yeah, I guess you need the rest when you’re trying to bone all of your followers. Robby: Haha. You’re funnier on Instagram.

Mr. Abbot opened his eyes again and yawned dramatically.

Robby glanced at him and showed him the screen. “You see what I deal with?” 

The cat blinked slowly then closed his eyes again.

“Just to make it clear - you’re my No. 1 Abbot today.”

--- --- ---

So that long, dangerous night, you don’t hope. You shut your ears to Sarah’s gentle comforts and the snow spirits’ shrieks. You focus on the burning in your arms, the blisters forming on your heels, the cold nipping at your fingers.

Hope is traumatic but trying is something you can do. You put your small body between all of the horrors outside the door and the other kids. You try to stand firm.

You don’t notice when the burning in your arms hides the arrival of a telling mark on your left bicep.

---------------------.

You are fourteen years old, one year shy of coming into your power, when a couple visits the orphanage intending to adopt.

Sarah is now the Director of the orphanage, awarded the position by the land’s Lord after that terrible winter six years ago. She’s different than she was then. You lost three kids to hunger before spring finally came and she held each one in their last moments.

You and Sarah never develop the close relationship she has with the other kids. But she always makes sure you have more meat in your meals than most and, when you hunt in the woods, you always let her decide how the food will be divided between dinner and winter stores.

“We’re Knights,” the potential adopters tell the Director. They’re a couple, a man and a woman with dark hair and muscular bodies. “Retired. We’re settling just north of here for good and are looking for a suitable child who can follow in our footsteps.”

Director Sarah looks at them coldly, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands over her stomach. If she notices you and two of the younger kids peeking through the crack in the door, she doesn’t say anything. “I apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Bahr, but it seems there’s a misunderstanding. We do not pair children with families based on their Destiny.”

“We’re not saying you do,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her gaze is cutting though her shoulders are relaxed. “Our Lord explained before we came. However, there is no rule against asking the children their Destiny, is there?”

Loophole. You pull away from the crack in the door, letting Hera and Josiah take your spot. You lean against the wall with your eyes closed. Orphanages aren’t allowed to disclose Destinies, but that’s where the protection ends. If someone sees a child’s Destiny or learns of it through some other means, that’s alright.

These people aren’t here to adopt because they want a child. They’re here to adopt for a guarantee. A guarantee of what remains to be seen. An heir like they claim? A prodigy for status? Or a weapon for them to control?

You listen for any other clues behind their motives, but the Bahrs don’t push the issue of Destiny again. They accept Director Sarah’s schedule for meeting the kids, even offering to host a picnic day at their estate as a treat. The couple wants to gain trust, you can tell, and by the end of the meeting it’s working.

Director Sarah sees them off to the door herself.

“We’ll wait for the invitation,” she says. She’s older now, her thin brown hair showing the beginning signs of going grey. But her handshake looks strong when she shakes Mrs. Bahr’s in farewell. “I’m sure the children will be thrilled.”

“I hope so,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her husband nods to the Director gravely, but Mrs. Bahr lingers. “I’m sorry if we came off a little…forward when we mentioned Destinies. Please believe me when I say that my husband and I aren’t so shallow. We are looking for a child – one we can call our own.”

“I see,” Director Sarah says. There’s a hint of warmth in her voice. “As I said, we look forward to your invitation.”

Mrs. Bahr nods and joins her husband in their carriage. They set off down the road without once having asked to meet one of the children on the first day of their introduction.

You can tell Sarah likes them.

“What do you think?” Sarah asks. She doesn’t turn from the road, even though the Bahr’s carriage is out of sight. “Isla?”

You don’t ask how she knows it’s you lurking in the shadows of the orphanage. Director Sarah is a Guardian. Her senses are elevated when it comes to those under her charge.

“I don’t think anything,” you say. You step out from around the corner with a sigh. No use hiding now. “They’re influential people if they were recommended here by the Lord himself. We’re fortunate.”

“You’re the right age for a Knight’s apprenticeship,” Sarah says.

“Hera hasn’t shown me her Destiny, but it’s probably something suitable,” you say. Hera is ten, one of the older kids at the orphanage. Last summer she lifted Josiah, only a year younger than her and already a head taller, out of the well before he could drown. “You should talk to her about what being part of a Knight family could mean.”

Sarah looks at you over her shoulder. The setting sun catches in her eyes, turning the warm brown into an unearthly amber. “I hope you can accept the possibility they might choose you.”

They won’t. “Aren’t I needed here?” you ask.

Sarah’s expression softens. “You are, Isla,” she says. She weighs her next words carefully. “But I am the one who’s responsible for all of you. I can take care of everyone. If the Bahr family is a good fit…”

“Sure,” you say flippantly. You shove your hands in your pockets and slink back into the orphanage. You don’t dare hope. “I’m going to help Josiah.” He’s on dinner duty tonight. He always cuts the onions too roughly. “See you later.”

You feel Sarah’s eyes on your back like a physical warmth.

-----------.

Being a Hero doesn’t change anything about you. You expected it to when you first noticed the mark but, even six years later, nothing’s different.

You aren’t kinder. When Josiah asks for your dessert, you steal a bit of his as punishment for even asking. When Hera asks for a bedtime story, you tell her one so scary that she has to sleep with one of the other girls. When Sarah asks you to fix the fence around the chickens, you whine and complain that you’re the only one who does anything around the orphanage.

“The curse of being the oldest,” Sarah says dryly. She hands you a hammer and a bucketful of nails. “Some posts were dropped off at the end of the lane. Make sure you’re back by sunset.”

Maybe you’re a little stronger than others. You can drag three posts at once and could probably drag more if you wanted. But another curse of being a Hero is that you’re very aware.

It’s not until you’re nailing a third rail to the fence that Mr. Bahr makes his presence known. You don’t turn even when he makes his steps purposefully heavy to avoid scaring you.

“You’re very strong,” Mr. Bahr says.

His shadow is long and thin, just like him. You observe it from your peripherals, unable to speak with the two nails you’re holding between your lips. You take your time pounding them into the wood. He’s arms, a sword at his hip, but his hands are loose at his sides.

“Good thing I am,” you say at last. You stand and turn in the same motion. He waited for you to finish without chastising you for not speaking right away. You perch the hammer on your shoulder. “Otherwise, the chickens would take over.”

Mr. Bahr laughs. Unlike when he was meeting Director Sarah, his face is relaxed and open. His blue eyes sparkle. “We couldn’t have that now, could we? I suppose we all owe you our thanks for preventing the coop’s coup.”

You want to laugh. You don’t. “Director Sarah won’t like you being here uninvited.”

“I just came to drop off an invitation,” Mr. Bahr says. He studies you for a moment and then smiles. “I hope you’ll accept, Isla.”

A chill races down your spine. How does he know your name? You wipe the sweat from your brow with a scowl. “Maybe I don’t want to be adopted.”

To your surprise, Mr. Bahr nods. “I can understand that,” he says. He looks up at the sky. The light is sliding from the sky, catching on the clouds and turning them a brilliant orange. When he looks back at you, he almost looks…sad. “Think of our invitation as a party, hm? No strings attached.”

For some reason your tongue feels heavy. It takes two tries before you can say, “I need to fix this part of the fence before dark.”

“Want some help?” Mr. Bahr asks.

“I couldn’t ask—”

“You didn’t ask, I offered,” Mr. Bahr says. He rolls up his sleeves and nimbly plucks the hammer from your grip. “I may be a Knight, but I’ve done my fair share of carpentry. Let me show you a few tricks.”

You listen quietly as Mr. Bahr shows you how to twist the nails to avoid splitting the wood. What would have taken you an hour to finish, he accomplishes in a quarter of one, talking to you the entire time.

It’s…odd to have an adult’s attention on you for such a long time. He’s careful not to get too close, always offering you the hammer to practice by setting it on the grass between you rather than handing it to you directly. When you manage to replicate his technique on your second try, Mr. Bahr is more excited than you are.

“Wonderful,” he compliments. He glances up at the sky. The first stars are twinkling. “I’ll be going now and you should too. Have a good night, Isla.”

Unlike the first time he said your name, it feels pleasant now. You mutter a goodbye and leave before he does, scurrying towards the orphanage with your bucket of nails clutched to your chest.

He’s gone when you think to check the road for his carriage. Did he walk here? Ride a horse?

You close and lock the orphanage’s doors behind you.

----------------.

The picnic isn’t scheduled until the middle of summer and it’s spring now. Still, it’s all anyone can talk about.

“We have plenty of time to get ready,” Director Sarah tells them. “The Bahrs will be dropping in from time to time until then. I expect everyone to be on their best behavior when they’re here.”

Josiah raises his hand. “I hear they live in a castle!”

“A manor,” Sarah corrects. “Given to them by our Lord for their years of service.”

“The Guard in town says they worked for the King once!” Hera says, wiggling in her seat. “Is that true?”

“You can ask them yourself,” Sarah says. She claps her hands together and starts urging the kids up. “It’s time for chores. Your assignment is posted by the kitchen…”

You stay seated at the breakfast table. You haven’t eaten your third egg or your last slice of toast. Your stomach feels queasy. You keep thinking about Mr. Bahr saying wonderful when you worked on the fence together.

You aren’t supposed to want to be adopted. You’ve had your chance and you ruined it both times. It’s not fair of you to imagine what it would be like learning swordsmanship from Mr. Bahr and what it’d be like to hear him praise you when you got the next move right. One of the other kids deserve that chance.

You can only do what you can do.

---------------.

Mrs. Bahr is alone the next visit.

No one recognizes her at first. She’s wearing a gown like a noble and her hair is gently flowing down her back rather than tightly pinned behind her head.

“I’ve received the Director’s permission to hold a lesson on writing,” she tells the children. She gestures to the bag she’s set on the table. “Come get a slate and a piece of chalk. We will work all together.”

The kids have never had slate and chalk before, not the real ones anyway. Sometimes you find a nice, flat rock they can draw on with charcoal, but it’s not as entertaining as what Mrs. Bahr brings. She watches everyone in amusement as they immediately start drawing instead of starting the lesson, flower and trees and swords.

“Look, Isla,” Hera says, tugging at your sleeve. You’re seated on the spare chair by the wall, away from the table. She twists from her spot to show you she’s drawn a shaky stick figure. “It’s you!”

Your eyes flick up to Mrs. Bahr. She’s not irritated by the distractions yet. You point with your bit of chalk at the drawing. “Which part of it is me?”

Hera points at a blob in the stick figure’s hand. “That’s the horned rabbit you brought home yesterday!”

You snort. The horned rabbit you’d killed yesterday wasn’t half the size of your body. “Are you sure that’s a horned rabbit? Looks like a turtle to me.”

Hera points to the stick figure’s face. “You can also tell it’s you ‘cause you’re frowning.”

“Hey!”

Mrs. Bahr claps her hands together. Instantly, she has the room’s attention. “I’m glad you all like my present. However, it’s time to get started.”

“Present?” Josiah asks.

“If you work hard today, you will be allowed to keep the slate and chalk as a present,” Mrs. Bahr says. She takes care to make eye contact with every kid. “Only those who work hard.”

It’s generous. You watch Mrs. Bahr from under your lashes as she talks everyone through writing the alphabet. It’s too generous not to be genuine. Try as you might, you can’t figure out any ulterior motive to spending so much on the kids. To look good? For who? For Director Sarah?

Director Sarah won’t be swayed by gifts like this even if the kids could be.

Mrs. Bahr stops well away from you, observing your slate from afar. “Very good, Isla. Do you know how to write?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Read?”

“Only a little.”

Mrs. Bahr hums. She doesn’t look disgusted by your stupidity or put off by your clipped tone. Your first family returned you when you told them. Mrs. Bahr’s lips curve. “Your letters are wonderfully steady. I can tell you will be a very good student.”

She turns before she can see you flush.

---------.

Over the next few months, there isn’t a week that goes by without at least one of the Bahrs visiting. They become a regularity around the orphanage to the point that even Director Sarah stops worrying about the state of their rooms with every visit.

“Kids will be kids,” Mrs. Bahr says when you ask her to wait while you tidy the toys in the parlor. “It’s alright, Isla.”

Your head spins. Sometimes, when one of them says something particularly bizarre, you feel like you’re outside your body. There was a time when they didn’t have toys to leave out in the visiting area. Thanks to the Bahrs, every child has a doll, a slate, a new set of shoes, and an abacus. You are still waiting for the strings that come with these presents.

There haven’t been any yet.

The kids love the Bahrs. Hera insists on baking fresh strawberry tarts for them after a day of gathering. Josiah carefully sounds out passages from their new books to show them that he’s still practicing his letters. Annie and a group of the younger kids spend all day weaving a flower crown for Mrs. Bahr that you have to confiscate before they can put it on her head.

“Go wash your hands,” you scold. Despite your tone, your hands are gentle as you push Annie to the schoolhouse. “Don’t touch your eyes.”

Annie blinks rapidly, trying to hold back tears. “I didn’t know it was poison, lady, I swear.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Bahr says, hand fluttering over her heart. She steps towards Annie. “Dear one—”

You give full body flinch when Mrs. Bahr stoops to hug Annie, but you don’t get between them. The Bahrs have won your trust in this. They won’t hurt the kids.

You sigh to hide your flinch when Mrs. Bahr stands. “Now Mrs. Bahr needs to wash. Poison ivy is no joke.”

“It is not,” Mrs. Bahr agrees. She ruffles Annie’s hair. “Go on, do as Isla says. Wash up.”

“We can go together,” Annie says with her big, blue eyes. She reaches for Mrs. Bahr’s hand and then thinks better of it. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks at the ground. “If you want.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Mrs. Bahr says, smiling.

Annie nods and races to follow her friends.

“I’m sorry,” you say as soon as Annie is out of ear shot. You busy yourself picking up the fallen flower crown and the various trimmings of poison ivy they’d used for foliage throughout it. You feel flustered. “They really didn’t know any better—”

“I know,” Mrs. Bahr says so gently that you have to look up at her. She’s frowning at your hands. “I’m more concerned about you. Should you be holding onto it like that?’

“I’m immune,” you say. You’re not worried that she’ll guess your Destiny from that. Lots of Villagers are immune to poison ivy, particularly the ones in this region who rely on gathering and hunting. “Since I’m in the woods so much.”

“Knights are immune too,” Mrs. Bahr says. She follows you away from the orphanage and to the tree line. “You’re quite the hunter, aren’t you? I remember Hera saying you slayed a horned rabbit.”

Heat comes to your face. You stomp ahead of her to deposit the flower crown in some denser foliage where the kids won’t be able to get it. “I get lucky.”

“I’d consider it unlucky to run across a horned rabbit,” Mrs. Bahr says. She examines the forest with interest. “A demon is a demon. Even adults have difficulty with horned rabbits.”

It hadn’t been difficult. You’d been armed with a sharpened branch and, when the rabbit leapt for you, you knew right when to stab. You clear your throat. “It was difficult.” Then when Mrs. Bahr doesn’t say anything, you add, “It was frightening.”

She believes you. She lays a gentle hand on your shoulder to get you to look her in the face. “The orphanage budget is enough that you don’t need to hunt, Isla,” Mrs. Bahr says. “I know I don’t like the idea of a fourteen-year-old out here alone and unarmed.”

“Almost fifteen,” you say, “and I had a sharp stick.”

“A sharp sti—” Mrs. Bahr cuts herself off with a deep breath. “Regardless of your…aptitude, Isla, it’s dangerous. I’ve spoken to the Director and she agrees with me. You aren’t to go hunting anymore.”

The forest suddenly feels too hot. The leaves overhead rustle, but you can barely hear it over the roaring of your blood. “Excuse me?”

Mrs. Bahr steps closer. “You’re a very strong girl, Isla, but it’s dangerous. If you want to go out with me or Mr. Bahr—”

You shake off her hand. “The Director agreed with you? She said I’m not allowed to go hunting anymore?”

“Out of concern for your safety.” Mrs. Bahr looks like she regrets saying anything. “Once Mr. Bahr and I explained to her what a risk a horned rabbit poses—”

You run away. Mrs. Bahr calls out after you, but you don’t stop. Beyond the sting of Mr. and Mrs. Bahr not thinking you strong enough to hunt, there’s a deeper hurt. The Director agrees. Really? Really?

“Isla? What’s wrong? I thought you were with Mrs. Bahr,” Director Sarah says when you burst into her office. She sets the papers she’d been reading down and frowns. “You look—”

“I’m not supposed to go hunting anymore?” you ask.

Sarah’s face blooms in understanding. “After what Mr. and Mrs. Bahr said about the increase in demons in the area, I agreed—”

“It’s summer,” you interrupt. You stalk up to her desk, your fists balled at your side. “It’s time to hunt.”

“The Bahrs have agreed to accompany you—”

“They only come once a week,” you say. You’re being so incredibly rude to the Director, but you don’t care. “I need to hunt three times that at least. The game has been moving deeper into the forest—”

“Where you are not allowed to go,” Director Sarah says, this time interrupting you. She steeples her hands in front of her. “I should have curtailed this activity long before this point, but I thought you needed it.”

“We need it,” you say. You can’t believe what you are hearing. “We need to store up rations, you know that.”

“Our budget allows us to purchase rations in town.”

“But what if that’s not enough? It’s better to have our own supply—”

“It will be enough.”

“It still doesn’t hurt to have some extra jerky—”

“The store we have will be enough.”

“But what if it’s not?!” You’ve raised your voice without realizing it, fists shaking at your sides. “The other kids are too young to remember o-or too new, but you and I do. That winter, we didn’t have enough. Why are you trying to stop me?” To your horror, your voice cracks. “I thought you understood.”

There’s silence in the room except for your panting breath.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah finally says. The sudden apology is enough to close your mouth against what you might have said. She meets your eyes. “You’ve always been so strong that I…Isla, you were a child. I will always be grateful for what you did that winter and for every winter since. I relied on you, a child, because I didn’t have any other option. We didn’t have another option. But now we do. We’re okay now, Isla. You don’t have to work so hard to protect us.”

“Yes, I do, I’m—” the Hero “—I can do it.” There is something inside of you telling you that that is what you must do. You think that it’s part of being a Hero.

((You’re worried that it’s because you’re scared.))

“My decision is final,” Sarah says. She picks up her documents and straightens them. “You are only to go hunting with an adult from now on. If I find out you went to the woods without one, there will be consequences.”

She’s using the same tone she uses on the other kids when they’re misbehaving. I mean business. You stare at her for a long, breathless moment. You jerkily turn to go.

Mrs. Bahr is hovering in the doorway. She looks guiltily between you and Director Sarah. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop…”

You shove past her and run to your room.

-------------.

Somewhat counterintuitively, as an orphan you’re never alone. You throw yourself face down on your bed.

A shocked silence swallows the occupants on the other bed.

“Is she okay?” Josiah asks Hera.

“It’s Isla,” Hera answers. There’s the rustling of bedsheets as Hera climbs out of bed and then the soft sound of socks on hardwood as she comes over. “You okay?”

You are not okay. There’s an intense war of emotions in your chest. Anger that none of the adults seem to think you’re capable. Betrayal that Sarah isn’t on your side. A sick fear at the thought of being unprepared for winter. And, now that you’ve run away so spectacularly, shame. They probably think you’re overreacting, but they’re wrong. They’re the ones who are being naïve. They’re the ones who—

A gentle hand on the back of your head freezes the thought. Hera pets your short, black hairs in an attempt at comfort. “It’s okay, Isla. You can just sleep. Sleep makes everything better.”

That’s what you tell the younger kids. The difference between you and Hera saying it? When Hera falls asleep, you work to fix the problem. If you fall asleep, no one is going to fix the problem for you.

You flip over, dislodging Hera’s hand. You look up at her as if seeing her for the first time. She’s ten, two years older than you were when the winter happened. She was four then. You want to ask her if she remembers, but instead you ask, “Do you think Sarah hates me?”

“What?” Hera’s eyes are wide. “No! What makes you think that?”

“Nothing,” you say. “It’s stupid. Forget I asked.” You turn on your side, your back to them.

“I know she’s worried about you,” Josiah says. He offers the information tentatively. “I overheard her and the Bahrs talking. Did they ban you from the woods?”

You don’t move. “What else did they say?” You’re afraid that he’s going to say they called you weak. Or, worse, a nuisance. “Did they say anything else about me?”

“Not really.”

Nobody hears anything useful around here. You close your eyes. “I just want to be alone for a little while. I—”

There’s a knock on the door. “Isla? It’s me, Marie. Can I come in?”

Marie? Too late you remember that that’s Mrs. Bahr’s name. She’s been trying to get the kids to call her be her first name. So far no one’s taken her up on it and she hasn’t pushed.

Hera opens the door. “Hi, Mrs. Bahr. Isla is being moody.”

You sit up with a squawk. “I am not!”

“If it’s alright, I’d like to talk to Isla for a moment,” Mrs. Bahr says to Josiah and Hera. “Alone.”

“Don’t let her yell at you,” Hera says as she passes Mrs. Bahr. “She never means it.”

You are going to strangle her. “I don’t yell!”

“That’s not an inside voice,” Josiah says. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, pulling the door closed behind him and Hera.

You are suddenly alone in the room with Mrs. Bahr.

You sit up further, pressing your back against the headboard. Mrs. Bahr doesn’t look mad. Her hands are clasped in front of her and she’s looking down at the floor. It almost looks like she’s the nervous one. You hug your pillow to your chest. “You can sit down if you’d like.”

Mrs. Bahr looks up at you. Her lips twitch. “Thank you, Isla.” She sits down on Hera’s bed gingerly as if afraid it wouldn’t be able to take her wait. When she’s settled, she says, “I wanted to apologize to you.”

Your arms tighten around your pillow. “Why?”

“Not for saying you shouldn’t hunt alone,” Mrs. Bahr says. She’s not a mind reader but sometimes it seems like she is. “For not understanding what hunting means to you. I would have approached things differently if I’d known.”

“Known what?”

“About what you’ve been through.”

The winter. That’s the only thing Mrs. Bahr could be talking about. She must have heard more of your conversation (argument) with the Director than you thought. “It was a long time ago,” you say. You really don’t want to talk about this with Mrs. Bahr. Not when you can still feel that winter’s desperation in your molars like a memory. “I’m fine.”

Mrs. Bahr is quiet for a moment. She studies you much like Mr. Bahr did all those weeks ago mending the fence. “I was a knight for 30 years, you know. I supposed it’s not weird that a Knight worked as a knight for so long. As soon as I came into my power at 15, I was compelled to hold a sword. To seek out evils and defeat them. To follow my Lord into battle no matter the cause.” She looks up at the ceiling. “I’ve had a lot of adventures and helped many, many people. But there was a time when I wanted to quit.”

You start. “You did?”

“I wanted to work in a flower shop,” Mrs. Bahr says. She leans back on her hands. “What a life it could have been! Waking up before the sun and hiking to the flower fields…I had my new house all picked out. It’d have a koi pond and a row of red rocks from the Harrow River. That’s where I met Ivan.”

Mr. Bahr. He’s been trying to get you to call him by his first name too. Unlike Mrs. Bahr, he’s much pushier about it. “What made you want to quit?”

“Exhaustion,” Mrs. Bahr says. She closes her eyes. “It seemed that there was a new threat to my Lord every day. An assassination attempt from a branch family. A territorial dispute. A new influx of demon beasts. It got to the point that I hardly left my Lord’s side for fear of returning to find him dead. He was the first Lord I swore my loyalty to. I always felt like I was failing those days. So I wanted to quit.”

You’ve felt like that before. Sometimes it seems like you never catch enough while hunting, that you’re never kind enough, that you’re never strong enough. You’ve never thought about working in a flower shop though. “Why didn’t you?”

“I did.” Mrs. Bahr laughs at your shocked expression. “I was in my twenties. They tell you things calm down after your teen years, but that’s not true. I handed in my resignation and fled for the nearest town.” Her smile softens. “Ivan followed me.”

“He was there?”

Mrs. Bahr nods. “We were sworn to the same Lord. He came galloping up with my resignation clutched in his hand. His face was so red!” She laughs. “’What does this mean, Marie? He was crying! You can’t quit! I haven’t beaten you yet!’”

“And that’s what convinced you to stay a knight?” you ask. That doesn’t help you. You don’t have a significant other to come racing after you.

“No,” Mrs. Bahr said. “Ivan didn’t know why I wanted to quit. I can’t do it, I said. I can’t keep the Lord safe. I’m not enough. You know what he said?”

You shake your head.

“He said, Of course, you’re not enough,” Mrs. Bahr says. She’s lowering her voice in imitation of Ivan’s. “You were never going to be enough.” You’re gaping at his harsh words, but Mrs. Bahr looks amused. “That’s why we have a squadron. The job is too big for one person. All you need to do is your part.”

You stare at her, not understanding.

“The world isn’t carried by one person,” Mrs. Bahr says. “I was so convinced that everything was up to me – the Lord’s safety, the next campaign’s success, or defense from monsters – that I buckled under the pressure. What I didn’t see that it wasn’t all my responsibility. I was part of a team. All I had to do was one part.”

You think of the winter night and holding the door shut. There hadn’t been anyone to help you then. Someone needed to comfort the younger kids. Someone needed to try and protect them. “What if there isn’t anyone else?”

“Then we do our best,” Mrs. Bahr says immediately. She meets your eyes. “But are you by yourself now, Isla?”

Yes. You open your mouth to tell her that, but the word won’t come out. Are you? Director Sarah looked so defeated when you accused her of not understanding. But didn’t she understand better than anyone else. You swallow. “No. There’s Director Sarah.”

“What does she do?”

“She takes care of us,” you say. “She makes sure the money we get goes to the right things.”

Mrs. Bahr smiles warmly. “That’s right. Who else?”

“…Hera,” you say. You remember she pulled Josiah from the well before Annie even had the chance to tell you what had happened. “She watches the younger kids.”

“She’s very good with them,” Mrs. Bahr says. “Who else?”

Your mind blanks. Who else? “Josiah. He helps us study.”

“And?”

And? “T-the Lord. He makes sure we have the funds for what we need.”

“Including winter provisions,” Mrs. Bahr agrees.

You frown. You suddenly see where this is going. “The amount of winter provisions he thinks we need.”

Mrs. Bahr hums. “What happens if he’s wrong?”

“That’s why I hunt,” you say. Maybe now she’ll understand. “So that we’ll be okay if he’s wrong.”

“What if you don’t hunt enough?” Mrs. Bahr asks.

Your chest is tight. You rub at your sternum and try to breathe deeply. “We starve,” you say. You wheeze and then clear your throat. “We’d starve, but that’s not going to happen. Because I always hunt enough.” I have to.

“This year,” Mrs. Bahr says, voice gentle and soothing, “say you don’t hunt anymore. The winter is harsher than expected and the orphanage’s stores are depleted. What do you think will happen?”

You laugh and gasp at the same time. “They’d all starve,” you say again. What doesn’t she get about that? “First the little ones then—”

Mrs. Bahr is shaking her head. “No, Isla, that’s not what would happen.”

Your temper flares. “That’s what always—”

“What would happen,” Mrs. Bahr says in her even tone, “is that Mr. Bahr and I would come deliver extra provisions to you.”

All the air is chased from your lungs. You feel eight again, small and vulnerable and cold. You’re shivering as you stare at her. “You would?”

“We would.” Gently, as if afraid she might scare you, Mrs. Bahr moves from Hera’s bed to yours. She puts a warm hand on your knee. “We’re a fortress. The Lord gives us part of the emergency fund in order to keep our stores and grounds ready for refugees. Mr. Bahr keeps fifteen percent more than the most generous estimate out of an abundance of caution. We would come and make sure nobody starved.”

For some reason, that makes you want to cry. You blink against the sudden heat behind your eyes. “Oh.”

“That’s why we don’t want you to go hunting,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her thumb rubs over your knee. “It was worth the risk before. You worked hard to keep everyone here alive. You are incredible, for that, Isla. I can’t tell you how much I admire your strength and your bravery. But things are different now. You don’t need to do as much as you did before. There are other people on your squad.”

But I’m the Hero, you want to say. Heroes are supposed to save the day, aren’t they?

Knights help save the day too.

You let Mrs. Bahr pat your knee for a long time. She seems content to let you think, her energy a pleasant hum next to you. A knot is untying in your chest. If you don’t hunt, it’s not the end of everyone. There will still be the funds from the Lord. Sarah’s always been excellent at stretching those as far as they need to go. And, if they aren’t enough, there’s something different this year. The Bahrs are here.

“You’d help us even if you’re only going to adopt one of us?” you ask.

Mrs. Bahr’s lips thin. She looks sad, but hides it quickly. “We’re Knights,” she says. “Even if we are retired. We’ll be here the moment you need us.”

You don’t hope. Hope is traumatic. But…

You believe her.

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(Part 2) (part 3)

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