amira!

“They aren’t nearly as intimidating in the stories,” you said, once you were along the path back home. As lovely as Soap’s horse had been, you preferred walking to riding—you felt more comfortable when you had steady ground beneath your feet. 

“They’re soldiers,” Ghost replied, which was more than fair. 

In the stories, soldiers rarely seemed burdened by the uglier realities of their work. The violence existed only to heighten the romance of it all—a roughened man showing tenderness only for the girl he loved, the lucky girl blooming under his adoration like a flower in the sun. She’d become special, cherished, noteworthy, all the things her ordinary village life could never afford her.

You understood the appeal well enough, but you couldn’t conjure up a way to explain that without speaking cruelly of the market girls. Despite their immaturity, you didn’t actually harbor any judgement toward their fantasies. You might’ve turned out exactly like them, had you been born to a different woman. So you borrowed one of Ghost’s favorite conversation tactics and kept quiet instead.

You continued along the path together, sticking to the shaded side. This summer would be remembered for years to come, you thought, for how remarkably, excruciatingly hot it had been.

“Why’d you play stupid in there?” Ghost suddenly asked.

You faltered. “When did I do that?”

“The map,” he said impatiently. 

“I wasn’t playing stupid,” you protested, fighting the embarrassment twisting up in your stomach. “Us commonfolk aren’t as well-educated in geography as you are.”

Ghost remained skeptical. “You’re hiding something, girl.”

On the contrary, you weren’t hiding enough. There was hardly an aspect of your life he hadn’t already seen. Ghost knew what you looked like when you were happy or pensive or half-asleep; what your brother wrote to you about and where you stored his letters; how you sweated over the hearth while cooking and how you organized your shelves; the way you hunched over your worktable whenever you needed to concentrate. 

“You’re the secretive one,” you shot back, because it was easier to argue than process the fact that he currently knew you more intimately than your own living family did. “Ghost isn’t even your real name.”

“Did you think it was?”

Before you could respond, a rabbit darted across the path and disappeared into the underbrush. You listened to the rustle of leaves until the sound faded away, wishing you could’ve escaped with it. 

“Let’s not talk about it,” you said weakly.

To your relief, he didn’t push you any further. You completed the rest of your walk in silence, but as your cottage slowly came into view, you couldn’t help but feel even more horribly out of your depth. This was all your existence amounted to: your home, your garden, your work. You didn’t know enough to even recognize what you didn’t know. How much of Ghost’s life remained hidden simply because you lacked the imagination to ask about it? And if you did know the right questions, would he actually be willing to answer them? 

While Price might’ve considered your ignorance to be a favorable trait, you didn’t share the sentiment in the slightest. What you liked was being knowledgeable, being aware. You liked learning from your mother’s words, from your brother’s writings, from the women whose homes you visited for deliveries and illnesses. You liked knowing how people lived, how they differed from one another, how you could help ease their ailments. But your mother was gone, your brother was by the sea, and there were definite limits to what you could learn on your own. 

Ghost slowed near the edge of the property, gazing out over your land that wasn’t technically yours.

“I can stay with them at the tavern,” he said, shifting his weight onto his back foot. You doubted he possessed a single bone of uncertainty in his entire body, but this had to be the closest he’d ever come to it. “Or…” 

Your spiraling was halted by the abrupt realization that with the arrival of his Guard, Ghost would also be leaving soon. His impending departure should’ve been a cause for celebration—you’d regain your privacy, the gossiping would cease, and you wouldn’t be stuck quarreling with an infuriating man every other conversation. But in light of everything you’d seen and learned today, none of that seemed to matter. 

Even if they were merely the men he worked alongside, Ghost still had people to return to, places to go beyond this village and its corresponding stretch of forest and river. Meanwhile, you would remain tethered to the same life as all the women before you. Were you really that different from all the wistful girls you knew, dreaming up stories to keep themselves distracted from their reality? Were they jealous of you, or were they jealous of the knight?

“I don’t mind if you stay here.” You spoke tersely, fearful that if you ran your mouth for too long, you might accidentally spill every terrible thought rattling around inside your head. 

Ghost nodded once, promptly settling the matter.

***

When you went to the market a few days later, you were accompanied by both Ghost and Gaz. When you asked about Soap and Price, neither of them said anything, but you were familiar enough with their endless song-and-dance of secrecy to not press the matter. 

You hadn’t been anticipating them joining you, but it wasn’t all that terrible. Their company kept you from wallowing alone in your thoughts, and Gaz was friendly enough that speaking to him didn’t require a thousand exhausting layers of formality. Still, walking around in public between him and Ghost still had you feeling like a sheep flanked by two wolves, but even that comparison didn’t seem drastic enough. If they were creatures of the land, then you belonged to the river; if they belonged to the river, you were merely an insect skimming above the surface.

With the harvest festival approaching, the village was livelier than usual. New seasonal stalls crowded the market square, and unfamiliar faces milled around the locals. The market girls stood in their usual huddle, chatting amongst themselves. You noticed them noticing you, but you resolved only to approach if you actually had something—or someone—to offer. 

“Do you have any interest in marriage?” you asked Gaz, once the three of you were tucked away inside the baker’s shop.

Gaz gave you an easy smile, entirely unphased by the question. “Not yet, I’m afraid. I’ve got to earn more first.”

“Don’t let her start,” Ghost warned him, as though you were moments away from launching into an elaborate spiel on the intricacies of courtship and wooing maidens. “They won’t leave you alone if you do.”

You selected a loaf of bread and deposited it into your basket, which Ghost had insisted on carrying before you’d even left the cottage. “I never told anyone to approach you, Sir Ghost. The girls did that entirely on their own.”

Gaz’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Ghost was getting approached?”

“Before they became acquainted with his personality, yes.”

Both you and Gaz dissolved into laughter, loud enough to earn a wary glance from the shopkeeper. Ghost grumbled something under his breath about the pair of you being idiots, but you caught his eye for a brief moment, blinking just after he did. His eyelashes were nonsensically pale, you thought distractedly, far too delicate of a feature for someone built like him.

“They’re too young,” Ghost said, directed more toward Gaz than you. “Better for you than me.”

That was new. You were still adjusting to the idea that Ghost had people in his life he could behave comfortably around, but this threw you off for an entirely different reason. He’d never spoken about the girls like this before, had barely volunteered an opinion that revealed anything about how he viewed courtship or marriage or romance at all, assuming he even allowed himself to entertain such notions in the first place. It was a painfully basic standard of decency, really, but it was nice to know that he had a sense of morals regarding these matters.

“How many were there?” Gaz asked, as uncautious as ever. He was squinting between you both, seemingly just as intrigued by the revelation. You looked down at yourself in case he’d spotted some glaring flaw in your appearance before you had, inspecting your skirt for any stray dirt or leaves caught in the fabric.

Ghost remained silent, apparently unwilling to reminisce.

“He was quite popular,” you replied in his stead, to which Gaz snorted.

Upon finding nothing wrong with your clothes, you motioned for Ghost to hand over the basket so you could retrieve your coin purse. To your confusion, he ignored you completely. Gaz paid for the bread instead, and when you demanded to know whether they’d arranged this beforehand, Ghost began squinting as well, almost as if he were smiling beneath the mask. 

***

Ghost’s presence began to lessen in frequency as he spent more and more time occupied with the Guard. With or without company, you kept yourself as busy as possible—you delivered another baby two villages over, tended to a family stricken with fever, and cooked meals for two just in case he happened to return in time to join you. On the evenings you ate alone, you sat outside and distracted yourself with games you used to play with your brother: counting how many different wildflowers you could spot in the grass, how many different insects you could hear in the trees, how many different animal-shaped clouds you could spot in the sky. 

It wasn’t particularly enjoyable, but it was fine. You’d lived like this for years. Once Ghost was permanently gone and enough time had passed, you’d settle back into routine.

Four solitary evenings came and went. On the fifth, you abandoned the games and wandered over to the garden after dinner. You laid down without much consideration for how you might look, near the bushes your mother had planted while she was still alive. The wildgrass itched against your skin, but the sensation felt more grounding than it did unpleasant. You closed your eyes and breathed in the scent of fresh dirt, lulling yourself into some semblance of calm. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed—it could’ve been minutes or hours—when a rough voice broke you from your reverie.

“What are you doing?”

“Enjoying the weather,” you replied, without bothering to open your eyes.

When you finally did, you predictably found Ghost looming above, staring down at you as if you’d lost your mind. Still, he extended a hand toward you, stooping over so it’d be within your reach. As he hauled you upright, an unsteady mix of nervousness and elation coursed through your veins, near-overwhelming in its headiness until you shoved the feeling aside and blamed it on the abrupt rush of blood to your head.

“Thank you,” you said, brushing stray blades of grass from your clothes. “Where’s the Guard?”

“Out.” He hesitated, a telltale sign that he was debating the merits of speaking further. “They’ve gone drinking.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

“Didn’t want to.”

Did that mean he wanted to be here instead? Even if you had the courage to ask, you didn’t want to push your luck and spoil the moment. You set your hands on your hips, searching for a pastime that could prove more entertaining than sitting idle and watching three men drink away the evening. There were always chores to do, and Ghost was usually content to keep you company as you went about completing them. But with your time together becoming increasingly finite, you didn’t want to waste it on something as boringly routine as housework.

“Let’s take a walk,” you suggested.

“It’ll be dark soon,” Ghost said, dubiously glancing up at the sky. 

You followed his gaze to find a large cloud hanging overhead, streaked orange with the beginnings of sunset. When you tilted your head just right, it vaguely resembled a hawk in flight. The hawk-cloud had to be a sign, you thought, so you waved Ghost off and set off toward the forest. After a moment, he followed. 

You wound up by the river, near the same outcropping of rocks where you usually washed your laundry. In the fading light, the water looked more purple than blue, glittering with the shifting current. You walked along the bank until you found a cluster of smooth stones near the riverbed. Ghost lingered at your shoulder, watching as you picked one up and weighed it in your palm.

“Do you know how to skip stones?”

He shook his head.

“Neither do I,” you admitted, but you tossed the stone out anyway, curving your arm the way you imagined you were supposed to. It struck the surface once before sinking beneath the current. You watched the ripples fan out, ring after widening ring, until the water returned to its undisturbed state.

“Good one,” Ghost teased. 

You would’ve teased him back, thrown out some silly challenge for how he couldn’t do much better, but today you were just pleased that he was still willing to indulge you. You picked up another stone and tried again, only for it to sink just like the first, swallowed up by the current. It was pathetically irrational, but the repeated failure suddenly made you feel sad—those stones might've rested in that exact spot for centuries, but now that you’d gone and disturbed them, they were forever lost underwater.

Resisting the urge to keep fidgeting, you stepped away from the river and tucked your hands behind your back. When you’d first brought Ghost here, you hadn’t cared whether the outing was novel or impressive; all that mattered was completing your work. But now that he had other places he could be—now that he’d deliberately chosen to spend this evening with you—you felt compelled to prove the merits of your presence. How were you supposed to do that by taking him somewhere he’d already seen? You’d run out of new things to offer him before he’d even left.

“You never showed me the river crabs,” Ghost said, as if he’d plucked the thought straight from your mind.

He’d remembered another inconsequential thing you’d said. That absurd flutter returned to your stomach, but you tamped it down before it could fester into something worse. Gathering your skirt high enough to keep the hems from soaking through, you waded into the shallows and crouched beside the rocks to peer underneath. The crabs usually hid in the shade, after all. Ghost followed behind you, barely disturbing the water with each step.

“Watch your toes,” he warned dryly. “Don’t want them bitten off.”

You splashed water at him halfheartedly, but you were too late to realize how close he’d been standing—the spray struck all the way up his shins. Ghost startled for half a second before retaliating with equal force. You gasped as cold water splashed across your skin, then dropped your skirt and splashed him harder in return.

And then you and him were play-fighting in the river like children, the crabs forgotten completely. This entire situation was so ridiculous—facing off against a knight in the lowest-stakes battle of his life—that you couldn’t help the laughter bubbling out of you, loud and unbecoming. The sound echoed through the trees, startling a few birds from their branches and dissolving your earlier unease away with it. Ghost made a strange breathy sound in response, unfamiliar enough that it took you a moment to recognize it as a laugh. 

“We definitely scared them away,” you wheezed, struggling to catch your breath.

“Next time,” Ghost said, before splashing you once more. You let him get away with it, choosing not to question how confidently he assumed you’d be doing this again.

***

It was dusk by the time you returned to the cottage, still too early to sleep. You didn’t want to sit around indoors in damp clothes, but Ghost beat you to the hearth, starting a fire without you having to ask. You picked raspberries from the garden and sat in your usual spot as he stoked the flames, depositing half the fruit in his outstretched palm once he’d settled beside you.

“You’re very capable,” you told him, because he was.

Ghost fixed you with a hard look. “Was that a joke?”

“I was being serious,” you complained. You ate a raspberry and let him wait while you chewed. “But now I take it back.”

He didn’t respond, studying you instead. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested your chin against them, tilting your head sideways so you could study him back. You hadn’t sat this close together since that afternoon in the tavern, but if Ghost was the one initiating it, then it had to be permissible. Besides, there was nobody else around to make you second-guess yourself, nobody to stare or whisper or speculate. You could be indecent in peace.

“You’re capable, too,” he said, somewhat unevenly. He still hadn’t rolled up his mask to eat—maybe he wouldn't do it with you staring at him so intently, but you didn’t want to look away.

“I’ve had a lot of practice doing things on my own.” 

Then you fought the urge to smack yourself—why did you have to say that so dramatically? Still, Ghost didn’t react the way you feared he might; if anything, he seemed to be genuinely considering your words.

“Did your brother help you?” he asked.

“Only when he wanted to,” you said. “He was young, so I usually just let him play instead."

You thought of how you used to wade into the river with him perched on your back, pretending you were two explorers embarking on a grand, fantastical journey. Sometimes you’d fake a stumble just to make him squeal, threatening to drop him into the current, only to catch him again before he could fall in, every single time.

“You must’ve raised him well.”

Ghost’s voice had gone so uncharacteristically soft that it made pinpricks of heat erupt across your skin, warmer than the hearth itself. You wanted more of it, wanted to coax out at least one more sentence of praise, but that desire came tangled with the understanding that it would be significantly easier if all of this—his presence, his attention, the intensity of his gaze—were to cease at once, rather than slowly thinning out the way it had been since his Guard arrived. But that was beyond your control, and sulking would be of no use. You could savor his company while you still had it.

You fixed him with your best imitation of his glare. “Was that a joke?”

Without answering, he tossed a berry at you with perfect aim. It bounced harmlessly off your forehead; you caught it before it could tumble into the grass, wiped it against your sleeve, and popped it into your mouth. Ghost immediately averted his eyes to the fire. You continued watching him, hazy in the rising smoke.

***

The following week, you sat grinding herbs at the table with your back facing the door, but you could tell Soap had arrived without even having to see him. He didn’t knock, for starters, and the way the hinges squeaked gave you the impression that he was making no effort whatsoever to be discreet.

“Come outside, lass,” he called. You glanced over your shoulder, and just as you’d suspected, there he was—cheeks flushed pink, hair crookedly tousled by the wind. “Got somethin’ to show you.”

Dutifully, you rose and followed him outside, expecting a mildly amusing sight at best, perhaps a bird with unusual plumage or another unfortunate bounty of courting gifts abandoned at the edge of your land. Instead, you found Ghost with a horse.

Not merely a horse, but a stallion—the most ferociously beautiful one you’d ever seen. With the limited equestrian knowledge you’d picked up from Ghost, you could tell the animal was exceptionally cared for, with hefty muscle and a lustrous mane. He stood noticeably larger than Soap’s horse, which made sense considering Ghost himself was built larger than most men. His coat was a deep mahogany that gleamed rosily beneath the sunlight, while his forehead was speckled white like scattered stars.

Ghost led the stallion toward you, keeping a gentle hold on the reins. “Got a horse.”

“I gathered as much,” you said, though without any malice; you were too fixated on the animal to bother with pestering him. “He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

Soap snickered at something under his breath to Ghost, though you couldn’t make out the words. While the two knights lapsed into yet another one of their silent, inscrutable conversations, you stepped closer and cautiously pet the stallion’s neck just as you’d indirectly been taught, recoiling only slightly when the animal huffed a burst of warm air against your shoulder.

The movement immediately caught Ghost’s attention. He turned back toward you, watching carefully while Soap trailed off to climb atop his own horse.

“Have you named him?” you asked.

Ghost rested a hand against the stallion’s neck, right alongside yours. “Not yet.”

Before you could ask anything else, Soap shouted your name brightly from atop his horse, guiding the animal in a giddy little circle. “Fancy a ride?”

Naturally, you wound up seated behind Ghost again. You expected only a short round along the property, just to acquaint yourself with the stallion, who appeared docile and obedient to each of Ghost’s commands, but Soap took the lead and continued further down the path. 

For the very first time in your life, you set off with no clear destination in mind. At first, you assumed he and Ghost might be scouting the area, but the ease with which they navigated each bend and fork in the path betrayed that they’d already explored this stretch of village before. They talked as they rode, cryptically recounting some campaign they’d fought in years past, trading unfamiliar names and places back and forth like pawns in a game only they knew the rules of. You remained quiet, blocking them out in favor of listening to the horses, to the steady clop of their hooves against packed earth.

The path wound past cottages and open farmland, through golden-green fields just about ready for harvest. A gaggle of children stopped to gawk at your small party, shrieking in amazement when Soap urged his stallion into a sprint before reining it back into an easy trot. Further ahead, a farmer paused his work and lifted a weathered hand in greeting, squinting against the afternoon sun. It was odd to pass them all by horseback, to sit elevated above the same people you usually stood among. 

“Are you alright back there?” Soap eventually asked, slowing his horse to fall in line with you.

“Of course,” you chirped, forcing yourself to match his earlier levity. “I’ve just never done this before.”

Ghost huffed. “Been on a horse?”

“Been on a horse for—for leisure,” you corrected. Your gaze drifted over the passing fields before settling on the broad sweep of Ghost’s back. 

“You’ve been missing out, then,” Soap crowed. You knew he wasn’t trying to be rude on purpose, but his words didn’t strike you as particularly pleasant, either. “Cannae say you’ve truly lived till you’ve—”

“You aren’t missing out on anything,” Ghost interrupted, without looking back at you. “Barely have time for it ourselves.”

That managed to soothe you, just for the time being. You leaned forward to speak closer to Ghost’s ear, the same way you had the first time you’d ridden behind him. “Now that you’ve got a horse, will you be leaving soon?”

“Probably.”

“But the festival—”

It was your turn to be sharply cut off, right as the path narrowed beneath a crooked-leaning tree. 

“Watch your head,” he barked out.

Together, you ducked beneath a low branch, but your attempt was far clumsier than his. Your forehead bumped awkwardly against his back—instinctively, you pressed a palm between his shoulder blades to steady yourself. Ghost immediately went rigid, his entire back tensing beneath your touch. He relaxed a half-second later, but by then you’d already snatched your hand away, settling it back against the stallion. 

“Sorry,” you whispered. 

You weren’t sure why you were attempting to be subtle when Soap was already unabashedly grinning at you both, but you kept up the act for Ghost’s sake, just in case.

“Don’t apologize,” Ghost muttered, before flashing a warning look toward Soap, who was clearly on the verge of making another crude, speculative comment. “And don’t you start.”

***

“I need you to read somethin’ for me.”

Ghost would be leaving tomorrow. He’d told you as much earlier in the day, and now the day was nearly over and he was seated at the edge of your bed, clearly ready to retire for the night. Meanwhile, you were still puttering around the cottage, uselessly rearranging your shelves for the second time that evening. You couldn’t bring yourself to lie down just yet; once you did, you’d have nothing left to do except stare at the ceiling and think.

“Can’t you do it yourself?” you asked indignantly, adjusting a vial rack that had already been safely tucked away from the edge.

“I’m busy.”

You turned around to find him doing absolutely nothing. “Clearly, you aren’t.”

“You owe me a favor,” he insisted. 

Of course he’d choose to collect it now—today was his final opportunity to do so—but what you didn’t understand was why he was making the same exact request you had. Perhaps, if you played along, he’d offer up another detail or two in explanation. You crossed the room and intentionally stopped a few paces in front of him, holding yourself back from standing directly between his legs. 

Ghost handed you a scrap of parchment. It wasn’t the fancy sort you associated with merchants or nobility, but the same inexpensive kind your brother used whenever he wrote to you, with a few lines sprawled across one side in plain black ink. As you looked it over, you attempted to take a deep breath, but your throat snagged mid-inhale. Ghost sat and watched you stupidly cough into the crook of your elbow, betraying no reaction when you thrust the parchment back into his grasp. 

“I need to tell you something,” you said unsteadily, once you’d regained some semblance of composure.

“Tell me, then.”

You desperately wished for Soap to burst through the door and drag you away on another pointless horse ride. You wished for Gaz to appear and launch into another informal conversation about money and marriage prospects and freshly baked bread. You would’ve even accepted Price interrogating your mental aptitude if it meant escaping this situation. Was this really how Ghost wanted to spend your final evening together? Not bickering or reminiscing or even quietly basking in each other’s company, but embarrassing you instead?

“Sir Ghost,” you began slowly, hovering at the very precipice of humiliation. “I’m illiterate.”

Ghost silently considered the revelation. It shouldn’t have been particularly shocking—the vast majority of villagefolk couldn’t read or write—but you’d built your entire life around your competence. People trusted you to help them because they believed you knew things. Admitting ignorance, especially the same sort of ignorance they carried themselves, felt like it’d threaten your very livelihood.

“I figured,” Ghost said. “You were looking at that map upside down in the tavern.”

You wanted to snatch the parchment back from him, tear it apart into a million tiny pieces, and scatter them all throughout the forest. Or maybe it’d be a quicker alternative to shove the paper straight into your mouth instead, to eat it whole so that neither of you would have to see it ever again. Stubbornly, you forced yourself to study the inked lines, attempting to decipher meaning from their shape the same way you’d tried with the map. There weren’t enough words for a proper message, unless it was some sort of military code. But if it were, Ghost wouldn’t be showing it to you at all. 

“Is it an address?”

“S’where we’re headed next.” His voice went gritty at the edges, even harsher than usual. “Thought I’d give it to you, in case you wanted to write.”

Write to him.

“I’m sorry,” you said helplessly.

What you couldn’t bring yourself to say was that scribes were expensive, that you already rationed your money cautiously enough just to write to your brother a handful of times a year. You kept his letters tucked away in the chest partially so you wouldn’t be tempted to burn through your savings replying to each and every one. But beyond that, you couldn’t simply reject this—not when it was such a momentous thing for him to offer, especially given his profession.

It was nearly impossible to imagine he hadn’t discussed it with his Guard beforehand, or at the very least weighed the decision carefully on his own. Maybe you could send Ghost a letter in the wintertime, splurge on it if the rush of the cold months brought in enough money. You weren’t sure what you’d even share with him—perhaps a few stories about the women you met, or bland descriptions of the thousand repetitive tasks you completed every day and week and month and year. Nothing exciting enough to stand level with the life he lived, but maybe he already knew to temper his expectations. Maybe he preferred it that way. 

Before you could think better of it, you stepped directly into the slot between Ghost’s legs. His hands shifted slightly, pausing for a moment near your hips before settling atop his own knees.

“I like being alone,” you blurted out, swallowing hard before continuing. “I know it’s uncommon, but I really do prefer it. I like doing things how I want them, and I like taking care of myself. But I—it’s been nice having you around.”

And then you waited for him to finally tell you everything. You wanted a confession in return for all the pieces of your life you’d already shown him, some grand unveiling of the mysteries you’d staunchly avoided pressing him about. Who had poisoned him all those weeks ago, what his real name was, why he’d remained with you even after his Guard arrived; where he’d come from, why he’d stayed in your village, what sort of upbringing had turned him into this odd, secretive man sitting at the edge of your bed. 

Instead, Ghost just looked at you for a long moment and said, “You should go to sleep, girl.”

The dismissal felt like he’d dumped a bucket of freezing water over your head. It wasn’t fair of him to act as though what you’d just admitted could be blamed on nothing more than fatigue, as if one night’s rest might dissolve your feelings entirely by morning. But if he did acknowledge this properly, with all the sword-sharp attention and precision you knew he was capable of, then what? You couldn’t even write. 

“I don’t like it when you call me that,” you said, not only because it was true, but also because it was the only way you could protest against him. 

“What should I call you instead?”

“My name is fine.”

Ghost said it just once; you shivered despite yourself. In response, that unfamiliar, breathy sound escaped him again—his laugh. It should've irritated you, but instead you merely felt relief that at least one of you could find a trace of amusement within this situation. 

Then he set the parchment aside and reached for your hands. You let him take them exactly how he wanted, leaning into the rough scrape of his skin against your own, warm and calloused and real. He interlaced your fingers together and held them up as if on display for you both. Standing between his knees, you allowed yourself to fall pliant, wondering for one dizzy, dangerous moment if he might draw you even closer. 

He didn’t. That was probably a good thing, you thought, because then all of this would truly become too much to bear.

***

The next morning, Ghost left shortly after breakfast—your last meal together—promising you he’d come back to say goodbye before he left for good. You were in the garden when he finally came back, hands aching from pulling weeds—it’d been Ghost’s chore while he’d stayed with you, but now that he was leaving, you’d have to reacquaint yourself with the task.

An occasion like this should’ve been accompanied with rain or fog or, at the very least, a dense overcast. Instead, the sky was mercilessly bright, warming you and the soil and the plants down to the very root. Ghost was dressed in full armor, just as he’d been the day you first met him. His sword rested properly at his hip, secured within a polished new scabbard. He sat astride his stallion, outfitted in fresh leather tack, and rode all the way up to the garden like he’d come to carry you away, but he simply dismounted and gave the horse a firm pat against his flank. 

“Found a name for him,” he said by way of greeting.

You reached out, smoothing your hands over the stallion’s pinkish-mahogany coat. “What is it?”

Ghost looked at the garden, then back at you, then at the garden again. He seemed uncertain, shifting beneath your attention in a way that reminded you of when he’d asked whether he could continue staying with you even after his Guard arrived. You felt a twinge of sympathy at his discomfort, but you refused to relent, staring into his eyes so intently that you were certain they’d haunt your dreams for weeks to come. Dreams you’d wake from alone, in the bed you’d have to relearn how to sleep in after all that time on the floor.

“Raspberry,” he said at last.

Your hands stilled against the horse’s neck. “Why?”

“He’s the same color.”

There weren’t enough words in the world to contain what that did to you, so you threw your arms around him instead.

It was a stilted embrace, more like hugging a blank vessel than a real person. Ghost’s armor dug into your cheek and chest while his arms settled stiffly around your waist, so hesitant that it felt like he was barely holding you at all. You found yourself wishing you’d done this earlier, before he’d hidden his skin away beneath all of this metal, but you doubted he would’ve accepted your touch so readily otherwise.

You didn’t tell him it was the first proper hug you’d initiated in years. The women you helped usually embraced you in gratitude after successful deliveries, and their unruly young children sometimes clung your legs until you gently shook them off. But those moments had always been fleeting, inconsequential. This was different because of how badly you wanted it, because of how you’d consciously chosen it first.

“Will we meet again?” you asked, with your face still smushed against his breastplate.

His answer came out muffled through the armor. “I can’t promise you anything.”

“You don’t have to.” You drew back just enough to look up at him, keeping your arms looped around his middle. “I just—if you were able to, would you?”

“I would.”

He uttered it so quietly that you nearly dismissed it as wishful thinking, a foolish invention of your own imagination. But then you remembered how intentionally he’d held your hands yesterday, how deliberate he’d been whenever he touched you the handful of times before. How readily he was accepting you now. This had to be real.

You stepped away and withdrew the small jar hidden in your dress pocket, accepting that you were no different from the market girls after all. You could be older than them, more independent, more capable of maintaining your own livelihood, but deep down, you still wanted the same impossible things they did. You stood exactly the way they had before him: a village girl presenting a silly, earnest gift to a mysterious knight in hopes of being chosen.

“This is for your scars,” you said, your heart painfully lodged somewhere in your throat as you held out the salve. “I made it for the mother you took me to visit, but I had extra. It should help with irritation once the weather turns cold.”

Ghost accepted the jar warily, balancing it in the center of his gloved palm as if he was afraid he might accidentally crush it. For what would likely be the final time, you longed to see his face. You wanted to know whether he was surprised, whether he was pleased, whether he was feeling anything at all beneath that dreadful silver skull. More selfishly still, you wanted something tangible from him in return, beyond an address you could barely use—some object to anchor your thoughts to once he was gone. Memories shifted with time, softened around the edges no matter how fiercely you tried to preserve them. But you knew it’d be unfair of you to ask, so you didn’t.

“Thank you,” he said roughly, with the same begrudging gentleness he’d shown you the night before. His armor shone so brightly beneath the sun that it almost hurt to look at him.

You hugged him again. It was unnecessary and overwrought, especially given the length of your first embrace, but he allowed it anyway.

***