Blayden’s strong hands, which had previously been so firm, grew gentle again, yet Leni’s mind remained a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.
She found herself silently questioning his actions.
How long does he intend to keep washing them?
The bloodstains vanished ages ago, and my hands are perfectly clean now, no trace of the terrifying events that unfolded just hours before.
Her gaze fell upon their intertwined hands, a strange tableau under the fading moonlight.
The hand pouring the water was surprisingly delicate, almost unbelievably so for a warrior of Blayden Leharth’s reputation.
This rough, imposing man was treating her seemingly insignificant hands as if they were the most precious, fragile things in the world.
This unexpected tenderness felt profoundly impactful to Leni.
It feels like I’m receiving a baptism into adulthood, she thought, a sense of awe mingling with her confusion.
It wasn’t just the physical bloodstains that were being washed away.
The fear that had surged in her heart, the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had threatened to consume her, also seemed to drain away with the flowing water.
The shock of having taken a life, the profound impact of that irreversible act, lingered.
The terror of discovering what felt like a monstrous capacity within herself, the chilling realization of her own capability for violence.
The sorrowful premonition that she could never truly return to her old self, the innocent girl she had been before this night.
All of it, every agonizing emotion, every unsettling thought, was being slowly, meticulously, cleansed away by the gentle ministrations of Blayden’s hands.
She slowly lifted her gaze, her eyes landing on Blayden’s forehead, where his hair was disheveled from the struggle.
As she looked closer, a stark detail caught her attention: it wasn’t just hair obscuring his brow.
It was a thin streak of blood, like a delicate, dark thread. His face, usually a canvas of countless scratches and old scars from previous skirmishes, had at least had a relatively clean forehead.
But now, even that expanse was marred by splatters of fresh, dark blood, a testament to the night’s violence.
If he were to wipe away that blood, there would probably be countless other injuries underneath, she mused, a fresh wave of concern washing over her.
And, the unsettling truth was, one of them was caused by me.
The night I took a life.
The night I protected a life.
The duality of the events struck her.
How did you navigate those painful, blood-soaked nights, Commander?
How did you emerge from them, seemingly unbroken?
A gentle breeze stirred, rustling the leaves overhead and making his golden hair flutter softly in the dim light.
An impulsive urge to reach out, to brush back the shining strands that sparkled in the moonlight, seized Leni.
It was an unexpected, tender impulse, and in response, she tightly clenched her free hand, restraining herself.
The rhythmic sound of the water, which had been a constant companion in the quiet ritual, ceased.
Blayden extended an arm towards her, a silent, unreadable gesture.
Leni stood still, puzzled, completely unable to comprehend his intention.
Blayden finally raised his head, and their eyes met, a direct, unspoken communication passing between them.
“Sleeve,” he stated, his voice low.
Does he mean for me to pull down his sleeve?
Leni, still a little hesitant, lifted the hand that had been resting on the rock and carefully placed it on his rolled-up sleeve.
With their gazes still locked, Blayden briefly closed and opened his eyes, a silent confirmation.
The sleeve, which had been folded twice for his task, loosened and fell down to his wrist.
Blayden then gently pulled her wet hand closer and placed the back of her hand on the inside of his wrist.
He softly whispered as he patted away the remaining moisture with the fabric of his sleeve, a quiet, almost intimate gesture.
“On nights of battle, the sky is hot and bright. As if the sun has risen,” he explained, his voice a low, almost poetic murmur.
“Why is that?”
Leni asked, a genuine curiosity in her tone.
“Because fire arrows blanket the sky,” he responded simply.
Ah.
Leni felt a flush of warm embarrassment spread across her cheeks, realizing how incredibly naive she had been in her question.
For the first time since meeting Blayden, she felt truly like a mere child.
It wasn’t because of her inherently small stature, but rather because the world she knew, her entire understanding of life, felt so incredibly small and sheltered in comparison to his vast, brutal experiences.
Blayden switched hands, taking her other hand and continuing the gentle drying process.
“On such nights,” he continued, his voice steady, “you just keep going until morning. Until the real sun rises.”
The sun always rises, without fail.
Even if we’re not on the same side, even if our paths are divergent, the dawn will come.
“Yes,” Leni nodded, a quiet affirmation.
She found herself unable to utter any other words, the weight of his explanation settling upon her.
Blayden pulled his arm back, the ritual complete.
He then placed each of her now clean, dry hands in his palm, examining them with a focused gaze.
A faint smile touched his lips, a rare sight.
Apparently satisfied with her clean hands, he even gently tapped the back of one hand with his thumb, a small gesture of approval.
“It’s done,” he declared.
Finally, her hands were released.
Leni wanted to express her profound gratitude, to form the words of thanks that swelled in her chest, but her throat felt tight, choked with an overwhelming mix of emotion.
Blayden turned and sat facing the stream, then lowered his head and scooped up water with both hands, washing the remaining bloodstains from his own face.
As she watched him, Leni murmured, the words almost involuntary.
“I didn’t intend to hurt you.”
The rhythmic sound of the water stopped abruptly.
Blayden lifted his head, his gaze direct as he looked at her.
“Neither your face, nor your heart,” Leni clarified, feeling a desperate need to explain.
She wasn’t entirely sure if her words constituted an apology or merely an excuse.
She just felt an overwhelming compulsion to say something, anything.
Blayden’s unexpected tenderness, so out of character, felt utterly dreamlike.
She wanted to confirm that this surreal moment wasn’t merely a figment of her imagination, a product of her trauma.
His eyes, deep and profound like the boundless sea, swept over her face, a slow, lingering gaze that felt almost like a caress.
“You have an instinct for knowing where to strike to wound an opponent,” he observed, his voice calm.
“In these times, that’s a talent.”
The statement struck Leni as remarkably peculiar.
He had scolded her fiercely for catching too many fish, an innocent act of survival, but now he was praising her, commending her, after she had taken a human life.
He was truly a strange, contradictory man.
Was this how he felt when he dropped the apple in the forest, during their first encounter?
Was kindness truly hidden beneath his rough words and biting sarcasm all along?
A soft, watery sensation caught in her throat, a prelude to unshed tears.
Leni tried to force her mind to recall the horrific image of Kiavel’s severed head, to conjure the painful memory of her father’s emaciated, imprisoned face.
But her mind remained stubbornly blank. Blayden’s piercing eyes, filling her entire vision, utterly captivated her heart, dominating her thoughts as if they were the sole focal point of her entire world.
Her hands, resting on the rock, involuntarily curled into small fists.
“Even if you act kindly,” she declared, her voice firm, “I will not call you master.”
“You already did,” Blayden countered, a hint of amusement in his tone.
“I will never call you that again,” Leni insisted, her resolve clear.
“It doesn’t matter,” Blayden replied, his voice soft, almost dismissive.
“What you think of me, what you call me…”
Blayden stretched out his arm, a deliberate movement.
His hand, still damp from the water, cupped her cheek, warm against her skin.
“Solenia Radelyon,” he uttered, her full name a low resonance.
His piercing blue eyes, usually so vibrant, darkened with an intense, unreadable emotion.
He pulled her breath-held face closer, leaning down, and whispered, his voice a guttural murmur against her ear.
“You are mine.”
A soft breeze passed between their foreheads, which were now pressed intimately together, a fleeting caress.
His golden hair, fluttering gently in the breeze, brushed against her skin, an unexpected touch.
***
The peaceful morning after their terrifying brush with life and death arrived, bringing with it an unexpected discovery for Leni.
She found what seemed to be an injury, though it was an object, not her body, that had been harmed, perhaps more accurately described as damage.
Her cloak, which she had carelessly left by the stream, was torn.
Examining the clean, precise cut along the corner seam, it was clear that it hadn’t been done by bare hands; it was the deliberate work of a blade.
Those awful assassins! she fumed silently. Which of the two culprits was responsible for this?
They certainly had an eye for quality, to damage something so valuable.
Sharino, observing Leni as she grumbled and clutched the flapping piece of her ruined cloak, offered words of calm wisdom.
“Be grateful you’re alive,” he advised, his voice soothing.
“You can complain about a torn cloak precisely because you still have your life.”
“Yes, Sir Sharino is right,” Leni conceded, her initial frustration easing.
It’s certainly better than being harmed myself.
A cloak can always be mended.
Sharino, ever practical, lent her a small sewing kit.
While the unit members gathered to eat their morning meal, Leni sat beneath the welcome shade of a sprawling tree, diligently mending her torn cloak.
Blayden, who had just finished feeding the horses, walked by, pausing to offer an unsolicited comment.
“Don’t you ever touch my clothes, not ever. Is that what you call mending? You’re ruining it even more, aren’t you?”
His voice was laced with a familiar, dry sarcasm.
Who said I’d mend your clothes?
What a ridiculous assumption, hmph!
Leni thought, a surge of irritation bubbling up.
She ducked her head, her gaze fixed stubbornly on her cloak, her lips pouting slightly in an unspoken retort.
A moment later, light footsteps approached, and a gentle, concerned voice chimed from above her.
“Commander, how’s the wound on your leg?”
It was Gabriel, his tone earnest.
“I’m fine,” Blayden replied, his voice dismissive.
“You were cut by a sword; how can you be fine?”
Gabriel persisted, his concern undeterred.
Cut by a sword?
He must have been injured while fighting the assassin, Leni realized, the information catching her off guard.
The needle’s movement, which had been steadily weaving in and out of the cloak’s hem, suddenly slowed, her focus momentarily broken.
“Just as you need to know everything about us, Commander, we also need to understand your condition,” Gabriel explained, his voice firm but respectful.
“No one here would think you’re weak for saying you’re in pain. We’re a unit.”
“I’m truly fine, Gabriel,” Blayden insisted, a hint of impatience entering his tone.
“So, that’s enough nagging.”
As Blayden patted Gabriel’s shoulder, a gruff voice called out from nearby.
“Gabriel, got any more salt?”
It was William, who had finished his meal and was heading towards the stream, shaking a shriveled cloth pouch with a hopeful clink.
“I won’t let this go this time,” Gabriel muttered, giving Blayden a final, stern look before bowing his head and turning away to attend to William.
Once Blayden and Leni were alone again, Leni allowed herself a quick, sidelong glance at him.
“Were you cut by a sword?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“It was just a graze,” Blayden responded, his tone flat.
Graze or cut, if you’re injured, it should show, Leni thought, a flicker of annoyance.
I can’t even tell where you got hurt by looking at you.
She recalled their encounter at dawn.
After washing her hands, Blayden had told her to get more sleep, almost pushing her towards the tent.
It had seemed suspicious at the time, she realized now.
Did he stay by the stream alone to tend to his wounds?
He must have used the excuse of standing guard to treat himself when no one else was watching.
Gabriel’s words resonated with her.
He was right.
In communal life, you should share both the good and the bad.
If he insisted on acting stoic all by himself, it just made her, standing beside him, seem heartless, uncaring.
Leni put down her needle, her gaze still fixed on Blayden for a moment, then she spoke.
“Sir… Knight.”
Her voice was deliberately demure, a noticeable shift from her usual bluntness.
Blayden’s eyes narrowed slightly at her unexpected tone.
Leni’s gaze, after a moment of hesitation, stopped at Blayden’s chin, which sported a noticeable stubble.
“Your beard has grown,” she observed, her voice surprisingly steady.
“Shall I shave it for you?”
Blayden let out a surprised, almost choked laugh, a rare sound from him.
“I saw you cut an assassin’s throat at dawn,” he said, the memory still fresh.
“And you expect me to entrust myself to your hands with a blade now?”
“My shaving skills are better than my killing skills,” Leni retorted, completely undeterred by his challenge.
Her voice was clear and precise, her confidence unwavering.
“I helped my father shave for the past three years, you see.”
She went on, detailing the trivial yet intimate aspects of the task: how to effectively lather soap to create a rich foam, the specific grain of a beard and how to shave along it, the importance of maintaining the sharpness of the razor blade.
Her words flowed easily, painting a picture of domestic familiarity, a stark contrast to the violence of the night.
“What do you really want?”
Blayden cut in, a hint of impatience in his voice.
“I want to repay you,” Leni stated simply.
“For what?”
“For washing my hands last night, of course,” Leni replied, a sweet, innocent smile spreading across her face.
I wondered why she was acting so sweet, and sure enough, here comes the cunning.
“If you like my shaving skills, Sir Knight,” she continued, her smile widening slyly, “you can also give me a gift in return.”
“For example, what kind of gift?”
Blayden asked, a touch of wariness in his tone.
“How about a sword?”
Leni asked, her eyes gleaming with a hint of anticipation.
I knew you’d ask for that.
It’s admirable how you scheme, little one.
“No,” Blayden refused outright, his voice firm, leaving no room for negotiation.
“What if I give you a sword and you plunge it into my back?” he pressed, a sardonic edge to his voice.
“But what if another assassin appears?”
Leni countered, her brow furrowing in genuine concern.
“You’ll die,” Blayden replied, his voice disturbingly calm, matter-of-fact.
A vertical line appeared between Leni’s eyebrows, a sign of her exasperation.
“Is that something you say?” she demanded, her voice rising slightly.
“It’s none of my business whether a brat who doesn’t even consider me her master lives or dies,” Blayden retorted, his voice harsh.
“If you were a slave, you’d be loyal and receive protection. You refused that. So, survive on your own.”
“I’m not worried about myself,” Leni shot back, her gaze unwavering.
“Then?”
Blayden raised a single eyebrow, a silent challenge.
“If those around me are in danger,” Leni explained, her voice softening slightly, “I have to save them.”
He hadn’t genuinely expected Leni to suddenly start calling him master.
But “those around me”?
That was beyond amusing; it was almost insulting in its casualness.
“But assassins could appear again, and we might encounter bandits. And the forests are teeming with wild beasts.”
Leni was determined to make her point, her logic clear.
“So, if a wolf appears, you’ll protect me?”
Blayden asked, a hint of amusement in his tone, almost a tease.
“Wouldn’t a hand with a sword be more helpful than an empty one?”
Leni pressed, seizing on his sarcasm.
A sword?
What a wild dream for a little one like you.
“Alright,” Blayden conceded with a nod.
“It’s true that holding something is better than having empty hands.”
He then reached into his gambeson, the padded defensive garment he wore beneath his armor.
Leni looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes, her hopes visibly rising.
“Here it is, your weapon,” Blayden announced, his voice carrying a note of finality.
But her hopeful expression withered like a plucked flower, replaced by a deep dejection, as she looked down at the small, intricately crafted rose pin he pulled from his garment and offered to her.
“What can I do with this?” she asked, her voice flat with disappointment.
Blayden bent down, bringing his scarred cheek close to Leni’s face, his expression serious.
“Can’t you see? What it can do?” he challenged, his gaze direct.
Leni’s lips moved as if she were speechless, unable to form a coherent response.
Blayden, with a smooth, practiced motion, tucked the small pin behind Leni’s ear, securing it in place before straightening up.
“You said you’d protect those around you,” he stated, his voice firm.
“So keep your promise.”
To get revenge like this!
Leni thought, a surge of indignation.
She glared at Blayden’s receding back, then, with a sharp movement, she shoved aside the cloak on her lap and sprang to her feet.
She quickly ran towards Blayden, who was already walking towards the stream, and he, without even looking back, asked, “How far are you going to keep trailing me?”
“At dawn, you even washed my hands,” Leni retorted, her voice a mix of exasperation and a plea.
“Since you’ve already been so kind, why not extend a little more courtesy?”
“It wasn’t kindness,” Blayden countered, his voice flat.
“It was just a game.”
“Pardon?”
Leni was confused by his bluntness.
“You hide sound with sound, and cover surprise with surprise,” he explained cryptically.
What is he talking about?
Leni wondered, her mind scrambling to understand.
“Didn’t you forget that you killed someone, being so engrossed in me washing your hands?”
Blayden elucidated, his words landing with a startling clarity.
Leni was dumbfounded, a wave of shock washing over her.
That’s what it was?
The intense morning sunlight made her eyes sting, and she instinctively squinted.
I’m not disappointed, she told herself firmly.
Absolutely not. The sun is just too bright, that’s all.
“If you had gone straight into the tent,” Blayden continued, his voice devoid of sympathy, “you would have been sobbing miserably, wallowing in self-pity. Your swollen, red eyes would have ruined the atmosphere of the unit. It’s better to wash a slave and forget what happened than to waste unnecessary emotions.”
Whatever his true intention, since the kindness has already been spilled, does he really have to be so cold about it?
Leni thought, a pang of frustration.
How wonderful would it be if kind words consistently followed kind actions?
“So, you’re not going to allow me a weapon after all?”
Leni pressed, unwilling to give up.
“Didn’t I give you one?”
Blayden retorted, a slight challenge in his voice.
Leni snatched the pin from her head and held it up, pointing it at him like an accusatory finger.
“Is this a weapon? It’s a hair ornament!” she exclaimed, her frustration evident.
“It is a weapon,” Blayden stated definitively, his voice brooking no argument.
He then turned his back to Leni, walking away.
It is a weapon.
It has to be a weapon.
He couldn’t possibly be an idiot wounded by a woman’s hair ornament.
Leni huffed, her breath coming in short, exasperated bursts, and quickly caught up to him again.
“I have one request,” she announced, her voice determined.
Don’t you ever give up?
Blayden thought, a wry amusement mixed with resignation.
“I will prove my usefulness,” Leni continued, her words precise and earnest.
“I will not betray you, Sir Knight. I will work diligently.”
What kind of request requires such a long preamble?
Blayden wondered, a flicker of curiosity.
“In return,” Leni concluded, her voice gaining a renewed force, “if I prove my usefulness three times, please let me go.”
Blayden stopped walking, his stride suddenly halted.
A sharp, unexpected, and utterly profound pain, a deep ache, bloomed in his chest.
What was this sudden, heavy sensation?
It felt as though his chest had been struck squarely by a stone, leaving him completely numb.
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