Chapter 8: Dinner
We walked in silence from the mill and toward the village. The sun had nearly set, painting the sky in deep orange and indigo. Lanterns flickered to life one by one as we passed, warm little beacons against the coming cold.
We kept walking toward Alvor's house.
At the forge, the hammering had stopped, but smoke still curled lazily from the forge. Gerdur walked with more purpose now, shaking off the remnants of grief, a facade I could easily see through.
We approached the smithy, and Alvor looked up from the anvil as we arrived. His hands were black with soot, his apron thick with sweat and tire.
"I thought you weren't coming back?" he grunted, wiping his brow with a cloth. "Well, I did all I could do. Half of them are done." Alvor said, nodding toward a wooden crate nearby.
Gerdur gave him a slight nod, with her lost eyes that seemed to stare at nothing. "Great. I'll come for the rest tomorrow."
Gerdur moved to inspect them, her hands shaking still. I stepped forward to pick up the crate after she had finished inspecting them and was about to pick it up.
"I got it," I muttered and grabbed the crate.
"Ah." She opened her mouth to say something but chose to stay silent, seeing that I had already turned around.
"Where to?" I asked, glancing back at Gerdur.
She gave me a small smile after coming out of her stupor, then led me to her house.
***
We walked past the only inn this small village has, moving to an 'L' shaped house. The fenced-in area right in front of the house, had chickens pecking around and 2 cows resting on the grass.
The house was made of stone and lumber foundation, its walls made of white stone, dulled by the harsh environment and the moss creeping about, with the roof being made of straw and wood, giving it a hut like look.
At the door of her house, I stood behind her, observing her shaking hands that tried to open the door, albeit failing, reminding me of the wild morning.
I sat the crate down, placing my hand on hers. She stiffened for a moment, turning around to see my face. I was focused on opening the door.
She continued to stare at me as I turned her hand, twisting the key in the lock. The door opened to the kitchen area and an unlit fireplace; to the left was a redwood dining table.
I finally turned to her, her eyes locked on my face, my eyes wandered from her ocean blue eyes to her rose red lips.
And, just for a split second, I saw her move her head forward, but stop herself.
She quickly turned around and entered the house. "Where to?" I asked her, picking up the crate again.
She opened and closed her mouth, trying to find words. She moved back, pointing beside the fireplace, "H-here."
I stepped inside and placed it by the fireplace, near the barrels.
I glanced around the house; it was empty, dark, and gloomy. I turned back to Gerdur, who was squatting down and trying to light up the fireplace but failing.
I crouched down beside her, grabbing her hand again. I used the flame spell, limited only to my index finger to burn the firewood.
She didn't pull her hand away, finding more warmth in my hand than the wood burning in front of us.
"You didn't have to," she whispered, her voice nearly drowned out by the soft popping of the firewood.
"I know," I said, letting go of her hand. She seemed disappointed at the loss of touch.
We stayed like that for a moment—kneeling in front of a growing flame, shadows dancing on the walls.
Then, with a soft breath, she stood, and I followed, "You can make yourself comfortable," she said.
"I'm going to change," she said.
I glanced back at the turn of the 'L' shaped house, it didn't have any separate room or wall dividing the house.
"As much as I'd like to watch, I have something to do," I said. She turned around, looking at her house as if she was unfamiliar with it.
And turned back with a red face, embarrassed.
I chuckled, placing my hand on her head. "I'll be back."
She nodded her head as I walked out of the house.
***
The cold wind I couldn't feel blew outside, swaying my hair as I walked to Alvor's house, passing through the loud Inn.
I saw Alvor still at the forge, cleaning it, with some difficulty.
I took the moment to step closer to him, my tone casual but firm. "I'll be staying at Gerdur's tonight." I paused, waiting for Alvor's full attention.
"That's alright—"
Before Alvor could finish, the door to the house creaked open. Sigrid stepped out, her apron dusted with flour, the scent of warm bread and stew drifting in the cool evening air.
She paused for a moment upon seeing us, her gaze landing on her husband first, then at me. There was no fear in her expression—no tension. A 180 from this afternoon.
Her hands fidgeted for a moment before she finally spoke, her voice soft, hesitant. "I… made too much food."
I arched a brow.
Sigrid glanced at me, then at Alvor, then back at me, as if trying to find the right words. "It would be a waste if you left without eating."
Alvor let out a sigh, rubbing his temples. "Sigrid, you don't have to—"
"I know," she interrupted, her voice barely a whisper. "But it's halfway done," she murmured, looking away, embarrassed.
"It's fine," I said, "I'll eat then go."
***
The scent of stew was stronger as I stepped into the house. It reminded me of something—not my own, but ones I'd felt before, like a memory borrowed from someone else.
Sigrid was stirring the pot with vigor, keeping the heat in check. Alvor had stayed outside to clean up the forge, and Dorthe, his 'assistant', had joined him, leaving us alone
I sat on a chair near her, admiring her curves, tracking the sweat on her face—her skin glistening in the dim, fire-lit kitchen. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, then glanced at me over her shoulder.
"You don't mind simple food, do you?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Not at all," I replied, leaning back slightly. "The company more than makes up for it."
She looked away, a little scared, but a small smile tugged her face, a real one this time.
I watched as she reached for a small iron pot to ladle out a taste. Her hand brushed the side of the cast-iron surface too close to the heat.
A sharp hiss.
She let out a sudden gasp, yanking her hand back. The ladle clattered against the side of the pot, splattering broth onto the floor.
"Ouch," she whispered, clutching her hand.
I was already on my feet before she turned around. "Let me see."
"It's fine—"
I cought her wrist gently. She winced but didn't pull away. The burn wasn't terrible, but the skin had reddened, already swelling slightly from the heat.
Without thinking, I raised my hand and cast the healing spell—Restoration, basic. A warm glow surged through my palm, just like when I had healed Sonia's sprained ankle.
Her eyes widened as the pain faded away, replaced by warmth and comfort. Her lips parted slightly, confused. Awed.
My eyes narrowed at my hand. That's not… right.
The [Healing] spell is supposed to only heal the caster. It shouldn't work on someone else.
I blinked and pulled away slowly, masking my surprise. Magic Mastery, I thought to myself. That must be it. No need to dwell on it.
Sigrid looked up at me, her expression unreadable. Not fear. Not shock. Just… quiet awe.
"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling faintly. Her hand lingered in mine for a second longer than needed.
As she began to pull her hand out of my grasp, I stopped her, grabbing her wrist firmly.
Her breath hitched—just slightly—remembering the afternoon's incident in the cabin, fear gripped her heart, and something else.
Excitement.
"We aren't done yet," I said, my voice low, almost a whisper.
.
.
.
***
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