The days began to blur, each one marked by labour in the fields and quiet nights by the hearth. His hands had grown rougher, his shoulders stronger, and though fatigue weighed upon his limbs, his spirit still clung to hope. Yet as the weeks rolled on, a new trial emerged — one not of body, but of heart.
It began with silence. A letter, long expected, did not arrive. He told himself it was merely the fault of distance, that the roads were poor, the posts unreliable. And yet each day he returned from his work to find his hands empty, his heart grew heavier. The words he longed for did not come, and in their absence, doubts crept in like shadows.
Had she faltered?
Had her courage waned beneath the scorn of her neighbours?
Was he still her choice, when his name had fallen to disgrace?
He hated himself for the questions, for the distrust that gnawed at his love. Yet in the long nights, with only the sound of the wind against the shutters, it was difficult not to hear those whispers.
---
She, too, endured the weight of silence. Her last letter, poured out with such trembling sincerity, had not yet been answered. She had trusted the messenger, watched him ride away with the folded parchment pressed close to his chest, and whispered a prayer that it would find its way. But the days passed, then weeks, and no reply came.
Her heart, though steadfast, began to ache with doubt. Was he too wearied by exile to write? Had hardship consumed him so fully that she no longer held a place in his thoughts? At night she lay awake, her candle burning low, wondering if the silence was the beginning of an end she could not bear.
The cruel tongues of the village did not help. Women whispered that he had surely forgotten her, that men in exile found new comforts. One even claimed to have heard that he had been seen with another, though the tale was so wild it could not be true. Yet lies, once spoken, cling like burrs; she could not shake the sting of them.
She pressed his old letters to her chest, breathing in their faded scent, and repeated to herself the vows they had made. Still, the silence stretched between them like an ocean, vast and unyielding.
---
One evening, as he returned from the fields, the innkeeper's wife remarked upon a letter that had arrived for him. Relief surged so strongly he nearly stumbled, rushing forward with hands that trembled. At last — her words, her comfort, the balm his weary heart craved!
But as he broke the seal, his joy faltered. The parchment bore not her hand but his father's. The words within were cold, sharp as the steel of a blade.
You have made your bed among peasants. Do not think she will wait for you forever. Already whispers reach even my ears that she entertains the attentions of another. Such is the price of defying your blood. Return and repent, or be forgotten.
His fist clenched around the page. He knew his father well — manipulation was his weapon, deceit his strategy. And yet the poison of those words seeped into his veins. Could it be true? Could the silence mean she had turned her face from him, weary of waiting for a man with nothing to offer but hardship?
He buried his face in his hands, torn between faith and fear. The love he bore her had sustained him thus far, but now it felt fragile, as though one cruel rumour might shatter it.
---
That same night, she too faced the cruelty of whispers. A neighbour, with a tongue sharpened by envy, insinuated that he had been seen laughing in the company of another. The words pierced her like a thorn. She dismissed them aloud, yet in private she wept, clutching his letters as though they might shield her from doubt.
Still, she whispered into the silence: "I trust you. Even if the world does not, I will."
---
At last, after nearly a month of waiting, his letter reached her door. The envelope was smudged, the ink faint from travel, but it was his hand, his words. With breath held, she read:
My dearest, forgive the silence. The fault is not mine but the slowness of distance. I write each week without fail, though it seems some letters lose their way. I fear you think me neglectful, and the thought is agony. Do not believe the whispers, for they are but the malice of those who envy what we share. I live each day for you alone, and no hardship can alter that truth.
If my hands are calloused, it is for the life I am building for us. If my back is bent, it is only beneath the weight of a future where you and I may walk together unburdened. Hold fast, beloved. Silence is not abandonment. Distance is not forgetfulness. Trust in me, as I trust in you.
Tears blurred her sight as she pressed the letter to her lips. He had not forgotten. He had not strayed. He was hers still, and she his. The silence was cruel, but love had spoken louder.
---
For him, her reply came a week later. Her words carried no doubt, no reproach — only steadfast faith.
Let the world speak its falsehoods. I know the truth. We are stronger than their whispers. I am yours, and I shall remain so until the road leads you home.
He read those lines by candlelight, and his heart, which had been bowed beneath the weight of silence, lifted once more. They had endured the first true trial of separation — the lies of others, the fear of abandonment — and love had emerged, scarred perhaps, but stronger.
---
It was not the last test they would face, but it proved a truth that neither distance nor deceit could undo: though silence may whisper doubts, love will always speak louder.