Obsidian Thornwing's Arc

Chapter 11 of 18

He set her down at last. Her feet touched the moss. She kept her hands on his chest and looked up at him like she was checking he was whole. "I have to do something first," he said. "Before we go inside. Before anything." She tilted her head. "You already asked." "I asked in a doorway with a horse behind me. You deserved better." He took her hand. "Walk with me." He led her past the cabin, past the crooked birdfeeder on its eave, into the trees where the tall sparkling mushrooms grew. Their caps threw small points of light across the ground. He had thought about this the whole ride south. He had planned each step. He stopped in the middle of the grove and whistled once, low. The green lynx came first. It slipped out from behind a stem, dotted markings glowing soft, and dropped a circle of woven grass at his boot. He had spent an hour that morning weaving it while the horses drank at a stream. He had asked the small creature, in the plain way one asks a forest thing, to carry it the last stretch. It had. Then the owlbear stepped through the ferns behind her. Sylvara turned. The great grey shape lowered its head to her level, the green feathers along its shoulders catching the light. In its beak it held one white flower from the cabin's north side, the kind she kept in a jar by the window. She took the flower. Her hand shook once, then steadied. Obsidian went down on one knee. He picked up the grass ring. "I asked before because I was leaving," he said. "I'm asking now because I came back. I want the quiet mornings. I want no orders. I want you beside me for the rest of it." He held up the ring. "Marry me, Sylvara." She looked at the lynx. She looked at the owlbear. She looked at his pale blue wings, folded neat against his back. Her eyes filled but did not spill. "Yes," she said. "Obsidian. Yes." He slid the woven ring onto her finger. It fit. She pulled him up by the front of his coat and kissed him hard. The lynx sat on its haunches. The owlbear made a low sound that was almost approval and turned away into the ferns. They walked back to the cabin with her hand in his. At the door she stopped. "How long before they call you north again?" "A week. Maybe less." She nodded once. She did not soften it. "Then we start now." He understood what she meant. A wife. A rank. A war still open on the Ridge. The captain's braid on his shoulder had bought him this clearing for seven days, no more. He stepped inside with her and shut the door on the light to not waste any time with the love of his life.