Chapter 21: Aftermath

The horse’s steady gait carries them through the King’s Woods, each step jostling Giroud’s battle-worn body. The afternoon sun filters through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the path before them. The lingering stench of dark magic still clings to their clothes, a stark contrast to the fresh forest air.

Aya sits behind him, her slender arms wrapped firmly around his waist, careful to avoid the worst of his wounds. Her presence is both support and comfort as she helps keep him steady in the saddle. The afternoon light catches in her dark hair as she periodically glances up at his sagging frame.

“Nearly home,” she murmurs, as much to herself as to Giroud. The words drift away in the cool breeze that rustles through the leaves.

He manages only a grunt in response, grateful for the horse’s sure-footed nature. The warlock’s brand still burns in his flesh, an invisible mark of their close brush with death. His jaw clenches against another wave of pain as they round a bend in the road, the sounds of the forest softening around them.

Whitespire’s walls rise ahead–proud stone battlements catching the late sun. The familiar sight brings a sense of relief washing over them both. Their horse’s hooves click against the cobblestones as they pass through the city gates, the comforting sounds and smells of home welcoming them back.

Giroud leans forward slightly in the saddle, his armor creaking with the movement. The horse knows the way, carrying its weary riders through the streets toward the stable near their home, where rest and recovery await.

Their home looms ahead–a one-story structure of weathered stone and sturdy timbers. The sight of its solid walls brings a sense of relief washing over them both.

The door creaks open beneath Aya’s gentle push, releasing the comforting scent of leather and steel mingled with dried herbs from a pot still hanging over the cold hearth.

Giroud makes straight for his worn armchair, its cushions molded by countless evenings of weary repose. As he sinks into it, a wince carves its way across his features, the sound of his leather armor creaking with the movement. The chair embraces him like an old friend, supporting his battered body.

Aya moves with practiced efficiency, tearing strips from an old linen sheet to create bandages. The soft ripping sound fills the room as she works, her fingers deft and sure as she folds each strip with careful precision. The late afternoon light filters through dusty windows, catching the determination in her eyes as she tends to his wounds.

“Keep still,” she commands softly, her voice carrying the authority of a healer despite her youth. She dabs at the blood seeping from a gash across his forearm, her touch light but unwavering. The sting draws a hiss from between his clenched teeth, but he remains motionless under her care.

Their conversation turns to deeper matters as she works - discussions of their future, of the paths that lay before them. The room grows dimmer as the sun sets, shadows lengthening across the wooden floors while candles flicker to life in wall sconces. The city’s heartbeat continues outside their windows, but within these walls, time seems to slow, giving them space to heal and plan.

The candlelight dances across their faces as Aya finishes securing the last bandage, her knot firm but not too tight. The scent of healing herbs fills the air, mingling with the metallic tang of dried blood and the ever-present leather and steel that marks their home.

“Will it always be like this?” she asks, her voice carrying the weight of their recent battles. Her small hands, still stained with traces of his blood, rest in her lap as she sits back on her heels.

Giroud studies her face in the flickering light, noting how the shadows seem to deepen the wisdom in her eyes. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow that belies the gravity of their conversation.

“Perhaps not,” he replies, testing his bandaged arm with careful movements. “You could choose a different path, Aya. One less marked by violence.”

She tilts her head, considering his words while the city’s evening sounds drift through the window - merchants closing their stalls, the distant toll of the cathedral bells, the murmur of people heading home for the night.

“Think we could grow our own food?” she asks, her eyes brightening at the prospect. “Have a garden, maybe?”

The question hangs in the air like the dust motes dancing in the candlelight. Giroud feels a smile tugging at his lips, the first genuine one since their battle with the warlock. The simple domesticity of the idea contrasts sharply with their violent past.

Later, they share a modest meal, the steaming bowls of stew filling the room with comforting aromas. Each spoonful seems to wash away more of the darkness they’d faced, replacing it with warmth and the promise of new beginnings.

“Thanks for protecting me,” Aya says suddenly, breaking a comfortable silence. Her words carry the weight of their shared history, of every battle fought side by side.

Giroud meets her gaze across the table, seeing not just the girl he’d rescued, but the warrior she’d become - and perhaps more importantly, the person she could be beyond the battlefield. The candles have burned lower, their flames reflecting in her earnest eyes.

Night settles fully over Whitespire, its darkness held at bay by the warm glow of their hearth. Giroud shifts in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he finds a more comfortable position for his wounded body. The fire casts dancing shadows on the walls, while outside, the city’s nighttime chorus of distant voices and creaking timber creates a gentle backdrop to their conversation.

“Tell me more about the gardens you’d want,” Giroud encourages, watching how Aya’s face lights up at the invitation. She sits cross-legged on the floor near his feet, her battle leathers exchanged for simple cotton clothes that remind him of her youth.

“We could grow healing herbs,” she begins, her hands moving animatedly as she speaks. “And vegetables - fresh ones, not the wilted things we buy at market. Maybe even some flowers.” She pauses, almost embarrassed by the last suggestion, as if flowers are too frivolous for a warrior to desire.

The flames pop and crackle, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The scent of woodsmoke mingles with the lingering aroma of their evening meal, creating an atmosphere of homely comfort that seems far removed from the dark magic they’d recently faced.

“I think flowers would be nice,” Giroud says softly, surprising himself with the admission. “Your father’s house had flowers, didn’t it?”

Aya nods, her eyes distant with memory. “Yellow ones. Mother loved them.” She pulls her knees to her chest, making herself smaller as she often does when remembering her past. The candlelight catches the glint of unshed tears in her eyes, but her voice remains steady.

“We could plant yellow ones,” Giroud offers, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts as the fire slowly dies down to glowing embers.

“It’s late,” Giroud finally says, noting how Aya tries to stifle a yawn. “You should rest. Tomorrow brings new challenges.”

“Gardening won’t be a challenge,” she replies with a grin, rising gracefully to her feet. She gathers their empty cups from earlier, her movements speaking of care rather than servitude.

As she turns toward the bedroom, she pauses in the doorway.

“Sleep well, Aya,” Giroud calls, watching as she disappears into the shadows of the room. Her footsteps fade behind the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the dying fire.

Giroud remains in his chair, listening to the settling sounds of their home. The fire’s embers cast a faint red glow across the room, barely illuminating the weapons and tools that mark their life together. His wounds throb dully beneath their bandages, a reminder of the price they’d paid for victory.

His thoughts drift to their journey - from the moment he’d found her in that cage to now. The changes in Aya are remarkable, yet somehow she’d retained an innocence that all their battles haven’t managed to strip away. Her ability to dream of gardens while wearing the scars of combat speaks to a resilience he admires.

The night air carries the salt tang of the canal through the window, mixed with the ever-present scent of woodsmoke from the city’s countless chimneys. A dog barks in the distance, answered by another, while the occasional sound of guard patrols echoes off the cobblestones below.