“Well, this is inconvenient,” Garrick said. The heavy trunk now disrupted the neat row of planks he had so carefully arranged over a decade ago.
“Suppose that was bound to happen sooner or later,” he said, shaking his head. “At least I know more about proper fence building now than I did then.”
Letting out a sigh, Garrick wrapped his arms around the wide tree trunk and heaved. Where most folk might have hitched a horse, Garrick needed nothing beyond his own might. He hoisted the massive log and moved the obstacle aside, letting it crash to the ground with a loud earthen thump. For Garrick, there was a quiet acknowledgment of the strength that still coursed through his aging frame.
“Oh, almost forgot,” he chuckled, “I need to build up the stockpile.”
He leaned down and hefted the tree once more, walking it over to his woodpile to be repurposed for later use.
“Guess this was a little blessing in disguise,” he mused.
With that sorted, Garrick made his way to the woodshed to select the tools needed to fix the fence, returning a few moments later armed for battle. His movements were deliberate, each swing of the hammer and twist of the nail pliers executed with precision. He’d had a lifetime of honing certain skills, but he’d been learning better ones—those more suited to a calmer lifestyle—ever since he decided to make this place his home.
After the fence was mended, Garrick ventured into the woods that bordered his land. He scanned the underbrush for herbs and wild fruits and took his time as he harvested the bounty of the woods. He gathered wild thyme—its aroma heady—and plump berries that stained his fingers a deep purple. For a moment, he paused, the sight reminding him of something far worse and more frequent in his past, but then he shook the thoughts out of his head and continued on.
Instead, he focused on the time he and Twyla had gone hunting for wild cloves for her mother’s winter cider. He found himself grinning as he recalled how they’d spent all day searching through the woods, turning over every leaf and rock trying to find a patch of the elusive ingredients until they’d discovered a whole treasure trove near the roots of one of the larger evergreens on the far outskirts of his land. Then they’d gathered the cloves up—though it was only a handful for Twyla—and made their way back to deposit them in his daughter-in-law’s fragrant steeping liquid.
Two years ago, now…
Garrick’s heart ached. He longed to see his family again. He could go to them, he knew, but he wasn’t sure how welcome that would be considering the circumstances. Skylark hadn't even written to him with an update since they’d left. Fortunately, Ri Aru had defiantly sent letters every six months—mostly to update him on the goings-on of the family and their life in Ozara. He smiled. His son’s wife was never one to let something like a father-son disagreement get in the way of a little meddling. Still…
He considered another aspect. The trip itself…well, it would be months of walking, riding in the backs of wagons, and at least three ships to get to Ozara. And another week of the same to get to where they lived in Utsuro City.
Or, you could admit that those aren’t really issues to someone like you, Garrick. Maybe you just don’t want to travel all that way for another row?
He pondered on this for a while, and was still deep in thought when he was interrupted by the grumble of his own stomach. He looked down at Ember, who stared back up at him with interest in her too-clever face.
"Well, that’s never a good sign, is it? Suppose we catch some supper, then?" Garrick wondered. Now that he was thinking of it, it had been quite a while since he’d eaten. The image of his perfect, likely delicious loaf of freshly baked bread soaring away from him blossomed back into his mind and he scowled at the trees in the distance.
Thieving bird…
Ember seemed to understand this sentiment and half-closed her eyes as if in agreement.
"Right," Garrick said with a nod. "Off to the stream, then. Could you…?"
He patted himself down to show he wasn't properly equipped.
Ember seemed to take his meaning and scurried off. Garrick chuckled, making his way toward the stream at the bottom of the slope of trees. After only a few minutes, Ember returned, carrying his makeshift fishing pole in her teeth. It was a simple rod and line, but it would do just fine for the task.
“Excellent,” Garrick praised. “So…what do you think we’ll hook today, Ember? I’m hoping for something like a skimmer or a ghelpie.”
Lately, it had been mostly trout—odd considering the time of year—but oftentimes that was just how things went, he knew.
It’s not all bad, he considered. Ember loves trout. But isn’t there something in the elder stories about trout bringing change?
Though, much like the coursing stream, Garrick endeavored to take the approach of ‘come what may,’ with things such as divergence. He suffered only mild inconvenience where change was concerned. Because he enjoyed his predictable lifestyle now—even with the occasional surprise storm that brought down fences—but, he also considered that not all change was bad. Or so he’d been told.
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And so, Garrick and Ember spent the afternoon trying to catch a fish.
As evening came, Garrick prepared his meal. The fire pit, carefully constructed from river stones, cradled the flames that leapt and danced. He skewered their freshly caught trout, its scales glinting like silver in the firelight, and placed it over the flames. The sizzle and aroma of cooking fish filled the air, mingling with the scent of the thyme that he sprinkled over it, infusing the meal with its redolent essence.
On a large flat stone, he sliced the berries. He watched with delight as the fruit juice beaded on the surface of the rock, creating a beautiful portrait of red against the gray. Ember, ever-attentive, watched with bright eyes, her nose twitching at the tantalizing smells. Every so often, Garrick would toss a small piece of fish her way, which she caught with a delighted yip and a wag of her tail.
Garrick settled down to enjoy his meal as the stars began to pepper the sky. The fish was tender and flavorful, infused with the smokiness of the fire and the freshness of the herbs. The berries were a burst of sweetness, which he found was a perfect counterpoint to the savory entree.
As he listened to the crackling of the fire and the chorus of the night, Garrick felt a deep connection to his surroundings. How many of life's simple pleasures had he let go unnoticed before he came here? Now he’d found true contentment, a peace as vast and profound as the mountains that sheltered his home. If only his son would visit, bringing Twyla and Ri Aru, then everything would truly be perfect.
Then, with a sigh, he retired to his home and undressed for bed. Before climbing under the covers he activated the lantern on his bedside table. It was an old relic, fashioned from burnished bronze and sturdy glass. Called a ‘turner,’ one didn't simply light a wick. Instead, a small, ornate key located at its base could be turned, winding up the internal mechanisms that sparked the astara-rich crystal core within. As the gears turned, they would produce a soft, warm glow. Sure, he could have purchased a better one long ago, but he’d gotten this one for free—found amongst a pile of rubble in a dusty old dungeon—and there was no sense in throwing something out just because it had the misfortune of being old .
Tonight, like most nights, Garrick attempted to read, Ember curled up at his feet. But before he’d even made it past the first few pages, he found himself drifting off to sleep.
—
He woke several hours later in a sweat. Upright in bed, panting in the dark, the cold mountain air cloying as he reminded himself it was a bad dream. Filled with fire and blood and screams and—it was only a dream. But this particular dream was an old one, and—like him—it was still as strong as it ever was.
That hasn’t happened in some time. Thought I’d chased a lot of those away.
It was unsettling, and to temper his nerves, Garrick reached over to light his lantern as it had somehow gone out during his sleep. This was a small miracle as he’d forgotten to do it himself. As his eyes adjusted to the low-burning glow, he found that Ember was not in her usual nest on the floor. Checking his blankets and covers, he discovered she wasn’t there either.
Where’s she off to, then? He wondered. It wasn’t the first time she’d stalked off into the night, nor did he think it would be the last. Likely out hunting, he considered. She’ll be back by morning.
Garrick laid back against the pillow, breathing slowly as he thought about the boisterous little vulpid. Ember was not just a chance companion. She was, in fact, a gift from Claudette, one of Garrick's old friends. The young kit had arrived at Respite only a year ago, a bundle of energy and curiosity, accompanied by a note that read, "May this young spirit nurture bonds anew and help in easing the weight of solitude."
The memory made him smile. Garrick, initially hesitant, had never envisioned himself with a pet, let alone one of such exotic origins. Vulpids weren’t exactly common, and the only other he’d ever heard of was one of such ferocity he didn’t even like to think about it. But that was fine—Ember was different.
In the early days, he'd observed Ember with wariness. She was unlike any creature he had known—her movements were quick and often erratic, and her eyes held a depth that seemed almost person-like. But as days turned into weeks, Garrick grew fond of the little fox. She had an intelligence that surprised him, responding to his words and actions with a keen awareness that undercut her wild nature.
Ember quickly became more than just a pet; she was a companion, a presence in his life that filled a void Garrick hadn't realized existed. And now? Now he couldn’t imagine life without her.
As his eyes began to droop again, he remembered to put out the lantern, and quickly reached over, but paused, taking in a sharp breath.
Pain .
He winced, his eyes traveling down to his chest, where an old, gnarled scar curled maliciously above his heart. Now, the flesh was angry, looking almost swollen, as if he was back in the first weeks of his recovery after he’d received it.
Garrick lay back, the thing still aching—a reminder of the battle that had cut him off from astara. That fight had cost him dearly, not just in blood but in losing his connection to that true power. It was also where he lost so much more…
In any case, it had been a sign.
"Or seemed to be one, in any case," he whispered in the dark, thinking how losing astara felt like being told to hang up his Beacon's boots for good.
His home, away from the echoes of spells and battle, was supposed to be his sanctuary. Yet, dreams like tonight's dragged him back, showing him you can't just walk away from a past like the one he’d had—there would always be hooks.
He sighed, looking at the scar. It wasn't just a mark of survival; it was a decision point—to live a life without astara, to find peace in the ordinary.
"A memento," he admitted, finding a bit of comfort in the thought.
He grimaced as it pulsed, before blessedly settling down once more. The color returned to normal, and the pain receded.
“What was that?” he asked the quiet darkness, placing a hand on the ancient injury but finding nothing but scar tissue.
In the elder stories, things like that were incredibly dire portents. He had to hope he’d just adjusted himself strangely and caused his own pain. Old or not, it was still a wound, after all. But, Garrick wasn’t a fool. Age hadn’t claimed his mental faculties just yet. Astara—or as some of the younger generation had begun to call it, ‘magic’ —was still an active part of the world. Even if he’d been cut off from it long ago, it still had ways to affect him. Even here. Even as he was.
“Which, if that is the case…” Garrick mumbled aloud. “There are only a few things that could mean. None of them good.”
With that thought, he closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back to sleep. And hoping that all of this was just coincidence.