The inn was loud, warm, and crowded, a stark contrast to the forest they had just left. Lanterns swayed above wooden tables, casting a honeyed glow across faces flushed from ale and laughter. The smell of roasted meat mingled with the faint tang of spilled drink.
Garrick and Rosalie entered, their packs heavy on their shoulders. He dropped his overcoat neatly beside a chair, and she set her bow and quiver against the table, wobbling slightly as she tried to balance herself.
Rosalie's eyes sparkled dangerously. "Finally… a drink that isn't mud-colored forest water. I've been waiting for this forever." She slumped into her chair, sloshing ale onto the table with a careless flourish.
Garrick sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he sat. "Careful. You don't want to knock the whole table over."
"Pssh," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm fine. Absolutely fine. Perfectly, hey! Don't look at me like that!"
He ignored her theatrics, focusing instead on keeping an eye on her. Part of him wished she'd slow down, stop tempting disaster, and yet another part couldn't help but smile at her unbridled energy. She reminded him of his younger siblings back at the orphanage, reckless and fearless, always chasing trouble.
The ale warmed her, loosening her tongue. Words began to tumble out, fragmented and uneven, a reflection of her own internal turbulence.
"I hate… I hate how…" she trailed off, waving vaguely, "…everything feels like it's just waiting to explode, and no one cares. And then they leave. Everyone leaves. It's stupid! But it's true!"
Garrick leaned back, his expression neutral but his grip on the table tightening. He knew better than to interrupt. This was the pattern. Alcohol lowered her defenses, and the chaos in her mind spilled out in splashes, broken fragments, half-formed confessions.
She leaned forward suddenly, eyes bright and wet. "I hate drinking… I hate how it makes me feel, but it's like… like it lets me say things I shouldn't. Things that make me… too honest. Or maybe too pathetic. Ugh, I hate it, but I can't stop."
Garrick exhaled slowly. "I know. I get it."
Rosalie blinked at him, shocked that he actually responded. She stumbled on a laugh, then slumped sideways in her chair. Garrick quickly caught her, steadying her as she nearly fell.
"You're a pain in the ass," she murmured, resting her head against his arm. "Always… always the rock. Annoying. But my rock."
He scoffed, the sound soft, almost amused. "Guess that makes me your little sister then," he said dryly, his hand smoothing her hair.
Her lips twitched into a small, tired smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Garrick. Honestly. I… I wouldn't survive half the stupid stuff I get myself into."
Garrick's eyes drifted, the edge of worry flashing for a moment. He thought of the signs they had seen on the road, the rumors in the villages—soldiers missing, villages attacked, strange creatures glimpsed in the forests. The world felt heavier than any tavern could contain, yet here she was, spilling pieces of herself like fragile glass.
He returned his gaze to her, sighing as he lifted her gently. "Time for some fresh air."
They stepped outside, the cool night brushing against their cheeks. The inn's back was quiet, the hum of the village fading into the distance. Garrick set her carefully on the steps, taking a moment to pick up her bow and quiver, as well as his own gear.
He pulled out a small whetstone and began sharpening his axe, the rhythmic scraping grounding him. Rosalie leaned against him, her head drooping lightly. "Don't… don't stop talking. I like… I like when you just… think. It's… safe."
Garrick let the words wash over him, silent for a moment, lost in thought. He thought of the world beyond the village the signs of a demonic army stirring, rumors of dark forces rising. He couldn't tell her, not yet. She didn't need the weight of that on top of her own struggles.
"You know," she said slowly, voice soft, almost weary, "I've always been… the one everyone worried about. The one who made mistakes, got hurt, ran away. I never wanted anyone to care. But… I guess I did. I just didn't know how to… I don't know… say it."
Garrick kept his axe moving, the metal singing against the stone. "I see you. And I always will," he said simply.
Her eyes fluttered shut briefly. When she opened them, a faint smile tugged at her lips. "You're… annoying, you know? Always… always there. But… I'd let you be. My annoying rock. Guess… I trust you."
He laughed quietly, a soft, scoffing sound. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."
Her words drifted into the night air as her head slowly leaned fully on his shoulder. Garrick's hand rested lightly on her back as she finally passed out, breathing evening-cooled air, weight heavy yet comforting.
The village slept around them, oblivious to the quiet chaos inside hearts as much as outside walls. Garrick sat, sharpening his axe, the fire of concern for the world smoldering just beneath his calm exterior. Above, the distant shadows of the rising army hinted at dangers yet to come, but for now, the moment held: a girl at peace for once, and a man steadfast, holding the line for both her and the world.