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Chapter 8 - VIII

The chapel smelled faintly of salt and beeswax.

Light spilled through the narrow windows, gold and dust-heavy, painting the stone floor in long stripes.

Somewhere outside, gulls screamed over the cliffs, and the faint sound of a broom brushing the cloister stones drifted through the door.

Rufus slipped in anyway, careful not to let it creak too loud when he pushed it open.

He had meant only to look — to see the candles and maybe the big cross at the end — but the quiet swallowed him whole. It felt safe, like when Adam tucked the blanket up to his chin at night.

He crept down the aisle, boots left outside as the sisters had said, bare feet silent on the cold slabs.

Then he knelt, awkwardly, his knees sliding a little before he found balance. He folded his hands, looked up at the carved figure on the wall, and whispered:

"Hello."

His voice echoed faintly.

He frowned, then leaned forward, lowering his tone.

"Please keep Adam safe. And Victor. And Emma. And Édric. And Aldous too — even if he grumbles."

He paused, thinking hard, mouth moving silently as if counting names in his head.

"Oh, and the horses. They're part of us too."

The faintest smile tugged at his lips.

His hands tightened together.

"And my ma and pa. Tell them… tell them I'm not hungry anymore. I've got food every day now. Adam makes me eat even when I'm not hungry, says I'll stay small forever if I don't."

He glanced up again, squinting at the cross like he half-expected it to answer.

"And Lyra," he added. "My sister. She's little. Was little. She used to cry a lot, but she liked the stars. If you see her, can you tell her I saw the sea? It's so big she'd laugh."

He pressed his palms together tighter, his whisper catching.

"Tell her she can stop being scared now. I'm not alone anymore. I've got people. I've got a tent. I sleep between Adam and the fire, so it's warm. I've got Victor and Emma too — they're like—"

He hesitated, searching for the word.

"They're like when ma and pa used to laugh. It's the same sound."

He sniffled, rubbing his nose with his wrist.

"And Édric's like… like if a mountain could talk. He pretends he's mean, but he's not. He's just tired. And Aldous yells, but he's good at fixing things. I like when he calls Adam names."

Rufus let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh.

"Please. Let them all stay with me a long time. Don't take them. I can't… I don't want to be alone again."

He stayed there for a while, head bowed, his shoulders trembling just a little.

When he finally looked up, the light had dimmed. A shadow moved across the doorway.

"Hey," came a soft voice. "You in here?"

Rufus turned — startled — to see Victor leaning against the doorframe. His shirt was loose at the collar, one hand braced against the wood. The afternoon sun caught the edge of his eyepatch, making it gleam.

Rufus blinked fast, eyes red.

"I wasn't hiding."

Victor smiled a little.

"Didn't say you were."

He stepped inside, boots whispering over the stone.

"What were you doing?"

Rufus hesitated, shoulders curling.

"Just… talking."

"To someone in particular?"

Rufus nodded, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.

"To Him. The one they talk to. I thought He might listen. He seems nice."

Victor crouched down beside him, resting his forearms on his knees.

"What'd you tell Him?"

Rufus bit his lip.

"That I'm thankful. For you all. And that my family doesn't have to worry about me anymore."

He hesitated, glancing up shyly.

"Is that wrong?"

Victor's chest tightened.

"No," he said quietly. "That's one of the best prayers I've ever heard."

Rufus tilted his head.

"You pray?"

"I used to. Not often."

"Why not anymore ?"

Victor huffed softly, a ghost of a smile.

"Because now I've found everything I was asking for. Besides I almost never knew what to say."

Rufus nodded as if that made perfect sense.

"I didn't either. I just talked like I do with Adam. Only… quieter. He says if you talk loud all the time, people stop listening."

Victor smiled for real this time.

"Smart man."

"Yeah." Rufus grinned faintly, the redness still around his eyes. "Don't tell him I said that. He'll get smug."

"I won't."

Victor straightened a little, then held out his hand.

"Come on. It's near supper. Emma's got fish stew. If you're late, Adam'll eat your share."

Rufus gasped.

"He would."

Victor's grin widened.

"So move it, pup."

Rufus got up fast, brushing at his knees, and reached for Victor's hand without thinking. Victor's palm was rough and warm; he squeezed gently before leading him out into the light.

Outside, the sun was setting over the sea, the sky all rose and copper. The sound of laughter drifted from the courtyard — Adam's booming voice, Emma's teasing reply. Rufus looked up at Victor, smiling now for real.

"They're loud," he said.

"They are," Victor agreed.

"Feels nice."

"Yeah," Victor murmured. "It does."

They walked the rest of the way back in silence, the little boy's hand still in his, the smell of salt and woodsmoke rising from the camp.

---

The sun was sliding down toward the sea when they started.

Evening light poured through the cloister arches, soft and gold, catching on dust motes and the curls of smoke that rose from their little fire. The day's noise — the sisters' sandals, the clang of buckets, the muttering gulls — had faded into something gentler. The troupe was scattered about the courtyard, settling into the quiet of rest.

Rufus was flat on his stomach near the firepit, a stick in hand and his tongue caught between his teeth.

The dirt in front of him was a patchwork of crooked lines, half-erased smudges, and a few bold letters.

"That's an A," Adam said, crouched beside him, one hand resting on his knee. "You remember that one, yeah?"

Rufus squinted.

"Looks more like a tent."

Adam grinned.

"Perfect, then. A for Aldous, and the big tent we all hide under when he's shouting."

Rufus snorted, covering his mouth.

"He'll hear you."

"He's half-deaf from the war," Adam said, deadpan, then leaned closer. "But just in case—don't tell him I said that."

The boy giggled, scratching another A into the dirt.

"This one's smaller."

"Right," Adam said, mock-serious. "That's because you're learning to ration your ink. Smart soldier."

Rufus tilted his head.

"I'm not a soldier."

"You're not," Adam said, nudging his shoulder. "But you've got better aim with a stick than Bran has with a spear."

That got another fit of laughter.

Victor, sitting a few feet away with his blade across his knees, raised an eyebrow.

"You teaching him to write or to insult half the camp?"

Adam didn't look up.

"Both. He's got to learn priorities."

Victor smirked.

"Then start with 'B.'"

Rufus, already dragging his stick through the dirt, piped up,

"B for Bran?"

"B for bread," Adam corrected. "Which we're not getting more of if you keep dropping it in the dirt."

"I wasn't—"

"You were."

Rufus scrunched his face.

"Okay, then C!"

"C for Could you please stop talking and eat your soup," came Emma's voice from behind them.

Rufus turned around, grinning. Emma was standing with her sleeves rolled up and a bowl in each hand, her braid glinting copper in the firelight.

"That's my favorite phrase," she said, setting the bowls beside them. "Maybe you can teach him that next, Adam."

Adam placed a hand on his chest in mock outrage.

"I'll have you know I am a model of patience."

"Mm," she said, not believing it for a second.

Rufus was still drawing. "D?"

"D for danger," Adam said, tracing a big, dramatic letter beside his. "As in, 'Victor is in danger if he laughs at me again.'"

Victor made a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff.

"You sound more like Édric every day."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Adam shot back, leaning over Rufus's shoulder. "Come on, pup, what's next?"

Rufus hesitated.

"E?"

"E's for Édric," Adam said without missing a beat. "Our mountain of patience, who loves us all very quietly and wishes we'd shut up."

That earned real laughter from Emma, loud enough that even Édric, sitting under one of the arches with his back against the wall, glanced over.

"What's this racket?" he called.

"Education!" Adam yelled back. "You'll thank me when he can read your orders!"

Édric grunted, but there was a ghost of a smile under the beard.

They went on like that for a while — Rufus scratching out letters, Adam naming them after the things he loved.

"F for fire," "G for gulls," "H for home—wherever we pitch our tents."

Each one came with a joke or a little story.

Sometimes Victor chimed in, correcting his lines, or Emma teased him when he smudged the dirt with his elbow.

When Rufus managed to spell his own name, all shaky but proud, Adam whooped so loud half the convent must've heard.

"You hear that?" he shouted up toward the cloister. "The kid's smarter than all of you put together!"

Rufus laughed until he hiccuped. Victor groaned.

"Now he's never going to sleep."

Emma dropped another crust of bread into Rufus's hand and shook her head, smiling.

"Let him have his moment."

When the fire dimmed and the first stars appeared, Rufus was lying on his back in the grass, staring at the sky. The letters were already fading in the dirt, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Think Édric's proud?" he asked sleepily.

Adam looked down at him, his grin softening.

"I think he's proud every day. He just hides it worse than Victor hides his smiles."

Victor rolled his eye.

"I can hear you."

"Good," Adam said.

The night grew cooler, the fire low. Rufus yawned so wide his eyes watered, and Adam reached over to ruffle his hair.

"Come on, scholar. Bedtime."

"But I didn't finish Z."

Adam scooped him up with one arm, ignoring the protest.

"Z can wait. It's a lazy letter anyway."

-

--

The night air smelled of salt and rosemary.

Crickets sang from the tall grass along the convent walls; the sea murmured somewhere below the cliffs, a long, even breath.

The torches hissed softly, their light swaying across the stone path.

Victor shifted his weight, the worn leather of his boots whispering against the gravel. His sword hung at his hip, his coat open to the summer warmth. Édric walked a few paces ahead, quiet as always, his hand resting near the hilt at his belt — not tense, just ready.

For a while they didn't speak. The kind of silence that's easy between them now.

Victor was the first to break it.

"You think we'll stay long?"

Édric glanced over, eyes reflecting the torchlight.

"Long enough to rest. Not long enough to get soft."

Victor huffed, half a laugh, half a sigh.

"You sound like Aldous."

"Then he's finally rubbing off on me," Édric said.

Victor smiled faintly, but it didn't last.

"I keep thinking about that mark on the well. About the people who left it."

Édric's gaze stayed ahead.

"You're not wrong to think on it. Just don't let it rot in your head."

Victor's hand brushed the pommel of his sword.

"I can't help it. It feels like we're being followed. Like every village we stop in, we're leaving a trail."

Édric's jaw tightened — not with anger, but thought.

"We might be. But that's the way of the road. There's always someone behind you, or ahead, or waiting where you least expect."

He looked at Victor then, steady.

"The trick's not letting fear walk beside you, too."

Victor let out a slow breath.

"Easy for you to say."

Édric's mouth twitched — not quite a smile.

"You think I don't know fear, son?"

Victor met his eyes, startled by the softness of the word. Édric rarely used it, but when he did, it landed deep.

"I was younger than you the first time I thought I'd never see morning again," Édric went on. "Learned then that fear's just another companion. You nod to it, you keep walking. You don't let it choose your road."

Victor was quiet a long moment. The waves filled the silence between them.

"I still see him sometimes," he said finally, voice low. "The Count. The fire. The mine."

É

dric's expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to still.

"I know."

"Sometimes I wake up and think it's still there. Like if I move too fast, I'll wake up back in that place."

Édric stopped walking. Turned toward him.

"You're not there anymore, Victor."

Victor swallowed hard.

"I know. But it feels—"

"I know," Édric said again, softer now. "That kind of thing doesn't leave easy."

He reached out, resting a calloused hand against the back of Victor's neck — the same gesture he'd done a hundred times before, firm and grounding.

"You're not the boy you were when I found you. You've got a blade in your hand and someone waiting for you by the fire. That's what's real."

Victor let his shoulders drop a little. The tension in his chest eased, just enough.

"You think she's asleep?"

"Emma?" Édric's brow lifted. "If she's smart. You keep her up half the night pacing."

Victor smiled at that, just a bit.

"I don't pace."

"You brood," Édric corrected.

Victor huffed a laugh. "That's worse."

Édric started walking again, slower this time.

"Fall'll come before we know it. The sisters won't keep us past the harvest. We'll move south, maybe. Find quieter ground."

Victor nodded.

"You think we'll ever stop moving?"

Édric's eyes flicked to the horizon, where the dark met darker.

"Maybe. When it's safe. Or when we're too stubborn to care."

Victor's laugh was soft but real.

"So never."

"Never," Édric agreed.

They reached the far end of the wall, where the torches thinned and the stars took over.

Victor leaned against the stone, watching the sea glimmer faintly below.

"You know," he said after a while, "I used to think being a man meant not being afraid. Now I just think it means walking anyway."

Édric looked at him sidelong, the faintest pride hiding in his voice.

"Then you're learning faster than I did."

Victor turned to him, something like gratitude flickering in his eye.

"That mean you're proud of me?"

Édric didn't answer right away. He just reached over and clapped a hand against his shoulder, solid and sure.

"Wouldn't be wasting breath on you otherwise."

Victor smiled — small, tired, but genuine.

"You're getting soft."

"Don't tell Aldous," Édric said dryly. "He'll start expecting hugs."

Victor chuckled under his breath, and for a while, they just walked again — father and son under the same slow stars, the road ahead uncertain, but the night steady around them.

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