The way he had always imagined it, she would come with him. They'd get sick of their routine and the imaginary boundaries of Caelin keeping them in, utterly small compared to the reaches of continent, and she would give him a stern look and say "Wil, why is it that you still haven't gone to see your parents yet?" And they'd go running on another journey, one with less blades and bloodshed, and he would say, "Mum, Dad, I'd like you to meet my lady liege, Lyndis," before they would be off again. They would live on wing and freedom again, until the time came for them to return to beloved Caelin, where the hills would once more be as beautiful as when they first saw them.
"Wil, you still haven't visited your parents, have you?" It was long after the war, after Lyn took much of Hausen's duties upon herself to allow him to rest and heal and would hear no protest about it, after each of them who had fought beside her were handed their own greater positions and responsibilities, after not only her soldiers but the common people began to regard her as their real ruler, that he looked into a tired smile and realized it wouldn't be the case. "Take some time off. Go see them!"
He did.
Back during his time wandering, he found himself starting to lie. ("Where are you from," many asked, and he would tell them he hailed from Badon, or Khathelet, or somewhere else decently far. They would gasp and look upon him with awe and concern, and remark how far he'd gone, alone and so young, and even without being shown a map some deep instinct would know in him that Pherae was further. "What's brought you so far from home," they questioned of him, and he would make something up each time until the day he began to say he was actually on his way homewards.) He was poor at it at first, hesitating for whole seconds before he'd manage to invent something and even then delivering it with a small voice and a lack of boldness, but he improved rapidly as it sunk deeper and deeper into habit. Very soon, he began to lie without thinking.
Lyn was the first person he ever told the whole, true story.
(It felt like she'd seen right through him, but she hadn't really, had she? No, he'd as good as told her himself.) From that, he came to depend on her. He had someone to confide in, someone who would advise him and push him and understand him all in one. He had faith in Lyn and admired her, and leaned on her force of will to be able to overcome his own hesitation. While he originally joined the ranks of Caelin for the armored, mounted knights beside her, dazzled by their shine in the light of a childhood dream and swept up by a wind of fate and opportunity, it was Lyn, not them, whom he felt he could follow anywhere (and even then he knew they wouldn't always be the same).
One day he looked into a tired smile and realized, suddenly, how different being told the whole, true story is from hearing rumors out of another person's mouth. At that moment, Lyn wasn't depending on him for adventurre or freedom or the wind beneath her wings; she was depending on him to be his own resolution.
No matter how much you know they care about you, it's painful to hold someone in greater value and regard than they do you.
But it's even more painful to be a burden to them.
Lyndis had a whole marquisdom depending on her. That Wil wanted to whisk her away from it all, the way he solved his problems, abruptly felt foolish-it was as if he'd forgotten, in his fantasy, that he admired Lyn precisely because she didn't run away like he did. And all the while he had viewed her as the one to turn to for all his worries, when all she really needed was a few less people doing just that.
So he decided. He would go to see his parents, and they'd hear his whole, true story, too. More than he'd ever penned in a letter. (He'd tell them that Caelin was wonderful, that Lady Lyndis was wonderful. He'd tell them to visit.) He'd go to Kent for advice, to Rath if he was still there when he got back, maybe even to Sain if it was something too silly to bother either of them for. He'd talk to anyone about their own problems, too, if they would want to tell him.
He decided that on that day sometime in the future when Lyn's nomad heart would finally take her away, he would tell her to live on wing and freedom, and by then, he hoped, she would feel assured that she need never come back.
(And for goodness' sake, they had him teaching trainees already, however long it took he really ought to get some force of will of his own.)
"Er, Mum, hey! ...I'm home."
(When he returned to Caelin, the hills were beautiful again.)