A/N: It really shouldn't be this hard to update a fic like this. In fact...*looks over shoulder*...I'm , and writingtwopapers and cleaningmyroommaybe, but don't tell anyone. :)

This is AravisXCor sort of, but it's more reflective than actual romance. Soon I'm going to do a fun one, with Aravis and Cor and Corin...but until then, this'll have to do. And I've got a few more in mind. Thank you all so much for your reviews and patience!

Enjoy.


9.

She was hot and dripping with sweat when she swung down from her stallion inside the Hermit's gates, but really, at the moment, Aravis was too furious to care.

"Give me work," she snapped, tossing a thick sheet of hair and braids over her shoulder as she met the gaze of a somewhat bemused Hermit (he'd been tending his goats all morning, and was not expecting visitors).

"Work?" the Hermit repeated.

"Something. Anything. Let me weed your garden—milk the goats—anything."

He would've been more bewildered if this hadn't happened about twice or thrice a month since the engagement. They'd agreed to wait a year before marrying, to make perfectly certain they could last that long without killing one another, and at this rate the prospects were slightly grimmer than they had been near the beginning.

"I have some old gear that needs going through," said the Hermit, too perspicacious to ask what had sparked this latest passion. "In the stables—you can see to it after you see to your horse."

Jerking her head in a sharp nod (she was far too angry to think of thanking even him right now), Aravis whirled and marched toward the stable, towing a somewhat annoyed stallion behind her.

And now, here she was. Sitting on a musty pile of hay and staring at a heap of old sacks and saddles and what appeared to be moth-eaten clothing. The Hermit granted lodging to any travellers who came through—a tradition that had begun long before Hwin and Bree had limped into the sheltered courtyard with her half-fainting with her back in agony, and Shast—

Aravis took a breath and ran a hand through her hair, as if trying to rake the thoughts of him out of her mind. Her hands trembled as she reached over to poke at the pile, and it was then, sitting in the dark trying not to think about the fight, about the way the words had snapped unbidden from her lips like flashes of fire…of the way his eyes could be so furious one moment and so hurt the next.

Her anger dissolved and fled through her stinging eyes until the only sign it had ever existed was the slightly wet streaks running down the sides of her face. Aravis rubbed them away with her sleeve and reached for the first sack—work. Work would clear her mind, even if it was something as monotonous and distasteful as going through old gear (for, it is certain, there were things in those sacks that had perhaps once been provisions but which were now non-edible lumps at which even the mice turned up their noses).

The first saddlebag held several bolts of moth-eaten cloth. It smelled of wet-horse, and Aravis tossed it to the side, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

And yet, pungent and nasty as it was, the smell brought back memories—of a racing heart, fumbling at her belt to trytotryto grab her sword—jerking forward in the saddle and hearing the sound of a roar behind her, in her ears, consuming her.

Smell of hot horse. Smell of hot self. A bright blue sky that soon faded to a pale brilliance as the sun grew larger and commanded the shadows away. She could almost feel the dryness in her throat—the all-consuming thirst.

Aravis swallowed and picked up a second sack. Inside this one was a bundle of thread-worn, muddy rags. She picked it up with her fingertips and lifted it gingerly to set it beside the cloth—but something shifted inside the tangle—something that jerked free of the cloth and clattered onto the floor of the room.

A pair of spurs, tied together carefully with a leather strand that had somehow survived the years it had been here. Clear silver gleamed beneath a surface of weathering; that and the distinct Calormene designs and metalwork told her these spurs had travelled a very long way.

But then, so had she. It came back, as it always did, like a wash of ice water over her skin, shocking enough to startle a gasp from her lungs. It always struck her like a blow, after arguing with Cor. It was as if she simply forgot all they had gone through together, the way he'd run back to rescue her, the way he'd seen how it must feel to be a stranger in a new land and invited her to come to live at Anvard—gave her a family, and a home.

More than that, she always forgot that after ever argument, every quarrel, he always made it up to her. Always. Even if he hadn't been the one to start the trouble (being fair-minded, Aravis would not hesitate to claim the blame for that—or to blame it on Corin), Cor was the one who apologized.

It was his humility that did it, Aravis thought, as she rubbed the spurs and wished her heart wouldn't ache so. His humility in always assuming the guilt…that was what spurred her on to of course, forgive him and be humble back in turn, until all was well again.

There was the sound of voices from outside, and hoofbeats, and Aravis smiled in spite of herself. She stood and left the dark shed behind—squinting in the bright light outside, but oh-so-glad to be free of the smells of imprisonment and self-pity. And there he was, looking so right and yet so unprincely atop his big gray gelding, talking quietly to the Hermit. She waited for a second, until he noticed she was standing there and froze, a little, before swinging down from his horse and walking over to her.

"I've come to apologize," said Cor.

And that was that.