Disclaimer: I do not own Goblin Slayer.

Betaed by: Zim'smostloyalservant and an anonymous friend.

Chapter 3

Her intention had been to wait awhile then sell back the gear for whatever refund or selling price she could get. And sure enough, eventually her uncle sent her for another day on the town while Goblin Slayer was in the field, and she resolved to do just that. Life had been normal between then and now, and she'd even passed by Inspector, seemingly unrecognized. Apparently, the armor made her look that different, and the helmet changed the voice enough. It would be simple enough to just dump the armor on the shop counter and take whatever the smith was willing to give.

Someone had hung a bundle of herbs and dried flowers on her locker. That was fair, she thought; even after all this time, she wrinkled her nose unlocking the door.

And there it was. Despite her hurry, she'd stacked it well. They were tools, and she'd learned to never treat a tool poorly.

And she had done it, hadn't she? She'd gone on a little adventure and slain some monsters. Even if it ended with running from giant roaches and probably only escaping because giant dead rats were an easier meal.

But she'd done it. Even if it had only been luck…

X X X

Doing it twice meant if wasn't luck, right? Or so Cowgirl thought, closing the metal barred door to the sewers behind her. There'd been no swarm of giant roaches this time. She'd reported the swarm, had that meant some other adventurer had been assigned to cull the big bugs?

The rat assignment was the same as last time. It had seemed easier.

Well, anyway, she'd proved her success hadn't been blind luck, and with no locker rental this time, she could keep the full refund, making her cash-out of adventuring closer to breaking even.

Inspector was pleased to see her. The woman had lit up in surprise when she had approached, asking for a quest. Awkwardly saying it was routine for adventurers not to return, but typically that was from adventures, not time off. Cowgirl had nothing she could think to say to her apparently presumed death, so she said nothing but what was needed for the assignment.

And now the pleased receptionist took her report, the giant rat tails went into a surprisingly clean metal tray, and Inspector counted out the reward money to slide over the counter.

"Well done, it may be beginner adventuring, but this town depends on such hard work to keep the rest of us from having to deal with oversized vermin."

Cowgirl accepted the thanks with a nod, putting the coins in her purse and making her way toward the stairs.

"Oh, the tavern has a leftover stew still available. I hear it's pretty good, and the chef never charges full price for leftovers," Inspector called after her.

That was not to be considered. The tavern was for adventurers. She was just stumbling through a misunderstanding.

X X X

Guild Girl watched the rookie adventurer head down to the shop. Restocking and maintenance, no doubt.

"Strange to take so much time to only come back like nothing happened," Guild Girl remarked.

"Takes all kinds. Maybe she's a wandering adventurer," Inspector remarked, stretching her arm and then her back. It put Guild Girl in mind of a cat from how well she knew her friend. She wondered if the other woman might have a bit of Feline Padfoot in her ancestry, and she could definitely give off a mischievous cat vibe when up to something.

Of course, she'd never say that out loud; nobles, even low-rank ones, could be quite picky about lineages.

Still, wandering adventurers, those weren't as common as the bards made out. Adventurers could use any guildhall in the kingdom with no additional paperwork, but needing to register anew on arrival. Unless you had been banned from a guildhall, it was mostly just a tracking formality. She heard it was more common among the big city guilds where adventurers tended to take quests that took them regularly to other big cities. From what little she'd seen, this new warrior didn't seem the type.

Which was silly; she didn't even handle Helmed Warrior's paperwork.

"Why the interest? Oh, because she dresses a bit like Goblin Slayer?" Inspector asked.

"Of course not," Guild Girl denied with dignity. She almost wished Examiner would make a second appearance. As much as her old mentor put her on edge, her eager-to-bend-regulation friend was petrified of the mighty woman, "It's simply, we at times need to consider the wellbeing of adventurers, and that includes noting odd behavior. For instance, sometimes Goblin Slayer needs to be told I won't authorize any more quests until he has taken a rest period. Even a specialist can only work so hard for so long until they become a liability."

"…So, your worry is she's not working enough?" Inspector's eyebrow quirked.

"…We are on the clock. That's enough gossip," Guild Girl said, resolutely snatching a form from her inbox and setting her quill to stun and scribbling away. Inspector still nodded with a small smile, counting this as a victory.

A victory in what? She wasn't certain, but she'd take it.

X X X

'Why is a dwarf working here now?' Cowgirl wondered, staring at the smith behind the counter. He was also old, but less old maybe than the smith she had met. Short, bearded, balding with grey hair and one eye squinted shut, he seemed perhaps a bit taller than other dwarves she had seen, but she imagined like humans, dwarves came in a variety of actual sizes.

Unbeknownst to her, this man was the rightful ruler of the establishment, having returned in cranky triumph to his store and workshop. Also, oddly enough, despite appearances and having the attitude and interests of a stereotypical dwarf, this man was actually one hundred percent human. And it was rather fortunate she did not share her assumption, as it was one of those errors you come to expect in life but a part of you still doesn't forgive it fully.

"Well, here's a new face. Or rather a familiar helmet… say, you know that kid who's obsessed with goblins?" Smith asked, arm resting on his counter.

"What, no! Never heard of him!" she waved her arms.

"Hmm, so what'll it be then?"

She ended up offering her mace, intending to say she was going to sell it back, but he looked it over and handed it back.

"Lightly used, but you seem to know something about taking care of metal. You stink, but that's not a problem for here. So, potions then?" he asked.

"Uh, I used my only antidote."

"Well, next time buy them from the front desk. They sell the basic three up there, and I'd rather not waste time on something those girls could easily fill for you, " he said, expertly plucking a bottle from under the counter and plunking it on the counter.

"What about your other potions. You working alone? Without a healer, stocking up on more than the minimum is just common sense. Assuming you don't overload. Rookies think bags of holding grow on trees. And before you ask, no, I don't have any in stock. And if I did, frankly I highly doubt a Porcelain could afford it. I don't take loans or credit, whatever your rank or family, cash or trade only. And for trade, I decide what your offer is worth, period. So, what funds you got?"

X X X

"I'm starting to think I have a problem." Cowgirl lamented, coming up the stairs again, her pouch now holding two each of the standard three potions.

"Things… can be… hard," A sultry voice said as she reached the top of the stairs. She turned and saw a beautiful adventurer, the most endowed woman she'd ever seen, too. A magic user dressed in the witch style, wearing dark purple bordered with gold designs complete with a half-cape, a broad pointed hat, and a coat that showed quite a bit.

Yes, she was staring; it was a sight.

"Hmm, one who… doesn't want… their gold looked upon… would not… display it," Witch said, a playful undertone in her words. The face was also pretty, well defined, with soft reddish-brown eyes, and lips that were just prominent enough to be soft-looking, and she put an ornate pipe to those lips, and blew soft fragrant smoke into Cowgirl's face.

Cowgirl stepped back, coughing in the helmet. The lazy eyes widened slightly.

"Oh, sorry. Not used to that… reaction. Helmets," the other adventurer said.

"Er, it's okay."

"…A drink?" Witch asked.

"Bwuh?" Cowgirl went. She might have stared, but she wasn't into girls! It was just they were so large, er, eyes actually, that was why she was staring, but she stared at lots of stuff without…

"An apology… Good impressions… are important."

It clicked for Cowgirl then. She'd met this woman when she'd escorted her own quest. Escorts back to the village. The ruins, now. She hadn't been back since the funerals, and with Goblin Slayer returned to her life, thought she might gain some closure from returning.

It hadn't worked, really. But the other woman had been kind despite the adventure lacking any thrills, and her reward being so paltry. Yes, she had suggested Cowgirl to cut her hair short to stop hiding her face. The Spearman had been cranky, bored by the whole ordeal, but had never said anything insulting and patiently born the affair.

'Of all the adventurers to run into…'

"Hey? What's keeping ya- Goblin Slayer?" a man said. And there was the red-haired Spearman, with the plate armor. His eyes narrowed, then widened as he shook his head.

"Ah, sorry, my mistake. Oh, a rookie, eh?" he said, noting her Porcelain tag. His was Steel, so was his partner's, she realized. Two ranks over her, how was she supposed to act?

"Er, yessir," she said, giving an awkward half-bow to him. He frowned at that and looked to his partner, who with a smile fingered her rank tag. Recognition lit his eyes, and he gave a light fist bump to Cowgirl's shoulder.

"Oy, respecting ranks is important, but this ain't some noble hierarchy, we adventurers all live by the sweat and blood of our deeds. No need to grovel to someone just because they have rank on you for the moment. Show some pride, just don't get cocky, alright?" he said with a grin.

"Er, right."

"You may have heard of me. I'm the guy who delivered the coup de grace to the Rockerater, and the two of us took down the troublesome warlock a while ago. As you can see, I'm as charming as I am strong," he said, giving a smile she was sure made his teeth glint.

"…I see," she muttered. That made his expression crumble for a moment and straighten up, and Witch give a soft giggle, inhaling more smoke. Oh, had that been the wrong thing to say? She didn't have much experience with boastful men. Should she have lied and said she'd heard of him? Or said her own deeds? Wait, she had no deeds.

Or maybe…?

"I may… have offended… We'll be having a drink… Join us?" Witch asked him, putting an arm over Cowgirl's shoulders. Witch's calm expression faltered at the smell, before righting. The rare sight got a chuckle out of Spearman, who waved it off.

"Nah, a real man knows when to give women their space. Besides, with that jerk promoted to Steel, I need to get more practice in. Clearly, we haven't been aiming high enough if he's catching up to us."

"Motivation… matters," Witch observed. He seemed to take it as a compliment and bid them farewell.

"He's… something else."

"Yes… more than he… let's on. Not all secrets… are kept… on purpose. Though secrets… they end up… remaining," Witch said. Cowgirl realized with shock she had been maneuvered into the tavern without noticing. She'd been in here passingly before as part of deliveries.

But this, it was different.

They took an empty table, and Witch ordered a glass of grape wine, and Cowgirl felt she had to follow with an order, apple cider.

Witch hardly talked, and talked slowly when she did, so Cowgirl mostly took in the tavern. The odd bits of conversation she heard were interesting. People talking about battle, mystery, and monsters as if it was just work. And some spirited arguments, and at least one time a dwarf and an elf seemed fixed to come to blows over something.

She earned a little giggle out of Witch when she carefully drank her cider through the visor. She'd seen Goblin Slayer do it plenty of times, and as she guessed, the different shaped visor didn't stop her. Though how he could do it so quickly and naturally was lost on her.

She certainly wasn't going to show her face here to someone that might remember her. It would be just her luck for it to get back to her uncle what she had been doing.

Then it was over. Witch, having finished her drink, excused herself to go collect her partner and paid the waitress for both drinks.

'Huh, was that what it's like to have a casual drink with someone?' Cowgirl wondered, still nursing her cider. Next time, she'd request it soft.

X X X

And so it went; her efforts to quit came to naught and with less frequency, and by the time the evaluation period arrived again, she'd gained a bit of a reputation.

"Huh? I think my partner is friends with her. Seems the humble type, may not be going anywhere as an adventurer, though."

"She smells. If you're going to be an adventurer, you should care more about your image."

"Nothing to do with me."

"I bet she's that Goblin Slayer's kid sister or something, they look so much alike."

"They both have faces that have never been seen."

"Exactly, just like brother and sister!"

"You mean sister and sister."

"For the last time, he's not a woman! I've been behind him, that's a man voice in there."

"That's just what she wants us to think. Who but a woman would dedicate their life to killing goblins!"

"Let's never team up with those two, okay?"

It was a ripple, but a small one in the guild.

Such as:

"Sorry, I'm afraid we can't recommend you for promotion only for sewer quests," Guild Girl apologized from behind the special office desk with Inspector to her right and the burly middle-aged warrior overseeing to her left.

"Okay. Is there anything else?" Helmed Warrior asked, tilting her head.

"No, have a nice day."

As the door closed behind her, Inspector grinned and held out a hand. Guild Girl sighed and took out a copper to slap into the offered palm. The old adventurer serving as the observer just shook his head and yelled.

"Next!"

X X X

"You killed three slime-eaters!" Inspector gasped, almost dropping her pen, looking at the filthier than usual Sewer Slayer.

"Sorry, they attacked me first," the adventurer apologized, bowing slightly, "I didn't get all the rat tails either this time, only eight."

"Uh, I'll check the current bounty on slime-eaters from the city."

X X X

"Why would she hide being a part-time adventurer from me?" the Farmer pondered aloud. He was sitting in a noisy tavern with a barely touched mug of ale in front of him. The old rogue he'd hired shrugged, draining his own.

"No idea. You were worried she was up to something shifty on her days off, mixed up in something. Well, there you have it, a little extra money and a bit of bloodlust worked out. Downright wholesome compared to a lot of the trash I unearth. So, what now? Going to tell her off? Might end up with a mace to the head fer yer trouble," the old human rogue answered.

The Farmer answered by sliding a small bag of coins to the Rogue. Who counted the money, shrugged, and left.

"Well, what now?" the Farmer wondered, taking a sip of his drink.

While he certainly did not like her keeping secrets, it wasn't like she was doing anything illegal. It wasn't even immoral, besides the lying. If he did confront her, then what?

The tavern had a merry sound to it that some piper was playing; it said something about his mood that he only found it annoying. Looking over the scene, he wondered if there were any adventurers here. They had their own tavern which they frequented, but the well-to-do ones he knew occasionally ate and drank elsewhere. Maybe the regular taverns offered something else or better? Or maybe it was just the desire to do something a bit different.

"You don't have anything against adventurers, don't start pretending for the sake of excuses," he admonished himself. Fingers pressed to his brow, he thought hard on this turn of events.

She'd never said anything about wanting to be an adventurer. True, she admired the boy, but he was hardly typical of that trade, and her crush besides. Betrothed, he reminded himself, summoning a frown.

Maybe part of him wished it had been something objectively bad, like visiting some back-alley drug den. Then he could be righteously proactive. Or something?

But what should he do with this? Even if he wanted to punish her, what would he do? Belt her bottom, ha. Throw her out? No. Ban her? How exactly?

Maybe it was best not to be hasty? She had spent all this time doing only the lowest quests, not even leaving town. So maybe that was it? Just cheap thrills, and the lies were part of that unseen side of her? Surely it would go away on its own if he let it run his course.

He was not typically in favor of putting things off, but he was dry of options that seemed worth pursuing. Finishing his drink, he got up to begin the walk home.

X X X

The seasons changed, and one year was exchanged for another. Another year in which goblins continued their rampages. Goblin Slayer had killed goblins, but had that made any real difference?

The poets, he was told, used the leaves to mark the seasons, but for him they were just one sign of many. The temperature and direction of the wind, the length of the days and nights. Yes, goblins preferred darkness, so longer nights benefited them and had to be accounted for.

Autumn was a dangerous time, and living on a farm reminded him of that. This farm had no vast fields, but it had a garden more substantial than that of a hobbyist in some town, and a well-kept patch of herbs. And now it was time for a final harvest. Pigs would be slaughtered too to be smoked for ham, bacon, and meat for trade and sale in town. The herd of cows would also face its culling. His friend and his landlord treated their animals with care and respect, but the cows were neither pets nor counted among the Player races. Mercy was a swift strike of a death, and seeing to it that nothing went to waste. A somber occasion, but all involved respected the process. The old paved the way for prosperity and long life for the young by freeing up resources, and the beef, leather, and perhaps other products enriched the farm and entered the economy.

And all of it meant pantries and barns swelling in anticipation of winter.

Goblins had no concept of storing for a rainy day. Even if they did grasp the methods to preserve and properly store food, it was not in their nature to contemplate what would be eaten tomorrow when they could feed now. Feast and famine defined much of their life, the latter used to justify the former it seemed, as some moron's idea of a reward. Hence their desperate anger it would seem. Ever impoverished by their lack of foresight, they envied the stability of other races. But lack of foresight did not mean they could not be patient, and so it was that goblin raids declined in high and late summer. They did not vanish by any means, but switched from village raids to banditry or smaller homesteads. Awaiting the days of harvest, when the humans and other races had done all the work for them, gathering feast upon feast of winter supplies that the goblins would seize over the dead bodies of those who toiled to produce it all.

They were out there, watching. Their simple but not empty minds marking progress, gauging the signs. Awaiting the completion, and with it would come their promised time. The carnage and then their revels.

The larger the horde, often the stealthier it was, the presence of larger more intelligent goblins installing more discipline, preventing the usual slip-ups. Poised to strike and reap the harvest and harvester both, they never expected they themselves were being watched, that they were the targets.

When facing a swollen horde, it was essential to strike in the nest. He had learned early on that a battle on open ground had to be avoided at all costs. Sometimes luring them into advantageous terrain was preferable. Particularly if you had time to properly memorize their layout and add traps. But open ground let them properly bring their superior numbers to bear, and whatever advantages you gained with preparation ended up simply slipping away at that advantage.

That battle amongst the irrigation canals, with his stakes planted just below the water, he'd been a fool and thought victory was at hand. He'd pursued the sole survivor, thoughtlessly determined to fulfill his mantra of killing all the goblins. It had not been the sole survivor, and only his helmet and a grudging bit of luck from the gods' dice roll allowed him to survive that mistake.

Selecting missions in this season required choosing wisely. The rookies taking goblin quests still tended to be more seasoned, most having started in spring. Their odds were still poor but better than in spring, so he had to pick the quests he was certain they would fail, rather than the ones he 'thought' they'd fail. The simple hard fact was, it was better for them to be wiped out delaying a village's destruction. They were adventurers by choice, their deaths were regrettable but not as tragic as those of people just living their lives.

Still, Goblin Slayer didn't always read the signs right, and the guild's information only told so much. The nest he targeted might prove smaller than expected, or another far more powerful. And how many quests he could take in a single outing were limited. The receptionist could be quite formidable while still smiling. She'd gone so far as to threaten to ban him from work for a month if he ran himself too ragged taking an excessive number of missions at once.

This latest outing had been long, five nests. Pushing the limit, with an order that he would not be allowed to just rush out to yet another, even if was just one.

He'd picked well. The hordes had been set to take the villages they were targeting. The final one had been mere hours from march based on the signs at his arrival. Forty standard goblins, three hobs and a shaman. One of the hobs had also been trimmer, erring toward chiseled rather than the stoutness typical of a hob. It was unknown the exact process a hob became a champion, but that one may well have been making the transformation.

But they'd all pulled back to their nest, gathering forces to rest in preparation for wiping out the village. There had been no time to thoroughly scout, and the ground between the nest and village was indefensible. And he could not claim to be in top form from the previous three exterminations. No time to be able to thoroughly scout for backdoors dug from the old mine they'd infested. Or to spare things like smoking them out or poison gas.

So, it had been the scroll. A frontal attack to draw them in to start with.

Goblins saw no irony in being outraged when their homes were invaded, and they assumed they held the advantage on their turf, never expecting any of their tricks or traps to not work. They still weren't truly brave, but anger and greed trumped much of their self-serving cowardice. Another reason to disguise his scent with their blood. Goblins coveted women, and would be loath to miss the chance at a "fresh one". So, holding back too far in their cowardice would risk missing that chance. And his armor plus the disguised scent meant they couldn't be sure. So, draw the horde in from any guard posts inside the nest or nooks in the depths. Ten dead and a hob. The shaman hadn't appeared, but the totems proclaimed his presence. Sufficient time and a start on the killing.

The gate scroll took care of the rest, but only an idiot would think that was a guarantee. The initial horde was obliterated by the rushing salt water, and the mine flooded, but the goblins could be quite resourceful, and the dice rolled in their favor at times as well. When the current more or less settled, he had scouted the mine, the breath ring under his gauntlet making the water as usable as air despite the debris. It also provided limited protection against the cold.

He'd lit the lantern at his belt in anticipation of this, rather than his usual torch. It was one of his better pieces of equipment, as goblins would be able to do little with it in the event of his death. He'd found two goblins clinging to air pockets between the water and ceiling. Easily dispatched. A thorough search found no more survivors in the mine, but revealed a back door he had missed, no signs of any escaping outside.

So, a report to the villagers informing them the threat had been exterminated and his return.

Now, the walk back to the farm. The receptionist had offered him a room in the guildhall, seemingly concerned, but it was unneeded. The final leg was a short one.

He thought of Archmage against his better judgement. She had been the closest thing he had to a party, as time with that young warrior and the Examiner were simply aberrations. The breath ring was an enduring legacy of their brief partnership, as were the books in his shed.

They had not been equals; she was something beyond an adventurer, while he was only an exterminator of goblins. Even for a magic user, she had an otherworldly feeling to her. And their final adventure even more so; she said they had reached an edge of the world, and there had stood her Dark Tower. Eighteen floors to scale, and he knew the burden had been hers, his only role was to contain the strange goblins or shadows of goblin kind, as she called them. They had acted like goblins and died like goblins, so good enough.

He'd also experimented with that gate scroll, opening it to the high sky, creating a vortex, sucking goblins in. A success, but a failure too. Too much risk to allies, and while the breath ring removed a threat of drowning, he had no guard against being sucked in himself. The ocean was simply the better option.

She'd lost twenty years of life, growing old before his eyes, unlocking the final door. He didn't understand how that worked or what floor nineteen was. But he understood she had passed a threshold he could not grasp, and she'd left him behind along with everything else. He was only Goblin Slayer; the mage and her quest for her tower and what laid beyond was a grand tale he had entered as a minor character in its final chapter.

Her last words to him before walking off into the strange sky… She'd told him she believed he could truly become the Goblin Slayer, that his dream was achievable. No one had said that before or since. No one would, and it shouldn't matter. He would carry onward regardless of what others thought.

Still, why had he stared after her so long? Spoken such foolish words?

"I don't think she's coming back." How Master would have laughed at such a statement of the obvious.

The farm, he'd unlatched the gate without thinking. Unacceptable, one must never lower their guard. The places you felt most secure were the perfect places for an ambush.

Newly alert, he soon realized something was wrong.

Goblins? Not enough to go on, assume the worst. The cows were in the fields and seemingly calm. Goblins would likely have spooked them. So that direction could be assumed secure. He entered the house with caution. Nothing out of sort, no signs of looting. The barn, then.

Running into his landlord brought the investigation to an abrupt twist.

"Gods, boy! You nearly stopped my heart!" the farmer cursed, stepping back with pitchfork in hand.

"Is everything alright?" Goblin Slayer asked.

He remained alert; his landlord had come from the barn, so unlikely he'd still be alive if goblins were there. The ambush would be too ideal to resist. But the possibility had not been eliminated yet. He was thankful his intuition was not dismissed; the Farmer had told him his friend wasn't here, she'd gone into town in the morning. Odd, he'd seen the cart at its usual spot. He'd never known her to leave the farm without the cart and the business it entailed.

As the Farmer collected his sword from its hiding place, he'd been informed that she did indeed go into town for days off. Apparently during Goblin Slayer's absences.

He had not known that. It was an odd thought, more so for how odd it was. It was not as if his friend was some fixture at the farm, bound to it. She was not Goblin Slayer; her life was hers to live.

There was an odd urge to ask what she did and why in town, but it was easily repressed. It was no business of his, just as it had not been needed for her or his landlord to say when she went into town in the first place.

A thorough check of the farm and its boundary gave no signs of goblins or any other intruder. His landlord suggested he was overworked, recalled comrades from the war jumping at shadows. A disturbing thought. Paranoia could get you killed as easily as it saved your life. It was a thin rope between expecting the unexpected and leaving yourself too strung out to be able to effectively deal with anything, including the expected.

When his friend returned, she found him in the shed making repairs of a routine nature to his armor and restocking his pouches. Some stock was getting low. Not out, but low enough to warrant a trip tomorrow.

"Your armor is filthy, far worse than usual," she said matter of factly, standing behind him as he worked on what was laid out on the cloth before him.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I'll clean it tonight and finish the job tomorrow, you can leave it like this. Don't worry, I know not to get it too clean, no clean armor smell for the goblins," she said cheerfully.

"You can mend leather armor and chainmail?" he asked.

"Oh! Well, yes. I thought it might come in handy someday. Of course, if you don't think I can…" she said. He didn't turn to face her, so Goblin Slayer didn't see how nervous she suddenly was. He was puzzled at her having armorer skills. But she did business with tanners, so having some knowledge of leather working wasn't improbable. And her uncle was a soldier who may well have used armor similar to his and passed that knowledge down for whatever reason.

Her absence earlier was a reminder he couldn't assume he knew everything about his friend. He would have to check the work, and if it was acceptable, take care not to become a burden on her by depending on her for a task he could himself. But the offer was too sensible to rightfully refuse.

"Very well," he said, setting the tools he had prepared aside. She let out a deep breath.

"By the way, sorry about not being here when you returned."

"You are not obliged to be here when I return."

"Still, this is the first time, I think. Even if I don't see you and get to you quickly, you find me quick enough."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, I waited too long to go into town. I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again, so you don't worry. Alright?" she asked, leaning down to put hands on his shoulders. Hmm, she didn't have her gloves on, and he had only the padded shirt on with his armor stripped off. A passing thought occurred to him that this might be the closest to direct contact they'd had since their reunion when she'd touched his face after getting him to the farm.

Irrelevant, and puzzling that she thought he would worry if she wasn't here. But the point wasn't worth arguing. She offered to let him nap, saying she'd wake him when the time came for dinner. He dismissed the notion; he would sleep better and gain more from the act than napping now.

And so, the rest of the day unfolded and into night. The sense of wrongness had vanished without him noticing.

Author's Note:

Thus the plot, such as it is, thickens. The story is fun to write so I hope it is also fun to read.

And again thanks RonaldM40196867 for your support.

Long day and pleasant nights to you all.