Chapter 25 – A Morning Without Urgency

  The sound of falling water reached him first.

  Not a thunderous roar, but a steady descent, constant and unbroken, close enough to draw his steps forward. Between the trees, the forest floor opened. Snow thinned and darkened near the stream, soaked by water seeping from stone and earth.

  Zio followed a narrow trail scarcely worthy of the name. His steps were careful, not from caution, but because his body had yet to fully rise with the morning. Each footprint sank into damp ground, quickly swallowed by moisture.

  The waterfall rose above the surrounding trees.

  Water fell straight upon rock, then fled as a clear, swift-running river.

  Zio stopped among the stones at its edge.

  He knelt beside a flat slab and set the wooden water container down without care. His gloves came off, tucked into his coat. His fingers brushed the surface of the river.

  They recoiled at once.

  Cold.

  He drew a short breath, then plunged both hands in.

  The river closed around his fingers up to the wrists. The cold bit deep, sharp against small wounds that had escaped notice the night before. The pain came slowly now, settling in after yesterday’s fury had finally burned itself out.

  Zio washed his face. Water streamed down his neck and chest. Old sweat, dried blood, and the iron scent of battle loosened and vanished, carried away without resistance.

  He moved closer to the fall and sat upon a lower stone.

  Water struck his shoulders. His body tightened, breath held, then eased. The cold crept inward, not as an enemy, but as a truth that could not be ignored. Pain flared along shoulder and ribs, then dulled into something he could endure.

  Zio lowered his head and let the water run longer than needful.

  There was nothing he pursued this morning.

  Nothing that called for him.

  Only falling water, the scent of wet earth, and breath finding its own rhythm once more.

  Zio moved away from the falling water and sat by the river’s edge.

  He rinsed his arms one at a time. The wounds were cleaned plainly—no care for neatness, no thought of perfection. Just enough to clear the grime and quiet the sting when he moved.

  His left hand remained heavy. He did not force it. His shoulder stiffened when he lifted his arm too high, so he stopped, waited, then continued with shorter motions.

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  The river stayed cold. Unchanged. Clear.

  Zio filled the wooden container slowly, watching for grit before setting the lid in place.

  When he lifted it, the weight had settled. Full.

  He rose, drew one deep breath, and pulled his coat back on.

  There was no satisfaction in it.

  No judgment.

  Only a small task finished, and a single need answered.

  Trod’s hammer halted mid-swing.

  The sound of wheels came first—wood upon earth, slow and even. He lowered the hammer, wiped his hands, and stepped to the front of the workshop.

  A horse-drawn carriage rounded the bend in the road.

  A single coachman held the reins. Behind him sat two elves, one male and one female. Their clothing was neat and serviceable, cut for the road rather than display.

  The carriage came to a halt not far from the workshop.

  One of the elves dismounted and approached, stopping a few paces away.

  Pardon me, sir. We are looking for Martha’s residence.

  Trod nodded and pointed down the road, toward a dwelling set slightly apart from the rest.

  “There.”

  “My thanks.”

  The elf returned to the carriage. The wheels turned once more, rolling slowly toward the house indicated.

  Trod lingered a moment, listening to the creak of wood and the soft beat of hooves, then turned back inside and took up his hammer again.

  Trod saw it from afar.

  Martha stood beside the carriage, speaking with the elves. He could not hear their words—only brief gestures, nods, pauses. Nothing hurried. Nothing strained.

  After some minutes, Martha walked toward the workshop.

  Her steps were measured. Her coat fastened, a small travel bag at her shoulder. She stopped at the threshold.

  “I have to return to Silyvaen,” she said. “My family has called for me.”

  Trod inclined his head.

  “Please give my regards to Zio. When he returns.”

  “I will,” Trod said.

  Martha offered a faint smile. It faded quickly. She turned and made her way back to the carriage.

  Trod remained where he stood until the sound of her steps was gone.

  Martha climbed into the carriage.

  The coachman gathered the reins. Wood groaned softly as the wheels began to turn. The horses stepped forward—slow at first, then with purpose.

  A light veil of dust lifted from the road.

  The carriage passed the workshop, then turned at the far end of the street. The sound of wheels and hooves thinned, then vanished.

  Trod watched until it was lost among the buildings.

  The road fell silent once more.

  Trod returned to the workshop.

  Light spilled through the open doorway. Nothing had shifted. Every tool remained as it had been.

  He took up the hammer.

  Set the metal.

  Brought the hammer down.

  The first strike rang too loudly in the space newly emptied.

  Trod adjusted his grip and continued. The next blows were steadier. Quieter.

  Outside, Greyhollow carried on.

  Inside the workshop, the work went on as well.

  The cabin came into view once the sun had climbed high enough.

  The water barrel stood beside the cabin, its rim dusted with old frost.

  Zio set the wooden container down and pried the lid free. Water spilled into the barrel in a steady pour, the hollow sound of it swallowed by thick wood. The level rose without drama.

  When the container was empty, he set it aside, replaced the lid, and wiped his hands on his coat.

  Zio entered and closed the door behind him. The air within was still. He set the filled water skin by the wall, its leather still cool to the touch, then loosened his damp coat.

  He changed without haste.

  The old fabric slid off his shoulder. The skin beneath, once torn open, had already closed. The marks were still there, dark lines not yet faded, healing faster than they should have.

  When his fingers passed over them, a brief ache stirred, more memory than wound.

  Zyon stood near the table.

  “Show me,” he said.

  Zio raised his arms. Silent.

  Zyon looked for a moment. He did not step closer.

  “Hm.”

  He lingered a breath longer than needed.

  “You’ll hunt again tomorrow,” Zyon said.

  Zio nodded once.

  He adjusted his clothing, drawing clean cloth over shoulder and chest. His movements were careful, but unstrained.

  There was nothing more to say.

  Wind brushed the cabin walls and passed on.

  Inside, the morning moved as it should, even if Zio’s body clearly did not. Not yet.