so untouched by the war and strife which surrounded her, reacted to my presence with a delight which I never truly understood. Why me? I did not ask that aloud, and certainly not now, as she embraced me.
"I missed you," she whispered in my ear, as she held me.
Her eyes had reached out to me from the edge of the village, where she had spotted us coming over a hill. Now she had me in her arms. Her embrace was not forceful, not desperate. I always returned, and she always expected me back, even if I was sometimes late.
She kissed me lightly on the cheek. Her lips were soft and wet, and seemed to melt through my defenses. As it had been the first day I saw her, fifteen years ago, so it was now; I was helpless before her. It was not the blind wonder of a first love, but the understanding that there was simply none but her. She was an anchor, and there were times when I might have been tempted to seek a home elsewhere, were it not for her.
I set down my pack and returned her embrace. Her body pressed against me, every soft curve remembered. Her cheek was against my own, her soft skin the touch of a spirit, blessing me with each slight contact. She was my height, slightly figured, lithe and graceful. She moved with more grace than the dancers of the royal court, and yet she had a fierce heart, and a resolve set in stone. Perhaps that was why she stayed with me.
"It is good to be back," I said, holding her tightly, as though she were a lifeline. Perhaps she was. I would certainly need her to be, if I were to stay in the village for months on end.
"I found him," Erik called out from behind me.
He dropped his pack just in time for Jeannine to embrace him.
"Hello, daughter," he said with a laugh.
He had always called her that, daughter. No pet names, nothing affectionate to the ear. He had sent her to live with his brother after his wife died, and the intervening years of service had kept him from this village for most of her life. Fifteen years after returning to Clearlake to collect her, he still called her "daughter". Still, he loved her dearly, and she him, even if his words had not yet caught up to his heart.
"He decided to stick around Meekwood," Erik said in a mock-whisper, "and spend some time with his mistress. You understand, of course."
Jeannine gave him a glare of feigned annoyance, which quickly beat down Erik's steady face and left him laughing his deep, loud laugh. She hugged him again, her slight body hanging off his massive frame as though she were still a child, and not a woman of thirty. He held her gently, his massive hands upon her back. He smiled at her, winking, before quickly sending a half-scowling glance my way. He was lying for me, giving me a way out, deflecting. I nodded.
As I slung my pack upon my shoulder, Erik released Jeannine and took up his own bag. Jeannine took his sword from him, holding its massive weight in both hands. Most people could not lift his sword, but Jeannine was no frail daisy in the fields. She set it upon her right shoulder, as Erik often did when he strode about the village.
"How long are you back for?" she asked of me, still holding onto Erik's waist as we walked toward the village. "The children are putting on a play for us next week."
"Oh, I think he will be around for that," Erik said knowingly. "In fact, you can go ahead and put away his pack for a long while."
Her eyes went wide, the sun reflecting in them. They seemed like jewels, priceless and sparkling. They were that, indeed. She was both those thing.
"Really?" she asked him. She turned to me. "Really? You're staying?"
I nodded. "I am staying."
Erik squeezed her to his side, kissing her on the head. "I need help this winter. I am way too old to be climbing up on roofs. Besides, I could use the company."
"So you're staying? Really?" she asked again, as though she did not really believe me. Her eyes reached out to me, pleading.
I grinned, a forced twisting of my mood, which was still grim in spite of Jeannine's embrace. "Really."
***
"Go!"
Jeannine's voice rang out in the cold air, the furious tapping of the rain not doing nearly enough to dull the sharp sound of her rebuke. The water poured down in torrents, the weight of it crushing me almost as much as Jeannine's glare. I was soaked through, and yet I stood there. I said nothing. I did not move, as though to do so would be to slip and plummet from a high precipice.
The heat from her breath lifted through the darkness, and she bared her teeth ever so slightly, as she always did when she was upset. Upset. No, she was not upset. Jeannine was enraged. Her smiles, the slight touch of her hand upon my shoulder, the way she whispered to me even though we were alone, all these things were gone. In their place was rage and tears and a voice so stinging, I could not bear to hear it.
The day had not started this way. Parting ways at the village square, Erik returned to his home. Jeannine and I returned to ours. Once the house of a local music teacher, we had taken the small home for ourselves when he left to follow our king eastward. The door still had the musical note painted on it, faded and scratched by fifteen years of wind and winter. Still, it was ours, and its one room was enough.
I set my pack at the door, the clank of the sword against the wooden planks a sort of clarion call, announcing my return. Many times, I had returned in the night, and that clank had awoken Jeannine to my presence. I pulled off my coat, and sat at the table at the center of our small home. Our bed was to one side, the hearth at the other. A smaller desk, likely where the teacher's pupils once sat, was covered in the sewing crafts Jeannine enjoyed so much.
Though I had desired some quiet rest, she insisted on feeding me. There was stew on the fire, but it would not be ready until the evening. Still, she had some of the simple white bread which I enjoyed so much, and fruit preserves from our neighbors. That was enough for the moment.
I sat quietly and ate, while Jeannine sat beside me. She often stared at me thus, as though she expected, through close examination, to discover some hidden truth about me that had not come to light in nearly fifteen years in each others lives. I often wondered what it was she was looking for, and sometimes even asked.
"Nothing," was her usual reply.
Once, after a passionate night, I asked her that same question. She replied, "Your soul. I'm looking for your soul."
"Do you see it?" I asked.
She smiled widely, her eyes so soft and soothing in the moonlight. "Yes, but it's not here," she whispered, her hand upon my chest. She touched her breast and smiled. "It's in here. It's mine, and I won't ever give it back."
I leaned in and kissed her. "You may keep it."
And so on this day I asked again, What are you looking for?"
Her reply should have been my first warning. "I'm not sure, but I see something in you. Something new."
I did not follow up that first question, instead returning to my small meal. Did she sense where I had been? Did she feel the crawling, creeping unknown which I was beginning to feel within me? Did she
