Page 39 of Oath
For the first time in days, Aerion slept.
And he dreamed of birch trees, grey skies, and a man who was not a poet—
and yet had written his name all the same.
He didn’t reply right away.
He sat at his desk that night, a single candle guttering in the draft, parchment stretched before him like a challenge. His hand hovered over the inkpot, fingers twitching. Then, with a sharp inhale, he began.
The first letter was all edges, sharp teeth and polished wit, every line dipped in venom he didn’t mean. He told Clyde his prose was graceless, his descriptions bleak, his longing unbecoming of a knight sworn to duty. He painted himself amused, untouchable, the way he always did when the court pressed too close. The words looked perfect on the page. They glittered with poison and charm.
He read them once, twice—
then fed the page to the flame.
The parchment curled black, the letters bleeding into smoke. Aerion watched until nothing but ash remained.
The second letter was worse because it was truer. Sincere in a way that made his pulse pound and his throat tighten. He wrote of dreams he couldn’t outrun, of how the keep had grown colder without Clyde’s shadow at his back, of how he wandered the halls like a restless ghost, waiting for boots that would not come. The words spilled unguarded, dangerous, far too naked.
That one he burned, too.
Fingers clenched. Jaw locked.
The third letter was barely more than a whisper: one jagged line scrawled across the page.
You have no right to miss me first.
He stared at it until his vision blurred, until his hand shook so badly he nearly tore the parchment. Then, with shaking fingers, he consigned it to the fire.
The flames seemed to mock him as they devoured his weakness, hissing and spitting until his chamber reeked of smoke.
By the time he wrote the fourth, dawn had begun to pale the sky. His candle was half-burnt, his eyes red-rimmed, his hands stained with ink and ash. This time, he didn’t let himself stop. Didn’t let himself think. He simply wrote.
Clyde,
Your letter arrived like a dagger to the ribs. You’d be flattered if you knew how long I stared at it before opening it. (Far too long. Never mind.)
I walked through the west garden today. It’s wilting. Without anyone to guard it, even the roses misbehave.
Tell the trees they’re lucky. I’d carve my name into you if I thought you wouldn’t turn it into a metaphor.
Write again.
I command it.
—Aerion
He didn’t reread it. Couldn’t.
He folded it fast, sealed it with hot red wax and the bite of his signet, and thrust it into the courier’s hands at dawn. His voice was a blade as he warned, “If this doesn’t reach him whole, I’ll see you gelded before you ride again.”
Only when the hooves clattered into the misted courtyard did Aerion retreat to his chamber.
He stripped, crawled beneath his sheets, and pulled Clyde’s first letter from beneath his pillow. The parchment was already soft at the edges from his constant touch. He pressed it against his lips, eyes closing as if the ink might breathe.
“You stupid,” he whispered into the dawn, voice breaking, “silent, wonderful bastard.”
And at last, with the faintest trace of smoke and leather still clinging to him, Aerion slept.
