Archer

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Another knock on the door brought his attention up from the desk. Each time he’d expected to see a hopeful youth, barely a man, standing in the frame, possibly supported by Jordan and Dawn. And each time, it had been someone else. Josvan, delivering another stack of paperwork. Lady Megeline, looking for some company. A clerk, reminding him of some far-off appointment.

But never his son.

He wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Three days had passed since Dawn’s visit, warning him that his son would be coming to him now that he was sixteen. Even if he did make the journey from the little village on the outskirts of the kingdom to the keep, it would take days at least. Sighing and calling for whoever was at the door to come in, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the door.

It opened slowly, almost shyly, and a figure stepped into the room. She stopped as soon as her feet stepped onto the carpet that cushioned the floor, standing with her back practically against the door. His heart skipped a beat.

He’d recognize those features anywhere. That fair, delicate face that gave her a youthful look, even though she was only a few years younger than him, framed by gentle golden curls. Deep green eyes and a thin mouth that was always upturned on one side in an easy smile. Her dress was of the usual style she wore, this time in a pastel blue color.

“Ia’skel,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, and she took a step forward.

“Alaric,” she responded, her accent thick and foreign, as if she were talking with something else in her mouth besides her tongue. “You look well.”

 “As do you.” He smiled kindly at her, but it wavered as he realized what she was visiting him for. “I assume you’re here because of…”

He trailed off, and studied the paperweight on his desk, scowling inwardly as he realized it was the same thing he’d done while pinned under Dawn’s gaze days earlier. He focused on something else, this time a goose-feather quill, a typical object to find on his desk. He heard her settle into a chair opposite his desk, gently.

Her voice was soft when she spoke. “Yes, I’m here about Archeradn.”

“I thought you might be.”

Archeradn. The name they’d agreed upon for their son; it was a common male name in her homeland, but as a nickname he could be called Archer, from his. A compromise.

An uncomfortable silence followed, and he continued to play with the quill while her eyes bored into him, until she said, “Have you heard from him since…”

He winced. If handing his son away had been hard for him, it would have been torture for his mother. Standing, he walked to a bookshelf and opened a small box that rested on a shelf at eye level, shuffling through the papers that resided in it until he had the ones he was looking for.

“These are letters from the friend he’s staying with, sent every year on his birth day. I- well, I never returned any of them, and before you ask, Ia’skel, I don’t know why. I just didn’t,” he said, handing the papers to her delicate hands.

He walked back to the bookshelf, unable to sit now, and skimmed over the titles he’d read many times over the years. The only sign there was another person in the room was the quiet shuffling of papers every once in a while as she read.

Finally, she spoke up and said, “Jordan? That was the name of your friend?”

Brushing one spine with his fingertip, feeling the gold-worded title, he quietly said, “Yes.”