“No… please… don’t…”
Drisnil’s instincts would have ignored it. Nightmares were not threats. They required no action.
But something deeper — something that was still me — rose up and overrode that cold efficiency.
Before I realised I’d decided to move, I shifted closer and slid an arm gently around her waist. Illara flinched at the contact, a small, broken sound escaping her, but she relaxed almost immediately, curling instinctively back toward the warmth behind her.
“It’s okay,” I whispered — Geoff’s voice, not Drisnil’s. “You’re safe. No one can reach you here.”
Her trembling eased. Her breathing slowed. Warmth settled between us where her back rested against my chest, her hair brushing lightly beneath my chin.
She slept.
But I didn’t.
Drisnil’s body lay perfectly still, composed and alert as always. But my mind — Geoff’s mind — etched the moment into my memory:
-
the soft rise and fall of her breath,
-
the trust she didn’t know she was giving,
-
the fragile warmth pressed against me.
And for the first time since waking in this body, I felt something like fear.
Because Drisnil would never have done this.
But I did.
Eventually, the steady rise and fall of her breathing lulled even my restless thoughts. I must have drifted without meaning to. Because later in the morning, I woke to the feeling of Illara’s body slowly going rigid in my arms.
Her hand curled softly around my wrist where it rested against her stomach, and she shifted just enough to glance back at me.
I let my breathing stay slow and even, feigning sleep.
A faint breath escaped her — not a word, more a small, startled “…oh…” — and I felt the tension ease out of her limbs as whatever fear had gripped her faded.
A moment later, she lifted my arm gently, easing herself free with a care that surprised me. I cracked my eyes just enough to see her silhouette as she sat up. A blade of sunlight had slipped through the shutter, brushing across her shoulders in a thin golden line.
For a heartbeat she looked almost unreal. Magical, even.
I waited for Illara to finish dressing before rising myself. For a moment, I let my eyes travel over Drisnil’s form: toned muscle beneath smooth skin, the clean lines of her legs, the softness of her breasts. My fingers brushed lightly over one of the scars along my ribs, the texture faint but unmistakable.
If I were still a man, I thought distantly, I would have been utterly undone by this body.
I pulled on my clothes and stepped into the common room. Illara was tending a small pot over the hearth, the scent of oats and honey drifting through the air. Theo stood near the door, sharpening a scythe with slow, steady strokes.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” Theo asked.
Illara paused in her stirring just long enough for a faint blush to rise in her cheeks.
“Yes,” I answered. “It’s the first night I’ve slept in a proper bed for quite some time.”
A half-truth. Saying I barely slept at all would only invite questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
“How long have you been sleeping rough?” Theo asked.
“Around twenty years. Give or take.”
Theo froze mid-stroke. “By choice?”
“No.”
The word came out sharper than I intended. Not angry, but clipped. Too blunt. Too cold. Drisnil’s tone, not mine.
Before the awkwardness could settle, Illara stepped in. “How long are you planning to stay?”
I adjusted my voice, aiming for something gentler. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. So… as long as the village will have me.”
“In that case, Dad,” Illara said, “can she stay here with us?”
Theo hesitated only for a breath before nodding. “I don’t see why not.”
Illara clearly had him wrapped around her finger.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“You know the harvest starts today, right?” Theo asked.
“Yes. I’d like to help, if that’s all right.”
“We can always use extra hands.”
“I may need a bit of guidance,” I admitted. “I’ve never done farm work before.”
He smiled. “It’s simple enough. I’m sure someone can teach you.”
I’d watched this village harvest its fields for years — seen the songs, the laughter, the long hours and the celebrations that followed. But watching was not the same as belonging.
For the first time, I would take part.
Later in the day, three carriages rolled into the village, carrying twenty workers who had come to help with the harvest. I recognised most of the faces from previous years.
Leading them was a broad-shouldered young man named Heronius, grandson of Rasmus, who had retired long before this season. Heronius had his grandfather’s build: tall, strong, and sun-tanned from long days in the fields.
“Good to see you, Cain,” Heronius called as he climbed down from the carriage. “Are your kids doing well?”
“They are,” Cain replied proudly. “My eldest is nearly old enough to leave home already. Time moves faster every year.”
“We’ve cleared enough space in the temple for a dozen people to sleep,” Cain added. “If you want to organise who goes where, I can help coordinate.”
“That would be wonderful,” Heronius said with a grateful nod. “The rest of us can pitch tents in the usual spot.”
Harvest season was always the most joyful time of year in the village — songs, shared meals, stories around fires. After so many years as nothing more than a watcher, I was genuinely looking forward to experiencing it as a person.
That evening, tents rose like clustered shadows near the fields, lanterns casting warm circles of light across the grass. Laughter drifted in the air, the smell of ale and roasting food carried on the breeze.
I joined Sera, Illara, and Derrick — Sera’s older brother — at the workers’ campsite for a drink. It was a moonless night, yet the lack of light did nothing to dampen anyone’s spirits.
“So, Drisnil,” Sera began, leaning toward me with that familiar mischievous squint, “Illara says you’ve been watching her all her life. Unseen.”
“Yes,” I replied simply.
Sera took another swig of her beer. I followed suit. The brew was thin and a little sour, but it was alcohol — and after twenty years without a body, that was more than enough for me.
“How closely were you watching her?” Sera pressed. “And was it all the time?”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Close enough,” I said. “And practically the entire time.”
“Even when I was with her?” she asked, cheeks already turning pink.
“Yes. Even then.”
Sera went scarlet. I had a reasonable guess as to what memory she feared I meant. I decided to test the waters.
“I remember a particular incident involving you and Illara,” I said.
Sera froze. “No, please, not in front of my brother.”
Now Derrick perked up. “Well now you have to tell me.”
I leaned back, letting the firelight flicker over my face.
“That time you broke what you thought was your mum’s favourite bowl and tried to glue it back together. Badly. Only to realise later that it was already cracked and she had meant to throw it out anyway.”
Derrick burst out laughing, and Illara covered her mouth with a grin.
“And what about the time you stole your dad’s booze,” I added mercilessly, “got drunk, and then pretended to be sick so he wouldn’t notice?”
Sera’s face went an even deeper shade of red. She groaned and buried her face in her hands, while the others laughed. Even Illara leaned against me as she giggled, the sound warm in the night air.
Sera didn’t speak for several moments, perhaps praying I wouldn’t mention anything worse, but the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
The laughter around the fire drifted long into the night, an easy warmth settling over us like a blanket. Eventually the mugs emptied, the lanterns dimmed, and one by one we drifted back toward our beds.
The next day I woke early with Illara in my arms again. She’d had another nightmare during the night, and, as before, I had pulled her close to soothe her.
At some point exhaustion must have dragged me under, because I found myself half-curled around her when morning crept in.
Before she could wake like this a second time, I gently rolled away, giving her space and sparing her the awkwardness of finding herself wrapped in me again.
The sun hadn’t risen, but a pale light pressed at the shutters. Despite my stiff muscles, excitement stirred in me. In my old life, farm work had never been something I’d consider doing. But after twenty years of being unable to touch the world at all, even the thought of working in the field felt like a gift.
As I lay on my back, Illara rolled over in her sleep and draped an arm across my stomach. I didn’t move. Truthfully, I didn’t mind the contact.
After a few quiet breaths she began to wake, her body going rigid as she realised what she was holding. I kept my breathing slow, pretending to still be asleep.
She eased her arm away with surprising gentleness and slipped out of bed. The absence of her warmth left my side cold.
I listened as she dressed quietly, then left the room.
To give her space — and to avoid her thinking I’d been waiting for her reaction — I remained in bed until the sun finally pushed through the shutters, turning the dimness to gold. The light stabbed at my eyes as always. I doubted I’d ever adapt to it.
Once dressed, I joined Illara in the common room.
“Good morning, everyone,” I said, letting my voice drag with practiced sleepiness. Drisnil had perfected that tone long before I’d inhabited her body; deception always came naturally to her.
Ash nodded at me. It was strange seeing him like this — the frightened child I’d first seen being carried out of the snow, now carrying the quiet resolve of someone shaped by loss.
Theo was by the hearth, roasting small cuts of lambs fry and frying potatoes. “What job are you thinking of helping with today?” he asked.
“The threshing,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “I hope you’ve got the stamina for it. It’s hard work.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. This body isn’t afraid of effort.” True enough. Most of Drisnil’s “work” had involved fighting or stalking prey through darkness, but physical strength was physical strength.
“Don’t be afraid to take a break if you need it,” Theo said. “We’ve got three days’ worth of work.”
“I appreciate that,” I replied.
It was a simple kindness, nothing dramatic, but it struck me all the same. I wasn’t used to people considering my well-being at all. Not for a long time.
“I’ll be making sure everyone has food and water,” Illara said, shouldering her pack. “And helping tend to any injured at the temple.”
“Will you be working with Jenna?” I asked.
Illara hesitated. “Yes, part of my apprenticeship.”
I wondered what mattered more to her: her faith, or the people she loved. Hard to say. She carried both with equal devotion.
After breakfast I followed Tom and Cain to the threshing area. Piles of harvested grain waited for us. Tom showed me how to use a flail, swinging it down hard to break the husks.
The work was repetitive, rhythmic, and far more physically draining than I’d expected. To keep time, we sang simple rounds. The melodies were basic, but they helped us fall into a rhythm.
By lunchtime my shoulders and back ached. We paused work and walked to the temple for food. As I approached, Jenna stepped out quickly and handed me a plate before I could even cross the threshold.
“Why don’t you enjoy your meal outside, Drisnil?” she said sharply, not unkind, but firm. “It’s a lovely day.”
Jenna’s eyes lingered a moment too long on my skin — not with disgust, but with a searching, troubled scrutiny, as though looking for some shadow Solvarn’s light had not yet burned away.
So she didn’t want me entering the temple. I let the slight pass. There was no point inviting conflict over something so small.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll eat under that tree.”
The meal — bread, butter, and cooked mutton — tasted heavenly after a morning of hard labour.
A few minutes later, Sera appeared and plopped down beside me under the oak’s spreading shade.
“How was threshing?” she asked.
“Tiring,” I said through a mouthful.
“You’d better appreciate that food. I helped make those sandwiches.”
“Oh, I appreciate them,” I said sincerely. “They taste incredible after all that work.”
Sera smiled, then lowered her voice. “By the way… thanks for not mentioning the other embarrassing thing last night.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “I don’t intend to make your life harder by revealing your crushes.”
Her cheeks reddened instantly.
Sera had a crush on Ash. She’d confided it to Illara last year during the festival. Nothing had come of it, mostly because Sera was far too shy.
“You know,” I added gently, “if you don’t do something about it, you may regret it one day.”
“I know,” she muttered. “I just… I don’t want things to get awkward for Illara if it goes badly.”
Just then, Ash walked past on his way to the temple. Sera froze, then flushed as he glanced our way. His eyes paused on her for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he continued inside.
Sera stared down at her hands, flustered.
I hid a smile behind my sandwich.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of repetitive work and sun-soaked exhaustion.
That evening, I found myself again at the makeshift tavern the travellers had set up. Lanterns hung from ropes between the tents, swaying with the evening breeze, and the low crackle of the firepit mixed with bursts of laughter and clinking mugs.
I sat with Sera, Illara, and Derrick at a rough wooden table. The beer was mediocre at best, but the company made up for it.
“Do you know any songs?” Sera asked, leaning forward with interest.
I sifted through Drisnil’s memories and found a handful of old elven folk tunes — songs she had used when pretending to be a wandering bard.
“Yes,” I said. “I know a couple.”
“Sing for us, then,” Sera urged with a grin.
“I’m not sure I can,” I warned. “It’s been… a long time.”
“Oh, go on,” Derrick said, nudging me with his elbow.
I took a small breath. The melody surfaced in my mind as if lifted from deep water. When I opened my mouth, the words slipped out like moonlight.
“Lunarae tel?n, selúma varien,
Eri silanor?, eri falanor?.
Nai saelen dra?, nai saelen dra?,
Lúria melanor, lúrien talae.
Vara ti leni, vara ti lé,
Saren thalashe, saren vené.
Eri silanor?, eri falanor?,
Lunarae tel?n, enai vare.”
The language felt soft and fluid, the melody gentle, almost hypnotic. As I sang, the noise around us dimmed one voice at a time. By the second verse, the entire tavern had gone still. Workers leaned on their mugs, eyes unfocused, caught somewhere between the firelight and the sound.
The final line faded into the night. I lowered my gaze, suddenly aware of the quiet.
Then a soft ripple of applause spread through the camp, hesitant at first, then warm.
“Nice work, Drisnil,” Sera said, laughing lightly. “I’m so glad I asked.”
“That was… mesmerizing,” Illara murmured, her voice barely above the crackle of the fire.
Derrick leaned forward. “What does it mean?”
“It’s an old lullaby,” I said. “About rest, and the certainty that dawn always comes. It’s… a promise that hardship is temporary. And that even sorrow moves on.”
A few nearby workers nodded slowly, as though the meaning soothed something tired inside them.
And for a moment, in the glow of firelight and quiet admiration, I felt more like a person than a shadow watching from the treeline.
People kept offering drinks, more curious now, more welcoming than before. I let myself get swept into their warmth.
I drank a little too much that night, and when Illara and I finally crawled into bed, my body moved on instinct rather than thought. I wrapped an arm around her, and she leaned unconsciously into the warmth.
She didn’t wake from fear even once. Not a single nightmare touched her that night.
The second day of harvest began before the sun had fully risen, the fields washed in pale grey and gold. Dew clung to every stalk, soaking my boots as I followed Tom toward the outer rows where the scythe teams were already gathering.
Several villagers stood spaced across the wheat, scythes in hand, their movements slow and deliberate. Each swing rose and fell like part of a single breath, a rippling dance through the tall stalks.
Tom handed me a worn scythe.
“You ever used one of these?”
“No.”
He grinned. “You’ll pick it up quick. Just fall into the rhythm. And if you can’t find one, listen.”
At first the blade dragged through the stalks — too heavy, too long — pulling me sideways. Drisnil’s body knew how to move silently, swiftly; nothing about this motion felt natural.
Then the singing began.
Not loudly; just a handful of workers starting a simple round, overlapping each other in a low, steady cadence. A rise, a fall. A beat for the body to follow.
“Swing and sweep, the earth we reap…”
The melody wound through the rows like a soft rope, tugging us into unison. Tom joined in. Derrick’s voice carried faintly a few lines away. Even Cain hummed the under-harmony as he walked the fields.
I adjusted my grip.
Matched their timing.
Let the song guide the arc.
The next swing cut cleaner.
The one after that, smoother.
Soon the scythe felt like an extension of my arms, carving through the wheat in long, confident strokes. My shoulders still burned, my back still ached — but the rhythm carried me forward, rounding the edges of the strain.
For a moment, it felt almost like fighting… but without blood. Without fear. Without purpose except to work alongside everyone else in simple harmony.
Cain passed by and gave a nod that almost looked like approval.
“You’re doing well, Drisnil. You’ve found the tempo faster than most.”
I didn’t tell him it wasn’t the tempo I’d found.
It was the song.
The way it turned work into pattern.
Effort into ease.
Strangers into a single moving shape.
And as the sun climbed higher, warming the backs of our necks, I found myself humming along quietly, almost without realising I’d begun.
Later that night Illara returned past dusk, moving like a ghost. Temple work had clearly drained her — the subtle slump in her posture, the way she winced faintly as she unbraided her hair, the deep sigh when she finally slid beneath the blankets.
She fell asleep before I even settled in.
Somewhere in the night she drifted closer, her forehead brushing my shoulder for the briefest moment before she rolled onto her back again, murmuring something incoherent.
Not fear.
Not seeking comfort.
Just the tired body of someone who trusted the space she shared.
I watched her sleep until my eyes grew heavy.
And the strange thing was…
the quiet felt good.