It was a cold day and his back hurt, the firewood sat unprocessed. Rivulets of sweat ran down his forehead, into his hair, and into his eyes. It had been a hard winter, and the vestigial remnants of those months remained like the dead after a battle. Large lumpy piles of snow stood erect around the homestead, casting their shade on the little empires of dormant surviving ant colonies. Their efforts across the yard culminated in small mounds that periodically poked through the snow-crusted soil. His eyes fixated on a vague point in the middle distance. In his periphery he could see his breath sawing in and out of him, steady and controlled. These white billowing puffs amused him momentarily, the cold air in his lungs bringing life and vigor into his muscles.

  “Glorious,” he muttered.

  The thrill of hard work always made him giddy. A new horizon to test his growing strength was here at his doorstep. He had been stuck inside all winter, periodically venturing out to retrieve fuel for the hearth. While Grant enjoyed the time with Lyn, the sameness was getting to him. There were only so many things they could do together in the comfort of their home. This was the first week he could really step out and work without risking frostbite. The cold still leaked into his bones like the leaky vestry at church.

  He smiled and kept splitting lumber, knowing that the winter months were over. This was the soonest a man should start splitting firewood. There would be ample time in the year for the wood to dry. By next winter, the firewood would be perfect for use. Grant’s mind caught up with time once more, aware of the things around him as he left Work Time. Truth be told, he couldn’t register time passing at all when he worked. He saw the pile of split firewood and started to think about the next steps. He would need to go grab some more from the back. Though, he needed to put this pile away first, correctly this time. He snorted, remembering the dressing-down from his wife. There were still two more cords of wood he would need to split before the end of the month. In addition, he would need to spot and stash any fatwood he found in the cords. Lord knew that if that was everything the stead needed, he would be morbidly obese and one foot in the grave by winter.

  He knew there was a hot meal at home, made by loving hands and carefully set with silverware. The sheer thought of the food warmed him. He could almost smell it now too, the hints of it just seeping out of the paper-covered window. The smell reminded him of the tenacity of desperate men invading a home for its goods. As he crossed, something savory caught his attention. It was in the air, stronger now. He could smell lunch and dinner simmering in the hearth. The smell of mable wood burning simmered into the back of his throat. Maybe Lyn was making some pie too. The thought put some power into his stride. With a hefty grunt, Grant pushed harder.

  He saw the lip of the wraparound porch to the house and started offloading the firewood into a neat pile. Grant took a knee and transferred the broken logs from his wheelbarrow. He could feel the sturdy heft the wood made as he packed it. Grant stood up after and looked down with an approving nod. Briefly, his eye caught the fatwood and he remembered Lyn talking about why it was important. He vaguely remembered something about rituals. Grant swept his gaze across his horizon, finding the wire fence that separated the front and back yards. He knew that he would need to pick up a new plow and some new pipe for the well. The pipe broke last year when a careless mistake left it crushed and full of holes. The plow just needed the care and love of a real carpenter to see to its broken handles and aging frame. Before he could set a record, he heard something cut through the deafening silence.

  “Grant!” Lyn bellowed.

  Grant sighed, knowing that his record would go unbroken for today. As he turned towards the sound of his name, he put on a smile and raised his voice. “Lyn?”

  “Grant! Dinner!” shouted Lyn, her voice as sultry and authoritative as ever. The tone awkwardly animated Grant and he moved his legs.

  Before Grant knew it, he had crossed the yard and was free of his protective gear. His boots flew off before entering the house. The sting and numbing cold of the world sapped what little heat his feet had. He winced at the pain but knew that if he went in with muddy boots in the house Lyn had just cleaned, Grant would be sleeping near the hearth with a cold wraith at his back and the ancients haunting his sleep.

  He then stood in the home he built with his childhood friend, Adam. In that dim light, Lyn’s dark blue dress seemed more sinister. Her lighter features were in the diminished light. The scene carried his eyes up and into hers. Grant saw the light hazel of her eyes and felt his shoulders ease. She was a small animal when compared to other women. While she was in his arms, Grant felt like a giant. Like a man cradling a small defenseless bunny from the harsh winds. He knew he loved her more than anything else in the world. All other details simply fell out through the floor as he saw her. Nothing compared to the feeling he felt when simply in the same room with his beloved. Grant felt all his training and competence fade in that moment. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, and his hands explored the small of her back. He heard a sharp gasp from her mouth as he deepened the embrace. A beat passed and a sharp pain transfixed his ear in place. He halted the march of his fingers and withdrew. He saw Lyn about to speak as he did.

  “Your hands are cold!” Lyn cried out in shock. Her smile grew at the control she had over him then. “Go warm up by the hearth if you’re going to touch me!” Lyn let go of his ear, allowing the giant to move. Her commanding grip eased into a soft trail down his face, smoothing then into a flat palm on his chest. “Go!” She playfully pushed, lugging the heavy man off her. Her man, she later corrected.

  Her eyes trailed down his back as he walked off to warm up by the hearth. He was a broad man and compared more easily to the trees he felled for a living. She loved the way his shoulders stood out in the shirt she picked out for him. Each ridge and fold of the fabric reminded her of the market stall she bought it from. Her eyes fell down his back to his long sturdy legs, reminding Lyn further of those very trees. The smell of his passing was a memory taking her back to the day they got his shirt. She knew that she loved every inch of him the way he was. It was the same assurance of love that told her the sun would rise tomorrow morning.

  She felt butterflies riot inside of her at the sight of his smile. That same dopey grin that caught her when they first met. His brown eyes lit with that absence of mind she knew him for. The stubble on his chin darkened in the home here as she saw it. She knew there were the first grey hairs there on Grant, and he was sensitive to that. This whole thing was so surreal. At times she could hardly believe that she was even here. When Lyn closed her eyes, she felt like she could still touch him, whether he was there or not. Years of fantasizing about this very scenario with a blank-faced man played in her mind. Her face grew warm at the thought. Her dreams played out in vivid reality as he walked towards the hearth. His stride was sure, confident, and measured. He looked like he was marching to his destination.

  As if the thought occurred to her, she stood and started to prepare his meal. Her hands darted over the new cutlery. Lyn rushed to grab the secondhand plates and bowls with practiced ease. The environment was different to her old memories. The same cabinets she practiced at with her mother were replaced with simple wooden shelves that hung above the countertops. The memories she ran through were sweet and always had left her warm inside. Those long hours of memorizing the taste and feel of herbs with her mother formed the basis of the stew she was now ladling. She remembered the long process of setting the table for her betrothed, for her lord, for her god. Mentally preparing a similar layout for the news she was to carry.

  A beat later she relived memories of darning and starching clothes. Learning to sew, button, and stitch fabric. It all came back to her in a tidal wave. Her eyes rested on the bowl in her hands as she crossed the kitchen. Before she knew it, the bowl of stew she had made was sitting at the table. Small wisps of steam gently wafted off the fresh bowl. Her mind raced with the small filigree needed to set the table. She saw the burlap brown sash of fabric that formed the protective covering for the battered table. She shook her head as she saw it. Such a paltry covering on an old ratty table. The bowls were okay though, simple grey-white clay earthenware. She remembered the beautiful fine plates and bowls her mother had. Fine linework in blue ink scrawled across them in dizzying patterns. The pure white of the porcelain was always fascinating to her.

  Lyn’s gaze was carried up to the walls’ simple adornments. A small sconce for candles. Cloth curtain coverings for the windows. A rug under the table that they were to eat at. All of them formed the peripherals of her mind as she turned to spot the old secondhand crib she purchased earlier that day. Lyn quietly giggled at the thought of sneaking the crib under Grant’s nose. She loved how reliable he was. How easy it was to motivate him to a job. The memory came to her as she thought about him. The morning rays struck her early, almost as if God rose to wake her personally. Rose to tell her how she could get that crib under Grant’s nose. She smiled as brightly as the sun shone on her that very morning as inspiration dawned on her.

  Lyn sat opposite Grant at the table. To her, the meal she made tasted the same each time she made it. The simple recipe tumbled over in her mouth as she ate. Minor variance in salts and herbs aside, it came out well. But to Grant, the flavor was exquisite. The way he attacked the bowl of food was almost savage. A small animal part of her mind feared that same voracity should he turn that on someone. But something more primitive came to her mind when she saw Grant eating. Lyn could feel a flush rising to her face as he ate it. It was a simple stew. Lyn had put in rabbit, carrot, potatoes, celery, and seasonings. Its ingredients would feel commonplace in the poorhouse. However, Grant slurped up every bite like he was a predator. She could even see how he was timing his bites to take a breath between loud slurps. The sight reminded her of a street dog. The act of watching Grant eat filled her heart with love and pride to feed him. She could not summon such a show as she ate her portion, however.

  “Lyn?” Grant asked.

  Lyn looked up at the mention of her own name, too lost in her own thoughts to have noticed his prolonged look. She saw the small droplets of food left on his shirt, the way they bled into it stuck out to her. As Lyn saw that, her hand moved to the handkerchief in her pocket. Her thoughts scrambled at the sight of her man eating with a familiar raw urgency. Grant’s face had collected parts of his meal, speckling his chin. Simply the act of watching him gave her pause each time she saw it. The small act of dabbing the drops of broth off his shirt helped Lyn to collect herself.

  “Lyn, are you alright?” Grant asked with genuine concern.

  Lyn could see that same puppy dog expression in Grant’s eyes at the very inkling of clouds in paradise. Lyn pursed her lips and thought on how to break the news delicately to her husband. “Darling,” Lyn uttered in a low and soft tone. “I have some news…”

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  Grant quietly sat while his food slowly lost its heat into the cool room. Lyn curled her hands around her midriff and slid back from the table. She was glowing and in some small part of Grant’s mind started to alarm him. “Wait,” Grant spoke before Lyn could.

  Lyn smiled and nodded. “Yes, Grant, I’m—”

  “Trying that new tincture I got you?” He smiled and laughed. “Good! I knew you would look good with the new treatment,” he said with mirth.

  Wrong-footed, Lyn scowled with an ugly smear. “What—no. No!” Lyn slapped the table, her hand resounding a sharp note that stung Grant’s ears. “You stupid adorable idiot!”

  She then remembered what her grandmother said in that moment. “Hun, don’t scold the fool you love. Guide him gently.”

  “Sorry… I’m sorry. Grant. I’m pregnant, Grant,” she said softly.

  Grant saw time speed from that moment on. The crib Lyn purchased was the furthest thing from his mind then. For the rest of that week, he felt like he was in a dream. All his emotions were out of whack at the prospect of bringing new life into the world. Pride, panic, fear, paranoia. It was as if the world was brought into sharp focus all in that period. He could see more detail now. Things were sharper and more acute to him. His senses heightened beyond his training then. He had a new child to look after now. Every shadow could be a predator lurking to snatch up his lineage. This new feeling he later came to define with acute detail was the responsibility of fatherhood.

  Time passed in a blur. He saw midwives, wet nurses, priests, grandmothers, and crones. Every woman in the village had paid a visit to Lyn at some point. The coming of new life was a messy, loud, and public affair. Grant could see the passing days, the morning sickness, the doting of all the women of his village. His world went from the simple cut and stack of firewood to procuring linens, blankets, pillows, nightgowns, night snacks, tinctures, and tonics.

  Almost daily, Grant had to politely fend off visitors to preserve Lyn’s privacy. The priests insisted on pushing the Lord’s prayers for every mass that Lyn missed. He even needed to process the tactful art of shipping Lyn’s folk out to the stead. Things had become so hectic that the two cords of wood were left by the wayside, and two additional laborers were hired for normal chores. One of them, Anthony, was hired to take on the chores that Grant could no longer handle. The other, Katie, was taken on as a nurse for the house. Later, when it came to breastfeeding, Katie shared that duty with Lyn. Katie was related to Grant on his aunt’s side and was a natural choice, as the rest of Lyn’s relatives were too far out of the picture or at war. Anthony had no relation to Grant or Lyn as far as they knew but came recommended from the priests that visited every weekend. He needed extra work in addition to his care of the vestry to purchase a horse.

  While Anthony didn’t work very fast, Grant could admire his persistence and punctuality. It was that same persistence that made Anthony a permanent fixture of the house. The boy was young, lithe, and full of energy. He reminded Grant of a Sunhound, so excited and ready to tackle anything. Grant could see the boy stacking the split wood along his porch. Within a week he saw the width of the wall double. Grant could see the youth working through the remainder of the two cords within the month. While Grant could have done it in two weeks, he just couldn’t spare the time to that rite. He was busy sending correspondence with family via the Rookery that Adam owned, organizing far-flung family with destined letters to corporate offices.

  In this time preceding the quickening, Grant laid out additional tasks to Anthony. He was to start raking the detritus along the edges of the property. This was a practical thing to do anyway, not just some busy work Grant invented. It kept small predators from lurking in the organic buildup that peppered the yard. It generally made the place less shabby to look at. Most importantly, it concentrated their fuel stockpile with more varied tinder. One day, returning from an errand for a refill on a tincture. Grant spotted Anthony working the yard free of a large pile of snow.

  “Good work, Anthony.” Grant smiled and held the door open for the young man one day. “Thank you, feel free to take the rest of the day off. If you’d like, Lyn has some bread you can have,” Grant said with warmth in his voice. He turned his head almost as if it were an automatic action and spoke into the home. “Lyn, I’m home.” Loud enough to carry to the back room.

  “Thank you, Mr. Goodmin,” Anthony said awkwardly. “It means a lot that you let me work here.” The youth started to strip his heavy winter apparel, leaving it in a messy heap next to the coat rack if it didn’t belong up on it. He strode in and made himself at home.

  Grant felt a rising chuckle at the easy demeanor of the youth. How he could so easily take space and feel welcome in such a short time was worth a report on its own. Grant felt like he had known Anthony for a lot longer than he did. A few easy strides later Grant had a wonderful dinner and a memory to savor for the rest of his life between him, Anthony, and Lyn.

  Time came to hire Katie when Lyn was too sick in the mornings to do much else than hug a bucket. Lyn presented with a visible swell now. Her figure filled out with what was to come. Grant, while specialized for heavy work and crowd control amongst other things, simply lacked domestic skills. He found his clothes needing stitching. All the fabrics needed washing from the constant through traffic of the visitors. The floors needed sweeping. Coals, ashes, and food scraps gathered, stocked, and tossed in that order. The house started to fall apart as Grant felt like he was living in a pigsty. The smell was the worst part of it. The residual smell of vomit had started to make him sick. Grant shook his head and pitied Lyn.

  He sent a message off to his mother a county over, almost begging for help from the family with an extra domestic hand. In her usual way, his mother spoke through action instead of the written word. A week had waxed and waned before a knock perforated the quiet mess that had piled in the home. There before him stood a diminutive youth. Her arms were thin and delicate. Her shoulders were narrow but firm, at attention. Her gaze was sharp but knowing. He looked down and saw an officer in training, not a child. “Lyn,” Grant said, half distracted by the spectacle. “Guess who’s home?” He remarked in an almost sarcastic manner.

  “Master Grant,” Katie said in a flat, monotone voice. “I am here to help with your Domestic Issues; I am Lyn’s new Gossip.” She eyed the background Grant had come to obstruct.

  Grant shook his head. “Just call me Grant,” he said, recognizing the youth almost at once. The term she used dug under his skin but let it slide. The freshly raked yard framed her background. He stepped to the side to allow her inside, granting her a full view of the home. “How’s your mother?” he asked.

  Katie quietly stepped in, mimicking Grant’s neat placement of shoes. “She’s well,” she said in a short, clipped chirp. “You haven’t learned to clean, have you?” Katie said in a rancorous voice.

  Grant chuffed at the remark, hiding it expertly under the veneer of an officer. “Duties kept me from doing all but the bare necessities,” he returned in an equally short and clipped tone. “What’re you expecting in pay?” he continued, closing the door.

  She looked up to Grant, who stood a foot taller than her. “Five.”

  “Three.” Grant brutally corrected her.

  “Four and a half.” She sharply returned, the debate lasting seconds.

  “Four, and final.” He said, his voice carrying to the back of the home in a low mutter that stirred Lyn.

  Katie held his gaze and nodded sternly. “As much to expect from a reprobate.” She put a hard emphasis on the T as she said it, her tongue clashing against her teeth.

  Grant nodded. “Lyn is in the back; she needs warm water, clean linens, and a shoulder rub. Anything physical labor related is relayed to Anthony.” Grant started donning his clothes. “I must attend a meeting with Priest Vandal and his healers. If you need to scold me for any wrongdoings, do it after I get back from mass. Also, Priest Vandal will be coming back with me. Keep any real venom to yourself while he’s here.” Grant opened the door again and stepped out into the cold. “Don’t touch the Ossn in the corner. Just leave it alone.” He vaguely gestured to a glass decanter filled with dark orange and black sawdust. “You’re welcome to the sweets, preserved ground cherries, and ginger beer. And Anthony.” He smiled at the inward joke, knowing she wouldn’t bite. “Oh. Thank—” He smiled, allowing his chilly demeanor to fade.

  Katie, on the other hand, wasn’t so weak. Grant came face to face with the grain of his door the millisecond he smiled. “You.” he said flatly. His smile worn off.

  In the time that the quickening came to Lyn, Grant saw much less of his wife. Smothered by the Gossip and crew, Lyn was much indisposed with the child she was soon to bear to the world. It was more often he had to fend off visitors Lyn didn’t want to see now, constantly reminding her that she was not to overexert or handle many things for herself. Grant had to expand Anthony’s role to cook and spare gofer now. He could almost hear an hourly request to rearrange the bedding for Lyn. All of it he did out of love and devotion. Thankfully, Katie was stepping up as gossip, waking whenever Grant couldn’t. Even though, at the time, Katie didn’t like Grant, his opinion of the youth grew considerably.

  For the time being, Grant would need to bring in all his maternal kin. That was much less of a challenge. He saw to it that his sisters were informed of the turn of events. Correspondence was relayed via carrier pigeon. So often he did message with his siblings that Grant thought of purchasing his own pigeon. This took him to and from the Rookery, where he learned that his old friend Adam was the owner-operator of the establishment. He quickly rekindled his friendship with Adam after returning home from the Army. Adam was a smart-looking man. He had been educated in one of the prestigious schools out in a city somewhere. Or, well, Grant presumed Adam was. He remembered Adam from his adolescence, his troubled years.

  Crossing through the threshold, he shed his boots with ease. Keeping his feet warm was always easier if he was walking or marching. His shoes clattered into a neat pile inside the home next to the door. Grant inhaled sharply and raised his voice just enough to carry to the back of the home.

  “Lyn, I’m home,” Grant announced.

  The last months came and went quickly, much in line with the quickening as it went. One day, during regular correspondence with his mother, Grant came back to a quiet that disturbed him. Nobody sat outside of the house, and the room was cooler than usual. Someone wasn’t keeping up with the fuel in the hearth.

  “Lyn, I’m home.” His voice carried to the back of the home easily. He could hear the soft patter of feet on bare floor, sharp but quiet enough to not disturb the mice. The Gossip leaned around the corner of the hearth and spoke in a soft but urgent voice.

  “Lyn is in labor.”

  Before the two could come to realize it, the final hours were dawning before new life came into the world. Lyn’s lying-in had started, and she went into contractions. Grant worked frantically, even more so now than in the past. Hot water. Screaming. Blood. A small, animal part of his mind called out the similarities to war, minus the rockets and artillery.

  He waited patiently as the gaggle of crones, elders, and priests kept him from going into his own damn bedroom. He could hear her screaming in vivid pain; it was an ugly and gut-wrenching deep-throated roar. The closest he could remember that could match it were the barbarous screams of the berserkers that trampled the marches.

  He sat in mimicked agony, having readied for this moment the better part of a year. Lyn screamed for what felt like a mortal lifetime. This was a moment in his life, upon reflection in his golden years, that did not matter what you did as a man right then. The fate of everything you had planned for was down to pure chance. It did not matter if you lifted heaven and earth. It did not matter if you were an emperor. It was down to you and the God you prayed to.

  Crouched in his seat, his head hung from his shoulders, he could smell the bright flourish of burning fuel. He could pick out that smell from anywhere. Burning Ossn. He lifted his head, and over the smells, over the screams, over everything that passed through the seams of that bedroom door.

  His limbs coiled tightly. Grant’s mind whipped to and from memories like a caged and panicked pigeon. He heard the faint cry of his child. Grant stood with vigor, his feet going numb at the sudden burst of movement. A sharp cry heralded the arrival of new life. Grant mimicked his child in that moment. Silvery streams marked the path that the new life would serenade.

  Moments later, the door opened. Priest Vandal walked out with Grant’s child in arms. The man of the cloth’s image mimicked the newborn.

  “It’s a boy!” the priest said confidently.

  Grant, finally a father, sobbed with elation. In the background of the man, a soft green light backlit them. Grant could see the faith healer there, her hands hovering over Lyn in that instant. Wisps of flesh mending and knitting as she burned the dense fuel, healing his wife in real time. He saw life flowing back into her pale face as she writhed in receding pain. All his worries slid off his shoulders and he could finally bellow his pent-up worry. The moment passed as he held his son. “Welcome to the world…” he whispered to the small child. The tinnitus ring was all that was left to hear then as he looked down upon his joy.