Many mistook his quietness for intimidation; others, for rudeness. But those were far from the truth.
From a young age, he had learned that the tongue was a weapon sharper than any two-edged dagger. It could make or break, heal or wound—save or kill.
The power of life and death lay within the tongue and if wielded wrongly, lives could surely be lost. Such a weapon was truly dangerous; and so, rather than misusing it, he chose not to wield it at all.
Only when it truly mattered.
Only when silence became a more perilous weapon.
Only when he was most certain his words would do no harm to the innocent.
Thus, he used his tongue sparingly and wisely.
But were the words he spoke today truly necessary?
Could they be considered wise?
Why had he spoken so freely to her?
What concern of his was it whether she spoke too much or not? Why had he spoken so rashly, granting her the land behind the cottage?
These questions played around his head in circles, yet one troubled him the most.
"Why did I pursue her?"
After his meal with Goodwin, he had wandered alone into the woods, only to stumble upon that woman, cursing without end.
He could have walked away. Could have pretended he saw nothing.
He could have.
He should have.
Yet, as he stood there, staring upon her back, his eyes took in the sight of her shimmering black hair. It reminded him of the ravens that were never far from the battlefield.
With his eyes fixed upon her, he knew not when his lips parted.
Only after she had turned, and saw him did he realize—Ah. I must have spoken aloud.
Why was he always the one to notice her first? Why did she so often fall within his sight?
Anger flashed in her eyes the instant she turned, but he watched it swiftly give way to something between uncertainty and fear.
She fled.
It was sudden.
Why was she running?
He remained planted to the ground, watching her flee, her black hair whipping behind her as she slipped farther from his view.
Why did she flee?
He found himself wondering—and before he knew it, he had given chase.
When he caught her, and she stared up at him with wide brown eyes, he saw nothing but fear. The kind he had seen many times just before he tore an enemy apart.
But seeing her tremble in his arms stirred something within him and it was nothing close to what he felt when taking down an enemy.
He felt this uncontrollable urge to correct her fear, and thus he opened his mouth once more and spewed whatever came forth.
He did not even wish to think of the exchange that followed after he granted her right over the land behind the cottage. It was almost incredible how swiftly her expressions shifted—quicker than he could blink.
Fear gave way to confusion, then to realization, and at last—fury.
He had spoken more words that afternoon than he had in an entire month—all because of her.
She was but a—
He paused as a faint knock sounded upon his door.
It was not Goodwin; for the knock was far too light.
Perhaps a fox.
But it came again. Sharper this time, yet still too light to be the knock of any grown man.
He rose and took careful steps towards the window.
He saw no one, yet the knock came once more, now accompanied by a voice.
"Mister… are you there?"
Hearing the voice, Zuriel frowned as he turned the latch and drew the door open.
It was a child.
A red-haired boy like himself, one he had seen before.
Staring down at him, Zuriel folded his arms across his chest.
"Boy, what are you doing in this part of the Manor? Where is your mother?"
The child—barely four years of age—looked up at him with eyes like the clearest of seas, his little fingers fidgeting together as he held his lower lip between his teeth.
"I came to see you, and Mother is busy milking the cows." For a child of his age, his speech was remarkably clear.
Zuriel's brows drew closer. "You came without your mother's knowledge? To see me? For what reason?"
"Because you are my father, of course!"
Of all the ridiculous things the child could have conjured, being a father was the last thing Zuriel would have expected.
"Wh—what?" he faltered.
"May I come in, father?" the child asked—yet was already slipping his little self into the cottage, leaving Zuriel standing there, mouth agape.
"It is a nice place. Quite comfortable too," the child nodded to himself as he showed himself round the cottage.
He could not have a son.
How could he have fathered a child without ever knowing?
Aye, he had spent a few long nights with some women—commoners and nobility alike—but he was most certain that he had fathered no child!
So what utter nonsense was this tiny fox spewing?