Epilogue

Silas fixed the obstinate merchant with a grin as he raked a hand through his blond bangs and fluttered his eyelashes in a way he knew most people found irresistible. "Are you certain you don't have fresher strawberries in stock? I'm willing to negotiate a fair price."

Unfortunately, Gloria wasn't most people .

She snorted, the bangles in her long hair jingling as she shook her head. "Your charm won't work on me, Silas. We both know who you've got waiting for you at home…and what they'd do to anyone foolish enough to flirt back."

His grin widened as he pressed a hand over his heart. "Why, Gloria! I would never dream of flirting over some fruit! I'm merely engaging in the well-known art of haggling."

"Of course," Gloria said dryly. "Then, why don't you haggle your way over to someone else's booth to bother them?" Her gnarled hand nudged the box of strawberries that sat on the stall between them. "Unless you're a paying customer, I don't have time for your nonsense today."

His smile dimmed. "How's James doing?"

"Better. That Khordanite priest looked at his leg and did what he could. Gave us some kind of ointment he said would help the bone mend properly. I'm sure James will be up and about, hobbling and complaining in no time."

Despite her words, Silas sensed her underlying worry. He picked up the box of strawberries and dropped a few coins in its place. "On second thought, these seem plenty ripe."

Gloria narrowed her eyes on the coins. "This is more than I asked for."

He shrugged, hefting the strawberries in a kind of salute. "Consider it a tax for me taking up your time."

"James and I don't need anyone's charity." She shoved two of the coins back across the counter to him. The metal scraped against the wood. "We get by just fine."

"Of course you do. But that doesn't mean it wouldn't be easier if we all looked out for one another when we can."

Gloria hesitated, her uncertain gaze darting between him and the coins as she bit her lip.

He made a show of perusing her other wares, then pointed. "Tell you what—how about you toss in one of those persimmons and we'll call it even. Deal?"

"Fine," Gloria grunted after a moment's consideration. "But you'll have to let James and me treat you boys to dinner once he's better. I know your shared birthday is coming up."

"Of course," he said with a grin. "As if I'd miss a chance to gorge myself on your fresh bread and world-renowned fruit jam."

Gloria gave him a rare smile that quickly vanished beneath a scowl as she glanced past him. "Now get! You'll scare off the other customers."

With a wink and a parting wave, Silas sauntered off with his prize of fruit, adding it to the satchel slung over his shoulder. Saturday was market day in Menderen, and he made it a point to come whenever he wasn't overwhelmed by lesson prep and grading.

As one of the village's two teachers, he often had his hands full, especially with his own scholarly research added in. Still, there was something about the market, with its eclectic mix of goods and people, that he adored.

There were the regulars, of course—the local merchants like Gloria, the parents and children he recognized from school. But every week, the market also received its odd mix of visitors from the surrounding towns. Menderen might be small on its own, but it was less than a day's travel from the major Sanjarkan port of Reeth, so they got all sorts passing through.

Winding his way past the horse-drawn carts and carriages, he eventually stopped before one such traveler. The bard had erected a makeshift stage for himself and his personal orchestra of instruments. Silas spotted drums, a flute, and a harp, along with several more exotic varieties he hadn't seen before, including something that appeared like a modified lyre.

A small crowd had gathered to watch the bard perform, and Silas clapped along with them as the bard darted between the instruments, playing each with expert ease. It wasn't until the bard reached the third instrument that Silas realized those he'd already left had continued to play on their own, repeating the melody he'd created. By the final instrument, the area was awash with a beautiful symphony fit for any king's court.

Then, stepping into the center of the stage, the bard began to sing. His voice was haunting, though he seemed to be speaking a language Silas couldn't understand. Even if Silas didn't know the words, the emotion bled through. It was a song of love lost and then found—of despair and, when all seemed bleak, the first weak seeds of sprouting hope.

By the end, wetness streaked Silas' face. From what he could see of the others gathered around him, he wasn't the only one. Thunderous applause split the air even as the bard's last poignant note hung there. Beaming, the bard took a bow as a wide-brimmed hat floated off the stage and made its way around the edges of the crowd to collect coins.

After it had finished its rounds, the hat returned to the bard, who flipped it over onto his head. A few startled gasps rang out from the crowd, and Silas found himself leaning in, awaiting the clink of falling coins. Yet, none came.

The bard feigned confusion, raising his hat to scratch his head. As he did, he made sure to turn it so that the gathered crowd could see it was now empty. More scattered applause came, along with a fair amount of laughter.

Grinning, Silas settled in to watch the rest of the show. The bard performed for over an hour—everything from music to humorous little skits to demonstrations of his particular brand of arcane magic. At one point, the bard conjured little illusory animals to chase each other around the stage, and Silas found himself unconsciously mimicking the bard's hand gestures.

For a moment, the movements felt almost familiar, as if he'd made similar motions before. The faintest hint of something twinged within him, but it faded before he could tell if it was real or imagined.

Once the performance ended with the bard's final bow, Silas tossed a few coins into the passing hat and continued on his way, trying to dampen the wistfulness that had stolen over him.

Like most people, he'd been born without any inherent magic of his own. And though he'd long dreamed of acquiring a magical art, other responsibilities had always gotten in the way. While he wouldn't trade his current life for anything, a part of him still yearned for more than perusing old history books. Perhaps someday.

His dour mood lifted the moment his small cottage came into view. With its clapboard windows, beds of blooming flowers, brightly colored walls, and chimney puffing up a steady stream of smoke, it represented everything he'd spent his life searching for.

Of course, that wasn't only because of the building itself.

"I'm home," he called as he entered, shucking off his coat and moving to the kitchen to start unloading the fresh produce he'd procured for the week.

No response.

He grinned to himself, shaking his head. Why am I not surprised?

Keeping only the persimmon with him after giving it a quick rinse, he exited the kitchen and passed through the cozy living room with overflowing bookshelves and a crowded table full of his papers, out the back and down the cobbled path to the nearby shed. He didn't bother rapping on the door, knowing he'd either be ignored or snapped at if he did, and quietly slipped inside.

Mel sat before an easel, surrounded by a haphazard assortment of paints. Silas stepped up behind him, silently studying the emerging painting. Mel had been working on this one for a while now—near a month.

"It's almost finished," Mel said without looking up. His brush scritched over the canvas.

"It's beautiful."

Mel snorted as he lowered his brush and deposited it carefully to the side. Only then did his concentration on the painting break. He stretched, his back cracking as he twisted from side to side.

"Compliments mean nothing coming from you. You're my husband—you're obligated to say that."

"That is not true!" Silas protested. "Remember that painting you did of the knight slaying the dragon? I told you—rightly—that the knight looked constipated."

Mel rolled his pale gray eyes. "If you're trying to convince me to take your artistic opinion seriously, I'm sorry to say you're failing, love." His eyes fell on the persimmon, his gaze instantly brightening. "Is that for me?"

"It was." Silas raised the persimmon, turning it over in his hand speculatively. He sniffed, feigning hurt. "Now, though, I'm not so sure. Perhaps me and my persimmon should go back in the house where we're wanted."

Mel eyed the persimmon hungrily. "Just you. The persimmon can stay."

His lips twitching, Silas offered the fruit. Mel swiped it and immediately took a bite. Juice dribbled down his chin.

Silas shook his head. "You know, you're supposed to wash those before you eat them."

Mel paused, lowering the chomped fruit. "You didn't wash it before you gave it to me?"

Silas managed to hold onto his frown for a handful more heartbeats before his face split into a wide grin. "Of course, I did. I know better than to offer you food you can't eat right away." He stepped past Mel to study the painting. "I hope I'm not interrupting your artistic flow or whatever. I just figured you could probably use a break."

Movement behind him announced Mel's presence an instant before he wrapped his arms around Silas, tugging him back against his chest. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to Silas' cheek. "Thanks, love. You always seem to know exactly what I need before I do."

The sharp, tangy smell of persimmon assaulted Silas' nostrils. He squirmed, making a show of wiping away the faint residue of juice Mel's kiss had left behind while Mel chuckled.

"Someone has to take care of you so you don't starve to death out here."

His attention returned to the painting, and he allowed himself to fully take it in. It wasn't finished yet, but Mel had made good progress since Silas last saw it a week or so ago.

The painting depicted an imagined battlefield split down the middle. On the left, winged Celestials ablaze with golden flame and wielding lances of fire fought terrible abominations from the Void that were all claws and fangs and tentacles. Just the sight of them ignited some primal instinct within Silas, eliciting a shudder.

On the right, horned Infernals, pale with armor black as night, wielded dark blades against the same eldritch horrors. Despite the stark divide down the middle of the canvas, separating shadow from light, something about the way Mel had drawn the scene suggested the two sides fought together against a common foe. Even unfinished, the painting was exquisite.

"It might be the best you've ever done," Silas said truthfully, glancing back at Mel.

Mel grunted noncommittally, but Silas could tell from the flush that crept up his neck that the compliment pleased him.

Silas hesitated. Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he said, "It should fetch a decent price when it's done. Might be worth a trip into Reeth to find the right buyer."

Mel instantly shook his head. "It's not for sale."

Something unclenched in Silas' chest, and he smiled. Though he couldn't say why, relief filled him. "Good. This one's special."

Mel grunted in agreement. He turned back toward the painting as he tugged Silas tighter against his chest. "I know it's silly, but somehow, it reminds me of us."

Silas blinked, startled. A laugh bubbled out of him, and he stepped away from Mel, turning to find his husband scowling at him. "Really?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Am I the Celestial or the Infernal?"

"I don't know." Mel shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at the painting as though this was all its fault. "I told you it was silly. There was just something about it—two opposing sides coming together in defiance of all odds—that spoke to me, I guess."

Fuzzy butterflies fluttered through Silas' belly. "You mean like how we came together?" he asked, his voice softening.

Still not looking at him, Mel nodded. "For a while there, it seemed impossible. You with your unending supply of books, constantly following me around and getting underfoot…"

"Excuse me!" Silas shoved Mel's shoulder with an aggrieved laugh. "I don't remember you ever telling me to get lost. You liked having me around, even back then—admit it!"

Mel shrugged. "There were worse ways to pass the time than your obnoxious stories. You wore me down eventually, what with the incessant stalking—"

"Stalking! Is that what you call courting?"

"We were nine, Silas," Mel said dryly. "Neither of us knew the first thing about love."

"Not true." Silas stepped in close, resting his hands on Mel's hips. Mel swallowed, his throat bobbing as Silas painted kisses along the sharp edge of his jaw. "I knew I loved you from the first moment I saw you. It was like fate."

Mel shuddered, his own hands coming up to grip Silas' sides. "Fate, huh?" He nuzzled Silas' neck. "Then, I guess the universe got at least one thing right."

As their lips met again, their hands questing beneath their clothes to map each other's bodies anew, Silas couldn't help but agree.