The cold winds and inclement weather of Faur had eventually melted away under the return of Bláth. The snow and frost retreated from the fields under the wrathful heat of Ortus’ light and built their final icy fortresses under the shade. It would endure for several more days before turning into a puddle of memories.
Along with the thaws of Faur, information once again began to flow freely from the frozen taverns and gossip circles to those that pay for such rumors. Such anticipated words came from the northern realms. Their tongues danced with rumor of an uptick in hostile sellsword activity. Speculations of the numerous movements of crownless nobles danced on the lips of every rumormonger north of Corvello and trickled into the ear of Ferron Martelle.
With those rumors came the promise of payment from the lesser tiarnas and village leaders that were affected by these unruly brigands. Even if this was not the lead Ferron sought to fulfill his obligations to his newly acquired strategist, the prospect of prying money from desperate hands was too tempting to ignore. If they hesitated, it would only be a matter of time before the regional powers felt the sting of these rogue warriors and dispatched their armies to deal with it themselves.
A sizable column of horses and warriors and carts trudged northward up the Callarm Road that connected Croismor in the far north to Briste in the far south. The column had already been traveling for many days eastwards on the road from Verbosc to Mulliti, capital of the Orso realm.
It did not take long to see that the reprieve from the colder temperatures that Ortus brought the column’s home region had yet to grace the nation equally. The field’s in the northern region of Mulliti was still at least ten more days away from thawing enough to break. Those that intended to toil the fields had to hold off just a longer. They idly watched the column move past their roadside villages.
The large and wealthy agricultural heart of Strettia had marked the halfway point on the journey. The warriors grumbled over the indirect route that ensured that added ten days to their trip. However, a direct route over the hilly back roads would be much more dangerous this time of the season. The well-kept roads that connected the realms were the first to be cleared for the early cycle travelers and made for much safer travel than the less used paths that border the King’s Wood. Additionally, the villages that sprout along Callarm’s Road would help ensure that the column would not run out of supplies.
However, this time, the warriors had a convenient scapegoat to grumble over their overlong route. A cart rolled towards the back of the column with its own guard detail. A preponderance of apothecaries and druids buzzed around the sides of carts. At regular intervals, the column would be called to a halt to tend to a need of the person that rode inside of it.
Julianna Marche, the new strategist of the Armée du Corbeaux, had not yet delivered her child to the world. Due any day now, she refused to be left behind in this matter that may lead her back to brother and insisted that she would have her child on the campaign. While her initial speech to be brought along regardless was resolute and worthy of respect from the warriors of the Armée, in practice, the entire operation had been taxing on everyone.
Those that marched in the back reported of the pained groans and crying that sometimes erupted from the maternity cart. The minority of warriors that had been mothers themselves were deeply sympathetic to the strategist’s condition. However, the majority of the warband was male and did not have the patience for empathy. They had taken the habit of attributing every inconvenience towards accommodating the woman.
Just the day before, a light rain coated the land and did not disperse until nightfall. The most common joke in the camp was that they would have been spared the bath if they did not have the additional consideration to slow them down. While some said it in a jovial way with their arms raised in an over exaggerated fashion, some commented on the pregnant woman with a concerning venom.
Valentin rode at the head of the column to the left of Ferron. While he did not outwardly show it, there were none that were more pleased than he was that Faur had ended. The crisp air of the rural breath was panacea to the cramped madness he was suffering within the Guerros estate.
The thaw could not have come soon enough. The boy’s spirit and patience were being ground down into a fine powder by the unrelenting schedule and the pressure that he felt internally. He had been whittled to the point that the prospect of warfare appeared as an almost pleasant option to the beleaguered boy.
“You are finally starting to look alive again, boy,” Ferron teased. “Did Yvonne finally show you her true colors?”
“Yvonne was the least of my problems,” Valentin responded. “It was that Cuinn that gave me the biggest headache.”
“Our eminent scholar from the capital was not to your liking?” Ferron asked with a curious, yet playful, tone.
“You must have never met the man,” Valentin responded without the levity used by his benefactor. “There is no doubt in my mind you would have found him abrasive. He spoke highly of things that he had never experienced and hated that he had missed out. He would insult and talk down to any ideas that he disagreed with. Most of all, he had a strange fascination with violence and couldn’t wait to be a spectator for the eventual conflict in Verbosc.”
Ferron placed a gloved hand to his chin and tipped his head back. “So that’s the type that he is.” He turned his head to face Valentin. “It’s important that you hear what he has to say. He may have an acrimonious way about him, but those ideas hold weight with the common people. There is growing resentment amongst the common people towards their noble patrons as the ruling classes move away from their warlord traditions. The favored warriors that come from the lowest of our society are seeing these transitions as opportunities to take their spots above by force.”
“That does not make his lectures any more bearable,” Valentin replied.
Ferron bellowed out a deep laugh that brought much of the drowsy column to attention. However, they quickly lost interest when they realized there was no true fun to be had. It would be days still until they reached the rumored destination.
Valentin had already grown quite bored of the scenery himself. The expansive fields of Orso were even flatter than the farmlands of eastern Martelle. The towns and villages that they encountered were nearly identical to one another, all lacking a true identity that made them interesting. The lack of nearby forests and quarries dictated that the settlements had weak defenses and austere structures. The only thing that kept this region prosperous and safe was the famine that would inflame Strettia as a result of an invasion.
Military outposts had been erected every ten miles down the main road. Ever since they had passed Mulliti, the column gained a small escort of warriors meant to keep track of the column as it traveled peacefully through their lands. At each outpost, some of the warriors would be exchanged for others.
Neither Ferron nor his warriors seemed overly concerned by the escort. In fact, those that stood on the outside of the column would banter with the Orso militia. Some knew each other on a first name basis and would share drinks when they camped for the night.
“We pass through here so often that the Orso military is very familiar with us. This escort is no more than a formality they are following because they have nothing better to do,” Ferron had explained to Valentin when he asked.
At night, the column would clump together and camp next to the fire they stoked with the wood that wasn’t burned during Faur. The nights in the fields were coated in a sheer cold. There were no trees or topography that would disrupt the biting winds that howled in the night and through the thin canvas tents. Valentin was forced to sleep in his furs to allow him to feel warm enough to even fall asleep.
“Stop! Everyone stop!”
It was the sixth time the order came from the back on the twenty third day of travel. The column begrudgingly halted once again to cater to whatever needs the strategist needed this time. It was clear that even Ferron’s patience over the situation was beginning to grow thinner and thinner as each day passed. They were now four days behind schedule and the warband leader was not immune to feeling anxious over the time loss.
“How much time does Julianna need this time?” Ferron asked the rider that was passing the order up the column. “We’re only a half day’s ride from our destination.”
Groves of trees were visible only a half mile away from their current position, demarking the far reaches of the realm of Orso. The warriors were not ignorant to how tantalizingly close they were to their goal and gave similar protests to the request.
“It is possible that she will need the rest of the day,” the messenger speculated.
“The rest of the day?” Ferron repeated with an exasperated voice. “What, is she finally giving birth to that stubborn child of hers?”
“Yes, in fact, she is,” the rider answered nervously, unsure if they wanted to be the one to deliver the news. “Zalavo and that midwife we picked up are quite frantic at the moment to get her ready for the birth.”
A pained, laborious scream overpowered the breeze and ripped through the column, silencing everyone. It sounded as though someone had assaulted her with a dagger.
Valentin winced sympathetically. He had not heard such noises since Louise had given life to her last child. He stood in the room while his sister, who was normally kind and mild mannered, howled in pain and screamed obscenities at all who crossed her. The whole endeavor had Jeanne nearly swearing off children altogether, much to the panic of Marion.
“Everyone!” Ferron bellowed, wrested the attention back to himself. “Break for camp. Darcy, gather some women and guard Julianna.”
The warriors followed their leader’s orders without outward complaint. However, it was clear to all that would pay attention that displeasure covered their faces. The warband’s naturally low empathy had long since whittled to nothingness.
“Elane,” Ferron summoned the deggan to his position.
Elane rode her horse towards the trio at the front. “What a dour atmosphere,” she jokingly commented at the frustrated construction of the camp. “I sincerely hope they did not mope about in this fashion with their own wives upon the birth of their children.”
Ferron lightened up his own mood at Elane’s joking. “You know how they get at the end of a long march. They are little different from children themselves when they think something is keeping them from their money.” He pointed down the road, “I need you to gather up some scouts and find a suitable location for a long term spot for camp. A defensible location near the roadways will be best.” He then handed her a scroll marked with a wax seal. “If any warriors accost you, show them this Writ of Legitimacy.”
Elane bowed and accepted the scroll. “I will begin immediately.”
“What is the Writ of Legitimacy?” Valentin asked Ferron while Elane rode away to select her scouts.
“It is a document that establishes us as a warband that serves the interests of Strettia,” Ferron replied. “Possessing such a writ means that we are endorsed by the throne and can gain contracts with wealthy tiarnas much more easily. In times of war, the throne can use the writ to prevent us from joining its enemies in exchange for compensation. It also prevents tiarnas from denying us entry into their lands.”
“Is it difficult to obtain?”
“With enough money or connections you can gain it easily enough,” Ferron replied with a shrug. “If you don’t, then your best bet is to join a foreign war and gain accolades abroad. Many young warriors recklessly join faraway wars for such recognition.”
Another painful wail pierced their conversation. A tent was quickly erected in camp and was heavily guarded by the warriors selected by Darcy. Druids and apothecaries scurried in and out of the tent. Some were gathering some materials before scurrying back in while others looked to gain a brief respite in the cool air before returning to their task.
“A babe born within a war camp,” Ferron mused to himself as he took his horse off the main road and down towards the camp.
His tent was put up not too long after the maternity tent. The man brushed aside the opening flap and reached for some alcohol. He took a large swig from the bottle and settled in for a comfortable rest.
“I’m sure babies aren’t born very often,” Valentin concurred erroneously, feigning knowledge on the topic to seem impressive.
“We have a saying amongst the warbands and battlefields,” Ferron began to speak. Another wail from nearby caused the man to take another drink from his bottle. “A birth is a death.”
“A birth is a death?” Valentin reflexively repeated the statement to himself as a question. The boy furrowed his brow over the paradox that had been delivered to him.
“Aye,” the man confirmed. “If a warrior is impregnated during a campaign, she is no longer able to fight. If she chooses not to drink Deathmother’s Potion, then it is nearly a cycle without that body fighting alongside us. More times than not, they do not return. They’ll choose to join a city guard or become the marshal of their village to provide stability for their clan. At that point, they are no different than dead to us. That’s why most warbands will encourage same sex couples and bypass all of it.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“What do they say about the birth of a strategist’s child?” Valentin asked.
Ferron scratched his beard at Valentin’s question. He finished the rest of the bottle and tossed it to the side. “Anticipate all your plans to be five days late.”
Before Valentin had a chance to respond, Ferron had already rolled on his side to rest. The boy was shocked at how anyone could fall asleep under such circumstances. He tried to mimic his benefactor, but the intermittent yells from nearby prevented him from feeling restful himself.
After giving up on this fool’s errand, he got up and departed the tent. Before closing the flap behind him, he looked over his shoulder in expectation of Ferron speaking to him. However, the man continued to sleep peacefully on his side.
The camp was mostly completed by the time Valentin departed his tent. Warriors lounged around in boredom. Small gambling rings broke out neat tent entrances and casks of alcohol were opened in anticipation of their day ending here. Some tended to their weapons, some sparred each other for practice, and more still made noises of exertion from their tents.
These stimuli proved to be too much for the boy and he roamed away from the camp and towards the trees. The noises of the camp were faint sounds by the time he reached the start of the trees and he was able to breathe again. Remembering Ferron’s words about his pursuers, he moved deeper and further away from the road so he would not be spotted even a few minutes away from his support.
For a time, he sat with his mind devoid of thought. The ground was still cold and hard and uncomfortable. The trees were yet to take leaves and lacked beauty. There was nothing available to him to entertain himself with. Yet, in that moment, he was satisfied with what he had. He was simply thankful for the moments of respite that he was able to obtain in a world that looked at him so intensely.
It was not long before his thoughts began to return to him and a terrible urge to piss. He had heard that some riders just go when they felt the need, but Valentin found that all too embarrassing. So, he held it in, sometimes to a painful degree.
So, with nothing else to do, he decided that there was no better time than now.
“So that’s what you were up to,” a familiar voice spoke from behind Valentin in a teasing tone. “To be honest, it’s quite unexpected of you, Tiarling.”
Valentin’s heart punched a hole clean through his ribcage and his soul oozed from the wound. His final relaxation had allowed him to experience an ambush.
“AH!” Valentin screamed involuntarily, unable to maintain his volume. His eyes darted to the road, but there were no travelers to overhear his outburst.
“Need any help with that, Master?”
“You tease too much, Bassett,” Valentin chastised his friend with a harsh and overly accusatory tone through short breaths. “What brings you out here?”
Bassett shrugged at Valentin’s rejection of his salacious offer, a wide grin still plastered on his mischievous face. “I needed a break and I spotted you walking over here. Seemed like an ideal place to me.” Bassett then leaned forward so that he was facing Valentin’s back. “You can keep going, I don’t mind.”
“I was not doing as you seem to believe,” Valentin responded as he fixed his trousers.
Valentin turned to face his friend. To the surprise of both of them, Valentin was now equally as tall as the older boy. In fact, both boys looked quite different from the last time that they saw each other.
“It’s shocking that you could grow even thinner than when you were first found starving in the woods,” Bassett teased. He tried to wrap his fingers all the way around Valentin’s arms to accentuate his joke but fell just short. “Do they even feed you at that fancy house of yours? And what is with that spotty mustache?”
Valentin touched his upper lip and frowned at his friend’s teasing. More pronounced hairs had been growing on Valentin’s face. Jerome had taken the task of shaving the feeble line of manhood while he stayed at the estate. He had not realized that it had grown back so prominently while they had been traveling. It was not the only place on his body that had been sprouting hairs, but he would rather die than give Bassett more ammunition to tease him with.
“You grew your hair out,” Valentin responded. “And you’ve decorated it.”
Bassett touched a bow that had been woven into a braid on his hair. “The kids made them for Maeve and I as gifts. She doesn’t like putting anything in her hair so I decided to take all of them. It’s silly, isn’t it?”
“Of course it isn’t,” Valentin responded with a thin smile before dismissively waving his hand in the direction of the camp. “Though I do worry that you may be called one of those vulgar terms that mercenaries seem to conjure so easily.”
“Say, have you ever heard of a chachal before?” Bassett asked with an uneven voice. The confidence he had been using now became a memory, now replaced by self-conscious nerves.
“Hmm,” Valentin hummed, placing a hand to his chin. He had recalled hearing the world a handful of times while passively eavesdropping on members of the warband. He also remembered Cuinn mentioning it during a lecture. He spoke of it negatively, however, Valentin knew the man to like few things and could not give his interpretations much credence.
“Perhaps once or twice. Not sure what it means though,” Valentin answered with an apathetic shrug. “Why? Are they calling you that?”
“Occasionally,” Bassett answered with a noncommittal tone.
Valentin didn’t want to push the issue and make Bassett uncomfortable. He ran his gloves over the soil absentmindedly. “They’ve called me Clesarin a few times as well. Not sure what that means either.”
Bassett laughed. “I’ve heard Clesarin was a man born with an appearance that women could not resist. When he wished to get married, he had to create more and more difficult challenges for suitors to overcome in order to be married to him. To me, it sounds a bit of a compliment, doesn’t it?”
“They didn’t say it like a compliment,” Valentin pouted, reminiscing on how it was used against him. “I can’t see it as being a good thing either. All that attention is awful. He couldn’t even pick out of love.”
“When you say it that way, I guess I see what you mean,” Bassett responded, tilting his head to face the cloudy sky. “Let’s not care about silly things like that.”
“I guess there’s no point worrying about stuff like that,” Valentin agreed.
For a time, the boys watched travelers trickle up and down Callarm road. Valentin wondered what the destination for these people were. What were they going to do when they got there? He started to make up stories about them in his head.
“That guy is going to Mulliti to train in the arena,” Valentin stated, pointing out a well-built man to his friend.
“Then that pair of people with the cart are eloping with all of their possessions,” Bassett joined in, directing Valentin’s attention to the subjects of the story. “Their clans didn’t approve of their marriage so they took matters into their own hands.”
“What about that guy?” Valentin asked Bassett.
The man wore thin garb for the season. A goat was draped over his shoulder. It would kick and shuffle and bray when the man repositioned it. On his other shoulder, he hefted a large canvas sack that bulged with unseen objects inside.
A devious grin spread over Bassett’s face.
“Eloping as well,” the boy announced to his noble friend.
The pair glanced at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. The man’s head whipped towards the unexpected noise and the boys lied on the ground to avoid being spotted. Their mouths were covered by their hands as they continued to laugh even harder. When one tried to stop their laughter, they would make the mistake at seeing the face of the other and would burst into giggling once again.
Valentin clutched at his sides. Even though the laughing fit had ended, his stomach was sore from trying to stifle his laughter. He glanced at Bassett. The boy was busy wiping away the tears of joy that had rolled down his cheeks.
“Let’s head back,” Valentin proposed, rising to his feet and aggressively slapping the dirt off of his clothes.
“What about your original purpose of walking all the way out here?” Bassett asked.
“To breathe,” Valentin replied, reassuring his friend as much as he was himself. “Besides, if I take too long, Ferron will be unhappy. I also don’t need to be nagged by Darri for leading you away from camp.”
Bassett looked a bit deflated by Valentin’s comment. He reached out his arm and Valentin helped him to his feet.
“What’s the matter?” Valentin inquired.
“Darri isn’t here,” Bassett answered with a soft voice.
“He’s not?”
“No,” Bassett shook his head solemnly. “He said he had a lot of time to think over the past cycle and he agreed with what you told him before we got back. He would be better served becoming renowned in a smaller warband that had greater need for his abilities. He left several days before we did. Apparently there are rumors of conflict in the North. He did not give me many details about it.”
“I’m sorry, I spoke carelessly,” Valentin apologized to his friend.
“It’s not your fault, Valentin,” Bassett reassured, tapping Valentin on the shoulder with his hand. “He probably would have come to that conclusion anyways. What you said only helped him organize his thoughts a bit faster.”
“How is Maeve taking it?” Valentin asked as the pair began to walk back towards camp.
“She may not show it, but she is worried sick about him,” Bassett confessed. “I hope that if she comes across as more difficult than usual, you can be just a little more patient with her. She’s the type that buries those things deep inside.”
“Of course,” Valentin responded. “But how are you doing? Outside of the few opportunities Maeve and I have, you are mostly alone now.”
Bassett walked in silence for a moment. In truth, it was not a long pause, yet it felt like an apprehensive eternity.
“You do me a disservice,” Bassett answered with a mock hurt tone and his familiar smile. “Are you implying that I haven’t made any other friends? I have plenty of friends.”
“You have?” Valentin asked in surprise.
It wasn’t that Bassett had made friends that had surprised Valentin. It was that it was something that Valentin had found difficult to do himself. In that split moment, he wondered who he could truly consider a friend. Bassett certainly was, there was no doubt about that. But what about Darri? The older boy seemed to flip between annoyance and courtesy. Maeve seemed to only tolerate Valentin and he wasn’t sure how she felt often.
There was also Ferris Celfor, who so desperately wanted to be his friend. Now that Valentin considered his list of friends, it seemed more and more sensible to be kinder to the other boy next time that they met.
“I have indeed,” Bassett responded with his chest puffed out. He leaned towards Valentin and spoke in a low voice as though to tell a secret. “They even buy me gifts sometimes.”
“Really?” Valentin said nervously, now self-conscious that he had never given Bassett a gift.
“Yes, yes. Where do you think I got this tunic?” Bassett pinched the fabric and tugged it forwards to let Valentin get a better look. It was a woolen tunic that you could find anywhere. However, it was significantly nicer than the damaged clothing he used to wear. “Never forget, Valentin, I’m the most resourceful.”
It was not long after that that the pair returned to camp. The sounds that had driven Valentin away initially were no longer present and the atmosphere had significantly mellowed out. Most of the warriors had settled into their games or around the cook fires to prepare their meals. Some had taken naps to recover the exhaustion from so many days of marching.
Valentin was gently slapped on the back by Bassett. “Well, I’m sure you have plenty of pressing matters to attend to. I’ll see you around, Valentin.”
“You as well,” Valentin answered, watching his friend walk away to another part of camp.
As Valentin watched Bassett leave, a feeling brewed inside of him. He couldn’t help but feel as though he had failed his friend somehow. There was clearly something that he was missing but wasn’t sure what it was. Knowing what he knew about Bassett, he was the kind of person to hide what was bothering him to avoid burdening others. Valentin himself had been accomplice to Bassett’s tactics when it came to defusing Darri. Was Valentin now faced with those same tactics?
He shook his head. Displaying distrust was something that he wished to avoid. Overthinking things and acting from a place of distrust would only make things worse. If Bassett felt like he had to use such methods then it was clear that Valentin wasn’t being a good friend to Bassett.
Valentin thought about how he could remedy the situation. The most achievable idea came to him quickly. He had to provide Bassett with a gift; that much was clear. But what would be a suitable present for him? Should he buy him even nicer clothes than the ones that he got from his other friends? Would that show Valentin to be more reliable than the others? Perhaps some nice shoes would show his sincerity.
Valentin slouched his shoulders as he walked. The only thing that these thoughts proved to him was that he had no idea what Bassett would want as a gift. Could he truly call Bassett a friend if he knew so little about him?
“Where have you been, boy?” Ferron asked when Valentin entered the tent.
“Taking a shit,” Valentin answered listlessly. He plopped himself on the ground and leaned back on a cushion. “Do we have any calda?”
“Not at the moment, but it wouldn’t take long to have some ready,” Ferron answered with one eyebrow raised.
Ferron rose to his feet and collected his ornate clay vessel. He lit a small fire outside of the entrance and poured water, wine, and some honey into the pot. After dumping some herbs from a small box into the vessel, he returned his attention to the boy.
“Any reason you want calda?” Ferron asked probingly.
“I got cold outside and it’s the best drink to warm up to,” Valentin responded curtly. His thoughts were too jumbled to have a mature conversation with Ferron.
“Aye, I suppose it is,” Ferron agreed.
The tent was quiet for several minutes. Steam began to waft from the opening in the vessel. Ferron was watching Valentin with piercing eyes as he searched for the problem at hand. Valentin just wanted to disengage entirely and exist in a detached world of his own thoughts. Even if he did wish to speak on it, he didn’t feel up to the task to express his feelings accurately.
Once Ferron was satisfied with the heat and flavor of the calda, he poured two cups full of the light red liquid. He delivered the boy his portion and returned to his seat.
They sipped their drinks in silence for a time longer. Valentin’s chest grew hot and his nose ran as he drank the steaming concoction. It felt as though the steam dislodged much more than loose mucous. The beverage went a long way to improve his mood and he felt more relaxed.
Seeing his opportunity, Ferron spoke. “We will be marching to our final destination tomorrow. Elane should be waiting for us at the border.”
“Does that mean that the birth went well?” Valentin asked with anticipation. He was equally hoping that everything went well as he was at the prospects of the incessant stops finally coming to an end.
“Aye, no issues,” Ferron confirmed. “Mother and babe are resting for the day before we pack up tomorrow. You should have seen Zalavo’s face when he left the tent, he looked like he aged a few cycles.”
“Does the child have a name?”
Ferron took a sip of his drink. “I heard that she planned on naming him Firmin. I can’t tell if she chose the name to honor her late father or use him to haunt Tiarna Celfor.”
Valentin made a complicated face over Ferron’s implication of using the child as a tool for vengeance. “What are you named after, Ferron?”
“Ferron is an oft-used name in the Martelle clan,” Ferron explained. “It was last used by my great-grandfather. My father hoped to regain the ancestor’s favor by honoring them through my naming. Do you know who you are named after, Valentin?”
“I’m not sure who my namesake was,” Valentin confessed. He had never been told by his parents from where his name came from. During Lana Sincear, when making offerings to their ancestors, Valentin always offered a silent prayer to whoever his mysterious namesake was in exchange for their blessing.
“Perhaps Yvonne knows,” Ferron suggested.
“I’ll have to ask her,” Valentin responded. The identity of his namesake did pique his curiosity. However, there was a more pressing topic that was continuing to burn a hole in Valentin’s psyche.
“What would you do if you wanted to give someone a gift and didn’t know what they liked?” Valentin asked, allowing his conundrum to be born into existence.
Ferron put a hand to his chin and thought for a moment. “If you are unsure of what a person likes, you can always give them something you think that they need. It could be a new sword or perhaps some riding gloves. It depends a lot on your relationship with this person, who are they to you?”
“They are somebody that I care about,” Valentin responded. The speed in which he gave his answer surprised him.
“In the case of a loved one, it doesn’t have to necessarily be an object. It can always just be an act of kindness meant to lift their burdens in some way. I used to go on rides with Durant whenever he did well in his studies. My wife preferred going to the amphitheater whenever possible. Maybe your answer lies there.”
Valentin bristled at Ferron’s rephrasing to “loved one.” He wasn’t sure that it was the right way to phrase it. Bassett was important to Valentin, but did he love him? The question didn’t sit well with him, not in the way that made him upset but in the way that made him feel uncomfortable. It was a question he was not ready to fully explore the answer to.
He decided to shove those thoughts away. No matter what his feelings towards Bassett were, that didn’t change his intentions to do a kindness for his only true friend.