---WOODROW---

“You want me to do what?” Woodrow said, arms crossed, perplexed.

Woodrow and Ryne were facing each other on the granges, while Wilbur sat on the steps of the church staring at them, arms crossed on top of his knees. He looked like he was sulking. Woodrow was sure that he heard Ryne correctly, but he wanted confirmation.

“Teach him how to fight. So that he can defend himself.” Ryne squeezed both his arms as the night wind blew past. “You see the sword he carries with him?”

“I was wondering about that, yes.”

“It’s from his father who disappeared, which was a gift from his blacksmith friend in his old hometown. I ask that you teach him to wield it properly.” Ryne looked at the dark forest. “It’s just something that could hopefully deter bandits or thieves. I don’t think there are bad people on the path connecting Rothfield Monastery to Claude’s farm, but I can’t shake the feeling that something sinister is happening there. Not from the forest itself. Maybe I’m overthinking.”

Woodrow considered. Claude didn’t seem to be the aggressive sort, and Woodrow assumed that he was also the only one on that farm who knew how to grip a sword properly. Lydia had some fighting spirit in her but was inexperienced. Annette was too young. With his older brothers absent, it would indeed be up to Claude to defend his family from bandits, thieves, and outlaws.

Woodrow did not see Ryne’s face looking up at him as he considered. Maybe he can start with the basics first, Woodrow thought. Blocking. Parrying. Sidesteps and counters. Maybe one strong strike, not enough to damage his old iron sword and himself. He told as much to Ryne.

Ryne thanked him. “That will be good.”

“But he will have to be here long after dusk, what will his mother say?”

“Claude says Lydia is fine with it. She knows he is safe here with us.” Ryne smiled softly. “Maybe some of these nights we can visit them back at their farmhouse. Annette says she wants to see the friendly monks through the woods.”

“And Claude? What does he say?”

“He’s thrilled about it. He couldn’t believe that his luck kept changing for the better, so he said.” Ryne suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I feel wrong about something. I want to keep helping him, but I don’t want to be like this wish-granting fae. I don’t want to feel like I’m standing on a pedestal above him.”

“He doesn’t view you that way,” Woodrow reassured Ryne.

“I’m glad that he doesn’t seem to think that. I’m glad he’s kind to me and visits me and isn’t treating me differently from his family. But I’m just scared that one of these days, his attitude will change.”

“You’re worried about losing him because you want to be his friend,” Woodrow said calmly. He watched Ryne’s eyes dart sideways. He nodded. Woodrow felt his chest ache. He felt giddy and glad and lonely.

It was such a pure, innocent thing, friendship. He never felt that, in all his years living with the monks, he never felt true companionship. He was the friendliest of the bunch; Ealhstan next to him. But their different offices kept them from truly forming deep connections with each other. What Woodrow did have were bursts of nightly bliss, of ale on skin, of sweet whispers under mattresses, beside candlelights, beside warm fires. But the friendship he saw blossoming between Ryne and Claude was something he had not yet experienced. Woodrow thought he might be a little jealous.

Dusks before, Woodrow spied on them behind the closed doors of the church, peeking through the small gap, out of curiosity and out of protection. He saw Ryne teach Claude more and more letters each day until Claude knew the alphabet by heart. Ryne quizzed him some days; Claude had to spell the object that Ryne named on the ground with a pole. Farm. Rothfield. Crops. When Ryne went back inside to pray at the altar, Claude waited patiently for him to continue where they left off.

Claude would sometimes bring milk or coarse bread. Ryne will then bring out the cooking pot of leftover vegetable soup. Some days, Claude will simply talk about his days, either recent or from long ago. Woodrow listened as the farmboy told Ryne about his brothers, the disappearance of his father, and the neighbors in Rothfield town. Claude was the only one with a permit to still do business in the town proper.

But most of all, Woodrow saw how Ryne lit up when he was with Claude. His smile was easier, wider, and more carefree when he was with Claude. Claude bumped his knees with Ryne’s when he was laughing. Ryne let another person touch his elbow and hold his hand when they were playing some simple childhood game. Ryne allowed another person to guide him.

Some days, these games progressed into exercise. Claude would draw some markings on the soil and teach Ryne how to play. They used the poles for whatever game he thought of that day. They raced around these poles, playing pretend. There was one game where Claude removed his boots and told Ryne to shoot pebbles in its hole.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

And right before his eyes, Ryne had experienced true childhood; the childhood that was denied to him for years.

Woodrow was glad for him… but he knew that as much as this wanted to last, he knew it couldn’t. Especially for children. Childhood was fleeting. Ryne knew this, but Woodrow also knew that this was uncharted territory for his youngest brother. He needed to help Ryne navigate this new feeling. Saints know navigating relationships was not one of Wilbur’s strengths.

“It’s sweet that you feel that way, Ryne. He seems to be a good lad, but remember to never force your friendship upon him, or for that matter, to any other person.” Woodrow decided to be direct with him. “The day will soon come when his responsibilities will take more of his time. He will grow older and will want to seek adventures with other people. He will change… while you will remain the same. He could leave town and find his destiny elsewhere.”

Woodrow saw Ryne let the meaning of the words sink, and he shivered without the wind. “He might not leave if we can give him a suitable life here.”

Woodrow was about to say something else but caught Wilbur’s look back at the nave. They stared at each other. Woodrow said nothing more. He only smiled at Ryne and winked at him. Wilbur called him back to the granges. Woodrow went to the toolshed near the granges and brought out an old axe. He chopped the smallest tree he saw. It fell to the ground with a soft crunch. Woodrow hacked at it until the tree was nothing more than broken pieces. He then carefully crafted these smaller pieces into rough sword-looking shapes well into the night.

When the next dusk came and he awoke, Woodrow stepped out of the church doors. Ryne and Claude were, of course, at the steps. Claude’s easy smile turned into a wide open-mouthed stare as Woodrow revealed the training swords from behind his cloak. He threw one to Claude.

“It’s nice to see you again, lad. Ryne tells me you want to learn how to fight well?” Woodrow brandished his sword in a mock gesture of superiority. “Are you ready?”

Claude looked at Woodrow, then to Ryne, then to the swords, then back to Woodrow. Ryne nudged him encouragingly and Claude faced Woodrow in the granges.

“Stand where you are,” Woodrow said as he stepped back. “Hold your sword hand like so. And then block my swing.” Woodrow stepped closer, slowing his movements so that Claude could block his swing. The wooden swords clashed together, a sound of branches in the still night. “Good, but plant your feet on the ground when you do so. Ryne, bring out some light.”

They tried again as Ryne cast his flame on some wooden stick indoors. Claude was a natural, Woodrow thought, his stances adapting quickly to his orders. “Good. Now keep blocking my swings from all directions,” Woodrow said.

Claude blocked the known swing but missed three others on his sides. “Don’t focus solely on the sword. Widen your vision to include my eyes, then my face, then my chest, then my body. Only then can you anticipate an attack. That, and practice.”

Woodrow swung again, first predictably, then randomly when Claude had successfully managed to block his swings. Of the seven random swings, Claude had managed to block five. Woodrow told him to relax just as Ryne put the light near them. “Good lad.”

“Where did you learn how to fight?” Claude asked, panting.

Woodro’s answer was ready. “A traveling soldier taught us. Though it is against our vows to harm any living thing, it was nice to know that we can at least know how to defend ourselves. Of course, it defeats the purpose when we weren’t allowed weapons inside the church, but the memory of that soldier stuck with me.” Seeing Claude catching his breath, he said, “Let’s continue tomorrow. You be safe now.”

He left them and heard Claude make sounds of excitement and awe. Ryne clapped him on the back. Woodrow glanced behind him and smiled.

The next dusk, Claude was better, managing to block six of the seven random swings. The next dusk, he was faster at blocking. Ryne was patiently watching, clapping, and wincing. Claude’s brows knitted as he anticipated Woodrow’s attack and Woodrow thought that this was the first time he trained someone in his many years masquerading as a monk. He began to feel Claude’s strength in each block. It was time for another lesson. Woodrow stepped back and relaxed his posture and allowed Claude to catch his breath.

“Good, now we parry. As I strike, use the forte of your blade… yes, that part of the sword near the hilt and use that part to add your strength to turn my weapon aside. And if you’re successful, go ahead and strike at my chest.” He held up three fingers at Claude. Each time he said pointers, one finger came down. “Remember that you must be quick and nimble enough and strong enough. Also, remember that your sword must be greater than the one you are parrying with. Finally, you must be quick and dexterous enough to parry and counter.”

Woodrow told Claude to strike him. Once he did, Woodrow demonstrated how it was done. He blocked Claude’s sword with his own and added his strength to push back the wooden blade. When Claude’s hand twisted, he countered with his sword and pointed the tip at Claude’s chest. Claude’s eyes widened when he saw the blunted point hovering near his heart.

“Your turn,” Woodrow said. Claude copied how Woodrow moved. Woodrow smiled. “Got it on the first try!”

Claude blew out a breath, deflating. “I was nervous. To think that countering could end a man’s life just like that.”

Woodrow glanced in Ryne’s direction. The pale little monk looked like he was tasting something sour. They continued, parrying and countering each other until Claude was spent. “Stay for dinner, Claude. I’m sure Lydia won’t mind you coming home later than usual.”

“I did say that I was being trained. She didn’t like the idea at first but thank goodness her practicality won this time.”

Ryne was already fetching a jug of cool water from the spring. Claude appreciated this, knowing that villagers everywhere usually purified as beer or ale. As Claude drank, Ryne whispered to Woodrow, “You are not hungry?”

“No, Ryne. My powers have not been activated. I’m tired, but I can bear it. I am using skill not charm.” Woodrow touched his chest. His heart was beating slowly. He had felt Wilbur’s heart just the other day. His was so slow that he thought at first it was not beating at all. “Claude is a quick student, quicker than his way of letters, I think.”

Ryne murmured in agreement. Woodrow went to the dark forest and tracked down quails from underneath the gnarled tree roots. He caught two as they were sleeping together and collected all the eggs for Ryne and Claude.