Ch. 461 - Setting Boundaries

The count was initially very pleased when news that Simon had decided to stay reached him. He sent him a polite missive inviting him to ‘call on whichever of my daughters you found more comely during our last meeting.’ He was less happy when Simon informed him that he planned to wed a commoner.

The man was diplomatic about it when Simon visited to deliver the bad news in person. He couldn’t hear the anger in his voice, but he could see it swirling around the man’s aura. He might not be bad for a nobleman, but he was furious with Simon.

Still, he promised to send someone to officiate the ceremony and lavish gifts. He merely asked for Simon to be under retainer to him in case anything important should arise. For this, he promised a small monthly stipend, but he turned the count down flat.

“I understand that during these happy days the last thing that one wants to think about is violence,” he said, brushing Simon’s answer aside, “but we must be prepared for all eventualities, and if you are going to be here anyway, then Brin could use your sword arm.”

Simon put the incident out of his head for a few weeks as he focused on thatching his roof and designing a simple kiln to make the floor tiles he’d install after the hearth was in place. It wasn’t until he heard from another man over drinks at the village inn that he’d sworn himself to the count’s service that he realized the man wasn’t used to being told no.

For the first time in a long time, Simon considered using Delzam as the word of command to compel the count’s behavior. It was entirely doable, even if he didn’t have the gesture for that word. In fact, writing it down was probably the most effective way to use it.

Just a carefully traced glyph, above a nice command statement telling him to leave me the hell alone, and a note at the end to toss the whole thing in the fire when he was done reading would be very effective, he decided. Still, he decided not to do that, at least as a first option. If the man continued to hound Simon, he’d use magic to put him in his place, but first, he decided to write a terse but mundane letter. It was more polite than not, but still, he wanted to ensure there were no misunderstandings going forward.

‘I’ve never had the privilege of serving a count before, though I have worked for barons,’ Simon wrote. That they had been largely negative experiences, he did not write. ‘Rest assured that if danger comes to your domain, I will come and fight it free of charge. What I will not do is be at the beck and call of anyone. I would sooner move my bride-to-be across the river and into Charia proper than spend my life bound by oaths of service again.’

It was the only response he could have made. He remembered how poorly he’d treated Freya while in service to the Raithwaites. She should have come first, but instead she’d died first, and Simon would never let that happen to someone he loved ever again.

After that, Simon didn’t hear from the noble again for some time, which was fine. Any wedding was still a ways off anyway; they’d already agreed that the house would get finished before they formalized their relationship. That didn’t stop it from progressing, though. Now that the floodgates had opened, they were flirtatious and affectionate with each other in a way that probably would have been insufferable if there’d been anyone around to be annoyed by it.

It had been a long time since Simon had enjoyed a honeymoon phase, but he vowed to enjoy this one. As he finished thatching their roof, he found himself taking ever more frequent breaks to spend time with his soon-to-be wife in the shade during the hottest part of the day. That shade didn’t stop him from sweating; it just changed the reason, and the days flew by.

Work progressed quickly then. Simon didn’t make the furniture, but he might have if he’d decided to stay before he’d hired carpenters to handle it. Instead, he focused on the tiles. He had only limited experience with ceramics during his time in Ionia, but even though he remembered little of it, he had significant notes on the subject squirreled away in the mirror, and was soon firing thick red terracotta tiles to go on the packed earth floor he’d already flattened and leveled.

Maybe when I find a nicely colored glaze, I’ll try my hand at roof tiles as well, Simon reflected as he studied the first batch. He didn’t love the brown-red color the local clay had transformed into, but it was fine for a first effort.

As Millie reminded him that night, “No matter what color they are, we’re still likely to have the nicest floor in the whole county, Simon!”

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She had a point. He didn’t even crave luxury. His standards were just high, and even if he was only building a cottage, it was all too easy for that to become a palace in miniature.

While he worked on that, Millie saw to other things, most notably her dress. She spent many hours sewing the garment, though she refused to let him see it early, insisting, “It’s bad luck!”

Simon didn’t argue. He much preferred her naked to whatever clothes she chose to wear by this point, and if it made her happy, then she could make a gown fit for a queen for all he cared. He would have loved her just as much in the stained old dress she’d worn for the last few months.

She made friends in the local community and even found a puppy that would grow into a fine sheep dog with a year's worth of steady meals. Simon couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a pet; he couldn’t even remember if he’d had one on Earth anymore, and found playing with the young mutt to be almost as distracting as playing with Millie.

All in all, it was wonderful. Even lifting heavy stones and mortaring them into place wasn’t enough to convince him that he’d erred in any way. Instead, each new project only gave him new ideas. By the time the chimney was in place, he regretted not planning better. Though he’d designed it so that two hearths fed one flue, he could have very easily put any number of runes in that chimney to harvest waste heat for other projects.

“One day,” he promised himself.

That was a frequent refrain for his life now. His days were so full that everything flowed over into later. Tomorrow, next week, next season, next year. All of that was before he found out that Millie was expecting, too.

She was fearful and almost afraid to tell him, but he celebrated that news too. I probably could have detected that in her aura, too, he realized as they hugged and talked about the need for a wedding.

“The timing is just terrible,” she said at one point, nearly scolding herself, but Simon refused to allow that.

“The timing is entirely predictable, and dare I say, perfect,” Simon answered, refusing to let that stand. “When people have sex, babies often follow only a little later. It doesn’t change our plans at all.”

Rather than slow things down, that was his signal to push off even more into the future and focus on her. Still, no amount of focus and family time would see their home built before winter. Simon wouldn’t be able to manage glazed windows this year, but a warm home, a soft bed, and good foundations for the following year were in sight.

Not long after that, as the weather began to cool, the two of them held a small ceremony, officiated by the headman of their local hamlet. The wedding itself was probably held too late; Millie was already starting to show, and had to alter her dress to avoid making it too obvious, but Simon was insistent that he wanted a finished threshold to carry her across, and the door took longer than he would have thought to finish without magic.

While the wait was long, the ceremony itself was brief and simple, because Simon had little interest in pomp. Instead of trying to decorate his bride in gold and gems, he spent a handful of gold on enough food and beer for Burlwick and the other surrounding villages.

They were too late in the season to produce much more than a small bouquet of flowers for Millie, but Simon surprised everyone by sneaking out to the hill where they’d have the ceremony the night before and using a small wand of lesser Zyvon that he’d carved for several experiments to make a field of wildflowers spring up in seconds.

Everyone called it a miracle except for Millie. She only smiled until she complained about her cheeks being sore as she kept his secret.

Her happiness actually slowed the ceremony more than the little white dress she’d spent so much time sewing. He’d stricken any mention of the gods from the vows, and swore on his own soul to make his wife happy and keep her safe from any harm smoothly and with passion. Millie did likewise, though haltingly, because she couldn’t stop smiling during the whole affair.

Count Viscaro did not attend the wedding. Neither did his daughters, for that matter. That probably spells trouble in the future, he decided, but he refused to let one dark cloud overshadow his day. That opinion was revised only slightly when he was informed the count had sent them a gift and a personal missive once the ceremony was concluded.

Simon doubted it was a bomb, or whatever the magical equivalent was. So, he opened it to find a book. The attached note read, ‘I picked this up in the wars Brin waged when they conquered this region when I was a much younger man,’ the count wrote. ‘In all that time, I’ve failed to make heads or tails of Charian writing; you’d be wise to remember that your allies end at the border. Those savages wouldn’t care that you’re a hero. The only thing they care about is whether or not you’re a part of their clan.’

Simon didn’t recognize the title, The Edda of the High Clans, but he only had to crack it open to recognize it. The typeface was unmistakable. He should know. He’d carved those letters.

This was the book he’d started writing a long time ago. He was overcome with a wave of nostalgia as he leafed through it, but when his now-wife asked if he was feeling well, he set it aside. He could read it another day. Today wasn’t for reading; it was for Millie, and riddles from past lives could wait for another day.