41 - Reconciliation

  Bran shouldered his bag and stepped out of the barracks, eyes downcast. A week’s suspension. No pay.

  “I’m lucky it’s not two. Hell, I’m lucky it’s not a dismissal,” Bran had reassured Maeve after Garrick had left to deal with Riven and Luka.

  She had been furious that he’d even been punished in the first place.

  “But Riven was the one who was in the wrong!” she protested to him. “He deserved to get his teeth knocked.”

  Bran smiled wryly. “High Commander Voss isn’t arguing that, but if every soldier who thought he was in the right went about hitting their commanding officer, the chain of command would fall apart very quickly.”

  “I suppose,” Maeve grumbled.

  Bran laughed softly and held her by the shoulders. “It’s only a week.”

  Maeve huffed, but her shoulders sagged beneath his hands.

  “Fine. You’re right,” she said. “Besides, you can bring me back more licorice.”

  “I’m about to lose a week’s pay,” Bran said, incredulous.

  She turned away and wandered towards the door, sweeping her braid over one shoulder before turning to look back at him.

  “Well, think of it as penance,” she said, trying not to smile.

  “I thought you said I did the right thing!”

  “You did, but since you seem so ready to play the martyr - eep!”

  She squeaked in surprise and ran for the door, giggling furiously as Bran stomped after her playfully.

  Now, as he was about to leave, a small smile hovered about his lips. He wondered where the best place to find licorice would be. The high-end candy stores were a bit too pricey, but he knew a small stall in the market Maeve tended to frequent when her stash got low.

  His steps slowed as he recognized a figure leaning just inside the gate. Rugged beard, permanent scowl - Riven. A bruise had formed on his jaw where Bran had punched him. It had already started to turn blue and purple. Bran swallowed nervously, but he didn’t stop, not until he was right in front of Riven. His steps slowed. Riven shifted, hands in his pockets. For a moment, the silence hung between them. Then Riven glanced up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I am, too,” Bran admitted.

  “I was a bastard and I wasn’t listening. To you or Edain.”

  “You were. A bastard, that is.”

  Riven snorted, a smile playing on his lips. “Suppose I deserved that one.”

  Bran relented and shook his head. “No, not really. We know how hard it’s been since…well, we just know.”

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  Riven nodded. He glanced up and looked around the tower, anywhere else but Bran.

  “I’m not okay with it,” he said suddenly, kicking the ground. “Not entirely. There’s a lot of this I don’t like. I don’t think I could ever forgive it - him, I mean.”

  Bran nodded patiently. “Makes sense.”

  “But I’ll put the mission first,” Riven said, looking up. “Not my personal feelings. I should have done that a while ago.”

  Bran hesitated, then said, “Or…you could just talk to us. Edain and I - we’re not gone. We’re here.”

  The knight captain glanced up, swallowing hard.

  “I’m starting to realize talking’s harder than it looks,” he admitted.

  “Then, don’t talk. Just…don’t shut us out again,” Bran told him. “I know you’re our captain, but the Second Order isn’t just a knight order. We’ve been through hell and back together. Grab a beer with us. Just sit. Be. Like before.”

  A sheepish smile crept across Riven’s face as he rubbed the back of his neck and nodded.

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s been too long.”

  Then, clearing his throat, he reached into his pocket and handed Bran a small pouch. Bran took it, confused. A metallic clink met his ears and he peered inside.

  “A week’s pay,” Riven said.

  “Where…?”

  “I owe you,” was all Riven said.

  Bran looked down again at the coins inside.

  “There’s a little more in here than a week’s pay,” he said.

  “I’m making up for more than just yesterday,” Riven admitted, nodding behind Bran.

  Bran turned to see Maeve crossing the courtyard with Oliver, crates of medicines being taken to storage. Upon seeing Bran across the way, she stopped and adjusted the crate beneath one arm, waving brightly. But upon seeing Riven, she stopped abruptly, stuck out her tongue, and walked haughtily away. Riven and Bran chuckled.

  “Sorry,” Bran said, turning back to him.

  “No, don’t be,” Riven said. “I deserved that, too.” Then, almost desperately, he added, “Bran, listen. Don’t be an idiot. Just ask to court her already. And the next time I interfere to make myself feel better, feel free to punch me again.”

  Bran laughed and put the coins in his pocket. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Riven’s expression grew serious. “No, seriously Bran. Go ask her.”

  “Now?” Bran asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But…what if…?”

  “What if she says no?” Riven asked, then scoffed. “If you think that’ll ever happen, you really are an idiot. Or dense.”

  Bran shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that. What if this war starts up again? What if I have to leave again? Wouldn’t that be unfair?”

  Riven’s scowl softened a little. “If Rhodney’s death taught me anything, it’s that what you have now needs to be cherished now. If you wait for a future that might happen, you’ll never be happy.”

  He held up a silver medallion. Bran recognized it as a token for achieving second place in the swordsmanship competition the palace hosted every year before the war. Rhodeny’s. Riven swung it on the cord once before catching the medallion in his hand and smiling grimly.

  With a firm nod, Bran turned and began to trot off back towards the tower. He was only a few steps away when Riven called after him one more time.

  “Hey, Bran?” he asked.

  Something in his voice made Bran stop and turn. Riven looked pale.

  “Do you think…do you think we’re doing the right thing?” he asked softly.

  Desperately.

  Bran hesitated a moment, then nodded firmly. “I do.”

  Riven nodded, eyes downcast. “I’m just worried he might hate us…hate me for this.”

  Bran smiled and began walking backwards, hands spread wide.

  “You know as well as I do that the last thing Rhodney ever did was hate.”

  And then, he was gone, trotting off quickly to find Maeve.

  Riven watched him go, jaw clenched. Then, he looked down at the medallion. The surface was worn smooth, almost as if someone had held it many times for a long time. Riven rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger before glancing back up after Bran’s retreating form.

  “Yeah,” he whispered.

  Then, pocketing the medallion, he turned and walked away.