The Weaver's Source

Part Three: Chapter 27

"I've been on the road all my life, Lyra. I know how to maintain my clothes and weapons." Grigore said firmly when I held out my hand for his cloak.

We'd set up camp for the night on a rugged hill mostly home to stone and the odd windswept tree, and I'd just finished fixing a tear in my dress from where a branched had snagged it. I noticed his cloak was fraying for the last two days. It was bothering me.

"I can do it for you." I pressed.

He could tell I was going to be stubborn about it so simply sighed sharply and undid his cloak, throwing it to me roughly. I caught it and pulled it to my chest, ignoring his scent that tickled my nose and how my magic purred at his presence, making my skin tingle pleasantly, whispering hot thoughts into my head. I shoved it roughly down however. So far neither Grigore nor myself had spiralled into mindlessness at the sight of each other and I was planning to keep it that way. I had embarrassed myself enough in front of him.

He shook his head and continued to poke the fire, demanding it to roar beneath the stew he was making. We sat quietly, surrounded only by the whistling of the cold wind and the cries of dusk birds. I didn't mind it. It felt nice to just be with him, not saying a word.

As I sewed, I cast glances at him. He was still as a rock, his expression hooded by the dying day and his large hands, for once bare, were clasped together. Scars nicked the skin, making them appear rough and his fingers were long and knuckles scuffed. I wondered what they felt like. They would easily swamp my own and I had no doubt he had a firm grip. Suddenly my mind began to wander, urged by my magic to notice more than just his strong hands but his wide shoulders, the quiet strength knotted in his muscles and the thin scars littering his pleasant face, making him ruggedly attractive to me. The moment I realised I was beginning to swell up with warmth, his sweet taste filling my mouth, I quickly began to work again, forcing my attention away from him and more settling on the sword at his hip.

The sword flickered in the firelight, showing its length, the charms and the scuffed roaring bear. Grigore seemed to stir from his thoughts and his attention flickered to me, noticing my curiosity.

"It's name is Ursus." He said openly.

"You found it? By the willow tree?"

He nodded and detached it from his hip, holding it out for me to take. I was surprised. I never thought he'd ever let me touch it.

I set aside my sewing and knelt down closer to him, wrapping my small hands around the sheath. The moment he let go, I squeaked in surprise at the weight suddenly in my hands, unable to stop arms sagging sharply. I had never felt a sword so heavy in my life.

"You're able to fight with this?" I asked as I nestled the sword along my lap, gripping the old leather hilt. It was rough against my palm.

"It's not that heavy." He murmured with faint amusement in his tone.

It was the first time I hadn't heard him either grumpy or disinterested. It made me flush slightly.

"You're a little more built than myself." I muttered defensively.

He simply shrugged lightly and watched me curiously as I gripped the hilt and pulled. Ursus came free with a snap and I was surprised to see the blade was dark black, not silver or steel in colour.

"It's made from dragon eggshell. Dragons cook their eggs to make sure they don't get too cold. It turns the shell black." Grigore explained when he noticed my bewildered stare. "Smiths call it sky-iron."

I pulled Ursus out further, surprised by its length and its deep black colour. I'd never seen a sword like it.

"I can see why you were upset at losing it." I said as I placed my palm against the flat of Ursus, surprised by the warmth emanating there.