The Decision

Two good friends were buried; homecoming felt more solemn than victorious. Rosalyn nuzzled into Argen’s shoulder, the sun lighting on their faces, warding chill from the wind. Before the Hall of Solace they stood, not yet wanting to enter. After a moment, Ros dozed on her feet, leaning more heavily against him. A year ago, she would have never let her guard down, never trusted anyone to support her or protect her. Her hair, close cut and curling slightly under her ears, smelled of lavender and cloves. In that moment, Argen decided to ask for her hand, once mourning was done.