The smell of freshly broken ground filled the air, overpowering the hint of wild cherry blossoms. Spring was creeping into summer and the ground had defrosted enough to plow the field. Churning the soil, lugging the hand plow along was back-breaking work, even for a daemon. The sun rose ever higher and by noon, I finished the last row. The seeds were still in the cabin where the birds wouldn’t eat their fill, a lesson I learned the hard way my first year in charge of all the work. Sweat trickled down my back as it slid between my shoulders and down my spine. Despite the shade from my straw hat, it didn’t keep the heat of the day from beating down on me.

Putting the plow off to the side of the field, I marched for the water pump. My mouth begged to have its thirst quenched. Opening and closing my hands, I tried to shake the lingering ache from gripping the plow for so long. Callouses had made their home across the top of my palm and along my fingers, badges of years spent working as a farmer. I wasn’t the soft pale prince anymore, but a broken in workhorse. Touching the metal handle of the water pump, I jerked my hand back.

“Dammit that was hot!” The sun had turned it into a frying pan. “I never learn, do I?”

Agitated, I pulled off my sweat-soaked shirt. Wrapping it around the handle, I raised and lowering the lever to draw water from the mountain stream somewhere uphill. My biceps and forearms were sore, but my want for the cool water won out. Three, four, and… The pump grumbled, sputtering, then nothing. Leaning on the trough, I sighed.

“Days like these make me miss you, old man.” Looking up, I glared at the menacing woods between me and the unknown water source. “You never did tell me, always mumbling uphill at me when I asked where it came from.”

Inhaling deep, it was another example of having to learn as I go. There had been heaps taught to me, but I never imagined so much hadn’t been covered for the everyday troubleshooting. I found myself struggling from time to time. Smirking, my arms were tan from all the outside work I’ve been doing since the farm had become home. Granted, my bronze skin was painted with scar lines of white, pink, and purple. Those were also badges, ones earned in the relentless episodes of sword practice bittersweet with memories. The Lord Knight was old, but not lacking in the ability to be ruthless during training.

“Who knew a daemon could tan, isn’t that what you fussed about? I think its darker than that last year you sat on the porch making remarks about how I cut your field wrong.” Chuckling, I followed the piping up through the trees until it faded into the dirt. “Old man, you buried most of this line out here so no one could use it to find you. How am I to fix something I can’t see?”

I'm sorry, Dante, it was a bittersweet echo.

All I could do is guess, but before long I could hear a trickling of a stream. Deviating from my path, I would have better luck finding the unburied backend of the line leading into the water. A breeze flowed through the trees, sending shivers across my bare back, reminding me I left my shirt behind. The further I walked upstream, the bigger the rocks became, making it hard to find solid footing. A glance ahead told me I would have better luck walking in the stream at this rate. Kicking off my shoes, they would at least mark when I neared the cabin again. From where I entered, it proved deeper than I expected, coming up a little higher than my belly button.

John’s parting gift. I haven’t visited this spot since he left.

“Where have you been,” cooing to the water, I slung my hat onto the shore and dunked my head under. Scrubbing my long auburn hair free of the sweat and mud, I burst through the surface with a great roar. “I can’t remember the last time I could take a proper bath. Oh, I will be back later, but I have work to do.”

Running my fingers over my head, I shoved the long loose locks behind my ears, sixteen loose knots heavy with water. I had allowed it to grow out with encouragement from the old man. Yes, I had promised John, but the old knight believed no one should abandon their status nor their past. It wasn’t much further before I caught a glimpse of the pipe running parallel to the shore in the shallows. I chased the pipe, picking up pace until at last I found the problem. Boulders had rolled into the stream, redirecting the flow of water and leaving the pipe in still waters. Shoving the pipe end into the flow solved the problem, but I wasn’t satisfied. To add security, I rearranged the larger boulders until I was content they would preserve the pipe end and its location.

“I’m lucky it didn’t smash this.” Looking up through the branches, I had wasted a lot of time. “I’ve managed not to need to visit town or contact the traders since you left, Paul, but how much longer can I limp by without John here? You think he’s really coming back home?”

The walk back was a sour one. With each knock of my wet braid at my back, I couldn’t help but revisit my past. No one would have expected the pale, scrawny prince to be living a life like this. I now carried broad shoulders and thick muscled from years of what many would label peasant’s work and grown taller. He’s a late bloomer, my father would chuckle. When I left I was barely to Viceroy Falco’s shoulders but I imagined we’d be eye level at best.

I wonder how tall John… I retracted the thought, my chest stinging at allowing my mind to wonder so freely.

Climbing out of the stream, I pulled on my shoes and grabbed up my hat. The walk downhill was effortless, but glancing at the scars on my knuckles I found my chest aching again. They were from a time when I had endured cruel training and the old Lord Knight no longer could walk far from the cabin. Those were our last days together, and after he had passed, I had taken my rage out on the trees until my knuckles bled.

If you hit a shield hard enough, it’ll jar you like that, it was the first lesson he ever taught me.

Blaring sunlight greeted me as I came into the small opening where the cabin and field waited. Coming around the corner of the cabin I froze. There sat the bag John had left with over ten years ago. It had carried what little he owned back then. A stack of books sat on the chair next to the door made up of texts associated with the Church. My face flushed and my heart pounded in my ears. I took a step closer but stopped. The wind rustled the leaves and a shiver crawled across my skin. Dread poured over me.

I can’t greet him looking like this; no shirt, pants drenched. He’s a priest now, it’s frowned upon to approach one like this. You came back, John, but I don’t want you to see all these scars. I don’t want you to blame yourself for this outcome.

Without hesitation, I backtracked to the water pump. My shirt was still wrapped around the handle. Unravelling it with haste, I sniffed it then pulled it away. It was dry, but with the soured smell of sweat. Working the pump handle, I prayed I had fixed the wretched thing. One, two, three… Gurgling sounds of water were echoing out of the nozzle. Four… Water was dribbling out. Five! And the spout gushed water into the trough. Satisfied plenty of water had been pulled, I scrubbed the shirt, grabbing the bar of soap I had made of fat and lavender.

What am I going to do? Wear a wet shirt? Why do I care… it’s been over ten years. Will he even let me stay here? Does he remember he is my keeper and I am his servant? How much has he changed? Not just mentally, but… humans age so much faster. Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I panicking?

Groaning, I rinsed the soap out. At least the wet shirt would match the wet pants. Tugging on my braid, it slid out of my collar and slapped heavy against my back. Again, I froze looming over the trough with doubts gnawing at me. My stomach twisted. John had left as an eighteen-year-old, but now, he would be twenty-eight. What did he even look like after being away and part of the Church.

“I heard the pump.” The muscles in my back flinched, tightening at the sound of his voice. “It’s been a long time, Dante.”

“John.” I lost my words, my ears relieved to hear the more seasoned tone of his voice, relishing my own name. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.” Still, I couldn’t force myself to turn and look at him. “Was there much trouble making it back?”

“No…” His steps moved closer, his fingers brushing my back and lifting my braid. “I didn’t think you would ever wear your braid again? It feels like yesterday when you sat there in the dead of winter and dropped it on the ground.”

Spinning, I found myself eye to eye with those blue eyes now bordered by crow’s feet. “This was temporary. Hard to fix the waterline with wet hair flopping in my way.” My face flushed, he had lost all those boyish features and still wider in the chest than myself.

He smiled, the blonde short beard fitting his square jaw with finesse. “Indeed, it would be. I like seeing it like this, it seems more fitting.” His hand and fingers were so much larger than I recalled as he let go. “I’ve earned the right to wear seven knots. You know what that means, right?”

“You’re a priest,” I laughed, “Impressive, John! Not many can say they aimed and achieved their dreams. Though it may not have seemed like it, Paul would have been proud of you.”

“Thank you for taking care of my grandfather.” His arms wrapped around me, the hug full of warmth and strength. “The farm and house are in good shape thanks to you. Why don’t you rest up while I finish seeding and watering? Isn’t that what needs to be done next? I saw the bag in the house.”

“Can’t let a priest do dirty work.” I broke the hug and held him at arm’s length, gripping his shoulders while another wave of heat hit my face. “Sorry, I’ve gotten you all wet.”

“You did say you were working on the waterline. Now, I’ve already rolled up my sleeves, at least let me lend you a hand.” With a forearm, he shoved my hands off and away. “Maybe even visit the old man if it’s not too late.”

Swallowing, I grabbed the buckets out from under the trough. “I’ll get the watering done, you lay the seed down? Like old times?”

“Yea, you’re already wet.” He chuckled walking back into the house and returning with the satchel of seeds.

Silence fell hard between us. Part of me wanted to write it off as just extreme focus on the work before us, but I knew better. I trailed behind him, kicking dirt over the seed and sloshing the water over it to start the germination process. Staring at his back, his braid caught the sunlight and glimmered like gold. His hair thicker than I had remembered. John would glance over his shoulder, shaking me from my admiration and I would drop my eyes to the ground again. I had emptied the two buckets by the fourth row. Turning I went back to the pump, but when I started back I found John had stopped to stare at me. I flinched, unsure what to think of it. Rolling my shoulders back, I tightened my grip and came marching back.

“Where on earth did you get all those scars from?” John’s voice cut through me as he continued spreading seed. “Was that from training with grandpa?”

“Y-yea.” Another kick, stomp, and splash of water. He noticed them after all...

“Grandpa was always one to teach the hard way.” The tone of his voice was meek, but it was me who had failed to realize a wet white shirt wouldn’t hide them. “I owe you a lot, Dante.”

“It was my choice, my request.” John paused, almost as if he meant to turn to say something. “Like you, I came here with a dream, though not as glamorous as your own.”

“You never told me where you… never mind.” He shook his head, returning to the task in front of him without another word.

I opened my mouth, but I wasn’t ready to tell him who I used to be. That day and time hadn’t come. Part of me hoped he understood the weight it would bring him to know my true title, my braid betraying where I ranked in this world.

I’m royalty, he knows that much without a doubt now.

By the last row, John was taking a bucket from me and we worked from both ends until water sloshed across each other’s boots. John gave me a hearty pat on the shoulder, taking my bucket and heading back to the water pump. Again, he refilled them and handed one to me.

“There’s not much daylight left. Let’s go see the old man.” He mustered a smile, but I could see in those blue eyes he was pained. “You planted a tree where he was buried, right?”

Nodding, I led the way through the forest in silence. The trees grew darker with every step, adding to the weight of John trailing so close behind me. Breaking into a small clearing, a big cherry tree took up the center. The air filled with the scent of its bloom, white flowers in long clumps bounced in the wind. I splashed my bucket at its base and flipped it upside down and took a seat, leaning on my knees. John mirrored my actions. Crickets chirped, announcing the night was creeping closer and the air would soon cool. Taking in a deep inhale, I looked over at John. He was finishing a prayer, his closed eyes shedding a tear. A smile grew on his face, his eyebrows lifting.

What on earth was he thinking?

Opening his eyes, he turned to me, chuckling. “He hated cherries.” He shook his head in amusement. “What possessed you to plant a cherry tree on his grave?”

I grinned, “It was payback for the scars.”

We broke into laughter, the tension breaking as we headed back in time for night to take over.