CHAPTER 62: A VILLAGE OF REST

The marsh surrendered to firmer ground as Apollo stepped from the final patch of soggy reeds onto blessed dry earth.

Morning sunlight poured over him like warm honey, seeping into his chilled bones and easing the persistent ache in his veins.

After days of wilderness, the warped marsh with its ancient spirits, the darkness of the underground temple, the frantic escape through fetid tunnels, the simple pleasure of solid ground beneath his feet felt like redemption.

"Do you smell that?" Nik asked, his face lifting toward the gentle breeze. His eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, suddenly widened with childlike delight.

Apollo breathed deeply, and the scent hit him with such force that his stomach clenched painfully: bread baking, the yeasty warmth carrying hints of honey and hearth fire. Beyond it, woodsmoke curled from stone chimneys in lazy spirals against the clear blue sky. A village, not a city with its temples and secrets, but a simple collection of homes nestled in the gentle fold of rolling hills.

Laughter drifted toward them, high and clear, children’s voices, carefree in a way that seemed almost foreign after everything they’d endured.

"Real people," Renna murmured, her hand finally relaxing its death grip on her spear. "Normal people."

Thorin grunted his agreement, the sound more relieved than gruff. Even Cale’s perpetually tense shoulders eased slightly as he surveyed the village below.

Lyra stepped to Apollo’s side, her green eyes narrowed against the sun. "No walls," she observed. "No guards. Just... life."

The simplicity of it struck Apollo with unexpected force. Life, not grand temples or divine machinations or ancient spirits, just mortals going about their days with ordinary concerns and ordinary joys. The gold in his veins warmed slightly, not with power but with something gentler, almost wistful.

’This is what they do,’

he thought, watching smoke rise from a blacksmith’s forge at the village edge. ’They build and grow and live, with no knowledge of what lurks in the spaces between their small worlds.’

"We should approach openly," Lyra decided, already adjusting her cloak to hide the worst of the marsh stains. "No sneaking, no weapons drawn. Just travelers looking for rest."

They descended the gentle slope toward the village, each step on dry ground feeling more miraculous than the last. As they drew closer, details emerged from the pastoral scene, a mill wheel turning lazily in a stream, washing hung on lines between cottages, a small market square where a handful of stalls displayed local goods.

A ball of tightly wound yarn rolled into their path, followed by three children racing after it, their faces flushed with exertion and joy. They skidded to a halt at the sight of the strangers, eyes growing wide with curiosity rather than fear.

"Are you soldiers?" the tallest boy asked, looking at Renna’s spear with undisguised admiration.

Renna blinked, clearly unprepared for the simple question after weeks of threats and suspicion. "No," she answered, then seemed to reconsider. "Well, not exactly. I know how to use this, though." She gestured with the spear, keeping the tip carefully pointed away from the children.

The boy’s eyes lit up. "Could you show me? My father says I’m too small yet for real weapons, but I practice with a stick every day."

Before Renna could respond, the children’s attention shifted to Thorin, their gazes dropping to his height then rising to take in his impressive beard.

"Are you a dwarf?" the smallest child asked, a girl with hair the color of autumn leaves. "My grandmother tells stories about dwarves who live under mountains and make magical swords."

Thorin’s beard twitched, the closest thing to a smile Apollo had seen from him in days. "Aye, little one. Though not all the stories are true." He knelt, bringing himself to her eye level. "We make magical axes too."

The girl’s delighted giggle seemed to break something open in the air around them. Apollo felt tension drain from the group as the children’s innocent acceptance washed over them. They weren’t threats here, or mysteries, or even strangers to be feared. They were just travelers, perhaps unusual ones, but welcome all the same.

A farmer working a nearby field raised a hand in greeting, his gesture as casual as if they were neighbors rather than road-worn wanderers emerging from the wild. Another villager nodded as she passed with a basket of eggs, her only reaction to their appearance a slight raising of eyebrows.

"They’re not afraid," Nik murmured, returning the farmer’s wave with almost comical enthusiasm. "They’re just... curious."

"Small villages like this," Cale said, his voice soft but carrying to the group. "They see travelers. Trade routes nearby, probably. Not so isolated as to fear strangers."

Apollo let the realization settle in his chest like a warm coal: they weren’t being hunted here. No priests with detection lanterns, no city guards with crossbows, no ancient spirits rising from the depths. Just people, living their small, precious lives in the sunshine.

As they reached the village proper, the smell of food grew stronger, drawing them like a lodestone toward a modest building with a painted sign hanging above its door, a crossed knife and spoon beneath a simple bed. The inn was two stories of whitewashed stone and dark timber, its windows glowing with welcoming light despite the morning hour.

Inside, warmth and the rich scent of cooking enveloped them. A hearth dominated one wall, its fire crackling cheerfully beneath a pot that bubbled with something that made Apollo’s empty stomach clench with almost painful desire.

Tables of polished wood filled the common room, most empty at this hour, though a few early patrons glanced up at their entrance with mild interest before returning to their meals.

Thorin made a beeline for the bar, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "Ale! The strongest you’ve got, and plenty of it."

The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with silver-streaked dark hair and laugh lines around her eyes, grinned at the dwarf’s enthusiasm. "Coming right up. Food too, by the look of you lot. Been on the road a while, I’d wager."

"Longer than we’d like," Lyra answered, approaching the bar with more restraint. "We’d appreciate rooms as well, if you have them."

"Three copper per night, meals extra," the innkeeper said, already pulling a foaming tankard for Thorin. "But worth every bit. Clean beds, no bugs, and the best stew between here and Whispervale."

Apollo reached for his coin pouch, fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar weight of mortal currency. He’d been carrying it for weeks, but still hadn’t mastered the relative values of copper and silver, the strange symbols pressed into the metal, the way some coins were worn smooth while others gleamed as if newly minted.

Lyra smoothly intervened, producing the correct amount with practiced ease. "Three rooms should do it," she said, sliding the coins across the worn wood of the bar. "And food for all of us."

The innkeeper nodded, sweeping the payment into her apron pocket with one hand while sliding plates toward them with the other. "Find yourselves a table. Stew’s hot, bread’s fresh. Merri will bring the rest."

They settled at a table near the hearth, its surface scarred by years of use but scrubbed clean. Apollo sank onto the bench with a sigh that came from the depths of his being. His body, still adjusting to the influx of energy from the shattered relic, ached in ways that reminded him painfully of his mortality.

But the gold in his veins flowed smoother now, no longer fighting his control but working with it, strengthening muscle and bone with each steady pulse.

A serving girl, presumably, approached with a tray laden with bowls of stew, a loaf of bread still steaming from the oven, and a crock of pale yellow butter. Apollo’s mouth watered at the sight, his divine sensibilities momentarily overwhelmed by the simple, mortal pleasure of food after too long without.

The first taste nearly undid him. Rich broth, tender meat, vegetables grown in the soil of this small, perfect place, it was nothing like the ambrosia of Olympus, and yet somehow more satisfying for its very earthiness. He closed his eyes, savoring each mouthful with the reverence it deserved.

Around him, the others ate with similar appreciation, conversation suspended in favor of the more immediate need for nourishment. Even Thorin was silent, his usual complaints replaced by occasional grunts of satisfaction as he alternated between stew and ale.

As they ate, the common room gradually filled with villagers coming in for their midday meal. The newcomers regarded the travel-worn group with open curiosity but no hostility. A few nodded in greeting; others simply went about their business, accepting the strangers’ presence as unremarkable.

Nik, his initial hunger satisfied, soon drifted to a nearby table where a group of local men were engaged in animated conversation. Within minutes, he had inserted himself into their circle, his natural charm overcoming any initial hesitation. Apollo watched as Nik’s hands began to gesture dramatically, spinning what was undoubtedly an embellished tale of their journey.

"...and then the marsh itself seemed to rise up around us," Apollo overheard him saying, the young man’s voice pitched for maximum dramatic effect. "Creatures taller than two men, with eyes that glowed like ghost fire..."

The villagers leaned in, their expressions ranging from skepticism to wide-eyed wonder. One man laughed and clapped Nik on the shoulder, clearly enjoying the performance regardless of its veracity.

Renna had wandered outside, drawn by the sound of wooden practice swords clacking together. Through the open door, Apollo could see her surrounded by a group of village youths, demonstrating a basic spear stance with patient precision.

The children from earlier had gathered to watch, their faces alight with admiration as Renna corrected a boy’s grip on a wooden staff.

Even Cale had relaxed somewhat, though his observant eyes still cataloged each entrance and exit, each window and potential vulnerability, not with suspicion now, but with the ingrained habit of a man who had survived by being prepared.

He sat with his back to the wall, nursing a single mug of ale, occasionally nodding at something Thorin said.

Apollo felt a strange lightness in his chest, watching his companions ease into this moment of peace.

The village had accepted them without question, offering food and shelter and simple human interaction without demanding explanations or proof of worthiness. After weeks of danger and suspicion, the ordinary kindness felt almost disorienting in its simplicity.

"You look lost in thought," Lyra said, sliding back onto the bench beside him. She’d cleaned up somewhat, her face washed free of marsh mud, her blonde hair tied back in a fresh braid. The green of her eyes seemed brighter here, in this warm, safe place.

"Just... observing," Apollo replied, gesturing vaguely at the common room with its mix of companions and villagers. "It’s been a long time since anyone looked at us and saw just... people."

Lyra’s expression softened slightly, understanding flickering across her features. "We should enjoy it while it lasts. Stock up on supplies, rest while we can."

They spent the afternoon doing exactly that. The village market, though small, offered essentials they’d been lacking for weeks, preserved foods that wouldn’t spoil on the road.