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May 1

Storybook: Chapter 2/4

Pairing: Knight!Simon Riley / Midwife!Reader

WC: 5.0k

Summary: A masked knight stumbles into your village. You offer your help and a place to stay, which slowly blossoms into something more.

A/N: Thank you for all the support on this story so far! Likes, reblogs, and comments are very appreciated :)

Chapter 1 | Also on AO3!

Near the end of the week, another unexpected visitor knocked on your door.

One of the market girls, wearing an elaborate braided hairstyle and a blush-pink daydress. She was short and thin, fidgeting beneath the grey sky as you greeted her, hands tucked behind her back. You surveyed her frame, discreetly inspecting her stomach for abnormal swelling. Girls like her showed up at your door from time to time, young and tremulous and pleading for help, pleading for you to keep their perilous problem secret from their parents.

“Is Sir Ghost here?” she asked meekly.

Not pregnant, then.

You put on a performance for her sake, glancing over your shoulder even though you already knew he wasn’t there. Ghost was off in the forest, laying a breadcrumb trail for his Guard or hunting down the people who’d poisoned him or whatever else it was that knights did when they were stranded in strange places. You hadn’t pestered him about it because you already knew he wouldn’t share, but also because he’d bought your silence by helping with your chores before leaving.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I’m afraid you just missed him.”

Her fidgeting ceased. “Can you give this to him? And tell him it was from me?”

From behind her back, she pulled out a ceramic jar of fruit preserves, with a thin scrap of ribbon tied around the lid. You stared at it, dumbfounded. Preserves weren’t a rare delicacy—you made your own each autumn with the berries you grew—but they carried a different meaning as a gift, especially when given from an unwed woman to an unwed man.

“Do you want to come by later and give it to him yourself?”

She pushed the jar into your hands, already turning away. “No, thank you. I have to be home before the storm.”

You watched her scurry back down the path, pity blooming in your chest. Like most girls you knew, she’d likely grown up fantasizing about something beautiful and wonderful happening to her, something to help her escape from the mundane life awaiting her: marriage, childrearing, labor till death. How miraculous would it be if the mysterious knight was that something? If he courted her in full armor, fought for her hand with his sword, whisked her away to the castle on his steed?

Except you found yourself pitying Ghost, too. Yes, he was a knight. Yes, he was big and broad and imposing in a way that implied he’d be a good protector, a favorable husband. But he was also a blank slate, the anonymity of his face and background allowing people to project their own desires onto him. The single detail he’d let slip about his mother was your only indication that he even had an identity of his own.

When he returned in the evening, right before the first roll of thunder, you promptly handed him the gift and fulfilled the girl’s request. You embellished the story as you told it, tinting the encounter the same color of her dress, emphasizing that she was good-looking and thoughtful and yet to be married.

He sat unmoving at the edge of your bed, the jar looking like a thimble in his paws. You stood before him and decided to interpret his stillness as immense delight. Then his eyes flickered up to yours.

“The fuck am I supposed to do with fruit?”

Ungrateful and ill-mannered, as per usual. Every ounce of pity you’d felt for him dissolved at once.

“Eat it, I presume,” you drawled, slow enough for his thick skull—the real one, not the mask—to process it. “Have you never received a gift before?”

Ghost said nothing. You watched him turn the jar multiple times over, as if he was inspecting it for cracks. Then he gingerly pinched the ribbon between his thumb and pointer finger, tugging at the scrap until it came undone. The girl would suit him well, you thought—they were physically complementary, big and small, imposing and timid, but they were similar in that they were both the quiet type. Maybe you could stage a meeting the next time you went shopping, serve as some kind of mediator to bridge them together.

***

After breakfast the next morning, Ghost accompanied you to the river without invitation, likely because he had nothing better to do, prowling behind you in that silent, catlike way of his. The forest soil was damp and your arms were laden with a basket of unwashed laundry. The past few days of summer rain had rendered it impossible to wash or dry anything, but you’d finally been blessed with a day of sunshine to attempt the task.

You settled at your preferred strip of riverbank, where the flow was gentle and the chunks of rock were gritty enough to scrub your laundry against. You began working lye soap into the bloodstained linens first, the ones you’d used when tending to women pre- and post-labor. Ghost sat on the rock beside you, perched like an oversized owl on a tree branch, keeping away from the frigid water despite the heat beating down on you both.

“Watch your toes,” you warned him anyway, scrubbing vigorously at a particularly resistant stain. “A river crab might try to bite them off.”

“There’s no such thing,” he grumbled. From the corner of your eye, you saw his feet shift.

“Yes, there is,” you argued. “They’re the size of a fist, and they like to hide in the shade. I can show you one later. But my brother told me—wrote me, in one of his letters, that the ones by the sea are much larger.”

“You ever been?”

“Been where?”

“To the sea, girl.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d love to, but I only get to travel when I’m called upon for deliveries.”

What an ignorant question, you would’ve snarked, had he asked you a week ago. But the last time you had company while doing laundry was back when your mother was still alive, and the last person you’d warned about a river crab was your brother, back when he was still little enough to be carried on your shoulders. Ghost’s presence was a drastic change from the solitude you were accustomed to, but you didn’t entirely dislike it.

You didn’t entirely dislike him, you were realizing, as the days continued ticking by. It was nice to have someone to talk to and eat with and sit beside in the evenings, and it didn’t hurt that he’d taken over his share of chores—the most demanding ones, like fetching water and chopping wood and weeding your garden. He was more tolerable when he was useful, even with his unspoken threats of violence constantly hanging over your head.

“Where all have you traveled, Sir Ghost?” You wrung the sheet out and dunked it again for a second round of scrubbing, ignoring the water splashing onto your skirt.

“Lots of places.”

You resisted the urge to flick water at him. “How descriptive.”

The moment lapsed into silence. You continued working, laying the washed linens on the rocks to dry as you moved on to the next. Your mother had taught you to keep your supplies as clean as possible, to maintain what you had for as long as you could. Midwives that served high-status families could afford new linens for each delivery—some noblewomen even purchased their own supplies, not wanting to taint their labor with any trace of someone else’s ordeal—but you weren’t anywhere near that category, nor would you ever be.

Ghost eventually stood, wading into the river without rolling up his pantlegs. You would’ve teased him for it if he didn’t look so forlorn, a misplaced splotch of night amidst the greenery surrounding you. The contours of muscle in his back were visible through the fabric of his shirt, shifting with each step he took.

“Saw it for the first time a few years ago,” he said roughly, while facing away from you. You had to strain your ears to hear him over the rushing water. “S’like you’re at the edge of the world. Nothing but water.”

The lye was already making your hands itch, but his words had you tingling all over, like a body-wide bee sting. You hadn’t known Ghost for long, but it was safe to assume that he didn’t speak like this often. Honest for no apparent reason, sincere for no strategic or personal gain. You found yourself wishing, suddenly, that he was a sliver more expressive, so that you’d be able to understand why he was telling you this, so that you’d know how he’d want you to respond.

“That sounds lovely,” you said, hoping he’d be able to tell that you meant it. “My brother described it the same way. Maybe I’ll see it one day, if I’m ever able to visit him.”

When you finished, you gathered up the damp sheets back into your basket. You’d hang them up on the clothesline when you returned. Then you hopped off the rocks, hoisted up your skirt, and walked straight into the river. Ghost quickly turned, but you made no effort to come near him. You stood on your own in the shallows, relishing in the feeling of cool water against your skin, of the silt and sand and mud beneath your feet, tethering you to the natural world.

***

The next gift came a few days later.

“I’d like to speak to Sir Ghost,” the second girl said, far more assertive than the first. She was in a blue dress and wore her hair loose around her shoulders, save for two small braids pinned away from her face. She was taller than the last girl, standing with her feet planted firmly in the grass.

“Of course.“ You waved Ghost over, flashing him your politest smile as he lumbered to your side. He’d just come in from chopping wood and was sweaty all over, but his stature wasn’t a terrible sight to behold. “Now that I think about it, I left something by the garden. I’ll be back!”

The girl stepped aside for you to duck out of the cottage. You left swiftly, without checking for Ghost’s reaction. Approaching a man took courage, and you didn’t want to cause the girl any more anxiety by lingering nearby. In your garden, you knelt in the dirt and plucked a few raspberry leaves, just to pass the time. You could dry them out for tea, maybe, or soak them in wine for a tincture. Women preferred the teas, since they tasted better, but the tinctures were stronger, suited for difficult deliveries.

Though your bushes were large and generous, they were nearing the end of their lifespan, having been planted by your mother when you were still a child. Sometimes you felt like hugging them, taking them up into your arms and hoarding all of their flowers and leaves and fruit for yourself. You’d never act on the desire, of course, selfish and irrational as it was, but you ached for it all the same. You settled for picking a few berries instead, snacking on them as you waited, sour-sweet on your tongue.

“You didn't have to leave,” a voice rumbled from above.

You tipped your head back, still chewing, to find Ghost standing over you, only marginally less sweaty than before. His shadow fell across you, cooling the air like the shade of a tall tree. You glanced around for the girl, but she was nowhere in sight.

“I thought you’d want some privacy.”

“S’your house.”

“My brother’s, actually,” you said, because women couldn’t own houses. “What did she bring you?”

Ghost opened his palm, revealing a square bar wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. You caught a whiff of something pleasant, distantly floral. He began reaching out, as if to give it to you, but then his gaze flickered to your hands—one clutching a clump of leaves, the other sticky with raspberry juice—and he quickly aborted the movement.

“Is it soap?” you asked, ignoring his judging stare. “That’s a terrible gift.”

To your surprise, he humored you. “Why’s that?”

You shrugged, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “I think it implies you don’t bathe enough.”

Ghost took a menacing step forward, his knees threatening to knock into your back. You briefly worried if he was going to strike you down, flatten you into the bushes and brambles and destroy your garden entirely, but then he just huffed and tucked the soap bar into his pocket. You picked a few more berries to distract yourself from laughing and quickly stood, holding them out to him in silent apology. He took them from your outstretched palm, callused fingers scraping against your skin.

“Did you like her?” you asked.

“No,” he said shortly. You kept your eyes trained on the grass as he lifted his mask to eat, more pleased by his responsiveness than you’d like to admit.

“Why not?”

He was quiet. You lifted your head after a moment to find his lips stained pink with fruit, smeared lightly over his scar. You wondered if the tissue ever bothered him in the cold, if he ever struggled with the skin cracking or burning with phantom pain. Then you wondered why you were concerning yourself with such irrelevant matters.

***

Midwives were busiest in the autumn, when births surged and cold-related maladies began cropping up. Your summers were usually spent preparing for the rush: the heat allowed you to harvest and dry larger quantities of plants for remedies, and the longer evenings gave you a few extra hours of productivity each day.

This afternoon, you sat at the table and sorted through a batch of dried mugwort. Carefully, you separated the feathered leaves from their stems—they were too hard and bitter for most treatments—and deposited them into two ceramic bowls. Half would be saved for tea and half would be pressed into oil. You were so absorbed in your work that you didn’t notice Ghost preparing to leave until the door creaked open.

You looked up abruptly, realizing your torso was nearly parallel with the table with how intently you’d been leaning over your work.

“Where are you going?”

“The market,” he said, with one foot inside and one already out. His brown eyes glimmered like amber in the sunlight. “There’s horses.”

Of course the valiant Sir Ghost needed a horse. What was a knight without one? Traveling merchants stopped by your village from time to time, hawking foals and mares and the rare stallion, creatures the majority of your neighbors could only ever dream of owning. All you knew about the animal was how to sit and keep your balance while someone else led you to wherever you were needed. You could barely imagine the freedom that came with possessing the ability to ride, with the privilege of being able to travel on the slightest whim.

“May I come with you? I could use the break.”

And you were curious about the process of purchasing a horse, as it was a feat you’d likely never accomplish in your lifetime and this might be your only opportunity to acquire such knowledge. But he didn’t need to know that.

While waiting for his reply, you straightened up and lifted your arms above your head, wincing when you heard your joints crack. Ghost watched as you did, and for a moment, you grew overly aware of yourself: of your poor posture habits, of the earthy scent of mugwort clinging to your skin, of how your dress strained against your chest as you stretched. Then you remembered that you’d seen him in significantly more compromising positions—delirious with his head in your lap, unconscious with half of his limbs hanging off your bed—and the insecurity quietly slipped away.

“C’mon, then,” he said, only mildly begrudging. It made you smile.

***

“How’s this one?”

There were five horses for sale, tied to makeshift wooden posts at the edge of the market. One was sickly and lame, with his left hind leg bowing inward; two were young, still too small to ride; and two were healthy and robust, though they were both mares. You were scratching the neck of the larger mare, wishing you’d brought her a treat. She was well-built and beautiful, fourteen hands tall with a coat black as night. Growing up, you’d merely coasted past the horse market whenever it came by, but this was your first time stopping to look, to touch. You felt as if you’d stepped into an alternate, fantastical reality, one where knights were commonplace and horses weren’t a luxury.

“She’s not strong enough,” Ghost murmured, his mouth dipping close to your ear. “Idiot’s just fattened her up for sale.”

The merchant, a wealthy man with an accent from up north, had practically swooned when he caught sight of Ghost approaching. He’d immediately stuck himself to Ghost’s side, waxing nonsense about how honored he’d be to provide a horse for the Kingdom until Ghost barked at him to shut up and stand back. Now he was hovering near the posts, staring at you both with hungry interest.

“That’s awful,” you said, but it made cruel sense—horse trading was lucrative, and all lucrative businesses attracted deception. “What kind of horses do your Guard ride?”

“Depends on where we’re going.” Ghost ran a hand along the mare's coat, sweeping yet gentle, far more skilled than your own ministrations. “What have you heard of them?”

You mentally sifted through all the stories you knew, searching for even a single inoffensive detail, one that didn’t betray any more village girl yearning than what he’d already been exposed to. Ultimately, you failed and resigned yourself to sharing what you knew.

“There’s four of you—one of them’s the Captain, one of them has unique hair, and one of them has a pretty smile. And you’re all very handso—very competent and strong.”

Ghost practically guffawed, the most mirthful you’d ever seen him. “You fancy them, or somethin’?”

Your cheeks burned as you dropped your hand. “You asked what I’ve heard!”

The horse paid you no mind, leaning further into Ghost’s touch instead. He took his time inspecting both of the mares, offering you clipped observations about their age, musculature, and stamina. He had an unusually sharp eye, you were beginning to realize, and he was far more knowledgeable than he let on. Your mother used to say that the most intelligent people were the ones who didn’t have to announce it. You’d always taken her words as an attempt to make you speak less, but Ghost fit the description well.

Eventually, he concluded that neither of the mares suited his needs. You bid all five horses farewell before leaving, watching their long lashes flutter as they blinked, their square teeth clicking as they nickered. The lame one looked at you with such overwhelming sorrow that it made you pause. You stepped closer and tried stroking his neck the way you’d seen Ghost do, hoping it’d bring him even a whisper of reassurance. You weren't sure you wanted to know what became of sick horses when they went unsold.

When you turned back to Ghost, you found him already looking at you, his gaze burning with an intensity you couldn’t quite determine the source of. As you retreated, the merchant called after you, squawking about a discount—he’d go half-price on the mares, anything to be of service to one of the King’s most trusted knights—but Ghost ignored him and pushed on, back up the winding path to your cottage.

“What’d the stories say about me?” he asked, once you’d left the market behind and were walking under a canopy of trees. Fallen leaves and overgrown grass crunched beneath your feet; the foliage barely whispered beneath his.

“You conceal your face,” you said bluntly. “And you’re brave.”

“What would you add?”

While Ghost was confident, he didn’t strike you as particularly vain. Maybe this was another one of his tests, but he’d been staying with you for two weeks now—had you not already proved yourself to be trustworthy?

“You’re quite tall.” You didn’t bother to cushion your words, already knowing how much he detested your attempts to be sweet or demure. “And ill-mannered.”

“Careful,” he warned, but his voice had taken on the same lilting tone as earlier.

“Are you missing your Guard?” you asked, emboldened by his amusement.

His answer came remarkably fast. “They’ll find me when they need me.”

You ducked beneath a low-hanging tree branch while Ghost sidestepped it easily, moving with a sense of grace that contradicted his heft. He was the first knight you’d ever met, but you already knew he had to be exceptional. You knew a few local boys that had joined the King’s army once they’d come of age, but they’d done so in search of steady meals and their own bed, not for glory or any desire to protect the Kingdom. Ghost, on the other hand, gave the impression that this was his calling.

***

You were cleaning up the hearth after dinner when the third girl arrived. As her figure drew closer, you stood to retreat back inside, but Ghost fixed you with a glare so potent that it kept you glued in place. Then you were subjected to observing an interaction so awkward that it made you want to crawl out of your own body.

It wasn’t the girl’s fault. She was young and pretty like the last two, though clearly hailing from a richer family. She had ribbons accenting her dress, braided into her hair, and wrapped around the handle of her basket. You knew her parents well—her father owned more farmland than anyone in the village, and you regularly bought lard and tallow from him to use in your remedies. She had better marriage prospects than anyone else you knew. Ghost was still far above her station, but out of all his visitors, she had the shortest distance to climb.

“This is for you, Sir Ghost,” she said, confidently holding out her basket to him.

Ghost took it with great reluctance, as if doing so caused him physical pain. You busied yourself by checking the hearth, though you already knew the embers had long since died. It was bold of her to visit so close to nightfall, but maybe she believed boldness was what it took to catch a knight’s attention. Or maybe it was strategic, arriving so late that he’d have no choice but to escort her back home in the night. You could appreciate the romance behind the idea.

Together, you and the girl both waited for Ghost to speak. Crickets chirred as the sky darkened into dusk, but the silence within your impromptu gathering only continued to stretch on.

“Have you explored much of our village yet?” she eventually asked. You looked up to find her smiling at him, hands neatly clasped together. Her skin was radiant with good health, clear evidence that she’d never labored outside or gone without a meal. “I’d be honored to show you around.”

“Already seen it,” he said gruffly.

Her eyes flickered over to yours, quietly pleading for help.

“Her family owns a beautiful farm,” you said clumsily, unsure of whether you were speaking to her, Ghost, or the cooling embers in the hearth. “I’ll need to stop by soon for more tallow. Sir Ghost could accompany me.”

“Don’t speak for me,” he snapped.

You’d never heard him raise his voice before. It sent a jolt of fear down your spine, rattling you to the bone. The girl sharply turned on her heel, though not fast enough to hide the stricken look on her face, her dreams undoubtedly shattered. It really was too late for her to walk home alone, but neither you nor Ghost offered to accompany her. You told yourself you’d apologize the next time you saw her.

“Remember your place, girl,” Ghost said, voice low and dangerous, while she was still within earshot.

You waited until your nerves settled back down, holding your tongue until the girl was no more than a speck in the distance.

“Don’t you want a wife?”

He faltered. “What?”

You wiped your ash-streaked hands on your skirt and pulled the basket from his grasp, feeling both irritated and satisfied when he didn’t resist. He followed as you marched back inside, pushing aside an empty vial rack to make room on the table. Inside, arranged atop a neatly folded cloth, were six speckled eggs, a bundle of wildflowers tied with yet another ribbon, and a small jar of clotted cream. A note lay tucked beside them, written in elegant script. The whole display was so childish and earnest it made you uncomfortable.

“That’s what all of this is for,” you said, gesturing to the gift. “These girls are asking you to court them. Why haven't you married yet?”

He crossed his arms. “That’s none of your business.”

“You’ve asked me the same question!”

Ghost sat down without a sound. You avoided the note and flowers, focusing instead on the food. The eggs would keep for a few days, but you’d have to use the cream before it spoiled.

You found some bread and the fruit preserves he’d received earlier. Cutting a thick slice, you spread a generous layer of cream, then added the fruit on top—some kind of mixed berries, by the look of it. You handed it to Ghost without bothering with a plate. You didn’t need to ask if it was good; he rolled up his mask and finished it in three bites.

You prepared another slice for him and one for yourself, pleased by your own ingenuity, though somewhat guilty that most of the ingredients were made by hands other than your own. Ghost didn’t speak again until you were sitting across from him, working through your own slice. Unlike him, you ate in small bites, savoring each burst of richness in your mouth. You rarely ate dessert, and clotted cream was a delicacy on its own.

“My Captain—his name’s Price—says we should start lookin’, but I…”

You were caught off guard by the admission, even if it was incomplete. This was the part of the story you never got to hear, the part about what the knight wanted from the girl he’d so gallantly fought for.

“But what?”

“Haven’t found a bird I like yet,” he muttered. You made a face at his phrasing, already thinking of an insult to throw back at him, but then, to your surprise, he added: “What about you?”

Ghost stretched his legs beneath the table, his foot nudging against yours. You’d grown used to the contact by now, inappropriate as it was. You licked a stray smear of cream from your thumb, searching for the simplest explanation. There was no single reason why you hadn’t wed, but rather an amalgamation of issues, too insignificant for a man of his status to comprehend: you had no notable lineage, no dowry, no real assets other than your hands. Women who’d raised younger siblings would make good mothers, but women who lived alone and worked on others’ bodies would make poor, promiscuous wives.

“I can’t give up my work,” you said, eschewing any mention of your brother. “My mother was a midwife, and my grandmother before her. I had a few offers when I was younger, but none of them—there wasn’t a man who'd allow me to keep working after marriage.”

“You aren’t a dog,” Ghost huffed. The scar on his lip was almost shiny in the low light. “Don’t have to be allowed.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but you appreciated the sentiment anyway. You made him a third slice as a reward, which he finished just as quickly as the first two.

***

A hush fell over the market girls as you joined their circle. As you’d predicted, there were rumors being spread about the knight, about his unfriendly demeanor and his questionable arrangement with the midwife, about his marriage prospects and conspicuous lack of interest in anyone who approached him. If he really had turned down the richest girl in the village, what hope did anyone else have?

Ghost was elsewhere, attending to whatever secret business he had. You usually liked that he gave you space to run your errands, but you currently found yourself wishing for his presence, if only to divert the others’ scrutiny away from yourself.

“The harvest festival is soon,” one of them eventually said, pointedly looking at everyone but you.

“I’m having a new dress made,” another added, forcing excitement.

They fell back into tentative, uncertain conversation, discussing the clothes they’d wear and the festivities they’d partake in. You wiped sweat from your brow and listened with only half of your attention, wondering if you’d officially outgrown their company. There had always been distance between you and them, given your age and line of work, but it had grown more pronounced after Ghost’s arrival. You couldn’t identify your privilege anymore, whether it was your relative independence or your proximity to the knight.

As you scanned the market and contemplated making a graceless exit from the conversation, you finally caught a glimpse of Ghost at the fringes. You shifted your basket to one hand and lifted the other in a small wave, even though he was already moving toward you.

“Hello there,” you said when he reached your side, greeting him as if you hadn’t been together less than an hour ago. The girls went quiet again, curiously observing you both as if you were horses on display.

He didn’t look at anyone but you. “You’re done?”

“Yes,” you chirped, making no effort to disguise your relief.

Ghost plucked your basket right out of your hands, the exact inverse of the action you’d performed a few days before. It was heavy with your purchases, though it seemed weightless in his grip, light as a feather.

You gawked at him. “Sir Ghost, I can carry it myself—”

“I’ve got it,” he said firmly, already turning to leave. You hurried to catch up with him.

The gifts stopped coming, after that.

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