CHAPTER 66: MORNING PROMISES

The roosters announced morning with their strident cries, pulling Apollo from the depths of dreamless sleep. He blinked away the last vestiges of slumber as golden sunlight spilled through the simple curtains of his room at the inn.

For a moment, he simply lay there, breathing in the rich aroma of baking bread that wafted up from below, mingling with the earthy scent of the wooden beams overhead.

’How strange,’ Apollo thought, ’that such ordinary comforts could feel so extraordinary.’

He rose and dressed, listening to the gentle symphony of the village coming to life outside his window. It wasn’t the chaotic clamor of their travels, no urgent whispers about pursuit, no weapons being checked and rechecked, no tense discussions about which path might prove least dangerous.

Instead, he heard the measured rhythm of everyday life: the creak of a well bucket being drawn, children’s laughter spilling across the square, the distant clang of the blacksmith already at his forge.

The gold in his veins hummed contentedly, warm and steady beneath his skin. Here, in this haven of simple humanity, it seemed to have found a peaceful resonance that matched the village’s unhurried pace.

Downstairs, Apollo found the innkeeper arranging platters on their usual table. She looked up as he descended the stairs, her face creasing in a welcoming smile.

"There you are! I was beginning to think you’d sleep through breakfast entirely."

She gestured to the spread before her, steaming porridge flecked with dried berries, fresh bread still crackling from the oven, honey in a clay pot, and what appeared to be preserved fruits in small wooden bowls.

"Eat up before you go. Can’t have heroes leaving my establishment on empty stomachs."

"This is too generous," Apollo began, but she waved away his protest with a flour-dusted hand.

"Nonsense. It’s the least we can do after those stories your friend shared. Been years since we’ve had such entertainment." She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Though between you and me, I suspect he embellishes a bit."

Apollo couldn’t help but smile. "A bit? That’s generous."

The others joined him one by one, each drawn by the promise of a final proper meal before returning to the uncertain provisions of the road. Thorin arrived last, his beard freshly combed, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"If these humans insist on roosters," he grumbled, dropping onto the bench beside Apollo, "they could at least train them to crow at a civilized hour."

Renna snorted. "What would that be? Midday?"

"A perfectly reasonable time to begin anything," Thorin replied, already helping himself to a generous portion of everything within reach.

They ate with the appreciation of travelers who knew such comforts were fleeting. Apollo savored each bite of the fresh bread, the way the honey melted into its warm center, the simple perfection of food prepared with care rather than mere necessity.

The gold in his veins seemed to absorb the nourishment along with his mortal form, brightening with each mouthful.

Their meal was interrupted by a steady stream of villagers stopping by their table. A weathered farmer and his wife approached first, the woman clutching a package wrapped in oilcloth.

"For the journey," she said, placing it beside Lyra with shy reverence. "Smoked venison. Should keep for weeks if you don’t open it too often."

"You’re too kind," Lyra replied, her usual guardedness softening in the face of such generosity.

More villagers followed, a cooper with a small cask of pickled vegetables "to ward off winter ailments," a weaver with extra socks knitted from thick wool, a grandmother with sachets of dried herbs "for tea when the nights grow cold."

Each gift was presented with genuine warmth, expecting nothing in return but perhaps a nod or a word of thanks.

The children came last, a small delegation of solemn-faced boys and girls who had clearly been practicing their approach. They gathered around Renna, who looked suddenly uncomfortable with the attention.

"We made these," the tallest boy announced, producing a bundle from behind his back. "For practice. When we can’t have real lessons anymore."

Renna unwrapped the cloth to reveal half a dozen carefully carved wooden spears, each scaled to a child’s hand. The craftsmanship was crude but earnest, the points dulled for safety but the balance surprisingly true.

"They’re perfect," she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She tested the weight of one, nodding with approval that made the children stand straighter. "You’ll need to practice every day. Remember—"

"Control first, then power!" they chorused, beaming with pride.

A stout man with flour dusting his beard approached Thorin next, extending a small leather flask with an air of solemn ceremony.

"From my private stock," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "Fifteen years aging in oak barrels. Never sold it, never traded it. Only for special occasions."

Thorin accepted the flask with uncharacteristic reverence, holding it as one might cradle a newborn. He uncorked it and inhaled deeply, his eyes widening with genuine surprise.

"This is..." he began, then paused, searching for words. "This is proper brewing. I didn’t think humans understood the importance of proper aging."

The baker’s chest swelled with pride. "Family recipe. My grandfather’s grandfather brought it from the eastern mountains."

Thorin nodded gravely, recorking the flask with meticulous care before tucking it into an inner pocket of his vest, positioned directly over his heart. "I’ll save it for a worthy moment," he promised. "When we’ve accomplished something that deserves celebration."

As they finished their meal and began gathering their belongings, a small crowd formed at the inn’s entrance. Several villagers approached Nik, their expressions hopeful.

"Just one more tale before you go?" asked a young woman who had been particularly attentive during his performance the previous evening. "Something to remember you by?"

Nik’s face lit up with undisguised pleasure. He glanced at the others, silently asking permission for this final delay.

Lyra sighed but nodded, her lips quirking in resignation. "Make it quick," she warned. "We’ve ground to cover."

Nik needed no further encouragement. He sprang onto a nearby bench, striking a dramatic pose that immediately drew chuckles from his audience.

"Let me tell you about our first meeting," he began, gesturing expansively toward his companions. "Picture, if you will, the most mismatched group of travelers ever to share a campfire. Our mysterious golden friend here—" he pointed to Apollo with theatrical gravity, "—claiming to be a simple scholar despite clearly having never cooked a meal over an open flame in his life!"

The villagers laughed appreciatively as Nik launched into a wildly exaggerated account of their early travels, complete with impressions of Thorin’s grumbling and Renna’s exasperated sighs. He described Apollo attempting to light a fire by reciting what he claimed was "an ancient incantation," only to succeed in singeing his own eyebrows.

"And then," Nik continued, warming to his theme, "he attempted to hunt rabbits by quoting poetry at them! As if the poor creatures might be so moved by his eloquence that they would willingly sacrifice themselves for our dinner!"

The crowd roared with laughter. Apollo felt heat rise to his face, though he couldn’t deny there was a kernel of truth in the tale. He had indeed struggled with the most basic survival skills in the early days.

"What Nik fails to mention," Lyra cut in, her dry voice slicing through the laughter, "is that while he was regaling the forest with tales of his own imagined heroism, he managed to fall backward into the only patch of poison oak within fifty miles. We had to listen to his dramatic death scenes for three days while applying salve to his—"

"Yes, well!" Nik interrupted hastily, his cheeks flushing. "Some details are best left to the imagination!"

The crowd’s laughter redoubled, several villagers actually wiping tears from their eyes. Nik shot Lyra a mock-wounded look that quickly dissolved into a grin of his own.

As the laughter subsided and they prepared to depart in earnest, the elderly man from the previous night approached Apollo. The wooden flute rested in his gnarled hands, polished to a soft glow in the morning light.

"Take it," he said without preamble, extending the instrument toward Apollo. "It belongs with you now."

Apollo shook his head, though his fingers itched to accept the gift. "I couldn’t. It’s clearly precious to you."

"Precisely why I want you to have it." The old man pressed the flute into Apollo’s reluctant hands. "I’ve carried its music for forty years. Time for it to travel beyond our valley, to sing new songs."

"I have nothing to give you in return," Apollo protested, even as his fingers closed around the smooth wood.

The elder’s eyes crinkled at the corners. "You already have. Last night, you reminded an old man what music can be when it comes from the heart, not just the hands." He patted Apollo’s arm with surprising strength. "Consider it a token of gratitude. From all of us."

Apollo felt something warm bloom in his chest that had nothing to do with the gold in his veins. Not the pride of godhood or the satisfaction of worship, but something smaller and yet somehow larger, a connection forged between equals, a gift freely given with no expectation of divine favor.

"Thank you," he said simply, tucking the flute carefully into his pack.

Outside, the morning had blossomed into full glory, the sky an impossible blue above the thatched roofs of the village. Renna moved methodically through their supplies, checking straps and redistributing weight with practiced efficiency.

"We’ve got enough food for two weeks, at least," she announced, closing her bulging pack with a grunt of effort. "More if we supplement with hunting."

Thorin lifted his own pack, eyebrows rising at its increased weight. "By the Forge, what did they give us? Anvils? We’ll move at a crawl carrying all this."

"You’re welcome to leave behind that flask of fifteen-year-old ale," Lyra suggested innocently, adjusting her own pack.

Thorin’s hand moved protectively to the pocket where the flask rested. "Some burdens are worth bearing," he muttered, though Apollo caught the pleased gleam in his eye.

They strapped on their gear, tightening cloaks against the morning chill that would burn away once the sun climbed higher. The weight of the pack settled across Apollo’s shoulders, heavier than before but somehow less burdensome, filled as it was with the villagers’ generosity rather than mere necessity.

Word of their departure had spread through the small community. As they made their way toward the edge of the village, they found what seemed to be half its population gathered to see them off. Children waved excitedly, old men and women nodded in solemn blessing, and those in between called out well-wishes and advice about the road ahead.

"Follow the stream for easier passage through the eastern hills!"

"Watch for wild boar in the oak groves, they’re rutting this time of year!"

"Safe journey, heroes!"

That last word made Apollo wince internally, though he maintained a grateful smile. ’Not heroes,’ he thought, ’just survivors. Just travelers trying to find our way.’