There were villages on the outskirts of forest. Where the green petered out, and patches of fields grew instead of acres of trees, there were people, and houses. Simple, quiet cottages and little streets with village greens and people who all seemed to know each other's names. Then there was the house at the edge of the village, a house which seemed to be set away from the others, as though it were anti-social, as though it had been excluded from the rest of the tiny place. This was the house in which Zari and Belias lived, when they weren't living their entirely separate lives elsewhere, that was. They returned from their separate lives around the same time, mainly because Zari's schedule was flexible and she adapted it so that she was always home first, because knowing Belias, and knowing what he did for a living, he was likely to walk through the door completely covered in blood and half-dead and expect her to be able to cope with it. Stupid mercenaries, stupid wars, stupid idiots and stupid, stupid boyfriends.
She was nervous, even though when faced with the reality of Belias' situation she preferred to take the philosophy that 'no news was good news', it was still worrying her that he hadn't yet walked through the door. She'd quickly given up trying to be romantic in any way when Belias returned, so she was dressed practically, in dark-coloured jeans and a wine-coloured shirt. Her hair tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and the only thing that wasn't practical about her appearance were the gold bangles on her wrists, which jingled as she paced about the house.
