29. 29.
29.
T he dissonance of busy streets receded into echoes. Swept away by rustling trees, the quacks of hungry ducks and, occasionally, stroller wheels begnawing fine grit. Babbles of unsettled infants shouldn’t have startled Folke so much, and he hid his surprise by sliding his face across fur. Content to be held as Darach guided him down the path with an arm around his waist and a hand cradling his, the touch comforting in its gentleness, its warmth.
“It’s only small.” Darach had taken to describing the landscape while crossing the short distance to the park. “There’s a yew, bigger than the one at yer cottage.”
A noise of interest thrummed free, Folke’s feet stumbling over the abrupt turn Darach took him in. Short grass whispered against his boots for several paces until the crunch of old yew dross, where Folke was left standing on his own. Although he heard Darach nearby, the swish of his coat.
“Sit wi me.”
Folke waited, but no hands came to lead him. He wavered forward, grateful for Darach’s, “Just over here.”
His outstretched fingers slid over callouses, lower than expected. Underfoot, the ground became more pliant even than a bed of leaf wilt. Folke knelt and realised the leather coat had been laid out like a blanket. Its soft lining a marvel, he couldn’t resist running his fingers over it.
“What material is this?”
He’d not expected Darach to answer with an uncertain grunt. Or the eventual, “It’s sheepskin,” while he settled down beside the large frame.
Like that would upset him. Folke’s humoured huff of, “I like it,” brisk.
Only once the tension waned from the arm curled around him did Folke realise Darach had been primed for his outrage. He leant into the warmth, ignoring the scratch of Scottish wool.
“I’m not. . .that fussy, am I?”
He hated the hesitation.
“What d’ye mean? ”
Folke picked at a narrow leaf that had found its way to his thigh. Flicked it.
“It’s fine, I know I am. I don’t mean to be.”
“I believe that.”
So you do think I’m fussy.
His lips thinned into a line. Softened, with the realisation he was being fussy right then.
“I dinnae think ye're fussy. ‘Unaccustomed’ is a better word for it.”
Folke didn’t have a reply, because it was true.
“An maybe a wee bit obstinate.”
“Alright,” Folke muttered.
“Na, sorry. Very obstinate.”
“Alright!”
Damn the man for laughing in such a good-natured manner, unperturbed by Folke shoving into him with the ball of his shoulder. Countered, by wedging him firmly against Darach’s side, musclebound arm forbidding pushback. He pressed his forehead against a warm throat. Waited for Darach’s mirth to fade.
Once it did, “That’s not all I am.”
“I ken there’s plenty more to ye.”
“No,” Folke continued, “you might’ve gotten some idea, but. . .”
“What is it?” Darach prompted when Folke fell silent.
He picked at itchy wool. Well-loved, guard hairs tangled. No intricate pattern to feel aside from fine neckline ribbing.
“My dad was the one who got us started as shepherds when we moved here. Then, he came home with a flock he bought off some retiring farmer and announced that would be our lives from then on.”
That’s how his mother had put it, anyway.
“I was only an infant then. Jump ahead a few years and my dad has long since died in the Great War, the British wool industry has collapsed, and we have a flock of longwools that got us nothing but into debt. For years after we. . .struggled.”
Nights going to bed with hunger cramps forever carved into his memory.
“One day, we hear about some miracle breed imported from Spain. They were stolen, as it turned out. I don’t know how my mother did it, but after managing to sell the herd we had, she came back with Merino sheep. Not many, barely enough to consider a flock. It was going to be our answer.”
Folke paused in case Darach had a response yet. He didn’t, his breaths nigh silent, chest gradual in its rise and fall.
“It turned out that sheep from Spain weren’t hardy enough for waterlogged countries. Footrot became our biggest problem, and we went further into debt needing to treat them.”
His mother’s nightly weeping, audible through the closed bedroom door, still haunted him.
“Then I got sick. It was a close call, but I recovered.”
Mostly.
“Lost my sight, though. ”
Finally, Darach shifted. Raised a hand to comb fingers through Folke’s hair. Pressed a kiss atop his head. Held him tight.
Not that he needed such coddling.
But it was nice.
Regardless, Folke sat up, tucking his knees under his chin.
“We eventually figured it out and bred our last two healthy ones with the hardiest of sheep, the Shetland. Our flock became a herd and for a while, we were the most popular suppliers. Our wool was even exported to Scotland. Such fine wool with a quality comparable to kashmir, but at a much better price coming from Britain? It was entirely unheard of.”
“I canae say I ken much about it, but if it’s anything like yer jumper, then I can imagine it was popular.”
A faint smile whisked Folke’s mouth, rueful. “It didn’t last long. Australian imports completely swept us under. Then my mother died.” He tapped his knee with a thumb. Once, twice. Deliberating not if he should divulge, but how.
“That must have been so difficult for ye, mo leannan. I’m sorry.”
Although Darach’s touch had left him, it returned to stroke him across the lower back. Folke continued to tap, and to mull. The yew relinquished a droplet onto his scalp, cooling.
Darach had laid his truth bare and revealed himself to be something of legends. Folke would do the same, only to resonate like an epitaph.
“It was. All the things she did to keep the farm going that I just can’t. . .The thing is, Darach, I just–I let them die out in the end. I couldn’t handle it. My sheep got picked off, one by one, even with Needle around. Then a week after Needle passed, I had no choice but to do it on my own. I called out for my sheep–I was trying to bring them home after an already awful day—”
Cold, the winds threatening to drag his feet out from under him. Howling like terrible beasts across the hills, the gelid downpour punishing.
“God, it was impossible. I couldn’t even leave the rope.”
So helpless.
“I hated it so much. I hated everything, I hated existing .”
Pathetic.
“Then the ground shook.”
Its rumble an echoing, otherworldly roar.
“Like some prayer I never gave voice to was being answered, all the frightened bleating and the thunder of hooves several hundred strong evaporated in an instant.”
The stillness that followed unnatural and haunting.
And such a terrible relief.
Folke closed his eyes against stinging, frustrated to feel moisture cast down his cheekbones. He shoved his palms over his face. Clenched and unclenched his jaw. Darach’s hand had gone, but at least the man hadn’t yet walked off.
Finally, and quietly, “Ye’re no blaming yersel for what happened, surely?”
A question to which he shrugged. “Maybe not for that. I have a feeling that was beyond my control, and likely not an answer to anything I was secretly hoping for. The stragglers I found afterwards, though? I should blame myself for letting the ewes get too old to breed. For letting my mother’s legacy die out. And trust me,” a bitter laugh clawed free, “I do. Every Goddamn day.”
Darach’s silence was far from unexpected. Folke didn’t want to fill it, but the need for reassurance gurgled to the surface.
“I said I couldn’t bear it if you don’t want to be with me, but don’t let that stop you.”
More astringent than intended.
Darach’s exhale blew a sudden terror into his chest.
Don’t go, don’t go .
In the midst of reaching to stop him, “Why would I leave?”
Folke’s hand froze, somewhere between himself and the man he wanted to call a lover without feeling like a pretender. He fumbled for a response, one that didn’t sound as if he despised himself.
Lamentably, he blurted, “Because I’m so pathetic it no longer warrants pity, only contempt.”
“Sweet Folke.” Fingers interlocked his, firm in their grasp. Pulled him closer. “I’ve liked ye from the second I saw ye out there in the storm, looking terrified yet so courageous. I will no’ leave unless ye expressly demand it.”
“But—”
“Did ye no’ mean it, when ye said be mine?”
“What?” Folke faltered again. Certain Darach didn’t intend to flay, but feeling injured regardless at the suggestion he’d lied. “Of course I meant it! I just—I don’t want you to be saddled—”
“None o’ that.”
His words caught in his mouth, and a kiss sealed them away.
How he relished kissing Darach. Whose lips were as supple as they were proficient, facial hair a welcome scratch against Folke’s chin, the curve below his nose. His arms found their way around a strong neck, the rest of him stumbling over a leg to kneel between thighs. Fingers wove into his hair, guiding him to better their angle.
Folke met the tongue snaking past his lips. Content to lavish, unhurried. Redressing wounds laid open and soothing the burning marks of foibles Folke could not change.
Long before he was ready, Darach shifted. Wound his arms more firmly around Folke to pull him along, to rest against the yew.
“If we keep going,” Darach uttered, breathless, “I wonae be able to stop myself from taking ye against this tree.”
A steadfast but roused heart thudded beneath Folke’s ear, his own reiterating its pace. Amusement teased the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t say he was very opposed to the idea—until quiet conversation and laughter from children nearby changed his mind.
“I still have questions,” Folke murmured. Fingers gliding up and down the side of his face lulled.
“Ask anything ye like. ”
“You being who you are, how is it another unit could replace you?”
“As keen a question as any.” Darach spoke quietly, his voice a brool inside the toned chest, regardless. “No’ a single person can replace me. I’m usually no’ needed. We didnae think the situation was too bad. Scouts informed us o’ some potential signs needing investigation. Since we were nearest to the area, an’ I needed to be put to use anyway, we were assigned.”
Carefully, Folke asked, “Investigate what?”
He didn’t like keeping things from Darach, but he had pushed Finlay into telling him.
“Finlay didnae tell ye?”
Folke tensed. His struggle to respond became a silence that carried on long enough for Darach to chuckle.
“You know him well,” said Folke dully.
“Aye. We havenae known each other for long, but our disagreements helped expedite the process.”
Something he would prod later.
“So, the situation is worse than you thought, after all?”
“It takes months for these things to build an’ for the signs to become noticeable by civilians. Usually, there’s plenty o’ time to prepare an’ bring it down before it spreads.”
“Usually, but not always.”
Regions disappearing throughout history a testament to such.
Darach hummed in agreement. “I should’ve kenned things were brewing in the soil. The quiet had gone on for too long, well before I was recruited.”
“How bad is it?”
Once again, he’d asked while unsure if he truly wanted to know the answer.
“We arenae certain, yet. Worse than we thought, hopefully no as bad as we suspect.”
Folke said, wryly, “Comforting.”
A faint, amused grunt, but no other assurances followed. He would just have to trust that both men and their infantile wayfellow were capable of dealing with it.
“What did you say to Thomas?”
Not that he cared. Curious, rather.
Darach shifted a fraction, reminding Folke of the scratch of Shetland wool. “I only mentioned he ought to behave himself around ye.”
“And. . .?”
“An’ then I needed to alter.”
“To do. . .?”
“Some things cropped up.”
“How you were injured.”
“Nothing gets by ye, does it?”
Folke snorted into the jumper. “Plenty goes by me. I’m told you’ve been cleaning the cottage since the day you got there.”
A considering pause. “Thomas told ye? ”
Yes. Spiteful, blustering fuck that he is.
“He mentioned it in passing.”
“I imagine he was upset. I may have taken a misstep or two, somewhat too close to him.”
Folke’s turn to pause, considering. Neither Darach nor Finlay had spoken metaphorically. He knew this, of course. Yet Darach mentioning the need to alter cast into his mind an entirely different idea.
A dragon of thunder, big enough to threaten with a so-called misstep, real enough to reduce Thomas to tears.
Tears of fright.
The knowledge twisted inside Folke’s stomach until it tightened into guilt.
Lithe, quick footsteps and young laughter careened down the path nearby. A masculine voice, authoritative, suggested the children calm themselves.
“I think he’s just being protective of you two,” Folke said. He couldn’t bring himself to divulge Thomas was younger than he’d claimed, confident Darach knew already.
“I’ve na doubt about that.” Darach wrapped his arms around Folke’s shoulders, squeezing. “But I wonae give ye up just to assuage Thomas' juvenile fretting.”
What scraps remained of his rusted tower dwindled into detritus, enriching a plateau of green grass dotted with flowers, wild and plenty. It had taken mere days for him to melt, for words like that to warm him better than any stove fire.
Folke should have wanted to reprimand himself.
Instead, he pressed his face into the crook of Darach’s neck. Kissed the heated skin. Inhaled the mingling of wilderness and traces of rain. Took joy in the way Darach held him, sitting below a yew tree, on a coat laid out like a picnic blanket, in a park busy with visitors.
The very idea of ever partaking in any of this had never been one Folke entertained. He didn’t stop to imagine himself enjoying much more than hillside air ringing with the bleats of sheep and the calls and whistles from his mother while Needle worked.
This was an entirely different joy. Foreign, yes. Frightening, without a doubt.
Ephemeral, regrettably.
But he would bask in it for as long as would be allowed.