TWO Valentin
TWO
Valentin
“Fuck.” Val took in the ruins, unable to process what he was seeing.
The inn was destroyed. A mess of broken timber, rot, and decay dusted with dried leaves and a coat of early frost. He pinched the back of his thick neck, working tight muscles and rolling his shoulders as reality set in, heavy like an unwanted cloak in summer.
The Crossroads had been an institution, welcoming any who needed a warm fire and a soft place to rest their head.
Val had spent many nights drinking gorza with the innkeeper and now, the inn was only recognizable by the overgrown flagstone path leading to where the door once stood, now an echo swallowed by broken beams and the vague outline of a doorframe.
The remains of stairs climbed above the rubble, blanketed in dark winter moss grayed by a beard of hoar frost.
The inn was not simply closed, it was destroyed, decayed, and forgotten.
“Fuck.” Val’s shoulders dropped. The sun sat low in the trees, casting long shadows across the road to the village. Even if he ran, the gates would already be closed, every villager safe behind their door to uphold the Threshold Laws.
He spun the ring in his nose, annoyed by the tininess of human minds. As much as they might welcome Val and Fenra in the daylight, the creatures of the wood had never been welcome after dark.
The inn had been a refuge, an open door and a warm hearth and now, Val had nowhere to go.
He trudged down the road, avoiding the wheel ruts and working through his options. He could head into the woods and seek out Fenra, or, he could cut across the fields and hike to his hut at the base of the mountains, but he was needed with the herd.
Bruna’s hoof had an abscess, Grunta had a hot spot on her haunch, and the summer calves were not gaining as they should. Hiking to his hut would only grant him an hour or two of rest before he needed to begin the journey back.
Val swung his head around to mourn the loss of the inn.
Distracted, his hoof lodged in a wheel rut, and he tripped.
He cursed, landing on his knees. Metal pinged against stone and he grasped his horns, cursing again at the missing cap.
Panting through the pain, Val worked his hoof free, and searched the ground.
His fingers brushed cool bronze and he shoved the cap onto his horn, glaring in the direction of the village.
The gate was dark, the torches extinguished and the village closed for the night.
He could afford the fine for sleeping at the wall, but Val had not packed so much as a blanket.
Only his clothes, an extra hat and gloves, a knife, and his coinpurse.
The rest of his belongings were with his herd, safely in the barn he rented from the Meiers.
The Meiers.
Now there was an idea.
They had a front room and a spare cot he had used over the years. Their parents had never balked at Val staying the odd night or two, but the Elder Meiers were gone, taken together by a coughing sickness the season before, and the farm at the edge of the village was run by their children.
Onna, easy with her easy smile and hair the color of straw. Val could not help but grin at the thought of the young woman joking with everyone she met, and constantly bickering with her brother, Lurenz.
Val’s smile faded.
Lurenz was…a problem.
The dark-haired farmer was not rude—far from it—but neither was he kind. He darted from the room whenever Val stayed the night, and the few words they ever shared were stilted and terse. Still, whenever they were lucky enough to cross paths, Val could not look away.
It was the blush that did it, blooming in Lurenz’s cheeks like a dash of elderberry syrup in gorza. His ever-present sunburn would deepen and light would shimmer in his eyes, like the sun glittering on the surface of an alpine lake.
Perhaps it was for the best that Lurenz left quickly and turned his back. Otherwise, he would see Val staring, unable to keep from drinking in the lean strength in Lurenz’s back or the corded muscle in his forearms.
Over the years, he and Lurenz had grown into their adulthood, Val towering and thick, sturdy as an old oak with hooves that thudded even when he fought to be silent.
Lurenz had grown broad in the way of men, with strong, wide shoulders that tapered to a trim waist and narrow hips. Though a farmer, he carried himself like a lord with a tilt to his chin Val suspected hid a well of thoughts and emotions kept under lock and key.
Even so, despite the problem of Lurenz, they had a front room and a cot near his herd.
Val scrubbed a hand over his face, callouses snagging in the soft hide thickening on his cheeks. He spun his nose ring again, sighed, and shoved to his hooves.
No matter their answer, the question was worth asking.