The Builder’s Son
The Builder’s Son
The saw bit into the wood with a satisfying crunch.
The air was filled with a cascade of fragrant woody scent.
The forest rasped with the steady sound of steel upon timber.
Nic focused on the rhythmic back and forth, back and forth, concentrating on the gentle vibration running up his arm and through the rest of his body, adding to the crescendo of his heartbeat.
As soon as the saw cut through the plank, silence quickly reclaimed its place. Once again, the forest rustled with the soft noises of birds in the branches, of squirrels scampering through the foliage, of the deep sighing of ancient trees.
Nic picked up the plank and eyed it with his usual scowl of concentration, fingers trailing the edge like he half-expected to find a flaw. He always did.
The cut was clean enough, but he still ran his thumb along the grain, disappointed it hadn’t come out straighter. With a quiet breath through his nose, he set the board aside and reached for the next.
Two more hours of sawing followed—measured, methodical, and just shy of punishing. By the end, he had a rough stack of planks and the ache in his shoulders to match. It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold. Probably.
Dragonfly’s house was coming together piece by piece, timber by timber. The earliest days had been the hardest, digging the foundation, setting posts deep into the thawing earth, but now the walls were beginning to rise, and with them, a shape that resembled her dream.
Nic should have felt proud.
He had borrowed his father’s crew, as he had no crew of his own.
Progress was slow at first—unsteady footing, grumbles from the men, rain delays—but once the frame was up, the rhythm returned.
April had started dry and bright, and if the weather held, he might finish before the flowers of May bloomed in earnest.
The project had begun with a letter. Dragonfly had written him, carefully worded, politely formal, requesting a quote for a modest home tucked amongst the trees.
He was still only an apprentice, and at first, he brought the request straight to his father.
He hadn’t expected Isaac to hand him the entire project, but when he did, Nic had accepted with more eagerness than good sense.
Glee and dread, all knotted together, but he thought he could do it.
Dragonfly had offered some details on her vision.
He used her correspondence to bring the image of her home into reality.
He had sketched late into the night, drafting and redrafting until the outlines began to breathe.
He showed her multiple floorplans, each one shaped by both her preferences and his knowledge of what she needed before she even asked.
He imagined the house not as an intrusion in the woods, but as something that belonged there—as though it had sprouted up from the tree roots, waiting to be discovered. A place where woodland nymphs might rest, or where weary hearts could find shelter in a rainstorm.
Design might’ve been his favorite part of building.
There was something almost holy about it—seeing the thing before it existed, coaxing shape out of nothing but thought.
He’d never match Lekyi’s brushwork or precision, and he knew it.
But where Lekyi painted people’s longings onto paper, Nic carved his into stone and wood.
His father had spotted it early—always pressing chalk into his hand, setting him up with scrap planks to sketch on. Long before he was tall enough to lift a beam, he was drawing things he didn’t have words for yet.
But once the dreaming ended, the slog began.
He’d barely started and already felt like ditching the whole thing and picking a different trade. Anything simpler. The numbers were endless—supplies to price, receipts to sort, orders to chase.
He pored over Isaac’s old ledgers, trying to make sense of labor costs and fluctuating material prices, all the quiet calculations his father had made look easy. It wasn’t.
It felt like trying to read a language he only half knew—one his father had spoken fluently, while he was still fumbling through the alphabet.
And then came the harder lesson—leadership. In theory, he was in charge now. In practice, he was still the boy they remembered, the apprentice who used to carry nails in a bucket and run for water.
The crew didn’t challenge him outright, but the tension was there—just under the surface. Their snide laughter when his back was turned, hesitation when he gave direction. Older men, seasoned by years under Isaac’s command, who saw in Nic not a foreman but a child playing at command.
He tried to find a balance. When he acted like one of them—joking, easygoing—they took advantage, coming in late and leaving early.
When he was firm, they ignored instructions and did things their own way.
And when he banned smoking on the site, one man scoffed, spat on the dirt, and walked off the job.
Pretty soon, he began to doubt his ability to manage a crew.
He didn’t tell his father—not yet. Isaac had given him a chance, and Nic was determined not to squander it. But each evening, when the forest went quiet and the site emptied out, the doubt returned, thick and heavy, a stone in his stomach.
Had he stepped into something he couldn’t hold together?
Nic sat on the tree stump and wiped the sweat from his face. The setting sun cast harsh rays through the skeleton of the lofty house. He had maybe an hour of daylight left to work. Although each day was slowly growing longer, it still didn’t seem like enough time to get everything done.
In the stillness, a low melancholy settled over him like a damp wool blanket. He’d been dragging for days, but hadn’t stopped long enough to feel it.
Was he really ready for this? Maybe his father’s faith had been misplaced.
There was more to building than just hammering nails into wood. He’d never struggled working with people—but leading them? That was different. Maybe he just wasn’t cut out for it.
He lay back and folded his arms behind his head, the rough bark biting gently into his shoulders. Overhead, the branches tangled like questions with no clear answers. The sky beyond them was pale and restless, streaked with clouds that looked as uncertain as he felt.
He stared upward, letting the silence press in, and considered the choices before him.
He could go to his father—admit that the job was too much, that he wasn’t ready.
Isaac would take the project back without judgment, he was sure of that.
But the thought of Dragonfly returning to find her house half-finished, awkward and uneven, filled him with shame.
It would feel like letting her down. Like proving everyone right.
He could press on alone. No crew. No friction. Just his own two hands and every ounce of energy he had. It would take longer—weeks longer—and he’d have to work dawn to dusk, no rest, no margin for error. But it might get done. Barely. Maybe.
Or he could keep the crew. Grit his teeth. Swallow their mutters and sidelong looks. Pretend the disrespect didn’t wear him raw. At least the house would be finished on schedule.
On paper, it was the smartest choice. But it meant enduring the quiet humiliation of being undermined in his own project. Day after day.
Each option tasted bitter. Each one asked him to give something up—his pride, his body, or his control.
He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes against the canopy.
Was this what it meant to be a man? Choosing the path that cost him the least instead of the one that made him feel most like himself?
He didn’t know. But the silence didn’t offer any answers. Only the rustle of wind through branches, and the weight of the decision still pressing on his chest.
A sound halted his thoughts like a ship running aground, the distant rustle of footsteps along the forest path, but it was too light for any of the crew. A moment later came the muffled thuds of paws against earth.
Helen appeared like a vision between the trees, her lavender dress swaying, a heavy basket cradled in her arms, and Dolly bounding ahead with wild enthusiasm.
Nic stood, brushing sawdust off his palms. “Well, if it isn’t the goddess of the woods herself.”
Dolly got to him first, planting her drooling greeting on his knees. He scratched behind her ears absently, his eyes on Helen.
“You’re early,” he said, stepping toward her, his shoulders already dropping just seeing her smile.
“I got out of practice sooner than expected,” she said with a grin. “Thought I’d bring a few things. Something for us to snack on.”
He leaned in to kiss her, but the basket got in the way. “This can’t all be food,” he said, taking it from her with effort. “Feels like you packed your entire pantry.”
“Some food,” she said, her eyes glinting mischievously. “And some other things.”
She glanced around the clearing. Dolly was already sniffing through scattered tools. “Where is everyone?”
“I sent them home,” Nic muttered, setting the basket down on the stump.
“All of them?”
He nodded, his jaw tight.
Helen stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her simple gesture said everything.
He exhaled and sank back onto the stump, pulling her into his lap. He buried his face in her hair, drinking in the scent of sun and lavender. His heart’s lake swelled. She could always make everything feel softer.
From the moment they met, Nic had wanted Helen with the force of a wildfire—fast, consuming, impossible to ignore. He had wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to press his body against hers until he could quiet the ache she stirred in him.
Even before he truly understood what it meant to make love, his imagination had supplied the missing details. His desire had been visceral, immediate—a hunger of the body, not yet of the soul.
He used to believe that once that fire was satisfied, it would die down. That he would catch his breath, grow bored, and move on.