Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Spring Festival. Every year, the town transformed its central park into a riot of colors and scents—food stalls with their tempting aromas, craft vendors displaying handmade treasures, children darting between attractions with cotton candy-stained fingers.
Usually, I loved wandering through the maze of booths and activities, but today my stomach churned with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
“You’re squeezing my hand so hard I think you might break it,” Rion murmured as we approached the festival entrance. “And considering my size, that’s impressive.”
I loosened my grip immediately. “Sorry. I’m just nervous.”
“You’re nervous?” He gave me an incredulous look, his dark eyes peering out from beneath the brim of a stylish wide-brimmed hat—a concession to make his horns slightly less noticeable at first glance. It didn’t work particularly well, but it was a gesture towards subtlety.
“Yes, I’m nervous. This matters to me.” I straightened the collar of his button-down shirt—a rich forest green that complemented his dark fur. “I want this to go well.”
Behind us, my parents exchanged a look.
“It will be fine,” my mother said with a confidence I envied. “Just remember, anyone who’s rude is making a statement about themselves, not about you.”
“And if anyone gets out of line,” my father added, “your mother still has that teacher stare that could freeze lava.”
Mom swatted his arm. “Richard, please.”
“What? It’s true. Twenty-five years of high school English gives you superpowers.”
Their familiar banter helped ease some of the tension in my shoulders. This was normal. We were just a family attending a community event. Nothing extraordinary at all—except for the seven-foot minotaur I was dating.
“Ready?” I looked up at Rion.
He took a deep breath, straightening to his full height. “As I’ll ever be.”
Together, we walked through the festival entrance. I felt the ripple of awareness spread outward from us like a stone dropped in a still pond. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Heads turned. Children pointed. But no one screamed or ran away, which I counted as a win.
“Look at the flowers first,” my mother suggested, gesturing towards the horticultural society’s display to our right. “Mrs. Henderson’s dahlias are spectacular this year.”
It was a good choice—starting with something quiet and relatively uncrowded. As we moved towards the flower display, I caught snippets of whispered conversations:
“…that a costume?”
“…can’t be real…”
“…did you see the horns?”
I squeezed Rion’s hand again, gentler this time. “Ignore them,” I whispered. “They’re just surprised.”
His jaw was tight, but he nodded. “I’ve heard worse.”
We reached the flower display, and the elderly Mrs. Henderson looked up from arranging a bouquet. Her eyes widened behind her thick glasses as she took in Rion’s towering form.
Here we go, I thought, bracing myself for the first negative reaction.
“My goodness,” she said. “You must be Clara’s young man! She mentioned you were tall, but I had no idea!” She extended a gnarled hand. “I’m Violet Henderson. My, those are magnificent horns. Do they get heavy?”
I blinked, caught off guard by her matter-of-fact acceptance. Rion seemed equally surprised but recovered quickly, carefully taking her tiny hand in his.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Henderson. And yes, sometimes they do, especially in humid weather.”
“I imagine so! Like arthritis, I expect—my joints always know when rain’s coming.” She turned to me. “He’s a handsome one, Clara. Those eyes! Like melted chocolate.”
I felt a blush heat my cheeks. “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson.”
“Always had an eye for beauty, whether it’s flowers or people,” she said with a wink. “Now, let me show you my prize dahlias. I’ve developed a new variant this year—deep purple with white tips.”
As Mrs. Henderson led us through her display, chattering happily about soil pH and breeding techniques, I felt some of the tension drain from Rion’s posture. One hurdle cleared. Only about five hundred to go.
My parents had drifted a few steps behind us, giving us space while remaining close enough for moral support. I caught my mother’s eye and she gave me an encouraging nod.
After admiring Mrs. Henderson’s flowers and purchasing a small arrangement for my apartment (which looked absurdly tiny in Rion’s massive hands), we continued through the festival.
The initial shock of our appearance seemed to be wearing off—or at least becoming less obvious.
People still stared, but many quickly looked away when caught, embarrassed by their own curiosity.
“I’m starving,” my father announced. “Let’s check out the food area.”
The food vendors were clustered in the center of the park, forming a rough circle around picnic tables and hay bales arranged as seating. As we approached, I felt Rion tense again.
“More people,” he murmured.
“More food,” my father countered cheerfully. “Everything seems less daunting on a full stomach.”
We navigated towards a barbecue stand with a shorter line, joining the queue behind a family with two small children. The younger child, a boy of perhaps four or five, kept turning around to stare openly at Rion.
“Mommy,” he stage-whispered, tugging at his mother’s sleeve. “Look at the bull man.”
The woman turned, mortification written across her face. “Jeremy! That’s not polite.”
“But Mom, he has horns! Like Ferdinand!”
I bit my lip to suppress a smile at the children’s book reference.
“It’s all right,” Rion said, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. He crouched down, bringing himself closer to the child’s level, though he was still imposingly large. “My name is Rion. And you’re right—I do have horns.”
The boy’s eyes widened with delight at being addressed directly. “I’m Jeremy! Can I touch them?”
“Jeremy!” His mother looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Rion. “He’s at that age where he has no filter.”
“It’s really fine,” Rion assured her. “And yes, Jeremy, you may touch one if your mother says it’s okay.”
The woman hesitated, clearly torn between embarrassment and not wanting to teach her son to fear differences. “If… if you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind at all,” Rion said, and I could tell he meant it.
With her reluctant permission, Jeremy reached out a small hand to touch the polished curve of Rion’s left horn. His face lit up with wonder.
“It’s smooth! Like Daddy’s bowling ball!”
Laughter bubbled up from my chest, and even Rion chuckled.
“They are rather similar,” he agreed seriously. “Though I try not to use mine for bowling.”
Jeremy giggled, then asked with the directness only a child could manage, “Are you a monster?”
A hush fell over our little section of the line. I held my breath.
Rion’s expression remained calm. “No, Jeremy. I’m a minotaur. That’s a kind of being from very old stories. Some people might call us monsters, but we’re just different, not scary.”
“Like how Tommy at school has a wheelchair? He’s different but not scary.”
Rion’s eyes softened. “Exactly like that.”
Jeremy seemed satisfied with this answer and turned back to his mother, tugging at her sleeve again. “Can I have a hot dog AND chips?”
The tension broke, and Jeremy’s mother gave Rion a grateful smile before turning to negotiate lunch options with her son.
“That was beautiful,” I whispered to Rion as he straightened up.
He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “Children are easier. They haven’t learned prejudice yet.”
We ordered our food—a double portion of pulled pork for Rion, who metabolized food at a remarkable rate—and found a relatively quiet hay bale to sit on. My parents joined us a few minutes later with their own selections.
“I saw what happened with that little boy,” my mother said, dabbing sauce from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “You handled that wonderfully, Rion.”
“Thank you,” he replied, still seeming somewhat uncomfortable with praise. “Though I suspect adults won’t be quite as easily won over.”
As if on cue, a commotion erupted at one of the nearby craft vendors. A man’s voice rose above the general festival noise.
“—don’t care what you say, it’s unnatural! We can’t have creatures walking around among decent folks!”
I tensed, scanning the crowd until I spotted the source of the disturbance. A red-faced man in his thirties was gesturing wildly towards us, addressing another vendor who looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“That’s Danny Pruitt,” my mother said, her expression hardening. “He was one of my students about fifteen years ago. Wasn’t particularly bright then, and it appears he hasn’t improved with age.”
Before any of us could respond, she was on her feet, straightening her cardigan with the precise movements I recognized from my childhood as her “someone is about to get schooled” preparation.
“Mom—” I began, but she was already marching towards Danny with purpose.
“Stay here,” my father advised, rising to follow her at a slight distance. “Your mother’s got this.”
Rion and I exchanged a glance, then moved to a position where we could observe without directly interfering.
“Daniel Pruitt,” my mother’s voice carried clearly in the suddenly hushed area. “I see your volume control is still as lacking as your critical thinking skills.”
Danny turned, his belligerent expression faltering as he recognized his former teacher. “Mrs. Bellweather?”
“The very same. And I’m disappointed to find you making a spectacle of yourself at a community event.”
“But—but did you see?” He gestured vaguely in our direction. “There’s a—a thing over there! With horns!”
My mother’s expression could have withered a cactus. “That ‘thing,’ as you so eloquently put it, is my daughter’s boyfriend. His name is Asterion, he’s a highly respected architect, and he has better manners than you’re currently displaying.”
Danny’s mouth opened and closed several times. “Your daughter is dating a—”