Chapter 1 #2
By the time the sun sets, Beacon is exhausted.
He looks forward to hot food cooked by his family and a proper bed, as well as the smell of the gingko trees he spent his childhood hiding in, always running from familial obligations.
Now he has the chance to experience all that he has missed about his home…
at the cost of enduring the rest of his clan.
Beacon isn’t certain if it’ll be worth the teeth-grinding, but there’s no turning back now.
The Sure-of-Foot compound has tall stone walls that surround the entirety of their land.
Not all clans in Tunbrae enclose their compounds, but the Sure-of-Foots are many and well-established.
There’s a heavy gate of elaborately wrought iron that guards the front entrance.
During the daytime it stands open, but it’s late enough in the evening that Beacon has to signal his presence to the night watchers stationed in the squat towers built into the wall.
There are many such towers along the property, designed for the star-watchers amongst their clan.
Dun Steorra’s reverence for the stars is something Beacon only partially shares. He admires the celestial majesty, finding the pitch night sky beautiful and vast, but has little investment beyond that.
One of the guards waves him in, calling out in cheerful welcome as the gates creak open.
The noise signals his arrival, and Beacon clings to his last precious moments of peace before a door slams open farther down the main road.
The sound of dozens of house slippers slapping against the hard-packed ground is more foreboding than the howl of a specter.
Then the wave of enthusiasm hits, and Beacon faces the challenge of being bullied into staying present when all he wants to do is let his mind dissolve upward into the heavens.
Perhaps he has more use for the stars than he previously thought.
After yesterday’s froth of physical and social exertion, Beacon begs off rising early for morning exercise and breakfast. He stresses needing to rest his body so he can prepare for tomorrow’s departure, but in truth, what he needs is more time to emotionally recover before facing the clan again.
Unfortunately, after a visit to the baths, Beacon has no choice but to make an appearance for midday brunch.
He arrives after everyone else has been seated and curses under his breath when all eyes shift his way.
His father waves him over to a seat that has been reserved for him, so Beacon dips his chin in a nod to the nearest family members and hurries down the long column of the head table to where his parents are already settled.
Beacon kisses his mother on the top of her head, then touches his father’s shoulder before sitting to his left.
He proceeds with filling his plate, only taking items from serving dishes that are in reach, lacking both energy and the will to ask for anything farther down the table. That works for all of three dishes.
“Beacon, dear,” calls a voice from a few places down.
It takes concerted effort to avoid grinding his teeth. “Aunt Primrose,” Beacon acknowledges.
Primrose is actually a cousin on his mother’s side, but the Sure-of-Foot clan-members aren’t precious about rank or lineage, which Beacon appreciates.
It’ll be easier to weasel his way out of inheriting the position of clan patriarch as Maura’s only child.
Beacon has no intention of leaving his cottage within the athletic compound on Stehr’s Peak, especially not if it means moving back to Tunbrae.
He has cousins who are far more equipped for leadership.
Lifting a plate, Primrose says, “Here, love. I know you favor taro root.” She makes a show of passing the dish his way, reaching over another cousin to do so.
Beacon clears his throat in some semblance of thanks, accepting the offering. He does like taro, but he’s certain Primrose isn’t being helpful out of genuine consideration. She never is.
As expected, having successfully become the first person to snatch his attention, Primrose launches into an overblown spiel about how dearly Beacon was missed.
He sighs as he spoons cuts of the purple roots to rest between a steamed bun and a slice of rabbit meat.
He manages only two bites before she says something that requires him to respond.
After chewing unhurriedly, then swallowing, Beacon finds himself in range of a glass of mead clutched unmoving in his father’s hand while he watches the exchange. Beacon borrows it, taking a long sip before he returns the cup, much to his father’s amusement.
“The trip went fine,” he informs the painted rim of his stoneware plate. He runs his thumb around the edge, collecting a bit of gravy and bringing it to his mouth.
“Heard you made a stir coming into the town, though,” one paternal uncle says.
“I did,” Beacon agrees because it’s true.
“Wish I’d been there to see it.”
Beacon shrugs. He’s rather content with how few of his clanfolk were present when he and Senta pulled the wagon into Tunbrae.
Family members tended to be more entitled than the average fan.
Admirers came and went, some sticking a bit more aggressively than others, but most popped off on their own after realizing the depths of his disinterest. Relatives were more difficult to get rid of; too many believed they were owed his attention—to a disrespectful degree.
Mercifully, someone calls his uncle’s name from the table beside him, and he swings his head around to face them, nearly slapping his partner with his long braid.
After that, Beacon is allowed a blissful handful of minutes to eat uninterrupted.
Being in the noisy dining hall doesn’t bother him.
He neither tunes out the voices, the clinking of silver, or the splashing of water into wood cups, nor does he focus on any specific sound.
It all churns into a comforting din, no different than the camaraderie of his teammates in the mess hall.
Until that unwelcome voice pricks his ears again.
“And what about you, Beacon?” Primrose is asking, her affectation too innocent for pure intentions.
He pretends not to hear her, but she repeats his name louder.
Her voice cuts through Beacon’s peace, leaving him wishing he was alone—or at least surrounded by a tighter constellation of familiar people.
As is, he can tell ignoring his aunt isn’t going to work.
Before Beacon can spontaneously combust, his father nudges him, pointedly murmuring, “Son.”
“You’ll have to repeat yourself, Prim,” Maura calls down the table. “It’s so loud, Beacon didn’t hear you.”