Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Beacon
Beacon is fit to be tied. No, worse. He’s fit to chew through any rope that dare enter his field of vision.
The Tunbrae mage gets them to Everend with a temporary enchantment, but the wagon still needs work to get back home.
Beacon would have pulled the damn thing up the mountain by himself if he could get out of approaching a sketchy-looking kid—literally named Kidd Kidderson, boasting wagon-related services at Kidd Kidderson’s Killer Karts—to pursue the necessary repairs.
Alas, since Coach seemed to think he was an adult supervising toddlers, the task fell to Beacon.
That was last night. While usually Beacon has no problem rising early, he had erected his tent with an aching head and woke up with the memory of Raibull’s voice, loudly and clumsily trying to haggle with Kidd, still ringing in his ears.
So Beacon got out of his bedroll on the team’s section of the campgrounds and shuffled to the wash area to stand in a grimy stall with a manual pump for water.
Although he typically only allows his beard to grow into rough stubble on his cheeks and chin, Beacon historically doesn’t shave for the duration of the Market festival, so after washing off yesterday’s sweat, he dresses and joins his parents at their tent.
It’s been two days since he spoke to either of them in more than grunts and single syllable words. He won’t be outwardly disrespectful, even though he’d love to ignore them both. Arranging a marriage without his consent—or even knowledge—registers as nothing other than a betrayal.
And, as established, it’s left him foul and brusque.
He continues his sullen silence while they walk toward the central Shrine for the Market’s official opening ceremony, grateful when Maura and Donlan only speak in soft tones between themselves without trying to engage him.
One of Beacon’s teammates had asked him if he was excited to meet his betrothed and was summarily glowered at until he backed off.
No, he’s not excited, not even close. But he’s here, chin high as he stalks ahead of his parents. His kilt swings around his knees when a gust of wind catches his aggressive pace from the opposite direction, but Beacon presses forward without bothering to swipe flyaway bangs back from his forehead.
When they arrive at the Shrine, Beacon comes to a stop just outside the park boundary.
The first time he saw the Shrine, he was young and affected by its symbolism.
An ancient thing, the massive, unpolished stone stands proudly under a plain pavilion.
It is the birthplace of the elves, striking reverence in all who might gaze upon it.
Well, almost all of them. After seeing it year after year, the old rock has stopped thrilling him.
More importantly, following this ceremony he’s scheduled to join the festivities with party games any elf can join.
For now, he looks around, wondering which of the finely dressed men is his intended, as he’s refused his parents’ offers to show him any depictions of the elf or tell him anything other than his name.
Laurel Lushroot.
A dark-haired man hurries toward their small group, seeming frazzled. Beacon steps aside so the newcomer can approach Maura.
“Lady Sure-of-Foot,” he says with a hasty bow. “I’m Rodney Lushroot.”
Something isn’t right, but Beacon’s parents keep it together. “Lovely to meet you, at last,” Maura says. Donlan murmurs the same.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Rodney says. “Laurel, my son, he is… He was feeling unwell. My deepest apologies for his lateness, but I’ll ensure he arrives shortly.”
Beacon doesn’t know if this information calms him or further agitates him.
Now he’ll have to wait the entire damn ceremony, wondering.
He examines Rodney as the three parental units talk, trying to imagine what features Laurel might have as the man’s son.
Beacon fails to produce a face, though—not anything offensive, but nothing he finds attractive, either. He’ll just have to… wait.
Fucking wait.
And he does. At some point, Rodney disappears, leaving Beacon to stand silently beside his parents for the duration of the ceremony, ignoring every one of their concerned looks.
It’s not until they file out of the Shrine grounds, the crowd already chatting excitedly, that Beacon sees Rodney again. However, his eyes are drawn to the person standing beside him.
He looks like no elf Beacon has ever seen. Delicate, birdlike features, flushed cheeks, and loose hair ruffled by the breeze. His clothing is similarly rumpled, far from the elaborate formal wear others opted for. But the disheveled state is far from the most striking part of his appearance.
“Is that him?” Beacon asks so quietly, Maura doesn’t hear, but Donlan nods cautiously.
“It is,” he confirms.
Quite possibly the most interesting elf Beacon has ever laid eyes upon.
Laurel is petite, a head shorter than Beacon, forehead level with his chin—the perfect height for ghosting a kiss. His untamed hair is as black as his father’s, except so long, it passes his midsection, falling in a curtain around his shoulders when he bows.
“Please forgive my lateness,” Laurel gasps, out of breath.
Behind him, Beacon spots movement and is shocked to identify a tail sprouting at least a yard from the small of his back, wide at the base and thinning toward the tip.
And his skin is the most peculiar shade of pink—everything from his clenching hands and delicate wrists to that restlessly whipping tail, all the way up his slender neck to his darkened cheeks, freckled with flecks of green that catch the sun.
His fingertips are ink-smudged—dainty, but when Beacon accepts the hand Laurel offers him, he feels calluses.
What does he do? Calligraphy, music?
Ideally, Beacon would have more time to observe him, but proper etiquette demands he act, and the eyes of their parents drilling holes into the side of his head doesn’t allow for flexibility.
He bends over Laurel’s hand, pressing a gentle, polite kiss against his knuckles.
“Laurel,” he murmurs, lips lingering against the elf’s skin.
Surprisingly, he regrets having to pull away immediately, although he’s not certain what else he would have done.
There will be plenty of time to figure it out, considering their impending marriage.
“I’m Beacon Sure-of-Foot. It is a pleasure to meet you. ”
Laurel’s hand carries a fragrance, one with an herbal tinge that sits strongly in Beacon’s nostrils. One of their parents speaks, but Beacon doesn’t catch it, because his lips have begun to tingle.
“The pleasure is mine,” Laurel answers, blinking up with wide, amber eyes. His shoulders hunch in as if he’s trying to make himself smaller, which is absurd—he’s already quite narrow. Beacon wants to lift Laurel’s chin from where it’s pressed against his chest, but he holds back.
This is not what he expected. It’s not how the scene played out in his head, a miserable betrayal from parents who knew better. Giving him another opportunity to reject a spouse? Surely, he would have without a second of deeper consideration.
Now, he finds he doesn’t need to be forced to consider Laurel. His future husband is stunning, leaving Beacon curious. Still not happy, no, but intrigued. Desirous.
Fuck and damn, but why have his lips gone numb? This can’t be what sudden infatuation feels like. Folks would complain much more about their breath being stolen if it were.
“Beacon?” Laurel asks tentatively. “Are you alright?”
No, clearly not, Beacon thinks but can’t quite say. When he opens his mouth, it’s to draw in much less oxygen than he’s accustomed to. His next gasp is more akin to a fish gulping in dirty pond water.
“What’s wrong with him?” the elder Lushroot demands.
Laurel draws closer, placing a slender hand on Beacon’s elbow, trying to keep him from bowing over.
His voice is soft, too soft to be heard over Beacon’s parents’ cries, but what works its way into his senses is the smell.
Beacon staggers out of Laurel’s grasp; the other elf shrinks further in on himself.
Unable to talk, Beacon can only gesture, pointing a shaking finger at Laurel’s chest, where he’s clutching the offending hand.
Rodney grabs Laurel by the wrist and pulls him closer for an inspection. His nostrils flare. “What do you have on your hand? It smells like—”
“It’s just peppermint oil, Papa.” Laurel gestures to the pocket of his borderline-indecently short trousers, which sports a dark stain. “I spilled a bottle of extract in my hurry.”
Beacon clasps his throat, a ridiculous attempt to stop it from swelling. There’s some fuss, Donlan’s voice rising above the others as he cries, “Beacon is allergic to mint!”
When Rodney begins to berate Laurel for his mistake, Beacon has the peculiar impulse to step between the two, shielding the small elf from that angry voice. But he’s stuck, a wheezing mess, doubling over with his hands on his knees.
Laurel’s expression, fear and shame, is the last thing Beacon registers before his vision darkens, fading to a vacuous nothing.
Beacon comes to with a shudder and a gasp. The memory of suffocating brings him to a cresting panic, a moment where he doesn’t know if he’s still alive or in the underworld’s vestibule.
A soft, soothing hum draws his attention from the harsh recollection.
“Shhhhhh,” comes a tender whisper, followed by dark pink fingers stroking the back of his hand. “You’re alright,” the owner of the fingers says next. “It’s alright, you’re fine. You’re in the medical tent.”
Beacon scans the space briefly, finding the assertion true. Then his gaze falls upon the speaker, leaving him feeling as if he’s still asleep. Or still breathless.
“Laurel,” he croaks.
Despite Laurel’s altered complexion, Beacon can still admire when his cheeks flush prettily. “Our parents are discussing… wedding arrangements at the Legal Pavilion. I volunteered to stay behind with you.”
“I see.” Beacon stretches, then groans.
“What hurts?”