Chapter 3 #2
“Ah, nothing,” he hedges. “Just stiff.” In truth, his chest hurts, and there’s a vicious, throbbing ache behind his eyes. And that’s ignoring his scratchy throat.
Laurel nods as if Beacon had given the truth instead of an excuse. “The spell I used to keep your airway open until the medics arrived can cause lingering cramps. I brought something for that.” He pulls a small jar of salve from the side table. “May I see your wrist?”
For no rational reason, Beacon shakes his head ‘no,’ doubling down on his assertion that he’s fine.
Catching Beacon’s uneasy stare at the jar, Laurel winces, misinterpreting his intention.
“Don’t worry, I washed my hands thoroughly.
Extract of mint—or any oil, really—can be very stubborn, difficult to remove, but the soap I infuse personally is…
I mean it’s, the magic I use—” He swallows hard.
“I’m so sorry for what happened. I made a terrible first impression.
” He chews his bottom lip, which is a darker, more neutral shade than the rest of his skin.
What’s the name for that color?
Beacon couldn’t give a damn about first impressions, and he doesn’t like the shame in Laurel’s expression.
How was he to know that something as simple as spilling oil in a rush would nearly kill his intended?
It was an accident, pure foul luck. But the memory of Laurel’s father raising his voice as if Laurel had knowingly created a disturbance rolls around in Beacon’s thoughts, making him grimace.
Unwilling to contribute to Laurel’s discomfort, Beacon mutely offers his arm. He fears being challenged, but Laurel remains silent, cradling Beacon’s hand in his callused palm so he can dab strong-smelling salve on the inside of Beacon’s wrist. He gestures for the other one, which Beacon provides.
“Now your throat. Is that alright?”
Beacon shakes his head on reflex because he doesn’t want a stranger near his face.
Laurel’s brow furrows, drawing Beacon’s attention to the skin around Laurel’s upturned eyes.
There are more freckles of green creeping along his strong, curved nose into a spray across his cheeks, continuing down his neck before disappearing under his low collar.
They shimmer even in the dim lighting of the medical tent.
A surge of interest quells Beacon’s initial instincts. “Sorry. Yes.”
Laurel smiles, the tiniest upturn of lips, and to Beacon’s relief, he doesn’t comment before dabbing the salve on either side of Beacon’s throat. As he leans in, the low collar of his tunic droops, giving Beacon a glimpse of the smooth planes of his chest.
The rough edges of his fingertips scrape Beacon’s stubble when he swallows.
“There,” Laurel murmurs. He returns to his seat, taking the view of his strangely colored skin with him. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Water,” Beacon admits, although he’s uncomfortable allowing someone to care for him. He reasons that a marriage should be equal—as his parents have always demonstrated—and if Laurel is embarrassed, Beacon can shoulder some of it as well.
Laurel pops up as if his seat ejected him.
It’s then Beacon takes stock of his surroundings; Laurel said he was in the medical tent, which Beacon is no stranger to.
Thick canvas curtains hang on either side of this nook, separating him from the next patient.
Laurel disappears behind one of the dividers, quickly returning with a cup.
Droplets of water spill over his fingers as he rushes.
Although Beacon would like to assure Laurel he doesn’t need to hurry so, he genuinely doesn’t know how.
He tries to maintain a calm disposition, accepting the offering with a wordless nod of appreciation.
Laurel doesn’t seem bothered by his silence.
His amber gaze tracks the cup all the way to Beacon’s mouth, tension only leaving his face when Beacon has swallowed and offered the half-empty cup for him to place on the side table.
The rush of cool water soothes Beacon near-instantly. He rolls a sound in his throat, finding it clear enough to enquire, “What time is it?”
He’s not expecting Laurel’s knuckles to pale when he clenches his hands into fists. “It’s evening. Past six.” He sounds apologetic.
It takes Beacon a moment to sort out why. “Ah, the games,” he says under his breath.
One of Laurel’s long, elegantly pointed ears twitches. “I’m sorry. You missed them because of me.”
Beacon gives a dismissive wave. “The others will have handled it.” In truth, he didn’t want to participate in the community games anyway. Too loud, too much proximity to strangers unfamiliar with his boundaries.
“It truly wasn’t an inconvenience?”
Beacon only grunts. Rude, maybe, but he can’t be expected to repeat himself indefinitely. If they are to be married, Laurel will need to accept that Beacon will verbalize any issues he has when they come up and otherwise won’t bother.
That established, he is pleased when Laurel, once again, does not press him for a more detailed answer. The other elf smooths his long tunic over his backside, tucking his tail aside, then lowers himself gingerly into the chair.
There’s a satchel on the floor beside him, and he fetches some nature of wooden tool from inside it.
Next, a smaller bag filled with fibrous material.
He pushes a thick curtain of dark hair over his shoulder before disassembling the wooden tool into two pieces with one hand and pinching off a thin string of fiber with his other, using his tail to stabilize the bag.
He feeds the fiber between the wooden pieces, winding some tightly around the shaft before fitting the protruding arms into place.
A tuneless hum resonates in Laurel’s chest as he fiddles; when satisfied, he suspends the contraption in mid-air between his knees, gives it a confident torque, and sets to his task.
Beacon watches with a surprising degree of interest. As the device spins, Laurel continues adding small amounts of the fiber to what is becoming a thread of yarn.
Once the thread is of sufficient gauge, Laurel wraps the completed string around the tool’s central peg and continues the spinning—and the humming.
An undetermined amount of time passes. Beacon doesn’t wear a watch or carry one in his pocket—too great a risk of breaking it with his rough-and-tumble lifestyle—so he usually judges time by daylight.
In the quiet tent with Laurel, there’s only enchanted globes emitting faint light from the tent ceiling to see by.
As if sensitive to Beacon’s musing, Laurel glances up, and their gazes lock.
Laurel’s eyes are truly magnificent, rich honey and raw gold, a visceral orange against the peculiar shade of his skin.
How did he turn himself that color? Beacon isn’t sure he’s ever seen it before, the way it looks purple in one light and pink in another, those bright green freckles always standing out.
He’d like to see them hit by the sun again, once he’s well enough to leave the tent.
“I’m sorry if my quiet is discomfiting,” Laurel says in a quiet voice. “I’m used to being alone.”
Beacon shakes his head. “No, I prefer quiet.” He doesn’t add that he envies Laurel’s ability to be alone; if it’s something Lauren finds distressing, that would be rude. Contrary to popular belief, Beacon does try.
Laurel makes a noncommittal sound, then goes back to spinning. Beacon relishes in the peaceful moment, no one hollering across yards of distance, no one jostling him or asking unnecessary questions.
As the minutes creep by, Beacon’s eyelids grow heavy. His next blink lingers, requiring active intention to open again. When his sight returns, his vision is filled by Laurel, full lips curved in a smile that could almost be fond, save for the fact that they only just met.
Starting up his humming again, Laurel winds his thread, the tip of his tail now flicking like a contented cat.
It’s a much more fulfilling way to spend the first bustling day of the Market.
“After some consideration,” Beacon says slowly, “I’m glad to have had an excuse to miss today’s games. Thank you.” Then he surrenders to his body’s request for more sleep.