Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Laurel
Well.
This is odd.
Not what Laurel imagined, certainly.
Sitting at one side of a slightly greasy table, Laurel stares across the short distance separating him from his soon-to-be husband.
Yesterday, he had assumed Beacon’s stoicism was related to feeling poorly, but today, he was well enough to perform in the morning games.
He showed up for lunch late and sweaty, which Laurel didn’t mind, figuring it was fair play after Laurel did the same—worse, arguably—at their first meeting.
However, today’s version of Beacon has proven even more taciturn than before, if that’s even possible.
He hasn’t responded to a single thing Laurel has said with more than a grunt or a couple monosyllables before going mum. At this point, Laurel is ready to find another allergy just so he has a good reason to see Beacon’s face go purple again.
The face that stays infuriatingly handsome, no matter how long Laurel spends hoping his stare will light it on fire. Screaming counts as conversation, right? At least Beacon would be making sound.
Right now, Beacon won’t even look at him.
They’ve just gotten food from a stall boasting Gearwick specialties.
With respect to Beacon’s aversion to sound and bustle, Laurel suggested they sit at a picnic table beneath a tree, rather than at one of the many dining tables under the shade of a tent.
The branches don’t provide as much coverage as the tent would, leaving Laurel sweating in patches of sun he can’t shift enough to entirely avoid.
“This is good,” Laurel murmurs, nudging a chunk of grilled apple across the waxed paper containing his food. “I didn’t know they ate cooked fruit like this.” Beacon doesn’t respond, so he tries again: “What’s your favorite food?”
Beacon pauses, then answers, “Taro.” He doesn’t look up from his plate, only spears a piece of roast pork with his knife and shoves it in his mouth just like that.
“What’s taro?”
The question wins a glance from Beacon, but it’s fleeting. “Taro is a root.”
Laurel’s cheeks heat. He doesn’t have much of a temper, but being ignored triggers old memories from before his mother passed.
They hadn’t gotten along, Laurel and his mum, but she hadn’t been a bad mother; she just hadn’t wanted much to do with him.
That was why she was so eager to be rid of him when the local blacksmith offered Laurel an apprenticeship in exchange for wedding his son.
Rodney seems to be of the same mind regarding this betrothal.
Meanwhile, Laurel has never understood what was so wrong with him his parents were so eager to be rid of their only child.
“I’ve never eaten taro. What makes you like it so much?”
Beacon shrugs.
Whenever Laurel gets too worked up, the magic that keeps the prosthesis bound to his left hand starts to ache in a way his tail never does.
The difference, he supposes, is that grafting the magic tail onto a healthy spine was very different from trying to repair a body part as delicate as a hand that had been damaged as badly as Laurel’s.
Regardless, the longer it takes between his last question and Beacon’s answer—which doesn’t appear to be coming—the more his knuckles begin to tingle, like a lightning charm about to shock him. Laurel’s skin prickles.
He pushes his food away, having lost his appetite after being fed too much bullshit by the man he’s engaged to.
To his further irritation, Beacon doesn’t appear to notice—or care—that Laurel has shut down out of frustration.
A wave of despair overtakes him. He was worried about being forced into the arms of a controlling husband who would take away his joys and, yes, he had fantasized about a man who had no interest in disturbing him. But now…
Would an absent and neglectful husband truly be better?
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Laurel says once Beacon has finished his plate.
Beacon glances at Laurel’s food, nearly half remaining. “Do you want to wrap that?”
It’s surprising, after Laurel has spent the last hour fighting to get more than two words out of the elf at a time. “I don’t want to go back into the crowd,” he admits.
Beacon hums, then stands. Without another word, he strolls over to the stall they purchased their food from, inserting himself between one customer and the next to speak to the elf taking orders.
She nods, then moves to the next person in line.
Laurel watches with some incredulity as Beacon leans his back against the side of the stall and…
waits. Just waits, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his kilt, until the vendor pops their head out and hands him something.
Beacon passes them a coin, accepts the offering, and makes his way back toward Laurel.
He doesn’t explain himself when he arrives, simply handing the wax paper to Laurel so he can wrap his unfinished fruit. Laurel hesitates, uncertain. Beacon waits, appearing as unhurried as he had while at the stall.
After Laurel spends a second too long staring, Beacon huffs what might have been a laugh and takes it upon himself to puppeteer Laurel’s hands, using them to flatten the wax paper.
Beacon then places Laurel’s leftover paper bowl inside and folds the paper, but before he can fuss with a string, Laurel waves him off.
Beacon doesn’t argue, which strikes Laurel as so unexpectedly different, he initially messes up the simple spell to hold the paper in place without needing a tie.
Beacon’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say anything; he simply takes the fruit and tucks it into the leather pouch secured around his waist, embellished with what appears to be foxfur tassels.
He does something incredibly strange, then: Beacon sidles up and politely holds out his arm.
After enduring an engagement with a man who couldn’t care less what he did outside the smithy, it takes Laurel a moment before he identifies the gesture as something polite, something he ought to take advantage of.
Beacon doesn’t rush, which further compounds the odd position.
With all the surety of a wobbly fawn, Laurel takes Beacon’s elbow and allows the other elf to guide him to his feet.
Laurel could have stood up alone; he’s not one of the prettier elves arriving in heels and corsets, struggling on the soft grassy ground.
No, Laurel is wearing practical boots today because he was anticipating walking around with Beacon after the games.
And now it’s that time.
“Shall we go on a walk?” Laurel asks timidly.
Beacon wipes sweat from his brow. His cheeks are pink, nose peeling, but he doesn’t seem put out by either. “Whatever you’d like,” he says.
“What about what you would like?” Laurel grumbles under his breath.
“What I—”
It’s not anger that makes Laurel yank his arm away, pained due to sparks from his prosthesis shocking his hand where they meet.
More than anything, he’s embarrassed and confused about how Beacon can so obviously ignore him then be considerate mere minutes later, without finding anything anachronistic about the behavior.
Is this a trick? If so, what in the realm is he setting Laurel up for? It’s not like Laurel can choose to leave if Beacon turns out to be the controlling cad Laurel had worried about. Failing to keep another prospective husband would ruin Laurel’s life more than suffering a demanding husband would.
Strong footsteps and a long stride follow him, although Beacon doesn’t call out.
He simply tails Laurel to the tree line, then into the woods.
There’s a tiny crick Laurel visits frequently, often choosing to eat while sitting beside it, watching the trickle of clear water tumble over smooth stones and moss.
It helps to be native to the area; Laurel is near Everend year-round, attending every event hosted as the marketplace Anatomancer, peddling his transformative wares to the curious and bold.
He’s never taken anyone here before. Laurel has business consultants, but he doesn’t have many friends. Not out of choice or asocial desire. No, he’s just… an odd duck, his mama used to call him. Maybe he should have given himself feathers rather than a tail.
“Laurel?”
Behind him, Beacon’s voice is unsure. It sounds like it pains him to speak, and the idea of spending the rest of his life with someone who struggles just to ask how he is fills Laurel with crushing despair.
He spins on his heel and points an ink-stained finger at Beacon’s chest. “I need to know what you’re getting out of this arrangement.”
Beacon tilts his head, contemplating Laurel just shy of too long. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
Laurel clenches his jaw. “Try.”
Pursing his lips, Beacon scans the little creek and its surroundings. Although Laurel doesn’t own this spot—he’s certain others have been here, and it’s so small it doesn’t even have a name—it feels vulnerable for his future husband to regard a treasured safe space with what looks like apathy.
“My parents required I marry,” Beacon says finally. “It will reflect badly upon them as leaders of the Sure-of-Foot clan if I don’t attract a partner.”
“Is it because you need an heir?”
Beacon’s expression shifts into something queer, almost bashful.
His eyes skirt from Laurel, and he turns around, showing him his back.
The sunlight catches gaps in the tree branches, whispering leaves that sway in the wind, and hits Beacon’s mussed red hair, turning it to a bright, shivering copper that reminds Laurel of the forge at the smithy.
Beacon presses his fingertips to the bark of the widest tree trunk, and says, “No. I do not need to produce an heir.”
Huffing, Laurel says, “That’s good. Even with all the modifications I’m capable of, impregnating men is still beyond my reach.” Laurel is a cosmetic artisan, not a surgeon, and he has no plans to alter people’s basic physiology.