Chapter 8 #2
Unfortunately—oh, maybe that’s rude?—he’s now married to one of the star athletes, so Laurel is not at the back. He’s sitting with the other family members and partners in the front, so close he can see the moisture pearling on Beacon’s exposed shoulders.
When the games started, he was in a buttoned shirt and dark kilt.
With the sun high, he all but tore it off, leaving him in a sleeveless undershirt that’s gone transparent with sweat and the entire jar of water he poured over his head three minutes ago.
The crowd had cheered, but Laurel remained silent—not because he disapproved, but because he appreciated the act possibly too much.
Aside from the tug-of-war tournament, all the games appear to be people with muscles seeing who can throw heavy things the best. The tug-of-war came down to the Dun Steorra team and the Gearwickians, who took today’s win.
Beacon didn’t look happy, but one of the other spouses assured Laurel their team would have the opportunity for a rematch in a few days. Laurel thanked her awkwardly.
Laurel reaches critical mass during the shot put, overwhelmed beyond belief. Even the sight of his husband huffing and puffing and strutting around with the other athletes, completely in his element, fails to stimulate Laurel’s ability to just… sit there and watch.
There are things he could be working on right now!
Surely Beacon wouldn’t mind him slipping away for a while?
Convinced, Laurel slides quietly toward the end of the bench, mindful not to land on the bruise from the bite mark Beacon inflicted on him last night.
The other elves politely pull their feet in when Laurel needs to pass; he smiles and nods to them in silent thanks.
Maybe they think he just needs to relieve himself and will return shortly?
Finally, he’s out of the stands, tail drooping into the heavily-trod grass beneath his feet, exhausted from sitting in the sun so long.
Laurel’s hand prosthesis is also protesting.
When his installations start to suffer, anxiety builds in Laurel’s chest. They won’t reject—at least his tail won’t—but the ache means he might have to remove the half of his hand he tries to pretend isn’t missing.
Laurel doesn’t take off the prosthesis for anything other than cleaning because the sight makes bile gather in the back of his throat.
The worst part is he hasn’t told Beacon that half his hand is fake yet. He hasn’t had the opportunity, doesn’t know how.
Just as Laurel is walking away, shoulders hunched, head hanging, and having given up the pretense of looking nonchalant, the announcer’s voice booms from the field.
“And now, the event you’ve all been waiting for!”
The crowd’s cheering rises to a fever pitch; Laurel has to cover his ears against it, long points of cartilage drooping to flatten against his skull.
“The caber toss!”
Oh.
Fuck.
Beacon’s main event.
Reluctantly but dutifully, Laurel turns around.
He hangs back, hovering at the corner of the stands while the Emberleigh team goes first. Laurel doesn’t understand the rules, but he can tell by the crowd’s noises that a good number of the athletes are failing.
It hardly seems fair; the objective seems much more difficult than simply throwing a metal ball especially far.
For one, the caber is a giant tree.
The trunk has been smoothed into a branchless pole, one end tapered.
Grabbing the tapered end, each athlete is expected to lift the caber vertically, run to gather speed, and then flip the damn thing over.
Only a few of the Emberleigh team manage to turn the caber entirely over, and none land in whatever way will make the audience holler the loudest.
The most compelling moment, in Laurel’s opinion, is the fuss when one of the Emberleigh members is disqualified for using magic, which is strictly prohibited.
“Don’t worry,” says a voice from beside him.
Laurel jumps with an indelicate shriek.
The elf who startled him is the same woman from before, and Laurel cringes in apprehension before he can school his face into something polite. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because all she says is, “You’re Beacon’s fella, right?”
Laurel nods timidly.
“I knew you were new, but it didn’t hit me that you were that grump’s new man until a sec’ ago. You alright, love?”
Figuring he might as well be honest—maybe it’ll make her go away—Laurel shakes his head.
But she only smiles broadly, tossing full, strawberry-blonde curls over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s tough the first few go ‘rounds. Let’s get you something to drink. I’m Hallie, by the way.”
Laurel is worried she’s going to drag him to the refreshment gazebo, but she doesn’t.
Hallie plunks him down on the farthest corner of the lowest bench and swishes her way over alone.
Upon return, Hallie plops a jar of ice-cold cider into his hand.
Laurel isn’t certain about drinking alcohol right now, but he sips it anyway, too tempted by the frost on the glass and its promise of relief from the heat.
She then shoves a small paper box of food in his face: chilled slices of cheese and meats with thinly-cut chunks of sourdough bread. Laurel gives in and accepts the food.
“The Dun Steorrans are almost through the queue,” Hallie informs him.
“That means…”
“Yer man is nearly up,” she confirms.
Against all expectations, excitement begins to swell in Laurel’s chest.
He waits with bated breath, counting down to the final three members of the Dun Steorran team.
The announcer calls out the second-to-last elf’s name, Senta, who gets a hearty slap on the back from Beacon before she walks onto the guidelines painted onto the field’s grass.
Laurel smiles faintly, remembering Beacon’s pissy response to being touched outside of the game.
That elf is a dualistic grump, but Laurel can’t help the way his heart swells with fondness watching—
“Sick for him, aren’t you?”
Hallie’s question startles Laurel, drawing his attention from Senta’s throw. “Am I what?”
Boisterous and carefree, she laughs. “It was arranged, right?” Hallie waits until Laurel nods before continuing to expound on whatever it is they both know.
“Not all unions pan out, even on the best o’ days, and there are plenty elves who can’t stand the person they’ve married. Especially if it wasn’t their choice.”
Understatement. Laurel’s thoughts briefly drift toward his ex-betrothed, who made him miserable, suffering in the smithy—hot from both the forge and his criticism.
“You don’t seem that way, though.”
Laurel blinks. “I don’t?”
With a giggle, Hallie comments, “You look damn taken with him, and if you say you didn’t notice yourself, well.” Then she tips her forehead in the direction of the field. “He’s up.”
Laurel whips around so fast his hair hits him in the face. He hardly notices because his breath has caught, throat so tight he can’t swallow or speak.
Because there Beacon is, the muscles in his arms bulging as he lifts the caber until it’s perfectly vertical, looming high above his sun-kissed copper head.
The caber is the same for everyone, regardless of height, and some of the other athletes tower over Beacon.
He doesn’t seem fazed, though, merely focused.
He considers the length from one painted line to the other across the field, calculations flickering in his hazel eyes.
Beacon blinks—once, slowly—before his attention flicks from his target to the sidelines. It lands on Laurel, their gazes colliding with such a brutal impact, it might have felt less powerful if Beacon threw the caber directly at his chest. The connection lasts less than half a second.
Beacon breaks into a run.
He carries the upright caber several paces, arms leveling in preparation for the throw.
Then, with a mighty, oh-so-manly grunt of exertion, he sends the pole flying.
It soars through the air, topside shuttling toward the ground.
Laurel holds an entire continent’s worth of tension in his body, waiting to see if the caber will turn over.
Finally, it penetrates the well-beaten earth, tapered end smoothly cutting through the air in a majestic arc.
The crowd cheers to see the caber land with a puff of dust. Laurel almost cheers with the crowd, save for the way Beacon’s face twists to see the angle it’s fallen at.
Hallie sucks her teeth. Laurel grabs her sleeve, tugging it frantically without looking away from Beacon’s troubled expression. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Not troubled by Laurel’s invasion of her space, Hallie explains, “T’was a good toss, but your Beacon won’t be happy with anything less than an eleven or a one, at most.”
“A what?”
Hallie chuckles. “He didn’t bother explaining the rules to you, love?”
Laurel grimaces, mostly at the implication—not an unfair one, even—that Beacon had neglected him in some fashion. “We just haven’t had the time,” he says, trying not to sound defensive.