Chapter 9 #2
“Oh yes, a good agreement with the town blacksmith. But he dropped an axe blade on Laurel’s hand one day.
Complete accident, but the boy lost a few fingers from it.
His mother and I tried to keep him focused on his future, but he refused to continue apprenticing, and his betrothed wouldn’t take him without that part of the agreement.
That’s when he started all those revolting modifications on his body.
His mother’s heart couldn’t take it, you know.
When he came home with his awful prototype for that ridiculous tail, she went to bed without saying a word.
Not a damn word, and she never said anything again. Passed the next morning.”
“Ah,” Beacon says, beyond overwhelmed by the information. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Scoffing, Rodney waves a hand. “She was the lucky one. Got to escape the mess our son made of himself while leaving me behind to make the best of it.”
“I don’t mind that Laurel has passions,” Beacon informs Rodney out of defiance, finding it’s not a lie.
He doesn’t mind Laurel focusing on his work; he just wants to be included in the narrative.
Told what’s going on. Given the opportunity to be happy for whatever Laurel accomplishes and able to provide comfort when things fail or go wrong.
“Passions are one thing. Perverse obsessions are quite another.” Rodney spits on the ground between them. “If I were you, I’d drag him to Dun Steorra and leave everything in that damn workshop behind. But that’s no longer my concern. He’s your problem now.”
The open disdain in Rodney’s expression nearly propels Beacon somewhere he prefers never to go.
Violence.
Beacon doesn’t see his husband as a problem. He doesn’t see Laurel as perverse or a mistake. In fact, he dearly wishes to see more of the unique, colorful man, with his ink-stained fingers and the green crystalline flecks scattered like constellations across his skin.
And right now, Beacon wants more than anything to clean Rodney’s clock, but athletes in his division are held to a high standard.
Assault is highly punishable, especially against a reedy brat like Rodney who couldn’t fight back or defend himself against Beacon’s powerful fists.
So he does the only thing he can trust himself to do: he walks away without sparing the man another word, glad for the opportunity to take Laurel from the bastard.
Rodney doesn’t call after him. He doesn’t even linger to watch him walk away.
It’s the most important event of Beacon’s time at the Everend Market—the Champion Games, his final caber toss—and Beacon is feeling better than he has in days.
That Laurel is in the stands cheering just as loud as the rest of his teammates’ partners has a great deal to do with that, but that’s not all.
After his conversation with Rodney, Beacon stabilized his perspective.
Laurel’s focus on his ideas isn’t a rejection.
If it were, would he have cooperated with his father’s demands so easily?
Would he have snuggled at Beacon’s side last night, or entreated him to carry this ridiculous glass so he could send him messages and updates throughout the day?
It doesn’t hurt that tomorrow is the last day of the Market.
Laurel’s surprisingly few belongings have been collected and stored in a new, smaller wagon Beacon’s parents purchased from Kidd the wagon kid after Ottan confirmed his high-quality work on the larger magic wagon, guaranteeing it’d get them back to Stehr’s Peak safely.
All that’s left is to finish packing up the contents of Laurel’s workshop.
Beacon hasn’t been to the shop since the first time. Laurel has assured him he’s been working on organizing everything to be boxed up, but he took a break to attend Beacon’s final performance.
He did well in the other events. Competitive performance, even after the few days he spent backsliding due to mental discontent. But it’s time.
It’s time for his final caber toss.
He’s only achieved one other twelve o’clock score this pass, and his first toss of today landed at an infuriating ten-thirty. Now is his last chance to outshine the rest of the competition.
And Laurel is watching.
Last Beacon saw, his husband was standing arm in arm with Hallie, a nice enough elf who is consistently too boisterous for Beacon to enjoy being around, but certainly a good friend for Laurel.
It helps that his parents are also there, clutching hands so tightly, his mother’s brown skin has gone pale.
If Beacon can make this, the rest will fall into place.
He takes a long, bracing breath, flexing his arms to test his strength before coming up on his greatest adversary and closest friend: the caber.
After pulsing his fists, he bends to accept the long wooden pole, palms wrapping almost lovingly around the tapered base.
Grunting, jaw clenching, bulging vein on his temple, he lifts the massive tree trunk, pared down for the sport but never losing the majesty of its branches.
There’s magic in this—its own kind of magic, one that exists without a spell or charm.
Beacon shifts his weight, prays to the sleeping stars that Laurel is watching, and breaks into a run.
He balances the caber perfectly in his arms, the exact calculations so natural he doesn’t have to think about them.
The important part, once he puts forth all the power he needs to flip the caber, is that the pole stays completely parallel with his body when he falls.
It requires flawless control and precision, not letting one arm take less weight than the other.
He has to be completely in sync: his body, the caber, and the new, unexpected sensation of love emanating from the stands.
Wait. Love?
With a mighty roar, Beacon skids on the dusty grass, putting everything he has into the throw. The caber flies through the air, tapered end swinging neatly into the clear sky.
Beacon takes a few steps back, watching breathlessly as the top of the caber pierces the ground.
The tapered end continues to swing, and he feels it in his bones, in his fucking bones, that it’s going to land perfectly, pointing straight from his heaving chest toward a future he can no longer attempt to swerve. Something he no longer wants to.
The caber falls, its length landing a clean, flawless twelve o’clock. The audience crows, frothing and feral, leaping out of their seats to celebrate. Even the Gearwick and Emberleigh elves howl at the pure athleticism.
It’s everything Beacon wanted and hoped for when he first pulled that damn wagon into Tunbrae. The thrill of the win, the crowd on their feet.
And when he turns, he sees his husband jumping up and down, clutching Hallie in an awkward embrace. When he sees Beacon, he releases his friend. Instead of a victory lap, Beacon takes long strides to the boundary of the field, huffing with genuine elation when Laurel leaps into his arms.
Beacon clutches his husband’s petite frame, careful to moderate his grip to hold the smaller elf rather than a massive tree trunk. Hands curved under Laurel’s thighs, Beacon smiles when his tail wraps around Beacon’s waist to pull them close.
And Beacon kisses him, Laurel cradling his cheeks as they claim each other for all to see.
The referee barks a reprimand behind him, prompting Beacon to very reluctantly allow Laurel to slide to the ground and rejoin the rest of the group.
His mother sweeps Laurel up in an enthusiastic hug instead, and Beacon can’t help but grin as he trots back to his team, accepting their delighted ribbing with grace.
He doesn’t even elbow Raibull in the gut when he puts Beacon in a headlock and musses his sweaty hair.
A vision for his life—their life—is finally taking shape. Beacon couldn’t be happier.