Page 10 of Tossing the Caber

“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, heispleased 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 tightlyaround 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, Beacondoestry.

Laurel makes a noncommittal sound, then goes back tospinning. 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 befond, 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.

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 andbustle, 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.”