Page 26 of Tossing the Caber

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 agiant 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 thefuss 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 finalthree 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?”