FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The sound of door knocks surprised the boar as he put on his apron. Given his forge was yet to open for business and it was so early, he could not believe it to be a client. When the second set of knocks came, expectation made his heart flutter and he traded his grimace for a grinning snort. With the third group of hurried bangs rang, however, he knew who awaited him. He knew not to hope too much.

By the entrance, another noise reached him: tiny voices, whispers that carried desperation even when he could not make out the words being said. This gave the boar a growing smile followed by a chuckle he had to snuff, lest he embarrassed the visitors on the other side.

Memories of a scolding made the blacksmith hesitate to attend them after all. Could he withstand another lecture from the townsfolk about the supposed evils of giving those customers what they wanted? When they knocked a fourth time, he knew the answer.

He opened the door and found four cubs gazing at him with anticipation. The red squirrel’s expression was the first to change into a smile. After recovering from surprise, the lynx began looking around. And finally, the youngest of two otters hid behind his older sister’s linen dress.

“Herr Rogel!” the older of the siblings said. “Can you let us in, please?”

The boar huffed. “And a good morning to you too, young lady.”

Blushing through her fur, the otter offered a curtsy to the smith. Her brother followed with a clumsy bow.

“Sorry, mister,” she responded, “good morning, Herr Rogel. Would you let us in, please?”

“Hurry up!” the feline whispered. “We’ll get caught!”

Before the boy could even conclude that second sentence, otter and squirrel shushed him with their pointers before their mouths.

Rogel suppressed another laugh. “And I suppose Frau Annabel let you come here instead of going to school?”

Their reactions damaged the strict façade the boar had built with his previous question. The red squirrel’s gaze wandered far away from inquirer, the older otter also looked away, playing with the rim of her dress, small hands bound the lynx’s head as he shook it, and the youngest of them nodded with vigour. Rogel tried to commit the scene to memory, perhaps he would think of it when their parents came to pester him later.

“Very well,” the boar said, “come in, come in.”

They all rushed inside after Rogel gave them the space. Another of the tiresome complaints he had heard came to mind then, that his workplace was hardly proper for children to be in. The ludicrous part of that argument lied in the fact that a sturdy oak fence separated a client area from the hot, dirty furnace and its hazardous tools. And the reasonable part in the vision of the youngest otter shambling towards the open gate of said fence. Before the boar could even utter a warning however, the squirrel took the pup by the arm. With a sigh, Rogel closed the door behind him.

The children formed an audience with the available stools in that safe area, with the boar taking a seat of his own in a wooden chair across from them. His bad knee made him grimace before he could hide such a reaction from his young clients.

“So,” Rogel said after clearing his throat, “I assume you pups want to hear another story?”

“Yea!” the girls said in unison.

This prompted a shush from the feline, who still glanced around every now and then. “Do you want to get caught!” he said.

“Now now, boy,” the boar intervened. “In here, you are all my responsibility. I let you in, I alone answer for any consequences. Understood?”

At first Rogel’s deep voice pushed the lad’s contorted muzzle downward. However, each sentence drew his gaze back up. By the end of the boar’s speech, the lynx managed to respond with a laboured, but smiling nod.

“Good,” the boar smiled back. “What kind of story do you require today, sirs and madams?”

The squirrel waved her small arm with a bright grin. “Something with a big, scary monster!”

Rogel tilted his head. Yet another of the complaints, that scary stories gave the children nightmares. Not even the otter boy’s enthusiastic mimicry of the squirrel could change his mind. “Not this time, fräulein,” he replied at last.

“Oh!” the otter girl said, raising her hand like her friend had. “How about something romantic? Ever saved any beautiful maidens, Herr Rogel? Maybe fell in love?”

The disgust on the other children’s faces was not the only reason he could not comply with the girl’s request. “I,” he said between coughs, “I can’t think of any right now. Perhaps some other time, little lady.”

Pensive silence coated the room. It lasted until the lynx decided to stop playing with the cords of his shirt.

“How about an interesting place?” the boy said.

The question made the boar hum and run his fingers through the long beard on his chin. Many possible replies to the lad’s question came to mind. Not to mention, the worst effect it could cause on those children is a bit of wanderlust—which Rogel thought that whole village could use.

“What a good idea,” the boar said with a nod. “An interesting location then! But what kind?”

“A dangerous one!” the squirrel said.

“Somewhere pretty!” the older otter replied.

“Maybe a unique place?” the lynx followed.

Rogel hummed some more as he delved into the annals of his mind. Each skimmed memory came with a caveat. A crystal cave with a dangerous spider demon inside. The Dark Marsh his team had only managed to cross with some tactics he dreaded those kids would repeat. A desert of black sand with a monstrous worm underground. Monsters guarded too many of these places.

Eventually, he did manage to remember one. No monsters, no unsafe feats, and attached to an interesting story. The problem lied in what came after that adventure. Rogel could easily not tell that part to the children, of course, but they were not the only ones he wished to keep away from that memory. Still, he could not deny their expectant gazes for much longer.

“Ah, I have it,” he responded at last. “How about a place so beautiful that it has no equal!”

The four cubs looked among themselves and replied with concurrent nods.

Rogel leaned back with a guffaw. “Good! Now, settle down and let me tell you about the Reverse Waterfall.”The sound of door knocks surprised the boar as he put on his apron. Given his forge was yet to open for business and it was so early, he could not believe it to be a client. When the second set of knocks came, expectation made his heart flutter and he traded his grimace for a grinning snort. With the third group of hurried bangs rang, however, he knew who awaited him. He knew not to hope too much.

By the entrance, another noise reached him: tiny voices, whispers that carried desperation even when he could not make out the words being said. This gave the boar a growing smile followed by a chuckle he had to snuff, lest he embarrassed the visitors on the other side.

Memories of a scolding made the blacksmith hesitate to attend them after all. Could he withstand another lecture from the townsfolk about the supposed evils of giving those customers what they wanted? When they knocked a fourth time, he knew the answer.

He opened the door and found four cubs gazing at him with anticipation. The red squirrel’s expression was the first to change into a smile. After recovering from surprise, the lynx began looking around. And finally, the youngest of two otters hid behind his older sister’s linen dress.

“Herr Rogel!” the older of the siblings said. “Can you let us in, please?”

The boar huffed. “And a good morning to you too, young lady.”

Blushing through her fur, the otter offered a curtsy to the smith. Her brother followed with a clumsy bow.

“Sorry, mister,” she responded, “good morning, Herr Rogel. Would you let us in, please?”

“Hurry up!” the feline whispered. “We’ll get caught!”

Before the boy could even conclude that second sentence, otter and squirrel shushed him with their pointers before their mouths.

Rogel suppressed another laugh. “And I suppose Frau Annabel let you come here instead of going to school?”

Their reactions damaged the strict façade the boar had built with his previous question. The red squirrel’s gaze wandered far away from inquirer, the older otter also looked away, playing with the rim of her dress, small hands bound the lynx’s head as he shook it, and the youngest of them nodded with vigour. Rogel tried to commit the scene to memory, perhaps he would think of it when their parents came to pester him later.

“Very well,” the boar said, “come in, come in.”

They all rushed inside after Rogel gave them the space. Another of the tiresome complaints he had heard came to mind then, that his workplace was hardly proper for children to be in. The ludicrous part of that argument lied in the fact that a sturdy oak fence separated a client area from the hot, dirty furnace and its hazardous tools. And the reasonable part in the vision of the youngest otter shambling towards the open gate of said fence. Before the boar could even utter a warning however, the squirrel took the pup by the arm. With a sigh, Rogel closed the door behind him.

The children formed an audience with the available stools in that safe area, with the boar taking a seat of his own in a wooden chair across from them. His bad knee made him grimace before he could hide such a reaction from his young clients.

“So,” Rogel said after clearing his throat, “I assume you pups want to hear another story?”

“Yea!” the girls said in unison.

This prompted a shush from the feline, who still glanced around every now and then. “Do you want to get caught!” he said.

“Now now, boy,” the boar intervened. “In here, you are all my responsibility. I let you in, I alone answer for any consequences. Understood?”

At first Rogel’s deep voice pushed the lad’s contorted muzzle downward. However, each sentence drew his gaze back up. By the end of the boar’s speech, the lynx managed to respond with a laboured, but smiling nod.

“Good,” the boar smiled back. “What kind of story do you require today, sirs and madams?”

The squirrel waved her small arm with a bright grin. “Something with a big, scary monster!”

Rogel tilted his head. Yet another of the complaints, that scary stories gave the children nightmares. Not even the otter boy’s enthusiastic mimicry of the squirrel could change his mind. “Not this time, fräulein,” he replied at last.

“Oh!” the otter girl said, raising her hand like her friend had. “How about something romantic? Ever saved any beautiful maidens, Herr Rogel? Maybe fell in love?”

The disgust on the other children’s faces was not the only reason he could not comply with the girl’s request. “I,” he said between coughs, “I can’t think of any right now. Perhaps some other time, little lady.”

Pensive silence coated the room. It lasted until the lynx decided to stop playing with the cords of his shirt.

“How about an interesting place?” the boy said.

The question made the boar hum and run his fingers through the long beard on his chin. Many possible replies to the lad’s question came to mind. Not to mention, the worst effect it could cause on those children is a bit of wanderlust—which Rogel thought that whole village could use.

“What a good idea,” the boar said with a nod. “An interesting location then! But what kind?”

“A dangerous one!” the squirrel said.

“Somewhere pretty!” the older otter replied.

“Maybe a unique place?” the lynx followed.

Rogel hummed some more as he delved into the annals of his mind. Each skimmed memory came with a caveat. A crystal cave with a dangerous spider demon inside. The Dark Marsh his team had only managed to cross with some tactics he dreaded those kids would repeat. A desert of black sand with a monstrous worm underground. Monsters guarded too many of these places.

Eventually, he did manage to remember one. No monsters, no unsafe feats, and attached to an interesting story. The problem lied in what came after that adventure. Rogel could easily not tell that part to the children, of course, but they were not the only ones he wished to keep away from that memory. Still, he could not deny their expectant gazes for much longer.

“Ah, I have it,” he responded at last. “How about a place so beautiful that it has no equal!”

The four cubs looked among themselves and replied with concurrent nods.

Rogel leaned back with a guffaw. “Good! Now, settle down and let me tell you about the Reverse Waterfall.”

I remember how hot that summer day was. And I recall we were in Lower Frankia because the breeze there carries a light, briny smell even where you can’t see the ocean. Daveth, an old badger who was our leader, strutted before the rest of us, his heavy armour clanking as he did. Alexandra, Wilford and I snickered at the stout man’s gait. He had insisted on wearing all that, in that heat!

Behind us, our patron walked with his muzzle buried in a book. His name escapes me now, but I’ll never forget the shades of brown of the streaks on his fur; I had never seen a striped squirrel before or since. He had hired us to escort him to a “local legend,” as he called it. A waterfall that “fell upwards.” Since it didn't seem like there would be any fighting, I didn't want to take the job, but Daveth’s curiosity and Wilford’s eloquent speech made me the only one who didn't.

Good or bad, the way there bored me to tears. And, when we did arrive, the cave hosting our supposed destination looked as sleepy as the countryside around it. Causing the squirrel to dash into the cave’s mouth, only for Daveth to stop him with his thick arm. And the man let out a loud “Oof!” After calming the client down, the badger asked Alexandra to scout ahead. Not only her cat eyes would help with looking in the darkness inside, but she had the fleetest foot, to escape if needed.

To my dismay, that led to waiting! If I had less patience, I would have been pacing around like our patron was. Wilford (who did not find the squirrel’s antsy display as amusing as I did) had an idea to distract him. The buck asked about that place, where the water “fell upwards.” Our client gave it the name Reverse Waterfall, and said the place had been so obscure there were barely any records on it. I’ll admit I don’t remember too well the rest of his story, but there were many legends about it. Some people say that once a monstrous snake guarded the place until a hero slew it, others say that a princess had once heard the name of her true love echo in those walls. I wasn’t too interested at the time, but it was better than standing around.

I almost jumped with happiness when Alexandra’s cloaked figure appeared from the cave. She confirmed that the way was safe, but did not go all the way in. The waterfall was something she wanted us to see for the first time together.

Our way in ended up as tranquil as the journey there. The cave itself was dark, humid and made of hard and sharp rocks, but all that led to very few problems. Other than preventing our client from stopping at every noteworthy stone, slipping on a puddle and tasting a piece of moss (for some reason), we continued unimpeded. Soon, I pondered more about the immortality of the crab than thought of the squirrel’s safety.

That came to an end when we heard the running water. It was a mighty, wet sound, like a torrent or a river during the rainy season. The cave also gave it an echo, making the noise unavoidable. It also beckoned us further in, with me having to be the one to stop Daveth from rushing ahead. My caution was rewarded when the floor became wet and far more slippery soon after.

Slowly, local legend became truth in our eyes. I hadn’t noticed how much we had gone down as we dove into the cave. When we got to the cave’s massive chamber, the Reverse Waterfall towered over us. Through a modest, far away hole in the cave’s ceiling, sunlight cut through the blast of water and created several rainbows. Splashes, small and light as feather, filled the room as to make you believe it was raining from all sides. And the sound became deafening! We needed to yell to hear each other. Most importantly, however, the water did indeed appear to rise from a dark blue pool below.

Only Wilford’s mocking finger made me realise I left my muzzle hanging open. The cat laughed with him, but only for a moment. Soon, no one could pull their gazes away from the wonder before us.

The five of us remained stunned for a while, but it didn’t take long for the squirrel to begin his work. He collected stones, drew sketches and made notes on a journal, and almost slipped again. Three times!

I found myself waiting once again, but that time, the Reverse Waterfall was there to distract me. At some point, my three companions joined me where I sat. We talked, and admired the place until the squirrel was done. Maybe it was the last time the four of us had a peaceful moment like that.I remember how hot that summer day was. And I recall we were in Lower Frankia because the breeze there carries a light, briny smell even where you can’t see the ocean. Daveth, an old badger who was our leader, strutted before the rest of us, his heavy armour clanking as he did. Alexandra, Wilford and I snickered at the stout man’s gait. He had insisted on wearing all that, in that heat!

Behind us, our patron walked with his muzzle buried in a book. His name escapes me now, but I’ll never forget the shades of brown of the streaks on his fur; I had never seen a striped squirrel before or since. He had hired us to escort him to a “local legend,” as he called it. A waterfall that “fell upwards.” Since it didn't seem like there would be any fighting, I didn't want to take the job, but Daveth’s curiosity and Wilford’s eloquent speech made me the only one who didn't.

Good or bad, the way there bored me to tears. And, when we did arrive, the cave hosting our supposed destination looked as sleepy as the countryside around it. Causing the squirrel to dash into the cave’s mouth, only for Daveth to stop him with his thick arm. And the man let out a loud “Oof!” After calming the client down, the badger asked Alexandra to scout ahead. Not only her cat eyes would help with looking in the darkness inside, but she had the fleetest foot, to escape if needed.

To my dismay, that led to waiting! If I had less patience, I would have been pacing around like our patron was. Wilford (who did not find the squirrel’s antsy display as amusing as I did) had an idea to distract him. The buck asked about that place, where the water “fell upwards.” Our client gave it the name Reverse Waterfall, and said the place had been so obscure there were barely any records on it. I’ll admit I don’t remember too well the rest of his story, but there were many legends about it. Some people say that once a monstrous snake guarded the place until a hero slew it, others say that a princess had once heard the name of her true love echo in those walls. I wasn’t too interested at the time, but it was better than standing around.

I almost jumped with happiness when Alexandra’s cloaked figure appeared from the cave. She confirmed that the way was safe, but did not go all the way in. The waterfall was something she wanted us to see for the first time together.

Our way in ended up as tranquil as the journey there. The cave itself was dark, humid and made of hard and sharp rocks, but all that led to very few problems. Other than preventing our client from stopping at every noteworthy stone, slipping on a puddle and tasting a piece of moss (for some reason), we continued unimpeded. Soon, I pondered more about the immortality of the crab than thought of the squirrel’s safety.

That came to an end when we heard the running water. It was a mighty, wet sound, like a torrent or a river during the rainy season. The cave also gave it an echo, making the noise unavoidable. It also beckoned us further in, with me having to be the one to stop Daveth from rushing ahead. My caution was rewarded when the floor became wet and far more slippery soon after.

Slowly, local legend became truth in our eyes. I hadn’t noticed how much we had gone down as we dove into the cave. When we got to the cave’s massive chamber, the Reverse Waterfall towered over us. Through a modest, far away hole in the cave’s ceiling, sunlight cut through the blast of water and created several rainbows. Splashes, small and light as feather, filled the room as to make you believe it was raining from all sides. And the sound became deafening! We needed to yell to hear each other. Most importantly, however, the water did indeed appear to rise from a dark blue pool below.

Only Wilford’s mocking finger made me realise I left my muzzle hanging open. The cat laughed with him, but only for a moment. Soon, no one could pull their gazes away from the wonder before us.

The five of us remained stunned for a while, but it didn’t take long for the squirrel to begin his work. He collected stones, drew sketches and made notes on a journal, and almost slipped again. Three times!

I found myself waiting once again, but that time, the Reverse Waterfall was there to distract me. At some point, my three companions joined me where I sat. We talked, and admired the place until the squirrel was done. Maybe it was the last time the four of us had a peaceful moment like that.

The boar sighed as he leaned back on his chair. “The way back was more of the same,” he said. “I’ll spare you children from it.”

“But what about the squirrel!” the lynx said after rising from his seat. “Why was he going there anyway?”

The kit’s burst had an effect on the entire room. Rogel’s narration aside, an attentive silence had taken over the workshop, so when the lynx made his curiosity known, he drew everyone’s attention. His questions brought a different sort of quietness to the room. With a murmuring apology and pinkish ears, the boy took his seat once more.

“It’s alright, lad,” the boar spoke. “I’m glad my story was interesting at all!”

In silence, Rogel’s response had the effect he hoped. Gradually, the feline’s ears rose and his muzzle opened in a smile. When the cub nodded, he knew to continue.

The boar stroked his beard again. “Let’s see, that squirrel was a scholar of some kind. He’d mentioned a college and some sort of research. When we got him back to town, he asked if we could escort him once again the following year, he would bring more people then. We couldn’t stay, though.”

“Do you think he wrote a book about it?” the lynx said in unsteady tones.

“I think you concern yourself with the wrong sorts of books, young man,” another voice cut in.

Rogel and the cubs shook their heads in shock. The same way the feline had previously taken room’s the focus, a newcomer had stolen it. Not long after the arrival had raised her voice, the five of them found her by the door.

She was a boar like Rogel, yet entirely different. Frau Annabel stood by the entrance with hands on her hips and a closed expression. Where Rogel had years worth of grime in his apron, the lady’s light brown apparel hugged a blue dress that appeared new. When she strode, Annabel had not the heavy steps of the rugged former warrior, but light, equally practised steps of a lady. They were alike in voice however, for when she opened her mouth, more worry than anger poured out.

“I believe,” she said to the children, “we had grammar lessons today, did we not? In fact, I believe one of you is not even allowed to leave home. Let alone enter an adult’s workplace.”

The eldest otter jumped off her stool. “Sorry, Frau Annabel,” she said. “I was the one who–”

“No, it was me,” the red squirrel nudged her friend. “I told–”

When the lynx joined in, the argument became cacophony. Children—even the one who could not fully talk yet—spoke over, against and about each other in a way Rogel would try to forget later on. At that moment, though, the boar had to honour his promise.

“Children!” he said. The cubs replied with silence. Annabel’s gaze flowed to him with curt lips and a frown. “I mean,” Rogel cleared his throat. “Frau Annabel, I was the one who let them in. I don’t regret doing that, but I am to blame if they aren’t supposed to be here. I did so well aware of that possibility. I do apologise.”

Neither boar looked away in the silence that followed; the man’s gaze infirm against the woman’s enduring judgement. Usually, Rogel would not have such trouble standing his ground, but he knew too much assertiveness and they would never let him near those kids again.

Annabel snorted. “Children,” she said to the cubs, “Frau Dorothea is outside and will escort you to school. Go with her. We will discuss punishment later.”

Four pairs of eyes turned towards the blacksmith, who responded with a curt nod. In a single move, the four young visitors obeyed the command.

The ensuing silence lasted for a while. Rogel could only offer a stiff stance and an apologetic gaze to the lady bearing the same constricted look and crossed arms she had since entering. A move of her own broke that standstill. With a huff, her glare gained a timid smile, her rigid position became a slow sway, and the stern tone she used on the children became a wistful sound.

“You certainly know how to handle them,” she said. “Would that they paid attention to my lessons that way.”

When the lack of scolding became clear, the man finally relaxed with a sigh of his own. “Well,” he said, “my stories aren’t nearly as instructive. Children, they tend to flee from their obligations.”

She snickered. “Indeed. Especially when they know there’s an adult to help them do so.”

“Yes, well, I–”

“Instructive or not, they do remember it well.” Her eyes turned frigid again. “Every dangerous monster, every violent exploit and every life-threatening feat.” In a pause, her expression softened. “I do appreciate your choice of a more inoffensive tale today.”

“You heard the story, then?”

“A good deal of it, yes.” Her eyes finally left him. “I am ashamed to admit my own interest in it is to blame for my late interjection.”

“May I take that as a compliment, madam?”

Annabel had a grin on her face when she looked back at the blacksmith. “Indeed, you may.” She snorted once more before drawing closer to man with a timid gait. “I do mean it when I say I wish to be more like you, Herr Rogel. Your power to captivate the cubs would be of great use in my classroom.” She stopped less than two paces before him. “Would you teach me how? My doors are open to you whenever you wish. And how do I long to hear a private tale from you; perhaps even more than the kids do.”

Rogel had grown accustomed to that sort of behaviour from Frau Annabel, but the bluntness delayed his usual reply. It was to be expected. The two of them were alike in so many ways, after all. Both were boars, unmarried, almost thirty, had their own workplace, and were savvy around children. In many ways, a perfect match. However, they were entirely different also, in ways Rogel could not let her know.

The blacksmith only managed a reply after three clearings of his throat. “I’ll have to consider it, madam. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what to teach in the first place. And I’m sure your classes are excellent as they are! The children need to behave, is all.”

Over the course of his reply, the smile that once dominated Annabel’s face faded into the briefest frown. After eyeing him up and down, some good humour returned to her face. “The invitation stands, Herr Rogel,” she said before turning towards the door.

“Forgive me,” the blacksmith said, stiff once more, “I meant no disrespect. Please, may I offer the lady a drink of water?”

Only Annabel’s face turned to answer. “Alas, sir, I have a class awaiting me. And you have a business to run as well, do you not?”

“Ah, of course, that’s true.”

Her smile widened for a spell then she returned to her walk. “Good day to you.”

“And to you!”

Not a wink after the door closed, Rogel fell onto his seat again and found his heart racing. At that point, thoughts he had struggled to stave off began catching up to him. It was that day by the Reverse Waterfall. What happened that day he could not tell the children, or their parents, or Frau Annabel. More than that however, the one person he wished to keep away from that memory was himself.

“Don’t think about it,” he whispered. “Don’t remember him. Don’t hope!” And repeated those phrases ever faster.

His well practised chant worked even on nights of utmost loneliness. He would not dream, or recall, or think about it. But Rogel found no such respite that morning. Maybe it was the tale itself, maybe it was how long he had avoided that memory in particular, or perhaps Frau Annabel’s ineffective courting evoked greater solitude. Regardless of the reason, he slumped on his seat and drew his hand to his heart. He thought about that evening. He remembered Wilford.The boar sighed as he leaned back on his chair. “The way back was more of the same,” he said. “I’ll spare you children from it.”

“But what about the squirrel!” the lynx said after rising from his seat. “Why was he going there anyway?”

The kit’s burst had an effect on the entire room. Rogel’s narration aside, an attentive silence had taken over the workshop, so when the lynx made his curiosity known, he drew everyone’s attention. His questions brought a different sort of quietness to the room. With a murmuring apology and pinkish ears, the boy took his seat once more.

“It’s alright, lad,” the boar spoke. “I’m glad my story was interesting at all!”

In silence, Rogel’s response had the effect he hoped. Gradually, the feline’s ears rose and his muzzle opened in a smile. When the cub nodded, he knew to continue.

The boar stroked his beard again. “Let’s see, that squirrel was a scholar of some kind. He’d mentioned a college and some sort of research. When we got him back to town, he asked if we could escort him once again the following year, he would bring more people then. We couldn’t stay, though.”

“Do you think he wrote a book about it?” the lynx said in unsteady tones.

“I think you concern yourself with the wrong sorts of books, young man,” another voice cut in.

Rogel and the cubs shook their heads in shock. The same way the feline had previously taken room’s the focus, a newcomer had stolen it. Not long after the arrival had raised her voice, the five of them found her by the door.

She was a boar like Rogel, yet entirely different. Frau Annabel stood by the entrance with hands on her hips and a closed expression. Where Rogel had years worth of grime in his apron, the lady’s light brown apparel hugged a blue dress that appeared new. When she strode, Annabel had not the heavy steps of the rugged former warrior, but light, equally practised steps of a lady. They were alike in voice however, for when she opened her mouth, more worry than anger poured out.

“I believe,” she said to the children, “we had grammar lessons today, did we not? In fact, I believe one of you is not even allowed to leave home. Let alone enter an adult’s workplace.”

The eldest otter jumped off her stool. “Sorry, Frau Annabel,” she said. “I was the one who–”

“No, it was me,” the red squirrel nudged her friend. “I told–”

When the lynx joined in, the argument became cacophony. Children—even the one who could not fully talk yet—spoke over, against and about each other in a way Rogel would try to forget later on. At that moment, though, the boar had to honour his promise.

“Children!” he said. The cubs replied with silence. Annabel’s gaze flowed to him with curt lips and a frown. “I mean,” Rogel cleared his throat. “Frau Annabel, I was the one who let them in. I don’t regret doing that, but I am to blame if they aren’t supposed to be here. I did so well aware of that possibility. I do apologise.”

Neither boar looked away in the silence that followed; the man’s gaze infirm against the woman’s enduring judgement. Usually, Rogel would not have such trouble standing his ground, but he knew too much assertiveness and they would never let him near those kids again.

Annabel snorted. “Children,” she said to the cubs, “Frau Dorothea is outside and will escort you to school. Go with her. We will discuss punishment later.”

Four pairs of eyes turned towards the blacksmith, who responded with a curt nod. In a single move, the four young visitors obeyed the command.

The ensuing silence lasted for a while. Rogel could only offer a stiff stance and an apologetic gaze to the lady bearing the same constricted look and crossed arms she had since entering. A move of her own broke that standstill. With a huff, her glare gained a timid smile, her rigid position became a slow sway, and the stern tone she used on the children became a wistful sound.

“You certainly know how to handle them,” she said. “Would that they paid attention to my lessons that way.”

When the lack of scolding became clear, the man finally relaxed with a sigh of his own. “Well,” he said, “my stories aren’t nearly as instructive. Children, they tend to flee from their obligations.”

She snickered. “Indeed. Especially when they know there’s an adult to help them do so.”

“Yes, well, I–”

“Instructive or not, they do remember it well.” Her eyes turned frigid again. “Every dangerous monster, every violent exploit and every life-threatening feat.” In a pause, her expression softened. “I do appreciate your choice of a more inoffensive tale today.”

“You heard the story, then?”

“A good deal of it, yes.” Her eyes finally left him. “I am ashamed to admit my own interest in it is to blame for my late interjection.”

“May I take that as a compliment, madam?”

Annabel had a grin on her face when she looked back at the blacksmith. “Indeed, you may.” She snorted once more before drawing closer to man with a timid gait. “I do mean it when I say I wish to be more like you, Herr Rogel. Your power to captivate the cubs would be of great use in my classroom.” She stopped less than two paces before him. “Would you teach me how? My doors are open to you whenever you wish. And how do I long to hear a private tale from you; perhaps even more than the kids do.”

Rogel had grown accustomed to that sort of behaviour from Frau Annabel, but the bluntness delayed his usual reply. It was to be expected. The two of them were alike in so many ways, after all. Both were boars, unmarried, almost thirty, had their own workplace, and were savvy around children. In many ways, a perfect match. However, they were entirely different also, in ways Rogel could not let her know.

The blacksmith only managed a reply after three clearings of his throat. “I’ll have to consider it, madam. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what to teach in the first place. And I’m sure your classes are excellent as they are! The children need to behave, is all.”

Over the course of his reply, the smile that once dominated Annabel’s face faded into the briefest frown. After eyeing him up and down, some good humour returned to her face. “The invitation stands, Herr Rogel,” she said before turning towards the door.

“Forgive me,” the blacksmith said, stiff once more, “I meant no disrespect. Please, may I offer the lady a drink of water?”

Only Annabel’s face turned to answer. “Alas, sir, I have a class awaiting me. And you have a business to run as well, do you not?”

“Ah, of course, that’s true.”

Her smile widened for a spell then she returned to her walk. “Good day to you.”

“And to you!”

Not a wink after the door closed, Rogel fell onto his seat again and found his heart racing. At that point, thoughts he had struggled to stave off began catching up to him. It was that day by the Reverse Waterfall. What happened that day he could not tell the children, or their parents, or Frau Annabel. More than that however, the one person he wished to keep away from that memory was himself.

“Don’t think about it,” he whispered. “Don’t remember him. Don’t hope!” And repeated those phrases ever faster.

His well practised chant worked even on nights of utmost loneliness. He would not dream, or recall, or think about it. But Rogel found no such respite that morning. Maybe it was the tale itself, maybe it was how long he had avoided that memory in particular, or perhaps Frau Annabel’s ineffective courting evoked greater solitude. Regardless of the reason, he slumped on his seat and drew his hand to his heart. He thought about that evening. He remembered Wilford.

We had arrived at the inn shortly after parting with the scholar. Aside from our payment, our patron insisted on covering an overnight fee for us all. At the inn’s two private rooms, no less. Alexandra and Daveth showed no surprise when Wilford announced he would share one with me. At the time, they knew more about us than I was comfortable with. Now, I’m grateful they condoned every such occasion.

After such a quick mission, the buck and I had the room to ourselves before sunset. We walked into a two bed room that, though not spacious, had been outfitted with wardrobes, clean sets of sleeping robes, jugs of water and a chamber pot behind a wooden screen. While I set my weapons and pouches inside one of the closets, Wilford tossed his apparel on the way to the bed he claimed as his. He collapsed chest-first onto it, which made me laugh until I realised I would have to be the one to pick up after him.

“Tired?” I said. “That was one of the dullest jobs we have ever had.”

Wilford didn’t even raise his head to respond. “To you, perhaps. That wonderful sight tired me out through sheer excitement. I am happy, but tired.”

A grin took over my muzzle for an instant. I had seen that excitement of his back at the Reverse Waterfall. The glint in his eyes and the snorting chuckle that brought him shame comprised a happier memory than the waterfall itself. That exhilaration also made him careless, made him forget what we can and cannot do around others. Having to deny him the affection he desired wounded me even if I was right to do so.

“I’ll remember it forever,” Wilford said, sitting properly on the bed. “An upside of being a wanderer, I suppose.”

“Still don’t care for this life, do you?” I said.

“Alas, no, dear friend,” the buck responded after a sigh. “It is where my talents lie and the only life I know, but a taste for it may never arise in me. What of you? Certainly, you do not wish to be a sellsword for the rest of your days.”

By the time the question came, I had begun collecting his mess and needed a moment to formulate a reply. “Probably not. It is good money, but I can’t imagine doing this once I’m grey like Daveth.” I put his items on the wardrobe nearest to him and then scratched the stubble on my chin. “I suppose I could resume my work on the forge. Have I told you I was taught some blacksmithing as a lad? A decent alternative, perhaps.”

From the corner of my eye I saw him let out a sigh. “Then maybe,” he cut his speech short. Before curiosity could fully drive me to a question, he patted the bedding beside him. “Come hither.”

I lumbered towards him, failing to hide the smile his beckoning brought. Before I could fulfil his request, my resilience failed me. Before the bed, hunched over him, I took him by the cheeks and connected our muzzles into a kiss. Wilford, in tow, didn’t react to my move but rather followed it through. He had expected my impatience and welcomed it with his own excitement. My tongue delved into him, where it found an eager dance partner.

The buck did not remain mere recipient for long. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and drew me down until I knelt before him. Between our smacks of affection, he let a quick huff into my mouth. I knew what it meant. Whenever we kissed so, my instinct was to close my eyes, a fact my partner had decided was comical. He had asked me if I feared what I could see if I did or if I found his countenance not as attractive as my words suggested. My replies never seemed to please him, moreover, when I did open my eyes in response, his delight often grew as to break contact. And still I did it, for I loved what I saw.

What bliss lingered as I watched him laugh soon turned into guilty pangs. “Forgive me,” I said. “For not doing this back at the waterfall.”

“Worry not,” he responded. “You were right to do so. Who knows if our benefactor would have been as accepting as the rest of our companions.”

“Right. Still, it would’ve made for a good memory.”

“It is a grand memory as it is.” His embrace tightened until our foreheads touched. “If you desire to create a better memory, though, I have an idea.”

His words conveyed hint, invitation and command, fiery desire carried by serene suggestion. I had no wont for such softness and charged towards him with longing and lust. Wilford responded with a docile embrace.

I was nuzzling and kissing his neck before I even landed above him on the bedding. The furniture creaked and buckled in a way that would have bothered me if I was in the right mind. At that moment, however, each time my mouth made contact with his fur, the deer responded with a new, delectable sound. His neck was his weak spot, a fact he wouldn’t even let me tease him about. Furthermore, he forbade me from even touching there outside of such occasions. So his whimpers, sighs, and the occasional, timid moan, told me to keep my muzzle where it was.

Alas, mightier thirst pulled away from there. My mouth went to the centre of his collarbone as his arms wandered on my back. His shirt became an obstacle to my descent and for a moment I considered tearing each wooden button between me and more Wilford. But my second thought went to the state of the rest of his garments. If one of our companions were to find his shirt torn that way, what would they think? Afraid of their lack of tolerance and with great pain, I broke away from him to undo his shirt.

I could feel his gaze on me as I untied each of the large, wooden buttons of his shirt, but I gave him little more than a glance. What little I saw of him made my face tingle and turn away. His untroubled expression and its angle against the setting sun created a glorious image. That such beauty, such ephemeral perfection was directed at me, left me with immature embarrassment. I wish I had given him these words instead.

Three wooden knocks reached my ears and I flinched away from Wilford. After little more than a glance back at the buck, he started pushing me away. Once I was on my feet, my vision went to the door then back to the buck one last time. Standing up himself, he motioned me to go meet our visitor.

On the way there, I patted and stroke my hair and garments, lest a trace of dishevelment hinted at what we were doing. I turned the knob and opened the door hoping I looked presentable.

A restrained snort fled my snout when I saw who it was. “Hello, Alexandra,” I said.

The cat answered first with an arched eyebrow. “Hello you,” was her second reply. “Is everything in order?”

Whether stiff posture, lack of tidiness or another kind of rigidity led her to ask that question, I thought relaxing on the door frame would ease her doubts. The cat cocked her head before I even gave her a response.

“Everything’s fine,” I answered. “We were only– I was just– I mean–”

“Please, tell her, Rogel,” Wilford’s voice echoed from inside the room. “This is but a minor embarrassment.”

My whole frame went back to the room. In part, I sought to confirm if he truly meant to reveal what we were doing, however I was also curious as to why his voice resounded so distantly. In the opening I left, the feline peered inside as well. We had equally wide eyes when we saw it.

“Indeed,” Wilford said from behind the wooden partition. “I am afraid you have caught me occupied in the middle of most embarrassing duty.”

Alexandra had furred brows when she turned to me and I did my best to conceal my own surprise with a shrug.

“May I request some privacy, my lady,” he continued. “I fear your company may stall this somewhat.”

In tow, the cat offered me the same concerned look again before she shook her head. “All right,” she said. “Spare me further details.”

Alexandra returned to the corridor and I followed her, closing the door behind me afterwards. This time, I couldn’t contain a sigh of relief or the chuckle that followed.

“Forgive him,” I said.

Any hint of toughness left her expression when she let out a snicker of her own. “There’s nothing to forgive,” Alexandra said, arms crossed.

“Then, was there something you wanted to say?”

“Right. The old man wanted me to tell you two we will be dining downstairs in about an hour, not long after sunset. Will you be joining us?”

It was my turn to cock my head and furrow my eyebrows. “Of course. What else would we be doing?”

Alexandra’s green eyes narrowed, but her wry grin remained. “Nothing, I suppose,” she finally said after a pause. “I was sent for confirmation, that’s all.” Before she had dotted that sentence, she had turned towards their room, deeper into the building. “See you in an hour.”

Despite her calm gait, by the time she finished talking, the cat was too far for me to respond. Back in the room, I let out an unbridled sigh. When I was done, I saw the deer standing by his bed.

“What was it?” Wilford said.

I shook my head. “We’re having dinner in an hour. Daveth sent her to confirm our presence.”

With his arms crossed, the buck sat on the bed again. “Very well,” he said with a sigh.

“What is it?”

“I find it vexing. Even with a private room, we have little privacy.”

With a chortle, I began the walk to my own bed. “Don’t blame her. She meant nothing by it.”

“I know.” Wilford reclined himself on the bed. “But, do you also wish it was not so? That we could do all we wanted without disturbance?”

“Yes,” I said, taking a seat in my own bed, across from him. “But that would necessitate a house. I doubt anyone would sell one to people like us.”

“Right.” His gaze fled from me. “What if they did not know?”

The buck’s imaginative tone grew more tangible and serious with each word. Given what he had said that very evening, digesting his question made my brows wrinkle.

“Wilford,” I said, looking away and crossing my arms.

“Rogel,” he mimicked my tone as he sat up, “I have thoughts. A plan, even. Would you hear me?”

It took me longer than I’m willing to admit for me to reply. I feared not the promise in his words, but rather the intention they could carry. In all my effort to accept who I was, who I still am, I came to the conclusion some normalcy would remain forever out of reach. Never to wed, or have children of my own, or retire to a calm life with the one I love. I had accepted these as the nature of living in this world. If an alternative existed, then, what meaning lied in all the suffering I withstood to arrive at such acceptance? That’s what I feared the most.

But the beautiful creature’s gaze never wavered. Wilford spoke and looked at me as if he knew those thoughts ran through my mind. Like he had seen the path I took, understood it, and rejected it for the plan he was about to unleash on me. Even so, heart racing, arms crossed and unable to look at him, I couldn’t deny him.

“Alright,” I answered at last. “Let’s hear it.”

His face lit up as the last traces of sunlight left the room. “I thank you, Rogel.”

The buck moved quickly to light the bedside candle. A flick of his fingers and a spark of magic returned orange tinges to the room. Unlike the thorough sun, the candle was only enough for me to see the determined glare on his face.

“You are right,” the buck began, “no one, from Álvora to the Gaea Mountains, would sell a home to two unwed, unrelated men, let alone participate in their community. However, what if they did not know they were welcoming someone like us?”

I snorted. “You propose deception, then?”

The deer smirked. “Not anymore than we already engage in. In truth, and you may have to forgive me for keeping this from you, in our time together, there were some who have discerned what we are.” As if expecting the shock on my face, he raised a palm and prevented further protest from me. “Mercifully, those who have approached me have been either like us or accepting, but concerned folk. My curiosity began there. How could they live these peaceful lives? Can you guess how? It is simple, really.”

“As I said, deception,” I responded, looking right at him again. “I imagine they use some stealth in order to keep others from finding out.”

“Indeed, deception is involved, but that would not suffice. Suspicion alone can be enough to create a crowd and oust them.” He looked away for a moment before letting out a smiling sigh. “These people like us, do you know what they were? Teachers, merchants, hunters, officials, smiths. All of them had a place in their towns.”

My eyes widened. “A place where their absence would be sorely missed.”

“Precisely!” Wilford chuckled. “They have become integral to their communities and now, even if they attract misgivings, others will rush to their defence, be it out of mercy or interest.”

The idea made me let out a chortle of my own. Being proven wrong seemed to rouse and quiet most anxieties I had at the same time. That this idea was built on fact rather than ethereal hope alone kept my smile wide. Still, a matter brought my brows together.

“What of us?” I said. “How would we gain this place in a community?”

Wilford’s gaze went to the empty room once more. The darkness did little to keep his expression from me, however. I watched his smile decline into a mellow grin.

“These people,” he replied, “they have achieved this through building trust in these places. They have opened stores, helped in dire situations, and participated in their culture. They lived among them, for years and years.”

Years and years. Those words repeated in my mind until I knew Wilford’s plan better than he did. “I can work a forge,” was all I said.

The deer’s face dove deeper into darkness. “I could not ask that of you, Rogel,” he said in an infirm tone. “I could not ask you to interrupt this life for a gamble at one you may not even desire. Still.”

His words stopped but my mind raced. I saw myself on a path adjacent to my own. I leased an old forge in a town somewhere in the Continent. My work began weak as the wisdom of blacksmithing returned to me. In time, however, I armed the local guards and provided the townsfolk with nails and furniture. A sudden flood destroyed one of the homes, and I was there helping them rebuild. In time, they let me into their homes for the Winter festivities and I repaid them in the Spring ones. At last, some day, years and years thence, I welcomed Wilford into our own home, where no one pestered us. He was a hunter, or a harpist like he had always dreamed. We were happy.

Back at that room, though, all I saw was the buck trying his best to hide his reaction to a response I was yet to give. I could have given him the unsure reply that lied on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I moved away from my seat and knelt before him as I had earlier in the evening. Neither that or the hand I placed on his thigh brought his face back to the light.

“It can’t be somewhere too cold,” I said. The speed of his face returning to light startled me, but a clearing of my throat steadied my voice. “I know you love snow, but I just can’t live somewhere with snowstorms.”

Traces of pain lingered on his face for a while, and unsteady eyes told me he still struggled to quite discern the implication. I knew the exact moment he understood, for when he did, his muzzle gained a pained smile.

“And,” he stuttered, “it has to be close to a lake, or the sea! So you can still go fishing.”

Wilford’s words made me clench my jaw. “And it has to have someone to teach you the harp!”

“And, and, I– Oh, Rogel!”

He fell onto me with another hug. And he continued speaking, only emotion made his words indiscernible. As tears wet the shoulder of my shirt, I returned the embrace. I ran my hands through his back and hair, but more than consoling him, I see now what I really wanted. All the times I didn’t give him the affection he deserved (justified or not) I wanted to compensate for them. I’m glad cowardice didn’t stop me that time.

Our grasp melted into another kiss, where we tasted in each other a different sort of passion. Premature longing seemed to guide both of us, the idea that some day, not too distant from then, we wouldn’t have each other to hold. For years and years.

It pained me to pull away from his mouth. “How long?” I said.

“How long what?” Wilford responded after a huff.

“How long would it take, I mean. For me to find a place in a community and become irreplaceable?”

The confusion on his face slowly gave way to unease. “I would not know,” he answered. “They said years, but never gave me specific periods.” I figure he saw the colour drain from my face, for he continued with a smile. “For a man as personable as you, not long, I imagine.”

In response to that, I grasped his palm and my expression brightened. My fingers caressed his for a while before either of us said anything. Only then did I realise how much of a commitment that was. In allusions, I had just agreed to a design that would take years to accomplish, and its outcome could affect the rest of my life. It was equal to betrothal! To my own surprise, this did not shake my resolve. At that moment, I would agree to deceive the Emperor for a peaceful lifetime with Wilford. Nevertheless, these could not remain suggestions. As is with the bridal vow, we required words and actions.

I stepped away from him and met a confused scowl. “Don’t move,” I said.

The buck didn’t protest with his voice, but I could feel an inquisitive gaze on my back as I moved into the dark room. I went to the pile I had made of his mess and brought forth one of his knives. When I turned around, that confusion only seemed to rise, so with a chuckle, I yielded the suspense.

“In my hometown,” I began, “hair’s got great importance. You wash a person’s hair in a sacred pool to bless them, you make a wish and refuse to trim it until it comes true, and you offer it as proof of your commitment.” I knelt back down with a grunt. “When you trade a lock of your hair with someone, you’re making a vow. You give up an important piece of yourself and receive an equally important piece of that person.”

I didn’t wait for a response from him. My left hand travelled to the back of my head and tugged on a lock of my hair, which was longer then. The blade in my right hand met those strands and sliced them off. Bringing it to the candle’s light, the significance of the gesture returned to me. Even when I lived there, I seldom cared about these customs, but holding that piece of myself before the one I loved made me understand.

“Like so,” I continued. “You can do this with friends and family, but most often it’s done betw–”

The weight of Wilford’s blade left my grasp like an interjection. In a speed I will never match, the buck took the knife and mimicked my movements. Not a blink after I had stopped talking, I was offered blonde locks of hair.

“Three years,” he said in a teary tone. “I shall make you wait for three years. After that, I will join you in the beautiful home you will build for us with riches to keep us fed until we are grey. This I vow.”

Taking each other’s offerings broke the last of my composure. I sobbed as I held his gift close to my chest. “I love you, Wilford,” I pushed out between gasps.

He jumped onto me and pushed us to the ground. “I love you too.”We had arrived at the inn shortly after parting with the scholar. Aside from our payment, our patron insisted on covering an overnight fee for us all. At the inn’s two private rooms, no less. Alexandra and Daveth showed no surprise when Wilford announced he would share one with me. At the time, they knew more about us than I was comfortable with. Now, I’m grateful they condoned every such occasion.

After such a quick mission, the buck and I had the room to ourselves before sunset. We walked into a two bed room that, though not spacious, had been outfitted with wardrobes, clean sets of sleeping robes, jugs of water and a chamber pot behind a wooden screen. While I set my weapons and pouches inside one of the closets, Wilford tossed his apparel on the way to the bed he claimed as his. He collapsed chest-first onto it, which made me laugh until I realised I would have to be the one to pick up after him.

“Tired?” I said. “That was one of the dullest jobs we have ever had.”

Wilford didn’t even raise his head to respond. “To you, perhaps. That wonderful sight tired me out through sheer excitement. I am happy, but tired.”

A grin took over my muzzle for an instant. I had seen that excitement of his back at the Reverse Waterfall. The glint in his eyes and the snorting chuckle that brought him shame comprised a happier memory than the waterfall itself. That exhilaration also made him careless, made him forget what we can and cannot do around others. Having to deny him the affection he desired wounded me even if I was right to do so.

“I’ll remember it forever,” Wilford said, sitting properly on the bed. “An upside of being a wanderer, I suppose.”

“Still don’t care for this life, do you?” I said.

“Alas, no, dear friend,” the buck responded after a sigh. “It is where my talents lie and the only life I know, but a taste for it may never arise in me. What of you? Certainly, you do not wish to be a sellsword for the rest of your days.”

By the time the question came, I had begun collecting his mess and needed a moment to formulate a reply. “Probably not. It is good money, but I can’t imagine doing this once I’m grey like Daveth.” I put his items on the wardrobe nearest to him and then scratched the stubble on my chin. “I suppose I could resume my work on the forge. Have I told you I was taught some blacksmithing as a lad? A decent alternative, perhaps.”

From the corner of my eye I saw him let out a sigh. “Then maybe,” he cut his speech short. Before curiosity could fully drive me to a question, he patted the bedding beside him. “Come hither.”

I lumbered towards him, failing to hide the smile his beckoning brought. Before I could fulfil his request, my resilience failed me. Before the bed, hunched over him, I took him by the cheeks and connected our muzzles into a kiss. Wilford, in tow, didn’t react to my move but rather followed it through. He had expected my impatience and welcomed it with his own excitement. My tongue delved into him, where it found an eager dance partner.

The buck did not remain mere recipient for long. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and drew me down until I knelt before him. Between our smacks of affection, he let a quick huff into my mouth. I knew what it meant. Whenever we kissed so, my instinct was to close my eyes, a fact my partner had decided was comical. He had asked me if I feared what I could see if I did or if I found his countenance not as attractive as my words suggested. My replies never seemed to please him, moreover, when I did open my eyes in response, his delight often grew as to break contact. And still I did it, for I loved what I saw.

What bliss lingered as I watched him laugh soon turned into guilty pangs. “Forgive me,” I said. “For not doing this back at the waterfall.”

“Worry not,” he responded. “You were right to do so. Who knows if our benefactor would have been as accepting as the rest of our companions.”

“Right. Still, it would’ve made for a good memory.”

“It is a grand memory as it is.” His embrace tightened until our foreheads touched. “If you desire to create a better memory, though, I have an idea.”

His words conveyed hint, invitation and command, fiery desire carried by serene suggestion. I had no wont for such softness and charged towards him with longing and lust. Wilford responded with a docile embrace.

I was nuzzling and kissing his neck before I even landed above him on the bedding. The furniture creaked and buckled in a way that would have bothered me if I was in the right mind. At that moment, however, each time my mouth made contact with his fur, the deer responded with a new, delectable sound. His neck was his weak spot, a fact he wouldn’t even let me tease him about. Furthermore, he forbade me from even touching there outside of such occasions. So his whimpers, sighs, and the occasional, timid moan, told me to keep my muzzle where it was.

Alas, mightier thirst pulled away from there. My mouth went to the centre of his collarbone as his arms wandered on my back. His shirt became an obstacle to my descent and for a moment I considered tearing each wooden button between me and more Wilford. But my second thought went to the state of the rest of his garments. If one of our companions were to find his shirt torn that way, what would they think? Afraid of their lack of tolerance and with great pain, I broke away from him to undo his shirt.

I could feel his gaze on me as I untied each of the large, wooden buttons of his shirt, but I gave him little more than a glance. What little I saw of him made my face tingle and turn away. His untroubled expression and its angle against the setting sun created a glorious image. That such beauty, such ephemeral perfection was directed at me, left me with immature embarrassment. I wish I had given him these words instead.

Three wooden knocks reached my ears and I flinched away from Wilford. After little more than a glance back at the buck, he started pushing me away. Once I was on my feet, my vision went to the door then back to the buck one last time. Standing up himself, he motioned me to go meet our visitor.

On the way there, I patted and stroke my hair and garments, lest a trace of dishevelment hinted at what we were doing. I turned the knob and opened the door hoping I looked presentable.

A restrained snort fled my snout when I saw who it was. “Hello, Alexandra,” I said.

The cat answered first with an arched eyebrow. “Hello you,” was her second reply. “Is everything in order?”

Whether stiff posture, lack of tidiness or another kind of rigidity led her to ask that question, I thought relaxing on the door frame would ease her doubts. The cat cocked her head before I even gave her a response.

“Everything’s fine,” I answered. “We were only– I was just– I mean–”

“Please, tell her, Rogel,” Wilford’s voice echoed from inside the room. “This is but a minor embarrassment.”

My whole frame went back to the room. In part, I sought to confirm if he truly meant to reveal what we were doing, however I was also curious as to why his voice resounded so distantly. In the opening I left, the feline peered inside as well. We had equally wide eyes when we saw it.

“Indeed,” Wilford said from behind the wooden partition. “I am afraid you have caught me occupied in the middle of most embarrassing duty.”

Alexandra had furred brows when she turned to me and I did my best to conceal my own surprise with a shrug.

“May I request some privacy, my lady,” he continued. “I fear your company may stall this somewhat.”

In tow, the cat offered me the same concerned look again before she shook her head. “All right,” she said. “Spare me further details.”

Alexandra returned to the corridor and I followed her, closing the door behind me afterwards. This time, I couldn’t contain a sigh of relief or the chuckle that followed.

“Forgive him,” I said.

Any hint of toughness left her expression when she let out a snicker of her own. “There’s nothing to forgive,” Alexandra said, arms crossed.

“Then, was there something you wanted to say?”

“Right. The old man wanted me to tell you two we will be dining downstairs in about an hour, not long after sunset. Will you be joining us?”

It was my turn to cock my head and furrow my eyebrows. “Of course. What else would we be doing?”

Alexandra’s green eyes narrowed, but her wry grin remained. “Nothing, I suppose,” she finally said after a pause. “I was sent for confirmation, that’s all.” Before she had dotted that sentence, she had turned towards their room, deeper into the building. “See you in an hour.”

Despite her calm gait, by the time she finished talking, the cat was too far for me to respond. Back in the room, I let out an unbridled sigh. When I was done, I saw the deer standing by his bed.

“What was it?” Wilford said.

I shook my head. “We’re having dinner in an hour. Daveth sent her to confirm our presence.”

With his arms crossed, the buck sat on the bed again. “Very well,” he said with a sigh.

“What is it?”

“I find it vexing. Even with a private room, we have little privacy.”

With a chortle, I began the walk to my own bed. “Don’t blame her. She meant nothing by it.”

“I know.” Wilford reclined himself on the bed. “But, do you also wish it was not so? That we could do all we wanted without disturbance?”

“Yes,” I said, taking a seat in my own bed, across from him. “But that would necessitate a house. I doubt anyone would sell one to people like us.”

“Right.” His gaze fled from me. “What if they did not know?”

The buck’s imaginative tone grew more tangible and serious with each word. Given what he had said that very evening, digesting his question made my brows wrinkle.

“Wilford,” I said, looking away and crossing my arms.

“Rogel,” he mimicked my tone as he sat up, “I have thoughts. A plan, even. Would you hear me?”

It took me longer than I’m willing to admit for me to reply. I feared not the promise in his words, but rather the intention they could carry. In all my effort to accept who I was, who I still am, I came to the conclusion some normalcy would remain forever out of reach. Never to wed, or have children of my own, or retire to a calm life with the one I love. I had accepted these as the nature of living in this world. If an alternative existed, then, what meaning lied in all the suffering I withstood to arrive at such acceptance? That’s what I feared the most.

But the beautiful creature’s gaze never wavered. Wilford spoke and looked at me as if he knew those thoughts ran through my mind. Like he had seen the path I took, understood it, and rejected it for the plan he was about to unleash on me. Even so, heart racing, arms crossed and unable to look at him, I couldn’t deny him.

“Alright,” I answered at last. “Let’s hear it.”

His face lit up as the last traces of sunlight left the room. “I thank you, Rogel.”

The buck moved quickly to light the bedside candle. A flick of his fingers and a spark of magic returned orange tinges to the room. Unlike the thorough sun, the candle was only enough for me to see the determined glare on his face.

“You are right,” the buck began, “no one, from Álvora to the Gaea Mountains, would sell a home to two unwed, unrelated men, let alone participate in their community. However, what if they did not know they were welcoming someone like us?”

I snorted. “You propose deception, then?”

The deer smirked. “Not anymore than we already engage in. In truth, and you may have to forgive me for keeping this from you, in our time together, there were some who have discerned what we are.” As if expecting the shock on my face, he raised a palm and prevented further protest from me. “Mercifully, those who have approached me have been either like us or accepting, but concerned folk. My curiosity began there. How could they live these peaceful lives? Can you guess how? It is simple, really.”

“As I said, deception,” I responded, looking right at him again. “I imagine they use some stealth in order to keep others from finding out.”

“Indeed, deception is involved, but that would not suffice. Suspicion alone can be enough to create a crowd and oust them.” He looked away for a moment before letting out a smiling sigh. “These people like us, do you know what they were? Teachers, merchants, hunters, officials, smiths. All of them had a place in their towns.”

My eyes widened. “A place where their absence would be sorely missed.”

“Precisely!” Wilford chuckled. “They have become integral to their communities and now, even if they attract misgivings, others will rush to their defence, be it out of mercy or interest.”

The idea made me let out a chortle of my own. Being proven wrong seemed to rouse and quiet most anxieties I had at the same time. That this idea was built on fact rather than ethereal hope alone kept my smile wide. Still, a matter brought my brows together.

“What of us?” I said. “How would we gain this place in a community?”

Wilford’s gaze went to the empty room once more. The darkness did little to keep his expression from me, however. I watched his smile decline into a mellow grin.

“These people,” he replied, “they have achieved this through building trust in these places. They have opened stores, helped in dire situations, and participated in their culture. They lived among them, for years and years.”

Years and years. Those words repeated in my mind until I knew Wilford’s plan better than he did. “I can work a forge,” was all I said.

The deer’s face dove deeper into darkness. “I could not ask that of you, Rogel,” he said in an infirm tone. “I could not ask you to interrupt this life for a gamble at one you may not even desire. Still.”

His words stopped but my mind raced. I saw myself on a path adjacent to my own. I leased an old forge in a town somewhere in the Continent. My work began weak as the wisdom of blacksmithing returned to me. In time, however, I armed the local guards and provided the townsfolk with nails and furniture. A sudden flood destroyed one of the homes, and I was there helping them rebuild. In time, they let me into their homes for the Winter festivities and I repaid them in the Spring ones. At last, some day, years and years thence, I welcomed Wilford into our own home, where no one pestered us. He was a hunter, or a harpist like he had always dreamed. We were happy.

Back at that room, though, all I saw was the buck trying his best to hide his reaction to a response I was yet to give. I could have given him the unsure reply that lied on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I moved away from my seat and knelt before him as I had earlier in the evening. Neither that or the hand I placed on his thigh brought his face back to the light.

“It can’t be somewhere too cold,” I said. The speed of his face returning to light startled me, but a clearing of my throat steadied my voice. “I know you love snow, but I just can’t live somewhere with snowstorms.”

Traces of pain lingered on his face for a while, and unsteady eyes told me he still struggled to quite discern the implication. I knew the exact moment he understood, for when he did, his muzzle gained a pained smile.

“And,” he stuttered, “it has to be close to a lake, or the sea! So you can still go fishing.”

Wilford’s words made me clench my jaw. “And it has to have someone to teach you the harp!”

“And, and, I– Oh, Rogel!”

He fell onto me with another hug. And he continued speaking, only emotion made his words indiscernible. As tears wet the shoulder of my shirt, I returned the embrace. I ran my hands through his back and hair, but more than consoling him, I see now what I really wanted. All the times I didn’t give him the affection he deserved (justified or not) I wanted to compensate for them. I’m glad cowardice didn’t stop me that time.

Our grasp melted into another kiss, where we tasted in each other a different sort of passion. Premature longing seemed to guide both of us, the idea that some day, not too distant from then, we wouldn’t have each other to hold. For years and years.

It pained me to pull away from his mouth. “How long?” I said.

“How long what?” Wilford responded after a huff.

“How long would it take, I mean. For me to find a place in a community and become irreplaceable?”

The confusion on his face slowly gave way to unease. “I would not know,” he answered. “They said years, but never gave me specific periods.” I figure he saw the colour drain from my face, for he continued with a smile. “For a man as personable as you, not long, I imagine.”

In response to that, I grasped his palm and my expression brightened. My fingers caressed his for a while before either of us said anything. Only then did I realise how much of a commitment that was. In allusions, I had just agreed to a design that would take years to accomplish, and its outcome could affect the rest of my life. It was equal to betrothal! To my own surprise, this did not shake my resolve. At that moment, I would agree to deceive the Emperor for a peaceful lifetime with Wilford. Nevertheless, these could not remain suggestions. As is with the bridal vow, we required words and actions.

I stepped away from him and met a confused scowl. “Don’t move,” I said.

The buck didn’t protest with his voice, but I could feel an inquisitive gaze on my back as I moved into the dark room. I went to the pile I had made of his mess and brought forth one of his knives. When I turned around, that confusion only seemed to rise, so with a chuckle, I yielded the suspense.

“In my hometown,” I began, “hair’s got great importance. You wash a person’s hair in a sacred pool to bless them, you make a wish and refuse to trim it until it comes true, and you offer it as proof of your commitment.” I knelt back down with a grunt. “When you trade a lock of your hair with someone, you’re making a vow. You give up an important piece of yourself and receive an equally important piece of that person.”

I didn’t wait for a response from him. My left hand travelled to the back of my head and tugged on a lock of my hair, which was longer then. The blade in my right hand met those strands and sliced them off. Bringing it to the candle’s light, the significance of the gesture returned to me. Even when I lived there, I seldom cared about these customs, but holding that piece of myself before the one I loved made me understand.

“Like so,” I continued. “You can do this with friends and family, but most often it’s done betw–”

The weight of Wilford’s blade left my grasp like an interjection. In a speed I will never match, the buck took the knife and mimicked my movements. Not a blink after I had stopped talking, I was offered blonde locks of hair.

“Three years,” he said in a teary tone. “I shall make you wait for three years. After that, I will join you in the beautiful home you will build for us with riches to keep us fed until we are grey. This I vow.”

Taking each other’s offerings broke the last of my composure. I sobbed as I held his gift close to my chest. “I love you, Wilford,” I pushed out between gasps.

He jumped onto me and pushed us to the ground. “I love you too.”

The boar’s heart burnt a hole in his shirt and silent tears flowed through old riverbeds. Rogel dared not remember more. The hurt he had incurred on himself had satisfied him into calm. And still, he dove into the secret pocket sewn on the inside of his shirt. Those callused fingers opened to reveal what they always did: strands of hair, still golden, bound by a leather band.

Rogel shook at the sight. “You’re two years late,” he whispered. “Where are you!”

The offering had no answers to give; it never did. The question only forced the boar’s mind to conjure replies instead. Perhaps Wilford had been defeated during a job, an idea that opened several possibilities. Imprisonment for a crime he did not commit. A false client that captured him and sold him into slavery. His family could have found him and forcefully brought him to his homeland. Or, simplest of all, he was no longer in this world.

Such thoughts made Rogel clench on Wilford’s memento, which always served to help to steady himself. The truth of the matter was that he did not know where or how the buck was. And if the worst of his thoughts were true, that lock of blonde hair had more value to him than the burning heart on his chest. That sort of treasure is not to be carried with fear or anger, but with love.

And so, he put the memento back where it was and stood up. Whatever Wilford’s fate was, the boar had other responsibilities. He grinned at that thought. The buck’s plan had been successful; Rogel had a community that needed him.

And so he traded the darkness of the forge for the brightness outside. He took a long breath that brought in more calm than air. As his heart finally settled, he found himself happy to have remembered that day, to have remembered Wilford. He flipped the plaque on his door to “Open” and started his day over an hour late.The boar’s heart burnt a hole in his shirt and silent tears flowed through old riverbeds. Rogel dared not remember more. The hurt he had incurred on himself had satisfied him into calm. And still, he dove into the secret pocket sewn on the inside of his shirt. Those callused fingers opened to reveal what they always did: strands of hair, still golden, bound by a leather band.

Rogel shook at the sight. “You’re two years late,” he whispered. “Where are you!”

The offering had no answers to give; it never did. The question only forced the boar’s mind to conjure replies instead. Perhaps Wilford had been defeated during a job, an idea that opened several possibilities. Imprisonment for a crime he did not commit. A false client that captured him and sold him into slavery. His family could have found him and forcefully brought him to his homeland. Or, simplest of all, he was no longer in this world.

Such thoughts made Rogel clench on Wilford’s memento, which always served to help to steady himself. The truth of the matter was that he did not know where or how the buck was. And if the worst of his thoughts were true, that lock of blonde hair had more value to him than the burning heart on his chest. That sort of treasure is not to be carried with fear or anger, but with love.

And so, he put the memento back where it was and stood up. Whatever Wilford’s fate was, the boar had other responsibilities. He grinned at that thought. The buck’s plan had been successful; Rogel had a community that needed him.

And so he traded the darkness of the forge for the brightness outside. He took a long breath that brought in more calm than air. As his heart finally settled, he found himself happy to have remembered that day, to have remembered Wilford. He flipped the plaque on his door to “Open” and started his day over an hour late.