Page 8 of Tossing the Caber

“Lady Sure-of-Foot,” he says with a hasty bow. “I’m Rodney Lushroot.”

Something isn’t right, but Beacon’s parents keep it together. “Lovely to meet you, at last,” Maura says. Donlan murmurs the same.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Rodney says. “Laurel, my son, he is… He was feeling unwell. My deepest apologies for his lateness, but I’ll ensure he arrives shortly.”

Beacon doesn’t know if this information calms him or further agitates him. Now he’ll have to wait the entire damn ceremony, wondering. He examines Rodney as the three parental units talk, trying to imagine what features Laurel might have as the man’s son. Beacon fails to produce a face, though—not anything offensive, but nothing he finds attractive, either. He’ll just have to… wait.

Fuckingwait.

And he does. At some point, Rodney disappears, leaving Beacon to stand silently beside his parents for the duration of the ceremony, ignoring every one of their concerned looks.

It’s not until they file out of the Shrine grounds, the crowd already chatting excitedly, that Beacon sees Rodney again. However, his eyes are drawn to the person standing beside him.

He looks like no elf Beacon has ever seen. Delicate, birdlike features, flushed cheeks, and loose hair ruffled by the breeze. His clothing is similarly rumpled, far from the elaborate formal wear others opted for. But the disheveled state is far from the most striking part of his appearance.

“Is that him?” Beacon asks so quietly, Maura doesn’t hear, but Donlan nods cautiously.

“It is,” he confirms.

Quite possibly the most interesting elf Beacon has ever laid eyes upon.

Laurel is petite, a head shorter than Beacon, forehead level with his chin—the perfect height for ghosting a kiss. His untamed hair is as black as his father’s, except so long, it passes his midsection, falling in a curtain around his shoulders when he bows.

“Please forgive my lateness,” Laurel gasps, out of breath.

Behind him, Beacon spots movement and is shocked to identify atailsprouting at least a yard from the small of his back, wide at the base and thinning toward the tip.

And his skin is the most peculiar shade ofpink—everything from his clenching hands and delicate wrists to that restlessly whipping tail, all the way up his slender neck to his darkened cheeks, freckled with flecks of green that catch the sun. His fingertips are ink-smudged—dainty, but when Beacon accepts the hand Laurel offers him, he feels calluses.

What does he do? Calligraphy, music?

Ideally, Beacon would have more time to observe him, but proper etiquette demands he act, and the eyes of their parents drilling holes into the side of his head doesn’t allow for flexibility. He bends over Laurel’s hand, pressing a gentle, polite kiss against his knuckles. “Laurel,” he murmurs, lips lingering against the elf’s skin. Surprisingly, he regrets having to pull away immediately, although he’s not certain what else he would have done. There will be plenty of time to figure it out, considering their impending marriage. “I’m Beacon Sure-of-Foot. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Laurel’s hand carries a fragrance, one with an herbal tinge that sits strongly in Beacon’s nostrils. One of their parents speaks, but Beacon doesn’t catch it, because his lips have begun to tingle.

“The pleasure is mine,” Laurel answers, blinking up with wide, amber eyes. His shoulders hunch in as if he’s trying tomake himself smaller, which is absurd—he’s already quite narrow. Beacon wants to lift Laurel’s chin from where it’s pressed against his chest, but he holds back.

This is not what he expected. It’s not how the scene played out in his head, a miserable betrayal from parents who knew better. Giving him another opportunity to reject a spouse? Surely, he would have without a second of deeper consideration.

Now, he finds he doesn’t need to be forced to consider Laurel. His future husband is stunning, leaving Beacon curious. Still not happy, no, butintrigued. Desirous.

Fuck and damn, butwhyhave his lips gone numb? This can’t be what sudden infatuation feels like. Folks would complain much more about their breath being stolen if it were.

“Beacon?” Laurel asks tentatively. “Are you alright?”

No, clearly not, Beacon thinks but can’t quite say. When he opens his mouth, it’s to draw in much less oxygen than he’s accustomed to. His next gasp is more akin to a fish gulping in dirty pond water.

“What’s wrong with him?” the elder Lushroot demands.

Laurel draws closer, placing a slender hand on Beacon’s elbow, trying to keep him from bowing over. His voice is soft, too soft to be heard over Beacon’s parents’ cries, but what works its way into his senses is thesmell. Beacon staggers out of Laurel’s grasp; the other elf shrinks further in on himself. Unable to talk, Beacon can only gesture, pointing a shaking finger at Laurel’s chest, where he’s clutching the offending hand.

Rodney grabs Laurel by the wrist and pulls him closer for an inspection. His nostrils flare. “What do you have on your hand? It smells like?—”

“It’s just peppermint oil, Papa.” Laurel gestures to the pocket of his borderline-indecently short trousers, whichsports a dark stain. “I spilled a bottle of extract in my hurry.”

Beacon clasps his throat, a ridiculous attempt to stop it from swelling. There’s some fuss, Donlan’s voice rising above the others as he cries, “Beacon is allergic to mint!”

When Rodney begins to berate Laurel for his mistake, Beacon has the peculiar impulse to step between the two, shielding the small elf from that angry voice. But he’s stuck, a wheezing mess, doubling over with his hands on his knees.