6. Dream Treading (I)

“Sachie… You’re making me sound shady,” Avery laughed, uncomfortable. “Anyways, we found our stuff and replenished our supplies. My summon was nowhere to be found, which was fine, there’s a time limit. He could only remain in this plane for so long, what with being an astral entity and all…”

Aalap was quiet.

Avery cleared his throat. “We purloined two horses and rode our way out of Terranea’s cold grip. Sachie’s a scaredy cat, so she rode double with Birger. Poor horse.”

Sachie scoffed. “We were riding with the intent to sell them, so…whatever.”

***

Two days later, the three of them arrived at a valley…

The air was balmy and the sky was a perfect shade of crisp blue—not a cloud in sight.

The meadow itself looked like a painting. Perfect yellow flowers with dashes of violet, peppered with pockets of ponds branching into a slender stream. Never one to marvel at the natural world around him, even Avery couldn’t help but admire from horseback. Of course, Tatra had its beauty, but during his travels the rest of the world had revealed a range of splendor that often surpassed the low clouds over green mountains, and the rocky shores of his birthplace. This meadow, by far, was his favorite.

Birger helped Sachie off their horse and even she appeared moved by the vivid landscape—lips parting, eyes slowly scanning the valley.

The knight gave the horses a gentle stroke and thanked them for their service. Avery dismounted and watched as he led their two horses over to the stream. His gloomy hues in stark contrast with the colorful realm and yet—Avery tilted his head—and yet…

As if feeling his eyes, Birger turned to Avery. A knight, a prince—former, Avery corrected—but indeed he looked the parts. Sword at his hip, stature imposing, the faded glint of what little armor he wore, the threadbare cowl…that smile.

Birger waved Avery over, and as if enchanted, the mage walked, fancying—for but a moment—the man pulling him into his arms.

“You look as if you’re in a daze.”

“Tired is all,” Avery replied.

“A perfect place to rest then. Let’s walk, loosen our hips.”

Avery looked over to Sachie in the distance—already splayed out amongst the flowers, a handkerchief draped over her eyes. He smiled and followed Birger as he parted tall grass with his stride.

“I never tire of nature,” Birger said, his words taking on that particular softness he reserved for when they were alone.

“I’m well aware. I wish I could show you the mountains of Tatra. The air is thin, and the land is rather rugged, but I think you’d appreciate it.”

“I would like that,” he said, slowing to have Avery walk alongside him.

“Maybe one day—” The mage bit his words, frowning. What was he saying? He drifted away from Birger and walked some paces before he plopped down. Avery closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to ground himself with the scent of flowers and rich soil, anchoring his mind against his buoyant yearnings. Birger sat beside him, the smell of him distinct and distracting; sweat, campfires, something herbaceous and fragrant. Avery was adrift, adrift, adrift…

The mage made conversation to drown out the hammering of his pulse. “What do you suppose Sachie will do after she gets the disc?”

Birger shrugged. He stretched his legs out and pressed his palms down behind him, leaning back to look up at the sky. “Part ways, I imagine.”

“And what will you do?”

Birger watched as a hawk soared high above them. “You think there’re rabbits here? I’ve been craving roasted rabbit. I’ve got some root vegetables that I need to use too.”

Avery chuckled and pinched the thick fabric between his pauldron and vambrace. “Birger…”

“I’d head back to Fôtla.”

“To become king?”

He laughed out a single syllable of, “No.”

Avery sat crossed legged. He rocked a little, feeling frustrated, fearful of the end, of parting ways. “I…” What did he want to say? Can I go with you? Will you have me? Will you put up with me? Do you even want me? Am I a bother? How can I not be a bother? “I miss my hat,” he said instead.

“Eh. I prefer you without it,” said Birger, and with a grunt he reached over and plucked a petite yellow flower, twirling it between his thumb and index finger.

Avery smiled and smoothed his hair, hands sliding down the sides of his head and rejoining to stroke his long braid. “You prefer me…without it,” Avery repeated, batting his lashes. The sunshine felt too warm, the light too bright, but he basked in it.

“Yeah.” Birger leaned and casually tucked the flower into Avery’s hair, slipping the cool stem above his ear where it sat secured. “It was distracting, hid too much.”

The mage froze, eyes locked ahead, winded by the gesture. He felt heat rise up his neck, felt color bloom across his cheeks. He dared not look at Birger. He forbade himself. But he quickly gave in, brown irises meeting blue. He never cared for blue, always found them unnerving, but Birger’s blue was different—twin seas, calming. He hadn’t shaved in a while and fatigue had darkened his sockets, but Avery didn’t care, the shabbier the better.

The mage drew closer, gaze focused on the knight’s lips. Kiss me, kiss me damn you or I will kiss you and all of this will come undone. Every moment of contempt, of mocking eyes and snide comments—eradicated. I haven’t the drive to fight you any longer, kiss me, kiss me and be done with me!

Birger’s face scrunched up and then he sneezed, loud but politely. He sniffed as he stood, brushing grass off his backside. “The pollen is killing me,” he said, finger under his nose. “I should set up our camp and head out with Sachie, lay some traps.” He clapped Avery’s shoulder. “But you should relax, you seem preoccupied with something. Sort it out, yeah? And don’t worry, we’ll find you another hat.”

Avery watched him go, brows deeply furrowed at the prospect of having missed an opportunity of some sort. He drew his knees up to his chest, fixated on Birger’s retreating form. Lone swordsman, possible king. Avery’s heart thrummed in his chest, there was no denying it…

He hadn’t felt anything quite like this.

Sure, there was Gwenaëlle, but that was an affection born out of happenstance and lust. Fun but shallow. Quick to die. And there were crushes, lots of crushes. Avery touched the flower in his hair. He was half tempted to yank it out before the love rooted in his skull, but he knew it was too late. It had always been there.

He was no stranger to the feeling, because before Gwenaëlle there was Fionn…

Avery was a fresh sixteen then, a bookworm, though decent with an épée. Fionn was a year older and of no particular standing. Handsome as they were affable, they were outgoing and maintained good marks in school. Avery was smitten, always watching from afar, wanting so badly to befriend them. But the year between them felt like an ocean, and every attempt he made to converse resulted in lukewarm results. As one season passed into another Avery found himself beset with Fionn, his heart—bludgeoning itself against his ribcage at the mere sight of them. He imagined them as he drifted to sleep and they were his first thought when he awoke. It was madness.

And there was only one remedy.

Not one for unrehearsed conversation, he wrote everything down for Fionn. His feelings, his dreams—all composed with pristine penmanship. If he botched a word, he started again; only perfection would suffice. His heart was on the line, after all.

The following afternoon, Avery approached Fionn before their lessons and asked, “Will you meet me by the Ceibo tree? First break?” A fine setting for a confession. Fionn responded with a nod.

The hours couldn’t have passed any slower. Avery was a ball of nerves—simultaneously excited and terrified. He kept his love letter sandwiched between the pages of his favorite spell book, resisting the urge to revise.

The hour arrived, and with damp palms and a dry tongue, Avery handed over his confession. Fionn took the paper, curious, and then read. Avery couldn’t look at them, he focused on his shoes and then their shoes and then set his gaze upon the old Ceibo shading them.

Fionn folded the letter. There was a choked sound, a regrouping, and an answer of, “You’re not my type.” They handed his words back to him. “Sorry.”

Avery’s world swirled and inverted. He reached out to grab something to steady himself, but there was no support. Fionn was unbothered, returning to their lessons with nary a change in demeanor, while Avery skipped the rest of the day. The trek home was a blur.

Not their type.

Not. Their. Type.

What the fuck? He was the son of a bard and a songstress—the product of charisma! Avery barreled into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He strangled the air as he paced. Yes, compared to his parents he was no great beauty, but he was certainly a type!

He rushed his vanity and braced himself, face close to his mirror. He examined every pore, every eyebrow hair, even the whites of his eyes. He bared his teeth. There was that gap, right in the middle… Unsightly, perhaps…he never thought about it, but suddenly he despised it. Then there was his hair, limp and brown and short.

Ordinary, forgettable. He sucked on his teeth and seized his favorite spell book, furiously thumbing through its worn pages until he found what he searched for.

Glamouring.

It all started there; an idea, a mask, a man of impeccable allure. Avery crafted himself with care, the finest version of himself. A gradual process, a change here, a change there. He fashioned his hair a silken black and evened his complexion so that only the most charming beauty marks remained. He enhanced shortcomings and placated stray hairs. He closed the gap between his two front teeth. The glamour would hold, even while sleeping, he made sure of that.

His efforts quickly gained the admiration of his classmates—desired yet unattainable—content with Fionn marveling from afar. But the glamour didn’t bring Avery any newfound joy, in fact it grew into a burden, a living lie, and the more time that passed the more he hated what lurked underneath. Nonetheless, this was him now, this was his type.

Avery deflated while reliving the memory. He had a feeling Birger would be unbothered by his true face, the unmasking met with a shrug and a change of subject. The scenario made Avery dizzy, and acceptance aside, it offered nothing in terms of Birger’s heart. Frightening, the intensity of what he felt, and the uncertainty of what Birger felt. There was that necklace too, a reminder of his beloved, worn around his neck like some noose, its black gem hidden by his heart.

If Avery were to pursue Birger, he had to know whom he was up against—that was a given, right? One never went into battle unprepared.