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“What’s that land straight ahead?” Ike shouted across the boat to Soren, who was stretched out on the deck studying a star chart. “Is it on the map? I thought for sure we’d be in open ocean by now.”
Soren looked up from his papers to see a small island on the hazy horizon. Between the heat shimmer and the distance it was difficult to make out many details. He disappeared to the cabin for a moment and returned with a map and spyglass. He unfurled the map, looking at it, then to the island. “According to the calculations I’ve made we’re still in known seas off the coast of Gallia. However there aren’t any islands on the map near our location.”
“Could your calculations be wrong?”
“Of course not,” Soren snapped as he extended the spyglass and looked through it. “It was probably too insignificant to include on the map. I’m not seeing any signs of beorc or laguz settlements—wait.”
“What is it?”
“I can see a dock. Doesn’t look very big though.”
“Really now?” Ike walked over and took the spyglass from Soren. “Seems like it’s meant for small craft. Looks pretty old and broken down. Maybe a pirate base at one time?”
“It could be a good opportunity to add to our provisions before we reach uncharted ocean. But we should proceed with caution in case it is inhabited.”
“I don’t think you and I have anything to fear. But might as well stake it out while we wait for high tide to sail in. Could you drop the anchor?”
Soren tried to lift the anchor but even with both hands struggled to even drag it a few inches across the deck. Ike walked over, picked up the anchor with a single hand and hurled it overboard with ease, grinning at Soren, who glowered in return.
Soren spent a great deal of time studying the island with the spyglass while they waited for the tide to turn. Much of the coastline was rocky including the sloped area where the dock was built. But there was a long strip of sandy beach on one side with a protective stone outcropping on the far end that Soren deemed suitable to make camp. The center of the island was heavily forested with a number of mature trees.
“That’s strange,” Soren said, lowering the spyglass. “I see fruit trees.”
“How is that strange?”
“They’re not species that are native to Gallia—I’ve only ever seen them in Crimea.”
“So someone planted them.”
“Still haven’t seen anyone. No smoke from fires. No structures other than the dock.”
The midday sun was blistering; there was not a single cloud in the sky and only the faintest breeze as they watched and waited. Ike finally deemed the tide sufficiently risen and Soren gave the sails a gust of wind to carry them toward shore. They moored the boat on the dock and unloaded supplies to make camp.
They pitched the tent in the shade of the outcrop at the end of the beach. Ike collected a substantial pile of driftwood and created a small fire pit, then carried the remainder of the supplies to their campsite. After dropping the last of the supplies in the sand near the tent Ike began peeling his shirt off. Soren looked up from unpacking and said, “What are you doing?”
“Going for a swim to cool off.” Ike hopped on one leg as he removed one boot, then the other. “Join me, won’t you? Those robes must be stifling.”
Soren watched Ike’s bare body as he he walked down the beach and dove into the surf, his head bobbing up a few seconds later, raising an arm to wave at Soren, who scoffed and returned to his preparations around the campsite.
It was unbearably hot, though, and Soren’s thick robes were growing increasingly uncomfortable. With a nervous glance at Ike out in the water he unfastened them and let them fall into a pile in the sand, stripping down to breeches and an undershirt. He looked at Ike’s pile of clothing in the sand beside his own. Unlike the days in the mercenary group when, with his petite, boyish body he never dared to join in when all the men went for a swim, now it was only he and Ike. Still partially clothed he walked to the waves, rolling up his breeches and wading in, the cool waves splashing up to his knees.
He kicked at the surf, watching the shadows cast by the lattice of foam dance on the sand below the water. He picked up a seashell and admired its form, the rough ridges across the back, the smooth, soft iridescence of the underside. He stashed it away in his pocket.
“Come on in!” Ike yelled. “It’s great!”
“I… I can’t,” Soren replied, somewhat abashed.
Ike swam back toward shore. “What’s stopping you?”
Soren looked down at the water surrounding his feet, keeping his eyes averted from Ike’s bare body. He sheepishly said, “…I don’t know how to swim.”
Ike cocked his head to one side. “We’ll be sailing in the open ocean—and you’re telling me now that you can’t swim?” He shook his head. “That won’t do. Off with the clothes. I’ll teach you.”
“No, really, it’s not—”
“What if you fall overboard? For a strategist you really didn’t think this through. Come on—for my peace of mind—let’s at least have you learn how to tread water.”
It did feel like a foolish oversight, one that Soren could not argue. Swallowing his pride he unbuttoned his shirt, his fingers trembling and fumbling, and stripped off his breeches, leaving them out of reach of the greedy surf. His pale skin, soft and lithe, was fully exposed to the sun, the sand, the sea—and to Ike. He slowly walked into the surf, the waves buffeting his delicate body, wading in up to his elbows, Ike following close by.
“Can you at least float?” Ike asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Try that first. Don’t fight the water, just lean back and trust that it will carry you.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Try it. Don’t worry, I’m here to catch you.”
Soren nodded, allowing one foot to leave the sand below, then arcing the other to a tiptoe, and finally releasing that too, leaning back—and, untethered from the earth, feeling weightless, he was suspended in the water—but only for a moment. The feeling overwhelmed him and he began to panic, splashing, desperate to find footing—but Ike grabbed his arm and righted him.
“I told you to trust the water.” Ike said.
“It’s more difficult than it sounds,” Soren said, feet back on the sand. “How did you learn?”
“My father threw me into a pond. I nearly drowned and he had to jump in after me. Didn’t stop him from throwing me in the next day—and the next. Eventually I figured it out.”
“That sounds like Greil.” Soren sighed. “Fine. Let me try again.”
By the end of the afternoon he could float on his back and tread water with a degree of confidence. Ike watched him intently the entire time, ready to intervene should the need arise. But they had both grown too comfortable with Soren’s burgeoning abilities. The tide was shifting just as he was venturing a bit on his own and, with no warning, a large roiling wave capsized the uncertain swimmer.
He gulped briny seawater as he flailed, arms seeking the surface, feet desperate for the sea floor, clamoring for any way to right himself. It felt like an age passed as he was suspended underwater, disoriented, terrified. But just as suddenly as he had been dragged below he was pulled up by Ike’s strong hands.
Soren broke the surface, gasping, sputtering, coughing up a volume of seawater. He looked up at Ike through salt-blurred eyes.
“Hold on to me,” Ike said, placing Soren’s arms around his neck. “I’ll swim us back to shore.”
Soren held on tight, his breath shallow, still caught in the throes of panic. But that feeling ebbed as he felt Ike’s body pressed to his own. He buried his face against Ike’s skin; in that moment he would not have minded if they never reached the beach, simply drifting along forever.
That gauzy feeling vanished once they reached the breaking waves. Ike carried Soren through the surf and set him safely on the beach. Soren coughed up more seawater as Ike held his shoulders. “Are you okay?” Ike asked.
Soren looked up at him, blinking and wincing against the long rays of the late afternoon sun. “I’m fine,” he replied, voice sounding weaker than his words.
“You were there one second, gone the next… had I not been paying attention….”
Still a little winded, Soren said, “No point in worrying. Nothing bad happened.”
Ike’s hands were still gripped tight on Soren’s shoulders. “You’re certain you’re okay?”
“I would say so if I wasn’t.”
Ike’s grasp did not waver as he looked intently at Soren’s face. The moment lasted a bit too long and, suddenly realizing this, Ike released him. Soren stood, gathered his discarded clothes, shook the sand from them and put them back on. His throat felt raw and his sinuses burned. Ike returned to camp and put on his trousers but left the rest of his clothing lying in the sand. When Soren approached Ike said, “I’m going to try and catch some fish for supper. I’ve got tackle for you too if you want to join me.”
Soren’s eyes wandered down the long strip of beach. “I think I’ll take a walk. See a bit of the island.”
A flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps—quickly passed over Ike’s expression as Soren walked away. Frowning, Ike set to tying a hook to his line.
*
Soren walked until the beach gave way to stone. The wind had picked up and the spindly grasses of the shoreline bowed as he passed. Beyond the dunes a scrubby forest began, eventually blending into the large trees he had spotted earlier. As he turned to look back at the ocean out of the corner of his eye he noticed a gap cutting through the brush—a path, or the last vestiges of one. He traced it with his eyes but unable to discern its destination he decided to follow it, rough-edged grasses grasping at his clothes as he passed by.
The path wound around the edge of the forest, flirting with it but never crossing into it. Eventually it climbed up a rocky section of shore and, perched on a bluff above the sea, he came to a small clearing filled with tall grass and wildflowers—and in the midst of it a short wooden plinth sticking out of the ground. Soren knelt and pulled away the errant weeds that had grown up around it. The edges had been worn smooth by the wind and weather and large cracks radiated to the center. Looking closer he saw that there was something scratched into the wood, though it was illegible, the carving grayed and speckled with lichen, lost to time. He traced the vestiges of the letters with his fingertip.
He realized this was a grave. The wind picked up and he shivered, though it was not a cold gust. He stood, eyes still trained on the grave, then turned and looked to the sea.
A strange sense of nostalgia washed over him—but not his own. He had never been to this place, nor any place quite like it, yet felt a deep longing for something he could not quite identify. The intensity of it was visceral with a dull, cold ache in his chest. He gazed at the horizon; the sun, now a fierce orange disc, kissed the sea—and he realized he should head back.
By the time he wended his way back to the beach the sun had set. Night bruised the sky and the first stars glittered in the heavens. From a distance he could see the dancing orange flame of a small campfire and its column of smoke rising up against the emerging stars—and as he drew closer his heart beat faster.
He paused beyond the firelight and watched Ike pick up a driftwood log, break it with his hands, and throw the wood on the campfire, then tending to something stuck in the sand beside it. As Soren tentatively walked closer he saw several fish cooking on skewers staked in the sand. Ike’s fishing excursion had been a success.
Soren entered the warm glow of the firelight. Ike looked up at him, smiled and said, “I was beginning to worry. Glad you’re back.” Soren said nothing, looking intently at Ike, meeting his gaze a little too long. Ike’s expression dropped. “Hey, you’re looking pretty sunburned.”
Soren raised a self-conscious hand to his face, which was hot and painful to the touch. He had been so wrapped up in thought he had not even noticed. “Ike… have you felt anything strange about this island?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t quite explain it. It’s a strong feeling but… not my own. At least I don’t think.”
“Can’t say I have.” The smile returned to Ike’s face and he gestured to the fish roasting by the fire. “Do you want a fish? I caught so many.”
Soren, feeling nearly as gutted as the fish, sat by the fire and accepted a skewered fish that Ike handed him. He pickled listlessly at the charred skin, pulling it off, eating a few nibbles of its flesh. It was well prepared but Soren found he had no appetite.
“Is something wrong with it?” Ike asked.
Soren shook his head. “Not feeling very hungry.” He handed the skewer back to Ike. “You can have it.”
“Are you sure? Wait—where are you going?”
“I’m going to put some salve on my sunburn.”
Soren climbed into the tent and rifled around his kit, eventually finding the pot of burn salve. He stripped off his shirt, discovering his chest, shoulders and back were equal in tint—and pain—as his face. He sucked in a sharp breath as he applied the salve, which was oily and smelled of sweet herbs.
It was not long before Ike climbed into the tent and watched Soren applying the medicine to his reddened shoulders. “You’re so red. That must be awful.” Ike watched him a few more seconds. “You’re burned all the way down your back. Here,” he knelt and took the salve from Soren’s hand, “let me.”
Soren flinched as Ike’s rough hands applied the medicine to his skin but made no complaint. He closed his eyes and, though the burn and Ike’s calloused fingers hurt, there was something pleasant about being taken care of, being touched in such a way. He felt slightly guilty enjoying it and regretted it when Ike was finished with his task.
“Your hair’s full of knots,” Ike said as he put the lid back on the salve.
Soren reached back and unbound his hair; his afternoon in the sea had knitted his hair into an elaborate series of tangles. He reached into his kit again and found his comb, attempting to brush it out, his deft fingers picking out individual knots to work on.
After a long silence Ike said, “I can do that for you.”
Soren paused and considered—but shook his head. First aid was one thing but this felt too intimate. He muttered, “You’ll only make it worse.”
“I used to help Mist with her hair all the time.”
Soren sighed. His heart fluttered as he handed Ike the comb. Ike worked in silence for a few minutes, occasionally tugging at Soren’s scalp with enough force to make him flinch. Ike had always been helpful—usually with tasks that required brute strength, height, or some other ability that Soren lacked. But he had never before offered help in personal matters like this and Soren would never dared have asked.
Ike suddenly stopped. “What is it?” Soren said.
There was a long pause. “...I made it worse.”
Soren snatched the comb back and half-despaired as he felt the rat’s nest Ike had turned his hair into. He set to work undoing the damage.
“Are you upset with me?” Ike said. “I’m sorry I messed up your hair… and for pushing you too hard when we were swimming earlier.”
“Don’t worry about it.” The comb snagged in Ike’s handiwork; Soren closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. “I’m tired. It was a long day.”
“I think you’d feel better if you at least tried to eat some more.”
“I’d rather just go to bed.”
“I’ll be up for a bit if you want to talk—or decide you’re hungry.”
Soren gave a wan little smile. “Thank you.”
He continued combing his long hair. Ike had done a number on it, somehow managing to consolidate all the small tangles into one large snarl. But his thin fingers worked patiently and methodically, slowly easing out the damage until the comb could pass through the entire length without a hitch. He put the comb away and stretched out on the mat, struggling to find a comfortable position that did not press too hard on his sunburn. He lay on his side and looked at the wall of the tent, which was cast with flickering shadows from the campfire outside.
He sighed and allowed his eyes to close. In his mind he traced the path to the grave, tumbling all the little details of the clearing, the sea, the sky, and the wooden plinth. It was a beautiful spot. He wondered if the person resting there beneath the earth had loved it dearly in life.
He slowly drifted to sleep and it was not much longer until Ike put out the fire and climbed in the tent. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness Ike cast a glance over to Soren and unfurled the blanket that was folded beside the mat, covering him up to his shoulders before retiring to his own mat on the other side of the tent.
*
Ike hacked a path through the brush, Soren following close behind him. It was noticeably cooler under the shade of the trees and the rich, sweet scent of leaf decay surrounded them. The interior of the island was full of dense, nearly jungle-like foliage.
“Look,” Soren said. “Lemons—and oranges.”
“Not only that—apples, pears, and I think those are cherries. Not ripe yet, though.”
“It’s an orchard. This is extraordinary.”
“Wait.” Ike suddenly stopped and thrust his arm out in front of Soren. “There’s a building.”
There was a slight clearing ahead of them and, in the dappled sunlight of the forest, there sat a small wooden structure, little more than a shack. Ike cautiously moved forward but the closer he grew the more apparent that it had been long abandoned. The roof was draped with heavy patches of moss and it dipped concave on one side. Wild vines veiled the exterior walls. Another moment of cautious observation passed and, seeing nothing amiss, he gestured for Soren to follow him.
Soren noticed the plants surrounding the hut were familiar. Lovage, mugwort, borage, yarrow, chamomile—with a single glance he recognized at least a dozen of them. “This explains the fruit trees,” Soren said, kneeling and plucking a stalk of lavender. “Culinary and medicinal herbs. Someone had a rather comprehensive garden.”
“But who would live so far away from everything?”
Soren pointed to the door. “One way to find out.”
The door hung slightly askew, the top hinge separated from the wood. Ike had to lift it to swing it open and the timbers and rusted hinges protested in wails and moans. Inside the air was heavy and musty; sunlight filtered through the cracks of the roof and motes of dust shone in the shafts of light.
It had once been a carefully arranged home. The floor was rough-hewn planks of wood with the tattered remains of a large braided rug. A bed, generous for one, snug for two, was against one wall, the batting dribbling out of the splitting fabric of the quilt atop it. Blackened and withered bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters and small glass jars of mouldering spices sat on a small shelf on the wall. A stone fireplace dominated the center, a rusted iron kettle half-full of rainwater where the fire once burned.
A strange feeling came over Soren as his eyes took the room in. It was that same feeling from the evening before, a nostalgia for a place he had never been, a heartache that was not his own. Almost like a tap on the shoulder, he felt called to turn around—and his eyes were drawn to a small object wrapped in waxed canvas sitting on the mantel. Ike, who was busy looking at the small collection of tools and weapons, did not notice as Soren picked up the parcel and stashed it in his robes.
Soren jumped as Ike said, “Do you think it would be okay if we made use out of some of these things? It doesn’t look like the owner is ever coming back.”
Feeling the weight of the purloined object in his pocket he replied, “I don’t see why not.”
Ike took a small hatchet, crab pot, and fishing spear. “Maybe we can come back another day and collect some of those herbs growing outside. And all that fruit will be handy at sea.”
Soren did not say anything; he felt half in a dream as his eyes drifted past the objects of an unknown life.
“It’s getting late,” Ike said, peeking outside. “Probably should head back soon if we’re hoping to catch anything for supper. Maybe we can—Soren?” No response. “Soren, are you listening?”
Suddenly snapping back to present, Soren said, “Hmm?”
“You seemed a million miles away.”
“Sorry, I was just… thinking.”
“I was saying we should head for camp. We can come back tomorrow.”
Ike shut the door behind them and they returned to the beach down the same path Ike had cut earlier. Once they arrived at the shore Soren said, “You go on ahead. I want to go back to the boat to fetch my book on herb identification.”
“I’ll see you at camp later. Hopefully I’ll have a whole basket of fish by then.”
Soren did not return to the boat. He walked a little way into the forest and sat in the shade of a large tree. He pulled out the mysterious object from the shack. The twine it was bound with practically disintegrated in his fingers as he untied it. He carefully unfolded the waxed canvas and found a small hand bound book, its cover speckled with mildew, pages freckled with foxing. He flipped through it. The pages were filled with unpolished handwriting scrawled in black ink. It looked like the leaves of paper had been taken from other books, an errant page number or other miscellaneous text here and there.
He returned to the first page and began to read.
I was born to an affluent family in a port town. No one knew—or perhaps, no one admitted—from whence my cursed blood had appeared in the lineage, only that my brand was evident, and from that day forth I was left to fend for myself.
Soren gasped and clutched the little book tighter.
I wandered for many years, studying when I could, laboring where I could, but it was never long before I was found out and was back on the road. I had been working as a blacksmith’s apprentice for a time and one day sustained a terrible burn. My master, trying to help, inadvertently exposed my brand— and he beat me. I stumbled away, walking until it was dark, when I finally collapsed from exhaustion.
When I came to I was lying on a cot. A fair haired beorc woman was cleaning my wounds. Her mother fed me broth and together they bandaged my wounded body. They must have seen my brand but helped me without prejudice. I had never known such kindness.
Once I was recovered they employed me at the inn they ran. I did odd jobs, whatever needed doing, and was happy to do it. I grew to love the woman, though in return I expected indifference at best, disgust and horror at worst. Yet she never once recoiled from me. It did not matter to her—my brand was part of who I was. I had nothing to offer her but myself, but that was all she wanted, and with her mother’s blessing we were betrothed.
I do not know how the rumors started. But they grew to a fever pitch and one day the inn was burned and we were forced to flee. I knew I must move far away from them both to protect them—yet my wife insisted upon staying with me. We said goodbye to her mother, leaving her with family, and I once again set out on the road—only it was no longer lonely.
The ache Soren felt in the cottage returned and mingled with his own. This was all too familiar.
For reasons I still do not fathom, she loved me despite everything that sought to part us. We so longed to make a home together. Fleeing from one village to another, one country to another, never finding sanctuary for very long. Crimea or Gallia—beorc or laguz—it did not matter. We were shunned no matter the ties we had made. I often felt as though I had blighted her life—she could have had a happy home, a family, and yet she chose to follow me to the ends of the earth through it all. I do not know why I deserved such devotion.
It has been twenty years since we landed upon this desolate island, a forgotten land where we were able to forge a life for ourselves. We built a small home, cultivated a garden, made trips once or twice a year to the mainland to barter for things we needed. We long hoped for the blessing of a child, which never came to us. It is for the best; my progeny could very likely inherit my branding—and that is heartbreak I could not endure.
Perhaps the words in this book have washed away with the rain, decayed with age, or in a tongue you cannot understand. But this is my testament to what was once my love, a golden haired beorc girl with eyes like glittering emeralds, whose youth faded before my eyes, hair slowly turning silver, the lines across her face marking the laughter we shared. Take what you need of the garden, sit in the shade of its trees and, if the roses are in bloom, please place a few upon my love’s grave with my blessing.
I know not how many beorc lifetimes lay before me, only that I was blessed beyond measure to share this one with her. To have this one lifetime of happiness, fleeting through it were, is worth all the ages I face alone. Tomorrow I set sail from this place. I know full well that there is no home for me in Tellius so perhaps I will venture to make my own—and for those like me. Take care, traveler, and should you choose to settle here I hope your home is as full of love and joy as ours once was.
The shade had turned to shadow by the time Soren reached the last word. He realized he had been holding his breath and released it with a heavy sigh, his chest heaving as he caught it. He blinked and a tear fell onto the final page. He quickly and carefully dried it with his robe, then closed the book, wrapped it back up in the canvas and placed it in his pocket.
The sun was beginning to set. As he walked the long shadows of the trees, then the grasses of the dunes, and even the desolate expanse of beach all felt unreal. He could think of nothing else but the contents of this little book—and of himself—and, unwillingly, unavoidably, of Ike.
He paused. The sun was setting and the distant clouds on the horizon burned crimson, cutting a blood red gash across the sea. It was violent, majestic—and somehow hollow.
The beauty of the sunset felt wasted, seeing it alone.
Tears were not far during the long walk back. Tears for the parted lovers, tears for his future, tears for things he had long ago buried deeply in his most secret of hearts, which had lately started to show cracks. But the farther he walked more cracks formed, deeper, more fragmented. And finally, without warning, it shattered, leaving everything he had ever wanted to forget exposed, vulnerable. For a short time he frantically sought to collect the shards of his composure—but there were too many and they were too scattered. He collapsed and sobbed. He bowed his forehead and rested it on the cool, rough sand as his body heaved. He wrapped his arms around himself and felt how his chest expanded and contracted with each gasping breath, tears flowing freely as the summer rains.
Finally exhausted, he sat back on his heels and brushed the gritty tears from his face. The only vestige of the sunset was a purple bruise just above the horizon and the stars were now glittering overhead. But as he staggered to his feet he looked down the beach and saw a small spot of golden light—the campfire with its plume of smoke swirling up to the heavens.
Ike had been growing worried. He knew Soren was fully capable of taking care of himself—yet a trip to the boat to fetch a book ought not have taken so long. In the time he was waiting he had caught a dozen small fish, gutted them, and planted skewers in the sand beside the fire for them to roast upon. So long as he had a task to take care of he could not be bothered with worry—yet now by the fire, the darkness ever more menacing beside the light, there was little else to do but maintain the flames and wonder where his companion had gone off to.
The fish were nearly ready but he found anxiety had diminished his appetite. Instead of a skewer he picked up his sword and started for the direction of the boat. His eyes adjusted to the darkness as the campfire diminished to a speck of light behind him. A sliver of moon hung in the sky—just enough light to spot Soren’s dark form against the crashing waves, the wind catching his robes and hair.
Ike paused and watched him a moment. Soren was gazing out at the sea, his arms wrapped around himself, his profile pensive and serious. Ike smiled at the familiar expression and approached him.
“Supper’s nearly ready,” Ike half-yelled over the surf.
Soren’s body visibly jolted as he whipped around to look at Ike. He said nothing as Ike stood beside him, simply returned his eyes to the ocean ahead of them.
“I was starting to get worried,” Ike said, staring at the reflection of the stars on the water.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take so long.”
“I take it you didn’t find your herb book.”
“Oh… no, I didn’t.”
Aware of Ike’s proximity, Soren glanced down at the hand hanging by his side. Slowly, timidly, he reached out and lightly brushed his fingertips against Ike’s—and Ike, in turn, grabbed Soren’s slender hand and held it in his broad palm.
Soren was so taken aback by the gesture he audibly gasped. But even in the dimmest light he could make out Ike’s smile as he proudly said, “You should see how many fish I caught. A bit small but they’ll be tasty I’m sure.” He tugged on Soren’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Soren found that again he did not have much of an appetite. He ate two fish and Ike gleefully devoured the other ten. He stared listlessly at the flames as Ike polished off the last fish and tidied up the remains.
“Something the matter?” Ike asked.
Soren clenched the hand that Ike had held earlier. “No… nothing… I… I think I’ll turn in now.”
He climbed into the tent, removed his robes and stretched out on the mat—but then sat up, rifled around in the pockets of his discarded garments, and found the little canvas parcel. The open flap of the tent let in just enough firelight to barely trace out the words in the little book. He read through in its entirety again, then closed it and held it to his chest as he curled up on his side.
The tears returned unbidden. He balled up his robes and buried his face in them to muffle the sound as he softly cried to himself. Before long the campfire was extinguished and he heard Ike climbing into the tent; he tried so hard to hold his breath, hold in the tears, but even through the bundle of fabric Ike could still hear him.
“You can tell me anything, you know,” Ike said as he sat down on his own mat. “If something is wrong I want to help.”
“I’m fine,” Soren said, voice a little creaky.
Ike looked at Soren’s shadowy form for a long time. Without saying anything Ike pulled his mat across the narrow aisle between them. He reclined on it and wrapped a bulky arm around Soren, holding him close.
At first this gesture made the tears intensify—but they subsided as rapidly as they rose. No one had ever held him like that before. He stayed still, almost feeling as if he moved he would break the spell. It seemed like eons passed in that cozy darkness, the sound of the waves and warm weather insects a distant melody. At length, timidly, Soren said, “...Ike?”
There was no response. He could feel that broad body’s slow, rhythmic rise and fall, the deep breathing of a sound sleep. Soren, unobtrusively as he could, rolled over to face Ike. He buried his face in his shoulder and after a while he too drifted into a peaceful slumber.
*
Ike woke unusually early the next morning. He was a little surprised to discover that, at some point over the course of the night, Soren had snuggled up beside him—and was still asleep past dawn. He extricated himself gently as he could—he had the feeling the strategist would be embarrassed if Ike were to find him in such a vulnerable pose. He gingerly moved the strands of dark hair that had fallen across Soren’s face before exiting the tent.
He started a fire, poured some fresh water from their reserves into the kettle, and sat down to do a little maintenance on his sword as he waited for the water to boil. With a cup of tea in hand he watched the gentle morning waves crash, the foam glinting in the first rays of a hazy yellow sunrise.
After a while he walked down to check the crab pot he had laid the evening before and discovered the venture had been met with moderate success. By the time Soren woke Ike had a full breakfast of crab meat and some scavenged eggs, both of which he had cooked without scorching.
Soren rose with a puffy face and swollen eyes, still raw with yesterday’s emotions. He was surprised to find himself alone in the tent, being the habitual early riser of the two—and might have thought the previous night a dream were it not for the two mats still beside each other.
He emerged from the tent to find Ike up and dressed and having prepared breakfast for the two. Soren still had no appetite but accepted a cup of hot tea served in a dented tin cup. The two men sat silently as the sun, hiding bashfully behind heavy streaks of clouds, crested the horizon.
Soren could feel Ike’s gaze upon him; Ike, for his part, was concerned with how pale his friend was, how his red rimmed eyes stared blankly into the teacup. At length he said, “I’m starting to worry that you’re unwell.”
Soren shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying you’re fine but I can’t believe it. Ever since we’ve been on this island it feels like you’re so… far away.”
“I’m sorry.” Soren finished his tea and set the cup aside before standing. “I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m… looking for herbs.”
Ike watched Soren walk away down the beach. His lips melted to a frown. He tidied up the breakfast mess, putting a lid over Soren’s portion in case he was hungry later. The overcast morning was a little chilly and Ike popped into the tent to find his cloak—and could not help but look at the sleeping mats beside each other. He sighed and wrapped his cloak around his shoulders but as he moved to leave he noticed something lying on Soren’s mat.
It was a small parcel wrapped in waxed canvas. Part of him knew he should respect his companion’s privacy—but there was something about the weight of that little object in his hands that called him to investigate. He carefully unwrapped it and discovered a small hand stitched book. His fingers were large and clumsy but he opened the binding and found writing—he knew immediately it was not Soren’s handwriting. He sat down and began to read it.
Soren was unable to lift the door to the small hut but managed to push it far enough open to slip inside. He looked at the mantel straight ahead, reached into his robe to replace the book—but the only thing in his pocket was the smooth little shell he had found in the surf on their first day. He forgot he had taken the book out to read again the previous night. He sighed and sank onto the musty bed.
He stared at the cracks in the roof, the mottling of thin gray light on the floor. As he watched a spider spinning her web he thought of the Branded man’s heartache as he looked upon his little cottage one last time. He wondered what courage it had taken. He wondered if he would be able to survive the same.
He did not know how long he sat there; the minutes might have bled into hours, so lost in thought he was. But a sudden, violent squeal of metal jolted him alert. He looked at the door—Ike stood in the frame, half-silhouetted against the dreary day. He walked inside and put his hand on the mantel—almost right where the book had sat—and said, “I thought I might find you here.”
Soren looked up at him. “How did you—”
Before he could finish the sentence Ike held out the little book in its wrapper. Soren stood and took it with both hands, holding it tenderly to his chest for a moment before replacing it on the mantel where he had found it—and turned to leave the cottage.
“Wait,” Ike said. “I know shouldn’t have pried. But I saw it lying on your mat, opened it and read the whole thing. I think… I might understand.”
Soren bowed his head. His eyes were so raw from yesterday’s tears that today’s burned with a fierce intensity. He pursed his lips and shook his head—yet could find no words.
Ike walked up to him and put his hand on Soren’s shoulder. “Let’s go and find the grave. We’ll put some flowers on it.”
Soren softly said, “I already know where it is.”
Soren led him on the path to the bluff. Along the way there were tangles of wild roses, somewhat past their prime but Ike took a knife from his belt and cut a handful of vibrant magenta blossoms while Soren collected petals of near-spent blooms. And as the heavy gray clouds swirled in the skies above them the two men arranged the flowers and petals around the cracked and weathered wooden headstone.
“How hard it must have been,” Soren said, gazing at the illegible carving in the wood, “to be left behind.”
“I imagine it would be as terrible to leave as be left.” There was a distant rumble of thunder; Ike looked toward the ocean, to a great black cloud in the distance, then again to the flower-strewn headstone, and to Soren, who stood sullenly beside it. “It’s looking like rain. We should get back.”
“You go on ahead.”
“Not a chance. There’s no shelter out here.”
Before Soren could protest Ike took his hand and squeezed it tight. They paused one more long moment, looking at the gravestone blanketed with roses. They departed just as a smattering of thick, heavy raindrops pocked the sandy soil, following the path back to the beach.
The wind picked up, heavy, cold, and scented with rain. The ocean’s horizon seemed much closer as swathes of rain approached. The scattered raindrops grew into a storm that descended upon them when the camp was in sight. By the time they reached it both men’s clothing was soaked through and the coals of the campfire were hissing their death throes.
Inside the tent Ike was pulling off his sodden shirt when a terrific crack of thunder resounded. “Just in time,” he said, undressed down to his underclothes as he sat beside the opening of the tent.
Soren too had stripped down and was taking his hair out of its binding, shaking his long mane, drying it with the robes he had shed. Ike turned and watched him a moment. “I like your hair when it’s down.”
Soren said nothing, though he felt a little more self-conscious as he combed his fingers through the strands.
“When you’re done with that come here. Watch the storm with me.”
The entry to the tent was small and they sat shoulder to shoulder. A bolt of lightning struck off shore—and just a moment later a peal of thunder cracked loud enough that both men jumped, then looked at each other and laughed. Ike said, “Glad to see you can still smile.”
This immediately wiped the expression away.
Ike followed up. “Can you tell me now—what has been troubling you?”
Soren turned and looked at the curtains of rain falling across the ocean. “No… I can’t.”
Ike sighed. “Maybe in that case… I should tell you why I asked you to come to sea with me.”
Soren, still gazing at the cascading rain, said, “I never thought about the reason. It just seemed… natural.”
“It was, in a way. I had known for a long time that I wanted to leave everything behind—that I wanted to be free.” He ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I had to make a clean break. I told Titania, of course—she was upset but understood. And she would tell the others in time. I knew if I had to say it to all of them… especially you and Mist… I would lose all resolve to go.”
Ike squeezed his biceps with the opposite hands. “And then… the night of Mist and Boyd’s wedding… all the people we had fought together with for so long… celebrating, laughing… and inside I felt… so far away from it all. Of course I smiled and congratulated the couple and celebrated with everyone. But across the party—I saw you. All alone, gazing out into the darkness, looking a little sad and impossibly far away. And I looked back around the room, at all my friends and comrades, and I realized the feeling I had inside… that you were the only other person in the room that shared it. And suddenly I knew I couldn’t leave by myself. That you and I belong together. And if I left without you… I would be leaving half of myself behind.”
Soren turned and watched wide-eyed as Ike bowed his head. “But I didn’t quite have the word for it figured out back then. It wasn’t until our first day here on this island—when you slipped beneath the waves and I carried you to shore… when I set you down, after feeling your skin against mine, you looked up at me and I suddenly realized what I felt was… had to be... love.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I’d never felt anything like that before. It was terrifying… overwhelming… I wasn’t sure what to do or say… in truth, I still am not.”
An extended silence fell between them, filled with the incessant patter of the rain and a low, grumbling peal of thunder. At long last Soren spoke.
“I’ve been in love with you for years.” His voice was flat and weak, so quiet it was nearly lost in the storm. He covered his face with his hands. “But I buried it deep… so deep, I tried constantly to forget about it. I knew it would compromise my strategy, every tactical sense, because I could be so logical about everything… everything except you. And every time those feelings arose I… I had to beat them down, cloister them so far away, suffocate them if I could… I told myself… I kept telling myself… being close to you is enough. It never was. It had to be. I burned up inside every time you were near. But I knew if I acted upon it… if I said anything… I could lose you forever... and that was something I could not bear.” He curled his fingers until the nails bit into his scalp. “There was always something to do before. Some inventory to take… strategy to devise… a meeting here, a skirmish there... but out here, all this empty time… I couldn’t hide from myself anymore. And I couldn’t hide from you.”
Ike pulled Soren’s hands away from his face, wiping away the smeared tears with his rough hands. “Is that what has been bothering you?” Ike said softly. “And the book….”
“Someone Branded was once loved. Someone… like me.” He heaved a sigh as he looked up and his eyes met with Ike’s. “It has always seemed like love was something meant for other people. It felt almost forbidden—or at the very least, I was undeserving of it. But when I read those words… they cracked me open.”
Ike put his arm around Soren and held him close. The rain was so heavy that the breakers could barely be seen. A fine mist drifted into the entrance of the tent, beading Soren’s loose hair with tiny droplets. Ike brushed them away. “Everyone deserves to be loved. And you deserve love as much as anyone. I know your past might make that hard to see… but it’s true.”
Soren’s heart, beating like the thrum of a hummingbird’s wings, said, “This doesn’t feel real.”
Ike squeezed him tighter. “I’ll prove that it is.”
Soren allowed himself to melt against Ike’s body, resting his head on his shoulder, and the two watched as the storm passed by. It was not long before the rain began to let up and streaks of sunlight broke through the parting clouds. They emerged from the tent and hung their damp clothing out to dry, then set off down the beach to check on the boat. Soren clutched Ike’s hand as they walked through the surf.
The boat had several inches of standing water in it. They rolled up their pants and climbed in. Ike bailed with a bucket, Soren with a bowl, until just a slight puddle remained to dry in the sunlight. Once finished with the task they rested, sitting on the edge of the dock, bare feet dangling in the high tide made cool with the rain, watching the clouds break apart and drift away. They did not speak much, though Ike kept tangling his feet with Soren’s in the water. Soren lay back on the rough wood of the dock, draping a hand over his forehead and looking up at the sky.
“I’ve never seen a sky so blue,” he said.
Ike looked up, squinting at the sun. “It’s the most beautiful sky I’ve ever seen.”
He looked back to Soren. He hesitated only a moment before leaning over and planting a kiss on Soren’s welcoming lips. In that long moment everything—the wind, the waves, the passage of time itself seemed to stop.
As they walked back to camp the treetops shone a vibrant green in the sunshine. Broken clouds, enormous, white and billowing, dotted the sky. And as torrid and gray as the sea had been in the storm it was now tranquil, only the gentlest waves lapping the shore, and a cool, mild breeze rustled the long grass in the dunes.
The calm conditions continued into the night as Ike spread his cape out in the sand for them to lay upon to look at the clear night sky. Soren rested his head against Ike’s shoulder, his eyes closed, and they both fell asleep beneath the starlit heavens.
*
The following days were peaceful. Soren collected herbs and tied them up to dry in the boat’s cabin, filling the small space with a heady green scent. Ike spent much of his time fishing, tending to a continuously fed pot of seawater rendering down to salt over the fire, and then salt curing and smoking his catch. Together they harvested fruit, Ike climbing the trees to get to the highest branches while Soren collected from ground level.
During this time Ike seemed so perfectly happy that Soren felt somewhat ashamed of his discontent, taking solace in the brief moments of affection they shared—a loving arm around his shoulder, a tight embrace, a simple, tender kiss. The nights were the most difficult. Ike was so close—often too close, nearly smothering his petite bedfellow—and yet still so far away. Soren was not sure what was worse, longing from a distance or having the object of his affection so suffocatingly near yet unable to be fully possessed.
He began to dread their swimming sessions. He had taken to it quickly, building up the stamina and muscle memory to be able to swim without Ike hovering nearby to rescue him. Even still, Ike would swim over and correct his technique, just as often taking advantage of the moment, pressing his skin to Soren’s, who would have to break away and swim off his frustrations, often to the point that his muscles ached afterward.
“You’re doing it again,” Ike said. “You won’t swim half as fast that way.”
“What is it this time,” Soren grumbled.
Ike swam over to him and took his hand. “Fingers together like a cup—like this.” He squeezed Soren’s hand into the proper shape. “You leave them splayed out you’re not getting anywhere.”
Ike took the opportunity to hold Soren’s hand, his thumb rubbing the tender center of his palm before pressing his lips to the spot. He kissed his wrist, shoulder, neck—
“Stop—I’ve had enough!” Soren yelled, pulling away. “Every single day you keep teasing me. I can’t take it anymore.”
Ike blinked several times, taken aback. “I don’t understand.” His expression fell. “I thought you liked it.”
“I do but—I want… more.” Soren looked at Ike and immediately averted his eyes. He felt his face flushing intensely—meanwhile a cold chill ran through his extremities at the horror of his confession. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
With that Soren began to swim away. “Wait—Soren!” Ike swam after him, catching up, and, unthinkingly, grabbing his ankle, causing the fledgling swimmer to twist and capsize.
Ike caught him quickly. Soren had swallowed some seawater and was coughing it up as Ike said, “That was stupid of me—I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You’re a brute—you know that?”
“I don’t mean to be.” His eyebrows knit together. “I… I’m always so scared of hurting you.”
The anger melted out of Soren’s expression. In all the years they had known each other, in all that they had been through together, he had never seen Ike look so vulnerable. He did not know what to say.
Ike looked away, somewhat abashed. “May I carry you out of the water? Like that first day?”
His frustration softened, Soren replied, “Of course.”
Soren wove his arms around Ike’s neck and Ike began to swim for shore. Once he could touch ground he looped his arms beneath Soren’s knees and around his shoulders, carrying him through the breakers and setting him on his feet at the edge of the surf. The two stood there so close, fully exposed, and neither moved for a moment until Soren reached a hand out, placing it over Ike’s heart, and Ike covered it with his own hand. They looked into each others’ eyes and, sharing the same thought, Soren lifted his chin right as Ike lowered his head—and their lips met for a kiss, brackish from the sea, their long shadows stretched in the golden light of the deep afternoon sun.
Something shifted in that moment. The familiarity they had shared for most of their lives had transformed in an instant, in some ways irrevocably lost, replaced with an intimacy raw and unknown. Soren slid his hands across Ike’s back, pressing their bodies close together. Their lips were clumsy, unpracticed, yet still the kiss deepened. Ike squeezed Soren in his strong arms, almost hard enough to press the air from his lungs.
Ike slowly released Soren with one last small kiss to punctuate what had just transpired. They both had to catch their breath, their chests slowly rising and falling as they looked at each other with expressions confused, uncertain, and a little shy. Ike held his his hands out, palms up. His large, strong hands quivered like autumn leaves in a bitter wind.
“Look at that,” Ike said. “These hands were steady as they felled a goddess.”
Soren slipped his hands into Ike’s; his too were trembling. Neither of them knew what to do or say but the absurdity of it made them both laugh.
For now the tension subsided. For now they could continue on with the evening, return to camp, build a fire, prepare supper. They could eat together, talking about their plans for the next day and the days beyond. They could watch as the last of the daylight faded and the stars emerged one by one.
But it still simmered beneath the surface. They tidied up the mess from supper, each casting surreptitious glances at the other now and then. But once all the evening chores had been completed, when there was nothing left to the day but keeping the fire up or extinguishing it, lying out under the stars or going to sleep inside the tent, when all the casual conversation had been spent, the long, slow agony began.
They sat beside the fire for a time, neither saying much, the silence simultaneously comfortable and excruciating. The flames were winding down to embers; a charred log broke and crumbled into ash. As the fire diminished the pale blue light of the newly risen moon washed over them. At length Ike stood and poured a bucket of seawater over the struggling fire, then walked a short way down the beach. There was a cool, humid breeze, carrying with it a sweet fragrance of the island’s flowers mixed with the musky sea scent of low tide. He stared out at the ocean. The waves were small and gentle, the riffles of foam glinting in the moonlight. Soren approached and hugged one of Ike’s arms, leaning his head on his shoulder.
“May I ask you something?” Ike said.
“Anything.”
“I’ve been thinking about the book you found in the cottage. I can’t stop thinking about the woman… how she aged… and her lover stayed with her as she grew old. It can’t have been easy for either of them.” Ike paused and looked up at the sky. The brightness of the moon only allowed the most brilliant stars to shine in the inky heavens. “When I’m old and gray and my face is covered with wrinkles… if I become ill or frail… will you still be with me?”
“I’ll be just as old.”
“Only you won’t show it.”
“You’ll still be the same person.” Soren threw his arms around Ike’s torso, burying his face against his collarbone. “I’m not ever leaving you, Ike. I’ll be with you forever.”
“Our forevers aren’t the same.”
Soren said nothing for a long time. The weight of Ike’s word hung heavy for both of them. Quietly Soren said, “...but our right nows are.”
Ike hooked an arm around Soren’s shoulders and they returned to camp. Inside the tent they proceeded with their individual bedtime rituals. Ike stripped down to his underclothes and tossed the day’s clothing off to the side before stretching out on his mat. Soren removed his robes, carefully folding his clothing before setting it aside. He unbound his hair and shook his mane, then grabbed his comb and sat on the mat, carefully breaking apart the day’s tangles. Ike lay back on the mat, hands folded beneath his head, and watched in the faint light as Soren brushed his long dark hair. Once finished Soren put the comb away and fashioned his hair in a simpler binding for the night.
When he lay down on the mat, his back to Ike, he felt a gentle tugging at his scalp. Ike toyed with a silken lock of Soren’s hair, wrapping it around his finger and allowing it to unfurl and slip away. “I’ve always admired your long hair,” Ike said. “It’s so lovely.”
“It’s not anything special,” Soren said. “Cutting it is just too much hassle.”
“I know that’s not true. You take such good care of it.”
Soren said nothing. Ike reached out and took Soren’s entire ponytail in his hand, allowing the strands to slip through his fingers. He played with it, running his fingers through it, twisting it around his wrist and allowing it to fall away like water, and finally moving it carefully aside as he wrapped an arm around Soren. “Can’t you allow yourself to be proud of anything?”
After a brief silence Soren said, “I’m proud that you love me.”
Ike squeezed him a little tighter. “That’s something, I suppose.”
They lay together in the quiet of night, the chirping insects and crashing waves a faint melody. Ike brushed the hair away from Soren’s neck and planted a kiss—and another—pulling his shirt collar away to kiss his shoulder. Soren closed his eyes and craned his neck, making a soft little sound as he enjoyed the sensation. Ike’s hand moved down his torso, reaching beneath his undershirt, stroking his bare skin. He pulled Soren’s undershirt off, settling back down with both arms around him, large, coarse hands against soft, smooth flesh. He kissed the soft pulse point of his neck; Soren, his bare back pressed against Ike’s naked chest, moaned.
Ike paused; Soren froze. It was the same tension from earlier. Soren turned over in Ike’s arms and faced him. Struggling to articulate the words, he said, “Do… do you really want to….”
“I… don’t know much about this sort of thing,” Ike confessed.
Soren relaxed a little. “I don’t either.”
Neither seemed certain how to proceed, Soren knowing what he wanted but too shy to articulate it, Ike unaware of what he wanted, hoping Soren would take the lead. The heat of arousal mingled with a cold fear in the pit of Soren’s stomach. Everything he had wanted for so long, agonized over, yearned for, was poised before him, a ripe fruit to be plucked from the branch. But fear outstripped desire and Soren curled back into himself.
Ike seemed to sense what was happening. “We’ve got all the time in the world to figure these things out. No need to rush into everything all at once.”
“I’ve disappointed you.”
“Not in the slightest.” Ike said, gingerly pulling Soren closer. “I’m in a beautiful place with the person I am fortunate enough to call my best friend… and now, I suppose... my lover.”
Soren felt himself flush pleasantly. He cradled Ike’s face in his hands, smiled and kissed him. He repeated the words over and over in his head as he ran his fingers through Ike’s hair, over his broad shoulders, down his back. Ike half rolled forward, putting Soren on his back as he kissed him. Soren could feel Ike’s arousal pressed against him. Knowing he was wanted in such a way brought tears to his eyes. For now this was enough.
Ike sat up. “We’ll never get to sleep this way. Come on, let’s go for another swim.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
Ike put his hands around Soren as if to lift him, hesitating a moment and, when Soren did not object, he followed through, sweeping him into his arms. Soren staged a little mock protest but quickly succumbed to laughter as Ike carried him down the moonlit beach. Ike plunged them both into the surf, emerging though the waves to give his lover a salt-filled kiss.
Deep in the night Soren lay awake, his bare body entangled with Ike’s, who lightly snored. He ran his fingers through Ike’s hair, wondering how it could be that waking life had superseded his dreams.
*
Soon their little boat was filled with all the provisions it could carry and it was time to leave the island. Soren woke early on the day of their departure, carefully extracting himself from Ike’s arms so as not to wake him. He pulled on his robe and walked down the beach and through the path Ike had carved into the forest.
Beneath the trees the nighttime shadows still lingered but the path was so familiar Soren had no trouble navigating. He came to the little house in the clearing, squeezed through the door, and stood in the stillness and silence of the dim twilight in the ruined home. Bird calls began to sound in the distance as he grabbed the parcel with the book inside from the mantel. He sat on the bed and gently unwrapped it, taking from his pocket a carefully folded document of his own.
He tucked it inside the front cover of the book and held them together for several moments, then wrapped it back up in the canvas and replaced it on the mantel.
“Thank you,” he whispered softly to it.
He took one last, sweeping look around the room and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Where’ve you been?” Ike asked with a yawn, blinking his freshly woken eyes, stretching his arms as he stood shirtless by the tent.
“Last minute preparations.”
“In the forest?”
Soren knelt and began packing the last items of their camp. “Yesterday evening when you were fishing I went back to the boat and wrote out our story. This morning I tucked it in with the book in the house.”
Ike said nothing and watched as Soren finished his packing. Soren looked up. “What is it?”
“That was sweet.” Ike said. Soren shrugged and stood, hauling the bag over his shoulder. He started to walk toward the dock but Ike stopped him, taking his shoulders in his hands, leaning and kissing him. “But our story isn’t over yet. We’ll have to come back someday to add more of it.”
It did not take long to carry the last remnants of their camp to the boat. The morning was gray and a heavy mist hung in the air. Ike jumped from the dock onto the boat’s deck and helped Soren descend into it, then unlashed it from its mooring, setting adrift.
Soren conjured a gentle burst of wind to fill the sails and Ike manned the rudder. The breeze was cold out on the water and the fog clung damp and heavy. Soren walked to the stern of the boat and looked to the island, watching as white plumes of cloud obscured it as though it were a dream, a vanishing land from a fairy story. He shivered—but a pair of strong, warm arms wound around him, and they watched together as their island disappeared against the vast horizon as they sailed into an unknown sea.