Page 27 of Arrows

They walked for another hour or so, over well-worn paths and hills. The air began to taste of oceans and home. Van started to whistle, under his breath and then louder, a fishing-song he’d known from childhood. Milo’s smile painted the hills with joy.

They would not make it all the way to Baylight before night, but Van knew where they were, more or less, and took Milo slightly out of the way, up to the small village and ferry at Convers, with the decent travelers’ inn. They did not need to cross the river, but the village would be tidy and picturesque in the morning, and he wanted Milo to have a decent bed, and they could afford it.

His parents’ inn, the Gull’s Nest, was overall nicer—not bias, but professional evaluation—but the unimaginatively named Crossroads had well-built walls and a good fire and a bustling common room. News about the war, or rather the not-war, and the border negotiations had made it up to the village before Van and Milo; several cloth merchants and vintners were discussing potential impacts upon sales, loudly.

A very giddy minstrel was scribbling notes. Van pondered what elements would make it into the song. Not himself, he guessed. Almost certainly Lorre.

A few heads turned, as he and Milo came in. Several people immediately started their way, with intent. Van should’ve expected that, and hadn’t. He and Milo weren’t in uniform, but did wear the pin of the Queen’s insignia; they’d both been proud to carry it. They also clearly had weaponry, and had been traveling. Questions arose.

He answered as truthfully as he could—yes, the war was resolved; no, no one had died; yes, it was true about Lorre and the blinding light and also moving a river—and grabbed Milo’s hand and ducked away from well-meaning interest. Up the stairs. To one of the better rooms, because a few of Lorre’s hair-pins had paid for that.

“I suppose we’ll get more of that,” Milo said, shutting the door. The wood was oak, and heavy, and comforting. The fire, already lit, heated the timbered space. “Everyone’ll want to know.”

“And they know me here, sort of—I’m not local but we’re not too far; some of them know my parents—so I’m someone they can ask.” Van set down quiver, pack, cloak. “Sorry about that.”

“No, I don’t mind. They need the news.” Milo, also having got comfortable, held out both hands to the fire. The glow winked along his ring. “We’ll get to your village tomorrow, then?”

“Mid-morning. Depending on when we head out.” Van gazed at him, basked in the sight of him. In fire gleam, Milo was almost a fire-prince himself: a study in red and gold and copper, hair loose when one hand took out the tie, sleeves rolled up to display strong forearms and muscles and treasure-dust freckles. He was not Lorre; he was thoroughly human, deep-rooted, rolling a shoulder to stretch it.

The clarity raced along Van’s veins like sunrise, like illumination. Yes, he thought. Oh, yes.

Milo looked up. Started to speak; stopped. Licked his lips.

The fire leapt.

A knock interrupted; bread and cheese and sausages, and a jug of local cider, arrived. The boy who’d brought it lingered, eyeing their insignia, the longbows. “Evander Roche, from Baylight? Were you at the front, with—”

“We were there,” Milo answered, not looking away from Van. “And now we’re back. And everyone’s safe. Thank you for the supper.”

The boy scampered out, shutting the door. The shutters of the window were open; moonlight shone on the river below, and came in through glass to mingle and meld with the firelight. The bed, the only bed, stood tall and curtained, not magically splendid but designed for coziness on winter nights.

“Everyone’s safe,” Van echoed, and held out a hand.

Milo took it. “Yes.”

“Are we?”

“Safe?” Milo reached up, trailed fingers across Van’s cheek. Shorter, he had to tip his head back for their eyes to meet. “I think we are. What were you thinking, just now?”

“I want you,” Van said. Words, escaping. “I want you, and—and I know it’s too soon, I know you might not—I don’t want you to think I’m not serious about this, like I’d just jump into your bed from his—I’ve never been more serious. About any of this. I look at you and I think that you’re real and you’re true and I can barely believe it and I want to kiss you all over.”

Milo laughed, though he also blinked, rapidly, and ducked his head for a moment. But he leaned in closer, bringing their bodies together. “I was trying not to rush you.”

“You’re coming home with me.”

“I thought…I don’t know. Not comparisons, in bed; I can’t compare, anyway. But. If you were hurt—not physically, or not just that, I know you were sore after that first night, I know how you move—this, I mean.” He set a hand over Van’s chest, over Van’s heart: short blunt freckled fingers against linen and a shirt-pocket. “I’m not someone who wants to hurt you, when you’re healing.”

Van put his hand over Milo’s, just there. “You said we were safe. You and me.”

“I did.”

“We’re all right, then. Healing, maybe. But it’s good.” He lifted Milo’s hand, kissed the fingertips. “We’re good.”

Milo’s breath caught.

“I want to,” Van said. “I want you to know I want you. You—no comparisons. Lorre is…Lorre. A raincloud, sometimes. I can’t love a raincloud, not like I love you. I want you, and I want to make you feel good.”

Milo’s laugh, this time, was uneven; he pushed the other hand across his eyes. “I want that. Us.”

---