Spell Type: Gravitation shift; fluid special. Force equivocal to 9.78
Partial Interpretation of Runic Inscription
Fennorin’s Plumbing Schematics
According to the public, they had been courting quite some time. Six moons, to be exact, which was an appropriate amount of time. Enough time that her mattan had asked how the relationship was progressing. She had lied and said things were progressing well, and she intended to suggest they move forward with the matronage.
The second half was not a lie, but the first…
Fenn had completely ignored their courtship. In fact, he acted like it never happened at all. Any time she mentioned the topic, his mouth creased into a frown and he stopped speaking entirely until she changed the subject. It was like talking to Ar-Etnfrandia’s thick stone walls, older than the nation itself and more unchanging than its elven inhabitants.
And yet her affections grew. Because he was as brilliant as he was unusual. Because he would help her translate ancient songs and poems asking for nothing in return but a copy of the original. Because he knew a little something about everything: the fox in the den, the author of an epic, or the causes of the weather. He could speak intelligently on any topic, but best of all was when he spoke of language and history. Then his eyes would light up behind his glasses and he would become so engrossed in the topic he would forget himself and become animated. Rapid speech, large gestures, his high cheeks pinched around his eyes with pleasure; it was beautiful.
Most of all, it was because he was only that way with her.
Gale thought it was possible she was falling in love. Yes, it had to be him she matronned for. There could be no one else.
And so, with only a few days to spare before the Harvest Festival during which she hoped to announce a betrothal, she approached his cabin in the woods.
It was an unusual little home mostly in that it was of new build: logs were piled in straight walls with glass windows cut in them. It was not the natural, hilled dwelling of stone and carved trees that most folk living in the Greenriver Valley preferred.
Gale glided to the wooden door and took a moment to admire the ornate willow carved into it. That door had been a gift to Kitaryn, Fenn’s sister, who had been the cabin’s prior resident. There had been no sense changing it for her sibling, and Gale hoped to never change it. Secretly, she hoped their matronage would become a marriage, like her parents’, and his family crest would become hers.
She fingered the wood, enjoying the pristine finish, sanded smooth to the touch except at the edges of the engraving. It was the work of a master.
She definitely wasn’t stalling. There was nothing to dread when Fenn would see reason. He would see her sincerity, and her affection for him, and he would change his mind.
“Gale?” His high voice strained to travel from across his cabin’s clearing. “What are you doing all the way down here? We’re supposed to meet in the library tomorrow, are we not?”
They were, but that was for a translation. “Do I need a reason to visit my beau?”
He took in a sharp breath, about to protest, but let it out in a puff. “You never will renounce that, will you?” She hoped that it was meaningful to him, knowing her intention was unwavering.
“Now you’re beginning to understand.” She smiled and reached for him to hug him, but he shied away from her touch. He’d always been a bit averse to it. She helped him acclimate with a simple squeeze to the arm.
“Excuse me,” he pulled a key from his belt’s pouch and gestured for her to step aside. She didn’t understand why it had a lock in the first place. Who was going to come while he was away except her? What did he think they were going to do? Steal? She pitied him for the environment that must’ve informed this habit. It must have been in Hethbarn, for there was no need here.
The door clicked and swung in. He gestured again, this time for her to enter first. “Since you’re here.”
She entered his cabin for what was maybe the fifth time. It was a simple place with only two rooms: one a greatroom with a hearth against one wall, and the other a kitchen sharing the fireplace’s other side such that bread could be prepared and baked without running to and fro. There was a privacy closet, of course, but that was all. A folding screen separated his sleeping area from the rug and cushions. It was incredibly plain, and void of decor except for the piles of books and papers forever burying a desk.
Oh, and there was the device of black metal which Fenn called a “stove” placed near the hearth with a pipe running through the ceiling, and also against the back wall toward the bed linens.
“Let me fetch you some water. Do you need anything else? I don’t keep much in the way of food, but there’s bread and probably some cheese–oh that’s right, you aren’t accustomed to cheese. Bread and oil?” For someone who didn’t believe they were courting, he was very comfortable hosting her in his house. Alone. It was almost like he didn’t notice the implications. It should've been inappropriate.
“I’m not hungry, but if you are, you should eat. We don’t need you getting any skinnier,” she teased.
“Then the wind would quite blow me away, wouldn’t it? I'll be the first man to fly—if they haven't attached wings to engines yet.” His tone was as unsure as it was playful, typical of his jokes.
Of course, she didn't have a clue who “they” were or what “engine” meant except it was related to his former career. All the same, she giggled. “I'll tie a string to your ankle and call you a kite.”
His stilted chuckle followed him into the kitchen. She heard water gurgling as he pumped the well-pipe. She didn’t recall it having an extension inside, much less into the kitchen when last she’d visited. She meandered to his desk and saw diagrams of plumbing with many a foreign mark on them. “I see you’ve been keeping busy.”
He returned in rapid strides. “Aha! Those! Erm…” he crossed the room and practically shoved a glass mug without a handle into her hands. It… was cold? He busied himself stacking the diagrams and stuffing them inside a drawer.
“I didn’t mean to pry.” She decidedly did.
“Erm, it’s alright. Just a bit of engineering. I got tired of going in and out with buckets every time I wanted a drink. I’m not exactly suited to physical labor.” He flung out a spindly arm for emphasis.
“True. Beauty's blessing that you’re intelligent. It more than makes up for it.” She meant that both kindly and literally. Muscles were nice to look at, but they didn't help maintain a union. That and he'd solved the labor problem with his foreign engineering.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
He looked just aside from her face and offered up an awkward smile. “That’s a nice thing to say.” He didn't quite sound like he meant it.
A year or two ago, he would’ve transgressed in society and invoked a “thank you.” She kind-of missed his little conversational sins.
He started off across the house again. “Do you mind if I do a bit of cooking while you’re here? I’ll run out of everything but bread if I forget today.”
“Whatever you need. I just–”
He opened the stove's door with a clang and stirred up some charcoal smoldering in the bottom. While he did, he muttered something to himself and placed a few fresh pieces. Then he turned, stretched over to grab a box from the fireplace, and pulled an odd stick of kindling from it. He struck the kindling against the box, and a flame sprang to life on it.
Gale gasped and flinched away.
He placed the small flame in with the charcoal and blew. Slowly, it grew into a fire.
The mumbling… the sudden flame… “was that… magic?” She tried not to sound hopeful. It would make everything easy if he practiced magic. She wouldn’t have to keep that part of her life a secret, or hide it during their matronage.
“Ah!” He stumbled to his feet, waggling his hands in denial. “No! No! I wouldn’t. That’s illegal! No–I–it’s just a bit of science. The friction against the box causes sparks, which ignites the sulfer–erm” He glanced to his desk, and then back to her. “Just science,” he repeated.
“Right. Science.” She willed the disappointment from her voice, instead making it light and airy.
“While the stove is settling, what did you come here for?” He glanced at his desk again.
She followed his gaze, but it was just untidy piles of paper. “To see you. I want to discuss something. I hope I’m not interrupting your… whatever it is you do.”
“Right. No. Erm.” he scratched his temple under his spectacles. “That’s just some hobbies. A little engineering to keep me busy. I can take a break for a visit from a friend. What’s on your mind?”
If he brightened when he spoke of history, she could only dream of how he would shine if he would talk about his projects. But that was a matter for another time. “I want to talk about the matronage.”
He blinked as though she’d splashed her water across his face. “Sorry?”
“The matronage.” she grinned.
“What matronage?”
“The one I’d like to propose.”
“Did you suit someone?” His surprise was genuine.
She glared at him. She’d reminded him of their official relationship when she’d arrived. “Fenn.”
His brows furrowed. “Last I checked we were in a public courtship for your sake that I refused to acknowledge.”
That stung. He hadn’t been simply uncomfortable talking about it. He’d been passively refusing her. Maybe it shouldn't have surprised her. He had been upset when she'd suited to court him, too.
She took a deep breath. But his refusal wasn’t about her; she knew it wasn’t. It was never because he didn’t like her company. He proved all the time that he enjoyed their friendship. “Fenn, I made an intentional suit in that dance. It’s only natural that I would follow it with a formal proposal.”
“No.”
“‘No,’ what?” Gale asked, taken aback at his sudden terseness.
“No. My formal answer.”
She sucked her teeth to reign in her more explosive emotions. He refused before he’d heard her reasons. “Why?”
He slid a compartment of his stove open and peeked inside before he closed it again, silent.
“Fenn, why?” She insisted. He could be such a child.
“I’ll ruin your life,” he said.
“You would not.”
“Yes, I would,” he whispered to the floorboards.
“I’m not oblivious, Fenn. I know you’ve practically been disowned, definitely disinherited, and you obviously don’t intend to pursue a traditional career. But you care about me. You’ll care about your family—our family. That’s all I need.”
He snapped up from his squat by the stove, his jaw grinding. He didn’t look at her. “No.”
“No? But Fenn, who else is going to ask you? Don’t you want a family? Love? A real life?”
“No,” he growled. He flicked a hand, suggesting that she move. When she did, he rolled up the rug. There was a cellar door hidden under it. He flung it open.
“Use more words than that, Fenn. Why not?” She chased him down the ladder into the dim. There were more shelves of books than there were stores of food. It was a bit odd that they would be in his cellar, not upstairs leaning on the walls.
“No,” came that one word again, damped by the thick air.
She followed him to a small barrel where he plucked up a basket. He selected a few vegetables from the barrel to fill it, slick with condensation. It was cooler down here than she expected. Gale crossed her arms and waited.
He finished his selection and began to carry his findings to the ladder.
She cut off his path. “Fenn, I’m waiting on a proper explanation.”
“I’ve told you all you should need: No. You should learn to accept that word. Your father can’t buy you everything.”
A zing of pain zipped through her at the insult. He’d just called her spoiled. He tried to circle around her. “Fenn!” Her voice rose as she reached for his arm to stop him.
He flinched. Not as a small jolt, either, but a full-body dodge, dropping his basket of veggies on the ground.
She froze in shock.
He did the same. His mouth fell open, soundless.
“Fenn?” She reached out a hand to help him gather his things.
His mouth closed and he stood erect instead of gathering. His right hand rubbed at his left bicep as it would for a fresh bruise.
Or the memory of one.
It struck with sudden clarity: someone had harmed him, and done it often enough to train him to dodge. It could've happened out there, in Hethbarn, but she knew better. She'd suspected since the day he'd left what his athyr had been like. “Fenn, please talk to me,” she begged.
He kept his sallow cheek turned toward her, his face away. “Please leave,” he croaked.
She sidestepped once more and put her hand on the ladder, blocking his exit. “Please talk. I… I just want to understand.”
“Then I’ll leave.” He turned on his heels and strode deeper into his cellar.
It took her a moment too long to realize she needed to follow if she didn’t want to lose him. “Fenn, no, please. I’m sorry I yelled. We’re both stubborn, just let me–” she rounded a shelf, and when she did, there was no one there, only an empty wall.
“Fenn?” she called after him. “Fenn?!”
There was no response.
Her heart ached for him. Of course he didn’t want a matronage. Not if his own family had been that kind. She would just have to show him the gentleness of love. He would come around.
“When you change your mind, I’ll be waiting!” she said to no one.