Brotherhood and Bewilderment

“Oh, I’m not interrupting anything am I?” Wilkes asked calmly in the aisleway between bookshelves. He took in the scene of Erik kneeling with his own courtship ring being slipped onto a chain for Amy to wear as a necklace. Both were blushing like children playing house for the first time. Amy's arms fled from around Erik's neck. Wilkes did his best not to laugh. He smiled, he gave them two thumbs up, and most importantly he did not laugh at their embarrassment.

“Oh Wilkes, how good to see you! You weren’t interrupting anything at all. What is there to interrupt at a library anyways? Study is best done mutually! Ri-Right Erik? Studying together is the best use of things.” Amy rattled off quickly, straightening the creases in her dress where she had clung to Erik briefly.

“Oh absolutely. So what was it you were helping Erik study?” Wilkes began to tease her and was met by a few quick stammers. “Well while you’re doing that, could you point me to any books we have on martial arts? Specifically on polearms.”

Her hand snapped to the side and pointed to the southern corner of the library. He thanked her and continued to suppress any chuckles, giggles, hees, or hahs. There in a fortress of paper, Wilkes sat. Books that he thought could be useful were stacked half as tall as he was beside a singular chair and desk in the dusty corner of the library. There was little use for the martial arts shelves, doubled with their only being twelve titles claiming to be such. It was a quiet town and what fighting was done was typically between two drunks in the street, or boys throwing each other with playground tricks. To substitute the admitted lack of things he had snagged a few books that had a dancing curriculum. Footwork was footwork after all. Even if it did distract him with the idea of swaying gently with Beatrice. His hands on her hips, her arms around his neck, the two of them gliding through reality with only each other as a focus. Standing so close he could see himself in the reflection of those gorgeous eyes, the subtle pout of her lips begging him to lean in. He pushed the book aside and drove the distraction aside.

Hours past. His nose buried in books. His fingers flipping through the aged pages. His mind attempting to soak it in. He was impossibly bored. Half hand, single hand, twin hand, all the styles referred to hands and their number! Worst of all was the beliefs of some of the books directly disagreed with others. Elves said you should never remain planted while striking with a polearm. Fluttering kicks, lunges, leaps, acrobatics across the board should accompany any thrust or slash. Human teachings said exactly the opposite. Drive your heels into and through the dirt, be a stalwart anchor for the weapon to be tied to. The world crashes upon you and impales itself in the process. The worst offenders were the orcs. The book simply said “Kill them first, finality over form.”

What sort of finality could be guaranteed without repeatable steps? Without techniques to guarantee you make it to survive the fight, what was the point in fighting at all? He put the orcish war schemes back on the shelf, shaking his head at the confounding book. In short order he returned the entire collection he’d briefly amassed to the shelves save for three. A picture guide to elven combat acrobatics, a manuscript on human polearm fighting, and a book on dueling etiquette. All he knew had been taught by Carden, and he was in desperate need of a better source than a dead pirate. He slinked out of the corner and found the pair speaking to a cloaked figure.

“Your marriage will happen precisely as intended. Do not stray from your course and the fates shall smile upon you.” Meryl spoke with her same bored monotone voice. His hands tightened on the books briefly. A dull warmth kindled itself in his chest when he heard her. He knew the feeling well, he used to have it when he still thought Beatrice was as likely to eat him as she was to fuck him. He stared at the heavy black robes, the rolling shape obscuring the woman beneath. It gnawed at him that he had only seen her face twice. Once from across a crowd and a second in a dream. His steps slowed, but he forced himself forward. The oracle turned to him, he could feel her eyes on him through the thick veil. He couldn’t bring himself to smile, or to speak really, but he stared back. Finally Wilkes cleared his throat and his voice came tumbling up his throat.

“Am I early or right on time?” he asked, shoving this feeling deep into the pit of his stomach. They could resolve themselves down there, he needed to keep his composure. A small giggle floated out from beneath the heavy fabric.

“Precisely as predicted, Wilkes Tempest. You arrive as the threads spool as intended.” The alluring mass of black fabric spoke to him. The distant memory of her face was smudged slightly, perhaps his mental ink hadn’t fully dried before he had last moved on with his day. He could hear a hint of a smile in her voice but little more. The door bell chimed sweetly, Amy scuttled past quickly to greet whoever had come in.

“Ah, as cryptic as ever. You know if you only want to speak in poetry there’s other forms than vaguely threatening prophecy. You could try odes or ballads. That or I write a love poem for you to study.” Wilkes teased the oracle, a tilted head and shifted fabric was the only response. Erik and Amy gawked at him. Smiling, Wilkes walked past them to the check out sheet near the archives. “Now if all of you don’t mind, I really must be going.”

As he jotted the titles down he felt all three of them still staring at him. He straightened from his stooped writing posture and began to ask a question. A green fist connected with his cheek. Spittle flew from his mouth. The small stack of books tumbled to the ground. His feet staggered, his stance kept him from tumbling from the impact. Snapping into focus he brought up his hands to engage in a fist fight with whomever had sucker punched him. Beatrice glared at him with slightly puffy eyes. Tears were actively beginning to fall. His guard dropped immediately. He stretched a hand out to console her and she smacked his hand away. Angry tears stained her cheeks, she grit her teeth.

“Beatrice, what’s wro-”

“Are you actually serious?”

“Yes ye just walked in and hit me while crying, what’s wrong?”

“Wha- how could you- Wilkes you utter moron!” She screamed at him, balled fists threatened to sail toward him again. He didn’t flinch, but did take a half step back.

“Yer not making any sense! Why won’t ye tell me what’s wrong?”

“Unbelivable!” Her shoulders shook as she began to sob in full. The huntress turned and walked out of the archive completely. The door slammed so hard behind her he swore the grain shifted on the wood. Wilkes started to follow her, but Erik rested a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Wilkes, let’s talk outside for a second. Leave Meryl and Amy to chat ye?” The elf asked, there was a pleading look in his eyes. With a nod, the two stepped out into the street. Beatrice was storming up the block now, sniffling and shoulder checking her way through the light crowds. Passersby shot dirty looks at Wilkes. His luck had turned back to rotten in the blink of an eye. He squinted hard as he readjusted to the setting sun. Hours studying and a punch to the face didn’t help the transition.

“Right, Wilkes, I know yer a joking sort and rarely double check yer thoughts… so I’ll spell out what ye did wrong. Ye couldn’t’ve fully known, on account of Beatrice still being half shy with ye.” Erik shifted on his feet for a moment, scratching at the back of his head as he mulled his words carefully. “When I was courting Beatrice, she had gone to see Meryl for a prediction on it. She predicted a sailor would leave her and fall in love with a woman of great knowledge. So she broke things off for me, figuring she could cheat fate.”

“Right. Right, makes sense on her end yea. But uh, why’re ye bringing it up?” Wilkes had a sinking feeling in his gut. The same he got before the captain would have him sorting fish by sex and kind instead of one or the other. “Yer planning a wedding with Amy now Erik. It’s come to pass, Beatrice wouldn’t-”

“That is exactly what she’s thinking. She saw ye talkin’ all about a love poem to an oracle. Those lines pulled taunt and she snapped.” Erik spoke softly. His hands wrung with nothing between them, the bags under his eyes seemed to sag heavier now. Reality crashed over Wilkes like sea spray in a storm. His knees weakened, and the ground rushed up to greet him for a second. He caught himself on the railing on the stairs towards the archive. His vision blurred, and vomit rushed up his throat.

“Aw, Wilkes, c’mon…” Erik pat his back while the sailor painted the walkway. When his stomach was emptied and his mind began to level out, Erik yanked Wilkes to stand upright. Once he was upright again, he wiped his mouth on his wrist. His signature looks back to their usual balance, he shook his head gently.

“Another right of Testero, likely against Rangpar or worse Cap’n Tellish.” Wilkes mused quietly. Erik tutted at him.

“Wilkes, I’m not sure this is one ye can punch or cut yer way through for once.” Erik argued against the musing. “You already reforged the bond by one, and from what Rangpar’s recounted ye gotta win her over with words.”

Rubbing his temples, Wilkes began to pace. Hopefully thinking and moving at the same time would have him solve his problem quicker. He walked the span of the archive’s entryway a total of thirty times before Erik decided tripping him was the wisest resolution.

“Wilkes, you’ll destroy the tread of your shoes thinking like that. Use your head not your hands and feet to solve something for once.” Erik teased him. The elf smiled while worry was still shining in his eyes. He stroked the golden stubble he was attempting to call a beard. It looked more like sun bleached coconut fuzz if you asked Wilkes.

“Using my head, hmm.” The human in turn stroked a similar amount of stubble that grew in black over blonde.

“I swear if yer thinking of bedding her as an apology, I’ll grab the captain’s daughter.” Erik scowled as he spoke, Wilkes shook his head slowly. He bit back a chuckle at the idea, it wouldn’t be good to mention he’d wandered off from the start of bedding her a few hours ago. The realization did make him pale a bit more though.

There was a better method to approaching all of this. Not standing in front of the archive stroking his beard. Not running after her through the city streets and making a public spectacle. Certainly not trying to reignite the passion by bedding her while ignoring what he said. An earnest apology, with words and a gesture in equal measure.

“I gotta get her flowers.” Wilkes hit his fist like a gavel against his opposite palm. “She loves nature, and girls in general love flowers, so bringing her flowers is perfect right?”

“Ye think a couple of dead plants is gonna counteract confirming a fate she was terrified of?”

“No, not nearly. Maybe if I cook up the stew she likes, say I’m sorry, bring her flowers, then I’ll be golden right?” Wilkes did his best to smile. The expression was visibly tense. Erik sighed and sat on the stairs. He ran a hand through his close cropped hair before staring at the ground for a long moment.

“Wilkes, bud, I love ya like a brother, truly I do. But you are so damned naive. Think critically for a moment, you are doing purely current and physical actions with your plan there. You’re slapping a wrap of bandages on a gaping wound. It’s good for the short and the immediate but that’s not what you or she wants. I don’t wanna lecture ye, gods above know I ain’t got much ground to stand on for it. Ye wanna smooth things? Ye wanna believe this’ll work out? Go to the oracle with Beatrice. Have yer fates read as a pair. It’ll either put the lumber in the coffin or the wedding altar.” Erik chewed his lip when he finished speaking, a single leg bouncing as he seemed to jump from a number of ideas. “Just make sure you give her a proper apology before running off. Because brother, all three of us saw you hit on another woman when you were courting Beatrice. I think you got a big enough heart to figure that one out, but does Beatrice?”

The two stared at each other for a moment.

“She does. When you were tending your own wounds she packed mine. When the only friend I was bothering to speak with was at the bottom of a bottle, she brought me a letter from my mother.” Wilkes spoke slowly, his voice was a bit hollow. “I love her, Erik. If I gotta have a heart big enough for both of us then I will.”

“Well then go figure out how to tell her that without it being part of the apology, and for seas’ sake Wilkes have a peaceful day yea? Ye been tossed about constantly since we both became men.” Erik spoke while his eye bags betrayed the advice. Wilkes firmly rested his hands on his hips and quirked an eyebrow at the elf. He began a response before stopping, waving a hand dismissively, and beginning to trot off. The two had always been a match at verbal spars, extending it over taking care of business was pointless.

Once again, the sailor walked through town. Eyes were on him as always, but for once he paid it no mind. People stare, they giggle, they spin the rumor mill, all of that is normal. Stopping to do something about it was the furthest thing from his goal right now. At that moment he was heading out the forest, to that stream where he knew wild flowers grew a furlong down from Beatrice’s family home.