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More leaves have fallen from the trees since yesterday.
Round, almost translucent, they're strewn out like a golden mat on the floor of the clearing, in a layer so thick that Isak doesn’t notice the boy at first.
His skin is almost the same colour as the foliage covering him; pale gold, almost glimmering in the sunlight streaming down through the canopy above, and only part of his face is visible. A long, straight nose, full lips that are slightly parted, and a tall forehead.
His eyes, however, are closed.
The rest of his body lies hidden, and when Isak kneels and carefully shuffles the leaves off of him, he can see that his chest is heaving in slow, deep breaths.
When Isak has laid all of his body bare, it also becomes obvious that he is, in fact, a boy. He’s naked where he lies; no loincloth around his hips, no furs to cover him while he’s sleeping.
The sun is still high in the sky, but it’s early autumn, and only in a few hours it will be cold and dark. This boy will not live if he doesn’t wake up.
Isak taps his shoulder, just a soft stroke of his fingers on warm skin, but the boy does not react at all. A slightly more insistent touch, and still, nothing.
It doesn’t feel right to outright push at him; but if Isak doesn’t, he might not wake.
Not even a rough shove at his shoulders elicits even the tiniest reaction out of him.
Isak looks up at the blue of the sky between the branches, lays his palm on the boy’s cheek, and makes a decision.
He’s slim, but tall. Still, he’s not at all as heavy as Isak had expected; as if his sleeping state makes him lighter, almost fluid, instead of ungainly.
As he hoists the boy up in front of himself and grabs on to his thighs to lift him up higher, their chests come together, and in some weird way, it feels… right.
As if this was a dream, and he just knew that this was the right thing to do. As if something urges him on to do exactly this, and it makes him fold his arms under the boy’s hips and hold him even tighter.
Then, he starts walking.
The village is almost empty still, only the usual guards left at the gap in the palisade, and they squint their eyes at him as he approaches.
When he walks through the gate and into the village, he can feel them turn their heads after him, and as he starts walking towards his family’s hut, he hears them follow.
Before he’s reached the hut, however, one of them runs ahead and stops in front of him, the butt of his spear sunk into the ground before him.
“You must not bring that thing inside,” the guard says, and suddenly, they’re on all sides, eyes dark and threatening, spears lowered. A step back, and there’s something sharp gnawing into the flesh of his back. And when the ring of men starts to walk to the side, Isak has to follow.
They stop at the cage in the corner of the village, the remains of the hide of the wolf they caught last full moon still dangling from the bars up above.
Isak shakes his head. This is not how it’s going to go, this is wrong, against his every instinct.
He won’t be parted from this warm body, that's all he knows.
And he’s not going into the cage with it.
So when the eldest of the guards lowers his spear, the point of it sharp and deadly against his forehead, he just stays.
He can’t shake his head, won’t let the spear scratch his skin, so he stays, and stares the guard right in the eyes.
Stares and stares, and feels the warmth pulsating from the body in his arms, telling him that this is right.
Stays, and lets the surety of his refusal well up through him like waves.
In the periphery of his vision, the guards start to shift their feet, start casting glances at each other, mumble something he can’t hear.
But he doesn’t take his eyes off the guards’, just stares him down.
And then, finally, with a bite of his lip, the guard lowers his spear.
Looks at the others, who stand frozen to the ground, their arms impassive at their sides.
Slowly, he takes a step to the side, and then, holding on to the body in his arms, another.
Before he breaks into a run and heads for the stables.
He dreads he’ll find it empty, but today of all days, he’s in luck.
His father’s second horse, the greying, trustworthy old mare, stands there waiting. As quickly as he can, he hoists the sleeping boy up on the horse’s back. Rushes to the hut and gathers the furs lying in front of the fireplace. And, before he has time to think twice about it, he grabs his father’s knife hanging by the door.
His fingers tremble as he unties the horse’s reins, but his legs are sure as he climbs it. And, with the boy still sleeping, draped over the horse’s neck in front of him, he starts to ride.
Dusk has long fallen when they stop, the wind too cold for his fingers to hold on to the reins any longer, the ground between the pine trees black, moonlight only a faint gleam between the branches up ahead.
He ties the horse to a large fir tree, its lower branches creating a sort of cave. The furs make for a bed wide enough to fit them both, and as he lifts the boy down from the horse and lays him down, he can’t help but notice how his skin is still strangely warm, despite the chill of the night air.
His hands shiver as he drapes the furs over them both, and it doesn’t take long for him to realize that he would be better off without his clothes, to let the body heat of the strange boy warm him.
After a moment’s hesitation, he wriggles out of his garments, and when he lies down, flush against the warm stranger beside him, he’s once again filled with the absolute knowledge that this is right.
That this is how it’s supposed to be, however strange it may seem.
Their soft skin against each other, Isak’s arm around his back, their hearts beating side by side.
And just like that, the boy opens his eyes and looks straight at him.
Even in the darkness underneath the fir tree, Isak can see that they’re blue; a pale blue, almost grey, like the evening sky after a warm summer’s day.
The boy doesn’t look surprised, only curious, and maybe a little... amused?
He doesn’t say anything, just watches Isak with that inscrutable expression on his face, his arm mirroring Isak’s movements as he wraps it around his back, and holds him.
“You’re awake,” Isak says, dumbly, but the boy doesn’t respond, only smiles, and keeps watching him.
“Are you… where are you from?” No answer this time either – the boy just looks to the side, and then to the other side, then up, before he smiles, again, and tilts his head.
Isak bites his lip. “You… don’t know?”
The boy shrugs.
“You can’t speak.” It’s not a question this time, but the boy nods, and moves his fingers to lay his hand on Isak’s cheek instead.
Instinctively, Isak understands that he should do the same, so he moves his hand, his thumb coming to rest beneath the boy’s lower lip, his other fingers touching his hairline, his palm a perfect fit against the line of the boy’s jaw.
“But you understand me.”
The boy smiles, and the thin skin at the corner of his eye crinkles under the pad of Isak’s index finger.
“My name is Isak,” he adds, and the boy smiles even wider, stroking his thumb along Isak’s cheekbone.
Isak watches him, sees the white of his eyes gleam in the darkness.
“And you are Even.”
The boy bites his lip and nods in encouragement, palm pressing lightly against Isak’s cheek.
Isak can’t say how he knows his name, it just suddenly… was there. As if Even wanted him to know, and then, it just – happened.
“And you’re from… somewhere close to the clearing where I found you, but at the same time from… really far away?”
Another nod, and there’s something casting a shadow over the boy’s features in that moment, something that makes his smile falter lightly.
“You don’t know how to go home.” Isak bites his lip. “Or, you do, but you don’t know how to get there.”
Even nods, again, and leans a little closer, so that the tips of their noses rest against each other.
“I can show you, though,” Isak says, and even if he knows that it’s the right thing to do, the mere thought of parting from this strange boy feels odd. Wrong, somehow.
Even just watches him, and for a moment, the connection between them goes silent, as if there’s something disturbing whatever it is that goes on between them.
“Tomorrow,” he adds, because now, they literally cannot go anywhere. It’s too dark, too cold. “Is it… is it all right for you if we sleep like this tonight?”
There’s nothing in Even’s smile that can make him doubt that it is just what they should do.
He doesn’t sleep for a long time, though. And Even doesn’t, either.
They don’t do much talking – if that’s what he should call it – mostly just lie there, watching, touching, holding each other.
Isak has no idea what this is, or what it means. Only that he has no will to leave.
It strikes him, once or twice, that he might have been bewitched.
Even if this isn’t exactly what the elders have described would usually happen if you’d encounter a forest spirit, or a water ghost, he can’t be sure.
But he can’t leave Even now. Not even if he wanted to.
The warmth of his body enveloping him, his warm, patient smile, his eyes, deep like the ponds at the edge of the forest and bright as the summer sky; the way he touches Isak as if he’s the most precious thing; Isak has never felt anything like this.
So if it indeed is witchcraft, he decides right then that he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t even feel cold as the daylight arrives like he usually does. And there’s nothing he’d rather do than stay here, in their makeshift warm cocoon, until day becomes night and day again, and never go home.
But he knows he cannot. His mother and father will miss him, are already missing him, and he can’t be gone with the horse for too long.
And he's promised to show Even the way home.
When they finally arrive at the clearing, the sun is once more high in the sky, the light shining golden through the leaves up above, and Even takes his hand after he’s helped him off the horse. They round a grove of trees at the edge of the clearing, and there, as if it has always been there, is a wall that Isak can swear was never there before. A mossy, old-looking stone wall, stretching out between the tree trunks on both sides for as far as he can see. It’s tall, at least twice Even’s height, with a faint white glow visible above the top.
In the middle of the wall, just ahead of them, is a gate. A low stone arch, just tall enough that Even can walk through it without bending his head, and when they’re only a couple of steps away from it, Even stops. Turns around, and holds Isak’s face between his hands.
“I can’t follow you in there,” Isak says, and Even’s eyes are serious, no smile on his lips. “If I do, I can never come back.”
Even nods, palms warm against Isak’s cheeks, but then, the corner of his mouth curls into a lop-sided smile.
“But you can come back here,” Isak says, chest bubbling, head light, and Even’s responding smile is just as blinding as the bright light shining through the stone arch behind him.
“Tomorrow?” Isak whispers, and Even keeps smiling, his sharp teeth making little indents in his lower lip as he nods, again.
And then, with his head turned, looking over his shoulder at Isak as he walks through the door, he’s gone.
Even’s already there when Isak enters the clearing the next morning, standing in the middle, surrounded by sunlight and golden leaves.
His smile shines like the sun and the moon and all the stars as he sees Isak approaching, but it falters when he comes closer. And Isak knows that Even probably already sees on him that something’s wrong. That he’ll probably understand exactly what’s happened as soon as Isak touches him; that there’s no use in hiding.
So, as they embrace each other, Isak puts his fingertips to Even’s cheek. Conveys all of it to Even. Shows him the grim faces that met him yesterday as he slipped through the village gates with his empty pouch in hand. His father’s angry shouts, his mother’s distant concern.
The sideways looks he’d received this morning as he'd exited the village again.
“But it doesn’t matter,” Isak whispers with emphasis. “I don’t care about them. I just wanted to meet you.”
And Even must sense that it’s the absolute truth, because he smiles again, the worry and concern lifted from his lovely face. When he puts his hand on Isak’s cheek, warmth streams from it through Isak’s skin, into the core of his being.
“I’ve brought the furs,” Isak whispers and nods to the bundle discarded at the edge of the clearing. He can feel the heat rise in his cheeks as he licks his lips, and asks, “Do you want to lie down with me? Like we did… before?”
He can hear the echo of yes yes yes inside his head already before he sees Even’s responding smile.
The clearing has always been his safe place. A place where nobody else comes; too close to the edge of the forest, too far from the protection of the water fairies in the stream, too odd in its round, bowl-like shape.
And Isak has never been this thankful for it than he is in this moment. He wouldn’t want anyone to intrude on this.
On the warm cocoon of him and Even, covered by furs and wrapped in each other, just like every day for the past moon. Their legs are entangled as if they’ve always been just so, lips soft against each other, their bodies moving soundlessly and slowly as they find the rhythm they settled in after just a few days together.
The first time Even put his lips on his, he should maybe have felt shocked, or at least surprised – but he didn’t. Like everything else they’ve done together, it was, of course, the right thing.
Everything about this is right. Has been from the start.
Everything, except when darkness starts to fall and Even has to go.
He’s tried to understand why; but when he’s talked about it, Even has only shaken his head, and smiled at him in that curious way that he does whenever the world beyond the wall comes up in conversation.
“Would you be able to speak to me there?” Isak had asked, one day, and Even had just bitten his lip, and looked at him.
Maybe there’s no such thing as voices on the other side. Or maybe they wouldn’t need them there.
Not that he has to speak now, either. And it’s a good thing – it’s hard to put into words how increasingly disconnected he feels from the rest of the village now that he’s found Even.
He knows, with absolute certainty, that none of them would understand.
He hasn’t forgotten the sharpness of the spear against his forehead on that first day. Nor have the sideways looks the others give him diminished in intensity.
Of course, he’s always been the odd one out, ever since he found this clearing and started sneaking out of the village regularly, many summers ago. Lately, however, there’s a new edge to their stares, a different undertone to their whispers.
And maybe he imagines it, but he thinks there’s been a sharper angle at the corner of his father’s mouth lately; maybe it’s because he’ll soon be of age, and will be expected to give up these childish roamings.
Except nothing of this feels childish.
This is not Isak clinging on to the past or a nostalgic fantasy, this is the future, and it’s bright and blinding; it’s warmth and hope and an encompassing closeness, and he never wants to let it go.
He doesn’t want to think about what will happen when the days grow shorter, and even worse – when winter nears, and the sun won’t come up at all.
It’s evident that something will come to a head when the last leaves fall from their branches.
One day, everything is as it used to be, and then suddenly, it’s not.
Today is particularly cold, a few single snowflakes dotting the firs, naked oak branches looming over his head as he half-runs through the forest. The light has faded more rapidly every day for the past moon, and deep inside, he knows that there can’t be more than a few days left now.
As he enters the clearing, his breath hitches in his throat.
Even stands in the middle, just as usual, but his skin lacks that glow, that characteristic shimmer that was the first thing he noticed about him. Somehow, he looks grey, frayed at the edges, less sharp.
He rushes forward, almost panicking with the need to feel Even’s skin against his, to see if he feels the same under his fingertips.
He’s warm, as always, but as Isak watches the tips of Even's fingers it’s almost difficult to tell where he ends or begins. And as he looks up into Even’s eyes, there’s something there that he’s never seen before.
He is afraid.
“It’s the cold,” Isak whispers as he’s put his hands on Even’s cheeks. “Or the darkness? Is that it?”
Even Even’s smile isn’t the same as usual; it’s odd, a strange uncertainty to it, almost confused.
Isak wastes no time in shedding his clothes, his teeth chattering as they crawl under the furs.
It merely takes seconds for that familiar warmth to settle between them again, sinking in, wrapping them in the safety of them, together.
For a few golden hours, everything will be right again.
But, after what feels like only minutes, Even puts his hand on Isak’s cheeks and looks him deep in the eyes. It’s his sign, the one that means that he has to go, and suddenly, a cold hand grips around Isak’s heart.
“You won’t come back after tomorrow,” Isak whispers, dread rushing through him in waves, black and oily, suffocating. “Tomorrow is the last time.”
And this time, as Even nods, there’s no hint of a smile on his face.
Darkness has already fallen when he slinks through the village gates, and it’s just as well. He doesn’t want anyone to see the tear streaks on his face, his swollen eyes, or his clenched fists.
Hopefully, no one will be home. Or, at least, his mother might be sleeping.
As he enters the hut, however, it’s nowhere near empty.
The ten elders stand there, their backs straight, assembled in a ring, and in the middle of it, his father. Face stern as always, but with a glint in his eyes.
And in his hand, standing tall on the floor in front of him, newly carved and tall, a spear.
Its head glimmers in the flames cast by the fire, and the elders all turn their heads and look at him.
And suddenly, he understands.
Tomorrow, the sun goes down for the last time this fall. Tomorrow night, his time has come. The time when he’ll finally hold that spear in his hand, and become one of them.
He doesn’t sleep that night.
His feet have never felt heavier than when he leaves the village the next morning.
Biting his lip, he turns at the edge of the forest. Watches the palisade, the men standing guard next to the opening in it, the elder’s hut rising in the middle.
The pine needles are sharp against the back of his hands as he pushes them aside, the bite in the air cold on his nose.
And then, finally, he enters the clearing, and his heart takes a jump.
He’d been afraid that Even wouldn’t be here; that he somehow wouldn’t be able to make it this very last time, but he’s here, tall and radiant as always, even paler than yesterday, but here. Looking straight at Isak, waiting, a faint smile on his face.
His pulse beats quickly in his chest as he takes the final steps forward, and wraps Even in his arms. Breathes in the warmth at the crook of his neck, closes his eyes as his hands stroke across Even's back and feels the softness of his skin under his palms.
The slope of Even’s shoulder feels the same under his chin, but it looks even more diffuse today, almost integrating with the air around him, and Isak bites the inside of his cheek as he traces it with his fingertips.
There’s a sombre shade to Even’s smile as he glances towards the pile of furs beside them, but Isak shakes his head.
Takes Even’s hand instead, and pulls him along to the end of the clearing.
Through the molten leaves, underneath the naked branches, and towards the tall stone wall.
Even becomes more defined again as they near the light streaming out of the opening, his skin regaining that strange glow that Isak noticed the very first time he saw him.
His gaze is steady and the look on his face inscrutable as he turns, and watches Isak carefully. There’s a question there, an insecurity, but Isak doesn’t let go of his hand.
He swallows, squeezes Even’s hand harder, and nods. Watches his lips part, and his forehead soften.
With one final look at each other, still hand in hand, they take a step forward. Then another.
And then, without looking back, they smile at each other, and walk through the door.