Post by Marto Copperkettle on Dec 12, 2022 0:20:08 GMT
💙 Co-written with the gentle Fogwalker of the Walking Stone 💙
The Winter Fayre of New Hillborrow has been going on for some time now. Announcements and toasts have been made, and the sun has long finished its descent below the horizon. The only light around comes from gentle spells, the bonfire, and the moon, all casting long shadows against the snowy ground. A sharp chill is trying to grip on tight but many have migrated to the warmth of the large bonfire to escape it, various groups of people now laying claim to the many logs and chairs placed around it.
Between chatting to locals and adventurers alike, and being covered in flowers by BB, Fog finally finds a quiet moment by the bonfire to chill with a steaming mug of mulled cider. He sits himself on an unoccupied log set far enough back so that he can happily watch the people around him, but also contemplate the questions he was asked in that mysterious purple tent.
The soft crunch of snow under boots comes and goes, until one set does not leave. Marto, bundled up in a toque, scarf, and warm winter coat drops down beside them on the log. Wordlessly and without preamble, the halfling holds out a wooden fork and offers to share what clearly looks like diced potatoes, squares of cheese all covered in piping hot gravy.
“When I asked for the large I didn’t realise just how much I’d be getting. Care to help me eat some of it?” he asks with a smile.
The request gets a quiet chuckle out of Fog, who takes the proffered wooden fork. “Lucky for you I have not quite tackled the food stalls yet, I’d be more than happy to help out.”
They begin to tackle the large serving of very delicious food, neither saying much for a while. Just enjoying the warmth of the fire and each other’s company.
“So,” Marto starts between mouthfuls of food, “I was thinking about your offer from the other day.” Fog glances at Marto but the halfling doesn’t seem to notice. “About giving me some make-up tips and lessons. What if we started with a make-over sometime?”
When Marto asks the question there’s such a genuine smile from Fog, eyes full of excitement. “I would love to do so, helping you on your makeup journey would be my absolute pleasure. My things are at BB’s house, if you want I can do something now, it’ll only take me a moment to bring them over.”
Marto goes to open his mouth but Fog is already moving. Before very long they return, having retrieved his tightly packed makeup kit. With recent additions it’s almost close to bursting, but they carefully open it up and under the light of the campfire they slowly do Marto’s makeup. As they paint his eyelids, they explain what and why they’re doing certain things, frequently giving Marto their small metal mirror to look at the progress. Eventually a smokey eye forms, a highly blended look of black and dark copper that really makes Marto’s blue eyes shine.
Once satisfied Fog leans back to let Marto get one last look in the mirror, packing away their brushes and paints as he does so. “I insist you try a range of looks until you fall on something that clicks the most, even if you do look quite dashing with this one.”
“Having an expert do it for me probably helps,” Marto says with a crooked smile and a blush that is unintentionally charming even as the words are sincere. “If I tried to do it myself I’d probably get the brushes wrong the first few times, or the blending wouldn’t be quite as smooth…”
Fog tries to act like the charming light beam that is Marto isn’t affecting him, but is failing miserably. “I am flattered, but we all have to start somewhere and make mistakes. No one is born with such skills, it is all down to much practice really. I’m sure after we’ve done this multiple times you’ll pick it up as well as you pick up your sword or axe.”
“I hope you’ll continue to teach me then, though I do not guarantee that I won’t be asking a bunch of questions as to why this shade works better or how to do that thing with the brush to get this kind of result,” he gestures to his face.
“Hmm well you’re welcome to ask me as many questions as you like. It’s my pleasure really.” they say as the last of the brushes is packed away.
“Though that does make me wonder, where did you learn to do make-up Fog?” Marto asks, handing back the small compact mirror.
“Some things I picked up from others in the tribe but um…” He hesitates, looking a bit embarrassed. “I picked up a lot from just watching people, at a distance, as they travelled through Hartsvale. We weren’t meant to interact with outsiders, hiding our presence and everything, but I was always too curious and I just had to see sometimes.”
“Why did you have to hide? That must have been really lonely at times, no? For you and your family…”
Fog gently shakes their head. “We are silent guardians, it has been our duty since before the stone walked. And it’s not like we never made contact, my Dad visits Castle Hartwick occasionally for reading material. But it tends to stop trouble coming home when the trouble doesn’t know who or where we are.”
“That makes sense,” Marto says, beginning to nod, before a small divot appears between his eyebrows as a thought occurs to him.
“And sometimes it’s easier to just watch rather than talk to strangers, that can be a bit too much sometimes.” Fog adds with a slightly embarrassed smile.
“They say strangers are friends you just haven’t met yet,” he says with a wink. There’s a small beat of silence as he studies Fog’s face, still seeing the traces of the lines of thought and possible worry that drew him over in the first place.
“So what were you thinkin’ about earlier, when I came over? You had a sort of troubled look and I…” he hesitates, unsure where he’s going with that sentence. Marto clears his throat. “Is everything alright?”
Fog pauses for a moment as they collate their thoughts, placing the now empty mug of mulled cider on the grass. “I was just thinking about something quite similar to what we discussed recently by the flower fields, about direction and such things, but it just had me wondering what Fate has in store for me…”
“Is it a question of feeling one way or another about what to do?” Marto asks. “Or not to find out what Fate has in store?”
Fog furrows their brow as they consider Marto’s question. “I think there is something I should do, but it’s complicated because it’s not just my Fate and I don’t even know where to start. Anyway it’s just a thought at the moment, maybe it will become something more, or not.”
“Who else would there be?” the halfling asks, glancing down to the ring on Fog’s finger.
Fog catches that and merely says, “Ah, but I think you’ve already figured it out.”
Marto shrugs, casual. “I knew there was something about your ring. I just… didn’t know how to ask.” He lets out a soft chuckle. “Does your magic come from them? The one that’s in your ring?”
They return the casual shrug. “I did not make it easy to ask, but I trust you to say that yes, my magic comes from my friend in the ring. Mist. They love stories made by ‘bright’ souls as they say.”
Blue eyes roam over Fog’s face. “I might have asked before but how did you meet Mist? And what do you mean by ‘bright souls’?”
“We met while I was out patrolling the lands of my home, they helped get me out of a pretty bad situation that would have likely ended up in my death. Happened upon their ring half buried in the cold mud.”
“I know it was probably a while ago, but are you okay? What happened? Why was their ring there? What happened to them that meant only their ring was left behind?” Marto stops, realises he just asked a bunch of questions without stopping to let Fog answer, and laughs, embarrassed. “Sorry. I’ll let you answer some of those before I ask anymore.”
Fog tries to put on a reassuring smile and gives Marto’s shoulder a squeeze. “I am fine Marto, please don’t worry. It was certainly terrifying at the time, but creatures like the one that hunted me that day are why my family stays vigilant and protects the land. I never got a look at its face, but I felt the void of anger and malice permeate my very senses and so I ran. Fast. But I don’t know why Mist’s ring was there, and they don’t know either. They’ve been weakened by something in the past I think, their memory is patchy at best.”
Despite their reassurance, Marto is concerned. Fog sees it clear as day on his face.
“What is it your family protects? Is it a rift or a portal to another plane? If it is that dangerous, your family is okay, right? And Mist — I’m guessing you’ve tried to help them recover their memories.” His eyes widened a little. “Is that why you tell them stories? To try to help them remember?”
Fog almost chuckles, but sees the seriousness in Marto’s eyes and stops himself. “Nothing like that, no grand lofty landmark. We protect nature itself, our home. And well sometimes in the dark undisturbed corners of the land things can fester. Grow stronger and disturb the balance. That’s where my family and tribe come in.”
He now sighs as he contemplates something. “And yes, I hope maybe some stories would help them remember. But also I like to tell them because Mist seems happiest when talking about the outside world. They’re very isolated in there.”
Marto’s gaze returns to the ring on Fog’s hand. “Have they told you how long they’ve been trapped?”
“No idea, as they can’t remember that either. But I suspect it's a long long time.”
Marto nods, his expression thoughtful.
“But I nearly forgot your other question, didn’t I? Bright… bright souls are the ones who go out and do something. Intriguing and complex people who bring a metaphorical light to life. I’m not sure how to describe it really. You have a bright soul Marto.”
A rosy flush rises to Marto’s cheeks. “Is that something you find attractive, Fog? Or is it only Mist who does?”
The pause that happens after this is agonising, the only indicator that Fog is still present is all the colour going to their face. “I, yes… well I wouldn’t say Mist is attracted to people, more intrigued. Maybe you mean a different attracted, wait no nevermind. As for myself, well.” He pauses, breaths, and actually looks at Marto in the eyes now. “It… certainly draws me closer I would say.” They maintain eye contact for a good long beat.
“How close does it draw you?” he asks, voice getting a little quieter.
Fog drags a look up and down Marto. “Close.”
Everything else around them seems to have fallen away. It is just Marto and Fog, sitting hip to hip, the bright silvery-white moon shining in all her glory over head, the heat from the large bonfire reaching them even here, in this quiet, still moment.
Marto pulls the glove off his hand, setting it and the now empty dish of food on the ground next to his boot. As he sits up, he reaches for Fog’s bare hand, turning it over so their palm is facing up. He looks down, seeing the stories etched into Fog’s skin, the lines on their hand, their valleys darker than ink from the shadows cast by the bonfire’s light. Tracing them gently, tentatively, mostly by feel, Marto finds it both hard and easy to breathe.
He had to be careful. Yet here he was, letting himself get close. Was it too soon?
He had to be careful, and yet...
And. Yet.
Placing the heel of his palm against theirs, Marto slowly lays his palm to Fog’s, then his fingers. They stay there, placed one on top of each other and something in his chest blossoms, feeling that closeness, their skin pressed together, sharing heat. Then, his course, calloused fingers slip to the side, finding the spaces between Fog’s longer, tapering blue ones, folding down to lace and lock onto their hand. All the better to hold and be closer to.
Fog has been quiet the entire time, entranced by the spell Marto has seemed to cast over them. But they would never dare dispel this. Let it seep into their bones, run even deeper if it could.
They run their thumb over Marto’s knuckles, one by one, before they slowly bring their joined hands up to his face. He places a kiss to the back of Marto’s hand, feather light but still very much there. “I know you need your space, but if you want to get closer… You let me know, Marto Copperkettle.”
There’s a moment where Marto doesn’t say anything. There was something formal about the way Fog said his name. It made words rise up from the cavity of his chest to gather into a humming mass in his mouth, buzzing on the tip of his tongue, nervous, waiting, unsure.
Then he breathes out and the words scatter into the air.
“I’ve had my space. I’m ready to try this-” He gives Fog’s hand a gentle squeeze. “To come together and find out where this closeness could lead us…”
Fog hums contentedly at Marto’s words. “Good. Cause I would very much like to find out too.”
He leans down so his face is level with Marto’s, and oh so close to each other. He hovers there for what can only be a second but feels like an agonisingly long time before he leans forwards… to place a lingering kiss to Marto’s cheek. When he leans back so Marto can see their face again, Fog discovers a hand has found purchase on their upper arm, the grip gentle but firm. Marto turns his head slightly, blue eyes catching grey, holding them before they fall down to their lips.
Fog moves to hold a steadying hand to Marto’s jaw. They could stare into his eyes forever they think, but enchanting as they are, there are more pressing things right now. And so Fog leans in again to bestow a tender kiss to his lips.
Their kiss is like a butterfly, as soft and gentle as a sigh. The muted colours of the night cannot compare to the brilliant satin of its wings. Two hearts finding a rhythm, something new, something special, something all their own. Who’s to say if this is love? The strange fluttering inside their chests, like soft wings in flight, might be a hint.
Whatever it may be, it is soft, like a butterfly, a rare and gentle thing.