Bonemeal

"Good," I say. He beams, so genuinely happy and glowing and shining before the moment fades and he turns back down, withering from my sight. But he doesn't stop smiling and fidgeting and grinning like I just told him he could have all the candy he could eat.

A moment, and then another, him taking the warmth of my fire and the space of my cushions. But the flush turns from the apple cheek of the cold to the baked fire. And he stands, leaving me back alone to tend to my hearth and eat the loaf. Slowly, he begins putting on more and more coats. He gets to the second one before I stand as well.

"Wait," I say before gliding over to the scrying table. The carved bones still lay scattered where I let them fall. And I gaze into the pattern, listening to the whispers of time coming with the wind. He is watching me. He can't not be watching me as I run through the process of gazing into the world to see what it is. I groan and sigh and hate my better nature.

"Stay," I say, and he looks at me like the word doesn't make sense, "The storm won't break for another two days. You can stay that long at least." He beams again and takes off the few layers he managed to re-swaddle himself in.

He takes to the house surprisingly well. Curious, he is curious, like a cat dropped in a new room. I had given him the task of lighting some candles to chase away the deepest shadows and he never came back down. Head on a constant swivel to find new things to look at and new things to experience. And Heorot does not like to stay still it seems. I do not know how he can manage to find new things to pace, new routes to find on the worn floorboards, but he does. Always something new to tread on, never staying still for more than a moment. I just keep my eyes on the cauldron and watch the flames.

"How long have you been here," he asks.

"A long time," I say. Every question deserves an answer, however curt and short it would be.

"It's kind of what I expected. Not quite the level of bones, though. I thought there would be more."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He laughs, and it's like a songbird suddenly landed in the rafters.

"Do you really not know? There're stories about you, Tark. The Bone Witch, Soulstealer, the Dark Wraith. You said you have a lot of names. Not all of them come from you. I heard you steal people's bones and leave them spineless messes on the forest floor. Then you have ravens come from the trees and leave nothing behind."

"I don't call on ravens. I call on crows."

"Is there even a difference?"

"Yes."

He laughs again, a little lower this time. A chuckle really, deep in his chest. He parades around a blanket draped across his shoulder like some grand flowing cape. No further clarification is asked of me. Good. While every question deserves an answer, not everything deserves to be questioned. Some things just are and dwelling on them excessively just ends up in fruitless frustration. Like the differences between crows and ravens. I am sure there are a few.

"Do you want to play?" Heorot asks.

I turn and he is holding up a small bag, one of its contents held between his thumb and forefinger. A domino weathered and off white. I forgot I even carved those. Just the sight sends my mind back farther than I care to realize. One of the first things I made with bone.

"Were you rooting around like a truffle pig?"

He shrugs and smiles like he did nothing wrong, nothing at all. With deft fingers, the domino dances across his knuckles, before settling back and hanging before me, tantalizing, and daring. I sigh and wave him to come sit in front of me. I have nothing better to do.

---

I stare at the string of tiles in front of me in disbelief. Blocked. I do not know how, but I have been blocked again. And so goddamn soon. I look up and Heorot and he still smiling, and that grin eats pure, unfiltered shit and I want to knock every single one of his teeth out. I'd make a new set from those and maybe those would actually align in my favor. But as it stood, Heorot was on a streak that I couldn't seem to break.

He laid down another and I seethe, all pretenses of being cold gone as I stare at the carved bones. Another and I get to lay one down, but it doesn't matter. He's already set the last of his hand down and I hand over mine in disgust.

"I win," he says. As if I needed a reminded of that particular reality. The bones have betrayed me, given their favor to an intruder. I shouldn't be mad. The bones do as they wish. I do not control them, but the feeling of being slighted is not so easy to chase away. I made the dominos. I made the dice. With my own hands. And now they have turned against me and aided a guest.

"I am going to bed," I announce to the rightful winner. He takes it stride, wishing me a good night as he gathers the tiles and nestles them back in their home. They jostle and clack and he sets it down.

"You can have this room," I tell him. My own quarters sit closer to the roots of the tree. There are enough furs and skins and stuffed pillows for his use here and I have my own supply. Heorot does not complain.

"Thank you Tark," he says, "I really appreciate all this. I swear I'll find a way to make it all up to you."

I nod. Nothing to respond to really. Empty words, probably. Some good turn done for one of mine, maybe a stray thought as he falls asleep a few years from now, maybe I'll see him once when I go to town and I'll get a polite nod. If I'm really lucky, I will get a loaf of banana bread again and that will be the end of that. I reach down for the bag of dominos and I press them to my lips. I thank them for their years of quiet solitude waiting for this moment. I thank them for the hours we played, even if they are traitorous bastards. They nestle back into their home and quiet down. Heorot watches me, curiosity dancing in his eyes. I ignore him. The house may have been quiet ever since he came inside, but they are still here, the spirits of wood grain and forgotten crannies. They are always here with me in the house, with everyone wherever they go. They are always everywhere.

My bed chambers had not fared well against the winter outside. Chilled and shivering, the blankets rustled and bristled against my skin. I swear I saw my breath. But I, acting as a vessel of heat, transfer the energy and make the room livable. Despite the extra person, I find sleep easy enough.

And I find wakefulness just as easily. The grog and the claws at my ends tell me that it was not a full night of sleep. A few hours at most. Probably less than that. And that is a tragedy, an absolute tragedy that the world has to answer for. Something's inside the house, though, something huffing and grunting and pawing around the walls to find some treat hidden away. Not an animal that I've heard before, though. Something deeper than what I'm used to hearing in the woods, the rhythm behind the chest rising and falling to steady to lack intelligence.

It's cold, but I steel myself and creep out the door, hiding the creaks in howling winds. A few of my drawers are open, the contents disturbed and gone. Acorn Master Heorot is still up, facing away from me and staring into the flames. It's him, the deep grunts that are drawn out and slow, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the huffs that catch in the back of his throat. He's shed more layers, bare back, and broad shoulders. I can't stop staring at the lines, the ridges hidden away. My guest apparently does have some use. Nothing with that amount of definition is completely useless.

No small amount of rage builds in me as I realize what he is doing in my home. Everything inside of me boils and rages and builds in an instant. Two nights, he could not wait two nights to deal with this. He could not push down the bestial nature of his inner demons and deal with the urges somewhere else other than on my set of cushions and in front of my hearth. I open my mouth and feel the rage bubble at the back of throat before it dies.

Heorot groans, rumbles, some deep primal noise in his chest that shakes the foundations and stops me dead in my tracks. To my horror, I like that noise. I like that noise, that rumble, that growl that he unleashes into the world. My own cheeks flush and I cannot look away from him either. The shoulders, the broad shoulders that could carry the weight of the world, they rise and fall like a mountain range. The constant shift of the muscles in his back, the constant shift of the ridges and lines. There is a map of the world on his back, the entirety of existence in that smooth skin, and I am falling through the ether to glimpse it all.

Slow, he is going so slow, so slow, stroking, and touching and spreading and I want him to keep the slowness and draw it out into the night, into the cold. I've forgotten this hunger, this pull in my stomach. I've forgotten the intensity. I've forgotten the wanting, and it's the acorn boy to bring it out of me.

He hasn't noticed me as I stalk around the room, trying to find a better angle to see more of him. Arms spread wide, taking up room, my room, and I watch his arms. Strong arms, used to work and used to the task he has undergone, used to the motion, used to taking slow strokes and pulls and putting strength into every second of it. There is a softness, though, in his stomach. Softness at the edges of his frame, edges of the sculpture, edges of his body, adding reverberating motion to the entirety of his torso.

But the noises he makes, deep sonorous bell ringing of valley wind and crashing rock, shaking the foundation of the house, reverberating up the back of my spine to settle in my skull and I cannot get them out. I listen to the noises, take them apart moment by moment, filling my mind with nothing other than the beautiful sounds he makes.

I am eager. I am so eager, but I remain hidden from him. Part of me, and a very persuasive part, wants to go over and straddle him until spring comes and then we might find a different position. Too complicated, too many other things in the way of the long sighs we would share. I rub my thighs together and that does not help in the slightest. A tease of what I should claim, and it is not what I need in the slightest.

Despite its size, there are many quiet corners to hide in and stay silent within my home, tables and cabinets and benches to break up my shape. I stay there, in the forgotten spaces, making sure I can watch him as I start the grand game of touches.

The chill dances across the gaps in my clothes as I shift and open them. My chest, my hips, my thighs, my stomach, blending into the wood and letting the shadows engulf me. A single candle flickers across Heorot's back.

It always starts soft, the touches I lay on myself. And I need to stay silent. I do not want what would come after my discovery. I just want this moment, touching and stroking and prodding myself and then I can go back to my bed and I can forget that this man ever exists. The gasps and the moans, those stay inside, those stay silent and hidden and quiet.

One hand to my breasts, the bow string callouses along the softness. One hand between my thighs, slow strokes, matching his. I find his rhythm and it is glacial, just glacial and snail and tectonic. A forest changes slowly and so does Heorot. I hate it. I want to go faster, to pummel and chop and break, but Heorot is going slow, so I must go slowly. The callouses feel rough against my nipple and I have to bite my tongue, to keep silent.

He's loud, so loud. Too loud and not loud enough. His voice of carnal indulgence, self-adoration echoes and bounces from the wooden, rhyming with the howling wind and pelting snow. It's turned to hail outside, from the noise. Harsh ice on beaten wood as I listen to a man revel in sloth and lust.

He goes faster now, finding some joy in speed at long last. Even in his haste, he still pumps and strokes and touches slow. I can barely tell he's picking up speed. It's in the breath that I find the change, the huff and groan cutting short and clipped, the next one starting just before the last one finishes. The muscles clench and tighten and strain. The breath holds and goes still, and I hear skin on skin, palm on shaft, before he releases another ounce of tension from his broad chest.

My own thighs clench and twitch. I sigh out a low, silent breath, a gentle breeze to carry the heat away from my core. My skin tingles and alights in time with my heartbeat, that particular muscle beating against my ribs. I can feel every rough fiber on my skin, snagging on callouses, gliding over smooth curves, waving over my own defined frame. The chill and the heat and the wind and the cloth, all colliding and melting together in my core, through my fingers through my grip. It all collects and distills and purifies to the time of Heorot's noise.

The breath hitches again and the energy in the air freezes. Crystalline silence of sharp ice cuts through in the moment where my mind goes white and I cannot think, save for the general form of the man I have invited in, the divot and rise and enormity of his form filling my mind, his own energy thawing the icicles piercing my core.

He moaned with his own release, deep and throaty and coming deep from the earth, reaching down to the core and pulling something ancient and abyssal through him. The sound, the beautiful resonating cascade of noise from his chest, fills the void in my mind, the blank white expanse of rapture. I hope I am silent. I pray that I am silent, because that sound deserves to be preserved in my memory as clearly as possible.

As the noise fades and he falls to silence, save for the desperate attempt to catch his escaped breath, it shifts and morphs. The indistinct gives way to the distinct and finds form, meaning. It starts getting harsh, the soft rumble of mountains and avalanches.

"Tark," he says, the word finally coming to fruition in the last death throes of his release. I freeze. The insides and the mind are reeling from the single syllable that is me. The glow of harsh white doesn't particularly lend itself to complicated thought. He moves his hand and I see his release dripping from his fingers. He brings it to his lips, and I watch as he licks himself clean. The hunger rocks through my stomach again and he begins again.

Some small mark of rationality comes back to the forefront of my mind. I had my fun and now that I know what is going on, I can go back to the bed and return to sleep. It's fine. It's all fine. Heorot can do as he wishes, so long as there are no traces when he leaves. Once more, the silence and the shadows welcome me as I stalk back to the empty bed. The urge isn't quite satisfied, but it is calm in its calling. The bed is colder than I remember, but it will warm up with a little patience.

---

Heorot left. I had my solitude once more, the chill and the silence and the shadow. All mine, and no one else's. Just mine and mine alone. The winter kept me isolated better than the stones ever could. Paint and ink and grooves and rocks could only ever do so much, but the threat of biting cold and howling winds and snow deep enough to cover a waist was more than enough to finally give me the solitude that I have cultivated.

But he came back once the weather started to warm. He found me starting my garden for the year. Herbs and blooms that I regularly need that the trees might not be so willing to part with. He found me on my knees in the dirt, carving soft lines with a bone trowel, mud and dirt caked under my nails. He brought a small bindle of cranberry cookies and an offer to help me dig. I took the first and declined the second.

Heorot came back a few weeks later, another bindle of sweet baked things and an offer to help. Once again, he set a rhythm. Showing up with a gift and an eager offer for assistance, then a rebuke at first. That became a game of dominos. That became him helping with the first set of harvests. That became him spending another night during a sudden downpour. Fortunately, he did not seem all that enthusiastic that night.

That winter night has not left my mind. Every so often, the noise hits me again, and I feel the same pull in my stomach. Nothing faded, nothing weakened, that same urge inside of me more than willing to reignite at the slightest provocation. It hits suddenly, the memory of that night, but everything is always there, the chill, the sound, the ridges of back muscle dancing in the candlelight. Those days always end with the same night that I give myself, the mockery of what could be but still pleasurable in its own right.

He hasn't mentioned it whenever he's come bearing gifts. I haven't mentioned it whenever I lost at dominos. A night that I remember, and he should as well, but there is no need to remark on it at all. Even if he keeps coming around. I know what he sounds like as he climaxes. I can't look at him and not know that fact. I can't look at him and not know that he called my name afterwards.

Full spring today, not quite ready for the pollen to start shedding, but getting close. Its warmer at least, the flowers out in full force. I wake up and I do not feel the lingering cold in the nooks and crannies of my house. The small shift of the things, the small voices greeting me, were happy at the changing seasons. So many other things came alive in the spring, the trees, the grass, the flowers. Every inch covered in vibrant greenery. Despite myself, I smile as I step out the door.

It falters as my eyes adjust to the bright light. I am not quite sure of the full extent of the sensation inside of stomach. Heorot has come by again. And I am glad to see him, or at least the sack he carries, laden and bulging. But the memory returns and the urge and the pull and the inability to actually do anything with it. He waves and I raise my hand in reply. He's wearing lighter clothes this time. The shirt lays tight against his chest, his strained breath suggesting that he might rip the buttons off if he tried it. Shoulders still impossibly broad, able to carry the world and a handful of stars. His hair is shorter now too. The shagginess simply vanished with the warming sun. The neck, the culmination of the form, just as muscular, just as strong, just as imposing as the rest of him. And it softens from my presence alone.

"You're going to love me," he says, "Another shipment of bananas. Got a loaf of that bread and some left-over muffins."

The smile turns wider than I want it to at the simple mention of food. Such a simple thing that I thought I was beyond. Give me something sweet and I melt. Shameful. And not even all fresh things. Leftovers. Probably stale and hard by now, but I cannot stop the simple joy of receiving a gift.

"Wait," I say. Before I can realize what, I am doing, I dig through the half-finished projects in my house, the small little charms made by my hand. I return and the goods change hand. He brightens again, finding more width in the smile, more whiteness in the teeth, more sparkle in the eyes the color of fading storm clouds.

"A charm," I say, "For good health."

He immediately slips it over his head and lets it rest against his sternum. And he smiles.

"Why are you here?" I asl. I cannot stop myself from saying those words, but I say them anyway. The smile stays the same, but the light behind it is gone as the mind behind it tries to find the meaning of what I just said. I do not take them back. I have put it out into the world, and I have to deal with the aftermath.

"I was working at my aunt's bakery and there was some extra batter to go around, so I made some for you. We had some macadamias so I thought that it might go well with that. Do you not like macadamias?"

"Why do you keep coming here with gifts? Like you're a bird courting a mate."

The smile falters and I feel some amount of reason come back into my mind. Shouldn't have said that, but I need to know what he wants. I cannot keep doing this grand game of give and receive. The pull in my stomach approves in an odd way. A change a shift, a way forward. Either this works and he stays longer, or he goes away forever, and I can push the urge back down and never feel anything like it again.