Bonemeal

He says nothing but gives a vague gesture. And it all falls into place.

"That's kind of what I'm doing. Sort of. Look, I fancy you. That first time in the forest, I can't get it out of my head. Did you know how you looked when you did something like that? Can I come inside so we can talk about this?"

At this point, I have no plan. Only instinct and best guesses to get me through the rest of the day. Hopefully, this all ends up in some amount of pleasantness, but I do not know. I cannot know. But we are inside, sitting on the floor, a kettle for tea, and I do not know anymore words.

"I wish to court you," Heorot says, "Or something like that. I can tell that you're not too keen on the whole idea, at least as how I know it. I don't know what exactly it will look like. But I do know that I want to keep spending time with you. I want to learn how you see the world. And I hope you can learn how I see it as well. That night with the dominos, that fascinated me, and I can't put my finger on it. I've never seen anything like it. But at the very least, I want to learn."

"Spirits," I say, "Its spirits." That's what I know. That's what I know how to talk about and teach. At least, in theory. He stays quiet, waiting for some grander explanation than three words with one repeated.

"Everything has a spirit. If you listen and you ask in the right way, the spirits will help."

"Will you take me as an apprentice?"

"This type of thing doesn't really have that sort of process. But I can teach you what I know. I can't guarantee you'll learn it."

He smiles and I melt, and I want him to learn. I want him here. I do not want him here. But if he will keep coming around, then I might as well tell him what I know. There is always something to learn, even from the man who can't identify walnuts.

---

Dead of night, and I go stalking through the town, scarf pulled over my mouth and hiding my face. I do not care for the others that take their time in the dark. A bat flies and chitters overhead, separated from the rest of the colony. Good sign really. Bats are always a good sign. Everything around them tended to shift back to the balance state. It was when there were too few bats when things tended to go wrong. The colony in my roof should be moving back in sometime soon, unless they found somewhere better.

Even with the dark hour, the streets of the town are still lit. Full moon on cobblestones, candles and lanterns spilling through cracks and open windows. Rather lively, really. Song and laughter and all good things that the people in town love. I can feel it in the air, something festive and light. Good for them. The townspeople have worked hard and done well. They deserve a nice break, and a figure lurching through the shadows wouldn't break that.

I find the sign easily enough. The letters come harder than I care to admit, out of practice, some barely touched part of my mind. I need to read more it seems, but that's a problem for another time. I glide towards the front door, under the curling swirls that read Beo's Bread. The door opens with a creak and the scent of fresh bread and flour and all things sweet and flaky fill my mind.

Golden, everything is golden, dripping honey and sap from every wall. The gold fades to dark wood, to bread crust, to everything. Every shelf, every bin was overflowing with buns, cakes, cookies, loaves, absolutely everything I know that could be baked. I feel the sweet linger on my tongue and cloy my throat. Warm, it is warm in here, and I quickly shed the scarf and the coat.

Someone's moving around in the back, and I can't quite shut down the jolt of panic. I do not like it here. The people, the gold warmth, the hard streets that don't muffle my steps. So many wonderful things that just hit my soul wrong. I can look at the warm bread, the clean stones, the warm houses, and it just feels wrong, disconnected, strange. But I live in the woods and talk to the floorboards, so I'm not exactly the greatest authority on what should be.

The door to the back opens and Heorot walks out, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, flour dusting his entire front. He smiles, gray eyes going wide. His hair is still so short, another cut almost down to the scalp. There is an odd urge to run my hand through it, to feel the coarse spring of it against my palm. But later. Not now. I am here to help, and I have to help because I gave my word.

"Morning Tark," he says, "I think. It might still be night. I'm not sure. Anyway, come on back. There's a closet over there. Stash your stuff and we can get to work."

He takes me back into the room and I am astounded by how warm it is. The oven's burning bright, a bonfire housed within, and the sacrifices are nestled in line, almost eager to jump into the beast's maw. Heorot hurries over and pulls a stack of crackling buns from the fire and sets the down, only to have another batch jammed in a moment later. The monster must not go hungry.

"I was thinking I'd have you do the glazes for the honey cakes," he says, "I've already got most of the dough portioned out, so its just a matter of popping them in when a batch comes out. I'll be working on the normal fair and manning the oven."

I nod. We both know that I am not a baker. So, I take the work that could be done by the blind, and I do not complain. He's the one in charge. This is his home, his place, his space in the world that I am intruding on. I will bow to his wisdom because I also cannot find the honey. He points on the counter at the jar right in front of me. In my defense, it's not labeled. And he shifts seamlessly to pointing at the rest of the jars in front me. Everything I need, all set up. How considerate.

Despite my complete inexperience with anything in a bakery, I know the rudimentaries of mixing things. I get the thick glaze down and set to the task. Simple, mindless work, really. Enjoyable in its own way. I'm not fond of butchering deer in the autumn, but I still do it. This, however, nestled in the warm glow of a smoldering oven, surrounded by golden bread, this is enjoyable.

I keep an eye on Heorot, watching his own work. He kneads and beats and stretches dough, working it down into the table. His arms, I can't stop looking at his arms. The corded muscle knitted to bones. I can watch the shift and clench of flesh and pop of vein. It's hypnotic, the rise and flex he has. He picks up a ball and drops it on the table. The loud thump brings me back to my senses and I lose myself in the work again. Simple motions, simple work, simple tasks that I have been assigned and that is all I need to do.

Just dip and set aside until the stack runs dry. Then Heorot comes over and sets a new rack for the work. He hums. He hums while he works, and I don't even think he notices it at all. Deep and jaunty, some drinking song, probably. I can feel the table and the boards hum with him. Once again, I find myself unable to pull away from his body. It's all I can watch. Hypnotic, beguiling, absolutely captivating, the simple movements and the simple song, and it is the most magical thing I can possibly imagine.

"Tark, come here," he says. And I obey. His space, his spirits, his work, and if he wants me to come near him then I will.

Without care, he grasps my shoulders and puts me in front of a risen blob of dough. I start and freeze and let it happen. It's harder than I thought to break the grip. Strong, he really is strong, work and energy in each digit.

"Want to learn how to work dough?" he asks. I nod. I'm not quite sure if I do, but since I am already here, I might as well. Without a word he grasps my wrists, and a shiver of lightning runs down my spine. Close, so close, he is so close. And he is holding me so tight.

He moves me, letting my body know the motions. I am acutely away of the way his body fits against mine. He's a good head taller than I am. Never quite noticed that. I knew he was bigger than me, but not by this much. Apparently, I am quite short. And he hums again, that same song I do not know, and I can feel it resonate within me.

I fit in so snugly in his chest, the rise and fall of the breath, the pauses in the songs, the way his arms envelope my shoulders. He's not even trying to comfort me, to make the gold open and calm. He just does it, working my hands with his until the ball goes tacky and supple. He breaks and reaches over to the flour, dusting the massive table again, before getting right back to work. I don't even have to look at him to feel the trance he's in. Another world, one of yeast and flame and time spent to rest and rise. I'm not even there with him, not really. A soul not his own that he molds and shapes and I willingly let it happen. If only for him to touch me and guide me and envelope me in this grand game he plays.

"What's that song," I ask. The mind needs to come back from the heat in my core. He stops humming immediately. I can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks as he breaks away.

"The Queen of Full Moons," he mumbles, "Sorry, I didn't notice I was doing that. My aunt and my cousin always tell me to stop when they catch me."

"Don't stop," I say, "I like it."

I stay like that, hands working soft, sticky dough, pressing myself into him as I feel the music through his body. The sun comes up at some point, probably, but I don't really care.

---

Heorot learns quickly from me. And he keeps bringing me gifts, every single time he comes by. And it feels like several times a week. I have unmoored myself from the larger scale of weeks and months and years, but the nagging idea of progression still gives me an idea that he is eager to come and see me. It must be inconvenient, the hike and the pulling away from whatever work he does.

"Everything has a spirit. Trees, rocks, clouds, blades of grass. And you can change that spirit if it is willing and eager to change. If you do good by the spirit, then it might do good by you. It is not a matter of control. It is not a matter of subjugation. They are their own things, separate from the self that carved it, or changed it, or helped it. They choose how they work."

Heorot nods and holds the stick tightly in his grasp.

"Does the stick want to be broken?"

He closes his eyes and opens himself up to the world around him. Summer in full today, hot and dry. The bones told me as much and they decided that it wasn't time to lie anymore. He still kept the hair short and soft. And he dressed light, only one layer, only one thin layer of cotton keeping me from seeing his bare frame. The suggestion of it though, that is still evident and clear. His hands, gripping the simple length of wood, hands gentle and strong and skilled. Bone carving, that's been his best pursuit by far, finding the splinters to take away, slowing breaking and bending and mending the skeleton to new forms. And it's always pleasing, always delicate and beautiful the things he makes and gives to me. He sets the stick down and shakes his head.

"No, not that one, Tark."

I lean over to take the stick and I feel his eyes on me. They settle on my chest and I suppress some of the joy and the pull, as much as I can. Simple creatures, we all are. Sweet things and broad shoulders for me, attention, and soft flesh for him. That particular part of the conversation we had never continued. We focused on the spirits and the charms and the way of the woods. I needed to take him hunting at some point, but later. Not now, later. After we figure out what the twig wanted. I am acutely aware of where his hands were, and I can't stop myself from picking it up in the same place.

I feel the same thing and I nod. The smile comes back from the depths of his concentration. And I smile back.

It finally all makes sense, the things that I do. I say them out loud to someone else, line them up in my mind and they all seem reasonable. They listen and act as I act upon them. The stick does not wish to be broken, so I do not break it.

"What do you do with the charms? Did they want to be charms?" he asks.

"Of course. If the bone didn't want to change, then I wouldn't change it. That's just rude. Imagine if I just took off your arm because it suited my purposes better. Even if the shape worked, you probably wouldn't want to work with me on anything. So, it's better to work on the ones that are amendable to being worked with."

He nods again and picks up another stick. After a moment he snaps it in half. I can tell from the sound that it is ready to be broken down to kindling. He's picked it up fast. Very fast. I can see him change the way he looks at the world around him, the extra care he takes in his steps, in his breath, in his gaze. And that gaze is often turned to me. I notice it. And he doesn't notice that I notice. Or he doesn't care that I notice. And I don't care that he gazes, that he watches me work in the garden or carve arrows or stoke fires.

I don't stop him from watching though. Never say a word, just enjoy the sensation of his gray eyes on my body. That's enough to tease the hunger. Ever since the formal taking of him into the teachings, that has certainly been stronger. Nights spent touching and stroking over the memories of Heorot. His own attempts to carve arrows, the workings with bone, the knife skills he displays. I honestly didn't expect him to be so handy with blades, so used to the sight of blood and meat so freshly dead. But the respect done behind it, the care, and the deftness in the digits, and how those hands would feel on me as they roamed my body. The noises he would make, the tremors and shakes, but that is something delegated to the imagination.

He goes silent, the questions stopping and only the gentle reminder of the autumn wind to bring us company.

"Tark," he says, "I feel like I should tell you something."

I freeze. The words, the words he wants to say will come out no matter what actions I take. So, it is best to just let them happen as they will.

"I masturbated in your house once."

"I know."

"Wait, you know? How do you know?"

I freeze again as the grand bargain of question and answer hangs unfulfilled. But there is the debt that must be filled. Every question deserves an answer, even a curt half-finished one that might not be satisfactory, but I still have to give one.

"I watched."

"You watched? You watched me? And you didn't stop me?"

"Why would I stop you?"

"Because it was your house? And it was wrong. That's why I'm telling you about it. I'm apologizing for it and I understand if you're mad, but you watched me do it, so I'm not quite sure what to do now."

"I just want to know why you did it."

"Fair. That's fair. First it had been a minute, and I spent most of that night so close to you and that did more to me than I thought it would. After you went to bed, I was still kind of hungry, so I poked around for a snack and there were these dried chips that look good. And those kind of, you know, got me going."

"Were they in a red pouch?"

"Maybe, I don't know. I think so."

"Those were dried salamander skin. No wonder you got that way. Did you see things?"

"I don't remember. I thought I saw you, but a naked you and you were dancing. But you don't dance."

"I don't."

Something turns in his mind, some thought, some idea taking form and I can watch each piece slot together. I have an inkling of what it might be, but I could always be wrong. I could always misplace the will he has into something else.

"Doesn't seem fair does it? I mean, you've watched me, but I haven't watched you."

I was right, just like always. And the idea was mine as well. Some grand balancing of the scales so that everything lined up nice and clean. He's looked at me enough to get a good approximation of what it must look like. And I bet that image has comforted him again in the lonely nights that came after the first kernel took form.

The eyes, the gray eyes of dark storms and rumbling thunder, they look to me, and there is something darker behind it, contained and managed and controlled and I want to see it unleashed again.

I stand and hold out my hand for him. He reaches up and takes it. The darkness sharpens and spikes, but something holds it back again as I lead him back to my dwelling.

---

Sitting crossed legged in my center room, Heorot waits patiently. He follows orders well at least. A patient kind sort, open to the world around him and wait it holds in store. Today, it is me, sky clad and open and I feel that he is more than amendable to that particular phenomenon. The whole house has gone quiet and still in preparation. Nothing shall disturb this, the spirits in the boards and the bones have given their consent and turned silent and calm.

I am calm. Calmer than I thought I would be before strutting naked in front of a man. Calmer than I thought I would be exposing myself at all. So long since the last time this particular string of events occurred, so long since the warm hunger in my core actually gets to express itself. Too worked up for anything else to get in the way, especially a silly little thing like shame. And there is nothing to be ashamed of. A body sculpted and molded by the summer rains and winter hail, a body fit to trees and leaves and flower blooms, a body removed from stone and thatch and carts. The skin is soft and taut like a well-made drum, the cords of muscle knotted over dense bone. Everything strong and resilient and stalwart.

And there is a man to appreciate now, waiting patiently, if somewhat over eager. Knowing the acorn master, he has probably gotten bored and started rooting through my things again. There is still some salamander skin left, and that opens up a whole different avenue of exploration that might occur later. Something to bring the spirits closer when the vision is clouded and fading. The swirling colors and heightened sensations might make for a future session, but now is the time for raw touch on raw touch, skin to skin, bone to bone, flesh to flesh and that in its purest form.

I am excited. More excited than I thought I would be. My own arousal is already evident, running down my thigh, settling in my chest and turning my breath hot and ragged. I try to draw some amount of chill from inside me and I find nothing but roiling heat in the air, in the stomach, in the core, in the womb. Raw eager hunger that must be sated otherwise it would bring calamity and destruction to the world at large. I am simply a vessel for that raw destruction, a simple container to house, not even leash and direct, the energy. And it will be on poor Heorot to do as much as he can.

The wood planks, worn and beaten and aged, at least are cold on my bare feet. Something to try and launch an assault against the overwhelming need that has suddenly taken over. Heorot has not moved, not an inch, a statue with hair just starting to turn to shag again, broad shoulders and strong hands. His eyes go wide, so wide, trying to swallow everything I am, trying to turn his vision into sole visions of myself and my form.

"What is it," I say as I lay my hands on my hips, "Am I so beautiful you have no words?"

He nods, vigorously, once again trying to roll his head from his shoulders and sully my floor. To the one ounce of embarrassment, I still have within me, I blush. Always so straightforward with him. Some delicacy in the delivery, most of the time, but everything is so clear and evident. I saunter to him as he sits on the floor. He does not move his eyes from my chest. Again, a simple creature, but I am not all that different. His chest rises and falls, and I do not move my eyes from it either, the way it strains and pulls against the fibers. The shoulders help too, pulling at the cotton and threatening to rip it to shreds.

"Shirt," I command, "Off." And he obeys. I groan at the pale bare skin. Even after all that time in the sun, he is white as cloud and snow and the world has left him clean and smooth. Dense muscle expanding and contracting and rising within him. I don't know where the control comes from, but I am not tackling him to the ground, not quite yet. There is still the grand act of observance to carry out. The visual must be cemented to memory. I already have the back and the arms, but the chest and the stomach, defined but soft, those are new to me. And just as with the rest of him, he deserves to be captured in my mind until I can bear it now longer.