Emyr was here.
It nagged at him, except when he was curled into Emyr’s arms, and the worry lifted away when Emyr smiled at him with that little hint of wonder.
He could do portraits, though they weren’t as fun as painting the land and the sky full of islands. Sirig was on major trade routes, too, so there were plenty of visitors, merchants and pilgrims. He could hire a little display space near the dock and sell his pictures there.
Or he could fly on, to Gwydr and Enfys, and paint new places and new faces.
He wouldn’t decide until spring, he concluded. He could wait that long to choose. He had no desire to sail through a winter storm, and spring was a better season for new journeys. Until then, he would stay here and be Emyr’s.
He had forgotten, in all his scheming, that other people gossiped, particularly on small islands. It was Elin who pushed the point, in the end. She came and found him where he was perched on the quayside, huddled up in his warmest clothes and trying to capture the way the wind pulled at the market awnings with smudgy charcoal and scrap paper. Coming up behind him, she dropped a small bag of coin into his lap. “Your wages, lad.”
“I thought I was working for a bed.”
“Aye, but you’ve not slept in my attic for three weeks. We’re honest folk here, and you get paid for the work you do.”
“Thank you,” Heilyn said, blushing a little. He hadn’t meant to run out on her, but Emyr’s bed was so much more warm and tempting than the drafty attic, even when Emyr wasn’t in it.
“I’ve been thinking,” Elin continued. “If you’re considering staying permanently, there’s a proper job going. Not much more than you do now, mind, but it would pay regularly, and it’s not like you need to worry about paying rent, is it?”
“Stay?” Heilyn said, panicking. He hadn’t thought he’d have to make the decision this fast, and Elin wasn’t the first person he needed to discuss it with, either. No, he needed to talk to Emyr first. He needed to tell Emyr that he loved…
Oh. Oh.
“Heilyn? You interested or not?”
He decided to laugh it off. “Who says I’m staying? The world’s still waiting for me, didn’t you hear?”
Elin pursed her lips at him disapprovingly, and behind them there was a sudden clatter and crash. Heilyn spun round to see Emyr standing there, one of Dilys’ good cake plates shattered at his feet and the cakes it had held rolling across the cobbles.
He wasn’t smiling.
Chapter 8
“EMYR!” Oh, shit, shit, shit!
Before Heilyn could say anything else, Emyr turned, almost running across the square. Heilyn swore and shoved his sketches into Elin’s arms before he took after him.
He wasn’t fast enough, and the office door slammed before he got to it. He heard the bolts snap across, and swore again, banging his fists against the weathered wood. “Emyr! Emyr, come out! I didn’t mean it!”
But Emyr didn’t emerge, and eventually Elin and one of her boys pulled him away from the door.
“You’ll hurt your hands,” Elin said. “Come away now. You just scared him, you daft brat. He’ll come round.” She marched him back into her kitchen, shaking her head a little. “And we let you play with the poor boy’s heart.”
“I wasn’t playing,” Heilyn said. The world had suddenly gone wrong around him, as if he hadn’t been concentrating on keeping his hand steady, and he needed to put it right. “I thought I was, but I never… I need to talk to him. Let me go!”
Elin sighed. “Calm down, boy. You talk now, and you’ll just panic each other more. Go home tonight and apologize.” She smiled, more kindly than he’d expected. “Apologize for anything you can think of, not just that piece of foolishness, and you’ll be fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. When he got to the house, the back door was locked, and though he could see the light in the bedroom, Emyr didn’t come out for all his knocking and shouting. Heavy-hearted, Heilyn went back to the inn.
It took three days before he even managed to get into the trade office and that was only by hiding behind two much larger sailors and a very big barrel of oil. He lingered after they left, clearing his throat nervously.
“Emyr?”
Emyr was sitting behind the desk, his back straight and his face stern again. His eyes had gone back to cool sadness. “Heilyn, you have no business with me. These are my work hours.”
“I’m not leaving,” Heilyn said, the words tumbling out. “I want to stay.”
“That’s good,” Emyr said, turning away to file the papers he had just signed. “I know Elin needs another pair of hands at the inn, and Father Cian speaks highly of your work.”
“I’m staying for you.”
Emyr didn’t look up from his desk. In the dim light of the office, it was hard to see much, but Heilyn thought his knuckles were whitening as his fists curled up against the wood. “Don’t.”
“Emyr.” Heilyn took a step towards him.
Now Emyr looked up, and his eyes were fierce and miserable. “I said don’t. I won’t do this again, Heilyn. I won’t have a lover who’s always looking at the sky and dreaming of the next ship.”
“Who says I do that? I’m not him.”
“I didn’t want to see it,” Emyr said wearily, “but you were looking. You’ll get bored, eventually. What is there here for you?”
“You.”
Emyr shrugged a little. “That won’t be enough. You need more.”
“I need you.”
“You’re young. You’ve never had a serious lover before, and you feel sorry for me. That’s all it is, Heilyn.”
“No, it’s not!” Heilyn did rush forward then, but Emyr moved before he could get close, stepping through the door to the inner office and letting it slam behind him. The lock clicked, and Heilyn was left standing alone again.
“But I love you,” he said to the empty room, his voice wavering.
He kept trying, of course, but Emyr had somehow managed to disappear inside his own life. He seemed to be simply refusing to see Heilyn, even when they were at arm’s length, and no amount of begging and pleading got past his solemn demeanor. Every night, lying sleepless and shivering, Heilyn felt a little more of his hope slipping away. He wanted to be back in Emyr’s bed, in the warm circle of his arms, but it was starting to seem like an impossible dream. Emyr was so determined to hide from him. Instead, he wrapped the blankets tightly around himself, stealing the spare ones off the other beds when they were empty, and imagined Emyr’s face, lit by a quiet smile. He lost himself in the memory of evenings sitting with Emyr, talking quietly about the business of their days, of squeezing under the oilskin together to brave a rainy walk home, of the growing clutter in Emyr’s kitchen, which Heilyn has stealthily filled with pots of herbs and piles of sketches.
It hurt, in a way he had never understood before. He had always been a little scornful of those who claimed to be lovesick, but now his heart simply hurt, a low ache behind his ribs which never went away. He couldn’t paint, because the colors had lost their brightness. He just wanted Emyr.
But Emyr wasn’t his, and never would be, it seemed, and eventually he put hope away, tidying it up as carefully as he had once cleaned his brushes at the end of the day. Time, sympathetic people kept telling him, would heal all. So he would wait, and maybe one day he would feel like making something beautiful again and be able to sleep without waking up with burning eyes.
Just before midwinter, on a day when he had wandered out to the quay to look down at the sea and wonder why he had ever wanted to paint something so gray and dismal, the mail ship Aderyn came skimming down from the sky, her storm sails bright white against the dim winter clouds. Heilyn watched her dock with his hands in his pockets, not really caring but needing something to busy his eye.
As the captain strode past, towards Emyr’s office, he paused for a moment. “You’re not local, boy. Looking to rope on?”
Heilyn couldn’t think of anything worse than tying on to th
e side of a small ship on a day like this, where the sky was heavy with rain. All the same, there was nothing left for him here, and impulsively, he said, “Yes. I’ve got some paintings and a bag, but no more baggage. What’s your fee?”
“Two pence for you and three for your baggage. Discount if you’re the first to shout a storm sighting.”
“Done.” Heilyn offered his hand and didn’t even bother to wince when the captain squeezed it hard enough to hurt.
“We’re only unloading letters here. Be on board by the hour mark or we’ll go without you.”
Heilyn nodded and ran for the inn. He gabbled an explanation at Elin and dashed up the stairs to grab his bag. Elin chased after him, loud and furious, but he didn’t care any more. He was going, and it was almost a relief. Perhaps he could outfly unhappiness. Perhaps he could just leave his heart down here on a low island and there would be nothing left to hurt him when they reached the high sky.
He beat the captain back to the ship, Elin still on his heels, and tossed his bags on board before he turned to face her. “What’s the point in me staying? He hates me.”
“Idiots, the pair of you!” she snapped and reached out to grab one of Father Cian’s girls as she dashed past. “You, go and rouse out Emyr!”
“Don’t!” Heilyn snapped. “I’m going. That’s what he wants. I don’t want to see him glo-gloating.” His voice was catching, despite his best intentions, and he turned into the wind, blinking hard. It was bitterly cold, and he didn’t have gloves, but he’d be tied too tightly to slip. He’d insist.
The last starflower petals whipped past him in the wind, scattered from the almost bare branches of the tree in the center of the square. Looking up, he could see snow on the high islands above them, and he shivered.
The captain was striding back towards them. “Ready, boy?”
“More than,” Heilyn said and turned to take a last look at the village. It looked like it had in his picture, if somewhat drabber and colder. There were familiar faces by every door, many turning towards him and pointing. Father Cian was there, looking troubled, and Arianell and her toddler daughters. Old Math was shaking his stick at Heilyn, and Dilys was in the doorway of the shop, her hands twisted in her apron. It was all so very dear to him, and he would miss them all so very much, but it was time to go now. Enough was enough.
Raising his hand, he swallowed hard and waved to them all.
Then he saw Emyr, standing outside the office with his hand on the doorframe. Heart aching, Heilyn allowed himself a last look. Emyr was still the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, even when he looked as pale and sick as he did today. The color had gone from his cheeks, but Heilyn could remember how they flushed in passion. He would always remember the blue of Emyr’s eyes too, even though Emyr had covered them with his hand now, his head bowing down.
He was crying, Heilyn realized with a sudden swift shock. Emyr was crying. For him? No. Emyr wouldn’t embarrass himself in public for him.
“We’ll tie you on the port side, given the wind,” the captain said. “Look lively.”
Emyr’s hand still hadn’t left the doorframe, and Heilyn realized that he wasn’t just touching it. It was holding him up. Was he ill? Shouldn’t someone go to him?
“Before the wind turns, boy.”
Emyr looked up, and suddenly, even from the other side of the square, Heilyn could see it. Emyr wasn’t ill. He was terrified.
Then he remembered that the last time Emyr had watched a lover rope on to a ship in winter, that lover had died.
He was running before he thought about it, hurtling across the square. There seemed to be a whole crowd that needed to part around him, probably because half the village had appeared to watch this, and he had to dodge around stalls and carts and the fountain. Dashing under the derwen tree, he knocked the last flower off the lowest branch and caught it as it floated by. Suddenly, he had a plan, one so ridiculous and impulsive and perfect that it couldn’t fail. With the flower cupped between his palms, trying to float away, he suddenly felt blessed.
Skidding to a halt, he yelled, “Emyr! You wanted to know exactly when I’m going to leave!”
“Right now, clearly,” Emyr said, his voice tired and crumpled.
“I’m not going to leave this island,” Heilyn promised, glad there were witnesses, “until I’ve painted a perfect picture of your smile.”
Emyr frowned faintly, but the color was coming back to his cheeks. “I don’t smile much.”
“In that case,” Heilyn said, walking forward at a gentle pace, “it will take me years.”
Emyr swallowed. “Y-years?”
“Years.”
“And then? On the day you paint that picture—will that be the day you leave?”
“No. Because by then, we will have grown old and happy together. Your face will have changed. Your smile will be different, and so I’ll have to start all over again.”
“Why then,” Emyr said, letting go of the doorframe and stepping forward hesitantly, “you could be here forever.”
“Forever and ever,” Heilyn agreed, letting the dream of other islands float away on the wind. He had more important things to do with his life.
Emyr didn’t look convinced. “You’ll change your mind.”
“Never.” And here was the moment, and it wasn’t terrifying at all. There was no need to fly any further. Aware that everyone was watching, Heilyn knelt and proffered his cupped hands to Emyr. This was the oldest and simplest way to propose, with the gift of a starflower, and he saw the moment when Emyr realized what was happening, the shock and wonder in his eyes as Heilyn opened his hand and the starflower floated up.
It was a late flower, small and fragile, but it rose with steady determination, its petals spreading as the wind pushed under it. Heilyn watched it go with his heart tight in his chest. If Emyr took it, it meant yes, but if he let it go…
“Trust me,” he begged, as the flower twirled in the air, rising up towards Emyr’s face.
And then, his hand visibly shaking, Emyr caught it. For a moment, he looked as stunned as Heilyn felt, but then, very slowly, Emyr smiled.
Heilyn stood up, his heart pounding, and wasn’t ready when Emyr suddenly reached out and pulled him close. He fell right into Emyr’s arms, dimly aware that people were cheering. Shaking, he blurted out, “I love you.”
“I should hope so,” Emyr murmured into his ear, his voice full of laughter again, “after that display.”
“I’m never ever going to leave you.”
“I know,” Emyr said, and his voice shook a little. “Heilyn.”
“Because you love me just as much, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Emyr said and turned his head to kiss Heilyn, still smiling, as he’d never smiled before.
After a while he pulled back, and said, sounding a little dazed, “I think the Aderyn just sailed away with all your belongings.”
“I don’t care,” Heilyn said honestly, and Emyr kissed him again, his mouth clumsy where it was curving up into a bright and perfect smile.
###
About the Author
Amy Rae Durreson teaches in an eccentric boarding school deep in the English countryside. When not teaching, marking or trying to fathom the mysterious logic of the typical teenage brain, she likes to go wandering across the local hills with a camera, hunting for settings for her stories. She has a degree in early English literature, which she blames for her somewhat medieval approach to spelling, and at various times has been fluent in Latin, Old English, Ancient Greek, and Old Icelandic, though these days she mostly uses this knowledge to bore her students when they foolishly ask why English spelling is so confusing. Amy started her first novel nineteen years ago (it featured a warrior princess, magic swords, elves, and an evil maths teacher) and has been scribbling away ever since. Despite these long years of experience, she has yet to master the arcane art of the semicolon.
Her first full length novel, Reawakening, will be available from Dreamspinner Press
in January 2014.
Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/amy_raenbow
Visit my blog: http://amyraenbow.wordpress.com/
Emyr's Smile Page 6