Page 8

Before beginning the search for Camdyn, Everild had sent a rider back to the castle with urgent news. The message was simple but grave: his husband was missing, possibly injured, and the physician should be prepared. The rider had hurried away, racing across the land to spread the word. By the time the rider had alerted the staff and the household, the castle had descended into a flurry of activity. Rumors and wild speculation ran rampant as servants and attendants gathered, whispering, unsure of what to believe or fear. The whole place had been thrown into chaos, each person filled with dread or curiosity as they awaited news of what had truly happened.

When Everild and his group finally arrived back at the stables, they were met by a small crowd of eager and anxious servants. They had clearly been waiting for any sign of their lord’s return. Among them was Willow, who, spotting Udele, rushed forward with a smile to embrace her wife, happy to see her again. As the two women exchanged a quiet greeting, one of the stable hands—a young, wide-eyed man who couldn’t seem to contain his excitement—took Everild’s reins. His hands shook, and he barely managed to hold the reins steady, his eyes bright with anticipation. “My lord, is it true you fought off a bear all on your own to rescue your lord husband?” he asked, his voice filled with awe.

Everild couldn’t help but scowl at the young man’s enthusiasm, but the stable hand was undeterred. Despite the brief, irritated noise Everild made, the stable hand seemed to believe that something far more heroic had taken place—his mind already painting a much grander picture of the events that had transpired.

“Couldn’t have been a bear,” Willow commented, her voice light as she idly stroked her wife’s cheek with a weathered hand. “Only my Udele could take one alone.”

Udele smiled and shrugged, her face softening as she looked at her wife. “Nothing fiercer than you, love,” she replied in a teasing, affectionate tone.

Camdyn, standing a little further away, watched the scene unfold with a quiet ache in his heart. He couldn’t help but feel a stir of jealousy. It wasn’t the intensity of their affection that made him feel this way, but the easy, familiar bond they shared—how they expressed love in front of others without hesitation. The sweet names they called each other, the way they looked at one another—it told the story of years of happy marriage, years of shared experiences and deep connection. He wondered—would Everild like it if Camdyn called him "my love" or "darling" one day? Would Everild ever refer to him in such terms? The idea felt like a distant hope, something he could only dream of. Perhaps one day, he thought wistfully. Perhaps.

"Camdyn?" Everild’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to see his husband studying him with concern. “The physician.” Everild’s voice sounded strained, almost painful, a rough rasp in place of its usual deep and gravelly tone. Camdyn felt a twinge of worry. Everild had always had a voice like the rumble of distant thunder, but now it was raw and hoarse, as though he had overexerted himself. Camdyn’s concern for his husband flared. He had been the one who had been injured, but he knew he wouldn’t rest until he knew Everild was taken care of as well.

“Back to the castle,” Everild insisted, though his voice still held an edge of discomfort. “To the physician. For you. Then, we’ll talk.” His words were firm, but there was a weariness in them that Camdyn could hear.

Camdyn nodded, his heart full of emotion, though he kept his thoughts to himself. “Yes. Yes, of course, my lord.” He followed Everild as they made their way back toward the castle, both of them moving slowly, carefully, ensuring that Camdyn’s injuries didn’t worsen. They needed to get back to safety, to the comfort of their bedchamber, but it seemed like the whole castle was in an uproar, with servants running back and forth, shouting, and muttering. It was difficult to make progress through the crowded halls as people clustered around them.

One of the older maids, a woman named Cainech, who had served his parents' household for years, rushed toward him as soon as she spotted them. She was holding a tear-stained handkerchief, and when she reached Camdyn, she pressed it to her face, sobbing with relief. Her voice trembled as she explained how she had heard the rumors of his fall—that he had been thrown from his horse and had fallen to his death from the cliffs. Camdyn blinked in confusion—there were no cliffs near their hunting grounds.

“There are no cliffs in the area,” he said quietly, though he appreciated her concern.

Cainech wiped her eyes, her face full of worry, as she asked, “So, you weren’t thrown from your horse, my lord?”

“Oh, well, yes. I was,” Camdyn answered with a gentle smile, trying to ease her panic. “Just—not down a cliff.” He couldn’t help but feel a little amused by the outlandish rumors, though he knew it was all born from love and concern.

Everild, clearly eager to escape the endless questions and chatter, quickly took Camdyn’s arm and led him away, though Cainech stared after them in horror, her mind still struggling to grasp the reality of the situation.

◆◆◆

The physician’s name was Edwin, one of Everild’s staff sent from his family to serve in the household. Edwin was a slight, dark-haired man who typically appeared quite pleasant, but on this occasion, he was visibly harried. As soon as they entered the room, Edwin had Camdyn sit on the edge of the bed while he opened a case filled with vials, flasks of various sizes and colors, and an assortment of envelopes containing powders and herbs.

Without hesitation, Edwin began to scold Everild. “Well, it really would’ve been better if you hadn’t moved him, my lord,” he said, squeezing Camdyn’s limbs as Everild paced behind him. “Next time there’s a fall like this, have me brought to the patient, not the other way around.”

Everild frowned. “There’ll be no next time,” he grunted.

“Edwin,” Camdyn interjected, “Please examine my husband’s throat next.”

“After you," Everild growled.

“Of course, of course,” Edwin soothed. “Now, would you please disrobe, my lord?”

Camdyn blushed, though it seemed ridiculous. He and Everild had already seen each other nude, and they’d shared the same bed in that state. But, for some reason, undressing in front of his husband in this context felt different. Quietly, he asked, “I’m sorry, Everild, but could you...?”

Everild, like a soldier receiving an order, nodded, turned sharply on his heel, and marched out of the room. “Be right outside,” he said before closing the door behind him.

As Camdyn stripped off his clothes, Edwin kindly organized his case of vials and bottles. Camdyn winced as he pulled his shirt over his head, letting out a small hiss as he bent to remove his boots and pants. His left side had turned an angry red.

The physician clucked his tongue. “Ah, my lord, you’ll have some nasty bruising for a few days.” Edwin’s examination was professional, respectful, and surprisingly gentle. He checked Camdyn for any potential breaks, tears, or internal injuries, apologizing each time his prodding caused a wince or whimper. Finally, Edwin smiled, reporting, “Well, my lord, it seems you’ve been thrown off a horse.”

Camdyn laughed. “Oh, goodness, is that your final diagnosis?”

“Indeed,” Edwin replied. “Nothing broken, nothing sprained. You’ll be sore for a little while, but that and the bruises will be the worst of it. However, it must’ve been quite a shock for you, so I recommend some rest. I’ll prepare a mixture for you—valerian extract with chamomile and lavender in warm mulled wine. Drink it after your meal.”

“Thank you, Edwin,” Camdyn said, pulling on a large nightshirt that had been laid out for him. It was as long as Everild’s velvet tunic, very fine, but somehow, it didn’t feel as soft or warm on Camdyn’s skin. It was fresh and clean, but he would’ve preferred the scent of his husband on it. He couldn’t help but ask Edwin, “May I—could you answer a medical question for me?”

The physician turned from his case. “What do you wish to know?”

“It’s about—about sex,” Camdyn stammered.

Edwin didn’t seem surprised. “Yes, my lord?”

“Does it have to hurt? Initially?”

Edwin’s expression grew wary. “What do you mean by that, Camdyn?”

Wiggling on the bed, hands clasped together in his lap, Camdyn said, “I mean, well. Surely there’s a way for it to be more—more pleasant? So that it’s, um, enjoyable for the duration? The—the initial, um, aspect of it. The penetration.”

The physician frowned. “It should not hurt, Camdyn. If you’ve been prepared enough, it should not hurt, I assure you.”

Ah, Camdyn thought. This hadn’t been mentioned in any of the stories he’d read in his family’s library. “Yes? How does one prepare?”

Edwin didn’t even blink. “With oil. Copious amounts of it.”

“Oh! You mean—for—“

Edwin proceeded to give Camdyn an impromptu lecture on how to engage in safe, responsible, and pleasant intercourse. It was informative and enlightening, and by the end of it, Camdyn’s face was so hot he felt like he might boil water. There was a certain logic to it, and Camdyn didn’t doubt Edwin’s knowledge, but his mind couldn’t help but worry about one thing: even with lubrication and the use of fingers, would Everild truly fit inside him when the time came? He had seen on their wedding night that Everild was quite large, even when not aroused.

A careful question from Edwin stirred Camdyn from his thoughts. “My lord? Camdyn? Is this all new information for you?”

How embarrassing. He was a grown man, yet this was still awkward. There had been young men who visited the monastery, and he had shared kisses and touches with them, but his experience had been light on details. “Well, I’m not ignorant about the process. But, um... I didn’t know certain aspects. So—so thank you for telling me how to make it more—more comfortable.” Though, truthfully, he wasn’t sure how comfortable it would be. He would prefer it to be painless.

Edwin looked appalled. “Camdyn, is there something you want to—“

They both jumped at the loud knock on the door. “Everything alright?” Everild called.

Camdyn shifted on the bed. “Yes, my lord. Please, come in.”

Everild entered with a tray laden with bread, cheese, and what appeared to be a bowl of stew. He set it on a clear space next to Edwin’s case and addressed the physician. “What of my husband?”

Edwin pursed his lips. “Bruised, and in need of a good night’s sleep, but otherwise fine. However, you would do well to remember that your husband lacks your experience. He is quite unused to rough and strenuous activities, my lord.”

Camdyn frowned at that remark. It seemed a bit of an overstatement. He had done plenty of hard work at the monastery, from caring for livestock to foraging for herbs for Cenric, and he loved swimming, walking, and climbing trees. The king had merely chosen an activity he had never had reason to learn.

Everild blanched at Edwin’s words. He rasped, “Never meant—thought it best to just... get it over with.”

Edwin frowned. “Yes, well. You should’ve known better. Take more care with your husband. A lord should strive to be noble in both bearing and behavior.”

Everild appeared thoroughly chastened, and Camdyn felt that this uncalled-for scolding had gone on long enough. He drew himself up in the blankets, outraged. “Edwin, stop this. My husband is a gentleman. He’s kind and sweet and caring and— and—ow!” A sudden jolt of pain shot through his left shoulder, and Everild rushed to his side.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Everild said, running a comforting, calloused hand over Camdyn’s shoulder.

Camdyn leaned into the touch. He murmured, “You’re one to talk. Let Edwin take a look at your throat, please. I’m worried.”

“After you eat,” Everild insisted.

“Well, then let me eat.”

The bread was soft, though it was from this morning, and the cheese was sharp and pungent. Everild tried to spoon-feed him the vegetable and lentil stew but sheepishly placed the tray in Camdyn’s lap when he noticed the glare Camdyn gave him. It was a sweet thought, really, Camdyn mused as he lifted bite after bite of carrots, lentils, onions, and savory broth to his mouth. But he was neither an invalid nor a child. He had made a mistake in the forest, a little scraped up, but it wasn’t worth complaining about. He would do better next time, and then his husband would see him as capable—someone he could rely on, not a delicate, coddled burden.

When Camdyn glanced up from his meal, he found Everild staring off into space, deep in thought. “Are you okay?” Camdyn asked. “Is it—what the king discussed with you?”

Everild shook his head. “Later. You need to rest.” He handed Camdyn the cup of mulled wine mixed with the powdered herbs that Edwin had left.

It was strong wine, and the flavor of the herbs didn’t make it more palatable, but Camdyn swallowed it down. At least it was warm. He handed the empty cup back to Everild, who set it aside on his desk. “Lay down, Camdyn.”

The pillows felt more comfortable than they had the night before. The medicine was taking effect quickly, and Camdyn could barely keep his eyes open. As he settled into the blankets, he asked, voice heavy with sleep, “How long have Willow and Udele been married?”

Everild paused to think, eyes on the ceiling. “Since before I was born. Forty years or more.”

Camdyn smiled at the answer. How wonderful! Forty years of love and care. They had spent more time together than apart and were still so affectionate and tender. He and Everild could have that, too, given enough time. Camdyn reached for his husband’s hand, feeling the familiar calluses and scars. He cherished them.

Everild kissed his cheek and gently stroked his hand as sleep overtook Camdyn.

◆◆◆

It was morning when Camdyn stirred, sunlight seeping through the cracks in his clochán. It was too late for first prayers, then, to wake before the sun rose and sing his devotion with the rest of the monks. As a child, he had thought it was they who brought about each new day, coaxing the sun back to the sky with their hymns every morning.

Silly.

He snuggled back into his pillows.

A wren cheerfully trilled outside the window.

There was a tentative knock on the door. Which was extremely strange because the huts of the monastery had no doors, nor windows.

Camdyn sat up, bleary and confused. “Yes?” he called.

A man peered into the room. “My lord, your father is here to see you. Will you receive him?”

How kind of the abbot to visit him when he was feeling unwell! “Please, see him in,” he said. Camdyn hoped his absence hadn’t upset the daily chores too much. It had always been his task to forage; he had a keen eye for wild herbs and flowers. And Brother David was so suspicious of the cows—the won’t get milked if Camdyn wasn’t there—

But it wasn’t the abbot’s kindly face that greeted him.

It was his father, tall and lean, and displeasure etched onto his harsh features.

Camdyn instinctively shrank into his blankets. The last few days’ events came rushing back to him like a wave. He hoped his father had come to check up on him, but the expression on the man’s face told him otherwise.

“G-good morning, father,” Camdyn said.

His father glared at him. “So, I see you’re well. They told me yesterday you might be dead or dying, but it looked like it was a great deal of fuss for nothing. Tell me, did you always make a spectacle of yourself at the monastery, or was this a recent habit formed from newfound freedom? First at the ceremony—“

“I was frightened, father,” Camdyn whispered, clutching the blankets to his chest.

“Well, at least the Beast seemed to find it charming.”

He shivered underneath the furs, but that comment lit a spark of anger in his heart. He didn’t like it when people referred to Everild by that name with such contempt. “My lord,” he stated, eyes narrowed.

The incredulous look his father gave him was somewhat satisfying. Camdyn continued, “When you speak of my husband, you will refer to him as ‘my lord.’ He is your better, father—a great man.”

His gratification at his father’s shock was short-lived. The man stormed to the side of the bed and yanked the blankets from Camdyn’s hands, tossing them to the side. “If you’re going to speak to me, you’d better stop hiding. You think me ignorant of social hierarchies, child? Of where I stand? Of where our family stands? Why do you think I married you to the brute in the first place? Out of the monastery for a month, and you think to lecture me.” The man let out a mirthless laugh and gritted his teeth. “Tell me, did the king and your lord husband have their discussion before your histrionics ruined yet another event?”

Camdyn stared at his hands. “N-no. After. After I was found. They did talk for a bit, but something angered Everild and we left. He didn’t tell me what happened.”

His father threw his hands skyward. “Ah! Perfect! I marry my son to one of the most powerful men in the kingdom and what do I get in return? Nothing but a rude, surly little boy whose husband doesn’t even bother to keep him abreast of important matters.”

The rebuke stung. Camdyn blinked back tears. “But—but he said we’d discuss it, when I’d rested a bit, father,” he offered.

The man scoffed. He sauntered around the room, hands behind his back, peering at Everild’s desk, the woven carpet, the embroidered tapestries on the walls. “He does seem rather fond of you, I suppose. The bedding went well, I presume?”

A blush roared across Camdyn’s face like a forest fire. “No, no, we haven’t—that is, we’ve yet to—“

“You’re joking.” When he stayed silent, his father stomped back to the side of the bed and yanked his chin up. Camdyn attempted to avoid his gaze, but the man squeezed his jaw and snarled, “Look at me. Didn’t I tell you to make yourself agreeable to him?”

“He—he said we could wait, until I’m r-ready.” His husband was so kind; Camdyn was truly lucky that it was Everild’s face that greeted him when his veil was brushed back at the wedding.

His father snorted. “You think he’ll wait around forever? The shy, chaste little novice will only interest him for so long. All he needs is someone with a willing pair of open legs and a sympathetic ear and we’ll have lost our best chance at advancement in court.”

“W-what?”

“Soon enough every noble family throughout the land will be throwing their pretty sons and daughters at him—you think you’ll compare? Get him into bed, Camdyn. Make yourself available to him whenever he desires so that he’ll never have reason to look at another.”

Camdyn sniffled. Everild would never—would he? He had said that it didn’t matter to him whether or not they had sex, but did that mean he would eventually find fulfillment elsewhere? But Camdyn did want him, it was just… “I—please, father, I’m afraid. I’m scared it will hurt, I don’t want—“

The sneer on his father’s face was extraordinarily ugly and cruel. “You’re joking,” he said again. “The future of our family is on the line—your brothers, your sisters, your nieces and nephews—and you’re balking because you’re worried about a little pain. Didn’t they teach you about sacrifice and selflessness at that monastery of yours? How did a group of monks raise a selfish, impudent coward?”

With a quick, sudden movement, he let Camdyn’s head drop and squeezed his left side, nails digging into his skin just under his ribs, still sore and bruised from the fall. Camdyn cried out at the jolt of pain that raced through his body. “Ouch! Father, stop, please, please!” He trembled, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“But I’ve already stopped. Look.” His father spread his arms out wide. “And that wasn’t so bad, was it? You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Stifling sobs, Camdyn wiped his eyes and whispered, “Y-yes,” though he ached where his father had grabbed him.

“See? Pain is finite. It will end. Now all you have to do is lay back on that bed and wait for him to finish. He’ll be done by the time it takes to say a prayer—just think of that.”

But even if it was Everild, the very thought of having to—to be held down on the bed by another’s weight, bound to endure and suffer and pray as someone forced themselves onto him, into him—

He could not stop the distressed cry that spilled from his lips, or the cascade of tears that followed. Camdyn curled up, back against the headboard, knees to his chest, shoulders shaking as he wept. “Please, not that. I didn’t want to—I was scared. I was sorry. I was s-so sorry, father. But I tried—I talked to Edwin, about—please, believe me. Just don’t—p-please don’t hurt me again—“

Camdyn sobbed so loudly that neither he nor his father noticed when Everild entered the room.

“What is this?” His husband’s voice was like a crack of thunder, his face a mask of fury, eyes narrowed, lip curled around his bared teeth. He was shaking, not like Camdyn’s fearful trembling, but actually quivering with rage. His father had snarled at him, but Everild looked like a beast given human form.

Camdyn’s father took a step back, his irritated expression transformed to one of panic. He glanced at the shut door and back to his son-in-law. “My apologies, my lord,” he wheedled, “My son is still feeling unwell. He has been hysterical—“

“He was fine. Sleeping. What have you done?” Behind the rage Camdyn could hear him struggling to speak. Had he ever gone to see Edwin? He would only damage his voice further.

Shivering on the bed, he said, “E-Everild, be careful, please, your throat—“

His husband’s gaze softened but his voice remained a gravelly, raw growl. “Camdyn. What happened?”

But what could he say? That his own father had hurt him? Yelled at him and threatened him for not having yet consummated their marriage? Ashamed and humiliated, Camdyn frantically shook his head and wailed, a fresh wave of tears fell from his eyes.

Everild turned to Camdyn’s father and growled, “Leave.”

“Now, wait just a moment, my lord—“

But Everild hadn't waited. He surged forward in two long strides and grabbed Camdyn’s father by the throat. The man sputtered and choked, scrabbling to lift Everild’s massive hand from his windpipe, but Everild dragged him like a ragdoll into the hall. The door slammed shut, but Camdyn could hear the commotion outside, a cacophony of voices—the guards, Aldaay, his father’s strangled gasps, and Everild, snarling and raging like a wolf.

“Everild—you’ll kill him, let go, let go—“

“Ready his horse. He’d never step foot here again.”

The high-pitched wheeze his father had made had been almost humorous. “Camdyn was my son, I had a right to see my son—“

“You had no rights to my husband,” Camdyn heard Everild bark. Then, again, “Ready his horse.”

Camdyn was still sobbing when his husband returned. He rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, furious with himself.

He was pathetic. He hadn't been fit for the monastery, no matter how much Cenric and the abbot had tried—always too unfocused, too undisciplined. He would’ve made a terrible cleric. But now he’d been made into an ill-matched companion for Everild, one who had been untrained in running a household and who couldn’t even—couldn’t even provide a nightly comfort to his husband. All Camdyn ever did was weep, and all Everild ever did was soothe him.

So when Everild kneeled at the side of the bed and asked, “Could I hold you?” Camdyn turned away from him, sniffling and crying. An anxious tone entered his husband’s rough voice. “Tell me what happened, Camdyn. Please.”

He hadn't said anything for a time, merely curled up and buried his face in the blankets, but Everild hadn’t left. Instead, he felt a tentative hand on his back and, when he didn’t react either way, Everild gently rubbed at the spot between his shoulder blades with his palm.

When there were no more tears left for him to cry and when he felt more exhausted than upset, Camdyn turned and sat up to face his husband. “D-do you have another?” he asked, his voice wobbly.

Everild frowned, brows furrowed in confusion. “Another what?”

“A-another partner. A lover. Was that why it’s—was that why you didn’t care if I gave myself to you?”

“Camdyn.” Disbelief crept into Everild’s hoarse rasp. “Was that what your father had told you?”

“He said that I needed to make myself agreeable to you. To find your favor, so that—so that our family’s future would be secure.” Camdyn bunched the blankets with his fists. “He was angry that we hadn’t yet consummated our marriage. He said you’d find someone else and that I should just—just pray, and wait until you—until you finished.”

Abject horror lined his husband’s face. He crawled onto the bed and pulled Camdyn into his arms. “Camdyn, no. Never. I would never—I had told you that on our wedding night.”

Camdyn nodded miserably. “I knew, I remembered. It’s just—he upset me, and—and I would have liked to, and I knew you would never intentionally hurt me, but I was frightened. I asked Edwin what could be done to make it hurt less and he told me how to prepare, but I didn’t—I didn’t know, I’d never done that before, either.”

An odd look had passed over Everild’s face. Something like realization. “Ah. So Edwin—never mind. Camdyn, why did you want to have sex?”

“Because I wanted our marriage to work!” Camdyn wailed. “I wanted—I wanted to be a good husband and s-satisfy you—“

Everild’s hands run up and down his sides. “Was that the only reason? You thought it was your duty?”

Shifting so that he could hug him, Camdyn said, “No. I want you, Everild.” He was the only person that Camdyn had ever really wanted, the only one who had made his heart flutter in excitement and anticipation, who made him feel safe and calm wrapped in his embrace.

“You have me.” His husband held him tight. “I’m happy, just like this.”

“But I wanted—“ Camdyn hesitated. He felt so selfish, so embarrassed. “I wanted to feel you, and touch you. And I wanted you to touch me and feel me as well. But—“

Everild interrupted him. “But you were scared of penetration,” he said matter-of-factly.

Camdyn’s face, blotchy from tears, reddened further. “Y-yes. I’m sorry.”

A kiss was pressed against the top of his head. “Don’t be sorry. We can do something else, if you want. Whatever makes you feel good. My hands, or my mouth.”

His words made Camdyn shiver, and yet… “But, what about, um. What about your pleasure, Everild?”

“I’d take pleasure in just watching you.”

That answer seemed a bit of a dodge. Camdyn pulled back and frowned.

A sigh. “My own hand. Or, I’ll show you what I like. Just as you’ll tell me what you like. Right?”

“R-right.”

Camdyn snuggled into the crook of Everild’s neck, arms wrapped around his waist. His husband continued his gentle ministrations, his touch especially feather-light around Camdyn’s bruised left side. They were pressed together so tightly that Camdyn could feel Everild’s heartbeat against his own chest, its steady, strong rhythm a balm to Camdyn’s jittery pulse.

He was very nearly asleep again when his earlier concern had flashed through his mind. “Everild, did you have Edwin examine your throat? I don't want you to hurt your voice.”

A guilty look had crept onto Everild’s face. “I am supposed to be having tea with honey.”

“Have you had any of that today?” At his husband’s silence, Camdyn firmly pushed him off and admonished him. “Everild! You have to take care of yourself! Were the kitchens still open? We’ll have your tea.”

“Only if you eat breakfast,” Everild grunted.

“Fine,” Camdyn said, “Fine. But I wanted to see you drink that tea.”

“Yes, my lord," Everild murmured.

◆◆◆

The hall looked drastically different without the usual bustle of wedding guests, the lively musicians filling the air with their melodies, and the countless piles of food adorning every surface. It was eerily quiet, nearly empty, a stark contrast to the vibrant celebration just hours earlier. Only a handful of servants remained, quietly cleaning the tables and utensils, their soft movements the only sound that filled the space. Camdyn, feeling utterly out of place in the sudden stillness, attempted to hide his face in Everild’s side. His eyes were still swollen and red from the tears that had flowed earlier, and he was certain that he looked absolutely terrible. Indeed, as he glanced around, he noticed a few of the servants casting furtive glances his way, their expressions fraught with worry and concern.

If Everild noticed the stares, he paid them no mind. Instead, he focused all his attention on Camdyn, determined to offer him some comfort. The two of them sat side by side, just like they had during their wedding banquet, a moment of shared intimacy amidst the surrounding emptiness. As they waited for the table to be set, Everild pulled their chairs even closer together, until their knees brushed and Camdyn was able to rest his head gently against his husband’s broad shoulder. The simple act of closeness, of shared space, provided Camdyn with an unexpected sense of solace.

The events of the day—particularly the confrontation with his father and the emotional toll it had taken—had drained Camdyn of much of his energy, leaving him feeling depleted. But as his eyes fell upon the food that Everild had had prepared, a small flicker of cheer sparked within him. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it was warm and comforting in its simplicity, just like the meals he’d had during his time at the monastery. The thought of such humble, nourishing food brought him a sense of calm.

There was plain oatmeal, served with a choice of savory salted fish or sweet, spiced baked apples. The bread, freshly baked and aromatic, was a comforting sight—brown and hearty, studded with grain, and soft, fluffy white loaves that seemed to promise warmth with each bite. And then there was the butter, rich and golden, pressed into delicate flower molds and arranged around the loaves like a small field of wildflowers. The sight of it was so beautiful that Camdyn couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt as he plucked one of the butter flowers to spread on his slice of brown bread. But when he tasted it, all thoughts of guilt vanished. It was utterly delicious.

“Good?” Everild asked, his voice warm with concern.

“It’s good!” Camdyn replied with a small smile, watching his husband down yet another mug of tea. “Was it too bitter, Everild? Did you need more honey?” He reached for the honey jar and stirred another spoonful into Everild’s tea, frowning slightly as the older man tried—and failed—to hide his distaste.

“Just not fond of tea,” Everild grumbled under his breath.

Camdyn leaned toward him, his expression softening. He placed a gentle kiss on Everild’s cheek, brushing his lips against the roughness of his husband’s stubble. “Keep drinking, please. Your voice sounds better already,” he murmured.

Everild’s lips curved into a teasing smirk. “How about a kiss for each sip, then?”

He was teasing, of course, but Camdyn found it to be good motivation. When he nodded enthusiastically and said, “Yes, of course,” a surprised yet pleased expression crossed Everild’s face. The older man grinned, and the two of them shared a quiet moment as Everild continued to sip his tea. Soon, all that remained on Camdyn’s tongue was the sweet taste of honey and the earthy bitterness of the tea. The steady rumble of Everild’s contented hum vibrated through his chest, a sound that soothed him as they shared this small, intimate ritual. After the last drop had been consumed, Camdyn, feeling a wave of happiness, decided that a small celebration was in order. He leaned forward and peppered Everild’s jaw with soft kisses, giggling at the tickle of his husband’s beard against his skin. The warm, comforting sound of their laughter filled the air before Everild pulled him onto his lap, kissing him deeply, his mouth a soothing balm to Camdyn’s overburdened soul.

A sudden, awkward cough shattered their reverie. One of the servants had been watching them, his eyes wide with nervousness, as though he feared that Everild might sweep the table clear with a single motion and press Camdyn down onto it right then and there. Perhaps that was why the servant hesitantly asked, “May I clear your plates, my lords?”

They pulled apart quickly, both of them flushing with embarrassment. Camdyn looked down at his lap, feeling his face burn as he nodded shyly. He couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious, unsure if their behavior had been entirely appropriate. Everild, sensing his discomfort, placed a gentle hand on his knee, offering silent reassurance.

As the servant began to collect their plates, Camdyn’s mind wandered back to something from the wedding banquet. He chewed on his lip thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward his husband. “Everild? Do you remember what we discussed during the banquet? You said that we could have a feast for the poor—food to hand out to them. Could we still do that?” he asked, a note of hopefulness in his voice.

Everild looked surprised by the question but then nodded his head, his expression softening. “Of course we can.”

Camdyn’s eyes lit up. “Then… Could I help bake the bread? If the head baker doesn’t mind? I’m good at baking bread. They taught me, at the monastery.”

His husband placed a much more chaste kiss on Camdyn’s curls, his lips pressing softly against his hair. “They’ll be happy for your help. We’ll talk to them later. You still need to meet the rest of the staff, after all.”

Camdyn nodded, the reality of his new life settling in. He would have to meet all the staff members and learn everyone’s names and faces in order to manage the day-to-day activities within the castle. There was much to learn, and much to do. But he couldn’t help but feel that this life—this responsibility—might not be all that different from his time at the monastery. There would be tasks like taking inventory, cooking, cleaning, caring for the animals, assisting travelers, and helping to settle disputes. Brother David had often misplaced things and had a tendency to blame whichever creature was nearest, be it the cat or the abbot himself. Camdyn chuckled softly at the memory of those moments, but his thoughts were soon interrupted by Everild.

“Camdyn?” Everild’s voice broke through his musings. “I want to show you something. When you’ve finished eating.”

◆◆◆

The castle’s walls were bordered by large, grassy fields. Everild walked him a little away from the stone structure, to where the forest was just visible but where the castle’s shadow still reached them. They stopped at a small plot where the grass had been cleared and the soil upturned.

Everild rubbed the back of his head with a hand. He looked nervous. “You wanted a garden. I thought this might be a good spot. Is there enough sunlight? Is the soil fertile enough? I don’t know what you can grow now. Never grown anything before. But I can help till the soil for you.”

Camdyn inspected the plot of land. From where the area sat in relation to the castle’s walls, there should have been more than enough sunlight for the crops. And the soil was dark, nearly black—excellent! He smiled. “It’s perfect, Everild! If I start planting spinach now, we’ll have some by winter. I could plant onions, too, but those wouldn’t be ready until summer—carrots and peas by early spring, perhaps—“

Relief bloomed across Everild’s face. “You like it, then?”

“I love it. Thank you.”

His husband pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Anything you want. Just ask for it. I want this place to be a home to you. For you to find comfort in it.”

Camdyn blushed. “Then, could you—I want you to kiss me like you did at our wedding,” he said.

Everild nodded. Camdyn closed his eyes and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, he felt Everild grab either side of his face and give him a peck on the nose.

His eyes flew open. “Everild!” he scolded.

There was the beginning of a smile on Everild’s face. “That’s how I kissed you,” he said, innocently, his brow furrowed in mock confusion.

“Well, I meant the other kiss.”

“Was there another?”

“Yes!”

“Remind me.”

Camdyn murmured, “You held me like this.” He took Everild’s hands and put them on his hips. Everild gave him a squeeze. “And—and I had my hands like this—“ He pressed closer and placed his palms on his husband’s broad chest, fingers splayed.

His husband’s voice was low. “Now I recall,” he said.

Before, Camdyn had thought that he simply didn’t like to kiss. All the young men who had visited the monastery—ostensibly for prayer or shelter, but always seeking him out as soon as they could get away from prying eyes—neither their hands nor their lips had ever much interested him. The way they had put their mouths on his had been a curiosity, a way to while away the time, and Camdyn had honestly felt little else but bemusement at their activities and mild irritation at the merchant’s son, who always tried to slip his hand up his robes no matter how many times Camdyn slapped it away.

But with Everild, it was—it was odd, difficult to describe, because he never tired of it, their kissing. Each time it felt as though they were at the altar and all Camdyn could feel and see was Everild, how warm he was, how strong and protective. But that first kiss, and all the ones after—it was as though it had always been Everild he had been waiting for. They slotted together perfectly, their lips against one another’s, their fingers laced together, the way Camdyn fit underneath Everild’s chin when they embraced.

His husband was, as always, careful with him, his fingers brushing lightly against Camdyn’s bruises. But his kiss was hungry. Everild’s tongue licked against Camdyn’s lips and then into his mouth as if searching for a lingering taste of honey, wet and hot and wanting. It made Camdyn’s heart pound and his knees tremble, but—

But he could tease, too. He laughed at Everild’s groan when he pulled away. “More of that later,” he commanded. “I want to meet the rest of the household today.”

As he pulled Everild back to the castle, he heard his husband say, both amused and a little frustrated, “Yes, my lord.”