Page 31 of Too Many Beds

Marek ran his fingers over the smooth oak of his bed frame, feeling each grain and knot. The wood was like an old friend, one he had only to cajole into shape. He still had a long way to go, but he could do this. The room buzzed with activity, but Marek tuned it all out, focusing on the rhythm of his own work. He barely glanced at Arcanus's workstation, where the mage was already weaving spells around his creation.

A flash of light caught Marek's eye. Arcanus stood with his hands raised. The bed frame before him shimmered, the wood twisting into shapes that defied natural laws. Marek gritted his teeth and looked away, concentrating on his own work.

Marek focused on the headboard, a large piece of oak he'd already shaped into a basic rectangle. He picked up his chisel and began carving intricate patterns into the wood. He carved a series of intertwined oak leaves, detailed right down to their veins. They would form a flowing, symmetrical design that evoked the strength of Arlenia's forests.

He couldn't help but steal glances at Arcanus's workstation, where the mage was working with enthusiasm. A swirling golden light pulsed around Arcanus's wand as he carved designs into his headboard. It was impressive how quickly he did it, and it made Marek clench his jaw. He knew Arcanus wasn’t simply relying on magic; the mage's artistry was clear in the way he shaped the wood, creating a series of intertwined dragons. The scales of the dragons seemed to gleam like precious metals catching the light, and illusory flames danced from their nostrils, making the scene enchanting.

Magic. It was so unfair .

As the day ended and tools were set down for the night, Marek couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how hard he worked, he was fighting a losing battle against something beyond mere skill—something that sparkled with impossible brilliance just a few feet away from him.

The magic use was profane . Not to be tolerated.

Marek was going to do something about that.

A t the end of the second day, the artisans broke off into groups as before, leaving Arcanus and Marek alone. Marek had made it clear he despised Arcanus and his magic, so the mage didn't even attempt to invite him out for a meal and entertainment.

Which was a shame. Marek was handsome, and Arcanus wouldn't have minded feeling his hands on his body with the same intensity Marek used during his work.

Arcanus sat alone at a small table in the castle's dining hall, pushing around a piece of roasted duck with his fork. The murmurs and laughter of the other artisans echoed around him, but he found no solace in their camaraderie. The tension between him and Marek bothered him, stealing his appetite. With a sigh, he abandoned his meal and made his way back to his quarters.

The castle wing where the artisans were housed was quiet. Arcanus's modest room felt like a cage tonight. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself into sleep. His mind, however, was a whirlpool of thoughts—memories of Marek's intense blue eyes and the feeling of being judged by every traditional artisan in the competition.

He sat up abruptly, deciding that a walk might clear his mind. He slipped on his boots and robe, then quietly opened the door to his room. The hallway stretched before him, lit by flickering sconces. As he stepped out, he noticed a silhouette moving further down the corridor. Tall and broad-shouldered—there was no mistaking it. Marek.

Arcanus hesitated for a moment before deciding to follow. He moved silently, keeping enough distance to avoid detection but close enough not to lose sight.

Marek walked with purpose, his steps echoing softly in the stone hallway. They passed through several turns and finally approached the grand doors of the competition hall. Marek paused for a moment before pushing them open just enough to slip inside.

Arcanus followed. He watched as Marek approached Arcanus's workstation. Hands on hips, the other man studied the bed. The wizard considered stepping out from the shadows and challenging Marek, demanding to know what he was doing. But the wan light revealed a stricken look on Marek's face, and Arcanus didn't feel that it was his place to intrude. So, he watched and waited until Marek finally turned and trudged out, leaving the unfinished beds behind.

T he rhythmic scrape of his chisel against the oak was a comfort that helped Marek focus. He was working on the rails for the bed, shaping them to fit the frame and headboard. Marek had chosen a piece of walnut, its grain a beautiful swirl of dark brown and pale gold. He planned to carve a series of stylized vines, their tendrils twisting and turning, mirroring the design of the oak leaves on the headboard.

The work was demanding, but Marek found peace in it. Each stroke of the chisel felt rewarding. It was a reminder of why he did this, why he poured his heart and soul into his craft. As he carved, his mind wandered back to the previous night, when he'd stood before Arcanus's workstation. He'd been tempted to do something, to sabotage the wizard’s work, to even the playing field. But something had stopped him, something that felt like a whisper of caution, or perhaps a flicker of something else... something he couldn't quite name.

He had to admit, Arcanus was good . His magic was impressive, yes, but it was his artistry that truly captivated Marek. The way he used his magic to enhance the wood, to bring out its natural beauty, was a skill he couldn't deny. Marek, in his own way, was trying to achieve the same thing, using his years of experience and dedication to create something beautiful and lasting. But Arcanus's magic was proof of the gulf that separated them, a gulf that made Marek question everything he believed in.

He pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the flowing lines of the walnut rail. The piece before him was a reminder that true craftsmanship, whether or not magic was involved, was about passion, dedication, and the pursuit of beauty. And that was something he wouldn't let anyone take away from him.

His mind drifted to the looming deadline. The competition was coming to a close, and the mattresses would arrive soon. Marek couldn't afford any more delays. His heart sank as he realized that he'd have to forgo the final touch that would really set it apart. He'd planned to gild the headboard, carefully applying a thin layer of gold leaf to the carved oak leaves. It would have been a bold statement, and a way to showcase his artistry in a new light. But time was a thief, and he had to settle for varnish alone.

A t the end of the day, Arcanus stood back, smiling at the bed he had created. “Perfection,” he murmured, running a hand along the polished wood. It was his finest work—every curve, every enchantment, perfectly placed. The bed didn't just exist ; it breathed a fierce elegance that sang of fairy tales and legends.

His gaze drifted to the other beds in the grand hall, each piece reflecting its creator's soul. They were all beautiful in their own right. But he kept returning to Marek's.

Marek's bed was sheer craftsmanship. There was no magic in Marek's creation, only raw talent and relentless effort.

A sigh escaped his lips. “Why must there be such a chasm between us?” His use of magic had always been a point of contention. But there was so much more he wished Marek could see—beyond the enchantments and spells.

As the artisans milled about, inspecting each other’s work and exchanging pleasantries, the sting of isolation filled Arcanus once more. He wanted to share this moment with someone who understood the heart behind his craft.

Marek's silhouette caught his eye as he walked by, deep blue eyes focused on some unseen point ahead. Arcanus took a step forward, hesitated, then stopped himself. What could he say that wouldn't appear self-serving or insincere? He glanced back at his own bed, then at Marek’s again. Both were masterpieces—different paths leading to the same peak. And in the end, wasn't that what mattered?

“Marek,” Arcanus ventured, taking another step closer. “This has been an excellent contest. And I'd be honored to celebrate with you.”

Marek's lips firmed into a thin line, eyes narrowing. It was a shame, as it ruined a perfectly handsome face. Marek, however, seemed unaware of this as he glared at Arcanus. “What, so you can lord your superiority over me?”

Arcanus blinked. “I… what? No.” He cleared his throat and threw every bit of sincerity he had into his next words. “I truly think the bed you've created is exceptional. And I'd very much like to celebrate with you.” The wizard paused, his face warming. “And these past few days have been lonely.”

But his blatant honesty seemed to chip away at Marek's frost. The other man angled his head as if Arcanus were a strange creature he was trying to figure out. Then Marek nodded. “Let's get a drink, then.”

M arek hesitated as he followed Arcanus out of the castle and towards the nearby tavern. What would people think, seeing him with Arcanus? Would they think he approved of magical artisans?

But, as they entered the tavern, Marek found himself drawn to Arcanus's presence. The mage's green eyes sparkled with joy as he ordered drinks for them both, and Marek couldn't help but admire the way his long fingers wrapped around the mug.

They settled at a table in the corner, away from prying eyes. Marek took a long swig of his ale, trying to ignore the way his breath caught every time Arcanus's knee brushed against his beneath the table.

“I'm glad you agreed to come,” Arcanus said. “I know we don’t see eye to eye, but I wanted someone to share this moment with. We both worked hard and have much to show for it. Your artistry is exceptional.”

A flush crept up Marek’s neck. He wasn't used to compliments, especially not from someone like Arcanus. “I... I appreciate that,” he mumbled, staring down at his drink.

As the night wore on, Marek opened up to Arcanus in ways he never had before, with anyone. He talked about his childhood, his father's passing, and the pressure he felt to carry on the family legacy. The wizard listened intently, his eyes never leaving Marek's face.

For the first time in a long while, Marek didn't feel so alone. He had always been so focused on his work, on proving himself, that he had never taken the time to connect with someone on a deeper level. And yet, here he was, sharing his deepest thoughts and feelings with the one person who worked so differently.

Marek leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on Arcanus. The ale had loosened his tongue, and he found himself genuinely curious. “So, why did you enter the competition?”

Arcanus sighed, swirling his drink thoughtfully. “The other spellcasters see me as a failure.” His lyrical voice was tinged with bitterness. “They think my work is frivolous, that I'm wasting my talents on furniture instead of pursuing more 'important' magical endeavors.”

Marek's brows furrowed in disbelief. “They're idiots, then.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, but he didn't regret it. Arcanus looked up, a flicker of surprise and amusement dancing in his beautiful eyes.

“Are they now?” Arcanus's lips curved into a small smile, warmth seeping into his expression.

Marek nodded firmly. “Absolutely. Your work is incredible, magic or not.”

The wizard chuckled softly. Marek found the sound oddly endearing.

“And you?” Arcanus asked, tilting his head slightly. “Why did you enter?”

Marek took a deep breath. “I have to win,” he whispered, staring into his ale. “Or at least do well enough to gain recognition. Otherwise... I can't afford to keep my woodworking business going.”

Arcanus's gaze softened with understanding. “That's a heavy burden to bear.”

Marek shrugged, trying to mask the vulnerability that threatened to spill over. “It's my father's legacy. I can't let it die.”

The wizard appeared thoughtful, lips pursed. Then, as if he'd come to a decision, he nodded. “We must make certain you win, in that case.”

“What?” Marek blurted, startled by the words. “Why?”

Arcanus smiled. “My reason is… vanity, I suppose. Your reason is important. ”

Marek shook his head. “Your reason is valid, too. I'm sure it's hard, being looked down on like that.” Marek had been guilty of that, too. And while he still felt that magic gave Arcanus an unfair advantage, Marek was seeing more and more of the person behind that power.

“It is, but I know my worth. Even if others don't.” Arcanus suddenly rose. He reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a handful of gold coins, dropping them on the table. “Come on.”

Marek blinked, his alcohol-hazed mind unable to keep up with the spellcaster. “What?”

“You say that quite a bit when you're sloshed,” Arcanus said with a chuckle. “We need to make sure you win.”

“What?” Marek asked again.

The wizard sighed. He offered a hand, and Marek took it, rising to join him. “You and me. Make sure you win .” Arcanus aimed his index finger at Marek, just in case that was unclear.

“But why?” Marek asked, unable to hide his bewilderment that anyone would help him, much less this man.

“Because you should never have to give up your dream,” Arcanus said, the words so simple but so heartfelt.

Marek's breath caught in his throat.

A s the pair slipped through the shadows toward the crafting hall, Arcanus couldn't help the giddy, effervescent feeling that filled his chest. He might not fight dragons or save kingdoms, but he could use his abilities for good. He would help Marek, and that would almost be as good as winning himself.

The castle hallways lay hushed under the moonlight, their footsteps barely more than whispers on the stone floor. As they approached the crafting hall, Marek's usual confident stride had a slump to it, a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes.

Arcanus pushed open the doors, the large wooden panels groaning as they swung inward. The hall was empty, completely void of the creations that had filled it just hours before.

“Where are they?” Marek’s voice was low, the defeat in it ringing loud. He stared at the vacant space where his masterpiece had stood.

Arcanus frowned, his gaze sweeping the room as if expecting to see hidden compartments where the beds might be stashed. “They’ve been moved,” he mused aloud, running a hand through his raven-black hair. “They must have taken them to the royal bedchamber for tomorrow's judging.”

Marek shook his head, his shoulders slumping further. “It makes sense. They moved them after we were supposed to be finished.” His face fell. “That's it. We're done.”

“We're most certainly not done,” Arcanus whispered. He grinned and moved over to his workstation, picking up the belt that held his arcane crafting tools. Then he bent down and picked up a few loose wood shavings.

“What are you doing?” Marek asked.

Arcanus held the wood shavings between his fingers, feeling the lingering energy from his creation. “I'm going to figure out where they’ve taken the beds.”

Marek watched, skepticism etched into his features. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

“Simple,” Arcanus replied, his lips curving into a playful smile. “These shavings are attuned to my bed. They carry a trace of its essence.” He closed his eyes, concentrating on the subtle hum of magic within the fragments of wood.

With a gentle flick of his wrist, he murmured an incantation. The shavings glowed faintly before rising from his hand and drifting toward the doorway. Arcanus opened his eyes and saw Marek’s expression shift from doubt to tentative curiosity.

“Follow me.” Arcanus headed after the floating wood shavings.

They tiptoed through the castle corridors with the shavings acting as a guide, leading them up grand staircases and down long hallways. The shavings led them to a pair of doors at the end of a corridor.

“This is it,” he said quietly.

Marek stepped forward, pushing open one of the doors with a gentle creak. The room beyond was opulent, draped in silks and golds that shimmered in the moonlight filtering through tall windows. And there they were—seven beds created by the artisans, lined up for inspection.

So many beds, and each of them magnificent. Arcanus couldn't help but grin at the craftsmanship on display. They were glorious. He glanced at the other man. “Let's see to your bed.”

M arek stood in the royal bedchamber, his eyes fixed on the array of beds lined up for judging. The warmth of Arcanus's body, so close to his own, sent a jolt of awareness through him, a subtle tremor of anticipation and wanting that he couldn't quite explain.

Marek's gaze settled on his own masterpiece. The bed he had poured his heart and soul into now seemed insignificant next to the others, especially Arcanus's. The spellcaster’s bed glowed with an ethereal light, its embellishments almost too perfect to be real. The fire-breathing dragons seemed to light up the room. Marek clenched his jaw, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach.

“I was a fool to enter this competition,” he muttered under his breath.

Arcanus turned towards him, eyes bright with curiosity. “What did you say?”

Marek shook his head, trying to hide the wave of self-doubt crashing over him. “Nothing.”

Arcanus stepped closer to Marek's bed, running a hand over the carved oak frame. “This is beautiful work, Marek.”

Marek scoffed, unable to mask his bitterness. “ Beautiful? It's nothing compared to what you and the others have made. Look at it—ordinary.”

Arcanus's touch lingered on the smooth wood. “I see strength here. I see dedication and skill honed over years of hard work.” He met Marek's eyes, intense sincerity etched in every line of his face.

Marek looked away, struggling with the conflicting emotions. He had never been good at accepting compliments, especially not from someone like Arcanus. “You don't have to patronize me.”

“I'm not patronizing you,” Arcanus replied softly. “Your craftsmanship speaks volumes about who you are. It’s magnificent.”

Marek let out a heavy sigh. “It doesn't matter how much effort I put in if it's not enough to win.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying more vulnerability than he intended.

Arcanus placed a reassuring hand on Marek's shoulder. “Winning isn't everything. You've created something with your own hands, something that will outlast this competition.” He smiled warmly. “And for what it's worth, I think it's extraordinary.”

Marek needed those words. He almost— almost —leaned in and kissed the wizard. But he reined himself in, allowing only a tight smile. “You said your magic takes skill.” He paused, hesitant, as he decided how to phrase the question without sounding like a judgmental idiot. “But I don't understand how that is. From my perspective, it seems like magic does everything for you. But that's not really the case, is it?”

At the question, Arcanus's eyes lit with excitement. He grabbed Marek's hand and tugged him closer to his own bed. “It's not. And I'm thrilled you've asked. I can tell you all about it.” The wizard cleared his throat, dropping Marek's hand. “Sorry. If you want to know. I never get to talk to others about what I do.”

Marek couldn't help but chuckle at Arcanus's enthusiasm. He felt much the same about his own woodworking. “Please, go ahead. Maybe I can learn something from you, even if I don't wield magic.”

“To create something like this,” Arcanus began, voice brimming with joy, “I had to study traditional carpentry first. My father insisted on it. Said I couldn't understand the true essence of crafting if I didn't know how to work with my hands.”

Marek frowned, his skepticism melting into curiosity. “You mean you actually learned carpentry? With tools and everything?”

Arcanus nodded eagerly. “Yes! It was grueling at first. My fingers bled from the splinters and my muscles ached from the sawing and planing. But over time, I appreciated the craft.” He paused, eyes growing distant as if recalling a memory. “There's a rhythm to it, a connection between wood and artisan.”

Marek folded his arms, still processing this revelation. “So, your magic—it's just an extension of that?”

“Exactly,” Arcanus said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Magic doesn't do the work for me. It enhances what I've learned through traditional methods. Think of it like... adding color to a sketch. The sketch is still there, foundational to the work.”

Intrigued, Marek stepped closer to inspect the details in Arcanus's bed frame. “But how do you control it? How do you make sure it doesn't just run wild?”

Arcanus smiled, pleased by Marek's genuine interest. “That's where creativity comes in. Magic is raw energy; it needs direction and purpose. Without me guiding it, shaping it with my vision and skills, it's just potential.” He gestured at a section of the bed where the dragons seemed to come alive. “These wouldn't exist without my imagination giving them form.”

Marek rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So, you're saying that without your craftsmanship and creativity, your magic would be useless?”

“Precisely,” Arcanus agreed. “It takes years of study and practice to master both aspects—traditional carpentry and magical enhancement.” His gaze softened as he looked at Marek's bed once more. “And that's why I respect what you do so much. Your work stands on its own merit, without any magical assistance.”

Marek felt a strange warmth spread through him at Arcanus's words. Before Marek could respond, Arcanus took a deep breath, his expression filled with resolve. “Marek, would you allow me to add a touch of magic to your bed? Just a small enhancement, to highlight the beauty of your craftsmanship. I want you to have the best chance to win.”

Marek hesitated, the offer tempting but confusing. “Why would you do that for me?”

Arcanus stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “Because I believe in your talent, and I want to see your work recognized. Besides, I can't bear the thought of you giving up on your dream.”

The sincerity in Arcanus's voice broke through Marek's defenses. He nodded slowly. “All right. What do we do?”

Arcanus gently took Marek's hand, guiding him to the bed. “Have a seat,” he whispered, his voice breathy.

Marek hesitated for a moment, but the warmth in Arcanus's eyes reassured him. He lowered himself onto the bed, his back straight, his hands resting on his knees. Arcanus stood in front of him, his eyes gleaming with a focused intensity. He reached out, taking one of Marek's hands in his own, their fingers intertwining. The wizard rested his other hand against the bed.

“This is the part where I need your help,” Arcanus murmured. He closed his eyes for a moment, then began to weave his magic. A soft, golden light flowed from his fingertips, mingling with the natural grain of the wood.

“Need my help how? ” Marek asked. “I can’t work magic!”

“You already did,” Arcanus corrected him. “You created this. I need the heart of your creativity to further infuse into your creation.”

“What?” Marek blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” the wizard whispered. “Just hold your vision for the soul of this bed in your mind’s eye.”

The soul of this bed. It made no sense. Marek sighed but did as Arcanus asked. He imagined the bed as he wished it to be…

Carved oak leaves and vines that Marek had painstakingly created began to shimmer, their edges glowing with a soft, golden light. The tendrils of the vines seemed to stretch and twist, reaching out as if they were alive. The bed was becoming the artistic embodiment of Arlenia’s strength and beauty, just as Marek wished.

As the enchantment settled, Arcanus leaned in, his face close to Marek's. “There. Now it's truly extraordinary,” he breathed.

Marek, his gaze fixed on Arcanus, felt the heat in his chest climb. The way Arcanus's emerald eyes held his, the way his breath tickled his cheek, was intoxicating. He couldn't deny the pull he felt, a raw need that had been simmering beneath the surface for days. He leaned in, his hand reaching up to cup Arcanus's cheek, to feel the warmth of his skin.

Their lips met in a kiss that was as tentative as it was urgent. The subtle tang of Arcanus’s magic lingered on Marek’s tongue. He deepened the kiss, seeking more of Arcanus's warmth, his scent, his touch.

He felt Arcanus stiffen for a moment, as if surprised, but then his hands found their way around Marek's waist, tugging him closer. The wizard’s fingers dug into his back, his breath hitching as he responded to the kiss. The press of Arcanus's body against his, the way he leaned into the kiss, filled Marek with a sense of dizzying excitement.

Marek couldn't help himself. The feeling was too strong, too overwhelming. He pulled Arcanus closer, his hand sliding around the back of his neck, pulling him down onto the bed. Arcanus landed with his body half atop Marek, their legs intertwined. The press of Arcanus's thigh against his, the unmistakable sensation of the wizard’s arousal against his own, sent a jolt through Marek.

The kiss deepened. Arcanus's lips parted slightly, allowing Marek deeper access, a soft moan escaping his throat.

A surge of confidence bolstered Marek. He was doing this. He was making Arcanus lose control, just as he was losing control himself. His hand drifted down to the curve of Arcanus's hip, his fingers tracing the line of his waist. He felt the subtle shift of Arcanus's body, the way he leaned into the touch, urging Marek closer. This wasn't a competition anymore.

“Marek.” Arcanus’s voice was a throaty whimper. A plea. “We shouldn’t—the competition?—”

Marek pressed his mouth more insistently against the wizard’s. The competition was important but this… this was something else. And Marek was going to enjoy this perfect, heady moment while he could.

“Forget the competition,” he rumbled. “Right now, all that matters is you and me.”

A rcanus adjusted the robe that covered his bare skin as Marek finished their joint tale. Would the King and Queen order him and Marek to be executed for their audacity? What had they been thinking, to make use of a potential royal bed in such a way? But he hadn't been thinking. Only feeling and enjoying. And it had been so right .

“So, you see, Your Highnesses, that’s how we came to be in this state of undress,” Arcanus finished. Too bad Marek hadn’t been able to finish him , alas.

“ Undress .” Princess Eliora covered her mouth as she laughed, her eyes bright with amusement.

The royals traded long looks, then seemed to reach a silent decision. King Aldric cleared his throat before speaking. “Princess Eliora’s upcoming nuptials to Prince Corvus have filled us with much concern, and it’s our goal that the winning bed be a piece that showcases the ability to bring disparate people together.”

Queen Isolde’s eyes danced, her gaze resting on the bed where Arcanus reclined. “And what better than this bed?” She made a sweeping gesture. “It’s clear you worked on it together. We’ve been watching the work of all the artisans closely, you know.” She crossed her arms, stepping closer as she assessed the work. “Most of the craftsmanship is Marek, certainly, but with a lovely blend of your touches, Arcanus.”

“He does have a lovely touch,” Marek agreed, deadpan.

The Queen clapped her hands. “So, it’s decided. At the celebration this afternoon, we’ll announce the winners.”

“Your collaboration has created something extraordinary,” Princess Eliora said. “This bed has already proven its ability to bring two people together in love. And that’s what I’ll need, to secure a future with Prince Corvus.”

Arcanus's eyes met Marek's once more, seeing reflected there the same relief and joy that surged through him. They had done it— together .

King Aldric nodded in agreement with his daughter's words. “A union of traditional craftsmanship and magical innovation—truly a masterpiece worthy of our princess. And now, we’ll allow you a moment to gather yourselves.” King Aldric headed for the door. His wife and daughter followed, though Eliora aimed a wink at Arcanus and Marek.

As the door closed, Arcanus sagged against the bed. “I can’t believe it. We’re going to live.”

“Not only that,” Marek said as he stepped closer, a grin on his face. “But we’ve won. Together! ” A pleased sigh escaped his lips, then his gaze flicked over Arcanus. “I seem to have left some unfinished business, though.”

Arcanus coughed. “What?”

Marek tugged the robe away, gaze roving to Arcanus’s waist. “I'm a woodworker, after all,” he murmured, his voice husky with desire. “And I'm quite good at what I do.”