Archive of Our Own ^beta

Life after graduation was a dream, for the most part. Elliot was in the more or less constant company of not one, but three people who cared about him. He had books to read, treaties to argue about, and plentiful letters to exchange with Myra (who always had fascinating insights on the intersections of dwarf and human culture), Podarge (whose gardening tips had allowed him, so far, to grow one sad sunflower and a number of aggressively productive tomato plants that far exceeded the seeds he'd planted), and Swift (who sent rather alarming claims about her sexual availability and the supposed inadequacy of his own relationship at least every other letter).

And, of course, he enjoyed both sweet affections from and carnal knowledge of one Luke Sunborn, a combination that many in the Borderlands would kill to acquire (as a few less tactful individuals had said to his face over the past few months). This part especially, Elliot could barely believe. He still woke up in a cold sweat some nights, convinced it was all a product of his overactive imagination, and had to stare at Luke's stupid beautiful sleeping face for several minutes to convince himself otherwise.

But one thing was not quite perfect about this life: Luke and Serene were still, horribly and incurably, soldiers. And Elliot was not, thank God, but that meant he had to stay behind when anything warlike was in order. The absence of the two people he loved most in the world, and the very real possibility they would not return, made Elliot feel like he had reverted to a scared fifteen-year-old, snapping at everyone around him out of sheer boredom and terror.

Golden, at least, also stayed behind. He had more military training than Elliot, but he was still at a trainee level (or so Luke and Serene said, not that Elliot could really tell the difference). And he wasn't cut out for the campaigning lifestyle, supposedly. Elliot envied Golden's ability to keep himself busy when their awful warrior significant others were away; even books never seemed to hold Elliot's attention for long when he was worrying.

"I hate this world and its stupid constant battles and its stupid military societies," Elliot was saying one day, while Golden bent his head over what looked like half a shirt, doing something incomprehensible with a needle half the size of Elliot's pinky. "What's wrong with peaceful pursuits? Infrastructure! The food supply chain! Arts and culture!"

"The border guard may be fixated on martial prowess," said Golden mildly, "but among the elves there is great respect for homekeeping and the arts, especially as a suitable pastime for cultured gentlemen."

Elliot paused mid-rant, mouth open. He hadn't realized Golden was even listening. (Maybe that said something about how often he expected to be tuned out, but if it did he wasn't about to examine that.)

"If you are interested in learning such skills," said Golden, "I would be happy to provide instruction."

Elliot forced himself to stop gaping like a startled fish. "Sure," he managed. "What could go wrong?"

Before they could get to learning, Golden outlined a few rules he expected Elliot to follow.

"I know that you are not an elven gentleman and do not abide by the same modes of conduct," Golden said, "and furthermore that your personality is... abrasive by nature."

Elliot winced.

"But I ask that you at least maintain an attitude of respect," Golden continued. "I will allow you the benefit of the doubt, and I request that you do the same in return. Understood?"

Elliot saluted. "On it, boss."

Golden sent him a skeptical look, but did not critique Elliot's phrasing. "Similarly, try to keep your patience. I would rather Serene and Luke not return to find that you have self immolated out of frustration."

This was excellent. This was so much fun. Elliot couldn't believe he'd never realized that Golden had such a sense of humor. "I'll do my best," he said. "But if I stab myself with a needle I will scream."

"This is acceptable," Golden declared.

1. Embroidery Sewing

"I will confess," said Golden, "I harbor an intense personal distaste for embroidery. The precision required thwarts me at every turn, and the finished work never aligns with my mind's image. Additionally, I missed most of my more advanced embroidery lessons in favor of illicit weapons training."

Elliot couldn't help laughing. He knew Golden was far from the soft-spoken, demure gentleman most elves saw him as, but he was usually quite reserved with Elliot. Maybe expressing such strong dislike for something, Elliot hoped, meant he was getting more comfortable in their tentative friendship.

"So I would advise finding a different instructor if you are interested in the more artistic side of threadwork," Golden continued, with dignity. "But I can teach you how to mend and assemble clothing, which is a more useful skill besides. Especially since I know your paramour requires specialized garments." This declaration made, Golden left the room, which mystified Elliot until he returned with the half-made shirt Elliot had seen the first day. It was linen, dyed a light blue that reminded Elliot of a particular half-harpy's eyes.

"Is that for Luke?" Elliot asked. The shirt was further along than before, and Elliot could see the slits along the back where wings might fit through.

"Yes," said Golden. "My measurements were somewhat incomplete, but I have plans to add buttons or other fasteners to allow a snug fit while also leaving space for flight feathers."

"Oh, that won't be a problem," said Elliot. "My notes on Luke's measurements are exhaustive."

Golden's elf-solemn expression eroded in the face of Elliot's suggestive tone. He wasn't as easily scandalized as Elliot had initially assumed, but his fiance's swordsister was a different story. "Spare me the finer details, I beg you."

"Not to worry," said Elliot, digging through the pile of books he'd heaved to the common room to retrieve his sketchbook and flipping past a few personal notes to a more clinically labeled diagram of Luke's back and wings. "What do you want me to do, O Wise Teacher?"

Golden explained that his ultimate goal for Elliot was for him to make a whole garment from scratch, but he would start by practicing stitches on scrap fabric and then on the already-in-progress shirt.

"Working a little each day, this project should occupy you at least until our lovers return," Golden said. "But in the meantime I will continue with the rest of my study plan." He tapped the chart he was working from, which was delightfully neat and color coded.

Elliot's issues with mending began almost immediately. The needle did not agree with him, it seemed. It jumped out of his hand three times before he could get it threaded, and as soon as he started copying Golden's perfect uniform stitches, it decided to launch a series of attacks.

"I thought sticking to gentlemanly pursuits would save me from sharp objects!" Elliot lamented, putting his poor punctured finger in his mouth.

Golden was unsympathetic. "You are not even bleeding," he pointed out. "Surely you can bear a modicum of pain for the sake of the craft. I am told you have endured far greater wounds to escape boredom."

Elliot drew a blank for a moment, then remembered a certain butter knife incident. "Luke, you traitor!" he muttered under his breath, stabbing the needle with far more force than necessary into the fabric.

"If you continue in this fashion, you will damage the fabric," said Golden, sewing serenely and barely even looking at his hands. "These needles are perfectly sharp enough for the task. Work with them and not against them."

"I will, as soon as they stop working against me," Elliot muttered.

But it did get easier as he went on, as he got used to handling the malevolent sliver. He couldn't get anywhere close to the precision of Golden's stitches, though, which frustrated him.

"You're actually doing quite well, for a beginner," Golden observed when Elliot allowed himself an incoherent snarl of rage. "I have been working with a needle since I was five seasons old and it took me quite a while to reach this level."

Elliot was not, he realized, used to struggling with something in this way. Usually, the skills he set his mind to were also the sort of skills that came easily to him (with the obvious exception of skills like Making Friends and Being a Conscientious Partner). He supposed maybe struggling with something was good for him, in that case. It seemed like the sort of thing a therapist would tell him to do, if therapists existed in the Borderlands.

Good for him or not, it was excruciating.

"Break time," Golden said briskly when Elliot swore loudly and went to rip out another row of misaligned stitches. "Let us enjoy the afternoon sun before it fades. You can tell me more about your 'sky scrapers' and I can seek flowers for a wreath."

Elliot had the distinct impression he was being redirected like a tantruming child. But Golden was right, it was a wonderful day.

This outpost was nestled in the bend of a river, and it was still warm enough that Elliot could take off his shoes and step carefully along the smooth stones at the water's edge, feeling the cool current caress his feet. He watched a solitary crow circling overhead and thought of Luke's wings, and Serene's sleek black hair. He hoped it would still be warm enough to go wading when they got back.

Golden wandered off into the woods a little ways, and returned with a colorful bouquet. He selected a little five-petaled flower from the bunch, deep blue with a yellow center, and offered it to Elliot.

"For your hair," he explained.

Elliot almost slipped and fell in the river. Since Dale's thoughtless offer of a book, Elliot wasn't sure if he'd ever been given a gift by anyone he wasn't romantically involved with, or trying to be. But casual gift-giving was part of elven culture, at least among the men, and Elliot knew that. It felt silly to be so surprised.

"Thanks, Golden," he managed, and awkwardly tangled the stem of the flower into his own wind-tangled hair.

Later that evening, when Elliot was undressing in the room he usually shared with Luke, he took the flower out of his hair and stared at it. By candlelight it wasn't quite as vibrant, but he still couldn't look away.

2. Hairstyling

"Luke likes my hair how it is," Elliot said defensively. He'd been looking for a solution to the Hair Issue for half his life, but now that one was in range he found himself getting cold feet.

"Yes, yes," said Golden. "I am taking that into account, of course. But I want to braid beads into it, and for that I do need it slightly less..."

"Everywhere? All-consuming? Monstrous?" Elliot suggested.

"I was looking for the word tangled," said Golden. "I understand my hair is altogether different in texture, but I have borrowed some tips from my more wild-haired companions at finishing school, and I have a wide selection of suitable balms."

Luckily for Elliot, Golden stopped short of personally washing Elliot's hair, but he did direct him in a precise regimen of cleansers and conditioners, complete with explanatory flow chart. By the time Elliot emerged from the bath and knocked on Golden's door, his hair was softer than it had ever been, and smelled strongly of roses.

"Do you have any other scents?" Elliot asked nervously. Luke would, he was sure, mercilessly tease him upon his return if Elliot smelled like this long-term.

"Of course," said Golden, sorting through an intimidating array of brushes, combs, and other torture devices. "This scent is a favorite among young elven men of this generation, but I understand that human sensibilities lie in different locations. Here, sit down." He patted his chair and fixed Elliot with a gaze that allowed no argument.

Elliot sat meekly and submitted his head to Golden's ministrations.

The process of brushing Elliot's hair was much less painful (literally and figuratively) than Elliot had anticipated. Golden began by gently unraveling the worst tangles by hand, before using a wide-toothed comb starting at the ends of Elliot's hair and working towards his scalp. Golden's finishing school potions had clearly helped; Elliot had never had such an easy time with his own hair.

Once the tangles were mostly gone, Golden carefully brushed it out and scrunched it with a soft cloth. Elliot stared in Golden's mirror in amazement. He hadn't realized his hair could do proper curls, and wasn't just destined to be a frizzy mess.

(If Elliot's mother had stayed, if Elliot's father had cared, maybe he would have learned how to take care of his own hair, when he was much younger. But then, if those things were different, Elliot would never have met Golden in the first place. It was a pointless thought, really.)

"Do you… like it?" Golden asked, more hesitant than Elliot had ever heard him.

Elliot sniffed. (Stupid pointless thoughts. Stupid pointless feelings.) "Yeah, I like it," he said.

Later, Golden taught Elliot how to braid using his own hair as a template.

"Your hair is more challenging in this regard," Golden commented. "In part because it is so short, and in part because of the texture." He was sorting through a box full of different colors and shapes of beads, while Elliot struggled with Golden's brilliant and supposedly beginner-friendly hair. (It did indeed smell like summer, which Elliot now knew was the result of about a dozen mysterious hair liquids.)

"You're welcome," said Elliot. "Ugh!" Golden's hair had slipped out of his fingers again. Elliot was beginning to think he had a handicrafts-related curse, or at least poorer hand-eye coordination than he had ever assumed.

Golden laughed lightly, a sound Elliot had never heard before.

"I'm glad you can find joy in my suffering," Elliot said, separating the lock of hair into sections for the millionth time. "I am beginning to suspect that all my friends are heartless creatures."

"I wish every elven warrior was forced to undergo embroidery lessons," Golden said thoughtfully, completely ignoring Elliot's grumbling. "Their opinion on the ease of men's work might shift if they had a little first hand experience."

"I'd still take this over pointless violence any day," said Elliot, finally getting a pattern going. Strands of Golden's hair were still escaping as he went, but he thought he was doing rather well all things considered. "But if my experience of sewing is anything to go by, I certainly wouldn't expect embroidery to be easy."

Golden twisted to hold a handful of beads up against Elliot's hair, and the braid-in-progress slipped from Elliot's grasp. Elliot squawked indignantly.

"Are these colors suitable?" Golden asked. The beads he'd selected were translucent, green and bright gold-yellow and light blue.

"Oh, those are lovely," said Elliot, distracted from his task. "They're so small! How will you get them in there?"

Golden smiled his small mischievous smile. "Let me show you."

Even watching in the mirror the whole time, Elliot could not quite grasp how Golden braided his hair so neatly, or wove the beads in so seamlessly. When he was done, the colors glinted in Elliot's hair—not enough to weigh it down, but enough that shimmering flecks danced through the vibrant curls when he turned his head.

Golden clapped his hands, pleased. "Your paramour will be delighted to see your adornments." He paused, considering. "Although I must admit I am at a loss for what adornments human men find appealing on other human men. But surely he will appreciate the art."

"Surely indeed," said Elliot, tilting his head back and forth and watching the beads dance. "If Luke doesn't appreciate it, I do."

Elliot kept the beads in his hair for the rest of the day.

The outpost was minimally occupied for the duration of the campaign, and for the most part the few remaining soldiers couldn't care less what Luke Sunborn's weird boyfriend was up to. He did get one snide comment, from Oliver [lastname], who he recognized as a past war training cadet who was around two years Elliot's senior.

"Think you'll be the prettiest girl at the party, Schafer?" Oliver asked.

Elliot resisted the urge to give him the finger – some humans in the border guard didn't even recognize the gesture, and he didn't want to take the risk – and smiled winningly instead, doing a little half-twirl. "Aw, sure I will! Maybe you should try making yourself pretty too. It'll pass the time while you wait for everyone else to return from their glorious battle."

"If you weren't under Sunborn's protection—" Oliver growled.

"Yes, yes, you'd beat me up, very scary," said Elliot. "As if that'd prove anything. I am surrounded by idiots," he added, turning his gaze skyward.

He didn't mention the incident to Golden. The elf spent most of his time outdoors or in his or Elliot's room, and was thus spared the brunt of such comments. He might not even interpret them as insulting, Elliot reflected—but either way, Elliot didn't want Oliver anywhere near him. He'd promised Serene that he would keep Golden safe while she was gone, and he was going to keep that promise.

3. Music

Elliot knew, in theory, how to play the violin and the flute. He had a somewhat better grasp of the piano, but all such lessons had come to an abrupt halt shortly after his thirteenth birthday. So Elliot's musical knowledge was broad but greatly lacking in specifics.

Elven music, Golden explained to him, was altogether different. Based on the patterns of bird song, it was largely held together by recurring motifs rather than by adherence to any particular key, and was primarily passed on by ear, with each new musician adding their own touch to the song. Elves played a version of the flute, and sang beautifully, but the instrument Golden wanted to teach Elliot to play was a plucked string instrument comparable to a small harp.

Golden let Elliot mess around on the instrument for a while, figuring out how to make a sound that wasn't dreadful and learning where the pitches rested. Then he whistled short melodies and waited patiently for Elliot to first whistle back, and then painstakingly pick out the notes on the horrible instrument.

"You're not horrible," Elliot told it after tripping over a particularly fiendish melody. "I'm just overwrought. It's not you, it's me."

"The instrument cannot hear you," Golden said, frowning.

"But if it could, I wouldn't want to hurt its feelings!" Elliot retorted.

Golden used one of his "I don't understand human men or maybe I just don't understand you" looks. Elliot was delighted that he now recognized this look on sight. "Try that melody again," Golden suggested.

"I can't remember," Elliot claimed with a piteous stare. "Luke's the one with a near-perfect memory for sound."

(When he set his mind to it, at least. This was a hypothesis Elliot had been working to test lately. After all the times Luke had parroted something Elliot said with statistically improbable accuracy, Elliot was convinced it was not a coincidence. But he wasn't actually sure if this skill extended to music or not.)

"I may subject him to lessons in the future as well," said Golden, pitiless. "But you will not improve your memory if you do not push yourself. Surely you do not remember nothing at all."

Elliot had to admit he did remember part of the melody. His protests were mostly an attempt to avoid embarrassing failure, which did indeed occur when he stumbled halfway through the phrase and ended up somewhere completely different.

Golden corrected him patiently, and Elliot had to admit his approach was working. This was perhaps the least painful gentlemanly art he'd tried yet!

That was, before the blisters started to appear.

"Owwwww," said Elliot, staring in dismay. "Ew!"

Golden followed his gaze and frowned. "Why did you not tell me you were experiencing pain?" he demanded. "Return the instrument to me, it is time for another break."

"I thought it was supposed to feel like that," Elliot protested weakly, reluctantly allowing Golden to take the wretched thing.

Golden shook his head. "You are a mystery, Elliot Schafer."

Once Elliot's skills had improved to acceptable levels, Golden started teaching him a full song.

"A simple schoolhouse melody," he called it. "Often sung or played by children. There are lyrics, but the words vary by region."

Despite the supposed simplicity, there were apparently two different harmonies, which Golden promised to torment Elliot with the moment he got the melody down.

"Someday I will write an analysis of how elven melodic progressions interact with human music theory," Elliot vowed. "Assuming I am not driven mad by them first."

"You're actually doing quite well," said Golden, correcting Elliot's grip on the instrument yet again. "Go back a line and try that again."

That night, Elliot reread his latest letter from Luke. Luke was more eloquent in letters than he was out loud, possibly because Elliot could not derail him by making fun of his pronunciation. He didn't use pet names for Elliot because that was not how they operated, but he did mention how much he missed Elliot's constant complaining, and he signed the letter "Love, Luke," which gave Elliot several tender emotions that he immediately tried to quell and then belatedly tried to bring back. (He was trying, damn it. Even if he was still miserable at this.)

With this in mind, Elliot started writing.

Hey loser,

How's the despicable but far too often unavoidable violence? Don't answer that. Unless you're currently bleeding out, in which case I need to know yesterday and will torment you forever for taking unnecessary risks.

Since I know Serene's reading this over your shoulder: Serene, you ALSO stay safe. I don't trust either of you to stay out of trouble on your own but I know you'll take care of each other because you're swordsisters or whatever and have been joined at the hip since the age of thirteen. NO BERSERKER FRENZIES. I mean it this time. I know it's fun (?) and tempting (?) to indulge in bloodlust, but you have a husband at home. Also me, I guess.

Have you ever tried any musical instruments, loser? Singing? Whistling? I have some experiments for you to look forward to when you're back home. I have a lesson plan, in fact.

Love Love,

Elliot

4. Cooking

In elven culture, the wandering bands of women hunted wildlife sparingly, maintaining a delicate balance with nature. But agriculture, and most of the skills of food preparation, was left to the men.

Elliot had a bit of experience cooking in the Borderlands, managing a temperamental fire to make a simple camp meal. But he'd never approached cooking as an art, the way Golden did.

"Wait until the skin splits," Golden instructed. "And then remove it immediately to cool."

Patience was not Elliot's strong suit, but he was trying his best.

"How split are we talking?" Elliot asked, staring at the round and fully intact fruit.

"You will recognize it immediately," said Golden unhelpfully. "Stir the grains and greens."

Elliot supposed a watched fruit never split, or something. He stirred the pot Golden had indicated.

"I don't understand why we have to prepare all three parts together," he said, looking askance at the third pot, this one full of ominously bubbling green sauce. "Surely this is a recipe for disaster, pun absolutely intended."

"The simultaneity is part of the challenge," said Golden, sprinkling another pinch of herbs into the sauce. "If any part were prepared separately, the temperatures would not match and the flavors would not blend correctly. Here, stir this."

Golden was spearheading the recipe and Elliot was following his directions, which he was increasingly starting to suspect was Golden's way of giving Elliot all the boring work. He'd already chopped three types of vegetables and crushed five types of herbs, and now his life had become an endless set of pots to stir.

"I take back all my complaining," Elliot said a moment later, when Golden offered him a spoonful of sauce to taste-test. "This is the most wonderful activity in the world and you are a culinary genius."

"Hmm, too sweet," said Golden, taking the spoon away from Elliot before he could start eating the sauce straight out of the pot.

Elliot was so taken aback by Golden's discontent with his work that he almost missed the fruits beginning to split. "Wait, what did you say to do when it split? Take it off the heat? Where did the gloves go?"

Golden wordlessly handed him the gloves, and he removed the tray of fruit from the stove and placed it on a towel Golden had set up for him.

"Now, pour the sauce over the grain," Golden instructed.

"Already?" Elliot asked, eyeing the still-bubbling sauce.

Golden gestured impatiently. "Now, before it burns."

Elliot adjusted the gloves and gingerly picked up the pot. Only a few drops of sauce spilled into the fire during the transfer, which he counted as a success.

"Let me guess, time to stir?" Elliot asked, setting the pot back on the stove.

"I'll stir," said Golden, frowning slightly. On Golden's face, this was as good as a glare of disapproval. "You must submerge the pot, remember? Otherwise the remnants of sauce will burn and solidify."

Elliot groaned and put the gloves back on to haul the pot over to the dishwashing basin.

"On the bright side," Golden continued, stirring, "this is just about perfect."

Elliot returned from his pot-submerging duty to take a sniff of the mixture. Between the green sauce and the unfamiliar texture of the grain, it looked a bit disturbing, but it smelled divine. Elliot didn't remember the names of any of the herbs Golden had added, and now he wished he did.

Golden doused the flame and took the pot off the heat, apparently no longer trusting Elliot with the important business of pot removal. He poured the mixture onto the dish he'd prepared, somehow arranging it into a perfect round hill.

"Do you remember the fruit arrangement we discussed?" he asked.

"I do not!" said Elliot cheerfully.

Golden shook his head. "I do not understand how you can memorize the fine details of a treaty in an hour but the most basic household skills elude you."

"I have a specialized mind," Elliot protested, following Golden's lead to place the fruits one by one on the dish. "Why's it so important how they're arranged anyway, if we're just going to eat it immediately?"

"It is an art," said Golden severely.

The finished product tasted just as good as it smelled, and once the two of them had eaten their fill they distributed the rest to the other inhabitants of the outpost. Elliot was almost feeling happy with cooking as an activity, and excited about what else Golden had planned to teach him.

And then Golden smiled his subdued elven smile, and took Elliot back to the wretched basin.

"Cleanup time."

It had been two weeks since Luke and Serene left. It felt like no time and an eternity, as usual, and even with the Golden-mandated cultural activities and walks by the river, Elliot was going a little bit insane. Sometimes this manifested in frantic research lasting hours into the night. Sometimes Elliot wrote angry letters he would never send, sometimes he wrote nonchalantly sarcastic letters he did send. Sometimes he reread the letters he'd gotten from Luke and Serene until the pages were pressed flat.

When he finally did go to bed, he curled up in the blankets and tried to imagine Luke's wings around him. When he did a really good job at this, his dreams were full of Luke—Luke's warm body against his, his wings arching over Elliot or shuddering under Elliot's hands. Then he woke up alone to a chilly fall morning and cursed every Sunborn in history.

Other nights, his dreams were less comforting. When he woke up with images of Luke and Serene hurt or dying playing behind his eyes, he would climb the stairs to the top of the tower and stand shivering in the gloom until the cold breeze drove him back inside.

Occasionally, he would find Golden already there, elbows resting on the ramparts, hair and dressing gown blowing in the wind. They didn't talk much in those moments, but Elliot would stand next to Golden, and they would both stare out helplessly into the night together.

5. Sewing (again)

By this point, Elliot had gotten good enough at sewing that Golden judged he was finally ready to help with Luke's shirt. They did the measuring part first, cutting carefully and then hemming the edges. (Elliot thought he showed admirable restraint in only complaining a half dozen times during the hemming process.)

Then it was time for assembly. If Elliot had thought hemming was difficult, it was nothing to the process of putting the pieces together.

"Do not," said Golden the third time Elliot went to rip out the same row of stitches. "Your stitches are perfectly serviceable already."

"It's uneven!" said Elliot. "What will Luke think?"

"I highly doubt he will notice," said Golden.

Elliot had to admit Golden had a point. For someone whose theoretical perception abilities were superhuman, Luke was one of the least observant people Elliot had ever met.

Even with the bar thus lowered, the process was tedious and long. Elliot found himself resorting to small talk.

"How is your... weapons training?" Elliot asked awkwardly. Golden had continued the solo aspects of his training in Serene and Luke's absence, but since he usually exercised at ungodly hours of the morning Elliot had never actually seen him at it.

Golden smiled a slight elven smile that on a human would be a radiant grin. "My strength has improved even more during my beloved's absence. I suspect that by the time she returns, I will be able to handle the draw weight of her hunting bow, if not her war bow. My javelin accuracy is also coming along nicely."

"Good work," Elliot said, then yelped as he stabbed the needle through his finger. "I mean," he added, taking a moment to direct a disapproving glare towards the needle, "As you know I detest all forms of violence on principle, but I can appreciate an athletic feat on occasion."

Golden laughed delicately, although Elliot wasn't sure if he was more amused by what Elliot had said or by the needle's betrayal. "I assume you have found similar progress in your research?"

The project Elliot had assigned himself so as not to go mad at the outpost was twofold in nature: to find every source he could get his hands on about dragons in the Borderlands, and to determine if they were, or had ever been, real. The humans at the Border were convinced that they were a myth, but some of the elves told a different story.

"The harpies have turned out to be my most useful source," he explained. "Podarge didn't know much about it, but she asked Celaeno on my behalf and Celaeno sent a very interesting letter in which she suggested that a distantly related harpy clan past the mountain range to the south had reported sightings of dragons within the last generation. The humans at the Border have never gotten that far, because they were trying to take the land for themselves and the harpies killed them about it, but if I used my connection to Celaeno, I am sure I could arrange safe passage."

Elliot could say he was reluctant to use his boyfriend as a political bargaining chip, but that would be a lie. It turned out to be wonderfully convenient that he was dating the nephew of a harpy warleader.

"And meanwhile, I've been going through all of those." He paused in the row of stitches to gesture at the massive pile of books, scrolls, pamphlets, and related notes on his bedside table. "The dragon legends from different races vary, of course, but most of them agree on the major points—and one of those points is the dragons arriving from the south. My current hypothesis is that either the arrival of humans pushed their range back southwards, or something else happened to dwindle their numbers, or to make the north less habitable. It is possible that they are extinct, as the elves in this area believe, but the harpy reports are very promising. Unfortunately, since the harpy records are mostly oral, I haven't been able to get my hands on any older legends of theirs."

There was a long moment of silence as Golden processed this. "I heard tales of dragons in my youth," he said finally. "Of covetous beasts with massive hoards and a taste for young maidens, and the valorous elven knights who fought them. If they are indeed real, do you truly believe the Border guard can make peace with them?"

Elliot briefly indulged himself with the image of Golden kidnapped by a dragon, and Serene riding to his rescue. She would be more than up to the challenge, he was certain. "I believe all sapient creatures can be reasoned with," he said instead. "And just think! Most of the Border guard believed harpies were mindless beasts until recently, and some of the more close-minded among them still do, but we have true peace with them now, and a cultural bond! I have absolute faith that if I can learn to speak the dragons' language—literally and metaphorically—I can and will find acceptable terms for a treaty."

Golden nodded thoughtfully. "I must admit your confidence baffles me on occasion, but I understand that I have not seen much of the world and you have already accomplished much that I would have believed impossible. If you believe it can be done, know that you have my full support."

Elliot, who was used to people reluctantly surrendering to his ideas after being battered down by hours of pestering, stared at Golden in shock.

"You are sewing the edge of the sleeve to the back panel," Golden pointed out serenely after a moment.

Elliot sighed, ripped out the last few stitches, and moved the sleeve away. He wanted to make a joke, to hide how much Golden's kindness meant to him not just today but the whole time their partners had been away. But he was trying, and he owed it to Golden to keep trying. "Thank you," he said. "For trusting my research, I mean. It... means a lot."

"As much as I have trained to mend cloth, you have trained to mend cultural divides," said Golden. "And I know you well enough by now not to judge those abilities based on your inflated proclamations and abrasive conversational tendencies."

Elliot laughed. "Great backhanded compliment, by the way. I can't believe I never realized you were an asshole."

"Given the company I keep, the conclusion was rather obvious," Golden observed.

The finished shirt, Elliot thought, was a thing of beauty, both attractive and functional.

"This is the most perfect thing I have ever made," said Elliot.

"I highly doubt that," said Golden. "But it is good work for a beginner. Your paramour will be pleased, I am sure."

"Why do you keep calling him my paramour, by the way?" Elliot asked. "It's not like we're having an illicit affair or anything."

Golden laughed aloud. "I believe this is a… translation error, I suppose. There does not exist an appropriate term in Elvish for someone who is not a fiance or affair partner but holds a similarly significant position. I am aware that you use the term 'boy-friend' to refer to your relationship, and if you would prefer I can use that terminology as well, but the literal translation in Elvish would be a euphemism for… an overly young maiden to whom a mature woman is paying inappropriate attention. So it is rather amusing to hear."

Elliot cackled. "So you're saying that to an elf, it sounds like I'm calling Luke my sugar baby?"

"I do not know what dessert has to do with it," said Golden. "But I believe you understand the implication."

"This is hilarious," said Elliot. "Go on calling our relationship whatever you want, I'm going to tell Luke about this immediately."

+1. Reunion

When the war party returned, Elliot and Golden were waiting outside for them. Golden was wearing his prettiest jewelry, and Elliot had a modest quantity of beads in his hair. They were braiding daisy chains, which would have been a demure masculine activity if not for Elliot swearing under his breath whenever the stems broke.

The moment the horses were visible on the horizon, Elliot jumped up and bolted.

When he got close enough to see Serene's long black hair billowing behind her in the breeze without Luke's gold beside her, his heart clenched—but a moment later he looked to the sky to see a familiar winged shadow against the sun. He beckoned impatiently downwards, trusting in Luke's harpy eyesight to interpret the gesture.

The pinprick above dived, growing rapidly until Elliot thought Luke was about to turn him into a pancake.

But Luke spread his wings to slow his dive just in time, hitting the ground and running the last few steps to catch Elliot in a hug that winded him but did not break any bones. Elliot muffled his smile in Luke's shoulder, reveling in the feeling of being fully enveloped by his boyfriend, an arm around his back and a hand tangled in his hair and wings blocking out the rest of the world.

"You're okay?" Elliot asked. "Serene's okay?"

"We're okay," Luke confirmed, and met Elliot's mouth in a hot and desperate kiss.

Wings were convenient, Elliot reflected, for avoiding accusations of inconsiderate PDA. If he emerged from Luke's wings flushed and sporting a whole nest worth of feathers in his hair, well. That wasn't anyone's business.

"What did you do with your hair?" Luke asked. He was fiddling with the beads, and his gaze was fixed on Elliot's curls.

Elliot found the attention endearing, although he did wish it was a bit more focused on his other attributes—hello, his lips were right there and, in Elliot's opinion, not nearly well-kissed enough.

"Oh, that was Golden's idea," he said. "We've been engaged in cultured and gentlemanly activities while you were busy murdering people in the face."

Luke frowned. "You? Gentlemanly?"

"Golden has made me a whole new man," Elliot claimed.

"He threatened to run off into the woods and live out the rest of his days as a hermit when I pointed out a flaw in his mending." Golden had taken advantage of Elliot's extremely deserved we're-not-dead makeout session to sneak up behind them, and was now standing next to Serene's horse. (Serene was holding a square of embroidered fabric Elliot had seen Golden frowning over for weeks. She looked like she was holding back unwomanly tears of joy.)

Luke laughed, which Elliot thought was highly unfair.

"Look, Golden has a major head start in this area," Elliot protested. "He has been practicing for this role since birth, while I have been trained only in the art of being tremendously irritating, as well as the piano. Idle wishes to exile myself from society are to be expected as I fill in these gaps in my education."

"If you ran off into the woods, I would find you and bring you back," said Luke. "What if you got eaten by wolves?"

"I don't know where all the bad press about wolves is coming from," Elliot complained. "Wolves don't eat people. Although I will admit I'm not fit for a life of solitude, or of roughing it in the woods. I would likely perish of boredom, or of poisonous berries."

"What other cultured activities have you been learning?" Luke asked.

Elliot grinned. "I'm glad you asked. Come inside, loser, I've got some things to show you."