“It was an awkward moment. We were burning down our host's house, a situation which any guest seeks to avoid.” - Tahir Shah

“I sustain myself and sell what's left in the village. Clearview-Riversmeet supplies many of the bigger towns and cities in the area. Did you see the strange cylindrical shapes in the town?” My host continues when he sees my nod. “They are storage units to keep the produce fresh until there is enough for one of the farmers to take to the cities. The nearest city is about a day away.”

Trying to keep the conversation going, I ask a question that I already know the answer to. “Is this land very fertile?”

“Yes, the forest keeps the surrounding land fertile. The farmers say that it has to do with the elves’ magic.” His pleasant, warm voice is like a low burning fire in winter.

Never hearing that one before, a snort escapes my nose.

A warm smile animates his squared jaw. “I also don’t believe that it is due to the elves. It can also be that the trees keep the fertile land in place and this region has a lot of rainfall, no snow and bearable heat.”

“I agree with your reasoning. The soil itself is nutrient rich because the water from the forest takes a lot of nutrients with it and then flows underground through this region. The biggest underground water reserve in Ardam is about two days away from here.”

Realising too late that I just let too much of my education slip, I meet my host's widened eyes.

“You know geography?”

Downplaying my knowledge with a shrug, I answer him. “I have a map.”

His intelligent eyes do not believe my lie. However, having a degree of education and hiding away in an insignificant village himself, he is unable to call out my lie without exposing himself.

My shoulders relax again when he remains silent. “I really appreciate your hospitality.”

“Please do not mention it again.”

We reach the stone cottage. From here another, larger building is visible down the slope. Two horses graze peacefully in the field in front of it.

My host places his heavy load next to the stairs at the door. “This farm has been in my family for generations,” he states when he opens the old wooden door, allowing me to enter first.

A grained-down wooden table with barely enough place for four people to sit stands in the middle of the room. Two chairs standing opposite each other are hiding underneath the table with only their backs protruding above the edge of the table.

The wall to my left is made up of shelves and cupboards with a variety clay jars, metal pots and dried food on it. A large open oven with a cupboard underneath it fills the wall opposite the door. Next to it, a large cistern almost reaches the flat wooden ceiling.

My host’s hair touches the low ceiling. The distance between them increase as his shoulders relax into a hunch.

Remembering that the house had a triangular roof on the outside, I realise that it probably has an attic for storage as well.

A wooden wardrobe and the end of a neatly made bed peek through the only other door in the kitchen.

“Your home is delightful!” Realising that I sounded too enthusiastic, I hurry to add to my statement. “I have never known a farm home.”

He follows with a cautious smile. “Those from the cities are very unfortunate to live in condensed buildings without the beauty of the country surrounding them.”

His forest eyes watch me, making me hold my breath. They truly are a magnificent green.

“The city also has a lot of orphans,” he continues warily.

I only answer him when I have allowed myself to breathe, however, captivated by the intelligence in his eyes, I only manage a short answer. “Yes, it does.”

“And orphans usually turn into thieves.”

Although not a direct accusation, his intent is to provoke me.

“I am not a thief. I work for my food and lodging.”

 “It would be a pity if I have to withdraw my hospitality.” The threat looms in his still-friendly voice, making him sound huskier than before.

Humans might abuse the hospitality of their hosts and help themselves to more, but hospitality is sacred to elves.

“It wouldn’t be necessary,” I reassure him.

He nods. “I have a spare mattress under my bed that I will bring into the kitchen after dinner. You can place your belongings in that corner for now. Then you can start with the carrots and potatoes.” 

My host places four potatoes and four carrots on the worn table. “I will be back. I just need to get more wood for the stove.”

This would be a good opportunity for a thief to familiarise himself with his host’s belongings. But I’m not a thief and I take out my dagger instead. After wiping it down, I cut the carrots into thin slices and the potatoes into small cubes.

When I am almost finished, my host enters with an armful of neatly chopped logs. He opens the door of the cupboard under the fireplace with his foot and chucks them in. Taking out some, he places them in the stove above.

He hands me a small tinderbox from his pocket. “I will get another armful of logs.”

I finish chopping the vegetables and light the fire.

When he returns he looks pleased that I had passed his test. “There is a well just behind the house. Do you know how it works?”

I nod.

The well is made of stone. The bucket has spots of rust. I turn the handle and lower the bucket into the well - lowering it even more after it splashed on the surface of the water.

Returning the bucket back from its watery dungeon requires more force, and soon my muscles ache. When it finally appears at the top of the well, I take the handle and carefully carry it inside.

My host, now cutting dried meat into cubes, has already taken out a large black pot and thrown the vegetables in it. “You can cover the vegetables with the water, and fill the pot above the fire with water.”

“The remaining water can go into that cistern,” he instructs when I completed his previous task.

Hoisting the bucket up, I carefully tilt it over the edge of the cistern.

When meeting his extended hand when I turn back towards him, he finally introduces himself. “My name is Rorith.”

Now I understand the reason for his anonymity up to this point. He wanted to make sure that I will be a good guest before he introduced himself.

As I take his hand, his strong grip changes with a slight flick of his wrist from an engulfing one to him just holding the tips of my fingers. His hand is gentle - like a kiss in the wind.

“Fin.” Having used this common name for so many months, I am sure that I wouldn't even react to my own anymore. This name is unremarkable and doesn't allow anyone to make conclusions about me. I have found that most people by default assume that I am a man due to my independence and lack of a male guardian.

After letting go of my hand, he pulls out a chair and sits down. He takes out a dark wooden pipe. Producing a small wooden tin, he opens it and stuffs some of the tobacco leaves in the pipe. “Do you smoke, Fin?”

I shake my head. Smoking is one nasty human habit that I disgust.

“I only smoke occasionally. Please hand me the tinderbox from that shelf.”

After complying with his request, I sit down on the only other chair in the kitchen. I watch him strike the matches, gently lighting the pipe before taking a puff. The tobacco, not as strong or cheap as the stuff I am used to smelling on the streets, fills the room with a home-like quality.

“You are my first guest here, so it is an occasion.”

Honoured to be considered important enough to warrant him celebrating, a genuine smile lights up my face. A too personal question slips out before I can reign it in. “But why don’t the villagers extend any hospitality to you if the farm has been your family’s farm for generations?”

“My mother moved to the city. When she died, I moved back. I grew up in the city. I am a stranger to the villagers.”

“I’m sorry about your mother's passing.”

He shrugs. “As hard as it may be, death inevitably followslife.”

When the water in the pot is boiling, he takes it off the fire and places it on the table. He pours some of it into the pot with the vegetables. Producing two metal mugs from a cupboard, he pours the remaining water into them. 

The strong smell of coffee overpowers the smell of tobacco when he opens one of the tins on the shelf. “Coffee and tobacco are the only things that I buy from another town. Everything else I need, food wise, is produced on the farm. I hope you drink the coffee without sugar, because I have none to offer.”

He hands me a mug, and takes the other for himself. “I would advise you not to drink the last two sips. The beans are very strong.”

“Thank you.”

I wait for the coffee to cool down before I take a sip, tasting rich earth when I do so. Although I prefer tea, this is good stuff - the best. Out of habit I wrap my hands around the mug. My tongue, although raw from the heat, desire to taste it yet again.

His mug, waiting to cool down, stands in front of him. 

“Why did your mother go to the city?”

“She wanted a better life.” Again the detectable faint hint of a lie.

I remind myself that it is none of my business and that I would leave again in two days and never see Rorith again, but I am curious to know why he is lying.

“In what city did you live?”

“Alesam.”

“I’ve never been there. I’ve only ever been in this half of the country. I want to see it.”

“It is a very beautiful city.”

“I've heard so much about the city, but I want to see Catel Alesam most of all.”

After painting Alesam to me with words, we discover another mutual topic before moving to the next until well after midnight. However, the topic of our personal lives remains untouched.

When both of us give long yawns, Rorith brings a small mattress from his room, moving the table out of the way. 

The next morning I wake before sunrise. Soundlessly slipping out of the small cottage, I walk to the shrine just outside the town.

The church is a plain stone building - rectangular in shape. The inside, untainted by riches, has three shrines each on both the left and right. The statuettes of the Council are unadorned and those, together with the bowls in front of them containing the Council Members' elements, are the only ornaments inside.

Not possessing anything of worth, I produce a small hand-sewn handkerchief as I head straight to the Second One's.

My mother would have been proud of my work. I spent months on the embroidery on this. Although I am sad to part with this nearly perfect rendition of the view at the foot of Alachna city, it is truly a worthy gift.

Whether the Lord of Elves thinks so as well is none of my business.

As is customary, I bring a tribute to my lord on the day of my birth. “Thank you for another year added to my life.”

I return to my host’s farm after mumbling some traditional wishes to myself.

Soon after falling asleep, I hear my host moving around.

Rorith emerges from his room with tossed hair and a bare chest. With no time to avert my eyes, they trail the pleasing contours of his muscles.

The blanket I am folding hangs limply in my hands as I continue to stare.

I wonder how it would feel to be held closely by those arms that seem to be able to lift anything without ease.

“Good morning, Rorith,” I manage after returning my gaze to the blanket in my hands, certain that an awkward blish has spread across my face.

He stretches his arms, resulting in an impressive display of said muscles rippling. “Morning, Fin. Had a good rest?”

Taking care not to meet his eyes, I finish folding the blanket. “Yes, it was rejuvenating. I haven't had a sleep as good as that in weeks.”

Even though I slept only about four hours, it was the best sleep I’ve had since I left the city.