"Love you too." Sören leans back with a happy little sigh.
Just then, the door to the RV opens. Anthony and Mark step inside with bags of groceries and personal care items from Fred Meyer, one of the regional supermarket chains. "Was that your boyyyyfriennnnnd?" Anthony teases with a grin.
Sören giggles and nods. He lowers his voice a couple octaves in a poor imitation of Nicholas's baritone. "As you know..."
Anthony chuckles, while Mark smirks. They walk into the kitchenette and begin putting away the supplies - Sören had opted to stay in the van while they shopped, both to serve as a lookout and avoid crowds of grumpy shoppers first thing in the morning, and took the opportunity to video chat with Nicholas. He has that radiant, tingly, fluttery feeling after their morning chat, and his boxer-briefs are a bit damp. But they have things to do today, they arrived in Portland last night, so Sören knows even though he's horny they can't spend the day in bed.
That doesn't keep him from coming over to steal kisses, though. Anthony takes a moment to hug Sören and touch his face. "I'm glad things are going well with the two of you," Anthony says softly.
Sören smiles. "It feels surreal that I started this trip hoping I'd just have a one-night stand with someone to take the edge off pining for you for years, and now I have three boyfriends." He rubs noses with Anthony. "And thank you for being so cool with all of this and being willing to share me."
"I want you to be happy, sweetheart." Anthony kisses the tip of Sören's nose. "And you're so cute, getting all gooey over him."
"Besides..." Mark tilts his head to the side. "We're all sharing each other. It isn't like we particularly mind having foursomes with him." Mark grins. "I'm looking forward to Fucksgiving." Then Mark smacks himself in the forehead. "Thanksgiving."
"You had it right the first time." Anthony's face lights up with laughter.
"Jæja, the holidays with him might become a regular occurrence." Sören exhales, recalling what Nicholas said in their chat session today. "Nicholas was telling me that it's harder to manage the farm at his age and he either needs to hire some full-time help beyond what he's got or consider selling the farm, and if he does that he might leave California altogether because the cost of living is so high. He hasn't decided yet and won't for awhile, but..."
Anthony nods. "He might like Maine enough to relocate. We can definitely discuss that more when Thanksgiving comes."
The thought of Nicholas moving to Maine and spending more time with him is thrilling to Sören, though he also wonders what it would be like to help Nicholas with the farm in California, remembering the farming country surrounding Akureyri where he grew up, though that was very different. He tries not to dwell on it now - it's time to head out and see the city.
They start their tour of Portland at Powell's City of Books, the largest independent book retailer in the world, occupying a full city block in the Pearl District, a building of 68,000 square feet with over four million books in nine color-coded rooms split into 3500 sections. Anthony is particularly excited by Powell's, being an avid reader - and so is his daughter. He takes a bunch of photos to show her, even some video clips. That warms Sören's heart - after the abuse from his guardians, seeing Anthony's devotion to his daughter despite his ex-husband's obstacles makes him love Anthony even more. And he especially loves the genuine exuberance Anthony has as he explores the bookstore, the archaeologist in him coming out to play like he's excavating a lost city. Anthony's joy is especially palpable as he browses the sci-fi and fantasy selections. "So many books," he says, his voice hushed and reverent.
From Powell's it's a short walk to Voodoo Doughnut, famed not only for its unique menu of donuts but also its Pepto-Bismol pink walls and framed velvet painting of Kenny Rogers. Sören, Anthony and Mark all crack up laughing at the cream-filled cock-and-balls donuts, and each get one, with cans of RC Cola. They also get a box of donuts for later: maple bacon bars, mango jelly donuts dusted with Tang, ring donuts topped with frosting and Captain Crunch, and cinnamon-maple blunt-shaped donuts with embers made of red sprinkles.
As they wait in line they get photos of the Kenny Rogers velvet painting, then once they have their donuts they take a table by a window. "These cock-and-balls donuts are art," Sören says, half-jokingly. "We need to take a picture before we eat them."
He has an idea. He gets Mark and Anthony on either side of him, and they make a "crown" at Sören's head with the three cock-and-balls. "So regal and dignified," Mark snickers once the photo is taken.
"You know what's really funny about this?" Sören says. He takes a bite at the head of the cock, has a gigglefit at the cream oozing out, and adds, "Besides that."
"Hm?"
"So I told you about the really bad recurring dream I have, the one where I'm being ambushed by fire demons." Sören licks at the cream like he's licking up actual cum, to try to distract himself from the visceral memory of the nightmares. "I do have a good recurring dream. I had it last night, actually. We made a crown just now with the three dicks... in my dream I'm making a crown for myself with three jewels. I actually make the jewels, too. As bright as the Sun. They're not just stones, but they feel... like magic. It's hard to explain. Anyway, the jewels make me want to take up glass-blowing, even though nothing I could produce would ever match the light of those stones." Sören puts his hand on his heart. "And... just like I think the dream about the fire demons is symbolic of my dysphoria, it feels like the three stones symbolize the three loves of my life. The light you bring."
Mark makes a little noise and cream spills down his chin.
"You're supposed to swallow, not spit," Anthony teases, and shoves napkins in Mark's face. Mark makes a noise again as he wipes up the mess.
"Are you OK?" Sören purses his lips with concern. "Are you choking?"
"No," Mark rasps, and chugs on his can of cola. "I'm fine." He gives a tight smile that doesn't meet his eyes.
Sören bites his lip and looks out the window, hoping Mark means that and he didn't just put his foot in it somehow. He hopes Mark is actually truly fine with their new arrangement and isn't just going along with the addition of Nicholas to get along. He hopes Mark doesn't think he's crazy for sharing the dreams he's had.
But then Mark tousles Sören's curls and gives him a real smile - though his eyes are a little too bright, like he's holding back tears. "That's a beautiful dream. And I love you too," Mark says softly.
Sören squeezes Mark's knee, then suggestively takes a bite at the cock donut, before licking more cream.
Once they're done at Voodoo Doughnuts, with their box of donuts safely tucked into Sören's messenger bag, they visit the Keep Portland Weird mural across the street. They take another set of photos there and Anthony snarks, "Definitely fitting for the three of us."
"Speak for yourself," Mark says. "I am totally normal."
Anthony laughs harder.
They walk over to Lan Su Chinese Garden. Sören is captivated by the little piece of paradise tucked into the heart of the city, with the courtyard, the pavilions, the bamboo trees and osmanthus, magnolia and peony, rhododendron and camellia, the path lined with mosaic stones, the lattice bridge between the pavilions, and the lake filled with pink lotus flowers. They have dim sum with moon cakes, tea and sake at the Tea House overlooking the lake. Anthony's face reflects the serenity of their surroundings - Anthony loves gardening, which had been his father's hobby, and Sören loves watching him study and admire the garden, which seems to him as beautiful as the lush greenery and artful buildings.
Then they do something far less serious - a visit to Ground Kontrol, a two-floor classic arcade with vintage video game machines like Pac-Man, Super Mario Bros, Centipede, Frogger, and Donkey Kong. There's also pinball machines. Sören wasn't allowed to play video games growing up - his aunt said they were "demonic" - and he happily indulges his inner child now, playing with his two best friends. They stop for snacks and cocktails before they leave the arcade.
Their next destinations are the Japanese Garden and the Rose Garden. Seeing hundreds of roses in full bloom is one of the most beautiful sights Sören has ever witnessed, and he wishes Nicholas were here to see it, remembering the roses at Nicholas's cottage.
But the crowning glory of the day is when they take the RV out to Multnomah Falls, going to the viewing platform and then hiking up the steep dirt path to Benson Bridge to look out at the upper falls as well as the lower pool and lodge. There's nothing quite like the view of the falls cascading down the tree-hugged basalt cliff at golden hour, and Sören is once again overcome by the beauty of the world they live in... glad to have made it this far to see something so wonderful, and share it with two of his three loves. These moments make Sören feel closer to them, almost as intimate as sex if not moreso, something sacred.
As he watches the water shine in the golden light, his heart aches in a good way, remembering the dream of the stones, the pulsing light, the warmth of something crafted to express love and passion. He takes Mark and Anthony's hands in his, wishing he could catch the fire of the setting sun on the waters and give it to them, letting it speak feelings deeper than words.
The next day they drive north to Cannon Beach. On the way there they stop at the Tillamook Cheese Factory, where they take a tour to watch the cheese being made - "so romantic", Mark quips - and they eat samples of cheese before visiting the cafe for grilled cheese sandwiches, bowls of mac-and-cheese, and poutine.
Cannon Beach reminds Sören a bit of Reynisfjara, with its basalt rock formations and puffins nesting at the largest one, Haystack Rock. There are differences - Reynisfjara has black sand and Cannon Beach does not, and while it's generally considered dangerous to go anywhere near the waves at Reynisfjara even at low tide, there are tidepools at Haystack Rock which can be explored at low tide, and they walk out to do just that.
There is also an important similarity between Cannon Beach and Reynisfjara, besides the rock formations. It's an otherworldly quality that Sören finds hard to put into words. It's as if the two beaches - one on the Atlantic, one on the Pacific - are portals, connected somehow, and existing in a liminal space. Sören feels absolutely bonkers thinking like that, but he feels a frisson as he explores the tidepools to look at the sea stars and giant green anemones, as if the land and the sea are singing in his veins.
They manage to make it back to shore just as high tide comes rolling in, but Sören still gets wet. With the waves washing over his ankles and feet - cold but refreshing - he instinctively turns around to watch the way the sea changes with the tide, and then something catches his eye.
A very bright light, bobbing in a wave rolling towards him. At first he thinks it's a trick of the sun, but the light gets brighter and brighter as it comes towards him, making him squint and shield his eyes. On impulse - not thinking, just reacting - he squats, with Anthony and Mark on either side of him to anchor him against the waves. He knows it's against the law to take any rocks or organic matter from the beach, and yet he still takes the shining orb in his hand when it comes to him.
It throbs, warm despite the cold water. Sören's mouth opens as he rises up, holding the glowing stone. He's not sure where it came from, but he knows what it is.
It's one of the three stones from his dream, except it's real. He has to pinch himself to make sure that he is in fact awake and not dreaming. The haunted expression on Mark's face - looking as spooked as Sören feels - is further proof that no, he didn't just hallucinate the stone.
They take it back to the camper van, where Mark and Sören sit together on the couch watching the pink-orange-magenta sunset as Anthony grills, the door to the RV open to let in the salt breeze. Sören keeps rolling the stone around in its palm, feeling it pulse, feeling its warmth. He offers the stone to Mark.
"You want to hold it?"
Mark shakes his head. Then his eyes meet Anthony's.
"OK, but you can see it, right? It's not an imaginary pet rock or anything," Sören says.
"I can definitely see it." Mark covers the top of Sören's hand with his burn-scarred hand, but doesn't touch the stone.
"Oh shit. Do you think I did something wrong by taking it?" Sören feels the pit of his stomach rising, thinking about the laws... worrying that he hurt the ecology of the beach by claiming the stone. "Or do you think..." Sören looks at the unnatural glow of the stone, and feels it pulsing in his hand again. "Maybe we ought to, I don't know, bring this into a university, have it studied by scientists -"
"No," Mark says, a little too forcefully, grabbing Sören's wrist. Then he gives a nervous laugh and lets go, looking down sheepishly.
"I think," Anthony says, poking his head in, "Mark is probably having a similar reaction to me - it's weird that you told us yesterday you dreamt about making stones just like this and then today you found one at the beach. Like, you know. Like your dream came to life and the stone knew it belongs to you."
"Yeahhhhh." Mark nods slowly.
"Oh. Jæja, that is weird." Sören swallows hard, feeling that frisson again. He thinks about the Keep Portland Weird mural and wonders if there's more to that than people realize.
Anthony and Mark's eyes lock, and then Anthony says, "It's time."
Mark puts up a hand. "Can it wait till after we eat?" Mark looks out at the sunset again. "Actually, can it wait till the sun goes down? This might work better if..."
"Wait, what?" Sören is confused now. "Time for what?"
Now it's Anthony's turn to give a nervous laugh, and he says "Gotta check the grill," which is a non-answer.
A very frustrating non-answer. Sören fidgets in his seat.
After a delicious meal of skewers with grilled steak, peppers and mushrooms, they go back to the beach when it's fully dark outside.
Cannon Beach was lovely in the afternoon, but it's astoundingly beautiful with the sea of stars visible over the ocean and rock stacks, the Milky Way directly over Haystack Rock as if confirming mystical properties of some kind. The beach is empty, and Sören is relieved by that, even though it also makes him feel selfish.
But it's a perfect intimate setting for Mark to serenade them on his harp, playing an original composition - a particularly long one. Its melancholy minor chords and Mark singing in a language Sören doesn't understand - or perhaps is glossolalia - reminds him of Cocteau Twins. But then at the end the song becomes brighter, and Mark's hair stirs in the breeze, and the sight of him looking up at the stars as he sings of going through sorrow to find joy - Sören may not understand the words, but his heart knows - makes Sören's hair stand on end, a shiver down his spine, heart beating faster.
And then, something even more miraculous than the stone appears before his eyes. Mark's hair suddenly gets longer, all the way down to his waist. His eyes glow, with iridescence like labradorite. Mark, himself, is glowing faintly.
Sören's mouth opens and his hand shakes as he points. "Oh shit. Oh fuck." He can't believe what he's seeing. Now he really does fear he's been hallucinating the entire day, even though he hasn't had any alcohol or weed today. "Þetta getur ekki verið raunverulegt. Hvað í fjandanum er að gerast? Hugur minn þarf að vera að bregðast við mér. Ég get ekki -"
"Sören." Mark rises from his harp and then he walks out to the tide rolling in and walks on the water, like Jesus Christ.
Sören falls off the log he's sitting on, into the sand, hearing himself yelp. He starts laughing and crying, hysterically. "Þetta er ekki raunverulegt. Þetta er ekki raunverulegt. Ég er að verða brjáluð. Ég er að missa vitið. Þetta er ekki raunverulegt. Ekkert af þessu er raunverulegt."
"Sören." Mark is walking towards him now, glowing as if touched by starlight. He holds out his hands, then takes Sören into his arms. "Þetta er allt í lagi. Það er í lagi. Þú ert ekki að ofskynja. Þú ert ekki að verða vitlaus. Þú sérð sannleikann."
Sören cries out again. "Hvenær lærðir þú íslensku? Hvernig?"
"Ég tala öll tungumál."
And then Sören sees Mark's pointy ears, and he finds his English. "I thought those were body mods. I never asked, I just assumed, but you..." He loses his English again. "Þú ert einn af huldufólki."
"That's oversimplifying it." Mark nods solemnly.
They go back to the van. Anthony makes tea and wraps Sören in a blanket, who's shaking even though the night isn't particularly cold. Anthony and Mark just hold Sören for awhile, letting him drink his tea and calm down. Mark is still glowing, though it's not as strong as it is outside in the dark.
"So the legends of my people about the elves... are real." Sören feels like his brain is broken.
"More or less but again, it's oversimplifying it." Mark leans back.
"And you knew." Sören looks at Anthony. "You knew all along. That's why you said 'it's time', because -"
Anthony puts up a hand. "We needed to find the right time - and place - to tell you, precisely because of the reaction you're having now."
"It's like a field of land mines," Mark says. "In the past, people have reacted... rather badly... to the truth of who and what I am."
"How old are you?" Sören asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Fucking old." Mark gives a wry smile. "I liked Mastodon before it was a social networking site."
Sören laughs and facepalms. He finds it strangely comforting that despite Mark's age - and power - he can still make corny jokes. "So you've just been... living among humans all this time, disguising yourself."
"Moving around from place to place to avoid arousing suspicion with my lack of aging. And crafting some fictions about my life, for self-preservation's sake. Eventually, the government found out about me and has also worked to keep my identity a secret." Mark bows his head with a small frown. "I'm sorry for lying about being from Canada - though I have lived there. But please know, my feelings for you are not a lie."
Sören glances over at the stone, which is resting in an empty drinking glass on top of the kitchenette counter until he can figure out a better place to keep it - feeling like it would be wrong to hide its light. He thinks of Anthony and Mark having a conversation about it being "time", when he was contemplating the stone. "You're connected to that, aren't you."
"I threw it in the sea a long time ago," Mark says. "It came back."
Sören gets up, takes the glass from the counter, and carries it over. "Then here."
"No, Sören." Mark pushes the glass back to him. "You made it. It's yours."
"I... made it in my dreams." Sören is confused again and sits down, feeling that spinny, wobbly sensation like his brain is breaking all over again.
"Those dreams were memories." Mark sighs. "We knew each other a long time ago." He puts his burned hand on Anthony's arm. "We all did."
"So..." Sören rubs his temples and presses hard, even though it doesn't do anything. "Elves are real... and reincarnation is real."
"Every religion gets things right, and every religion gets things wrong," Mark says. "I might have accidentally become a messiah figure when I was living in the Roman Empire posing as a Jewish carpenter. But yes, in short - that was a past life of yours." Mark gestures to Sören's portfolio. "May I?"
Sören nods.
Mark flips through to where he has a laminated print of the portrait Sören made for him and Anthony as a wedding gift, where Anthony has long blond hair and pointy ears like Mark's. "This was like taking a snapshot of us, as we once were. You might not have consciously known what you were doing, but you knew here." Mark puts his hand on his heart.
"You lost us, and you found us again." Sören's eyes mist.
"Yes." Mark touches Sören's face. "And now here comes the most difficult part of revealing to you what I am. I know your uncle assaulted you. In no way do I condone incest between humans, in no way do I excuse what he did to you. But we were... family, back then. And we were lovers. We were adults when it started. It wasn't a power imbalance like it is with humans. We were all more powerful for the love and passion we shared. Our relationship was taboo, but that was because of the power, the magic between us... the gods of our people feared we would usurp them."
"That... makes sense," Sören says, recalling the Norse mythology he learned in school, then the mythology of other cultures - Greek, Egyptian. "Freyr, the lord of the elves, was lovers with his sister Freyja. It seems like in every pantheon the gods were banging their relatives. There had to be something to that, jú? You're right that it feels less... bad... than with humans."
"I think the most bonkers thing about it isn't even the incest," Anthony says.
"Oh?" Sören is curious - and a little afraid.
Mark clears his throat. "Professor John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was... an ancient human named Beren. His path crossed with our family. All of that worldbuilding he did, the epic legends he wrote... wasn't merely the product of a brilliant mind. He was remembering." Mark taps the glass with the stone inside. "He was a bit of a biased narrator who held a grudge - he saw one of my brothers as a romantic rival and painted him, and all of us, in the worst possible light - but he got some of it right. I killed for that stone. I took an oath. You feel the power in it. I did it to keep it from falling into the wrong hands - but it covered my hands with blood." Mark reaches out with his burn-scarred hand. "The stone did this to me, because of what I'd done. The light burned the darkness in me. I was so consumed with guilt that I threw the stone into the ocean... and then I felt even more guilty, that dishonored you -"
Sören's heart breaks along with his brain. He kisses Mark's scarred hand, pulls Mark close, and lets the elf cry on his shoulder, weeping for him and with him. Anthony holds both of them, silent tears rolling down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," Mark sobs. "I'm so, so sorry, Atya..."
"It came back," Sören says, arms tightening around him. "And it sounds like whatever wrong you've done, you've suffered more than enough for it." Sören can't reconcile the mental image of Mark as a killer with the man he loves, even though he's seen Mark's warrior side, remembering the altercation in Texas, narrowly avoiding a hate crime.
"I've tried to be a better person since then," Mark chokes out. "I've tried to perform acts of kindness, everywhere I've gone."
"Like feeding beggars with loaves and fishes," Sören says, thinking about Mark walking on water, and the mention of having lived as a Jewish carpenter in the Roman Empire. "And hanging out with lepers and prostitutes."
"Yes." Mark looks into his eyes. Sören thinks they're the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen, silver with flashes of blue and gold. "I was a plague doctor during the Black Death, giving comfort and mercy in people's final hours. I taught medicine during the Renaissance. I helped slaves escape on the Underground Railroad. I killed Nazis in World War Two. I participated in civil rights demonstrations in the 60s. I've done smaller things to try to make people's lives a little better, whether with words or chores or gifts, material aid of some kind. But I have still killed innocent people, and even though that was many thousands of years ago I still have to live with myself." Mark swallows hard. "And live with the burden of failing you."
"You're not a failure, elskan." Sören's eyes sting with more tears, heart aching, wishing he could do something, anything, to fix it. "And I think you've redeemed yourself."
Mark shakes his head.
Sören can't take it anymore. He takes the glass and dumps the stone out into his hand. Then he presses the stone into Mark's burnt hand. Mark cries out, and Sören feels the crushing, crashing weight of sudden guilt - he reacted without thinking first - but then Mark sits there, eyes wide, mouth open, and after a shuddery gasp he says, "It's... it's not burning me. It's only... pleasantly warm."
"See?"
Mark breaks down again, and now Anthony stops crying silently. The three of them hold each other, sobbing together. Mourning Mark's thousands of years of loneliness, grieving his family, wandering the world, concealing himself. But also feeling relief that they're together again, relief that the stone agrees Mark is on the side of good these days, the tears cleansing ancient wounds.
That night they don't make love. But they are still as intimate as can be, vulnerable with each other, being safe space for each other. Anthony and Sören hold Mark between them, Anthony spooning Mark, with Sören cradling Mark's head against his chest. They lay there for a long while, letting Mark cry it out - sometimes, crying along with him before exhausting the supply of tears again.
Just before Sören can fall asleep, the gears in his mind give one last turn. "Mark?"
"Mm?"
"What's your name? I mean, your actual name."
"Macalaurë."
It takes a moment and then Sören makes the connection aloud. "So, Mark Lauer."
"Yes. Please keep calling me Mark, at least around other people. It's less awkward that way."
"Macalaurë. It's pretty. What does it mean?"
"Gold-Cleaver. Because I charmed everyone with singing. My mother said I even sang in the womb."
"That's just one of your names," Anthony mumbles. "That was the name your mother gave you."
"Right. My other name, the one you gave me..." Mark kisses Sören's nose. "Was Kanafinwë."
"And what does that mean?" It sounds vaguely familiar to Sören.
"Loud Hair," Anthony snickers.
"It fucking does not." Then Mark sighs deeply. "OK yeah, it kind of does."
"Wow." Sören heaves with laughter until his sides hurt and he tears up all over again. "Wow. That's. That is. Wow."
"Go to bed, Fëanor."