The next day was the winter solstice, and Anthony, Sören and Nicholas got up well before the dawn to head out to the northwest coast of Skye and watch the sun rise at the Kensaleyre Standing Stones, close to the edge of a bluff overlooking Loch Eyre. The three of them stood a few feet away from the stones, oriented to the gap between, and Anthony held Nicholas's and Sören's hands as they watched the gold rays pierce the indigo darkness, then neon orange and hot pink blazing, clouds painting the waters. The sky felt much bigger here than in London, everything felt so vast instead of tightly packed in. The glory of the sunrise washed the whole world with color, making everything glow, and it was like seeing the dawn for the first time - Anthony's hair stood on end, his skin gooseflesh under his layers.
They watched in silence, close to reverence, and as the bright colors softened and faded, giving way to gentle blue, Nicholas finally spoke, relating the Gaelic folklore of the mythical warrior Finn using the stones to suspend a cooking pot over a fire, the pot so large that it held an entire deer.
Anthony couldn't help smiling a little. "I named my stuffed lion Finn."
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "After the legend?"
Anthony shook his head. "No, I don't really know how or why I came up with the name."
Sören smirked.
"What?" Anthony narrowed his eyes.
"Oh, just..." Sören chuckled. "You're the Shark and you have a soft toy named Finn. Fin? Get it?"
Anthony and Nicholas facepalmed in synchronicity, then Anthony swatted Sören's ass. Sören laughed harder and gently elbowed him.
It was a good sign, though - after the tension between Sören and Nicholas yesterday, Sören was back to his usual self, and so early in the morning, even. Anthony couldn't help being a little relieved that Nicholas and Sören had smoothed over their rough patch so quickly, and he wanted to encourage that, not needing a repeat of what had happened last year around the holidays.
So in the interest of Nicholas and Sören continuing to work past yesterday's unpleasantness, when Sören decided he needed a nap later that afternoon, Anthony told Nicholas, "You should join him." He gave Nicholas a nudge-nudge wink-wink.
Nicholas gave Anthony a concerned look. "I wouldn't want you to feel left out."
"It's OK," Anthony said sincerely - he knew if Nicholas and Sören worked on bonding, it would be better for all three of them. "It's not like Sören won't find a way to get in some 'quality' time with me later." Anthony grinned as he made air quotes. "You know how he is." He'll probably even tell me about it. A little frisson went through Anthony at the mental image of Nicholas and Sören making love together.
Nicholas snorted. "Indeed."
"So go on then. Wear him out to make that nap really count."
Nicholas's eyes twinkled, and he gave Anthony a little kiss on his way to follow Sören to the bedroom.
Anthony thought for a moment about what to do with himself - read, maybe - but his footsteps took him to the kitchen, where Gitta and Elaine were busy. It was only the afternoon and a bit early to get started on dinner, unless they were making something really elaborate, but then upon a closer glance Anthony saw they had ingredients assembled to make vanilla biscuits, and a set of holiday-themed biscuit cutters, and different colors of frosting. Anthony made a little happy noise and then clapped his hand over his mouth, feeling like an idiot.
Elaine smiled when she saw him. "Come on in," she said. "You can help us make Christmas biscuits, if you like." Her smile became a bit wistful as she added, "You haven't helped me make biscuits since you were a small boy."
Anthony sighed and nodded. He had once loved baking with his mum, but being called a "mummy's boy" by his peers and mocked incessantly had broken him out of that. Not learning more about cooking from his mother had been one of his deepest regrets, as cooking at least sometimes might have helped when he was living with Sören in Kingston years ago and Sören was constantly overworked. Anthony sometimes helped Nicholas in the kitchen but it was more with preparatory work - Nicholas was the one who performed the magic of seasoning and getting things just right. Anthony still felt like his culinary skills fell short, especially when compared to people like Nicholas and his mother, who were practically wizards when it came to food.
But Nicholas never made him feel inferior when they worked together in the kitchen, it was companionable, and here and now, there was a yearning to recapture some of the magic of childhood, just helping for the joy of baking and the closeness to his mother. After losing his father this year, Anthony felt it was particularly important to let his loved ones know they were loved, so this was a prime opportunity to spend time with his mother.
Once the dough was rolled out, Anthony and Elaine cut it into shapes; Gitta waited at the end of the assembly line to arrange the cutouts on the baking sheet. Anthony smiled at the reindeer cutter. "I haven't seen this since I was a kid."
"I did worry if you would think it was too childish," Elaine said, "but Gitta was very insistent we should have proper biscuits for the holiday."
"The real fun is frosting them," Gitta said. "I even have candy to use for decorations." She cocked her head to one side. "Where's my nephew?"
"Sleeping." Eventually.
"Ah. I was going to tell you to fetch him, so he can help us decorate the biscuits, but if he's sleeping, don't wake him."
"It's just as well," Anthony said, looking at the container of gumdrops that ostensibly was being used for reindeer noses, snowman buttons, and balls on Christmas trees. "Sören would try to give the snowmen tits and cocks."
Gitta snorted and Elaine doubled over, tearing up, turning pink, before she nodded vehemently.
"Oh, so he does take after his mum." Gitta snickered.
"What was Sören's mum like? He rarely ever talks about her, I guess because she died when he was so young. I know she loved reading to him and she loved classic rock, and she used to crochet and knit and embroider and sew - she made that bunny," Anthony said.
"She was a very funny person," Gitta said. "She was fond of pranks and bad puns. Her name was Brynhildur, and Sören's father was named Sigurð -"
"Like the mythology."
Gitta nodded. "And when they got married, instead of 'The Wedding March' they had the attendants play 'Ride of the Valkyries' on kazoo."
Now it was Anthony's turn to double over. "Wow. So he comes by it honestly."
"Very much so. Right down to the off-color jokes, I see. Brynhildur could be quite raunchy. We Icelanders aren't hung up about sex and nudity the same way people are in the UK, or the States, but even by our standards, Brynhildur's mind was always in the gutter. Even when we were teenagers - she used to build snowpeople with tits and cocks, and sculpt snow penises. If she had lived long enough, she probably would have been the one to start the penis museum in Reykjavik."
"I've been there," Anthony said. "It was... really something."
"I've been back to Iceland a few times since I left. My late wife, Jane, was very insistent about seeing the penis museum, even though she'd never seen a penis before then." Gitta laughed softly. "I wish Brynhildur had gotten a chance to meet Jane. And had gotten to see her children grow up."
Elaine put an arm around her.
"I'm sorry," Anthony said, feeling awkward, not knowing how to respond. "I didn't mean to make you sad."
"It's all right, dear. I remember her laughing more than anything else, and that's how she would have wanted to be remembered." Gitta wiped away tears and smiled. "And that laughter lives on in her son. He is so much like her."
"You should tell him that," Anthony said.
"I will, eventually, when the time is right. He and I are still getting to know each other."
"Which isn't right. His aunt and uncle shouldn't have kept you from him." Anthony didn't want to get angry all over again - he found himself really digging into the dough, working the cutter like he was trying to stab Einar in the guts.
"No. But we can't undo what was done. At least now he knows I'm here, and with any luck you three will come to see us at least a couple times a year."
"You should come down to London to see us too," Anthony said.
"Maybe in one of the slow months," Gitta said. "I do feel guilty about leaving Mark alone to fend for himself."
"He's capable," Anthony muttered under his breath, stabbing the dough with the cutter again.
"Oh, I know he is. It's just..." Gitta took a deep breath. "I know you don't want to hear this - Elaine told me a little about, well -"
"Yeah."
"But he's like the son I never had, if that makes sense." Gitta made a vague hand gesture. "He's been keeping his distance because he doesn't want to make things difficult for you, but we were quite close to him before that."
Anthony sighed. That made him feel guilty, knowing that the tension between he and Mark was putting a strain on Gitta and his mother. He felt like the bad guy, even though Mark had been the one to break his heart close to twenty years ago.
They had come to the end of the first batch of dough; Gitta was making another batch. It was time for the first set of biscuits to go in the oven. As Gitta worked on mixing the ingredients in a bowl, there was a long, awkward silence. Anthony felt like he'd done something wrong for bringing up Brynhildur, even though he knew logically he hadn't, and it didn't seem like Gitta or Elaine was upset with him. And of course, there was the subject of Mark, which was fraught, perhaps even moreso because it was the holidays.
It was getting a bit warm in the kitchen, not just from the oven being on, but Anthony tended to get hotter under stress. "I need to step outside for a few minutes and get some air," Anthony said.
"All right." Elaine patted him, and their eyes met as if she understood.
Anthony grabbed his greatcoat on the way out. His cane clacked against the snow as his footsteps crunched, the only sound disturbing the peace of the frozen garden. He found the bench and sat, watching his breath steam the air, looking up at the way the sun made rainbows in the icicles hanging from the bare winter trees. The sky was more of an overcast grey now but pockets of sunlight gleamed here and there... and a snowflake fell onto Anthony's sleeve, then another, then another.
Anthony closed his eyes for a minute and remembered it was snowing on the December night when he'd first encountered Mark in 1998. He'd been at a coffee shop, watching the performers at open mic night. Mark's harp - and his voice - had touched him deeply. It was hard to believe almost two decades had passed since then.
When Anthony opened his eyes, there Mark was, walking into the garden. Anthony's heart skipped a beat, then beat faster, mouth going dry - it was unnerving to be remembering that first meeting and suddenly, there he was, like thinking of Mark had summoned him. Of course, that was ridiculous - they were sharing a living space and it was inevitable they'd bump into each other from time to time, but Anthony realized then how much Mark had been trying to keep out of his way that it felt strange to be seeing someone who actually lived there.
Their eyes met and Mark paused in his tracks. Anthony felt like he was intruding, even though he was there first. He'd stepped out to defuse an awkward moment and re-center himself... and stepped into something even more awkward and unsettling. Anthony leaned on his cane and got up from the bench. "I'll, ah. I'll give you some space," Anthony said, knowing Mark had probably come out here for a moment of peace.
"It's all right. I can go back in." Mark turned around in the direction of the villa.
And that was when it hit him, watching that little turn, the slight downturn of Mark's mouth, the way his eyes closed as if in resignation. Gitta had said Mark was like a son to her, and now Anthony had a vivid recall of a moment on the night Mark took his virginity.
"Everyone I've ever cared about is dead, Anthony. Except for you." Mark came closer. "And tonight, we're going to live."
"No... I'll... I'll go back in." Anthony leaned on his cane, shifting uncomfortably. "You live here, I don't want you to feel like you have to be confined to your bloody room."
Their eyes met again and Mark sighed. He rubbed his face. "I was honestly thinking of staying in a hotel on the mainland or something until you guys go back to London, to not get in the way of your time with your mum."
"You don't have to do that." As deeply as Mark had hurt him, Anthony had a scrap of compassion for someone who'd lost his entire family - it didn't sit well with him to force Mark away from new family of choice over Christmas. "It's Christmas. I... no. No." Anthony took a deep breath. "I can be an adult, Mark. I won't lie, it's been upsetting to see you again, but... a lot has happened since then."
Mark glanced down quickly at Anthony's cane, then off to the side like he wasn't supposed to be noticing it. Anthony got that reaction a lot from people, to the point where he was just used to it, but it felt very different coming from Mark, who of course had met him at a time when he wasn't disabled.
"I was in a car accident," Anthony explained.
"Ah. I didn't want to ask. I thought it would be rude."
Anthony shrugged. Not as rude as when you told me I was "too needy". Anthony kept that to himself, but he couldn't help letting loose with something else. "Probably not as rude as me asking why you still look... well... young." Mark had never given him an exact age - he'd only said he was in his thirties. The youngest Mark could be now was forty-eight, if he was thirty when he and Anthony met, and Mark had never felt like the younger end of thirties. Age could be kind to people - Gitta looked like she was in her early forties, not her fifties - but it wasn't this kind.
Mark gave a nervous little laugh. Then he quickly changed the subject. "If you're being truthful about what you call 'being an adult' and not wanting me to have to confine myself... Gitta asked me to perform some Christmas songs for her and your mother this evening. I've held off on accepting."
"Is that why you're out here? To talk to me?"
"No, I stepped out for a moment of peace and quiet. It got a little noisy on our end of the villa."
Anthony facepalmed, not able to keep from laughing a little, realizing Mark had heard Sören and Nicholas going at it. "Er. Sorry."
"I didn't know you'd be out here. I just assumed you were... in there."
Anthony's cheeks burned and he looked away. It made sense that Mark probably didn't want to be reminded of when they'd had sex, though Mark's "you're too needy" at the end and then just ghosting him made Anthony think Mark hadn't been too sad about the breakup. If it could even be called that. The tension in Mark made Anthony wonder now if Mark maybe had regrets about how things happened, if not the breakup itself.
"Anyway, since you are out here, I thought I'd ask if it would make you uncomfortable -"
"I think I would be more uncomfortable with my mum and Gitta being disappointed, and you feeling like you have to confine yourself or go away over the Christmas holiday." Anthony shrugged again. "So if that answers your question at all, it's not that I'm entirely comfortable with it, but it would be worse for you to decline."
"If you're sure."
"I'm quite sure."
"Thank you for understanding. You guys are... invited to the performance. I don't want you to have to isolate yourselves either."
"OK. Your music is always lovely, so it isn't like I'm being forced to sit through something horrible." Anthony cocked his head to one side. "Gitta says you can sing the Jólakötturinn song like a native Icelander. I'm sure Sören would want to hear this for himself." He found himself just as curious as to how Mark's pronunciation of Icelandic was that good, as he was about why Mark looked the way he did. A little nagging feeling in the back of his head vaguely suggested those two thoughts might be connected somehow. Anthony quickly shoved it aside - that felt absolutely mad.
Mark smiled a little. "I'll try not to disappoint."
Anthony reached out and found himself giving Mark's arm a reassuring little pat. Whatever had happened close to two decades ago, he was willing to put it aside for a few days for everyone to get through the Christmas holiday without incident. Christmas last year had been soured by Sören and Nicholas's spat, so he thought it was especially important to his partners to not have a bitter Christmas twice in a row.
There were so many questions Anthony had about what Mark's life had been like in his absence, what brought him up here to Skye - and he didn't want to go down the slippery slope of actually caring again about someone who had so deeply wounded him. It was enough that he was telling Mark he didn't have to isolate himself while they were here. That would have to do.
Anthony moved his cane forward and began to step towards the villa. There were still biscuits to be made.
And he had to get away from those silver eyes, that velvet voice... the part of him that still loved his first love.
Anthony had thought the most stressful part of Mark's performance would be just being in the same room as him, sitting with all the memories of their fling so many years ago. That, as it turned out, was the easy part.
Anthony had never really forgotten about the power of Mark's voice, or his music, but it hit him in a way he hadn't expected. What was supposed to be a medley of Christmas songs - something light-hearted, to spread holiday cheer - ended up very visceral for Anthony. He remembered that night in December 1998 when they first met, the way Mark's grief and loneliness came through in the songs he played, resonating with Anthony's own, so raw from the loss of his uncle. It was like that all over again - this time with the loss of Anthony's father, and the agonizing nearly two years separated from Sören, the trauma of the car accident and the long road to recovery, which was still an ongoing process, living with PTSD. And it was deeper still for knowing Mark's sorrow - the things Mark had shared with him when they were together. Anthony once again wondered what the last almost-twenty years had been like for Mark. Alone. No family, few or no friends. Wandering.
Mark seemed to have come home, here in Skye, and of course the safety of that home was threatened by his arrival. Anthony felt guilty, even though Mark had been the one to break his heart. There was so much regret in Mark's voice as he sang "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" that it felt almost like an apology.
Almost.
After they turned down for bed, Anthony found himself laying there awake, thinking of Mark again... feeling sorry for him. He thought about knocking on Mark's door and asking him about what happened in 1999, why he'd disappeared.
But "you're too needy" had devastated him at the time, and had done a tremendous amount of damage long-term. It had directly contributed to the problems he'd had with Sören during their first attempt at a relationship, where Anthony had tried so hard not to be "too needy" that he'd suppressed his emotions and struggles until it was too late. Anthony took responsibility for his own failures and mistakes - the end of that relationship had been on him, and his wrongdoing. Yet at the same time, Mark held at least a tiny bit of the blame, pushing Anthony down that path of being self-reliant to a fault, not wanting to show his vulnerability, his need.
Anthony got up. It wasn't to go visit Mark.
First, he went to the liquor cabinet that guests were welcome to help themselves to. He poured himself a shot of Hennessy to settle his nerves.
Then he got out his laptop. He took it down to the greatroom, where a fire was going in the fireplace, and Kirk and Spock were curled up together in front of the fire, looking cozy.
Sören had wanted to spend the holiday just relaxing and not dealing with the big issues of figuring out who they were, where they came from... but he hadn't said that Anthony couldn't. Anthony didn't expect to figure things out right away but he needed something. He needed to distract himself from thinking about Mark.
Anthony spent the next hour researching elf and faery folklore from across Europe, and especially Scandinavia and the British Isles. Reading that mythology and folklore had inspired several authors, like Tolkien, Anthony decided to take a shot. He felt it was a bit daft reading about fictional sources, but then he knew it was impossible to know what ancient mythologies and folktales were originally someone's fanfiction about gods and spirits. If Sören could create art based on his dreams, which more and more seemed like they weren't "just dreams", it made intuitive sense to Anthony that maybe some author was channeling another reality and not quite aware of it.
But it still felt utterly mad.
His cheeks burning with self-consciousness, and every now and again glancing up and around to make sure he was alone and not being watched, Anthony opened several tabs to look up different authors on Wikipedia. He'd only read the Lord of the Rings trilogy and seen The Hobbit movies, he'd had The Silmarillion on his to-read list for years but never gotten around to it, and had no idea what it was about except "Elves, probably". Now in the firelight he looked at the white glare of the Wikipedia page, his eyes strained for an entirely different reason than the bright screen.
The Silmarillion has five parts. The first, Ainulindalë, tells of the creation of Eä, the "world that is." The second part, Valaquenta, gives a description of the Valar and Maiar, supernatural powers of Eä. The next section, Quenta Silmarillion, which forms the bulk of the collection, chronicles the history of the events before and during the First Age, including the wars over three jewels, the Silmarils, that gave the book its title.
A shiver went down Anthony's spine. Three jewels. He thought of the gold aluminum pineapple, holding two of the three stones Sören had made "back then", now being contained like they were hazardous.
He clicked on the link for Quenta Silmarillion and scrolled down.
In Aman, Fëanor, son of Finwë, King of the Noldor, created the Silmarils, jewels that glowed with the captured light of the Two Trees. ...Melkor killed the Two Trees with the help of Ungoliant, a dark spider spirit. Melkor escaped to Formenos, killed Finwë, stole the Silmarils, and fled to Middle-earth. ...Fëanor swore an oath of vengeance against Melkor and anyone who withheld the Silmarils from him, even the Valar, and made his seven sons do the same. He persuaded most of the Noldor to pursue Melkor, whom Fëanor renamed Morgoth, to Middle-earth. Fëanor's sons seized ships from the Teleri, killing many of them, and betrayed others of the Noldor, leaving them to make a perilous passage on foot. Upon arriving in Middle-earth, the Noldor defeated Melkor's army, though Fëanor was killed by Balrogs.
Anthony's jaw dropped. He felt like alarm bells were going off in his head.
Frantically, he typed "Silmarillion" into Google, and eventually found a PDF copy to download. He didn't care that it was late and he would pay for being up so late tomorrow - he needed to read this now.
Everything was at stake here.
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