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Kindred

by SalientLane

It all comes back to Eli in dreams.

Heavy boots thud on the wooden rungs as they descend. Eli can smell them before he can make out their faces—sweat and rum and vileness. The first sailor, with a patchy beard and a scar cutting across his forehead, reaches in and grabs Adam by the arm, yanking him roughly from their shared space.

"No!" Eli lunges forward, but the second sailor—taller, with a shaved head that gleams with sweat—catches him by the collar of his ragged shirt. "Leave him alone!"

"You boys like each other, huh?" Patchy Beard laughs, twisting Adam's arm behind his back until he gasps with pain. "Tie that one up. Make him watch."

Both boys are securely tied and gagged. With a practiced, lazy movement, Patchy Beard starts unbuttoning Adam's rough-spun shirt. Adam's chin is up, his eyes straight ahead. He doesn't look at Eli, but Eli sees the tension in his jaw, the way he's grinding his teeth to keep from making a noise.

The sailor draws a small knife from his belt.

Eli strains against his bindings until his wrists bleed. His throat burns with screams that can't escape. He wants to close his eyes, to shut out the sight of his best friend's suffering, but he can't. Something in him knows that he needs to witness this, that Adam needs him to be present, to share this burden.

The sailors laugh as Adam's tears flow freely now, and his blood. His muffled cries grow louder, turning to sobs that shake his whole body.

When Adam's legs finally give out, the sailors let him slump to the floor. Shaved Head kicks him casually in the ribs, eliciting another muffled howl that sends fresh tears streaming down Adam's face. The sound pierces Eli like a physical wound, worse than any beating he's ever taken himself.

"Not so tough now, are ya?" Patchy Beard laughs, swaying slightly as he stands over Adam's trembling form. Adam whimpers.

---

Eli jerks awake with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a disorienting moment, he can still feel the rope around his wrists, taste the filthy gag in his mouth. Then reality filters in—the soft bed beneath him, the gentle night breeze through the open window, the warm weight of Adam sleeping against his side. He's not on the ship. They're safe. They escaped two months ago. The nightmare wasn't real—or at least, not that nightmare, not exactly.

Sweat cools on his skin as Eli's breathing gradually slows. The summer night is warm enough that he and Adam have taken to sleeping without shirts, just in their loose cotton braies. Adam's scarred back is pressed against Eli's side, his skin radiating heat like a small sun. Eli turns his head slightly, taking comfort in the familiar outline of Adam's shoulder in the dim moonlight filtering through the window.

The steady rise and fall of Adam's breathing anchors Eli to the present. He focuses on that rhythm, trying to match it with his own. The sheets beneath them are slightly damp from sweat—both from the summer warmth and from Eli's nightmare—but he doesn't mind. Any discomfort is worth the feeling of Adam beside him, alive and whole.

Adam stirs, disturbed by the change in Eli's breathing or perhaps by some deeper awareness that his friend is in distress. He rolls over, his movement fluid and unconscious, and drapes an arm across Eli's chest. The weight of it is immediately grounding.

"Hey," Adam says softly, his voice rough with sleep but gentle with concern. His eyes catch the sparse moonlight, two gleaming points in the darkness. "What's wrong?"

Eli swallows hard. The dream images are already fading, but the feelings linger—helplessness, rage, nausea. "Dream," he manages to say, his voice hoarse.

Adam shifts closer, his arm tightening slightly across Eli's chest. He doesn't push, just waits patiently for Eli to continue.

"They were hurting you," Eli finally says. "Making me watch." His voice catches. "Torturing you. Cutting you. You were screaming, but they had us gagged. Nobody would have come anyway, even if they could hear us." The words tumble out, and Eli realizes he's crying, soft tears tracking sideways from the corners of his eyes into his hair.

Adam's thumb gently wipes away a tear. "It wasn't real. Nothing like that ever happened to us," he whispers.

"It could have been," Eli counters. "They hurt us enough. It could have been worse."

"But it wasn't," Adam says firmly. "And we got away. We're here now."

The simple truth of that statement settles over Eli like a blanket. They are here now. Together. Safe.

Adam's head tilts slightly as he studies Eli's face in the dim light. "Your worst dreams are always about them hurting me," he observes, his voice tender. There's a question in the statement, one he doesn't quite ask directly.

"I know," Eli admits. "Like when you dreamed that they threw me overboard." He remembers how Adam had woken up terrified that night, convinced Eli had been lost to the sea.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Adam's fingers trace idle patterns on Eli's chest. "I can stand them hurting me, but not you."

The words strike a chord in Eli. "Same here," he whispers. "Exactly the same."

They lie in silence for a moment, the admission hanging between them like something fragile and precious. Then Adam leans forward, his movement deliberate but unhurried, and presses his lips against Eli's.

The kiss is soft, tentative—they're both still learning this new dimension of their friendship—but it sends warmth spreading through Eli's chest. When Adam pulls back, Eli can just make out his smile in the darkness, slightly crooked and achingly familiar.

Eli leans back, stretching his arms above his head and then tucking his hands beneath his neck, trying to release the tension from his nightmare. His muscles ache with phantom pain, memories his body hasn't forgotten even as his mind tries to get past them. He can still feel the ropes that bound him in the dream, the way they cut into his wrists as he strained against them, desperate to reach Adam.

"Better?" Adam asks, watching him with careful attention.

"Getting there," Eli answers honestly. The nightmare is fading, but the physical tension lingers, his body still braced for a threat that no longer exists.

Adam shifts closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. With careful attention, Adam begins to trace his fingers across Eli's chest. His touch is light, almost reverent, starting with soft caresses across the planes of muscle developed through two years of labor. Adam's touch changes, becomes more exploratory, gently and curiously playing with Eli's nipples. Eli lets out a little gasp from the feeling of pleasure it gives him. Adam's palm comes to rest over Eli's heart, feeling its strong, quickening beat.

"I used to count your heartbeats," Adam confesses quietly. "On the ship. When they'd bring you back after... after the bad times. I'd wait until they were gone, then I'd put my hand right here." His fingers press slightly. "And I'd count. As long as I could feel it beating, I knew we'd be okay."

Eli's throat tightens. "I didn't know that."

"There's a lot we didn't say back then," Adam murmurs. His hand moves again, spreading warmth across Eli's skin, tracing the contours of his chest with gentle appreciation. "We couldn't."

"We can now," Eli says, reaching up to brush a strand of dark hair from Adam's forehead.

Adam nods, his fingers continuing their tender exploration, moving to play with the wisps of hair beginning to sprout in Eli's sensitive armpits. "We can now."

The touch tickles slightly, making Eli squirm, a small laugh escaping him. The sound seems to delight Adam, whose smile widens in response. It strikes Eli then how rare it still is to hear Adam laugh, to see his face free of the wariness that had become so ingrained during their captivity.

"I like that sound," Adam says, his fingers stilling. "Your laugh. On the ship, I used to imagine what it would be like to hear you really laugh again. Not the fake one you'd use sometimes to keep their attention on you instead of me."

Eli blinks, surprised by this observation. "You noticed that?"

"I noticed everything about you," Adam admits, a flush spreading across his cheeks. "I still do."

The confession hangs between them, honest and unguarded in a way that makes Eli's heart swell. He reaches up, cupping Adam's face in his palm, thumb stroking across the high curve of his cheekbone.

"Me too," he says simply. "Everything."

Adam can feel Eli's arousal as he shifts his body to reach him better, directly straddling him, with Eli between his legs. He presses his own hardness against Eli's.

"This should help you forget the bad dream," Adam says.

Outside, the night continues its quiet progress. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls, its voice carrying on the summer breeze. Inside their room, the two boys move together, finding in each other the peace that was denied them for so long.

"I love you," Adam says simply, his voice solemn despite his youth. He shifts position, laying his head on Eli's chest, his ear pressed against Eli's heart. "I can still hear it," he murmurs. "Steady and strong."

They explore each other with unhurried reverence, learning the textures and tastes that were previously unknown. Adam's lips are soft, his hair silky between Eli's fingers as he holds on. When they part for breath, they remain close, foreheads touching, sharing the same air.

Afterwards, when they finally lie still, limbs entwined and hearts beating together, the nightmare that woke Eli seems a distant memory, replaced by something far more powerful—the reality of Adam in his arms, safe and whole and his.

"We're going to be okay, aren't we?" Eli whispers against Adam's temple, not really a question.

Adam nods, his head tucked beneath Eli's chin, exactly where it belongs. "We already are," he says simply, and in that moment, Eli believes it with his whole heart.

---

The morning sun warms Eli's bare shoulders as he sits beside Adam on the smooth rocks of the cove. Their fishing lines dangle in the clear water below, occasional tugs promising a good catch for lunch. Adam hums beside him, a wordless melody that rises and falls with the gentle waves. Eli closes his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him. Adam's voice has always been beautiful, but here, free from fear and pain, it carries a richness that makes Eli's chest tighten with affection.

They've been at the cove since finishing their morning chores, barefoot and shirtless, wearing only the white cotton braies they slept in. Their hair is still tousled from sleep, neither having bothered to comb it before heading out. The summer air is warm enough that they don't need more clothing, and here, hidden from the village's view, they don't worry about the lattice of scars that map their backs. Those marks that once brought shame now seem like badges of survival—proof that they endured and escaped together.

Adam's humming shifts into quiet singing, a tune without words that somehow carries more meaning than any lyrics could. His voice lifts clearly over the sound of waves breaking against the rocks, pure and unguarded. Eli watches him from the corner of his eye, taking in the profile that has become as familiar to him as his own reflection—the slight upturn of Adam's nose, the curve of his jaw growing sharper as boyhood recedes, those too-large ears that Eli finds endearing despite Adam's occasional self-consciousness about them.

The memory of last night warms Eli from within, a pleasant heat that has nothing to do with the summer sun. Their second time together had been different from the first—less hesitant, more certain, yet still achingly tender. He remembers the way Adam's hands had mapped his body, the whispered words between them, the feeling of being wholly known and accepted. The wonder of it still lingers, a subtle glow that surrounds them both.

"You're staring," Adam says without looking away from the water, though a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

"Maybe I like looking at you," Eli replies, not bothering to deny it.

Adam's smile widens, a flash of teeth in the sunlight. "Catch any fish that way?"

"Better things," Eli says, nudging Adam's shoulder with his own.

They lapse into comfortable silence again, Adam resuming his singing, Eli content to listen. Below them, the clear water reveals small fish darting between rocks, unconcerned with the hooks baited to catch their larger cousins. The sea stretches before them, a vast expanse of blue that meets the sky at a horizon so distant it seems imaginary.

They've taken to visiting this spot nearly every day when weather permits—this quiet, wind-swept cove where they're unlikely to be interrupted. For Eli, the sound of the waves has become essential, a rhythm that grounds him when memories threaten to pull him back to darker times. The constant push and pull of the tide reminds him that time moves forward, that even the deepest wounds eventually heal.

For Adam, Eli knows, it's different. The sea that carried their prison now represents something to be mastered rather than feared. By sitting here day after day, facing the vastness without drowning in it, Adam reclaims a piece of himself that their captors tried to destroy. His quiet determination makes Eli's heart swell with pride and something deeper, something that has no name but feels like home.

A stronger tug on Adam's line draws both their attention. He pulls up a decent-sized silver fish that flops desperately at the end of the line. With practiced movements, Adam removes the hook and quickly ends the fish's suffering before adding it to the small pile they've already collected.

"That should be enough for lunch," he says, wiping his hands on his braies and settling back beside Eli.

Eli nods, setting his own fishing line aside. He reaches for the waterskin they brought and takes a long drink before passing it to Adam. Their fingers brush in the exchange, a brief touch that feels as natural as breathing. These casual contacts have multiplied in the past few days, as if having crossed one boundary has dissolved all others between them.

Adam takes a drink, then caps the waterskin and sets it down. His expression grows thoughtful, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Do you ever think about the other poor souls who were stolen from their families, to be slaves, like we were?" he asks, his voice quieter now.

The question catches Eli off guard, though perhaps it shouldn't. Their conversations have been gradually circling closer to their time on the ship, each of them testing the waters of memory, seeing what can be faced without drowning in pain.

"I do," Eli admits, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "Especially at night. I wonder where they ended up, if they got away like we did."

Adam nods, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the stone beneath them. "There were so many at first. And then one by one, they were sold off to other ships or to markets on the islands." His voice remains steady, but Eli notices the tension in his shoulders, the slight furrow between his brows.

"Until it was just us," Eli says softly. "And Owen."

The name hangs between them, heavy with unspoken grief. Owen had been the last of the other captives on the Nar, a quiet boy with red hair and freckles who had been taken from a coastal village north of theirs. He had been kind despite his circumstances, sharing what little food he had, whispering jokes to make them smile when the sailors weren't looking. Eli had liked him immediately.

"He didn't deserve what happened to him," Adam says, his voice tight. "None of us did, but Owen..."

The memory rises in Eli's mind with painful clarity—Owen's back laid open by the captain's whip for some minor infraction, the wounds festering in the damp hold of the ship, the fever that followed. The heartless and callous men of the Nar had watched the boy's suffering with indifference, and when it became clear he wouldn't recover, they had simply dragged his unconscious body to the rail and tossed him overboard. Eli isn't sure if Owen was even dead when he hit the water.

"I still hear him sometimes," Eli confesses, his throat thick with emotion. "In my dreams. Calling for his mother."

Adam's hand finds Eli's, fingers intertwining with familiar ease. "Me too," he says quietly. "I think about how it could have been either of us. How close we came."

They had both suffered beatings as severe as Owen's, had both felt the bite of infection and fever. What saved them was each other—the careful tending of wounds, the sharing of water, the will to live that was fed by their growing bond. Without Adam, Eli knows he would have given up long ago. From the pressure of Adam's fingers around his, he suspects Adam feels the same.

"And the others," Eli says, thinking of the faces that had gradually disappeared from the ship—boys as young as nine and as old as sixteen, some crying, some stoic, all terrified as they were transferred to other vessels or marched off at port stops, never to be seen again. "I hope some of them found their way home."

Adam's thumb traces small circles on the back of Eli's hand, a soothing gesture that anchors them both to the present even as their minds drift through painful memories. "I hope so too," he says. "At least we know what happened to us. Their families might still be wondering."

The thought lands heavy in Eli's chest. He remembers his mother's face when they returned, the mix of joy and disbelief, the way she had touched his cheek as if making sure he was real. Adam hadn't been granted that closure with his own mother. The unfairness of it all still burns.

"We should say a prayer for them," Adam suggests, his voice soft but determined. "For Owen and the others. It feels right to remember them, now that we're free."

Eli nods, something easing in his chest at the suggestion. They aren't particularly religious, but there's comfort in the ritual, in acknowledging those left behind. They bow their heads together, still holding hands, and Adam begins in a low voice.

"For our brother Owen, whose suffering has ended, we ask for the safe passage of his spirit," he says. "May he find the peace in death that was denied to him in life."

"For the boys whose names we knew and those we didn't," Eli continues, "may they find their way home as we did, or at least find kindness where they are."

"For those still captive on ships like the Nar," Adam adds, "give them the strength to endure until they too can be free."

They fall silent for a moment, the only sound the gentle lapping of waves against the rocks below. Eli feels tears sliding down his cheeks, but he makes no move to wipe them away. Here, with Adam, he doesn't need to hide his emotions. He feels Adam's arm come around his shoulders, pulling him close, and he turns into the embrace without hesitation.

They hold each other for a long moment, taking comfort in the solid reality of each other's presence. Eli presses his face against Adam's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him—sea salt and the lavender soap Mary makes, underlaid with something uniquely Adam. His tears dampen Adam's skin, but Adam only holds him tighter, one hand cradling the back of Eli's head with gentle pressure.

"We're extraordinarily lucky," Eli murmurs against Adam's shoulder. "To be alive. To be free. To be home."

"And together," Adam adds, the words vibrating against Eli's skin. "That's the most important part."

Eli nods, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. They've discussed it before—how unlikely their escape was, how many things could have gone wrong, how easily they could have been separated or killed. The enormity of their good fortune sometimes feels overwhelming, especially when contrasted with the fate of boys like Owen.

They remain entwined for several minutes, the wind and waves wrapping around them like a blanket. Eventually, Eli's tears subside, and he pulls back just enough to meet Adam's eyes. The understanding he finds there soothes the ragged edges of his grief. Whatever they've lost, whatever scars they carry, they have each other. It's enough. More than enough.

Adam is the first to look away, his gaze drawn to something beyond Eli's shoulder. His body tenses, breath catching audibly. "There," he says, pointing toward the horizon. "That ship. That silhouette."

Eli turns, following Adam's gaze out to sea. At first, he sees nothing but endless blue. Then he spots it—a dark shape against the sky, distant but distinct. His heart seems to stop, then restart at double speed. The hull is wide and low, sitting heavily in the water in a way that stirs memories he'd rather leave buried.

It cannot be. The chances are too small, the coincidence too cruel. Yet the shape is achingly familiar, burned into his memory by two years of captivity. The Nar.

Neither speaks for a long moment. Eli's fingers tighten around Adam's hand—his anchor in a sudden storm of emotion. He feels cold despite the summer heat, a chill that starts in his bones and radiates outward. Beside him, Adam's face is pale, but his expression remains calm. This isn't panic that Eli sees in his eyes. It's recognition.

"It might not be the Nar," Eli offers softly, though he doesn't believe his own words. The ship is too far away to make out details, but its silhouette is distinctive enough to awaken the worst of his memories.

Adam doesn't respond immediately. They both remain still, watching the distant ship drift across the horizon like a ghost from their shared past. It's moving parallel to the coast, not approaching their village, but its mere presence feels like a violation of the safety they've built here.

"If it is," Adam says finally, his voice steady despite the tension Eli can feel in his body, "they can't hurt us anymore. We're free."

Eli wants to believe this, tries to let the words sink in past the fear. They are free. They escaped. They're no longer helpless children at the mercy of cruel men. Yet the sight of that ship—or one so similar—sends his mind spiraling back to dark holds and bloodied backs, to the sound of Owen's fevered murmuring and the splash as his body hit the water.

The ship continues its slow progress across the horizon, growing smaller as it moves away from their position. Part of Eli wishes it would disappear completely, taking with it the memories it has dragged to the surface. Another part wants to keep watching, to make sure it doesn't turn toward land, toward villages where children play unaware of the danger.

"We should head back," Adam says, giving Eli's hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it to gather their fishing gear. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if demonstrating that they won't be ruled by fear.

Eli nods, forcing himself to turn away from the sea. He helps collect their catch, wrapping the fish in large leaves for the walk home. The routine tasks help ground him in the present, reminding him that this moment—standing in the sun with Adam, preparing to return to Mary's cottage—is his reality now. The ship, whether it's the Nar or not, belongs to a past they've survived.

As they climb the path leading away from the cove, Eli can't resist one last glance over his shoulder. The ship is still visible, a dark smudge against the bright horizon. Adam follows his gaze, then reaches for Eli's hand again, tugging him gently up the path.

"Come on," he says quietly. "Let's go home."

---

The night air carries the scent of salt and summer flowers as Eli and Adam slip out of Mary's cottage, a carefully written note left on the kitchen table. Above them, twin moons hang in the velvet sky—one bright and golden, the other a darker, redder crescent—casting enough light to illuminate the path before them. Their fingers intertwine naturally, a gesture that has evolved from desperate comfort to conscious choice, their palms fitting together like pieces of a puzzle finally found.

"Do you think your mother will worry?" Adam asks, his voice soft in the stillness.

Eli shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. "Not anymore. She understands we need this—the freedom to come and go. Besides, we left a note. You can call her mom, too, if you want to."

"I know," Adam says. "I'm getting used to it."

It's been two months since their return, since they found their way back to Mary's cottage and the possibility of a normal life. In that time, something has shifted between them, a subtle but significant change—the final transformation of their bond from brotherhood to something deeper, truer to what they feel. The word "lover" remains unspoken between them, but it lives in their touches, in the way their eyes meet across rooms, in the quiet intimacy of their shared space in the cottage alcove.

They walk the path that winds through the village and toward the cliffs, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization. Adam's black hair has grown longer now, occasionally falling across his eyes in a way that makes Eli's chest tighten with tenderness. Eli's own frame has filled out with regular meals and work that builds rather than breaks the body, his movements more fluid, less guarded with each passing week.

"I love how the sea looks under the moons," Adam says, his gaze lifting to the horizon where waves catch silver and gold light. "It's like nothing I've ever seen before."

"Like nothing we've seen together," Eli corrects gently, squeezing Adam's hand. "There's still so much beauty we haven't shared yet."

Their path takes them toward the shore, where the sound of waves against rocks grows louder, a steady rhythm like the beating of a great heart. They've walked this way many times since their return, but tonight feels different—the air charged with possibility, with the sense that the world is expanding beyond the boundaries of their shared suffering.

As they round a bend in the path, voices drift toward them on the breeze—laughter and words too indistinct to make out, but clearly belonging to boys near their own age. Eli feels Adam tense slightly beside him, a reflex born of two years when strangers meant danger. He squeezes Adam's hand again, a silent reassurance.

"It's okay," he whispers. "We're safe here."

They continue forward, and soon two figures come into view, silhouetted against the moonlit sea. Two boys, about thirteen, sitting on a large, flat rock that juts out over the path. One is gesturing animatedly as he speaks, the other nodding and occasionally interjecting, their voices overlapping in a familiar rhythm that suggests long friendship.

As Eli and Adam approach, the boys notice them, their conversation pausing. For a moment, the four regard each other in silence, curiosity mingling with caution in the space between them.

"Hello," the taller of the two strangers finally calls, his voice friendly. "Fine night for a walk."

"We thought so, too," Adam responds, his grip on Eli's hand relaxing slightly.

The boys slide down from their rock perch, landing lightly on the path before Eli and Adam. Up close, Eli feels a jolt of recognition—faces seen in passing years ago, now reshaped by time and growth.

"Geoffrey Atwood," says the taller boy, brushing hair from his eyes with a grin. "And that's Sam Miller. Together we're—"

"Trouble," Sam finishes with mock pride, nudging Geoffrey's shoulder. "But the good kind."

Geoffrey chuckles. "You look familiar," he says, tilting his head. "Eli, right?"

Eli nods, memories rising slow and syrupy. "Eli Shepherd. We did know each other, back when... things were different."

No need for more words. The village has already woven their story into hushed fireside retellings.

Adam steps forward, shoulders squared. "I'm Adam Kindred. I'm with Eli."

Sam and Geoffrey exchange a glance, a silent understanding passed like a secret.

"Well," Geoffrey says, voice lighter now, "then welcome back."

"To both of you," Sam echoes.

Recognition flashes in Geoffrey's eyes. "You're the ones who escaped from…"

"…the slave ship," Sam finishes softly, his expression folding into something reverent. "It's all anyone talks about lately."

"How brave you must have been," Geoffrey adds, a flush rising in his cheeks. "To survive that and make it all the way home."

There's something about the way they speak, finishing each other's thoughts as if sharing a single mind between two bodies, that resonates deeply with Eli. He and Adam communicate in their own shorthand too—with glances and subtle touches, with the unspoken understanding that comes from facing the worst together and emerging unbroken.

"We were just heading down to the beach," Adam says, a newfound ease in his voice that makes Eli's heart lift. "To look at the stars."

Sam and Geoffrey exchange a look. A whole conversation passes between them in that silent flash.

"We were too," Geoffrey says. "Same idea, same night."

"Mind if we come along?" Sam asks, eyes hopeful. "We know a spot with a clear view of the..."

"Constellations," Geoffrey says, finishing with a grin. "And we brought honeycakes."

Adam looks at Eli, a question in his eyes that Eli answers with a small nod and the barest hint of a smile. Something about these boys feels right, safe in a way few things have since their return.

"We'd like that," Eli says, meaning it. "We haven't made many friends since coming back."

Sam's face lights up. "Well, you have now," he says with such simple certainty that Eli feels it settle warmly in his chest. "Come on, the path to our spot is just…"

"…around this bend," Geoffrey finishes, already stepping ahead with familiar ease. "Watch your step though—it's…"

"…slippery after the evening dew," Sam says, turning to motion them forward. "But the view's worth every muddy toe."

As they walk toward the beach, Eli feels something unexpected unfurling in his chest—a cautious hope, perhaps, or the first tentative shoots of a new kind of connection. Adam seems to sense it too, his hand relaxing in Eli's grip, his shoulders losing their vigilant tension.

For two years, they had only each other to rely on, to trust, to love. Their world contracted to the space between their bodies, a fortress built of whispers and shared pain. Now, under the twin moons, that world begins to expand again—not replacing what they've built, but adding to it, enriching the life they're creating together.

Geoffrey and Sam lead the way down the path, their movements as synchronized as Eli and Adam's own, their shared sentences forming a kind of music that fills the night air. Eli catches Adam's eye, finding his own wonder reflected there, and feels a smile spread across his face—the smile of a boy beginning to remember that there is more to life than survival, that friendship is possible, that their hearts have room to grow beyond the confines of shared trauma.

They follow their new friends toward the beach, toward starlight reflecting on water, toward a night that suddenly holds more possibility than any they've known since coming home.

---

The beach stretches before them, a ribbon of pale sand gleaming under the dual moonlight. Geoffrey leads them to a sheltered cove where the cliff face curves like a protective arm around a small patch of smooth sand. The waves whisper against the shore, a gentle soundtrack to the night as the four boys settle in a loose circle, eyes drawn naturally to the vast canvas of stars overhead—Aethren's sky.

"The stars are especially bright tonight," Geoffrey says, leaning back on his elbows, his gaze sweeping the sky. "You can really make out the Dragon's spine."

Sam points upward, tracing the curved trail of blue-white stars. "Like it's arching right across the northern sky."

"And there's the Archer," Geoffrey adds, lifting a hand to outline the shape. "Bow drawn tight…"

"…aimed straight at Dradelows," Sam finishes, nodding toward the golden star pulsing steadily in the distance.

Adam shifts beside Eli, shoulder brushing his. "Dradelows?"

Geoffrey turns slightly. "See that star? Some elders say it has its own world circling it."

"A world where people might live," Sam says, eyes alight. "Imagine them, looking up and seeing…"

"…our sun as nothing but a bright dot," Geoffrey murmurs, laughing quietly. "Kind of humbling, isn't it?"

Eli pulls a small cloth bundle from his belt. "My mother sent honeycakes," he says, revealing the warm-scented treats. "And we brought this too." He lifts the bulging wineskin.

Sam sits up straighter. "Perfect timing! We brought honeycakes too, so…"

"…twice the sweetness," Geoffrey grins, fishing out his own satchel and passing over a bundle. "And my father's blackberry wine."

Sam beams. "You're in for something special."

They share food and drink, passing the wineskin back and forth. The wine is sweet, with a tartness that blossoms into warmth deep in Eli's chest. Shyness fades with each sip, replaced by easy conversation. The boys talk about the village, about fishing techniques and the best places to find wild berries, about nothing and everything.

After a second round, Sam leaps to his feet, tugging Geoffrey up beside him. "We should swim!" he exclaims, peeling off his shirt. "The water's perfect on nights like this."

Geoffrey grins, kicking off his shoes. "When both moons are out, it almost feels warm."

Eli and Adam exchange a glance, a flicker of hesitation passing between them. The wine has loosened their limbs and lightened their spirits, but the prospect of removing their shirts brings a familiar tension back to their shoulders.

Geoffrey catches the shift and pauses, hands still at his hem. "Hey, you don't have to. Not if you don't want to."

Sam nods, voice gentle. "We just thought it might be fun. But really—no pressure."

Adam draws a deep breath, his fingers finding Eli's in the sand between them. "It's not that we don't want to," he says slowly. "It's just..." He looks at Eli, seeking permission, receiving a small nod in return. "You know we were kidnapped by slave traders and spent two years on a slave ship. We carry scars on our backs from our time as slaves. Their leather straps left marks that have never completely gone away."

A silence falls over the group, broken only by the rhythmic sound of waves against shore. Sam and Geoffrey's expressions shift from surprise to something deeper—not pity, which Eli had feared, but a kind of solemn understanding.

"Feel no shame," Geoffrey says, his voice steadier than Eli has heard it yet, not waiting for Sam to complete his thought. "We are your brothers, if you will have us."

Sam's eyes glimmer with emotion. "One day, people will speak your names like legends. Those scars? They're proof of courage."

Geoffrey echoes, "Of endurance and strength."

Something tight unwinds in Eli's chest at their words. He squeezes Adam's hand once before releasing it, then reaches for the bottom of his shirt. Adam follows suit, and together they pull the fabric over their heads, exposing backs mapped with the evidence of their captivity—thin white lines crisscrossing skin that has otherwise begun to tan from days spent working in Mary's garden.

Geoffrey and Sam look at them with quiet reverence, their own shirts discarded to reveal the unmarked skin of boys who have known only peace. There is no judgment in their eyes, only compassion and perhaps a touch of awe.

"Race you to the water," Adam says suddenly, his voice lighter than before, as if a weight has been lifted from him. He scrambles to his feet, removing the rest of his clothes with newfound abandon before running toward the gently lapping waves.

The others follow, and soon all four boys are in the sea, their laughter rising above the sound of splashing water. The ocean is cool but not uncomfortable, especially for Eli and Adam, who have known the bone-deep chill of winter seas during their captivity. They swim and play, their naked bodies sleek as fish in the moonlit water, free in a way that feels almost unreal after so long.

After some time, Sam swims closer to Adam, his movements slowing. "May I..." he begins hesitantly. "May I touch your back? I won't if—"

"It's okay," Adam says, turning so Sam can see his scarred back. "Go ahead."

Sam's fingers are gentle as they trace one of the longest scars that runs from Adam's shoulder to the middle of his back. His touch is reverent, almost like a blessing. "I can't imagine what the two of you endured," he says softly. He touches him again, but this time, his touch is a tender caress, a touch that makes Adam's heartbeat accelerate.

Geoffrey floats nearby, watching Eli with quiet warmth. "We're glad you made it home."

When they finally tire of swimming, they return to shore, allowing themselves to dry in the night air before dressing again. Geoffrey gathers driftwood while Sam arranges stones in a circle, and soon they have a small fire burning, its golden light complementing the silver and white glow of the moons overhead.

Huddled close around the flames, their skin still tingling from salt water, Eli and Adam begin to tell their story. They speak of the night they were taken, of the cramped, dark hold of the ship, of the endless work and the punishments that came whether deserved or not. They tell of learning to survive together, of becoming each other's reason to endure, of the brotherhood that grew between them and eventually blossomed into something deeper.

They speak honestly, leaving nothing out, trusting these boys they've just met but somehow feel they've known much longer. Sam and Geoffrey listen without interruption, their faces solemn in the firelight, occasionally reaching to touch each other's hands in much the same way Eli and Adam do—a gesture of connection that speaks of a bond beyond ordinary friendship.

"And then we escaped during the storm," Adam says, his voice growing hoarse from talking. "We nearly drowned, but somehow we made it to shore."

"We found Adam's village first," Eli continues, "only to discover his mother had died while we were gone."

"But then we came here," Adam concludes, "and Eli's mother took us both in. And now..."

"Now you're home," Sam says softly, reaching across the fire to touch Eli's knee. "Both of you."

Geoffrey nods, eyes catching the glow of the fire. "Thank you... for sharing this with us."

Sam leans in slightly, voice low and sincere. "It means more than we know how to say."

The fire burns low, and the night deepens around them. When they finally rise to return to the cottage, there's a new bond between the four boys—a quiet thread woven from shared trust and the vulnerable magic of a summer night beneath two moons.

Mary is asleep in her rocking chair when they return, but stirs enough to smile at the sight of all four boys, to nod her approval when Geoffrey and Sam ask if they might stay the night. In the small alcove that holds Eli and Adam's pallet, Geoffrey and Sam make a bed of blankets on the floor beside them. They curl together in a mirror of how Eli and Adam lie—Geoffrey's arm protectively around Sam's waist, Sam's back pressed to Geoffrey's chest.

As sleep takes them, Eli reaches down from the pallet, his hand finding Sam's outstretched one in the darkness. Adam's fingers touch Geoffrey's shoulder in a similar gesture, completing the circle. Four boys breathing in rhythm, connected now by something that transcends ordinary friendship—a brotherhood chosen rather than born to, a family created from understanding and acceptance.

In the morning, they will wake to a new day and the certainty that they are no longer alone in the world—that beyond the precious bond between Eli and Adam lies the possibility of other connections, other hearts that understand and accept them exactly as they are, scars and all.

---

The first light of dawn slips through the small window of Mary's cottage, painting the wall of the alcove with pale gold. Adam opens his eyes slowly, awareness returning in gentle waves. The warmth of Eli's body pressed against his chest is the first sensation he registers, followed by the steady rhythm of his breathing. For a moment, Adam simply lies still, savoring the weight and heat of Eli's body against his own, the way their skin touches from shoulder to hip, the simple miracle of waking up safe and warm and loved.

Eli sleeps on, his face relaxed in a way it rarely is during waking hours. Even now, months after their escape, Eli carries a certain watchfulness in his expression, a readiness born from years of needing to be alert to danger. But in sleep, that vigilance melts away, leaving only the handsome face of a boy on the edge of becoming a young man. Adam studies the sweep of Eli's eyelashes against his cheeks, the slight part of his lips, the way his brown hair falls across his forehead. He resists the urge to brush it back, not wanting to wake him just yet.

The summer morning is already warm, the air in the alcove sweet with the mingled scent of the four boys who spent the night here. Adam and Eli had shed their shirts before sleeping, as they always do now that they're safe and the nights are warm. The press of Eli's bare chest against his own is a comfort Adam still marvels at—skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat, the most natural thing in the world and yet somehow still miraculous after so long fearing touch.

On the floor beside their pallet, Geoffrey and Sam sleep curled together in a mirror of Adam and Eli's own position. They too have removed their shirts in the summer warmth, and Sam's back presses against Geoffrey's chest, Geoffrey's arm draped protectively over Sam's chest. Adam watches them with a peculiar tenderness, seeing in their unconscious intimacy a reflection of what he and Eli share. Even in the short time since meeting them on the path last night, Adam feels a connection to these boys that goes beyond ordinary friendship—a recognition, perhaps, of kindred spirits.

There's something about the way Geoffrey's fingers curl possessively against Sam's ribs, the way Sam's body fits perfectly into the curve of Geoffrey's larger frame, that speaks of a bond as deep and essential as the one Adam shares with Eli. Different in its origins, perhaps—not forged in the crucible of shared captivity and survival—but no less profound for that. Adam wonders about their story, about how they came to be so perfectly attuned to each other, completing each other's sentences as naturally as breathing. He looks forward to learning more about them, to building a friendship that might last a lifetime.

Careful not to disturb Eli, Adam shifts onto his back, sliding one arm behind his head as a cushion against the rough fabric of the pillow. The movement causes Eli to stir, murmuring something indistinct before unconsciously adjusting his position. He turns toward Adam, one arm draping across Adam's chest, his head coming to rest in the hollow of Adam's shoulder as if drawn there by some invisible force. Adam smiles, his free hand coming up to rest lightly on Eli's forearm, his thumb tracing small circles against the skin.

Through the window, Adam can see a patch of sky turning from gray to blue as the sun continues its ascent. A single cloud drifts lazily across his field of vision, white and insubstantial as spun sugar. This simple beauty—a summer sky at dawn, viewed from the safety of a real home—still feels like a luxury after years of seeing only glimpses of the world through hatchways and portholes, always in the context of work and pain.

His thoughts turn to his mother, as they often do in these quiet moments between sleep and full wakefulness. Would she recognize him now, he wonders, not just in his physical appearance but in the person he's becoming? The changes in his body are obvious enough—he's taller, more muscled from work that builds rather than breaks, his face losing its childish roundness. But the changes inside are more profound. He is harder in some ways, more cautious, more aware of the world's capacity for cruelty. Yet in other ways, he's softer—more conscious of beauty, more grateful for kindness, more open to love.

She had always told him he had a heart too big for his body, that someday he would find someone worthy of all the love he had to give. "You'll know them when you find them," she'd said once, brushing his hair back from his forehead in a gesture he still misses with physical pain sometimes. "Your heart will recognize its other half."

Adam's gaze shifts to Eli's sleeping face, and his chest tightens with an emotion too complex to name. Not just love, though that's certainly part of it, but something more encompassing—a sense of rightness, of completion, of having found exactly where and with whom he belongs.

"You were right, Mom," he whispers, his voice barely audible even to himself. "I found him. I love him."

The words hang in the air, simple and true. He imagines his mother hearing them, wherever she is now—pictures her smile, the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners, the approval that would soften her face. She would like Eli, he's certain of it—would see in him the same strength and gentleness that Adam treasures. And she would understand without explanation what they are to each other, the way Mary seems to understand.

A small movement from the floor draws Adam's attention back to Geoffrey and Sam. Sam stirs slightly in his sleep, his hand reaching back to touch Geoffrey's hip as if making sure he's still there. Geoffrey responds without waking, his arm tightening around Sam's waist, drawing him closer. The unconscious reassurance of touch, the instinctive need to maintain connection even in sleep—Adam recognizes it instantly from his own relationship with Eli.

The contrast between this moment and his time on the slave ship strikes Adam with sudden clarity. On the ship, touch meant pain more often than comfort. The only gentle hands were Eli's, and even those touches had to be stolen in moments of privacy, both of them alert for the approach of sailors or the first mate. They slept pressed together out of necessity at first—for warmth, for the security of knowing the other was still there—but always with one part of themselves remaining vigilant, ready to separate at the first sign of danger.

Now, in this small alcove in Mary's cottage, they sleep without fear. Their bodies seek each other not just for warmth or reassurance but for the simple pleasure of closeness. The weight of Eli against him isn't a burden but a gift. The sound of his breathing isn't something to monitor anxiously but a lullaby that soothes Adam to sleep each night.

And it's not just Eli. There's Mary, moving quietly in the main room of the cottage now, the soft sounds of her morning routine drifting to them—the scrape of the kettle being placed on the hearth, the rustle of kindling being added to the fire. Her presence in their lives is a constant source of security, her unwavering acceptance a balm to wounds Adam hadn't even realized were still raw until they began to heal.

And now there are Geoffrey and Sam too, new friends who listened to their story without judgment, who looked at their scars with respect rather than pity, who opened their hearts to two strangers with a generosity that still amazes Adam. The four of them shared something profound last night, sitting around the fire on the beach, swimming in the moonlit sea. A connection formed, a bridge built between their separate lives, creating the possibility of a friendship that might grow as deep and essential as the bond he shares with Eli.

The realization of just how much he has now compared to the desolation of his captivity brings a sudden rush of emotion that catches Adam by surprise. His throat tightens, his eyes burn with unshed tears—not of sadness but of overwhelming gratitude. He blinks rapidly, not wanting to wake Eli with his movement, and takes a deep breath to steady himself.

Safe. Loved. Happy. The words echo in his mind, simple but profound in their truth. For the first time since the night the ship came, Adam feels completely, unreservedly safe. The fear that has been his constant companion for so long—first the immediate terror of the ship, then the subtler anxiety of readjusting to freedom—has receded to a distant memory. In its place is a bone-deep sense of security, a certainty that he belongs here, that he is protected, that the worst is truly behind him.

And he is loved—not just by Eli, whose devotion is a daily miracle, but by Mary, who has taken him in as her own son without reservation. Perhaps even by these new friends, in the way that kindred spirits recognize and cherish each other from the first meeting. The love surrounds him like a physical presence, as tangible as the warmth of Eli's body against his, as real as the cottage walls that shelter them.

The happiness, though—that's the most surprising gift of all. Adam had adjusted to the idea that happiness was something from his past, a childhood state he might remember but never fully recapture. He had learned to find small moments of relief, brief respites from pain or fear, and to treasure those as enough. But this—this expanding joy that seems to fill his chest until it might burst—this is more than he dared hope for during those dark years.

From the main room comes the sound of Mary humming softly to herself, a melody Adam recognizes from evenings spent by the fire, Mary's voice joining Eli's in songs from his childhood. The familiar tune adds another layer to Adam's contentment, another thread in the fabric of belonging that wraps around him.

Beside him, Eli begins to stir more purposefully, his breathing changing as he approaches wakefulness. His eyelids flutter, then open, revealing blue eyes still soft with sleep. For a moment, he simply looks at Adam, a slow smile spreading across his face—the private smile that belongs to Adam alone, intimate and unguarded.

"Good morning," Eli murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," Adam replies, returning the smile. Their faces are close enough that Adam can feel Eli's breath against his cheek, can count every eyelash if he wants to.

Eli shifts slightly, stretching his legs but maintaining the contact between their upper bodies. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not long," Adam says. "Just enjoying the quiet."

Eli's gaze moves past Adam to where Geoffrey and Sam still sleep on the floor. "They're still here," he says softly, a note of pleased surprise in his voice.

"They are," Adam confirms. "They sleep like we do."

Eli's eyes return to Adam's face, understanding passing between them without need for further explanation. "I like them," he says simply.

"Me too," Adam agrees. "It feels right, having them here."

On the floor, Sam stirs, his eyes opening to meet Adam's. For a moment, he looks confused, then recognition dawns and he smiles—a bright, open expression that transforms his already handsome face. "Morning," he whispers, careful not to wake Geoffrey. "Did we oversleep?"

"No," Eli answers, his voice equally soft. "The sun's barely up."

Sam nods, then turns in Geoffrey's arms, facing him now. He studies his sleeping friend's face with an expression so tender it makes Adam's chest ache in recognition. Gently, Sam brushes a curl from Geoffrey's forehead, the gesture so similar to what Adam had resisted doing to Eli earlier that it reinforces his sense of kinship with these boys.

Geoffrey's eyes open at Sam's touch, focusing immediately on his face. "Is it morning already?" he asks, voice thick with sleep.

"Barely," Sam tells him, his hand lingering on Geoffrey's cheek.

From the main room, Mary's voice calls softly, "Boys? There's breakfast when you're ready."

The four exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them—the reluctance to leave the warm cocoon of their shared space, the acknowledgment that the day must begin eventually, the promise that this moment can be recaptured later.

Adam sits up first, Eli following suit, their movements in perfect synchrony as always. As Geoffrey and Sam rise from their makeshift bed on the floor, Adam feels a rush of certainty that this is only the first of many mornings they will share, the beginning of a friendship that will grow alongside the deep love he and Eli have built.

In this moment, surrounded by those who care for him, Adam feels the fullness of his good fortune. The memories of the ship—the darkness, the fear, the constant threat of pain—seem to belong to another life entirely. Here, in this small cottage by the sea, with Eli at his side and new friends to share their days, Adam has found not just safety or comfort, but joy—pure and uncomplicated, as bright as the summer sun now streaming through the window.

---

The memory comes to Geoffrey like a wave – gentle but insistent, washing over him as he sits beside Sam on the moonlit beach. Three years earlier, his world had shattered when his mother Agnes died, leaving a hollow space in the large house that echoed with every step his father took. Geoffrey was ten then, his grief a constant companion that followed him from room to room, a shadow that wouldn't fade even in the brightest sunlight.

"You need to eat something," his father would say, placing a bowl of stew before him, the vegetables floating like tiny ships lost at sea. Geoffrey would nod and try, for his father's sake, but food had lost its taste, turned to ash on his tongue.

Thomas Atwood watches his son with worried eyes that seem to have aged years in mere weeks. One evening, as they sit by the fire, Thomas clears his throat. "I visited the church orphanage today," he says, his voice careful, measured. "There's a boy there, about your age. His name is Sam Miller."

Geoffrey stares into the flames, only half-listening. The fire reminds him of his mother's hair, copper and gold in the sunlight.

"I thought perhaps..." Thomas continues, "perhaps he could come live with us. Be a brother to you."

The word "brother" pulls Geoffrey's attention from the fire. He looks up at his father, confusion written across his face. "A brother?"

"Yes," Thomas says, reaching out to place a hand on Geoffrey's shoulder. "A friend, someone for you to talk to. Someone who might understand what it's like to lose a mother."

Geoffrey doesn't answer, but that night, he thinks about the boy from the orphanage. Sam Miller. He wonders what he looks like, what games he likes to play, whether he can climb trees or skip stones across the water.

Three days later, Thomas brings Sam home. The boy stands in their doorway, a small bundle of belongings clutched to his chest, his eyes wide and uncertain. He's small for ten, with hair the color of dark earth after rain and eyes that seem too large for his face.

Geoffrey takes one look at Sam's face – that open, hopeful expression balanced with caution – and something shifts inside him. Later, he would describe it as "falling in love with him with all of my ten-year-old heart," but in that moment, all he knows is that he wants to make Sam smile.

"I'm Geoffrey," he says, stepping forward, holding out his hand the way his father taught him to do when meeting someone important.

Sam takes his hand, and his fingers are warm. "I'm Sam," he says. "I like your house."

That first night, Geoffrey shows Sam to the small room his father has prepared next to his own. Sam sets his bundle down carefully on the bed, unpacking his few possessions with deliberate movements. A wooden top, a smooth stone, a book with a tattered cover.

"You can read?" Geoffrey asks, pointing to the book.

Sam nods. "My mother taught me before she died. Can you?"

"Yes," Geoffrey says, feeling a thread of connection forming between them. "I'll show you my books tomorrow."

But that night, as Geoffrey lies in his bed listening to the unfamiliar sounds of another child breathing in the next room, he can't sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, he pads barefoot to Sam's room and finds the other boy wide awake as well.

"Can't sleep?" Geoffrey whispers.

Sam shakes his head. "It's too quiet here. At the orphanage, there were always noises."

Geoffrey climbs onto the bed beside him. "We could talk until we get sleepy."

And they do. They talk about their mothers – both lost to illness – and about the games they like to play, and about the sea that Geoffrey loves so much. They talk until their eyes grow heavy, and Geoffrey doesn't return to his own bed.

When Thomas finds them in the morning, curled together like puppies, he doesn't have the heart to separate them. From that night on, the boys share a bed, staying up half the night whispering stories and secrets, waking tangled in each other's arms.

---

Days turn to weeks, and weeks to months, and the boys become inseparable. Where Geoffrey goes, Sam follows, and where Sam leads, Geoffrey is never far behind. They explore the village together, race along the shoreline, build a secret fort in the woods where they keep treasures – interesting shells, smooth stones, a bird's feather.

Thomas watches the transformation in his son with grateful eyes. Geoffrey's laughter returns, filling the house that had grown too quiet. His appetite improves, and the shadows beneath his eyes fade. Sam, too, blossoms under the warmth of family, growing more confident, more talkative.

"They're good for each other," Thomas tells Mary Shepherd one day as she delivers herbs for his cooking. "Better than I could have hoped."

When the boys turn eleven, Thomas presents them each with a gittern – beautiful wooden instruments with strings that catch the light. "Your mother loved music," he tells Geoffrey, his voice thick with memory. "She would want you to learn."

The boys take to the instruments with surprising dedication. They practice until their fingertips grow calloused, teaching each other what they learn, composing simple songs together. Within months, they can play well enough that villagers stop to listen when they practice on the front step of the house.

"You have a gift," Thomas tells them, pride evident in his voice. "Both of you."

At night, in the safety of their shared bed, Geoffrey often thinks about how much his life has changed since Sam arrived. The hollow space his mother left still exists, but it's no longer empty – it's filled with friendship and music and the comfort of having someone who understands without words.

"You're the best present my father ever gave me," Geoffrey whispers one night, thinking Sam is asleep.

But Sam's eyes open, reflecting the moonlight that filters through their window. "And you're the best thing that ever happened to me," he replies, his voice soft but certain. "I'd follow you anywhere, Geoffrey."

Geoffrey reaches out, finding Sam's hand in the darkness. "You won't have to," he promises. "Wherever we go, we'll be together."

They fall asleep like that, hands clasped between them, breathing in rhythm, their heartbeats synchronized like the songs they play together on their gitterns – different notes creating a single harmony that fills the room, fills the hollow spaces, fills their world.

---

Sam Miller has never been able to keep his opinions to himself – especially around Geoffrey. It's just after dawn, and they're arguing about the best spot to catch fish as they make their way down to the shore, their gitterns strapped to their backs. The morning air is cool against Sam's face, but his words are warm with the familiar rhythm of their bickering. "You're being stubborn," he tells Geoffrey, nudging him with an elbow. "The eastern cove always has better fish this time of year."

"Not when the tide's this low," Geoffrey counters, his voice carrying that hint of authority that both annoys and endears him to Sam. "Trust me, Sammy. The western rocks will be better today."

"You said that last week, and we caught nothing but seaweed and an old boot." Sam kicks a pebble along the path, watching it bounce ahead of them. "But fine, we'll try your rocks again. When we're hungry tonight, I'll remind you whose idea it was."

Geoffrey grins, slinging an arm around Sam's shoulders. "If we catch nothing, I'll play that song you like for a whole hour without complaining."

"The one you say is too simple?" Sam challenges, already feeling his irritation melting away under Geoffrey's touch.

"The very one," Geoffrey confirms with an exaggerated sigh. "Though I still think the bridge needs work."

Sam rolls his eyes but leans into Geoffrey's side as they walk. This is how it always goes between them – little disagreements that flare up and fade just as quickly, never leaving any lasting mark on their friendship. In the three years since Sam came to live with the Atwoods, they've argued about everything from the best way to tie a fishing knot to the correct tempo for their favorite songs. But none of it matters, not really. Not when compared to the solid certainty Sam feels whenever Geoffrey is near.

The path narrows as they approach the shore, forcing them to walk single file. Sam follows Geoffrey, watching the way the morning light catches in his friend's hair, turning the brown to gold at the edges. Sometimes, especially in moments like this, the fullness of his feelings for Geoffrey overwhelms him – a tide of emotion that rises in his chest until he can barely breathe with it.

They reach the western rocks, setting down their gitterns carefully on dry stone before unpacking their fishing gear. The sea stretches before them, vast and blue-green in the morning light, waves breaking against the rocks in rhythmic crashes.

"What would you do if I fell in?" Sam asks suddenly, the question slipping out before he can stop it. He's perched on a rock just above the water, legs dangling, toes occasionally brushed by spray.

Geoffrey looks up from baiting his hook, brow furrowed. "What kind of question is that? I'd pull you out, of course."

"But what if you couldn't?" Sam persists, suddenly needing to know. "What if I was just... gone?"

Something shifts in Geoffrey's expression – concern replacing confusion. He sets down his fishing line and moves closer to Sam. "That's not going to happen."

"But if it did," Sam insists, not understanding himself why he's pushing this. "If I was gone, what would you do?"

Geoffrey is quiet for a long moment, his eyes on the horizon. "I don't know," he finally says, his voice low and serious. "I can't imagine a world without you in it, Sammy. I don't want to try."

The honest vulnerability in Geoffrey's voice makes Sam's chest tight. "If I ever lost you," he says, the words coming out in a rush, "I'd drown myself in the sea. I couldn't bear it, Geoff. Living without you."

Geoffrey's head snaps up, his eyes wide with alarm. He moves with surprising speed, grabbing Sam's arms, pulling him back from the edge of the rock. "Don't you ever say that," he says fiercely. "Don't you ever even think it."

And then, before Sam can respond, Geoffrey is kissing him – a clumsy, desperate press of lips that sends heat flooding through Sam's entire body. It lasts only seconds, but when Geoffrey pulls back, both boys are breathing hard, staring at each other with wide eyes.

"Don't you ever drown yourself, Sammy!" Geoffrey says, still gripping Sam's arms tightly, as if afraid he might still slip away into the water.

Sam blinks, stunned not by Geoffrey's words but by the kiss – his first, their first – and by the intensity of feeling that accompanied it. "I didn't mean..." he starts, then swallows hard and tries again. "As long as you are with me, I feel like I could live forever. But don't you ever leave me!"

"I won't. Not ever."

---

Geoffrey can't stop watching Sam. All through dinner, while helping with dishes, and now as they bid his father goodnight, his eyes keep returning to Sam's face, his hands, the casual way he moves through the cottage. Each glimpse feels precious somehow, as if Sam might vanish between one blink and the next. The thought sends a cold tremor through Geoffrey's chest, despite the summer warmth that fills the evening air.

"Sleep well, boys," his father says, looking up briefly from his ledger at the kitchen table. "Don't stay up all night talking."

"We won't," Sam promises with that easy smile that makes Geoffrey's heart twist strangely. "Goodnight, Thomas."

Geoffrey nods, not trusting his voice at the moment. He follows Sam down the short hallway to their room, watching the way Sam's shoulders move beneath his thin shirt, how his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck where sweat has dampened it in the summer heat.

Their room is small but comfortable, with a bed they've shared since that first night Sam came to live with them, despite the unused bedroom next door that was intended to be Sam's. It doesn't seem strange to Geoffrey – it never has. Having Sam close has always felt right, necessary even. But now, after that desperate kiss by the sea earlier today, something has shifted. The air between them feels charged, like the atmosphere before a storm.

Geoffrey closes the door behind them, his movements slow and deliberate. Sam's words from the rocks echo in his mind: "If I ever lost you, I'd drown myself in the sea. I couldn't bear it, Geoff. Living without you."

The thought of Sam – vibrant, laughing Sam – willingly slipping beneath the waves makes Geoffrey's stomach clench painfully. He's seen bodies washed ashore after storms, bloated and pale, no longer resembling the people they once were. The image of Sam like that...

"You're looking at me like I just sprouted a tail and a third head," Sam says, breaking into Geoffrey's dark thoughts. "What is it?"

Geoffrey shakes his head, moving to the window. He pushes it open, letting in the night air. It's almost too warm, carrying the scent of salt and summer flowers. In the distance, he can hear the steady rhythm of waves against the shore. The same sea that Sam spoke of drowning himself in.

"Nothing," he finally says, the word sounding hollow even to his own ears.

Behind him, he hears the rustle of fabric as Sam changes for bed. They've done this hundreds of times, changing in the same room without thought, but tonight Geoffrey keeps his back turned, suddenly aware of a new shyness between them.

"It's too hot for a nightshirt," Sam declares. "I'm just wearing braies tonight."

Geoffrey turns then, unable to help himself. Sam stands in the moonlight streaming through the window, his chest bare, skin golden-brown from days spent in the sun. A strange, tight feeling spreads through Geoffrey's chest at the sight.

"I keep thinking about what you said," Geoffrey admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "About drowning yourself if you lost me."

Sam's expression softens. "Oh."

"Don't say things like that," Geoffrey continues, his voice stronger now. "Don't even think them."

He moves toward his own clothes, pulling his shirt over his head with quick, almost angry movements. His mind is full of all the ways people leave – his mother taken by fever, other villagers lost to accidents or raids or the unpredictable sea. And then there was Eli, a boy their age who simply vanished one day.

"Do you remember Eli?" Geoffrey asks suddenly. "The boy who disappeared."

Sam nods, sitting on the edge of their bed. "Of course. Everyone thought he ran away, but his mother always insisted he wouldn't leave her."

"He was just gone," Geoffrey says, the words tasting bitter. "One day here, the next..." He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. "People disappear, Sammy. They die. We never see them again."

"Geoffrey," Sam says, his voice gentle. "What's this really about?"

Geoffrey stands very still, aware of his own heartbeat, of Sam's eyes on him. "I never thought about losing you before," he admits. "Not really. You've been here for so long, it's like... like you've always been here. But then you said that about drowning yourself, and suddenly all I can think about is how many ways I could lose you."

The admission seems to hang in the air between them. Geoffrey pulls on his nightshirt, then pauses, looking at Sam sitting there in just his braies. The room is too warm, the air too thick. He's sweating already.

"What it would do to me, losing you," Geoffrey continues, the words coming easier now. "When my mother died, I thought nothing could hurt worse than that. But losing you would... it would destroy me, Sammy. It would be a thousand times worse."

Sam is watching him, eyes wide and dark in the dim light. There's something in his expression Geoffrey can't quite read – surprise, perhaps, or something deeper.

"You aren't going to lose me," Sam says, but the words don't ease the tightness in Geoffrey's chest.

He thinks of Eli again, of the rumors about his sudden disappearance. Of other children who vanished from nearby villages. Of illness that can strike without warning, the way it took his mother. The way it took Sam's mother too.

"You don't know that," Geoffrey says, his voice breaking slightly. "No one knows what's going to happen. That's what scares me."

Geoffrey looks down at his nightshirt, feeling the sweat already gathering beneath it. It sticks to his back uncomfortably. Sam is right – it's too warm for this. But the decision to remove it feels weighted with meaning tonight, different from all the other summer nights they've slept shirtless due to the heat.

Sam notices his hesitation. "Geoffrey? What are you thinking about so hard?"

Geoffrey looks up, meeting Sam's eyes across the small room. The boy who came into his life when they were both broken by loss. The boy who became his brother, his best friend, and now something more – something they don't yet have words for.

"I'm thinking," Geoffrey says slowly, "that I can't lose what I never let go of."

And with that cryptic statement, he pulls his nightshirt back over his head, leaving his chest bare to match Sam's. The summer air touches his skin like a caress, but it's Sam's gaze that makes him tremble slightly as they both stand there, on the threshold of something new.

Sam notices the trembling in Geoffrey's hands as he stands there shirtless in the moonlight. This isn't their usual nighttime routine of playful shoving and whispered jokes. Something has shifted between them since that kiss by the sea. The air feels different, charged with an emotion Sam can't quite name but recognizes deep in his bones. For once, he doesn't reach for a joke to break the tension. Some moments deserve the weight of silence.

Geoffrey's eyes haven't left him, that same intense gaze that's been following him all evening. Sam feels both seen and vulnerable under that look, but he doesn't shy away from it. Instead, he meets it directly, letting Geoffrey see whatever he needs to see.

"I just never seriously thought about losing you, Sammy," Geoffrey says softly, his voice barely audible above the distant sound of waves. "What it would do to me."

The words hang in the warm summer air between them. On any other night, Sam might deflect with humor – it's his natural defense against emotions too big to handle. But the raw honesty in Geoffrey's voice demands something different, something equally true in return.

Sam moves toward their bed, pulling back the light summer blanket. The sheets will be too warm against their skin, but they need the comfort of their familiar nest more than they need physical comfort tonight. He sits on the edge of the mattress and pats the space beside him.

"Come here," he says simply.

Geoffrey hesitates for just a moment before joining him. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and Sam feels the heat radiating from Geoffrey's bare skin even before they touch. They both slide under the thin sheet, lying face to face in the silver puddle of moonlight that spills through the open window.

For a long moment, they just look at each other. Sam studies the face he knows better than his own – the slight furrow between Geoffrey's brows – Sam calls it his "worry dent." In spite of Geoffrey's tender years, that worry dent is always there.

Sam closes the distance between them, shifting closer until their knees touch, until he can feel Geoffrey's breath against his face. This close, he can see the fear in Geoffrey's eyes, a fear Sam understands too well. They've both lost mothers. They both know how quickly loved ones can vanish.

"I promise, Geoffy," Sam whispers, reaching out to place his palm against Geoffrey's cheek. "I'm not going away. You're not going to lose me like you lost your mom."

Geoffrey leans into him.

"I'll never leave you, I swear," Sam continues, his voice steady despite the tremor in his chest. "I love you."

The words have lived inside him for so long that saying them aloud feels like finally exhaling after holding his breath. Simple words, but they carry the weight of everything he feels for the boy lying beside him – his best friend, his brother in all but blood, and now something more.

Without hesitation, Sam moves even closer, wrapping his arms around Geoffrey and pulling him into an embrace. Their bare chests press together, skin against skin, heartbeats finding a matching rhythm. He feels Geoffrey's breath hitch, and then to his surprise, moisture against his shoulder.

Tears. Geoffrey is crying.

In all their years together, Sam has rarely seen Geoffrey cry. Not since those early days after his mother died. Geoffrey is always the strong one, the steady one, the one who leads while Sam follows with jokes and songs. Seeing him vulnerable like this unlocks something in Sam's chest – a fierce protectiveness, a tenderness he didn't know he possessed.

"It's okay," Sam murmurs, running his hand along Geoffrey's back in soothing circles. He presses his lips against Geoffrey's temple, tasting salt. "It's okay, baby."

The endearment slips out without thought, new and strange on his tongue but somehow right. Geoffrey's arms tighten around him in response, his face pressed into the curve of Sam's neck. Sam feels the wetness of tears, the trembling of Geoffrey's shoulders as he silently cries.

"I'm here," Sam continues, his voice a gentle murmur against Geoffrey's hair. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. Not ever."

Gradually, Geoffrey's breathing steadies. He pulls back just enough to look at Sam's face, his eyes shining with tears in the moonlight. There's such vulnerability in that gaze that Sam feels his own eyes grow damp in response.

"I love you, too, Sammy," Geoffrey whispers, the words sounding like both a confession and a promise.

Then Geoffrey is kissing him, not with the desperate urgency of their first kiss by the sea, but with a gentle intentionality that makes Sam's heart flutter wildly in his chest. His lips are soft despite the salt of tears, and Sam responds with equal gentleness, cupping Geoffrey's face between his hands as if holding something infinitely precious.

The kiss deepens, and Sam feels himself falling into a new kind of closeness, something that transcends the brotherhood they've shared for years. Their bodies press together, seeking comfort and connection in the dark. Hands explore with tentative wonder, discovering new territories of closeness.

They've always been physically affectionate – sleeping tangled together since childhood, sharing space without thought – but this is different. Each touch carries meaning, each shared breath a new promise. They move together with a combination of nervousness and certainty, learning each other in ways they never have before.

Later, as the night deepens around them and the twin moons rise higher in the sky, Sam holds Geoffrey against his chest, listening to his steady breathing. Geoffrey's arm is draped across Sam's waist, his head tucked beneath Sam's chin. The fear that had haunted Geoffrey's eyes earlier has faded, replaced by a peaceful exhaustion.

Sam presses a kiss to the top of Geoffrey's head, marveling at how completely his heart belongs to this boy. They've crossed some invisible threshold tonight, and there's no going back. Not that Sam wants to. This is where he belongs – where they both belong. Together.

In just a few days, their world will expand in ways neither of them can imagine. They'll meet two boys on the beach who carry shadows in their eyes and a bond between them that mirrors their own. But for tonight, their world consists only of this bed, this room, this perfect understanding between them. And for Sam, that's more than enough.

---

Geoffrey watches Eli and Adam settle on the sand beside them, their movements perfectly synchronized, hands finding each other's without seeming to look. It's been only a few weeks since they first met on this same stretch of beach, but something about them immediately felt familiar to Geoffrey. He catches Sam's eye across the small fire they've built, reading his thoughts as easily as breathing: These boys are like us. We're not alone.

"The stars are clearer tonight," Eli comments, his voice soft as he looks upward at the vast sky where countless points of light puncture the darkness. Adam nods in agreement, his shoulder pressed against Eli's in that way they always seem to touch – like they're anchoring each other to the earth.

Geoffrey follows their gaze upward, but his thoughts remain on the ground, on this circle of boys illuminated by flickering firelight. For years, he and Sam had assumed they were the only two boys of their kind in the whole world. Different. Special. A pair set apart from others.

Then Eli and Adam appeared on their beach that night, hands clasped, moving as one, their eyes carrying shadows no thirteen-year-old should know. And Geoffrey had recognized something in them immediately – a reflection of what he and Sam share, a bond forged in both love and survival.

"I never thought we'd meet anyone else like us," Sam says suddenly, giving voice to Geoffrey's thoughts in that uncanny way he has. He's passing around honeycakes, the sweet scent mingling with salt air and woodsmoke. "I mean, boys who... who are together like we are."

Adam's eyes meet Sam's across the fire, understanding passing between them. "We didn't either," he admits. "On the ship, we had to hide it. Being close was..." His voice trails off, but his hand tightens around Eli's.

"Dangerous," Eli finishes for him. "But necessary."

Geoffrey nods, feeling a wave of protectiveness surge through him. In the weeks since they've known Eli and Adam, he's pieced together fragments of their story – the slave ship, the escape, the long journey home. The scars that mark not just their bodies but their spirits. It makes what he and Sam share seem almost charmed by comparison – their love growing in safety, nurtured rather than threatened.

"Well, you don't have to hide anything here," Sam says firmly, passing a honeycake to Adam. "Not with us."

That first night on the beach had stretched into dawn as the four boys talked, drawn together by an immediate recognition of kindred spirits. Since then, they've been inseparable – Eli and Adam slipping easily into the rhythm Geoffrey and Sam had established over years. What began as friendship quickened into something deeper, a brotherhood that feels as natural as breathing.

"Remember that day at the tide pools?" Geoffrey asks, smiling at the memory. "When Sam fell in and came up covered in seaweed?"

"Like some kind of sea monster," Eli adds, a rare grin lighting his face. "And then Adam..."

"Pushed you in too," Sam finishes, pointing accusingly at Geoffrey. "For laughing at me!"

They all laugh now, the sound carried away on the night breeze. These are the moments that have knit them together – days spent exploring the coastline, teaching Eli and Adam their favorite fishing spots, showing them secret places in the forest. Nights like this one, sharing food and stories around a small fire, playing music on the gitterns they've been teaching Eli and Adam to play.

"My father says you're welcome to stay with us," Geoffrey offers, not for the first time. "There's room."

But Eli shakes his head, though his expression remains warm. "Mary needs us," he says simply. "And we need her."

Mary Shepherd. Geoffrey's chest fills with warmth at the thought of her – the woman who has somehow become a mother to all of them. In the beginning, he and Sam had only known her as Eli's mother, the woman who waited two years for her son's return. But from the first day Geoffrey and Sam visited the cottage, something had clicked into place.

"She's making that fish stew tomorrow," Adam says, his voice carrying a note of anticipation. "The one with the herbs."

"And fresh bread," Sam adds, closing his eyes as if he can already smell it. "No one makes bread like Mary."

Geoffrey smiles, thinking of Mary's cottage – how it's become a second home to him and Sam. How she treats them like her own, ruffling their hair when she passes, asking about their day, listening with genuine interest to their stories and songs. They spend as much time there as they do at their own house now, drawn by the warmth that fills every corner of that small space.

"She said I remind her of her sister," Sam says quietly. "The one who died when they were young."

"She told me I have her husband's laugh," Geoffrey adds. "She said it's good to hear it in her house again."

These small connections matter – these threads that bind them to Mary, to each other, creating a tapestry of belonging that grows richer with each passing day. Geoffrey's father is still his father, still important, but busy with his merchant business. Mary has time for them, makes time for them, creating space in her life and her heart.

"I never thought we'd have this," Geoffrey admits, poking at the fire with a stick, watching sparks rise toward the stars. "A family that we chose. That chose us back."

"A mother," Sam adds softly. "Since mine died, I never thought..."

"She has enough love for all of us," Eli says with quiet certainty. "She always says there's room in her heart for more."

Adam nods, leaning his head against Eli's shoulder. "And in her cottage. Though it's getting crowded with all four of us there."

"Good crowded," Sam says firmly. "The best kind."

Geoffrey looks around at their small circle – at Sam, his first love, his constant companion; at Eli and Adam, who carried such darkness yet still found their way to light. At the fire between them, small but steady, casting warmth against the night chill. This is what family feels like, he thinks. Not just the one you're born to, but the one you build, piece by piece, person by person.

He reaches for Sam's hand, finding it without having to look, their fingers intertwining with practiced ease. Across the fire, Eli is teaching Adam a new chord on the gittern, their heads bent close together, firelight dancing across their faces. The twin moons hang above them, casting silver light on the sea, on the sand, on the four boys who have found in each other exactly what they needed.

Home.

---

Night settles over the coastal village like a gentle hand, drawing curtains of darkness across sky and sea. Within Mary's cottage, the fire has burned down to embers that cast a soft orange glow across the worn wooden floor. The only sounds are the distant rhythm of waves against the cliffs, the occasional pop from the fireplace, and the soft, steady breathing of four boys huddled together in sleep within the small alcove that was once meant for just one.

They sleep as puppies do, limbs tangled, heads resting against chests and shoulders, bare skin touching bare skin in the innocent intimacy of complete trust. Eli and Adam form the center of this knot of boyhood, their positions as familiar to each other as their own heartbeats—Adam's head tucked beneath Eli's chin, Eli's arm wrapped protectively around Adam's waist. Their breathing syncs in the way it has since those terrible nights aboard the Nar, when each exhale was a silent promise: we survived another day together.

Close beside them sleep Geoffrey and Sam—newer additions to their circle but no less essential now. Geoffrey's arm is draped over both Sam and Adam in unconscious guardianship. Sam curls against Geoffrey's front, his round face peaceful in sleep, dark lashes resting against cheeks still softened by youth. Eli's arm is across Adam, his hand resting upon Sam's side.

They wear only thin cotton sleep pants, their upper bodies bare in the warm Summer night. The heat they generate together is almost too warm—four hearts, four sets of lungs, four souls that have somehow recognized each other as kindred.

No nightmares disturb their rest tonight. There was a time, not so many weeks ago, when sleep was battlefield rather than sanctuary for Eli and Adam. They would wake gasping, eyes wide with remembered terror, bodies slick with cold sweat. Mary would hear them from her room and come with warm milk and gentle hands, sitting beside them until the past loosened its grip on their minds. Those nights have grown less frequent, and now with Geoffrey and Sam sharing their space, the nightmares come rarely, if at all.

"You're the ones who escaped the pirate ship," Geoffrey had said, not a question but a statement of fact, his eyes serious but kind.

Eli had tensed, ready to protect Adam from unwanted questions or worse, pity. But there had been nothing of either in Geoffrey's frank gaze or in Sam's open face beside him.

"We heard about you from the fishermen," Sam had added, rocking slightly on his feet with contained energy. "They said you survived a storm at sea. That's amazing."

What could have been an awkward encounter became instead the foundation of something essential. Geoffrey and Sam brought with them knowledge of the village, secret swimming spots, the best trees for climbing. More importantly, they brought normality—treating Eli and Adam not as victims to be handled carefully, but as friends to be teased, challenged, included.

Mary had welcomed the boys into her home with the same open heart that had embraced Adam. Her cottage, once quiet with just Eli and herself, then warmed by Adam's addition, now fills daily with the sounds of four boys living fully—their laughter, their occasional squabbles that dissolve as quickly as they form, their endless appetites that keep her baking bread and simmering stews far more often than before.

The alcove where they now sleep had been Eli's childhood bed, expanded when Adam arrived to accommodate them both. When Geoffrey and Sam began staying over—first occasionally, then nearly every night—Mary had helped the boys rearrange the space, adding more blankets, more pillows. She never questions why all four choose to sleep in one tangle rather than spread out more comfortably. She understands that for boys who have known loss and fear, physical closeness is a language of safety.

In sleep, their differences fade. Awake, each has his distinct personality: Eli with his quiet protectiveness, Adam with his thoughtful intensity, Geoffrey with his natural leadership, Sam with his quick laugh and quicker mind. Together, they create a balance that seems somehow preordained, as if they were meant to find each other.

Mary pauses in the doorway of her own room, casting one last glance at the sleeping boys before retiring. The sight fills her heart almost to bursting—these children who have brought such unexpected joy to her later years. After losing Eli to the pirates, she had lived in a half-world of grief and hope, going through the motions of life while waiting for news that never came. His return was miracle enough. The family that has formed since then feels like more blessing than any one person deserves.

She moves quietly to the alcove, adjusting a blanket that has slipped down, revealing Sam's shoulder. Her hand passes gently over each tousled head—Geoffrey's curly brown hair, Eli's lighter waves, Adam's black locks, Sam's dark mop. A silent benediction, a mother's blessing upon each boy whether born to her or claimed by her heart.

Tomorrow they will wake and fill her cottage with movement and noise. They will devour breakfast like they're still making up for years of hunger, which in Eli and Adam's case, they are. They will race to finish chores so they can explore the tide pools or fish from the cliffs or help the village carpenter, who has taken an interest in teaching them his trade. They will return sun-browned and hungry again, full of stories and small treasures to share.

For now, they sleep, unaware that far out at sea, dragons have removed a shadow from their future. They don't know that the ship which features in their fading nightmares now lies in pieces on the ocean floor, that the men who hurt them can never hurt another child. Perhaps they never need to know. Perhaps it's enough that they sleep without fear, wrapped in the safety of each other's arms and Mary's loving care.

In their small alcove in a cottage by the sea, four boys breathe in unison, their hearts beating a steady rhythm of peace. The world outside may hold its dangers still, but here in this haven they have created together, they are brothers in all the ways that matter, bound by choice rather than blood, by love rather than obligation. And in this moment, that is all they need to be.

---

Summer settles over the village like a warm blanket, and with it comes a new rhythm to life in Mary's cottage. Eli wakes each morning to the sound of quiet laughter—Geoffrey and Sam helping his mother prepare breakfast, Adam's voice joining theirs in easy conversation. What began as occasional visits after that night on the beach has transformed into something more permanent, the four of them gravitating toward each other with the inevitability of tides pulling at the shore. Eli can't pinpoint exactly when Geoffrey and Sam began staying more nights than not, only that Mary's cottage has expanded somehow to hold them all, stretching at the seams to accommodate this unexpected family they've created together.

Mary moves through the kitchen, handing Sam a bowl to stir while Geoffrey cuts bread, her movements so natural with them it's as if they've always been here. There's flour on Sam's nose and Geoffrey's curls are still mussed from sleep, but the way Mary ruffles his hair as she passes—that's the same gesture she uses with Eli and Adam. Her sons, all four of them now, though no blood connects them beyond the choice to belong to each other.

"Did you sleep well?" Adam asks, sliding onto the bench beside Eli, their shoulders touching in that familiar way that still sends warmth spreading through Eli's chest.

"Better than I have in years," Eli answers honestly.

It's true. The nightmares that plagued him and Adam in those first weeks after their return have grown less frequent, less intense. Sometimes they still come—memories of the ship twisted into new horrors—but they don't grip him the way they once did. Not since Geoffrey and Sam began staying, since four bodies rather than two have shared the sleeping space Mary helped them create by expanding the alcove with salvaged wood and extra blankets.

"Geoffrey's father asked when he's coming home again," Mary mentions casually as she places a steaming pot of porridge on the table. "I told him his son is welcome here as long as he wishes to stay."

Geoffrey looks up, something like relief crossing his features. "I love my dad," he says, "but this feels more like. . ."

"Home," Sam finishes, the way they complete each other's sentences as natural as breathing. "We still visit our dad, but being here with all of you is. . ."

"Different," Geoffrey concludes. "It's where we're meant to be."

Eli watches Mary's face soften at these words, sees how she blinks rapidly before turning back to the hearth. Two years she spent alone, waiting and hoping for his return. Now her home overflows with young voices and laughter, with four boys who track sand across her floors and eat as if perpetually starving. She looks younger somehow, the lines of worry that marked her face upon their return softening day by day.

"Well," she says, her voice warm as she sets down a jar of honey, "I've never been happier to have my cottage bursting at the seams."

After breakfast, they scatter to their tasks for the day—Eli and Adam to fish, Geoffrey and Sam to gather herbs from the hillside. But unlike the routines of the ship, where separation meant fear, they part with easy smiles, secure in the knowledge that evening will find them together again around Mary's table, sharing stories of their day.

Evening brings them all back together, and after supper, they settle into what has become their nightly arrangement—a nest of blankets and pillows in the expanded alcove, bodies fitting together with the easy familiarity of those who have learned each other's shapes. Adam curls against Eli's chest, Sam nestles close to Adam's back, and Geoffrey completes the circle, his arm long enough to reach across all three of them.

This is how they sleep now, tangled together like a litter of puppies, limbs intertwined, the rise and fall of four breathing patterns gradually synchronizing in the darkness. It feels right in a way Eli can't articulate—as if the spaces between them were designed specifically for each other to fill.

Sleep comes easily most nights now. But not all.

The dream begins as it always does—Adam kneeling on the deck, hands bound behind him, two Nar sailors circling like vultures. Eli watches, immobilized by other sailors holding him back, as one of the men draws a knife, its blade catching sunlight in a way that turns Eli's stomach. The sailor presses the blade to Adam's chest, drawing a thin line of blood as Adam's eyes find Eli's, filled with a plea he can't answer.

"Watch," the sailor hisses, pressing deeper. "Watch what happens to boys who try to escape."

The knife moves again, and Adam's scream tears through the dream, jolting Eli awake with a muffled cry that he tries to swallow back too late. His heart pounds against his ribs, sweat cools on his skin despite the warm night air. For a moment, he's trapped between worlds—the ship's deck beneath him, the cottage's thatched ceiling above.

"Eli." Adam's voice cuts through the disorientation, his hand finding Eli's in the darkness. "I'm here. I'm safe. We're home."

But it's not just Adam who stirs. Geoffrey shifts beside them, his hand moving to Eli's shoulder, warm and solid. "Another nightmare?" he asks, no judgment in his voice, only concern.

"The knife one," Eli manages, his throat tight. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Don't apologize," Sam murmurs, already moving closer, his fingers finding Eli's other hand, squeezing gently. "That's what we're here for."

Adam pulls Eli closer, tucking Eli's head beneath his chin in a reversal of their usual position. Geoffrey's hand moves to Eli's back, rubbing in slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Sam's fingers remain intertwined with Eli's, his thumb tracing patterns on Eli's palm.

"It's the second time I've had this one," Eli confesses, the words easier to speak in darkness. "It feels so real."

"But it's not," Adam reminds him. "The Nar never caught us. We escaped. We're home."

"And you're not alone," Geoffrey adds, his voice carrying the calm certainty that seems to be his gift. "Not ever again."

"We've got you," Sam says, shifting to press his forehead against Eli's shoulder, completing the circle of contact around him.

The terror of the dream recedes like mist under morning sun, replaced by the solid reality of these three boys who hold him as if he's something precious. Eli feels his breathing slow, matching Adam's steady rhythm. The ship's deck fades from his mind, replaced by the familiar scents of the cottage—dried herbs hanging from the rafters, the lingering aroma of the evening's fish stew, the clean smell of the boys themselves.

"Better?" Adam whispers against his hair.

Eli nods, already feeling sleep tugging at him again, a dreamless darkness that promises rest rather than torment. "Better," he confirms.

As he drifts back toward sleep, Eli is aware of Adam's heartbeat against his ear, Sam's hand still holding his, Geoffrey's breath warm against his neck. His last conscious thought before sleep reclaims him is that he wouldn't trade this—these three boys, his mother humming in the next room, this home they've created together—for anything in all the worlds that might exist beneath the countless stars above them.

---

Morning sun streams through the cottage windows as Eli kneels in the garden beside Geoffrey, their hands working in tandem to pull weeds from between the rows of vegetables. Nearby, Adam and Sam stake the climbing beans that have begun to reach for the sky, their voices a pleasant murmur beneath the singing of birds. Mary moves between them all, offering water and gentle guidance, her face bright with contentment. The garden has never looked so well-tended, Eli thinks, not even before he was taken—four sets of hands make quick work of tasks that once took days.

"Mind the carrot tops," Mary reminds, passing behind Eli with a basket of cut herbs. "They're delicate until they get their true leaves."

Geoffrey reaches past Eli to gently free a carrot seedling from an encroaching weed. "Like this?" he asks, his fingers deft and careful.

"Perfect," Mary nods, and Eli catches the pride in her voice—the same tone she uses when he or Adam master a task she's teaching. The way she's absorbed Geoffrey and Sam into her heart seems as natural as breathing, their presence filling spaces in her life that Eli hadn't realized were empty.

They work in comfortable rhythm, passing tools without needing to ask, anticipating each other's movements in the garden rows. Sam hums as he works, a melody that weaves through the morning air, occasionally joined by Geoffrey who seems to know exactly when to harmonize. Adam catches Eli's eye across the garden and smiles, a private moment of shared joy that still makes Eli's heart skip.

"The beans will be ready to harvest soon," Adam observes, running his fingers along a stem. "Another week, maybe?"

"Just in time for the midsummer gathering," Mary says. "We'll have plenty to contribute to the village meal."

By midday, the garden is weeded and watered, the herbs hung to dry, and their stomachs growling for the lunch Mary has prepared—fresh bread and soft cheese, with early berries from the bushes at the edge of the property. They eat in the shade of the large oak tree behind the cottage, passing food between them with the easy familiarity of a family.

"We should catch fish for tonight," Sam suggests, leaning back against the tree trunk, his shoulder pressing against Geoffrey's. "The tide will be perfect after lunch."

"Race you to the cove," Adam challenges, already gathering the remains of his lunch.

They take the familiar path to the small, sheltered cove where fishing is best, carrying nets and lines Mary has mended. The summer heat makes the cool sea air a welcome relief as they reach the shore. They work together with practiced efficiency—Eli and Adam casting the net while Geoffrey and Sam manage the lines, calling to each other across the water when fish are spotted.

"There!" Sam points to a silver flash beneath the surface. "Cast to the left!"

Eli and Adam pivot together, the net spinning out in a perfect arc to land where Sam indicated. They pull it back laden with gleaming fish, enough to feed all five of them with some left to salt for later. The work is nothing like the forced labor of the ship—here, they choose to provide for their family, their efforts rewarded with smiles rather than lashes.

With the day's fishing done early, they have time before the catch needs to be taken home. The open stretch of beach beckons, and soon they abandon their careful work for play. It begins with Geoffrey playfully shoving Sam, who retaliates by tackling him into the shallow surf. Adam laughs and joins the fray, pulling Geoffrey's legs out from under him, and before Eli quite realizes what's happening, he too is dragged into a tangle of limbs and laughter.

They wrestle in the shallows, careful despite their enthusiasm, mindful of each other's limits. When Adam pins Eli briefly, his grip is gentle, nothing like the restraints they once knew. When Geoffrey manages to duck away from Sam's grasp, his triumphant laugh holds nothing but joy. They're just boys playing, the shadow of the ship growing fainter with each shared moment of unguarded happiness.

The wrestling evolves into an impromptu game of football, using a ball fashioned from wound rags that Geoffrey pulls from his pack. "I made it last night," he explains, bouncing it on his knee. "Thought we might need it today."

There are no formal teams or rules—just four boys chasing the ball across the sand, calling out to each other, celebrating wildly when someone manages to kick it between the two pieces of driftwood that serve as a makeshift goal. Eli finds himself laughing until his sides ache, his body remembering how to play without restraint or fear.

As the afternoon wanes, they collapse on the sand, breathing hard from their exertions. The ball lies forgotten as they watch clouds drift across the summer sky. It's Sam who begins to sing first—a simple melody that Eli recognizes as a local fishing song, its lyrics telling of the sea's bounty and the joy of return.

Oh, the sea gives all we need here.She feeds our hands and carries us home.The waves may rise and shake us—But we are never never alone.

Geoffrey joins in naturally, his deeper voice finding harmonies that complement Sam's lighter tones. Then Adam adds his voice, slightly rough but true, the three of them creating something beautiful that rises toward the blue expanse above. Eli listens, content to be the audience, his chest full of a quiet happiness that needs no expression.

Until Sam pauses, turning to look at him with a smile. "Your turn, Eli. Sing with us."

Eli shakes his head, suddenly self-conscious. "I can't sing," he demurs. "Not like you three."

"Everyone sings," Sam insists, reaching to nudge Eli's shoulder. "It doesn't matter how it sounds. It matters that you join us."

"Just try," Geoffrey encourages. "No one here to judge but the seagulls, and they sound worse than anyone."

Adam's hand finds Eli's, a silent reassurance. "I was nervous too," he admits. "But it feels good, Eli. Like something inside opens up."

Eli hesitates, then draws a breath as Sam begins the song again. This time, when the chorus comes, he lets his voice join theirs—tentative at first, then with growing confidence. His voice isn't as clear as Sam's or as strong as Geoffrey's, but it fits somehow, adding a fourth note to their harmony that completes rather than disrupts.

"See?" Sam grins when the verse ends. "You've been holding out on us."

"It's not bad," Eli admits, surprised at how natural it felt, how right to add his voice to theirs.

They sing together as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon, songs passing from one to another—old fishing melodies, ballads of heroes and dragons that Geoffrey's father taught him, silly rhymes that make them collapse in laughter when Sam changes the words to something ridiculous . (I once caught a fish that kissed me. It winked, said "Hello!" and sashayed away.)

It strikes Eli, as they gather their fishing gear and head back toward the cottage with the day's catch, how distant the memories of the ship have become. They're still there—he doubts they'll ever fully vanish—but they've receded into shadows, no longer defining his every moment. In their place are these new memories: Adam's laughter as he dodges the ball, Geoffrey's concentrated expression as he knots a fishing line, Sam's voice rising clear above the sound of waves, Mary's smile as she watches the four of them return home together.

Evening finds them around Mary's table, sharing the day's catch and stories of their adventures. Mary listens with evident pleasure, adding her own memories of childhood games and songs. When she sings a verse of an old lullaby, her voice surprisingly sweet, all four boys join in the chorus without hesitation—even Eli, who finds that his earlier shyness has vanished in the safety of this circle.

Night falls, and weariness from the day's activities settles over them as they prepare for bed. They wash quickly at the basin, playfully flicking water at each other until Mary calls for them to settle down. The sleeping alcove welcomes them, blankets arranged in their familiar nest.

Eli slides into his usual place, Adam following to curl against him. Sam and Geoffrey complete the arrangement, their bodies fitting together as if designed for this purpose. The day's sun has left their skin warm, their muscles pleasantly tired from swimming and running and laughter.

"Good night," Mary calls softly from her room.

"Good night," they answer in unison, their voices blending as naturally as they did in song.

As sleep approaches, Eli feels the steady rhythm of Adam's breathing against his chest, the weight of Sam's arm across his side, the brush of Geoffrey's fingers against his shoulder. The bad times on the Nar are slipping further into shadows, unable to maintain their grip in the face of so much light.

---

The midsummer feast spreads across the village green like a living thing, tables groaning with the bounty of early harvests, streams of villagers moving between them with plates and cups and laughter. Eli stands at the edge of it all, shoulder pressed against Adam's, watching Geoffrey chase Sam between the tables with a flower crown held high above his head. The afternoon sun catches in Sam's untamed locks as he dodges around a group of elders, his laughter carrying across the green. Eli feels the smile spread across his face, unstoppable as the tide.

"They're going to knock something over," Adam murmurs, but there's no concern in his voice, only fondness.

"Probably," Eli agrees, leaning imperceptibly closer to Adam's warmth. "But no one will mind today."

He's right—the village hums with celebration, with the relief of summer's arrival after a long spring. Children dart between adults' legs, elderly couples sit on benches with cups of sweet wine, families spread blankets on the grass. The pavilion at the center, decorated with ribbons and early summer flowers, shelters long tables laden with everyone's contributions. Mary's herb bread sits proudly beside jars of honey, roasted meats, and fresh berries still glistening with morning dew.

From the musicians' corner, a simple, clear melody rises above the din of the crowd, weaving into the background music played by the ensemble. Eli catches sight of Tully Kingfisher, a handsome black-haired boy from the village, head bent in concentration over his wooden flute. He pauses for a moment to watch the boy and listen to his melody.

Geoffrey finally catches Sam near the musicians' corner, placing the crown of white flowers atop Sam's unruly hair. Sam pretends to be annoyed, making a face before breaking into a grin and adjusting the crown to sit at a jaunty angle. They turn simultaneously toward Eli and Adam, waving them over with matching expressions of delight.

"Come on," Adam says, reaching for Eli's hand. "They've saved us spots."

They weave through the crowd, nodding to neighbors who call greetings. Eli notices how different this feels from merely weeks before. Then, they had been always on edge, jumping at loud noises, scanning constantly for threats. Now, he moves easily among his community, Adam's hand in his a tether rather than a lifeline.

At a table beneath the pavilion's eastern edge, Geoffrey has assembled a feast on four plates—a sampling of everything available, arranged with surprising care.

"You missed the honeycakes," Sam announces as they approach. "I saved you each one, but then Geoffrey said he needed extra energy to catch me, so now you each get half."

"Liar," Geoffrey laughs, shoving Sam's shoulder gently. "Tell them what really happened."

Sam grins, unrepentant. "Fine. I ate one and a half. But they're really good!"

Eli slides onto the bench beside Sam, while Adam takes the spot across from him, next to Geoffrey. It strikes Eli how naturally they've arranged themselves—not in their usual pairs, but mixed. These new configurations have been happening more often lately, little reshufflings that feel as right as their original partnerships.

"You've got flowers in your hair," Eli tells Sam, reaching to adjust a petal that's fallen across Sam's forehead.

"It's a good look for him," Geoffrey says, passing Eli a cup of berry-sweet cider. "Brings out his eyes."

"Everything brings out his eyes," Adam adds, accepting his own cup from Geoffrey with a smile of thanks. "They're his most obvious feature."

"Hey!" Sam protests, but he's clearly pleased by the attention. "My most obvious feature is my charm and wit."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Geoffrey asks, dodging Sam's retaliatory swipe with practiced ease.

Eli watches them, savoring the easy banter, the way they've each found their rhythm with one another. It's different from how it was in the beginning, when he and Adam were still healing, when Geoffrey and Sam were still figuring out how to help. Now, the four of them have woven something complex and beautiful—paired in some ways, but connected in all ways.

A burst of girlish laughter draws Eli's attention to a nearby table, where a group of village girls their age sit with their heads close together, glancing occasionally in their direction. One of them—Ella, the baker's daughter—meets Eli's eyes and smiles before turning back to her friends with pink-tinged cheeks.

"I think you have an admirer," Adam murmurs, nodding toward the girls.

"We all do," Geoffrey says, taking a bite of Mary's herb bread. "They've been watching us since we sat down."

Sam grins. "Can you blame them? We're a captivating bunch." He adjusts his flower crown with exaggerated dignity.

As if summoned by their attention, three of the girls rise from their table and approach, led by Ella. Her dark hair is braided with ribbons the same blue as her eyes, which dart nervously between the four boys.

"Hello," she says, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual. "We were wondering if you wanted to join our dance circle later? When the music starts properly?"

Her friends hover behind her—Mira with her twin braids, and Lily whose freckles match her name. All three radiate a mix of hope and nerves that makes Eli feel a strange tenderness toward them.

"That's kind of you to offer," Geoffrey says, his voice warm and genuine. "The music's always good at midsummer."

"We might stop by," Adam adds with a smile. "Though I should warn you, Eli has two left feet."

Eli shoots him a look of mock betrayal. "I'm getting better."

"You are," Sam agrees loyally. "You only stepped on my toes twice last time."

The girls laugh, their postures relaxing slightly. Mira takes a small step forward. "We could teach you some of the simpler steps first, if you wanted."

There's something hopeful in her gaze as it moves between them, an invitation that goes beyond dancing. Eli recognizes it—the natural seeking of connections that happens at their age. In another life, perhaps he might have blushed under that gaze, might have followed her into the circle of dancers with his heart racing for different reasons.

"Maybe we will," Sam says, his smile kind but containing none of the warmth it holds when directed at Geoffrey. "Save us a space?"

The girls nod, lingering a moment longer before returning to their table, heads bent together in whispered conversation. Eli watches them go, feeling no pull to follow, no curiosity about what might be. His world is complete as it is.

Adam reaches across the table to steal a berry from Eli's plate, his fingers brushing Eli's deliberately. "They're nice," he says simply.

"They are," Geoffrey agrees. "But I'm happy right where I am."

Sam nudges Eli with his shoulder. "Me too. Besides, they'd never put up with my singing like you three do."

"Put up with?" Adam raises an eyebrow. "Your singing is the reason we keep you around."

Sam clutches his chest in mock offense, then breaks into a grin so bright it rivals the midsummer sun. "And here I thought it was my stunning good looks."

"That too," Geoffrey says, reaching across to adjust Sam's flower crown, his fingers lingering to brush a curl behind Sam's ear.

Eli feels a wave of contentment wash over him as he watches them, as he feels Adam's knee press against his under the table. Across the green, the girls have joined a larger group of young people, already laughing and planning their evening. Eli doesn't feel rejected by their moving on, nor do they seem bothered by the gentle rebuff. There's a mutual understanding—some doors simply aren't open, not because they're locked but because the rooms beyond them are already full.

As the afternoon deepens toward evening, the four of them remain at their table, sharing food and stories, occasionally joined by other villagers but always returning to their core. When Mary passes by with a basket of fresh bread, she pauses to rest a hand on Eli's shoulder, her eyes taking in the four of them with quiet pride before she moves on.

"We should get more cider," Geoffrey suggests as they finish the last of their food. "Before the dancing starts."

"And more honeycakes," Sam adds hopefully.

Eli watches them rise together, moving toward the beverage table in perfect sync despite their difference in height. Adam slides around the table to take Geoffrey's empty spot, pressing against Eli's side.

"Happy?" Adam asks, his voice low and private.

Eli looks at Adam, at the boy whose soul has been tied to his since their darkest days. Then at Geoffrey and Sam, returning with cups and cakes, their heads bent together in conversation. His family, chosen and choosing. A completeness he never thought possible.

"Yes," Eli says, and it feels like the simplest, most profound truth he knows. "I am."

---

Mary stands at the edge of the pavilion, a cup of elderflower wine warming in her palm as she watches the four boys at their table. The sight of them together—heads bent close, shoulders touching, laughter rising above the general hum of the feast—fills her chest with a particular warmth that has become familiar over these past months. Eli's smile, so rare in those first weeks after his return, now comes easily in the company of his chosen brothers. She allows herself a moment of pure, uncomplicated pride.

"They're quite a sight together, aren't they?"

The voice beside her belongs to Thomas Atwood, Geoffrey's father. He's a tall man with Geoffrey's same steady gaze, though his hair has begun to gray at the temples. Unlike his son, who moves with the natural grace of youth, Thomas carries himself with the measured precision of a merchant used to calculating value with every step.

"They are," Mary agrees, turning slightly to include him in her observation. "Geoffrey looks well."

Thomas nods, his eyes fixed on the boys. "Better than he has in years." He clears his throat. "Sam too. They both... they light up around your Eli and Adam."

Mary hears what he doesn't say—that the boys are happier in her cottage than they ever were in his large, empty house overlooking the harbor. She doesn't respond directly, allowing him the dignity of his unspoken admission.

"The midsummer wine is excellent this year," she offers instead. "Have you tried it?"

"Just a cup." He shifts his weight, an unusual display of uncertainty from a man known for decisive business dealings. "Mary, might I have a word? Somewhere a bit quieter?"

Her curiosity piqued, Mary nods. "Of course."

Thomas guides her away from the pavilion, past groups of villagers sharing stories and food, toward a small grove of apple trees at the green's edge. The noise of the celebration dims slightly here, creating a pocket of relative privacy. Thomas stops beneath a tree heavy with small, still-green fruit.

"I wanted to thank you," he begins, his voice more serious than the feast day warrants. "For what you've done for Geoffrey. And for Sam."

Mary shakes her head slightly. "There's no need for thanks. They're good boys."

"They are," Thomas agrees. "But I haven't been..." He stops, starts again. "Running the business after Agnes died—Geoffrey's mother—it consumed me. And then Sam, at the orphanage..." He gestures vaguely. "I thought having another boy around might be good for Geoffrey. Someone his age in that big house."

"They found each other," Mary says gently. "As children do."

Thomas nods, his gaze distant. "They did. Became inseparable almost immediately. But a house needs more than just walls and a distracted guardian. It needs..." He looks back toward the pavilion, where the four boys are now sharing something that makes them all laugh. "It needs what you've given them. A real home."

Mary feels a complicated surge of emotions—sympathy for this man who lost his wife and buried himself in work, gratitude that Geoffrey and Sam found each other before finding Eli and Adam, pride in the home she's created for all four boys.

"They still help in your shop," she reminds him. "Geoffrey speaks highly of what he learns from you."

"A few hours of inventory and bookkeeping." Thomas shakes his head. "That's commerce, not caring. You've given them the latter. You've taken in not just your own son and Adam, but my boy and Sam too." His voice roughens slightly. "Sam, who has no blood connection to any of us, who was just a child needing shelter—you've made him family."

"They made each other family," Mary corrects softly. "I just provided the space for it to happen."

Thomas meets her eyes directly for the first time in their conversation. "You've provided much more than space, Mary Shepherd, and we both know it. You've given them stability, safety... love." The word seems to cost him something to say. "The kind I should have given but didn't know how."

Before Mary can respond, Thomas reaches into the inner pocket of his festival coat. "I want to contribute to their keeping."

Mary stiffens slightly. "That's not necessary. I don't need—"

"It's not about what you need," Thomas interrupts, his merchant's directness returning. "It's about what's right. Four growing boys eat more than two. They wear through clothes faster, need more of everything. I have the means to help, and they're still my responsibility—Geoffrey by blood, and Sam by choice."

"They're not a burden," Mary says, a note of defensiveness creeping into her voice. "I manage perfectly well with my garden and my healing work."

Thomas's expression softens unexpectedly. "I know you do. That's not why I'm offering. It's for me, Mary. To know I'm doing something for them, even if it's just... this." He glances around quickly, making sure they're truly alone, then takes Mary's hand in his.

When he pulls away, two gold coins gleam in her palm—more than she earns in three months of selling herbs and poultices. Mary's eyes widen, her fingers instinctively closing around the unexpected weight.

"I cannot accept this," she whispers, already extending her hand to return the coins.

Thomas steps back, putting the coins beyond his reach. "You can, and you will. Buy them new boots for winter. Or fishing nets that aren't mended ten times over. Or books—Geoffrey always loved books." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Just don't tell them it came from me. Geoffrey has his pride."

"Like his father," Mary says, recognizing the same stubborn set to Thomas's jaw that she's seen in Geoffrey's.

"Perhaps." Thomas inclines his head. "I'll do this four times a year—midsummer, harvest, midwinter, and spring planting. It's not charity, Mary. It's my duty. The boys have chosen where to make their home, but I haven't forgotten my responsibilities."

Before Mary can formulate a response, Thomas turns and walks back toward the celebration, his stride purposeful, the matter settled in his mind. Mary stands alone beneath the apple tree, the coins warm in her closed fist, feeling the weight of them—not just the gold itself but what it represents.

She watches Thomas rejoin a group of merchants near the wine casks, his posture giving no hint of their conversation. Her gaze shifts to the four boys, still lost in their private world of shared jokes and casual touches. Geoffrey, with his father's steadiness but a gentleness entirely his own. Sam, who found a place to belong after years of being passed from home to home.

The coins in her hand could buy new blankets for their sleeping alcove, could replace the worn-out cooking pot she's been making do with, could provide extras that her careful economy rarely allows. Not necessities, perhaps, but comforts. Small luxuries that might ease the lingering shadows in Eli's and Adam's eyes, that might make Geoffrey and Sam feel even more securely held.

Mary slips the coins into the hidden pocket of her festival dress, their weight a reminder of unexpected allies, of different ways to care, of bridges being built where she least expected them. She'll use the money well. Not because the boys need it to be cared for—she would provide that regardless—but because sometimes love expresses itself in practical ways, even from those who struggle to speak its language directly.

She takes a deep breath and rejoins the celebration, carrying this new knowledge like the coins themselves—a private weight, valuable and unexpected.

---

Adam watches a young family move past their table, a father with a toddler hoisted onto his shoulders, the child's small hands buried in his hair for balance. The mother follows with a baby nestled against her chest, her free hand reaching up to steady the toddler when he leans too far. An ordinary family, untouched by the kind of loss that redefined Adam's world. He doesn't begrudge them their wholeness—quite the opposite. Their simple joy only highlights the miracle of his own rebuilt happiness, sitting here among the three people who have become his new world.

"More wine?" Geoffrey appears at his elbow, holding a clay pitcher decorated with painted summer flowers. Without waiting for an answer, he refills Adam's cup, then reaches across to top off Eli's. "The cooper's wife makes it with blackberries. It's sweeter than what we had before."

Sam trails behind Geoffrey, his flower crown now slightly askew, carrying a small wooden platter of honey-drizzled cheese. "I traded two of Mary's bread rolls for this," he announces proudly. "The cheesemaker said it's a special batch for midsummer."

Eli shifts on the bench to make room for Sam, their shoulders pressing together. "You're a born merchant," he tells Sam, accepting a piece of the cheese. "Geoffrey's father should put you in charge of trading."

Sam grins, pleased with the compliment. "I could sell sand in the desert."

"Modest, too," Adam adds, but he smiles as he says it, accepting his own portion of Sam's prize.

The midsummer celebration has reached that perfect moment between afternoon and evening—the golden hour when shadows lengthen and voices soften, when the heat of the day gives way to gentle warmth. Around them, the village exists in its most ideal form: children chasing each other between tables with ribbons streaming behind them, elders sharing stories over cups of wine, young couples disappearing into the shadowed edges of the green with linked hands and secret smiles.

Adam sips the blackberry wine, sweeter than what they had before, just as Geoffrey promised. It settles warm in his stomach, sending tendrils of contentment through his limbs. Beside him, Eli takes a longer drink, and Adam watches the tension in his shoulders ease slightly as the wine does its work.

Most families here are like the one that passed their table—whole and unburdened by the kind of experiences that haunt Adam's dreams. They celebrate the turning of the season, the promise of harvest, the simple joy of community. They don't know what it means to stand on the deck of the Nar under a different kind of sun, to feel the bite of the strap, to wonder if they'll live to see another midsummer.

But Adam and Eli know, and that knowledge makes this feast, this moment, this happiness all the more precious.

"You're thinking too hard," Geoffrey says quietly, his knee pressing against Adam's under the table. "I can see it in your eyes."

Adam blinks, surprised at being so easily read. "Just... appreciating things."

Geoffrey nods, understanding more than Adam has said. "Good. That's what today is for." He raises his cup. "To appreciation."

They all touch cups, the simple gesture binding them together in their private circle even amid the larger celebration. Adam watches Eli take another long drink, his blue eyes warming, cheeks flushing slightly with the wine's effects. The sight makes something in Adam's chest expand with tenderness.

"The dancers are starting," Sam points toward the center of the green, where villagers are forming circles around the musicians. "Should we join them?"

Eli leans against Adam's shoulder, more relaxed now than he's been all day. "Maybe later," he says, his voice soft but not fearful. "I like watching from here."

Sam accepts this without question, though Adam knows he loves to dance. Instead, Sam slides closer to Eli on the bench, filling his cup again. "Did you try the honeycakes?" he asks, deftly changing the subject. "The baker used Mary's lavender this year."

This is what they do, Adam realizes—Geoffrey and Sam, watching over him and Eli with careful attention, redirecting when shadows threaten to creep in, making sure the celebration remains just that. Not pushing them beyond their comfort, but not allowing them to retreat too far into memories either.

The wine continues to work its gentle magic. Adam feels a pleasant warmth spreading through him, making the world's edges softer, bringing the present moment into sharper focus. Eli's body against his side, Geoffrey's steady presence across the table, Sam's infectious enthusiasm—these sensations anchor him here, now, in this moment of contentment.

"I saw you talking with my father earlier," Geoffrey says to Sam, breaking off a piece of cheese. "What was that about?"

Sam waves a dismissive hand. "He wanted to know if we're helping with inventory tomorrow. I told him we'd be there after we check the fishing nets."

"You mean after we recover from tonight," Geoffrey corrects with a slight smile. "If you keep drinking at this rate, you'll be useless before the singing starts."

Sam adopts an expression of mock offense. "I have never been useless for singing in my life. I could sing upside down in a storm."

"That I'd like to see," Eli laughs, the sound light and unguarded in a way that makes Adam's heart swell.

Geoffrey raises his cup again, his expression shifting to something more earnest. "To our brothers," he says, looking directly at Eli and Adam. "By choice rather than blood, and all the stronger for it."

"To our brothers," Sam echoes, his usual playfulness giving way to sincere affection.

Adam feels Eli's hand find his under the table as they raise their cups with their free hands. "To family," Eli says, his voice steady despite the emotion Adam can feel in the slight tremor of his fingers.

They drink together, and Adam thinks this might be a different kind of oath—as binding in its way as any formal vow. An acknowledgment of what they've become to each other, what they will continue to be.

The musicians begin a new melody, slower and more haunting than the lively dancing tunes they've played so far. Sam's head lifts, his eyes brightening with recognition. Without preamble, he begins to sing, his voice rising clear and pure above the ambient noise of the celebration.

"Here today the red sky tells his tale,
But the only listening eyes are mine..."

Geoffrey joins in naturally, his deeper voice finding the harmony beneath Sam's melody:

"There is peace amongst the hills,
And the night will cover all my pride."

Adam knows this song—they've sung it together during quiet evenings in Mary's cottage, during afternoons mending nets on the shore. Without conscious decision, he adds his voice to theirs:

"Blest are they who smile from bodies free,
Seems to me like any other crowd
Who are waiting, to be saved."

And then Eli is singing too, his voice quieter but true, completing their harmony. The four voices blend together, creating something more than any could achieve alone. Adam feels it in his chest, a resonance that seems to vibrate between them, connecting them in yet another way.

Villagers nearby fall silent, turning to listen. Adam sees surprise on some faces, appreciation on others. An elder woman presses her hand to her heart, eyes closing as if in prayer. Even the musicians soften their playing, allowing the boys' voices to carry.

When the verse ends, there's a moment of perfect stillness before applause breaks out around them. Sam grins, clearly pleased with the attention, while Geoffrey accepts it with a modest nod. Eli looks down at the table, unused to being the center of focus, but Adam can see the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Again," calls someone from a neighboring table. "Sing another!"

Sam looks to the others, eyebrows raised in question. At their nods, he launches into a different song, this one a traditional fishing melody that everyone in the village knows. Soon others join in, voices rising and falling together, but even amid the crowd, the four boys maintain their perfect harmony, their voices finding each other as naturally as their hands do in the dark.

Adam feels something settle in his chest as they sing together—a sense of rightness, of belonging, of healing. The red sky of midsummer evening spreads above them, painting the world in gentle fire, and Adam thinks: this is what it means to be saved.

---

The village sleeps behind them as they make their way home, four boys with arms slung across shoulders, moving as a single unit along the moonlit path. Sam feels lighter than air despite the wine warming his blood, Geoffrey's arm steady around his waist, Eli and Adam just ahead creating a shadow that stretches long in the silvery light. The feast continues for some—they can still hear distant music and laughter—but their own celebration has shifted to this quiet journey, this return to the place that holds them all.

"The stars are so bright tonight," Sam says, tilting his head back to look at the sky. The motion makes him stumble slightly, and Geoffrey's arm tightens around him.

"Careful," Geoffrey murmurs, his voice carrying the same gentle warmth it always does when he speaks to Sam. "I don't want to carry you all the way home."

"You would, though," Sam replies with absolute certainty.

Geoffrey's laugh is soft in the night air. "I would."

Ahead of them, Eli and Adam walk with their arms linked, heads bent together in private conversation. The moonlight catches in Adam's dark hair, turning it almost silver at the edges. Sam watches them with a rush of affection so strong it makes his chest ache. They move together as if they share a single shadow, two halves of a whole that somehow still has room to include him and Geoffrey.

"Do you think Mary saved us any of her berry tarts?" Sam asks, his mind drifting to food as it often does after wine. "I only had three."

"Only three?" Adam calls back over his shoulder, proving he's listening despite his private conversation with Eli. "I'm surprised there were any left for the rest of the village."

Sam makes a rude gesture that dissolves into laughter when Geoffrey catches his hand. "I'm a growing boy," he protests. "I need sustenance."

"You had enough sustenance for three growing boys," Geoffrey points out, but his tone is fond. "Besides, you know Mary always keeps something back for us."

The thought of Mary—of home—quickens Sam's steps. The cottage appears around the bend in the path, a warm light glowing in the window despite the late hour. Mary waiting up for them, as she always does when they're out after dark. The sight of it makes something in Sam's chest settle, a feeling of rightness that never diminishes no matter how many times they make this journey.

"Race you," he says suddenly, pulling away from Geoffrey's arm. But before he can dart ahead, Eli's hand catches his wrist.

"Together," Eli says simply. Not a command or a correction, just a gentle reminder that tonight, they move as one.

Sam nods, understanding. Some nights are for racing and laughter and tumbling through the door in a heap of limbs and breathless victory claims. But tonight—after the singing, after the wine, after the perfect harmony they created together—tonight is for walking home as a unit, arms linked, shoulders touching, no one ahead or behind.

They reach the cottage door and pause for a moment on the threshold, as if by unspoken agreement. The sounds of the night surround them—distant celebration, the rustle of leaves, the soft call of an owl from the woods beyond the garden. Sam feels Geoffrey's arm around his waist, Eli's hand still on his wrist, Adam's shoulder pressed against his. Connected at every point, a closed circuit of touch and belonging.

Inside, Mary looks up from her chair by the fire, a small smile gracing her face at the sight of them. "There you are," she says, setting aside her mending. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to sleep under the stars."

"We considered it," Geoffrey replies, "but Sam was worried about missing breakfast."

Mary laughs, rising to press a kiss to each boy's forehead in greeting—a ritual she began months ago that none of them would dream of refusing. "There's water heated for washing," she tells them. "And yes, Sam, I saved tarts."

Sam's face splits into a grin. "See?" he whispers to Geoffrey. "She knows me."

"We all do," Geoffrey whispers back, ruffling Sam's hair before moving toward the basin of warm water Mary has prepared.

They take turns washing away the dust of the day's celebration, passing the cloth between them with practiced efficiency. Sam watches the others as they prepare for sleep: Adam carefully folding his festival clothes, Eli splashing water on his face to clear the last effects of the wine, Geoffrey methodically rolling up his sleeves before scrubbing his hands and arms. Familiar movements, ordinary and precious.

Mary bids them goodnight, retreating to her own small room off the main area of the cottage. The boys move to their sleeping alcove, the space Mary enlarged months ago when it became clear that four would be sleeping where once there was room for only two. They strip down to their sleeping braies, bodies familiar to each other after so many shared nights.

Sam notices, as he always does, the scars on Eli's and Adam's backs—pale lines that tell stories he can barely imagine. He's heard fragments, whispered confessions in the safety of darkness, enough to understand but never enough to truly know. Tonight, in the gentle glow of the banked fire, those marks seem less like wounds and more like proof of survival, of the strength that brought all four of them to this moment.

"Coming?" Geoffrey asks, already settling onto their shared pallet. He holds out his arm, creating the space where Sam belongs.

Sam slides into place, his back against Geoffrey's chest, Geoffrey's arm settling around his waist with familiar weight. Across from them, Eli and Adam mirror their position, Adam's head tucked beneath Eli's chin, their legs tangled together. Between the two pairs, hands reach out, finding each other in the dim light—Sam's fingers twining with Adam's, Geoffrey's palm resting on Eli's shoulder. Connected even in the arrangement meant for sleep.

The cottage settles around them, wooden beams creaking gently as the night air cools. Outside, the last echoes of the midsummer celebration fade into silence. Sam feels the steady rhythm of Geoffrey's breathing against his back, watches the rise and fall of Adam's chest across from him, sees the way Eli's face softens as sleep begins to claim him.

This is what family means, Sam thinks. Not blood, not obligation, but this—choosing each other every day, finding ways to fit together, creating a place where everyone belongs exactly as they are. He remembers the years before Geoffrey, when he moved from house to house, always the extra child, the one taken in from obligation rather than desire. Then the years with just Geoffrey, good years but incomplete somehow, as if they were waiting for something they couldn't name.

And now this—Eli and Adam completing their circle, Mary providing the home they all needed, the four of them finding in each other something rare and precious. A family made by choice rather than chance.

"You're thinking too loud," Geoffrey murmurs against the back of Sam's neck. "I can practically hear you."

Sam smiles in the darkness. "Good thoughts."

"Still." Geoffrey's arm tightens around him. "Sleep now."

Sam nods, letting his eyes close, feeling the warmth of Geoffrey behind him, Adam's fingers still loosely linked with his, Eli's steady presence completing their circle. The midsummer wine still hums pleasantly in his veins, and beneath that, something deeper and more lasting—a sense of rightness, of belonging, of home.

As sleep takes him, Sam thinks this must be what happiness feels like when it's not just a fleeting moment but a steady state, a place to live rather than just visit. The last thing he's aware of before drifting off is the sound of their breathing, four different rhythms somehow creating a single harmony, just like their voices did earlier under the midsummer sky.

Perfect, he thinks. Just perfect.

---

Sunlight dances through the canopy of leaves, casting shifting patterns on the surface of the stream where Geoffrey and Sam splash in the cool water. The summer heat has driven them deeper into the woods than usual, to a secluded bend where the stream widens and deepens enough for proper swimming. Geoffrey watches Sam dive beneath the surface, his dark hair plastered to his head when he emerges, water streaming down his face as he grins with pure delight.

"It's perfect here," Sam declares, floating onto his back. The water barely covers his chest in the deepest part, but it's enough to cool their sun-warmed skin. "I can't believe we never found this spot before."

Geoffrey cups his hands, sending a gentle wave of water toward Sam. "That's because you always want to stay near the village. You get hungry too quickly to venture this far."

Sam retaliates with a larger splash, laughing as Geoffrey ducks away. "Not true! I brought apples today, didn't I?" He points to their clothes piled on a flat rock at the stream's edge, next to a small cloth bundle.

"Only because Mary made you," Geoffrey reminds him, but his tone is fond, free of any real criticism.

They've been at the stream for nearly two hours, the summer day stretching lazy and golden around them. In the village, Eli and Adam are running errands for Mary—restocking supplies from the market, delivering her healing herbs to those who need them. The four boys had planned to meet at midday near the old willow tree that marks the path into these woods.

Sam swims toward Geoffrey, his movements graceful despite the stream's shallow depth. Unlike the constant motion that usually characterizes him, today there's something thoughtful in his eyes, a quiet consideration that catches Geoffrey's attention.

"What is it?" Geoffrey asks, instantly attuned to the shift in Sam's mood.

Sam runs a hand through his wet locks, pushing them back from his face. "Can I ask you something? Something important?"

Geoffrey nods, moving closer so they're standing face to face in the stream, water swirling around their waists. "Anything."

Sam looks down at the water for a moment, watching the current flow between them. When he raises his eyes again, there's a vulnerability there that makes Geoffrey's chest tighten.

"Do you mind that I... that I love Eli and Adam? That I'm drawn to them the way I am to you?" The words come in a rush, as if Sam has been holding them back for some time. "Because you should know that you're still—you're everything to me, Geoffrey. You're my soul mate. You always have been."

Geoffrey feels a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer heat spread through his chest. He reaches out, placing his hands on Sam's shoulders, feeling the water-cooled skin beneath his palms.

"Sammy," he says, using the name that's only ever his to speak, "come here."

He draws Sam closer, one hand moving to cup the back of his neck, fingers threading through wet hair. Their lips meet in a kiss so gentle it feels like a whisper, a conversation without words. Geoffrey tries to pour everything he feels into that touch—all the certainty, all the love, all the absolute knowledge that what they have is unshakable.

When they part, Geoffrey keeps Sam close, their foreheads touching. "I love Eli and Adam too," he says softly. "They're our family. Our brothers. And I understand what you feel for them—I feel it too. I adore them."

Sam's hands rest on Geoffrey's chest, his fingers drawing small patterns against the wet skin. "But it's different."

"Yes," Geoffrey agrees. "It's different. What I feel for them is deep and real. But what I feel for you..." He pauses, searching for words that seem inadequate for the depth of his emotions. "You're my other half, Sammy. My best friend. The person who knows me better than I know myself sometimes."

Sam's eyes shine with something between relief and joy. "Really?"

"Really." Geoffrey brushes a stray curl from Sam's forehead. "I love you so much, Sammy. Eli and Adam are our brothers and I love them dearly, but I can't even find the words for what you mean to me. You're my life. I'll share you with Eli and Adam, and I trust them. But I need you like air, Sam."

The smile that breaks across Sam's face is like sunrise—gradual, then all at once blindingly bright. "I feel the same way, Geoffy," he says, the childhood nickname he rarely uses anymore slipping out with his relief. He wraps his arms around Geoffrey's neck, holding him tightly.

They stand like that for a long moment, the stream flowing steadily around them, neither willing to be the first to let go. When Sam finally pulls back, his eyes are clearer, the shadow of worry completely gone.

"I just needed to know," he explains. "With everything so good between all four of us, I started thinking about what it all means, about whether it would change things between you and me."

"Nothing could change what's between us," Geoffrey says with the absolute certainty of someone stating a fundamental truth. "Not even finding two more people to love."

Sam's response is another kiss, deeper this time, his hands sliding up to frame Geoffrey's face. There's a hunger in it that wasn't there before, a certainty that makes Geoffrey's heart race. They move backward until they reach a deeper pool where the stream eddies around a fallen log. Here, the water rises to their chests, cool currents swirling around them as they press closer together.

Their touches grow more intimate, hands exploring with the curious reverence that's both familiar and eternally new. The boundary between their bodies seems to blur, dissolving like the dappled shadows that play across the water's surface. They keep their movements slow, unhurried, knowing they have time—knowing, in the way of young lovers who feel immortal, that they have forever.

Above them, leaves rustle in a gentle breeze, allowing more sunlight to filter through in golden beams that illuminate the water around them. Small fish dart between their legs, unafraid. A pair of dragonflies hovers above the stream, wings iridescent in the sunlight.

There's a magic to this moment—not the magic of fairy tales, but the deeper enchantment of perfect belonging. Geoffrey feels it in the way Sam's body fits against his, in the familiar rhythm of their breathing, in the water that embraces them both. The forest itself seems to hold its breath around them, creating a sacred space where nothing exists beyond the two of them and the love they share.

Sam laughs softly against Geoffrey's mouth, a sound of pure happiness. "The whole forest is smiling at us," he whispers.

"That's because we belong here," Geoffrey tells him. "We belong everywhere we're together."

The sunlight continues its dance through the leaves above, painting their wet skin with shifting patterns of light and shadow. In this hidden corner of the woods, they are completely themselves—two halves of a single soul, moving together with the same natural harmony as the stream flowing around them.

---

Geoffrey and Sam float gently in the stream, their bodies still pressed close, letting the cool water flow around them. Their breathing has slowed, and they rest in the peaceful afterglow of their shared intimacy. Geoffrey's arms encircle Sam's waist, holding him securely against the gentle current. Neither speaks; words seem unnecessary in the perfect understanding they've reached. The forest remains quiet around them, a reverent witness to their love, until familiar voices call out from the direction of the village path.

"Sam? Geoffrey? Are you down there?"

Eli's voice carries through the trees, followed by the sound of branches being pushed aside. Sam's eyes meet Geoffrey's, a silent exchange passing between them before Sam calls back, "We're here! Follow the stream down!"

They separate slowly, reluctantly, though they stay close enough that their shoulders touch beneath the water. A moment later, Eli appears at the edge of the clearing, Adam right behind him. They carry a small sack that likely contains food from Mary, their errands in the village apparently complete.

"Found you," Adam says, smiling as he takes in the secluded swimming hole. "This is nice."

Eli stands at the edge of the stream, noticing the way the sunlight filters through the leaves to dance on the water's surface. He shifts the weight of the sack from one shoulder to the other, eyes bright with interest. "Did you swim all the way up here? It must be half a mile from the usual spot."

"We followed a deer trail," Geoffrey explains. He extends a hand, beckoning them closer. "The water's perfect. Come in."

Sam splashes water toward the bank, his usual energy returning. "Mary won't mind if we're a little late getting back. It's too hot to waste this spot."

Eli and Adam exchange a glance, a silent conversation passing between them as it so often does. Then Adam sets down the sack and begins unlacing his boots. "She gave us the afternoon free once we finished the deliveries."

Within moments, they've stripped down to their skin and waded into the stream. Eli shivers slightly at the first touch of cool water against his sun-warmed body, but the sensation quickly transforms from shock to relief. The midday heat has left a sheen of sweat on his forehead that the stream now washes away.

"Watch out for the deep part by that fallen log," Sam warns, pointing. "It's up to my chest there."

Adam immediately heads for the indicated spot, diving beneath the surface when he reaches it. He emerges with wet hair plastered to his face, grinning. "It's cooler down there."

What begins as simple relief from the heat quickly evolves into play. Geoffrey initiates a splashing contest that soon has all four boys shouting and laughing, sending sheets of water flying in every direction. When Sam attempts to climb onto the fallen log for a dramatic dive, he slips and falls backward with a spectacular splash that drenches them all anew. His expression of stunned surprise sets them all laughing until their sides ache.

"I meant to do that," Sam insists, which only makes them laugh harder.

They play until their fingers begin to wrinkle and their initial energy wanes. Eventually, they settle in the shallower part of the stream, where smooth stones form a natural seating area just beneath the water's surface. The four arrange themselves in a loose circle, letting their legs float in the gentle current.

"I've never seen you move so fast," Eli tells Adam, recalling how he'd darted away from Geoffrey's particularly well-aimed splash. "You were like a fish."

"Self-preservation," Adam replies with a smile. "Geoffrey doesn't hold back."

"Speaking of fish," Sam says, leaning back on his elbows, "Eli, tell us that story again. The one about the dragon."

Eli blinks, surprised by the request. "The dragon story?"

"The one you told Adam on the Nar," Sam clarifies. "About the wise dragon who rescued the princes. You mentioned it at the feast, but you never told us the whole thing."

A shadow passes briefly over Eli's face at the mention of the Nar, but it's quickly replaced by something softer as he glances at Adam. The memory of that night on the ship—huddled together in the darkness, whispering stories to distract from their fear—doesn't sting as it once did.

"You remember that?" he asks Adam quietly.

Adam nods, reaching to brush his fingers against Eli's knee beneath the water. "Of course I do. It helped me sleep that night."

Geoffrey and Sam watch them with understanding in their eyes, patient as Eli collects his thoughts. There's no pressure in their silence, only gentle encouragement.

"All right," Eli begins, his voice taking on the rhythm of storytelling. "Once, in a kingdom by the sea, there lived two princes who were loved by all who knew them. One was tall and steady, with eyes that saw into the hearts of others. The other was quick and bright, with a voice that could charm the birds from the trees."

Geoffrey and Sam exchange a glance, recognizing themselves in the description. Eli continues, his confidence growing with each word.

"The princes were inseparable from childhood—two souls that had found each other across lifetimes. Where one went, the other followed; what one thought, the other understood without words."

The stream murmurs around them, a gentle accompaniment to Eli's voice. Adam watches him with quiet pride, remembering how this story once sustained them in their darkest moments.

"But the kingdom had enemies," Eli continues, "who envied its prosperity and the happiness of its people. One night, when the moon was hidden by clouds, these enemies came with ships black as shadow. They stole the princes away, locking them in a tower on a distant island surrounded by treacherous waters."

The four boys have drawn closer together as the story unfolds, knees and shoulders touching beneath the water. Eli's voice drops lower, creating an intimate space that holds just the four of them and the tale being woven.

"In their captivity, the princes found that their love was their greatest strength. When one despaired, the other brought hope. When one weakened, the other lent strength. Their captors could not understand this bond, could not break it no matter how they tried."

Adam's hand finds Eli's beneath the water, their fingers intertwining. The gesture goes unnoticed by Geoffrey and Sam, who are absorbed in the story, but Eli draws courage from the touch.

"Far across the sea, a wise old dragon who had watched over the kingdom for generations learned of the princes' fate. This dragon—who could change form at will—took the shape of a storm cloud and sailed across the sky to the island prison."

Sam leans forward, eyes wide despite having heard versions of this story before. "What happened then?"

"The dragon breathed fog onto the island, blinding the guards," Eli says. "Then it landed atop the tower and spoke to the princes: 'Your love has called to me across the waters. It shines like a beacon in the darkness. Come, climb upon my back, and I will carry you home.'"

As Eli speaks, a shadow passes overhead—brief but unmistakable. All four boys look up instinctively, but the thick canopy reveals only scattered patches of sky. The story momentarily forgotten, they watch as another shadow, larger than the first, crosses one of these openings.

"Was that—" Geoffrey begins, but falls silent as the canopy above them rustles.

Through a gap in the leaves, they glimpse something impossible—the long, sinuous body of a creature too large to be a bird, scales catching the sunlight in flashes of bronze and gold. A second creature follows, its wings spread wide against the blue sky, moving with impossible grace for something so large.

"Dragons," Sam whispers, his voice filled with wonder. "Real dragons."

The four boys sit frozen in the stream, hearts pounding with shared awe as the magnificent creatures pass overhead, visible only in fragments through the leaves. None of them speaks until the shadows have passed completely, until the only sound is the gentle flow of water around them and their own quickened breathing.

"They never let humans see them," Geoffrey says finally, his voice hushed with reverence. "My father's traveled everywhere, and he's never even caught a glimpse."

Eli looks at each of his companions in turn—Geoffrey's wide-eyed wonder, Sam's delighted grin, Adam's quiet amazement. A feeling rises in his chest, something that feels like certainty, like blessing.

"In the story," he continues softly, "after the dragon returned the princes to their kingdom, it blessed them with a promise: 'Those whose bonds are forged in both hardship and joy shall never truly be parted. Not by distance, not by time, not even by death itself.'"

Adam's fingers tighten around Eli's. "You never told that part before."

"I didn't know it then," Eli admits. "I think I just learned it now."

They remain in the stream a while longer, each lost in their own thoughts yet connected by the shared miracle they've witnessed. The dragons, creatures of legend rarely seen by human eyes, have blessed them with their presence. Whatever this means—if it means anything at all beyond extraordinary luck—feels significant, a confirmation of something they've all sensed: that what binds them together is special, perhaps even sacred.

The forest around them seems more alive somehow, more vibrant, as if the dragons' passing has awakened some ancient magic in the very air they breathe. Or perhaps, Eli thinks as he looks at his companions' faces, the magic was here all along, in the bonds between them, waiting only to be recognized for what it truly is.

---

Geoffrey balances on the wooden ladder, carefully counting the rolls of imported fabric stacked on the top shelf of his father's shop. Beside him, Sam meticulously records each number in the ledger, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. The familiar scent of dyes, wool, and beeswax candles fills the air, mingling with the salt breeze that drifts through the open door. Geoffrey can't help but smile as Sam brushes a wild cowlick from his forehead, leaving a smudge of ink in its place. His mind keeps drifting back to yesterday—the cool stream, the dappled sunlight, and the impossible sight of dragons passing overhead.

"Seven bolts of the blue linen from Eastport," Geoffrey reports, running his fingers along the edge of the fabric.

Sam makes a mark in the ledger, his handwriting surprisingly neat for someone who moves with such constant energy. "That matches what your father expected. We're almost done with this section."

Geoffrey climbs down a few rungs to count the next shelf. The work is tedious but methodical, offering a rhythm that allows his thoughts to wander. He and Sam have been helping in the shop since midmorning, while Eli and Adam stayed behind to help Mary with her herb garden. The familiar division of labor has become comfortable—some days all four boys fish together, other days they split into pairs for different tasks. The arrangement feels natural, each pair sharing something unique while remaining connected to the whole.

"Do you think they were the first dragons anyone's seen in years?" Sam asks suddenly, his voice low enough that it won't carry to the front of the shop where Geoffrey's father assists a customer.

Geoffrey smiles, knowing exactly where Sam's thoughts have been. "Probably. Father says most sailors go their whole lives without seeing one."

"And we saw two," Sam's eyes shine with the memory. "Right after Eli told that story about dragons rescuing princes."

"Fourteen spools of the silver thread," Geoffrey counts, then adds more quietly, "I keep thinking about their wings—how they caught the light."

"Like living gold," Sam agrees, making another notation. He glances toward the front of the shop to ensure they're still alone, then adds, "Do you think it meant something? Them appearing just then?"

Before Geoffrey can answer, his father's heavy footsteps approach. Thomas Atwood is a tall man with Geoffrey's same steady gaze and broad shoulders, though time has silvered his temples and etched lines around his eyes. He holds a sheet of parchment in one hand, his expression thoughtful.

"How's the inventory coming along?" he asks, glancing at the ledger in Sam's hands.

"Almost finished with the eastern wall, sir," Sam replies, straightening his posture slightly. Though he's lived with the Atwoods for years, a formality sometimes lingers in his interactions with Thomas.

Thomas nods, seeming distracted. "Good work, both of you." He taps the parchment against his palm, then appears to make a decision. "Interesting news from the harbor today. Thought you boys might want to hear it, especially considering your friends."

Geoffrey descends the ladder completely, recognizing something significant in his father's tone. "What news, Father?"

Thomas unfolds the parchment, which Geoffrey now recognizes as a notice typically posted at the harbor for incoming ships. "A trader from the southern isles arrived this morning. Brings word that the slave ship Nar has disappeared."

Sam's ledger slips in his grasp, and Geoffrey feels his heart jump. The name alone is enough to send a chill through him, knowing what that vessel meant to Eli and Adam.

"Disappeared?" Geoffrey repeats, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Thomas nods, scanning the notice. "Apparently it was due at several ports along the coast but never arrived. When search vessels finally located its last known position, they found only debris floating on the water." He looks up, his expression grave. "According to the sailors who discovered the wreckage, the wood was charred black, as if the entire ship had burned."

Sam moves closer to Geoffrey, their shoulders pressing together. "What happened to it?"

"That's where the story gets rather fanciful," Thomas says with a hint of skepticism. "The official report suggests a fire in their cargo hold, perhaps from improperly stored oil or pitch. But the sailors who found the wreckage are spreading a different tale." He shakes his head slightly. "They claim the Nar was attacked by dragons—two of them, breathing fire that melted the very chains used to hold their captives."

Geoffrey feels Sam's fingers brush against his, a silent communication passing between them. His father continues, oblivious to their exchange.

"Some are even saying the dragons deliberately targeted the ship, somehow knowing it was a slaver." Thomas folds the notice with a small snort of disbelief. "People always reach for fantastic explanations when simple ones would suffice. A fire, a storm—these things happen at sea."

"Did anyone survive?" Geoffrey asks, his voice carefully neutral.

Thomas shakes his head. "Not a soul. Though I can't say many will mourn them, given their trade." His expression softens slightly. "I thought you might want to tell your friends. That ship caused them great suffering, from what Mary has shared. Perhaps knowing it's gone will bring them some peace."

"Thank you, Father," Geoffrey says sincerely. "We'll tell them."

Thomas nods, then gestures to the remaining shelves. "Finish up here, and you're free for the day. Good work, both of you."

As his father returns to the front of the shop, Geoffrey turns to find Sam staring at him, eyes wide with barely contained excitement.

"Dragons," Sam whispers once Thomas is out of earshot. "The same ones we saw. They must have been."

Geoffrey grabs Sam's arm, pulling him into the small storeroom at the back of the shop. Once the door is closed, he allows his own excitement to surface. "Yesterday. We saw them yesterday, and now this news arrives."

Sam's expression is radiant. "They destroyed the Nar. The ship that hurt Eli and Adam—it's gone."

"That's why they showed themselves to us," Geoffrey realizes, the pieces falling into place. "They weren't just passing by. They were checking on Eli and Adam."

"Like in Eli's story," Sam says, bouncing slightly on his toes. "The dragon that rescued the princes."

Geoffrey feels a shiver run down his spine that has nothing to do with fear. "Do you think they somehow knew? About what Eli and Adam suffered?"

"Dragons are ancient creatures," Sam replies with absolute certainty. "In all the old stories, they know things—they see things humans don't."

They stare at each other, the magnitude of the connection settling between them. Geoffrey thinks of Eli's scars, of Adam's nightmares, of the shadows that sometimes still cross their faces when memories surface unexpectedly. And now, the source of that pain has been wiped from the world by creatures of legend.

"We have to tell them," Sam says, already moving toward the door. "Right now."

"We need to finish the inventory first," Geoffrey reminds him, though he feels the same urgency. "Father's letting us go early, but we need to complete this wall."

They work with renewed speed, Geoffrey calling out numbers rapid-fire as Sam's pen flies across the page. The remaining shelves are counted in record time, the ledger checked and double-checked before they present it to Thomas.

"We've finished, Father," Geoffrey announces, trying not to sound too eager to leave. "Everything matches your expected counts."

Thomas glances at the ledger, nodding with approval. "Well done. You boys run along now. I'll see you tomorrow."

They don't need to be told twice. Sam is already halfway to the door, pausing only long enough for Geoffrey to join him. The moment they step outside, they break into a run, racing through the village streets toward the path that leads to Mary's cottage. Their feet pound against the packed earth, breathing synchronized as they push themselves faster, fueled by the desperate need to share their discovery.

"The Nar is gone," Sam gasps between breaths, his face flushed with exertion and joy. "Really gone."

Geoffrey can only nod, saving his breath for running. He pictures Eli's face when they tell him, imagines the weight lifting from Adam's shoulders. The ship that has haunted their dreams, that left its marks on their bodies and souls, now lies in ashes at the bottom of the sea.

They run as if dragons' wings carry them, swift and unstoppable, bearing news of justice long overdue.

---

Mary's cottage comes into view as Geoffrey and Sam crest the final hill, their lungs burning from the sprint through the village. The garden spreads before them, neat rows of herbs and vegetables soaking in the afternoon sun. Eli and Adam work side by side between the rows, backs bent as they carefully pull weeds from around the tender plants. Neither looks up at first, absorbed in their task, unaware that their world is about to change with the news carried on their brothers' breathless lips.

"Eli! Adam!" Sam calls out, stumbling slightly as he reaches the garden gate. His voice cracks with exertion and excitement.

Both boys straighten at the sound, turning toward the commotion. Eli shields his eyes against the sun, taking in their flushed faces and heaving chests.

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately, dropping his gardening tools. Even now, months after their escape, his first instinct is to prepare for danger.

"Nothing's wrong," Geoffrey manages between gulps of air, reaching the gate a step behind Sam. "Everything's right. So right."

Adam moves closer to Eli, a habit formed through shared trauma—staying within reach of each other when uncertainty arises. "You ran all the way from the village?" he asks, noting their state.

Sam nods vigorously. "We couldn't wait. We had to tell you—"

"The Nar is gone," Geoffrey interjects, unable to contain the news any longer. "Destroyed. Burned to the waterline and sunk."

Eli goes completely still, his body rigid as if bracing for a blow. Beside him, Adam's face drains of color, his eyes widening with disbelief.

"What?" The word escapes Eli as barely more than a whisper.

Sam pushes through the gate, words tumbling out in his excitement. "Geoffrey's father got news from sailors at the harbor. The Nar missed its scheduled ports, and when they went looking—"

"They found nothing but debris," Geoffrey continues, following Sam into the garden. "Charred wood floating on the water. The entire ship burned."

Adam reaches for Eli's hand, gripping it tightly. "How?" he asks, his voice controlled but with an undercurrent of something raw and hopeful.

Sam and Geoffrey exchange a meaningful glance, silently deciding who should tell this part. Geoffrey nods slightly, giving Sam the honor.

"Dragons," Sam says, his eyes bright with conviction. "Two dragons attacked the ship and burned it with their fire. Every slaver on board—gone."

"The official report says it was an accident," Geoffrey adds, "a fire in their cargo hold. But the sailors who found the wreckage swear they saw scorch marks that could only come from dragonfire."

Eli's free hand rises to his mouth, pressing against his lips as if to hold something inside. "Dragons," he repeats, the word muffled against his fingers.

"The same ones," Sam insists, stepping closer to Eli and Adam. "The same dragons we saw yesterday at the stream. They must have been."

"Think about it," Geoffrey urges, watching their faces carefully. "We saw them right after Eli told that story about dragons rescuing princes. And now we learn they destroyed the Nar?"

Adam's eyes meet Eli's, a silent conversation passing between them. "That can't be coincidence," Adam says quietly, voicing what they're both thinking.

"Father doesn't believe in dragons," Geoffrey says. "He thinks it's just sailors' tales. But we know better."

"We saw them," Sam reminds them all. "With our own eyes."

Eli's composure begins to crack, his shoulders trembling slightly. "It's really gone?" he asks, voice thick with emotion. "The Nar is really gone?"

"Gone," Geoffrey confirms gently. "Burned and sunk to the bottom of the sea. Every last plank and nail of it."

Something breaks loose in Eli then, a dam crumbling after holding back too much for too long. Tears well in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks in silent streams. His body curls forward slightly, as if a string that had been pulling him taut has suddenly been cut.

"I didn't realize—" he begins, but can't finish, overcome by the force of his emotion.

Adam moves immediately, turning to face Eli, both hands rising to cup his tear-stained cheeks. "I know," he murmurs, understanding without words. "I know, Eli."

They hadn't known they were still carrying this weight—the fear that somewhere on the ocean, the Nar continued to sail, continued to capture and break children as it had broken them. The knowledge that their tormentors still lived, still inflicted suffering on others. It had been a shadow neither boy had been able to acknowledge, for naming it would have given it too much power.

And now, that shadow has been lifted.

Adam's own eyes glisten with unshed tears as he presses his forehead against Eli's. "It's over," he whispers. "Really over."

Eli nods against him, unable to speak through his tears. His hands grasp Adam's wrists, holding on as if to steady himself in this new reality where the Nar exists only in memory.

Sam can't contain himself any longer. He flings his arms around both Eli and Adam, pulling them into a fierce embrace. "They can't hurt anyone anymore," he declares, squeezing so tightly that Eli lets out a surprised breath. "Not you, not anyone."

Geoffrey watches them, his chest tight with emotions of his own—joy for his brothers' relief, gratitude for whatever force guided those dragons, love for these three boys who have become his world. He notices how Adam's face has transformed, the careful guardedness melting away to reveal something luminous beneath.

"You're smiling," Geoffrey says to Adam, stepping closer to the group embrace. "Really smiling. I don't think I've ever seen you smile like that before."

Adam looks up at him over Sam's tousled head, still holding Eli close with one arm. His smile deepens, reaching his eyes in a way that makes them crinkle at the corners. The expression transforms his face, highlighting the grace of his features, the perfect curve of his lips, the light that has always lived in his eyes but rarely shown so brightly.

"You're beautiful when you smile," Geoffrey says simply, the words coming unbidden but entirely true.

Adam disentangles himself from Sam's enthusiastic hold, keeping one hand on Eli's shoulder as he moves toward Geoffrey. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around Geoffrey's neck and pulls him close, pressing their bodies together in a gesture of gratitude and affection that needs no words.

"Thank you," Adam murmurs against Geoffrey's ear. "For bringing us this news. For everything."

Before Geoffrey can respond, Adam draws back just enough to look into his eyes, then leans forward and kisses him. The kiss is gentle but certain, carrying the weight of all they've shared and all that lies ahead. Geoffrey's hands rise to Adam's waist, steadying him, returning the kiss with equal tenderness.

When they part, Eli and Sam are watching them with matching expressions of affection. Eli's tears have slowed, though his cheeks remain damp. He reaches for Sam's hand, then extends his other toward Adam and Geoffrey.

"The dragons knew," Eli says softly, wonder threading through his voice. "Somehow, they knew."

The four boys stand together in the garden, hands linked, forming their own circle of protection and belonging. Above them, the summer sky stretches endless and blue—the same sky that dragons crossed yesterday, the same sky that witnessed justice delivered on distant waters.

"They knew," Adam agrees, "and they wanted us to know too."

---

The cottage fills with savory aromas as Mary moves between hearth and table, her movements purposeful yet relaxed. When Geoffrey and Sam burst through the door earlier with their news, Mary had immediately declared the occasion worthy of celebration. Now, as evening settles over the garden, she sets down a steaming platter of herb-roasted chicken, her special recipe usually reserved for festivals and birthdays. Eli watches her with quiet amazement, still processing the day's revelations, still feeling the strange lightness in his chest where a burden used to sit.

"You've outdone yourself, Mary," Adam says, his eyes wide at the spread before them. Besides the chicken, the table holds fresh bread still warm from the oven, a bowl of early summer vegetables glazed with honey and herbs, and Mary's prized pottery pitcher filled with cool well water.

Mary smiles, tucking a strand of silver-streaked hair behind her ear. "Some news deserves more than our usual supper," she says, her eyes lingering on Eli and Adam with motherly understanding. Without them having to explain, she comprehends exactly what the Nar's destruction means to them.

Sam inhales deeply, dramatically. "It smells even better than the feast day chicken," he declares, already reaching for the serving knife before Geoffrey gently catches his wrist.

"Wait for Mary to sit," Geoffrey reminds him with fond exasperation.

Mary laughs, the sound warming the cottage as much as the fire in the hearth. "Always hungry, this one," she says, ruffling Sam's hair as she passes behind his chair. She disappears briefly into the small storage room at the back of the cottage, returning with a dusty bottle. "I've been saving this for a special occasion," she explains, setting it on the table. "Wine from the southern islands. Thomas gave it to me at midwinter."

Eli recognizes the significance of the gesture. Mary rarely indulges in luxuries, preferring to live simply even when she has the means for more. The wine represents not just celebration but acknowledgment—this day marks something profound for her family.

"And these," Mary adds, bringing a covered dish from the sideboard, "are doucetes." She removes the cloth to reveal small, delicate pastries filled with sweet cheese and dried fruits, their tops glistening with honey. "An old recipe my mother taught me."

"You made all this after we told you?" Adam asks, clearly moved by her efforts.

Mary's expression softens. "The moment you boys came in from the garden with that look on your faces, I knew. Some shadows are finally lifting." She takes her seat at the head of the table, nodding for them to begin. "Now eat, before it gets cold."

They need no further encouragement. Sam serves generous portions to everyone, starting with Eli and Adam in a small gesture of deference to the significance this meal holds for them. The first bites are accompanied by appreciative murmurs, the conversation momentarily suspended in favor of enjoying Mary's cooking.

"To freedom," Mary says simply, raising her cup.

"To freedom," they echo, the word carrying different shades of meaning for each of them. Their cups meet over the center of the table with a gentle sound, like bells announcing good news.

The wine is sweet on Eli's tongue, warming his throat as he swallows. Beside him, Adam takes a careful sip, his expression opening with surprise at the pleasant taste.

"I keep thinking about those dragons," Sam says between bites of chicken. "How they must have looked, diving toward the ship, breathing fire." His eyes shine with the imagined scene. "I wish I could have seen it."

"I don't," Eli says quietly. The others turn to him, and he clarifies, "I'm glad it happened. But I never want to see that ship again, even in its destruction."

Adam nods in agreement, his shoulder pressing against Eli's in silent support.

"Of course," Sam says quickly. "I didn't mean—"

"I know," Eli assures him with a small smile. "It's just strange to think of it gone. For so long, it was..." He struggles to find the right words.

"It was everything," Adam finishes for him. "Our whole world narrowed down to that ship, those planks, that box we shared in the cargo hold." He takes another sip of wine, as if washing away the memory. "And now it's just... gone."

"Not just gone," Geoffrey adds, his voice steady and sure. "Destroyed. By creatures of legend who recognized evil and eliminated it." He looks at Eli and Adam, his gaze intent. "There's meaning in that. Justice."

Mary watches them with knowing eyes. "Dragons have always represented wisdom in the old stories," she says. "They see with different eyes than humans do."

"They saw you," Sam tells Eli and Adam earnestly. "They recognized what was done to you, and they made it right."

The conversation flows naturally from there, moving between memories and hopes, between the solemnity of what was lost and the joy of what has been found. The doucetes are saved for last, their sweetness a perfect counterpoint to the rich meal. Mary refuses all help with clearing the table, insisting that tonight is for celebration, not chores.

When the dishes are stacked and the table wiped clean, Sam looks at the others with a sudden inspiration. "We should sing for Mary," he suggests. "To thank her for the feast."

"Yes," Geoffrey agrees immediately. "The song from the harbor, the one about returning home."

Mary settles in her chair by the fire, her work-worn hands resting in her lap, face alight with anticipation. Singing has become a regular part of their evenings, but tonight feels different—more ceremonial, more meaningful.

The boys arrange themselves in their usual formation, standing before the hearth. Sam begins the melody, his clear voice rising pure and strong in the warm air of the cottage:

"The tide turns ever homeward,The stars guide sailors true,Through darkness deep and dangers steep,To those who wait for you."

Geoffrey joins on the second line, his deeper voice providing a foundation beneath Sam's melody. As the verse continues, Adam adds his voice, slightly rougher but perfectly complementary, creating harmonies that seem to resonate in the very walls of the cottage.

Eli's voice is the last to join, quieter than the others but essential to the blend. Together, the four voices weave something greater than any could create alone—a tapestry of sound that speaks of brotherhood and belonging, of journeys completed and harbors reached.

Mary watches them, her eyes shining with unshed tears. In these moments, she sees not just the boys they are now but glimpses of the men they will become—strong, compassionate, bound to each other by ties stronger than blood.

As the song builds to its final verse, Eli feels something expanding in his chest. The wine warms his blood, the food fills his stomach, and the music—their music—fills every corner of the cottage that has become truly home. He looks at Adam beside him, at Geoffrey and Sam completing their circle, at Mary watching them with such love, and thinks: this is what we were saving ourselves for, during those dark years. This moment, this family, this joy.

The final notes fade into the cottage's comfortable silence. Mary applauds softly, her smile luminous in the firelight. "Beautiful," she says simply.

The boys bow together with playful formality that makes Mary laugh. They sing three more songs before the evening grows late, each one flowing naturally into the next, their voices finding each other without effort or direction.

Later, as Mary prepares for sleep in her small room, Eli catches Adam watching him from across the main room. There's something new in Adam's expression—a lightness, an ease that has been gradually emerging but seems fully present tonight.

"What?" Eli asks softly.

Adam shakes his head slightly. "Just thinking about how full everything feels now. After being empty for so long."

Their cup runs over, day after day. And tonight, with the knowledge that the Nar lies rotting at the bottom of the sea, that cup seems bottomless.

---

The curtain around their sleeping alcove is drawn, creating a private world illuminated by a single oil lamp placed carefully on the small table in the corner. All four boys sit cross-legged on the wide mattress they share, cards spread between them in the organized chaos of a game of gleek. Eli studies his hand with mock seriousness, one knee bare where his sleep trousers have ridden up, his chest exposed in the warm summer night. Adam sits opposite him, stripped down to just his thin cotton trousers, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he arranges his cards. Geoffrey and Sam complete the circle, similarly half-dressed for sleep, their skin golden in the lamp's gentle light.

"Mournivals," Sam declares triumphantly, laying down four queens with a flourish. "Read 'em and weep."

Geoffrey groans, tossing his cards face down on the blanket. "That's the third time tonight. You're hiding cards in that mop you call hair."

Sam grins, running a hand through his wild bird's nest. "Just blessed by fortune. Or perhaps dragons," he adds with a wink, referencing their day's discovery for perhaps the dozenth time since sunset.

Adam laughs, the sound relaxed and genuine. "If dragons were helping you cheat, you'd have more skill about it," he teases, reaching to collect the scattered cards. "I saw you peek at Geoffrey's hand when he wasn't looking."

"Slander!" Sam clutches his chest in mock offense, but his twitching lips betray him. "I would never stoop to such tactics."

"Liar," Eli says fondly, leaning over to ruffle Sam's hair. "You've been cheating at cards since the day we met you."

Sam doesn't deny it this time, just shrugs with a grin that suggests he considers creative play a legitimate strategy. "Deal again," he urges Adam. "I promise to behave this time."

"A promise worth about as much as a leaky bucket," Geoffrey mutters, but he's smiling as he accepts his new hand from Adam.

The cards flutter between them, dealt with Adam's careful precision. Eli watches his hands move, noting the steadiness, the confidence that wasn't there months ago when Adam's fingers would sometimes tremble with memories no one else could see. Now those same hands shuffle cards with elegant motions, strong and sure.

In the lamp's gentle glow, Eli's eyes drift over his companions. Sam, animated as always, practically bounces with energy despite the late hour, his face alive with mischief and joy. Geoffrey, steady and watchful, his broad shoulders relaxed, hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger than his responsibilities often allow. And Adam, his Adam, sitting with an easy grace that would have seemed impossible in those first painful weeks after their escape.

When Adam leans forward to place a card in the center, the light catches his back, illuminating the network of pale lines that mark his skin. Eli has matching ones, souvenirs of their time aboard the Nar. But in this moment, what strikes him most is how faded they've become—not just physically, with time and Mary's healing salves, but in their power to evoke fear.

"Your play, Eli," Geoffrey prompts gently, noticing his distraction.

Eli blinks, returning to the game. "Sorry," he says, selecting a card. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous habit," Sam quips, eyeing Eli's play with suspicion. "Especially during gleek."

Adam watches Eli with quiet understanding, recognizing the direction of his thoughts without needing explanation. "They're fading," he says softly, when Sam and Geoffrey become absorbed in debating the finer points of a rule.

"Yes," Eli agrees, knowing Adam doesn't mean just the physical marks. "Everything is."

"Gleek!" Geoffrey announces, breaking into their private exchange with his declaration of victory. "Finally putting an end to Sam's winning streak."

Sam falls backward onto the mattress with an exaggerated groan. "Betrayed by the cards. After all we've been through together."

His dramatic display sets them all laughing, the sound filling their small sanctuary with warmth. Eli catches Adam's eye across the circle, sharing a private smile at Sam's antics. These moments of simple pleasure, of unguarded joy, have become more frequent, more natural. The shadow of the Nar grows fainter with each one.

"One more game?" Sam asks hopefully, already sitting back up.

"You'll fall asleep mid-hand," Geoffrey predicts, gathering the cards. "You could barely keep your eyes open during that last round."

"Was not," Sam protests, but a yawn betrays him mid-sentence, making him scowl at his body's betrayal.

Adam begins to clear away the cards, his movements unhurried. "Tomorrow," he promises Sam. "We can play again after fishing."

The mention of tomorrow—the easy assumption of its arrival, the simple plans already forming—strikes Eli with its ordinariness. There was a time when tomorrow held only dread, when the rising sun meant only another day of suffering. Now, tomorrow brings fishing with his brothers, perhaps swimming in their secret stream, Mary's bread fresh from the oven, songs in the evening.

As they prepare for sleep, extinguishing the lamp and settling into their usual positions, Eli marvels at how natural it all feels. Geoffrey and Sam curl together on one side, Sam's head tucked under Geoffrey's chin in their habitual arrangement. Eli and Adam mirror them on the other side, Adam's back pressed against Eli's chest, their breathing already synchronizing.

In the darkness, Eli's hand finds Adam's waist, resting there with gentle possessiveness. Between them and the other pair, their feet touch beneath the light summer blanket, maintaining connection even in sleep. The cottage settles around them with familiar creaks and sighs, a living thing protecting its own.

"I can't believe how different everything is now," Adam murmurs into the darkness, voicing Eli's thoughts. "It feels like the Nar was just a bad dream."

"It was," Eli whispers back, tightening his arm around Adam. "And we woke up."

From across the mattress comes Sam's sleepy voice: "And found a better dream."

"Not a dream," Geoffrey corrects softly. "This is real. We're real."

---

Sleep comes in pieces for Eli that night. Each time his eyes close, he finds Adam's arms wound tighter around his waist, as if by unconscious agreement they are guarding one another even from the things that cannot be seen. The gentle sound of wind through the cottage rafters mingles with the distant hush of waves; sometimes the rush of the ocean is a comfort, sometimes a warning. When at last the lines between waking and dreaming blur, he is not surprised to find himself by a river that is both familiar and strange—a place stitched from fragments of memory and longing.

Across the stream, a figure appears. The shock of red hair is unmistakable, but gone are the hollow cheeks and fever-glazed eyes. Owen stands straight and strong, his skin luminous with health, his face lit by a shy, radiant smile. He's wearing clean linen, patched at the knees, with no sign of injury or pain. Sunlight halos his head.

"Hey," Owen says, voice steady and clear as the river's current.

Eli's breath catches, but it's Adam who answers first. "Owen," he says, his voice breaking around the word. "You're here."

Owen shrugs, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.

"I'm sorry," Adam whispers, voice so soft Eli barely catches it. "I wanted you to come home too. I thought maybe if I prayed hard enough—"

Owen's hand lands on Adam's shoulder, impossibly warm. "You did," he says, simple and unyielding. "This is home for me now." He looks to Eli, inviting him to understand. "You made a new home for yourselves, too. For each other. I'm glad."

Eli reaches out, hand hovering uncertainly in the air. Owen meets it with his own, their fingers tangling. Owen's grip is strong and sure, nothing like the frail hands Eli remembers from the ship. "We think about you every day," Eli manages, voice rough. "You're part of us."

Owen's face lights up with a joy that banishes all doubt. "Listen for my voice. I sing with you."

Eli and Adam awaken together.

Close beside them, Sam stirs first, waking with a grunt and a rustle of blankets. "S'too early," he mumbles, then cracks one eye open and blinks at them. "Why are you awake?"

Eli hesitates, but Adam answers for both of them. "We saw someone in a dream," he says, voice hushed. "An old friend. He… he died, but we saw him. He wanted to tell us he was okay."

Sam scoots closer, pulling his blanket around his shoulders like a cape. "What was he like? Your friend."

Adam's expression grows distant, as if peering into the dream again. "He used to tell stories on the ship, even when he was hurt. He'd whisper them at night so the other boys wouldn't be so scared." Adam's mouth twists into a smile. "He had this ridiculous laugh, like a donkey braying. You couldn't help but laugh, even when you tried not to."

Geoffrey wraps an arm around both Eli and Adam, squeezing them tight. "He sounds like someone worth remembering."

Eli nods, blinking against a sudden sting of tears. "He is."

Sam pulls himself in, so all four of them are huddled together in the alcove, knees bumping and elbows jabbing. "If you dream about him again, tell him we said hi," Sam says, then grins. "And tell him he's got to meet us someday, if they let people back."

Geoffrey chuckles. "They'd have a hard time getting rid of us. I bet we'd wake the whole afterlife with Sam's snoring."

Sam tries to look offended, but he's laughing too hard. The sound bounces around the low ceiling, turning the heaviness in the room to something lighter, easier to breathe.

---

In the morning, Geoffrey wakes to the gentle pressure of Sam's fingers walking up his bare chest, feather-light and deliberate. The early morning sun filters through the cottage window, casting a warm glow across their shared bed. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, savoring the familiar touch, the weight of Sam's body beside his. When Sam's fingers reach his collarbone, Geoffrey strikes, hands darting to Sam's sides where he knows his friend is most ticklish.

"Geoffrey!" Sam yelps, trying to keep his voice down even as he squirms away from the attack. His efforts are futile—Geoffrey knows every sensitive spot on Sam's body, every place that makes him gasp and giggle.

"Morning, troublemaker," Geoffrey whispers, fingers dancing across Sam's ribs, finding the spots between that make Sam bite his lip to keep from waking Eli and Adam.

Sam twists beneath him, his smaller body writhing as he tries to escape the onslaught. "Not fair," he gasps, reaching for Geoffrey's hands but failing to catch them as they move from his ribs to his underarms.

Geoffrey grins, enjoying the way Sam's face flushes, the way his eyes squeeze shut when the tickling becomes too much. They've shared a bed for years now, and this morning ritual feels as natural as breathing. Even with Eli and Adam sleeping just inches away, neither boy holds back their playfulness. The four of them have no secrets from each other, no need for pretense or restraint.

"You started it," Geoffrey reminds him, easing the tickling for a moment to let Sam catch his breath. "Walking your fingers up my chest like some kind of spider."

Sam's chest rises and falls rapidly, his wild shaggy hair spread across the pillow. "I was being gentle," he protests. "You're the one who escalated things."

Sam narrows his eyes, a challenge forming there. "Just like you escalated things with those fish last week. Stomping around the shore like you were trying to announce our presence to every fish in the cove."

---

Adam drifts awake to the gentle bouncing of the mattress beneath him. He keeps his eyes closed, savoring the borderland between sleep and wakefulness, where his body feels both heavy and weightless. Eli's warm back presses against his chest, fitting perfectly against him. Another bounce, more pronounced this time, accompanied by Sam's muffled giggle and Geoffrey's playful growl. Adam finally opens his eyes to the soft morning light filtering through the curtained alcove, finding Sam and Geoffrey wrestling on their side of the shared mattress.

"Take it back," Geoffrey demands in a hushed voice, pinning Sam's wrists above his head.

"Never," Sam whispers back, squirming beneath Geoffrey's weight, his eyes bright with challenge despite his compromised position.

Adam watches them through half-lidded eyes, careful not to move and disturb Eli, who somehow remains asleep despite the commotion. The blanket has slipped down during the night, exposing Eli's bare shoulders and the upper curve of his spine. Adam resists the urge to trace the faded scars there, not wanting to wake him. Instead, he simply savors the feeling of Eli's skin against his own, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slight twitch of his fingers as he dreams.

Morning light spills through the gaps in the curtain, painting strips of gold across the four boys. One such beam illuminates the curve of Eli's cheek, the sweep of his eyelashes against his skin. Adam feels a swell of tenderness so acute it almost hurts. After everything—after the Nar, after years of pain—this simple moment feels miraculous: waking up beside someone he loves, surrounded by safety and warmth.

On the other side of the bed, Sam attempts to buck Geoffrey off, a move that only results in Geoffrey tightening his hold and pressing him more firmly into the mattress.

"You can't win," Geoffrey whispers, his face hovering inches above Sam's. "Just admit I'm right."

"You're terrible at catching fish and that's the truth," Sam insists, though his resistance is clearly half-hearted now. "You scared away our entire dinner last week."

"That was because you wouldn't stop singing," Geoffrey counters, shifting his grip so he's holding both of Sam's wrists in one hand. "The fish heard you from three coves away."

Adam smiles to himself. Their bickering carries no real heat, just the comfortable rhythm of two people who know each other completely. He watches as Geoffrey uses his free hand to tickle Sam's ribs and nipples, causing the smaller boy to squirm and bite his lip to keep from laughing too loudly.

"That's cheating," Sam gasps between suppressed giggles.

"All's fair in love and fishing arguments," Geoffrey replies, his smile softening as Sam continues to struggle beneath him.

As he tickles Sam's underarm, Geoffrey notices something new—the faint darkening of hair just beginning to grow there. He pauses, his tickling fingers stilling as he takes in this small but significant change in his friend's body. Sam is thirteen, just like him, but his smaller stature sometimes makes Geoffrey forget they're the same age, both crossing the threshold into adolescence together.

"What?" Sam asks, noticing Geoffrey's changed focus.

"You're getting hair there," Geoffrey says, his voice tinged with wonder as his thumb gently brushes the soft, sparse growth.

Sam's cheeks flush slightly. "So?"

"Nothing," Geoffrey says quickly. "Just noticed."

The news of the Nar's destruction has changed something fundamental in all of them, Adam realizes. There's a lightness to their interactions this morning, a sense of complete safety that wasn't possible before. Even in their happiest moments, a shadow had always lurked at the edges—the knowledge that somewhere, the Nar still sailed, still captured children, still broke spirits as it had tried to break his and Eli's. That shadow is gone now, burnt away by dragonfire.

Sam makes one last attempt to free himself, twisting his body and nearly succeeding before Geoffrey counters by straddling him completely, their faces now inches apart. The mood shifts subtly, the playfulness taking on a different quality. Sam stops struggling, his eyes locked with Geoffrey's. Their breathing, which had been quick with exertion, slows and deepens.

"I yield," Sam whispers, the words barely audible.

Geoffrey doesn't move away as Adam expects. Instead, he lowers his head slowly, deliberately, and presses his lips against Sam's. The kiss is gentle at first, then deepens as Sam responds, arching slightly beneath Geoffrey's weight.

"Geoffy," Sam whispers, using the childhood nickname that belongs to him alone.

Adam averts his eyes, giving them privacy despite their shared space. This isn't the first time he's witnessed tender moments between Geoffrey and Sam, but he still feels a slight flush warming his cheeks. Not from embarrassment, but from the intimate beauty of their connection.

The mattress stops bouncing as Geoffrey and Sam grow still, their wrestling match transformed into something quieter but no less passionate. Adam can't see them clearly from his position, but the change in their breathing tells him everything. What began as play has become a moment of genuine tenderness between them.

Morning light continues to strengthen, filling their alcove with a warm glow. Outside, Adam hears the first stirrings of the day—a rooster crowing in the distance, the soft cluck of the hens Mary keeps behind the cottage, the whisper of wind through the garden herbs. The sounds of peace, of ordinary life continuing as it should.

Eli shifts slightly in Adam's arms, making a small sound in his sleep but not waking. Adam tightens his hold instinctively, drawing Eli closer against him. He presses his face into the curve of Eli's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him—soap and skin and something uniquely Eli that Adam could recognize blindfolded.

On the other side of the bed, the quality of silence has changed. Geoffrey and Sam have grown quiet, their movements more subtle, more deliberate. Adam hears the soft catch in Sam's breath, the tiny groan that slips from Geoffrey. Their connection is both separate from and intertwined with what he shares with Eli—different threads in the same carefully woven cloth.

Adam closes his eyes again, content to drift in this perfect morning moment. The Nar is gone. They are safe. Eli sleeps peacefully in his arms while Geoffrey and Sam express their love in their own way beside them. For now, the world has narrowed to this alcove, to these four boys who have found in each other everything they need. The heat in the alcove thickens, not just from the pile of blankets and bodies but from something that fills the air, something old as the world and sweeter than spring honey.

He knows Eli will wake soon—the increasing light and the subtle movements of Sam and Geoffrey making it inevitable—but for now, Adam simply holds him, protecting his sleep for a few moments longer. They have nowhere to be, nothing urgent to do. Just this: breathing together, hearts beating in rhythm, alive and whole and free.

---

"No, don't..." Eli mumbles, his face twitching slightly as he dreams. Adam pulls him closer, protective even against whatever shadows might be visiting Eli's sleep. He presses his lips to Eli's shoulder, then his neck, gentle kisses intended to anchor rather than wake. Eli's skin is warm against his mouth, familiar and perfect. Adam breathes him in, savoring the closeness as morning light strengthens around them.

Eli shifts in his arms, another quiet sound escaping him. Adam continues his gentle kisses, moving to Eli's chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his lips. He doesn't want to wake Eli, but he can't help himself—this morning feels too precious to waste on sleep, especially when Eli's dreams seem troubled.

"Adam?" Eli's voice is thick with sleep, confused.

"I'm here, baby," Adam whispers against his skin. "Right here."

Eli blinks slowly, his blue eyes unfocused. For a moment, his expression is distant, almost afraid, as though he's caught between worlds—the safe reality of their shared bed and whatever landscape his dreams had taken him to. Adam recognizes this look; he's worn it himself often enough, waking from dreams where the Nar still holds them captive.

"You were dreaming," Adam says softly, brushing Eli's hair back from his forehead.

Recognition dawns in Eli's eyes as they focus properly on Adam's face. The tension in his body releases all at once, relief washing over his features. "There you are," he says, as though he's the one who's been searching, not the other way around.

Eli sighs deeply, stretching his arms above his head before folding them beneath his neck, a posture of complete relaxation. The blanket slips lower, revealing the lean muscles of his chest and stomach, shaped by years of hard work both forced and chosen. Adam still marvels sometimes at how Eli's body has filled out since their escape—proper food and safety allowing him to grow strong in ways the Nar had tried to prevent.

"Good morning," Eli says, a slow smile spreading across his face, chasing away the last shadows of his dream.

Adam can't resist this invitation. He leans over Eli, supporting himself on one elbow as he places deliberate kisses along the column of Eli's throat. Eli tilts his head to give better access, his eyes drifting closed again, but in pleasure rather than sleep. Adam continues his path of exploration, pressing his lips to the hollow of Eli's collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the sensitive skin of his inner arm.

"That tickles," Eli murmurs when Adam's mouth finds his nipple, but he makes no move to pull away.

From the other side of the bed comes a soft sound—a catch in Sam's breath, a barely audible gasp. The mattress shifts slightly with movement that has a completely different rhythm from their earlier wrestling.

Adam and Eli turn their heads at the same moment, their eyes meeting in shared understanding. Eli's lips quirk upward in a knowing smile that Adam returns immediately. There's no jealousy, no awkwardness—just appreciation for the beauty of Geoffrey and Sam's connection, mirroring their own.

"They beat us to it," Eli whispers, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"We can catch up," Adam suggests, his voice equally low.

Eli props himself up on one elbow, mirroring Adam's position. They face each other in the strengthening morning light, close enough that Adam can count each of Eli's eyelashes, can see the subtle variations of blue in his irises. For a moment, they simply look at each other, drinking in the sight that neither boy takes for granted.

Then Eli closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to Adam's in a kiss that speaks of familiarity and discovery all at once. Adam responds immediately, his free hand coming up to cup Eli's face, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. The kiss deepens naturally, both boys shifting closer until their bare chests press together, skin to skin.

Warmth spreads through Adam's body, a pleasant heat that has nothing to do with the summer morning and everything to do with Eli's touch. His fingers trace the knobs of Eli's spine, following the path down to the small of his back. Eli makes a small sound of appreciation against his mouth, his own hand sliding into Adam's hair.

They break apart just enough to breathe, foreheads touching, sharing the same air. Adam feels his heart racing and knows Eli's matches the pace. Two hearts that survived the worst together, now beating in rhythm for better reasons.

"I dreamed you were gone," Eli confesses quietly, his hand tightening slightly in Adam's hair as if to reassure himself. "I was back on the Nar, and you weren't there."

Adam presses another kiss to Eli's lips, gentle and reassuring. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises. "Ever."

"I know," Eli says, and the simple confidence in those two words fills Adam with joy. There was a time when Eli couldn't believe in safety, couldn't trust that anything good would last. That he can now state his certainty so plainly feels like the greatest victory.

They hold each other close, legs tangling beneath the blankets, hands exploring with the easy familiarity of those who know each other's bodies as well as their own. Adam loses track of time in the warmth of Eli's embrace, in the soft sounds of their breathing mingling with the quieter noises from Geoffrey and Sam.

The four of them exist in their own perfect world within the confines of this alcove—two pairs of boys expressing their love in their own ways, yet connected by the bonds of brotherhood that encompass them all. Adam feels that connection like a physical thing, a golden thread binding the four of them together.

Morning continues to brighten the world outside their curtained space. Soon they'll need to rise, to help Mary with morning chores, to face the day with all its small responsibilities and pleasures. But for now, Adam holds Eli close, kisses him deeply, and revels in the simple miracle of being alive, being free, being loved.

"I love you," Adam whispers against Eli's lips, because some truths bear repeating every day.

"I love you too," Eli answers immediately, his voice steady and sure, no trace of his earlier confusion remaining. "More than anything."

Sam and Geoffrey have stopped playing, but their foreheads are pressed together, eyes closed, breathing as one. Sam is the first to speak. "You're heavy," he mutters, but he makes no move to push Geoffrey off.

"Am not," Geoffrey replies, voice thick and unhurried.

"Are too. You're like a sack of flour."

Geoffrey smiles, all the usual sharpness gone, replaced by something utterly soft. "I could get off, but I think you like it."

Sam snorts, but his hands don't leave Geoffrey's shoulders. "Maybe I do," he says, and that's all.

---

"Mary's still asleep," Geoffrey whispers as they dress quietly in the soft morning light. Adam pulls his shirt over his head, then reaches for his worn leather sandals—perfect for the rocky path down to the shore. Beside him, Eli tugs on his trousers while Sam, already dressed, bounces impatiently on his toes by the curtain. The four of them move with the careful coordination of those accustomed to sharing space, passing clothing items back and forth, helping each other prepare for the day's first adventure.

"We'll be back before she wakes," Eli adds, his voice barely audible. "She was up late making those medicines for the cooper's wife."

Adam nods, knowing how seriously Eli takes his responsibilities to Mary. Even in moments of spontaneity like this, he ensures they won't worry her. It's one of the countless things Adam loves about him—this thoughtfulness that extends to everyone in his orbit.

They slip from the cottage like shadows, closing the door with exaggerated care behind them. The morning air hits Adam's skin with pleasant coolness, a contrast to the warmth of their sleeping alcove. Dew sparkles on the grass and herbs in Mary's garden, transforming ordinary plants into something magical in the early light.

Sam takes off immediately, jogging ahead down the path that winds from the cottage to the shore. Geoffrey follows at a more measured pace, reaching to ruffle Sam's hair as he passes. Eli and Adam fall into step beside each other, their hands brushing with each stride, occasionally catching and holding before releasing again.

"Race you to the big rock!" Sam calls back, already picking up speed as the path begins to slope downward.

"Not fair, you got a head start," Geoffrey protests, but he lengthens his stride anyway, quickly gaining ground on the smaller boy.

Adam exchanges a glance with Eli, both of them smiling at their brothers' perpetual competitiveness. Without a word, they both break into a run, following the path as it curves between windswept shrubs and grassy dunes. The sea comes into view as they crest a small rise, the water gleaming silver-blue in the morning light, gentle waves lapping at the shore.

By the time Adam and Eli reach the stretch of sandy beach, Geoffrey and Sam are already there, Sam doing a victory dance around the large, flat rock that marks their favorite swimming spot. The beach is deserted at this early hour, giving them the rare privilege of having the entire cove to themselves.

"You cheated," Geoffrey insists, though his smile betrays that he doesn't really mind.

"I simply employed strategic advantage," Sam counters, already pulling his shirt over his head.

The four boys undress quickly, stripping down to their skin with the unselfconsciousness of those who have shared countless such moments. Geoffrey is the first to enter the water, wading in with confident strides until he's waist-deep, then diving beneath the surface. He emerges with a splash, shaking water from his hair like a dog. "It's perfect," he calls back to the others. "Not too cold."

Sam follows immediately, running in with no hesitation, creating a spectacular splash as he launches himself into deeper water. Eli and Adam enter together, moving forward until the water reaches their chests, then submerging themselves completely, emerging with matching gasps at the initial shock of cold.

The water embraces Adam, cool and buoyant, supporting his body as he begins to swim with long, confident strokes. It still amazes him sometimes, how naturally swimming came back to him after years of confinement on the Nar. His body remembered what his mind had almost forgotten—the freedom of movement, the joy of weightlessness, the simple pleasure of cool water against hot skin.

Sam's laughter rings out across the water as Geoffrey catches him, lifting him up and tossing him backward into an incoming wave. Eli swims toward them, joining their play with a surprise splash aimed at Geoffrey's face. Adam follows, diving beneath the surface and catching Sam by the ankles, gently tugging him under for a moment before letting go.

They play like this for long minutes, splashing and diving, chasing each other through the clear water. Their movements are uninhibited, joyful, the physical expression of a freedom that feels especially precious in light of yesterday's news. The Nar is gone. The shadows that haunted their sleep are fading. Here, in the morning sea under an endless sky, they are completely free.

Adam floats on his back for a moment, feeling the gentle rise and fall of the water beneath him, watching the sky brighten to deep blue overhead. Around him, the other three continue their water battle, their shouts and laughter creating a perfect soundtrack to the morning.

"Adam! Help me!" Eli calls, laughing as both Geoffrey and Sam gang up on him, splashing from both sides.

Adam flips over and swims to Eli's aid, diving beneath the surface to emerge behind Geoffrey, catching him by surprise. The battle lines shift and reform—Adam and Eli against Geoffrey and Sam, then Eli and Geoffrey against Adam and Sam, alliances changing with the fluidity of the water itself.

During a brief pause in their play, Adam takes a moment to really see his companions—Eli with water streaming down his face, eyes bright with happiness; Geoffrey floating easily in the deeper water, his usual seriousness replaced by carefree joy; Sam attempting to climb onto Geoffrey's shoulders, his dark mop of hair plastered to his head, smile wide and uninhibited.

"Race you to the big rock and back?" Eli challenges, already positioning himself to swim.

Adam grins, orienting himself beside Eli. "You're on."

As they push off together, cutting through the clear water with matched strokes, Adam feels his heart swell with gratitude for this moment, this morning, these boys who have become his world. Behind them, Geoffrey and Sam cheer them on, their voices carrying across the water and up toward the brightening sky.

This, Adam thinks as he swims with all his strength beside the boy he loves, is what kept them alive when they were captives. This perfect freedom, this joy, this life worth living.

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