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It’s still dark when Martyn slips out of bed, careful not to rustle the white cotton sheets. The floorboards under his naked feet are worn smooth with age. He steps around the creaking one with an instinct of long familiarity, light as a ghost, and takes the empty water bucket from its spot by the stove. He doesn’t bother with shoes, just ekes the door open and squeezes through.
The sky is just tinting lilac, burning orange on the horizon. Wind rustles in the pine trees, like a flutter of feathers. No birds sing in the branches. They haven’t since… Since.
He places the bucket on the short grass and stretches his arms over his head, yawning. The morning air tastes clean on his tongue, fresh and washed-out.
He continues to the water pump. Every movement is practiced routine by now. Soon, the bucket is full, crystal clear liquid quivering and sparkling at the top. He leaves it by the front door and rounds the cottage. His eyes skim the large stones they stacked to form the outside walls, the thick logs propping up the corners and the reeds dangling over the edge of the roof, low enough to brush the milky glass of the window when the wind blows.
The house seems to have weathered last night’s storm well. The same can’t be said for the marshes, though. From the top, the mud looks solid enough to stand on, but as soon as Martyn gets more than a few steps away from the house, his feet start to sink in. Clouded water squelches between his toes, making him shiver.
A boat lies in a shallow pool before him. It’s another treacherous illusion; there might be reeds surrounding it, but the water deepens beyond. Enough to swallow a man whole.
‘Leaving without me?’
Martyn turns, lips curving. ‘Just checking it’s still there.’
Ren looks handsome in the first rays of sunlight. His hair and beard and the fur on top of his pointed ears shimmer reddish brown, soft like the coat of a fox in the summer. His cheeks are tanned and his lips are full. Martyn slides up to him. ‘You almost ready to go?’
‘In a moment.’
Ren’s hands come up to cup Martyn’s face, his broad palms still warm from sleep. He ducks his head, brushing their lips together. Ren kisses like he’s catching butterflies – delicate, soft and slow. Martyn opens his mouth for him, lets him slide inside, wet and thick, with an impossible sweetness he still can’t explain, after all these years.
‘Now I am.’
Martyn rests his head on the other’s shoulder. ‘Dork.’
Ren hums. ‘You sure you want to go? We could do it tomorrow.’
Any other day, he would say yes. Even now, years after it happened, the memory of that fateful night still haunts his dreams. He sees her fiery curls, aflame in the evening sun, and the panic in her face. Never in her eyes, though. Her dead, unmoving, soulless eyes. Ten years ago, to the day.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m sure.’
They climb into the boat. Ren picks up the paddle and pushes them away from the shore, out onto the open water. The marsh lies still around them, its surface like a mirror. Martyn sits in front, guiding them.
The sun moves higher. It must be approaching eight now, breakfast time, judging by the shadows of the elm trees.
‘Move left a little?’
Ren navigates their boat into a narrow channel. It’s a detour, but they make it every time. Martyn leans over the edge, curls his hand around the necks of a few lilac flowers, just barely blooming, and yanks. The stems rip apart in his hands, sap bleeding into the water and running like milk over the inside of his fingers.
He unearths another cluster of blossoms, pale blue this time. They come out with the roots still attached.
Years ago, the two of them spent an entire week looking for burning red flowers in the swamp. But there were none.
Martyn spreads his harvest in the belly of the boat. He separates and counts them – twelve lilacs, five blue ones – then sorts them into two bouquets. Carefully, he plucks the stem from each blossom.
Ren’s humming stops. ‘Almost there.’
They slide into the shadow of a mangrove tree. Its roots are dark and gnarly, just barley wide enough not to catch them in their tangles. A shallow pond lies on the other side.
Ren slows the boat, puts down the paddle and joins Martyn.
Before them, two swords stick out of the water. Since it rained last night, the blades are almost completely submerged. Their pointed ends are buried in the slick. Specks of brown dot the iron.
‘They’re rusting,’ Martyn says. ‘Finally.’
Silence.
The sun crawls higher. The air is turning hot. Around them, the marsh is starting to buzz with life. Dragonflies hover over the water and mosquitoes circle in shadowed corners. A rare butterfly tumbles past, blind and beautiful.
‘Do you ever regret it?’
Martyn’s runs his fingertips over silky petals. ‘You ask me that every year.’
Ren’s arm brushes his. ‘So?’
‘Do you?’
Their eyes meet, blue on brown. Ren’s not wearing glasses. He hasn’t in a long time. One of his irises is milky, surrounded by scar tissue. The slash right through its middle came from the tip of a sword. It happened that same night. Their soulmates did not go quietly.
Ren’s hand slides over Martyn’s wrist, curling over his pulse.
‘What’s done is done.’
Martyn turns to the swords. The flowers in his hands are already starting to wilt, out of the water and in the heat, so he throws them overboard and watches them spread out, forming little ripples. Ren follows suit.
There are still no birds. They don’t sing for sinners.
After a while, Ren takes up the paddle again and returns to the back of the boat. He pushes them away from the floating flowers. As Martyn looks back, he thinks he sees a wisp of red hair drifting at the bottom, in the river slick.
‘No,’ he says, turning away from the sword that would fit perfectly into his palm. ‘I don’t regret it.’