Tusk Love

by Thea Guanzon

The stranger wrenched the trunk from Guinevere’s grasp and tucked it under his left arm, then he scooped her up, satchel and all, and effortlessly slung her over his right shoulder.

She was beautiful, in that otherworldly, untouchable kind of way that sent musicians and poets into paroxysms of delight.

He wanted to unwrap the enigmatic layers until he got to the very heart of her.

“The gentlemanly thing to do would be to put me up at this inn for the night.” All trace of amusement fled from Oskar’s demeanor. “I’m not a gentleman.”

And what was grief, but a memory of love? He’d run from that horrible last day for so long that he’d forgotten all the good ones that came before.

His narrowed eyes gleamed like fiery suns in miniature, his sleep-tousled hair all wild black waves. He reminded Guinevere of a lion, padding toward her with lethal grace. Her stomach went…swimmy.

“She said that life could get hard and mean, but I didn’t have to be.”

She didn’t say anything at first. She was staring up at him. There was an entire universe in her violet eyes.

“You’re all these things. But, Guinevere—” Her name hitched in his throat. Her name was a quiet rasp in this place of shadows and water. “You are also very kind and sweet, and much braver than you give yourself credit for. And you’re so…” He paused, as though struggling to find the right words. “You’re so interested in everything,” he whispered at last. “In all that this world has to offer. Your heart is bigger than the Marrow Valley. I don’t think I could leave you if I tried.”

And, just like that, Guinevere had her answer to the question of whether his tusks would hurt her. They didn’t. She knew now how their mouths would fit together: Perfectly.

“What do you mean there’s only one bed?” Oskar snapped.

“Oskar!” She lurched to her feet when she saw him. Her eyes were shining, and she looked so happy that he almost couldn’t breathe.

“You shouldn’t be so trusting of everyone you meet,” he muttered. “You barely know anything about the world.” “I know that you’re the strongest, bravest, most handsome man I’ve ever met!” She yelled it to the rest of the inn, which exploded in good-natured cheers of assent before Oskar kicked the bedroom door shut.

Unfortunately, she didn’t do a very good job of it, because— —when he caught sight of her and straightened up, lowering the axe, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners as his lips curved into a lopsided little grin— —she all but fell to pieces at his feet.

He couldn’t look at her for long without a peculiar ache settling within his rib cage. But neither could he bring himself to look away.

and how could everything else be movement when Oskar’s inner world had gone so still?

He ran a hand down her wet hair until his thumb caught in the hollow between her collarbones. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know,” he remarked.

But that was just what Guinevere did—she burned away all of Oskar’s common sense.

We share everything, Teinidh said with a sniff. Except opinions, clearly. It is my opinion that you’re overreacting. We don’t have to leave.

I mean, I can believe it, Teinidh drawled. Maybe if you’d written a shorter letter…

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Do you want to eat first before we fight?” “Let us get the fighting over and done with,” she said miserably.

But I can’t, and you’re not afraid of me in the slightest?” He arched a brow. “Do you want me to be afraid of you?” “No.” Her bottom lip wobbled. “I want you to—to l-like me.”

For as long as there is breath in my body, you will not face this world alone, Guinevere. Do you understand?”

“After all, there are no promises between us. I don’t know why I do half the things I do, Oskar. You should ignore me.” “I damn well wish I could,” he shot back. And then he kissed her.

“Gods, princess,” he breathed out, all quiet reverence. “How can you think that I’d even look at any other woman?”

“This is the one thing I get to decide. And even if it wasn’t—even if my straits were less dire and I was as free as the leaves blowing across the Amber Road—I would still want it to be you.”

but after they changed into their sleep clothes and went to bed, nothing was more important than curling around Guinevere, tucking her smaller body into his as they lay on their sides like spoons in a drawer, all sparkling and clean and snug.

The children ignored him. Where were the parents? He glared at the musician, who was the only adult visible in the wagon a few feet ahead. “Can’t you do something?” The musician plucked a mournful note from his lute. “Those’re my sister’s kids. They don’t listen to me.”

She wrapped both her arms around one of his, tugging him in the direction of the wagons. “By the way, I told them that you and I are eloping.” He nearly walked into a tree.

“You know, Oskar,” Guinevere mused as they retraced their steps to the clearing, “you haven’t been as grumpy lately.” “I threw a turnip peel at someone last night,” he reminded her.

“Are…are you ready?” Oskar nodded, fighting back a tender grin. His poor darling. There was no reason for her to be so nervous. It was only going to be a temporary sting, and he’d experienced much worse. She splashed the brew over the gouges along his ribs. “Fuck!” he yelped, the burning pain making him see double. “Just kill me!”

He wanted to tell her once again to quit trusting people so quickly, but not as much as he wanted to fold her trust into a pocket in his heart and spend the rest of his life proving himself worthy of it.

“I suppose that I’m sorry for him,” Guinevere sniffed. “He missed out on raising someone like you.”

“You,” he breathed out against her lips, “are so much work, sweetheart. So why is it that I’m having the time of my life?”

“Sorry?” Guinevere looked over at him, all sweet, blissful innocence. “I didn’t quite catch that.” “Nothing, dear.” It came so easily to him, that endearment. It rolled off his tongue the way a breath was exhaled by the lungs, an action that required no mulling over. It simply…was. “Oh, Oskar,” Guinevere scoffed, and she turned away from him, but not before he saw her smile brighten even more.

“Like—I don’t know, Oskar. Who could ever describe this feeling? I don’t have the words.” “I do,” he said, staring at her, framed as she was against a backdrop of open road and high mountains. “I feel like the look on your face.”

In time, he might come to love her as much as Oskar did. Damn idiotic, to be struck by this epiphany—to finally, finally admit it to himself—right as he was transferring her into the care of another man.

But she realized, with some surprise, that she was more than that. She was the Guinevere who’d killed those bandits. Who preferred ale to champagne. Who’d interrupted a mercenary illusionist’s spell and survived. She was the Guinevere who summoned the wildfire that Oskar found beautiful. She was the Guinevere who knew the song of the universe. Guinevere of the ravine, Guinevere of the woods, Guinevere of the Amber Road.

And she was afraid—but she was going to do it anyway. She was going to find Oskar and lay her heart at his feet, and together they would leave all of this behind.

“Why are you still here?” Oskar roared, a vein throbbing at his temple. “You daft woman, the ship is on fire!”