The song, Bren knew, was one from the first generation after the people settled, and was meant to establish the benefits of settled life as opposed to the nomadic--for he dies a horrible death, cold and alone. It also serves as a warning to young men--for the love of a woman is a sacred trust, and should not be violated.
The story was one that always weighed on his heart, and even more now, as he sought Alina with his gifts.
***
As he stood brooding in the half-shadow, he felt a warm weight on his arm. He turned, half-expecting to see Magda, but instead Alina's eyes shone up at him. A secret smile played about her lips.
His breath caught at her beauty. Unlike Magda, whose hair was mostly let down, hanging well past her shoulders with a braid at each temple--yes, he signed to himself, he had noticed--Alina's hair was wound in a crown around her head, leaving her neck and just the barest hint of her shoulder naked to the cool evening air. He watched as his hand moved up toward Alina's bare neckline, then, without touching, traced the line of her neck. Realizing suddenly what he was doing, he snatched his hand back and looked away. Her grip on his arm tightened, and he felt her lean on him slightly. They stood for a moment, close together, and Bren did not listen to the fate of the young man, alone and friendless in the world. He forgot to hear how he was on the verge of starvation, taken and brutalized by pirates, and then sold as a slave. He wouldn't have been surprised by the vultures picking at his entrails, but even as the chanting continued, his senses were full of the girl by his side, warm and sweet-smelling. Then, she tugged on his arm, and drew him away, further into the shadow of the trees. It was cooler here, away from the fire, and she was lightly clad. A heat came off of her, though, as if she burned with her own inner fire.
Bren remembered the gifts he held, and noticed also that she clutched something tight in her left hand. He looked down at her face again, and she dropped her eyes. She handed him the item shyly.
"This is for you." He took it with his free hand, and its length fell free. He lifted it up, surprised by its weight. Alina smiled as his mouth hung slightly open. He felt a stinging in his eyes and blinked once--twice--and again. He looked at the garment--a perfect, green wool traveling cloak--and then back at its maker, beaming in the near-darkness. He realized that her gifts were still in his other hand, closed his mouth and swallowed.
"These--" his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "These are for you." She took the three objects that he handed her, and her face lost some of its joy as she saw what they were: the carved portrait, the book, and the pen. She looked at him, standing, the cloak in his two hands. Her eyes were large and pleading.
"To. . . remember you by?"
He swallowed, and nodded. "Well--no. Not really." He spoke definitively, and she looked curious, ad something else. . . impressed? His confidence buoyed, he continued. "I carved the portraits when I was confined to bed for three days. I thought mostly of you." She nodded and colored slightly. "The book and the pen took me much longer. They are of myself--my talents, if you will. But I thought... That when I am gone, perhaps you will write--not just letters to me, but write of everything that happens. That way, when I return, we can share what you have written, and I will know how it has been with you. I don't want to leave you, my Alina."
Her eyes held a mixture of sadness and anger now, and when she answered, her tone was defiant. "Then why do you have to leave?" He started to answer, but she spoke over him. "I know. . . mushrooms. But. . . You can do other things. When you marry. . ." She stopped short, but continued. "When you marry you will have the chance to ask for a new vocation. And every three years after that. You know that as well as I! And if I... if you were to have a daughter, then your grandmother would raise that child to be a leader and a healer! You could give her that!"
It was a weak appeal, and she knew it, but he stared at her for a moment, and gathering up the cloak, suddenly dropped to his knees. For a moment, he buried his face in the cloak, then lifted it, his eyes unnaturally bright.
"Then. . . you have chosen me?"
She laughed, then. "Of course, you ninnyhammer. What did you think?" She was thoughtful for a moment, then offered her hand. They were mostly covered in the dim light, but she suspected that they had been seen by one of the passing shadows. He grasped it, and rose. The cloak dropped again, almost to the ground. "Will you try it on?"
He let go of her hand reluctantly, touching her fingertips as long as possible. Then, he swept the dark cloak over his shoulder and pulled the hood over his fair hair. He seemed to disappear into the night, except for his ruddy cheeks and his full lips. Alina stepped forward, then, and into his arms. He held her close, and her lips pressed against his own. Her kiss was firm and soft, and he breathed in her breath as he held perfectly still, wondering what he could--what he should--do. As he parted his lips slightly, she pulled ever so slightly back, and then rested back onto her heels. His breath seemed caught in short gasps.
"Will you stay? We can be married tonight. My mother approves. . ."
Bren gripped her with one arm, looking pained. For a moment, he wavered. Then his foot hit something soft. He looked down. The mushroom was large and brown, and would have been sliced and sautéed, and eaten with bread and perhaps cheese. He brought his foot down on it, hard. Alina squeaked, then clapped her hand on her mouth.
"I can't. You know that. I cannot be a whole man with you. . ."
She swallowed hard, and looked scared. In a very small voice, she pleaded. "Are you sure? You. . . could try. . . You could try. . . tonight."
Bren moved closer, then, and pressed her gently against a tree. She could feel him--the whole length of him--and was aware of how he wanted her. For a moment she hoped--feared--that she had won. Then, he relaxed, and drew away. Part of her felt relief, and then shame at her lack of conviction. He turned his back to her and stood, face deep within the cloak. She hesitated, still leaning on the tree. And she knew. Finally, he spoke.
"Is it a traveling cloak, or a wedding cloak?"
"It is a traveling cloak."
Her voice was thick, and he knew that it was with the greatest effort that she avoided tears. Good, he thought. It was the same for him.
"Then. . . I'm afraid I must go. I will be a better man for you when I return."
"If you return." She whispered into the night. Then, she spoke more clearly. "If you will go. . . You must make your promise to me. Tonight."
"That, I will do. And I will return to marry you, Alina. And will you promise? Will you wait for me? Even though you're not truly bound once I leave?"
"I will always wait for you. No matter what happens. I am yours."
"And I am yours, my love." He drew a token and his knife from the pouch at his waist, and sliced the token cleanly in two so that the metal core was visible between the layers of wax. He handed one to Alina, and kept the other. "Keep this, and we will know each other when I return."
She looked at the half-mushroom engraved on her token piece, and nodded. He drew her to him then, and they slowly ambled through the oblivious crowd, moving closer to inevitability--and Bren's grandmother.
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