I had managed to break the rest of the field in a week, only to be told to break it again, twice over. What once were sore muscles hardened and grew, swelling and making the skin on my back and arms taut and strange to me. As I came to the end of the third pass, my skin was no longer pale, but peachy and red, a constant tanning and sunburnt state. The last of ice and snow had melted away, insects and small creatures making themselves known, including the occasional house mouse. I had no idea how lively the dense forest could be, but it’s far from feeling isolated like during winter when so much life stayed hidden, warm, and hibernating. The old man had put us back on the field, demanding we make up for lost time. John muttered curses under his breath as he sprinkled seed in the row I had furrowed out.

“That’s not how a priest should talk, now is it?” I teased, following on his heels as I kicked the dirt in and slapped water from my bucket over freshly planted seed.

“I’m not a priest… yet.” He huffed, reaching the end of the line. “Let’s do this again. So, sixteen to eighteen knots in the braid is royalty?”

“If you phrase it that way, you should include those with fifteen knots.” Another slosh of water and I paused, musing over the difficulty this brought him. “I can’t believe this is so hard for you to remember.”

He waved a hand at me as if my words were a swarm of gnats before starting down the next row. “Fifteen knots means their a subfamily, right?”

“That’s right. They are often guardians and city guards. More accurately, cousins to the princes and princesses.” I emptied my bucket and circled back to the pump. As I past John mid-field, I quizzed him further. “And what does twelve to fourteen knots have in common?”

“Let’s see,” He paused, wiping sweat from his forehead with a forearm while marched back to where I left off. “That’s Lord Knights like grandpa, Dukes, then Viceroys at fourteen knots. They all have authority in the army or control territories. Viceroys often manage a town or city.”

“Good!” I finished watering the row and joined John on the next. “Keep going. You’re doing better.”

“Uh, nine to eleven knots, that’s Lords, Bishops, and Counts.” He started dropping seed again. “They are often in charge of businesses or serve the high tiers in some way. Bishops often manage entire territories on behalf of the Church and are in charge of leading several priests and their flocks. After that, anyone who owns property or have some sort of connection to the above tiers can wear eight knots. Then seven knots is strictly for priests.” Pausing, he smirked. “I wonder which of us will have the longer braid when I get back?”

I paled, the idea of it making me overshoot water by a longshot. John glared at me, and I refused to meet his gaze. Tightening my grip on the bucket, I sloshed the water on the intended spot, unwilling to react.

Does he know? How many times do I have to evade this?

“It was an order.” His tone darkened and it was enough to make me lock eyes.

“I know,” I replied weakly.

“Six knots,” he broke his stare, cheeks red. “Acolytes?”

Sighing, I sat the bucket down and stretched, waiting for him to gain a bigger lead. “Yes. You’ll be changing your three knots in for six if you are accepted.” My eyes glared at the golden tail of hair falling between his bare shoulder blades. He had knotted it three rows before letting a long streak cascade down like a ponytail to midway down his spine. “Here’s a good question that might be asked of you. Why are you worthy of three knots when a farmer traditionally has one?”

“We don’t work on someone’s land.” His jaw twitched as he pivoted and started down the next row now planting the dried bulbs from his satchel. “We own land, we don’t borrow money, and we trade in surplus or sell it. Two knots if we didn’t sell, one knot if we worked on someone else’s farm.”

“That’s right. What defines upper class?” My muscles burning, I returned to the task at hand. “What’s the difference between four and five knots?”

“Four knots are for those who can afford to live in the city and often they work for those with five knots. Traditionally shop owners have five or eight knots, whereas four and below might have a tent or stall in the streets.” He crept along the line; his back kept to me. “What if it takes me longer?”

“To learn this?” I kicked down the last of the dirt over the tiny seeds, sloshing the last of the water. “I think you’ve got it down.”

“I mean the time it will take me to become a priest.” He kept going, not missing a beat as he spoke in a hard tone. “It’s supposed to take seven years, but…”

Heading to the pump, I glanced over my shoulder and stole a peek at the scowl on his face. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re my keeper. My orders are to stay here, keep the farm in working order and tend to your grandpa’s needs.”

“Don’t let him hurt you.” John’s face flushed, but he spun down the next row, his golden tail of hair flashing like metal in the sunlight. “He’s training you to fight his way, isn’t he?”

“No, not yet.” I started pumping the water once more, the whine and gurgle keeping the edge off the silence. “You know, he may change his mind; I was the one who asked him.”

John’s hand searched the satchel but came up empty handed. “That’s the last of it.”

“Take a break, I’ll finish.” Before I could finish at the pump, John was through the door of the house.

He’s going to press the old man about teaching him how to use the sword again.

Slumping my shoulders, I finished covering the bulbs and watering the rows. Circling back, I did one more round for good measure, ignoring the shouting match unfolding inside the cabin. I had nearly finished when John shot out the door. Pausing, I watched him march off and lost him in the scores of tree trunks. After a minute or two, the old man came out on the porch, leaning a shoulder on a post as he lit his pipe. Hanging up the bucket, I came to attention in front of him, eyebrows high.

“Don’t you look at me like that.” His teeth chattered against the pipe. “Grab the scythe and go mulch out some grass for the piglets.”

“When did we get piglets?” I marveled.

“Doesn’t matter, now go mulch.” With that, he turned and dove back into the house.

It took a moment for me to sort through the tool shed to find where John had tossed it. Picking the scythe up, I hadn’t realized how much it weighed and the overall awkward feel of the tool. Marching out to the edge of the clearing, I stopped where John had mulched a chunk out for the chickens the day before. It wasn’t a task I had performed yet. Mimicking how I thought John had held the contraption, I attempted a swing, failing miserably. Scoffing, I adjusted and tried again, barely doing anything but lay the grass flat.

“You look pitiful,” John laughed from where he leaned against a tree.

“How long were you going to just watch me struggle?” Furrowing my brow, I ignored him trying again; failing. “You made this look so easy.”

“Because it is. You’re trying too hard.” Pulling himself off the tree he continued, “You’re holding the snath all wrong.”

“The what?” I stood up and found John practically on top of me, gripping my right wrist and shoving my hand on the handle again.

“Take this hand and grab the lower nib on the snath, then this hand on the upper nib.” I regretted all the times I mused over his frustrations in our studies as I found myself the student. “Straddle your legs.”

“Like this?” I shifted my stance.

“No, more like…” He was tapping my feet, kneeing my legs, and my face flushed. “Good, that’s better. Now put the heel down.”

“Heel?” Swallowing, I couldn’t ignore the beating of my heart and the heat rising in my face. What’s wrong with me?

“The blade, Dante.” John’s face was focused on the tool and task at hand. “There,” he took a step back, “Now give it a sweep.” I started to twist back but found him up against my back, like a puppeteer moving a doll. “No, not like that. You’ll wrench your back out.”

His hands cupped my own. The speed in which he took control and how easily I allowed it startled me, my beating heart aching in my chest. His arms matched my own in length with my elbows nestled in his. The heat of his body, sweaty against my bareback stirred emotions I had been denying existed.

He likes you… I like him… echoes from months ago made my heart ache.

I tried to step away, but his knee caught mine and we leaned forward together. My breath caught, his body dominating my own as we moved our hips and arms one way, sweeping the scythe with ease to the other side. If it hadn’t been for the tool in our hands, I would have thought…

“Like this,” His voice soft and sultry as it rolled over my shoulder, “You rotate the hips and sweep your arms. Just bring the scythe with your arms. See.”

I nodded and he broke away from me, sending chills across my body. “Like this?”

“Perfect, just two or three more should be enough.” He grabbed up the mulch we had cut as one and headed for the pig pen. “They don’t need much.”

“Right.” I finished the sweeps and leaned on the scythe, covering my mouth.

I know better. Haven’t I learned nothing good comes from following my heart? He’s becoming a priest and I’m a runaway prince. Our worlds should never cross paths like this. I didn’t come here for love, I came here to live. Was the old man right, that John…

“Dante?” John’s voice brought my gaze to him and he creased his forehead still wearing the scowl from before. “That’s it, you’re done for the day.” He tossed the last of the mulch in the pig pen. “Come on, no more.” He ripped the scythe from my hands and tossed it to the ground. “I’ve got a parting gift for you.”

Again, the swelling ache ripped across my soul as he gripped my wrist and tugged me along. My feet followed, my mind and heart in battle and unable to deny him anything. We passed the water pump and faded into the forest. Soon the uphill climb and increasing boulders forced John to let go, though the warmth of it had lingered with a haunting want I hadn’t ever known even with Falco. Despair weighed down on me, watching the fluttering of that golden braid.

I’m not supposed to feel this way. He will be swearing celibacy. I can’t be the reason he abandons that dream.

John looked over his shoulder, smirking. I frowned, and his smile faltered. The moment made my chest ache, I had hurt him in that instance, but he couldn’t possibly understand. He waved me ahead and pointed towards the sound of rushing water. There, pooled in a circle of boulders was a spot perfect for bathing.

“I found it when I had to fix the pump’s waterline.” He sat on the boulder, watching my excitement. “Grandpa’s not much of a bather, if you haven’t noticed. That doesn’t mean you have to be. Figured, with the way you dressed and looked, you’d want to know you had some place to scrub clean other than the water spout and rain barrels.”

Abandoning all reason, I kicked off my shoes and dove in with a big splash. I surfaced, taking in a deep breath feeling refreshed. The cool water eased the aching muscles and sunburnt skin. Laughing, it was a luxury I had thought no longer viable in this new way of living. John smiled, our eyes locking for a few seconds before his smile broke. He frowned, a sadness taking hold in those blue eyes before he sighed, leaving me alone. I cursed myself for even letting my emotions run away with me.

I took my time before making the walk back, shoes in hand, pants soaked as water dripped off me. The old man was on the porch in his chair. It didn’t take long for the dread to hit me. Dropping my shoes, I rushed into the house, throwing open John’s bedroom door. The bags and stack of books, all of it gone. I spun back to the front door and glared at the old man.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I hissed, anger seeping forward.

“Wasn’t my place.” He didn’t bother to look at me, puffing on the pipe. “John said he had one last thing to teach you, the scythe. He did that and went on to do what he intended to do long before you showed up, Dante.”

Dropping my head, I whispered, “He’ll be back in seven years, right?”

“Only time will tell. If he takes longer, will you wait for him?” He gnawed on the pipe.

“We both know I will wait for him twice as long if that’s what it takes.” I punched the door frame and faded into the house, exhaustion and heartache eating me alive.