It caught and snagged on moments, stretched thin across long seasons, then snapped forward without warning. One year Kerreth and Alren were boys racing the river’s edge; the next, they were men shaped by it.
Kerreth grew upward more than outward. His limbs lengthened, his shoulders stayed narrow, but there was a strength to him now—corded rather than bulky, the strength of something that moved often and decisively. His russet skin bore the sun easily, deepening into rich warmth rather than burning, and his ash-brown hair fell just past his ears unless tied back with a strip of leather he never bothered to replace when it frayed. His face sharpened as he aged, cheekbones high, jaw clean, mouth expressive enough that his emotions rarely stayed hidden long.
Alren, by contrast, seemed to grow into solidity.
He stood a head taller than most men in the village now, broader through the chest and shoulders, his body shaped by constant training and hard labor. Muscle layered onto him slowly and permanently, earned through repetition rather than growth spurts. His skin held a darker tan, almost bronze in the right light, marked here and there by faint scars—nicks from blades, burns from smithing fires, the occasional white line earned during sparring gone wrong. His black hair had grown thick and heavy, worn loose to his shoulders because tying it back never quite held. His blue eyes, sharp and watchful, missed very little.
They trained together when they could.
Alren taught Kerreth the basics of swordplay in the clearing behind the old chapel ruins—slow footwork first, careful grip, the discipline of balance before power. Kerreth listened when Alren corrected him, though he never stopped asking why.
“Because that’s how it’s done,” Alren said one morning, adjusting Kerreth’s stance.
“That’s not an answer,” Kerreth replied, rolling his shoulders before resetting. “That’s tradition.”
Alren exhaled. “Tradition exists because people survived it.”
Kerreth smiled. “Then let’s see what else survives.”
They sparred until sweat soaked through linen and dirt clung to their calves. Kerreth moved fast, darting in and out, testing angles, laughing when Alren blocked him effortlessly.
“You’re not trying,” Kerreth accused, panting.
Alren knocked his blade aside and stepped close enough that Kerreth had to retreat or collide with him. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”
Kerreth’s laughter faded. He looked up at Alren—really looked—and something unreadable passed between them.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
Alren stiffened. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t protect me like I’m breakable.”
Alren held his gaze for a long moment. “You are.”
“So are you.”
They stood there, breathing hard, blades lowered but not forgotten.
The first time Kerreth spoke to the village council, he did not intend to.
A dispute had broken out over irrigation rights upriver—two families shouting across the meeting hall, voices rising, hands clenching. The elders attempted to intervene and failed.
Kerreth stood before he realized what he was doing.
“Stop,” he said.
The word cracked like a stone striking water.
The room went quiet—not instantly, but inevitably. Conversations trailed off. Even the elders turned toward him.
Kerreth swallowed, aware suddenly of every eye on him. “You’re arguing over water,” he continued, voice steadier now. “While the river doesn’t care who claims it. It will flood or dry as it pleases, and neither of you will win if you tear the village apart first.”
One of the elders frowned. “And what would you suggest, boy?”
Kerreth lifted his chin. “We dig a secondary channel. Share the burden and the risk. No one gets everything—but no one loses everything either.”
Silence followed.
Then murmurs.
Alren watched from the doorway, arms crossed, heart pounding with something dangerously close to pride.
Later, outside, Alren caught up to him. “You didn’t ask permission.”
Kerreth shrugged. “They weren’t listening to anyone who had it.”
Alren studied him. “You realize they’ll expect more of that now.”
Kerreth met his gaze. “Good.”
That night, they walked the river path together, the moon laying silver across the water.
“People listen to you,” Alren said.
“They always have,” Kerreth replied, then winced. “That sounded worse than I meant it.”
Alren huffed a quiet laugh. “No. It sounded true.”
Kerreth slowed, gaze fixed on the river’s surface. “Does it bother you?”
“That they listen?” Alren shook his head. “No. That you don’t seem afraid of it.”
Kerreth stopped walking. He turned fully toward Alren. “I am afraid.”
Alren frowned. “You don’t act like it.”
“Because if I do,” Kerreth said softly, “everyone else will too.”
The admission settled heavily between them.
Alren stepped closer, close enough that Kerreth could feel the warmth radiating off him. “Then don’t be afraid alone.”
Kerreth’s breath caught, just slightly.
“I won’t,” he said.
They stood there longer than necessary, neither willing to step away first. The river whispered beside them, steady and unrelenting.
The rumors returned that winter.
Whispers of old prophecies. Of stones unearthed in distant lands. Of relics that predated gods and asked for nothing but obedience.
Alren began waking in the night, listening for sounds that weren’t there.
Kerreth dreamed of fire.
He did not tell Alren that yet.
By spring, it was no longer possible to pretend they were simply friends.
The closeness had deepened into something quiet and constant—shared glances, hands brushing and not moving away, an understanding that did not require naming. When Kerreth laughed, Alren felt it settle somewhere beneath his ribs. When Alren was hurt, Kerreth’s anger burned sharp and immediate.
Love did not arrive all at once.
It took root.
And far upriver, beneath water that never forgot, stone waited
The second anniversary special post~! This piece is based on @hyba‘s favorite scene: The Wyndulin trial fight from chapter 3, So you want to be Adventurers part 2.
The Shackles of Time taglist, feel free to ask to be added or removed at any time ~
