Northern Tundra

Some people fall in love with their whole hearts; throw everything they have at it with full force, while others come once bitten, twice shy.

You wanted to jump. Wanted to run in heart first with grand gestures and the kind of love you were convinced Elliott wanted, but your hesitant heart kept throwing you curveballs. Kept making you wade slowly - bit by bit - until it felt you were truly ready.

Looking back now, it makes sense that the first part of Elliott you fell in love with were his hands.

In those early days when everything was still fresh and new, he'd invite you over to spend time in his cabin. You idly reading, while he attempted to write. Only, your eyes were never very good at staying on the page.

When they tired of running over the little seaside trinkets and treasures decorating his shelves, they always made their way to his hands. To the poised, steady control of them. Going between parchment and inkwell with a practised aplomb that highlighted the confidence within.

Elliott was so humble at first. Hands wringing nervously before they knew they could reach for you. Hesitating, as the two of you fell into the steady, familiar rhythm of your love.

But when he wrote, it was like pure magic. Each long finger working in tandem to glide gracefully across the page; manipulating his old feather quill with an elegance you suspect he didn’t even realize he possessed.

You silently noted the ink stains collected like badges of honour along the tips of his fingers. How, despite his best efforts, his left hand always managed to carve a path through the drying ink, smudging words in its wake as he muttered grumpily under his breath.

Some evenings he'd write so furiously, Elliott wouldn't notice until he had stopped, staring down at the night sky that were his hands, constellations scattered across skin in ink and inspiration.

When he turned that order and concentration on you, it made you melt.

Elliott’s hands were steady. Brushing hair from your eyes. Fixing the collar of your shirt so it sat correctly on your skin. Wrapping your scarf just so, to better keep out the cold.

You adored when his hands found you with purpose.

As your relationship flourished, he’d play for you. Long, capable fingers dancing across the keys in simple and complex meter alike. Here was where you fell in love with the playfulness of his hands. The need to express in melody what he could not yet find with words.

You admired not just the complexity of the pieces, but the way his fingers took on a life of their own as they expelled the explosive, playful energy within. Because even if Elliott had been reserved with you back then; when he played piano, it was like catching a glimpse of what was to come, if you just gave him the time he needed to flourish.

If Elliott writing was hidden confidence and discipline, then Elliott playing was untapped energy and pure pleasure.

When those hands were turned on you, it was a delight. These were the hands that pulled you to bed. They were the hands that tickled up your sides as he stripped you bare, laid you back and held you close. They were unstoppable in their exploration, unmatched in their need, and unabashedly unashamed to draw out your pleasure.

Those early explorations might have been your favourite version of his hands for a while, but as time marched on, there was another you enjoyed even more.

Long after you’d fallen in love. By the time your relationship was solid and forever, on rare occasions like today, you found Elliott with trembling hands. The slight tremor might be masked from the crowd at large, but to you, as they reached for you, clasped your hands tightly in return, you knew the vulnerability was for you and you alone.

And, as those hands gave a gentle squeeze, held onto yours firmly, you knew that while it may have started with just his hands, you loved all of him. Every last bit, as you said your “I do’s” and were officially married.  

“Ahh, there you are,” says a voice Elliott tries not to cringe at. It is his own brother, after all.

“Alistair,” he states woodenly, letting the book in his hands creak closed. He doesn’t bother marking his page. Doesn’t want his brother to hone in on what he was reading.

Alistair wanders through the quiet home library, letting his fingers run along the spines of the books – priceless first editions with their pages still uncut – not truly seeing their value, only how much they’re worth.

“Father expects you at dinner tonight.”

Elliott turns his head with a divisive sniff, watching his brother approach through the reflection of the window pane. Some would call it foolish, turning their back on a predator, but sometimes a show of strength is required.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Elliott starts, already exhausted to the very marrow with whatever fresh turmoil is about to be dumped in his lap.

“Don’t you think it’s time you put an end to this quaint pastoral fantasy of yours and come home, brother?”

He doesn’t need to turn around to feel the bored smirk boring a hole into the back of his head, or to know those words are meant to inflame. Elliott doubts anything Alistair has ever said to him has come from a place of concern for his well-being.

Still, he falls prey and takes the bait. His family has been prodding at him all week, slowly pulling apart the peace he had worked so hard to build, and he’s feeling frayed.

“That pastoral fantasy,” he begins, jaw clenched, “has produced the love of my life.”

“You were always so dramatic, Elliott,” his brother says dismissively. “What will you do when that meagre trust fund of yours runs out and you’re still not the published novelist you aspire to be? Will you live on love?” he scoffs. “Get down on your hands and knees in the dirt – to what? Pull weeds with her? Muck the pigpens?”

The silence could cut glass. In the past, he had always ceded to his brother; it was simply easier than the relentless drone of his voice. Ever the politician, Alistair didn’t believe in the word no. Would simply come at the same problem in a slightly different way until his opponent relented or tripped up. It reminded Elliott of ancient humans tracking animals over long distances until their prey grew too tired to carry on and collapsed.

Elliott supposes that up until now, he never truly had anything worthy of defending so fervently before.

“You will not speak of them that way.”

For the first time since Alistair invaded his space, he turns to face his brother. Pushes himself up from the windowed alcove he had been seated at and stands to his full height.

When had he grown taller?

Elliott marvels at how his brother always felt larger than life in the past. Almost insurmountable. Realizes now, with startling clarity that Alistair no longer carries the same weight in his mind that he once did.

“Hmm, so my pip of a brother is gearing up for a tirade, is he?” Alistair crosses his arms in front of his chest and assumes a relaxed pose that Elliott can’t help but suspect is to offset the obvious difference in height.

Or had he truly never stood up straight in his presence before?

“Merely reminding you, dear brother,” he starts, letting each word sting as it rolls off his tongue, “that my life – and those I have chosen to share it with – are strictly off-limits to your scrutiny.”

Alistair bristles, takes in a breath, fully prepared for rebuttal, but Elliott simply continues on, louder and firmer than before.

“I was summoned home under the false pretense of need. Through some warped sense of familial loyalty, that I so badly wanted to believe,” he sighs. “But I was once again, the fool.” He trails off, lamenting at how the people who were supposed to love him unconditionally have failed him so miserably at every turn. “Well, no more. This is the last time I return to these cold halls. If this family truly wants me in their life, it will be on my terms. You may come to me. To our farm and meet the kindred spirit I claim as my heart.”

His brother is staring at him like a stranger; and Elliott supposes that is what he’s always been to his family on some level.

“You would throw away legacy for some podunk town and some rustic bumpkin of a farmer with no proper—”

“I would renounce this whole blasted family for them,” he hisses. “Burn every bridge and revel in the flames, Alistair. Do not test me. You will be found wanting.”

Elliott catches the way his brother’s nostrils flare, the briefest flash of distaste across his features, like he’s trying to work his jaws around something bitter he does not wish to swallow.

Good, he thinks. Let him stew. I am done here.

Elliott picks up the book he was reading – an old volume of poetry he often sought comfort in as a child – and tucks it under his arm, striding past Alistair and out the door of the one room in this house full of ghosts that had truly felt like his own.

A single memento, he muses, sliding the thin volume into his breast pocket, striding with purpose towards his bedroom to pack. He’s wasted too much time sifting through these memories, chasing the call of ghosts meant to claw him back when all he truly wants to do is move forward.