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They meet first as children - and there is nothing but loathing between them, in the way of bullheaded children with conflicting desires. Mi’Enasalin, the only son of a brooding, ill-tempered hunter, is too loud and brash for quiet Fenumin’s tastes. Fenumin, an orphan adopted by Clan Inahwen after his own clan had too many mouths to feed during a season of scarcity, is too standoffish and haughty for Mi’Enasalin’s pride to stomach. They clash. It never matters over what: food, toys, a spot in the shade, a spot in the sunshine, careless words, carefully-chosen words. Mi’Enasalin stares at Fenumin a second too long; Fenumin snaps at him. Fenumin ignores Mi’Enasalin one too many times; Mi’Enasalin kicks a pebble at him. More fighting. Always fighting. The clan takes to keeping the boys on opposite ends of the camp whenever possible, yet somehow they always seem to find one another, and the squabbling continues.

-

There is never any way of knowing how long Mi’Enasalin’s arrows have been pinioned in their arboreal targets; there is always - however slim - a chance he has already moved on. But he knew, of course, the clan would be heading this way: though he has been an exile for nearly a decade, still Mi’Enasalin tracks the progress of Clan Inahwen’s steady migration. He has found ways to let them know their usual paths may be dangerous; he has found ways to ensure the paths are not dangerous - how often have they passed slaughtered shem bandits along the road, knowing full well who’d slain them? So Mi’Enasalin must have known the clan would be coming this way: the arrow must be recent. Fenumin finds it once more, sticking proudly out of a tree several meters up the trunk, gleaming red and gold even in the weak morning light. How long has it been there? Sap has not yet gathered around the arrowhead, and the fletching is still fresh, as though he’d only just finished crafting his arrows before choosing to sacrifice one as a message. A message to him.

-

Adolescence sets a fire to Fenumin’s blood, makes him reckless, makes him hungry. He cuts a swathe through the available youths in the clan - and in other clans they happen to pass, other clans they share a camp with for a night or two. Fenumin seldom sleeps alone. There is an ache that nothing eases, a craving nothing fulfills, an itch nothing scratches, but he looks for the answer in everyone. Hands, lips, bodies entwined - but it leaves him empty, leaves him wanting, and he moves on to the next person, and the next. Mi’Enasalin follows a similar path, bedding whoever may be willing; he seeks out warriors, begs them to train him in exchange for favors - and quietly swears to himself that the day will come when he is too strong, too skilled, to ever sell himself for so little again.  They avoid one another as much as possible, taking cheap shots when their paths cross. The elders watch, already seeing the tension between the two young men, knowing sooner or later - inevitably - it will catch fire.

-

I am here, the arrow says. Come find me.  Finding him is always the hardest part, for he is still a hunter at heart; he hides in the wilderness as though he is half a wild thing himself, part beast. Fenumin, at home in the heart of the forest where the plants grow lush and untroubled, nevertheless was never trained as a huntsman or tracker, and must rely only on his instincts and his knowledge of his quarry to seek Mi’Enasalin out. He will be where he may be out of the elements, Fenumin knows: a cave, or perhaps simply a lean-to of fallen trees. He will be where no one can find him without deliberately seeking him out. He will be waiting, however: he will see Fenumin coming long before Fenumin is aware of his own approach.

-

It begins as a fight. They have not fought like this since childhood, fists and teeth - neither of them can say what sparked it, only that they were on each other as though they could still be said to be evenly matched; as though Mi’Enasalin has not spent the past few years training, as though Fenumin could hold his own against a trained warrior. Mi’Enasalin attacks as though he means to kill him. Fenumin meets the challenge with unyielding fervor, lashing out with stubborn fury where he lacks in skill. They cannot say where the turning point occurs. But suddenly when Mi’Enasalin sinks his teeth into Fenumin’s shoulder, Fenumin’s gasp isn’t entirely one of pain, and when Fenumin reaches to remove Mi’Enasalin’s clothes, Mi’Enasalin doesn’t stop him. It is angry, it is violent, and it is finally what Fenumin has been aching for all along.  Mi’Enasalin calls him a whore, and gives him his heart.

-

It is a cave: small and empty, long since abandoned by whatever creatures may have once called it home. Too small to be bears, too large to be aught else - but it is large enough for a lone elf.  Perhaps two. “There you are, my sweetling, my precious little whore,” Mi’Enasalin croons, dragging Fenumin into the heart of the cave without so much as a hello, stripping him down with a rough efficiency that speaks volumes about how long it’s been since he’d last been close enough to the clan’s encampment to send Fenumin a message. Exile has never been kind to his libido; if he’s fortunate, he may be able to seduce an elf or two in a city or town - but such things are risky.  And this is what he wants. Fenumin puts up a meager fight, struggling beneath him, but the illusion of a lack of desire is difficult to maintain when Fenumin himself has come to seek Mi’Enasalin out - but their shared hunger is enough to make up for it.

-

Exile. Mi’Enasalin packs light, taking only what he can carry easily; his conscience is surprisingly light, despite the gravity of his sentence. He’d slain humans, for the fifth time this year. What was there to be ashamed of? And what loss was there, truly, in the death of his own father in the defense of Clan Inahwen’s camp? Sometimes there had to be sacrifices. No one would miss the old man, himself least of all. “So you’re leaving.” Fenumin sits on the bed they’ve shared for two years, watching as he readies himself for a life in exile... and for the first time, Mi’Enasalin finally feels his exile is a punishment, for he will have to leave Fenumin behind. He hesitates. He never hesitates. “I will find you again.” His voice is bolder than he feels. He licks his dry lips. “An arrow - I’ll send a message to you by way of an arrow, and you will come to me.” “Will I?” Mi’Enasalin tosses his half-packed satchel aside, pins Fenumin to the bed. One last time. One last time for the road. One last time; the Keeper couldn’t deny him that. “You will, sweetling. You will.”

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