If Thorne thought him helpless, he’d be in for a surprise. Aelorian could fend for himself just fine. He could build a fire, boil water, and craft a tea fit for kings, all without the ogre’s lumbering shadow hovering over his shoulder.

The only problem was that he had absolutely no idea how to do any of those things. 

After all, when one had been raised in silks and velvet, with servants to dress him and minstrels to sing him awake, one did not usually need to know how to wrestle flint into flame or distinguish edible roots from deadly ones. His knowledge of survival came solely from the spines of his beloved romance novels–where rugged, broad-shouldered heroes always managed to coax fire from damp twigs in two sentences or less, and their delicate elven consorts (such as himself) sipped perfumed tea without ever sullying their hands.

Reality was cruel.

Aelorian crouched in the moss, staring grimly at two damp sticks he had been rubbing together for the better part of twenty minutes. His arms ached. His hair was full of knots and burrs. “Any moment now,” he muttered to himself, trying to sound authoritative, as though the twigs might hear his conviction and burst obediently into flame. “Just like page seventy-four of Tempted by the Timbelord.”

Nothing happened.

He tried again, harder this time, gritting his teeth and imagining how smug that damned Ogre would be if he came back to find him defeated by forestry. His palms blistered, but his patience blistered harder.

Finally, a faint curl of smoke whispered up from the moss, and Aelorian gasped in triumph–only for the smolder to sputter and die instantly when a rogue breeze wandered by.

Aelorian lowered his head and sobbed.

After a good few minutes, the elf finally dragged himself off the muddy ground, hair full of twigs, robes clinging like wet rags, pride in absolute tatters. “Fine,” he sulked, spitting dirt and ash out of his mouth. “If fire eludes me, then I shall at least procure some tea.”

He marched–or rather, picked his way–into the forest, where the air smelled of damp earth, mushrooms, and humiliation—and crouched beside a patch of weeds, eyeing them warily.

The ogre’s voice, low, gravelly, and irritatingly smug, rose unbidden in his head. “Not that one, elf. Makes your tongue swell. The broad-leaved one. Try listening before you kill yourself.”

Aelorian sniffed, plucking the broad-leafed one. “Yes, well, I was listening, ogre. I just so happened to be ignoring you on purpose.” He carefully tucked the leaves into a section of his robes, using it as a makeshift basket as he went, then moved on.

Mushrooms sprouted in little clusters, slick and pale. He crouched just as Thorne had earlier, tapping his lip. ‘If the gills are black, leave it. Unless you’d like a slow, gut-churning death.’

“Ugh, morbid,” Aelorian muttered, but plucked a safe-looking one anyway.

Berry bushes tangled nearby, heavy with glossy fruit, making him hesitate. The ogre’s voice came again for the third time, sharper this time, as if he were at Aelorian’s back, looming over him. ‘Red ones blister your throat. Blue ones stain your lips, but keep you alive. Know the difference, elf’

Aelorian plucked the blue ones, grumbling. “Bossy even in my head. Probably just making it up to see if I’d croak.”

As he steadily filled his skirts with forest garbage, he turned proudly back toward the cave—only for the undergrowth to rumble. A squeal split the air. 

The boar emerged like a nightmare, tusks sharp as daggers, eyes glowing with pure, unholy disdain. 

Aelorian froze, his leaves and berries clutched protectively in his hands. The boar was monstrous—mud-caked hide rippling with muscle, tusks glinting like polished ivory knives. Its snout flared, sucking in his sweet elf scent, and then it let out a low, guttural snort that vibrated straight through the marrow of his delicate bones. 

“Oh. Oh no,” Aelorian whispered, backing up one step, then another, until his back hit the rough bark of a tree. “Nice piggy. Lovely piggy. You don’t want me–I’m mostly lace and perfume and heartbreak–hardly nourishing at all!”

The beast pawed the earth, tusks slicing the air as it lowered its head. 

Aelorian squeaked. “Oh gods, it’s going to kill me. It’s going to kill me for unripe berries!”

The tusks came for him—

And then the forest shook with a roar that wasn’t the boar’s. 

Thorne barreled out of the undergrowth like a storm given flesh, one massive arm hooking around the beast’s neck, the other bringing a jagged branch down with a sickening crack. The boar screamed, thrashing, but Thorne only snarled louder, dragging it back from the tree as if it weighed nothing at all. His muscles corded beneath dirt-streaked skin, every line of him carved in fury and raw power.

And for one stunned, traitorous heartbeat, Aelorian thought: This. This is what the romances never captured.

The boar screeched again, tusks scraping the mud, but Thorne’s grip was iron, his body a tensed knot of muscle and fury. He twisted, shoved, and pinned the beast down so it couldn’t reach the horrified elf pressed against the tree. Every inch of Thorne radiated danger, heat, and that reckless power that made Aelorian’s chest do backflips against his ribs.

“Elf!” Thorne barked, voice rough and commanding. “Away from the tree, now!”

Aelorian scrambled, slipping in the mud, hair wild and leaves clinging to his robes. “I-I’m trying! I’m trying to survive! Oh gods, I’m going to die! This is it! The forest is my funeral! My delicate little body trampled by swine and ogre!”

Thorne didn’t answer. He just yanked the boar sideways, mud flying, tusks scraping harmlessly against tree bark. His gold eyes were locked on Aelorian, assessing, protective, and…something else, something heat-flush that made the elf’s knees threaten rebellion. 

The ogre lifted his branch, shoulders bunching, the weight of it hovering over his head. “Stay back, elf,” he barked, “I’ll end it in one swing.”

Aelorian shrieked like the sky was falling. “STOP!” He darted in front of the beast, robes flapping, arms flung wide like some tragic martyr. “You cannot—you must not—commit such barbarity before my very eyes!”

The ogre turned, bewildered, still holding the branch above his head. “It’s a boar. Dinner. Problem solved.” 

“Dinner?!” Aelorian repeated, voice cracking. His whole face crumpled in horror. “You mean… its quivering, steaming flesh? Its bones—you’d snap them open and suck out the marrow like some unholy soup?! Oh gods. Oh, gods, I can see it. You’d chew it raw, wouldn’t you, ogre?”

“Elf,” Thorne ground out, knuckles white on his branch. “We’re starving. This is meat. Food. Survival.”

Aelorian’s hands clutched at the nearest tree as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. “Food!? This is murder masquerading as sustenance! You’d roast its belly, grease dripping, tear it apart with those ogre claws!” He gagged, flinging a smear of mud from his sleeve. “I can smell it already! Ugh! The horror, the perfidy, the—hhuurkkk!”

Thorne just stared, expression darkening by the heartbeat. “You’re telling me elves don’t eat meat.”

“Of course we don’t!” Aelorian shrieked, clutching his imaginary pearls. “We are noble, we are pure! We subsist on dew, blossoms, and the laughter of springs! Do you think these cheekbones,” he cupped his own face, “were built from greasy ribs!?”

“Dew,” Thorne repeated, utterly flat, “You think you’re gonna survive out here on dew.”

“Two centuries of virtue, ogre! Two hundred years of surviving on wine, blossoms, and the despair of my enemies! And now you would have me witness carnage! Murder!” He stamped a boot so hard the mud splattered like a Jackson Pollock masterpiece against his pale thighs. 

Thorne’s roar came again, louder this time, shaking leaves from the trees. “I do not care about your blossoms, elf! I am starving! I am dying! And you lecture me about morals while I wrestle dinner from the forest floor?!”

Aelorian pointed a dramatic, trembling finger. “Better petals than bowels! Better blossoms than death, ogre! You cannot! You shall not! Your cruel hands will spare this creature!”

The ogre’s eyes blazed, his shadow falling like a storm over the mud-soaked elf. “Aelorian…” His voice rumbled low, dangerous, and utterly unamused. 

And gods, the way he said his name—like a growl, like a warning—lit something hot and traitorous down Aelorian’s spine. He set his jaw anyway, even though his knees screamed for flight. Even though the air between them burned. Even though the ogre could snap him in half with little effort.

He would not bend. He would not yield. He lifted his chin, every inch the prince he was born to be, and met the storm head-on. “You can roar and bellow all you like, ogre,” he spat, though his voice trembled with something traitorous, “but I will not let you butcher this creature. Not while I draw breath.”

The boar squealed weakly in the dirt, forgotten.

Thorne loomed closer, shadow swallowing him whole, his chest heaving, his branch still raised like a weapon. Their gazes clashed—iron against glass, storm against flame—and for one dangerous, dizzying instant, Aelorian swore the ogre might crush him against the tree. Or kiss him. Both felt equally possible.

And then, with a snarl torn from the depths of his chest, Thorne flung the branch aside. The crack of it hitting the mud split the silence like lightning.

“Fine,” he bellowed, voice raw with frustration. “Starve, then! Choke on your blossoms and dew, see if I care!” He shoved the boar away with one last violent heave, sending it crashing into the undergrowth. The beast fled squealing into the trees, vanishing like smoke.

Thorne’s glare cut back to Aelorian, scorching, furious, unreadable. His jaw worked, words caught behind his teeth—and then he turned, storming into the forest, each heavy step shaking the ground like distant thunder.

Aelorian sagged against the tree, knees trembling, chest tight. His heart was still rattling from terror, but gods help him… it wasn’t the boar that had left him breathless.

---

The elf had seated himself against the tree when Thorne crashed back into the clearing after what seemed like hours later. No boar this time—just the ogre, filth-splattered and scowling, a fat pumpkin clutched in one massive hand like he’d wrestled it from the gods themselves.

Without a word, he stalked to the little firepit Aelorian had so disastrously failed to kindle earlier. Thorne knelt, yanked two stones together with a practiced strike, and within seconds flames leapt to life, crackling merrily.

The elf’s brows shot high. “Oh, impressive. You growl at flames, and they obey. Shall I start calling you Solarborne Harrowbranch?” He brushed dirt from his robe with a sniff. “I suppose I should faint in awe, though I’ve already nearly died ten times today, so you’ll have to excuse me if I save my dramatics for a worthier audience.”

Thorne didn’t answer. He split the gourd with his thumbs, scooping pale flesh into the hollow rind. Water from the spring poured from a seedpod. Mushrooms followed, earthy and thick. Garlic he smashed flat with a single strike of his scarred fist against a stone—its perfume filled the air, sharp and rich. Nettles he stripped down with surprising patience, shredding the tender leaves into ribbons before sprinkling them over the bubbling water. Then berries came next, staining the broth a deep, wine-dark purple.

Aelorian drifted closer despite himself, eyes narrowing as he watched the ogre work with quiet, deliberate hands. He perched primly on a rock, arms folded tight. “How…domestic. The brute returns from battle to stew squash like a farmer’s wife. You’d make a terrifying spouse, Thorne—one who could crush me flat between his palms.”

“Keep talking,” Thorne rumbled, stirring with a stick, “and I’ll feed this to the dirt instead.”

“Vile ogre,” Aelorian huffed. “I was going to compliment your culinary instincts. You’ve ruined the moment.”

“Yeah?” Thorne shot him a glare, low and dangerous. “I was gonna watch you choke on it. Seems fair.”

That should have been the end of it. Sharp words, fire popping between them like sparks. But then Thorne muttered, almost grudgingly, like the admission was dragged from him by the flames themselves: “I’m not feeding you meat,” he muttered, “Not because I care. But because… I can’t force you. You’d hate it.” He scowled.

Aelorian’s throat went dry. For a second, he forgot his lines, forgot the role of dramatist, forgot even to flutter his sleeves. The ogre’s shoulders were hunched, his scowl fierce, but there was a strange care in the way he kept the broth from boiling over, in the way he stripped the nettles to their tender cores.

Something warm lodged itself under Aelorian’s ribs. He cleared his throat, straightened his spine. “Well,” he said at last, voice pitched higher than usual, “I—I suppose I must thank you. Though don’t mistake this gratitude for weakness. I remain horrified. Positively aghast.”

Thorne grunted, still watching the broth as if it were more important than the elf. “You got your principles. I respect that."

Aelorian blinked. "You’d do that? Respect me?” His voice hitched. “After all I’ve said? All my—my dramatics, my wails, my fainting in mud?”

“Yeah.” Thorne’s tone was flat, almost muttered. “Doesn’t mean I like it. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t rather you stop squealing like the forest is burning down every five minutes.”

Aelorian swallowed, face heating. “I—well… it’s… unexpected.” He tugged a loose strand of hair behind his ear, suddenly aware of how disheveled he was, how utterly mortal he felt in this moment. “To be treated… thoughtfully… by someone who could crush me like a twig if he wanted.”

Thorne paused, fingers gripping his stick tighter. “Don’t make it weird.” 

 Aelorian’s lips twitched in a helpless, tiny smile. “ No. Never. Not me. I appreciate it. I suppose…” He cleared his throat, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity. “…I suppose I could allow a small measure of gratitude without fainting entirely.” 

 “Good,” Thorne said, voice low. “Wouldn’t recognize you otherwise.” 

The elf pressed his palms to his cheeks, as though scandalized to find them flushed—traitorous heat in his very bones. The aroma of the broth curled around him, garlic, mushrooms, nettles, berries—a heady, wild comfort. And for the first time in a long while, he felt something that wasn’t panic or dread, wasn’t performance or spectacle. Something softer, warmer, anchored him to the moment.

A beat passed, then—

“I must say,” Aelorian drawled, voice silky and mocking, “the broth has a… rustic charm. But perhaps if you stirred counterclockwise, the flavors would—”

Thorne’s growl cut through the air mid-stir, hand hovering over his stick. Then, with the most exasperated, earth-shaking bellow he could muster, he roared—loud enough to shake the trees, rattle birds, and send a family of squirrels careening up the nearest trunks:

“BRATTY, INSUFFERABLE, INFURIATING ELF PRINCE!”