Hobson earned his name well. Everyone said he looked exactly like Hobard had as a young man. He was tall with ruddy good looks, a tint of fire in his otherwise brown hair, and a constant sparkle in his dried-oregano colored eyes. When Marin saw him from a distance, his wide frame lifting an axe high above his head to split logs for firewood, he broke into a sprint.

"Brother!" Marin called out just as the axe split the log and wedged itself into the chopping block.

"Marin?" Hobson's confused look quickly faded, his brows springing to the top of his forehead, and a huge grin spreading across his face. "Hey, Marin!" But then his face contorted again, "Wh-why... is everything alright? How's father?"

"Father is fine, that's not why I'm here. I–I'll tell you everything, but, can it wait until after I catch my breath?" Marin had left Harlow's farm soon after the break of day, taking a loaf of bread, a small chunk of cheese, and two carrots with him to eat while on the road. He'd walked several miles through wooden paths, crossed a stream swollen with newly melted snow, and after rounding two ponds, had finally reached the outskirts of Addersfield in mid-afternoon. His feet were sore, and he desperately wanted to sit down to take a rest.

"Yes, of course," Hobson's voice boomed with laughter and relief. "Let's go inside and see Trea. The kids will be thrilled to see you as well." He cupped his hands around his mouth, "Milo! Matilda! Guess who's here?"

As Marin and Hobson rounded the corner of the small cottage, two small bodies came running with great speed, plumes of dirt following behind them. "Uncle Marin," they both squealed when they saw him, and jumped into his arms, nearly knocking him over.

When they finally let go and stepped back, Marin sized them up. "You've both grown so much," he said, amazed. "You're almost like little people now."

"We are people," Matilda rolled her eyes with all the indignation a six-year-old could muster.

"And I'm not so little," Milo, eight-years-old and already as tall as Marin's shoulder, said.

"You're both right," Marin smiled, feeling truly happy for the first time since before everything with Jocelyn had happened.

Seeing both kids together always reminded him of his own childhood, him running after Hobson, always his shadow. And even though their lives had taken such different paths after the death of their mother, part of Marin knew that he still longed to live a life that paralleled his brother's.

"Marin, what a lovely surprise," greeted the lovely Trea, bouncing baby Margaret on her hip. Her curves had rounded out since having children, and a few laugh lines etched her cheeks, but she was as beautiful as the day Hobson had married her under the elm tree next to the pond.

Marin remembered the night that Hobson told him he had fallen in love. They had snuck out to the barn and were throwing pebbles at the bats swooping and diving over the sky. Another one of their pointless pastimes. Hobson must have been around sixteen, so this was before the night they had snuck out to drink wine and go swimming in the pond. "I found the one. The girl I'm going to marry," he had said. Just like that. No doubt in his voice.

Marin had laughed. At thirteen, his body was in the throes of its great betrayal. Love–physical love, romantic love–was both repulsive and exciting. He'd already felt the first stirrings of lust when he saw a beautiful girl, but they were amorphous urges. Shapeless. His body had become so foreign to him he was afraid to explore it. He desperately wanted to, yearned to know what release would feel like, yet the disconnect between his longings and his physiology kept him frustrated. So when he heard his brother's confession, he laughed. It was ridiculous.

But his brother had been serious. Trea became his every obsession. His guide. His compass. And he'd gone racing full speed down a path that Marin suddenly and painfully knew wasn't open to him. And when their mother died, shortly after her eldest son's wedding, Marin had escaped the fate of growing into a woman by choosing to be a sexless man.

At least he was a man.

Marin blinked to escape his reverie. "Trea, so good to see you! And, wow, Margaret, the last time I was here you were in your mommy's tummy. I'm your Uncle Marin," he cooed, wiggling his fingers for the babe.

"Want to hold her?" Trea asked, holding the chubby round-faced girl out to him.

Marin held out his arms and took her and held her tight. He kissed her dark curls and inhaled. She smelled like fresh flowers, with just a hint of sour milk. Margaret reached up and slapped playfully at Marin's smooth face and babbled.

"She likes you," Trea sang.

"And I like her." Marin looked around at all the smiling faces of his family. If only his father could be here too.

Not for the first time, Marin wondered what his life would have been like if he had been born male. He too could have fallen in love, married, and had children.

Yes, he had a gift for healing. But now that Abbot Osbert had kicked him out of The Order, what did that even matter?

"So, Marin, let's get you settled, and then we can talk, yes?" Hobson placed his hand on his younger, and much smaller, brother.

Marin passed the giggling baby back to her mother. "Yes, brother, thank you."

He followed his brother inside the cottage and he promptly pulled out a stool so he could finally sit down. His legs ached and he could feel the blisters forming on his heels and toes.

A few minutes later Hobson handed him an ale. "Drink, you must be parched," he said, walking back outside.

Marin took a long sip before placing the mug down on the humble round table where his brother and family took their meals. He could hear Hobson telling Milo to finish with the firewood and asking Mathilda to feed the chickens. A few minutes later Hobson returned and sat down on another stool.

"So, brother, what brings you back to Addersfield?"

It was a reasonable question, but Marin hadn't the faintest idea where to start. "I think I might be in love."

Hobson raised his eyebrows so high they disappeared under his bangs, but he didn't speak.

"There is a girl in the town of Curander," Marin began. "She makes the lights glow brighter. Her movements are more graceful than a deer prancing in moonlight. I've been caught in her spell."

Hobson whistled softly.

"But, I never acted on this desire. Until, well, she found herself in a bind."

"A bind?"

"She's pregnant."

That gave Hobson pause. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Marin sideways. "The girl you are in love with found herself pregnant? By whom?"

"Well, her lover, who is the eldest son of the blacksmith and a real jerk. He doesn't deserve an angel like her." Saying it out loud, it sounded foolish.

"If she's pregnant, doesn't sound like an angel to me," Hobson teased.

"The point is... She then tried to seduce me, and..." his voice trailed off. He wasn't presenting the story in the right way.

Hobson sat up, leaning forward, "So... she discovered...?"

"No, no, no. I left the room. She tried. She didn't succeed. But..."

"But, what?" He leaned even more forward, intrigued.

"Her father saw me leaving her room. I was disheveled. And, several weeks later, when he found out she was pregnant, she named me the father."

Hobson nearly fell over. "Named you... the father?"

"Yes. And when the Abbot found out, he told me to leave. I didn't even get to say goodbye to father."

"But, couldn't you...?" Hobson waved his hands somewhat frantically.

"Do what? Reveal my malformations?" Marin whispered the last word, lest any small ears were listening in.

"At least deny it!"

"Accepting it is a sacrifice that I'm willing to make for her. You'd do the same for Trea." Marin said, lifting his chin defiantly.

"My relationship with Trea... there is no comparison. We sacrifice for each other. What is this harlot willing to give up for you?" Hobson raised his voice.

"She's not a harlot!"

"Boys!" Trea walked into the room, a commanding presence. "Maybe this is a discussion better left for after the children are down for the night."

"Yes, dear," Hobson said, chastened.

"I'm sorry, Trea," Marin lowered his head. He was grateful that he had this place to retreat to, and he didn't want to upset his sister-in-law. Coming here had been a brilliant idea. Tilly had been right. But how could he convince his brother he had made the right choice? Or, at least, the only choice that he could, given the circumstances?

Those were questions to ponder another time. After the children went to bed. Marin gulped down the rest of his ale. "How can I help prepare supper?"

"Here, hold Margaret while I chop these turnips." Trea handed the babe back to him, and he happily accepted the duty.