Careful to erase the smile well before entering the tent, Tharan moves forward and pulls the flap open for Alkara. She clenches her jaw and looks sidelong at Tharan while moving past. No outward sign of gratitude presents itself.
No thank you necessary.
Tharan enters to a duet of sly and suggestive stares. Dreonna and Iroshi exchange a glance before returning their gazes to him and Alkara.
Alkara moves to her cot without a glance but Tharan halts, battling his need to correct any potential assumptions. The crackling fire’s smoke drifts up to the tent’s ceiling and disappears.
He settles on nodding to each and passes to his cot at the back of the tent. His own turn for gratitude arrives as he puts distance between himself and Alkara. Tharan sips at his waterskin before abandoning it.
He lays down on the cot and closes his eyes. Rest welcomes him with open arms. The tent’s usual patter settles into the background. Children snivel in their slumber. Dreonna and Iroshi converse. Chiron babbles. Sleep tugs at Tharan. The injury’s pain and exertion of the day conspire to steal his consciousness.
Until Iroshi mentions Guenwyvar.
Tharan blinks his eyes open, pulling himself up from the depths of near sleep, “Ritual?” He rubs at his eye. Dreonna and Iroshi stop and turn. Iroshi raises his eyebrows.
Alkara doesn’t stir. She sits cross-legged on her cot, staring into her own lap. Her eyes glisten.
Tharan slides off the cot and joins the pair, moving with measured steps to keep quiet for the children’s sake. He rolls the stiffness from his shoulder as he sits. “What ritual?”
Iroshi watches the fire for a time. Shadows dance across his gaunt features. “I must gather the dew from a Lady’s Mantle in the fullness of the moon when it is overcast.” A sardonic smile fills in Iroshi’s expression, “Did I mention it must be raining?”
Dreonna listens with a blank stare. The idea of collecting insubstantial reagents must disinterest her. Tharan admits to himself that the collection of such dew does not appeal to him either. He waits but Iroshi stays quiet. Tharan turns so that his injured shoulder is closer to the fire. “What will you do with this? Is it for Guenwyvar’s vigil?”
The question dies above the flames. Iroshi leans back, “No, not a vigil.”
Tharan’s first question remains unanswered but he perseveres, “Tell me about the ritual.”
Embers drift between them. Iroshi appraises Tharan with steady gaze. Tension builds between them as Iroshi seems to assess some unknown quality within Tharan.
Iroshi nods at last, and the tension dissolves. He speaks in low, rhythmic tones, “We’re going to bring Guen back.”
Tharan stiffens. His lifebeat quickens. A bead of sweat forms at his forehead and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “You engage in necromancy.” Each word pounds the accusation into Iroshi.
“No.”
Tharan shakes his head. Warmth floods through his body. “What then? Bringing back the dead is–”
“Quiet.” Iroshi holds up a hand. “An elf of your position ought to understand nuance.”
Tharan pauses. Bonds of nature and Urdima oft elude his knowledge. His studies scoured metallurgy and diplomacy, theology and speechcraft. He swallows, “So be it. I would like to hear more.”
Dreonna stifles a yawn, “Guen isn’t dead. Not precisely.”
Iroshi nods.
Tharan clenches his brow. He shakes his head, “She fell. Alkara was distraught–”
“Until she learned what you now have.” Iroshi’s expression remains static, a picture of control and patience. He leans forward, “The connection with Urdima grants those special few a unique bond with the fauna. Guenwyvar isn’t entirely panther, she’s something more.”
She certainly does not act like any other panther. Not completely.
Tharan glances to Fiontann, who looks as though he would rather not support Iroshi in anything, but still nods. Tharan takes in a calming breath and turns back to Iroshi, “Very well. I do not understand but I must defer to your expertise.”
Iroshi smiles, showing teeth, “Until you can confer with your people.”
Tharan nods, “That is correct.” Their ways may differ but the fundamental tenets of DoĂ«’s dogma require Tharan oppose such rituals. If it were necromancy. By reputation Iroshi displays forthrightness, so Tharan will take the assertion on faith. Albeit the spiritual leader of the DoĂ«sin would be remiss to not have his people review the situation.
And if they conclude it is necromancy?
Tharan shakes his head ever so slightly. Additional discussion with Iroshi and Alkara. Then he would be able to position it properly for the theologians. It would be a difficult sell, but he is the Voice of the Negotiator.
Iroshi stokes the fire with a metal rod, “There’s one bit of gristle to chew through though.” The half-Reäsin sets a bit of meat above the flame.
Alkara stares at the dancing light, listening and gripping Guenwhyvar’s ribbon. A promise of her companion’s return met with some obstacle deflates the hope in her eyes.
Tharan waits two beats, attempting to put some space between his words and the urgency in his heart. “What hindrance?” Some Bread Eaters take companions from Urdima, though more rarely than the humans. Scraps of information sift through his thoughts, coalescing into a vague idea of the ritual’s requirements. Nothing presents difficulties.
Iroshi turns the meat skewer, “The ritual requires certain herbs. Preparations. Meats. Similar to before but not so much food.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, “The herbs are the problem. I collected them over months, and a couple I’d had for years. The connection to Urdima is discwide, not just local. But we don’t have that long before Guen makes it through the Veil.”
Tharan creases his brow, deep in thought. Urda spans leagues. With herbs required from every curve of the disc, collection requires time. Tharan begins ticking off ideas in his mind, “That can be rectified. At least this time.”
An acrid flavor fills the air as the meat roasts. Iroshi takes it from the skewer and sets his gaze on Tharan, “Hmm?”
“We have an extensive herbrary in Afanen.” Tharan smiles, the fame of Liuv na Talivh predates even his life.
Iroshi shakes his head, “I’m familiar. They don’t have everything we’ll need.”
Tharan’s heart droops. He quirks his mouth, “Perhaps then the Bread Eaters?”
Iroshi nods, “I have asked them in the past. They may have some.”
“I will still make inquiries.” Tharan’s connections may prove more extensive than Iroshi’s. Tharan tilts his head, “Which ingredients will prove difficult to acquire?”
Iroshi shakes his head, laughing, “Most of them. I don’t keep the list on me though. I won’t know until we return home.”
Tharan steeples his hands under his chin, “Yes, of course. I imagine the list covers many unusual items.” He pauses. “Let me help,” Tharan stands and moves to his pack. He retrieves a small bell and offers it to Iroshi. “This will facilitate the transport of the herbs and other materials if you will accept it.”
Iroshi arcs an eyebrow and considers the bell. He makes no move to take it. Instead he draws a carving knife across the meat skewer. He slices small strips of the flesh away and lays them across his knee.
Tharan holds the bell a moment longer with no indication Iroshi will take it. “There is no enchantment laid on this bell,” Tharan turns the bell this way and that to show each unblemished side. “I can translate across the realm quickly rather than making the traditional journey.”
The knife returns to its sheath at Iroshi’s boot. He glances to Alkara. Whatever answer he’d been waiting for surfaces there, because he takes the bell after. “So be it. I’ll get the list to you shortly.” He stretches his hand to Guenwhyvar’s ribbon and tugs it. It slips from Alkara’s grip in one fluid motion.
She blinks at the change and looks sidelong at Iroshi. Her brow knits into a worrisome crease.
Iroshi offers a warm smile. His eyes alight with an inner glow, though not quite the way Alkara’s do. With a tentative hand he brushes Alkara’s cheek with the back of his hand. “We’ll make it through this and whatever else comes our way.” Iroshi’s features soften as he holds Alkara’s gaze.
Tharan allows the pair their time. If it took a full chime he’d wait. Longer even. The struggles of adoptive families mirror biological ones, but with added strain. Tharan watches the unspoken love pass between them with admiration.
Iroshi turns back to Tharan. “When we return to Urda’s light I’ll uncover whomever is behind all this,” he waves absently to the surroundings. With one hand he threads Guenwhyvar’s ribbon through the bell’s cord. “We have a lead on my abduction,” The moment with Alkara over, the smile takes on a rigid, somewhat alarming quality.
“And the veil? Guenwhyvar?” Tharan looks down and to the side at Alkara. She hasn’t stirred even with the removal of the ribbon.
Iroshi nods, “A pressing concern.” He pushes the bell into Alkara’s hands, “We have a week or perhaps slightly less. Don’t you worry Alkara.”
Alkara’s gaze slips down to her hands. Tears well in her eyes. She clenches her jaw as though the tears offend her with their presence. Finally, she nods.
Tharan squeezes his fist closed. The urge to comfort her builds to an almost unmanageable degree. Straining against his willpower. As though his heartstrings had been plucked. But where could he even start? He cannot go to her with Iroshi and Dreonna watching.
There is also the matter of Guenwhyvar’s return. Alkara will reunite with her companion soon. Logically the distress over the loss should dissipate. Seemingly, since Guenwhyvar has not exactly died, Urdima will allow the cat back to the Urdan disc. In that eventual recovery lay hope and glee, not anguish.
Tharan shakes his head clear of the useless thoughts. He knows better.
Iroshi stands, “I think that’s enough about what we do and don’t have.” He pulls his rapier belt around his waist, “I’ll be on the lookout with Vilsper. It’s best he not be alone with you.” Before leaving Iroshi pulls Alkara into a firm embrace. Her glum expression mismatches Iroshi’s creased brow and tight lips, “Get some rest, okay?”
Alkara nods again, her eyes fix firmly on the ground.
Iroshi moves to Dreonna and Chiron, embracing them both. After Chiron, he fixes Tharan with a chilling glare that allows nothing of the Reäsin half’s surreptitious allusions. No doubt resides in Tharan’s mind that Iroshi believes he knows something. Iroshi leans close to Tharan and grips his arm, “I believe you and I should have a chat once all this is over.” His words rise no louder than the crackling fire.
Tharan searches Iroshi’s eyes for some sense of how the conversation will progress but Iroshi’s stony expression belies no hint. A tremble fires through Tharan’s hands. He nods and keeps his voice at Iroshi’s volume, “I welcome it. May we resolve the matter quickly.”
Iroshi smirks. He leaves the tent occupants with one final look and heads into the Depths.
Fiontann stands as though he’d remembered a pot of stew left over flame at home, “I’m going with him.”
Alkara snorts, shaken from her reverie if only for a moment.
Tharan considers but makes no effort to dissuade the Bread Eater. He nods, “May the GrandMaster guide your watch.” Three sets of eyes scan better than two. Besides, Fiontann’s distrust of the Waste Walker’s intentions may better be broken by witnessing their prowess and efforts.
Tharan settles back onto his cot. The fire burns low. Embers and fragments of log fight against the unrelenting consumption of the flame. Near a chime passes in the dim interior.
Alkara’s low weary voice breaks the silence, “Hey Dre. Got any more potions on you?”
Dreonna twists her mouth and tilts her head. She marks tallies on an invisible before throwing her hands down. “I need to check which.” She grabs her pack and rifles through the contents. She retrieves a collection of varying colors and consistencies. After a short review, she frowns, “None of the good ones Al.” She takes one vial with golden pearlescent liquid and shakes it, “This is a stimulant and would–” Dreonna steals a glance at Tharan and wiggles her nose. “You’ll stay awak all night but you’ll be fatigued through tomorrow.”
Alkara’s eyelids droop. She nods with a sigh, “I’ll deal with it.” She holds her hand out. Dreonna leans over and passes the vial unstoppered. With one swift motion Alkara drains the potion. She squeezes one eye closed and twists her face into a grimace. Alkara blinks and when her eyes open she’s staring at Tharan, “Go ahead and get some sleep.” She jerks her head toward the back of the tent, “I’ll keep an eye on the kids.”
Tharan pulls his eyebrows together. His muscles tighten at the neck and shoulders, “This potion notwithstanding, will you be able to rest tonight?” The call of sleep plucks at him again. “I do not need as much sleep. I could–”
Alkara shrugs. “I don’t sleep around strangers. No offense.”
Tharan stiffens. He grits his teeth and feels a lump in his chest harden into a pit. He nods, “I understand.” He turns to his pack and rummages through for nothing in particular.
No offense indeed. Something taken even if it were not given.
The sting digs into his skin even though it ought not. They are strangers. The comment’s barb is born of his desire, his yearning, for something more. Alkara’s indifference only adds force to the puncture.
Tharan stops the pretense of his search and lays down. He turns toward the wall. At least his injured shoulder is on the right side.
“Do you have a blanket?” Alkara asks.
“I do not,” Tharan turns back to her. “My cloak and the fire will suffice.”
“Here,” Alkara tosses her blanket to him. “Someone may as well use it.”
Tharan catches the blanket and sets it down. He regards the blanket and gestures. “Are you certain–”
Alkara smirks, “Yes I’m certain.” Her voice dips with sarcasm, cloying to the ear. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t certain.”
Tharan smiles in return. Despite the contempt gripping her tone, relief fills Tharan for the return of any emotion in Alkara’s expression. “I appreciate your offer.” He snuggles into the blanket. “Goodnight.”
“Mm.”
Tharan wraps himself in the blanket, turns toward the tent’s wall, and smiles. Alkara’s scent lives in the blanket. It is not the dank, damp stench of the Depths. She must not have used it since she left her home. A crispness clings to it. That earthy brine which Urdima provides. Tharan inhales the intoxicant and lets his mind drift toward sleep. Thoughts of Alkara buzz around like cicadas in autumn.
Fruitful dreams flit through his sleep in varied, broken patterns. The images blur together and messages shrivel up as he blinks his eyes awake. The fire burns low, but restocked. Fanciful flames brighten the otherwise dim lodging.
Tharan stares into it. He mentally checks his body, feeling out how the injuries fare. In slow movements he tests the muscles, rolling joints and stretching limbs. Tharan pulls himself into a sitting position and breathes deep, rhythmic breaths.
Alkara’s voice alerts him. She murmurs to one of the children. The exchange concludes and Alkara returns to the fire. Her gaze passes over Tharan as she sits, “Good dream?”
Tharan knits his brow. Few fragments of dream remain intact. He pushes them away from the forefront of his mind. “Dreams are an interesting thing.” A tingle sweeps through his neck and up the back of his scalp. “There are cultures that say dreams are messages from beyond the Veil. Perhaps it was good. Perhaps torturous. Why?”
Alkara frowns. Her brow knits together in a tantalizing manner, with one eyebrow raised, “Torturous?” Incredulity brushes against her tone. She shakes her head and laughs, “Got this weird smile on your face. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you look happy.”
Alkara pauses. Her eyes drop to the flames. “Torturous is what happened to Kella. She had a nightmare.” The fire’s light paints deep shadows on her features, “About the tent burning. She said you saved them. Worked at their bonds with the fire burning.” She waits. Her next words spill out in an impatient rush, her voice thick with pain, “I’m sorry, for what I said earlier. I shouldn’t have assumed–”
“Please.” Tharan’s quiet word stops Alkara. His breath catches for a moment. Tharan swallows, “Do not fret.”
Alkara looks up, into Tharan’s eyes. They hold there for a moment before Alkara nods. She looks down to gaze into the fire once more, her expression hardens.
Tharan watches. If he continues would she bite back with some remark? Best to allow her time instead. Tharan folds Alkara’s blanket and places it at the end of his cot. He exits the tent for some time to think and perform necessary bodily functions.
When he returns Alkara fingers the bell now hanging from Guenwhyvar’s ribbon. She looks at him with a hollow gaze. She quirks the corner of her mouth, only just offsetting its downturned posture. “Do you really think…” The strength in her voices fails, “You’ll be able to find the herbs we need?”
Potential replies flood through Tharan’s mind. Any could be disastrous. Without knowing which herbs are needed how could Tharan say if they could be found in Afanen? A flicker of fear passes through Alkara’s eyes. Tharan decides the truth is best, “I will not stop until I do.” Such a response should encourage Alkara. It should provide relief.
Alkara furrows her brow and shakes her head in slow, steady movements. Something in her expression invites Tharan. He approaches with caution, staying out of arms length.
Alkara’s shoulders slump, “I mean… they’re probably easy to find in something like the Star Market…” Her words seem more for herself. She doesn’t look up for Tharan’s response. Lost in thought, she stares at the tent’s canvas wall.
Tharan smiles. A bubble of humor fills up his chest until he exhales it through his nose, “Indeed. The reagents should prove an unchallenging acquisition.” A pang in his chest mutes the humor. His smile softens, “Leä’s negotiation will be invaluable. The effort will likely be trivial, rather than heroic.”
Alkara actually smiles and gives a half laugh, “Leä… of course. How is she?”
Her smile warms Tharan’s chest. Emotion ripples through him, “Quite well. She will be pleased you inquired after her.”
Alkara nods and her smile falters. They sit in silence as her expression slowly falls away. Her gaze returns to the tent canvas, perhaps lost in thought about Guenwhyvar
Or perhaps toward self flagellation.
Tharan forages about his mind for some ripe topic to pluck. Centuries of etiquette, decorum, and pleasantry training fail him. Except for the most pressing topic. Tharan swallows, “How did… you meet Guenwhyvar? Was it through the ritual?”
A small smile steals across Alkara’s face. She looks up with a sparkle in her eyes, “Nah, Uncle Iro brought her home as a cub when I was fifteen.” Each word rings out like a bell to Tharan’s ears. Clarity and vibrancy sings through them. “He said it was time to start my training ‘in earnest.'” Alkara pulls her face into a mockery of sternness, “‘Take care of her and she’ll take care of you.’ And then she…” Alkara sputters in laughter, “Her snarl was adorable.” Her smile warms the tent more than the fire.
Alkara smirks and shakes her head, “Chiron said Guen was complaining about my smell, but I knew she was saying hello.” She stretches her fingers, pulling them around an invisible thing, “And her little claws. Sharp and deadly. They could do some damage. Like the one time…” Alkara trails off into reserved silence. “Ah, but… that’s not really important…”
Tharan nods. His tone drops into a deeper resonance, “What is or is not determined to be important depends on a great many factors.” He breaks into a smile, “I would enjoy hearing the story, if you have no objection.”
Alkara turns with furrowed brow, looking back and forth at Tharan’s eyes. She smiles a little, “Well, it was a while before we got to go hunting together.” She raises her hand to her mouth and shakes her head into it, “One day little Guen brought home a big dead bird!” She snorts with the announcement. “Dropped it in front of my cot and looked at me like I was stupid.” Alkara throws her hands up in mock surrender, “I just stood their gawking. Asked her what her problem was.”
Tharan sits quietly, his attention transfixed on Alkara.
“Uncle Iro came in,” Alkara huffs once, “Saw the bird, and immediately scratched behind her ears murmuring ‘Who’s a good girl?'” She fiddles with the ribbon. The bell chimes with a soft tinkle. Alkara smiles, “He said Guen was ‘already bringing food home and trying to teach Alkara how to contribute.'” A faraway look drifts over her eyes as though she’s reliving the memory.
Alkara scowls, “I couldn’t believe it. I was so mad. I was already doing half the hunting when we traveled. She just hadn’t been on a trip with us yet. And the first time I finally went hunting with her, I swear she looked at me with respect. Like she was surprised someone like me could actually pull it off.” She shakes her head and laughs.
“It wasn’t too much later we finished the bonding ritual. And Uncle Iro gave us these ribbons.” Alkara points to the bright yellow ribbon wrapped around her neck. “Matching set. They tell us when the other is uh… is… hurt.” Alkara shifts with a grimace. “Once when we were out in the forest on our own, her snarl woke me up, and the ribbon was going off. I scrambled to find her but I was in such a panic I forgot my bow. All I had was my dagger. We uh… we both limped back to camp a little scratched up from that fight.” Her expression smooths into a warm smile. “I remember collapsing by the smoldering fire. Guen curling up next to me. And even though we were still out in the woods, I’d… never felt so… safe.”
Alkara looks down at the ribbon in her hands. “I uh…” her voice cracks, “didn’t do such a good job… protecting her this time…” A solitary tear drops onto the ribbon.
An urge to pull her into his arms whelms Tharan. The feeling subsides in slow waves. He speaks with a quiet tack, “Where does she sleep? When you are home?”
Alkara swipes at her nose and looks back at Tharan. A sheepish smile crests her face, “With me. On my cot. Has ever since she was little.” Alkara leans back on the small stool, “Uncle Iro said I should train her to sleep on the floor next to me but I was kind of a pushover. I didn’t want to be away from her either. It wasn’t until one day she stretched and accidentally pushed me off the cot that I realized how big she’d gotten. Oh–” She throws her head back and laughs again. Alkara cuts the laugh off with a worried glance at Dreonna shifting in her sleep.
Alkara lowers her voice, “And there was the first time she just disappeared.” She sighs with a weighty breath. “I had no idea where she’d gone. I thought uh… I thought she’d just left me.” Alkara grins, “I was so upset I didn’t even ask Uncle Iro about it for a couple days. Just… kinda let it eat at me.” Alkara shrugs, “Turns out it was mating season.”
Tharan stifles his laughter with a closed mouth, a buoyancy in his being as he basks in Alkara’s stories. He drinks in the inner glow from her eyes.
Alkara’s grin turns impish. “Oh and one time,” she perks her eyebrows up once, “Sengmar and Dreonna had finally gotten ahold of some rare spell component from some traders. But I guess it was some sort of extra strong catnip for panthers!” She chuckles and hides her mouth with her hand. When the chuckling subsides she continues, “When we got home Guen went crazy, started pouncing at us from across the room like we were outside playing, and we couldn’t figure out why!” Alkara mimes a cat pouncing, “She tore the place apart. Such a mess.” She laughs again, this time remembering to mute it. She returns her gaze to the fire. There she stares with the smile this time carved into her expression. Alkara glances up at Tharan, a glimmer of something new in her eyes, “Thank you. I uh…” Her tone suggests she’s been happily tricked, “I feel a lot better now.”
Heat spreads through Tharan’s chest. He returns the smile, “It truly is my honor.”
Silence falls between them as they return to the dancing flames.
A chime of silence fits in that space. Tharan’s smile fades. A sudden lethargy steals over him, “You share a remarkable bond with your companion.” Worry dims his tone, “I cannot help but be envious.”
Tears run down Alkara’s face. She swipes at some and scrunches her face to stop the flow. Her lip quivers, “Um, thank you.”
Long moments stretch through the tent. Slumber calls to Tharan but he dismisses it.
Alkara creases her brow, “I don’t get it.”
Tharan raises an eyebrow, inviting further comment.
“You’re like three hundred years old.” Alkara shakes her head at the statement, “More.” She shrugs, “I’ve only known Guen for seven. How could we possibly have anything close to what you get to have.” Her lips part, awaiting the next words. “Even if you don’t have a partner, surely you have friendships five times as old as I am at least.”
Pain spears Tharan’s chest. Dread falls into his gut. He grows still and turns back to the fire. In that flame he reaffirms his empty visage.
Foolish to lay open your thoughts.
Tharan’s mask had slipped, and he internalizes the mistake for later examination. Once settled, he shifts the mask back into place. The emotion which welled within stops at his insistence. Tharan quashes them.
He clears his throat. “The length of an association should not be conflated with strength of bond.” Tharan’s tone sit in comfort in a deep monotone. “My relationships vary in both.” He allows a small smile to fit his mouth, “Few such bonds are made with those in my clan. Exceptions include my mentors. Even so, none measure to yours in spirit and vitality.”
Tharan pauses. What harm is there in acknowledging an entanglement? He would tell Alkara of his desires on the surface soon. The pit gnaws at him. It threatens to suck him into its depths. The weight of it presses in around him. Tharan blinks and lets his eyelids droop. His shoulders droop, “The idea of a partner has become increasingly unlikely. I thought I had found one. A very long time ago. The relationship deteriorated.”
Alkara winces. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
Numbness grips Tharan. He stares at the fire in place of thinking. After a short time he pulls alertness back. With a deep breath he resets the mask, “She exhibited behavior indecorous to our clan and my position.”
Ah, that sounds calm and neutral.
Alkara scowls, “Why do you do that?”
Tharan’s heart beats faster. The facade refuses to leave. “Do what?”
Alkara looks at Tharan with a flat expression which brooks no argument, “Don’t play dumb.” She narrows her eyes, “Every time we start talking about something important it’s like you decide your feelings aren’t appropriate and you tuck them behind them away because that’s what everyone expects all the time. That can’t be healthy.”
Tharan’s eyes widen. Queasy trembles run through his stomach. He stares at Alkara for a few moments, feeling as though he’s misbehaved.
Misbehaved?
Tharan resists the laughter bubbling up from the thought. The children’s sleep is more important.
Alkara glares at him, “What’s so funny?”
Tharan fails to keep the laughter at bay. “Healthy or not, it is the way of the DoĂ«sin.” His fingers explore the fabric of his tunic, “Social expectations deign not to be transformed quickly.”
Alkara snorts, “Sounds like an excuse to me.”
A weak smile appears on Tharan’s face. His eyes soften, “Perhaps.”
Alkara holds the gaze until she fidgets. “Well, you’ve got friends in Three Rivers now at the very least.” She turns back to the fire, “More friends anyway.” She tilts her head to one side, “Doubt I can do anything about the partner thing though. I don’t really know any elves that would be suitable.”
Tharan arcs an eyebrow, “I believe that decision lay firmly with me.” He chuckles, “Whether someone is suitable or not, that is.”
Alkara scoffs, “Yeah because you’re going to tie yourself down to just any random elf.”
Tharan retreats behind the facade. Internally, mind and heart embroil in battle. A random elf. An unrandom human. Ideation of scandal perforates his thoughts. And yet she broached the subject.
Here lay another opportunity orchestrated by the Grand Master. Tell her before you squander this one.
The time is inappropriate. The children need rest. Iroshi will return presently. Fiontann could overhear. Chiron and Dreonna. No. It would be indecorous.
Alkara watches him, stealing furtive glances from time to time. Tharan keeps his eyes on the fire, but his attention focuses on Alkara. From the corner of his eye he gauges the change in her expression as it grows into a scornful glare. She stands, “I’m gonna go for a walk.” Irritation drives the sentence like a hammer at the forge, beating it into a tempered rebuke.
A sinking feeling pulls at Tharan. Another moment had come and gone. Blunt weight thuds into his chest. He sighs, but it’s as though his lungs won’t fill with breath. His mouth pulls downward toward a frown. Tharan pities himself in the furthest corners of his mind.
He shakes the feeling away and returns to his cot. His hand wends its way to the Bell under his tunic. Without deciding Tharan finds himself pulled towards meditation on the Primal Sound.
Perhaps he will find some peace a solace there.