Reverie
Always they faded away. Every turbulent emotion, every churning, roiling thought that had bubbled to the surface of his mind and spilled over and tainted his every action hence. Always, beneath the bountiful stars that twinkled peacefully in the vast veil of night above. Always, every eve, when he looked up and committed them to memory. Always when he closed his eyes, and still saw them in his reverie. It all just.. melted away.
And then the next day came.
Always they faded away. Every turbulent emotion, every churning, roiling thought that had bubbled to the surface of his mind and spilled over and tainted his every action hence. Always, beneath the bountiful stars that twinkled peacefully in the vast veil of night above. Always, every eve, when he looked up and committed them to memory. Always when he closed his eyes, and still saw them in his reverie. It all just.. melted away.
And then the next day came.
“What do you want, Cinaed? You’re not quiet enough to sneak up on me,” he rumbled a little more gruffly than he intended, opening his eyes to slits to ease the morning light in. Turning his head, he hoped he’d soften his words by giving the old druid a warm smile.
“Nyrie was worried aboot ye,” the man spoke up; it was a calm, lilting voice, but in his advanced age it rattled like a barrel full of pebbles. “Ye’ve been taken tae goin’ out too oft a’late, Oro.”
“Well..” with an exasperated sigh, he reached to the earth and slid his fingers about the haft of the spear he’d stabbed into the ground the night before, smoothly rising to his feet. There was a comfort in gripping the weapon that surprised him. Tethir felt more dangerous of late, and he still didn’t know why.
“I am fine,” he said, with the mischievous edge of one placating their overly worried parent, “and still entirely in one piece, as you can see.”
The smile wasn’t returned, though Cinaed’s weathered face softened. Somehow, they’d developed this almost father-son relationship in but a scant few years of knowing one another. And despite Orolorn likely having passed though twice the amount of seasons the aged human had, he somehow felt the junior. They were a curious lot.
“Cannae say yer foolin’ me this time, Oro. ‘Tis yer People that fret fierce o’er ye. What’s the matter?” waddling forward with his crooked wooden staff, Cinaed folded his robes about himself more tightly against the chill breeze. The wood elf found himself regarding the liver spots on the old man’s wrinkled forehead, like ink stains on tattered old parchment. He knew what it meant, and a sudden but deep pang of sadness knifed at his heart and stirred his feet to approach.
“There’s no need for fretting,” the wood elf lied as he put a reassuring hand on the old man’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, felt too little skin stretched over too much bone beneath the thickly quilted robe. It would have made him wince if he wasn’t half expecting it. He’d watched Cinaed deteriorate quickly over the previous few winters. He didn’t know if the man had some illness or whether that was just what happened to humanfolk. Either way, it made his heart ache.
“I’m blessed by soil, stone, tree and wind, Cinaed. This is my home, and it embraces me as brother and keeper. Its boughs are my shelter, its roots are my ancestors. I am safe. Trust me.”
“Yer lost ones thought th’ same,” it was a simple statement from the elder, spoken softly. But as gently as they were delivered, those few words struck the elf harder than any slap across the face. Wizened fingers, gnarled and grooved as ancient oak, rose to touch him tenderly on the cheek, as if to soothe the sting of that reminder. “Please, lad. I knae the land loves ye, but ye cannae even tell why yer oot here, can ye? Come home t’ yer fam’ly,” it almost sounded pleading, laced right through with stress. “Jus’ fer a wee while.”
Orolorn felt his thumb idly fidget over the ashwood spear he yet gripped, tentative. Why was the old man so fearful? And why was he so reticent to go home? He felt drawn away, inexplicably, didn’t he? It was a calling, as birds to morning song, and he felt after each restful trance that the pull of it was so much stronger. Right then, it almost physically pained him to even consider heading back.
But Cinaed’s eyes were near welling with tears, it seemed. Could he sense something? Did he know something? Orolorn was sure of himself, sure of his safety, but it didn’t matter. The look in the druid’s eyes reminded him of what his people had lost, and what he had lost. It was an almost perfect replica of a look Nyrie had given him in fateful years past. Haunted by something they had never thought would come to be. That this old human cared so much...
No, he decided. Whatever destiny called him, it would have to wait. “Alright,” he finally conceded, the word little more than a breath, and slid his arm around the man’s narrow shoulders. “We’ll head home, you and I, old oak,” he said, and then with a sly smile he added: “before your root freezes off.”
Those slender shoulders heaved under the elf’s arm as Cinaed drew a great breath of relief, and his deep-lined face stretched with a grateful grin as they began ambling off together, slow and steady - for his sake. “Thank ye, lad. Thank ye.”
