They said little. He was always a quiet man, a softer man than what some believed. They saw the scars on his face and the way he carried himself, poised as ever like the wolf he carried in his heart. They saw a simple man given to unfortunate circumstances and barbaric nature.
(He fought back fiercely when they came, snarling like a beast, snarling words she had never heard him utter before, until he saw his darling girl standing there, watching him.
But it wasn’t him that had his skin torn apart, circles and circles wound round and round, filled with blood, filled with poison.)
She had little enough to say. She had spoken enough, and he obliged her in her discomfort. There was a twist in her spine that clawed well into her gut and she found no relief in words. Wolfsong camped as he had before beside a waterfall near the edge of the La Noscean grassland. It was not exactly quiet for the roar of water was constant, and it was peaceful despite Delial’s presence. The white noise, at least, provided some respite. Her thoughts drifted and wandered but they always returned to him.
Gharen worked with the single minded efficiency she expected from a man who had purportedly lived much of his life on his own. A stewpot was rigged over the campfire and she did not ask him where he had found the meats and vegetables that he sliced and cooked in it. In another pot he brewed a tea with a gentle aroma and warm, earthy flavor. She wondered, watching him, if he treated himself so well when he was alone.
She wondered why he treated her so well.
(A woman in white: white hair, white clothes, white mask. Black shapes and red stains. Chains and the stench of ruin.
It was you. Pale eyes bored into her as he spoke those words around a mouthful of blood. It was you.)
“Lass?â€
She shut her eyes and opened them again and Gharen was gently nudging a bowl of steaming strew her way. There was a rise to his brow but she could not meet his gaze long enough to see if she could read concern. It was absurd. He had left her the last time they spoke, left her to deal with Crofte’s betrayal. Shaelen did the talking then: she spoke of Aylard and the way he was torn apart, of Hroch and the innocence that had been torn from his hand, of a woman undeserving of forgiveness. Worst of all, she spoke truths that Delial could not deny.
The bowl passed hands. He had his own which he, once satisfied that she would not drop it on her lap, set back and began to nurse. Grudgingly, she began to eat as well, staring deep into brief ripple of vacancy the stew would swallow after every spoonful. At least there, she mused, she could not mistake the glint of water for the shine of a blade.
(Spirals over his shoulders and down his chest. A deeper gash, too deep, into his side.
A quick jerk of his hand, a gurgle, a stream pouring from a white throat.
Gharen howled at nothing but it was a nothing only he could see.
You did this. You did this.)
The fire crackled and the water rushed and her eye returned to him. He said little of her admission. It was absurd, absolutely absurd, but he said little of it. Gharen was a kinder thing than what they had tried to make him. They called him mad but he stood his ground, strong and stubborn as any good son of Ala Mhigo.
It was easier to hate, Delial knew, and call it righteousness. Once, the very sight of him had filled her with the disdain of a lineage she knew to be poisoned with treachery. It was easier to hate, just as it was much easier when he hated her.
(He fought back fiercely when they came, snarling like a beast, snarling words she had never heard him utter before, until he saw his darling girl standing there, watching him.
But it wasn’t him that had his skin torn apart, circles and circles wound round and round, filled with blood, filled with poison.)
She had little enough to say. She had spoken enough, and he obliged her in her discomfort. There was a twist in her spine that clawed well into her gut and she found no relief in words. Wolfsong camped as he had before beside a waterfall near the edge of the La Noscean grassland. It was not exactly quiet for the roar of water was constant, and it was peaceful despite Delial’s presence. The white noise, at least, provided some respite. Her thoughts drifted and wandered but they always returned to him.
Gharen worked with the single minded efficiency she expected from a man who had purportedly lived much of his life on his own. A stewpot was rigged over the campfire and she did not ask him where he had found the meats and vegetables that he sliced and cooked in it. In another pot he brewed a tea with a gentle aroma and warm, earthy flavor. She wondered, watching him, if he treated himself so well when he was alone.
She wondered why he treated her so well.
(A woman in white: white hair, white clothes, white mask. Black shapes and red stains. Chains and the stench of ruin.
It was you. Pale eyes bored into her as he spoke those words around a mouthful of blood. It was you.)
“Lass?â€
She shut her eyes and opened them again and Gharen was gently nudging a bowl of steaming strew her way. There was a rise to his brow but she could not meet his gaze long enough to see if she could read concern. It was absurd. He had left her the last time they spoke, left her to deal with Crofte’s betrayal. Shaelen did the talking then: she spoke of Aylard and the way he was torn apart, of Hroch and the innocence that had been torn from his hand, of a woman undeserving of forgiveness. Worst of all, she spoke truths that Delial could not deny.
The bowl passed hands. He had his own which he, once satisfied that she would not drop it on her lap, set back and began to nurse. Grudgingly, she began to eat as well, staring deep into brief ripple of vacancy the stew would swallow after every spoonful. At least there, she mused, she could not mistake the glint of water for the shine of a blade.
(Spirals over his shoulders and down his chest. A deeper gash, too deep, into his side.
A quick jerk of his hand, a gurgle, a stream pouring from a white throat.
Gharen howled at nothing but it was a nothing only he could see.
You did this. You did this.)
The fire crackled and the water rushed and her eye returned to him. He said little of her admission. It was absurd, absolutely absurd, but he said little of it. Gharen was a kinder thing than what they had tried to make him. They called him mad but he stood his ground, strong and stubborn as any good son of Ala Mhigo.
It was easier to hate, Delial knew, and call it righteousness. Once, the very sight of him had filled her with the disdain of a lineage she knew to be poisoned with treachery. It was easier to hate, just as it was much easier when he hated her.
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