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22. ley lines
Daimd's excellent memory for names extends to his childhood. He remembers his mother's name, but not his mother; he remembers his father's name, but not his father. He remembers his half-brother, but not when Yoouk was born. He remembers being a child, once, but he does not remember playing games with his tribemates, or his first hunt, or any of events associated with the importance of growing up.
He remembers the Chief, though. The Chief was young, a fistful of years younger than himself, and constantly ablaze with bright, feverish energy. And he wasn't the Chief then, certainly; wasn't mated and hadn't been recognised and majority was a distant mystery of the future, and yet Daimd remembers him fondly, having known even then that one day this friend he sparred with would be his greater.
They practiced with their chosen weapons—Daimd's the sword, and Chief's the spear. The sword often lost to the spear's reach, but taught the spear its weaknesses.
He was the first to congratulate their new Chief, teeming with fierce pride as he clapped the younger, grinning orc on the shoulder. When the children due from that night's celebration were born, Daimd saw the face of the first child he had ever fathered, and knew with an odd twinge that this was the natural order of things meant to come.
“You age slowly, old friend.” The Chief told him when he returned.
He could not keep himself from chuckling, “Some things keep you young.”
The Chief nodded slowly, “No responsibilities. It must be nice.”
Daimd gazed at him, listening for bitterness where there was none, and raised his hands to either side, “I apologise, my Chief.” Then, suddenly driven, he bowed.
“I am glad you brought him here, Daimd. I am glad to see you gave up sedentary for something more than worthwhile.”
Daimd knew the Chief had heard the complaints of nearly the whole clan, even just a day after he and Quinn had arrived. As he stared in rapt silence, it occured to him that perhaps this oldest friend of his had grown more than he'd realised, and knew him better than Daimd had ever given him credit for. On impulse, he embraced the younger orc, who returned the motion fiercely, speaking softly in his ear, “He is yours, Daimd, and belongs with you, wherever you are. Do not lose him. I say this to you because you are my most valued friend, and because it is the truth, but it is for your ears alone.”
He did not apologise, and yet.
He remembers the Chief, though. The Chief was young, a fistful of years younger than himself, and constantly ablaze with bright, feverish energy. And he wasn't the Chief then, certainly; wasn't mated and hadn't been recognised and majority was a distant mystery of the future, and yet Daimd remembers him fondly, having known even then that one day this friend he sparred with would be his greater.
They practiced with their chosen weapons—Daimd's the sword, and Chief's the spear. The sword often lost to the spear's reach, but taught the spear its weaknesses.
He was the first to congratulate their new Chief, teeming with fierce pride as he clapped the younger, grinning orc on the shoulder. When the children due from that night's celebration were born, Daimd saw the face of the first child he had ever fathered, and knew with an odd twinge that this was the natural order of things meant to come.
“You age slowly, old friend.” The Chief told him when he returned.
He could not keep himself from chuckling, “Some things keep you young.”
The Chief nodded slowly, “No responsibilities. It must be nice.”
Daimd gazed at him, listening for bitterness where there was none, and raised his hands to either side, “I apologise, my Chief.” Then, suddenly driven, he bowed.
“I am glad you brought him here, Daimd. I am glad to see you gave up sedentary for something more than worthwhile.”
Daimd knew the Chief had heard the complaints of nearly the whole clan, even just a day after he and Quinn had arrived. As he stared in rapt silence, it occured to him that perhaps this oldest friend of his had grown more than he'd realised, and knew him better than Daimd had ever given him credit for. On impulse, he embraced the younger orc, who returned the motion fiercely, speaking softly in his ear, “He is yours, Daimd, and belongs with you, wherever you are. Do not lose him. I say this to you because you are my most valued friend, and because it is the truth, but it is for your ears alone.”
He did not apologise, and yet.
addendum.
You listen carefully to his words as he speaks to you, the oldest friend you know, and you realise that he must have missed you, even though he says nothing of the sort. He talks of everything else; about the birth of Valla's newest child, the babe which may well prove to be her last; about Valm's explosive disagreement with the old master and her turning towards shamanism instead of arcane arts; about his own son Reng's bloodless first hunt. You can see his chest swell with pride as he recounts a story about each member of his tribe, and you smile to yourself, accepting that you feel glad for him.
“And you, Daimd, tell me. What has happened to you?”
You have seen the four corners of the continent and then some. You have crossed the oceans thriceover. You have fallen in love. You have realised that your happiness comes not from knowledge that there is a place you can return to, with people who welcome you, but from the skinny blood elf you count as yours. You have realised that your home is only where he is. You have realised that you are not one who belongs here.
You smile and say, “Nothing so exciting as what happened here. I have wandered.”
He smiles in return, and says only, “I am glad.” You know he heard your words unspoken, somehow. He does not tell you, and yet you know.