The youngling's afternoon had gone long that day, it was the first time Torin had almost broken his master's command that he return to the house by full dark. They had made plans to meet the next day. He had hoped they had, and been gratified to see his friend again at the appointed place the next afternoon. Learning from each other, it seemed, was a fascination they shared. They spent every evening together for the few days before Destynreal's family moved on. When the apprentice came to understand, on the last day, that it would be their last he had come close to tears, impulsively embracing the other child when it had come time to part.
He'd thought about Destyn often in the years that followed, using their odd, brief connection as a template by which to judge the friendships he saw around him.
41 Searing, 121
Kalzasi
The Fae boy, man now, really, had still quietly for some moments and Torin had let him. Whatever had happened to bring his first friend into this place and state of duress he wouldn't press for it. A smile crossed his face when the question was asked with a much more familiar tone to the one used moments before to spit pain and anger between them came from Destyn.
"Cairde i gcónaí, do mo chuidse." His low voice spoke the words shyly but with a reasonable accent, even rolling his R's. Looking to the injured man as he always had, to see if he'd done well, been understood. Reverting to his own language he went on,
"Your common is very good. I can't say my Valasren is nearly as improved."
It felt like the continuation of a conversation they'd started as children and found again in adolescence being picked back up, as though the intervening years had happened but didn't matter for that particular conversation.
Moving with his characteristic slow deliberateness, broadcasting his intention and watching for signs that he was unwelcome, he moved to sit on the grass also. An arms-length between them; one of his own arms and an inch or two more. He didn't want Destynreal's instincts tensing thinking Torin might be able to reach out and grab him without warning. He had heard that cities in the south were less welcoming to people of different races, that Kalzasi was somewhat unique in its acceptance of every kind. Nearly every kind, he realized there were still some that would be shunned, or even attacked. Thinking about the people of a city rising to attack, to destroy, the Fae’ethalan tribe he had come to know, however briefly felt like thick, wet, sickness rising through him. The urge to comfort with touch, to offer his friend a set of arms he knew to hide in rose up and was suppressed again, with growing difficulty.
He'd thought about Destyn often in the years that followed, using their odd, brief connection as a template by which to judge the friendships he saw around him.
41 Searing, 121
Kalzasi
The Fae boy, man now, really, had still quietly for some moments and Torin had let him. Whatever had happened to bring his first friend into this place and state of duress he wouldn't press for it. A smile crossed his face when the question was asked with a much more familiar tone to the one used moments before to spit pain and anger between them came from Destyn.
"Cairde i gcónaí, do mo chuidse." His low voice spoke the words shyly but with a reasonable accent, even rolling his R's. Looking to the injured man as he always had, to see if he'd done well, been understood. Reverting to his own language he went on,
"Your common is very good. I can't say my Valasren is nearly as improved."
It felt like the continuation of a conversation they'd started as children and found again in adolescence being picked back up, as though the intervening years had happened but didn't matter for that particular conversation.
Moving with his characteristic slow deliberateness, broadcasting his intention and watching for signs that he was unwelcome, he moved to sit on the grass also. An arms-length between them; one of his own arms and an inch or two more. He didn't want Destynreal's instincts tensing thinking Torin might be able to reach out and grab him without warning. He had heard that cities in the south were less welcoming to people of different races, that Kalzasi was somewhat unique in its acceptance of every kind. Nearly every kind, he realized there were still some that would be shunned, or even attacked. Thinking about the people of a city rising to attack, to destroy, the Fae’ethalan tribe he had come to know, however briefly felt like thick, wet, sickness rising through him. The urge to comfort with touch, to offer his friend a set of arms he knew to hide in rose up and was suppressed again, with growing difficulty.