Continuing to waltz upon the shoulders of giants, Roric only kept a light recognition of the slave boy. Bouncing from tome to tome he became man, woman, warrior, poet, painting, bird, all within breaths and excitable gasps. To walk upon the pages, to step in the spaces between the lines, the pauses, the lingering. In another life Roric might have been a humble bookseller, though he'd most likely go out of business as he'd be too sore to lose one of his books.
He was deep within a cave watching a young prisoner scrawl her tired thoughts onto a lessening parchment supply when he heard the words. Drawn immediately up from the well of imagination he had so willingly submerged himself in, the ambassador looked upon the downcast boy with a smile. He was young and willing, in all his years the half Thanati had found these to be the only requirements for the teaching of just about anything.
Clasping his book shut the red haired man walked about the shelves at first appearing as if he did not notice the young boy speaking. His eyes searched and soon found precisely what he was looking for, or at least something that vaguely matched the description. Turning about he sat upon a comfy chair with a cushioned stool that looked upon the veranda. Butterflies fluttered upon yellow and red flowers as the ambassador gave a light beckoning wave to the young boy,
"Come sit with me, I'll read to you for awhile."
Here in this idyllic quiet, this rare stillness, there were teachable moments to be found, but they must be chipped from the stones of narrative and forged with the delicate finery of an open mind and endless imagination.
Clearing his throat Roric began tracing his finger along the words as he slowly read,
"Daniel looked out upon the quiet valley, mists traveled slowly across the green..."
Roric spoke on, the images forming. A young boy running from cruelty clutching a letter. He sought his sister, who was in the hands of one far worse than his former masters. Minutes slid away as the tale deepened, bravery, joy, kindness, fear, all sloping and forming a brilliant story arc that ultimately was about the unquenchable flame of hope. After an hour of this the teacher found a particularly easy passage and gently drew Sorrel's hand forward tracing his finger under the letters,
"Try to read now...as much as you can. Do your best that's all I ask"