Spirits of the Earth

The days grew shorter. The nights were colder. He remembered it from before, somehow: that autumn fell harsh and bitter upon the ridges of mountains. He would not survive a winter up there, exposed to the elements. He knew he must descend to the lands that sprawled out below and take his chances there.

If...he wished to survive. If.

It was against his very nature to consider such an end. And yet, were he to find a village kind enough to take him in until spring, he feared he would be a burden to them. The gnawing frost reminded him daily of his years. Memories surfaced of a time long ago: a winter spent alone in the wilderness. He had survived it then with the vigor of youth at his side. He was not certain that he could do so now, as a man in his twilight, with dulling eyes and stiff knuckles and knees that cracked.

The old man who stared back at him from beneath still waters was wrinkled by sun and scarred by war. What use was an old man to a village? He was but another mouth to feed. Like dirt over a threshold, he would drag in with him the curse of his own haunted mind. His lapsing sanity. Waking nightmares that broke only when he bruised his hands in his blinding rage, or fell gasping and weeping to the ground. He was shackled to that raw wound of memory that bled anew each and every day. It became worse by the week.

What use was such an invalid?

Yet, by cowardice or stubbornness of will, he was not ready to die. Not in such an unfamiliar place. Not alone. So he would descend into the lowlands, and he would seek a village. And he would be useful — as useful as an old man could.

The chill air softened to the north, and further still to the east, and he followed that path for as far as he could. Mountains gave way to valleys and foothills, and those gave way yet again to a flat, rolling landscape. The forests changed. The trees were...comforting, somehow. Like...home. The earth smelled of it, too, and the mosses underfoot were a welcome change from harsh rock and gravel. The mountains had not been kind to him. He had not known it until the ache went away. Until his lungs felt satisfied by the breaths he took.

The night he made camp up on a little knoll, the easterly winds carried with them some indescribable scent. The next day, he found a set of footprints in the mud near a stream. By the time he made camp again, he was certain of it: he was being tracked. Watched. He kept an ear to the wilds, now, and his hand upon his ax. If they were friend, he would ask what he needed. If they were not...he would be ready.

That night, beside a smokey fire, with a belly full of cattail root, Eln slipped once more into a fitful sleep. His fingers gripped the ax head. His tired muscles twitched and spasmed. The memory-wound split open. He fell through it into grief.

The weather was turning colder, the wind more biting now as it swept off the sea and downriver. Soon Waquin'i would be pulled off the river patrols and relegated back to village patrol duties, a job he did not relish in the slightest. Out in the wild was far more interesting than listening to the brides gossip and complain over their husbands' shortcomings. Here there were trees and the river, animals and the occasional trapper or fisher. If you were truly lucky, a riverboat caravan might drift through the area but they were more than likely to be further inland at this time of year.

Waquin'i had been idly floating with the current in his canoe when movement caught his eye on the far shore. With the sun at his back he was hard to spot himself but had a clear view of...a devil? Was that a Taluvan coming up north to steal more children from their beds?

Perhaps not, those were no feathered tufts but horns upon the humanoid's head. Best to keep a quiet eye on the figure and see where they went before revealing himself to them. And so for two days, Waquin'i followed the ambling stranger. On the second day he was almost sure that his presence had been recognized even if he had not been located. The tension and manner in which the stranger carried themself had shifted like a deer suddenly suspicious of the huntsman's arrow. 

Nightfall arrived, camp was made, food consumed, and sleep was apparently forthcoming. Waquin'i considered it no better a time than now to join the stranger for camp. Either he would be accepted as weary traveler or hopefully have the advantage of being fully conscious and alert in order to defend himself against an attack from the rather weighty looking axe he had seen the sun glinting off of a few times throughout the day.

With practiced ease, the young man slipped out of the canoe, gritting his teeth on slightly at the icy chill of the water as it soaked his clothes up to his chest. Maybe he wasn't nearly as close to the shore as he originally thought. At least there was a warm fire where he was headed!

The canoe was quickly tucked away and anchored among the brush before extra quiet feet padded up the embankment, a fishing spear in one hand and a pair of caught fish in the other.

There was no sign that he had been noticed as he approached, his hands still raised in a pacifying manner just in case all the way up until he was kneeling close by the fire. There  stoked the flames, his spear placed perpendicular in front of him as he readied the fish and began to cook them. Waste not, want not; another man's fire was going to serve him just fine. 

He rubbed his legs hoping to bring warmth back into them even as he stared across the fire at the sleeping stranger. It was the face of many stories and many hardships etched into every pore. Hopefully sleep would be comforting to them then. He could tell they needed it, whoever they were.

Smoke wound its way into his nostrils, and his dreams turned once more to fire and death and the prison of his own mind. Against his will, yet by his bloodied hands, he struck his people down one by one until he stood upon a mountain of their bones. Over and over again, he tried to cry out — to stop this madness. But it did not end. Year after year, decade after decade, that waking nightmare stretched to the horizon. He could not escape. He was shackled here for an eternity.

By the light of what little sanity he had left, he clung to his fragmented memories. Faces. A woman: horned and stubborn. Another: yellow-eyed and strange, and yet his heart swelled at the thought of her. A boy: so impatient to be a man. An infant girl, safe in his arms. He could not recall the sound of their names, yet he knew their warmth. And now...

Dead. All dead. Burnt and sent to the earth and sky.

His fault.

He tried to go back. To find those yellow eyes and cling to that shred of memory. But the woman had turned strange, and now she bore his features. His skin. His horns. She faded in the ash-choked dark. He tried to call her name, but it was not hers. He called for her again, and again, and again, until his voice was hoarse and the smoke tore at his throat.

He jolted from his sleep with her name on the tip of his tongue. He coughed, his lungs burning from the wood smoke. It was still dark. The fire had not yet settled into coals. Or had it been freshly stoked? And was that the smell of cooked fish? Eln blinked. Squinted. Tried to shake the dreams and make sense of what he saw.

He sat up and drew a sharp breath. A figure sat across from him. Watching him. The man was small. By the softness of his face, he looked quite young. Even so, he stared across the flames with the quiet, keen-eyed confidence of a practiced warrior. He was unafraid. Perhaps that self-assurance had something to do with the wicked spear that lay in front of him. Yet the man had not attacked him with it, and seemed more curious than anything.

Eln held his hands up, palms out, to signal that he was not a threat. "Nai fuvi yakso heru," he said. He hoped to the gods that the man understood him.

The gods were not with Eln though. Waquin'i smiled softly and warmly over the flames, both hands raised and splayed in a friendly gesture. 

"I mean you no harm," he spoke calmly, and slowly in slightly accented common. 

With smooth but slow movements he plucked at his still damn clothes to show how they clung to him and then gave an over-exaggerated shiver.

"Your fire is warm and I am soaked and freezing. I brought fish though!" He beamed brightly, the grin reaching his eyes as he carefully pointed to the fish and then his mouth before lifting one of the sticks off the fire and turning it handle side towards the stranger in offering. 

The man echoed his movements, but his words were foreign. Eln slumped and sighed, his disappointment plain. He coughed. His throat was raw. Had he cried out aloud? Had this stranger heard him? Whose name had he been calling into the darkness?

The stranger moved carefully and pantomimed his reasons for joining Eln at his fire. It was cold. His clothes were wet. If Eln let him stay, he would share his fish. And this seemed reasonable. It was a familiar way of conducting these situations — a meeting of two men of very different clans. Both had to give something to the other before words of any substance could be exchanged. Was his fire enough of a gift? The stranger seemed to think as much. Eln inclined his head out of respect and accepted the cooked fish.

"Voni nuhi teho, fa vihu tiya," he said. It was futile to try, of course. But the man across the fire must know, somehow, that Eln did not speak the tongues of this land.

He broke free a piece of fish, raised it, nodded his thanks, and ate it. At the very least, he could speak the language of actions.

Waquin'i beamed at the stranger and made quick but polite work of his own food. He continued to keep his movements slow and gentle while offering small glances and smiles. It did not seem at least thus far that the stranger was a threat, just a tired and likely lost foreigner doing a bit worse for wear.

A cool breeze blew through their makeshift camp and the younger man hissed as his drenched clothes made him shiver and scrunch up more on himself while rubbing at his legs. With his fish cooking stick finished its purpose, he poked the flames with it hoping to stoke them a bit more before tossing it in to join them.

"It is a cold night tonight," he commented aloud, exaggerating the body language of a freezing man. "Thank you for your fire." Waquin'i sighed heavily and rolled his neck lazily, just enjoying the quiet peace of the fire popping and cracking in the crisp night air.

After some time though when it proved that his clothes were not going to dry any time soon, he impatiently rubbed his hands together before yanking his tunic off, tossing it onto the grass with a wet plap and rubbing at his arms and torso in a further effort to warm up. Across his upper chest were fresh, clean, bandages that wound around and round him while a faint scant few scars littered his torso and sides.

The shirt was collected carefully and placed in the spot where he had been sitting, laid out nicely so as to try and dry more quickly and evenly. A heartbeat later, the young I'kanan was abandoning his spear to instead come and sit directly beside the stranger, pressing his side in close against his while actively clutching his own torso closely in a bid to get warm.

The young man spoke again. He seemed to understand, now, that Eln did not know his words, for he gestured broadly like one might to a child or one hard of hearing. Eln chose not to take offense to this. His unexpected guest was barely a man, after all. And he was trying. So Eln would try, too.

The stranger indicated that he was cold. Yes. One would be cold if one were soaked to the bone on a night like this. Worn as they were, he was grateful for the clothes on his back, and for his heavy wool cloak. It had been a nuisance on warm days. Now, it was a blessing. The young man, though he seemed to call these parts home, was unequipped for them. Eln wondered why. It seemed foolish. Perhaps this stranger was short of horn enough that this was his first lesson in it.

Shortly, the young man decided he'd had enough of the cold, and did away with his tunic. Beneath it, he bore heavy bandages, and the firelight cast strange shadows in the pits of old scars. He seemed to be no stranger to a fight. Had he recently been injured? It was not Eln's business, except to note that his companion was not weak.

Foolish, perhaps. And small. But formidable, nonetheless.

Eln startled as, without any warning, the man approached and sat beside him. And...leaned...on him. He stared, dumbfounded for a moment. It became clear that that moment sapped all of his tolerance for such bizarre behavior. His expression darkened. He abruptly stood, yanked his cloak out from beneath the stranger, and glowered down at him. He strode around to the opposite side of the fire. He shook his head.

He did not know what the local customs were, but in this particular one, he had no interest in partaking.

Ah, there it was. It was always telling and a bit amusing for Waquin'i, the moment when a man showed his truer, baser self. While yes it was a gamble that a strange man who did not speak the same languages as he might indeed react less than welcoming to being sidled up to for warmth, it also showed that he was not a pushover and was unwilling to share more than fire and fish. However, he had not taken on the pose of the aggressor. Even with the fire now between them and this stranger now closer to the young man's abandoned spear than likely wise, he had simply chosen retreat over attack.

Waquin'i shivered again deeply, the cold truly was biting but also was manageable enough. His own mother walked barefoot come snowfall without flinching. This was nothing in comparison to his attempts to follow her literal footsteps in his youth. He raised his hands open palmed and placating before closing them against each other in the prayer fashion he had seen some of the Serenian priests do in the past as means of apology.

His interest however was piqued, and as such it was only some minutes after they had both comfortably settled before he was very slowly trying to butt-scoot himself inch by slow inch at a time around the fire to get closer again. 

The man held his hands up. This much, Eln understood. It was a likely way to express again that he meant no harm. Then he put them together in some unfamiliar gesture. Eln watched him, expression still set halfway between stoicism and ire. He shifted his weight and crossed his arms in his best attempt at a stern warning. This stranger had interrupted his sleep, after all, and Eln's weariness now robbed him of his patience. He hoped this was the last of it. He had little interest in being on guard until dawn.

After a while, it became clear that the stranger was not going to try it again. Good. Eln gave him one more look of warning before lifting a few pieces of dry wood from the pile that he'd gathered and laying them over the fire. Then he settled opposite the man, tugged his cloak around himself, and waited.

And scowled again. It wasn't long at all before his odd companion began to move towards him, scooting slowly, like Eln was some game animal with poor eyesight. Eln grumbled and stood again. He briefly considered raising the man's own spear against him. He decided against it. He still needed help. It wouldn't do to be rash. So instead, he simply held up a hand. "Yese," he snapped.

Years of ingrained training took over and in the moment Eln clambered to his feet, Waquin'i was also moving. In seconds he went from sitting cross-legged to crouched defensively on his hands and knees, chin tucked into his shoulder protectively and eyes trained on the man before him honed for the slightest of movements. His fingers dug deep into the earth, gripping a fistful in preparation to toss it as a blinding distraction at a moment's notice.

But it was no weapon that he drew, but a hand firmly thrust towards him and a word barked sharply. "...yes?~" Waquin'i returned in confusion, his head lifting some and tilting as if trying to understand. Had the stranger finally attempted to speak in Common? "Yes, what?"

It appeared Eln had frightened the man, for he braced himself for attack. The maneuver in turn startled Eln, whose keen eyes did not miss the handful of soil that the stranger scooped up. He backed away a step and his hand shot, finally, to his ax head, but he didn't draw it. He squinted, confused. This stranger bore the scars of what appeared to be blade wounds, and had brought with him a spear, and yet he seemed trained in the women's style. Perhaps the people of this land fought differently.

He released the ax, and with it, a frustrated huff. Annoyed though he was, he still had no intention of fighting. His opponent would easily lose a scuffle, and he didn't wish to offend the man's clan — not when they might mean the difference between survival and death. He glanced down at the spear. He would, however, remain close to it. His companion had proven unpredictable. Eln was uninterested in giving him back such an advantage. He set a foot on top of the haft: another warning.

The man attempted to communicate again. "Yeswut," he said. He seemed confused. Had he misheard Eln? It seemed futile that either of them speak at this point. So Eln simply held his hand out again to bid him to stop, and gave him that same stern look. He slid his boot further over the haft and lowered his full weight on it. He tilted his head and raised his brow, as if to say, "don't try it again."

His lips fell open in a small teeth baring of warning the moment his hand touched the axe head. Of the two of them he was the younger and more knowledgable fighter when it came to terrain. Waquin'i had little doubt he would eventually win if it came down to it. He was usually underestimated for his smaller size and bubbly personality. He could scrap with the best of them though and more importantly, win.

While he could blink at his words being repeated, his sharp focus was far more concentrated on the foot standing on his spear. Waquin'i stood quickly, expression fierce and stance wide with slightly bent knees, ready to spring if needed.

"EY!" he cried, pointing with two fingers at the stranger's foot before flicking his wrist, motioning him back and away. "No!"

He expected that reaching for his own weapon would upset the stranger. What he didn't anticipate was that a boot to the spear would cause such offense. The man stood, clearly outraged, and said a word that, for the first time, Eln understood: "No."

Eln froze. He considered his options carefully. If he gave the man his spear back, he'd be at a grave disadvantage. If he simply removed his boot, it might not do enough to quell the man's anger. To pick it up would be an act of clear aggression. Well. He would try one thing at a time.

He raised his hands as he'd done before. He lifted his boot from the spear. And he took one single step away — far enough to show good faith, but not far enough that he couldn't react if the stranger chose to attack him.

As the older man stepped off the spear and took one step back, Waquin'i surged a step forward, shoulders tensed and brow still furrowed. "More!" He barked, flicking his wrist twice more, demanding further space. How dare he step on his spear! What kind of barbaric people did he come from to step on someone's property who has been helping them all along and even provided food?!

That motion — the lunge — told Eln everything he needed to know. The stranger had taken his sign of faith as a sign of weakness. Negotiations, such that they were, had failed. The situation had shifted from a simple greeting to a struggle for dominance, and now this small man would attempt to take over Eln's fire and push him out into the cold of night.

But Eln was tired — too tired for children's games. If the stranger was so intent on starting a fight, then a fight he would have, and Eln would simply have to find another clan to overwinter with. After all, if this man's people were anything like him, the chances of Eln making peaceful contact with them were slim. He stood his ground and took in his friend-turned-opponent. All the man had, that Eln could see, was a fistful of dirt and a mouth full of sharpened teeth. He would not need the spear. Did he dare lift it, even if simply to keep it out of the stranger's reach?

He stepped forward again, returning the man's glare with his own steady, unblinking gaze. In one fluid motion, he wedged his boot under the spear haft, flipped the weapon up into the air, and caught it with his shield hand. He rammed the butt of the spear on the ground with a firm thud and set his right hand upon his ax head. He raised his brow again. It was his last warning.

Waquin'i squawked in displeasure at his spear being kicked and slammed into the dirt. It had certainly faired about the same in his own care but it was the principle of the matter! The moment Eln stepped towards him, he too barreled forward refusing to back down from the challenge. In fact by the time the other man was threatening him, the younger one was puffing with agitation and throwing all manner of obscene gestures at him that needed no shared language to be understood.

He shouted and pointed at the spear demanding answers to the poor treatment and sudden hostility while alternating with beating his bound chest and baring his sharpened teeth. Waquin'i became so animated in fact that he forgot that the other man likely couldn't even understand a single word of what he was saying if he spoke slowly let alone the speed at which he was talking. Yet, still he continued to stamp his feet and loudly proclaim his displeasure all while knowingly or perhaps unknowingly inching closer to Eln.

Predictably, the stranger took offense, and now his behavior devolved into the kind of tantrum Eln would expect of an ill-raised toddler. By the many angry words and pointed gestures the man made, he knew now that anything he did with this spear would be considered an affront. He was not about to give it up, however. So he stood as calmly as he could, though his patience wore thin, and waited, as one might of such a toddler, for the tantrum to run its course. Perhaps it was his fatigue getting the better of him, but in a way, the animated flailing and rude gestures were almost humorous. His expression softened. He cracked the slightest smile. He chuckled. It was a strange feeling.

How long had it been since he laughed?

But then the man drew closer, and Eln's focus snapped to those dancing feet. He watched and waited and didn't give up any more ground than he had. The man inched closer. Closer. Closer. Eln sighed. He'd had enough, now. He lifted the spear, flipped it on end, and aimed a strike right across his opponent's nose.

The laughter gave him slight pause and he had begun to smile back when it finally registered in his mind what he had heard and seen. Moments later though he was completely caught off guard as his own spearbutt popped him in the face. Waquin'i saw white as fire exploded from his nose into his sinuses. 

The young man stumbled backwards some, touching his face and staring at his fingers as they came away wet and glimmering red in the firelight. Blood. The stranger had drawn blood with Waquin'i's own weapon. Now that just wouldn't do. 

Grinning toothily for the first time since encountering this man, the I'kanan made a point to lick the blood off his hand before smearing what still leaked from his nose down over his chin and throat. He was still and quiet as he assessed the other man. Up until now had been pushing buttons to garner the temperament and make of him. Now however was to discern the strength of him. He looked tired and older. But the speed with which he had struck out at the younger man belied his fighting days were likely not so far behind him yet.

He smoothed his hands down his sides indicating there was no weapon before pulling a small knife from his boot. Waquin'i made a point to show it in the palm of his hand before tossing it aside. With a jerk of his chin he challenge Eln to do the same. No weapons. Fight like a man.   

The young man did not seem to grasp the meaning of the strike. In fact, it was the opposite: he took it as yet another challenge. He smeared blood the way Eln's people smeared grease and charcoal: as a mark of his own fierceness. And yet, this stranger had done nothing more than bluster and flail. The only signs Eln saw of his prowess were his spear and his scars, and he had unwisely relinquished that magnificent weapon. And now he relinquished his belt knife, too.

Ah.

In his surprise at the young man's audacity, Eln did not react to the gesture at first. It was clear that the man wished him to disarm and wrestle, like women did when settling their disputes. But there was no dispute. Eln had built this fire. He did not owe this brave little mosquito any such a thing.

Eln tutted. He released a long, irritated sigh through his nostrils. "Ei," he growled. He set the butt of the spear to the man's chest and shoved. "Luho vefa."

"Coward!" he crowed into the night air as the stranger refused to relinquish weapons and instead shoved him with his own spear. Waquin'i latched onto the spear with a double overhanded grip right before suddenly surging forward at the older man. He used the strength of his legs and lower center of gravity to hopefully off-balance the other man and claim the upper hand. For an added measure, he used the leading leg to attempt to wrap around inside of Eln's knee to further send him tumbling to the ground.

Waquin'i was determined now. Adrenaline and the thrill of the scuffle was coursing through his veins and he would not quit until one of them surrendered. This was the way. Everything had been fun and games until his spear, abandoned out of respect was taken possession of. What kind of dishonorable people did this man come from? It did not matter. Waquin'i would show him the strength of the I'kanans and while he was at it, claim that worn cloak as his own for the night. Perhaps if the man gave up now, he'd even be kind and share it.

Eln should have seen it coming. He should have known that he'd gravely underestimated this little man. He thought his opponent would continue his tantrum and pull at the spear. He thought wrong. Instead, the man shoved, and Eln's back foot was not ready for it whatsoever. He stumbled backwards and released his grip on the haft to catch his balance, only to be swept off his feet and knocked flat on his back. To make matters worse, that maneuver — the sweep — had pulled his knee the wrong way.

Stupid, he thought. Perhaps he did deserve to die after all, so slow was his mind. To perish at the hands of some whelp...well. Was that not the way of things, after all? He simply didn't expect it so soon. To his surprise, he began to chuckle again. "Ai, Ertu," he wheezed. He pushed himself into a sitting position and smiled up at the young man. He fully expected the spearhead at his throat. He did not, however, intend to go down without giving this mosquito a fight.

With the weight of the fall, Waquin'i not only allowed himself to tumble atop of the other man but he dug the head of the spear deep into the earth. It had served it's purpose for now. Now they would fight properly. He squeezed tight with his thighs, trying to place his weight firmly in the other man's lap. With his hands now free he grinned back, feeling laid back again as he also shoved at Eln's chest hard.

This was no fight to the death. This was but a skirmish to test the mettle of the other man. Fine, test him. And find that Waquin'i though smaller, younger, and free-spirited was just as worth of his teeth and gills as the next I'kanan. At least this was a far more entertaining manner of warming up.

His assumption was again proven wrong. Mosquito did away with the spear and seemed perfectly content to fight as he'd demanded to before: hand to hand. It was not Eln's strong suit, though he faintly remembered employing such combat in his dirtiest and most harrowing battles. The young man gripped him with his legs, pinning both of Eln's remaining weapons. He shoved, but Eln had stabilized himself well enough this time. The smile disappeared, replaced with the calm, determined gaze of a man who was not quite ready to give up. He had something that Mosquito did not. He had horns, and a thick skull to carry them, and now, he had the desperation to use them like an animal.

WHAM. Without warning, he drew his head back and swept forward, aiming the base of one horn at Mosquito's already bloodied nose.

The young man had most certainly failed to take into account that those horns were far from just for show. He had only enough time to realize his mistake in tucking his chin down and thereby saving his nose from becoming as flat as a sun-dried worm. However, it was not enough to avoid 100% of the impact. For a moment his vision went pure black and then he was seeing stars as those strong horns connected with the top of his forehead. A sharp, pained whoosh of air escaped his lungs as the effort to scream was entirely too much energy.

Eyes squeezed shut against the literally blinding pain, Waquin'i went all but limp astride him, his thighs loosening some of their crushing grip in the process. Instead of striking back, he clung tightly to the other man's tunic in his desperate efforts to remain on top and conscious.

So much for that first win. Round two definitely went to the old goat.

He struck true enough, and although the impact dazed him, it seemed that his opponent caught the worst of it. Good. The whelp wanted a fight. He had one. He shook off the pain and found a dirty, bloodied hand clutching the front of his tunic. Mosquito's legs had loosened, too. He had an opportunity. He could draw his belt knife. He was not certain that he wanted to anymore. Was this another unwise choice on his part? Yes. Likely. But his opponent seemed pleased now that Eln followed the rules.

He would try.

Eln wound an arm around the man's, met his bandaged chest, and shoved, hoping to disengage his grip. He yanked his good leg out from under his opponent and kicked hard at the man's knee. He had little practice in this maneuver. Would it topple the Mosquito? Or had he only succeeded in flailing?

One arm was dislodged at the shove, sending a groaning Waquin'i sprawling back over his lap. The other hand clung on for dear life though as if the other man was a lifeline above a frothing sea of bloodthirsty sharks. The kick connected and while deeply painful managed to dislodge the young man's leg from being caught beneath them. This he used to raise and stomp down hopefully on the leg that had kicked him so that he could push himself back more across Eln's lap and thereby free his painfully pinned leg.

Blinking away the pain as best as he could manage, Waquin'i attempted to refocus and bring his head, as throbbing as it was, back into the game. With his free hand he pointed at the man's chest with a light jab and made a confused questioning sound, waiting only long enough for him to look down before driving his fist upward, trying to catch chin, nose or both and return the favor.

Mosquito drove his knee into Eln's good leg and ground it in. "Agh!" Eln cried out. The little man was out for blood. In an instant, he had recovered his stance and redoubled his grip. Any chance to draw a blade was now forfeit. For a moment, Eln thought that Mosquito was ready for a break, for he seemed to ask a question. But this was a trick, and the man's fist caught him square in the chin, sending his head snapping backwards. Teeth clacked against teeth and cut through gums. He tried to shake the disorientation, but his head still spun from the impact.

Don't be stupid, he thought as he strained to remember the fundamentals of a style he was never trained in. There was a man, once. A...friend. Different from the others. Hornless. And he had shown Eln these things, even if Eln had put no stock in their importance at the time. Use your weight. Use momentum. Use gravity.

How?

He panted like a bull now. The tussel had begun to wind him. But he was not done yet. He lunged forward and wrapped one arm over Mosquito's shoulder, and the other arm under his armpit, twisted, and shoved.

Well this was one hug offered too late. Waquin'i didn't mean to but he giggled at his inner thought even as he was fully pinned beneath the panting man. One moment he was sprawled across his lap and the next they were face-to-face with him now crushed under him. He shook his head some as he test how stuck he was, huffing as his bun came undone and soft, black hair splayed out around him like a dark halo.

His arms were pinned to his sides at the shoulder but he found he still had some range of motion below the elbow. It wasn't much but it was something so with all the force he could muster in the short range of motion he had, Waquin'i swung his arm back and then down on top of of the other man, effectively spanking him in the rear.

Mosquito...laughed? Was this somehow funny? Eln found that the sound riled him as though he were half his own age. He scowled. But that scowl quickly became a wide-eyed look of alarm as a hand swung down and slapped his backside. And again. Slight though the impact was, he still felt it in that one bad knee. He grumbled, both at the pain and in affront at being treated like an unruly child by an unruly child. He tugged loose until he could snug his forearm right up under the man's chin. He glowered as he pressed down just enough to send a message. "Yese," he barked.

Well that certainly made the pounding in his head increase to a crescendo. With the way he pressed on his throat it, Waquin'i was sure he could feel his heart throbbing in his eyeballs at this point. But, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. "Yes?"

Hesitantly he raised his arm and smacked him in the rear again, absolutely confused beyond belief at the request. Still that didn't stop him from hooking his legs around the back of Eln's and attempting to roll and throw his weight onto the man's favored knee in order to try and end up on top again.

Mosquito repeated his own word back to him, but it was not right. He smacked Eln again, and Eln put more of his weight on his arm. "YEH. SEH," he snarled, as though somehow speaking slower and louder would make his opponent understand. With every syllable, he pressed down on Mosquito's throat. What did this whelp not grasp about being told to stop?

But he should have known that the young man would not admit defeat. He felt legs hook behind his, and his bad knee dragged across the ground as Mosquito tried to turn the tide. The pain was more than just a nuisance, now. If Eln wasn't careful, he wouldn't be able to walk. "Argh!" Wide-eyed with genuine concern for the first time since this struggle began, he was faced with a choice. Did he risk dealing serious harm to the whelp? Or did he scramble away and chance being pursued?

He sighed, and for one brief moment, an apology flashed across his creased, contorted face.

"Yese," he commanded, and aimed a horn at Mosquito's forehead.

Wheezing, gurgling sounds were the only answer the other man got as he crushed Waquin'i's windpipe. Uselessly he struggled harder, not wanting to actually pass out and certainly unwilling to beg for mercy. There was something about the flickering expression that passed his attacker's face though that struck a chord in the young man.

And then his head was moving back and Waquin'i knew exactly what that expression had been about. Panicking, he squawked hoarsely and flailed his arms up defensively. He most certainly did not want to be brained again thank you very much. He had learned his lesson the first time. Futilely perhaps he latched onto the horns as best as he could, praying it would be enough to stop them from crashing into his adorable little face.

Finally, Mosquito seemed to have had enough. Eln drew back, preparing to lift his weight from the man's neck — only to feel hands grasp his horns.

He froze. His eyes slowly traveled from the hands, to Mosquito's terrified expression, to the hands again. His nostrils flared. The corner of his mouth twitched in disgust. He did not look the young man in the eye again, so great was the offense. Instead, he swept his arm off his opponent's neck and upward to dislodge fingers that should never have touched him in such a manner. He scrambled to his feet, stepped over Mosquito, and limped a few paces away, tugging his cloak about him in irritated little motions as he went. The spear stood between them. He was too affronted to bother with it, nor with acknowledging the man at all.

Waquin'i gasped him massive gulps of smokey campfire night air, his chest heaving as he rubbed his aching throat. He did not understand what he had done but apparently it had been enough to protect himself from a caved in face. Gingerly he sat up, rubbing and wincing at his aching skull while keeping half an eye on the stranger just in case he decided to come bulldozing back in to finish his victory.

With the thrill of the brawl now leaving his system, everything seemed to ache. As he crawled to his feet, he felt a pop across his back and the bandages that had been binding his chest began to unwind revealing his bare and not quite so flat chest. Flushing with embarrassment and aggravation he attempted to cover it while moving back towards the fire where his sweaty and cooling flesh could have a chance of warming again. His expression and body posture was very much that of a sulking, scowling young child who had been caught with their hand in the fishing nets. Waquin'i could only hope that the outsider was not like the Serenians who hurled insults at him or worse on the rare chance they realized his gender differenced from his body.

He breathed harder than he should have been. That fight had taken more out of him than he'd expected, and now he could not even put his full weight on his injured knee. If he removed his trousers to examine it, he risked alerting the whelp to his weakness. He also risked sending the wrong message — though, the more he cooled down from their scuffle, the more he came to realize that the offending grip may well have been a measure of self defense. That did not make him any more pleased with the whelp's conduct, though.

No. It made the most sense to wait. He would tend to his knee in private, when this strange standoff was over. He crossed his arms, winced in spite of himself at his injuries, and watched Mosquito out of the corner of his eye to ensure that the man didn't try to sneak up on him for another round of foolishness. But Mosquito seemed to have given up, and opted instead to sulk by the fire, nursing his many bruises. "Hmmh," Eln grunted. Good. Perhaps now that the young man had learned his lesson, they could both spend the evening in peace.

He limped a few more paces until he could position himself well across the fire from this strange little man. He sat, groaning at his knee as he did so. And he waited.

While the stranger saw to his own wounds and pride, Waquin'i worked at flipping his damp shirt over to dry more evenly and stoking the fire, all one-handed as he kept one bound over his chest at all times. He was exhausted. His pride was wounded and his body ached. 

However, he was alive and he had been left to his own devices. Whoever this outsider was, he did not appear to be a threat to the community. Even when ropes were tugged as only one such as Waquin'i could do with such ease, he had always sought the more diplomatic and defensive road. It may not have been the I'kanan way. It may have been a more cowardly route. But all the same, Waquin'i was grateful not only to be alive but for the fun of the brawl. Things had been too quiet lately and he had almost begun to miss the drama of the village a bit.

He waited patiently as the other man limped closer and finally settled. It seemed he was not the only one aching from their tussle and perhaps he had given just as good as he had got. With one arm still secured, the other tapped with two fingers twice over his heart. "Waquin'i." He then pointed across the fire at the other man. "You?" He repeated the gesture twice more. It seemed only fair to share his name that the two had locked horns. 

The young man was quiet for a time. It seemed safe, for the moment, to let his guard down. Eln sat and he ruminated on every difficulty this new injury would bring. If it was serious, he could very well die of starvation or by some wild animal. Even if it was not, he might have to stay off of it while it healed, and that meant losing time and strength. He shook his head. Of the two of them, he was the rash one to have allowed himself to be goaded into such a pointless scrap.

"Wakini," the man said suddenly. Eln glanced up in time to see him gesture, first at his chest, and then across the fire. Was it his name? "Wa...kini," Eln echoed. So. Mosquito — Wakini — had chosen peace after all. Eln made a brief face — something to express his exasperation that they could not have simply done this in the first place. But then he nodded. He tapped his own chest. "Ah...Eln-i-Ara, Haruka-i-Kara-Misu." He paused, seemed to reconsider, and then corrected himself, once more imitating the Wakini man's gestures. "Eln-i-Ara." He followed it with one of his own: a hand to the left temple, then extended outwards towards the stranger. My clan greets yours.

"Waquin'i," he repeated tapping how own chest before pointing out at the other man. "Ah-elleny-ara Harukai-carmoosa," he attempted slowly, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The man certainly had a very long name. It would prove to be quite the mouthful should he use it in an emergency. Still. It was a name and that was a good thing. 

He grinned broadly, covering his mouth to hide his teeth even as his eyes crinkled. It was only polite after all to hide your teeth among friends. 

"Wa-kee-neh," Eln tried again. He inclined his head at the stranger's attempt. "Eln-i-Ara," he corrected. His full title was unnecessary now. He had only said it aloud out of habit, and the words meant nothing to the man who now smiled at him from across the fire.

Eln tilted his head. He frowned. Until now, he hadn't noticed it, but it was difficult not to miss. Mosquito held a hand to his chest, as though his bandages had come undone. Had Eln accidentally reopened an old wound when he pushed the man away? He mimed a gash across his own chest, then pointed to the man's. It was the only way he knew to ask.

"El-nee-n'ara," he tried again, grimacing slightly as it still didn't sound right. He rolled it over his tongue getting closer and closer to better before noticing what Eln was doing.

Quickly he glanced down at himself, dropping his arms to reveal his bare chest and even letting the flesh in the firelight to inspect. There was nothing new there though. Waquin'i shrugged and shook his head before covering his chest again. As far as he could tell he was unhurt there. He tapped his throat though and made a wincing face followed by his forehead. Now that DID hurt. He could already feel quite the lump forming. The young man groaned softly as he rubbed the spot. What rotten luck. 

For one second, Eln felt relief. He had not split open a wound after all. Then he looked again, and the blood drained from his face, and his jaw fell open.

No. Had he...hurt...a woman?

Mosquito — Wakine — covered her chest again, but he knew what he had seen. He got quickly to his feet — a bad decision given the state of his knee — stumbled, and stared wide-eyed at the fire with the look of a man who had just realized how deep he was in trouble. Panic set in, and he paced with a limp and breathed like a winded animal. He ran a hand across his unshaven face and held it over his mouth as he put the pieces together. The apparent youth in her cheeks. Her forwardness. Her fighting style. He was so dense not to have seen it. He dared to glance at her, only to catch a glimpse of the damage he had dealt. Eln's eyes began to water. Oh, gods. What had he done?

Something well past the point of apology, that was for certain. The woman's clan mother would slay him. There was no doubt. He could only hope to begin to make amends. To express his deep regret. He owed Wakine that.

Eln drew his belt knife and tossed it out of his reach. He circled the fire, still hobbling on that wounded knee, and knelt next to her, bowing his head and averting his eyes. He drew his ax. He held it out to her by the blade. So that she might take it. So that she might do the best thing and banish him.

Waquin'i froze, eyes widening as he took it all in. Something had changed. Something had shifted and now Eln'y'ara was acting anxious and erratic. When the man approached him suddenly, Waquin'i  scooted onto his knees to roll back onto his crouched feet. One brawl was enough thank you. He was not keen on a second.

Except it did not appear a fight was desired? He accepted the axe carefully, eyes still trained on the bigger man's form even as he refused to look at him now. Waquin'i examined the axe in his hands turning it this way and that before feeling the heft of it in one hand. It was too heavy for the likes of him though. Had his new companion wished to share it after having stolen his spear?

Waquin'i shook his head and moved to his feet. A gentle touch to the other man's hand as he placed the axe handle first back into it. Covering his mouth he offered a reassuring smile and a small bob of his head. All was well. 

He felt the ax leave his grip. He steadied himself for the blinding pain — that which he had endured once before. It never came. Instead, Wakine returned the weapon, handle-first, into his worn hands. Eln turned it and offered it to her again, but she did but take it. He looked up. She smiled. She did not seem to understand. Perhaps she was just that young.

He breathed another heavy sigh and tossed the ax to the ground. He met her gaze with imploring eyes and tapped on his chest as she'd done to introduce herself. Then he made a fist and drove it gently into an open palm, and then pointed at Wakine. He did it again, and gestured to her neck, then her forehead. "Nai vefi tuhu," he insisted, and then gestured towards the discarded ax, and swept a hand across his horns like a blade.

He looked at him wide-eyed and raised his hands defensively in front of him expecting another go of things but very much not looking forward to it. Instead Eln'y'ara was....signing to him? Perhaps he was from one of the other territories after all. Waquin'i responded back in sign with an apology for having grabbed his horns and assuring his injuries were okay, nothing to worry about further.

With open palms, he approached Eln and then slowly reached upward. Ever so gently he rubbed two fingers with the most delicate touch over the horns where he had latched on and murmured a soft apology.

Another cool breeze hissed through the night causing his chest to break out in gooseflesh. Waquin'i pulled his long hair over his shoulders to shield his chest some and rubbed his arms. With a tight-lipped smile he took the older man by the wrist and tugged him back to the fire. It was cold. Conversation could continue where it was safer and nicer to sit.

The woman touched his horns again. It was not the grasp from before — thank the gods. Still, it startled him, and he shook his head and cast a strange look at her, eyes still wide and watering. She had all but denied him banishment. Why? He wondered if, with their lack of horns, these folk had no such ritual. Or perhaps they cut off a finger, or an ear, as did other foreigners.

Wakine grabbed his wrist, tugging him towards the fire. Eln yanked it away before he could stop himself. "Ei!" he cried. He scowled at his own outburst, closed his eyes, and shook his head violently as he stumbled to his feet again. It seemed that the memories still haunted him. He had done enough damage here. He could not allow them to surface just now. He held a hand out in apology: a sign to wait. To be patient with him. He sighed. He grasped his wrist to mimic what she'd done and shook his head again. "Ei," he repeated.

He tilted his head in confusion at the outburst. Now what had he done wrong? Ah....perhaps he had injured his wrist before? Waquin'i made the apology gesture again while waiting patiently for him to recover while nodding his head in understanding. He did however beckon the other man again to the fire but made no move to touch.

Only once they had finally returned and Eln had been motioned to sit, did Waquin'i retreat to collect all the discarded weapons. His knife was slipped back into his boot, his spear collected in one hand with Eln's knife and the other hand carried the heavier axe. The other man's weapons were carefully deposited on the ground beside him while the spear was returned to lay flat on the ground and Waquin'i reclaimed his seat near but next to Eln in front of the fire. 

"Eln'y'ara? Eat?" He asked, miming eating. "Hungry?" 

Wakine seemed to catch enough of his meaning to know not to try it again. This was good. There were so many little ways in which the shadows of the past tore through to the now. A woman's harsh grasp upon his wrist was one of them. The jingle of the metal on a belt was another. And the smell...he would never forget that stench. Nauseating and sickly-sweet.

She motioned him to the fire, and he snapped to the present from wherever he had been. He still rubbed at his wrist, back and forth, back and forth, as though with enough effort he could scrub away that memory altogether. He sat, as she commanded, and held in another groan at the splitting pain in his knee. Shortly Wakine came and sat beside him. She motioned. He glanced over at her. Eat? Did he want to eat? He did not deserve food from this woman. He shook his head. And then he saw her shiver.

She was cold. Of course she was. And he, the fool, had so much to atone for. He fiddled with the clasp on his great hooded traveler's cloak and swept it from his shoulders. He set it gently at her feet and motioned towards it. It was a start.

Oh so NOW he wanted to share the warmth. Waquin'i beamed at the gesture and chuckled softly feeling quite proud he had proved himself enough to earn it. That or the other man found him pathetic enough to take pity. He certainly wasn't going to complain either way. 

Collecting the cloak, he marveled at first at the soft fur trim, petting it reverently and giggling with childlike awe. Then the biting wind returned and he hurried to put it to use. Scooting closer once again, although far more warily, Waquin'i sat himself closely beside Eln but with enough space between their knees that they were not touching this time.

With a raised brow daring challenge but also a hesitant eye, the younger man turned the cloak sideways and tossed the bottom half of it around his companions shoulders, keeping the top half (and the fancy fur trim) to himself to burrow into. He left out a soft pleased coo at the warmth and beamed behind his hand offering thanks. 

Wakine happily accepted the offer. He was glad to see it. A future leader must be kept in good health, always. That she wished to share it with him was a kindness. Did she take pity on him, knowing what her mother would do? Maybe so. Well. The cloak was hers now to do with as she pleased. No doubt his possessions would be distributed among her clanspeople after his execution. It was only fitting that Wakine have first choice of the best ones, after what he had done.

Eln smiled back, but it was a distant and halfhearted one. Already, he was miles away as he prepared himself for what was to come. When sleep took him at last, he found, for the first time since childhood, that he was afraid of that oblivion.

Sleep came quickly after all the earlier antics and unlike his companion, Waquin'i slept easily and woke just before the dawn. He stoked the fire a bit more and tucked Eln's cloak around him before retrieving his now dry shirt and putting it back on, scowling at the way his chest stuck out in it. It couldn't be helped, that was a problem for later. Now, however was time for a bath, a breakfast, and some medicines for them both judging by the way his head still pounded and the world swirled when he moved his head too fast.

One last glance at his companion to make sure he was safe until his return and Waquin'i was off. His canoe was still where he left it and none the worse for wear. After a quick wash of his face he speared himself another fat fish as well as collected several reeds as well as some treebark that would help with the pain.

He wondered as he walked back if the other man would have moved on or even still be asleep by the time he returned and the sun was warming the earth. He had proved to be an interesting fellow, this Eln'y'ara. He did not bear the teeth or gills of an I'kanan but he had the spirit of one, and he certainly fought like one. Waquin'i groaned slightly, the sound turning into yawn as he once more approached the fire, unsure of what the new day would bring him.

Eln awoke to a crackling fire and a throbbing pain in his knee, and cuts and bruises that reminded him of what had transpired. The weight of his crime, and his shame thereof, lay over him like a suffocating bed of earth. Like a coward, he did not wish to face the day. Yet he must, for Wakine's sake. He cracked an eye open. It was light out. How long had he slept?

He sat up at the sound of footsteps and found his companion dressed and laden with fish and other things from the river. He tutted at her. "Ai..." he breathed. She needn't care for herself. That should have been his job. He made to stand, groaned in pain, and fell right back on his hindquarters. "Pasket," he hissed as he clutched his knee. He scowled. He was so old. A man half his age wouldn't blink at such a minor injury. And now he could not even stand. How would he protect her? He needed to fix this.

He closed his eyes and worked through the steps. He would have to wrap it and stabilize it. Nodding, he pulled the boot off of his good leg and began to unwind a long strip of fabric from around his ankle. It would do in a pinch.

"Good morning!" He greeted with a cheerful and excited raising of the fish to show the size of it. Noticing how Eln winced and grabbed his leg, Waquin'i was feeling quite pleased with himself for his gathered materials. 

Batting away the other man's hands, he dumped the fish into Eln's lap and knelt down beside him to prod around his injured leg in an assessment of the damage. "I brought reeds we can weave to stabilize this and some bark you can chew for the pain. You'll probably need to keep off it if you can. We'll see how the brace goes first though," he chattered on mostly as a means of distraction than actual expectation of being understood.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked miming sleeping happy or sleeping angry and pointing at Eln with a head tilt. 

A fish fell in his lap, narrowly missing his nose. It flailed and wormed about. A fresh catch. Eln sighed and gave her a stern look. "Tei fuvi hese," he informed Wakine. She ignored him and swatted him away from his own work. He raised his eyebrows and tutted. "Yasi tei fuvi hese," he added. It was as far as he'd go to challenge her authority. He moved his hands away from his knee and let her prod at it. She chattered away as she did so. And then she seemed to ask a question. One involving prayer...no, sleep, and...anger.

His brow knit with concern. Had he thrashed about in his sleep and frightened her? Or worse, had he attacked her, mistaking her for a specter of the past? He looked her over, searching for new wounds, but he could find none. He tapped his chest, set a fist in his cupped hand, and then gestured at her, his gaze quizzical.

He shook his head, motioning for sleep and then tucking his hands under his chin, elbows up in the air with his head tilted to one side and grinned with his eyes closed like a happy little cherub. Waquin'i was relieved too, not that he would admit it, that Eln seemed far more welcome to help today, as if he recognized the value the younger man had as a fellow man and warrior.

Handing Eln a stick and pointing at the fish then the fire, he then sat back with his reeds and worked at bending and splitting them in half before layering them into weaving. The process was slower than he would have liked, but then this art was not one of his favorites to pay attention to anyway.

From time to time he'd hold up what he was working on to measure against Eln's leg but otherwise kept very focused on his work, his lip caught in his teeth as he worried it. Suddenly though, he made a slight squawk and scurried for the pack at his hip to pull out the bark. Breaking it in half he offered it to Eln and kept the other half to himself. He chewed on a corner of it without biting before sucking on the worked on part while motioning at his head and then Eln's knee.

Eln did not understand her answer. She did not seem to be hurt in any new ways, however, and this was good enough for him. But she was stubborn. And commanding. The more he watched her, the more he decided that she must be the daughter of a clan mother. And that sealed his fate, though somehow it comforted him that she would live a good life. He wondered why she had wandered so far from her village without a protector.

He held the stick in one hand and accepted the bark with the other. What she constructed with the reeds, he did not understand, but this medicine he knew well. He inclined his head in thanks and stuck the bitter stuff next to his worn back teeth.

A thought struck him as he watched Wakine work: perhaps there was another way they could understand one another. It was a way he recalled communicating with the men of other clans, though the messages that they left one another on the cliff walls were ones of warning. He shifted, careful not to burn the fish, and with his off hand, he cleared and patted down a circle of earth next to his thigh. With his finger he drew three things. First, a roundhut: a shallow triangle atop a rectangle, with a door in the center. Second, a simple person holding a spear. Third, a taller person without a spear, but with two lines protruding upwards from its head.

"Wakine," he said to get her attention. He motioned to the pictograph, then hovered his hand over the two people, and then the hut. "Yei vatu nami ta yori."

Waquin'i lifted his head curiously at his name and then down at the drawing. There was him and Eln and a building. He drew an arrow from the people to the building and looked at Eln questioningly before pointing at the build and Eln, asking if he meant going together to his home.

"Mm," he said, and nodded in the affirmative. He was asking her to take him to his death. Did she understand that? He did not know. She was so cheerful — so animated about everything. Perhaps it was how she faced difficult subjects, too.

A crackling sound shook him from his morosity. He'd neglected the fish, which now threatened to burn to a blackened crisp if he did not rectify the issue. "Pasketa Ertu," he muttered, and swung it away from the fire. He examined it. It was still edible, though two of the fins had turned to ash. He offered it to Wakine with an apologetic glance.

Waquin'i laughed softly at what he could only surmise was a curse and the sad look at the fish. "It will still taste all the same," he teased giving Eln's arm a pinch before plucking one of the fish cheeks and popping it in his mouth, wincing and waving at his mouth some at the heat, but eyes dancing with mirth. "Eat some," he motioned pointing at the fish and then Eln's mouth while returning to finishing up the weaving.

A triumphant cry later and he was placing the makeshift brace over Eln's knee, eyes crinkling in joy to find it fit. He laced up the last edges to seal it in place around the limb and gave it a very gentle pat. "It should hold well. Just don't go running about like an angry otter until it fully heals. Or....sheep, in your case I suppose..." he trailed off glancing slowly upward at Eln's horns.

Eln shook his head and gently pushed the fish away. Wakine had caught it, and so it was hers. She shouldn't waste it on him. He wouldn't deny that he was hungry, but unless their journey dragged on for days, he had no reason to waste food. When she turned her attention to his knee, he set the rest of the fish on a rock to keep it clean. Then he watched her work with interest.

The woven brace was clever. It was like nothing he had seen. And his knee did feel better for the stabilization that it offered. He made to nod his thanks to her, only to catch her chattering and looking at his horns again. He raised an eyebrow, warning her not to do as she'd done to them before. Then he scooted back, set his cloak aside, and stood. He tested his knee, putting his weight on it a bit at a time. Yes. With the brace and the bark, he could manage. If he could find a walking stick along the way, then he would make good time.

Eln nodded in thanks again. "Kifu," he said. He bent slowly and retrieved his cloak from the ground, shook it, and held it out to her. "Tei fuvi tasia. Tihusu ka yori."

He held up his hand and shook his head at the offered cloak. It was plenty warm now with the sun up and his clothes dry. The abandoned fish though made him raise a brow and give a disappointed look. Maybe he didn't like the taste of this fish? Or fish in general? Eln certainly wandered into the wrong territory if that was the case though.

"Eln'y'ara? Eat," Waquin'i made a fist with one hand and placed the other with the first two fingers pointed up and hopped his hands along. "Rabbit? Fish," he pointed at the catch and shook his head while pointing at his mouth and then Eln with a questioning headtilt.

Wakine did not want the cloak. Eln examined it. Was it dirty? No, though mud flecked the hem. Did it smell? He brought it to his nose and sniffed. No...only of wool and forest. He lowered it and frowned at her. It was a fine cloak. If she didn't take it, some other villager would. But it was her choice to make, and not his. He released a resigned sigh and began to roll it up to prepare for the journey.

She asked again if he wanted to eat. "Ei," he insisted. She asked something else...something about a rock with ears. It bounced. He did not understand. "...Ei," Eln said again, this time a bit more uncertain. He motioned for her to finish the fish before sliding his weapons back into his belt and strapping his cloak down into a compact roll. He wondered how many days' journey it was to wherever they were going.

"Hmm. Wakine," he began. He gestured to the smudged drawing of them and the hut. Above it, he drew a circle, and next to that, the sliver of a moon. He pointed at the two new shapes, then drew a line between the two figures and the hut. "Nima kei tuya?"

His brow furrowed as he observed the picture. "We can only go to your home at night—oh." He suddenly stopped and looked Eln up and down as if seeing him fully for the first time. 

He certainly was a capable warrior, a strong man, a worthy man, a merciful man. He was kind, he shared what little he had even with a complete stranger who likely seemed incredibly odd to him. And he was quite tall to boot. A bit weary and a bit rough around the edges perhaps but definitely not bad to look at.

Waquin'i snorted and shook his head slightly in amusement. He was no Bride. If Eln wanted relations he would either earn it or draw blood in his own kidnapping.

The humor left the younger man's face though as he thought further on it. Was it because Eln had seen his chest? Did he assume him to be a woman and think he now could just lay claim on him so easily? Waquin'i pursed his lips at the thought. He would be no man's Bride.

Angrily he kicked the drawing, rendering it erased as he retook his spear in hand and bent his knees to brace himself. In one fluid motion he swung the butt of the spear put in an attempt to strike Eln in the temple. If the man was so desperate for a Bride then he could become one himself!

Wakine looked. She said...something. Like she was trying to understand him.

And then it all went wrong. Very wrong.

She eyed him, first with consideration, and then amusement, and then, without any warning at all, her expression darkened. She kicked what he'd drawn, sending dirt flying into his face. Eln rose to his feet and stumbled back, wiping debris from his eyes. "Agh. Wakine — "

WHAM. Something hit him hard in the temple. His vision went white and sparks flew. He stumbled again, still not quite steady on his braced leg, and held up an arm to shield himself. He shook himself like a dog shaking water from its ears and winced over at her from the edge of camp. Why had she attacked him? He looked back down at the ruined drawing. Two people. A hut. A moon...

Oh.

The look he gave her was a mortified one. If she thought he was that forward, then she certainly deserved to strike him that hard. But he was not. She had gravely misunderstood him. He lowered his arm and held his hands out as though to pacify an ornery goat. "Eiiii. Ei. Tei yaso tuhu nai fuvi." Blood dripped over his brow and onto his cheek. He wiped it away. "Wakine," he implored.

"No!" He barked back, baring his teeth in a snarl. He struck out again, uncaring for Eln's attempts at pacifying him and showing he was no threat. Waquin'i swore to himself that he would not be so easily fooled. His kindness had been mistaken. He was Bride-to-be. He was no woman.

That thought gave him pause but made the fire in his eyes deepen. His iridescent eyes seemed to darken with his thoughts. Had their peace since last night been because he thought him a woman? Had he gentled his treatment because he thought Waquin'i weak and helpless? Is that what this was all about?!

He shouted again a wordless cry of rage as he wielded his spear in a fury of blind blows with the sole intent to knock the other man down and out.

His gestures served only to rile her further. Why? Surely she understood now that he meant no harm. Yet she came at him with a ferocity that he had not yet seen from her. Even when they fought the night before, she had pulled her punches in some way. This...this was a savage beating. He held his arms up to shield his face, only for the spear to rap him across the skull. The world went white again. His teeth clacked against one another as they had when she punched him, and the same wound reopened in his gums. He fell to the ground. His horn glanced off a stone and cracked. Something bit into his ear.

Pain. Blinding pain. He couldn't see for the blood in his eyes. "Wakine!" he cried. "Yese!" But the spear landed again and again, and each time, he felt his consciousness slip away a little further, until finally, that darkness took him.

The blows continued even as Eln fell still and silent until Waquin'i ran out of steam. He stood over the unconscious man, chest heaving for breath and muscles screaming from the overexertion as he looked down with eyes that finally could see and took in the damage he had done. 

Dark bruises had already begun to form and blood trickled from wounds Waquin'i had inflicted on a defending but not attacking man. His body thrummed as if not of this plane as he looked down at the damage he had caused Eln. Bile rose in his throat but he turned away, walking first in determined strides; each step faster than the last until he was bolting across the land back towards the river and his boat, his spear dropped and abandoned along the way. He ran until he hit water and it slowed him, quenching his inner fire in the biting chill of reality. 

Waquin'i dragged himself hurriedly into his canoe, his hand on the oar to set him on his way when his panicked eyes caught sight of some reeds he had accidentally left behind. What had he done? What kind of man was he choosing to be in this moment? Was this the man he wanted to live with for the rest of his life? A coward?

Slowly he lowered the oar back into the boat and instead reached to take up his traveling pack. He knew he had spare bandages for his chest binding in it and with the way Eln had been bleeding he likely could really use them. Waquin'i's eyes fell next on the netting beneath his pack. He could bring Eln back with him. He'd be able to get treatment and help. He could have community among the I'kanans, something he did not appear to have alone in the middle of nowhere traveling without a single understanding of Trader's tongue. But what if he had family to return to?

"He'd be even less good to them dead."

Waquin'i nodded his head, mind made up. He would act now and handle the consequences later. So determined, he gather the necessary things and marched back, stopping only long enough to collect his spear. 

Eln was still unconscious and sprawled where he had fell. Waquin'i's chest squeezed uncomfortably at the sight but he pushed through it, dropping to his knees beside him. He had a pulse but it was erratic and fainter than the younger man would have liked. He sighed and reached to examine the wounds he had dealt. His hands were shaking and his palms sweaty. He rubbed them off on his thighs just as tears burst forth and rained down hot upon his cheeks. What had he done?!

He blinked harshly, scrubbing at his cheeks in shame and anger before working on wiping the wounds and bandaging them with clean strips of cloth. His brow would heal but his ear looked bad and Waquin'i wasn't even sure what to do about his horn. He bandaged it anyway just in case.

The work was almost soothing in its methodical nature. His hands knew what to do even if his mind was growing numb in its self-torture and questioning. The task's completion brought with it a new problem; Waquin'i could not carry Eln. And yet they could not stay as his wounds required proper treatment from a skilled healer, something Waquin'i was not.

Surveying the camp, he busied himself with scooping dirt on the fire to quench its hunger. His own was destroyed with his pride. And when he looked upon the abandoned fish he had been so proud to have caught, his stomach twisted violently. He would deal with that later. Once more looking to things, he found Eln's pack and cloak. This he unrolled beside the man upside down before shoving Eln up onto his side and it under him. He could not carry him. But he could drag him. 

It was not the most brilliant or easy of plans, but it worked. Agonizingly slowly Waquin'i managed to drag Eln back to the water's edge. From there it was the "simple" task of getting him into the canoe and getting them on their way. 

"Simple indeed," he groaned to himself as he fought for the third time to drag Eln back out of the water as the canoe dumped him out again. It would be a miracle if the man didn't drown in Waquin'i's efforts to save him. 

Finally with the aid of his net, Waquin'i managed to drag Eln into the boat with the man laying flat within it and no room for the younger man whatsoever. With a sigh he bailed some of the water out, bound the netting so Eln could not thrash about or escape and hurt himself as he eventually came to, and confiscated his weapons.

The knife was placed in Waquin'i's own belt but the axe which was deemed too heavy was left under his pack in the bottom of the canoe. The line of rope that had once kept the canoe anchored in place now wound about his waist and Waquin'i began to walk. It would be a few days walk at this rate but he was nothing if not determined. He would drag Eln home. He would see that he was cared for, whatever it took, even this. 

Darkness.

The mountain punished them with a hail of fire. His people burned. He could not save them. He could only watch. And then: darkness again.

His skull felt like it had been split open. It throbbed with his erratic heartbeat. And it was hot. So suffocatingly hot. The mountain's ash choked his lungs. He longed for the water that he could hear but could not taste. He tried to lift an arm to drag himself towards it, but his arm wouldn't move. He tried again. No. No part of him would move. He couldn't move. He couldn't move. He couldn't move. It was happening again. Oh, gods, no. Not this.

He tried to cry out. A groan escaped his throat and nothing more. Something trickled over his eye and down his cheek. Too thin to be blood. He could not even reach up to wipe it away. Please, he begged. Not this.

It was nearing evening when Eln began to make sounds of life and pain. Waquin'i slowed his plodding pace to instead pull the canoe to the shore and himself. Kneeling on the riverbank, he murmured soft words of comfort, brushing soft fingers along his brow and checking bandages with a grimace. He shouldn't have let them get wet. He shouldn't have done a lot of things. 

"It's going to be okay, Eln'y'ara. I promise. It's going to be okay. Just rest. I will get you to help soon." He pressed a cool, damp strip of cloth to his forehead, cheeks, and neck. "Be at peace, help will be here soon."

Waquin'i took opportunities along the way to try and press water to Eln's lips and care for him in between long stretches of walking and pulling. He forsook sleep even to make better time, stopping only to wrap Eln in his cloak before carrying onward.

Two suns and two moons passed before the sun rose on a third new day and Waquin'i could see the grass houses and longhouse of home in the distance.

"Soon Eln'y'ara! Just a bit further," he encouraged, even if it was more for himself than the unconscious and ill man. 

Coming upon the village was as anxiety-inducing as it was a relief. Waquin'i called to his people who hurried to help. A flurry of words and movement and Eln was whisked away to the Bride house to be treated while others questioned or congratulated Waquin'i. The mass of injuries caused by the younger man's hands was hardly the way things were done. A Bride was meant to be kidnapped not beaten half to death. It was a double dose of dishonor for Waquin'i who had no scars only bruises to show for his efforts and Eln with all of the injuries. He certainly had a great deal of explaining to do but at least Eln would be treated now. 

Time lost all meaning in that dark place. He floated there, a spirit untethered and adrift within his own mind, for countless days and nights. He did not have the strength to fight that prison anymore. He was done. He would die here. And until then...he would reach for those he loved.

Their hands brushed against him. Their voices whispered. He strained to understand them, but that ever-flowing stream drowned out their meaning. Still, they granted him mercy. They quenched his thirst and wrapped him in their warm, soft embrace: the spirits of the dead come to claim him at last. He would go willingly, if only to be with them again.

If only to see her face just one more time.

A fire crackled. Someone murmured. Outside: the sounds of merry folk at work and leisure. He took in a breath, and then another, and his lungs filled with smokey air redolent with leather and musk and dry grass. He cracked an eye. In the dim distance, he thought he made out a basket, with poles woven and grasses tied to them. His vision blurred, then came slowly into focus again. No. Not a basket. A ceiling. A very familiar ceiling.

Home. He was home. He shifted and found that he could move his legs and arms. Thank the gods. It had all been a dream.

"Mmh," he groaned. He winced. Even the low rumbling of his own voice threatened to split his horn in two. Had he fallen? Or had someone dealt a blow? "Ven?" he rasped. He waited, listening, but no one came. His brother must be out, Eln decided. The man had always been distractible. He would work his way out of the cot and go and find him. And then...he would find her.

Slowly and gingerly, Eln slid his legs over the side of the bed and set his bare feet on the cool earthen floor. He rubbed at his battered face and groaned again at all of those tender bruises. He looked down at his bare legs. His shins were similarly bruised, and his knee was a blotched rainbow of green and purple. He tested it. It was sore, but not broken. He could walk.

And walk he did, though it was more of a stumble. He reached out over the cots and leaned on the wall for support as he moved slowly towards the door, grunting and panting like an invalid old man. "Ven?" he called again. Still, there was no answer. "Ven-i-Pereten." He reached the door. He was exhausted already. He leaned bodily against the wall for a moment to catch his breath.

The village was a lively place full of love and laughter. Children scampered about while their parents fished, repaired nets, told stories, or otherwise went about their business. A group of rowdy boys were running along the shore, shouting to each other as they spun a ball back and forth to each other using sticks with a netted bowl at the end. 

Waquin'i for his part stood by the large communal bonfire, that was currently a lower flame for the daytime, while discussing something animatedly with a much larger male. The other man laughed and shoved the smaller man's shoulder even as Waquin'i blushed and scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

A group of women, their hair parted down the middle and pinned in tall side buns passed Eln with baskets of laundry in their hips, their plant fiber skirts rustling as they walked. They offered him closed mouth smiles and a greeting in their own tongue. A few giggled and blushed as they eyed him up and down before being hurried along by others. A man approached him then, bobbing his head in greeting before herding Eln back inside. It would not do for him to be up and about quite yet, especially in his state of undress.

Only once Eln was resettled in his bed, did the other man retreat back towards the entrance. He stepped out of the way though as a smaller figure entered and greeted her before making his quiet exit. This new woman approached Eln quietly, her face and figure shrouded by an intricately crafted, white veil that extended from mid-chest and back down to her knees. The top of the veil poked up from her hair buns almost like horns. 

Abruptly, the woman offered him the bowl in her hands, motioning for him to drink from it with an aura of stern command, much like a mother refusing any nonsense from her children. 

His eyes seemed to take forever to adjust to the light, and when finally they did, he could make no sense of what he saw. It was not the village he remembered. For one, there were no mountains towering above him. The land was flat, here, and further on it rolled lazily into the horizon. The air smelled like it had in his dream: heavy and pungent and unfamiliar. And the huts were different, too. Their roofs were round. They were thatched and walled strangely. Had his people moved to some distant land, and carried him with them?

In the few moments he stood there and gazed out, he saw but one familiar face. And it, too, was from his dream. He frowned as he struggled to remember. There was a fire. A man — no, a woman. They were friends, briefly, and then...and then he fell. "Wa...kine?" he murmured as he tried to recall her. Then a man blocked his view and ushered him back into the longhouse, and she was no more. "Wakine?" he called. "Wakine!"

The exertion was too much. His head pounded. His vision blurred again. He barely recalled the walk back to the cot, nor the man who guided him there and helped him lay down. When he came to again, someone very different hovered over him. Yet, somehow, she was familiar. She motioned for him to drink from a bowl. By her presence, he knew he was not to refuse. He pushed himself up off the cot with one shaking arm and accepted the vessel with a weak bow of the head. He drank from it. And then, suddenly, he knew.

"Lette," Eln greeted her, a weary smile cutting deep wrinkles near his eyes in spite of his pain and confusion. "Ungh...Nima tuhi? Nima ka ti nai tufo? Ah...Nima tuhi Ven?" He took another sip, and his gaze traveled over his cousin's strange choice of garb. She had hidden her face beneath a veil. For what? He reached forward and took the hem of it in his fingertips. "Yei nali fuvi va tasi?" he inquired.

She slapped his hand with a stinging blow before taking the bowl back from him. At'Eed lifted her veil only enough to bring the bowl beneath it and sip from it as well and seemingly ignored the man's words. Instead with the bow between them again, she motioned with her hand as if pulling something up and then pressing it flat against an invisible wall. A moment later water droplets rose up and formed a thin and small half-face sized rectangle of floating water between them.

"How are you feeling, Eln-i-Ara," she asked, the words leaving her mouth foreign but muffled before passing through the water translated anew to something he would understand.

Behind them at the entrance, a sheepish Waquin'i entered accompanied by the man who had helped Eln earlier. They approached stopping only at the foot of the bed but Waquin'i definitely stayed back, his head hanging some in shame even as the other man give his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Lette slapped his hand away. Why? Was he not supposed to touch this thing she had hidden herself beneath? The more he watched her, the more he thought that she behaved strangely. She made a movement with her hand. He could not comprehend what he saw next: raindrops in the air, and a silvery sheet between their faces. He was still dreaming. He must be.

"How are you feeling, Eln-i-Ara?"

Lette's voice was not her own. And...why did she address him with their house name? Why the formality? Had he done something wrong? "I...where are we?" he managed. "What happened? Where is Ven?" Eln winced as his arm threatened to collapse out from under him. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his aching body and pivoted his legs back over the side of the cot to sit up. It was more difficult this time. Was he so weak that he had exhausted himself in getting up before? Gods. Just how long was he unconscious?

He looked back up at his cousin — or, where her face might be beneath that veil. "Lette. My head...I...can't remember. Was I struck down? Did they invade? The village, is it...I..."

And then the slow dawning worked its way across his countenance and through his tired mind. Her skin was not her skin. Her hands: not her hands. She was of a different build. His eyes traveled the room, and for the first time, he realized that the longhouse was not one that his people had built. In the background, by the door, a friend watched on quietly. And here, between him and the woman: a thing that should not be possible at all. Eln's expression darkened. Fear wound its icy grip up his spine. "You...are not Lette," he rumbled.

Not Lette. A witch. And she had given him something to drink. The fury of that thought seared through him. He glowered up at her and began to tremble. Could he stand? Could he keep the woman at bay for long enough? "Wakine," he called without taking his eyes off Not-Lette. "You should run. There is a witch among us."

Eln pushed himself up off the cot and through the silvery water curtain. He was slow. Much slower than he'd hoped. He grabbed a weak fistful of veil and shirt and threw his weight forward.

"You are in our village here in I'káa of Adela. Waquin'i brought you back after unconventionally striking you. You suffered many injuries and are being treated for them by me. And I do not know this, Ven," At'Eed replied calmly and patiently.

She observed him, noting how he moved weakly still and would require more rest and herbs. Waquin'i truly did a number on him. At'Eed tutted and shook her head in displeasure at the boy even as Eln's face darkened.

"No, I am not."

Waquin'i's head popped up at his name though without having drank from the bowl, he had no way of knowing what was said until At'Eed chuckled and translated for him. Both men also laughed softly once they understood. "No," the young man replied, holding his hands up soothingly. She is help. She is a healer."

At'Eed kindly translated for Eln's ears right until he was pushing through the water wall and she released it, allowing it to fall into a puddle about him. His grip on her was once more slapped even as his weak shove did nothing. At'Eed grimaced beneath her veil and reached up to give his injured horn a warning squeeze. "Enough!" She ordered in words he could no longer understand. "Lay down!" The woman pushed him back to lay in the bed waving a warning finger in his face that brooked no argument. 

Razor shards lanced through the core of his horn and down behind his eye. "Agh!" He tried to swing his neck to throw her hand. It only served to send the pain deeper. She commanded something of him, but he could no longer understand her words. How had he known what she'd said at all? In the absence of a shared language, her shove and the gesture that followed it left no room for misunderstanding, but he had no interest in obeying a witch. He fell back, narrowly catching himself on his elbow. He tried to prop himself up again. His arm was so weak. He was so weak. He would not be able to fight this — whatever it was she would do to him.

He moved to sit up and push her away, but his horn seared and blinded him once more. With that fresh reminder of his injury came a lightning flash of fresh memories. It was night. There was a fire. He had offended Wakine, somehow, and...

And this was not a dream. It had never been one. This was real: the village that was not home, the people who were not his. What he had hoped was just a nightmare had come to pass. Ven was dead. His wife: dead. His body was old and broken, and his people were no more. Eln looked past the witch and studied Wakine. She was at ease. She had even laughed just a moment ago. His gaze slid back to the witch again as the slow dawning of comprehension worked its way across his face. He recalled another of her ilk with whom he'd crossed paths up in the mountains. She had been kind to him. This one was different, but if Wakine trusted her, then...he should, too. Finally, reluctantly, Eln wiped the water from his brow, grumbled a sigh, and lay back down again.

The moment he relented and laid back, she released his horn, her touch turning far more gentle as she brushed over his brow and examined his healing. That wound at least was on the mend even if it had caused a rather large and now yellowing bruise. His ear would need new wrapping after his stunt with her water magic and judging by how he had winced and his eyes had dilated, his horn would likely need even more care.

At'Eed sighed and gathered a basket from under his bed, pulling out fresh bandages and herbs. Leaves and petals of various plants were ground together in a wooden bowl before a splash of water was added and ground further into a thick, scented paste. This grey mixture she then attempted to spread upon his damage horn should he hold still long enough to allow her to.

The healer did not use magic again. Instead, she employed methods that were much more familiar: examination, the preparation of a poultice, the use of bandages. These Eln knew well enough from playing patient to his brother. He watched her warily as she worked, and recoiled as she reached for his horn. He froze. He glowered at her outstretched hand. But after a moment, he relented, and turned his head so that she could do her work.

It was agonizing. He knew that he had felt worse than this, but through the searing pain, he could not remember how. The healer seemed intent on shoving the poultice up against every live, exposed nerve, and each time she did, he could not stop himself from groaning. But he clenched his teeth, and he said nothing. It was his fault, after all. He had frightened Wakine. She was within her right to strike him.

Eln realized, suddenly, why this seemed so strange, and he cursed his foggy mind. This woman healed a condemned man. She wasted her time and herbs. By the way she spoke of Wakine, he wondered if his young friend had lied about the circumstances of their injuries. He looked over at her, still wincing at the healer's touch, before addressing the healer herself. "Nima tu ya nai fuvi?" he asked.

Her eyes shifted over to give him such a look at his words. Without the water, they couldn't understand each other again. 'And whose fault is that?' the look seemed to say.

Waquin'i was sent off with a barked order, returning later with a bucket of water that he quietly placed by her feet. Not once did he look to Eln, doing everything he could to avoid making eye contact, so deep was his guilt and shame.

At'Eed gathered water into the bowl once more, speaking words over it and taking a sip. This was then pressed to Eln's lips and held there until he drank with a level of stubborn refusal to allow him another option that could have forced the very waves to obey her. Finally, though it was offered to Waquin'i who drank without pause. When the thin wall of water returned, the young man did not so much as blink nor falter.

"Speak again, Eln-i-Ara, that which you wished to say, At'Eed started dryly. You are only understood as long as the water remains until a time when you learn our words."

The witch used her magic again, and Eln's eyes narrowed. He kept his lips pressed tight together as she pushed the bowl at him. It had been flavorless, last time. It smelled like nothing now. He was certain it was water, but he did not trust it. Still she held the bowl there, silent yet unrelenting. He shot another glance at Wakine. She would not look him in the eye, but she still did not seem afraid of this witch's powers. Reluctantly, he took a sip, then pushed the bowl away.

The sheet of water rose again like fine and silvery glass. He leaned as far away from it as he could. Then the witch spoke, and at last he understood what this spell was meant to do. He sat up slowly and addressed the witch. "What did she tell you?" he repeated. "You said that she struck me outside of your customs, yet...I think she did not tell you her reason, or you would not be wasting your time healing a condemned man." He turned to Wakine, and his expression softened from mistrust to fatherly disappointment. "Wakine. Why do you take the blame for this? You thought me a danger and an insult. Were you my daughter I would think your actions justified. Your mother would be well within her rights to execute me for it."

"She who?" Asked At'Eed, looking to Waquin'i questioningly as if he had the answer as to who a third person in his encounter had been. Waquin'i shrugged. There had only been him and Eln. Perhaps this was still the fever?

"I am to blame. I beat you nearly to the point of death. This is not our way. This is not how," he hesitated and glanced towards the woman, "Brides are treated. I dishonored myself with my conduct. Would you not be disappointed if I were your son and behaved such?"

What he said had only served to cause confusion. "She who?" asked the witch. Eln frowned, puzzled.

"She...Wakine," he said. He did not know why something so simple needed clarification. Wakine began to explain their ways. It was clear that she blamed herself for his injuries, though Eln was not certain what to make of the son comment. He shook his head. "Have you no laws for self defense? Whether or not I intended to harm you, you thought I did. Is that not enough?" He groaned and winced again at the deep bruises above his brow. Something troubled him about what she had said. "What is...bride? Even with your witch magic, I do not know this word."

"He," corrected Waquin'i, his voice a bit firmer. "I am a man."

"Waquin'i is a six-gill," At'Eed interjected. "He is one of our warriors and knows better than to allow his fury reach such a bloodlust when not in battle. A Bride is a spouse, a partner to join in marriage. You will first rest and heal here and then we will begin to teach you our ways, only then when you understand can you be kidnapped as his Bride and choose to accept or reject him. For now though, what ails you? It will be easier if I know what is wrong with you than to keep guessing."

Eln eyed the two of them in disbelief. He was certain that he had heard Wakine wrong. Or perhaps his head injury was more serious than he had previously thought. Had he hallucinated her revelation of herself as a woman? He looked her over and tried to remember what had transpired. Her chest was flat. Her hair was like a man's. He rubbed his eyes gingerly. "That night, I...thought I saw...hmm. That stone must have struck hard. Forgive me, Wakine. My mind is...addled, I think."

He sat there quietly, mulling it over, uncertain as to whether he could trust himself. However, when the witch began explaining brides, his hand dropped to his lap. He stared at her in disbelief and ignored her questions. "Your water is not working," he stated, his tone tinged with impatience. "Or I am hallucinating. I do not understand any of this. If Wakine is a man, why would he think that I could sire him children? And how do you kidnap one who is already in your village?"

At'Eed laughed softly even as Waquin'i blushed deeply. "Waquin'i likes men. So his Bride would be a man. Not all unions must result in children. Although I foresee no issues with your compatibility to round his belly plenty with children should that both be your desire."

Her words sent fire across Waquin'i's skin as he blushed from his chest to his ear tips. "I don't think any of this is as important as his health right now?" The young man asked, his eyes imploring for a change of topic. "You are safe here and can heal and that is what matters most. And...I am sorry for striking you when you were defenseless," he continued his face contrite with deep shame. "I allowed rage to get the better of me. It is not your fault for not understanding me."

Eln looked stricken. He vaguely recalled his brother engaging in such behavior, but he had never understood it. He certainly had never participated in it. He found himself wholeheartedly confused again at the concept that two men could bear children. But he was weary, and he did not think that any good would come of asking for further clarification. "No," he said simply, enunciating every syllable so as not to be misunderstood again. "It is not." He would let that matter rest. In any case, it seemed to make Wakine uncomfortable that they discussed it at all. In that, Eln agreed. He was not enthused about the concept.

Still, he studied the young man solemnly as he delivered a heartfelt apology. Eln did not think one was necessary, but it was clear that Wakine did. "You did no lasting harm," he insisted. "I believe I have suffered worse than a cracked horn. And I am alive, thanks to you." He glanced up at the witch. "Is it not enough to your people that he has my forgiveness? Must he be shamed for a misunderstanding?"

"That is a matter entirely between the two of you. When you are well you two can fight it out should you desire. Until then," At'Eed poked him hard in the chest, "it remains to be seen whether this harm will be lasting. The patient has to rest for starters. Not glaring at his healer might also help," she quipped. 

Eln brushed the witch's hand away. His expression did not change. He disliked the way she spoke to him. It reminded him of his weakness. "It will heal," he replied curtly. "It is not the first time. Nor is it the worst." He laid carefully back down. There was truth to what she said: he would indeed need rest if he was to recover properly. Though...he would not admit that to her. "Ply your trade or don't," he added. "I will live."

Ply her trade? Oh that certainly did not sit well with her, not one bit. "You will live if I choose to let you live, Bride. Do not test the patience of your healer, lest my grief consume me and I miscount my measurements."

"At'Eed!" Waquin'i interjected, stepping closer but refraining from touching her. "He's been through enough. You don't need to bite back at the blood in the water.

"And Eln-I-Ara please," he begged turning his attention over. "She has taken very good care of you. At'Eed is our best healer. I know you're angry with me for what I did, and I deserve it. But is my punishment of pulling you two days straight really deserving you sacrificing your health to prove a point?"

At her tone, Eln sat up again, but in his frustration he did so too quickly. Sparks dotted his vision and threatened to blind him again. He replaced his hand on his forehead and shot the witch an incredulous look. "If your people would punish Wakine for an honest mistake, I doubt you would risk the same," he growled. "Idle threats serve no purpose, witch. Poison me, or don't. Heal, or don't." He had sat up straight and begun to lean towards her. He meant to keep going, but Wakine interjected. At the young man's behest, he stopped. He sighed and addressed him.

"I am not angry. But your people's use of a witch for her services is...disquieting. I cannot place my trust in her kind."

At'Eed rolled her eyes. Waquin'i was not being punished although he had been reprimanded. The one who punished him was himself, not that that was any of her business to explain. 

"Witch? You say this word but we do not have it in our language. Do you mean her umm," Waquin'i paused and looked At'Eed who huffed and walked away to sit and grind more herbs. "Her veil?" He asked more quietly, motioning his hand over his face. "The sea took back her husband....it is a sign of her mourning. Honestly, this is the most I've seen her talk since—well anyway, she is someone you can trust, far more than the man who beat you it would seem."

It was not at all what he had meant, but the young man's revelation gave him pause. He did not know what a "sea" was. He did not know how it would take a man. But loss and grief he knew keenly, and those were very earthly things for a witch to feel. Eln watched the veiled woman work for a moment before returning his focus to Wakine. "Perhaps it is different here," he admitted. "A witch is one who has been shunned by the clan for practicing forbidden arts in profanation to the gods. They are in opposition to the natural order. They are dangerous." He gestured to the silver sheet between them as an example. "This speaks of a witch's power."

Then the rest of the young man's words caught up to him, and he frowned. "You did no lasting harm," he repeated. "And you are more friend to me than anyone here. Do not dwell on it."

"She is very much not a witch then. This magic is deeply valued and respected among my people. At'Eed is five-gill," he pointed at the six cheek scars he bore on each cheek.

"A position of high ranking and respect. We believe Mother Dogfish gave us these abilities to provide for and protect us. It is dishonorable to squander and not use them, especially for the benefit of the village.

"I am six-gill though," he admitted puffing up a bit with pride, "a warrior. We have seven ranks with seven-gills being the highest, our leaders and strongest warriors. You have no reason to fear any of us though. I promise as your...friend, you are safe here. No one will take advantage of you. We just want to help, there will be lessons to learn of course but, at least we'll understand each other better?" Waquin'i offered a small shy smile, briefly allowing his more bubbly self to peek through as Eln lifted the guilt off his shoulders. 

Eln listened carefully as Wakine told him of his people and their ways. He would have to accept the young man at his word that the woman was not a witch, and therefore posed no threat. Certainly, the matter of her grief gave him pause. He could not imagine any man seeking a witch's bed, let alone living in her house. Neither had he ever seen a village tolerate one. Still, such powers made him uneasy. He would have to see for himself.

"For the benefit of the village," Eln echoed. "Hmm." He watched the young man gesture to his cheeks. The scars were strange. Eln was not accustomed to seeing men bear them at all. The markings said nothing of his mother's house, nor of his kills. Things were different here. This was not home. As Wakine said, he would need to learn. That thought, too, made him uneasy.

He inclined his head. "In time, perhaps we will," he agreed. "It has helped to know your words. But for now, I should rest." He did not finish the thought aloud: that the pain of the horn wound was beginning to wear him down. There was no sense in rubbing salt-ash in the young man's tears. He was already ashamed of a thing Eln did not understand.

And, on the subject of what he did not understand...

"Wait. Wakine," Eln added hesitantly, with a furtive glance towards the witch. "Your people...they do not intend to execute me?"

At'Eed stood, casting a burning glare through her veil at him. "Then lay down and rest."

Waquin'i began his retreat at her approach but paused at Eln's cautious words. His brow scrunched in confusion. "Of course not. Even if you...reject being my Bride, you are still welcome as one of us provided you learn our ways. Why would you be executed?"

"For defiantly disobeying a healer's orders," At'Eed muttered while prodding at Eln's chest trying to urge him to lay down. 

Eln shot Wakine a look of genuine alarm at the repeated mention of being a bride. "I am no one's 'bride'," he grumbled. "I had thought that — "

But as he spoke, the witch neared him again, and interrupted him with a rough jab to the chest. Something about the feel of it struck a chord of deep-rooted fear. Before he knew it, he had smacked her hand aside and grabbed her by the wrist. "Stop," he commanded, nostrils flaring and brow furrowed. Then, with a momentary look of horror at his own behavior, he released her and took a shuddering breath. "Stop," he repeated, quieter and calmer now. "I will do as you say."

She yanked her wrist back the moment he grabbed it and placed her hands on her hips with a slight huff instead. At'Eed took a breath to ground herself. As stubborn as they both appeared to be, her own bullheadedness was doing nothing to help this strange foreigner.

Looking to his face, she did not see a man who was controlled by list for blood or flesh. His eyes were those of a frightened bull. This simply would not do.

With a sigh she raised her hands splayed and palm outward to him in a gesture of peace.

"I need to examine your knee. Will you allow me to touch? It will likely be painful."

"You can hold my hand if you want," offered Waquin'i. "Borrow some of my strength." The young man beamed down at Eln as he offered the appendage while trying to be a welcome distraction. "You had thought what?"

He lay carefully back down, but not without wincing and grunting like the invalid old man that he was. The witch held her hands up, and at first, Eln thought it was yet another trick — like the pane of water-glass that still hung unnaturally between them. It seemed instead to be a gesture of peace. So, he thought. She could be reasoned with. Wakine was right: she was unlike a witch. What had he called her? At-id?

"Yes," Eln replied, consenting to the care of his knee. "...Thank you," he added begrudgingly. He looked over at Wakine's hand, then up at Wakine. He did not take the offer, but neither did he take offense to it. "You still dwell on it," he observed. "There is no sense in that. And of these injuries, my leg is the least your fault. It was the smallest price to pay for insulting one of your clan's warriors, I think."

He did not elaborate on what he had been about to say. The idea that these folk openly paired men with men was befuddling. He had no interest in such affairs, and he had already said as much. That should have been the end of it.

At'Eed nodded as Waquin'i dropped his abandoned hand back to his side, unbothered by the rejection. Her hands were cool as she placed them above and below his knee, feeling for a moment before working to manipulate his leg, bending and turning it this way and that while digging her thumbs along his tendons.

"I know your knee is not my doing," Waquin'i stated plainly. "But a friend can still offer comfort, can't he?" He gave a small cheeky grin.

"How did you injure your leg?" Interrupted At'Eed. "And how long ago?"

Eln gave Wakine an exasperated look, but did not reply. He squinted as he tried to recall what had transpired that night, but even thinking hurt. He raised a hand and gingerly prodded at his horn wound. It did not help matters. "Ah...I...had taken Wakine's spear. I was foolish. Pushed him with it. He caught hold of it. Pushed back. I wasn't expecting it. I stumbled. He hooked my leg. It bent the wrong way, out to the side." He closed his eyes and grimaced. "Ungh...later, I think he did it again, and dragged my knee across the rocks. It felt...wrong." He opened his eyes again. "It was a good fight," he added.

Waquin'i deflated at the look and stepped further back as At'Eed took over his space. "So it is his fault," she chimed in without missing a beat causing the young man to slump further and retreat back towards the door.

"You'll be able to walk proper in a few weeks. The brace Waquin'i made you helped. We'll make you a stronger one though so you'll be bearing weight on it in a few days provided your infection heals enough to let you out of bed. It would go faster if you actually rested. 

"No," Eln insisted. He found that he had little patience for these people's way of thinking. "The fault was mine. I stepped on his spear. Took it from him, and then...I was too confident." He shifted to watch the woman work. "It will heal," he said. "I am certain of it." He shot an irritated glance at the bump in the veil where her brow protruded. He released a frustrated sigh. "It is difficult to rest when you prod me and ask so many questions," he shot back.

"And you are not too confident now? It is my job to prod and question you. Save your venom for your enemy not your healer, boy. There are plenty of things I'd rather be doing than tending your ornery and ungrateful self while being called names and my treatment ridiculed."

At'Eed tossed his covers back over him and turned her back on him. Her hands shook as she collected more of her herbs, mixing them in careful quantities even as emotions swirled deep within her breast. 

Eln watched her leave, first in disbelief, then in indignance. His jaw worked up and down as he sought a response to her biting words, but he could come up with none that didn't underscore what she'd just called him: Boy. After a while, in the absence of anything to say, he shut his mouth, gave Wakine one last, cryptic look, and rolled away from both of them. He shut his eyes and huffed. Fine. Agitated though he was, he would rest. Sleep did not come easy this time, and when it finally found him, he tumbled back into that world of vivid memory.

At'Eed released the communication wall of water and finished her tasks at hand, letting the man sleep. The sun and moon continued their unending, twirling dance across the sky over and over. As the days passed, At'Eed found herself more and more in and out of the Bride House looking after her reluctant patient.

Eln had been fitted with a proper brace for his leg made of tree bark and reeds that allowed him to walk freely if with a slight limp. Various members of the community even encouraged him to come outside and interact with them, although none could understand him with At'Eed's magic to aid in translating. 

Waquin'i especially was a regular visitor, coming daily to show Eln different things although he never arrived alone and always with another to keep a watchful eye.

Eln in turn was free to wander as he chose or to rest. The villagers were always quick to help, doing their best to include and interact with him as much as he would allow.

Well, nearly all of them that is. At'Eed had remained reserved. Her treatment of Eln had been gentler but distant. She did what was necessary but was quick to retreat especially as others attempted to be more present or see the new arrival.

Even now while most of the village gathered around the communal bonfire to eat and watch each other play games in the sand, the resident healer sat away and alone in the sand in front of her house. 

The days passed in a blur. He slept much, and he slept terribly, for the split in his horn jolted and throbbed incessantly. He often awoke screaming and thrashing about, his terror fueled by those same nightmares — much to the chagrin of the other 'brides' in the house. His weariness ate away at his patience. It did little to improve his disposition towards the healer woman, though they quickly found an understanding in that neither of them wished to be around the other. However, as he soon realized, she seemed to be the only one in the village who could use that pane of water. Without her, he was cast once again behind the barrier of his own tongue. And so, in spite of Wakine's efforts, and the many folk who did their best to help him learn their ways, he found himself alone.

He tried to salve it by making work for himself: by getting a feel for the land, and the materials this village worked with, and any tasks that might need doing. But the land was jarring, flat, and foreign, and the skill he had once found at a forge was not useful to these people. On one particular walk, he learned that the smell in the air came from a great lake called 'the sea': a body so vast that it stretched on and on until it met with the sky in one perfectly flat line. On that day, at that moment, he stumbled and sat in the sand, and stared at the horizon for what felt like an eternity, while the incessant roar of so much water buffeted his eardrums.

It was then that he knew, with finality, that home was truly gone. This place was only enough like it to split open the seams of old scars. It would never be what he wanted. It would never be his people. His land. Yet, trapped half by his own deteriorating body and half by these folk and their watchful eyes, he had no other place to go. He had set out to find somewhere to spend the winter, he reminded himself. And he had found it. It did not have to be home at all. It was enough, for now.

With that weight lifted, he thought he might begin to rest properly. He thought that surely, the dreams would retreat into the distant past and allow him, finally, to sleep through the night. But instead, they drew closer, intent on binding him in terror, until he awoke sobbing like a little boy and crying the name of one he could hardly remember. The nights did not grow any easier after that, and he spent any waking moments in a half-dead stupor. Yet he had to keep moving, or he would almost certainly lose what strength he had left.

On this particular day, he forced his legs to carry him away from the village and around it in an arc. He avoided the sea, of course. Cowardly though it was, he could not bear such a vast openness. So he found trees, and stayed between their trunks, and found his way through them and back to the village by the afternoon, his unlucky chaperone in tow. Along the way, ever compelled to be useful, he dug for cattail root and plucked a few handfuls of huckleberry — those that clung to their evergreen bushes late into autumn. By the time he returned to the bonfire, he had worked up an appetite. After offering the berries to some of the children, he settled a short distance away from the bonfire and took to cleaning the roots, though not without pausing to take in the scene.

Like the rest of the village, the children were equally as excited to welcome Eln into their fold. The fact that they potentially were being bribed with the sweet treats certainly didn't must matters. As the youngsters ran off to place, their hands and faces sticky with berry juice, a smaller, and slower figure waddled up on Eln. A toddler with wide, starry eyes and the very uneven gait of a newly accomplished walker latched onto the fabric at Eln's shoulder for balance and leaned in close to see what he was doing. It was too close a lean though as he soon went tumbling in a roll into the sand with a high-pitched giggle and much babbling.

Without any fear or sense of personal space, the little one used Eln to get to his feet again before plopping right into his lap and beginning the very meticulous and arduous task of brushing sand off himself as best as his little clumsy hands could all while babbling away and pointing at things as if Eln could understand him.

Eln watched the children make a mess of the berries. Weary though he was, watching young ones at play never failed to ease his troubled mind. His stormy eyes twinkled with amusement. It seemed to be the same no matter where he was: that sweet foods and toy weapons were the quickest ways to make a child happy. And these little ones did seem happy. They seemed secure. Safe. Eln had wondered several times why a people with such fighting prowess did not go to war against their neighbors, or defend themselves against them. But that was a question for another day. And, as a man who knew firsthand what so much violence and conflict could do to a child, he was glad to see them so untroubled by the affairs of the world.

Deep in thought, he did not notice the littlest one that approached him until the boy grasped a tiny fistful of his tunic. He jerked and glanced down at the child just in time to watch him lose his new-found balance and fall into the sand. Eln hissed through his teeth. "Pasket," he swore in an unfortunate force of habit. Hastily, he dropped the root and reached for the child to try to help him up, only to find the little one giggling and crawling into his lap. He tried to remember what few words he'd been taught. "...You...hurt?" he asked as he looked his little visitor over for scrapes. But the child seemed no worse for it, thankfully, save for a great deal of sand that had stuck to him. He sunk his slight weight down and made himself comfortable, and began to babble, oblivious to the poignant chord that he plucked.

Whether or not what the child said made any sense, Eln did not hear much of it for the roar in his ears as that great, tangled, buried knot of love and loss and failure rose up and wound its fingers around his throat. For a moment, he was somewhere else entirely, an infant wrapped up in his arms. A daughter. His own. His eyes strained and began to water, and through the blur of tears he wished, in a moment of weakness, nothing more than for this boy to be her. Then the moment passed, and he wiped his face on his sleeve and composed himself as best he could. It was just his exhaustion. That was all.

"Ai..." he muttered to himself. He smiled down at the child and picked up the root he had been cleaning off. He sniffled. "Look," he said, and resumed his work at a slower pace so as to help the boy learn.

The babe watched for a little while, seemingly fascinated by the actions in front of him before latching onto Eln's larger fingers and tugging. He babbled more as he tugged at sleeves and fingers but found no more berries.

The child let out a long-suffering sigh at his lack of discovery before becoming bored with the watching and instead resorted to making efforts to reach around and grab Eln's cloak. One tiny ham-fisted clutch later and the wee one was tugging it over himself like a blanket and curling up to lay down in Eln's lap, sweet head pillowed on a thigh. At complete peace in the safety of a stranger's lap, he quickly nodded off to dream with the ocean waves and crackling fire as his favorite lullaby. 

It didn't take long at all to discover the real reason that the child had come over. "Oho," Eln chuckled. "Ei. No...no food." He paused his work and allowed the pat down, watching the little one with a quiet wistfulness. The boy was quite determined. He would just have to fetch more berries tomorrow. "Hmm. I...you...food — " He waved his hand across the sky to signify the cycle of the sun. It was futile, of course. The child was too young to understand him. And in any case, his attention had turned to Eln's travel cloak, which he tugged around himself as he began to lay down.

It took Eln a moment to understand that the child meant to sleep here, in his lap. By the time he recognized this, though, the boy was far too comfortable, and he was anchored down where he sat in the sand. He tutted, shook his head, and reached carefully over his new ward to continue his work. But as he did, he caught something on the vast horizon, and he squinted out at it. It was dark. It looked like a wall of clouds: the kind that brought thunder and flooded rivers. "Hmm." Eln glanced down at the child, then over towards the fire, seeking a friendly face. "Wakine," he hissed, doing his best not to wake the boy. It was no use. He covered his ward's tiny ear and tried again a little louder. "Wakine!"

While Eln had his hands full with a toddler, Waquin'i was having fun playing with the other lads. His smaller size made him an easily overlooked opponent while simultaneously putting him at the disadvantage that he couldn't reach as high as the others for the ball.

Eln's unfortunate timing though meant that the younger man was mid jump, body fully extended up and back to try and catch the ball. Waquin'i turned his head at the call, missing the ball and getting tackled hard in the process. He hit the sand with a rough thud as others laughed and piled on.

The cry didn't go unnoticed though as another young man looked up from the fire and quickly got to his feet. He bobbed his head in greeting to Eln with a toothy grin hidden beneath his hand.

"I'm sorry. Is my son giving you trouble?"

The man gently lifted the child out of Eln's lap, kissing his little head and cuddling him close. The toddler woke enough to wraps his arms around his father's neck before promptly falling right back to sleep.

"Thank you," the man said nodding his head to Eln again. A rumble of deep thunder in the distance stopped him from speaking further though. Many eyes turned to the horizon and took in the approaching storm clouds from off the water and then in unspoken agreement  the whole village began to move to prepare.

Children and Brides were ushered indoors. Laundry and loose items were collected and put away. Water barrels were opened and weighted down. Canoes were dragged well ashore and covered to keep dry and safe from battering against the rocks.

The whole village was a'flurry save one. At'Eed stood tall and still, staring out at the oncoming storm impassively. A teen boy approached her, tugging at her arm and audibly, anxiously trying to beg her back indoors.

He should have been ashamed. His first instinct had been to protest the child's removal from his lap. Instead, he shut his mouth and watched enviously as the man wrapped the little boy up in his arms and held him close. His heart panged again with a longing for what he could never have. He shook it off. He could lament his losses in private. Not here.

The man spoke to him. Eln didn't understand most of what was said, but he did recognize the expression of gratitude. He inclined his head in response, brushed himself off, and stood as thunder rumbled in the distance. It seemed that his work on the roots would have to wait. He scooped them up, set them back in the gathering basket, and nestled it next to a rock. Then he scanned the scene to see what needed doing.

Some of the villagers ran to the beach to rescue their canoes. The crafts were extremely heavy — he knew just by the look of them that they were hewn from solid logs. These people needed help, Eln thought. He gritted his teeth and limped after them. He had no wish to gaze out at that unwavering horizon line ever again, but there was no time now for his own wants. They were irrelevant. His duty, as always, was to protect and to lend aid. Someone tried to stop him, beckoning him towards the house where they kept him. He shook his head and pointed towards the water, then turned and broke into a lopsided jog.

The hauling took some time. By the time they had secured the canoes enough, the clouds had darkened the sky overhead, and the wind had begun to blow strong off the water. It sapped the heat from beneath his tunic and whipped errant strands of hair against his cheeks. His cloak threatened to tear from his shoulders. A few spits of rain spattered the sand, heralds of the approaching storm. It was time. He should collect his foraged roots and return to the house. He made for the bonfire, his limp now pronounced from the strain he had put on his injury.

He had not noticed the healer woman until that moment, but as he approached the basket, he could not ignore that strange, shrouded figure. She stood like a statue, face angled up towards the storm, veil flowing in the wind like a vision of a spirit. Some of the villagers tried in vain to move her along, but she had planted her roots there on that spot and did not budge. Eln released an exasperated sigh. He swung the basket handle over his shoulder and started towards the commotion. "Iva," he barked as he approached her. "Come. Move."

The villagers accepted Eln's help without question. This was what it was to be I'kanan, if he was coming to accept their ways so quickly, who were they to question. At'Eed though did not see nor take notice of him. Even as he shouted at her, she was slow to respond. The first droplets of rain that made tiny dents in the sand and began to wet the shoulders of Eln and her son, did not fall upon her. Instead, they hovered an inch above her form before seeming to slide to off and away as if she was surrounded by an invisible bubble.

"At'Eed," the young man said, stepping between them protectively. "Her name is At'Eed, not Eva." He lifted his chin and puffed his chest, lips closed but sneering enough that the challenge was evident and close. "Go," he pointed back to the Bride house, "go inside. She is not your concern!"

A soft word stayed him though as he turned back to his mother. Her head turned slowly to look at him as she repeated his words back to him in a voice that spoke of soul-deep weariness. "Go inside. I am fine. Take Eln and go." At'Eed waved him off as she took a step away from them both towards the turbulent sea.

"Awáa, please!"

A gust of wind blasted forth from the shoreline sending her veil flying up and off behind her. To the unfortunate young man who was not entirely paying attention, torn between his obedience to his mother and his sense of duty to her safety, he completely missed what was happening until it was too late. Thwap! The veil hit him square on and tangled about him as the wind continued to fight him and its removal. At'Eed for her part continued forward, undeterred.

A young man stepped between Eln and the healer, and though these people were foreign to him, his stance left no room for interpretation: he did not want Eln anywhere near her. With a stern look and a sharp gesture, the youth demanded that he return to the house. He was too young to be her mate. Was he her son, then? It did not matter. The woman was in danger, and that was the issue at hand. This was no time for the overconfidence of a boy so soon off the teat. Eln ignored him but for one pointed, incredulous glance, and then addressed the woman over his shoulder.

"At-Id," he repeated, raising his voice over the wind. "Come." He eyed the witch-magic warily. He did not know yet what it was, or what it meant, but surely it would not protect her from the brewing storm. And if they had dragged the canoes so far ashore, it was for good reason, and to approach the sea was madness. Yet that was what the woman did, now, as the wind tore the veil from her head, revealing, not horns, but hair. The young man started after her, only to be thwarted by the veil. Eln marched to catch up, his stomach clenched at the thought of shoving a hand through the magic. He gritted his teeth and set a hand on her shoulder. "At'Id," he said again. "No. Come."

She stopped at his touch, her head slowly turning to look up at him sadly. Iridescent pink-green eyes ringed with deep, sleepless circles stared blankly into his face. Fine lines of age creased the corners of her eyes and mouth. Grief made her look far older than she was. The most notable features though were the five gill scars across each cheek and the gold hoop nose ring with a single natural pearl denoting her married status.

At'Eed blinked slowly as if she did not even register the storm fast approaching around them. Her smaller, rough hand was placed gently over his to give two comforting pats.

"Go, Eln." She looked back out at the crashing waves that swelled taller with each push and pull. Her heart ached but her body felt numb. The sand beneath her bare feet, the chill of the air, the scent of salt and petrichor, the roaring crash of waves, none of it registered in her mind. 

He knew that expression. He knew it in his bones. The gaze that passed straight through him and far into the past. The numb state. The not-there. "The sea took her husband," Wakine had told him. He had not understood it. But now, with the wind howling and the waters of that vast lake churning violently and crashing upon the sands, he finally did. He had never himself wished to leave this world behind from the agony of loss. He had known countless who did.

He released her shoulder and withdrew his hand from the magic sphere. He stepped away. They needed time. They needed solitude — those who had loved and lost. He would not leave the woman out here alone, exposed to the elements and the raw wound of her own mind. But he would give her space, and he would stand guard, until such time as the storm grew dangerous...or until she stepped any closer towards the sea.

He glanced back. The youth still struggled with the veil. Reluctantly, and not without grumbling beneath his breath, Eln hurried towards him. He cursed the heavy confines of his cloak as it slowed his stride. Bending down, he tugged the netting from the young man and released him from his cage. There was no sense in letting him flail around under such dangerous circumstances.

Left to her own devices, At'Eed resumed walking slowly forward. Her son meanwhile shook his hair out of his eyes the moment Eln set him free. He gave a single, curt nod in thanks and acknowledgment before storming ahead towards her again. No amount of calling for her slowed her pace though.

She only stopped when he fell to his knees and wrapped his gangly arms about her legs, begging and pleading with her to go home, to go inside, to let his father go.

"Awáa, please! Hadáa isn't here. Let him go! Come home. Please!"

At'Eed looked down at him clinging to her skirts with the same gaze she had shared with Eln. The wind buffeted them and rain came down all the heavier and yet for the two of them it was if time stood still.

A deep sigh and she pet his hair back from his face. "Come inside, Hldáan. You'll get sick like this." At'Eed nodded down reassuringly at him and helped him up, keeping his hand firmly in hers.

Looking to Eln she slipped her hand into his as well. "Come. You too, Eln."

It was the right decision, but a dangerous one. The woman continued on towards the sea. It was good that she walked so slowly. It was also good that her son ran to catch her — the boy was faster than Eln, who limped along after the two of them, cheeks stinging from the rain, teeth bared in a grimace at both the wind and his knee. By the time Eln had finally caught up, he had fixed himself to his mother's leg. By the look she gave him, it broke the spell. Panting like a winded animal, Eln huffed out a sigh of relief, sputtered, and spat rainwater onto the sand. Perhaps now they could all seek shelter.

Then a small, cold hand slipped into his, and he stiffened. His stomach clenched. His arm jerked instinctively at the touch, and he had to stop himself from yanking it away. The look he shot the woman was harsh and severe, but deep-rooted fear, as before, shone through the cracks. He held his hand still like a frozen corpse's: tolerating her, but giving her nothing in return. His ears began to ring. He did not remember much at all of their return to the village.

And then it was warm and dry again. They had entered a house much smaller than the one her people kept him in. A fire crackled in a pit in the center, beckoning him in. Eln withdrew his hand from the woman's and circled it, putting it between himself and the two of them, leaving a trail of rain water on the floor. He turned, glanced between them both, and gave her son a pointed look. Make sure she doesn't do that again, he tried to express to the boy. Then, satisfied that she would not leave, he crouched over the fire and did his best to warm up.

At'Eed tugged both men along into her house, the home her now deceased husband had built for her with its clay walls and thatched rounded roof. As Eln settled by the fire casting angry, wet cat looks at the pair, Hldáan took to wringing out his long hair in the doorway and peeling off his shirt, the latter of which he hung on a makeshift wooden rod by the door to dry. He then headed past Eln to one of the far sides of the round building to a single unmade bed with piles of netting beside it and began to rummage in a chest at the foot of it for dry clothes for himself.

Meanwhile, At'Eed busied herself with the shelves of herbs by the door. A small pot was placed over the fire and filled with water and herbs to brew and three small cups were procured for drinking. She did not once seem to notice that she had lost her veil as she busied herself quietly. Tea was poured into each cup and blowed on before she passed one to Hldáan and one Eln, keeping the third for herself. Murmured words before taking a sip and from the remaining liquid in the pot a small wall of water returned to aid in translation.

"We should get you out of those clothes before you get sick, Eln." Looking towards her own larger and more organized bed she continued, "I think my husbands clothes should fit you fine. One moment while I get them and you can get changed and warmed up."

He didn't know that he had faded out again until someone placed a warm cup in his hands. He drank from it without hesitation. It did not taste of home, but it was soothing enough after what he had just experienced. He took another sip. His mind was still elsewhere. He had begun to shake, but whether or not it was from the cold or the witch's touch or some other unknown thing, he could not say.

She spoke. Eln understood her. He glanced up, dazed and troubled, and saw that same pane of water floating midair. He scowled at it. She was right, though: he was soaked to the bone. "Mm," he grunted in assent. Without waiting for her to fetch the clothes, he stood, limped back around the fire, and left the house, shutting the door firmly behind him. He removed his cloak, then his tunic, then his trousers, and wrung them all out as much as he could. He set his sand-crusted boots by the door as he stepped back in, and hung his things up next to the boy's. Then he returned to his place by the fire, bare feet slapping the floor, and took a seat beside it without a care for the fact that he was more skin than cloth.

He ruminated, around and around in a tight spiral, fed by all that had just transpired. His expression began to darken. He bit his tongue at first. The woman was not in a place to hear it. But his anger continued to build until he could no longer contain it. He turned to look up at her. "That was foolish," he growled. "And it is the coward's way out."

She missed his exit as busied herself gathering the unused clothes. Her hands hesitated ever so slightly, smoothing fabric and taking in the scent before quickly piling them up and turning to address him, right as he walked in stark naked. 

"Uhh, Awáa?"

"Behave," At'Eed replied to her son, forcefully grabbing the back of his head with one hand and making him turn and face the wall. Her own eyes she kept level, not once dipping down as she walked closer to the fire to hand him the clothes.

She was about to cover up before he got them both in trouble when he finally spoke. At'Eed raised a brow down at him and offered the clothes. "Dressing and keeping you warm is foolish?"

She danced around it. His scowl deepened. He snatched up the trousers and got to his feet again to don them. "You are not dim. Do not pretend to be," he replied as he shoved in first one leg, then the other, and tied them around his waist. He tugged the tunic over his head, then brought his braid to the front and began to unplait it to let it dry faster. He seethed silently as he picked at it. She knew what he had meant.

At'Eed turned her head to look away while he dressed but remained firmly in front of him. Only one he finally pulled the shirt over his head and began working his braid did she once more lock eyes with him in a far more aware and fierce gaze than on the beach.

"I pretend nothing. You speak without context and refuse to elaborate. My water can translate your words, it cannot provide more than it is given."

Eln's eyes narrowed. He set his half-undone braid aside and dropped his hands to his sides. When he spoke again, he was calmer, quieter — but the shaking in his voice betrayed that which still roiled beneath the surface. "I have seen that face more times than I can count. You meant to die. You meant to follow your mate and find him again." He paused as he waded through the endless sea of their faces: mothers, fathers, sisters, children. So much death. Too much.

He pointed at the young man. "This one is your son. Yes? Yet you would do to him what was done to you? You would leave him here? That is foolish. That is selfish."

At'Eed nodded to acknowledge that Hldáan was indeed her son. And when she did respond to Eln it was in an equally calm but strong voice. "You have seen this face but you have not worn it. Until you have experienced the grief and loss I have, do not pass your judgement on what you could not possibly understand. Whether it is foolish and selfish or not is none of your concern. You would do well to leave my business to me and keep your mind to your own healing."

She reached across her body to lightly tap the outer side of his injured knee with the tips of her fingers. "Or has your leg healed enough that you can be dragging boats with the best of them before a storm?"

He was silent for a long time after she had finished. He had leaned away ever so slightly when she touched his knee, but now he stood straight again. His expression shifted. His brow knitted and furrowed and turned. His jaw worked. At moments, he appeared on the verge of utter disconsolation. At others, he was a bottled tempest. A quiet sadness settled in the in-between.

"I have," he said at last. "I have," he repeated with more conviction. "You do not own loss."

She stared into his eyes quietly as if able to stare through and into his very soul. His silence was long, but hers was longer still, broken only by the crackling of the fire and their breath. "Then you can grant me grace and compassion for mine."

At'Eed huffed softly. "Sit down before you fall down, Eln."

He sat. After a moment longer, he reached up and continued working on his soaked and tangled hair. Even braided, the wind had worked it into a million little knots that proved impossible to untie. He mulled over what she had said. "Do not do this to your son again," he replied. "I would not have to my..."

His throat tightened. He could not say it aloud. "I cannot abide by it," he finished instead. He glanced up at her to underscore the point. "My duty is to protect. You have made your grief my business in throwing yourself willingly at death."

"Do not tell my Awáa what to do!" barked Hldáan as he tried to turn and face Eln, jumping to his feet in his mother's defense.

"Enough!" At'Eed barked back, stepping between the men. "This is a grown up conversation and not meant for you. And he speaks the truth," she added glancing down and to the side as if to look back at Eln some. "Clean your bed and finish your netting. I won't have it cluttering up my floor any longer."

Hldáan sighed deeply, casting a disparaging glare in Eln's direction before obediently moving to do as he was told. At'Eed for her part collected something from the chest at the bottom of her bed and knelt down in front of Eln with it.

"For your hair," she offered, holding out a whale bone comb to ease his efforts against the knots and tangles that refused to budge. "I cannot imagine a world without him," she spoke quietly only for Eln. "And yet I endure it every day." At'Eed reached up to touch her veil, startling when instead she touched her own face. Looking away quickly, she undid the vibrant sash about her waist and instead draped over her head and shoulders like a cowl.

Eln fell silent. This, truly, was not his place: the instruction of a stranger's child. He was relieved enough to hear her say that she knew the truth in his words. It was more than he had expected from her. He returned the young man's glower with a brief and neutral glance. He wondered if he had been so headstrong at that age. It was so long ago, now, but...

Yes, he thought. And possibly moreso.

"I thank you for the clothes," he said quietly as she rummaged through a chest. And when she presented him with a comb, he thanked her again, though the look he gave her was a perplexed one. It was always a risk, arguing with a woman in her own house. He half expected to be thrown out into the rain for what he had said to her. He did not expect this. Eln turned it over and over, inspecting it by the light of the fire. These people did not have much at all made of bronze, nor electrum, nor bog iron. Their things were bone. It was peculiar.

He had just lifted the comb to his tangle of hair when the woman spoke. His hand froze at his shoulder. He listened intently. There was nothing that one could say in response to memories of the ones who had come and gone. They were not evoked for conversation, but rather they were spoken into being as a balm to ease the poignant ache of loss. He knew this. And so he sat with what she had said in silence, until she broke it in a fuss. She had not realized that her face was exposed. He waited for her to settle again.

"Your...veil? Is drying with my things," he informed her.

"Thank you," she sighed, sitting back more comfortably off her knees and sipping her tea. "It is a sign of my mourning. I may not enter the sea, or partake of its bounty until my broken heart has no more tears left to shed. I have by all rights finished my mourning, and yet I find the tears do not stop.

"Is that why you wander alone? You mourn alone? Waquin'i said you had no one with you and were far from any villages when he found you."

The woman told Eln of her grieving ritual, and to this Eln had no response. It simply was. He wondered, though, how anyone could finish mourning when loss was not a thing that ended, but remained forever embedded in your heart like a shard of arrowhead. How could anyone expect to set it aside? He said nothing of it. It was not the time to argue.

He did, however, grace At-Id with yet another severe and warning look when she asked after his own loss. She was prying, now, into affairs that were not her business, as she had accused him of moments earlier. He ignored those questions. "I came down from the mountains," he explained. "I awoke there...hmm...five...or six months ago. All that happened before that point is lost. I wandered to the lowlands to survive the winter. That is all."

A hum sounded from her throat. "A shame Waquin'i's knock to the head didn't bring them back to you then. I'm sorry...for your loss." At'Eed flinched and winced as the wind howled deeply and rain battered the roof relentlessly. For a woman who was ready to slip beneath the waves she was terrified of the storm. She shivered and pulled the sash more firmly about her.

"You know we're only trying to help you," she intoned after a bit. "I can understand you being confused and feeling lost. But you're not going to get your hand bit off for asking questions here. We want you to feel you belong. Waquin'i is a nice boy. But, he's not the only one, anymore than I am the only woman. There are people here who want to know you better, Eln-i-ara. Would it be so bad to let them?" At'Eed did not look to him as she rose to her feet and busied herself with making more tea.

Eln sat up a little straighter, and his affront was plain. His jaw began to work again as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. She could not simply leave the issue. She had to keep digging, until at last she had exhausted her words and left the fire. "No," he growled. "Stop this. I did not come here to be someone's mate. That path has come, and in death it has gone. Never again." He tossed the comb to the floor and rose to his feet. He fought to keep his voice low so as not to frighten the lad. "I will stay the winter, and I am grateful for this shelter, and I will labor hard to earn it. But your people do not own me. And I will leave in the spring."

His outburst did bring Hldáan to attention as he watched the two carefully. At'Eed for her part failed to react beyond a soft sigh as she added more dried leaves to the pot. "You need not marry anyone. You can reject all suitors, or claim a Bride of your own. But, you are not leaving in the spring. You will see. You are to be one of us now." She spoke with such calm finality as if discussing the daily haul of fish instead of his certain future. "And I doubt you would listen to the words of a--witch is it that you call me? Yes, I have notice your disdain for me," she added giving him a very pointed look of disapproval before returning to her work. "I would not run if I were you. It never ends well for two gills that do."

There was a finality to what she had said that drove the point further than anything these people had told him. He was their prisoner. They meant to keep him there — as labor, or a mate, or for some other purpose. He was trapped, and this house was a cage. His heart beat faster. His breaths came quick and ragged. His eyes darted back and forth. "No," he murmured. "You do not own me. You cannot keep me here like an animal. And if — "

He struggled to keep it down: this welling force within him. His voice quaked with it. He took a breath and let it out.

"I will die to the elements before I am made a slave again," he finished, and tore the tunic back up and over his head. He tossed it on top of the chest from whence she had pulled it and retrieved his own. He did the same with the trousers before shoving his feet in his boots. His clothes were still soaked, and they sapped the heat from his skin with alarming efficiency. His hair was a half-finished mess. It did not matter. He addressed the woman once more. "Thank you for the clothing, and the shelter, and for tending to my wounds. I am grateful."

Then he took up his cloak, removed the veil from it, set that aside, flung the door open, and set off into the storm.

"You're not an animal," At'Eed tried to interject. Her words seemed to fall on deaf ears as he worked himself into a further panic. She sighed tiredly as she watched his antics. This was very much why she hated working with the foreign Brides. They were exhausting and she had little patience for the transition period they all seemed to go through before they accepted their new, stronger lives. She nodded slightly at his thanks, looking very much like she was over the whole affair as he rushed out in damp clothes back into the storm, the pane of water comically following after him.

"Hldáan go get a six-gill to collect him and then stay inside. Don't go help. I'm already going to have one sick patient, I don't need two," she instructed, waving her son off after Eln. In their absence she already began pulling containers off her shelves to begin making medicines. A healer's work was truly never done.

It was growing dark as it was, but the storm threatened to cut his remaining daylight very short. Eln held his soaked hood up over his head and trudged through the heavy sand and mud and silt, scrambling for higher ground. The winds stole the heat from him and his knee began to throb with that same gnawing ache. This was a bad decision. A very bad decision. He could die out here. He knew it. And yet still, he gritted his chattering teeth and marched on, determined never to be trapped again. Never to be puppet to someone else. Night after night he had shoved those memories away, but he did remember.

He remembered all of it.

Minutes turned to hours, and now he could hardly see. His clothes and cloak were a weighty burden. He could not feel his fingers or his toes. His steps grew clumsier, until finally, he stumbled and fell and rolled between the roots of a tree. He lay there for a long while, shivering in the mud. He was so tired. Everything was so heavy. He closed his eyes. He would rest here, and continue on tomorrow.

Hldáan had run as fast as his legs could carry him, banging on door of their neighbor for help. Atenu had been understanding and after ushering the young man inside had taken up his rain gear and trudged after the wandering Bride. The large warrior easily picked up the other man's trail and began the uncomfortable trek after him. He decided he would wait Eln out and collect him once he was more amenable to returning where it was safe, dry, and warm. It was less than ideal and Atenu was far from thrilled but village safety was a community responsibility. Eln whether he liked it or not was part of that community.

As the storm continued and night rapidly approached, Atenu finally caught up to the injured man. He had nearly missed sight of him in the dark, covered in mud as he was. He cursed under his breath at how cold and clammy Eln's skin was, like death. The pulse beneath his fingertips was incredibly slow and concerning. Without hesitation, Atenu scooped the other man up as if he weighed nothing more than a basket of reeds and began the trek back towards home.

In the late evening, Eln was laid back out in his bed in the Bride house. He was stripped of his soaking wet clothes and bundled in fire-warmed blankets. At'Eed and Waquin'i were both called in and questioned by the village elder for their roles in Eln's absence and illness. While Waquin'i was determined to be innocent, the healer was not as lucky. She received harsh reprimands for driving and allowing him back out into the storm, for failing to care for a Bride under her charge, and for taking advantage of an un-gilled Bride. Her punishment would be determined after he was through the worst of his illness and the storm had passed. For now though she was to see to his every need. If he did not survive the night, it would rest entirely upon her shoulders.

At'Eed worked diligently. The medicines she had made in his absence were for this very circumstance. Bowls of bone broth were carefully shared with Atenu and saved for when Eln would wake. Waquin'i for his part chose to stay and help in any way he could. From rewarming the stones tucked in around Eln by the fire, to wiping his brow of sweat, the young man did all he could without complaint. Come morning, he was curled up on the floor beside Eln's bed his hand on the other man's blanketed shoulder just to have some connection with him. The healer in turn sat, exhausted by the fire, her eyes dark and glazed with lack of sleep as they waited to see what the outcome of his little adventure would be.

There was that same familiar scent. He was home again, and this time, a hand rested warm and heavy on his shoulder. "Serai," Eln mumbled. He pulled his other arm out from beneath the blankets and laid his hand on top of hers. Why did his fingers burn? But she was real. She was there beside him. It had all been a dream.

He shifted slowly, turning to face her. His whole body felt too heavy, too weak. It took so much out of him even just to move that little bit. He cracked an eyelid, but it was dark. "Mmh. It's...quiet. Is she finally sleeping?" He opened his eyes the rest of the way, squinting and blinking and trying to clear his vision. At first, what he saw did not make sense. It was the wrong house again. And the one who comforted him as he slept was...

Eln sat up straight with a sharp intake of breath and tugged his hand away from Wakine's. The gasp alone sent him into a coughing fit that doubled him over and filled his eyes with sparks. "No," he rasped. "No. Not..." He wiped his mouth on his bare arm and glanced wildly about the room, a feral animal trapped. His wide eyes darted between Wakine and the witch like a madman's. His heart hammered in his chest again, and his breaths heaved shallow and ragged. "No," he insisted. He tried to stand, but another fit took him, and he tumbled to the floor, coughing violently. "You will not...have me," he managed.

Waquin'i blinked blearily in a desperate effort to rid his eyes of the fog of sleep. A gasp and tugging of his hand and woken him and his head swiveled on alert for a new threat but finding nothing. Seeing Eln's distress he stood wobbily on sleep-heavy legs and reached for the other man gently.

"It's okay, Eln. You're alright. It's safe here. You're very sick. You need to rest. No one will hurt you here. No one is going to take advantage of you," he added casting a dirty look in At'Eed's direction who only glanced tiredly at him in response before getting up to move to the furthest spot away from Eln. She had no interest in further accusations and punishments for daring to sit too close to him.

The young man bent to attempt to pull Eln up by the shoulders. "Come lay down. We need to get you warmed up still."

"NO!" Eln bellowed. He swiped wildly at Wakine before the exertion tore through his lungs and sent him into yet another coughing fit. He scrambled away from the young man and backed against the cold wall. His head began to pound, though from fury or from illness he could not say. "Do not touch me!" he roared. "You do not own me. I am not yours. Never again. Never — "

Eln gasped in air with rattling breaths, eyes still fixed on Wakine. "You knew," he spat, his shaking voice betraying how close he was to tears. "You did not bring me back to heal me. You brought me back as a slave."

Waquin'i took no offense to the blows he received; Eln was clearly upset and unwell and he could not blame the other man for his fury. Instead he raised his hands in peace and took a step back to give Eln space.

"No one here owns you, Eln. You are no one's slave. You are a....Bride--but that is different! And you don't have to accept me! You can reject me! You can still belong here though with us. You are your own free man. Please believe me I truly did bring you here to heal. I hurt you and I shouldn't have been so angry and I knew you would be taken care of here. Everything is so backwards! Normally, Brides at least understand one of the languages we speak and oh this is such a mess! Someone should have explained this better to you. I should have explained this to you. I'm so sorry. Please just come back to your bed. I can leave if you want. I promise someone will explain this better. Just please let us help you. Please, Eln."

"Free?" Eln breathed. Most of what Wakine said did not reach him, but that word...it cut to bone. He looked as if he were ready to strangle the young man. "As free as a rabbit in the snare," he snarled. "Do not insult me. This is not free." He glanced around the hut again. He could not stay here in this prison. He had to escape. He pressed his back up against the wall and used it to rise shakily to his feet. His toes burned like his fingers, as did his lungs. He was worse off than he had been in a very long time. But he had to escape. He had to run.

Eln gritted his teeth and scanned the room for anything resembling a weapon, but the best he could find was a stool against the wall. He began to inch towards it.

"I'm not trying to insult you, Eln! I am trying to make things right!" Waquin'i replied, looking very much like he was about to burst into tears on the spot. "Please Eln you're going to get hurt. You were half-dead when Atenu found you. Please, just lay down and I promise I will go. You never have to see me again, just let us help you!"

Waquin'i's chaperone who had been sitting quietly by the door this whole time finally stood up and quietly made her way towards the arguing pair. A patient was ill and refusing help, and clearly no amount of begging from Waquin'i was going to make it happen. It was her duty to see not only that Waquin'i did not upset or harm the Bride but also to ensure that Eln did not try to run away again. If things continued to escalate then she would have no choice than to force him back into bed herself.

"And your people should have left me as such: half-dead!" Eln cried, and the price was more coughing. Flecks of blood spattered his mouth. He wiped it away again and shot a warning glance at the woman. He did not wish to harm her, but the more his panic gripped him, the foggier his senses became. "I will not be kept here. You say I am free? Then I am leaving." He limped towards the door as fast as he could, stooping to lift the stool by a leg. He knew they would rush to stop him. His chances were slim, but he would be ready.

"BUT YOU WILL DIE!" Waquin'i cried out, his voice cracking as the tears flowed freely out of fear and concern.

The six-gill woman stepped in Eln's path, ignoring his warning glance and instead offering a shake of her head instead. "I don't want to fight you. You are not in your right mind and need the healer's attention. This is the last warning I will give you. Go back to bed, or I will be forced to make you."

He was trapped, and they were closing in on him. The walls, these people, and even the heavy, smokey air itself meant to suffocate him in this box. His vision dimmed. The room grew dark but for a single focal point: the door to freedom. "NO!" he bellowed. He swung the stool in front of him, grasped it with both aching hands, and charged the woman with all of his strength. His weak and burning legs betrayed him. Instead of a makeshift shield bash, he only just managed to stumble into her. "Let me GO!"

She swatted the stool away easily and instead caught Eln as he stumbled into her. Her arms wrapped around him, supporting and containing all at once. "Alright, you've shown your fire. Time to rest now," she spoke soothingly, rubbing his back some as she helped hoist him more onto his feet. "Do I need to carry you, or can you walk?"

The touch was ice to his skin. His stomach churned. He wanted to vomit. "Get your hands off me," he snarled, and twisted back and forth in her arms, seeking his freedom in vain. "Get off of me. Get OFF OF ME. DO NOT TOUCH ME." The struggle was in its death throes, now. Eln swung his horns clumsily about in a feeble attempt to catch his captor off guard. He shoved forward, but she was strong and his own strength was failing. It was like pushing against a solid wall. His knees buckled. He collapsed to the floor again, and this time, he stayed there. The black closed in further. He was trapped in his own mind once again. Hot tears ran unbidden across his cheeks. "No," he pleaded as he wept. "No. No. No. No. No."

The warrior held on letting Eln wear himself out but refusing to let him come to harm. As he finally pooled onto the ground, she motioned for Waquin'i and At'Eed's chaperone to come help her carry him back into bed.

"Healer, see to him," she instructed tersely, stepping away and pulling Waquin'i out of the longhouse with her.

At'Eed was stopped briefly by the remaining I'kanan who gave her a look as if to say 'don't push it,' before allowing her to finally approach Eln. She carefully examined his fingers and toes before gathering fresh, warmed stones and wrapping them to tuck in under the covers along his body. She did her best to minimize the amount of touching she did, recalling how he had felt in her home on top of his more recent outbursts.

"I know you are angry and hurting. This tea will help with your physical pains," she told him softly, setting down a cup of warm, honeyed tea on the righted stool by his bed. "I'm afraid I cannot heal your heart ones."

At'Eed drew away from him, recognizing the broken, defeated look on his face as something akin to what she felt in her own soul. Her words likely fell on deaf ears but it was worth trying. She returned to her spot by the fire only rising when needed to change the stones and refresh his tea. 

Two days passed, and, except to cough, and to wedge himself against the wall and roll to face the room, Eln did not move. Whenever anyone approached him, he ignored them. He refused all offers of drink and food. Hour after hour, he stared blankly at the fire, convinced that he was trapped again at the mercy of some unknown force. Every so often, he wept silently, but he did not seem to notice or to care who witnessed it.

Without nourishment, he grew pale, and his eyes seemed to sink into their sockets. His breathing grew worse. By the third day, his captors plugged his nose and made him eat and drink, and he accepted both passively. Their medicines quelled the cough at last, though he was too far lost in thought to know it. By the fifth day, his health had improved again. His mind, however, was another matter. Even in his brief moments of lucidity, he was determined to let his body weaken and fester until such time as he was no longer of use to these people. One way or another, he would escape. Death was freedom, now.

For all Eln's attempts to waste away to nothing, At'Eed fought with her knowledge, medicine, and magic to keep him alive. She was exhausted and only still awake and standing out of sheer spite. With all of her efforts to take care of her patients, she was failing in taking care of herself and yet she had never been more grateful to have her veil shielding her own sunken in, dark-rimmed eyes and pale features.

She was brewing more medicinal tea when movement at the door alerted her to the presence of a three-gill woman with blonde hair and her young toddler entering. A high-pitched squeal sounded from the boy as he babbled and toddled as fast as his little, chubby legs would allow him to over to Eln's bed. At'Eed nodded to the other woman as she joined her but otherwise kept her silence.

The toddler was seemingly left unattended to attempt crawling onto Eln's bed with him. There was a soft thud as the first attempts were met with failure but it hardly did anything to break his spirit. Covers were yanked and tugged until many huffs and grunts later a crown of black curls and rosy cheeks squirmed over the edge. Another cheerful squeal of victory and the young one was crawling to sit in front of Eln. He tilted his little head nearly upside down to be in the older man's face in hopes of catching his attention. 

In spite of those many days spent adrift and defeated, Eln could not ignore it. That same boy from the day of the storm had found his way up onto the cot and now shoved his little face directly into his field of view. For the first time since he had returned to this bed, he allowed his eyes to focus...and immediately, his dead stare softened in spite of himself. The boy was relentless in his quest for attention, as he had been before. Eln's chapped lips split open. He took a while to find his voice. "You again," he murmured. "I have no more berries, little one. See?" With great effort, he pulled his arm from beneath the blanket and showed the boy his hand, palm out. He closed it into a fist and opened it again. "All gone," he said. "I've nothing for you."

Why he was compelled to speak to the child, he did not know. Perhaps it was because the boy was innocent of all of this. The affairs of his parents had not yet crossed his tiny and inquisitive mind. He was content simply to be, and to let others be, without expectation...beyond that Eln shared berries, of course. Eln took in a deep and painful breath and released it. He would allow himself this comfort of watching a child at play. It would not change a thing, in the end.

The boy beamed and babbled, slapping Eln's hand with his tinier little palms to make clapping sounds that only served to make him giggle. He used Eln's fingers to tug himself closer to the man and instead began to touch his face. Gentle albeit clumsy fingers patted and prodded the man's lips, cheeks, nose in curiosity and play before moving onto the shorter hair at the side of his head. This was a fascinating texture to him as he rubbed both hands in it, petting as one would a cat. He touched his own hair with one hand finding the golden curls a completely different texture before resuming the headpets for Eln. 

The child took his frostbitten hand and played with it like an exciting new toy. Eln winced, and a sharp breath hissed through his teeth. He recoiled instinctively before catching himself. By the time he had relaxed again and given his hand back, the boy had moved on to other distractions. This time, Eln lay very still. He was determined not to frighten the little one. As the child began to play with the hair beneath his horns, he spoke up again. "You are very strong, little one. And you do not give up easily, do you? Your father must be proud."

Eln looked him over in a little more detail now. The child seemed healthy. His cheeks were flushed, and his hair was long already. "Do you have a name yet?" he murmured. "What is your name, little one?"

"Perter," the blonde woman spoke up softly. "And his father and I are very proud of him," she added, offering Eln a beaming smile of pointed teeth before remembering herself and covering her mouth with her hand. "Sorry, still getting used to that."

She stood then pulling a wrapped cloth out of her satchel before approaching the pair with it. Perter excitedly babbled and bounced on the bed, gripping a fistful of hair to balance himself while his mother placed the cloth on the bed and unbound it to reveal a small pile of berries.

"He's been looking for you on the beach for days. Keeps making horns on his head too. You made quite the impression."

The toddler immediately grabbed one, squeezing a little too hard and causing juice to leak down his wrist before trying to press the smashed berry to Eln's lips.

"Oh sweetie gentle! Gentle hands. He isn't feeling well Perter we have to be gentle. I'm so sorry. I can take him if you prefer," she offered Eln apologetically. "He just really wanted to see you."

Eln held his lips closed tight in one last, stubborn stand before relenting. It was one berry. It would not make a difference. And who was he to deny this child a thing that would make him happy? His gaze traveled slowly towards the boy's mother as though he were a man dreaming. He stared in silence: not angry, or violent, but weary. Defeated. Dead-eyed.

She did not look like most of the villagers. So. She was a prisoner, too. One that had given up and succumbed to the rope that tied her ankle. Eln found difficulty in tamping down the bubble of disdain that arose in him at such weakness. After a time, he looked back down at the child again. "Per-ter," he rumbled. He debated whether or not he wished to address the woman at all, before relenting on this, too. "No," he replied. "He is learning of the world as one his age should. Let him do as he wishes. A child should be happy."

He addressed the boy, and added, "You may always visit, little one. But I will have nothing for you."

"I think your presence is more than nothing to him," she replied with a slightly cheeky smile that lit up her warm, brown eyes. "I think you remind him of his Chanáa. We lost him last spring but they were thick as thieves. He always had berries and treats for him too," she intoned fondly as Perter continued to munch on berries, sometimes sharing full or half-eaten ones with Eln as willing and able. "I can bring more when he visits next so you are not feeling empty handed."

It was the slap Eln needed to face reality. The boy, barely walking and, by the looks of him, not two years old, had already lost someone close to him. What would his life be like if he felt that again so soon? Eln had been so selfish in reaching for a thing that was never his. He never should have indulged this. Not when a child's grief was the price to pay.

For the first time in days, he voluntarily rose to sit. He took great care not to disturb the boy as he did so, lest the child roll off the cot and onto the floor. His entire demeanor shifted. He regarded the woman intensely. "You should take him away now," he said. "It would be best for him not to grow attached."

Perter squealed to see his new friend sitting up and immediately grabbed the cloth holding the berries, dragging it with him as he moved and plopped right down into Eln's lap. His mother fussed softly as she collected the rolling fruit, trying to recollect it and situate it back on the cloth.

"Why? Do you have violent thoughts towards my son now? Has he caused you such great offense?"

The question caught Eln wholly off guard. He recoiled at the thought. It horrified him. "No. Never," he replied quickly as the child crawled into his lap. He released an agitated sigh at the sight of the boy getting more comfortable. More attached. He frowned down at his little companion. He did not like secrets and he did not like lies, but neither could he trust this woman who had given in to her captors. If he told her of his plans, she would alert the others.

"A child needs stability," he said finally. "He should be with his own kind."

"Then he can stay," she resolved, deciding if there was no risk of harm to either then there was no reason to worry. "May I ask...what is your kind? I," she hesitated and blushed, "truthfully I grew up very sheltered. I have never seen someone who looked like you."

The woman skirted the subject. She chose not to listen. Instead, she asked him about his people. But his people had nothing to do with this. As the last of them — the last true one — he could call his race and way of life extinct. And shortly, he would be among them: another soul to feed his god.

"Take him," he repeated.

"Is he hurting you?" she countered. "Or are you the one afraid you'll get attached to him and lose your resolve to leave him?"

Eln's eyes narrowed. For the briefest moment, he knew the truth in her words. Then his own frustration and impatience crept up on him, and stole his discipline away. "I would expect nothing more from an acceder," he countered. "You may be happy in a cage. I am not. You may think it is wise to use your child to manipulate me, regardless of how it might hurt him." He grasped Perter carefully beneath the boy's arms, lifted him, and stood with great effort. He set the child down on the floor by his mother. "I do not."

Eln's movements caused Chloe's eyes to widen and face to pale. His towering height and close proximity froze her in place like a deer in torchlight and it was all she could do to clutch her shawl tight about her shoulders. Her teeth dug into the inside of her cheek, a painful reminder that he was not them. He could not hurt her here. She was I'kanan now. No man would hurt her ever again.

"Whether you care or not I do know what it is to be truly caged and this is not it. And I do not take kindly to you calling my parenting manipulative. You may choose death Mr. Eln but I will not deny my son your memory. I will not steal from him freedoms that he was born with and as his parent are my right to protect for him until he is able to do himself."

Her breath shook and her chest heaved even as she fought to speak each word with as much calm and gentle patience as she could muster. Yet her pulse still raced and she looked as pale as sea foam. "Can you please sit down?" She asked, looking for the life of her as if she was moments from fainting on the spot.

He opened his mouth to argue; to make some dismissive remark about freedoms. And then he heard her tone. And saw the blood drain from her face. And noticed the fear in her eyes. There was another pale woman, once, a long time ago, who had been this way: terrified of what a man could do. And for reasons that made him sick with rage. Alarmed that he had evoked such a reaction, he stepped backwards and slowly raised his hands in a gesture of peace. His calf hit the side of the cot. He sat heavily on it and adjusted himself so that he was as far away from her as possible. "I am sorry," he said. "That was not my — "

He shook his head earnestly, still horrified that he had caused this. "I will not hurt you or your child. But...you should leave. You know what I am willing to do. I do not wish him to see it."

Chloe took deep reassuring breaths as he sat down and she was able to calm herself. "It's not your fault," she murmured back softly, sighing as Perter immediately attempted to crawl back up to sit with Eln.

"I do know what you are willing to do. But we will sit with you until it is done. If this is truly your resolve...then at least you won't be alone."

Eln gazed somberly at the woman as he processed what she had said. She reminded him of someone, in her quiet stubbornness and resolve. His brother? Perhaps a bit. Little by little, his disdain began to melt away.

But she had forced his hand, in a way. He could not make her leave and take her son. She would not listen to his attempt to protect the boy. Instead, she put it in his hands. And deep down, that frightened him. He looked down at the boy as he tried to climb back up on the cot. He didn't help the little one, but neither did he push him away. It seemed best, at this time, to rest again. To think. To find another way out. In the morning, he would know.

"As you wish," he replied. He lay back down and turned away.

She saw the weariness on his face and sympathized deeply. It was a sensation she knew all too well but one she had been able to set down as well by being welcomed into this community. Her words had been true though. If he wanted to die, then she would ensure he did not do so alone as many she knew had done back home.

Her son had made it back up onto the cot and upon seeing Eln lay down had moved to lay his head on his shoulder, making sleep sounds with closed eyes. Chloe smiles fondly while scooping him up softly and laying him down at Eln's back. The boy immediately curled up, his hands clutching fistfuls of his tunic as his mother wrapped a blanket over them both and tucked them in.

"Rest, you will need it."

He lay perfectly still for a long time, with the tiny child behind him. The boy nodded off eventually, but in spite of his weariness, Eln could not. The child — Perter — had coaxed forth more grief just by nature of being there, and now that grief stuck in his throat and burned at his eyes. He stared at the wall and clenched his jaw and refused to let it surge forth. He was tired of it. Tired of hurting from it. The boy could not have known.

He must have finally slept, for when he awoke again, the warm lump at his back was gone, and so was the woman. He turned carefully over to find a little rattle and another handful of berries laying atop the blanket: offerings to him at the altar of his cot. He did not touch either at first. Instead, he began, slowly, to turn his cage around and around in his mind. To find some other means of escape that was not so obvious...and that would not hurt the boy.

And there was only one. And it felt strange to even consider it. Subterfuge was not his strong suit. He did not lie. But it was the one way out that would protect the little one's heart. He would try. Eln slid the berries into his palm and ate them all in one motion. Then he stood and made his way towards the witch. He had not considered what he might say to her when he reached her, and so he stood quietly for a time as he worked through his thoughts. But he did eventually have it.

"I must apologize," he managed. "You were right. I will stay."

At'Eed had been dozing where she sat by the fire when Eln crawled out of bed and over to her. She blinked glassily at his approach, the translation curtain slowly coming up beside them to allow for understanding.

His apology was met at first with exhausted silence. When she spoke her voice cracked and rasped at first before she was able to warm it enough to speak normally.

"I owe you an apology as well. I am...I have been told I am too blunt. I scared you without proper explanation...and you were also right. So...I am sorry. You deserved better care than that."

She snorted softly to herself. "Clearly I will never be your Bride with how different we are," she attempted at jesting, but the laughter in her voice sounded hollow and weary.

"Did you need something?"

Eln recoiled a little at her apology. He had not expected it. She had done nothing wrong, after all. He doubted that she was the one to sing her own people's laws. She was simply the messenger of them.

He tilted his head in confusion. "You told me my place in your village. You were honest. I told you my wishes just as honestly. I see no reason for an apology," he replied bluntly. He huffed in spite of himself at this latest mention of brides. Had they not heard him? "That was never my intent. It never will be my intent," he reminded her as calmly as he could manage. Truthfully, he hadn't expected this conversation to agitate him as much as it was. He had to assume that it was from lack of eating.

As if she read his thoughts, the witch asked if he needed anything. "No," Eln replied on impulse. "Just to say what I have said." But there were many things that he needed, though he did not know how to ask for them. He thought the witch sounded wearier than even he was. It was best to leave her be for now. With a nod, he turned and hobbled towards the cot again.

"I created a misunderstanding," she corrected, "you are not a slave here."

He hobbled away from her again and for a moment she simply watched before sighing softly and standing herself. "Will you eat now? Or do you still protest your care?"

"You are not a slave here."

He stopped. He did not entirely control his expression before he turned back. He eyed her pensively, but every reply that manifested on his tongue was a bitter one. It would not be wise to argue on the subject, so instead, he said nothing. He did, however, accept her offer of food. "I will eat," he murmured. "I will not protest. Tell me what to cook and I will do it."

She knew that look. At least he was biting his tongue for now. In truth she was far too tired to argue with him and that was assuming she did not get herself removed by her new constant guard. "You will cook nothing. I will see to it that you are cared for," At'Eed replied absent-mindedly shooing him back to his cot before pausing herself. "That is if you even trust. Me. To..."

The woman sighed softly to herself, shaking her head and getting a pot together to warm some bone broth. What kind of healer was she that she couldn't even be trusted? What even was the point of her being here? She was just making things worse for him. At least she was able to help with the translating, as draining as it was, it was a fit punishment. But, to make a man uncomfortable around her, how terrible of her indeed.

It was confusing. All of it was, in truth, but the idea of a woman taking on domestic work was especially jarring. He had said he would do it. Why refuse his help? Why else would they keep him here, if not as a laborer?

He scowled as that word arose again in his mind: bride. And none of them seemed to hear him when he refused it. Yes, he would willingly take death over a cage. But even he would prefer a cage over being used in such a manner. The thought made him ill.

Eln did not budge from where he stood, though he turned to face her as she moved about the room. "I am cared for," he insisted. The residual illness that held stubbornly on within his chest made his claim an unconvincing one. His pallor and weakness from starving himself was also not helping matters. "I am well enough. Let me work. This is not your job."

"It is my job. I am your healer whether you will have me or not and you are my patient whether you behave as one or not. And while you have chosen life in this particular moment, it does not negate how little you have eaten or how you have allowed your chest sickness to worsen. Your job is to get better and prove you actually do want to be better, eventually learn our language and our ways."

She shook her head with huff. "If I breathe too hard in your direction you'll fall over. Rest. Please."

"Hmmmh." Eln grumbled, but he did not argue. She was right, after all. He had strove for death, and in reaching for it, he had become very weak. He could not rightly expect to turn back from this with a spring in his step. Not at his age. "You are like my brother," he muttered finally as he glowered at her. "Stubborn." With that, he turned and made his way to the cot. He sat again. He agreed with her on one point: his job was to regain his strength.

She looked up at him and snorted, unimpressed. "And you are not? Worse than an old goat!"

At'Eed filled a bowl with the clear broth to bring over to him. "Do you have the strength to hold it or shall I spoon feed you as well?"

Eln glared. He knew very well that it was a jab. The witch was skilled at knowing just where to prod. He did not know why she sought to rile him when at the same time she clearly harbored regret. Either way, she was the only healer that he knew of in this village. He needed her help. So, while gracing her with a withering stare, he calmly took the bowl from her hands. He inclined his head in thanks. "I do," he replied through gritted teeth.

The witch had spoken of trust. It was true that he still did not entirely trust her or her concoctions. That was a shard of his past that yet remained, encased in scar tissue, to be buried there beneath flesh and bone until he passed on from this world. Nothing the woman could do would pry it back out again. And, in a way, it did not matter now what she gave him. These people would do to him what they wanted, until such time as he could defend himself.

He drank of the broth.

At'Eed nodded as if his glare meant nothing to her. He was a surely sort, she had dealt with worse. Once she had confirmed he was alright drinking the broth, she stepped back from him to give him the space he preferred.

"You can eat the berries if you wish but slowly. Your stomach is unused to proper meals for now and making you sicker would be counter-productive.

"When you're done you can rest more. I'm sure your little friend will be back in the morning to play with you too so you won't be alone for long."

At the mention of Perter, a fleeting sadness flashed across his face and was gone. "...Yes," he replied. In time, he finished the broth, set the bowl on the floor, and lay back down. He would do as she told him. It was the easiest path forward.

Time passed and with Eln's cooperation, At'Eed was finally able to coax his body back into good health. With his lungs clear and his leg stable she loosed him back on the village to integrate and learn. 

Perter and his mother came every day to visit and with Eln allowed to wander the village they often walked with him. Each day the toddler grew and experienced more and more of the world in his own childlike wonder. Eln's was often tugged along to look at shells or crabs or small bugs as the child babbled along. And as the days passed some of those babblings started to translate with the help of At'Eed's water magic.

For her part the healer kept her distance with Eln in better health. Although she still proved to be some talk of the town. She had apparently become quite forgetful lately or was far more prone to making mistakes than she ever had been before. A tincture she made weekly for the netmaker her son was apprenticed to was late two weeks in a row by several days and the cough syrup for another child had been missing the important ingredient to actually help soothe the coughing. Some of the village spoke quietly in concern while others questioned the safety of allowing her to continue. 

Moons had passed since he first came to this place. Even the dead of winter was mild here, and his bones thanked him for it. Begrudgingly, he admitted to himself that the witch's work played a part in it, too. By spring, he would be well enough to travel again. He needed only to watch and wait until these people dropped their guard.

It had become clear to him, in the meantime, that he was not a slave to them. They did not work him like an animal, nor did they offer him to their men as he'd suspected they would. But neither was he free to leave. He wanted for nothing within the cage. For their kindness, he regretted leaving them. Had they not insisted on keeping him there, and watched his every move, he might have stayed of his own volition. But it was still a cage, and this he could not abide.

The men of the village — those who were not paired off — lived on the sands by the water. He was told he could live among them. Part of him thought it made sense. It was how he had lived before, back with his own people. But the sky there was far too vast, and the air still smelled foreign. The sand blew into his nose and ears and eyes. The salt and the wind tangled his hair. He decided then to stay in the longhouse until he made his escape...even if it did mean that he was under the watchful eye of the witch. Though, as of late, she had seemed much less attentive. Perhaps grief ate at her, too.

He had hoped that, in time, the jagged edges of his memories would wear smooth. They did not. The burden would not lift, and in the absence of good sleep, he displayed the short-temperedness and impatience of a man half his age. He grew desperate for reprieve from his own mind. It was for this reason, on this day, that he sat by the bonfire and whittled a spell-totem. His knife — one he had made himself, in another time — glinted in the daylight. Every so often, he glanced up and scanned the scene, hoping both for and against Perter's appearance.

A whoop went up through the village as a group of six gills led by a seven gill trotted back into the village. Waquin'i and the others had been gone for some time now but appeared in good and rather healthy spirits. The young man for his part was grinning even as his lip was swollen and eye blackened.

Wives and children came out to see their husbands and fathers or friends poked fun at each other. The village proved safe from nefarious Tinines once more! Perter on his little toddler legs waddle-ran across the sand, tumbling many times happily until he was scooped up and spun around in his father's arms. The family embraced, and the man said something that made his wife's pale cheeks flame so deeply those by the fire surely could see them.

Waquin'i for his part trotted over and flopped down in the sand beside Eln.

"You're out today!" he cried in cheerful greeting. "What do they have you doing today?"

Eln turned reluctantly away from the sight of that happy family and nodded a greeting to Wakine. "Doing?" he asked. He looked down at the half-finished effigy in his calloused palms. "Nothing now. Earlier, it was cleaning fish." He set his work aside and watched the warriors as they dispersed through the village. Clearly, there had been a victory. Even if there hadn't, these folk seemed to revel in spilt blood. Eln eyed Wakine's wounds. He was glad for the company. "Your enemy," he began. "Who are they? Why do you fight them?"

"The Tinine, Foxes," he replied excitedly. "They are Adelans like we are but from a different territory as we are I'kanans. We do trade sometimes as they control our rivers further inland but sometimes we fight instead. They are not always so honest and like to try and extort more from us than was agreed. And we well," Waquin'i grinned toothily, wincing slightly and touching his sore lip, "we love our blood pumping. So we reminded them why we are not to be toyed with."

Looking over at Eln with a wink he asked, "sooooo how's Perter.~"

"Hmm." Eln ignored Wakine's question, though he did turn back towards the bonfire to watch the boy and his father. "My people were much the same, I think," he said instead. "And that was me, once." He motioned towards the one who had led the party. "These border skirmishes...the stakes are low. You return to your families. You return with your lives. A man of your years can seek a kind of thrill in it. You showed me as much when we met."

He met Wakine's gaze again with a thousand-yard stare of his own. "Take care that it goes no further."

Waquin'i shrugged. "This time it was bloodless. Next time who knows. At least there is honor and I am no coward to my people or my family....even if I am a klutz," he added, the words sounding muffled in the end as the translation spell wavered and the water rippled.

"What are you making?"

Eln frowned up at the water. It had floated there for weeks, now — an ever-present reminder of the witch's magic. He did not know why she kept it there. Surely she did not care that he could understand those around him. Surely she also found little pleasure in arguing with him. Truthfully, as he grew accustomed to this way of communicating, he had often forgotten about the pane. Yet now that it rippled and shimmered before him, he wondered...

"What are you making?" asked the man. Eln looked down at the spell-totem.

"An owl," he said. It was more than that. It would soak in his blood and catch aflame and take his dreams and his memories with it to the sky, but...it was a personal matter. He did not wish to elaborate any further. He changed the subject again. "Wakine. Your people — I-ka-nan. They give me children's tasks. Soft tasks." He picked up the knife and the effigy and resumed his whittling as he pieced together what he wanted to say. When he had it, he looked back up at the man. "If I am not to be useful, then there is no sense in keeping me here. I build. I work metal. I hunt. I...fight," he added hesitantly. "So let me be useful."

"Pretty," he responded while looking at the owl before listening to Eln's complaints. 

"I'kanan," he corrected. "And they are important tasks. If you are unhappy then we can find something that suits you better. How are your language lessons going? At this rate the toddler is going to be waxing poetic before you even learn how to say your first words," Waquin'i teased, nudging him in the side with his elbow. 

He smiled softly though with his shark-like teeth covered. "I would like it if you joined us on the hunts. It would be nice to have a friend."

The jab was warranted. It was true: half to push the child away and half because of the witch's magic, Eln had not sought to learn much more of their language. He could have. He should have, if only to make his escape easier. "Aye," he muttered. "You speak true."

The water rippled again, and as Wakine spoke, his words became garbled. For a time he made no sense at all. Then the ripple stopped, and Eln understood him again. He frowned. If the witch's spell faltered...was she simply asleep? At this hour, would she be? The water had been steady even when he awoke at night in a cold sweat. So what was happening? "At-Id," he muttered, and rose to his feet. He stowed the knife and dropped the half-hewn totem in his pocket. "I do not know enough a yita iva. Yei yaso like so?"

"What?" Waquin'i asked, not having put two and two together yet to understand that the spell was faltering. "Can you repeat that, I didn't get it."

He stood as well and was about to say more when two things suddenly happened simultaneously. The wall of water fell with a sudden splash into the sand, completely cutting off translated communication for the village and Eln. At the same time there was a soft thud in the sand and a sharp, concerned cry of At'Eed's name as a woman ran up to check on her.

Others began to gather about the unconscious woman in concern. It seemed she had passed out on the spot. Waquin'i also without waiting to see if Eln would follow jogged to see what had happened.

They had removed her veil to give her some cool air but were shocked by what they found. Her normally warm brown skin looked pale and yellowish. Her eyes were rimmed with even darker circles and appeared deeply sunken in while she was ice cold to the touch. Her breathing was shallow but present and her heart raced within her chest. Something was very, very much not right here. 

Wakine grew more and more garbled, and then, like a cloth dropped, the water fell from where it hung in the air and splashed across his boots. "Pasket," Eln swore. It was half, selfishly, because he knew that he was shut away again behind his own tongue. And half because —

There came a cry from the other side of the bonfire, and Wakine dashed away without a second thought. Eln glanced wildly about, seeking the source of the commotion, until he found it: the witch had crumpled to the ground, and the villagers now gathered around her. He followed Wakine's path around the fire, cursing himself for not seeing to her sooner. He'd seen the water falter. He should have known that she was not well.

Through the cracks between the villagers' shoulders, he could just make out her limp form. In the time since he had last seen her face, she had changed dramatically for the worse. She looked starved. Exhausted. Was she ill? Why had she not kept herself in better health, the way that she had taken care of him? He didn't understand.

It was clear, though, that she needed care and rest. It would not do to have her laid out on the bare ground, exposed to the elements, with half the village hovering. Eln tried to remember their words — at least, enough to make them understand. "Move," he commanded, and pushed gently between the villagers. "I — At-Id — house." He wedged his hands beneath her, took a fortifying breath, and hoisted her up off the sand. His knee protested the weight. He ignored it. At-Id was cool to the touch. She hung limp like a dead animal. His concern deepened. He staggered towards the longhouse.

Some of the villagers stepped back to make way for Eln, while others watched him warily. Chloe however was quick to step to his side, instructing others to move, to gather supplies to care of At'Eed, and even her own husband to take care of Perter while she herself held open the door curtain for Eln to enter the communal longhouse without needing to let go of the sickly woman. Waquin'i was hot on his heels and pulled out blankets and pillows to lay her own the floor by the fire.

"She is like death," he commented, flinching at the touch of her icy skin as he tried to brush her hair out of her face that had fallen out of her buns. Chloe grunted softly as she felt the woman's pulse and shook her head, lips pressed tightly together. "Eln. Blanket. Bring," she commanded with unusual authority while pointing at one of the extra blankets behind the older man and then motioning it to be brought to her. "Waquin'i boil water. We need to get her warm first." The woman began rubbing one of At'Eed's hands between her own, trying to stimulate increased bloodflow to her limbs in hopes of warming her up.

The woman — Perter's mother — seemed to understand his intent. She knew what to do. How to delegate tasks to the men. He was grateful for her guidance, for he had never paid much attention to medicine work. And he had never regretted his ignorance of it more than in this very moment.

He cast an admonishing glance at the unconscious witch. Why had At-Id not said anything? Were these people punishing her so harshly for allowing him to run back out into the storm? No...that wasn't it. Not by the concern on their faces. She had done this to herself, somehow. Or, if she had not done it directly, she had simply allowed it to happen — like he had tried, and failed, to do. She had only hidden it better because of the veil.

"Eln. Blanket. Bring." Eln snapped to attention. She was right: this was no time to wonder why, or how. They had to fix this. He followed her gesture until he understood what she was asking for, nodded, and hurried to fetch the thing. When he returned, he laid it over At-Id. It was not enough. Hastily, he unclasped his cloak, knelt, and tucked the fur trim snug around her head and shoulders. Then he sought firewood and brought that back as well, and began to stoke it hotter.

Wakine had found a water basket and filled it. Eln had seen enough of how these people made their food to know the process, and shoved the dry cooking stones under the coals to heat. By now, the adrenaline had worked into his veins, and as he stood back, his eyes began to water. What was next? What more could he do?

Chloe admittedly did not know much of what to do to help, but was operating solely on instinct. The woman before her was cold, so she would warm her. Once warm...well maybe she would wake by then and they could ask At'Eed what to do. While she would not openly admit it, she was scared. Chloe had never seen the healer, an always independent, strong force to be reckoned with, brought so low. Even with the loss of her husband, even with the worst storms that drove her to want to sink beneath the waves, never had she not stood tall and proud for who and what she was. To see At'Eed weak and sick like this...

"Eln warm her," she instructed pointing at what she was doing and then to At'Eed's other arm as she continued to try and massage the healer. Her own eyes filled with unrealized tears as she fought to keep herself calm. It was only when the village elder's wife entered and she was made to look up at her did she realize how blinded she was by them. Chloe paused long enough only to nod to the older woman before turning back to her task.

"How did this come to pass?" the grey-haired elder asked, kneeling down with surprising agility beside Eln. The woman placed her hand over At'Eed's brow and sighed. "Stubborn cousin to the end." Chloe could only shake her head as she wiped at her eyes with the back of her wrist.

More instructions. Good. It was better to have something to do. To be useful. To ward off this nagging feeling that somehow, he was to blame for this. Yes, she was a witch. But she had been kind enough, and patient, and she had dealt with his moods. She did not deserve this — he knew that much.

Eln worked on At-Id's other arm as he had been told. All the while, his face fell further, and the color drained from his cheeks. He could not stand to look at her. At how close to death she seemed. My fault, he thought again. He still did not know why.

He barely registered it when an elder entered. Their clan mother? He bowed his head out of courtesy, horns dipping low, and found a pebble on the floor on which to focus. He understood little of what was said, though it was clear that this elder asked the same questions that swirled in his mind. He kept up the work until the newcomer knelt beside him, and then made sufficient room for her at the cost of stopping. At-Id's cold fingers slipped from his and fell back to the blanket. Instead, he stood, left the women to their discussion, and circled the fire to check on the rocks with Wakine.

Waquin'i bobbed his head at Eln looking every bit on edge and anxious. He flipped his hands in a manner that suggested 'what can we do?' and shrugged while biting at his already injured lip. When the stones were ready he collected them carefully and popped them in the bowls of water to warm it even as his feet bounced with every second he was allowed to be idle. He was a warrior not a healer. He didn't do well with the stillness of the unknown when it held none of the anticipation of his own survival.

A groan broke the quiet mutterings of the women and sent Waquin'i nudging Eln towards them. He was both eager and afraid to look and used Eln as a shield as he tried to get them both to draw closer.

At'Eed blinked blearily and croaked for water which Chloe was quick to collect. In the meantime she attempted to struggle to sit up while also raising a very wobbly, heavily rippling wall of water for Eln. "I'm fine," she rasped trying to wave the others off to no avail.

She came back to them, and so did the water. Eln let go of the breath he did not know that he held. He knew that her full recovery remained to be seen, but at least for now she was safe from that place between life and death. His nerves, however, had not yet come to accept that the danger had passed, and it took every effort to remain as calm as he did. His eyes narrowed at the water wall. It moved as it had just before the witch collapsed. It was as though she carried a great boulder, and if she did not focus on that task, it would drop to the ground. Was that why...?

His stomach sank. He refused to believe it, but he had to know, now. He turned back to address her. "You are not," he countered. He kept his voice as low and as even as he could manage in the presence of Perter's mother, but fear bled through nonetheless. "You cannot dance around the truth when so many have seen it. Be honest — if not to me, then to your own people. What is happening?"

At'Eed rolled her eyes and turned her head away from him as she sipped water. "I said I am fine," she insisted roughly, refusing to meet any of their eyes.

The elder however did not believe her for a moment and bopped her lightly on the head. "You were overdoing it with your magic again just like when you were a little girl. Do you think just because I am old I have forgotten your antics child? You are not fine. What have you been doing to cause such sickness to this extent?"

"Nothing strenuous."

The elder popped her on the top of the head again. "How long have you been holding that?" She asked pointing at the water. "Every time I look it is up. You cannot make a Bride want to belong, At'Eed. Either he will or he will not but it is his duty to learn. Yours to teach. Not to enable." The woman grunted in frustration and shook her head as she struggled to her feet. 

"See to it that At'Eed rests. She is forbidden out of bed except for necessities. Complete bedrest until she stops looking like a corpse. Am I understood?"

Chloe and Waquin'i nodded quickly even as At'Eed repeatedly squawked in protest. Her indignation was ignored as the elder shook her head and muttered about stubborn children even as she exited the longhouse. 

So it was true. The wall of water was a boulder. She carried it simply so that he might understand her people. Why? Her energy was better spent on any other task. On any other person. He ground his teeth and bit his tongue and forced his temper back.

A part of him wished that he had not heard what the elder had to say about him. Yes, it was the truth — he would not deny it. But she seemed to know, as though she saw through his ribs and into the heart of him, that he stood on that threshold. That he hesitated on it. That he wanted a place to belong, and wanted it with such a deep desperation that, if he let that force consume him, he might willingly stay in the cage.

But that was not the matter at hand. Eln bowed his head just long enough for the woman to pass. Then he lifted it again, gave Perter's mother and Wakine a curt nod, and approached the witch. He did not kneel this time, but stood above her, nails digging into his palms and lips pursed.

"Drop it," he said. "Drop the water. Now."

"No," she replied, looking at him like he was clearly insane and sipping more of her water. When still he glowered over her though she drew some of the water up from the bowl in a small stream and purposely flicked it at him to splash in his face.

Who did he think he was? Ordering her about as if he was her father or cared about her. After all the trouble he gave her when she tried to take care of him and this was how he got his petty revenge? At'Eed felt too tired to deal with him properly. All she wanted was to curl up in her own bed and sleep.

Eln blinked, lifted a hand, and wiped the water from his eyes. He dropped his arm back to his side, took in a breath to calm himself, and let it out. "Your clan mother was right," he opined. He opened his mouth to say more: to call her a child, and admonish her for this stubborn nonsense. But it would do no good to start a spat. Not here, in front of a woman whom he frightened with his mere presence. Not with the witch, who could not fool any of them with her feigned resilience.

"I do not need this. I do not want this," he murmured instead, gesturing to the water. "And more than that: I am not worthy of this. Certainly not at such a cost." He shot a brief, pleading glance at the others and wondered if the witch might listen to them instead. "I will stay. I will learn. You've done enough. Let it go."

"She is not my mother," At'Eed retorted back prickly. A heavy sigh escaped her though as she gracelessly slumped back to let down again. Her voice was weary but lacked her usual venom for him. 

"You already hate us, we who want so desperately to be your people. How could I take away the only connection you would afford us? The only one that reminded you, you are not alone? You are worthy of not being alone, Eln. Even when you hate us for trying to help."

At'Eed closed her eyes and after taking a deep breath, sent the wall tumbling down like rain onto the floor beside her. Eln could lecture her another time. All she wanted was to crawl into her own bed and away from all the prying eyes. 

Eln began to argue, only for her to drop the wall at last. He looked as though he had been slapped: jaw unhinged, eyes wide and grief plain. There were so many things that he suddenly wished he could say. He had never meant to hurt any of them, but in keeping his distance, it seemed that he had done just that. "Nai nuhi va tuhu," he said. I do not hate you. He knew that she would not understand him. None of them would. He said it anyway. "Th...thank...you," he added, stumbling over the foreign sounds. "Thank you...water. Thank you...sleep."

And now, she needed rest. True rest, without the water wall. And he would make certain that this stubborn, short-sighted woman had it. He looked between the other two, motioned to the witch, then to the fire, then to a cot. "Sleep fire? Sleep dirt? Or...that?"

At'Eed motioned her hand at him as if to brush off his thanks in that they were unnecessary but otherwise ignored the ongoings of the others around her. Waquin'i for his part placed a hand on Eln's shoulder giving it an understanding pat but like no one else in the room, did not deny the claims.

Chloe however could not help but smile at Eln, her hand covering her pointed teeth. "Bed," she supplied helpfully while also pointing at the cot. She then shook her head, making sure to speak and enunciate slowly while motioning for the different things she said. "No bed here. But should At'Eed stay in the house," she motioned a house with a pointed roof, "or in At'Eed's home?" she used both hands to to form upside-down 'U's' side by side before rotating them outward until her fingertips touched much like the domed homes of the other villagers.
"She needs rest and care." The woman sighed, her brow knit in concern. "We do not have another healer. But is rest enough?"

Waquin'i shrugged. "Voeheva'e did not seem worried. If At'Eed worsens we can ask then? Can you not sit with her?"

She shook her head. "At'Eed needs sleep. Perter would keep her awake. He does not know stillness yet. It is almost time for winter fishing. Soon the boats will be going out and there will be fewer here to tend to all tasks." Chloe looked to Eln in contemplation though. Perhaps there was someone who could help though. "Eln help?"

Eln followed their conversation to the best of his ability. The signing helped. Still, he cursed himself for not learning more while he had had the chance. It would be even more difficult, now, without the water wall, but he would be damned to let the witch use it again. It was not her place to try to solve his self-imposed isolation at the cost of her own life. He still did not understand why.

"Eln help?" the woman asked. Yes. Of course he would. He was to blame for At-Id's languishing health. He was responsible for nursing her back — and for preventing her from doing such a foolish thing again. He had thought it apparent. "Yes," he replied. "Wakine — " he gestured to the witch, and stooped as if to lift her off the ground. It would be safer for the both of them to carry her. And it would be better for her to recover in her own home and with her own son.

Waquin'i nodded and then misunderstanding Eln, just scooped At'Eed up entirely as if she was but a small child and not a full grown woman. "Come Eln," he beckoned with his head as he carried her out of the longhouse and across the sands to her own home. There they were met by her worried son who Waquin'i quietly shooed away while placing the frail woman in her own bed and tucking her in.

"Eln can you stay with At'Eed. Make sure she stays? Bring her food, water if she needs? I and others will be right outside if you need something, yes? Leave the door open so we can see. You feel safe?" The young man continued signing as much as he could to try and explain his point. "Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

Wakine did not understand him, but the effect was the same: At-Id went home where she belonged. Eln did not argue with the man for wanting to carry her there. If the village thought him so unpleasant, it was no wonder that they were hesitant for him to lift her before. As Wakine tucked her into bed, Eln made himself useful, again stoking a hotter fire and preparing the cooking stones. He fetched water in At-Id's basket and set it aside. Then he laid his cloak, which he had snatched up from the Bride House floor, around her head again to keep her heat in, and found a spot to sit nearby.

As Wakine babbled, he tried to understand the man, but he did not follow much of it. Eln. Stay. Food. Water. Door. He nodded. Yes, he would care for her. He had already agreed to it...though he did not know what Wakine wanted him to do with the door. The man asked him questions, but without the water wall, he could not comprehend them enough to answer. He glanced from the witch to Wakine and made an apologetic face. "I stay. I food, I...water At-Id. I...fire." What more could he say?

Ah, without At'Eed's assistance things were proving a bit more difficult. Waquin'i had deeply taken it for granted how much the translation spell had aided in their communication. Without it gone he was struggling. He could only imagine how miserable it was making Eln.

He contemplated the matter while pinning the door flap up and out of the doorway before turning to face Eln. "Eln take care of At'Eed but Eln eat? Eln drink? Eln need....care...from Waquin'i?"

The man finally made sense, though it took Eln a moment to string the words together in his head. "N...no," he said. He would care for himself and the woman both, and her son if the stubborn whelp allowed it. "Wakine..." He released a heavy sigh and rubbed wearily at his eyes. His friend knew as well as he did how egregious this mistake was, and how much weight he would need to pull to fix it, yet he still showed Eln unwavering kindness. "Thank you."

There was a finality to how he said it that left no room for fussing or arguing. Wakine had done enough. Eln leaned against the wall and sighed again. He would wait for the rocks to heat.

Waquin'i did his best to offer a sympathetic smile. "I'll bring food," he added, choosing to ignore Eln's statement that it was unnecessary. Unaware of Eln's desire to repent for his belief that he was entirely to blame, the younger man was simply determined to ensure his friend was well-cared for and not slipping back into old habits to refuse food while feeling big emotions. "I'll be back soon."

With him gone, At'Eed finally peeked an eye open and sighed heavily. "Eln. Go. I'm fine."

Wakine did not listen, but again, there was no harm in it. As soon as the man had left the house, the witch came to again and spoke to him. He turned to look at her, and as he did, his guilt was plain. But so, too, was her stubbornness. He did not know what fine meant, but he could guess. And he understood enough of the rest to know that she was attempting to shoo him away. Either she did not grasp the seriousness of the situation, or she did not care if she passed from it. She was a danger to herself regardless. It was imperative that she be watched. "Hmm," Eln grunted skeptically. "No. You no...fine. Sleep."

She snorted deeply at his demand before pushing herself to sit up and attempting to push the covers off herself. His cloak was collected and neatly folded. "Yes, At'Eed fine. Eln go now." At'Eed flapped her hand at him trying to shoo him off once more. "Bye-bye."

"No," Eln repeated. "No fine." He said it calmly: a simple fact. She was deathly ill. In no sense was she as well as she thought. He gestured in a circle around his face, and then mimed bags beneath his eyes. Then he stood, found a bowl, and dipped it in the water basket. He offered it to her, circling his face again and gesturing at it. Let her see for herself how poor her health had become.

She raised a brow, clearly unimpressed with him and his approach. But, for all his efforts she did look at her reflection in the bowl. There was no shock or horror that passed her features, only a deepening weariness. At'Eed saw her grief and her aging from it in the water.

She splashed the surface and reached to pull her veil back up only to start to twist and turn in panic when she could not find it. The woman patted the bedding around her, yanking up the covers frantically to no avail before scanning the room in desperation. 

"My veil, my veil," she spoke to him motioning the covering over her head and looking vulnerable and perhaps even afraid. At'Eed had no way of knowing Chloe had confiscated it and would not be returning it any time soon. She trembled and paled further with anxiety while trying to stand wobbly so that she might search for it herself.

He shook his head. "No," he replied solemnly. "No...veil." But his quiet demeanor changed abruptly as she tried to stand. From where he stood, he could easily catch her if she fell, but he was reluctant to force her back to bed. He held his hands out in protest but took great care not to touch her. "At-Id, no. Yese. Sleep. V...veil...go..." In his panic, he strained to remember the right word. "...gone," he managed. "No veil."

At'Eed collapsed back into the bed, her head in her hand as she started to cry. It didn't last long though as she struggled to pull herself together. Her breaths shuddered in her chest with each exhale but soon enough she was a bit calmer albeit much more tired. 

Remembering the bowl still balanced in her hand, she sipped at it before dipping her fingers into it and drawing it up into the telltale wall again. 

"Why do you care? I'm fine. Go, I do not need your pity and attention. I know I am not a welcome sight to you, Eln."

The woman was inconsolable, and he did not know what to do. There was nothing he could do. He was not her mate, or her family. By how she flung words at him, he was not even her friend, though he had sought intentionally to keep it as such. Then she moved towards the bowl, and he started towards her. "At-Id, no," Eln insisted, but it was too late. She had done the water magic again, and said more, and now he did not know whether to answer or to protest. He took a breath, hands still outstretched, cautioning her against any more rash actions.

"This is not pity, At-Id. It is fear of that which I have caused with my own negligence. I have...I have lost too many. So you will rest, and I will stay to be certain of it. Now drop the water. Please." His voice was calm until the very end, but in that last word, it began to crack.

At'aeed took another slow sip before setting the bowl only down by her bedside table. She patted the furs beside her even as she moved to lay back down and burrow into the covers. 

"Sit. Keep me company then. It makes managing easier when you are close. You can tell me how you think this is your fault," she sighed heavily like a mother who cared but was at her wit's end. 

He worked through a hundred little thoughts, and all of them showed: first anxiety, then sorrow, then hesitance. Her request went against every instinct. He did not wish to be close to a witch. He still did not wish to form any bonds in any way, for they would break when he left. He had no interest in explaining himself. And she was not to use the water.

But nothing he had done was working. Nothing he had said to the woman seemed to make a difference. He had served only to cause more harm, until he had driven her to collapse. So perhaps there was wisdom in setting instinct aside and allowing her her way. "If I do this," he asked as he lowered himself to the cot, "will you rest after?"

"I am already resting," she countered, moving her legs to allow him more space without her too close to him. "If you're concerned that I'll keel over on the spot or worse; try to take advantage of you and kiss you or more, you needn't worry. I have no interest in such things."

At'Eed snorted softly to herself. "Although if you go running off into the rain again I'm not taking the blame this time."

Eln shot the witch an alarmed glance over his shoulder, then looked quickly away. He chose to ignore the rest of her comments, for even the mere thought made him queasy. He found no humor in it. "Real rest," he elaborated as he focused on the fire instead. "Without the water magic." What she said about his running stuck with him, though, and he pondered it. "Why would they blame you? You should not be blamed. I make my own choices. It was my choice to run."

At'Eed caught the alarmed look and shook her head slightly at him. She really wasn't going to harm him. But once again it seemed her words had spooked him. They were going to need to let him go elsewhere tomorrow and not corner him in here with her. All she seemed to do was horrify and traumatize him no matter how unintentional it was.

"It was my words that sent you running though. I seem to be very good at upsetting you," she sighed, dragging her pillow down closer to her chest and head to hug. "I don't think there had been a single conversation between us where you haven't looked at me in horror or disgust. Many times both. I don't know why you insist on being here."

It was as though another veil had dropped, and he saw her wholly for the first time, not as an echo of the witch of his past, but as a person. His fear was hurting her. This was plain. Yet he would not answer the question that she left unspoken: why did he fear her? Looking at her now, she did deserve to understand. But he had never spoken of it to anyone. He could not bear to dredge it up. Not now. No. It would go with him to the sky when he passed on. But there was another way.

"Perter's mother," Eln said. "Ke...Kelowi? She fears men, and what men can do. There was a day...a conversation between us...and I stood to move the boy. And she thought I was the one who had struck that fear into her. I know the look. I could see it on her face. In...in her eyes." He gazed down at At-Id. There was a twitch at his nostril as he held the weight of his regret at bay. "My sister was the same. She was nine. My..."

He looked down at his worn and calloused hands as though they held the answers. "My wife was the same," he murmured. There came a long pause as he wrested control of it all. Then he clenched a fist and returned his baleful gaze to her. "The past has a way of staining things," he finished. "My disgust is not of you. You have done nothing wrong. But I have. So I will stay, and I will see that this does not happen again."

He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. "Drop the water," he added.

"Chloe, aye," At'Eed nodded her head. "She was worse when she was brought here. It is not said but I do not think even the one who wished to make her Bride was even interested in such a thing. A woman just recognizes when another woman is in trouble and she sought to make it better for Chloe. She thrives here though, once she learned she need not fear. And she chose this life, this husband, this child."

The woman smiled fondly at the memory. "He did not know what to do with her. There was this little two gill chasing after him in the sand every day with her skirts and her smiles and her red faces. And when she was ready she begged him to take her as his Bride. Not tradition, but that came later, and he still made her wait just to be sure. But they are happy. It does not erase the pain. She still jumps when a man is angry or moves too quickly. But she is happy and we protect her to the last breath as our own."

She sighed and rolled to her back, bending her knees up so her feet rest on the bed and she could look at him. "We hear many lies about us as a people because of our ways. And our history has made us into monsters to some extent. We are a proud people and we are fighters every last one of us. But, I do not think we are any more monsters than the next man, woman, or child. We love, we eat, we play, we fight, we die. We just want to live a good life.

"This thing you fear--the...helplessness? I feel it too. It is my duty to keep our people alive. To tend to their wounds. To contain sickness. And yet babies have died in my arms, men have drowned, a plague nearly destroyed our entire village one year. We lost three healers to it and I was the last. For every person I save I have lost plenty more. Do I owe them penance too, Eln? Or is living better enough for those we have loved and lost?"

"Hmm," Eln said.

He held his tongue on much of it — in particular, the matter of these I-ka-nans snatching others and keeping them. One could capture wolves and try to raise their cubs, but there would always be one who gnawed at his cage and refused to be tamed. It was good that Kelowi had found happiness here, and safety. It was still a cage.

Still, there was wisdom in much that At-Id had said. In many ways, her people were like his. They wanted what he wanted. They had lost as he had lost. And she did not owe penance for the dead, though...the comparison did not parallel his own circumstances.

"You owe them your health," he replied. "And you do not have it. Drop the water, At-Id."

"I owe them? Or I owe you? I gave them my husband. I owe them nothing more." 

She reached for the bowl on the beside table and held it out to him. "More water please. 

"What are you even going to do here, Eln? Watch me sleep? You should go play with Perter. I'm sure he misses you."

"Are you done healing for your people?" he asked as he stood and fetched another bowl of water. "Did you not tell me that you look out for each other always? And yet you would abandon them for...this?" He gestured dismissively at the floating pane. His delivery was even, but his eyes betrayed it: he knew that the witch was going around in circles again. He offered her the bowl again. "Yes. I will sit and I will watch you sleep. And I will make you eat. If you want to be rid of me quickly, then drop the water."

"Thank you," she murmured sitting up enough so she could guzzle the water down greedily. It was passed back to him with a nod for more.

"You can stop ordering me to drop the water. I will when I'm good and ready and no amount of your ordering will change that. The water helps though so thank you."

Watching him bring her more she paused accepting the bowl as she looked up at him. "It is good to see you more comfortable with speaking your mind though. Even if it is to oppose me."

Eln obediently fetched her more, returned, and sat on the cot again. Was he more comfortable? His guard seemed to have dropped. He felt less alone than he had for a very long time. He wondered why. "I said you were like my brother," he explained. "And I meant it. You are stubborn and you dance around what I say. You will not listen to reason. This is not new to me." He shook his head and rubbed his face. His palms brushed the beard that he had given up on cutting. "He was a medicine man, too," he mumbled. "Are all healers this way?"

"I dance around what you say? Or I don't do what you say?" At'Eed smirked up at him as she took the bowl and settled, drinking slower. "I genuinely do not intend to be complicated. But, I do imagine most healers are indeed very stubborn."

She chuckled softly and shook her head taking another sip. "We are expected to know and to care and in a way to lead. We're not allowed to hesitate or to show uncertainty. We must always keep our patient's and their family's hearts in mind. Even when we know it is the end, we must bear the weight the most. And," she smirked, "we make the worst patients. He was like this too?"

At-Id described a healer's duties the way Eln imagined any woman's were. It was a way of leading, as she had said. But whether or not she meant it, he maintained that she was stubborn. And a goatherd knew stubborn. As she asked after Ven, though, he thought he might have said too much. The young man had been a terrible patient, yes. But to explain why would mean delving into things that he had wanted to forget. Things he had done. Regrets, and...

"Yes," he said. "he was." He lowered his hands and blinked blearily over at her. "Drop the water."

She giggled deeply at his request, the sound light and full as she grinned and covered her mouth in true joy and amusement. The sound however startled her as she realized she was laughing and suddenly tears welled in her horrified eyes and the laughter stopped. At'Eed turned her head to look away from him as the saltwater flowed without stop.

When had she last laughed? When had she last felt happy and joy at such an innocent statement? When had she felt anything other than grief or the all-consuming icy numbness of despair? She thought those tears had long since stopped and yet now they raced down her cheeks in burning lines at fresh, aching wounds.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Eln's surprise became alarm as his charge began to sob. He froze. He knew how to comfort the women of his house, or his wife, or a child. He did not know what to do for this foreign witch. What did she need? How should he calm her? Ven had always been better than he in these situations. What would his brother do?

Tea. Ven made tea.

In a panic, he stood abruptly, strode to the fire, and clumsily shifted the cooking rocks into the basket. Then, with an equal lack of grace or tact, he began to dig through the witch's herbs, knocking some to the floor. "No," he managed. "Do not be sorry for grief." But try as he might, he could not find it. Perhaps it did not grow here. "A tall plant," he said. "It has...long leaves. Pink flowers. It smells of fruit. We call it fireweed. Is it here, in your medicines?" He shot her an anxious look to see if she was still weeping.

At'Eed stared at him with furrowed brow and teary eyes as he rummaged through and wreaked havoc on her stores. Shock turned to consternation and then to confusion as he continued to search and asked after a plant whose name she did not recognize.

"Wha--fireweed? Um no I have never heard of....perhaps--will you please take more care with my things, you are knocking everything over," she sighed with the same disappointed acceptance of an exhausted new mother.

Attempting to struggle to her feet and out of bed, At'Eed pointed to one of the lower shelf. "We call it willowherb here if it is the same."

Eln ignored her fussing and motioned for her to sit back down. "No. Sit. I will right it." He followed her pointed finger to the basket in question, pulled it from the shelf, and sniffed it. A powerful nostalgia rippled through him: countless moments spent warming up by the hearth, a steaming cup in hand. "Yes. This." He set the little pine-needle basket aside and carefully replaced everything that he had knocked to the floor. Then he set to work on the tea...at least, to the best of his ability. What he eventually poured and handed to her was likely not the correct preparation, but it would still serve to calm her. When he returned, he sat on the floor beside the bed, eyes still wide with worry that she might cry again.

At'Eed stared down into the cup feeling the heat of the earthenware seep into her hands and spread upwards. Her eyes slid from the cup to his face as he looked at her expectantly as if she would combust at any moment. A tentative sniff followed by a sip and she hummed softly with a nod of her head.

"Thank you...your brother taught you well."

The healer pressed the warmed cup against her brow, letting the heat do wonders on her aching head. "I am sorry for startling you so. I...," she stared down at her skirts again and sighed. "I can't remember when I laughed last. It caught me offguard."

"Do not be sorry for grief," he repeated. Once it seemed like the worst had passed, he settled into place and leaned back against the wall until his horns stopped him. He released a heavy sigh and stared up at the ceiling. "Nor could I."

Then he eyed her, and said, without a hint of irony or awareness: "You are exhausted. Drop the water."

Quietly sipping more of the tea, she simply observed him as he rested against the wall. There was a man who grieved, who regretted, who was as stubborn and unrelenting as the sea, but who was also just as weary as he was humanoid.

"Will you rest if I do?"

Eln considered the question carefully. "I will stay here and watch the fire," he admitted. "But in that I am here with little else to do, I will rest in between." He shifted and peered out the open doorway. "Your son. Will he take poorly to my presence?"

"Make yourself some tea and there are extra blankets over there," At'Eed pointed to an opposite wall. "I will not run off into the sands if you rest. As for my son..." She sighed and shook her head with a slight roll of her eyes. "I expect him to behave. If he does not you are free to give him a swat. Would serve him right."

She snorted softly to herself before groaning as she pulled her legs back up into her bed and situated her blankets and furs about her. "Do you have any last questions for me?"

Eln was not thrilled at the thought of an altercation with the lad, but at least At-Id was truthful. He decided that he would trust her at her word that she would stay put. He inclined his head appreciatively. "No. No questions. But...thank you. For resting, and..."

He was not certain how to put the rest into words, so he trailed off and let it be. Instead, he made his rounds: stoking the fire again, and removing the cooking stones from the water basket, and finding himself a blanket. When he sat against the wall again, he retrieved the spell-totem from his pocket and quietly resumed his whittling.

She inclined her head to him in understanding, murmuring her own thanks before finishing her tea and carefully lowering the wall the water wall back into the bowl she had been drinking water from earlier. The crackling of the fire and sound of the ocean waves outside were soothing but not enough to put her to sleep. At'Eed laid quietly, humming a lullaby softly to herself.

Eventually rolling onto her side she caught sight of what Eln was up to and watched him first quietly in curiosity before deciding to be a bit mischievous. Tiny drop by drop she re-raised the wall.

"You are a craftsman. What are you making?"

Eln jolted. The knife slipped and drew blood from his thumb, and it smeared across the totem and stained it deeply. He muttered a string of curses, the last of which would have translated through the water wall as "shitting god." Then, in a panic, determined to save his work, he pressed his thumb to the wood, closed his eyes, and finished his spell. "I give of myself to the sky," he murmured quickly, and threw the thing into the flames. It would remain to be seen if an incomplete spell was enough. If it wasn't, he would begin again tomorrow.

When it was done, he slumped against the wall again and watched his work burn until it turned black. Then he turned to face the witch with an expression that could have been embarrassment. Wakine had asked the very same question, and Eln had avoided it. He did not think that At-Id would let it go without some explanation. "A way to sleep," he said. "Without the dreams."

She stifled a giggle at having startled him and observed his work. Her gaze softened with sympathy before she was up and out of bed again, a shawl pulled close around her shoulders as she approached her shelves of herbs. "Your people practice blood magic like we do. Does it really help keep the dreams at bay?

"Place the stones back in the fire please," At'Eed gently instructed. Dark green, wrinkled leaves, white-petaled flower heads, and a small bundle of roots were carefully collected before she sat by the fire with them. The leaves she rolled between her hands releasing a minty, lemony scent in the are as the action and warmth of her hands broke the leaves down some. These were tossed into a cup with the broken in half flower heads. A knife by the fire was used to shave at the roots carefully, ever mindful of how much fell into the cup.

The witch called it what it was: blood magic. Eln averted his gaze, well aware that desperation had made him a hypocrite. He stood and wordlessly obeyed her, moving new stones into the coals and refilling the water basket. Then he sat once more and watched her make a new tea, and he mulled over what she'd asked. Truthfully, he did not know if the spell-totem worked. He had always used them in times of need, when his mind was burdened and his thoughts were clouded. Each time, he had done so without questioning the ritual itself. Either he did it correctly and it worked, or he did not, and it failed.

The last time he had made one, there were other factors at play. Deeper magics than he had known at the time. His dreams were different, then: premonitions of the future rather than memories of the past. They were gone the night he'd burned the thing, but he suspected that they were pulled away by a hand other than the totem.

Eln frowned at the lump in the fire. "I do not know. I hope that it will, but..." He groaned and rubbed his face again, and then examined his cut thumb. "Time will tell." When he was convinced that the wound was shallow and would heal without intervention, he shot At-Id an exasperated look. "You should be resting."

"There's bandaging cloth behind you for your thumb. Just take a small strip and I can tie it off for you." At'Eed ignored his chiding as she took a clay disk and dropped it into the cup overtop of the herbs. Once heated, the hot rocks were removed and placed into the water, which when heated was then added to the cup.

"Let it seep, but this should help as well," she instructed holding it out with both hands to him. "If your gods will not have mercy on you at least Mother might smile upon you and grant you good sleep. You deserve good things too," At'Eed added as a gentle admonishment of her own.

"It is fine on its own," Eln insisted. "It is a shallow cut."

He sat up straight as the woman approached him. She held something out to him in offering. Bewildered, he took it. He had not realized that she brewed it for him. He considered it for a moment before setting it gently on the floor. What she had given him would no doubt send him to sleep and keep him there. He was wary to a fault of such potions. Even if he was not, and although he was also grateful for her help, now was not the time for it. Not when he had a job to do. "I thank you," he murmured. "But I am not the patient, here. Please return to your bed and rest. And drop the water."

At'Eed raised a brow as he placed the cup down but smiled at him slightly all the same in good humor. "I am well tended to. My bowl is filled, the fire is stoked, my bed awaits, and there is nothing more for you to do for me. I will sleep and you will be left alone with nothing but your thoughts. Do you still distrust me, Eln? Is my gift to you that much of an insult? I made it special for you."

Eln waited patiently for the witch to finish. He suspected that she intentionally sought reasons to argue, or ways to dig under his skin. Perhaps she was too stubborn to listen to him and wished for the last word. Or perhaps she was simply bored and wished to pass the time. Either way, her attempt at guilting him left no mark. He allowed time to pass between them in silence as he would with a child who threw a tantrum. Then he drew a breath. "Are you finished?"

"Are you really treating me like a child?" At'Eed asked in clipped tones, immediately catching onto his tactics as a parent herself. Hurt and disappointment showed plainly upon her features as she looked down at him and shook her head slightly.

"You hate mages, but do magic yourself. You say you don't hate me, and yet you reject what good I try to do for you at every turn. I sacrificed for your health and wellbeing and you treat me like a toddler up past bedtime.

"You'll have to forgive me as I grow tired of your games. I am a healer, a grown woman, and the one who has saved your life no less than three times now. If nothing else you do owe me some respect for that, Eln. Or to at the very least not continue to flaunt your distaste for me in my face so pedantically," she informed him with even keel and timbre.

The witch was not finished.

It seemed that Eln had said the wrong thing. He remained seated as she dressed him down, for he had learned his lesson with Kelowi not to show his height in an argument. He gazed up at her, ever weary, and waited again for her to run out of words. When she had, he thought on it all. And she was right: he had been a hypocrite, and unpleasant, and he had not respected her as he should a woman. He had tried to explain his reasons earlier, with Kelowi as an example. But At-Id seemed not to grasp the depth of that wound, nor the many ways in which it surfaced and bled again and again.

"You are right, and I am sorry. I do not mean you any disrespect."

Eln looked away and tried to find a better way of explaining a thing that he could not even bring himself to speak of. "I do not hate you. And I am grateful for what you have given me. Please believe this. I..." He wrung his hands and shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. When he had pushed the memories away, he looked up at her again and fortified himself for what he had to say.

"You told me of Kelowi, and how she found safety here. You said that even when she thought that she was safe, still your people made her wait to be certain. Yet when I hesitate at all, you insist on prying me open with a knife for answers. And when I do not reveal them, you tell me it is games. It is not. It never is. Believe me, or do not, At-Id. I cannot change your mind on this, it seems. No matter how many times I tell you that it is not you that I fear."

Her chin snapped up at his words as if slapped. "I am so very sorry Eln for the hurt I have caused you with my words," she spoke with genuine contrition. "I did not understand until this moment what you were trying to tell me before. I recognized your grief and your compassion for mine, but not the pain of other sufferings. For that I am very sorry to have misunderstood. Not now but I hope in time I can prove myself as safe to you."

Bending slowly so as to not potentially startle him, At'Eed scooped the cup back up and backed away from him. "I will take and finish this so that you need not have it plague you. Get some rest Eln, if you can....you deserve peace too."

The woman bobbed her head at him in acknowledgement before crawling back into her bed. The tea was quickly downed and she was about to lay down when her eyes fell on his cloak still being used as her pillow. "Oh. One last thing. Would you like your cloak back? I don't wish to deprive you of its comfort."

He waited for her to fling some barb or underhanded comment, but it never came. He watched her, on edge at first, then puzzled, uncertain if it was a trick. Only when she returned to her bed and drank the tea did he realize that she genuinely meant every word of it. "I...thank you," he said, though he still looked confused at her sudden change in tone. "And...no. Please. You were very cold, earlier. Use it to stay warm."

"If you are uncomfortable and I am still asleep, feel free to make yourself comfortable or borrow bedding from my son's bed. He knows better than to disturb his mother's sleep so you should be fine. And...thank you for lending me your cloak."

At'Eed offered him a small smile, tucking herself comfortably back into the bed. His cloak was dragged down so the soft fur pressed against her cheek and she could unconsciously burrow in against it. Once more and for the final time before she truly slept the water gently splashed back into the bowl and in a matter of minutes the woman was breathing deeper in true, much needed sleep.

From that day on, the witch kept her word. Eln was wary of this at first. After all, he had wrongly assumed that she was the kind of stubborn woman to argue until she wore herself out. But over time, he came to realize that she had genuinely meant what she told him. And, judging by the way that the other I-ka-nans treated him, she had spread word of what they had discussed. He was not certain what to think of that part. Truly, he had revealed it in his desperation to be heard, but he would have preferred that she kept it to herself...even if her intentions were good.

Time passed. The seasons changed again. The signs of spring crept in: rain, and green buds on bare branches, and a warmer sun that arced higher above them. Each was a reminder to him. He had survived the winter. It would be time to move on, soon. He had lost both shield and ax, now, but he was better off than he had been since his arrival in these strange lands. He was confident that he could make it on his own.

So why did he dread leaving? Had he become like Kelowi: so satisfied with the comforts of his cage that he would no longer bolt from it when the door sprung open? It ate at him, and as spring bloomed verdant and the cottonwood perfumed the air, he grew agitated, and his temper grew short. He did not show it around the little boy during their lessons, or to Kelowi. He had been less than pleasant to the others who were closest to him.

On this particular day, he was tasked with helping to build a house. The villagers seemed excited by it. From what he had gathered, it was to be home to a new pairing. He could scarcely remember those days from his own life. The intensity and eagerness of youth seemed so far gone, now. But the work gave him something to focus on, and that had improved his mood for the time being. And...he had heard that there might be wine brought out, later. And that, at least, would ease his agitation for one night.

At'Eed had slept and slept, waking only long enough to guzzle down bowl after bowl of water before slumbering more. For weeks this lasted until she was strong enough to be awake more and longer and with her wakefulness came her stubborn and sassy personality.

True to her word, At'Eed had respected Eln's wishes, going so far as to discreetly explain to others as well that he had his own personal monsters he fought and to give the warrior his berth. Thankfully though as time passed she no longer needed to raise the translation wall of water and instead was left to treat bumped heads and scraped knees more often than the wet sickness that sometimes came with winter.

Currently the village was busy with the future arrival of Heahke's chosen Bride. He and the other men were doing the final touches on his house for her before he marched off to bring her back. Unlike in Eln's case, Heahke had found himself an I'kanan woman from one of the southern villages who everyone knew he had been sweet on for the better part of a year now with how he lingered on his border patrols longer and longer if sent that way. As such the Bride house would not be gaining a new member who required instruction in their ways.

A thrum of anticipation and excitement filled the village like when the six and seven gills prepared before a skirmish. And with the house complete there was nothing for it but to cheer and wave Heahke off with knowing toothy grins.

Across the sand on formerly wobbly little legs, bolted a small toddler as he full force tackled Eln's good leg. "Elm, Elm, up, up!" Perter cried, trying to climb Eln without waiting for assistance. "Is house done? Can Elm play now? Why Elm tall? Where do birdies go when they sleepies? Why can birdies swim but fishies can't fly? Can your horns feel?"

Eln had just stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow and watch the commotion when something tumbled into him. The labor had lasted several days, and he was both tired and sore from it. Whatever had hit him had known exactly where his calf hurt. He glanced down, his expression severe. Then, in spite of himself, he began to chuckle. "Oho. Am I a tree?"

He knelt and hoisted Perter up to sit on his shoulders, then rose slowly to allow the boy his preferred vantage point. "Kelowi feed you rocks," he grunted. "Hmm. Well? You wish to play? Where I take you to play?"

Perter squealed in delight at being lifted, settling easily into place, his little hands latching onto Eln's horns like handles. "Noooooo," the little boy laughed boisterously. "Elm silly! No rocks, FISHIES! Perter grow big-big like Elm!"

He bounced exuberantly on Eln's shoulders then, his little hands trying to direct Eln's head by the horns in the direction of the crashing waves. "Ocienie! Play, play! FISHIIIIIES!!!!!!" He squealed again as he squirmed in excitement before leaning forward to hug Eln's head and give a loud kiss to the top of it.

"Ocean, hmm?"

Eln made a pained face that the child could not see. Even after months spent in this place, the ocean still made him uneasy. But he would not have to deal with it for much longer — or so he told himself. He would indulge the lad. But not before finding Kelowi.

"Okay. Ocean. I find your mother first. So...she do not worry." He set off around the fire, seeking the woman. She had not wandered far from her son at all. "Kelowi," he called. "Perter wish to play at ocean." He made the same expression again before he could help himself. "I take him. We back before it is dark."

"Eln you spoil him," Chloe grinned. "No ocean today, though. He's already had a bath yesterday and I'm worried about him getting too much water in his ears still.

"Perter why don't you two play ball on the beach?"

Eln had half a heartbeat to react before Perter was suddenly dramatically flopping backwards to dangle for Eln's shoulders in protest. The fact that the child could quite easily fall on his head not even a thought in his young mind.

"Nooooooo, Ocienieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Elm pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase?"

Perter's weight shifted dangerously. Eln felt his little fingers release their grip as the child swung backwards with an alarming quickness. His hand shot back just in time to close around one tiny ankle. "Child," he barked as he groped about blindly for the other leg, but the little one swung out of reach. Eln's nostrils flared like a bull's. He grumbled and glowered. In his panic, he had entirely forgotten to temper himself before Kelowi. "Perter. You try to crack your skull? You are too clever for such stupid death. Come. Climb back up." But when it became apparent that the little one had no intention of obeying, he sighed, shook his head, and began to kneel.

Chloe paled at both Eln's voice and her child's reckless antics. Motherly instincts took over though as she lunged forward to catch her son and drag him off Eln's shoulder and back to his feet on the ground.

"Perter enough!" She barked in a quiet but firm voice that brooked no argument. "You will apologize to Eln and if he still wants to then you two can play on the beach. There will be no ocean and if he does not want to play then you will be going inside and helping me with my spinning. Am I understood?"

The child hung his little head and kicked at the sand slightly before nodding and turning to face Eln. He stepped into the man and wrapped his little arms as best as he could in a hug, his face buried in his chest for a moment before he looked up at him. "Sowwy Elm for scawin and for...for?"

The boy looked back at his mother unsure if the word he was searching for. "For not using your words when you were feeling big emotions."

"That," the boy said, looking up contritely. "Elm fo'gib?"

Eln's expression turned strange. He had seen Kelowi teach her son this way many times now, but it still was no less jarring. In each instance, he recalled the harshness of his own upbringing: methods of disciplining that he had long dismissed as a fact of life. Even now, in his fear for the child's safety, some of it had spilled out of him. It shouldn't have. Whether or not he intended to stay with these people, he had to do better. He shot Kelowi an apologetic look and allowed the boy to hug him. When Perter was finished, Eln smoothed the child's hair down and patted him on the head.

"Yes. I...sorry also," he said. He rose slowly again and smiled down at the boy, but it was a sad smile. A troubled smile. He gestured for Perter to approach so that he could lift the lad back up to sit on his shoulders. "Come, brave warrior. We play beach."

In true childlike innocence, Perter took Eln at his word and quickly forgot the trouble he had been in only moments before. He gave the man's hand a slap in passing squealing 'it' before tearing off down the beach expecting to be chased and caught.

Chloe for her part shook her head fondly at her son. "Thank you," she said soft and warm to the man. "It's moments like these I'm grateful for the choice you made. You're a good friend to us, Eln."

Her eyes filled with tears she had to quickly blink and rub away. "Oh my I don't know what came over me," Chloe laughed shaking her head. "I've just been so emotional lately. Don't mind me. Go have fun, and bring him back when he tires you out."

Perter ran off across the sand as fast as his tiny legs would carry him. Eln chuckled at the sight. "He is good child," he told Kelowi, but he no longer met her eye. He did not know what he would find there, only that it was too painful to bear. The choice he made, she had said. Had they truly given him one? If they had, he might have chosen this life willingly.

Eln's face fell and he gave Kelowi a curt nod. "I go catch him," he said, and took off after the boy.

The two played on the beach for a time, and for that time, Eln could almost set aside his many burdens. Then it began to grow dark, and he hoisted the little one up in one arm and carried him dutifully back to his mother. By the time they had reached the bonfire, Perter's head lolled in a telltale sign that he would shortly fall fast sleep. Eln found himself reluctant to hand him over. Yet he did, and without a child to entertain, he found a spot by the bonfire and watched the revelry begin.

Chloe accepted her little one back taking the time to tuck him away in the house after thanking Eln for his care and patience. Meanwhile a cheer went up through the village as a feisty new Bride was carted over her captor's shoulder. The woman fought for all she was worth, his shirt stained red already with blood from a wound across his back. Teskáa was set down in front of her newly erected house and a hush fell over the gathered watchers. For a moment the young woman entered the house barking at her captor to stay put. He fidgeted anxiously, shifting from foot to foot in the sand as he waited to see how she returned. A moment later when she did it was to leap at him and drag him into a deep kiss. A second cheer went up as the two twirled about happily.

At'Eed for her part quietly walked over to where Eln was and sat down beside him. "Drink?" She waggled a skin at him filled with village-made alcohol. Her veil was folded up to reveal her face, a sign her grieving was progressing but still in progress.

Taking a sip she nodded her head over at the newlyweds currently exchanging and getting their marriage septum rings. "To be young and oh so in love right?" She laughed and shook her head slightly.

Eln took the wine skin with gratitude. "Yes," he said with a startling amount of enthusiasm for such a stoic man. He took a hearty swig and handed it back to her, nodding his thanks. "Thank you. I...I needed." And he did. The longer he waited, the more this indecision weighed on him, and though he was uneasy at the idea of relinquishing control, drink had long been his last and best escape. And...whatever this drink was, it was strong. "It is good," he commented, and turned back to watch the foreign ritual with equal parts curiosity and bewilderment.

At-Id spoke up again, and he smiled ever so slightly, but he did not reply for a long while. When he did, his thoughts had drifted downstream, and the alcohol — the first that he had had in years — had loosened his tongue. "I do not know," he said. "This — " he gestured at the couple — "it is like home, and not like home. Different. More blood. More..." he sought the word but did not know it. "And it...it never for me," he added instead. He turned to his friend. "But it for you? You cut your man, when he do this?"

"I did," At'Eed replied, grinning with pride and nostalgic memory. "An I'kanan proves his worthiness by providing a suitable house and in handling a Bride with care. A Bride proves her worthiness in how hard she fights. She is the protector of the home, the family, and herself. The harder she fights the one she cares for, twice as hard she will fight to protect what is theirs until he can come to her aid. The deeper the cut the deeper the bond some say. A Bride who does not fight, rejects her captor. She does not consider him worthy of her time to even fight."

Pointing to the giggling pair showing off their new rings, she continued. "She inspected his house and found it worthy. Her kiss signifies her acceptance and their piercings acknowledge their status as married. They are worthy of each other in their eyes. And if she decides he is unworthy, she has the power to cast him from her bed and her house. I do not see this for them though, insufferably in love as they are now." At'Eed took another sip of the wine before passing it back to him.

"Mm." Eln watched the two, deep in thought as he considered all that she had said. Some part of this night drew him homeward, and no matter how many times he shook himself of it, he strayed back towards that place again. There had been nights long since passed where the air felt like it did now, and the joyous voices sounded just like these. He glanced over at At-Id. At the wine skin. "Hmm...I should not," he mumbled, but he took it anyways and drank deeply again. As he handed it back to her, he might have almost looked amused.

"On most feast party...I have too much. One of them, I say too much. Stupid things. Terrible things. I still feel her slap, right here." He pressed a hand to his cheek. The corners of his eyes creased as he chuckled at the memory of his own foolishness. "I deserve it for what I say. So...I say something bad to you tonight, you know I should not have any more wine...you can hit me, too...but..."

Eln frowned, then returned his attention to the scene. He seemed almost wistful, now. "Your people. My people. We have the same heart. Different ways, but...same heart. And it..."

He caught his tongue and stopped. It hurts, he had wanted to say. Like the gods were taunting him. But At-Id did not need that. And the less he revealed, the cleaner this break would be.

At'Eed raised her brows at his comment even as he took the wineskin from her. He was an adult however and far from her responsibility to demand he slowed down. Besides as an I'kanan what fights he got himself into he would have to get himself out of anyway; such was their way.

"I do not wish to have to hit you, Eln," she replied softly instead. She nodded though. Same heart indeed. The healer could imagine too where that sentence was going. He had hinted at in the past some hurts, regrets, grief. She too felt it watching others have their sunshine days while all of her own were gray and dreary. It was painful seeing others stand where you stood and knowing that you are alone now.

"Do you still mean those terrible things you said? Or did you learn and grow?"

"Learn, yes. Grow? Ehhh...grow old, maybe," Eln snorted. He stared down at his worn hands and ran a finger down the lines in his palm. "It was small thing amongst much bigger thing. She forget it before the end. Forgive, maybe not. But forget." Eln took in a deep breath and then seemed to startle, as though he'd forgotten that someone sat right next to him. "Sorry," he muttered sheepishly. "Already we can say: no more drink for me."

She laughed softly. "Well at least you know not to do it again. We all make mistakes, some worse than others. But, no one is perfect. Not you. Not me. Not even the ones we miss."

At'Eed took the wine back but stared deeply into the fire with her own thoughts. A cool night breeze at their backs made her shiver some and hunch up as if it would bring the fire's warmth more fully around her.

"I saw you chasing Perter around the dunes today. He does not tire you out?"

"No. They not."

Eln allowed her to reclaim the wine skin and then fell silent with her for a time. The merriment around the fire drew him in again. That ephemeral sweetness of youth seemed so far gone now, and witnessing it anew felt strange, like peering in through a window from the outside. He was so transfixed that he almost missed the sight of At-Id shivering. He shot her a glance as if to tell her off for being stubborn, removed his cloak, and tossed it over her shoulders.

"My knee hurt from the running," he admitted. "I cannot breathe after it. But if he want play, I play. He is good child." He smiled wistfully again, but it soon twisted into a grimace. He would miss Perter the most out of all of them. And, as he had told Kelowi from the beginning, he had no wish to hurt the boy. The thought made him restless. When he met At-Id's eye again, his guilt was palpable. "Keep it," he said, gesturing to the cloak. "You cold too much. So maybe it make you warm."

"Stubborn old goat," she groused even as she pulled the fabric tight and warm around her. There was no use fighting. They were equal in their squabbling and heel-digging when it came to matters such as these. And truth be told At'Eed would rather sit and enjoy her time together with him rather than argue and send one or the other of them stomping across the sands back into their respective houses.

"Why would I keep it when it's so much nicer after you've warmed it for me? I like it better this way."

Jutting her chin towards the fire where food was being passed out for feasting, she ordered him. "Go get us some food Eln. Your knee would do better if you stretched it regularly instead of being stubborn and letting it get stiff with overuse. Consider this your punishment." Try as she might, At'Eed could not fully contain her amused smirk behind the wine skin as she downed more. 

For a moment, she sounded as though she would twist his kindness into an argument, and Eln readied himself for it. Then she said something else entirely, and his indignation faltered. Confusion set in, aided by the drink. For lack of a good retort, he shut his mouth, though he still watched her for a little while longer before turning away. "Keep it," he repeated.

When At-Id ordered him to fetch her food, he stood and brushed himself off without questioning her intentions....until she mentioned punishment. Then he turned and glanced down and found her smiling, but he did not know what to make of it. "What?" he asked. "What funny?"

"I am only teasing. There is no punishment even if you are too stubborn to rest. Food," she reminded him firmly. "If you don't eat, the wine will make you sick and if I don't eat you'll lecture me. Save us both the trouble yes? Hurry back though. Need to use you as a wind shield." At'Eed giggled behind her hand for all her teasing, looking very much at peace in his presence.

Eln stared down at her, still flummoxed. She had never been quite this way towards him before. He wondered if the drink had caused this. Or maybe, with the veil lifted, she was beginning to show signs of who she was before her loss. He stood there while he thought, planted like a tree. "Hmm," he grunted finally. Then he turned and left to find her some food as she had asked, shaking his head as he walked away.

Eln returned some minutes later with two of a flat, soft thing called a "bread", and on it, a stack of skewered and roasted fishes. He found the wind and sat so as to block it from chilling At-Id. Then he divided up what he had brought, and he offered her the one with the larger fishes. "Anything more?"

"No this is good," she replied, immediately moving to press into his side. At'Eed shifted his cloak so they could share it and the plate of food more easily. "Make sure you eat your fill," the healer instructed while switching the fish so the bigger one was in front of him and she took one of the smaller ones.

"What do you eat and do at your feast parties? You said they are like this?"

He cast a sidelong glance at her as she moved closer, but gone were the days when he would have startled from it. Her presence did not feel like a threat anymore. He wondered, with how comfortable he was, if he had settled into this life a little too much now. He frowned down at the fish as At-Id switched his for the larger one, but his only argument was a low grumble.

At her question, he straightened up a bit. "Too much to say in one night," he replied with the hint of a smile. "Some feasts like this: for pairing, or woman fighting for a man. Others are for remember, or make evil go away, or for hunt. Yours like this? Or...just for man and woman?" He took a ginger bite of the bread. Then his stormy eyes widened and he stopped talking altogether in favor of wolfing the whole thing down. "Is very good," he managed.

"We have these too," At'Eed replied with a nod. "Women don't fight for a man. Or, well, sometimes that can happen, but that is not a celebration event. But if we are victorious in a fight with others we celebrate. We have potlatch where we celebrate prosperity and cast out greed. In the hot months we eat good and stay up telling stories by the central fire. We dance and play and laugh. It is when I fell in love with my husband," she reminisced smiling without realizing before grief stung her and she sighed away the watering of her eyes. "He loved to crow and dance. You'd hear him returning with the other fishers before you ever saw them on the horizon."

She grinned behind her fingers at him and his enthusiasm while taking up her own fish and pulling strips to fold into the bread and eat. "Eat up. You will need your strength and a full belly after all the work you did today."

Eln made quick work of the fish. He would not tell her this, but he was glad that At-Id had told him to eat. He had been so preoccupied by his plans to leave that his stomach had worked itself into knots. He had not realized how hungry he was until this moment, or how agitated that hunger had made him. When he was finished, he sat in contented silence and allowed her some space to weep. "The good memory," he said finally, making a fist and pressing it to his chest. "This is what to keep. He will stay here, in your heart. Keep you warm."

At'Eed nodded before quipping. "So warm I will not need your cloak then?" She shook her head in amusement, eating far slower than him and not even managing to finish her fish as she nudged it over to him to eat.

"It is a good cloak. I know you said to keep it but it's yours and you need it more than I do."

Eln moved the fish back to At'Eed with a skeptical glance. "You always cold. I not. Why I need more than you?"

"Nights are cold away from the fire." She said simply with a shrug, pushing the fish back towards him and 'washing' her hands off in the sand. "And it is only warm because you've worn it first."

Eln did not understand her this time. There was a fire in the house where they kept him, after all. And he kept plenty warm by exerting himself with the tasks that they gave him. He assumed that she was once again arguing for argument's sake. He grumbled. "Arguing fun for you," he muttered beneath his breath. "You keep it," he insisted. He returned the fish to her again, flipped the cloak off of his shoulders, and rose to his feet. "I...go find a tree to water. I back soon."

"Will you though?" She replied softly. At'Eed climbed to her feet, dusting off her skirt as she removed his cloak. "Bring back some seeds when you come home," she spoke louder, tossing his cloak at his head. "And take this. I'm going inside. I will feel better knowing you won't get sick again."

At'Eed waved him off not even allowing him the chance to try and return the cloak one final time. With her back to him he could not see the way her face fell with knowing and sorrow. She would miss her friend.

"Be well, Eln. Be well."

He narrowly caught the cloak before it tangled in his horns. If she had not spoken up, he would have missed her words in his confusion. Seeds? Bring seeds? "At-Id," he called after her, but she was already halfway across the sands to her home. He stood there pondering what she had meant, and why she had risen so suddenly, but he could not make sense of it. Perhaps it really was the drink. He would have to hope that her mood had shifted again tomorrow.

Eln swung his cloak up over one shoulder and made his way past the revelry, past the brush that marked the end of the sands, and up into the forest. He really had come out here to water a tree. But as he stopped to do so, he turned back. There, in the distance, the bonfire shone against the blue-black dark. Faint laughter echoed out against the huts and into the sky. And he became keenly aware that for the first time in months...he was alone.

It was time. Wasn't it?

He finished his deed. He pulled the cloak back down and donned it. He took one last look at the village. He fled into the night.