"You are free to choose,"
He leaned in to hear the whisper she gave in response, knowing the answer from her tone before he discerned the words themselves. She was declining. And he would accept her answer. Her following words were no surprise. The woman felt that fate, that life, that the world was against her. That was a dangerous mindset, for her, and for others. But he wouldn't push it. He strongly felt no one should be pushed into anything, that choice was everything.
Still, he wished she'd stay longer, at the least, traveling the same way as the caravan, to join them for a single stretch. He would try to show her that one isn't resigned to their fate, to their destiny, to their curse, to whatever it was that haunted her so. But, she wished to go alone, to travel her own path, and he would not hold that against her. He had done that himself for many years, off and on.
He watched as she made her way toward her tent, not willing to stop her. He saw her stop and turn toward him, and he saw her mouth open, slightly. But he didn't hear any words come out. They were drowned by a sharp whistling of wind, a bit of a crystalline chiming. A strange sound for wind. He raised his cup to her, giving himself over to the inebriation that was already well spread through his body, a wave of warmth.
And now came the saddest part of any night. Finishing off a drink, alone. He poured some more of the blood wine, still enjoying the taste, but finding it empty and hollow now. He stole a glance every now and then as she set up her tent. It wasn't long until he found other people to chat with, for the man with the booze was always a man worth talking to. Most of these were Yari, going on "holiday" to Korlasir, wanting to see where the battle took place between the Empress and the founder of Yaralon.
He made shared stories with men and women who were joining them on this leg, listened to them speak of battles and of the fondness they have for their weapons. He listened to them speak of cultural things that would be considered insanity in other lands but were the daily norm in Yaralon. But something inside him continued to pester at him. He'd missed something. He continued to mull over her stories, chewing on them, trying to figure them out, while going through the motions of conversation with the others.
His eyes fell on the fire in the center of the camp, the fire. It was burning bright, soaring straight upward, giving off enough of the life giving heat in this season. It was almost frozen in place, practically immobile and solid. It didn't dance like other fires in the wind might, it didn... Then he realized. There was no wind tonight. At all. He looked around, at hair, leaves in the darkness, to confirm this.
He asked one of the Yari about the wind this night, "Nar, Derlrorth arr orff burggering surm orne erlse t'irs noirght." He thought back to that last moment with her. He hadn't heard what she'd said. He also didn't see her mouth forming the words he'd assumed had been drowned out by the wind. Now he knew the wind was the words. He'd heard a similar sound before, back in Andaris, from a winged halfriel woman.
And he remembered the fear she had him attempting to pursue information on the chiming, whistling language. He cast is eyes back over to the tent the woman had now pitched. Did she know that woman he met in Andaris? Just what was this language. And why was it so dangerous? He pulled himself upright, wobbling a bit under the weight of the wine. He grabbed his sack, and wandered over to her tent, stopping at the tent flap. He set his pack down, kneeling before it. He pulled out two objects. The first was an empty bottle, clear glass, perfectly clean. The second was the cork from the Athartian wine. The first cork of the night blessed the drinks. The second cork brought good luck to the one who drank from it.
He set the items in front of her tent, stood up, grabbed his pack, and made his way over to his spot by the fire, unfurling his bedroll, and settling in for the night, watching the fire. He eventually ended up on his back, watching the stories overhead, just as he always did with her before bed.
"I miss you."
He rolled over again, back to the fire now, and drifted off to sleep.
"But you are not free from the consequences."
