Khida’s presence pierced the swirling cloud of confusion like a shaft of light, and he clung to it with every fiber of his being. Khida, who was not of this pain, and who proved that he was not of this pain. Against the light, the shadows receded, and he could breathe again. He fought the laughter, fought the pain, fought against the yellow eyes and forced them to stop. He clung to the bond, to Khida, and he beat the darkness into submission.
The real world crept back into his consciousness. The winter wind bit with a sudden vengeance at the cold sweat that had broken over his skin, though he did not––could not––shiver. The fire before him, the figure blocking it, the brown hair and waif-like body crouched there. For a moment, he couldn’t function enough to recognize her; all he could comprehend was that she was touching him, and that he didn’t want her to. Shahar blinked at Hope, his eyes as empty and apathetic as hers had been when she had come to them. And so he took ahold of each of her wrists, firmly removed her hands from their resting place and stood. He needed to be somewhere else. He didn’t know where, but suddenly the camp, the tent, all the trappings of life in the Sea of Grass became constrictive and wrong. The wind changed in tone, became beckoning, and the grasses wove and danced for him, and he felt their movements like an old friend.
He said nothing to Hope, nor to his bondmate as she circled above them. He simply turned and walked out of the camp.
His posture changed when the grass swallowed him. He stride was more hunched, his feet lighter on the earth. His walk became faster, then slid into a lope. It was like he had moved before, when there were no tents or Drykas or so many things to trap and tie down. He shed his race, shed his wants, shed his name, and he ceased to be Shahar. Then there was only the strange, ragged creature he had once been, nothing to his name but chance and the falcon and horse that were his as much as he was theirs.
He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t much care, either. He just ran, away from the cloth and hearthfire, into the grass and wind where he needed nothing. Was nothing. Nothing but his own flesh and bone and will to be.
His feet slowed of their own accord, turning to a languid trot and then a powerful walk. He heard running water and felt familiarity; he knew this place. He had been here before.
The hunter followed the sound of the water until he came to the break in the grass that was the stream. He came to a halt by the water and crouched. He watched the water, the silt below it, the flecks of this and that that were there in an instant and gone in another. He was neither thinking nor unthinking, neither attached or detached from the world around him. He did not stir save for the occasional blink or shift of weight, or when he stopped looking at the stream to kneel more comfortably on the ground. He had nowhere else to be or run to. This place was as good as any patch of grass that could hide and shield him, as so he stayed there, without the desire to continue and without the desire to return.
The real world crept back into his consciousness. The winter wind bit with a sudden vengeance at the cold sweat that had broken over his skin, though he did not––could not––shiver. The fire before him, the figure blocking it, the brown hair and waif-like body crouched there. For a moment, he couldn’t function enough to recognize her; all he could comprehend was that she was touching him, and that he didn’t want her to. Shahar blinked at Hope, his eyes as empty and apathetic as hers had been when she had come to them. And so he took ahold of each of her wrists, firmly removed her hands from their resting place and stood. He needed to be somewhere else. He didn’t know where, but suddenly the camp, the tent, all the trappings of life in the Sea of Grass became constrictive and wrong. The wind changed in tone, became beckoning, and the grasses wove and danced for him, and he felt their movements like an old friend.
He said nothing to Hope, nor to his bondmate as she circled above them. He simply turned and walked out of the camp.
His posture changed when the grass swallowed him. He stride was more hunched, his feet lighter on the earth. His walk became faster, then slid into a lope. It was like he had moved before, when there were no tents or Drykas or so many things to trap and tie down. He shed his race, shed his wants, shed his name, and he ceased to be Shahar. Then there was only the strange, ragged creature he had once been, nothing to his name but chance and the falcon and horse that were his as much as he was theirs.
He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t much care, either. He just ran, away from the cloth and hearthfire, into the grass and wind where he needed nothing. Was nothing. Nothing but his own flesh and bone and will to be.
His feet slowed of their own accord, turning to a languid trot and then a powerful walk. He heard running water and felt familiarity; he knew this place. He had been here before.
The hunter followed the sound of the water until he came to the break in the grass that was the stream. He came to a halt by the water and crouched. He watched the water, the silt below it, the flecks of this and that that were there in an instant and gone in another. He was neither thinking nor unthinking, neither attached or detached from the world around him. He did not stir save for the occasional blink or shift of weight, or when he stopped looking at the stream to kneel more comfortably on the ground. He had nowhere else to be or run to. This place was as good as any patch of grass that could hide and shield him, as so he stayed there, without the desire to continue and without the desire to return.
