AelKennyr Rhiano
The first morning after the first night spent on their journey starts as smells; the sticky smell of pine trees, the cloying smell of packed earth, the cold smell of moldy vegetation in the woods behind the building, the old charred smell of grease that had dropped from the meat as it cooked last night into the hungry fire, the warm smell of a body in his arms. Nasi, Fafnir names the last smell, and keeping his eyes closed, he tightens his arm around the other's thick, muscular waist and presses his nose against the dusky shoulder blade of the stonemason. Laying there, curled around the body of the handsome stonemason, Fafnir keeps his eyes closed, breathing in the smells, listening now, to the soft popping of the low fire in the fireplace, the shifting of bodies, the rubbing of fabric against fabric as someone pulls their blanket tighter about them, the snorts, chuffs, and snores that slide about the room, like smoke from a chimney.
Drowsily, Fafnir shifts his weight, and that moment, his whole world reduces itself to just one sensation: pain. His eyes, sticky with sleep, fly open, but he does not see the handsome dwarf curled up with him. For him the world is the knotted, cramping muscles in the back of his legs, the blaze of sharp, biting pain between his shoulder blades, the thick acid heaviness in his stomach that threatens to turn his bowels to water. His hand at Nasi's waist tightens convulsively, and he bites his bottom lip, chews it to keep from moaning aloud.
Oh, Maker, Fafnir moans in his mind, crying to someone he is not sure is much concerned if his creations live or die, thrive or no. His anger at the situation rises with the bile at the back of his throat, and he has to forget all else for breathing slowly...in one nostril and out the other. For he would be damned if he would lose the contents of his stomach, so precious came the meal.
Slowly, slowly, the pain subsides, and Nasi stirs in his sleep, eyes moving behind the lid in some dream the curves the lips into a smile as the stone mason turns onto his back, jostling Fafnir and sending another wave of pain across his back. Everything, Fafnir thinks to himself, everything hurts. Everything causes pain. And for a few moments, Fafnir sits with the pain, hot tears squeezing from his eyes and rolling down his cheek.
Like a child with a skinned knee who pulls at the scab or a person prodding at a hole in their mouth where a tooth had just been extracted, Fafnir, in the rosy tinted cold dawning, flexes the muscles across his back, hissing softly at the answering flame of pain, and flexing again. Slowly he releases Nasi and reaches down to knead at the back of a leg, digging at the tight muscle along his calf. The mind of the young dwarf casts back to the day before, the first day of their journey. The walking, endless walking, step after step after step. At first, it was not so terrible. He had Nasi's hand in his, the comforting presence of the handsome stone mason; the smell of skin and soap and leather whenever he leaned over and whispered, like a mischievous child, now and again, some remark to tease a smile from those lips, kindle a light in those eyes.
But the day wore on. The day grew longer. The day grew warmer, and sweat began to trickle down between his shoulder blades, and the burns beneath the gauze took on a life of their own. His hands itched to pull off his shirt, itches to tear off the dressing, itched to reach back and scratch at healing scabs. Hours passed, and he began to perceive of the burns as living, biting insects, or of his skin becoming nothing more than a dry husk he must shed. He struggled to come up with japes and jokes and wry, witty comments. It was all he could do to answer the Elder when addressed. It was all he could do to fight the impulse to turn around and return to Gamilfun.
Fafnir does not remember when they broke for a midday meal. He remembers chewing, swallowing, and drinking stale, flat water. He remembers falling silent for longer and longer periods of time. Above them the afternoon sun bore down on them, and Fafnir began to feel the back of his neck, now shorn of hair, redden and burn, even though most of the road they took was shaded with trees, so that the sunlight was a dappled effect of light and shadow across their path. As the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky, Fafnir started to stumble a little, the muscles in his calves protesting the exercise, his hips sore from where the belt bounced and jostled; the jewels and gold and silver bits of jewelry sewn into the underside of the belt seeming to become larger and heavier as the day came to a close.
A small and wordless sigh of relief had escaped Fafnir, had rumbled though the group when they broke out of tree laden path into a clearing and saw the first way station. The tiny, squat and squalid looking building was at once both beautiful and terrible to him. It was ...exposed. They were all exposed, and the safety that empty building offered seemed as lifeless as the inside. They were without the safety of the bowels of the earth. They were without the safety of ancient halls, and cavernous rooms. They were without the safety of kith and kin and rules and order.
Drowsily, Fafnir shifts his weight, and that moment, his whole world reduces itself to just one sensation: pain. His eyes, sticky with sleep, fly open, but he does not see the handsome dwarf curled up with him. For him the world is the knotted, cramping muscles in the back of his legs, the blaze of sharp, biting pain between his shoulder blades, the thick acid heaviness in his stomach that threatens to turn his bowels to water. His hand at Nasi's waist tightens convulsively, and he bites his bottom lip, chews it to keep from moaning aloud.
Oh, Maker, Fafnir moans in his mind, crying to someone he is not sure is much concerned if his creations live or die, thrive or no. His anger at the situation rises with the bile at the back of his throat, and he has to forget all else for breathing slowly...in one nostril and out the other. For he would be damned if he would lose the contents of his stomach, so precious came the meal.
Slowly, slowly, the pain subsides, and Nasi stirs in his sleep, eyes moving behind the lid in some dream the curves the lips into a smile as the stone mason turns onto his back, jostling Fafnir and sending another wave of pain across his back. Everything, Fafnir thinks to himself, everything hurts. Everything causes pain. And for a few moments, Fafnir sits with the pain, hot tears squeezing from his eyes and rolling down his cheek.
Like a child with a skinned knee who pulls at the scab or a person prodding at a hole in their mouth where a tooth had just been extracted, Fafnir, in the rosy tinted cold dawning, flexes the muscles across his back, hissing softly at the answering flame of pain, and flexing again. Slowly he releases Nasi and reaches down to knead at the back of a leg, digging at the tight muscle along his calf. The mind of the young dwarf casts back to the day before, the first day of their journey. The walking, endless walking, step after step after step. At first, it was not so terrible. He had Nasi's hand in his, the comforting presence of the handsome stone mason; the smell of skin and soap and leather whenever he leaned over and whispered, like a mischievous child, now and again, some remark to tease a smile from those lips, kindle a light in those eyes.
But the day wore on. The day grew longer. The day grew warmer, and sweat began to trickle down between his shoulder blades, and the burns beneath the gauze took on a life of their own. His hands itched to pull off his shirt, itches to tear off the dressing, itched to reach back and scratch at healing scabs. Hours passed, and he began to perceive of the burns as living, biting insects, or of his skin becoming nothing more than a dry husk he must shed. He struggled to come up with japes and jokes and wry, witty comments. It was all he could do to answer the Elder when addressed. It was all he could do to fight the impulse to turn around and return to Gamilfun.
Fafnir does not remember when they broke for a midday meal. He remembers chewing, swallowing, and drinking stale, flat water. He remembers falling silent for longer and longer periods of time. Above them the afternoon sun bore down on them, and Fafnir began to feel the back of his neck, now shorn of hair, redden and burn, even though most of the road they took was shaded with trees, so that the sunlight was a dappled effect of light and shadow across their path. As the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky, Fafnir started to stumble a little, the muscles in his calves protesting the exercise, his hips sore from where the belt bounced and jostled; the jewels and gold and silver bits of jewelry sewn into the underside of the belt seeming to become larger and heavier as the day came to a close.
A small and wordless sigh of relief had escaped Fafnir, had rumbled though the group when they broke out of tree laden path into a clearing and saw the first way station. The tiny, squat and squalid looking building was at once both beautiful and terrible to him. It was ...exposed. They were all exposed, and the safety that empty building offered seemed as lifeless as the inside. They were without the safety of the bowels of the earth. They were without the safety of ancient halls, and cavernous rooms. They were without the safety of kith and kin and rules and order.
Night fell. Inside the one-room building, a fire was crackling and popping. Over it venison was spitted and roasting. Watching it, his mouth had watered, and his stomach had knotted and tightened with want of it. Fafnir hovered about, offering suggestions on seasoning at every opportunity. The moon rose as they ate, and the stars came out, sprinkled across an inky sky. Fafnir walked out to relieve himself, looked up and stood, between the stable and the house, mouth gaping, face turned up, eyes locked upon the starry blanket of night, feeling small, feeling so small.
In his young life in Gamilfun, the hours of the day were mark and remarked upon. Their lives were ordered, patterned. They went to bed and rose at certain hours, and worked their lives in a routine familiar and unbroken, certain and enduring. But from the moment of his birth until last night...that "first night".....Fafnir had never looked upon the open canopy of the heavens, had never seen the stars and felt them move and order his life. When he raised his eyes upon all those other nights of his life, it was stone above him, stone around him, stone beneath him.
But last night, last night, standing there, gazing up, last night was the first night. Pain or no pain, now is the first morning. And Fafnir will rise. He will rise. He will fasten that belt about his waist. He will break his fast with the others, with Nasi, on flat bread and hard cheese. He will swallow the pain and soreness with his meal and take Nasi's hand. He will walk, step by step by step.
He will endure, for he is dwarven, and he will live to see many nights and many mornings, and remember always his first night.
> Next
In his young life in Gamilfun, the hours of the day were mark and remarked upon. Their lives were ordered, patterned. They went to bed and rose at certain hours, and worked their lives in a routine familiar and unbroken, certain and enduring. But from the moment of his birth until last night...that "first night".....Fafnir had never looked upon the open canopy of the heavens, had never seen the stars and felt them move and order his life. When he raised his eyes upon all those other nights of his life, it was stone above him, stone around him, stone beneath him.
But last night, last night, standing there, gazing up, last night was the first night. Pain or no pain, now is the first morning. And Fafnir will rise. He will rise. He will fasten that belt about his waist. He will break his fast with the others, with Nasi, on flat bread and hard cheese. He will swallow the pain and soreness with his meal and take Nasi's hand. He will walk, step by step by step.
He will endure, for he is dwarven, and he will live to see many nights and many mornings, and remember always his first night.
> Next