#laori

This day has come finally, but at the same time it has come too soon.

The rest is up to you, his teacher has said. You’ve received all that I know in the form of words. The rest is up to you and how you cultivate your relationship with the spirits.

A few days ago, she brought him back to his grandmother’s home, and sobbed for almost the entire duration of dinner. He’d like to think they’re tears of pride, but he knows they were tears of sadness, too. His teacher may enjoy solitude, but he feels a twinge in his chest nevertheless, when he imagines the middle-aged woman returning to her seaside hut alone.

She’ll be fine; she has Bacon with her. She never told him whether that’s a nickname or if the majestic boar simply has the most unfortunate name in the history of Druid familiars. And she’s with her one true love. The Frozen Sea was just thawing when he and his Uncle Flynn finally found her almost ten months ago, and she had spent a large part of their initial meeting raving about the mystical beauty of the sea ice, and lamenting melodramatically over how he’d just missed the sight. And now I’m leaving before it freezes over again. He makes a mental note to visit her again in winter some time.

The brightest of the stars still hang proudly upon the moonless sky, but the young Druid catches a glimpse of light on the horizon. The warm gold reflects from his eyes, and he thanks the spirits for this sight of divine grandeur.

Barefoot and still in his sleepwear, he wraps a cloak about himself, and climbs onto the roof through the guest room’s window. His family here - his grandmother, two uncles, one aunt and one cousin - live a little way from the main towns. Close enough to feel the ocean winds, but far enough to receive some buffer from the mountains and sparse forests against the chill. The wind greets him now, carrying salt from the ocean and tiny snowflakes - he can’t see them yet, but they whisper to him, dancing a sassy little dance upon his cheeks. He takes them in with a breath, feeling the fresh air surge through him. His core - where his magic resides - trembles in resonance.

Thanks for having me. The wind lets him know he’s more than welcome. When you return to the sea tonight, thank the water for me once more. Maybe it’s because he hardly sees such vast, open expanses of running water, or maybe his teacher’s passion has rubbed off on him… somewhere along the way, he discovers that his bonds with spirits of water are particularly deep.

He sits there until a robin lands lightly onto his shoulder; Averard had agreed to put off flying south until he’s back in Virkove. He is grateful for his familiar’s company, and he secretly enjoys the sight of the little bird puffing up his feathers so much that he looks almost round.

Come inside and bid goodbye to those who must stay, boy. He sighs and follows his guide’s instruction. He doesn’t want his little cousin to find him on the roof again - it’s not as though he doesn’t want Anvindr to climb and identify with his love of high places, but he can do without the admonishments from his uncle and aunt.

He doesn’t really have an appetite for breakfast, but the family makes sure he eats his fill, anyway, and then some. His grandmother and aunt have cooked up a feast, and even Uncle Selas, who would usually be either still sleeping or already at work, is here to see him off.

They take a couple of hours from start to finish, chatting about all sorts of topics, from his grandmother’s childhood stories, to Celandine’s relationship with Ceth. He is glad for the reminder; it makes the farewell less gloomy, when they can look forward to meeting again soon.

He retreats back to the guest room afterwards, taking his time to get dressed, etching each sight, each sensation, each little action into his memory. For the past year, he has grown accustomed to this life, perhaps even started taking it for granted… and now, he must leave, for he has another life waiting for him, at home.

His other home.

He pulls on a vest that used to belong to his grandfather, and wonders what kind of man he was. He remembers his own father in Virkove, and though they don’t share the closest of relationships, he thanks the gods that he is still alive, and that he was given the chance to know him - a chance that his father never had with his father.

He packs away the rest of his clothes, grunting as he tries to fit the expanded luggage into his bags. He gives up eventually, and Uncle Flynn digs up an old rucksack for him to store all the souvenirs he has collected over the months. It isn’t until he goes down to the living room that he sees the two extra bags of food that his grandmother and aunt have packed for him.

They assure him that Ermir won’t mind; after all, they have some treats in there just for the trusty steed.

And it is in laughter that he fares each of his family well. He hugs Uncle Flynn tightly, thanking him over and over for not only his tutelage, but his tireless efforts to find a suitable mentor for him. Aunt Ingrid hugs him from the back, enveloping him between two embraces, and the young Druid was overcome by a warm surge of nostalgic comfort. Did Mom and Dad hug me like this, when I was little?

Anvindr joins in with a jealous cry, tugging on the hem of his vest, and he breaks the group-hug to pick the young child off his feet. He lifts him high above his head, eliciting that sweet giggle he has come to know and love, and brings him back down for a hug. You’re going to grow up to be a great Druid. He knows it.

Uncle Selas looks reluctant, but he grabs him and hugs him, too. He expresses his gratitude for the lessons on his Druidic roots - who he is, what he is, what he can be. He may not have enjoyed the lessons, but he recognises their importance. The scholar and historian pats the young Druid on the back, and warns him against forgetting what he has been taught.

He waits until the very end to hug his grandmother goodbye. He tries to find the words, but none seem sufficient. Just when he opens his mouth and hopes that something comes out, Grandmom hushes him gently, and they simply hold one another in silence. She strokes his hair, and he inhales her scent.

When they finally let go, their eyes meet, and they both see the tears in the other’s eyes.

With a quick wave and a firm promise to meet again soon, he turns away, leaps onto his horse, and rides off, Averard roosting in the hood of his cloak.

He doesn’t look back until he knows the house is out of view, but when he finally does, he's surprised to see his pursuers: a cougar, a deer, a snow leopard, and a mountain goat kid are running after him, matching his pace.

The familiars of his uncles, aunt and cousin keep escorting him until he reaches Túr Dúlra, and he can’t help but take a moment to consider the monumental college that served as his meeting point with his family all those months ago. There, he dismounts, and hugs each familiar goodbye, too.

He rides with the wind at his back, its spirits singing songs about his family’s blessings and his teacher’s best wishes for him. They sing songs written with the rhythm of the cold sea, the melody of the harvest, the lyrics of history. He joins in with the singing, each of his bonds forged over the past year and beyond woven seamlessly as a harmony to the song of love.

And the wind carries it before him, to the place he knows is also his home - for his heart belongs there, too, and it yearns to beat in tandem with the many hearts that hold love for him and each other.

I’m coming home, he thinks, and the wind gladly takes the message with it. Averard offers up one of his deep orange feathers, and makes his own specific request.

Laori is tired; the training has been punishing, especially in the gradually cooling weather. At least the wind has been forgiving today.

She carelessly unravels her hair, tangled and matted after a day of strenuous training in the light snow, and shakes it out, wincing as the knots tug on her scalp and paying no heed to the small object that has been freed from her hair and sent adrift in the air.