#zaamir

“What is it?”

“Please stop.”

She reluctantly does so, her right hoof falling with a hard, muffled thud against the grass as she anchors herself and turns to look at Zaamir, arms crossed over her abdomen, signaling how guarded she feels. “What is it?” she repeats, already running through several counters in her head.

Zaamir keeps a respectable distance, looking around as if unsure how to proceed. Finally he steps over to a stone ledge, and beckons her over to sit as well. She declines, instead continuing to stand. It’s more comfortable for her that way.

“Suit yourself,” he says, the barest hint of humor in his tone. After a long draw of silence, he continues. “There is something I must tell you.”

Freiha doesn’t like the way that sounds, and her brow furrows to reflect this. All manner of possibilities pass through her mind as to what a virtual stranger could have to tell her, most of which are unpleasant; this could be anything from bad news about someone close, to informing her that someone had picked her pocket when she wasn’t looking. “Yes?”

He takes in a breath and diverts his gaze forward, then down, his gauntleted hands braced against his knees. “Long ago, I made a sacrifice for the good of my people. I separated from my mate to join the Army of Light, knowing full well she was with child.”

Freiha, brow still furrowed, wonders why he is telling her this, but decides to hear him out.

“I promised we would see each other again, confident that the Legion would be defeated. I was naive then, believing that it would have to work out the way I wanted it to because I believed it needed to.” He looks forward again, his hands closing into fists atop his knees. “It did not. The war raged on for millennia, ceaseless. There came a time when I abandoned all hope of getting back to her and to the child whose birth I had long since missed.

“When the Legion was finally defeated on Argus, and I found a reprieve from my duties after being dispatched to Azeroth, I searched records to see if they survived. I had to know. I discovered they had both died, mere years before we could have finally had a chance to reunite—barely beyond my grasp compared to the millennia I spent apart from them.”

Freiha continues to internally question his motive for sharing this information with her, growing tenser by the moment. “That is unfortunate.”

“It is,” he rumbles in agreement. “But buried amid that tragic discovery was a glimmer of hope: another generation, brought forth by the son I never knew. Grandchildren.” He pauses, looking up at her. “You... are one of them.”

This information takes Freiha an embarrassingly long time to process, her face flushing with heat, and a shiver of paralysis passing through her body. “...What?”

“Your father, Sergius—my son. Seraat, my mate.”

Freiha feels her knees buckle, but manages to remain upright. “You are my grandfather?”

“I am,” he replies, patience in his voice.

“Seraat never spoke of you,” she challenges. “Not by name. And those records are public. How do I know—”

“You look very much like her,” Zaamir interjects, a gentle smile on his face. “Seraat. Nearly a reflection of her—the same horns, violet skin, hair black as charcoal.”

This lowers Freiha’s guard, even if slightly. However, she is at a loss for words.

“I did not intend to take so long to reveal this,” Zaamir says, filling the gap. “This is not the place I expected it to occur, either.”

“No, I’m sure it isn’t,” Freiha replies distractedly. “How long?”

“Months. I was very apprehensive.”

She nods, deciding that makes sense. After a long pause, she speaks again. “I... must return home.”

“Azuremyst.” “Yes.”

“I hope to meet the other two soon.”

Freiha knows she should let him know that he probably won’t be meeting Kasmia as soon as he would like to, but she can’t seem to find the words. She already feels overwhelmed enough as it is; having to explain her sister’s disappearance would take more mental and emotional energy than she cares to expend right now.

“Yes.”

“I am sure you need time,” Zaamir states, which Freiha finds unnervingly perceptive. He stands, but thankfully makes no move to embrace her; instead, he bows respectfully. “Whenever you are ready, I would like to speak with you further.”

“Of course.”

“Light guide you,” he says, then slips past her to make his departure.

Freiha allows herself a moment to regain her senses, then starts on her way home.