by K. A. Lentz
Thistle could feel events closing in around her. Everything was happening so fast she felt powerless to stop it. Looking at Miach, she noticed a change in his demeanor; he looked almost… resigned to the idea. With nervous defiance she abruptly stood. Glancing at each of the three faces staring back, Thistle stubbornly set her stance and said with as much authority as she could muster, “I’m not doing a thing until I talk to Pyhe. If this is his doing then… I’ll hear it from him, I’m sorry.”
She turned and started to leave but Syheran’s words gave her pause, “I respect your decision—and you are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of our village as long as you have need to stay—however I cannot say with any certainty how long it will be before Pyhe returns, it could be a while.”
Thistle’s shoulders slumped to the tune of defeat playing like a symphony from within. Without warning, the storm-slave joined the conversation to comfort his charge, “He should be here within the week. He’s never gone long.”
Miach could tell Syheran was a bit taken aback by this statement; Pyhe’s visits were a rare treat to this village, as was his mate Old Grandma. It was telling all the more that the lofty gnome spent so much time around this reaper’s slave. With renewed hope Syheran stated, “Well then fair lady, you shall not have long to wait.”
Thistle turned back to the trio and noted it was now a duo; Friend had silently descended back into the depths. With a shaky smile and a complacent tone, Thistle requested softer than intended, “Thank you very much. May I rest? It’s been a lot to take in today.”
Syheran was swiftly in motion to her side. Placing his hand in the middle of her back, he said, “Come this way fair lady, I’ll show you both to our guest lodgings.”
As she was led away, Thistle looked over her shoulder at the still pacing Miach and noticed he had no wish to follow. Looking at her feet she also made note that Amy was gone and scanned the area to find her wayward pug. Glancing over at the celebration still in full swing, she saw her little friend had been drawn back to the festival square by free food and endless hands available to pet her. Feeling a little abandoned, she begrudgingly conceded that Amy was better off there for now anyway.
Miach paced hard the abandoned patio, consumed by and imprisoned within Syheran’s words. He couldn’t accept it, but yet how could he deny it. Pyhe has never led me astray, why would he start now? A wife?! Bonding with someone the way my people once did… no, I am not husband material. My master will never release me from her service, nor would she spare my bride. To add such a commitment now… Pyhe must have a profoundly good reason.
Miach was still playing his mental game of tug-o-war when Syheran returned to speak with him alone. The hale-elf seated himself onto the same stone bench he had previously occupied. With a knowing smile—and a hint of mirth—Syheran glanced up at Miach and said, “My friend, you’re on an interesting path. Once this is all sorted out—with Pyhe’s happy help of course—your entire existence will change. I can assure you, things are about to improve within the important dimensions of your life.”
Miach stopped pacing and shot Syheran an insulting expression of disbelief. Laughing, the elf put up a hand and declared, “I give you an honest opinion of my experience in life. Life is better with your other.”
Glaring at the merriment flowing from the other side of the pool, Miach stated in a low growl, “I’m sorry I cannot seek your council to sort this out. I promise… I shall return.” Staring in the direction Syheran had led Thistle he added, “She will be here when I return or I cannot speak for my actions. She’s my mission and I am bound to it; I warn you now. Do we understand each other?”
Syheran stood and bowed to Miach before replying in a hospitable tone, “I assure you Brother, we do.” That was all Miach needed before he took off like a shot. The storm-slave ran until he was alone and well out of ear-shot. Stopping abruptly, he filled his lungs in one massive inhale and then roared Pyhe’s name with everything he had. He repeated this a dozen times before the request was fulfilled. Pyhe popped from the dirt in a less than graceful fashion, his eyes darting around a bit startled. Upon seeing Miach standing over him, a lost expression dominating his features, the little gnome ran up and patted his friend’s leg as he cooed, “Not to worry my Tall-one, all will be as must. Know wisdom is not my possession, one shared with kin and guard. We counseled until truth understood. To not would deny fated one and yours. Understanding strong Miach?”
Pyhe rarely used Miach’s name, and so it was humbling when he did. The little man’s words were weighty enough, however adding his spoken name to the statement only made everything feel all the more true. He sat with a thud next to Pyhe and pleaded, “But… a wife? I feel so very unaccustomed to being around people… other than you. I do not see how I’m going to become comfortable with someone who should be as close to me as a wife. How do I let her in and not…”
Miach silently stared up at the sky through billowing canopies of moonlit trees. The kind little gnome had transplanted his gentle patting to the swordsman’s shoulder, yet when he looked into his friend’s face… Pyhe decided to adopt a different approach. Standing tall he said with an air of finality, “If seek more knowledge, then will find with her. There I go.”
Having voiced his intent Pyhe dove into his pool of dirt and vanished without another word. Miach looked around for a moment in disbelief before he took off at speed toward Japake. The race was short lived and decidedly won by Pyhe. Miach was not only slower than the little gnome, but he had also become temporarily stalled trying to navigate the labyrinthine back-paths making up the walkways in Japake. His search ended when he passed a side-path and saw Thistle’s little pug dog sitting in the middle of the walkway. Miach double-took the canine’s strange behavior, yet guessed she was somehow there to guide him where expected. The compassionate familiar greeted his confident escort as he walked up in front of her, “Well… hello, Amy was it? I’m thinking Pyhe sent you to find me.”
The little dog’s large, brown saucers simply stared back as her head tipped from one side to the next with every word he spoke. Miach laughed aloud at this odd, adorable behavior and decided not to delay the inevitable any longer. In an uncharacteristically enthusiastic voice he said, “Okay wise one, lead on and I shall follow.”
Seeming to understand his words the confident pug stood, turned, and sassily trotted down the deserted walkway. Two bends and a straight-lane later they approached the guest quarters. A soft glow flooded through the open doorway and across its gray-stone stoop, inviting its new arrival in with the promise of elvish comfort. Amy boldly strode into the small dwelling without pause. Miach, on the other hand, waited a moment before stepping through the threshold to his waiting fate.
Despite its small size, the little stone bungalow was rather spacious inside. Its modest furnishings filled the room to perfection yet refrained from cluttering the space. Dominating the opposite round from the doorway was an exquisitely carved bed-frame housing a mattress more than large enough to sleep two. Resting like a regal queen at its center, Thistle absentmindedly scratched Amy’s head as the little dog snoozed in her lap. Pyhe sat perched on the bed as well, his hairy feet dangling over its edge as he smiled up at his friend. Looking from one to the other, Miach stopped on Pyhe and said, “Well… I am here, Sir; tell me the wisdom you know I’m seeking?”
“Eager, eager Tall-one. Things must happen, bonds must make. Only with the bond will two become one. You each to follow other and find truths by caution together.” Pyhe jumped onto the floor and walked to stand before the storm-slave. Beginning in an instructing tone, the little gnome’s face turned serious for a change, “Fear in you for Zelrahk removed with your mate. Never to be as you can, too much for slave-kind. Compassion is she, and you the other piece.”
Unexpectedly the little gnome’s head snapped around, as if spotting a predator, and then—with a worried expression—he turned back to the puzzled couple. Bowing, Pyhe hurried, “Apologies, friends, must go or lost all.�
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In a flash he ran to his tunnel outside and made good on his hastily declared good-bye. Thistle and Miach, shocked by the little man’s odd behavior, stared in silence at Pyhe’s gnome-sized mound framed in the still open doorway. Miach was first to recover. Scanning the hut he turned his gaze on Thistle and took in a steadying breath, yet as he started to speak she beat him to it, “I know what you are going to say… or at least I have a pretty good idea. I haven’t known Pyhe for long, but I know he is a very good being. So many trust his word and guidance here… it’s hard not to be swept up by that too. I cannot say tonight what I will do, yet I can say by tomorrow I will have an answer to all of this. May I ask the favor of solitude to make this weighty decision?”
Though hurt by her words, he could not fault them. He wanted the same thing, yet also felt the need to be by her side. Without saying a word, Miach turned and quit the chamber to seek his own council.
Late the next morning when Thistle awoke from a short and fitful sleep, Amy was there ready to greet her. For a brief, seductively calm moment she had forgotten where she was, yet as her eyes cleared on the hut’s elegant surroundings last night’s events—and its weighty decision—came flooding back. She had promised an answer, but… there wasn’t one to give. When she had lain down at dawn, finally giving into exhaustion, Thistle still hadn’t decided what to do.
Husband… a husband?! She had thought many times through the night. Back home I wasn’t even close to ready for that. I always hoped one day, but today… is not in my plans; of course one could argue none of this was in my plans. Some time ago Thistle had come to the realization that this whole reality was not a nightmare; she really was in another realm of existence. It was all real… and she was in the middle of it. Witch… husband… all of it was true, or seemed to be, yet still… she didn’t want to accept it.
Amy jumped down and pawed at the corner of the door, bringing Thistle—as in the past—back to the present. Looking down at her pug, a pang of homesickness stabbed her aching heart. It seemed a lifetime ago she had been sitting at her desk watching the dawn-sun peek over her city’s horizon. Becoming more insistent, Amy pawed the door with more force and, for good measure, added a whine. Thistle moved to get out of bed, but then halted at the revelation she wasn’t wearing the same clothes she had gone to bed in; that set of attire had been neatly stacked into a basket beside the door.
Who? When? Why didn’t I wake? I tossed through the morning—I clearly remember that unpleasantness—so when was I… changed? Her mind lingered on that thought. Standing up, the bewildered witch admired her new attire while stumbling toward the door. It was a beautiful dress by any standards, and the fact that she had slept in it like a nightgown flooded her stomach with a rush of guilt. The feeling was quickly overshadowed as she noted how extremely comfortable the gorgeous gown was. Gently running her hand over the light green silken fabric along her stomach, Thistle absentmindedly reached out and lifted the door-latch.
As the thick, wooden portal opened Amy burst through its expanding crack and tore off to the right. Thistle immediately worried over what her pug was rushing to get into and ran through the door after the incorrigible dog. Rounding the door in two strides, she was forced to halt in her tracks to avoid running over Old Grandma. Horrified she had almost trampled the little gnome, Thistle started stammering an apology but was stopped short by Old Grandma’s gentle words, “No fears, young one, I am agile and remember habits of young. Gown picked by your character, delicate webs of the Iktomi people, unmatched their strands of silken web and skillful weaving. Natural are you in beauty, your bonding will sparkle in light.”
Old Grandma—speaking of marriage—wiped Thistle’s smile from her face and turned it into an impassable mask. Wrestling with her personal nature and social propriety for a moment, Thistle decided to blurt out what she had to say despite reservations regarding her audience, “I mean no disrespect, Old Grandma, I cannot say if I will marry Miach. Things are different in that department where I come from, we don’t just…”
Softly sighing, Old Grandma interrupted Thistle once again, “Things little of matter, time sees clear truth of words given by all. You witch of compassion, path will chase if thoughts to run. Accept for betterment. On it shall always stay… bonded with Miach. No cannot council you long. Other and I, bond your pair together as privilege to us.”
Thistle stood gazing down at the kind gnome; her curious eyes wandering from one strange feature to the next as the little woman spoke. As her eyes wandered the edges of Old Grandma’s animated face, Thistle’s attention was drawn to an exquisite flower standing beside the still talking gnome. Red in petal, pink in stem, and purple in leaf, there wasn’t a hint of green anywhere on it. Upon inspection, the intrigued witch noticed that the flower’s many delicate petals softly blew in a breeze she was unable to feel on her skin. As Thistle tested the air with a finger, Old Grandma gently instructed, “Your eyes true, no wind felt; swayed in currents of love. From our realm and return when success to be captured. Only here in allowance to bloom.”
Thistle’s amazement openly sat upon her face. She became entranced watching the flower dance and sway, twisting and bending. It seemed at times the currents were so strong it nearly bent the stems to snapping. The bewildered witch turned back to Old Grandma, words forming into questions when she noticed… no one was standing beside her. Rounding the hut in an effort to follow the elusive little gnome, Thistle was greeted by another absolutely amazing sight. Old Grandma was crouched over, digging a shallow hole into the dirt with her bare hands. Reversing the process, she lovingly filled it back in before poking a naked finger into the soil’s freshly sifted surface; standing tall, she merrily trotted toward her next planting site. In the little gnome’s wake a magnificent flower grew to its full height within seconds, blooming just as the tiger lily had the day before. Caught by the wonders unfolding before her eyes, Thistle jumped when Old Grandma tapped the back of her leg. A sincere and caring expression warmed the little gnome’s face as she cooed, “I do sorry to you, young one. No intent to anxious. Come take breakfast and relax. Elves await.”
Without Thistle’s voiced acceptance, Old Grandma took her hand and led her barefoot to the festival square from the night before. No festoons hung from the trees come late morning, all looked relatively normal… for an elvish village. Unsurprising to Thistle, Amy had found her way to the morning gathering—more importantly the food—while the pug’s inattentive caretaker had been distracted by Old Grandma and her magnificent flowers.
Thistle sat down where the little gnome guided and watched with growing anticipation as each delicacy made its way onto her plate. This time the fare wasn’t served by a parade of dishes, but by a young group of giggling elflings hurrying off to the next diner. Looking around she noticed the many eager eyes glancing her direction, passing excited whispers back and forth, yet still she sat alone in the center of a long empty table. Hoping someone would save her from this awkward situation, she was relieved when a middle-aged female stopped by for a visit. Caution slipping on and off her face, the elf hesitantly relayed news that Thistle and Miach would be sharing quarters for the whole of their visit. Relieving the elf of her burden, Thistle assured her that such a situation was not a problem as they had traveled for months with one another and even spent nights huddled together for warmth. Feeling her task fulfilled by Thistle’s words, the elf bowed and returned to her family watching on from another table. Though many visited, none stayed long. Thistle was a little lonely watching them go, yet felt awkward and boorish when they were visiting. Looking down at her half empty plate, she was suddenly reminded of life’s inescapable morning duties and excused herself as she got up to leave. Having learned about the many community bathrooms dotting Japake’s landscape, she decided it was time to see the grand-bath described to her last night by an eager guide desperately recruited in the early hours before dawn.
Thistle was still missing from breakfast when a sight entered the sq
uare none could soon forget. Growling under his breath, Miach made his way across the patio to Syheran walking in from another path. The storm-slave’s runes radiated with such intensity the ethereal symbols fully illuminated the dense copse of trees despite the late hour of the morning. As he passed shocked spectators shielding their eyes, their delicate ears were assailed by horrific sounds of cold, crystalline energy snapping and crackling to the tune of ice fracturing under a morning sun. Adding awe and wonder to an already surprising spectacle, the on-looking elves noticed a light coating of rime faintly covering every surface close to the swordsman’s path. Barely controlling his deep expression of pain, Miach stopped in front of Syheran and said through gritted teeth, “Thistle?!”
Syheran desperately scanned the crowd for his answer, worry pressing his brow into a mountain range across the flats of his forehead. Jumping up from her seat, an elf-maiden made her way toward the duo with Miach’s solution lingering in her eyes. Seeking to comfort the distressed familiar she touched him on the arm—much to her mistake—as she began to speak. An arch of lightening passed between them, sending the elf-maid sailing through the air as startled gasps rang throughout the crowd. Miach abruptly turned toward her and saw the look of apology spilling onto her face as she gained her feet and walked forward once more. With an expression to match hers the storm-slave repeated his question, “Thistle?”