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| Details |
| Author: | Luridel |
| Summary: | As the refugees from Gilneas sail across the ocean, Thaniel leaves a trail for his little brother. ~940 words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: Gravehowl Pack
The wash of the world is unceasing. Noise, like the tides, ebbs and flows. Scents are ever-present. The wind tugs at hair and clothing as it whispers.
Thaniel is never alone. It is his oldest blessing, older than his memories.
He knows that he is blessed. His mother taught him manners, his father taught him respect, and his sister taught him unconditional love. Anselyn taught him happiness. The windsong taught him everything else. (This is an oversimplification, of course. Thaniel has learned a lot of lessons from all sorts of people and places and things during his life. But Thaniel is grateful for those above all others.)
There is a song in Thaniel's head, and that song is the Light. There is also a song outside of Thaniel's head, and that song is the windsong. It is a thread twisted into the wash of the world, and Thaniel is always listening, listening, listening. He listens with his every moment, dreaming or awake. It isn't always a melody. The Light sounds melodic more often than not. The windsong is sometimes the buzzing of cicadas at night or the patter of rain or the crunching of dry leaves underfoot. Both are with him at all times.
This is the wash of the world, and Thaniel is never alone.
But his little brother is dead.
The ships are crowded. There are many humans there as well as the Gravehowl pack. Henry the not-puppy dog cannot find Mal, and so Thaniel takes him aside and pets his fur and whispers the windsong into his pointy ears. The ship is sailing, sailing, sailing away from Mal's physical remains, and if Thaniel wants to keep his spirit with them, he will have to act fast.
Henry's collar. Mal was the one to pick it. It can be Mal's memento if Thaniel binds him to it quickly enough. He sings the old songs, holding Henry the not-puppy dog to his chest and rocking him back and forth like the ship on the waves.
"Wander where you will, but wander back to me.
Far and far away, across the rolling sea.
The White Lady and her Blue Child.
The White Lady and her Blue Child."
The wash of the world is loud, here, close to so many other people. Even in his human form, he can smell their distressed scents. Some familiar, some new.
("I want to. Stay togeffer, I mean. And go to the same place. Don't wanna' wander round a place like this forever and always.")
There's too much ocean for Mal to track their scent, but maybe the howls of rage and despair from their pack and the old songs and Henry the not-puppy dog will help guide him. Maybe he can follow Zeke's hat. It won't be about the physical senses, not to a spirit. It will be about meaning and feeling and familiarity. Mal wanted to be with his family. There are many kinds of trails.
The sky is a midnight-blue blanket of shining stars and moonlight when Thaniel falls asleep on the deck. And Thaniel is never alone.
He does not dream of Mal.
He dreams of Anselyn, at first, cornered and wild and trembling, and he knows this is not a True Dream because Anselyn runs and they all have to chase him, Yseulde and Ozzy and Thaniel, through the Blackwald. Starving as he is, Anselyn should be slow, but no matter how fast Thaniel runs, Anselyn is always just a little faster, and when Thaniel looks down at his feet they become his human feet, and Anselyn vanishes into the deep dark of the forest. Yseulde runs after him, and so does Ozzy in her cat form, and then Thaniel is alone in the Blackwald.
But Thaniel is never alone.
He looks to his side, and because this is not a True Dream, Gellarn is there, holding up the rear, waiting for Thaniel. And then Ozzy doubles back on quick cat-feet to find him. Yseulde does not, because she cannot risk losing her brother, but he knows Yseulde will be leaving markers of her passage, a trail for him to follow to her and Anselyn. Thaniel hears howls in the distance and recognizes the rest of his pack on their way. All but one.
Thaniel's little brother is dead.
He wakes to his mother's voice calling his name. "Thaniel?"
Thaniel remembers Harriet Clay as a robust woman, capable of lifting just about anything. She seems infinitely strong and powerful in Thaniel's memories. When he opens his eyes and looks up at her, she looks like she has aged decades instead of the seven years it has actually been. Her hair is fully gray and there are deep shadows under her eyes. The wash of the world carries to him her deep-seated fatigue and the carefully-sheltered candle flame of her hope.
"Mother," Thaniel says.
Then his mother is kneeling next to him, and Thaniel is in her arms, and she's crying, crying, crying. She has so much to say to him, and all the words have crowded together in her throat so tightly she can't speak any of them. Thaniel understands.
Thaniel holds her, like he held Henry the not-puppy dog, and whispers the windsong into her ordinary human ears. "I know," he says. "I know. I'm here, and I understand. I'm alive. I love you. I know, I know, I know." He rocks her back and forth like the ship on the waves.
There are many kinds of trails. The ship's wake is a trail. But the trail Thaniel tries to leave for Mal is less tangible. Less visible.
It's just love.