25. shamanism
He stirred awake with a start, looking around their small camp with bleary confusion. Had he been... ? He ran one hand through Quinn's hair and held the blood elf tighter for a moment to prove he was still there, still breathing, still. Daimd heaved a deep sigh a rolled away, rising to attend to the ashes of the dying fire.
The Barrens were cold overnight, yet he knew the chill he felt had nothing to do with their surroundings. It had been vivid. Unclear, but bright and sharp, as though he were present at the event as it was happening. He had dreamt of Valm fashioning herself four totems of wood and leather, the very same totems that shamans favoured. He prodded the dream and tried to figure what it could mean, but only settled on the fact that it was peculiar, and distressing. He sighed heavily again, and spoke into the wind.
“I'm not coming back, Valm. Not this time. He's too much mine, and none of you are prepared for it.”
Honest words, he thought, but hardly the whole truth. In the back of his mind, the smallest of voices whispered, 'You aren't ready for this yet. You know what to tell them, and how he'll react, but you aren't prepared to deal with both of those things. Slow, quiet, patient Daimd, with secrets to keep like you've never had before.'
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the wolf ranging about the edge of their camp. He observed it long enough to realise its edges were ever so slightly blurred, and then he raised a hand to it, making a beckoning gesture. When it slunk into the firelight and settled down on its haunches, he looked at it directly, rumbling, “Tell her not to look for me. I am not here for her, or for any of them. We are here, and we have no place in the tribe. Tell her.”
The Barrens were cold overnight, yet he knew the chill he felt had nothing to do with their surroundings. It had been vivid. Unclear, but bright and sharp, as though he were present at the event as it was happening. He had dreamt of Valm fashioning herself four totems of wood and leather, the very same totems that shamans favoured. He prodded the dream and tried to figure what it could mean, but only settled on the fact that it was peculiar, and distressing. He sighed heavily again, and spoke into the wind.
“I'm not coming back, Valm. Not this time. He's too much mine, and none of you are prepared for it.”
Honest words, he thought, but hardly the whole truth. In the back of his mind, the smallest of voices whispered, 'You aren't ready for this yet. You know what to tell them, and how he'll react, but you aren't prepared to deal with both of those things. Slow, quiet, patient Daimd, with secrets to keep like you've never had before.'
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the wolf ranging about the edge of their camp. He observed it long enough to realise its edges were ever so slightly blurred, and then he raised a hand to it, making a beckoning gesture. When it slunk into the firelight and settled down on its haunches, he looked at it directly, rumbling, “Tell her not to look for me. I am not here for her, or for any of them. We are here, and we have no place in the tribe. Tell her.”