Notes: Any mangling of the French language is mine and mine alone. Desolée.
Part Two
I am standing on the edge of one field looking into another. The grass grows uninterrupted, but my way is blocked by a low wall made of stone. The forest behind me is sparse; the trees have not grown tall and thick for days. It continues in patches around the field, but elsewhere the grass continues until a hill rises to the horizon. The sun is not high in the sky; it is mid-morning, and I have only been walking since dawn. But the stone wall stands before me, a level, even seat beckoning to my tired legs.
My feet are walking me towards the wall. I am tired. Exhausted. I have not bothered to keep count of the days; there seems to be little point. Mother is gone and home is gone and I am wandering until I find people, and so each day I walk until I can walk no further. I have slept in trees and on the ground, uneven, hard surfaces. In my childhood I thought nothing of doing this, but now my body aches and begs for somewhere soft to lay my head. I had not known that such pain was possible.
The stone wall is no softer than the ground, but at least I no longer stand. I take my bag off my back and open it. Soon Mother's jerky will be mere crumbs, and since the forest changed I have lost my sense of which plants are edible and which are not. Even the dirt below my feet has changed from deep, dark, rich soil to a softer, greyish almost-powder. I have never encountered unfamiliarity on such a large scale, and I cannot decide if I am frightened or endlessly interested in my new surroundings. Surely this place has cycles like my home. I would like to know. I would like to be watching tadpoles wriggle in the shallows of the creek near my house. They had not yet hatched before I left, but now—
"Allons, allons, allons-y," sings a voice, far away, and a moment later I hear the sound of feet, many feet, countless feet. I cannot tell if they are coming towards me, but I slip off the wall and hide behind the stones. The sound of feet grows louder, bringing with it an unfamiliar smell—animals, yes, but I do not know what kind. If the sound is any indication, there are many animals, and I have never heard so many together in one place before. There are other noises, too, snorting and a sort of ah-ah-ah I do not know.
"Écoutez-moi, écoutez-moi, arretez maintenant!" The voice is louder, still singing tunelessly. It is higher than Mother's, so I think it must be a girl. My heart beats as hard as the pounding of the feet on the ground, my mind as confused as the ah-ah-ahs. I do not understand the sounds coming from her mouth.
The pounding grows quieter. I am afraid to look over the wall, and I do not know why. I have only ever spoken to Mother and to the elves. Mother taught me a greeting, but I do not know if the girl—if it is a girl—will understand me. And she is only one person, and Mother told me to find a town. I think that if I wait, she and the animals will go away. I am good at sitting still for hours, at hiding from the sight of those around me. I will wait.
The grass itches at my hands, but I do not move. The smell of the animals is strong and unpleasant, but I do not cough. The sun becomes brighter and brighter in the sky, and sweat drips into my eyes, and I barely blink. I am not here, I think. I think of nothing else.
The sound of bare feet slapping on stone interrupts my not-thinking. It comes closer, and with it comes the sound of a song, half-sung with little breath, with sounds I do not even hear as words. The muscles in my arm twitch without warning as I tense. I am shaking like a dead leaf yet clinging to the bare winter branch. I do not understand why I am scared.
A breeze of movement cools the sweat on my face, and a shadow darkens the sky. I look up, my head scraping against the stone. Her skirt billows around her as she walks carefully with one foot in front of the other, her arms waving out for balance. Her legs are brownish and bare, her hair sunshine tangling around her face. I cannot move, or she will see me. I cannot close my eyes, or I will not see her. She looks down.
Our eyes meet. Hers are blue-green and wide and she has jumped off the wall and I stand—I am standing, because I have followed her with my eyes. I cannot stop looking. She stands across from me, and her face becomes wrinkles and anger as she starts yelling, too quickly for my mind to try to make words from her sounds. She points at me and then her skirt and yells more. I blink.
"Hello," I say, because that is what Mother taught me to say.
She stops mid-yell, stares at me. She brushes hair out of her face, still angry, studying me, and then her hand snaps out and slaps me.
My skin is raw from so many days in the sun, and the jolt of her hand travels into my bones, setting fire everywhere. I yell in pain, covering my cheek with my own hand, not knowing what else to say. My knees are weak. She has touched me.
She is speaking again, her words still short and angry. The fire leaves me, though the pain remains, and I think she is trying to tell me that I deserve to be slapped. "Hello," I say again. The pain is in my voice, but I try to sound calm, as well. "My name is Morrin."
She stops speaking again, her eyes squinting at me. She looks less angry and more confused. "Quoi?"
I hear the question in her voice. I could choose not to answer. It is not a choice. "My name," I say, slowly, "is Morrin."
Her face smoothes itself. "Morrin," she says, understanding, though she adds a roughness to my name that Mother never did. "Fereldan?"
"It's a country," I say, not knowing why she asks. This seems to be an answer, for she shakes her head.
"Tu es loin de Ferelden," she says. "Et pourquoi?" Although her words come slow and measured, I do not know what she is saying. I shrug in confusion. She brushes her hair out of her face again. "Es-tu perdu?"
"I don't understand," I say. She sighs and speaks too quickly again. I follow the ups and downs in her voice—higher than Mother's, strangely rough and soft at once. I do not know how old she is. Younger than Mother, probably, but I have no way of knowing. I am standing before her realizing that there are many things I do not know. Every sound she makes is a fresh reminder of something new to be discovered. I long to know.
She says something else, and waves a hand out behind her, and suddenly I realize I have forgotten the sounds and the smells and the animals behind her. I am surprised that she could so completely distract me, and then there are animals, wandering around the field inside the stone wall. They all have four legs and grey fur, thick and curly. Their faces are black, and occasionally one opens its mouth and makes the ah-ah-ah sound. The girl waves at the animals, and then points to herself, and says slowly, "Je dois garder les moutons. Est-ce que tu veux rester aussi ici?"
I shake my head. The more she speaks, the more I hear sounds that are...familiar, in the way oceans are familiar, but they have been distorted, no doubt by time and distance. She bites her lip, studying me, and I do not know what to do or say or how to present myself. I know that my face is confused, and that my eyes are watching her bite her lip (and I do not know why). I know that I have dark hair and red-raw skin, that my clothes shroud me in black, that my eyes are yellow. I do not know if she is scared of me. I do not know if she should be scared of me. I think I am scared of her—my heart beats quickly and I am still tense—and yet I do not feel scared. I am confused. I am alive.
She sighs finally and pats the stone where I was sitting. I do not move. She pats the stone again, raising her eyebrows—she is telling me to do something, and so I sit. She holds up her hand—stay. I stay. She turns away and walks back to the animals, glancing back at me. I stay.
The day passes and I barely move. The girl wanders among the animals, singing her tuneless song to them, stroking their heads. I have never seen animals listen to a human before, but these animals clearly watch her. They hear her voice, and they understand. Sometimes I wish I was one of them.
She walks the wall too, though she does not come near me. The sun rises higher over our heads, reaches its peak, and starts descending towards the other horizon. Her hair is the same color of the sun as its light weakens, softens, turns less yellow and more gold. I have nothing better to do than make these comparisons. She is colors I have never seen before. I wish I could speak their names in her words. Occasionally one of the creatures comes closer to me, plants itself, and makes its strange noise at me. I have watched enough animals mark their territory to recognize the action. I do not move.
Finally the sun begins to set, and a breeze blows, soothing my sun-baked skin. The girl sings again to the animals, and they begin moving towards the far end of the field. She stands behind them, watching their progress, and then she turns to me. "Tu viens?"
I am surprised by the question—I do not understand, but she looks at me as though she wants an answer. I shrug again, because I do not know what else to do. She frowns, and then repeats, "Tu viens?" while she waves her hand, waving me closer.
My feet slowly touch the ground on her side of the wall. She keeps beckoning me, and so I stand, putting my bag on my shoulder. She nods, and I take a step towards her, and then my feet are stepping towards her without real direction. As I come closer I can see that she does not smile, but she looks...satisfied.
"Suive-moi," she says, and turns to follow the animals. I follow her. I do not know where else to go.
o.O.o
I stand inside a house, on an unfamiliar wooden floor, a low fire banked in a stone fireplace. Four people are looking at me. I have never seen this many humans gathered in one place before. They are all different. One is the girl from the field, standing by the fireplace with her arms crossed. One is a boy, younger than I am, his hair the same color as hers, sitting on the stones. He looks angry. There are two men, one older than I, his face frowning as he asks questions of the girl. The second has white hair and a wrinkled face. He sits in a chair with blankets over his legs and his lap. His eyes are blue, and he ignores the others, and watches me.
The man snaps something at the girl, who answers with a look on her fact that reminds me of trying to tell Mother why I have done something that I knew would displease her. I hear the word "Ferelden" more than once, and I do not know if I should nod in understanding or pretend I do not know what they are saying. I am warm and I am becoming aware that I smell. I am unwelcome.
"Boy," the man in the chair says, and the man and the girl stop talking and look at him. He leans forward, his bony hands gripping the arms of his chair, and says, "Do you understand me?"
"Yes," I say, my mind overwhelmed by the familiar sounds. I am joyful to hear words I understand, even if he pronounces them strangely. It is not the strangeness of the elves. His words are closed, almost mumbled, but I understand.
"Are you from Ferelden?" he asks. He says the word as though he does not like it.
"No," I say, shaking my head. He looks surprised amidst the wrinkles, and so I say, "I have never been there."
"Then where are you from?" he asks. "You speak like a native."
I do not have a reply. "Mother's house in the forest" is the answer, but I do not know if he knows my mother. He may know the forest, but he certainly does not know the house. Finally I look at the windows, and point to the one where I can see the setting sun. "That way."
The standing man says something, and the girl says something, and the man in the chair snaps at them. He looks back to me and says, "But your parents are Fereldan?"
"I...don't know," I say. I know Mother traveled through Ferelden, and that she met my father there, but I only know..."My mother is from the Korcari Wilds."
"Au sud," the man in the chair says, and the girl shifts uneasily. I realize that the other three in the room are straining to understand our conversation, much as I have struggled to understand theirs. I feel less helpless. "And where is your mother now, boy?"
I shrug. She is on her journey; I know little more. The man's eyebrows raise, causing the wrinkles on his forehead to collide. He must be older than Flemeth. "You are alone?"
"Yes," I say.
"No family?"
Mother is not here. "No."
He says something to the others in their language. They stare at me. I think that it is probably unusual for young men to appear out of the setting sun by themselves speaking the wrong language. I wish I had more information to give them.
The standing man says something to the man in the chair, who in turn asks me, "Are you going somewhere?"
"Val Foret?" It is not a question, yet I ask it as one. If this is how I am met in one house by four people, how will I be met in a city?
"C'est loin," the standing man says.
"Have you any money?" the man in the chair says.
Money. Mother had apologized for only having a few silvers to give me. I find them in my bag and hold them in my hand, showing them to the others. They shake their heads, and the boy finally speaks. The girl says something in protest. The standing man snaps at them. They stop talking, but they shake their heads again.
"That is Fereldan money," the man in the chair says. "Do you have any Orlesian coins?"
I shake my head. There is a difference? I did not know.
The man sighs. "Do you have a trade?"
I am afraid to ask what a trade is, but my confusion is on my face again. The men speak for a while, occasionally asking the girl questions. I do not look at her, though I would like to. I do not mind studying the man in the chair; he is old, and I have never seen an old man. He speaks my language. It is a small hope in the darkness of my confusion.
The man in the chair leans back, though his eyes still study me closely. "My granddaughter," he says, nodding to the girl, "says she found you behind the wall. Were you watching her?"
I frown, but my earlier fright returns to me. "I was hiding," I say. "She found me." His expression does not change. "She slapped me," I say. "It hurt."
He apparently repeats this to her, for she starts to laugh. I cannot look at her, but my face heats beneath the burning from the sun. The standing man speaks to the old man, and finally he says, "What's your name?"
"Morrin!" the girl says before I can answer. The others look at her, startled; I smile, though it hurts my face.
"Morrin," I say.
"And your surname?"
I shrug.
The standing man snorts and says something to the man in the chair, who nods. "My son," he says, "says you may stay the night, and that in the morning we shall see about finding you a way to Val Foret. If you cause trouble, you will find the punishment far worse than Gwendolen's slaps."
Gwendolen? "Quoi?" the girl demands, and the old man repeats the same tone in different words, and she laughs again. Gwendolen.
The boy says something to me, his expression concerned. "Henri says, he cannot think of anything worse," the man in the chair explains. "But I am sure my son can." His voice and gaze are serious.
"Yes," I say. "I will not cause trouble."
"Then you may stay," he says. The son jerks his head towards a different part of the house, and Gwendolen (Gwendolen) uncrosses her arms and disappears. Henri—if that is the boy—stands and goes to the old man, leaning down so that the old man may grasp his shoulder and stand. His back bends as though it will never straighten, and together they slowly move through the other door. The light from the sun has grown dim. I am alone in the growing darkness with the standing man, who crosses his arms and stares at me. He does not glare, but he is serious. I do not know what to say. There is nothing to say, for he would not understand me anyway.
Gwendolen returns with blankets in her arms. She drops them at my feet and points to the ground before the fireplace. I nod. Part of me hopes she will look at me, but she does not. She kisses the standing man on the cheek and goes out the same door Henri and the old man went. He watches her go, and I do not fully understand his expression; but it reminds me of the way Mother looked at me.
Then he looks at me, and I do not have to understand his words to know the threat. I nod, and he leaves me too, so I spread out the blankets and lie atop them. I pillow my head on my hands and look up at the ceiling, watching the shapes the fire's shadows create. It reminds me of home, and for a moment, I feel safe.
