G A R E T H
The stag looks at this companion with… not quite pity, he wouldn’t want to call it that. He understood what the stallion felt, to some degree. He, too, felt hurt by Salome’s departure and rather unorthodox return to their lives. He has sometimes wished these last few days that he had not sensed her at all, had not stoked the flames of hope in their shared hearts. Now his beloved friend felt renewed pain, old wounds made fresh again, and the elk felt he had himself to blame for that.
The woodland figure comes forward, his throat humming a tune, deep and rumbling in his chest, the words pressing softly to the stallion’s mind.
“Warm summer breezes to the edge of fall. The locust are calling, calling. Their sweet serenade to the hearts of those fallen. The autumn leaves dance on the bough. And the locust, they rally, they rally. Winter crystalizes on the tips of the pine. And the locust, they survive, oh yes, they survive. Spring pushes forward into summer rains and the locust, oh the locust, at last they come again.”
The brute chuckles, looking back over his shoulder at his companion, speaking softly. “Where on earth did that come from, Noor?” But he knew where. It was an old tune of home. Of perseverance and triumph over immovable elements. It was something he had often hummed to himself in his childhood to warm his heart.
The stag smiles at his friend, and then becomes suddenly alert. An animal crashes through the underbrush ahead of them, the full excitement of a pup come to play. He pricks his ears forward, listening to the world around him, the world he had, foolishly, tuned out to comfort his companion.
The dappled stallion frowns, watching the feline eyes of the elk shift. “What-” He barely has time to get the word out before he hears the frantic pressure of Noor in his mind again.
“Gareth, in front of you!”
The stallion has just the time to swing his head back around and catch the eye of the frail creature that has stumbled into him. She is so small, barely able to stand, and her pelt is hot. Hotter than it should have been, despite the summer sun in full rise. Her gaze is distant as she offers apologies, not watching where she is going, she says.
“That’s alright,” Gareth looks her over quickly. The mare looks like she might fall to pieces at any moment now. “Here, lean against me. Let’s get you to some soft shade…” His words are gentle, no judgement passing his lips. He calls back over his shoulder.
“Noor! Bring us some water from the lake.” The stag bows his head, walking into the water, wading until he is chest deep. He then dunks his head under, scooping the liquid into the cups of his antlers, the moss soaking up the precious fluid. It is done with a practiced motion, as if this very thing has happened many times before.
"Speech" | Noor | @Luvena | Have a locust poem from my ass, and also hopefully some wholesome interaction
