Chapter Text
Doktin was unusually careful with the door. That was the first sign.
"What brings you here today, then?" The question was a mere formality. Wahisietel scanned her for hints. The sunburn had an obvious explanation, given the rumours of her recent whereabouts. But the creases of anxiety around her eyes? The heavy black rings beneath them? The unusually slow movement?
"Thought I'd stop by," was all the explanation she gave.
Something terrible had befallen her, and she was seeking comfort. It stood to reason that she would come to him. Though she was a speck in his lifespan, it was abundantly clear that he was a monolith in hers.
"Do sit down," he encouraged her, and she did. "Tea?"
"Got any of the Menaphite stuff?"
Yes, he suspected she'd have developed a taste for it in the city. There were few who didn't. "I could never go without it." He opened the cupboard, retrieved two teacups and the pot of tea leaves, and proceeded to do the honours. Doktin's arrival had been aptly timed; his kettle was still hot. He'd just had a brew, but another wouldn't hurt.
Even in the desert heat (his whitewashed walls could only do so much), she cradled her hands around the piping hot cup. Another hint.
Wahisietel lowered his human form onto the chair across from her. Time passed. The pungent smell of Menaphite tea pervaded the space between them, as the water in their cups took on its strength.
She wasn't drinking her tea, he noticed: merely staring into the steam as it rose. He raised his own cup to his lips, taking a small sip; she took the signal, and did so in kind.
He broke the silence: "How have you been?" Another formality.
A slight twitch of furrowed brow. "Ahh, nothing out of the..." She couldn't complete the lie. She breathed, sipped her tea, replaced the cup on its saucer, began the sentence again. "A good friend." Couldn't complete the truth, either, but the rest was clear.
There had been so many deaths in Lucien's bloodsoaked failure, but there was no doubt as to which she meant. She'd mentioned him at times, and even if she hadn't, Wahisietel would know: the man had been an adventurer, just as she was. Friendships formed easily between such restless spirits.
He would have to continue with caution. More than usual.
"I'm sure there are many who have tried to reassure you," he began. "Praising him for his heroism..."
"Oh, Guthix," she exhaled, throwing her head back. "I know too well. He... 'he died a hero,' they say. Aye, a hero he was, but he still...! And Zanik was there, saw him in his final moments, couldn't do a thing, of course, but I was miles away, and..."
Her hoarse voice had nothing left to say.
Wahisietel let the silence breathe. Doktin's outburst had subsided, giving way once more to solemn stillness. A moment more to settle, and then...
"Death will never be easy," he said. "You will hear about more, and likely witness some; eventually, you will face your own. You will carry each with you, and the weight does not lighten. And yet... over time, you become accustomed to the weight. You notice less and less."
His relationship with Doktin consisted mainly of concealed truths; this was another, spoken not from his experience but from others'. In his own life, death was detached: he had once called Jhallan a friend, and his death had evoked not a trace of emotion from him. Lucien's death had been a victory, though the Dragonkin rendered it hollow. The wighting of Akrisae? How very typical of Sliske. Yet that had been catastrophic to the knights, his compatriots, who witnessed it... just as Doktin mourned the loss of her friend.
Though he could not empathise, he knew humans well enough for sympathy. The wish to console her, at least, was sincere.
"Mourn him," he concluded. "But live. There is no shame in letting him slip from your mind. He would not want you to be burdened."
She stared. Continued to stare. Her tea swirled in convection currents, its heat slowly fading.
"Don't know what I expected," she started, eyes still fixed on tea, steam curling at her chin. "Should have known. Ali, Ali the Wise. You've got some piece of wisdom for everything."
Perhaps it had been too much all at once.
"I can't solve your worries in a sentence," he said. "But I hope I can leave you with something. Something to think on, something that may serve you well in days, months and years to come. They call me 'the Wise', but I merely speak from what books and life have taught me. We all gather our own wisdom as our lives journey onward. You will too, in time."
There were some things he hoped she never learned. Humans, in their short lives, could still afford the luxury of naivety. Certain concepts were beyond what their experiences could grasp; many of his own fell into that category. There were other experiences that he thought were extinct, with the Edicts of Guthix keeping gods from Gielinor. Yet times were changing, and with Lucien's hubris still fresh on the mind, he did not doubt that mortal creatures might come to know some horrors anew.
And on a less grand scale... he hoped that, to her, he could continue to be nothing but a kindly old man in the desert. The truth was too much for her life to hold.
Doktin gave the smallest laugh. "There you go again."
"Hm?"
"Thinking." She picked up her tea and took a tiny sip. "So much on your mind, I can tell! You think and you think, and then it's too much for your head to hold, so you've got to spit it out to some Fremennik filly." A hint of a smile behind her teacup. "Thanks for it. I'll think on it meself. For now..." She raised her cup in a toast. "Tea."
"Tea," he agreed, mirroring her toast.
Tea was sipped. Conversation was had, in ebbs and in flows. Doktin's cup was long since drained, yet she still sat, engaged in conversation with the Mahjarrat turned man. Sometimes she was silent, sometimes she spoke. But always, she knew him, she trusted him. Had done so for years, and hoped to for years more.
It came to an end, though. Through the window, the sun was close to setting. Ali offered to house her for the night, but Doktin declined; she had a teleport tablet for Ardougne, with a guest house expecting her visit. First, though, she'd savour the last of the desert sun.
Doktin stood halfway out of his door, but looked back one last time: "Ali?"
"Yes?"
"Those crooked magic carpet fares?" She nodded her head in their direction, and he nodded with grim understanding of their extortionate prices. "This was worth every gold piece."
His thin human lips smiled back to her. A trace of the light was returning to her face, and... for now, a trace would do.
It was a calm evening in the desert; the Elid flowed, but the air was still. Doktin walked to the riverbank, feet sinking an inch into silt.
The sun was low, almost touching the horizon. While she'd never get used to the desert heat, the sunsets were always a sight to behold. Warm pinks rippled on the surface of the river, a shimmering reflection even as shadows fell from the trees. She crouched down, leant forward, touched the surface of the water...
A hand seized the back of her neck. Her world was choked by shadow.