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Isal pushes the loose hair out of his face again, wisps that seem to work themselves free from his braid no matter how tightly he ties it. Granted, today it’s more the idea of a braid than an actual attempt. He’d sit up and do it properly except the ground is soft and the breeze is cool, and for the first time in a great while the world is quiet. He stretches for another persimmon, not quite out of reach, and tries to sink into the simple pleasure of the moment.
The horror of the ogrekin farm is behind them. Lives were saved, some few families will be afforded closure, and that wretched place has been scorched from the earth even though he’d had to pull the fire from his bones to make it happen.
And after…It had never happened before, to reach for the magic, for the fire and find…nothing, just a backlash of roiling nausea and pain. And fear at being so helpless, even with the others around him. Maybe Renadi is right, and he should practice more with the bow.
His head hurts, and he’s hungry. The persimmon is soft and overripe to the edge of fermentation. He takes a large bite and wipes at the drop of juice running down the side of his face.
The particular cadence of Jharlin’s steps is distinctive, at least to his ears. Even now, long easy strides not crunching in the leaf litter as much as rustling it. Relaxed.
“Are you sleeping?” There are layers there, but none of them are really questions.
Isal glances over without turning his head. Even dusty, Jharlin’s drape is bright, white against the orange and scarlet trees. “It’s not fair a question if there’s only one answer.”
Jharlin considers him, a small smile hovering in the corner of their mouth. “Not saying anything is also an answer.”
Yes, but that’s not really the point. He tosses aside the stem, and wonders briefly if there’s another fruit in easy reach. “As if that’s ever worked with you.”
They shift their weight, one hand hooked loosely in their belt. “Not that you know of.”
The leaves sigh in the wind, not quite dry yet, but there is an edge of winter in the sound. There is a faint smell of smoke, clean, not the burnt stench of the farm. Isal closes his eyes.
There’s no way to debate knowledge he doesn’t know he’s missing. Still, in his experience experience Jharlin indulges his silence only to a point.
“How’s your head?”
“It’s fine,” he says a bit too quickly. He doesn’t really expect Jharlin to believe him, but this time it’s true. Mostly true. He squints up at them, “Really. My physician said so.”
“Did they?” Jharlin asks, and Isal swears he can feel the raised eyebrow.
“You’re welcome to ask them yourself. They have an excellent reputation.”
Jharlin laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll be sure to take it up with them then.”
They examine the branches and pick two persimmons, hanging low and heavy. Twist them off, really — it’s not a gentle process. More leaves shiver and fall. “Hm. Just as well you’re saved from trying to lie,“ Jharlin continues, “as you’re worse at it than Talanah.”
“That you know of.”
“Touché.” Jharlin polishes one on their sleeve and hands it to him.
It’s perfectly ripe. He holds it under his nose, savoring. “Talanah doesn’t lie, really. She just thinks that every problem can be solved with a sword.”
“When clearly the answer is fireballs.”
He shrugs against the ground, leaves shifting under his shoulders. He knows what he can do— all of them do now, and Jharlin more than most. None of this makes talking about it, even obliquely, any easier. “They get results.” He bites into the persimmon.
“Definitely. Pity you burned your coat though. Seriously, if you need some time, I can leave you. Renadi wants to eat before we break camp, and the farmers gave us some fresh supplies. He’s pretty excited about it.“
The thought of more substantial food makes Isal’s stomach sit up and take notice, but there will be some time before anything is ready to eat. He likes when Renadi does the cooking. For camp meals, the food is good, hearty and plentiful, and Renadi will be sure to save a portion for the two of them even if they linger here.
He shakes his head, and immediately regrets it as a deep throbbing resumes along the crown. “You can stay if you like.”
Jharlin folds themselves down to sit cross-legged beside him, dry leaves crackling as they settle. “So… you can talk to trees.” Isal can hear the smile. “How long were you planning to keep that a secret?”
Isal is silent for a long moment. The sky is bottomless and clear, framed in the autumn finery of the leaves. One last display before the long sleep of winter. “It’s not a secret, really, it just never came up.”
“That’s fair. I guess it’s not something that slips easily into a conversation. You know, Hi pleased to meet you. By the way I can talk to trees.” Jharlin wriggles around and falls back on the ground next to Isal, so close that if Isal turned, even a little, his head would bump Jharlin’s. He tries to lay very still.
“I can also knit socks.”
Jharlin perks up. “Really?”
“No.” He resists the urge to say I told you so, if barely. “But given a proper kitchen I can make pastry.”
“We’ll have to see about that when we get back to Magnimar. Pity about the socks, though. My…aunt? Cousin?” They start counting relations on their fingers, and Isal cannot imagine a family so large— a village all to itself. “Whatever. She taught…or tried to teach me to spin yarn, mostly to keep me out of her way. If we got Renadi some more sheep the three of us could’ve make a killing in the wearable knits trade.”
Isal makes a mental note to buy Jharlin some socks. “Your aunt, what did she make with your yarn?”
“Oh, nothing. It was awful stuff; I was very small and clumsy…as opposed to now I guess, where I’m big and clumsy. It was all busy-work.” They pause, thinking. “I think she used it for tying bundles. Anyway, my real knack was cleaning up messes.”
“I think that what we’re all doing now: running about, cleaning up other people’s messes.” Two pairs of socks. Good ones.
“Maybe, but it’s important that someone do it.”
There’s too much truth in that, and it weighs the moment down, pulling it into something quieter, more serious. Isal feels a pang of regret.
“You know, the talking to trees thing,” Jharlin says, settling their head more firmly against Isal’s shoulder, “that is possibly the elfiest thing I’ve ever seen you do. Do all elves talk to trees?”
These trees are short, closer to being shrubs than anything, pruned that way for easy harvest. It’s not their fault they can’t provide a proper canopy. Their failing leaves reach for the sky, the sun. Too far, too far. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask them.”
“Sorry. I was just— it must be really interesting, or maybe maddening, to travel through a forest.” Jharlin turns their head to look at him, or at the side of his face. It’s not a good angle, and mashes their cheek into his ear. “Do they talk all the time?”
Isal almost shakes his head, and catches himself in time. “It’s not like birds—no, I can’t talk to birds—trees usually don’t have a lot to say, and most of it’s boring.”
“Huh.” Jharlin falls quiet.
The birds have mostly left for the winter, so there’s just the easy susurrus of wind in the remaining leaves. Those loose strands of hair drift across Isal’s cheek, his eyes. Catch on his lashes. He wonders what Renadi is cooking.
“Are they talking now?”
“Yes.” Isal listens for a long moment; trees, when they did talk, felt no real sense of urgency. These are quicker than some old growth forests he’s seen, but still not what anyone would call speedy. “That one there, with the bare branches, it probably won’t survive the winter, and the younger ones — they can feel the light fading. They’re afraid they won’t wake up in the spring. The others are reassuring them that the sun will come back.”
“Why is that one dying?”
He shrugs. “It’s old. They don’t live very long, only sixty, maybe seventy years or so. There was an orchard near where I lived.”
“Oh,” Jharlin says, “I never really thought of elves farming.”
“The man who tended the orchard was a vintner. He used to make a sweet wine with the fruit.”
“Was?”
“It was a long time ago — he may have found a new trade by now.” And the orchard would have been replanted more than once, but he doesn’t say that part out loud. “But generally, yes, elves farm. Everyone needs to eat.”
Jharlin rocks gently into him. “Renadi will have dinner soon enough,” they say, and pass him the other persimmon.
For a long while there’s only cool earth and the murmur of the wind. Even the trees have fallen silent as the sun slips lower. Jharlin’s head is heavy and warm on his shoulder. He could sleep like this, he thinks, and nearly lets himself slip off into a doze.
“That’s…so sad about the tree,” Jharlin says quietly, pulling Isal back into the moment. “The farmers— that’s not even very long for human farmers. It must be like nothing for…elves.” The hesitation is so slight that he barely notices it at first. Then it’s all he can hear.
Isal can feel the peaceful moment slipping from his grasp, turning dark. He digs a thumb into the soft earth. It’s too soon for this conversation. It will always be too soon for this. “Does that bother you?”
Jharlin is so still, warm against his shoulder. “Does it bother you?”
“Yes,” he says quietly.
“Isal…”
“Don’t…Just, don’t. Please.”
Jharlin takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, reaching out to take Isal’s hand and thread their fingers together. Jharlin has small hands, soft except for the sword calluses on their palms. A knot inside Isal’s chest loosens and he presses back with a firm grip, rubbing his thumb across Jharlin’s knuckles.
“Okay,” Jharlin says quietly.
Isal closes his eyes against the remaining light. “Okay.”
~*~*~*~*~