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Self
Sabiyn and Ryal
“Sabiyn?”
The gnome glanced up, and up, at the green-eyed worgen standing above her hammock in the Everlook inn. His grey fur was damp, and the beads he wore in his dark beard and mane clicked as he scrubbed at his face with a soft cloth. Clearly, he had nearly finished his extensive morning ablutions and expected her to get up now and do the same. In the month or so they’d been working together in Winterspring, she had realized that her new friend was really quite vain. Of course he was extremely smart, and he was a great healer, but he was a little bit pompous and as vain as a cat. There was a reason most people called him “Professor.”
She grinned at him. “Clean yet?”
He sniffed. “Cleaner than you.” Then he realized she was teasing him, and ducked his head.
She sat up and carefully began to redo her two braided buns, weaving her silver ribbons through the loops of her hair to keep it in place. “Where are we headed today?” she asked as she braided.
“Well,” he said, sitting on the empty hammock across from hers, “I thought we might head out.”
Sabiyn frowned. “Head out? You only just started looking at that barrow den you wanted to investigate.”
“We can always come back. It won’t run away,” Ryal said, waving a hand dismissively.
“Though those goblins might filch everything before they ever manage to clean out the spiders,” she said, making a face.
Ryal’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t we just a little ray of sunshine? Was there something you desperately wanted to do while I was down in that den?”
She stuck out her tongue, then began to brush her bangs back into place. “Nah, I just wanted to crush some bugs.” She jumped to her feet. “So. Where to?”
Ryal smiled. “I saw the goblins setting up the Everlook bonfires. I thought we might head to Stormwind to enjoy the festivities.”
Sabiyn blinked, her smile fading just a fraction. “Is it Midsummer already? Where does the time go?”
Judging by the look of mingled worry and curiosity on Ryal’s face, her tone hadn’t been as flippant as she’d hoped. But he didn’t ask and she—chattering with slightly forced cheer about nothing—began to pack her bags.
They flew over to Darnassus in easy stages, basking in the warm summer air above Darkshore and taking in the very green view. They reached the docks at Rut’theran with ample time to catch a ship that would deposit them in Stormwind harbor on Midsummer’s Day itself.
Stormwind was as crowded and noisy as Sabiyn remembered. There was a festival feeling in the air, punctuated by the smell of hot, spicy food, and shrieks and cheers as jugglers practiced their art (some more successfully than others). The occasional skirmish as a few foolhardy Horde adventurers sought to douse the Alliance’s fires could not dampen the city’s spirit. Ryal collected a few fire blossoms for the two of them, and they meandered through the city streets towards the greensward outside the main gates. Sabiyn bought them a couple sausages, and they didn’t say anything as they ate, watching the crowd throw flowers at the fire, making wishes for the coming year.
The two paid their respects to the local fire elemental, then moved to take their turn wishing at the bonfire. As she stepped in front of the great blaze, Sabiyn was once again ten years old, clutching the warm flower in one hand, and holding tightly to her father’s hand with the other. (Well, he’d been holding her, afraid she might run off and get lost in the crowd…) She leaned forward, feeling the heat on her face, trying to remember what her ten-year-old self had wished for…
“Sabiyn?” A large, clawed hand gently gripped her shoulder, steadying her as she leaned ever closer to the dangerous flames. The memory slipped away. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” she snapped, pulling away, and—not running, she was not running—slipping back through the crowd until she could find a tree and some cool shade. She flopped down on her back, staring up at the dancing green leaves and hating Midsummer with a burning passion. Wishes don’t come true, they’d always said. The only way to get anything was to work for it…
She barely noticed Ryal as he followed her, closing his eyes when he reached the tree. For a moment his shape was obscured, then he sat down, a pale, blond human with a large goatee. Uh-oh, she thought. He’s gone full out professor. Wonder what the lecture will be this time. But she didn’t say anything. She turned her gaze back up through the tree leaves above her, studiously ignoring him.
“Did you want to talk about it?” he asked reasonably.
“No.” her tone was petulant.
But even as she said it, the memories came flooding back…
∞
When she’d been very young, ten or so (she said), Riamyra’s father had gone on a business trip to Stormwind. He had taken her with him, to see the big Midsummer bonfire. It was the first time she’d been away from Ironforge overnight, and she’d eaten too much and run around in circles in the old Park before she had collapsed in happiness in the little room her father had rented for the night. She remembered that first bonfire, the sparks flying up into the dark treetops as she made her wish. She also remembered being much more interested in the grass and the trees and in trying to figure out why those little white blossoms grew here as well as in the snow back home. Her father had not known the answer, and she had resolved to look it up in the library first chance she got. She also remembered, a bit embarrassedly, wanting to pet the great white cat (his head bigger than her entire body) that lay sprawled under a tree gazing at the stars.
Her father had pulled her away quickly and quietly. “That’s an elf, girl. A druid,” he’d explained softly.
“It didn’t look like an elf,” Riamyra had said, confused.
“They’re shapeshifters. Tree-lovers. More interested in growing things than making things. They waste a lot of time watching grass grow.” And he wouldn’t say anything else about it.
But Myra thought that growing things might be useful, especially as a way to get things with which to make other things. She got into herbalism and plant lore first, and then into alchemy “in a bad way,” as her father said. He had hoped she would take over the family clockmaking business. But the further she delved into her new hobbies, the more she learned about flowers, and the balance of nature. She even managed to find a few books about druidism, naturalism, and the Emerald Dream. In her heart of hearts, Riamyra wanted to be a druid.
But gnomes didn’t become druids. The idea was ludicrous, and even Myra managed a weak laugh at her own expense. She became very good at making potions, good enough to set up a little table in a corner of Stormwind’s dwarven district and sell them to loose-pursed adventurers. She very nearly resigned herself to the role of street vendor, the sort who never had any adventures herself, the sort who never found her own path. She became known as something of an eccentric—that Myra, they said, who wants to be an elf. That Myra, who sells her potions (and poisons, whispered the more unscrupulous) under some ridiculous street name. She’s not quite right, that Myra.
She wanted to tell them off, to shout that there was nothing wrong with her. She didn’t sell poisons. It felt too much like killing by cheating, and she was very fair, and only killed things when she had to (like the wolves that attacked when she was out picking silverleaf). And she didn’t want to be an elf, of all the ridiculous things for them to say, she wanted to be a druid. There was a difference. She wouldn’t be anything but a gnome even if she could change that. But there were no options for gnomes that hung on so delicate a balance. And she needed that balance to be—well, to be herself.
And the only reason she’d come up with a different name was so that she could dissociate herself from the gossips who called her crazy!
She answered the High Tinker’s call for gnomes to aid in the fight to retake their city. It was, she’d thought, probably as close to an adventure as she’d ever have. She’d been in New Tinkertown, tending to the survivors with nutrition and healing potions, when Xi had arrived. The monk was poised, graceful, and eager to learn about gnomish culture. She was also, for all her furry cuteness, quite dangerous. Riamyra was drawn to her stories of a far-away island, drawn as well to the balanced power—to protect, to fight, to heal—that the monk exhibited.
“Oh, Myra,” the gossips said when they saw Xi showing her a few punches and kicks, “Myra will never amount to anything. Don’t waste your time on her.”
But for the first time, Riamyra had found something that she enjoyed learning, and was good at. She learned by leaps and bounds (literally) and Xi encouraged her to seek her fortune as a wandering monk. And Myra found new confidence: she could fight, but more importantly, she could heal. The soft mists, water and air, responded to her in a way the Light that the priests swore by never had.
And so she made her way out into the world—to Darnassus, to Moonglade, to Felwood. She had been aiding the druids by tracking the traces of taint in the local flora. It had been satisfying, seeing the flowers she tended grow up healthy. It was also satisfying to beat the ones that were tainted out of her garden, and all of Felwood was becoming her garden.
But it had all gone wrong, somehow. All her good work had led her to nothing more than a dark sack suspended who-knew-where, awaiting whatever fate those orcs had planned for her. Her hair had come loose from her customary braids; she thought the ribbons must have been cut during the fight. Her blue eyes were red and swollen from crying. But crying had never done any good (she’d learned the hard way), and it certainly wouldn’t heal her broken leg. So she’d pulled herself together and summoned a soft mist, wrapping it damply around her painful leg, knitting muscle and bone until she could once again put her weight on it.
That tauren, the one who had broken her leg, she could hear him speaking to the orcs. She thought that she recognized his voice, as if he were one of the druids from Whisperwind Grove… She sighed. As if being duped by demons weren’t enough… She was jolted from her thoughts literally, as something hit the sack and sent her tumbling.
“Who are you?” the tauren growled. “No one here has ever heard of—what was it you told that druid? Riamyra? Is that your name?”
“No,” she squeaked, surprised that she meant it. Riamyra was, apparently, no one, as the tauren proceeded to tell her at length, his questions tearing her very identity apart as he tried to get her to admit to being a “real” hero. Or at least, the sort of hero who had won great victories against the Horde and whom the Warchief would pay greatly to see captured.
She was almost ashamed to admit that she was nothing of the sort, just an oddball alchemist who had played at being a monk…but that wasn’t right. She had been healing the plants here. She had been making a difference. Maybe she wasn’t a hero, but she wasn’t nothing either. Maybe she had a bit of a right to claim the name she’d made for herself…
When the tauren finally stopped jolting the sack and left her to sit in the dark in peace, she was quite dizzy. Taking a few deep breaths, she realized that they were leaving, mounting on kodos with loud clinks and riding away. She knew what she had to do. Getting to her feet, she began to scream for help.
∞
“And the rest you know,” she said, still staring up at the tree, not wanting to see the look on her friend’s face.
“I…see,” Ryal said quietly.
“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You asked me after you’d rescued me, what you should call me. So I lied!” she wailed. “I’m not Sabiyn, I’m Riamyra, and wishes don’t come true, and I’ll never be any good. I’m still nothing, I’m just pretending to be something, and I’ve deceived you the way that demon deceived those druids. And I got caught. If you hadn't saved me, I’d have gotten what I deserved for trying to be something I’m not…”
Ryal shook his head as she trailed off. “Demons fool a lot of people. It’s their primary occupation. People are also good at being fooled. But I don’t think you’ve fooled me.” She glared at him, but he continued, unaffected. “I’ve been working with you for a month now. You’re very good. Remember that yeti that surprised us? You took it out without a second’s thought while I was still trying to get my feet out of the iceblock it’d stuck me in. And you made up for getting caught by knocking all those orcs and that tauren out in about two minutes. You were right, you know. They’d have made mincemeat of me.” He smiled.
“But I shouldn’t have been caught in the first place,” she sniffed. “If you hadn’t come along—”
Ryal sighed, then said, deliberately patiently, “That’s what’s called a second chance. We get them sometimes, so that we can learn from our mistakes and become better at being, well, at being ourselves. Some people know who they are from the start. The rest of us aren’t so lucky. We need all the second chances we can get so that we can work out who we are as we go along.” He looked at her, green eyes piercing her to the core. “Do you want to be Riamyra?”
“No!” She was shocked at her own vehemence.
He smiled more kindly. “Do you want to be Sabiyn, then?”
“I—” She thought about it, remembering a long ago wish to find happiness. She thought about the past month, running helter-skelter from dig site to dig site, being surprised by yeti and surrounded by specters and nearly crushed by frost giants and, most importantly, having someone else to sit with by the fire and laugh about all those things… “Yes,” she said firmly, smiling at her friend.
“Then there’s no reason you can’t be,” he said.
“Thanks, Professor,” she said, her impish grin beginning to spread across her face.
He stood up, stretching. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he said conspiratorially as he bent in half to offer her a hand up.
“Oh?” she asked, her mood lifting considerably as her curiosity piqued.
“I started out as a blacksmith.” His expression was half defiance and half sheepishness.
Sabiyn stared up at him, trying to imagine him with soot in his hair and a leather apron fixed over stained and burnt clothes, his body toned by years of hard, manual labor, as he lifted a hammer in some mundane, repetitious task like making horseshoes—but the reality of his immaculately groomed hair, pristine robes, and lean unmuscleyness caused by long hours in the saddle, long days spent poring over what he had dug up, and the fact that he spent as little effort as possible in the digging, kept intruding.
“No…” she said slowly.
“Oh, yes. I hated every second of it,” he said with a grin. “I used to sneak out when I was supposed to be collecting firewood to teach myself how to read Elvish.”
Sabiyn laughed. Her smile remained, even as she realized that they were once again approaching the bonfire. She closed her eyes, this time enjoying the warmth. She took a deep breath, smelling woodsmoke and spices.
Ryal hummed thoughtfully. “You said that wishes don’t come true. That was the one thing my lecture failed to address. What was it you wished for?”
She glanced at him. “Umm, I don’t remember,” she said. And she didn’t, really. Not in any exact words. Besides, she had a new name, a new life, and a new purpose. Time for a new wish, she thought. And she threw her blossom into the bonfire.
Ryal did the same. “So, what did you wish for this time, then?”
She shook her head, smirking impishly. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” She glanced around, eyes lighting up in joy. “Look, the master jugglers are starting! Let’s go!”
And she leaped up, catching his hand for a moment to tug him along as she started on the path to making her new wish come true.