#ziraak

[kanobarlowe]

OCkiss23 Day 3 - Nostalgia

This one was a little difficult for me, but I finally slapped something acceptable together. This ALSO takes place in the world of Psalms from the Mountaintop, but I will not give too much more information about that.

The marble and silver museum flourished with activity. Children walked through in a crowded gaggle after a tour guide, couples walked hand-in-hand through the paintings and sculptures, and researchers gathered around a table of artifacts while whispering to both themselves and each other as they took vigorous, illegible scratchings across their notebooks. The chatter echoed through the lofty corridors as a maelstrom of white noise — it reminded Fainrial of spirits flitting through the trees and whispering to him as he strolled through the forest.

Fain pulled the wool sweater up against his face. It smelled of shaving cream and a fruity orcish cologne — he closed his eyes and inhaled the relaxing aroma to ease his nerves. He huddled in the corner of the entrance hall on a narrow bench, watching herds of people walk in and out of the museum: the most people he’d seen since returning to the surface.

He eyed the elven wing down the hall nervously. He slipped his legs up into the sweater to hide in its warmth. He was thankful Ziraak let him borrow it today; the minotaur museum curator had been his most significant source of comfort in this modern, foreign world.

And there he was, stepping out of the staff rooms just across the hall. His horns were decorated with bangles of silver in a fashion that reminded Fain of jewelry from his clan in eras past. His hooves clicked against the marble tiles, a warm smile on his inviting face. Though they nearly matched height, Ziraak’s heavyset frame made Fain feel petite in comparison. Fain rubbed his face. His cheekbone jaggedly protruded, taut against his skin — perhaps he’d feel less small once he was no longer completely emaciated.

“Thank you for waiting,” Ziraak said. He stopped just shy of the bench and held out one of his trunk-thick arms. “I’m glad I can finally take you to the exhibits.”

Fain silently mourned the loss of the comforting wool walls around his legs when he stood, but he delighted in wrapping his arms around Ziraak’s bicep. He blushed, feeling the strong, broad limb against him, as wide as his head.

They walked together into the elven wing; immediately, the air itself changed around them, permeating with thoughts and emotions as Fain eyed each artifact. He admired sculptures of the moon and sun, silkleaf tapestries exalting the Mountain clan, intricate metal armor forged in the deep forest valleys, and ritual bones and bowls from deep in the forest’s underbrush. Faces and names flitted through his mind; for a moment, he was there, walking through the woods while draped in silkleaf robes and his ancestral diadem, with its silvery beaded bangles, casting dazzling sparkles in the air.

His step slowed at the sight of a clay doll. It sat behind glass on a plush shelf, enthroned in elven regalia. Its colors had washed out, but Fain knew it had once been bright with intricate shades of blue and green. One of the thin, long ears was chipped. He approached the shelf, touched a hand to the glass, and wondered where the tip of the ear went.

And then he saw it — golden eyes and cropped silver hair. A sallow face, thin and pale, looking back at him. His hand jolted back from the glass as though it bit him; he pressed his palm to his chest, eyes locked onto his gaunt visage.

“That came from the lakes at the base of the mountain.” Ziraak stepped beside him, focusing on the doll that had drawn Fain in. “I’m sure you knew that, though.” He looked down at Fain’s reflection with a warm smile; it quickly vanished, replaced with concern. “Fain?” “I am… hideous…” Fain whispered. The contemporary language felt strange on his tongue, though he had spent months practicing. “My face…” He ran his fingers along his bony jaw. “My hair…” His other hand ran through the cropped locks — too short and disgraced for an honorable elven braid. “Why… do you like me?”

Ziraak’s taken-aback expression flushed Fain’s cheeks a bright, rosy red. “What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “Fainrial, you… you’re coming back to health every day! You are so kind… so gentle…” His large hand, the size of Fain’s face, delicately touched Fain’s chin, lifting the ancient elf’s gaze to meet his own. “I am proud of you. I don’t think you’re hideous. You were in a prison ruin for… for All-Father knows how long… but don’t find yourself repulsive. I don’t.”

Fain’s eyes welled with tears. A sparkling light caught his eyes beyond Ziraak’s shoulder; the painting, made from a thick, waxy oil, gleamed with silver that had been crushed into the paint long ago. The silver hair of the elven man and woman smiled down. The pair donned the light, airy, colorful robes of the River clan — his clan, his people.

His mother. His father.

Overcome by the tsunami of loneliness, regret, and mourning, Fain grabbed Ziraak by the collar of his buttoned shirt and dragged him down into a kiss. For a moment, the minotaur was alarmed, but in an instant, his arms wound around Fain, pulling him against his shout chest. The smell of fruity cologne overwhelmed Fain’s nose — his lips were just as sweet. Wrapped in wool, wrapped in Ziraak, Fain clung to him. In an unfamiliar world whose history was his reality, only Ziraak calmed the storm inside him. And that was enough.