Destiny or Desire

Part 11: A New Hope

Zaryinor sat on his cot, wrapped in the warmth of his blankets and the lively hearth. He stared at the wooden figurines in his lap, the gryphon one clasped tightly in his fingers. There was the lynx, the hare, the treant, the fawn, the wyrm, and the gryphon. It was the last carving to his collection, but the most precious.

Dailyn and Gaelis had tried to convince him to come out of his room. The Wildhammers were upholding a ceremony specifically for them, for their deeds against the trolls. It was a complete accident, but the dwarves seemed happy they wouldn't have the Troll Tribes pestering them for a while.

He didn't feel like a hero. He didn't want to go out there. He didn't belong. All he did was for nothing. Now they wanted to congratulate him for it?

Zaryinor decided to name the gryphon Skye. He knew Rhothomir had fallen in love with the hybrid, had even taken his last breath upon her magnificent wings. There was no death more beautiful and memorable than Rhothomir's, and even though it was a heart wrenching day, he could smile upon the memory knowing his brother died with freedom and grace.

He dragged his sleeve across his nose and sniffled. He closed his eyes, allowing his gentle fingers to feel the crude and rugged edges of his gryphon. It was the least promising out of them, but Rhothomir had carved it with his dying strength. Still, the realization left him speechless. Sometimes, he felt as though he were just beginning to love Rhothomir, and now it was too late.

Zaryinor's eyes opened and wandered toward the pack leaned against the wall. It remained untouched and unopened, and he could see dust beginning to gather over the leather-skin bag. It was Vastarien's, and none of them still had the heart to open it. Aryendril couldn't, and Zaryinor didn't want to.

Maybe now was the time.

He slowly pulled the blankets off of himself and crept out of the cot toward the sack. He knelt against the wooden floor and pulled the bag toward himself, undoing the rope at the top while neatly fidgeting the knot. Every second was filled with suspension that nearly drowned him, but he pressed on.

Carefully, he peered inside the bag. There was something wrapped in linen, with other belongings. Most of it belonged to Vastarien, and he recognized them with a sad smile. He gingerly lifted the wrapped object, placing the mystery in his lap and carefully unwrapping it.

His ears flattened in disbelief when he unwrapped Vastarien's harp, every inch as beautiful and valuable as the last time he saw it. He lifted the magical instrument and strummed the strings, smiling silently to himself at the familiar, beautiful sound.

Zaryinor leveled his wrist evenly, plucking two different strings with his thumb and forefinger neatly, in a simple rhythm Vastarien had showed him. He tightly hugged the instrument to his chest with a sigh, tears springing to his eyes.

His smile soon faded as he continued to stare at the harp. Loneliness and regret settled into his bones, and the silence of the room suddenly seemed to be screaming at him. He closed his eyes with a sigh, dragging his sleeve across his face again. What was he doing in here, hiding?

What was he doing in here, mourning?

What was he doing in here, hoping for the past to come back?

Rhothomir told him to make him proud. This wasn't doing any of that.

With finality, he wrapped the harp and set it upon his cot. He stood and pulled on his boots, throwing his cloak over his shoulder. He opened the door of his room and stepped out, making his way down the stairs. He ignored the watchful eyes of the Rangers and Sentries around him as he stepped out of the Lodge.

The coolness of the cloudy day wafted through his hair and caressed his cheeks, and he watched for a moment as the trees swayed in the wind. He smiled to himself as he turned to look at the path that lead to Aerie's Peak, and he darted forward. He sprinted without a care in the world, racing to his friends and the ceremony.