Way of The Pride

8| The Convention

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The excitement of the day slowly died down, transitioning into a night of anticipation. Tonight the moon slumbered, deigning to blessed the skies with its grace. The air was invitingly cool against the warmness of his skin, his muscles relaxing in relief.

The steady glow of the campfire illuminated the darkness, its dancing flames a distraction to the resolute eyes of the spectators gathered around it. Terse silence occupied the air, heavy and awkward, the weight of which tugged at the strings of his conscience.

The more time Aniweta spent in their company, the more he was convinced that indeed the ways of the gods was not the ways of mere mortals. For some reason the gods made his path cross with these people, changing the course of their lives in inexplicable ways.

Here he was in a strange land, banished with nothing to his name and yet it felt like the start of a new beginning, a chance to be born anew. He sighed, no matter where he went or how long time stretched, the pain would eternally be etched into his heart. He would forever be haunted by her.

The fire crackled, drawing out the suffocating silence. The sound pulled him from his thoughts as he looked up from the embers only to find a familiar piercing gaze fixed on him.

Watching.

Observing.

He did not react - pretending to be unaffected - as he matched the elder man's stare with his. It was now obvious that he was no ordinary person but what set him apart from other men? Was he touched by the gods? Or perhaps cursed by evil? Whatever it was, it deeply unnerved him.

While the healer had tended to his wounds, which had opened up earlier during his fight, he gleaned a few things from them. Before losing consciousness, he vaguely remembered being rescued and the memory of a man taking down a wild beast. He was surprised to learn that Agada was in fact the hunter who took down that ferocious beast.

Not one to hide from his mistakes, he had apologized, sincerely, for repaying their kindness with his shameful behaviour. The healer had waved off his apology with a begrudging smile and the son, well, he no longer wanted to kill him. For now.

The shuffling of feet drew his attention to the stiff man beside him. At first glance Agada seemed calm and relaxed but from the clenching of his jaws he knew that a tame lion laid beneath, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It seemed like someone had not forgotten what happened.

Despite his apologies, Aniweta was wise not to harbour any illusions of forgiveness. He was after all the man who held a dagger to his father's neck. It was certain - inevitable even - that the moment Agada felt threatened by him he would be struck down without hesitation.

The young man was not to be blamed. The fault laid with him.

''So I am in the Kingdom of Isimir?'' He asked curiously.

The healer nodded.

''And I have been unconscious for four days?''

Agada snorted, a sound full of mock, as he prodded the fire with a stick.

Aniweta took that answer to mean yes. He glanced down at his wounds, impressed at the handiwork. The healer had worked wonders. From the wounds on his chest to his neatly wrapped knee, his body was almost healed up, a far cry from how it had been after his banishment. Even the pain had died down to a dull ache.

His respect for the healer suddenly grew.

''Who are you?'' The question was asked innocently, yet it hung heavy with a sort of repressed wildness, a question that demanded to be answered.