The Kwisling [The Isbjørn book 2]

Twenty one

There was something in John's shout, a pain behind it. Daire had watched. He had watched John's eyes. The anger was nothing but a shield for pain. He was cornered projecting his insecurity, scared, lonely, desperate.

He breathed out slowly. John's words had rocked his mind, leaving it moving in foreign ways. It echoed but with the power to tear down walls.

John was a friend, a dear friend. He needed him, loved him in a way. In his world, in Iaran'talamh, emotions so strong were reserved for family and otherwise considered suspicious-- and he had more priorities to think about than the health of his heart and the state of John's mind. It was a conflicting thing that he could not sort through in a hallway.

At the bottom of the stairs he was greeted with a secondary challenge more suited to his grasp for. He dropped to his quadrepedal stance as a matter of respect.

"Diarmuid, we need to speak." Oengus had his usual glower, a dark look that would have caused greater concern if it was absent.

There was no urgency to his tone, so Daire had no reservations brushing the beast off. "Not now, Oengus, I have other matters to handle." He caught his gaze then.

In his chiseled, lived-in face, Oengus kept heavy brown eyes, set unevenly in their sockets by a deforming scar that removed all of his left eyebrow. His eyes were turned sharp, knives in his ribs, the sharp point digging deep. Where there was usually decorum was an emptiness, but not in any vulnerable sense. The unmoving gaze was accompanied by deliberate, slow breathing that drew his nostrils to flair. "You need to solidify your position before you and everything you are working for is pushed out." His warning came through in Terim. Curious ears just offset a few feet away on the sofas were bound to overhear.

Daire drew Oengus back, dropping his own tone as he crouched beside the banister. "What do you mean?"

Oengus looked toward the Luce and Sri. He could not abide to see an Isbjørn with such potential bogged down by such baggage. Weak. Pathetic. Lesser. Humans.

Humans evolved in the central deserts, where it’s warm across a broad area most of the time. We did not need fur when the problem was often to keep cool, not keeping warm. It’s an adaptation to heat - that it is no good in cold conditions like Iaran'talamh. As for claws apes never had them. We have simple fingernails that aid in gripping tools. In terms of general physical fitness, we are far weaker than even the most sickly Isbjørn. Poor eyesight, too blind to see what was happening at their backs with untrained ears, deaf to what was being spoken just feet away. And wirh no sense of smell what-so-ever.

Oengus took his eyes off the Dha Chos only to let his eyes flick briefly back to Daire's face. He let out a hefty sigh. "Come to my quarters as soon as you can."

Daire knew what that look meant. Oengus looked at the humans the same as all other Isbjørns did, the same way he had once. Yes, humans were weak. But these humans were different, tested through the trials of opposition. They were his friends-- speaking loosely of Luce of course. But he thought maybe he would grow on him.

Luce was the first to notice the Isbjørn as he rose back onto his hind legs with Oengus' departure. He shifted his position on the sofa. "How's John?"

"Fine." Daire put on his best neutral face, pretending Luce was not one of his greater agitations at the time. "He wants you."

"Did he say--"

"Just go." Luce would grow on him, but most likely like a tumor.

Luce rose, eager to go and Sri stood after him.

"Can we talk about something?" Her voice was far too meek for her usual demeanor, but Sri had been nothing like herself for what felt like weeks. It seemed like she was finally opening up, so it troubled him greatly to shut her down.