But still, almost as on instinct, a hand raised toward his mouth, and he gave a trilling call.
And more heads appeared over the knoll.
And when he gave another, they moved downward, bellowing all the while.
As if greeting an old friend they had almost forgotten.
And would be furious when he had no food to offer in apology.
His clan did not have calls to one another. Whistles or lilting cries to indicate storms of schools of fish hidden in the depths below.
But they did speak to their herds, and the herd remembered.
And some fear he had not dared name finally loosened as he saw them trotting toward him.
To them.
“Oh!” Penryn gasped as they came close to the fence’s edge, large heads butting over the top to be patted, lips fluttering about his extended hand. “They are so big!”
He supposed they were. None reached his shoulder even with their heads extended upright, but he supposed compared to his wife’s diminutive frame, they would seem like giants.
They nudged and butted, and looked wholly offended that the fence separated them.
And he found that he was smiling.
And perhaps it was not only Penryn who would find greater freedom here. When already he felt an ease settle through his bones, a rightness that he had not experienced in quite some time.
He gave a sharp whistle, and they followed as he continued up the path, keeping hold of Penryn’s waist as she peered around him for a better look at the herd. They would be friends, yet. She would come to understand their charms when she was not quite so intimidated by their size.
She might even enjoy the work of tending them, the bonds that came through daily care and attention.
He shook his head, thinking of the horror that so many might feel, if any saw their esteemed Lightkeep set on a milking stool and a bucket in front of her, a warm teat in her hand.
“Who is messing with my herd?” a gruff voice called, and Grimult looked upward, the sun catching at his eye line and making it difficult to make out the figure.
But the voice he knew well, even if it had been far too long since he had heard it last.
“You mean my herd,” Grimult called back, the argument an old one. He had claimed them during his fledgling years, declaring them to be the very best friends, and therefore they were most assuredly his.
His father would always reach out and ruffle his hair, and tell him aye, that the lot were his, in affection if not in true ownership.
Grimult hadn’t cared. Not when he felt full of pride and accomplishment for one so young to be in charge of so many.
Looking back, Grimult knew it was not the truth. That his father was there to oversee every action, to halt any missteps before either son or beast was hurt. He was there to wake a sleeping Grimult when boyhood tiredness urged him to sleep late and allow his chores to wait just another hour.
And his father was here now, approaching with a burst of speed that hardly slowed before suddenly arms and wings were wrapped tightly about him, Grimult barely having time to release his wife and step away from her before the assault began.
Something in him itched to draw a blade, his heart already pounding with the urge to run, to fight, to do anything necessary to extricate himself from the sudden contact.
But his instructors had taught him better than that.
Had taught him to breathe, to think, to not allow instinct to rule his actions.
And so he found himself returning the embrace, of breathing in the scent of sweet hay and earth and home.
And his throat was strangely tight.
“My son,” his father murmured, leaning back and giving Grimult’s person a proper perusal. “My son,” he said again.
Words failed him. He did not know where to begin, and so he stood there lamely, feeling strangely lost.
And hated it.
This was his home, and this was his father, and neither time nor distance changed that.
It was harder to forget his willingness for violence. Even now, he could easily recall the guard cloaked in red that had stood between their escape.
He had threatened to cut him down if it came to it, and have meant it.
He had been prepared to wage war with the tribe, if it meant seeing the clans safe.
Grimult swallowed, pushing such thoughts away. There was a weight to such realities that wore heavy on him.
Perhaps what troubled him most was that he felt no accompanying. No regret for the choices he had made. Not when the alternatives were so detestable.
Penryn was safe. And he had the skills now to keep her so, even as the sages groaned as their powers were trimmed, their purpose altered. Only time would truly show what they would become, when the anger and disbelief rippled through the clans with knowledge they did quite know how to reconcile.
He should care more for the outcome. Should be more invested, perhaps even offer to go within each clan and escort his wife so she might share of her experiences, of the histories that perhaps the sages were still reticent to present openly.
But the thought of that set a clutch through his belly, a simmering burn. For the injustices within their clans, yes, but far more personal as well.
And when his wife had begged him for home, for their work to be done and to simply... be...
He could not find it within himself to argue. Not on the behalf of the people that perhaps even now would look at her as something lesser. With resentment for having brought a change to the world as they had known it.
And if that meant retreat, to heal and mend bonds strained from too much time apart, to forge new ones as a wife became a sister and
