Wayra smiled at him, kindly, gently, and she felt like she understood, despite her own two syllable name. She couldn’t be sure what it was she was understanding. Was it a sense of otherness that called to her? Was it uncertainty, self consciousness?Maybe it wasn’t any of those. Maybe she just saw his heart and attempted to match it with her own. What was that called? Empathy if complementary, weak willed if not? Wayra sighed a little. One day, maybe, she she would learn to know her own mind. In the meantime, she amused herself with the melody of his words, and was happy to admire the authority of which he spoke.
She followed his gaze to the Chamber’s burning tree, and founded that it was a smile that rose to meet her, rather than a frown. It had been the first thing she saw when she made her way to the Chamber. She had seen it through the mist and it had helped her find her way out of the woods.
That, however, didn’t mean she had forgiven it for being an oddity upon the world. Yet, when she spoke about it she was laughing, rather than lamenting.
“That tree, I’m afraid it’s as bad as the birds!” The ending burst from her lips in a breathy laugh. She mocked herself, more than the tree. Everything here was so different. She felt like she was blind, trying to find her way across the landscape in trips and stumbles.
“Everything here is so…alive.” The tree, the birds with their uncanny intelligence, even the ground beneath her feet had a heartbeat.
Vercingetorix knew this land, and spoke of it was authority. She listened, and found him very wise, almost alarmingly so.
There are certain truths which must be acknowledged. Wayra was learning them slowly, with awe and wonder tinting the uncertainty that was as familiar to her as breathing. Some of these truths were obvious, some were less so. The sun would rise and the sun would set. Winter would come, and winter would go. Those she had known for as long as she could remember. Other things, those she was less sure of.
Understanding isn’t always gifted with maturity. The young can be wise and the old can be fools. Vercingetorix was proof of that. Where you made your home as a child is not where you will rest your head as an adult. She, herself, carried that burden of proof.
He, the little man with the big ideas, urged her to think it as an adventure. She smiled, and tried to imagine herself as the heroine in a story. She could do it, almost, when it was his words in her mind rather than her own.
He took a step closer and she liked his presence. He felt like a guide, or a guard, come to protect her from a place she didn’t know. But his words, previously big and bold, were more serious now.
“You are not sure that this is your home?” This was an idea that she had barely considered, that the place you were born was not your home. She was curious.
“What would it take, for you to know you had found your place?” If family was not the stick by which you measured your place, then what?
He answered her questions, in bits and pieces, and though she listened, curiosity burning within her breast. She couldn’t be sure if what he said was true.
Surely she could never belong to the pines? How could she? Wayra bit her lip. But maybe, maybe she could. He seemed to believe she could, and she did not think he would say so only to ease her discomfort.
Maybe then.
She smiled at him, looking carefully, as if she could find the answers to the questions he raised on his face.
“If you must know your heart to know your home, then I’m sure many spend their whole lives looking.” She wasn’t sure if she was joking. Her tone was light, but there was a truth to her words that could not be denied, for all she smiled and laughed.
Wayra
not all who wander are lost