Chapter 8: Changing Currents

  Chapter 024 - Healing

  The morning mist clung low to the ground, slipping over roots and stones like a second skin. The river ahead trickled without rush, disturbed only by the soft plop of fallen leaves and the hush of breeze nudging its surface. Wallan walked with his tools in hand, scanning the riverbed to find a good spot. Vynelor tailed right behind, closer than usual. His head turned left and right, being calm yet reactive to his surroundings more than normal.

  It was brunch. Both woke up later than usual. But either way, it was time to catch a meal.

  Wallan crouched near the edge after some scavenging, rolling a rock to have a comfy seat. He started working on the bait onto a crooked hook. His fingers, thick and scarred, moved with practiced ease. Vynelor stood nearby, quiet, one hand rubbing the inside of his opposite arm. He eventually went to grab a smaller rock. Rolling it right next to Wallan’s, he plopped down and watched.

  The man cast the line with a smooth flick of the wrist. The thread danced before sinking into the water, vanishing with the ripple. He planted the rod into the bank, keeping a steady hand on it. Time passed. The river moved. And still, no words passed between them, keeping themselves close but never present.

  There was a subtle twitch. The line jerked once. Then again.

  Wallan gripped it, eyes narrowing. He held his breath, and then… pull! He yanked back with viscous effort. But it was too fast. The water splashed, and a glimmer of silver whipped free, vanishing beneath the current. Just air on the line.

  He exhaled through his teeth. He reset the rod, mumbling something beneath his breath. His brow pinched. This was the usual pattern, a calm routine, though a boring one. Even Wallan sighed, knowing this would be some time until brunch was ready.

  Then, beside him, there was movement. It wasn't big, but it was something. Wallan turned, and he saw an extended hand, open and waiting.

  He looked down.

  Vynelor wasn’t facing him, but the hand stayed there. No words or no eye contact. But the gesture was simple to understand. Wallan took a glance at his rod, and he passed it to him.

  The boy steadied his grip. Looking at another spot from Wallan’s, he cast it there. A little grunt escaped, and the throw was a bit clumsy, but it went far enough. With a plop onto the water, they waited.

  Minutes passed. The mist began to thin.

  Then… a tug. Vynelor’s fingers twitched. Another tug. His shoulders stiffened. Then… he pulled. He tugged, slower than Wallan had, almost hesitant. The rod bent. Water frothed.

  A fish came out of the river like a silver stone tossed by the current. It flopped against the bank. With it reaching the size of a small hand, it wiggled and gasped. It flipped onto the other side. The fish was a lively one.

  Vynelor blinked. Then again. A breath left his lips, a short, brief exhale. It was light, though not burdened like a sigh. His eyes looked up to the clearing sky, and for a moment, they had focus again. A small glimmer shone in his pupils. Wallan watched the small gleam on the face that hadn’t smiled in a long while, an expression he couldn’t ignore.

  The rod went out again. It missed this time. He cast the hook for the third time. A huge one took the bait. Vynelor fell out of his seat and slid across the gravel and dirt. Wallan jerked up, watching the child getting dragged into the water. He grabbed the rod and helped the boy catch one the size of himself. Wallan couldn’t believe it himself.

  This was a lucky one, a food that could last up to lunchtime. Vynelor, on the other hand, curled his lips slightly, a small grin that scanned from left to right the size of the anomaly. The fish flopped vigorously, almost slapping the child on the cheek with its tail. Wallan carried the fish in his arms before one of them got shamed by a slimy slap.

  Vynelor walked close, still not talking, but his posture was a little less curled.

  …

  By afternoon, the sky dulled. Steam curled from the pot over the fire. The scent of fish and herbs clung to the clearing, subtle and familiar. Afterward, Vynelor sat with knees half-drawn, staring at the fire again. His shoulders had dipped. The flicker from earlier was gone, tucked back beneath the ash of his thoughts. And he periodically sang the lullaby.

  He chewed slowly, not tasting much. The seasoned salt and spice felt bland this time. Maybe the constant fish diet was getting to him. A part of him believed it was something else.

  Wallan set his own bowl down, then looked toward the boy. “If you want… we can train again,” he said. “Just magic this time. What you like.”

  Vynelor didn’t look up. His head gave a tiny shake. “It’s okay.”

  Wallan didn’t press. He reached forward, adjusted a rock under the pot to steady it, and leaned back again. The forest gave no answer. The day went on.

  …

  Same thing tonight. The fire was low again. A soft cradle of embers breathed in the pit, rising and falling like the slow chest of something asleep. A breeze moved gently through the trees, lifting smoke just enough to blur the stars.

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  Wallan sat with his back to a log, legs stretched out, a stick in his hand that he wasn’t using for much. Vynelor sat nearby again, knees up, arms over them. His eyes never left the fire, watching it flare and burn calmly on the cool night. With soft crickets and sways in the distance, it seemed like another night would pass without much. The pot had been cleaned. The camp was quiet.

  No one spoke… still. Vynelor’s eyes were heavy, having not slept for a full day for the first time ever. Wallan was more familiar with the frequent night-outs. But as long as they knew, this silence was long and deep. It was almost too quiet, and the man tapped on his knee as if running a thought through his mind. He sighed once and stared at the fire.

  “I had a son once,” he said, his voice low. Not soft, but not hard either. “About your age. Maybe a bit older. Had good eyes. And goodness, a strong jaw that could chew bone. Had a way of folding his arms like he owned the ground under him. A sassy child through and through.”

  He didn’t look at Vynelor, and neither did he look at Wallan. Both just stared into the coals.

  “I raised him in PortThorioh. Back when it still had a spine. Things were… sharp there. Sharp and lawful. Too much of one, not enough of the other. I remembered the nation of wisdom had more mercy. Don’t know what happened.”

  A stick in the fire cracked. Wallan let the sound pass.

  “I had a wife, too. I built a house on the southside with the rest of the loner houses. She was the one who gave me water to drink and food on the table. I was just trying to be enough inside it, keeping that family alive.” A pause. “Didn’t quite work out.”

  He flicked the stick a little, shifting a coal.

  “I wasn’t a good father. Not really. Thought being free was enough. Thought wanting to be good made me good, that maybe I deserve better because I had a son to be proud of.” Another pause. “Too bad they… killed him. Should’ve stayed quiet.”

  Vynelor didn’t move. But Wallan saw his breathing slow just slightly.

  “I was born in RrodKa,” he added. This made the child shift his head a little, an ear pointing at the man. “Slave district. No family names there. Just numbers and cries. And hands that took things from you until there was nothing left. Don’t remember my mother’s name that much.”

  His tone didn’t waver. He spoke distantly, like telling a story that happened to someone he used to know. By now, Vynelor turned his head, looking at Wallan with stillness.

  “I ran, escaped from the place… barely. Thought if I built something right—a wife, son, work, home, it’d solve my needs. My simple mind believed that this was not right, and that I deserved better.” He shifted the stick again. “You know what happened at that point.”

  The fire pulsed. For a while, neither of them said anything.

  Then Wallan added, quieter: “Didn’t think I deserved another child after that. But the world gave me one anyway.”

  He finally turned his head, though not much. It was just enough to see Vynelor in the corner of his eye. The boy was indeed looking. His posture had shifted. Arms a little looser. Head not tucked so deep. But just a moment later, his head returned to gaze at the lessening fire.

  With a minute of silence, Vynelor asked softly, “Did he hate you?”

  Wallan blinked. Just once. “Maybe,” he said. “But I never stopped being his father. Still wonder who he’d be when he grows up. A smart one, I tell you that.”

  That was all. They sat with the fire until it dimmed to red. The sky was black and quiet. But just before Wallan could wrap things up and grab another piece of wood to place on the fire, he was interrupted by Vynelor. He said with an almost firm tone, “I don’t think he hated you.”

  The man faced the boy quickly, a sudden jerk. He stared at the boy far too long, but he couldn’t pull away. Seeing Vynelor’s composed look as those eyes never averted from the scarlet blaze, Wallan lowered his eyes for a moment. And in that moment, he smiled with a soft exhale. “You think so?” he asked, though never expecting a response. He whispered while looking at Vynelor once more, “Good to know.”

  Wallan stood at last, his knees slow to uncurl. “Fire’s dying,” he muttered. He walked off into the dark, disappearing between trees and low brush.

  Vynelor stayed seated, the blanket around his shoulders shifting with the breeze. He stared into the embers, but his eyes weren’t on the fire. They followed Wallan’s shape as he returned, arms full of kindling and heavy steps softened by the moss.

  Wallan knelt beside the pit, stacking dry sticks with practiced care. He didn’t speak as he worked, just nudged coals with a blackened stick and laid the kindling in like a ritual he’d done a thousand times before.

  Vynelor watched him carefully. He studied him with quiet, thoughtful eyes, reading him as he worked with the fire. And he began falling asleep sitting straight up.

  When the man turned and saw the child succumbing to exhaustion, he went to catch him before the boy could topple over. Wallan carried him to the makeshift bed and laid him down with care. Even in sleep, Vynelor caught his sleeve, the small hands fastening with stubborn strength that never loosened, no matter how gently Wallan tried to pull free.

  He grunted, uncertain if forcing his way out would only make things worse. Considering how fragile the boy had been over the past few days, it didn’t seem like a risk worth taking. And besides, seeing those baggy eyes at last resting was what Wallan wanted most for him.

  Reaching for a nearby stone, he hoped to trick the boy into thinking he still held on. But pressing it close only made Vynelor grunt and clutch tighter. Wallan clicked his tongue, caught between irritation and resignation, unsure how to proceed.

  There was, however, one last option…

  His gaze shifted to his free hand, then back to the boy. With a low sigh, he raised his palm awkwardly, fingers trembling. He had forgotten what it felt like to use magic.

  Yet as he steadied himself, something deep within stirred in strange and unexpected ways. His veins prickled, as though shedding old skin, like a numb muscle jolting awake with pins and needles. Drawing in a slow breath, he pressed his focus harder—until, at last, a faint flicker of light sparked in his palm.

  Adaptation Path — 1/11 Activated

  Telekinetic Magic ? Lv. 4

  A faint blue thread of magic slipped from his calloused hand. Its tiny head flickered and wavered as though searching. Wallan fixed his thoughts on Vynelor’s hand, but the spell processed sluggishly, as if reluctant to obey. Slowly, the thread crawled forward, wobbling toward the boy’s unyielding grip. Wallan followed its movement with careful eyes. And in the back of his mind, he heard a child’s laughter.

  It was a familiar sound, one that warmed his chest. He could almost see the boy again, running through fields, flinging magic wild and clumsy in his father’s wake. The child would stumble, fall, then rise again to chase after him. And every time he managed to catch his father with a spark of magic, he would shout the name with glee… Harrick.

  At last, the thread reached Vynelor’s hand. For a moment, Wallan worried the boy might resist, but instead, to his relief, the small fingers shifted and grasped the shimmering strand as though it were a simple stick. Exhaling, Wallan wiped the sweat from his brow, the task having drained him more than hefting a log across his shoulder. With the boy clutching the thread, Wallan carefully eased himself free and returned to the campfire, feeding the flames to keep them burning through the night.

  Behind him, Vynelor’s eyes fluttered open. He gazed at the delicate thread in his hand, then at Wallan’s back. He smiled widely. Closing his eyes once more, he allowed his fingers to slip free and drift to the floor. At last, the boy slept.