Firrian

Firrian doesn’t think about the reaches.

Firrian, in fact, actively thinks about anything but the reaches.

He thinks about the hunts for the day that he organizes and leads, despite being the youngest addition to the clan (but, understanding where he comes from, he is by far the most suited for the job). He thinks about the cool water on his feet or the safety of the walls of his home. He thinks of the flowers Kolarn brings from Theia to add color to the rocks and their sweet scent to the air. He thinks about Kolarn herself, the way she rolls her eyes at his poor manners and often immature sense of humor, or how she never once questioned his insistence that she not wear her silks (which remind him far too much of That Place and That Person) in their home.

He thinks about how glad he is to live amongst stone and books, and how he hasn’t seen a single Seeker since Jibril arrived and took him away from the visions he was too young to know how to block out or interpret. He thinks about the philosophies he discusses with Ryrir, when the two of them are struck with insomnia and wander the still-empty ruins at the edge of the terrace. He thinks of how beautiful the sun is, and how he’d never hoped to be in a place where he’d feel it’s rays on his face more often than not.

He thinks of how he’d die to protect this place, even though he wasn’t born here, since he’s seen what else exists outside their small circle of paradise.

“Sofin mentioned needing to return to arcane territory to find some materials she needs for a project,” Kolarn mentions idly one night. “Maybe we should go with her. It would be a nice opportunity to meet your parents.”

“No.”

His mate isn’t so easily silenced, but there’s something about his voice that keeps her from pressing the issue, just like every other conversation that she tried to turn towards his previous home or his lineage.

Firrian doesn’t think about the reaches.