“Tor,” I breathe, hardly believing what I’m seeing. Slowly, I take small steps towards him, my footing light, as if I could startle him and he might disappear. He’s wearing that grin that I love seeing and associate only with him, but he’s watching me with careful eyes like he’s unsure of my reaction. Stopping just before him, I run my gaze over his familiar form.
He’s tall like the elves, but where they’re slender, he has a much thicker build, his muscles demanding attention from the clothing he’s wearing. He’s got a loose white shirt on with a leather and fur cloak, which he must be boiling in, since the temperature in Galandell is much milder than what he’s used to in the mountains. Fatigue lines his features, but his dark eyes are bright. Dark braids run down the center of his head where he keeps his hair long, the tattoos standing out on the right side of his scalp which is shaved. His usually well-kept beard is shaggy from days of travel, and I have to fight the urge to run my hands through it.
Just looking at him like this, rugged and out of breath with his axe resting on his shoulder, you would think him a brute, but he’s one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met.
“Is this real? Are you really here?” I ask quietly, my whole focus locked on the man in front of me. I’m scared this is a dream, that I’ll wake up in my bed and he won’t really be here.
“This is real, Clarissa.” Voice low, he closes the gap between us, his eyes simmering with an emotion I can’t quite place. “I found you.” His hand comes up and cups the back of my head, his fingers threading into my hair in a move similar to what Vaeril was doing just minutes ago. A blush covers my cheeks at the thought, but Tor doesn’t seem to care, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but a cough fills the room and he stiffens.
Remembering we have an audience, I take a small step back, still within touching distance, but enough that I can breathe easier. Looking around, I notice Vaeril is right behind my shoulder, glaring at the tribesman, and Naril is still leaning against the doorframe, more relaxed now that the immediate threat is gone. It’s Eldrin who surprises me. He’s entered the room and seems to be trying to control himself. His hands are in such tight fists that I can see the whites of his knuckles.
Frowning, I start to take a step towards Eldrin, who looks like he’s in physical pain. “Are you okay?” I reach out to him, but he jerks away as if my touch would burn. Freezing, I look over at Naril for help, yet he just shakes his head slightly, his eyes locked on his brother.
“Why are you here?” Eldrin growls at Tor, who’s just watching him with a raised eyebrow. In comparison to the elf, Tor is standing casually like he’s unconcerned, but I see the tension across his shoulders. I’ve seen him in action, and I wouldn’t want to be on the opposing side in a fight. Memories of when Vaeril and I escaped Arhaven flash in my mind, and I remember how fierce Tor was in battle, effortlessly swinging his axe.
Turning to me, he points a thumb towards the fuming elf, but otherwise completely ignores him. “Your elf friend here has some serious anger issues.” I want to chide him, and I want to know how he’s here too, but whatever I was about to say is drowned out by a loud growl.
Eldrin storms towards us, pushing me out of the way as he stands in front of Tor. Everything happens quickly then, my human senses struggling to keep up with the supernatural speed of the elves. Clutching Tor’s shirt, Eldrin pulls him close, his other hand fisted and hanging at his side. Vaeril and Naril join him immediately, trying to put some distance between them, the latter whispering elvish to his furious brother.
“Answer the question!” he bellows. Naril manages to sidle up and between the two of them, facing Eldrin as he continues to speak in elvish, his tone urgent.
To Tor’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch, nor does he try to fight the elf or reach for his axe, which is still resting on his shoulder. It would be so easy for him to hurt Eldrin,