Fuck. He had no idea. Not a clue.
“I do,” Dagan said. “I spend a lot of time listening to other kinds of life. There’s nothing else like us, not in the Heart Wood, and probably not anywhere else. We shouldn’t waste it.”
Hen’s eyes began to burn, so he stretched out on his back and closed them, as if too sleepy to sit up anymore. After a few moments, in which he couldn’t tell if Dagan had moved or not, Hen said, “Thanks. For today.”
“What about it?”
“For letting me have it. I wasn’t ready to go. You let me stay. So, thanks.”
“I wasn’t ready, either,” Dagan said quietly.
Hen wanted desperately to know what that meant, but his throat was too tight to ask. He hoped it wasn’t something he’d regret not saying, someday.
*
For a long time, Hen’s sleep had been dark, black, and he hadn’t recalled his dreams in the morning. This suited him fine, since he didn’t want to know what went on in his own head. But after the willow by the lake, he started to dream again, like he used to. He dreamed of Kass watching the ocean from the north wall of the City, his dark curls blowing wildly. He dreamed of Kon giving Kajja a massive clock he’d made as a wedding present, and Kajja laughing and laughing with delight.
He dreamed of Dagan’s hand on his back, and in his hair, and over his heart. The feeling of contentment from that one lingered long into the waking day. So much so that when they stopped for lunch, Dagan laughed and asked if he was alright, because he looked like he’d been knocked on the head.
He dreamed of Brecca in the Guardhall, accusing him of being a blasphemer and a traitor, drawing his sword, bringing it down on Hen’s bowed neck just in time for him to wake up in a cold sweat. He dreamed of Alara’s pickles and ale, of Piret’s laughter, of Jak’s grin.
He dreamed of Dagan’s blanket and arms. He dreamed of Dagan’s lips against his, of Dagan’s warm skin and gentle touch. That was the dream that stuck with him again, that sensation of being held. Of surrendering to it and feeling alive with it.
Would you mind, Kass? He asked one morning, but in his head instead of out loud. I know he’s not the one you picked out for me. And he’s probably not interested. But if he is?
There was no answer. But Hen smiled anyhow, because he knew what that meant.
Part IV: Dagan
Chapter 1: Wildcrafter Conservancy, Heart Wood, Grain Moon Waxing
“So, if Wildcrafters cultivate things that grow without human planting,” Hendrik said thoughtfully, “how can they stick to one conservancy? It looked pretty small on your map, too.”
Dagan held a low-hanging branch back for Hendrik to pass safely behind him. Hendrik had been a little muddle-headed for the last few days of their walk, but then, Dagan hadn’t been thinking terribly clearly, either. He doubted it was for the same reasons, but, nevertheless, he understood. “They don’t. There are Wildcrafters in every conservancy. This one is just given up entirely to them. Most of the Mushroom Conservancy is too, since many fungi can’t be cultivated, only foraged and encouraged.”
Hendrik’s footfalls were still like the coming of a large, potentially drunken bear, breaking twigs and trampling underbrush, but he was far less dangerous now than he had been at first, and he’d learned to keep his gaze on the path before him. “So, people who farm mushrooms can live in, say, the Apricot Grove Conservancy, too?”
“Yes, and I’m sure some do. Certain crops need to be rotated to ensure the health of the forest, so that’s part of it. But also, people will live where they like. Some great innovations in farming have come out of human wanderlust.”
“Do you ever think it’s a little stressful?”
“What’s stressful, darling? Farming?”
“No, just, all of the choices. You could’ve been a scout or a Wildcrafter or a mushroom farmer or a walnut grower or…a fiddle-player. How do you decide?”
“Over the course of our first two decades, usually,” Dagan said thoughtfully. “Though people have been known to switch professions in mid-life, or even later.”
“That’s chaotic,” Hendrik said wonderingly.
“Is it?” Dagan shrugged. “It doesn’t feel it. But then, when you have a family the size of mine, chaos is a relative concept.”
“I just don’t get how any of you know what to do.” Some feeling edged into Hendrik’s voice, then, as it deepened and cracked just a little. “I always knew who I was and what I was supposed to do.”
“Because you were told,” Dagan supplied as gently as possible.
“Well, yeah, but I was good at it. I liked it. I think.” He frowned.
“I’m sure you were and I’m sure you did.” Dagan laid a hand on his arm carefully. It was easier now, to touch him casually. Something had shifted between them at their camp in the Mushroom Conservancy. Trust that had been so hard-won and tentative for those first weeks had turned into something real and solid.
Hendrik smiled and patted his hand. His jaw stopped twitching.
“You have time to explore your possibilities, now,” Dagan said. “All you need to worry about is making the most of them. And when something strikes you, you take it and make it your own. But don’t worry about it before then.”
“How will I know?”
How long had it been since Hendrik had thought of his own future, Dagan wondered? It was a good sign, the best sign, that he was starting to at last.
Dagan asked, “You know what it feels like to want something, don’t you?” Even a childhood as oppressive as his had been must’ve known that urge.
Hendrik nodded, biting at his lower lip. Was that a faint blush rising up his neck, or was Dagan projecting again?
Dagan let him go and led the way down the path again. “There you go, then.”
After a few moments of following silently, Hendrik said, “How will I know what’s possible?”
“You see more of the world. If all else fails, you can always ask,” Dagan replied. “I can help with both. Don’t worry, dearest Hendrik. I’ve got you.”
When he glanced over his shoulder, Hendrik was nodding his head, jaw working, deep in thought. So, Dagan left him to it.
