Quoted By:
Through the pitch darkness, you could faintly see the figure sleeping on the cot next to yours. Dull blonde hair, sharp features, a lithe build—Galrick was unlike any other clansmen. He was more mature than Kosa or Claro, but a whole lot quieter too. Others played and hunted, but not him. He had, for as long as you remember, been solely invested in the arcane and nothing else. Even his own father confided in you once, that his son felt out of his reach.
You continued to observe him silently, as if to decipher some hidden truth about your sleeping neighbor. What pulled him so intently into study? What was so lacking in this village that he had to leave by right of pilgrimage?
Like most nights, he began to whisper in his sleep. Barely intelligible things, softly spoken. But unlike other nights, he also shook and began to sweat, so much so that you gently nudged him awake.
"Galrick, wake up. You were making sounds—like you were hurting,"
"Nightmares," he muttered, slowly pulling himself out of his blanket. "Sorry to wake you."
"Galrick..." Your gaze lingered on him.
In the still darkness you felt him pull you into an embrace, your slender form fitting against him, filling gaps you weren't aware of. For a suspended moment, the weight of the world seems to lift.
