Simon Hawke - The Nomad

She had gotten dressed and bandaged his wound with strips torn from her clothing. When she crouched to look at him, her gaze was curious and frank. He thought she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. She crouched over him, looking down, and he gazed up at her with awe. Slowly, he stretched out his hand to touch her, because he wanted to feel her skin, which seemed almost translucent, but he hesitated when he realized what he was doing, and his hand froze in the act.

She reached out her hand and lightly touched his fingertips, caressing, then brought up her other hand and clasped his own in both of hers. She smiled, and slowly pulled his hand toward her. She guided it to touch the smoothness of her cheek, and he marveled at the way she felt. And then she brought it down to touch her breast, all the while gazing deeply into his eyes.

They were two strangers, people of different tribes and different races, who could not even understand one another’s language, natural enemies who were, perhaps, too young or too caught up in the magic of the moment to care about prejudice or hatred. Neither of them truly understood what it was that had drawn them together, but from the first moment that their eyes met, something happened, a spark ignited, a bond was forged, and they were no longer a halfling and an elf, but merely two people, a male and a female, each of whom responded to something in the other that mirrored their souls.

“It is time for him to leave us, Mira,” said her mother.

They stood at the entrance to their tent as the dark sun sank on the horizon, watching Ogar, who stood alone by the fire, gazing into the flames.

“No!” said Mira, turning to gaze at her mother with alarm. “How can you say that?”

“Because it is true, my daughter.”

“But he is one of us now!”

“No,” said Garda, “he is not truly one of us and never can be.”

“But he is my husband, and the father of our child!”

“The child is old enough to thrive now,” Garda said. “And it is time for Ogar to rejoin his people.”

“Would you drive him out, just because he is a halfling?”

“No,” said Garda. “That is not our way, Mira, and you know it. Kether has shown us the wisdom of giving up old hatreds. But it has been five years now, and Ogar pines for his tribe and for his homeland. Halflings are strongly connected to their tribe and their land. If he remains with us much longer, he will die.”

“Then I must go back with him,” Mira said. “You cannot,” her mother replied. “They would not accept you, and they would never accept your son. He would be anathema to them, and they would not allow him to survive. If you were to return with Ogar, it would mean death for all of you.”

“What must I do, then?” Mira asked, exasperated. “You must accept what is,” her mother said. “As I had to accept it when your father left us. You have little Alaron. Cherish him, the way that I have cherished you, and be thankful for the love that has produced him.”

Mira and Ogar talked long into the night. In the five years they had spent together, they had learned one another’s language, and they had grown so close that each had become part of the other. Mira had promised herself she would not cry, she did not want to make the parting any more difficult for Ogar than it already was. They had made love for the last time and he gave her a bracelet off his arm, a band of bronze engraved with the name and symbol of his clan. In turn, Mira had given him a simple necklace of green and red ceramic beads that she had made and worn. In the morning, when she awoke, Ogar was gone. And then she cried.

It took a long time for Ogar to reach his people, and while his heart grew lighter with each step that brought him closer to his homeland and his tribe, his grief at leaving Mira and his son, Alaron, increased as well. He had been taught that elves were the sworn enemies of halflings, and yet, even when he had first seen her, he had not been able to look upon Mira as his enemy. Nor had her tribe treated him as a hated adversary. They had taken him in and nursed him back to health, and no one had been more attentive to his needs than Mira, who had remained by his side until he had regained his strength. By then, he knew he loved her, and he also knew that she loved him.

When Mira asked consent from Kether to take him for her husband, Kether had asked only if she truly loved him, and knew that he loved her. No one had raised the question of his race, and no one had treated little Alaron any differently from the other children of the tribe when he was born. How could such people be his enemies?

Ogar had resolved that he would tell his father all about what happened as soon as he returned. His father would be pleased and proud, he knew. His son was not dead, as the tribe must surely believe by now. And Ogar was not only alive, but returning triumphant, having slain not one but three humans- Mira had slain the fourth. He had fulfilled his Ritual of Promise.

But, more importantly, he would bear news that not all elves were the halflings’ enemies. He would ask permission from his father to return and bring back his wife and son, so that the tribe could find out for themselves that elves and halflings could live together ... even love one another.

His tribe had welcomed him on his return, and there was a great celebration, and his father had sat proudly in his chieftain’s place as he told how he had slain his mountain cat in single combat, and then how he had slain the humans. But when he told them about Mira, everything had changed.

“Why did you not kill the elf, as well?” his father asked, his face darkening. “Father, she saved my life,” protested Ogar. “Saved her own life, you mean,” replied his father, scowling. “The humans had attacked her, and she merely used you for a diversion so that she could strike. That is the way of elves. They are duplicitous.”

“Father, that is not true,” said Ogar emphatically. “The fourth human would have killed me had she not come to my aid. He had wounded me severely, and she could easily have left me there to die. Instead, she pulled me out of the water and laid me on the shore, then tended to my wounds. And then she brought me back with her to her own tribe, and they took me in until I had recovered. They could easily have killed me, Father, but they accepted me into their tribe.”

“You joined an elven tribe?” his father said, aghast. “They are called the Moon Runners, Father,” Ogar said, “and they are not at all the way we have been taught elves are. They treated me with kindness, and it made no difference to any of them that I was halfling. I lived as one of them.”

“As their slave, you mean!” his father said angrily.

“No! Would they allow a slave to marry one of their own?”

“What?” his father said, jumping to his feet.

“Mira is my wife, Father,” Ogar said. “We have a child. You have a grandson. If you could but meet them, I know that you would-”

“That a son of mine should mate with a filthy elf and beget offspring with her!” his father shouted furiously as the other members of the tribe joined his outraged cry. “Never did I think to live to see this day!”

“Father, listen to me-” Ogar said, but he could not shout over the tumult that his words had prompted.

“You have disgraced me!” his father roared, pointing at him. “You have disgraced the tribe! You have disgraced all halflings everywhere!”

“Father, you are wrong-”

“Silence! You have no place to speak! I would sooner see you mating with an animal than to know you had rutted with an elf! You are no son of mine! You are no proper halfling! You are polluted and disgraced, and we must cleanse ourselves of this disgusting stain upon our tribe! Hear me, people! Ogar is no longer my son! I, Ragna, chieftain of the Kalimor, hereby curse him as anathema, and decree the punishment of death by fire to burn out this disease that has sprung up among us! Remove him from my sight!”