Andaeros Dawnflare

Andaeros Dawnflare
Andaeros Dawnflare
@andaeros#137
2019-08-09 17:05:00

Pines

He woke with the sun, like he usually did, though he didn’t fight wakefulness like he usually did. He didn’t defiantly turn to the side, or regather the blanket over him. He opened his eyes fully, then he closed them for just a moment of meditative breath.


He listened to the birds chirping, he felt the ambient chill of the earth and the crispness of the air on his face. That moment in time dilated as he drew the morning chill into his lungs, and he exhaled slowly, deliberately, and gathered himself up to sit in his bedroll. He looked to either side of him, exhaling another breath in a tired huff as he scanned the empty tent.

His journal was next to him, beside his pillow, a pen resting in the spine of it, holding open where he’d last written. A few loose sheets were underneath it, with charcoal sketched onto them, drawings from the day before, a scattering of pencils nearby. He’d kept a small enchanted stone nearby, glowing like a cooled ember in arcane blue, the same light that ran along the ink on his bared skin, enough light to write by at night.

He ran his hands over his face, over his mouth, over his cheeks, under his chin to scratch. He’d probably shave today. It had been quite a while, and he’d developed a thick scruff.

He slid out of the tent and stood, feeling himself creak as he stretched himself out, arms above his head. He yawned, he groaned, he shivered at the crisp air on his body, barefoot, bare-chested, and nearly bare-assed in his boxers.

The fire had died during the night, and smoke wafted from the burned wood in a single, thin gray wisp in memorandum. He’d have to start a new one, to put water on for coffee.

It only took him a few minutes, with his knife, some wood, and some tinder. His palms rolled together, drilling the stick down into divot he’d carved into the wider, softer wood. Over and over, wood scraping wood until smoke began to waft from the blackened soot and embers, spilled out into dry tinder, where he could nurse the smoke into a full flame. He heard his mother’s voice in each of the steps, he heard her encouraging him. For a second, his hands seemed smaller, less coordinated, and he was in Quel’thalas, again. They were camping, his mother, his father, and him. He heard his father, half-joking and half-complaining, offering to light the fire with a spell. He heard his father grunt as his mother slapped his shoulder and told him to teleport back to Silvermoon if he wants to use magic so badly. He said it wasn’t a bad idea. He asked Andaeros if he wanted him to pick up breakfast from the city, to spare them his mother’s cooking. He heard a louder slap and a louder grunt from his father.

He laughed, and looked around, finding only the pines as his daydream was cut short, though he still smiled and shook his head, tending to the crackling newborn fire. He set up a few grates, some of them on legs, at different places on the fire, for different temperatures, different intensities of heat. He set some of the water he’d boiled last night on the grate in a kettle for coffee.

He’d set camp up near a freshwater river, and it was just a short walk with a basin to get what he needed for the morning. He brought soap and the towel he’d hung near the fire last night to dry; he’d wash while he was at the river.

He stripped and he doused himself in the cold water, lathering and rinsing with each basinful, his body electrified by the chill of it. He shivered and dried himself off, keeping the towel wrapped around his waist while he sat and tended to his breakfast back at camp.

He set up his tin mug underneath the drip filter, and poured the water over his last cupful of coffee grounds. He buttered the last of his bread and set it away from the heat to toast. He cracked his last two eggs into the cast-iron pan and watched them bubble next to his last two strips of goretusk bacon. What he’d brought with him lasted long enough, kept fresh by enchanted arcane storage.

He enjoyed his food sat on his lone stool, awash in the quietude of the pines, plate on his lap, steaming coffee at his feet. Only the scrape of his fork and knife, the crunch of his toast, the soft slurp of coffee, and the crackle of the fire as companionable sounds.

It had only just registered for him that he hadn’t uttered a word in a week. Hadn’t heard another voice, hadn’t seen another soul. Though, in this place, it didn’t trouble him, it didn’t leave him desperately longing or lonesome. He was content for now. He knew it wasn’t something he could stand forever, but, here, it was something he could stand for some time.

He placed his plates and cutlery and kettles and grates together. He would clean them, later on, before lunch, but after shaving.

He brought the basin, his stool, his shaving kit, and his shaving soap with him, and sat in front of the tree where he’d taken a nail to hang up the small, steel mirror he’d brought. He looked at himself through the wear and the tear and the scratches on it, and exhaled another huff of breath. He didn’t look tired, he thought. He’d thought he had looked tired the last few weeks. He looked older with a beard, he thought, too, though not unpleasantly. Though, maybe he was justifying his birthday that had just passed, he thought, again. He ran his hands over the thickened scruff, to appreciate it.

He had warmed the water in the basin near the fire, and he splashed his cheeks with it. He splashed the soap with it and lathered it with a brush. He coated his cheeks with it, and breathed in the warm cedarwood of the foam. He opened up his razor, gleaming, polished steel catching the sunlight that spilled in through the trees and fog in smoky shafts. He stropped it, thirty laps of the blade against the leather, to prime it and make sure it was dry. He brought the blade up to his neck, letting it hover just over his skin.

Suddenly, his hands felt different, again. They were younger, slightly smaller, less confident. He heard his father’s voice. He saw him in the reflection of his shoulder, smiling. He told him to hold it just like that, thirty degrees. Go with the grain, nice and slow. You’re going to probably cut yourself, but you’ll get the hang of it. His father told him he’d done it a lot when he was learning, too.

Andaeros’s eyes refocused on the mirror, and found himself alone, again, though he saw his father, too, in a way. His jaw, the lines at his eyes. He shook his head, chuckling to himself, and closed the razor. He splashed his face clean, leaving the beard for now.He thought he’d keep it for a few more days.

He thought he might stay here, for a few more days.

He’d have to rough it a bit more roughly than he’d been roughing it until then.

But he’d also swim. He would hunt. He would draw. He would write. He would relax. He would breathe. He would bask. He would sleep. He would imagine. He would fantasize. He would reminisce.

Yeah, he’d stay for a few more days.

Comments

Khaeris Dawndancer
Khaeris Dawndancer · @khaeris#23
2019-08-12 03:07:53

What a lovely feel to this! I love Andaeros's earthy, solid feel and I love your writing. More please!

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