Stavanger Bay caught between heart and hemorrhage

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Szymon waits patiently for his daughter to unlock her tongue, knowing all too well what it’s like to struggle and struggle and still come up short. He does not cease his gentle ministrations, continuing to hum and groom as though the rhythm itself might offer the girl some succor. Maybe it does. It’s little things that help Szymon when his tongue gets too tied — Doe, the undulating rhythm of the waves, Doe, distracting himself with a physical task, Doe, speaking slowly and breathing deeply to center himself, Doe… — and really, this is Doe’s area more than it is Szymon’s.

He has never been any good at feelings — not his, and certainly not anyone else’s.

This is Qilaq, though, and Szymon is trying his best.

The black-banded Cairn’s brow furrows as she mumbles something, the words blurred at the edges, and he’s grateful when she repeats it. She turns to face him, a lost and lonely look in her wide gray eyes, and she asks him something he doesn’t understand: “Where did he go?”

“Who?” he asks, the single syllable popping out of his mouth before he really has time to think about it. With Qilaq he can’t be sure; it could be Arturo or Skellige, for all Szymon knows. He doesn’t think either of the two is capable of triggering such a reaction in Qilaq, though — and he’ll be blisteringly jealous if that does end up being the case. His thoughts center on the turquoise-eyed cub who took so readily to fishing — Qilaq’s only agemate. “Rannoch?” It’s Szymon’s turn to say, “I don’t know,” and he lacks the imagination to tell his girl a hopeful lie about Rannoch leaving to find his own happiness. “Sometimes wolves just leave,” is his really depressing conclusion, which probably isn’t going to help matters.

He feels like he should probably follow that up with something comforting, but all he manages to come up with is feeble and thin:

“Sometimes they come back.”

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