Now, I want to stop and acknowledge that I was a lot colder than I should have been. Especially as regards your dead husband. You did such a good job hiding your tears that I could almost forget what you’d been through. Until I’d hear you lying awake, sobbing to yourself. Sometimes I would say something insensitive, and I could tell by the look on your face that I had cut deep.
And now, while I finally have the chance, I just want to say . . . I’m sorry. I’ve lived so long now, and spent many decades in the humelands, and it’s like they say: wisdom comes with old age. Perhaps humans learn it sooner.
That was when I suggested to you that we find a village where you and the kid could stay. Little Patrick still needed his mother close by, and it was getting both tiring and dangerous to be on the move with him. You smiled sadly when I suggested it, but I could see your fatigue. You knew the same, that we couldn’t keep running forever. And underneath that . . . the signs of a relationship near to breaking.
So I saw you to a village that seemed good, made sure you found folk that would help you out and vice versa. You weren’t helpless, and knew so much that could benefit them in return. I didn’t say goodbye, neither had I told you my plans, but I slinked away, bound for I knew not where. I tried to tell myself I was doing what was best for you, and for the kid. He didn’t deserve to grow up with a strange old grem, hiding from hume society. In truth . . . well, I can now say with confidence that I didn’t do it for those reasons—I was just looking out for myself. That’s how we were taught from a young age in grem society: watch out for number one.
Somehow, I’d tricked myself into believing I wouldn’t have to worry about you and Patrick anymore, but that was far from the truth. Didn’t have to? Maybe. But it wasn’t about that. I couldn’t help worrying every night about how those humes were treating you. Fellow humes, I had to remind myself. They’re her kin; what could they possibly do to her?
But they were humes . . . never knew what humes would do.
I returned to the village once to check on you, and I’m pretty sure you never realized it, though some of the other villagers spotted me. I got to see the kid playing. He was five or six years old. Caused a strange emotion to rise up in my chest, my throat, and I still can’t place it. After that, I turned and walked away, my conscience assuaged. I ended up journeying farther than I ever had, wandering aimlessly but also—for the first time—without a tether. I ended up in that horrible desert and began to panic before I found my way to the city of Tal’Quvain. They were . . . less than welcoming.
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I’d prefer to forget the time I spent imprisoned there, but it wasn’t for anyone’s business or benefit; just to keep me off their streets. I got lucky, you could say, since I wasn’t killed on the spot by the city guards. Finally, they let me out, giving me nothing more than a hunk of bread, a skin of water, and a surprisingly apologetic, “Sorry, little fellow.” I think they had watched my mannerisms over those years, and were surprised to see that I didn’t act the complete barbarian, or two-legged animal, that we’re made out to be. I couldn’t say exactly how long I was in Tal’Quvain, just that when I finally made it back to the commonwealth, it had been nearly ten years since I’d seen you and Patrick at the village.
I found myself near it, but I didn’t go to visit. I felt older now, a true grem grandpa in all but that I had no actual, y’know, grandchildren. Never had kids, of course. No, I went in search of a home. An actual home, somewhere in the mountains where nobody was going to bother me. Seemed to me I had finally earned that. Wandering was fine, living the nomadic life, but there were dangers and unpleasant surprises, not to mention the whole thing about me getting old. It’s funny, but now I realize that I’ve been getting old ever since I grew up. When a grem reaches his full size, it’s just . . . downhill from there. Slowly. For humans, slightly less so. I found some gold and other things to nibble from time to time, which probably had a positive effect, but I’d reached a point where I didn’t really care anymore.
No, I just wanted to live out the rest of my days in peace.
But I had to go into town to get supplies, OK? Closest village was this one called Happenstance, and I didn’t name it. I got recognized there by this girl who looked . . . oh, I don’t know, between fifteen and eighteen years old? And yes, I say recognized, which was the weird part. She called out to me, “Mr. grem, wait!”
I turned around, all confused, and she asked, “Are you Finch?”
A villager walked by and spat my way, then another said, “Mary, don’t talk to things like that. He’s not going to understand you.”
Mary. My heart skipped a beat when I heard that name. I’d called you that when you were younger. Didn’t realize it was a name by itself. Or maybe this was also a nickname? “What, uh . . . how ya know my name?” I asked the girl.
“Oh!” She clapped excitedly, clearly happy to be right. “Well, you are the only traveling grem around these parts. I’ve heard tell of you from travelers. My love from Farthen was the first I met who actually seemed to know you. He told me stories.”
He knows me? I thought with concern. Just who was this boy? Hopefully a young man, and not some creepy middle-aged man. The girl seemed nice enough. “Is that right?” I said, blanking on what else to say. “And what’s his name?”
“Patrick. Patrick of Farthen.”