Svant's house was in the middle of the village, though that wasn't saying much. A sweep left and right and Tristan's sharp eyes could make out one end of Flateyri to the other. The threshold to Svant's home was low, Tristan had to duck to get inside. Warmth blossomed like fresh blankets. Margret, Svant's wife, erupted into a roaring welcome. Her hug was infectious; Tristan couldn't stop grinning. Soon enough, a warm drink was thrust in his hands.
Margret and Svant nestled together, hands laid atop one another like they were still inclined to the intimate touch after decades of bondship. Isolated in his own chair, Tristan was never so uncomfortable with the epiphany as he was now. Thorn Paw's question stirred up in his mind: Where is your mate?
They chatted about the fishing industry and weather (the two were intimately entwined), but Tristan was growing restless by the time his drink was gone. Svant and Margret exchanged worried looks before inquiring.
"What brings you down here today, Tristan?"
He glanced out the window, "Supplies are low."
Svant stared patiently. The old bird didn't buy the lame excuse.
"Alright I guess I need to think some things through. Talk it out with someone." The answer seemed to satiate him, but Margret was now studying him intently.
"What happened to your eyes, Tristan?"
Tristan was taken aback. "What do you mean?" A gentle touch at his temples found nothing out of the ordinary.
"They're all yellow. Maybe you should see a doctor. Yellow'd eyes can be a liver sickness or poisoning."
Tristan blinked, utterly confused. Only when Margret gestured to a bathroom did he find his way to a mirror for a look. His own face stared back at him, long and heavily bearded. His hair braided back from his forehead, scalp clean shaven above the ears. The back of his neck wore a tattoo of circular, a ring of gaping jaws devouring one another; all normal. Except his eyes glowing golden discs. He leaned closer, speechless.
When he returned, they were wide with wonder. "I don't know."
Margret and Svant nestled together, hands laid atop one another like they were still inclined to the intimate touch after decades of bondship. Isolated in his own chair, Tristan was never so uncomfortable with the epiphany as he was now. Thorn Paw's question stirred up in his mind: Where is your mate?
They chatted about the fishing industry and weather (the two were intimately entwined), but Tristan was growing restless by the time his drink was gone. Svant and Margret exchanged worried looks before inquiring.
"What brings you down here today, Tristan?"
He glanced out the window, "Supplies are low."
Svant stared patiently. The old bird didn't buy the lame excuse.
"Alright I guess I need to think some things through. Talk it out with someone." The answer seemed to satiate him, but Margret was now studying him intently.
"What happened to your eyes, Tristan?"
Tristan was taken aback. "What do you mean?" A gentle touch at his temples found nothing out of the ordinary.
"They're all yellow. Maybe you should see a doctor. Yellow'd eyes can be a liver sickness or poisoning."
Tristan blinked, utterly confused. Only when Margret gestured to a bathroom did he find his way to a mirror for a look. His own face stared back at him, long and heavily bearded. His hair braided back from his forehead, scalp clean shaven above the ears. The back of his neck wore a tattoo of circular, a ring of gaping jaws devouring one another; all normal. Except his eyes glowing golden discs. He leaned closer, speechless.
When he returned, they were wide with wonder. "I don't know."