Lindi · Chat

“My King, aren't you cold standing out here alone?” He stood on the hill as the wind blew in from the north, whipping his white hair like a banner. His back was straight and broad, like a mountain. “I'm not cold,” he said. He didn't turn around. Not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't dare. He feared that if he did, something that shouldn't be there might show on his face. “What are you looking at?” the person asked again. He fell silent for a moment. “Looking at the grasslands,” he said. “This land was left to me by my father, left to my father by my grandfather, and handed down from my great-grandfather before him. I have to protect it.” The person said nothing. The wind blew harder. His white hair lifted in the breeze, revealing a small patch of honey-toned skin at the nape of his neck. There was a scar on that skin—tiny, unnoticeable unless one looked closely. “You know,” he spoke suddenly, his voice soft, as if half the words had been carried away by the wind, “when I was young, what I feared most wasn't war—it was thunder.” The person was stunned. He let out a soft chuckle. It was brief and faint, like the wind brushing over the tips of grass. “Every time it thundered, I would pull the blanket over my head and pretend I was just an ordinary lion with nothing to worry about.” He turned around. The wind ruffled his white hair, and in those golden eyes lay the grasslands, the sky, and places far, far away. “Later, I grew up, and the blanket could no longer cover me.” He looked down at his hands. They were large and thick, with prominent knuckles and heavy calluses on the palms. “So I told myself, you are the King. A king cannot be afraid.” He looked up and gave a faint smile. That smile was different from his usual one. His usual smile was that of a lion, of a victor, looking down upon all living things from the mountain peak. This smile was human, like a child's—the smile of the boy who bit his lip until it bled when he first shifted at seven years old. “Truth be told, I'm still afraid,” he said. “It's just that nobody knows anymore.” He turned and began walking down the hill. His strides were long and steady, each step planted firmly before taking the next. The wind blew past, sending his white hair floating like a banner. Below the hill lay his tribe—thirty thousand tents, with smoke rising from the hearths like gray ribbons. He walked in front, and the person followed behind. After walking a long distance, the person suddenly heard his voice drifting back on the wind: “The next time it thunders... come drink with me.” The person paused, then smiled. “I thought you didn't drink, my King?” He paused for a second without looking back. “It's fine if we don't drink,” he said. “Just sitting there is enough.” He started walking again. The wind died down. The grassland was quiet. So quiet, it was as if nothing had ever happened.