Page 111 of Storm to Victory
They’d all have stories to tell. But for now, Fieran was more than content to simply hug his sisters and enjoy having their whole family together again for the first time since he joined the army.
Strange how he’d gone through this whole war only to realize he’d already had what mattered most in life. Loving parents. Close siblings. A loyal friend. A life that was rich and full.
That life would be even more rich and full now. More friends. More family. And now he knew never to take them for granted.
To one side, Uncle Edmund swept Aunt Jalissa into his arms, the two of them laughing and crying as if they were the only two standing on that pier.
Mama reached up and touched the shortened strands of Dacha’s hair. “What happened?”
“I cut it.” Dacha leaned his forehead against hers, placing an emphasis on the words that Fieran didn’t quite understand as he repeated, “Icut it.”
Tryndar placed both hands over his head, as if to protect the long strands of his hair. “Am I going to have to cut my hair?”
Dacha laughed, the sound lighter and more unburdened than Fieran had heard in a long time. Adjusting Tryndar in his arms so that he was facing him more fully, Dacha shook his head. “No, sason. You do not have to cut your hair if you do not wish to do so.”
“But…” Tryndar glanced from Dacha to Fieran and back, his bottom lip sucked into his teeth.
Dacha shot a glance in Fieran’s direction, meeting his gaze briefly, before he focused fully on Tryndar once again. “You, sason, are both an elf and a human. You may choose to wear your hair short to honor your human heritage, as Fieran does. Or you may choose to wear your hair long in the style of the elves. Either way, your macha and I will not be disappointed with you.”
That longtime ache deep within Fieran’s chest gave one last healing throb as a lump formed in his throat. Perhaps his dacha, too, had grown these past few months.
“But you cut your hair?” Tryndar’s forehead furrowed, his hands still pressed protectively to his hair. “And you are an elf.”
“Yes, an elf’s long hair is a symbol of his honor, especially for a warrior.” Dacha’s gaze remained fixed on Tryndar. “But long hair is only a symbol; it is not honor itself. Sometimes it is necessary for an elf to sacrifice long hair for something more important than a mere symbol. Do you understand, sason?”
Tryndar blinked at Dacha for a long moment before he shook his head.
Fieran laughed under his breath. Trust Dacha to confuse Tryndar more by the usual elven tendency toward cryptic statements.
Whatever else Dacha said was drowned out in Uncle Edmund’s inarticulate shout and laugh as he spun Aunt Jalissa around. When he set her down, he turned to the rest of them, a huge grin on his face as he called out, “We’re expecting! I’m going to be a father again!”
Mama laughed and hurried to Uncle Edmund and Aunt Jalissa, giving them hugs. “I knew it.”
Fieran grinned, and he would have joined the celebration except that there was a drumming of running boots on the wharf and shouts of “Fieran!”
Fieran turned just in time as the flyboys mobbed him, with Stickyfingers and Lije leading the charge. The flygirls and elven pilots followed at a somewhat more sedate pace, although even the elves were smiling.
Laughing, Fieran found himself backslapped and brother-hugged and exuberantly pummeled in greeting. Lije, Stickyfingers, Tiny, Murray, Aylia, and all the other familiar faces.
Just when even Fieran was at the edge of overwhelm, he spotted Rothilion edging down the gangplank, as if he was hoping he wouldn’t be noticed.
Fieran pointed in his direction. “Look who I picked up on the trip back.”
The flyboys glanced over their shoulders before several of them shouted, “Rothilion!”
Rothilion froze with wide-eyed terror as the whole mob descended on him, giving Fieran a moment to breathe.
He turned and found Pretty Face standing there, hanging back from the others. He was once again dressed in a pristine Escarlish Flying Corps olive-green uniform, although it hung on his still gaunt frame.
“You made it.” Fieran pulled Pretty Face into a backslapping hug.
“Yeah, so did you.” Pretty Face returned the backslap before he stepped back. “They haven’t cleared me for duty yet, but they at least allowed me to rejoin the squadron.”
Behind Fieran, there came more excited shouting, which included Pip’s name. He could only guess that Rothilion had sicced the pack of flyboys on Pip.
Pretty Face grinned, nodded to Fieran, and ambled around him, headed in the direction of the excited babble. His trajectory changed as Aaruk tiptoed down the gangplank, as if the ogre wasn’t sure if he should get off the ship.
Lije broke away from the rest of the gaggle around Pip. “Aaruk! How did you get here?”
