HAPLO WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, HEALED AND RESTED, AND LAY quietly for long moments, listening to the sounds of the Labyrinth. He had hated this place while he was trapped here. It had taken from him everything he had ever loved. But it had given him everything he had ever loved as well. Only now did he realize it; only now did he come to admit it. The tribe of Squatters that had taken him in when he was a boy, after his parents had been killed. He couldn't remember any of their names, but he could see their faces in the pale gray light that was little more than a brightening of the darkness, but was morning to the Labyrinth. He hadn't thought about them in a long time, since the day he'd left. He'd put them out of his mind then, as he'd assumed they must have put him out of their minds. Now he knew better. The men who'd rescued that frightened little boy might still think about him. The old woman who'd housed and fed him must wonder about him, wonder where he was, what had happened to him. The young man who'd taught him the art of inscribing the sigla on weapons might be interested to know that his teaching had proved valuable. Haplo would have given a great deal now to find them, to tell them, to thank them. "I was taught to hate," he mused, listening to the rustle of small animals, the bird calls he'd never truly heard until now, never truly forgotten. He rubbed the jowls of the dog, which was snoozing with its head on its master's chest. "I was never taught to love." He sat up suddenly, disturbing the dog, which yawned, stretched, and dashed off to annoy foraging squirrels. Marit lay by herself, apart from Haplo and his group, apart from the other Patryns. She slept as he remembered seeing her sleep, curled up in the same tight ball. He remembered sleeping beside her, his body wrapped around hers, his stomach pressed against her back, his arms cradling her protectively. He wondered what it might have been like, sleeping with her and the baby, the child between them, sheltered, protected, loved. To his astonishment, his eyes burned with tears. Hastily, embarrassed and half-angry at himself, he rubbed the moisture dry.
Interconnectedness Of All Things In The Torture Labyrinth Saturday. Taught To Hate Not To Love Tuesday Saturday? I'll workshop it. j ust. He.
