Moving On

When I first started this journal, it was the chronicle of a young woman, barely past childhood. Innocent, naive, trusting of everyone. One that had come to the first fires to seek her destiny. Much has happened to her since that time, and I think we all are sometimes amazed when we see our characters develop and grow. She is no longer that young woman, and I think it is time to put away the story of that woman/child, and move on to the woman. I hope she never loses some of those childlike qualities.

Here is the link to the new story of Cana.

I have never claimed to be a writer, and never will. But for you that have followed my clumsy attempts, thank you. And for you that have given me encouragement, I am eternally grateful. For whatever reasons you have followed my story thus far, I hope the continuation of the journey does not disappoint you.

http://toliveanauthenticlife.blogspot.com/

Brothers

The crowd was beginning to dwindle, people starting to return to the own fires, to their own reflections, their own lives. The afternoon and evening had been exhausting, both physically but also mentally and emotionally. All she really wanted to do was find a cool, dark place to curl up in, away from everyone and everything, but she knew that was just not right.


Sitting there, staring at her hands, she realized that someone had come to stand beside the platform, and lifted her head, putting on that practiced, widows's smile. When she realized who it was, her lower lip began to tremble, and she reached up to wipe the tears that had finally come again. Ephrim sat down beside her, pulled her against his side and stroked her head with one of those large hands. Turning her head into his chest, she was crying quietly when she felt the touch of another hand, and knew it to be Hiram. No words passed between them. They just weren't necessary. She was the little sister, they were the older brothers, and this is just how it was. Soon Enos and Dorian were there too, sitting on the lower steps of the wagon, in a show of love and support.


A younger voice spoke to her, urging a mug of tea into her grasp, telling her that she needed to drink it. Looking up, for a moment she marveled at the face. It was Gabriel. Often she looses track of time when it comes to him. In her minds eye, he was still a chubby child waddling around the fires, his nappies drooping. Now here he stood before her, a young man with his first scar, and she felt old. No, she felt dead. Taking the mug, she thanks him, and sips from it. Looking around, she realizes that everyone has left but family, and she is almost glad of this.


Anya and Laren were seeing that the children were fed. Dorian moved away to sit with them, to tell them stories in preparation for their bed time. It was such a peaceful, normal scene, and should have brought peace to her heart seeing her children with them, but it didn't. There was just too much in there right now, to allow peace in. But, she was glad they were there for her, but mostly for the children.


Since their father's death, Ephrim has more or less acted as head of their family, by virtue of the six minutes he had alone in this world before his twin, Hiram arrived. So it usually fell to him to deal with family matters. They talked for a long time, about her, the children and what would happen now. The offer was laid out, for her to move her wagons back with theirs, even if it was just for a time, to give herself time to heal among family that loved her. She told him she would give it some thought, but that she was not going to make any decisions right now, at least not for a few days. It was all too new, too raw.


He patted her hand, and asked if she wanted or needed anything. She knows that many would be asking her that question over the next few days, and fought down the urge to just scream, and tell him....Yes! She wants her life back! But instead, she smiled telling him no, that she just needed time to think, was all. Leaning to kiss the top of her head, he told her they would be staying for a day or two, to take care of the children, and her, and to fend off well-wishers if they got too overbearing. Leaving her to her thoughts, he joined his brothers at the fire and they all talked in low tones. She knew damn well they were talking about her, but she was just too emotionally drained to really care.


Leaning over against the railing along the platform, she closed her eyes and just listened to the low, dull rumble of their voices. Not taking words from them, but just trying to take comfort of the sounds, and knowing they were near. Maybe she nodded off, maybe she just went into this small state of suspension, but when next she was really cognizant she knew there was someone else sitting beside her.


Opening her eyes, she saw it was him. The one that has sat with her like this for now the third time. She didn't say a word, but leaned her head to rest on his arm. She did not ask him where he had been, for she knew. She did not mention that she could smell the sweat and the smoke on him, and the faint aroma of burned flesh. She didn't have to. He had done what was necessary, and right now there was no need to talk about it. Maybe there never would be.


He was different, he didn't ask how she was, he knew. He didn't ask if she needed anything, he was just there, that pillar of strength that she had drawn from so many times. Food and drink was brought to him, and she watched as he ate. One of the many bowls of broth that she would suffer over the next few days was put into her hands by Anya. She managed a few sips from it, before her stomach turned to stone, and she could tolerate no more. Sitting it aside, she placed a hand on the broad shoulder and stood. Without a word she went back into the wagon, tying the flaps shut, cutting herself off from the world.


For a fleeting moment, a thought raced through her mind. For a blink of an eye, there was this part of her that longed for Fonce to have left her in that place, to die. It would have been less painful than this.

Her Last Official Duty

After dozing intermittently all morning, she had finally had enough. Sitting up, she reached for the mug of cooling tea and sipped from it, her nose wrinkling. Blackwine. She found that she had an almost manic craving for the hot, dark, bitter brew. When one of the slaves came in, she asked for it. Slaves are funny creatures sometimes. They are supposed to do you bidding, without reservation or question. There was this brief flicker of fear on the girls eyes, then she slowly shook her head, and told the woman that she had been ordered that she was to get only the teas, milk and water, nothing stronger, by the healer. Well, bosk dung. She could have pressed it, threatened to beat the girl, sell her off, have her thrown to the sleens, but would that have gotten her blackwine? Probably not. She sent the girl away with the tea and asked for water. Just plain, cool water. As the girl ducked out between the flaps, she had given another order.......She wanted a bath!


It was not long before juneau returned with a bowl and a bota of cold water. As she squirted the water into the bowl, then lifted it to her Mistress, she said that the others were bringing a tub to her, and she could have her bath. She wasn't really dirty, for they had kept her clean while she was asleep, but she felt dirty, maybe from the memories of where she had been, and needed a bath, to maybe wash those memories away. The filth, corruption, death, anger and fear still seemed to cling to her. Whether or not she would be able to was them away, she did not know, but she was damned sure going to try.


Before long the wagon was a flurry of activity. The copper tub was brought in, then there was a steady stream of girls with pots of boiling water. Oils were added, the soaps brought in, clothing laid out for her. Juneau had laid out the vest that Ba'atar had made for her, and a skirt. Shaking her head, she told the girl to put the vest away, that she never wanted to see it again, and to bring one of her older tunics.


When she put that first toe into the tub, she drew it back quickly. The water was hot. Slowly she sunk the toe in again, then just as slowly, her whole foot, stopping to allow herself to become accustomed to the heat of it. One of the girls quickly ran out to get a bucket of cooler water, and poured it in, swirling it around with her hand, apologizing for the temperature. Irritation was heavy on her, but she took a deep breath and told her it was fine. Finally she sank down into the water with a sigh, and just sat with her eyes closed, letting the steam to waft around her. Juneau had herded the others off, but stayed to help her if needed.


After soaking for what seemed like forever, she had sat up and juneau began to pour ewers of water over her head, then to soap up her hair. There are few luxuries that she allows herself, but this was one of them, her bath and having this girl do her hair. There is magic in the girls fingers as she massages her scalp, releasing the tensions there. Juneau is not one to prattle, which also makes her a favorite, but today she did choose to talk mentioning how much weight Mistress had lost.


She has? This was news to her, but she looks down, and realizes that she can see the shadows of her ribcage beneath the skin. When had this happened? She must have looked confused as she held an arm up, to stare at it, then lifted the other arm, the fingers on that hand moving to gently trace the knobs of bones on her wrist. Well, damn. This just would not do.


Juneau stood and held a hand out to her for support so that she could step out of the tub. Was this loss of weight why she was feeling a little unsteady on her feet? The girl wrapped the sheet of toweling around her, then guided her to sit, and began to carefully oil and comb out her hair. She took back up the threads of her conversation, explaining that even before Mistress had fallen ill, she had not been eating right, but that hopefully, that would change now.


Sitting there with her eyes closed, she found herself enjoying the attentions more than usual. Each pull of the comb through her hair, could be felt deep inside her. And she took comfort in the words of the slave, words of concern and care. In a way, this simple thing helped her to deal with that gnarled thread of emotions that were turning and twisting inside of her. She did not have the time right now, nor the strength to deal with them. There were more important things to attend to.


People were already arriving, bringing food, leaving messages of support and condolence. She has been here before, and knows that she has to gather her senses around her, to be able to deal with them. There would be time later to sort through the emotions and thoughts that haunted her. Right now, she had to find the strength, to be Cana, to be able to deal with those that she knew cared for her. She had to be strong.


Her hair was braided into two long, serpentine lengths, then the girl entwined them into a coronet around her head and placed the pins to hold them. One hand lifts to touch the head of one of them. They had been gifts from her mother, pins that had held her own braids at one time. They were a special keepsake, one that she drew peace from.


She ended up dressed in a soft, flowing dress, almost the color of churned butter. One she had not worn in a long time, because with all of the pregnancies and what not, it had not fit. But now, it did not fit in another way. Now it hung from her slender frame, but it too would just have to do.


Steeling herself, she stood with juneau's support and walked out onto the platform of her wagon. The day was dreary, overcast with the threat of rain. At first, she was taken aback by what she saw. There in the ground around her wagon, were candles of all sizes. For a moment, this puzzled her, then she looked beyond the candles to the people standing in small groups around her fires.


The realization of what was happening, came to her slowly. She is not the only one that has suffered a loss, they had too. The other families, but then again the tribe as a whole. They had lost their favored son, the one many still called Ubar. The candles were symbols of their grief, offerings of respect. She was not the only one grieving, the entire tribe was, and they needed a place to go and congregate to allow the grief to take form. They needed a grieving place.


Smiling, she nods her head then slowly sits down on the platform of her wagon and begins to take visitors, knowing that in a way, this is her last official action as Ubarra. Her duty was to give them a place to put their feelings. Her duty was to allow them to lay the burden of them at her feet, so that they could feel they have done what was right, what makes the pain to lessen somewhat in their hearts and minds.


Through the rest of the day, she sat, speaking to this one, reaching to gently touch another, giving respectful thanks for the gifts of food. Her own grief and emotions were tucked away, to be explored at another time.


Today, for one last time.......she was their Ubara.

The Wisdom of Children

The tears had finally given over to sleep, which is funny considering that she had been asleep for days, from what she was told. But this slumber was different, it was peaceful with no dreams. At this point, she hopes she never dreams again.


When she did wake up, she just lay there for a time her eyes darting around the familiar surroundings. Thoughts of the previous evening had crowded in on her, but she pushed them away for now, unable to deal with them. Her eyes finally landed upon the crude pot that held the single stalk, that rose gracefully up to the flower. Along side it were the six blades of grass. Could those blades be any more perfect in their composition? Reaching out, her fingers brush over the flower, and tears come to her eyes. How symbolic it all was, was not lost on her, and it brought new aches to her heart.


Her attention turns to the small body tucked in beside hers. Her hand again moves to lay on Also's back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Life. He was an example that there was life, and that it continued on even in the face of death.


Turning over, she thinks of the children. She has to pull herself together, so that she can tell the children that their Father would not be returning to them. The girls are so young, their memories of him will be faint, if they have any at all. They boys would be different, and she knew they would take it hard.


When she heard them whispering outside the wagons, asking where Rook was, wanting to know how their mother was, she managed to pull herself up out of the furs, stumbling slightly, unaware of just how weak her body was. Getting her feet beneath her, she straightened her tunic, and ran a hand through her hair. She realized that Also was sitting up, his solemn expression haunting her.


Sitting down beside him, she was unsure of just how much he was aware of. Fingers stroke his cheek, as she asks him if he understands what happened. Nodding, his eyes never left her face as he said simply. "Father is dead" Oh, how that wrenched at her heart. Gathering him into her arms, maybe more for her comfort than his, she just held him, then whispered that she needed to tell his brothers and sisters.


He was very matter of fact when he spoke. "They know." How could they know, they were not there? " We just do. " It was Also, that slid off of the sleeping platform to open the flaps of the flaps to allow his siblings in. Tug came in, looking so much older, carrying his sisters, followed by Another One, then Two. For a moment they all just stood inside, looking at her, but it was the girls that struggled to get down and toddled over to crawl into her lap, snuggling up against her breast.


Her arms enveloped them as she fought back the tears, her lips kissing first one dark head then the other. Two approached next, and crawling up to kneel beside her, laying his head on her shoulder. The words would not come to her, or if they did they stuck in her throat. Another One approached shyly, sat on the furs and lay his hand on her shoulder. She could tell that he was struggling, but remaining strong.


She looked over their heads to Tug, who stood by the platform. When did he grow so? When did he develop that stubborn set to his jaw, just like Tayco? When did he become the strong one? Reaching our her hand, he took it and she drew him closer, so that she could lean between his sisters to place a kiss to his forehead.


Drawing in a deep breath, she begins to speak to them, only to have Tug hold his hand up to still her words. "Mother, he has been gone a long time, we have felt he was not coming back." Stopping mid-sentence she looked around to her sons, marveling at how strong they were. And in each one of them, she can see qualities of their fathers, small things that keep her memories of the men alive. Tears threatened in those dark eyes, and she was sure they would be shed soon. But right now, she realized they were all being strong. Maybe for each other, but also for her. The pride that swelled in her breast was overwhelming. She was truly blessed.


Tug gave a nod, and Another and Also reached to take the girls from her. Two leaned to kiss her cheek, and hugged her so tightly. It was Tug that told her that they all needed their morning meal, and then he would see that the slaves would tend to the girls so that she could rest. His eyes narrowed on her. "And you will rest Mother, there will be time for talking and such later."


Perhaps it was because she was so tired, or maybe because she needed the time to deal with her own emotions before she could deal with theirs, but she did not argue. Again she marveled at how he had grown, maybe too soon, but there was nothing to be done about that now. The children were ushered, through the flaps and she fell back onto the furs, a hand going to lay over her breast where the pain seemed to center.


There is a flash of light as Also slips back through the flaps with a mug of tea in his hand. He does not give it to her, but sets it beside the pot that held the flower, then sat down on the edge of the platform. The small hand reaches to take hers, but at first he says nothing. Sometimes he is just too somber, his gaze too wise, too knowing. He had always been that way, and maybe that was why Ba'atar loved him, but didn't understand him. He had such dreams invested in his first son, but it was evident early on, that Also was not going to conform to them, which caused a distance between them. When the man/child begins to speak, there were not wasted superfluous words.


"You will rest, get your strength back. Then, you will work on remembering who you are, who you want to be Cana." Did her son just call her by her given name, and not Mother? She did not even have a chance to tag him on it, because he got up and left. Left her with more to think on.


Turning over, her cheeks rest on her hands as she stares at the vase that holds the blue flowers and the seemingly perfect blades of grass. He has sent back the one thing to her, that she would understand. She was blessed, she was strong, she was surrounded by the perfection of her children. It was up to her now, to take all of this, and make a life. To find who she was, and to go from there.

A bridge back from the surreal, to reality, to the surreal again.

He had showed her the bridge. A bridge that connected the hot sands of the desert, with the cool grasses of the plains. Sitting her down, he told her to feel the grass beneath her feet .. to remember the smell of the hot soil beneath the Central Fire ... to know the sound of the breeze and remember the scent of the bosk. All things that were natural and known to her, things that were as much a part of her as living and breathing.


Closing her eyes she takes in a long breath of the cool plains air, then opens her eyes to look at him. She knows she must make the rest of the journey on her own. He has brought her as far as he can, and now it is up to her to find her way back to her body, that is under the watchful care of Tarra. Her hand lifts to touch his face again, her gaze lingering on him, then she turns and walks to where she knows she needs to be.


Her eyes flutter open, and she recognizes the roof of her own wagon. Home. Where she is supposed to be, home. Slowly her head turns to see Tarra. In that moment, she knew the woman had rarely left her side, while she is gone. It would be affirmed to her later, but by instinct, she knows.


Her first thoughts were to Also and Fonce. Her voice is hoarse from lack of use, but she manages to whisper and ask for them. To her relief, Fonce steps through the flaps of her wagon, carrying a sleeping Also. He lowers the boy to the furs beside her, and she reaches to touch his arm, watching his face. Still he does not look into her eyes.


Yes, she is back, and evidently her body has been well cared for while her mind was wandering in the darkness. The confusion of emotions is still there. It will take time for all of them to be sorted out, placed back into proper perspective. And there is the dance of new ones, or maybe old ones that had lay hidden. Only time will tell if they will fall in to place.


Tarra did not stay long, stating that she needed to go tell Kam and Mezoo that she was awake. Part of her hated to see her leave, but she did understand, but there was that part of her that was so confused, that she longed to talk to Fonce, alone.


But, that was not to be.

Visitors. First Seveya, then Yamka. Conversations. Yes she was back, yes she was fine. As she lay there watching them all, there was such a cloud of confusion it made her unsure of many things.


There were the things that she knew. Ba'atar was dead. She could finally admit that and had released him to move forward, and in that, had released herself to come back. But not alone. She would not have been able to do it alone. There was a strong force there, to help shield her, to set her back on the path to the living.


These things tumbled around in her head as she tried to keep up with the talk. What does she do now? Well, for right now, she does what they expect of her. Somewhere, tucked away, she knows that there is a way she is supposed to act, and she tries. She smiles, talks with them, and even maybe makes a joke or two about the move, the work to be done, and that she needs to be up and doing it. That is what they expect. They expect Cana.


Then there were the things she did not know. How much of what had happened were a dream, how much had been true. Were words and emotions exchanged, veiled by that place, or were they true? Could she finally put a voice to things she had felt for so long, or were they to be buried back into that secret place? It was all too confusing, and made her tired, and made her head ache from it. Was it all true, or was it an illusion. This is what she longed to know, but in almost the blinking of an eye, the world tilted on it's axis again, and she was stymied.


Fonce pulled Seveya into his arms, and told her that he had asked for her bride price, but had been refused. And there went the world again, tilting further on its' axis, leaning to something that was as surreal as the place she had just been rescued from, but this was in the here and now.


His words caught her off-guard, confused her even more. She was not even able to process them entirely, and tried to make some sense out of what she spoke to him, to them both. If given time to think on this, maybe she would have said something different. Something so terribly wise, that it would have been memorable.


But she realized, that was not what he wanted. He wanted her approval. Approval? Doing the Cana thing, she smiled and voice her approval and her blessings for them both. It seemed to appease him, so it was good. She then took the cowards path, and claimed being tired, needing to sleep.


It was an avenue of escape. One that allowed them to leave, thinking she was fine, and it allowed her time alone, to try and tilt the world back into perspective. Laying down, the tears flowed. Tears of loss. Loss of love of Ba'atar, loss of something she saw a brief glance of but would never know fully.


Loss of part of herself, whoever that was now.

His Part of the Quest

He was thundering across the plains on the back of his kaiila, leading an extra by the reins, in hopes that having two, would keep him from having to stop and rest as he would need to do with only one. Kailla are strong, resilient creatures able to travel long distances with a minimum of food or water to sustain them. His personal kaiila was even more suited to this, due to being a desert kaiila, one bred for long periods with only the barest amounts of water and food. A hold over from his days in the Tahari, and the salt pits of Klima. They animals carried only him, and the bare minimum of supplies, as he did not want to overburden them. It was imperative that he travel with great speed, and that he reaches his goal. A matter of life and death, in all truth.


The haruspex Fonce had sought him out, with a plan of action to save Cana. Finally! The Spex affirmed what he already knew in his mind and heart, but had not voiced to the woman. Ba'atar was dead, killed in battle. He and his companions lay on the killing fields, their spirits unable to join those of their ancestors, without the ritual of a proper pyre. This was to be his personal quest, to use the map Fonce brought him, to find them and give them the honorable send off they all deserved. He is not a stupid man, but he does not always understand the worlds that the spex travel in, but he did respect them and their special talents and abilities. So, when Fonce told him that he felt like Ba'atar's spirit had to be released from the shell of his body that no longer lived, in order for Cana to be released from the grip of her dreams, he did not question it.


Preparations were made in short order for his quest, but he had one thing to do before he left. Drawling Tug away from the platform of his mother's wagon, he talked to the boy. He did not speak to him as an elder would a child, but as one warrior would speak to another. In the past year, the eldest son had earned that kind of respect by his actions, and the care he had shown for his mother and his siblings. Rook had explained to him his part in what was about to take place. His task was to keep his brothers and sisters together. Their combined love was needed as a beacon to maybe draw her back to them, and they needed to stay together for protection.


So that was where he was now, riding the plains stopping only when necessary to change kaiila and to consult the map Fonce had given to him. He thought he knew every hort of this land that they claimed as theirs, but he was seeing parts that he was unfamiliar with, which gave him pause. He had stopped to allow the kaiila to drink from a small stream, and to stretch the map out to get his bearings. Running a gnarled finger over it, he realized that he was close, very close. Remounting he rode cautiously in the direction that the map led him. As he drew closer, he could smell the aftermath of the battle, feel it in his core.


He is no stranger to death, just as no other warrior his age is, but he hopes that he never reaches the point where it still does not shock him. Where the futility of it all, does not make him stop and think. As he rode over a rise, a small valley stretched out before him. He stopped to take it all in. It was a scene of death, destruction and mayhem, but the one thing that struck him immediately, was that the only bodies that he could see, the only animals that were dead, were the ones from the group that Ba'atar had led. Had the enemy chosen to take their dead away with them? He had heard of such, but this was the first time he had seen it first hand.


Riding slowly onto the field, he stopped the kaiila and dropped to the ground and walked. He was thankful that he was alone, and could let the emotions loose at what he saw. A great battle had been fought here. He could almost see it in his minds eye. A smaller force, overwhelmed by a larger one. They fought with honor, courage and heart, as all warriors of the Tuchuk do. From the eldest to the youngest unscarred one, they died an honorable death. Finally he did see what he was seeking.


Dropping the reins he moved to crouch down beside the body of Ba'atar, reaching out to lay a hand along the man's neck. There was no doubt that he was dead. His flesh was cold, there was no sign of a pulse, and his wounds were grievous. Bowing his head, his hand still resting on the chest of the former Ubar, he spent a few quiet moments preparing his heart and soul for his task.


He is an old man, not as strong as he once was, but there was that something deep inside him that gave him the strength to carry all of the remains and lay them out in a small clearing side by side. By the grace of the Sky, there was a small grove of trees nearby, that would provide the fuel needed to give the heroic band proper pyres.


Stripping out of his tunic, he took up and axe and set to work felling trees. Over and over he swung the axe, his mind settled into a place where he has not been in many years. That place where it went to draw strength, when he was in the underground salt pits of Klima. That place where only the body worked, and the soul replenished itself. He did not even seem to tire until he had cut enough trees to build a communal pyre. The kaiila were used to drag them to the place he had chosen to arrange them.


Kneeling beside each body, he took a bota of water and cloths and tried to clean their faces and hands as best he could. Each one was anointed with oils provide to him by the spex clan. He would do the best by them that he could, under the circumstances. The last body he worked on, was that of Ba'atar. Carefully he cleaned not only his face and hands, but his wounds up to a point. The blood was dried, crusted, and in some places the flesh was already sloughing from them. He looked at peace, and that usual arrogance that the man usually showed, did not seem to be there. If it can be said, there was a look of determination still on his face. A tear fell from the old man, to land on the warriors' chest.


He arranged the other bodies on the pyre like spokes from the hub of a wheel. The final body that was placed at the hub, at the apex was that of their leader, the one known as the Favored Son of the Sky. Walking around the pyre, he sprinkled it with the ritual oils that would not only appease the senses of the Sky, but would also aid the fire to burn hot and long. As he worked, he sang old Tuchuk battle anthems in honor of them. Songs would be written about this band of intrepid men, but they could never do justice to the sacrifice they had made for their people. It was simply impossible for that to be.


At last, he lay the torches to the pile of wood and watched the flames begin to take hold, and lick along the wood to the bodies. Mounting, he sat with his lance in hand, his eyes lifted to the Sky in a warrior's prayer. Prayer over, he sat on his kaiila and watched them burn. All the rest of that evening, and far into the night. Unmoving, lost in his own thoughts, and thoughts of the woman back in camp.


He has done his part. He can only hope that the haruspex Fonce, fares as well as he has.

The Vigil

It has been almost nine years since Kam had sent him to watch over the young, grieving widow after the death of her first mate. His job then had been to keep the well-intentioned at bay until she had a chance to adjust to the change that had just taken place in her life.


There had been something about the young woman, with a new baby and no mate that had spoke to him on a deeper level. He was alone in the world, no family, and it did not take long for him to regard her as a daughter. Not a real replacement for the one he had lost so many years ago, but close.


Over time, a strong bond had grow between them. She was the first that he had told the tale of his life to. In fact, she had been the only one. She did not judge, she did not question, but simply accepted it for what it was. His life, his past, a part of him and who he was. When is duty was basically done, he stayed on. Not so much as someone to guard her, but as a member of the family. She had opened her heart and her arms to him, drawing him into her life as a respected elder.



This is why her current state has hit him so hard. If a larl was chasing her, he could draw a bow and drop it where it ran. If it was Kassar, he would gladly do the same, ripping their still beating heart from their body.. But this thing that had her in it's grasp, was something he could not see, he could not touch, and had no idea how to fight, how to protect her from it.


So many had come to help, in any way that they could. The woman Tarra had been there daily to spell him so that he could at least get some rest, not that he rested much. She and Mezoo had also taken charge of the children, trying to keep their sprits up, and to calm their fears.


Gifts of food arrived constantly. Broths, custards, fresh milk from verr and bosk, juices, cookies, tarts and all manner of foods. Some did not realize that they were only able to spoon liquids between her parted lips, but the thoughts and love behind the offerings would be told to her when she recovered.


Others asked to see her, if only for a moment. Some cajoled her, begged her to come back, others scolded, demanding that she get up, move on with her life. If it were just that easy.


A healer from the outer wagons came. A man. He has nothing against men as healers, he has known some very good ones that were men. It was just odd to him that the man would examine her as he did. He couldn't watch. He felt, even as she was, she deserved some dignity, some sort of modesty, so he turned his back to them, and listened as the man explained what needed to be done for her care.


Some of it they already did. Everything around her was kept immaculately clean, they tried to get the liquids down her, and to keep her warm. Maybe too warm. He listened and made a mental note of everything the man said, and honestly was overwhelmed. The healer left his girl there to help them. Muscles needed to be exercised, skin oiled and moisturized, drops of oil put into her eyes so they would not dry out. The list seemed endless.


But even with all of this, he still felt helpless. Ahn upon ahn, he sat beside her, holding on small hand in his gnarled grasp, talking to her. He told her how the children were doing, if the gossip from around camp. He talked of things they had done in the past. Of fishing, of him teaching her how to set and run traps for smaller game. The story of him, Tug and the new sleen. Anything he could think of, to keep a contact with her on some level. Somewhere inside him, he holds out hope that she can hear him, that she knows they are there for her.



He wants to do more, but doesn't have any idea where to start, so until he figures it out, he will be here, by her side, talking, waiting and praying. The woman is all that he has, she is his daughter, if not by blood, then by heart. He would give his very life for her, and has made that known to the Sky.