The progress they were making was slow, but steady. Each day they were up before the first rays of the Central Fire began to brighten the sky, tying things down, having a meal, then as the first rays began to show, the wagons and the herd began to move. And each morning, she walks out onto the plains before those first rays, and looks back towards the horizon, hoping to see signs of fires in the distance, and each morning she is disappointed.
She spent little time riding the kaiila, the winds were too bad, and it took too much out of her. Most of her time was spent riding in her wagon, trying to keep Tug entertained, which was no easy chore. The evenings would find her walking around camp, talking to people. The atmosphere seemed charged with doubt, and she being who she was, she tried to soothe those she talked to, and to not speak of her own fears and unease.
Where were they, why had Ba'atar not returned. He had said three days, but it was well into the end of the hand and no sign of any of them. Even when Falon had stopped by not long after he had left, to tell her that she too was returning, she had said only a few days. She had not realized until that point, that Falon's wagons were not with them. Had she been wrong to not stay behind? No. She always traveled with the people, ever since she could remember, twice each turning, her people had packed up and moved the bosk to fresh grass. If the people moved, she moved with them. Never was there even a thought given to staying behind. It is just how she was.
The nights found her in her wagon, laying in the furs listening to the winds howl around her. The wagon would shake, boards creaking as if they were going to be rent asunder, but what could she do? She would roll over, pull the furs up to her chin, look at that vacant spot beside her, and cry. There was just something so lonely about the sound of wind.
One night she sat straight up in the furs, and was overcome by grief, then by anger. How could a wagon that seemed so confining during the day when she rode in it, suddenly turn in this huge empty, desolate space at night when she was alone? Something possessed her, and the longer she sat there, the more angry she became. Angry at the skies, angry at Loch for leaving her, and yes, even angry at Tayco that had left her first. Angry at those that had stayed behind, angry with herself for moving. Angry at everyone and everything.
Stumbling to her feet, she let the angry sobs come, and she began to throw things around. It had been kasra's turn to sleep curled up on her platform, to be there for any needs she might have during the night, and the poor girl was startled from her sleep by the sounds that came from inside the wagon. She ventured to part the flaps and peek inside, and had to cover her mouth with her hands to hold back the shriek that wanted to flow from her lips.
There was her Mistress, dressed only in an oversized tunic, hair whipping around, pulling the furs out, throwing them around, cursing loudly. She almost caught a flying pot with her head, but managed to duck in time. Scrambling off of the platform, she ran to Master Rook's wagon, telling him that the woman had gone mad.
The elder man was up instantly, running towards the wagon. He stopped, stood and listened then looked down to the trembling girl, and told her it was the grief. Grief does that. It makes you sad, it saps your soul, then it makes your angry. Now that the woman had finally reached that point of hot, mad, anger, she would truly begin to heal. As he said this, a fur came flying out to drape over his head. Removing it, he again looks down to the girl, and tells her to get her bedroll and go sleep on his platform, that he would keep watch of the woman inside. He did not have to tell her twice, she ran off as if larls were chasing her.
Another put flew out, followed by more furs, and the raging of the woman continued. Taking up the furs, he moved to settle down on the steps of another wagon, to wait for her to calm, if she did. There were mixed emotions about he. He knew that it was necessary, but he still worried about her and her condition, but right now, he would allow her to rant and rage, but only to a certain point.
Inside, she continued to curse and rip her world apart. She even tried to push a large storage chest out between the flaps, and became even more enraged when she could not move it. Instead it got a kick from a bare foot, that just sent waves of pain up her leg. Hobbling around, she continued to sob and throw everything that was moveable out between the flaps. Pots, smaller chests, furs, clothing, anything she could get her hands on. As she sailed the last of the boots out between the flaps, she had nothing left to throw, and no energy left to throw it.
Dropping to her knees, she holds to her middle and begins to rock back and forth, wailing. After a time, the wails give over to sobs of loneliness again. Distraught, scared, unsure and alone. That was how she was feeling, and it was making her ill, physically ill.
Sensing that the worst of it was over, the old warrior lifted to his feet, shook out the furs and approached the wagon. The sound of her sobbing, broke his heart. His first instinct was to turn around, allow her the privacy of these moments, but he could not. There was not only her to think of, but her unborn child. Slowly he mounted the steps of the wagon and looked inside. What he saw was even more heart wrenching, and he had to pull back, get his wits about him before he could enter.
Stepping inside, he moved to the sleeping platform and spread the furs out, then turns to look around. The wagon was a wreck, and so was she. He says nothing, nor does she. It is almost as if she did not even realize he was there. Deciding he could leave her alone for a few moments, he went out to gather some things. When he returned, he righted her brazier, thankful that the fire in it had been dead, brushed away the ashes, added some chips that he had brought in with him, along with a small bowl of coals from the fire pit outside until he has a small fire. Almost immediately it begins to warm the space, and he set the pot over it and brews the tea. While it steeped, he finally approached her sobbing form.
Gently his arms slip beneath her and he lifts her like one would a small child, and immediately, she curls into him like a child. The sobs had tapered off to an occasional whimper, and she whispers to his chest that she is scared and alone. Saying nothing, he carries her to the furs, tucks her in smoothing hair back from her face. He then gets the tea and sits there beside the furs making sure she drank it.
Amid whimpers she sips until the brew is gone, then lays back. Taking her hand, he settles in to sit with her until she is asleep. Very rarely does he do this, but the rumble of a song begins in his chest, a type of tuchuk lullaby that women and men have sang to children since beyond time.
She slept. It was not a peaceful slumber, but one that was punctuated by shudders, small whimpers, and tears falling down the side of her face occasionally. But it was sleep. When she finally stilled, sinking deeper into that land of dreams, it was only then that he left her. But he did not go far.
The rest of the night for him was spent rolled up in a fur, sitting on the platform of her wagon, being buffeted by the winds. And he did not sleep.
She spent little time riding the kaiila, the winds were too bad, and it took too much out of her. Most of her time was spent riding in her wagon, trying to keep Tug entertained, which was no easy chore. The evenings would find her walking around camp, talking to people. The atmosphere seemed charged with doubt, and she being who she was, she tried to soothe those she talked to, and to not speak of her own fears and unease.
Where were they, why had Ba'atar not returned. He had said three days, but it was well into the end of the hand and no sign of any of them. Even when Falon had stopped by not long after he had left, to tell her that she too was returning, she had said only a few days. She had not realized until that point, that Falon's wagons were not with them. Had she been wrong to not stay behind? No. She always traveled with the people, ever since she could remember, twice each turning, her people had packed up and moved the bosk to fresh grass. If the people moved, she moved with them. Never was there even a thought given to staying behind. It is just how she was.
The nights found her in her wagon, laying in the furs listening to the winds howl around her. The wagon would shake, boards creaking as if they were going to be rent asunder, but what could she do? She would roll over, pull the furs up to her chin, look at that vacant spot beside her, and cry. There was just something so lonely about the sound of wind.
One night she sat straight up in the furs, and was overcome by grief, then by anger. How could a wagon that seemed so confining during the day when she rode in it, suddenly turn in this huge empty, desolate space at night when she was alone? Something possessed her, and the longer she sat there, the more angry she became. Angry at the skies, angry at Loch for leaving her, and yes, even angry at Tayco that had left her first. Angry at those that had stayed behind, angry with herself for moving. Angry at everyone and everything.
Stumbling to her feet, she let the angry sobs come, and she began to throw things around. It had been kasra's turn to sleep curled up on her platform, to be there for any needs she might have during the night, and the poor girl was startled from her sleep by the sounds that came from inside the wagon. She ventured to part the flaps and peek inside, and had to cover her mouth with her hands to hold back the shriek that wanted to flow from her lips.
There was her Mistress, dressed only in an oversized tunic, hair whipping around, pulling the furs out, throwing them around, cursing loudly. She almost caught a flying pot with her head, but managed to duck in time. Scrambling off of the platform, she ran to Master Rook's wagon, telling him that the woman had gone mad.
The elder man was up instantly, running towards the wagon. He stopped, stood and listened then looked down to the trembling girl, and told her it was the grief. Grief does that. It makes you sad, it saps your soul, then it makes your angry. Now that the woman had finally reached that point of hot, mad, anger, she would truly begin to heal. As he said this, a fur came flying out to drape over his head. Removing it, he again looks down to the girl, and tells her to get her bedroll and go sleep on his platform, that he would keep watch of the woman inside. He did not have to tell her twice, she ran off as if larls were chasing her.
Another put flew out, followed by more furs, and the raging of the woman continued. Taking up the furs, he moved to settle down on the steps of another wagon, to wait for her to calm, if she did. There were mixed emotions about he. He knew that it was necessary, but he still worried about her and her condition, but right now, he would allow her to rant and rage, but only to a certain point.
Inside, she continued to curse and rip her world apart. She even tried to push a large storage chest out between the flaps, and became even more enraged when she could not move it. Instead it got a kick from a bare foot, that just sent waves of pain up her leg. Hobbling around, she continued to sob and throw everything that was moveable out between the flaps. Pots, smaller chests, furs, clothing, anything she could get her hands on. As she sailed the last of the boots out between the flaps, she had nothing left to throw, and no energy left to throw it.
Dropping to her knees, she holds to her middle and begins to rock back and forth, wailing. After a time, the wails give over to sobs of loneliness again. Distraught, scared, unsure and alone. That was how she was feeling, and it was making her ill, physically ill.
Sensing that the worst of it was over, the old warrior lifted to his feet, shook out the furs and approached the wagon. The sound of her sobbing, broke his heart. His first instinct was to turn around, allow her the privacy of these moments, but he could not. There was not only her to think of, but her unborn child. Slowly he mounted the steps of the wagon and looked inside. What he saw was even more heart wrenching, and he had to pull back, get his wits about him before he could enter.
Stepping inside, he moved to the sleeping platform and spread the furs out, then turns to look around. The wagon was a wreck, and so was she. He says nothing, nor does she. It is almost as if she did not even realize he was there. Deciding he could leave her alone for a few moments, he went out to gather some things. When he returned, he righted her brazier, thankful that the fire in it had been dead, brushed away the ashes, added some chips that he had brought in with him, along with a small bowl of coals from the fire pit outside until he has a small fire. Almost immediately it begins to warm the space, and he set the pot over it and brews the tea. While it steeped, he finally approached her sobbing form.
Gently his arms slip beneath her and he lifts her like one would a small child, and immediately, she curls into him like a child. The sobs had tapered off to an occasional whimper, and she whispers to his chest that she is scared and alone. Saying nothing, he carries her to the furs, tucks her in smoothing hair back from her face. He then gets the tea and sits there beside the furs making sure she drank it.
Amid whimpers she sips until the brew is gone, then lays back. Taking her hand, he settles in to sit with her until she is asleep. Very rarely does he do this, but the rumble of a song begins in his chest, a type of tuchuk lullaby that women and men have sang to children since beyond time.
She slept. It was not a peaceful slumber, but one that was punctuated by shudders, small whimpers, and tears falling down the side of her face occasionally. But it was sleep. When she finally stilled, sinking deeper into that land of dreams, it was only then that he left her. But he did not go far.
The rest of the night for him was spent rolled up in a fur, sitting on the platform of her wagon, being buffeted by the winds. And he did not sleep.
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