Ten years before this tale
The seven-year-old boy runs through the flap of the tent,
the taunts from the other children loud in her ears. His nose if bloodied and he has a number of bruises, and he has
been crying. She says nothing to him,
but she hands him a piece of wet linen, which he uses to wipe the blood from
his face.
Three years later
The
cries of the children bring her outside the tent at a run. Her son has knocked a boy down in the sand
and pummels another boy mercilessly, expressing his rage with each blow,
earning respect with each strike; it is the way of the people. He has learned well in three years and
rarely has to fight anymore, and when he does, he fights to win, no matter what
it takes.
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Her
mind returns from it's wandering and she lifts her tear-stained face towards
the rising sun, her eyes closed against the intense glare. She raises her voice to the reddened sky,
her keen of misery and despair ringing loud across the sands, echoing across
the dunes; it is as if the desert shares her pain.
She
grieved for him last night, and the three previous nights, as she will grieve
for him for the next three nights. It
is the old way of her people, not practiced nearly as much as it once was, but
her right nonetheless; she has earned this, and she will not fail to honour
him.
Dried
droplets of her blood surround her; staining the sand to a deep, dark
sienna. She raises the short bladed
ceremonial dagger to her forearm and makes a quick cut, allowing more blood to
flow into the hungry sand, darkening it further as her mournful cries increase
in intensity.
From
the camp on the other side of the large dune from where she sits, pouring her
agony into the skies and onto the sands, her husband waits, uttering no sound;
his eyes, appearing at least a century older than just a few short days ago,
stare unseeingly into the distance.
If
one were to observe him closely, which would be considered extremely rude in
this society, the lines around his eyes would appear to grow deeper with each of
his wife's agonized cries. In his hand
are six arrows, gripped so tightly that, if you were close enough, you could
hear the wood of their shafts cracking each time the woman wails.
He
too is in mourning, and, though it is more stoic than that of his wife's, it is
no less and his heart is broken as well.
Their
culture, as much as they revere it, is the cause of their pain. You see, they have lost their only child, a
son. They raised this boy to manhood,
watched him grow, nurtured him, taught him, and loved him. He was everything to them; their reason for
being, and either of them would have died to protect him. He was their future.
As
with all male children in their clan, their child underwent the Trials of
Manhood, a series of twenty-two tasks designed to test the young male just
entering manhood. Some trials are
extremely difficult, even deadly at times, others are purely instructional, the
design of all twenty-two are to prepare the young man for the rigors and
difficulties of being a man of the Tehir people.
Their
son, through blood and pain, completed all twenty-two of the trials, and
because of this, he is gone. They do
not see it this way, they hold no bitterness towards the beliefs of the people;
they harbour only pain from the loss of their only son.
Though
adopted and not born to them their love for their son was no less, in fact, due
to K'miza being unable to bear children to Garrone, their love for their son
was probably more precious than with most parents.
Garrone
makes the trip up into the dunes, intent on bringing his wife back to their
tent, which now seems so empty with the loss of their son. Deep in his soul, he wishes he could express
his grief as his wife does. But that is
not their way.
As
he reaches K'Miza he helps her to her feet and she leans heavily against
him. He feels her weakness, picks her
off her feet, and carries her back to their tent. She has lost so much life in so short a time, and he worries for
her.
She
sobs softly against his shoulder as she allows him to carry her home, and his
hearts breaks just a little bit more.
As he places her on their sleeping mats, he goes to the small cooking
area and makes her a cup of tea.
As
she sips tiredly at her tea, she looks deep into her husbands' eyes. "Garrone," she says. "What will happen to our son? What will he become without his
people?"
Garrone
looks sadly at his wife. "K'Miza,
our son will be what he was meant to be, nothing more, nothing less. It is the way of it."
Garrone
looks lovingly at the woman he adores and respects so much, takes her hand in
his, and says, "Radeek will survive."