Continued from here
45th Day of Summer, 508AV
The Village of the Shorn Skulls
Grief had wrapped itself around the village of the Shorn Skulls as sure as the shrouds that covered the dead. There were plenty of them. Not a family had been spared a loss. When the battered, bleeding survivors from Yurta's war party returned, a dozen mothers wept. A dozen fathers clenched their jaws so tight that teeth cracked. Yet more siblings and uncles and aunts and cousins wept or raged.
Victory had a cost. They learned that lesson well that afternoon, if they did not know it already.
"Father!"
Zek had prayed that his son would not see him when they returned, but even that simple request was ignored that day. As they broke the treeline, staggering and wounded, him dragging his son behind him on a makeshift stretcher and his daughters carrying the body of Yurta, tears worn through the blood on their faces, it was Jakuo who bounded over.
The joy and relief on his young face was so bright and innocent... Zek felt his heart snap in two all over again. Because he knew that by his silence and simply by his appearance, he would destroy it. Perhaps forever.
It was a process; a quick one, but a change defined enough for him to see each stage. First that happiness for his returning family... then his confusion at the absence of his mother... a dreadful curiosity at whom his ashen father carried... and then Jakuo's face crumbled as he realized who it was... and who his sisters carried.
"M... Mama...?"
"Jakuo, don't-"
"Mama!" Jakuo was already far beyond any discipline or authority any adult could try and threaten him with. He barged past his father and almost knocked his sisters over, tears already flowing as they laid down their awful burden. "No... No! She-She's... She's sleeping, right? RIGHT?! PAPA?!"
Zek did not have the words, nor the strength. Not after everything today. Already more of the Shorn Skulls were gathering, grief and pain or grim resignation on all their faces. Their pickets had already carried word of their approach, leaping and whooping with fierce joy that Yurta's warriors had returned triumphant.
Now that was gone, or at least subdued.
He swept his son in his embrace with his one good arm, letting Razkar settle on the Jungle floor. Jakuo struggled and fought, trying to shake his mother awak, just like his older brother did earlier, but his father treacherously held him back. He pummelled and screamed and tried to escape, but he did not.
Zek felt his rage, hoped to absorb it.
"Let me go! Let go! Wake her up! MAMA, WAKE UP!"
"I'm sorry, son." Zek all but whispered, eyes shut as he felt his son's small body finally go from raging to trembling with grief and tears. "I'm sorry... let her go... c'mon... let her go..."
Wailing uncontrollably now, Jakuo buried his face in his father's chest, like doing so would make this all go away. Zek wished it was that simple. His sisters had passed through their initial grief now, faces now as pale as his own, eyes wide with shock, as if they might wake from this horror at any point.
Razkar's chest moved, but did not heave. His eyes were almost closed, but he was not conscious. His body was a pattern of welts and dried blood, but the wounds on his back had clotted, or were trying to. Zek swallowed his pain for yet another bell, fierce determination buring through grief.
I will not lose another child to this day.
"Thraxa? Thraxa?!" The second time his daughter jolted out of her gazeless trance, head snapping to him. Her father's voice was steady now, full of the authority they desperately needed. "Take your brother to Ruwama's hut, now. He needs her aid more than anything. You and your sister, go!"
At once Thraxa and Tuoeil moved to Razkar's rough stretcher and bore him away, Zek following every sway of them. Ruwama was ready to greet them, her tonics and salves already laid out and ready, Zek was sure. She knew the butcher's bill for victory, and always tried to be ready to make sure further payments were unnecessary.
"Zek...?"
He turned to Lowax, the matriarch perhaps the only beacon of unshakable resolve among the whole clan that day. She had survived countless skirmishes throughout her life, not to mention the loss of children, parents, lovers, friends. Zek knew she would grieve, perhaps shed her tears, but it would not be now.
He took his strength from her as he rose to his feet, sobbing Jakuo still held close. Behind him, Yurta's warriors stood in various poses of exhaustion, some leaning on their weapons, or each other. Lowax swept her calm eyes across them and approached the taller male.
"How many, Zek?"
"Th... Thirteen..." He said, gratefully taking a skin of water and swallowing a few gulps before passing it to the nearest warrior. "Another... twenty-one wounded. Lowax... Yurta... she-"
"I know, Zek." Lowax said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder, eyes unwavering. "I have not the words, so will not cheapen your loss with them." Her eyes flickered to a new stretcher, and she saw Zek's other daughter on it... eyes still open in death. "Oh, Zek..."
He just stood there, a wellspring of grief and anger damned behind his clenched jaw and years of experience. Grief was not new to him, nor loss and pain. But his wife...
"I... I must be with my family." He finally said, lifting his son up to his shoulder. "And my own wounds must be tended."
"Of course, Zek. We will take care of the rest."
Zek nodded to her and began his trudge to the healer's hut, just as the shroud began to settle.
Three days had passed since that afternoon. Still it lay.
Zek had not left Razkar's side for a bell since then. He had ignored Ruwama's demands that he be healed, insisting his son and daughters were attended to first. The old healer had obeyed him, amazingly enough, knowing better to question a grieving father, regardless of their female-dominated society. She did not question him, either, as he made that chair his entire world, rarely taking his eyes from his son.
His battered, slashed arm was wrapped in bandages and stank of the salve she had applied to him. Razkar was on his stomach, long, vicious gash in his back had been bathed and tended. It was not deep but even Ruwama could tell that the blade had been filthy, encrusted with dirt and Goddess only knew what else. Her stongest salves had been used, burning flesh assailing her nose as she rubbed them in...
And yet, he did not wake. He breathed and his heart beat, but Razkar did not wake through all her ministrations.
Now she watched from the doorway, as a single slice of sunlight illuminated father and son: one bent and wounded, face dead to all emotion, the other almost lifeless and almost... cobbled together, he was covered in so many bandages.
"Zek?" She said softly, shuffling over and tentatively laying a hand on his shoulder. He did not flinch, nor break his gaze. "Zek... I must tell you, it had been three days. The... rites, for Yurta and your daughter and the others, they will need to be attended to."
"Others can do that."
"Zek, you were her wife, and father to-"
"When my son wakes," Zek said, steel in his voice now, "I will attend to other affairs. But not before."
Despite that, a shaky hand reached up and squeezed hers. Ruwama sighed and squeezed back, then left the two males alone. Zek listened until he heard the footsteps interrupted by the hissing of the vine doorway closing, knowing it was just the two of them now.
He reached out and clutched his son's hand, fancying that he felt just the tiniest pressure of him squeezing back.
"Wake, my son," he whispered, "Come back to us... please..."
45th Day of Summer, 508AV
The Village of the Shorn Skulls
Grief had wrapped itself around the village of the Shorn Skulls as sure as the shrouds that covered the dead. There were plenty of them. Not a family had been spared a loss. When the battered, bleeding survivors from Yurta's war party returned, a dozen mothers wept. A dozen fathers clenched their jaws so tight that teeth cracked. Yet more siblings and uncles and aunts and cousins wept or raged.
Victory had a cost. They learned that lesson well that afternoon, if they did not know it already.
"Father!"
Zek had prayed that his son would not see him when they returned, but even that simple request was ignored that day. As they broke the treeline, staggering and wounded, him dragging his son behind him on a makeshift stretcher and his daughters carrying the body of Yurta, tears worn through the blood on their faces, it was Jakuo who bounded over.
The joy and relief on his young face was so bright and innocent... Zek felt his heart snap in two all over again. Because he knew that by his silence and simply by his appearance, he would destroy it. Perhaps forever.
It was a process; a quick one, but a change defined enough for him to see each stage. First that happiness for his returning family... then his confusion at the absence of his mother... a dreadful curiosity at whom his ashen father carried... and then Jakuo's face crumbled as he realized who it was... and who his sisters carried.
"M... Mama...?"
"Jakuo, don't-"
"Mama!" Jakuo was already far beyond any discipline or authority any adult could try and threaten him with. He barged past his father and almost knocked his sisters over, tears already flowing as they laid down their awful burden. "No... No! She-She's... She's sleeping, right? RIGHT?! PAPA?!"
Zek did not have the words, nor the strength. Not after everything today. Already more of the Shorn Skulls were gathering, grief and pain or grim resignation on all their faces. Their pickets had already carried word of their approach, leaping and whooping with fierce joy that Yurta's warriors had returned triumphant.
Now that was gone, or at least subdued.
He swept his son in his embrace with his one good arm, letting Razkar settle on the Jungle floor. Jakuo struggled and fought, trying to shake his mother awak, just like his older brother did earlier, but his father treacherously held him back. He pummelled and screamed and tried to escape, but he did not.
Zek felt his rage, hoped to absorb it.
"Let me go! Let go! Wake her up! MAMA, WAKE UP!"
"I'm sorry, son." Zek all but whispered, eyes shut as he felt his son's small body finally go from raging to trembling with grief and tears. "I'm sorry... let her go... c'mon... let her go..."
Wailing uncontrollably now, Jakuo buried his face in his father's chest, like doing so would make this all go away. Zek wished it was that simple. His sisters had passed through their initial grief now, faces now as pale as his own, eyes wide with shock, as if they might wake from this horror at any point.
Razkar's chest moved, but did not heave. His eyes were almost closed, but he was not conscious. His body was a pattern of welts and dried blood, but the wounds on his back had clotted, or were trying to. Zek swallowed his pain for yet another bell, fierce determination buring through grief.
I will not lose another child to this day.
"Thraxa? Thraxa?!" The second time his daughter jolted out of her gazeless trance, head snapping to him. Her father's voice was steady now, full of the authority they desperately needed. "Take your brother to Ruwama's hut, now. He needs her aid more than anything. You and your sister, go!"
At once Thraxa and Tuoeil moved to Razkar's rough stretcher and bore him away, Zek following every sway of them. Ruwama was ready to greet them, her tonics and salves already laid out and ready, Zek was sure. She knew the butcher's bill for victory, and always tried to be ready to make sure further payments were unnecessary.
"Zek...?"
He turned to Lowax, the matriarch perhaps the only beacon of unshakable resolve among the whole clan that day. She had survived countless skirmishes throughout her life, not to mention the loss of children, parents, lovers, friends. Zek knew she would grieve, perhaps shed her tears, but it would not be now.
He took his strength from her as he rose to his feet, sobbing Jakuo still held close. Behind him, Yurta's warriors stood in various poses of exhaustion, some leaning on their weapons, or each other. Lowax swept her calm eyes across them and approached the taller male.
"How many, Zek?"
"Th... Thirteen..." He said, gratefully taking a skin of water and swallowing a few gulps before passing it to the nearest warrior. "Another... twenty-one wounded. Lowax... Yurta... she-"
"I know, Zek." Lowax said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder, eyes unwavering. "I have not the words, so will not cheapen your loss with them." Her eyes flickered to a new stretcher, and she saw Zek's other daughter on it... eyes still open in death. "Oh, Zek..."
He just stood there, a wellspring of grief and anger damned behind his clenched jaw and years of experience. Grief was not new to him, nor loss and pain. But his wife...
"I... I must be with my family." He finally said, lifting his son up to his shoulder. "And my own wounds must be tended."
"Of course, Zek. We will take care of the rest."
Zek nodded to her and began his trudge to the healer's hut, just as the shroud began to settle.
Three days had passed since that afternoon. Still it lay.
Zek had not left Razkar's side for a bell since then. He had ignored Ruwama's demands that he be healed, insisting his son and daughters were attended to first. The old healer had obeyed him, amazingly enough, knowing better to question a grieving father, regardless of their female-dominated society. She did not question him, either, as he made that chair his entire world, rarely taking his eyes from his son.
His battered, slashed arm was wrapped in bandages and stank of the salve she had applied to him. Razkar was on his stomach, long, vicious gash in his back had been bathed and tended. It was not deep but even Ruwama could tell that the blade had been filthy, encrusted with dirt and Goddess only knew what else. Her stongest salves had been used, burning flesh assailing her nose as she rubbed them in...
And yet, he did not wake. He breathed and his heart beat, but Razkar did not wake through all her ministrations.
Now she watched from the doorway, as a single slice of sunlight illuminated father and son: one bent and wounded, face dead to all emotion, the other almost lifeless and almost... cobbled together, he was covered in so many bandages.
"Zek?" She said softly, shuffling over and tentatively laying a hand on his shoulder. He did not flinch, nor break his gaze. "Zek... I must tell you, it had been three days. The... rites, for Yurta and your daughter and the others, they will need to be attended to."
"Others can do that."
"Zek, you were her wife, and father to-"
"When my son wakes," Zek said, steel in his voice now, "I will attend to other affairs. But not before."
Despite that, a shaky hand reached up and squeezed hers. Ruwama sighed and squeezed back, then left the two males alone. Zek listened until he heard the footsteps interrupted by the hissing of the vine doorway closing, knowing it was just the two of them now.
He reached out and clutched his son's hand, fancying that he felt just the tiniest pressure of him squeezing back.
"Wake, my son," he whispered, "Come back to us... please..."