Of Time And Wounds

by **Razkar** on February 18th, 2013, 9:17 pm

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..."

by **Razkar** on March 3rd, 2013, 2:12 pm

He fought with a skill he knew that he could not possess. His movements were more graceful, more smooth, more confident and powerful than he could be capable of. He was everything a Myrian warrior aspired to be. He was even more than that, and with every stroke a howling nightmare of an enemy fell to the blades in his hand.

Razkar should have known it was not real, but he did not care, for she was in danger. So close to him he could have reached out an touched her, battling her own odds, her own ravenous hore, but there was always some screaming, slashing monster separating them.

So he did not care where his prowess came from, did not question or ask. He used it, and cut down dozens, hundreds.

And every time, without fail, he watched them tear her apart.

He never got numb to it: every time it happened it was like the first time, the shock raw and the agony searing with no repetition to lessen it. A sea of hands and bodies flattened him and his power and speed meant nothing, crushing darkness surrounding his eyes, all save for that cruel, clear light ahead of him.

His mother was in it. Staring at him. Eyes wide and agonized even as red-eyed Yukmen ripped her limbs out and skinned her alive.

"You failed me..." She whispered, voice carrying even when she had no lips to speak, and Razkar could not close his eyes. "You let me die... You let me die, son... No son of mine..."

He could not close his eyes. He could not escape. And when he blinked, he was back at the start, with the abilities of a god and none of the power to save Yurta's life.

Then the world shook.

He assumed it was a world, or something like it. The edges were... frayed, as far as he could tell. His eyes were sightless in this realm, projecting what he needed but nothing more. Details and finery of shape were luxuries that he could do without. Only the nightmare mattered, his... punishment.

Razkar had no more tears to weep. This must be his hell, the place where warriors unworthy of the title went when they were struck from the land of the living. A place of endless torture, failure, agony and defeat.

And now... there was fresh light.

It was like a crack in the sky, and everything convulsed and paused around him. He felt the tremor rsh through him, legions of Yukmen stopping, confused, looking around and then up as a tear of blinding white tore through the dark skies.

"My son... Wake, my son..."

Razkar shook his head. The voice, it... it wasn't hateful anymore. There was no recrimination or violence or dejection there. He turned, so slowly, and found his mother standing before him. The monsters circled them still but did not dared interfere, not even when she reached out and clasped his shoulder.

Warrior to warrior.

"Too long have you tarried in this place, my son," she said, and then a smile that gouged Razkar's heart with its sadness split her face, "You must go, Razkar... my must wake up..."

"But... But you're-"

"I will be fine, my son."

The world started to blur. Everything was... no longer everything. It wasn't solid, it shook and trembled and cracks appeared in the Yukmen, the floor, the sky, his weapons... even her. But that smile remained, even when the light grew larger and larger until it engulfed everything.

"Wake up, my son...

... please..."

Razkar felt his body return to him. His eyes were not the only thing he felt, it was... it was as if his body were sliding back into shape under him. He felt the hair on his arms, the quivering of his nostrils, the fire in his back and the pressure on his chest, the bruises on his face and the heave of his lungs as he gasped and his eyes snapped open-

"Son?!"

His father. Razkar should have wept for joy but he was still realizing his body was his own again. He blinked, over and over, but every time he did, his father remained, shock writ large on his face. The world was solid now, more solid that... wherever he had been. He gripped his hands together and tried to get up-

-and the agony in his back knocked him down again a moment later.

"No, Raz," his father said, jerking to his feet and pressing him down, shaking his head, "You're still healing. Goddess, I... I wondered when you'd wake..."

Razkar didn't reply. Goddes, his throat was dry. He swallowed and nearly choked until Zek poured him a cup of water and held it to his lips. So, he was alive. Great. When his breathing was even again, his eyes slid slowly to his father.

"M... Mother... She..."

"I know, son," Zek said, jaw tightening but keeping his eyes steady... at least at first. "And... And Qerix... She fell..."

A fresh bout of pain had Razkar choking again, but his eyes did not close. The light through the window did not blind him, though he wished it did. He felts his father's trong, warm hand on his shoulder and even with that reassurance there, he felt tears sting his eyes and wet his cheeks.

Qerix, the bitch. Always bossing him around and lording over him because she was female, and knew he couldn't do shyke about it. Always making him get the firewood or clean after ceremonies.

Always making sure his plate was full at meals. Always giving him her best needlework on his birthing day. The bitch. He wept for her now for he would never get to scold her again, and would give his own life to do so...

"Father... Why am... Why am I... not..."

Zek shook his eyes, already knowing his son's question. He would not have him entertain it.

"Son... you did all you could. You fought well, worthy of your mother and of the Goddess-Queen. You can't-"

He stopped. Razkar had already turned away.

by **Razkar** on March 3rd, 2013, 5:16 pm

Time passed, days rose and fell and were reborn, and inch by inch, Zek felt the pain of death slowly slip away from the Shorn Skulls. From most of them, anyway. Brothers and sons and mothers and friends had died in battle, and the pain would always be there, a raw wound that would never close.

But Zek knew that time healed such wounds... or at least gave you the perspective to properly deal with them.

When the scouts came running from the treeline with news, however, the clan was on an instant war footing. Still reeling from the Yukman horde, weapons were now openly carried and by the time the scouts had come to a halt in the main square, panting and sputtering, several dozen Myrians were waiting with stoic expressions.

"What is it?" Lowax said bluntly, bustling up to the red-faced female. "Speak, girl!"

"It's... It's not enemies." The female said quickly, and Zek felt the tension evaporate in a moment. Most of it, anyway. "It is a group from Taloba. They bear Myri's banner, and bid us lead them here. The rest of our scouts guide them, we were sent to bring word ahead."

Lowax nodded sharply, authoritative and decisive as always, and turned to the assembled Myrians. The matriarch of the Shorn Skulls raised her arms and all attention was on her.

"Friends approach us, my people!" Zek was always silently amazed at how she never seemed to shout, but the effect on the clan was always that her words reached everyone with the finality of one. "Comfort and solidarity in our dark times! May their arrival be well met! Go!"

At once the crowd broke, food and water prepared for the wanderers from the sacred capital of the Myrians. Zek had his daughters get gourds of fresh water ready, but excused himself just before their arrival...

His daughters watched him go, knowing where he was going before he even started walking for the healer's longhouse. Looks were exchanged, but no words were said.

Razkar had stirred, but he was not himself. His wounds were healing with the usual speed of Myrians, but his spirit... that was a different matter.

The sun was high by the time the arrivals broke the treeline, bathing the square and their marching bodies in light. Zek had come out to greet them of course, though Thraxa could see it pained him to be away from his son. The rest of his children were lined up to meet these visitors from Taloba.

They were... much like them, really. But Thraxa could see the subtle difference... one would even say, advantages. The clothes they wore had finer stitching, their weapons seemed larger and better maintained. Even their skin seemed smoother and more refined compared to the rough-hewn hides of the Shorn Skulls.

But Thraxa was under no illusions as to the abilities of the dozen females that emerged from the Jungle. They bore the banner of the army of Taloba, who only accepted the finest warriors. Every one of them was a proven and skilled killer, and as their eyes swept the clan arrayed before them, she felt that thrill of purpose.

Especially from the tall, lean female that greeted Lowax with due reverence.

"I am Rehkuna of the Sharp Claws, matriarch," she said, bowing low to Lowax, "Fang Leader in the Taloba army and Myri's blessed emissary this day. We received word that Yurta, War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls and a warrior of much skill, fell in battle eight days ago. It is the wish of Taloba that she be bought there for rebirth."

Zek listened to the rehearsed and respectful words, and knew that's what they were... but they were more, too. The Myrians by nature respected age and wisdom, but the Goddess-Queen had placed certain demands on them. When Rehkuna said "Taloba" wished a thing, she really meant "Myri and the Council", whom no Myrian in the right mind would dare refuting. The fact they were here to escort Yurta was an even bigger hint.

She should have been taken already, he thought sourly, mixed feelings bubbling in him, for such a great honor. Only matriarchs are taken to Taloba for their rebirth in fire, and my love was chosen as War Mistress. But if not for Razkar...

Zek stifled those thoughts before they clarified. No, he would not blame his own child for this. Razkar had suffered, body and soul, and he was not to be censured... but... life went on. Traditions had to be observed, and after so much time, Yurta needed to go on to her next life. Myrians were reborn into the next generation, but only after their bodies were cleansed with flame and their souls released.

Zek wanted his son to heal... but he wanted his wife to move on, too.

"This honor is humbly accepted, Fang Leader," Lowax said with her own bow, gesturing to Zek's family, "By myself, my clan and the family of Yurta. She lies in state at their longhouse as we speak, along with her daughter, Qerix. The young one will be reborn by our hand... but Yurta will travel with you to Sacred Taloba this eve."

Zek's head darted up but Lowax had already pinned him with a steely gaze. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and he bowed his head again. He was, after all, but a male, and the matriarch had spoken. Regardless of Razkar's pain, he would need to fulfill his duties.

"We shall be ready, matriarch and Fang Leader," he said with a bow, "My son is... healing. He has been scarred in spirit and in body, but he shall be fit to travel, I am sure of it."

"His fitness is not the question, Zek," Rehkuna said bluntly, and Zek frowned. How did she know his name? But cold, hard eyes stared back at him and gave him no answer. "Too much time has passed. Yurta must be released and reborn, so her great spirit may rejoin our people."

Her eyes softened just for a fraction and Zek saw a glimmer of sympathy there. But it was gone almost in the time it took to blink, replaced with the hardened stoicism of a born soldier.

"I understand your son is young, but he must learn to cope with his pain. He will travel with his mother or he will be left behind. My fang will rest until it is time to leave. Attend to what you must, Zek."

The male bowed again and took his leave. He had eight other children that required his attention, but foremost in his mind now was Razkar. He had to be ready for tonight. Not only for Yurta... but for Qerix.

His daughter needed to be released, too.

by **Razkar** on March 5th, 2013, 3:53 am

Zek knew the signs. The symptoms. He had seen them many times before, in his family, in his clan... in himself, back in the far distant past. It wasn't that Razkar wanted to die, not truly.

He just didn't have much interest in living anymore.

"Your sister's ceremony is tonight, son," he said, but his soft tone had changed somewhat from before. Rehkuna's influence, probably. The boy had had enough time to recover, to heal. Now he needed to rise. "You must ready yourself."

Razkar's unfocused eyes slid over to his father, the only part of his body that moved. Zek stiffened visibly at the sight of them. They were... empty. That was not his son. Razkar was far from perfect: he got in trouble sometimes, made mistakes, cheeked his elders and both and Yurta had to put a strap or a birch to him. But he had always been alive, always had plans and dreams. Now... nothing.

Zek was fast growing to hate that look, and knew he was hating his son into the bargain.

"... say something." Razkar did not, and in one explosive burst Zek was on him, jerking his head up, nose to nose. "ANSWER ME!"

"AND SAY WHAT?!"

The sheer fury of the snarled words made Zek pause. Those eyes were not empty now, but by the Goddess he wished they were. Razkar's lips were curled back in rage and tears were already leaking down his cheeks, though out of grief or anger her had no idea.

"That I will be there like a good son? And for mother, too? That I will put it behind me? No, father. No forgetting, no-"

"Forget?" Zek found his voice, and even through raging grief Razkar felt a child's fear of his father. "Is that what you think, you petulent, foolish boy?! That I want you to forget her?!"

Razkar opened his mouth to speak again but before the words could come Zek had dragged him from his bed, ignoring the yelp of pain as his son's cramp-ridden legs and scarred back tormented him, dragging him to the window, ripping the curtain aside-

"... Mother..."

Zek took a deep but steady breath and beheld the same thing as his son. The thirteen Myrians slain by the Yukmen had been laid in state in the square, wrapped in shrouds until it was time for their families to release them in flame. One by one, they had gone to the bonfires... until just two remained.

A mother and daughter. A mother and sister.

"And your sister, boy. They have not been released, because you cannot overcome your grief, and let it consume you." Zek's gaze was still hard even as Razkar's enraged, wounded gaze snapped back to him. "Think you can intimidate me, boy? Lower your damn eyes!"

"Or what?! You'll-"

The slap came backhanded and with no warning, sending him sprawling across the bed. Zek was on him again in a moment, hand gripping his hair.

And now Razkar could see the same tears in them.

"Think you are the only one that suffers?" The snarl was so low Razkar could barely hear it, but the intensity shocked and... humbled him. "You... She raised you better, Razkar. Think you that your sisters do not grieve? That Jakuo did not wail? That Myra, barely able to walk, does not look around for a mother that does not sing to her at night nowadays?"

"They weren't there!"

"But I was! Your sisters were!"

"THEY DID NOT FAIL HER! I was twenty feet away, twenty fucking feet, and I COULDN'T SAVE HER!"

"NO-ONE COULD HAVE!"

The silence crackled between them, loud as their shouts. From outside Razkar could hear mutterings, his clan, maybe even his own family, and he quelled the urge to scream at the to mind their own petching business. But his father would not back down, glare tethering his son to him... and then he slowly shook his head.

"Your mother..." his voice caught, but only once, and he soon overcame it, "... she would not have wanted a death of pelts. That is our way, son. We are Myrians. Children of the War Goddess, and our way... and our fate... is in a red death."

Razkar froze, knowing his mother's words when he heard them, and those of his clan. "The death of pelts". An ignominious end for any Child of Myri, it was a term they used for those cursed to waste away in old age, revered as Elders but doomed to choke out their life on a bed of pelts or furs. It was the strange paradox of their people, that their Elders were respected above all, but secretly... pitied. Because the life of any true Myrian ended in a whirl of mortal combat, with your last breath spat out on your enemy-

"... and your blade buried in their heart..." Razkar whispered in a broken tone, making Zek frown, "... so they may join you... in a red death..."

Zek began to nod slowly, eyes softening as he remembered his wife's words. They were her mother's, actually, a mantra she had beaten into her daughters to make them warriors, and then, eventually, her son-in-law. Zek had taken to it. He had heard it before, and it was true. But...

"I knew this day would come," he said, whispering now with his son, eyes now looking down, reliving the day after day that he had turned that one, undeniable fact over in his head: "That your mother would be... taken from us. Not by age or decrepitude or disease. But by an enemy."

Razkar just stood. Days of just lying, stewing in his loss had made the sudden burst of movement all the more difficult, but now his world was swimming back into focus. He followed his father as he sat slowly on the bed. His arms were covered in fresh scars, and he remembered how fiercely he had fought.

But he was an old man. And he did not deserve what... what was happening to their family.

"How did you... How could you make peace with that?"

Zek looked up and caught the pleading look in his son's eyes. He tried to smile but his lips just flickered, and he shook his head.

"I never did, Raz. I knew it would... tear a part of my soul out that I would never get back. Like losing a child..." Zek shook his head, mind still trying to adjust to this awful reality. It was. But it was coming slowly. "Life is... loss, son. It is wonderful and varied and full of mystery and pain and passion. But you lose things, too. People. Loves. And to truly be a man, and survive the world, you must learn to accept that."

"... she did not need to die that day."

Zek did not know what to say. The sounds from outside the hut became muted, world shrinking to just him and his son. The smell of moldering bandages and healing wounds and salves grew dimmer. Just his son's eyes now, still looking to his Papa for wisdom that he so desperately needed.

He rose from the bed, chin up, and put both his hands on Razkar's shoulders.

"But she did. The past is past, Raz. She led her clan, she fought an enemy that would have destroyed us, and she died as a warrior, which is what she wanted." He squeezed when Razkar looked away, remembering his own words now, the only ones he could think to aid his son further. "Victory is never gained without sacrifice, son. She knew what might lay for her that day... and she faced it anyway."

A tear dropped down his face, but Zek still smiled.

"That's why I loved her so much. Why I bonded with her and made a family with her. Why I want her soul to be released and reborn, back unto the Children of Myri. And why I will never forget her. Any part of her..."

Razkar gripped those strong, callused hands as if they were his anchor to the world. Head bowed, eyes closed, images and nightmares and memories flashed across them. Yurta teaching him sparring when he was barely old enough to carry a wooden sword, unforgiving and strict with his stance, but tickling him with a laugh after the business of the session was done. Her wise words and her lessons, her jokes and, yes, the pranks she pulled on others.

She so loved to laugh, his mother. Others rarely believed it, but Razkar knew it. He knew the truth. Now she was gone... but he was not.

Would she want you to grieve forever? He did not know where the words came from, but as his breathing steadied, so did they gather in strength. Would she want her death to cripple the soul of her son, whom she loved? Or would she want him to find the strength she always knew was within him to move on?

"I..."

"Son...?"

"I..." He raised his eyes, wet with tears, and smiled. "I will prepare. For Qerix's ceremony."

by **Razkar** on March 5th, 2013, 4:37 am

They released Qerix in the roar and dance of flame, and bade her a good journey into her new womb.

All of the Shorn Skulls attended, of course, as they had for the previous eleven ceremonies. Foremost among the circle surrounding the bonfire were her family, sisters and brothers and cousins and uncles, and her father. Razkar stood next to Zek, watching the flames devour his sister's body. It burned away flesh until it bubbled and blackened, then kept going. It charred bones and finally, after an hour of whooshing noise and steady chanting from the Elders, it collapsed into the white-hot wood entirely.

Tears fell down his cheeks, but they were of joy, of... relief. She had been tethered to this world for too long, and he understood that now. Now her soul could join Myri in the afterlife and be reborn into another mewling infant pushed out into the world.

Razkar knew he would not know her again. He would never be walking down some street or hunting in some stretch of green and come across the image of his sister, reborn and reincarnated.

But she had been released. That was what mattered.

Rehkuna and her fang had stood to one side the whole time, at attention and showing proper respect for a fellow warrior that had fallen in defense of her clan and people. The flinty eyes of the Fang Leader were softer now, and Razkar saw her lips move in a silent prayer.

The flames started to die down in the coming twilight, and without being indecently hasty about it, the clan began to crack apart and go back about their business. Razkar went to his family's longhouse an began to pack for their trip. Taloba was three days from their village, as the hawk flew, but he knew from experience that it could easily be longer.

Food, clothing... yes, that was probably all he would-

"All your weapons." He turned at his father's words, frowning at Zek's serious expression. "And your clothes. Leave nothing behind here, son."

Razkar blinked back his surprise, appraising the words. For three days? Unless...

Zek saw the dawning comprehension in his son's eyes, but did not say a word. Razkar opened his mouth as if to question him... and the closed it again. Zek smiled tightly and nodded, as if his son had passed a test. The smile widened as Razkar's packing became more eager.

He's worked it out.

A few chimes later, Zek and his family were waiting with Rehkuna and her fang. Lowax would stay behind to safeguard their clan, but the healer Ruwama would go with them as her representative. Satisfied that all were in attendance, and taking a few extra moments to gaze at Razkar, Rehkuna finally nodded and raised her arm...

... bringing it down in a sharp chopping motion.

As one, the procession marched into the Jungle, heading east towards the Sacred City, old and young, bearing War Mistress Yurta at their head.

by **Razkar** on March 5th, 2013, 5:35 am

He did not remember much of the journey, but he supposed there was not much to remember. They marched, and trekked, and rested, and ate, and slept, and repeated the whole process. He remembered the endless foliage that had been Falyndar since time was nothing, millenia before even Myri walked Mizahar. He remembered the vines and trees, cloaks of leaves and the trails ruthlessly and diligently hacked out by generations of his ancestors.

Which they had added to. Razkar remembered that. The trails were so few and precious that whenever one marched on them, it almost became an unconscious habit for Myrians to slash and carve away at the vegetation encroaching on the trail, keeping it at bay for one more day. So when the Shorn Skull and their Taloba escort passed, it was to the sound of blades swishing through the air and cutting into leaves, stems and vines.

Swish... Swish... Think... Swish...

It was a rhythm that he kept to as they marched. The swing of his arm, gladius at the end of it, decapitating shrubs and eviscerating vines. Back, forth, back, forth, until the tiredness numbed and he just focused on the gap in the foliage ahead of him.

Yurta floated above their heads, borne by Zek, Raz and four of her daughters. Jakuo was right behind them, his face now as stoic and calm as Zek's. Razkar had shaken his head at that in self-disgust. Even his little brother had handled her death better than him.

But he wasn't there, was he?

But before he could dwell on that further, the foliage seemed to melt away and they were in a clearing. Well, that was one word for it. It was more a... preamble. The jungle had been hacked away, trees felled, even the grass thinned, before the high stone walls, impossibly old and tall and riddled with moss but still firm and strong as the most ancient trees. Behind the walls were towering pyramids, temples, barracks, and the Watchtower rising over all, peak flaring like a baleful, unblinking eye.

A dull, endless roar rose from within those walls, and as they approached the gate ahead of them, Shorn Skulls blinking as they stepped into unfamiliar, unfiltered sunlight, Rehkuna made a small gesture of obesience.

"Glory to Myri, Goddess of War and Victory, Queen and Mother to us all," she intoned, words as practice and comforting as any catechism in the multiverse, "Seated in Sacred Taloba, heart and soul of her people..."

The words rippled through the rest of the procession, and the guards at the Main Gate merely bowed and stepped aside. Even the Myrian Tigers flanking the entrance to Taloba seemed to shuffle back slightly, unwilling to disturb the passage of War Mistress Yurta. They marched through streets, with Razkar not really knowing what a street was, until they came to the Plaza as the sun dipped and hid behind the looming Temple filling one side of it.

A bonfire was already built, robed priests attending to it.

Rehkuna turned to Zek and smiled.

"It is ready for her..."

by **Razkar** on March 5th, 2013, 6:57 am

"Until we meet again, my love. By Myri's grace and Dira's fortune... in time unknown and place undreamt... until that day, Yurta... I release you unto our Mother..."

The words came slowly from Zek, but come they did, and not with tears. The cold, stiff body, wrapped in a funeral shroud, would not scold or frown at him for weakness now, but he knew there was more to them than just the flesh. His daughters had held their tears, and his sons. He would not dishonor his beloved with his grief, not at this moment.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, but inevitably, he lowered the torch... and lit the flame beneath his wife's corpse.

It was the same ceremony, but different in so many ways. Razkar watched as the flame licked and grew quickly from the pile of kindling under his mother, reaching upwards to claim her. His father stepped back from the flames, and in moments the shroud was on fire, wrapping Yurta in a blanket of red and orange and yellow.

His family watched as their mother and wife was eaten by the flames. Tears glistened in their eyes, made even bolder by the flames that swelled before them... but did not fall. Not even from Razkar.

"Go to the next world, mother," he whispered, squeezing Jakuo's hand and getting a strong squeeze back, "And be reborn, or join the Shadow Guard, that you may protect our lands and our people forevermore..."

The flames purified the weak and empty body. Yurta was released, and as he body finally collapsed, Razkar closed his eyes and inhaled... exhaled...

"It is done."

He jerked his head around and found Rehkuna standing there, watching the bonfire sternly, every line on her hard face now etched with shadows. Despite the occasion, Razkar felt a boyish thrill that this proud warrior of Myri's own capital was actually talking to him. A mere male!

"Do you think Myri will offer her a place among the Guard?"

Rehkuna smiled thinly at the notion. The Shadow Guard was the undead elite of all Myrians, and had been for many centuries. An army of ghosts and spirits, only the finest and fiercest warriors were offered a chance to join their ranks, and even then, only the will to stand vigil for countless years would truly decide the matter. They were the Goddess-Queen's spectral bodyguards, protecting her against the other gods in the ethereal realm and, just as importantly, Taloba itself, heart of her empire. It was even said that the Guard could be summoned into the material realm in dire straits, and become an unstoppable force that could slay any enemy, but be immune to all but the most powerful djed.

Razkar hoped one do to prove worthy of it. Regarding his mother, he already knew the answer.

"Yurta of the Shorn Skulls," Rehkuna said as if reciting the name from a long memory, still smiling, "I was learning of her prowess with the army of Taloba when I was a raw recruit, male. My generation were weaned on many legends and heroes. Know that your mother was one of them. She is as worthy as any to be asked, though such a thing will always be unto the designs of Myri..."

Razkar nodded slowly at the answer, cryptic and conditional though it was, but reassured. He had seen Yurta fight on that final, terrible day. Her blades were clogged with gore and when she fell, a score of her assailants fell with her, probably more. What more could a Goddess ask in a protector in the afterlife?

"Are you ready to train, Razkar?"

He blinked and his head snapped around again, even more shocked. The Shorn Skulls, their escorts and the priests were starting to mill around, the ceremony over, but Rehkuna was still standing there, now turning to face him. He could see the form of his father behind her, eyes steady as the female spoke... and waited.

"You... mean with the army?"

"Yes, I do."

"But I thought that-"

"You would need to wait a few more years? Yes, your Elders and father explained that quirk of your clan. But there are... other considerations. You fought well that day, Razkar. You have the makings of a fine and skilled warrior in you, honed beyond he skills of your clan by the honored instructors of Taloba."

She took a breath, as if something momentous was being decided, and Razkar held his own. Zek seemed to be doing the same.

"But you have suffered. Your soul and mind has been terribly battered these last few days. You are... somewhat healed, but your father believes that some higher purpose would aid in your path now. I concur. Many a young and foolish or grieving Myrian has tempered their grief into worthy service. So I offer you the chance to start your training early..."

A blade appeared in her hand as if by magic, gleaming in the fire, and she made a cut on her hand without so much as a flinch. Zek seemed to swell behind her, pride flowing out of his eyes now, and his siblings muttered softly around him.

Razkar just stood and stared, sure he would wake up soon.

Rehkuna extended her bloody palm. Razkar looked at it and his doubts ceased their shouting in his head. A year early? It was... nearly unheard of in his clan, and his mother's words of caution came back to him. Was he ready? Was he that exception he had hinted at, or was he a blade unready for true battle that would break at the first swing? Was he still scarred, body and mind, unable to adjust to a new path?

He breathed slowly, the stench of burning flesh redolent in his nostrils... but he found no horror in it. Yurta was still with him, and his worth had yet to be decided. He realized it may never be, that worth was something that required constant testing, like any weapon or ability.

Practice, patience and time. That had been her words to him.

Razkar looked up into Rehkuna's eyes and cut his own hand on the edge of his gladius without breaking off. He gripped her hand firmly, felt her crushing palm over his and the mild sting of bloody cut scraping against bloody cut.

"It would be my life's honor, mistress."

"That it will be, boy. That it will be..."

The bonfire would burn and flare long into the night. But by dawn the embers would be dead and only a thin stream of smoke would trail into the blossoming sky. It had served its purpose, though. Yurta had been released.

And now, Zek thought as they began their march home, his son already in the Training Yards, she would be at peace.

by **Traverse** on March 6th, 2013, 3:22 am

Sealed in Blood

Razkar :

Additional Notes :

Questions, Concerns? PM me and we'll get to the bottom of it. As always, Safe Travels!

Flashback Of Time And Wounds