Flashback Fresh Wounds and New Pains [Razkar]

[Ayatah]

He left as quickly as he had appeared, and said very little.

She watched him walk away and even when the door had closed behind him, Ayatah kept watching like some hopeful child. Then finally, she realised that he was not coming back. Her gaze dropped to her own feet and she allowed herself to feel completely and utterly dejected.

Her lids fluttered to a close and Ayatah inhaled deeply, one hand hanging loosely by her side, but the other hovered over her empty womb. So much loss, so much pain and anger engulfed her in those moments that Ayatah did not know whether to drop down to her knees and cry, or to run after Razkar and kick him right in the very area she had come to be quite fond of.

In the end, all she did was exhale in a controlled, slow motion. She would not react. She would the same thing that she had done since the start of last season: absolutely nothing. Instead, Ayatah would swallow her fury the same way a man might swallow a drink, and she would ignore her hurt like a child ignores a bully.

I have come some far, why change now?

Because you’re driving yourself to insanity - or worse.

She thought about what she had said to her mother before she left, and Ayatah hated herself for it almost instantly. She had turned her anger to her own mother; and that was wrong on so many levels. Sure, Quinneth would come up with a clever excuse for her behaviour, and Paira was like to believe it. But knowing that her mother had fooled for some farce of a story merely added to Ayatah’s frustration.

She inhaled and exhaled again, but this time her breaths were jagged and laboured.

”Ayatah?”

She rolled a knuckle in each eye socket to push away whatever irritation seemed to cause her eyes to sting and blur.

Saiete was wearing a sad smile, one that Quinneth had worn hundreds of times recently. The older woman placed a hand on Ayatah’s shoulder, ”people always forget that this is hard on the father as much as the mother.”

Those words… Those names. It was all too much for Ayatah: ‘mother’ was a label she did not want… But it killed her that her body had failed her with such a natural thing, that she had failed the man she loved in a challenge neither of them planned.

”I must leave. I’m… sorry.”

And then Ayatah did the exact same thing Razkar had done just moments before: she escaped out of that infirmary as if Dira herself was following.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Razkar]

She was, in a word, brief, and Razkar silently thanked Myri for that. Apparently he still had some credit with the gods of Fortune.

It wasn't being on the parade ground: Goddess knew he'd sweated that out enough times. It was more the fact that he had to stand with the rest of his fang, and silently feel their resentment wash over him.

And then, of course, she arrived.

"My name is Keran," the tall, austere woman said, standing before them, arms behind her back, shrunken skulls swaying softly at her waist, "Of the Death Shroud. I am your new fang leader..."

Her eyes flitted quickly to Razkar's, who returned her hooded stare with one that was solely neutral. She had been briefed, of course, about the... nature of his return with the half-breed Tinnok. Or, more accurately, she had been told by his "betters" what he had deigned to tell them.

The deep darkness. The altar of blood. A nest of snakes and... an enemy cleansed by fire and blood. But a battle that left only two survivors.

"I only hope I can prove as worthy of your respect as honored Rehkuna was."

A ripple of the faintest unease went through the fang, men and women standing to attention in the sweltering sun seeming to shimmer for a moment. The old guard, those handful who survived the Djed Storm and what followed, who'd been trained and led by Rehkuna for years, exchanged snake-tongue-fast glances. The recruits just blinked a few times. They'd never even met the woman.

Razkar and Keran kept up their little game... and he dropped his eyes.

You may be at that, female... but you will never be her.

"Where are the rest of you?"

The question snapped him out of that brief reverie and Razkar struggled to keep his face impassive. He felt that same tension grip the others in the line and he realized the question was directed at him. He opened his mouth, deciding to take what he-

"Training accident, ma'am!"

-and his head snapped to Oxil in surprise.

Keran's face shifted almost imperceptibly. It was forever shrouded, it seemed, just like her clan's name. There was no honest Myrian aggression there, just a mask of... smoke and neutrality. But sometimes the masked slipped, and one could read the feelings in her eyes. The confusion in them passed, replaced by a sudden unease.

"An accident?"

Razkar lent his voice to this... well, not entirely untrue fiction, knowing that as temporary fang leader it was his duty to speak. "Broken leg, mistress. Boy landed badly, his brother and sparring partner has a cracked rib."

Keran nodded slowly, processing this into her perception of the world. Razkar read her face carefully... and saw a growing, reluctant acceptance of these "facts".

"Hmm... I had wanted to begin training anew with a full fang... but accidents do happen." She smiled fondly. "Especially in training. You are dismissed. Razkar of the Shorn Skulls? Your service as fang leader was appreciated."

----------

Oxil knew his friend would seek him out after they were dismissed. The rest of the fang did, too. When they returned and relaxed, Razkar stepped up to his big comrade and just stood there, silent. Zuran took a breath and looked around their room, where eight other pairs of eyes were watching, waiting...

"Everyone out." There was some stirring, some genesis of movement, and then Zuran kicked a chair over. Not a subtle man, really. "Ya deaf? Shift!"

That did it pretty quick. Fast steps and jerking figures assaulted Razkar's senses, but he did not notice them. He and Oxil were maintaining their steady, unwavering stare... until he saw Zuran leave the room and they were alone.

"Why did you do that?"

"The fang would be better with you than without it." Oxil said mater-of-factly. "Besides, your censure would be... excessive."

Razkar's mind was a whirl of bubbling confusion, but through all of it, one question rang clear. "Why are you still helping me, after what I did?"

Oxil sighed, a long, drawn-out... exhausted sound. Razkar saw a weariness in him that was old, perhaps older than his own. Framed by the light from their sole window, Oxil reached up with a dark hand and caressed his temples. So tired, he looked, of everything. Razkar shook his head minutely. He'd never known...

"... you've been holding us together, haven't you?"

Oxil shook his head but Razkar saw through that modesty in a flash, sliding into a chair opposite his friend. "Don't bother, brother, you know I'm not fooled. Ever since I got back from the north, you've been the one keeping the fang steady. I've been leading it, but..."

"I did what the fang required of me." Oxil said quietly, once again showing that insight and intelligence that belied his ox-ish appearance. "After what happened to you... I knew one leader wouldn't be enough. So... yes..."

Razkar bowed his head, eyes closed. Had he really been so blind? Apparently so. Nearly a season had passed and he had never even noticed what his fang had become. What his friend and battle-brother had to change into to take up for his weakness. The damage he was doing...

Oxil studied his friend as he waited, eyes steady and brown and saddened. Razkar had always been a serious male. Erama used to tease him about it all the time: his devotion to Myri, his discipline in training, his perception of war not as a mere necessity or even an artform, but as a soul's calling. Despite all that, however, he had not locked his heart or soul or humor away from them. They had laughed and joked and ribbed each other. Had... fun, the way all soldiers did. But after the Storm, after his return with the snake Tinnok...

"You just... became so... stoic." He finally said, finding the words after so many weeks. "We never talked. You stopped joking. You became so... unrelenting, all the time, with everyone. It was forbidding. Our friends became wary of you; the recruits feared you." He shook his head again. "I didn't know what else to do."

Looking at his grieving friend, Razkar found himself... close to resenting him. Part of him would almost have preferred Oxil's hatred. That he could have dealt with, and it would have been deserved. But to see him so broken and saddened, knowing he had spent weeks watching one of his oldest friends disintegrate before him... and then betray him afresh by abusing the men he was meant to command.

"... I never told you what happened in the cave, did I, Oxil?"

Oxil looked up, a sudden curiosity in his eyes... though it vanished when he saw the agony in Razkar's.

"No... you didn't."

Razkar let out a sigh that seemed to come from another time. In a way, it did. Finally, with some sense of release, he told his friend what had happened.

[Ayatah]

There are times where rage and fury are the natural reaction. Other times, there is nothing but sadness and a loss of hope.

For Ayatah, it was the latter of these emotions that engulfed her.

She wished she could summon the energy to be angry, though that of course lead to the question of who she would be angry at. This in itself was one effortful process too far, so Ayatah settled for simply being… at an utter loss.

As an adolescent, she had felt a similar sort of confusion, like so many of her peers at that troubling age. There were so many hormones and new feelings buzzing inside her body and mind, no wonder the Myrian people were so violent!

But it was at this point that she also began to question her heritage, and show more interest in the Eypharian culture and people. Why was her skin tinted with gold? Why did her father’s people have more than two arms? As she had started to search for answers to such questions, Ayatah had felt a growing sense of guilt; she was abandoning her Myrian culture, or at least paying it less attention. Myri would punish her, surely? And if Myri didn’t, her cruel pure-blooded peers surely would.

So she had started visiting the temple, to pay homage to the deity that had granted her life and welcomed her into the Myrian culture. Her prayer also gave Ayatah a sense of direction, and the confidence to investigate her paternity. It became a place of great comfort to her, where she was not judged for being a half-breed (or at least not judged so openly). She appreciated the quietness of the temple, which contrasted so much to the busyness of Taloba’s city centre. And most of all, she loved the solitude and the sense that time seemed to freeze as she collected her thoughts.

And so rather unsurprisingly, it was the temple that Ayatah found herself outside.

The stone building was a large one; long and narrow with smaller rooms thrown off the back of the main structure to house the men and women who had dedicated themselves to the holiness of trades. Ayatah was familiar with some of them; most were very old Myrians who padded up and down the temple tending to those who needed it. One woman in particular had become somewhat of a guardian to Ayatah since those difficult teenage years. Her name was Pollys and she had had patience for Aya when she had been at her most testing and rebellious. She was incredibly kind, soft and gentle. Ayatah was also secretly convinced that Pollys was the only woman she had met who was older than Quinneth, and perhaps more wise.

Hundreds of people had visited the Temple immediately after the storm, to pray for their lost ones or simply for hope. Now though, there were less people at the altars, for which Ayatah was selfishly thankful.

”Mistress Ayatah. How have you been?”

The relief that washed over her even surprised the half-Eypharian. She turned to the old woman with a wane smile. ”I am in need of a listening ear and good judgement, Pollys.”

The priestess nodded, and returned Ayatah’s smile with one of her own. The old woman had played counsellor to several souls throughout her many, many years. Even as a child she had found herself comforting her younger siblings, and sometimes even her parents. Pollys loved Myri as much as any Myrian woman, and had served her mandatory three years in their Goddess-Queen’s military. But that was all she served, for Pollys’ strengths did not lie in weapon wielding. Instead she had chased down a life in the Temple, counselling and consoling the many Myrians who requested it. ”I am more than happy to provide you with the former, though only Myri can truly judge us.” It was a perfectly rehearsed answer, and one that Ayatah had expected.

The two women sauntered down the length of the temple, stopping at a stone bench that backed onto the internal wall of the temple itself. It was at this very seat that Ayatah had first met Pollys, when she was that pig-headed teenager who delighted in being nothing but stubborn. Since then, should Ayatah seek advice or company from the old priestess, it was here that they would meet.

They sat down, Pollys with her crooked back against the cool stone and Ayatah sitting more casually. When she did not speak for a few good moments, the priestess took it upon herself to get the conversational ball rolling:

”I have not seen you for a while, Ayatah -- most of the past season, I’d say. And such a… hectic time.”

Had it truly been that long? How time flies when it seems to crawl.

”I have been helping at the infirmary. It is… a difficult time and many are injured.” She avoided the old woman’s kind eyes, and Ayatah suddenly felt no different to the teenager she had been when she first met Pollys.

”Admirable work,” the old woman said, smoothing her skirts and shifting her position a little. She had been a priestess for many decades, and yet still those damn stone seats gave her arse-ache! ”Though I feel that is not why you have come here.”

Ah. There it was. For all her patience, Pollys was not a time-waster. She delighted in conversation, though not when it was used to procrastinate from the real talk. Aya cracked her knuckles and finally turned to face the priestess.

”I am struggling.” She began. The other woman’s face remained perfectly still, and she knew that more information was required before Pollys would give any counsel. ”The storm… it… took many things from us all. Some things we knew were stolen straight away - like my cousin’s sight. Other things… were not missed until later.”

Still the priestess’ expression leaked no emotion, but when Ayatah sighed tiredly and rubbed her face, Pollys leaned forwards and rested a wrinkled hand on the young woman’s kneecap. ”What was stolen from you, Ayatah?”

This would be the first time she would say the words aloud. Quinneth had just… known what had happened, as had Saiete when she had seen all the blood and how Ayatah had gasped and grunted in pain. But she had told nobody else: in fact, Aya had not even said the words aloud to herself.

Saying those words would cement what had happened in the harsh light of truth. It would become part of the past, like the games of her childhood had many years ago. Once those words were out in the open, the past became the past and events became nothing more than memories.

But the words needed to be said, for Ayatah’s own sanity as much as anything else.

And yet… Ayatah would have rather been shot down by a hundred enemy arrows than admit those damn words.

You need to say it. Say it!

Say it…


”I…” She faltered at the first hurdle, but she continued. Her eyes were closed, and her lips trembled, but Ayatah continued. ”When the storm came… I… lost…. Something…” Her thin fingers brushed her stomach, and her eyes fluttered downwards, weighted by salty tears that hung on her lashes. When she spoke for the third time, the words came a little easier.”I lost a baby I didn’t know I wanted.”

Pollys made a small noise, something between a gasp and a groan, then she reached a hand out and wrapped her fingers around Ayatah’s. Nothing else was said for a while, but by then Aya had already shared more than she thought possible. A weight had certainly been lifted from her shoulders, but something else was gone as well.

”It wasn’t planned, or particularly -- wanted…” Myri, she felt so awful saying that, ”but… That didn’t mean….”

Her voice cracked and she stopped speaking. Being so painfully honest was exactly that: painful. It was more agonising than Ayatah had expected - and she had known it would not be an easy thing.

But she had finally said it. After over a month, Ayatah had shared her secret.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Razkar]

There was a long, stunned silence after Razkar finished talking. Oxil's face had run a gamut of expressions, from keenly listening to grief-stricken to truly horrified. By the time it was over, Razkar was seated opposite him, wearied by the whole tale.

"They..." Oxil started slowly, swallowing hard as if the words had to be vomited up. "... they... consorted, with the Dhani?"

"Yes. They believed they had to."

"They were wrong." Razkar did not even bother answering that, but knew there was more coming. Oxil sighed heavily and rubbed his face. Much less pudgy and round after three years marching. "But you were not." His face cracked again and he bowed his head, voice so low, so... stricken. "Erama..."

Razkar pursed his lips and let that pass without comment, too. Everyone in the squad knew of Oxil's feeling for the fiery Erama, just as they knew he simply didn't have a chance. She'd never met any male (or female, as Razkar knew from a few of the more... libertine moments they had spent on leave together) that met her standards, and Oxil himself knew that he couldn't.

So he loved her from afar, and Razkar saw it in every stolen glance, every jump to a perceived slight to her, a thousand different ways he showed his heart to her. Razkar never even knew if she noticed.

"This... This has been eating at you, hasn't it? The silence?"

"Yes..."

Razkar spoke, but then his words stalled. Something new was open to him It was if he'd been locked in a room for weeks and weeks, and now he had left it and found a wider world out of the darkness. But now there was another door to open... and now he could. He had shared one thing... and he could share another.

"Not all." He said finally, and was stunned when his own voiced seemed more pained that they did when he did before. "Me and Aya... we're just..." He waved a hand around vaguely, as if the words could he grasped out of the air. Finally he just deflated in one long burst, eyes staring at the table. "Just... nothing there anymore."

Part of Oxil wanted to slap his friend and demand why after a tale of betrayal, horror, treachery, torture and mass slaughter, this is more important. But he didn't. Because he saw that while it was horrific, and did scar him, the incident with the Dhani nest and the Myrians in collusion with them was something Razkar could have dealt with.

Oxil admired him for another reason: he had a brain. Oxil wouldn't have handled it like that. He would have returned with the army of Taloba and seen them punished, like a good soldier. But Razkar saw that doing so would leave Taloba's northern reaches exposed, and with the Dhani's numbers exploding outwards from Zinrah towards them...

He compromised. He hated himself, but he knew that his own wants were a distant second compared to the protection of his home and his Goddess-Queen. But an affair of the heart...

"Have you... talked?"

"We try, but... I just don't-"

"Do you love her?"

The most obvious question. The only question, in many ways. If it was true, and reciprocated by both, that bond could weather demons and hurricanes with equal ease. But if it was shattered... if it stagnated... then it became a terrible chain tying to lives to one painful truth.

Razkar shook his head, mouth open but no words commanded. He saw her on that very first day, walking out of the jungle like a vision of loveliness a brutal-looking bastard like him would never be worthy of. A mere day later, perhaps less, they were picking up their clothes feet from a slain tiger, the sweeat and satisfaction of fresh sex all over them. Thenext morning, seeing her in the rising sunlight...

... and seeing her now, with her eyes guarded. Haunted. Hooded. A wall he knew so well, for it was a mirror to his own, hiding pain and strangling both feelings and the truth.

And what is that?

"I... I don't know."

Razkar voice cracked but there were no tears, no crumbling of his features. To Oxil, it was worse: his face became stoic again, hardened and dry and emotionless as stone. But his hands grasped into fists until his knuckles went white.

Oxil just sat and watched. He did not have the words, but knew from long experience that sometimes, all a true friend can do is be there, and let you know you are not alone.

[Ayatah]

Pollys was silent, but whether that was due to genuine empathy or simply patience, Ayatah could not say. Her chest was heaving as she attempted to calm her nerves and steady her breathing - but surprisingly, no tears fell from Aya’s eyes. She was too tired, too exhausted, for such a basic bodily function. Merely being so bluntly truthful about recent events had clearly taken it out of her

”And the… father of this baby..?” The old priestess said the words delicately, but ultimately there was no other way to ask that incredibly fragile question.

And regardless of the diplomatic words, they were still like an arrow straight into Ayatah’s chest. They made her gasp for breath, and close her eyes before she slowly shook her head. ”He never knew about the pregnancy. And he still doesn’t.”

Now the older woman’s silence was definitely at of shock, for Pollys had done something she usually never permitted herself to do: she allowed her expression to betray her emotions. Those grey eyebrows shot up her forehead, and her mouth hung open ever so slightly. She snapped her jaw shut and neutralised her face almost instantly, but Ayatah had noticed. The broken woman gave a wry laugh, shaking her head more furiously now, ”it sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I love the man, and yet I kept something this… this important from him. Selfish, right?” Her voice broke several times as she spoke, but Ayatah simply continued, forcing herself to spew out the words that flittered about in her mind. I have been restrained for too long.

She could indeed imagine how outsiders would perceive her situation; a young woman loses a baby she never wanted, but doesn’t tell the father to preserve her own sanity and feelings. Perhaps she convinces herself that if she doesn’t tell anyone, it didn’t happen. But in the end, the weight of the secret becomes too much for her - and she eventually breaks down.

It was not entirely wrong.

”I am not keeping this secret for myself…” Now Ayatah’s voice was quiet, calmer, but that unnerved Pollys all the more. Desperate words and breaking voices were to be expected, given the young woman’s recent experiences. But to speak so calmly and coolly… ”Though I won’t deny that talking about this is hard - because it is. But I can’t hurt him. I won’t. I won’t be the person to add to his pain.” Ayatah was furiously toying with her own fingers now, entwining her left hand with her right, tracing the tiny bone tattoo that was ingrained into the skin at the base of her thumb. ”How can I tell him that I have… lost our baby?”

Our baby…

For once in nearly one hundred years, Pollys did now know what to do. She had seen men and women in agonising pain before, but usually having someone to listen to and a prayer to their Godess-Queen was enough to bring comfort.

It was then that the priestess realised something that made her blood run cold; Ayatah had turned her back on Myri. It may be that the half-Eypharian thought the Goddess had taken something from her own body, but the end result was the same regardless of the theory behind it. Even as a troublesome youth, the half-breed girl had found great comfort in prayer. Slowly, despite the cruel jokes and japes from her peers, Ayatah had learnt she was, indeed, a daughter of Myri: Eypharian father or no.

The world - or at least the Myrian one - had stolen something of huge import from Ayatah, even after she had dedicated her entire life to fitting into their culture and custom like a pureblood.

Religious doubt was something Pollys was familiar with, though there was an underlying anger to the young woman that she did not recognise so easily. ”May Myri bring you comfort, Ayatah. She loves you as she does all her daug-“

The half-Eypharian scoffed - actually scoffed at the priestess’ blessing. The noise surprised Pollys, who fell silent like a scolded child.

”If those words were true, I’d be a damn sight bigger than I am now.” She spat the words out like they were poison, arousing a questioning look from a passing priest. When she spoke again, Ayatah had the sense to do so a little more quietly. Her voice was barely a whisper: ”Pollys, I am terrified that it was not the storm that -- that made that happen. What if I cannot bear a fullblooded Myrian child? What if Myri forbids it? I have read books…”

The anger was gone now; extinguished as quick as it had inflamed. There was a turmoil going on inside this young woman, Pollys realised. She does not know whether to cry or kill, to scream out or suffer in silence. And in this confusion, Ayatah had forgotten the guidance and care Myri gave to her sons and daughters. ”That is not true. What happened to you was due to unnatural causes, Ayatah. Myri would have welcomed your child as much as she would have any other.”

The words were not enough. They bought no comfort to the half-Eypharian, who had spent the past season living amongst questions and pains and anger. Yes, she was beginning to doubt Myri - and this in itself startled Ayatah. She had always been so dedicated, so true to the Goddess-Queen. She’d thanked Myri for her life and those she loved. But how could she worship a deity who had denied her a child? Perhaps it was not a planned pregnancy, but a son or daughter would have bought a tiny shred of joy to another wise dark and terrifying world, right?

And then she thought of their relationship, how everything had become so… empty. The man she loved was changing in front of her; in exactly the same way Ayatah herself was changing. Both were becoming awkward and neutral around each other, with little affection (and that was on a good day). Both were in agonising pain - and both knew it. So why the shyke are we not being [/]us[i]? Instead they were acting as if they were nothing more than strangers, or distant acquaintances at best.

This is not healthy, she told herself as she twitched her jaw and closed her eyes, we are hurting each other too much.

Something needed to give.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Razkar]

The silence stretched, but neither one of them dared break it. At least, for now, the absence of noise meant the absence of pain. But when Razkar looked up, he saw Oxils brow furrowing in concentration, as if trying to figure out some complex problem. He sighed, rubbing a weary face.

"I am sorry, brother. I did not mean to burden you like this."

Oxil actually looked offended when he met his gaze. "And what kind of brother would I be if I did not listen to you when you are in pain?"

Razkar smiled, but it was fleeting, as all his smiles were of late. He stared away into the middle distance again. Oxil knew that look: it was the remembrance of the past, writ larger and crueler than they were when they transpired.

"I nearly crippled that boy," he whispered, shaking his head slowly, "All because I could not control my own... weakness. How do you atone for that, Oxil? Sacrifice? Offering? Battering my own leg until I cannot walk?"

Oxil opened his mouth but Razkar put up a hand, stilling him.

"No. This shiner I sport was well-earned by your hand, do not reverse your-"

"Oh, I wasn't going to. You're still a moron."

Now it was Razkar who stilled, blinking rapidly while his friend continued.

"You were weak. You did commit a terrible crime. But endless grief and guilt will change nothing." Oxil paused and sighed, letting his head fall back, the weight of weeks pressing down on him. "I am tired of being the sensible one, Razkar. You want to atone? Be the warrior this fang needs."

Razkar considered this, but a kernel of malignant self-hatred still burned inside him. The warrior their fang needed? But would he... no... that was the past. The past needed to be remembered, but not relived. Guilt was an endless cycle that served nothing but pain.

The male sighed. He was doing that too much as of late. He got to his feet, Oxil following his suit, and extended a hand.

"I go to Aya. We have... much to discuss."

Oxil saw the hesitation and fear behind his obsidian eyes, clear as day, so great it was. He smiled crookedly and took the hand, both men clasping each other close in the way of their race, hands entwined and pressed between their chests as they embraced.

"Hard is the trail and long the trek, but-"

"-things of worth always are."

Razkar finished the old axiom of their people and clenched his brother of battle a little tighter. His voice softened a little more as he broke it, meeting Oxil's brown eyes with an iron sincerity.

"I never served with better."

Oxil's smile faded, fresh grief springing into his eyes. Razkar knew he had said the wrong thing, even as the bigger male shook his head, voice a whisper.

"Yes, you did... but she is gone now. I shall see you the morrow, Razkar. Good luck."

"I think I shall need it..."

[Ayatah]

Her home had changed.

Or perhaps it was Ayatah, instead. Quinneth had a saying, the basic meaning of which was: ‘if you think everything around you has changed, it’s probably you and not the world that has altered - an entire jungle is much harder to change than a mere mortal’.

It has changed, though…

Aye, but the jungle is not the only thing. That internal voice sounded a little like Quinneth or Paira’s but it could have just as easily have been her own common sense. Regardless, Ayatah knew it was right. Much and more had changed: herself included. The end result, however, was that she no longer fit amongst her fellow Myrians, or even in the jungle itself.

I am more of an outsider now than ever before.

She was doubting her belief in Myri, arguing with her kin, barely speaking to her friends or lover. And when she looked into the jungle, Ayatah no longer saw the rich bounty of her home, but a dark and evil place that ripped things right out of her body and stole her confidence.

Long moments stretched out before her, and she considered what her life would become should she remain in the jungle. Further withdrawal and suffering, perhaps resentment towards the ones she loved most in the world? Suffice to say, there was not a promise of happiness that she could foresee in the near future.

”I have to leave.”

The words were quiet at first, barely a whisper. Pollys leaned forward, but by the time she realised the young woman had spoke, the words had already left her lips.

”Pardon?”

Ah. Confessing the idea had been easy when she did it so quietly nobody could hear. But now Aya had to stare a fellow Myrian in the face and admit to wanting to leave their home - the same home their Goddess-Queen had chosen and raised to greatness. It was a thing close to betrayal, if proposed improperly.

”I need to leave Taloba. The jungle. Everything.”

It was uncommon, though not unheard of, for a Myrian to adventure out of Falyndar. Usually the male or female in question would do so to further their martial skills, or to perhaps pay homage to Myri by killing and purging the external cities of the barbaric races that inhabited them. Hell, her own mother had left as a younger woman, to train with the blue men of Riverfall. And instead she had come back with me in her belly…

The old priestess was not surprised - if her facial expression was anything to go by. Instead she gave a tiny nod and a faint smile, ”sometimes our calling comes from outside the jungle, Ayatah. There is no shame in it.”

Oh, my calling is here, she thought bitterly, I’m just running away from it like my father ran from my mother. Following her Myrian upbringing, Ayatah knew all too well what her ‘calling’ would be should she remain in Taloba; either fighting for the Goddess-Queen, breeding for the Goddess-Queen, or doing some other trade for Myri and their people. For once, however, she was ignoring that; turning her back to the culture she had tried so hard to fit into.

”I want to learn about my father, and his -- my other people.”

Yes, you are Eypharian as much as you are Myrian. It is time to explore that damn side of yourself.

Now Pollys looked a little more concerned. ”Ayatah, Myri welcomed you into her people, into her home. It would be… devious to turn away from that in order to learn the Eypharian way.”

Oh, how Ayatah wished the old woman beside her would talk bluntly for once! It was not devious to do what she was considering, it was downright disloyal - not to mention selfish. It was completely against the ways of their people, and yet it was something Ayatah knew she needed to do. ”Pollys, this jungle has taken things from me that I never knew I wanted.” She spoke carefully, quietly. She wanted the priestess to understand the motives behind her wanting to leave; it was not a rash decision (or if it was, Aya certainly had her reasons). ”If I ever want to return here, and to be the Myrian that my mother taught me to be, then I need to leave. I need to do something different, to learn. My great-Grandmother has always said that my Eypharian blood is as much a strength as it is a weakness. I need to hone it, like any weapon.” Even as she spoke, the idea excited Ayatah more and more. It gave her hope - something she had been lacking for the last season.

With a final conclusive nod, Ayatah stood up. She was rejuvenated, motivated by the idea that had finally dawned upon her. As she strode down the length of the temple, and out of its large wooden doors, she finally felt as if she was making progress. ”This is the best thing,” she told herself, fighting back those whispers of doubt that were creeping in the depths of her mind, ”for us all.”

She needed to talk to Razkar primarily - how would he react to her idea? That question made her falter in her steps. Could she leave him? Their relationship had become so precious to her, so incredibly important that the idea of turning her back on her lover was more painful than she had expected it to be. Even now, after the past strenuous season, she still loved him conclusively. He gave her strength, confidence, and a bond so strong that the mere idea of damaging it sent Ayatah into a flurry of panic.

”This is the best thing.” She muttered through gritted teeth, ”for us both.”

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Razkar]

"Welcome home, my boy."

Razkar couldn't stop the smile that lit his face when he walked into the compound of the Scattered Bones. He didn't need to look around to see that it was Quinneth; nor did he need to check to see if she was looking. She wasn't. Her own work was much more important.

Her knife moved slow but sure in the guts of the goat. Glassy dead eyes stared out at nothing, dark tongue lolling around gently. The old matriarch was bent over it, two of her great-nieces at her side, ready with bowls and other blades if she needed them.

Auguries.

"As always, Quinneth, I am honored that you would consider this place for me as a "home"." He stepped closer and looked at the steaming entrails being pulled from the wide, straight incision. "What do you see?"

There was an amused and almost jarring chuckle from the smaller, hooded, aged figure. There she was, carving into the innards of an animal, ripping them up to see the whispers of possible futures, and her tone was still that of the light-hearted wild girl she had been long ago.

"Oh, it isn't so easy as seeing, Razkar. One must be able not to just see, but distinguish." Something black and wriggling like rotten jelly was placed into a bowl and Quinneth examined it critically. "Hmm... Never certain, are the whims of Fate. Always shifting, changing, like water running along the jungle floor. So much that can... alter it..."

Razkar couldn't help but step closer, peering with renewed interest even as he shook his head. All he saw was a mass of black muscle and tendon, ripped open and more disgusting that usual. But with the eyes of Quinneth, it was something else entirely.

"You have finer eyes than me, matriarch."

"I told you..." Black, beady eyes flashed up at him and then her anger passed. They rolled instead of glared. "Nothing better to do than toy with an old female, boy?"

She saw him stiffen at her words, and the smile fell by a notch. Quinneth was a long way from stupid, and she had seen and heard much of what had transpired between this young warrior of the Shorn Skulls and her grand-daughter... or, what had not transpired.

Silence. Born of fear and confusion. A slow poison to love and affection. Will this be when it is broken? When the poison is drawn?

"I see... that you have come to some decision, son."

Razkar nodded slowly, a new resolution in his eyes. It was not quite confidence, more a determination. He knew his path, and it could end with light or darkness. But he still had to walk it. Staying in this stagnant pool of stoic misery was no longer an option.

He didn't feel his hands move to the dagger at his back. Fingertips caressed the ivory hilt, traced the "A" carved into it. It was so familiar to him now. A part of his gear, his weapons, his very being as much as his own weapons and the tattoos marking his skin. Razkar gave the matriarch a crooked smile.

"Yes. I need to speak with Ayatah. Is she home?"

Those sharp eyes darted over Razkar's shoulder, and he was turning to see what Quinneth was looking at before her words were spoken. Evne though he knew what they would be.

"She is now."

[Ayatah]

It had always amazed Ayatah how the bones that were buried in the pathway to the Scattered Bones’ compound never seemed to scratch or stab her feet. As a girl, she had asked Quinneth that very question, and the old woman had smiled knowingly and said:

”Why, the bones are part of us, girl. You cannot stab yourself with your own blade, so long as it is in your own hand. The bones are no different.”

It had been one of those answers that infuriated the young Ayatah. She had wanted the real reason, not the childish one that would be told to her baby cousins to ease them to sleep!

But as she walked down the path now, Ayatah finally agreed with the ancient family tale. She purposefully stepped on each fletching of white that appeared in the brown earth, wriggling her toes as she did so. Some felt smooth from centuries of being walked on. Others were still rough, some even pointed or jagged. But never once did she flinch from pain. Perhaps old Quinneth was right once again. It was a warming thought at least; the bones of dead relatives would not harm their living descendants.

The bones became more and more frequent, until Ayatah was stepping on more bone then earth, like cool white cobblestones. She brushed past leaves and had to duck to avoid overhanging branches as she came closer to her home: yet another reminder of the recent unnatural growth of the jungle.

Her clansmen were busy working, of course. Ayatah saw her younger cousins working on the pelt of a deer, whilst her aunt was mashing up leaves and berries to add to her collection of medicines and poultices. Bennik hobbled after the children on his crutch, laughing as if he was a boy himself. Roseane, of course, sat beside the empty bonfire, eyes blindly looking straight ahead.

And standing together over the carcass of a goat was Quinneth and Razkar.

Ayatah didn’t feel the smile on her face, but it was a genuine one, and even reached up to her eyes to make them glint and glimmer. A solution had been found, and that was good - already the weight of so any problems seemed somehow… lighter.

”Afternoon,” she said brightly, slipping in beside Razkar and touching his arm fondly. It felt… strange to be so positive and so affectionate, after weeks of being so low and distant, but she pushed this discomfort aside. ”Reading guts again, Quinneth?”

The ancient woman watched her great granddaughter carefully, and with something close to suspicion. The change in Aya’s behaviour had clearly not gone unnoticed. After a chime or two, Quinneth glanced back to the innards of the goat, but now there was a secretive smile behind her eyes. ”I am, and I don’t suppose you’ve taken to the idea of learning the skill?”

”I would have to politely refuse that offer. I’ll stick to my books.” The two women shared a grin. Despite at least eighty years separating them, there were a good many traits shared by both Ayatah and Quinneth. Their quick wit was one, their tenacity being another.

The older woman tapped the side of her nose, leaving a bloody fingerprint on her nostril. ”I suspect you’ll learn a great many things from a great many books,” She leaned in closer to the goat, but threw Ayatah a final shrewd look as she finished her piece, ”in time, that is.”

That certainly made Ayatah splutter a little, and her brows furrowed together in part confusion, part wonder. Despite being so old, the matriarch of her clan very often was a step ahead of everyone else. Shaking her head in disbelief, Ayatah turned to Razkar. Taking his hand - Myri, when was the last time I felt my hand in his? - she pulled him to one side and began to stroll in a slow gait.

”The boy - Berniz. He will be fine. His leg is broken but Saiete thinks it will heal well.” Her voice was low, though she suspected what had happened was no secret to her great grandmother. The rest of the Scattered Bones needn’t be aware of it, though.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Razkar]

When she came close and touched him, Razkar's jaw almost dropped in shock. There was so much... more, to her today. For too long both of them had seemed empty inside. They went about their duties and did what was required of them by their roles in Taloba, but there was no anima to them. Or at least not to each other.

But when he felt her warm, smooth fingertips stroke his lower arm, ending in a quick squeeze of his hand, he felt something. He looked down at her and saw... something. He chided himself, hating his own inability to find the words for these emotions, this new knowledge he was seeing in his beloved.

But Razkar contented himself with this: whatever it was, it was better than before.

Then she took him to one side and he felt her hand slide into the crook of his arm. Goddess, she was so warm. Moreso than the other women he had laid with... was that because her people (well, he other people) were of the desert? He would have to ask. They strolled down a pathway that winded around the compound, and for the first time in weeks, he felt some... peace.

She gives your her strength, you undeserving bastard. Her courage is your own. The world is a brighter place to your eyes with her love, and you know it.

Then she spoke of the boy and he exhaled, relief flooding him and almost making him tremble. He nodded more times than he needed to.

"Thank the Goddess. I was so worried that I'd..."

Rakar's words trailed off, tinged with despair and she squeezed his arm again, reassuring him with her silent touch. He felt his own hand reach up to clutch her own, bringing it up to run his lips over her knuckles in a rough kiss.

Her scent... the softness of her skin... how long had he denied himself this? But much as the rediscovery swelled his heart, he had more to say. The two of them came to the edge of the Scattered Bones' compound, where the bones seemed to be mainly finger joints, glittering like thousands of tiny rune-stones on the ground.

Razkar turned to face her and took both her hands, composing himself... then meeting her bright, questioning gaze.

"We have needed to talk for some time, my love. But both of us have been... changed, and become distant by that change. I want that to stop. I have been blessed by a true friend who helped my blind, stupid eyes to see... and now I want us to be honest with each other. We can rip away the shadows and veils and fear and rely on that truth..." he swallowed, dragging the courage out of him kicking and screaming "... no matter what that means for us..."