The worse wound I have ever seen was the one that had wedged its quiva in a twisted grind past the bones of the chest into the tender tissue of my Father's heart. With tears that would stream in silence if it had been rain we would have never seen a lifted hint of dust on dying earth, nor ever a piece of welted thirsting grass. As Son's me and my brother were able to bandage the wound, but never to remove that quiva that throbbed in the depths of his spirit. This is not to say, my Father wasn't the bravest, wisest, and most skilled Warrior I have ever seen. For he was. No other would take his place in the lifted heights of stars I kept him at in a son's worship to one day bring as much pride to him, as a son, as he did for me, as a Father.
Her name is Talia, and she was my Father's mate. Her ashes still warm on the ground the day I entered his life. I don't remember the story, only mere flashed hints in my mind when the quiet and calm is at this perfect state so it will show its hint of life like a mole in the ground peeking outside its tunnel. Those who created me, I remember only the shine of gold bracelets from her wrist, and the gems that were placed like simple beading upon his saddle bags. That is all. Nothing more for images but a tender voice like the most elegant of songs that sung my name in the evenings. One echo of deep pride that would swirl with that memory of sounds, telling me "Ongel, never leave a quiva behind. Never" as the best of advice that could be offered to young ears.
Father would tell me the story of how I came into his life like it was one of those moments that a man lives for, just to know he could die with that memory. It was told with almost as equal pride and devotion as his telling my Ragar, my eldest Sky brother's birth. Ragar remembers his mother well, he was just over eight years when I arrived the night after her pyre. They both tell the story like I was the greatest of finds, and this makes me feel...special. Wanted. A love that even crosses the eternal hold of blood.
I feel a hot trace of emotion stream down my cheek, as its the first time in the last year since my Father's death, have I felt alone. A man as old as myself lost in the shadow of his Father pridefully. We lost Ragar nearly thirty seasons ago. His children were grown, his woman mated again, though I am not blood, they always treated me as family. Never a doubt, and those who were to young knew no different. Perhaps its as my Father said, I grew comfortable in my life. I sought only to conquer the day, and no desire to dream of the future, I had no wishes for I could think of nothing else I wanted, but what I already had. I was happy, at peace, and serving my people on such different degree's I felt complete.
He wanted me to move towards the Ubar's fires for as many years as I can remember. It started after Ragar's death. He wanted to see I never was alone. I have taken a mate in the past, a lovely woman who died giving birth. She died before then, when the lack of movement told us, the Sky took back her babe, before birth. It was my first experience with trying to understand this wound I couldn't heal with my hands. My Brother's death with the second. Now the struggle at my Father's Death has proved to me, I needed to seek more, for I was killing myself staying in the same spot with so many pained memories. I needed to make them up, and we were going to relocate.
Ragar was my commander, many raids, and battles we fought side by side. With his death, I had folded my Mask, and kept it locked in a roll of leather with tools of mass destruction at the bottom of my trunk. No longer did I volunteer for jobs, and did them only rarely when called upon to do so. I feared my own skill as the art was more enjoyed as I felt I started to let the blood of those who deserved such pain, to bleed out my own until I was exhausted and even had to ask myself, what had I done? Information, lessons were taught but when they were telling me how they got the scar on their left toe at the tender age of six from a fishing accident, perhaps it was a bit much. I chuckle at that now, for I had found the balance with age. Even the need again, if ever called upon.
So many Ubar's have rolled their wagons to the front, in my life, we listen to the drums that coil from the center out, telling of his words at the strike of surface. Yes, I am ready to be more then a name whispered in the dark, for I doubt some knew my face in light. For Duty has no status when it comes to tribe. When one is called, there is only to obey. I do so, with a masked smile.
Her name is Talia, and she was my Father's mate. Her ashes still warm on the ground the day I entered his life. I don't remember the story, only mere flashed hints in my mind when the quiet and calm is at this perfect state so it will show its hint of life like a mole in the ground peeking outside its tunnel. Those who created me, I remember only the shine of gold bracelets from her wrist, and the gems that were placed like simple beading upon his saddle bags. That is all. Nothing more for images but a tender voice like the most elegant of songs that sung my name in the evenings. One echo of deep pride that would swirl with that memory of sounds, telling me "Ongel, never leave a quiva behind. Never" as the best of advice that could be offered to young ears.
Father would tell me the story of how I came into his life like it was one of those moments that a man lives for, just to know he could die with that memory. It was told with almost as equal pride and devotion as his telling my Ragar, my eldest Sky brother's birth. Ragar remembers his mother well, he was just over eight years when I arrived the night after her pyre. They both tell the story like I was the greatest of finds, and this makes me feel...special. Wanted. A love that even crosses the eternal hold of blood.
I feel a hot trace of emotion stream down my cheek, as its the first time in the last year since my Father's death, have I felt alone. A man as old as myself lost in the shadow of his Father pridefully. We lost Ragar nearly thirty seasons ago. His children were grown, his woman mated again, though I am not blood, they always treated me as family. Never a doubt, and those who were to young knew no different. Perhaps its as my Father said, I grew comfortable in my life. I sought only to conquer the day, and no desire to dream of the future, I had no wishes for I could think of nothing else I wanted, but what I already had. I was happy, at peace, and serving my people on such different degree's I felt complete.
He wanted me to move towards the Ubar's fires for as many years as I can remember. It started after Ragar's death. He wanted to see I never was alone. I have taken a mate in the past, a lovely woman who died giving birth. She died before then, when the lack of movement told us, the Sky took back her babe, before birth. It was my first experience with trying to understand this wound I couldn't heal with my hands. My Brother's death with the second. Now the struggle at my Father's Death has proved to me, I needed to seek more, for I was killing myself staying in the same spot with so many pained memories. I needed to make them up, and we were going to relocate.
Ragar was my commander, many raids, and battles we fought side by side. With his death, I had folded my Mask, and kept it locked in a roll of leather with tools of mass destruction at the bottom of my trunk. No longer did I volunteer for jobs, and did them only rarely when called upon to do so. I feared my own skill as the art was more enjoyed as I felt I started to let the blood of those who deserved such pain, to bleed out my own until I was exhausted and even had to ask myself, what had I done? Information, lessons were taught but when they were telling me how they got the scar on their left toe at the tender age of six from a fishing accident, perhaps it was a bit much. I chuckle at that now, for I had found the balance with age. Even the need again, if ever called upon.
So many Ubar's have rolled their wagons to the front, in my life, we listen to the drums that coil from the center out, telling of his words at the strike of surface. Yes, I am ready to be more then a name whispered in the dark, for I doubt some knew my face in light. For Duty has no status when it comes to tribe. When one is called, there is only to obey. I do so, with a masked smile.
0 comments:
Post a Comment