the elephant king

The Elephant’s soul was not free of other’s blood. He had killed in battle; he had ripped his horn through flesh and pummeled the small, fierce Debwani soldiers beneath his great hooves. Later, after knowing their innocent, their deaths had haunted him. But in the height of battle, lives lost were somehow justified—at least to a soldier. For if one does not take lives, then one will pay their own.

However, it was an entirely different sensation for the Elephant to take the life of one he cared for. Or, at least, hear the aborted scream and see the terror on his face through the red film of his lifeblood. So the great Elephant King had been reduced to a mere man, silently praying to gods he barely knew, holding tightly to a body nearly as still as death. Nearly.

And it was that ’nearly’, along with the calm watch and dutiful administrations of Mauja’s owls that kept him pinned with the speckled, barely breathing body. There were no fretful, raw shrieks from Irma. No silent, desolate stares from Diego. No, this was entirely different from the darkness of the Deep Forest (but also painfully similar to the Elephant’s thundering, fearful heart). So, instead of succumbing to the intermittent, overwhelming waves to find a healer, the calm patience of the owls held him in place. He did not want to leave the Frozen Light—if his eyes were not there to see those slow, shallow breaths, would they stop? Would immortality fail? And the King…how would he explain such things to a healer? It would be remiss to not acknowledge that some part of his fear was directed inwards; that, if Mauja’s immorality did not stand this morbid test, then it would leave him equal parts desolate and vindictive in the eyes of his herd (in the eyes of those he esteemed).

So he stayed in a silent vigil. At some point, with the cooing urges and hooting demands of the owls combined with Mbwene’s annoyed trumpets, he had drug the unmoving lump of white flesh as gently as possible beneath the junipers that had ensnared the ex-Queen’s once proud crown before any of this catastrophe had happened.

In the shade, softly scented of dried blood and crushed juniper berries, the giant let days (or were they weeks?) pass as he watched Mauja’s slowly, blessedly moving ribs. Occasionally rising, he took moss drenched in cool sea water from Irma and softly washed the pristine neck and still face free of sweat in Birdsong’s unusual heat. Only after strong, broad clots covered the gaping hole in the scarlet-splotched chest did he turn his ministrations to cleaning the dried, rust-colored blood from the speckled skin. It took much moss (there was a great deal of blood) but, eventually, the expanse of skin was (mostly) pearly once again.

And then there was nothing left to do but wait.

And wait.

And gods cursed wait.

………….

Movement. Tembovu wasn’t certain how long he had been staring at his snow leopard. His time waiting for some sign of life beyond shallow breaths blended together. But, finally, there was movement. A moment behind Mauja’s jaw—a swallow. Black rimmed ears sweep forward, lined and exhausted navy eyes widening, “Kumatakatifu,” the low, hoarse curse pushed past his lips in his native tongue.

Mbwene, far more in command of herself despite the overwhelming emotional turmoil that boiled through her bonded, rose from her nest of juniper needles and twined her small trunk around the leather satchel Mauja had shed earlier. At some point, she had emptied it of his belongings and one of his owls had repeatedly filled the leather sack with freshwater for both Tembovu (who had ignored it) and Mauja (for when he awoke).

So Tembovu’s great skull dropped to Mauja’s more refined face, straining ears and tired eyes watching the glaze icy blue eyes, ‘Forgive me,’ and his face clouded as those raspy words gently slapped his face. “Kafirwe salaam,” the cracked rumble, another curse in his mother tongue, was pushed out by both disbelief and relief.

Instead of recognizing the hushed words that affirmed the Frozen’s life, his broad muzzle moved past the speckled face, lips aiming to barely skim cool, satin-soft skin. His roving muzzle ended above the moss-packed chest, head dropping further to try and gently press against the skin there and feel the heart beating there.

And then his head rose slightly, thick neck arcing to look back at the man’s face. “Do not ask that again of me, Mauja,” his deep voice was louder, firmer now. “Gods, I thought I had truly killed you,” this mutter was said partly to himself with a slight shake of his head. A long, low sigh pushed warm breath out his nostrils, still close to Mauja’s spotted shoulder.

Silence stretched for a long moment from the Elephant as strained, but relieved, dark navy eyes watch Mbwene struggle to drag the leather sack of freshwater closer to Mauja’s face without sloshing it onto the shaded earth.

Again, the accusatory ‘why’ bubbled on his tongue—but, again, he silenced it. He hadn’t gotten an answer before, and it was more vital to keep Mauja with him then to ask and delve in this moment. So, instead he asked, “What would keep you from doing this—from wanting this, again? What would keep you here—here, with me?”

And, again, he waited.

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kumatakatifu= “holy fuck”
kafirwe salama= literally means “get ass-fucked peacefully,” but in this context is said to express more of a “shit, that scared the fuck out of me.”