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I pitched a smile to Aryel once again in approval of her decision. I thought it was an excellent idea to let the Sargent take on motherly responsibility, especially since I knew her rank was destined to rub off on him now. I dipped for the sake of casual respect, finding endless possibilities in the horn he possessed. I found her voice lovely, glancing to the boy with ears pricked and eyes elated. I heard more of Aryel’s speech sing into my eardrums, but there was mourn in this voice, and it stung me in the parts of my body where the boy’s wounds grew. This child wouldn’t be of the slightest importance for anyone to waste away pain. Pain was only to inflict when needed, and a child did not deserve the slashes of sin. I could only see pain used when someone is old enough to understand it.
“Dearest Gods,” I exclaimed through hissy teeth. “Young boy, you are safest here with Aryel at your aid. She is one of the most trusted in this herd, and you will neither be forgotten or abused. I will assure the nightmare of your past never lay an eye on your hide. Oras, there is nothing to fear in the Dragon’s Throat.” Except maybe war…
“Such an inexcusable act,” I muttered in the haste of things returning to the black reflection of the Sergeant’s gaze, “You’d be a great foster, teach him everything you’ve come to know, Aryel. I respect you greatly for the good of this deed.”
The pain in my heart subsided for a moment, taking a breath of arid air, lungs finding a trace of solace in the sands of Tallsun. My mind flicked back to normal things, remembering duties that sought fulfillment.
War was approaching faster than I’d imagined, in fact it was coming like the offshore monsoon bloom –and that came all too literally. My eyes were a soggy pool as the young, devastated healer child appeared as a blue sheen of sadness in the desert. Her color, a reflection of a dusky sky, and clouds of madness raged across her hair. My heart wept for the girl a few days earlier. Her soul was trembling, and I could see it clearly, painted across her coat in wild whisks like storm clouds. I cried at the death of the General. I hate to admit, but not for him alone; I was locked away in the sympathy of what my eyes did not want to behold. They did not want to see the shattered, crumple of muscle and feather below, a path of blood trailing from his lips. But they truly did not want to find the tears of such a beautiful, honest family falling in dark dapples along his coat. I did not want to see his last baptism.
The child brought along the other half of her heart, Sitka. I found his watery eyes for a moment, remembering the call in his throat that took us all by our necks and dragged us into the depths of the carved caverns. His young eyes were not the same as hers, though. He was grieving, but he was not grief-stricken. I looked away from him, the call an echo bouncing away in the walls of my head, desperate to find a way out of the despair I knew she felt. I even knew that loss was the one of hardest things to deal with, next to the pain of watching loss pass by in someone’s eye like an ugly cloud.
I wished away the thoughts in my head, a sympathetic smile lifting the corners of my brown, stained lips. She’d returned to her duty, and I didn’t expect that from her. She was so young, too young to have to deal with such heartache. She still healed others, despite her own gaping wounds. I wished I could heal them, make her stronger so she could move away from what pained her. I hated watching pain. I wished to quell it.
The child earned a bow from me, tall frame sweeping the ground in one sandy, graceful swoop. “Thank you, Cirrus,” I replied as her body ignited with the croon of magic. I couldn’t find anything else to say, watching the glow of the Throat’s medic resonate to his deep wounds. |
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