20
Dawn / Wyd'n Sur
It was not, perhaps, the most auspicious morning.
The thought crossed Y'dùn's mind as he watched a lone hawk sail easily, almost idly across the star-flecked sky. It was early for such a majestic creature to be active – perhaps its sleep had also been disturbed? It continued to glide southwards on the icy breeze, gaining speed as it went. He squinted, tried to pick out any details in the murky darkness, only to be forced to avert his gaze as the pale sun began to claw its way over the tree-covered horizon. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the rusty light, he couldn't help but wonder why it never swooped or circled. Was it not hunting? Or was it not hunting for prey...? Before he could spot it again, a string of sharp, barking calls rang out from somewhere to his right. Shielding himself against the sunrise, he glanced towards the tundra the bird had been soaring over just in time to catch a flicker of movement. A shape, a shadow. Not nearly graceful enough to be a fox, and no pack to indicate a wolf. Y'dùn fought a shudder as it hesitated, then rose to two legs and hurried away. The hawk reappeared shortly afterwards, dawn light illuminating a scarlet ribbon neatly fastened to one leg as it circled back towards the city. One of the istol's birds, no doubt. Y'dùn continued to watch the shape as it ran awkwardly across the uneven terrain, then slipped behind a tussock and vanished. He gave up hoping that it would reappear after several uneventful minutes passed.
Was it the things he could see that bothered him more? Or the things he couldn't?
As the sun's warmth spread over him and the city below, he began to hear stirrings, movements. The quiet fuss of a people waking and all the came with it; greetings, exertions, the creaks and groans of furniture. The sound of footsteps. His own echoed quietly as he strode across the balcony, laying his hands on the rail at its edge. The wood was cool, calming and refreshing. Perfect, save for a single knot. No matter how many times it was smoothed over and oiled, the dark swirl stood out against the mellow pine. It had always been that way, ever since Y'dùn had lived here, and he imagined it would be the same long after he left. He didn't mind it at all - as far as he was concerned, the contrast was what made it beautiful, not the masterful carving or craftsmanship. Soon enough, smells also began to drift upwards. Exhaling a long, misty cloud, Y'dùn closed his eyes and savoured them all. Whispers of smoke creeping from many windows as embers were brought back to life. Beeswax candles flickering alight. Spiced mint tea boiling, fresh porridge and stewed fruit. Duck eggs and catfish frying on a stove, seasoned with dill and chives. There was something else too, something he couldn't immediately place. Something different, something that didn't belong. Something...
Blood. Dry as it was, there was no mistaking the coppery tang or the slight, sticky sweetness.
Y'dùn's nose wrinkled and his ears pricked, a wordless curse escaping his lips. One breath, two, and he was calm again. His senses looked, listened, felt. They took him away from the city, beyond the writhing fields of rye, to a rocky patch of earth the light had yet to reach. There were figures there, tall and lithe. His kin. They surrounded something, and though he couldn't make out what it was, he knew. He knew even before one of his kin knelt and set the pyre alight with dancing, sparking flame. It was beautiful, in a way. Y'dùn wanted it to be beautiful, to enjoy the amber light painting his kin and the ground they stood on. But, no matter how much he wanted it to be so, it would never escape what it was. It was death, final and unforgiving. It was kin, cut and bloodied before their tale was told. Reduced to the smell of burning oak, of incense. To the sound of crackling, oil-fuelled flame. To the look Y'dùn knew would would haunt the eyes of those who watched. And the size - how many had fallen? Two? Five? It... it was kin. Fallen, but not forgotten. A quiet scraping snapped his gaze downwards and for a time he stood still, considering the tiny trenches his nails had dug. Then a shiver ran up his spine and he pulled his hands away, tucked them under his cloak. Slowly, quietly, he turned from the edge and began the walk back to his chambers. He would mourn, but not with his kin. He would mourn when the wind took the embers and the dȳat took the ashes to be scattered. He would mourn when the smell of charred leather had faded, when the songs of passing had ended.
Mourning had no place when there was still work to do.