2I
Flame / Freyke
No matter how many times Y'dùn hung and cleaned the mantle, no matter how much time he spent with it, something about it never felt quite right. Not that there was anything odd or unusual about it. If anything he should be proud of it, proud of the exquisite work that made it what it was, proud of the care that kept it that way. The most talented edtkī in the north, Vid'niy, had laboured over it for a week and a day. Eight days of work, and it had endured near thirty years of rain, wind and snow. Arguably, having managed to keep all its colour, it had weathered the years better than Y'dùn himself. He scraped the waxing cloth gently over each piece of leather, tracing the patterns with a thumb and recalling the story they told. Red highlights that glistened in the sun, almost as if they were coming to life. Stark black and white contrasts, thin lines and thick curves masterfully spaced so both art and characters could be easily identified. Neat lines of woollen thread stitching, dyed a cool green, ever soft to the touch. Y'dùn paused as the cloth neared the mantle's wide hood, regarding it coolly. The shine of the wrought silver vines bordering the empty space made it seem all the more hollow, as if something in that darkness regarded him in return. A feeling, perhaps. The lack of eyes made no difference; he knew it saw him all the same.
Thirty years of the same routine and his stomach still sank as he clasped the mantle over his shoulders.
Quickly, calmly descending the stairs, Y'dùn caught glimpses of cloud and scattered sun as he passed the angular windows. He ought to thank the edtkī next he saw her. Whatever flaws he saw in the mantle, it was still a perfect fit - especially on windy or rainy mornings, as this one happened to be. Turning the corner to the bottom, his focus shifted to the figure standing guard by the outside door. Large, though nearly a head shorter than he was, with snippets of blonde hair leaking from under their headdress... He knew this one. Tur'àd. A distinguished servant, made Itālmir after a bloody conflict. It was easy to see the pride in the set of his shoulders, the puff of his chest. Y'dùn couldn't help but wonder if he ever thought of how he became Itālmir. Did the kin lost that day weigh on his mind? Was he happy, having grieved for his partner, his cub? Not that Y'dùn could pass any judgement, lacking both partner and cub. Nor could he glean any insight from Tur'àd's stony eyes as they shared a brief glance. The two nodded to each other as Y'dùn passed, swapping greetings and well-wishes for the day's work with the usual, formal politeness. Such interactions were normal - they kept kin grounded and aware, ensured all could be friendly should the need arise. What was abnormal was the firm grip Tur'àd kept on his scabbard.
Y'dùn had his answer.
The northerly wind caught him full in the face as he stepped into the city proper, rattling the hood around his head. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he savoured the water peppering his face, the breeze that brought it. It was a wonderful kind of wild; fierce, but not so unforgiving that it couldn't be enjoyed. Weather was no opponent, no threat to be dealt with, no battle to be won. If anything it was an ally, a respite. And yet, Y'dùn knew as well as any other that no respite could last forever. Peeling his eyes open and tightening his hood, he began the long walk through the streets. Over bridges and under walkways, past kin, amidst the greetings and formalities. He passed tīr-y'lon emerging from the water, nets in hand, offering thanks to Iāsitīr for the bounty they carefully hauled ashore. The vibrant, salty smell almost stayed with him until he reached the istol's chambers and the noisy aviary above them. The istol herself appeared busy at a glance, explaining how to care for a small mottled owl to the cub it rested on and their parent. Y'dùn would come back later, after his excursion lakeside. Long, fluid strides carried him away, further from the bustle and chatter, closer to his work. Perhaps it was better that he see the istol after this grim affair. He valued her company, found her and the ist she raised calming.
"Navastrod, Rūdtmir-tol. The eyes of the ist come to watch, when the dance is done?"
Y'dùn reflexively pursed his lips to a smile, raising his head as his thoughts turned to the lakeside bridge. Regrettably, he was also forced to consider the pair who stood between him and it.
"Navastrod Itālmirha. Between dance comes rest, but not quiet." Had his reply been correct? It would be easy to think so as Ar'fyn and Rù'kadt nodded, stepped aside. Their gazes were even, ears straight, shoulders relaxed.
"Svotte, y'sù svotte. May this rest be long, more slumber than intermission." Rù'kadt's voice was mellow, quiet, and a notch deeper than his companion's. More importantly, there was the faintest hint of something else behind the elegant response. A wrongness. Ar'fyn, while louder, more enthusiastic, was better at using his flaw to direct attention away from his thoughts. Y'dùn nodded courteously and stepped between the two, trying to keep his mind from lingering on the message hidden behind their words. Displeasure, fatigue, resentment? What it was didn't matter. He knew what it meant. The pair had been a constant fixture in his life since before he could walk. Their patterns were consistent, easier to read than most. As soon as he was out of earshot Rù'kadt would whistle skywards, call the messenger ist, and they would move on. He could hardly fault them for that; it would be wrong to hate those who carried out the orders when he knew where they came from. Who they came from.
No, that hate was better saved for the one they answered to.
Stepping onto the damp shore, Y'dùn felt his gaze drawn to the auburn glow beyond the farmland. The hissing and crackling from the rain's ineffectual attempts to douse the flames only added to the vivid scene, to the roiling emotions he felt. Six kin remained in silent vigil, a handful of flickering silhouettes amongst the tussock and rock. Four were cubs, their slighter shadows playing across the damp earth. Three were yet to show any sign of their age marks. The two smallest stood shoulder to shoulder, shaking hands holding each other. Then he saw the pyre itself. Y'dùn's eyes widened, ears sank. He slowly continued to walk. Forced himself to. Let out a hissing breath between gritted teeth, gradually uncurled his fists. Every time he thought he understood, he found an exception. Every time he dared to form an idea of the foe they faced, it betrayed him. Every time he tried to grasp at their tactics, they were elsewhere. Unreasonable. Unfathomable. He laid a hand on the cold, unfeeling hatchet at his hip, silently willing himself to be at it was. Much to his chagrin it warmed at his touch and he slid his hand aside, forcing his mind away from the horror he would inflict on whatever had done this. If they were mir, he would be tīr-y'mir. If they were brāv, he would be tīr-y'brāv... no. No. His chest heaved, and he raised his face to the sky, letting the water roll down his cheeks.
He would be better. Better than brāvha who slaughtered cubs.
Better composed, he let his boots scuff a largely moss-free rock. His kin turned their heads seemingly as one, gaze drifting from the sound up to his face. One cub half-smiled and nodded, pale eyes shining amidst a tired face. It was a look Y'dùn knew well. It was fatigue, a creeping exhaustion that caught you when you sat. When you stopped swimming, stopped dancing. They would be lucky if they'd had a night's sleep between them, and any adrenaline was long gone. He nodded, smiled, reached to the back of his hips and unclipped the case he had carried with him. He was lucky to have brought a full set of eight cups, he mused. Freeing two from their restraints, he uncapped the skin besides them, savoured the rush of mint as he poured carefully. Understanding seemed to spread as he approached the two youngest cubs, kneeling and holding the cups around their waist height. One looked to him, then down to the cups.
"Fresh?" Her voice was strong for her age. A good sign. Y'dùn nodded.
"As the rain on a spring morning." A moment's silence passed, interrupted only by the pattering of water on mossy earth, then the two smiled, dipping their heads as they each accepted a cup. Y'dùn smiled back, standing to fill the others. It took only a minute, then he was stood with his kin, each sipping from a steaming vessel as they watched the blaze. He wasn't sure how much time passed in relative peace, but it gave him time to quiet his mind before one of the beams fell with a crack, embers scattering and fading through the air. A gentle tension followed as eyes met, each tired gaze saying what words could not. What the kin would not.
"Who do we remember?" Y'dùn knew his voice sounded exactly how he felt, though none of his kin seemed bothered. A small blessing.
"We remember Imn'e, first and only of our making." The taller of the two adults sounded as if she could barely choke out the words. If not for the bitter determination in her eyes, she might have been on the verge of tears. She and her partner knelt, hands meeting, pausing as they grabbed a handful of soil. Each threw theirs into the flames, standing as the flames spat sparks and smoke. Softly, voices mingled as Y'dùn and his kin repeated the name before taking a sip from their cup. Other names followed - Ur'ōmr, Tīr'van, Slé'kkid. The flames roared as they claimed each scattering of soil, scorched those standing too close as they drank. Y'dùn looked to each of his kin, mirroring their nods. Then he held his cup high above his head, waiting for the others to do the same.
"We remember the fallen, that they might live on in us. We honour the dȳat, that their loss would have meaning." Lowering his cup to his lips, Y'dùn drained it and held it in a fist, close to his chest.
"Let stories be told, songs be sung, and lives lived. Let this be more than an end." His kin mimicked his motions, bowing their heads.
"May the spark within them light the sky when the night is dark." Y'dùn wanted to close his eyes, to hide from it all, but that would mean confronting the world within. For now, that was worse than the world in front of him.
"Id viy'n jot. Id viy'n jot!" Voices joined, the chant rang out, proud and clear. Other voices echoed it from the fields and farmland behind him. Then there was another sound. Quieter, yet more powerful. The wailing, sobbing song of the dȳat.
It took all of Y'dùn's strength not to join them.