Tazaro staggered and stopped to lean against a tree as he caught his breath. He looked over his shoulder, wondering how much distance they had gone. He prayed it was enough since he could not see the top of the watchtower from their position, but it might have only been due to the canopy formed by overgrown tree branches.
He hoped Sheeva had succeeded in killing the man and was searching for them. In case she had not, he told himself he needed to keep going.
He pushed himself off of the tree and pressed onward, legs shaking and muscles twitching. He could only manage to walk at this point, and as Mildred asked to be let down, Tazaro almost collapsed as he bent down to release her.
She let him lean against him as she walked, listening to him as he guided her over tree roots and around rocks. Tazaro looked up to the sky as he heard the sound of flapping wings and felt relieved, thinking that Sheeva prevailed and was tracking them down.
However, when he saw a much bigger, cloaked silhouette in the air, his gut dropped in nerves. Immediately, he ducked down beneath the cover of the trees, hoping that neither of them were seen.
"Mom, be quiet. That guy–I think he's looking for us," Tazaro whispered, trying to peer beyond the canopy at their hunter. A chill raced through his veins when he couldn't see the man, and he looked behind as he heard footsteps just behind. The skin on his neck seemed to crawl when there was no one lurking there, and a stagnant, petrified breath caught in his chest.
Daring to move away from the clearing they were in, Tazaro urged them further into the thicket. As soon as they slipped into the dense cover, Tazaro felt hands grab them in the darkness and roughly jerk them apart. Tazaro landed somewhere nearby, narrowly missing a thick stump with his head.
As Mildred sat up, she felt Zakaraia’s hands grab her throat. She gaped in terror at the creature as it came into view. With a likeness similar to Bartholomew’s but more grotesque and gigantic, Zakaraia had seven wings compared to Bartholomew’s four and the hilt of a blade resting in the middle of his chest. A majestic crown of stone encompassed his head of arms. Unlike Bartholomew's three tails, there was only one tail, much like a scorpion’s with a sharp, menacing barb and poison sac connected to it.
“Where is Sheeva? What did you do to her?” She asked.
Dead. I killed Sheeva with my bare hands. Watched the life die from her eyes. For as much of a fight she put up, she was still so...weak. He answered, a sneer on his face. Mildred gave out a sob.
“No! I-I made a deal! You said you’d spare them!” She argued. He tightened his grip on her throat, and Mildred choked.
You were a fool to think I’d keep such a desperate bargain.
She heard a howl and felt herself be dropped, the aberrant creature's appearance disappearing suddenly as their physical contact stopped.
Tazaro had taken the knife Sheeva had given him and driven it into the man’s shoulder.
“Run, Mom!” Tazaro cried, putting himself between Zakaraia and his mother.
Zakaraia reached around to the handle sticking out of his shoulder, yanked the knife out, tossed it across the way, then turned to face Tazaro and backhanded him. Tazaro stumbled to the ground but quickly sprung to his feet. Furious, he tried to rush Zakaraia, but Zakaraia stepped aside with ease and waved his hand, forcing Tazaro to his knees. His arms were bound behind his back like a prisoner’s, and his head was locked forward.
Zakaraia's long, gloved hand found Mildred's hair and, after grasping a clump of it, he jerked her to her knees and wrapped his other hand around her throat.
“Don’t hurt her! Let her go! Take me instead!” Tazaro pleaded, struggling to break free. His shoulders ached in protest.
“Take you? Nah…deal’s a deal.”
Zakaraia wrapped his hands around Mildred's skull. He twisted his hold sharply to snap her neck, then carelessly dropped her to the ground. He watched with glee as Tazaro lost his mind, fighting against the binding spell he cast so hard, Zakaraia wondered if the Sferran would twist his arm or pop his shoulder out of place.
"You son-of-a-bitch! I'll kill you!" Tazaro threatened with a feral bellow as he pulled against the rope. He felt the warm trickle of blood beyond the sting of rubbed skin.
“Oh, you will? You're welcome to try, boy!" Zakaraia cackled, throwing his head back in a laugh.
Tazaro found his footing and charged, headbutting Zakaraia in the stomach, kicking wildly with reckless abandon. Zakaraia barked out in surprise and tried to push Tazaro off, then cried out in pain as Tazaro bit at his hand so hard, Tazaro felt the crunch of bone in his jaws.
"Argh, get the fuck off of me!" Zakaraia swore, attempting to push his thumb into Tazaro's eye. He missed, and only scratched Tazaro's forehead with a clawed hand.
Annoyed, Zakaraia raised his knee and caught Tazaro in the groin. It was a cheap shot that made Tazaro see spots and cry out, releasing Zakaraia's hand from his mouth.
His breath caught in his chest, brought to his knees by the unrelenting pain he felt from his groin to his face, and he couldn't stop himself from keeling over and vomiting. The decaying leaves on the forest floor were cool against his sweating, flushed forehead, and he struggled to squint at Zakaraia in his blurred and darkened sight.
Zakaraia appeared to be cradling an injured hand, but it was little consolation to Tazaro as he lay drooling on the forest floor.
"You fucking bastard. I ought to kill you, too." Zakaraia growled. He stood to his full height, then strode to Tazaro so quickly it was enough to snap Tazaro to reality. Tazaro tried to scoot back as Zakaraia advanced but hit the bark of a tree.
Zakaraia grabbed Tazaro by the collar, lifted him, and slammed him into the tree, causing Tazaro to groan in pain when a knot pressed into his back. If there had been any more force behind the strike, Tazaro would have had the wind knocked out of him.
As Zakaraia said something in a language Tazaro couldn't understand, Tazaro felt another wave of electricity shoot through him, zapping him from head to toe. Zakaraia dropped him on the floor, then shoved him onto his back with his foot.
Tazaro blinked sluggishly at the robed figure leering down at him, hot tears of frustration pooling in his eyes and slipping down his cheeks. He never imagined his own death, but even with his wild imagination, he didn't think he could have ever dredged up something like this.
The way Zakaraia stared down at him struck fear into every fiber of his being, and Tazaro hardened his expression to give the fiercest glare he could muster to alleviate the sting of embarrassment.
"You are all just so stubborn, aren't you? Sheeva gave me that same look just before she passed out."
The hint that Sheeva was alive gave Tazaro hope, and, praying he hadn't already betrayed himself with an expression of relief, steeled his gaze. Maybe, it would be a waiting game until Sheeva caught up with them.
"So you lied about killing Sheeva?" Tazaro asked. Maybe, if he kept Zakaraia talking and distracted, Sheeva could swoop in for the vengeful kill.
"Lied? Of course I lied! Hah–when will people learn that a mother's love is nothing, anyway? It's false! Obligatory!"
The inclination that his mother's undoubted love for others was merely out of obligation made Tazaro furious, and he attempted to lunge for Zakaraia again. Zakaraia only stopped him with a rough step on his chest, pinning him to the ground.
"Oh-ho, you're feisty, aren't you?" Zakaraia crooned with an alighted, toothy grin.
"I swear, I'll kill–
–really, Sferran? Feel free to try!" Zakaraia boasted, stomping on Tazaro's stomach and causing him to suck fruitlessly for air.
"I've had enough of this boring beat-up. If you really want to kill me, I'll be waiting in Torde, on Cruinia. Tell Sheeva that if she wants to try again, I'll gladly kick her ass a second time!" He crowed before spreading his wings and taking off.
Tazaro's calls for the man to return and face him went unacknowledged, and Tazaro only stopped after he'd shouted himself hoarse. Panting after his tantrum, he followed the shrinking silhouette as far as he was able before it disappeared beyond the scope of the treetops.
Unwilling to get to his feet, he curled up on his side and wept in frustration.
When the spell released him, Tazaro immediately crawled to his mother’s dead body but stopped as soon as he saw it, stricken by horror at the terrible, unnatural crane of her neck. Chilled with inexperience and uncertainty, he instinctively reached out to move her head back to its natural resting place, but stopped, feeling that to do such a thing would be disgraceful. Indiscernible squeaks passed through his throat as he wondered what he should do, since it definitely didn't feel right to leave her body this way. Ultimately, and to his further disgust, he reached to straighten her neck.
Mortified by the still-warm skin and loll of her head as he pulled her up by her shoulders, Tazaro grasped the head by its cheeks and turned, grimacing as the sickening crunch and grind met his ears. It made him cry out in horror, fully disgusted with himself.
He avoided looking at the still-open eyes and reached out a trembling hand to close them.
Reality settled, and he slowly understood that it could have been her mourning the loss and him with the snapped neck.
“It should have been me." He whispered harshly. "It should have been me, Mom!” He wailed, immense pain in his chest and a deep, seething anger welling in his gut that made his body shake. At a darkened thought that he would attempt to slit Zakaraia's throat if he were to come back, Tazaro searched in the dim light for the knife he stabbed Zakaraia with. It glimmered at him a few feet away, blemished with dark blood, and Tazaro felt a vindictive hope that, perhaps, he managed to nick a major vein or artery severely enough the man would bleed out and die.
However, as he thought about how shallowly the knife had sunk beneath the thick black robes and skin, he became doubtful of the effectiveness of his attack, and slumped back against the tree trunk.
Hours passed as he stared off into space, numb and barely registering his current surroundings. He remained motionless, and before he could even fully begin to gather his thoughts about what to do, the sky started to lighten, a rising sun colorizing the dark-blue sky with blood-red and blood-orange hues. It illuminated his sleepless face, and he blinked as sharp morning rays pierced his vision; likely the first blink to be made in quite some time as his eyes stung, dry and aching.
He wondered if he should search for Sheeva, but with the weight of his mother’s body cradled in his lap, he remained frozen by crushing shame.
Where was Sheeva? Surely, it’d been at least a few hours since they’d left the compound. Wouldn’t she have located them by now?
It filled him with a sense of relief that he believed he didn’t deserve to feel, but with the knowledge that Sheeva was alive, it immediately soured into bitterness and anger as he wondered if Sheeva had abandoned them altogether and given chase. Perhaps, even, she’d taken them for dead and had left their lifeless bodies to rot in the forest. He gritted his teeth as his eyes narrowed, and he glared at her knife in scorn, hateful of the oakwood-handled, blood-stained thing, hateful of his high hopes…hateful of his budding crush.
He scoffed at himself.
How insanely foolish it was of him to harbor such a crush on a cold-hearted–
He shook his head at himself again, amazed with his blinding spite.
Her trust in him had been genuine, if not sheltered by apprehension, and the gratitude in her eye as his hand caressed her smooth cheek could not have been more sincere. It was almost as though he were witnessing first-hand her abolishment of an extreme line of defenses, and he found he couldn’t be happier that he’d eased some unspoken pain. It was uniquely…bittersweet, and it calmed him enough to clarity.
No, I don’t think she’d do that. Not after all her efforts in keeping us safe. Still, she should have found us by now.
He looked around himself at the dense forest he’d blindly been running in. There were no obvious markers, and the section he thought they’d come from was full of broken bramble and underbrush. They’d definitely gone off the trodden trail.
Maybe, she’s lost, too? He sputtered his lips in disbelief at himself. She had a lock of his hair that she’d been using to track down Mildred and could have easily used it to track them down. His heart ached at the reminder that maybe, it wouldn’t be as effective for those who were dead. Maybe, it only worked in tandem with someone’s level of vitality.
With the hope that it didn’t matter whether someone was alive or dead, it left only one of two options for the lack of Sheeva’s presence: either she was currently searching for them, or she was indeed unconscious.
He recalled Zakaraia saying something about Sheeva giving him a fierce stare-down before she fainted. If Sheeva had fought as hard as he believed she would, she very well could be unconscious somewhere, or, if she had come to, was immobilized somehow.
He looked at his mother’s body, then in the direction of the trail full of broken bramble. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his mother's corpse to be preyed upon by wild animals, but if Sheeva was gravely injured and unable to care for herself, he found he couldn’t bear the shame of that, either. A deep, albeit shaky, breath of crisp, morning air helped him mentally prepare himself, and he stooped over his mother’s body.
He tried to block out the encouraging voice telling him it would be like lifting a cumbersome log.
With a grunt, he shifted her over his shoulders, then, with another loud groan to offset the physical grievance of lifting, he forced himself to his feet with Mildred’s body set across his back in a fireman’s carry.
His first step was like lead and his entire body was weak, and the deadweight he carried caused him to move even slower. Still, he pressed on, coming to a small clearing where he paused to catch his breath and readjust to carry her in his arms, as she would when carrying him to his room when he was a small child. This struck tears in his eyes as the lullaby she would sing him and his sister to sleep with rang in his ears, but he squeezed his eyes shut to hold back, determined to block out the melody and find the fortress. When Tazaro saw the abandoned fortress’s watchtower peeking out above the treetops beyond the scope of his bleary eyesight, he realized he had not gotten nearly as far away from the place as he thought.
The sun spread its rays on the grim forest as it rose, and the morning dew wet his jeans and soaked through his boots to freeze his toes. As Tazaro reached the clearing with the meadow surrounding the fortress, he felt relieved, and searched the grassy plain for Sheeva. Perhaps she was limping in their direction.
However, the misted, mourning wildflowers were the only things to turn their attention on him as he brought the sun with him, gentle beams warming his backside.
His stomach churned, then turned sour. If she was able to move, had she simply stayed put and waited for them?
Pushing on and trying to ignore the now-soaked state of his pants as the water brushed off of the tallgrasses, he neared the gate and peered inside.
Sheeva lay on the cobblestone, and his gut turned. Maybe, she had been injured to the brink of death, and had died sometime between Zakaraia leaving the fortress and his own arrival. He broke into an exhausted, stumbling run, and as he approached her, he saw that she was covered in blood, wings splayed out like a winged insect pinned to a collection board and arms crossed over themselves in an angelic, restful, almost remorseful state. His stomach churned as he thought Zakaraia might have taken the time to pose her that way.
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Tazaro shook his head at the disturbing thought, turned, and gently set his mother’s body down. Rigor mortis had apparently begun to set in, evident by the stiffness of her neck and shoulders as they refused to lay flat on the ground and her head didn’t fall to the side.
He tried not to think about it and turned back to Sheeva to tend to her. He knelt less-than-gracefully at her side as his shaking legs gave in to plummet his knee to the cobblestone floor.
Sheeva's left wing was swollen on its first limb, and he wondered if it was broken. He hoped it was just fractured instead, but with such swelling, he doubted so. Her right arm had a nasty purple bruise in the middle of it, too. He grimaced and hung his head in shame at his anger–she had been literally broken and beaten down into unconsciousness, or possibly even death.
Considering Zakaraia’s invitation, Tazaro dismissed the latter outcome. He reached and shook Sheeva’s shoulder, grateful that her shoulders gave and her body moved with the motion.
“Sheeva?”
She did not stir. Tazaro held his hand above Sheeva’s mouth to feel for air and watched for a rise and fall of her chest. It was faint, but the brush of air against his hand was enough proof.
Still breathing, barely. Tazaro shook Sheeva again, saying her name louder.
She woke, blinking slowly. As she looked around, Tazaro saw confusion in her eyes. She went to sit up but cried out, reached for her wing, and barked from more pain as she attempted to move her arm. He gently pushed her back to lie down.
“No, wait, don’t move! Whatever's wrong, you’ll make it worse.” He ordered. She squeezed her eyes shut at the pain. He found her bag and took out her medical kit, looking at the contents, searching for a splint, thankful that he and Micah had agreed to let Vincent practice applying first aid on them, and had them do the same to him.
“Worse?” She wondered. “Am I alive?” She asked softly.
Tazaro was thankful that she could still talk if need be since a violent, violet bruise on Sheeva’s cheek made him think she had been sucker-punched. Apparently, Zakaraia had not broken her jaw, too, as he seemed to be well capable of doing. Tazaro scrunched his nose as the crunch of Llyud’s busted jaw rang in his ears.
“Yeah.” He forced for an answer, trying to focus. “Yeah, and I’m trying to help you stay that way. Shut up and lie still.” He ordered, giving the rest of her body a quick glance. A pool of blood on her pantleg snared his attention, and he decided to look at the damage there, first.
Sheeva blinked in a stupor and stared at the sky, and as she felt him tending to her wounds, her muddled brain fiercely registered the pain. She was alive. She forced herself to look around as well as she could when chilling fear began to set in.
“Mildred?” She asked. Tazaro shook his head, feeling his face heat and tears well in his eyes again. He blinked them away as he tried to focus on tending to Sheeva. With all her injuries, he feared she would die, too.
“Don’t. Don’t. I, I have to take care of you now.” He forced, taking a shaky, shallow breath. He peeled away the jagged shred of fabric covering her thigh and wet a rag with a sterilizing solution from a jug, and wiped at it tenderly. He murmured an apology for the sting when she winced at it.
“Please don't. I-I fear I have…wet myself.” She admitted, turning her head away in mortified worry. Tazaro glanced at the area in question–it did not seem so.
“It doesn’t look like it. I think it may have just been this wound.” He assured, checking the nasty gash on her thigh. Even if she had pissed her pants, he wasn't about to tell her so nor pay it any mind, if only to spare her from further embarrassment and to focus on patching her up.
He grabbed one of her knives, checking the handle. It was bound with leather. He hoped it would suffice as something for her to bite down on and held the handle to her mouth, asking her to take it. She refused it, casting an embarrassed look to the wall across the way.
“Look, you didn't piss yourself, okay? You've got a gash in your leg, and it's bleeding. I'm-I'm gonna try to bandage it up, so don’t be stubborn. This looks like it will hurt.” He snapped.
Seeming relieved, she opened her mouth and took the knife, watching as he tore the fabric to give himself room to work with.
Tazaro was certain the muffled noise behind the blade was a curt, pained, swear as the antiseptic he poured on the cut foamed and likely burned like hell, but he paid it no mind as he hastily cleaned it to the best of his ability before slapping gauze to the freshly bleeding cut. Breathing hard, Sheeva assisted him in wrapping the bandage around the gauze to keep it in place by lifting her leg as well as she could–which wasn't far, yielding only a couple inches of space between her leg and the cobblestone floor.
She reached up to take the knife out of her mouth and panted for air, huffing soft words of appreciation and apology for her vulgar language.
"I'm sure there's more where that came from. I think your arm is broken, and your wing, too." He grunted, looking for the splint he'd set within reach.
"Get the arm fir–argh, Vilg!" She cried, face contorting into one of immense pain as she foolishly tried to sit up again.
"Stop moving, Sheeva," He commanded firmly with a press on her uninjured shoulder, trying to think back on what he had done for practice with the crude plank of wood and knitted scarf as a makeshift splint.
He grabbed the boarded mat and wrapped it around and set her arm. Aside from her whimpers of pain, it was easy enough to do.
He reached for the second splint she carried and wrapped the first limb of her wing, holding it there as he grabbed strips of bandages and tied them snugly around the roll, wincing as her whimpering intensified and muttering apologies at her pain. He sat back to check his work. He figured it would hold, and helped her to sit up to support her arm in a sling. Tazaro paused as he noticed how desperately she seemed to cling to him. Her hand gripped his shirt tightly, trembling with the effort. Her head fell forward in fatigue and sat against his shoulder.
“I am...alive.” He barely heard her whisper.
He let go of a tense breath and held her as tenderly as he could to prevent harming her any further. Boldly, he patted her head and stroked her hair. As he cradled the back of her head in his hand, he noticed an uneven chunk of hair and wondered what had happened. Searching the grounds, he saw Abraxas lying a few feet away and a small pile of hair a little further down.
His gut tightened, and he jumped slightly as she began to weep.
“I fought so hard. I–I tried, and he simply, simply...” She shuddered at something, spawning terrible thoughts in Tazaro’s head. “Don’t leave me alone; I don’t want to be alone. Please don’t leave me, please, please!” She babbled deliriously as she wailed.
Unsure of what to do and hoping she would forgive him, Tazaro pulled her into a firm hug and began to rock, attempting to shush her and calm her down, surprised to find he had a few tears left to cry as they fell down his cheeks.
“Rest now. You’re safe. I got you.” He cooed, fighting to not stare off into the space of the firepit, mentally shaken as he was. Eventually, she fell asleep in his hold, and there were a couple of times when Tazaro had the clarity to move her out of his lap. The clarity was only brief enough for him to understand reality before battered dissociation set in…and how bleak reality was as the gears of imagination cranked in his brain to spit out grim scenarios of the fight that took place or show vivid replays of his mother’s split-second murder.
The sun had risen towards the middle of the sky before Tazaro was lucid enough to move Sheeva out of his lap, who was, thankfully, still sleeping. He shrugged off his jacket, balled it up, and with her bag, propped her up as well as he could, trying to be mindful of the massive wing in its awkward splint. He stopped abruptly when he noticed the darkening shadow of a handprint wrapped around her neck, and his eyes widened as he gulped and touched his own throat.
Fury breached his fear, and he scowled fiercely, looking around again as though Zakaraia were still there.
Lingering.
Lurking.
He bolted across the cobblestone courtyard and grabbed Sheeva’s sword, momentarily surprised at the weight of it, and ripped it out of its scabbard, holding it in threat as he jerked his head around in search. Tazaro hoped Zakaraia was still around, and even though he had no practice with a sword, he found he yearned for the opportunity to stab and kill the man.
But, as he scanned the stone walls, watchtower, and entryway to the fortress and its cobblestone courtyard, Zakaraia’s shrouded, robed self was nowhere to be seen. Tazaro’s emboldened rage faltered back into fear and worry. His shoulders drooped, and he slouched and sighed in defeat, observing the steel blade he held to diminish his discomfort as his head shook sadly.
The thorny vine of some plant he did not recognize crept toward the edge, and the cross-threads of leather straps on the handle were weathered and frayed. The pommel stone had a tarnished spot, like a weathered carriage hitch. The blade itself was straight on one edge, honed to a deadly sharpness on the other. He pointed it out in front of him, amazed by how much effort he needed to put forth to keep it up without trembling. He swung it and attempted to stop, almost lurching forward from the momentum.
Of course, it would be much different than swinging around a tree branch! He scolded himself.
Still, Tazaro stopped despite his growing curiosity and budding determination, not wanting to break or dent the blade or stab himself, and sheathed the weapon.
Sheeva coughed and groaned behind him, and Tazaro turned to her, hoping he had not been caught. Even if he had, he would argue that he needed to learn how to handle a sword since she could not do so herself.
Sheeva had not woken but instead begun to shiver, a pained expression on her pallid face. Tazaro found her emergency blanket and began to unfold it, flicking it straight and kneeling to drape it over her. She woke up with a startled “bah!” and looked around with a pain-drunk expression as she tried to push his arms away.
“Whoa, hey, easy–it's me!” He said softly, kneeling and covering her with the blanket he had unfolded. Her fierce, frightened expression softened as she calmed and let the weight of the blanket pacify her. Tazaro held her water pouch to her lips and helped her drink, gently dabbing away the rivulet that flowed down her cheek with his sleeve.
“Search in my bag,” She began after a few moments, still slurring over her words. “There are painkiller capsules.”
Tazaro searched the littered contents of Sheeva’s bag, finding a beaten, weathered satchel. He opened it and peered inside. The energy cubes she had were mixed with small, green chunks of what he assumed were the items in question. He fished for two of the painkiller capsules along with a few cubes, two for her and two for himself.
He reached under her neck and supported her as she struggled to sit up with only her left arm. Her fist balled up and gripped her pants as she forced herself to breathe through the mind-numbing pain. She groaned in pain, and her head lolled aside in exhaustion. Tazaro moved Sheeva to cradle against his chest and allowed her to rest her head against his shoulder for comfort, ignoring the sweat that covered the nape of his neck from her brow.
He crushed the capsules and cubes as well as he could with his fingers so that she did not have to worry about chewing them and held the stuff to her mouth, followed by her water pouch. She drank deeply before giving a muffled sound to signal she was done. Tazaro popped the two cubes he grabbed for himself and chewed them slowly, then took a small sip, wanting to save as much water as he could for her.
Pained sighs and eventually even breaths were the only sound between them while they waited for the medicine to kick in and do its work.
“You need to anchor the wing in place so that I do not move it.” She mumbled.
“What do I do?” Tazaro asked, reaching for the bandages. For as thankful as Tazaro was that Vincent taught him some basic things, Vincent was not a veterinarian.
“Tuck it in. Wrap around the joint of the wing. Cross the bandages over and under.” She explained, trying to demonstrate the pattern with her finger. Gently he traced his finger on her wing in the direction he thought she meant. She nodded, taking in a sharp breath and grimacing as he grabbed the second limb and guided the feathers down and across her back, holding it in place to firmly wrap the bandages around the joint like she told him to.
“Once more. Have to restrain it more. Across the chest. Like you would for a sling.”
He followed her order and strapped the wing down, joint resting by her right shoulder, wrapping bandages around her left shoulder and under her right armpit. When he was done, she went to lean back. He shuffled her bag further underneath her back to prop her up and avoid lying on her injured wing.
“How did it happen, your mother’s death?” Sheeva asked. Tazaro scowled, turned his back on her, and wrapped his knees to his chest, setting his forehead on them. She listened to him cry, reminding herself to not blame him, as she had done the same for Rose. Months passed before she finally stopped crying. She anticipated Tazaro mourning for months, too.
“He…he snapped her neck,” He answered. “I-I stabbed him in the shoulder, and it didn’t even phase him. He did something to me–tied me up, or something. He made me watch.”
She felt her stomach drop, previously hoping he had not witnessed it. At least she had gone quickly, and Tazaro had not been forced to watch the light and sorrow fade from her eyes.
“It was quick, then. I’m...I’m so sorry. I...fought so hard, Tazaro. He is beyond my skill. I, I failed.”
He turned to her, amazed and speechless. Tazaro was unsure how he felt at the moment, still in shock, but as the tense frown grew on his face, he vaguely understood that he did not blame her. She had been unconscious, for fuck’s sake. If she had not been knocked out, he severely doubted her ability to even move. There would have been no way for her to come to their aid.
A ‘blip’ caught his attention, and he jerked his head up as panic prickled through his skin. Bartholomew’s tall stature made its appearance, and as the creature seemed to casually stroll closer to them, Tazaro stood sharply to glare at him.
“You! You fucking bastard, where were you?” He barked. Bartholomew stopped, confused at first, then crossed his arms and scowled. His tail flicked behind him in annoyance, much like a cat’s as he refused an answer.
“That guy kicked our ass; he killed my mother–You’re a powerful thing! Couldn’t you have done something?” Tazaro exploded, charging forth to stick his face in the Ta’hal’s…at least, as well as he could, being nearly two feet shorter than the beast of legend.
“No,” Bartholomew simply replied, teal eyes leering down at Tazaro as his maw dropped in a frown. Yellowing fangs peeked out from beneath his lips as they curled in further disappointment.
Furious at the creature’s lack of sympathy, Tazaro tried to tackle the beast to the ground. However, his breath caught in his chest as his body became ice-cold and numb as he fell straight through, clambering to the ground into a shivering heap.
“I have a reason for saying no: as you have just learned, I lack a physical body.” When he looked at Sheeva, Bartholomew winced. “I see you survived. How fortunate, or maybe, unfortunate.”
Sheeva didn’t acknowledge him and stared at the firepit, thinking.
I…I honestly don’t know.
Bartholomew crossed his arms. He would consider healing her out of pity if he had an entity. Belias might be grateful for the fact, but without a physical presence, he could do nothing.
Unwilling to entertain darkening thoughts, Sheeva scanned the fortress foyer while contemplating their next move. She could hardly move, and by the time she was ready to, Mildred’s body would begin to decompose, attracting scavengers. Mildred had not done any physical fighting, but she fought for them with words.
Sheeva gave a small smile in thanks.
“We should give her a warrior’s funeral. A cremation.” Sheeva announced. She watched Tazaro turn to her, then turn his back on her.
“I would rather bury her.” He countered.
“If we had the privilege, I would. But we have neither a shovel nor the time to get Mildred’s body back to Roussel safely.” Sheeva answered, trying to exercise patience. “This is the most respectful thing we can do for her.”
Tazaro took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly, admitting she was probably right.
He got to his feet, headed for the woodpile next to the smithing area, gathered some, and began to set up a funeral pyre in the pit.
"If I could move, I would help you." Sheeva offered.
“Even if you could move, I can’t let you do that. I will do it myself!” He growled.
“Damn it, Tazaro!” She barked, then winced in pain as the wound on her chest ached.
Tazaro stopped, surprised into silence.
“Mildred was a good woman to me. I…” She paused to find the words to say. “I cared about her. This hurts me too.” She told him. “She encouraged me to think better of myself. She was the first person in a long time to see who I was, not what. I’ll…I will always be grateful for that,” She admitted. “Don’t…think I take her death lightly.”
He felt his tension drain and crossed his arms, uncomfortable with his rude self in response to her good intentions. With a relenting sigh, he scratched at the tickle of embarrassment on the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry," He apologized.
Sheeva shook her head.
"I...get it. Believe me, I-I get it," She replied, absent gaze dropping to her hands, folded in her lap. She let her head lie back against the bag as she felt her face burn and her eyes well with tears, which spilled out onto her temples as she fought not to cry in front of him.
Tazaro focused on gathering enough wood for a proper, effective cremation, stacking and arranging them in the pit. As he stooped and picked up his mother's body, then set her upon the leveled stack, he took a moment to position her in a peaceful, slumbering pose, trying not to think about how disturbingly cold her flesh was.
Although she had already shown him once after they had both awoken after Llyud's ambush in the clearing, Sheeva patiently drew Tazaro the sigil for her fire-breathing spell with a piece of charcoal and a shaky hand. She readily encouraged him to cast it, curious to know if he could handle such magic.
After all, Sheeva had lit Rose’s pyre and decided the ritual would be the same for him. If he could not manage such magic right away, she still had flint and tinder he could use.
Tazaro returned from the field outside the fortress and walked to the mound of firewood to set a bouquet of wildflowers in his mother's hands. He didn't know what kind of flowers they were, but he felt his mother wouldn't have cared if she were still alive.
“Goodbye, Mom. I-I love you.” He took a few steps back and traced the seals for the fire spell that Sheeva taught him. He drew in some breath and spat out a wispy, weak fire as he blew at the stacked tinder, bracken, and wood.
A massive, body-length tingle and instant fatigue-and-chill of his body followed, and he took a knee, not expecting such a thing. The kindling caught fire, and he forced himself to his feet to step away from the heat of the flame. He sat down by Sheeva, took the section of the blanket she offered, and stared at the fire. Neither said a word as they watched the body burn. Hot tears dripped down his face, and she could see him trembling as he tried again to keep himself in check, likely embarrassed.
"Allow yourself to mourn. Cry when you need to. Smile when you want to. You'll regret it if you don't. The emotional pain will...fester and embitter you." Sheeva insisted, wiping at some tears of her own. She turned her gaze to the fire as he broke, holding his head in his hands.
Sheeva reflected on Rose's cremation, scoffing at her melodramatic self; she had chopped off all of her hair in a fury and almost lost Rose’s ribbon to the rising flame. She sighed and reached for his right hand with her unbroken left. It was chilled and trembling but came to life and squeezed hers tightly in appreciation as he weaved their fingers together and clutched it.
“Tell me, Tazaro: what’s your favorite memory of your mother?”
And so, he kept away the silence with tales and memories from his childhood, falling silent when Sheeva’s head drooped against his shoulder. Tazaro glanced, finding she had fallen asleep, and felt relief, then attempted to shuffle her against her bag and drape her blanket over her in gratitude.