A soft touch against his cheek broke him from his thoughts and he flinched, jerking back from it. S’aahiri was quick to hide the hurt that flashed across her face, but not so fast that he didn’t catch it before her hand fell away.

“We’ll be with you every step of the way, Shi. You’re not alone.”

“Thank you. Both of you.”

And he meant it. They had both always come through for him. From lying to cover for him when he’d hidden nettles in the bed of his Spearmaster after a brutal day out on the ice as a child, all the way to refusing to leave his back when they had been separated from their group and attacked by plainswolves; S’aahiri and Mura had been better friends than he ever could have hoped to find.

But for all their support and kindness, it didn’t ease the constant, cruel ache inside him. He needed more than anything else in the world to sit down with his father again, to ask for his help, for his guidance just one more time. To hear that the man he had respected above any other still believed in him.

Never again would any of those things happen, and deep down in his very core, T’aakshi knew it was his fault.

Thankfully, since T’aakshi had last ventured outside of his home, most folk had moved on with their lives enough that there weren’t a half-dozen prying eyes waiting for him. Despite that, he couldn’t help the hesitance in his movements as he followed his two friends across the threshold of his home and into the outside world.

The midday sun shone high in cloudless skies, its light striking the densely packed snow piled either side of the dirt paths that wound through the village, forcing him to squint to see through the glare. The hunt had clearly been a successful one. He could hear the cheery sound of the tribe gathering around the kill and beginning to eat coming from the direction of the shrine.

“Catching flies, Shi?” S’aahiri asked from several feet ahead, grinning. Both she and Mura had turned back, waiting for him to actually move.

He cursed under his breath and hurried after them, and the three set off at a leisurely pace towards the village shrine. The dirt path they followed had to be dug out of the snow, often daily, and it meandered gently through a mix of rounded huts draped with animal hide to keep the wind and moisture out, and more permanent, pinewood houses. They reserved these sturdier and warmer dwellings for the more experienced hunters and their families, like his father had been.

As they walked, the tension in T’aakshi’s muscles gradually eased. He was still not comfortable, but the feeling of being on the verge of a fit of panicked, gasping breaths had subsided, and with most folk gathered in one place, he even began to enjoy the trip.

“So,” he started, “how are both of you holding up?”

Mura snorted. “I reckon you’ve got enough to be dealing with, without worrying about us, Shi.”

“Exactly,” S’aahiri echoed. “What kind of siblings would we be if we let you worry about us at a time like this?”

“That’s why I ask, though. We might not share blood, but you two are family. It isn’t as though he was just some stranger to you both.”

“We’re fine, Shi,” S’aahiri said, glancing towards him. “We grieve — of course we do. But he was your father, Shi. You and your family were there for us after — well, when we needed you most. Shut it and let us return the favour.”

T’aakshi frowned, but said nothing. He couldn’t really argue, not when he had caught her slip and had seen her hand reach for where the knife she usually kept tucked in her belt would normally be, only to fall away when it wasn’t there. It had been her mother’s knife, but now it lived in S’aahiri’s belt instead, cared for fastidiously but, to his knowledge, never used.

They continued to walk towards the busy noise of the village shrine, the excited chatter of hunt-sharing building in his ears like a gathering storm. For the first time, he noticed mourning candles lit in the doorways of homes, still burning for his father and the others, and the noise of them joined the howling of the distant crowd in his brain. T’aakshi’s chest tightened, and as the shrine came into view, he felt his breathing quicken through already clenched teeth.

His friends moved closer as they reached the shrine entrance, one beside each of his shoulders. Mura nodded at him, and he heard S’aahiri’s voice, quiet but firm beside him.

“We’re here. You’ve got this, Shi.”

The raging storm inside of his head calmed enough for him to take control of his panicked breathing, at least a little. Several deep breaths later, he knew he was as ready as he could be.

“Thanks, you two. Let’s get this over and done with.”

He stepped forward, past the two piles of rounded grey stones clad in white prayer flags that marked the entrance to his tribe’s shrine to Ai’nou, the God of the Hunt; and started on the winding path up the hill to the shrine proper, where the rest of the Su’roi would be gathered.

Deep snow lay across the hill on either side of the path, covering what would be, in spring, one of the few places in Tagaya where flowers grew in abundance. Sheets of purples, pinks and yellows would to smother the hill just as soon as the thawing snows allowed any light to reach the floor in a display of colour so vibrant, T’aakshi’s ancestors had thought this place touched by the Gods themselves.

It was why game was brought here to be shared. Food was provided by the Gods, and the essence of it would be returned to them here to ensure more would be provided. It was also why his father’s ashes had been scattered here — to return him to the embrace of the Gods.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

T’aakshi had still been unconscious when they had burned and scattered his father, and this would be the first time he had been here since.

Soon, they reached the crest of the hill and found themselves on the outside of the throng of people. Happy chatter and occasional laughter buzzed through his ears, and T’aakshi fought the urge to clench his fists. He knew his anger was unreasonable. A successful hunt was a joyous occasion for the entire tribe, and death was simply another part of life in on the plains. T’aakshi himself was just as accustomed as anybody else to folk he’d known his entire life not returning from hunts, or passing in the night from some illness or other.

But this was different. This was his father. Their chief. A man who had led them through some of the most difficult times in living memory. That people could still laugh and celebrate with him gone was—

A hand touched his forearm, and T’aakshi jerked towards S’aahiri, her face set in a slight frown. Belatedly, he realised he had failed to stop himself from clenching his fists, and had been holding them so tight they shook.

“They all seem to move on so damned fast,” she murmured, eyes looking out across the crowd. “All the laughter, even just how they’re all able to just feel normal — makes me want to hit something.”

T’aakshi sighed. “I know it shouldn’t make me angry. I just—” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulders helplessly.

“How could they all just move on when your whole world’s been ripped to pieces?”

“Pretty much.”

“Gods, Shi — you remember how angry I was. Angry’s normal. You’ve done well not throwing yourself at anybody who dares to smile in front of you.”

“In your defence, you were just a kid,” T’aakshi said as they made their way through the crowd, trying not to draw attention.

S’aahiri turned to him, a smirk on her face. “I’d do the same damned things all over again if I were in your shoes and you know it.”

“Poor Mura.”

She snorted, and the din of emotion in T’aakshi’s head grew quieter still. He really did have the best friends. Mura had moved ahead of them, parting the crowd just enough as he walked that T’aakshi and S’aahiri could walk through without too much trouble.

Around them, he could see people talking with friends and family as they waited for their share of the hunt. Skins filled with a deep red liquid had made it to the back of the crowd and were being passed around those waiting and poured into ceramic cups. The hunters themselves will have had their fill first, to warm them after their trip into the frigid wastes and replenish their strength.

Sure enough, as they reached their place on the hilltop — as hunters themselves, the three of them could take what they needed after the successful party, but before the rest of the tribe — T’aakshi could see a circle of a dozen men around half as many dead seal on the floor. Two men, former hunters now too old to venture out themselves, crouched over the kills, bleeding the seals into hide skins to be passed around fresh for drinking.

The hunting party laughed and drank from their own skins, the sealblood stark against their tan and white fur clothes. In between sips of sealblood, they crouched down, carving off chunks of fresh meat with belt knives, eating them there on the spot.

T’aakshi?”

He jolted as his name was spoken by a voice that belonged to somebody other than his two companions and turned to face it. A woman, her hair as white as snow and framing a leathery face, met his gaze. She seemed to smile at him straight from her eyes, radiating genuine delight at seeing him, even if her mouth itself didn’t show it. Her hand curled into a fist, and she moved to place it against her heart but stopped herself halfway. Instead, she raised up her hand and cupped his cheek.

“I should say the words, but I’d guess you want to hear them even less than I can stand to say them yet again.”

T’aakshi smiled at the woman who had taught him to read — a rare skill among his tribe. “It’s good to see you, S’aarasu”

“And you, boy. Here,” she said, offering him a mug of crimson liquid. “Get this down you. You look all skin and bones.”

He thought about protesting, but quickly thought better of it and took the proffered cup and took a long sip. He had still yet to see anybody win an argument with the elder woman. The blood was still warm, and the rich taste of seal meat flooded his mouth, with just the barest hint of a coppery tang. S’aarasu nodded approvingly as he swallowed, her eyes on him as though he were a fussy infant.

“Thank you, S’aarasu. This is the first time I’ve had anything but water since—” he hesitated, and the woman’s hawk-like gaze eased. “Well, since my last hunt.”

S’aarasu frowned for a moment, and then nodded. “That won’t do, boy. If you aren’t up to making it to the sharing, I’ll see that you’re at least getting enough to drink. The summons should already be here, you can’t afford—”

T’aakshi heard the splintering of the cup against the floor before he registered the swiping blow that had taken it out of his hands. A hulking figure staggered its way in front of S’aarasu and before he could react, had its hand around his throat. Reflexively, he tried to gasp at the shock, but couldn’t take in any air.

He swiped and claw at the arm that held him, its owner swaying slightly on the spot as though he were a boat on the ocean, but the grip on him was iron-wrought. T’aakshi tried to get a look at who held him, but already world was spinning and he could feel the strength draining from his flailing arms.

“How dare you show your face here—” the figure, a man with a voice he knew, spat.

“Let him go!”

That voice had been S’aahiri’s. The man spun to face her and the grip loosened just enough that T’aakshi could heave in several wonderful, pained breaths. His vision came back into focus. The man had drawn his knife and had it aimed unsteadily at S’aahiri’s throat. Now he could half-breathe again, the stench of alcohol flooding from the man filled his lungs.

“You weren’t there, girl—you didn’t see! He stood there! Watched as the bastard thing cut his father down!”

The man span back towards him, and pressed the blade into his throat. It was T’aarak, a veteran of the hunt. T’aarak brought his face in, close enough that T’aakshi could taste the booze on his breath.

“Didn’t you, boy? Stood there pissing your britches as your father died, even with all that power at your fingertips? How many died that you could have saved? I ought to cut your throat here and now. ”

The blade pressed deeper into his throat, burning as it broke skin. T’aakshi shut his eyes tight, the screaming in his brain back to the raging torrent it had been before. He was right. It was my fault — I froze. And now—

The grip around his throat disappeared, and he opened his eyes tentatively. T’aarak had sunk to his knees and his belt knife clattered to the floor, the noise ringing around the dead-silent shrine. Tears streamed down his face, and the veteran that T’aakshi had practically worshipped as a boy crumbled at his feet, sobbing desperately into trembling hands.

“I—” Breathing was harder now than it had been with the man’s hand squeezing the life from him. Every eye was on him. Every one of them had heard what T’aarak had said. They all knew now, if they hadn’t already. He was the reason their loved ones hadn’t returned. Why they no longer had a chief. Him and his cowardice.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his own tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry!”

T’aakshi did all he could think of. He ran.