Page 58 of Blood Fist
It didn’t stop screaming, the pitch only increasing with the power of the wind. Ridan didn’t flinch, standing tall as his hair and cloak whipped back. Even as he rocked on his heels, he didn’t shy away, lifting his chin in defiance. His eyes were nearly closed, blonde lashes fluttering.
Reaching into his bag, Ridan pulled out a clay pot. It was clearly Shesto’s finest work, painted meticulously to depict scenes from Chief Restrina’s life—her giant feather earrings, the weapon she carried into battle, teeth, and even some of the scars that cut across her skin. Brune didn’t know what they all meant, but he didn’t have to. They weren’t for him.
Holding the pot in his hands, Ridan stared down at the cork top, fingernail scratching at the wax. His lips were pressed together in a tight line when he lifted the pot and threw it.
The work of art sailed across the chasm, tumbling before it crashed to the other side. Breaking clay joined the shrieking winds as Chief Restrina’s ashes were caught, carried up into the air.
Brune watched as they dispersed, caught on the screaming currents. Lofted higher and higher until they disappeared from sight.
A second scream joined the wind. Ridan tipped his head back, eyes closed, as he released his battle cry. Hands twisting in his shirt, he dropped to his knee as he continued. Brune shivered.
With the fading sun reflecting in his eyes and the painted sky dripping its colors onto his blonde hair, Ridan’s anguish, mourning, pain, longing, all came out from between bared teeth and twisted lips. Ridan screamed for his mother. He screamed for his clan. He screamed for himself.
And suddenly, Brune understood.
Grief was beautiful. It was raw and jagged, powerful enough to rip the earth asunder but as delicate as the whiskers on a kitten. It wasn’t tangible. Brune couldn’t touch it, yet he felt it as a blow to his chest.
It was beautiful because it meant there was a time before. A time when things were so sweet. A joy comparable to the pain. Somethingtomourn.
Fat tears streaked down his cheeks, and he let them fall. Let them drop to the dusty red rock beneath his feet and stain his shirt. He cried for Chief Restrina, who had given him so much. For the clan who had welcomed him like a lost brother. For the blonde boy in front of him who had lost his mother and gained a responsibility too big for his shoulders.
And maybe he cried for the little boy who never understood grief because he never had anything to mourn.
With tears clouding his vision, he stepped up beside Ridan, joining him on his knees. Inhaling deeply, he let his own screams join Ridan’s. With emotion clogging his throat, he took Ridan’s hand, tipped his head back, and screamed. He screamed for them all.
Fingers tightened around his hand, holding onto him like a lifeline as their screams were caught on the shrieking winds and lifted to the summit.
Like that, Chief Restrina passed in the only way she would want. Loudly.
The stars were sparkling in the sky before Ridan spoke again. His voice was rough—cracked and hoarse. Brune had to lean close to hear him, but that was fine. Thenight was cold, and warmth seeped down his arm every time their shoulders brushed.
With the mountain behind them, they were heading towards home in no rush. The previous journey had exhausted them, but there was an unspoken agreement to continue. To let the remaining grief and pain follow them like a shadow.
“She taught me to ride,” Ridan said. “She taught me a lot of things, most things really, but that was the…I think it was the first.”
Brune smiled at the thought of little Ridan sitting astride a big horse, his legs too short to drape along its sides so they stuck straight out.
It was like the screams had ripped out all his apprehension. The ragged wounds left in his throat bore confessions rather than blood, and as they walked, he spoke of his parents. Of how his father was so gentle, how his mother wilted under his soft stares. How his father would beg Chief Restrina to tell them stories, like he was the child and not Ridan, and she would. How his mother would become insufferable during her ruts, pacing all around their tent until it reeked of territorial alpha, and her mate would have to lie over her in the nest, telling Ridan to take an arm so she would finally relax and sleep under the comforting weight of her family.
He told him how Restrina, younger than Ridan was now, killed an adult Tetratorn. She plucked its feathers and wore them in her ears ever since. How during her reign, she doubled the Stone Blade’s land, and the clan never knew a starving winter.
He told him about his family name, Oldsun, and how it was Chief Restrina’s ancestor who earned the name. She was born moments before the time when the moon ate the sun. The land darkened as her first screamsrent the air, and by the time she was settled at her dam’s breast, the moon had spit it back out, unable to handle the heat.
Ridan’s rough voice was laced with emotion, tender and brittle as the first frost. He didn’t shy away from Brune’s brushing shoulders, seeming to lean into him as the dark sky finally began to lighten and the clans’ fires could be seen in the distance. It was a rawness Brune had never seen in Ridan, a moment of vulnerability as rare as seeing a sunset in Kaledonea.
His heart clenched and looking down at Ridan’s drawn face, he remembered his last conversation with Chief Restrina.
You’re kind. He will need that.
At the time, he hadn’t known what she meant. Now he did.
Ridan needed a shield. Not just from steel and claw, but from himself. From the weight of expectations.
Just as the last stars were fading, he stopped. They were close enough to the clan to smell their cook fires. Ridan looked at him in confusion.
Nerves stilled his tongue, but the drive in his heart was greater. Swallowing, Brune dropped to a knee in front of Ridan.
“I, Brune, Son of Somebody, vow on the dawning of this new day to be your shadow. To follow you as the sun follows the sky. To protect your back so that you may always look forward.” He swallowed, looking up into Ridan’s eyes. He held them.