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A Beautiful Sunrise

Daichi sat on the bank of the river, his hands soaked in blood, the remnants of lives that had chosen to be extinguished. His uniform, as protected as it could be with chemicals to prevent staining, was also saturated in the vicera of the former Adarkim warriors he had dispatched only a few moments before. He hadn’t wanted a conflict today, of all days, he had just wanted to remember her, to sit with her for as long as the Qestir would let him in that yurt. A few measely hours… but late was late all the same. She had passed in the night. He was called when her condition had worsened and even with all the effort he could muster, he was still not able to beat time. No one could, but she had for a while.

The hours dragged on as he sat kneeling beside her, cold lavender hand in his pale white ones, staring at her face, peaceful and quiet. There was a scent of sage and incense that wafted about the space. Rituals performed, rites given, words and sentiment uttered and lost to the winds. He had shed no tears, but his face paint was still smudged. The glinting silver of his gaze studied her countenance, how fiery she had been, how full of life… she blazed brighter than any sun, and glowed more purely than even the moon herself. The woman who had crawled through the muck, filth, and blood to birth him in the destroyed hovel that had once been her home. The one who would never give up, the one who gave him and nurtured his own spark.

There had been voices outside the tent, he could hear them loud and clear. Even if it was Reunion, the Adarkim would have their quarry and their satisfaction. No Avagnar could be suffered to live, and when he was done, he would walk outside the gates, and let them have their chance. They were arguing with the silent ones, the fear was still there, a tinge of it in their voices no matter how hard they tried to hide it. They knew of him, his reputation, the myth of the Ghost of the Avagnar, the Banshee in the night, the one they told witches tales to their children about. His face broke for but a second before he placed his serious mask back on, and let her hand go for the last time. She was gone, the vessel was empty and all that was left was a husk. Her spirit had been claimed by the Dusk Mother and she was home in the life stream once again. Her death had been put off into old age, the very people from the tribe who had tried to take if from her were outside right now. If death was what they wanted, death is what they would receive.

Daichi was no stranger to death, he had made a successful business of it. Honed his skills against the westerners, the easterners and in every land between There were a half dozen major political incidents that had no explanation, the pale specter that drifted in where none should be able to enter, dignitaries perished, priests wavered in their faith before choking on their lifeblood, none were safe from the man made of nothing who came from nowhere.

He turned to his right where a severed head had been laying on its side, blood spilling out from the neck, a fat tongue lolling out between bloodied teeth and lips. He reached over to set it upright in the now rising sunlight. Daichi positioned the head so that it could see the morning sun come as he watched it slowly float up from behind the mountains that surrounded the Steppe. “One should be so lucky to witness a sunrise like this one, my friend”, he said with a cheerful tone, one not usual in his cadence of speech, a swathe of sarcasm slapped all over it. He leaned over while cupping his horn with his bloodied hand as if to hear the voices of the dead. “What was that my cousin? Indeed, the sky is very red.” He looked down to his hands, implements of death, the both of them. He rubbed the rusty fluid between forefinger and thumb and grimaced. He felt an immediate desire to be free of this filth. “I guess it’s true what they say about the red sun in the morning, it calls the dead of he damned to Azim.” A wide smile slashed across his blood covered face as he snickered at the dozen dead that lay around him.

He sat there for a few moments and contemplated what to do next. With a sigh, he pushed himself up using only his legs, he went from his seated position to standing and made his way down to the creek where he began to wash his hands. As he watched the red flow off his skin and down stream, he hummed a lullaby his mother sang when he was a child.

Nhaama can you hear me?

Protect me, your light upon my skin

The seekers are coming,

Keep safe my kith and kin.

Hide us in the darkest shadows,

Or we shall tremble in Azim’s light

Our time has come now

To blend, or flee, or fight.

Run brothers and sisters,

To cover of twilight and obscurity

Find your peace, love, life,

But none of these are for me.