[RP] The Sound That Mamas Make
So this one is a bit personal to me. Because of that, I’ve written it far more stream of consciousness than I usually do and have proofed it far less. If things seem a little messy, that’s why—but I didn’t and don’t want to dilute it by polishing it too much. We’ll see if that pays off.
Revantusk Village
Taz pushed himself to his feet and wandered away from the tent flap, pointedly ignoring the sobs and torrent of apologies pouring forth from the boy inside. He longed to reassure Juzmik, to comfort him—loa knew that Yarbo wouldn’t be able to. But if the boy was going to be a man, and if that man was the Chief that would lead the Warband through whatever hell the burning Legion had in store for them…then he couldn’t coddle. Juzmik wasn’t his son—he was the Warband’s leader. Their Chief. And while Taz would always stand by him, and be there to advise, and share whatever burdens came to bear…the fact was, there was only one Chief. And the Chief would have to do things far more painful and more difficult than if he was going to be worthy—truly worthy—of the title.
His resolution waivered the moment the boy walked out of Yarbo’s hut, red-eyed and ashen faced. He rested a hand on Juzmik’s shoulder and said quietly, “you don’t have to go. I can tell them,” as he gazed across the grassy knoll at Rasek’s childhood home.
Taz’s heart leaped with pride as Juzmik shook his head silently, and nodded towards the hut. He knows, Taz thought, taking a deep, steadying breath as he swallowed the sudden and rather large lump in his throat as they began to walk. He doesn’t know. But he knows what has to be done.
He squeezed Juzmik’s shoulder again, before pausing at the door to smooth invisible wrinkles from his unusually impeccably laundered tabard, and to brush off imaginary specs of dust. He glanced at Juzmik and smiled, just a little—the boy had the same idea. “Okay,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “Here we go. Stay with me, Juz.”
He knocked once, and the door was almost immediately opened by an elderly, white-haired woman. From the quick wince and drop of Juzmik’s eyes, it could only be Rasek’s mother. “Juzmik?” she asked, smiling but clearly curious. “And…a friend. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Nah…” Juzmik began. “Hey, Zoti. Well eh. We were. In the neighborhood. We were here in Revantusk and we…”
“Ma’am. …Could we come in, please?” He tried to smile, couldn’t, and settled for a stiffly professional nod instead.
“OH—of course. Forgive my manners. Come inside and sit. I’ll get you boys a bowl of stew; it’s fresh off the fire.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, ma’am,” Taz said, ducking inside the hut and taking a seat on a bench in front of the hearth fire. Juzmik took the seat beside him, breathing deeply and steadily.
“Don’t be silly. Boys are always hungry, especially ones back from war. You’re here to share your stories and show off your scars I’ll be bound—the Warband’s been doing that in my house since before they were the Warband, you know. Yarbo and Rasek would spend all day outside fighting like little raptor pups, then come inside and brag about who had the biggest cut, whose bruise was darker than whose, which of them had lost the most blood—” She laughed, a high, shrill sound without a hint of true mirth or memory under it. The stew bowl in her hand continued to fill, mechanically, and by now the fishy broth simply sloshed over the top and back into the pot with each ladle full.
“What are you doing here?” The voice was deep, and icy calm. Taz’s head jerked up to meet the eyes of a large Amani troll standing in a bedroom doorway. “Juzmik? Who is this? And why are you here?”
Juzmik swallowed hard, glancing up and giving the man a ghastly smile before dropping his eyes again. “Hey Azibo. We’re just here talking about… Oh, this’s Taz’jin, he’s my—he’s a—the Warband’s General, and…”
Azibo’s eyes narrowed as he eyed the Darkspear, and the reassurance of Taz’s Warband membership didn’t cause him to relax in the slightest. “That’s one question. But I ask again: why are you here? And why are you upsetting my wife?”
“Sir.” Taz stood, giving the man a deep nod and trying very hard not to glance to the side, to the image of Rasek’s mother frozen now over the kettle of fish. “You’re Rasek’s father?”
“Who are you, and why. Are you in. My house.”
Taz opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut as Juzmik spoke. “Azibo…Zoti… Ras…he didn’t make it. Home. From the Shore. Rasek’s d—”
Bowl clattered against pot as it fell to the ground and splintered, hot soup sloshing everywhere. Taz was there in a moment, grabbing Zoti by the shoulders and guiding her away from the burning liquid seeping around the hearth. Azibo was there before he could lead her to a seat, elbowing Taz aside and taking her arm as she wailed, an eerie, quiet sound meant only for herself.
She collapsed onto the floor, immovable in her grief. Azibo simply crouched beside her, rocking gently as she buried her face into his chest, and fixed the two Wathans with his unchanging, frozen glare. “How?”
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so so sorry— The thought flashed quickly through Taz’s head as he look at Juzmik. The boy’s eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was biting his lip; it was taking everything he had to hold himself together. “We…we don’t know, sir. He led the charge out of the boat, we know that. He was separated from us in the melee—”
“Why. Did you let my boy get separated from you?”
Taz swallowed hard. “…The last reports we know about refer to him fighting a demon—a shivarrah—”
“Why didn’t the person making these reports help him instead of writing it down?”
“He’s been put in for an award. With the Horde itself. And sir, I want to express my deepest—”
“I. Don’t. Care.” The man’s voice remained quiet, barely raised enough to be heard over the screams of his wife as he rocked her and ran a hand down her hair over and over and over. Do you have children, Darkspear?”
Yes, Taz wanted to answer. Yes. Hundreds and hundreds of boys and girls have been my children. I raised them from clumsy, fearful things afraid of their own shadows to fine warriors that stood against the Naga, the Illidari, the scourge and the Lich King himself. I watched dozens of them die with my own eyes. I held their hands as Papa Samdi claimed them, and spoke empty words of comfort as they begged to see parents that were not me. I said the blessings, led the services, I buried them, and every single time I swore it would never happen again. And every single time it was a lie.
But his tongue, because it did not have the language to express what he was feeling in a way that wouldn’t be insulting, simply answered, “No.”
Azibo nodded, almost to himself. “I thought not. I thought not.” His gaze broke from Taz’s for the first time, and he reached out a free hand to touch an old, weathered stick sitting in a shadowed corner, with hook and line tied tightly, but inexpertly, to the end. “Do you know what this is, Darkspear General?” He pulled it from the corner, hand running down the pole almost thoughtfully as he looked back at Taz. “Do you?”
Taz shook his head, and Juzmik’s breath hitched in a silent sob as he looked up, and then away again. “No sir. I don’t.”
“This is his fishing rod. His first. It’s a piece of !@#$, you know; he carved it out when he was five. I let him use my knife to do it. For his birthday, you know. He never caught a damn thing with it; was a piece of junk, but he tried. He tried…” Azibo’s grip on the flimsy stick tightened effortlessly, and there was a sudden SNAP as the pole shattered in half.
Juzmik was on his feet almost instantly, mouth wide with horror as he wiped his eyes. He stepped forward, as if to pick up the pieces and put them back together (somehow), but the firm hand of his General on his shoulder stopped him, and he turned, pleading. “But Taz—Ras’s stick—”
“I know. ...I know. Let it go, Juz. Let it go.”
“But—”
“Please. Chief. Let it go.”
A rub of his face, a small nod, and Juzmik straightened again, and turned around. “The…the Warband will share more with you as soon as we know, and…when the…the body’s been collected…you’ll be the first to…know.”
“Get out.”
“Zebo—”
“I don’t. Care. Out.”
Taz stepped back, motioning Juzmik to the door with a discreet nod of his head. The boy—his Chief—looked torn for a moment; there was so much more that needed to be said, and the ache to do something, anything was so strong…but trust was stronger, and he walked through the hut’s door with nothing more than a final, formal salute to the pair sitting on the floor, still rocking, and now silent.
