Callisto

Bond

"It is good you have awoken," he said. "It shamed me to use a warrior's weapon. Take this thing from my unworthy hands."

He held her bone knife to her with both hands, head bowed and supplicant. She blushed, despite herself.

"Thank you, brother," she replied, taking the knife with a shaking hand.

"No thank," he said, placing both his palms on his knees and gripping them as though he stood before a God. "You have returned my life to me."

"But I delivered it with this thing of death," she said.

"That is the way of things," he replied. He looked at her this time; his eyes were two ashen clouds set deep within a blank canvas. She knew there was a sadness within them beyond any she had ever comprehended.

"A life for a life," he continued. "That is the way of things, sister. You free me, and you avenge the spirit of my bonded. No more shall she weep for me, or I for her. I thank you, but I cannot rejoice. I must offer my final prayers for her and let her soul fly to the Great Spirit."

Rain-Born only nodded solemnly. It was strange – she had not been gone from her home for long but already felt that the farmer"s slow rate of speech, coupled with his supplication and dark tone, felt so alien and unreal. She was so used to Jespar's quick wit and snappy conversation. She found herself fumbling, unsure of how to even speak with this one who had surely gone through as much pain as any being on this dry earth could sustain.

"I will re-dress your wound," he went on. "Then you must rest."

She watched him gather his materials and start removing and applying a new bandage. His hands were firm yet gentle—the hands of both a farmer and a soft spirit.

"The luck of the Great Spirit was on your side, sister," he said as he worked. "The Deathspitter's tooth did not cut deep."

So he had brought her back from the brink of what she thought was surely death. She wondered if there was truly such a thing as luck left in this world. Surely, the Great Spirit had not decided her time was over if he had brought this one to her - a farmer and a healer both. That was no common combination among the Hanakh.

"I am called Rain-Born," she said suddenly. "What are you called, brother?"

He considered the question with a short pause. It was almost as if he had forgotten his name entirely, and he brought the tips of his fingers to the eagle tattoo on his temple as though trying to will the moniker back into existence. Then with the finality of a thundercrack, it struck him, and he said it with pride:

"I am called Weeping-Ash."

She nodded gravely. He was no mere farmer, then, for those imbued with the "-Ash" suffix of the Hanakh were trained in ceremonial burial and communion with the dead. It was rare for a farmer – a land man – to be so preoccupied with such affairs of the spirit.

She watched him go to gather more bandages from where Jespar was resting. He reached for them sheepishly, trying not to disturb the sleeping hound. Whether through respect or fear, she did not know.

As she watched him apply the dressing, trying to stop herself from gasping at the sensitivity of her shoulder, a thought suddenly entered her mind.

"How long did I sleep for?" she asked.

"Three suns have set since you freed me, sister Rain-Born."

She slumped back, numb. She barely even felt the pain that welled up as her wound was bound – the mark of her weakness. And her defeat.

"Then I have failed," she said.

The farmer called Weeping-Ash looked up at her.

"Four days have passed, and I do not have what Father-Mother seeks," she explained, through lips dust-caked and worn.