Callisto

Chosen

Rain-Born bowed once and turned her face from the great Elder, who had closed their eyes and resumed their eternal meditation, breathing in the coiled smoke from the flames surrounding their ancient form. Rain-Born left the tent with a heavy heart, her feet leaden as she walked the Path of shame she paved with her unworthy feet. It was all she could do to only allow her tears of anger and wails of frustration to fall only when she reached her tent.

From the shadows of the Great One's tent, Ragged-Brow watched her go, scoffing in distaste. He was about to follow when the voice of the Hanakh itself deemed to speak with him:

"You do not like her."

He came forward and bowed before Father-Mother, only electing to look into their open eyes just a second in recognition of the truth they saw.

"She is brash, arrogant, and disrespectful," he all but spat. "She brings dishonor before the Gods."

"You mean to speak for them?"

"No, Father-Mother. I –"

"Have you communed with the spirits, Ragged-Brow of the Hawk? Is the Path you walk that of Ash? Have you cast off your wings and forgotten the vow you swore to us as a child?"

"No, Great One!" he empathically declared, and now it was his turn to bow before their might.

"Then do not look to the heavens above the Path you tread," Father-Mother warned, their eyes drilling into the old warrior's shaven skull coated with war paint. "You must instead see that which lies before you and within you. Your distaste for the girl has obscured your way and hers, both. She hobbles you – a girl with only fifteen summers on her back – and you, in turn, trip her as she tries to move forward."

Ragged-Brow opened his mouth once, instantly regretted it, and returned to kiss the dirt beneath the Elder's feet.

"You bring dishonor upon your House," Father-Mother said, and for Ragged-Brow, such words were the pricks of a thousand daggers rammed into his chest. "The will of the Hawk is to lead, not to maim. To see, not to obscure. To fly – not to waddle in dirt and nip at its hatchlings."

He understood. He suddenly understood himself more than he could have ever hoped to. The knowledge of the Elder One was absolute.

"You remember the words I said to you when that child came into this world."

Ragged-Brow nodded solemnly. He remembered, but he could not repeat them. He also remembered the terror that had struck his bones when the child had clenched the wooden dagger in her hand and thus had chosen to walk the Path of the Snake – the Path he would have to guide her on.

"Remember well our words, Ragged-Brow," Father-Mother breathed, letting the fumes consume them, taking in the flame's elemental power and powerful foresight. "We dream of that which shall be, and we tell you once more what vision shines brighter than all others granted to our sight: a child born of lightning shall come, ushering in a storm, and the true Path of the Hanakh shall be revealed."

"Send me," Ragged-Brow said, and his breath caught in his throat in uttering such a heretical thought. "Send me to walk this perilous Path in her place, Great One. I beg you."

For a fraction of time that stretched on into infinity, Ragged-Brow sat in silence, waiting for the Elder's rebuke. But when their answer came, their voice was fair and soft.

"Ragged-Brow. You have long been a favored instrument of our will. Long have you served us with honor. But you were not the one chosen. You were not sent to us – as a seed in an arc of lightning – to carry the torch of our future. But you were chosen, Ragged-Brow, by that very seedling that even now must germinate within our ashen garden. The Gods did not choose you. But their emissary did."

"She is dangerous," Ragged-Brow whispered, cursing himself as his fear betrayed him, yet knowing he must tell the Elder why his emotions had risen so when the child as a baby had reached out to him, holding that toy dagger in her hand, and smiled.

He was not one to deny the will of the Gods. The spirit of such rebellious thinking did not beat within his breast. Yet still, when he looked at that girl...

"Ragged-Brow," Father-Mother said simply. "She chose you."

He looked up at his Great Elder, eyes brimming with trepidation, and let his weakness be shown. He laid his chest bare, waiting for a dagger to be sunk into his quickened heart. But no strike came. He felt nothing but the soft touch of Father-Mother's gentle hands as they caressed his cheek. He looked into their ancient, sunken eyes and felt his entire soul consumed by the strength of their spirit. Ageless beyond age – a soul composed of all the memories of those tribesmen that had gone before them. Those who had existed before the fires persisted in their ways even as the Old Ones burned their world.

"You fear her because she is without mercy," Father-Mother stated. "But we tell you that mercy is a trait we do not need. We need strength, Ragged-Brow – strength of sword and strength of spirit. Such strength will lead us to the true Path destined for our people. We need such strength, or we shall be returned to the dust."

He gulped, feeling the hands of the Great One withdraw as their brow clouded over with knowledge of what was to come.

"You know these things we say are true, Ragged-Brow. Even a hawk with his head in the clouds could see that we are losing this war."

"Every Guthra outpost we burn, ten more rises in its place," he replied with growing anger. "Monstrous towers rising out of the sands, like the long necks of hydras growing back in the wake of our decapitations. I know you speak the truth, Father-Mother. My eyes have beheld the strength of the Guthra."

"Thus do we need this chosen child."

He sighed inwardly as he knew how useless any of his further complaints would be. He was nothing but a tool of his Elder. He was nothing else – was destined for nothing else. How could he be anything more than that? How could he walk any Path beside the one destined for him from the moment he first drew breath in this cruel world?

Why would he want to be anything more?

"Teach her, Ragged-Brow of the Hawk," Father-Mother said. "Guide her towards the beginning of her lonely Path – a path she and she alone shall tread through the dark lands of the wastes. Show her what she must be: a warrior."

Father-Mother's teeth flared as they said the word, coating it in their zealous fervor. Now, he knew, the girl was destined to spill blood. The Gods themselves had decreed it – and they were now communicating it to him through their Oracle.

As he bowed his head and reaffirmed his solemn oath to his Elder, he felt his feet suddenly turn cold as they struck the sands of the wastes. He looked around him, seeing his brothers and sisters at play or training, and breathed deeply, trying to focus his thoughts. Yet, his mind raged with contradictions that he dared not even voice.

His Elder had decreed it: the Gods wanted the girl to be a warrior without peer, a crimson-coated snake swimming through the blood of the Hanakh's enemies. This was their will, and who was he, a mere man of flesh and blood, to speak against the will of the Divine who ruled these Deadlands?

But a thought ate away at the back of Ragged-Brow's puzzled mind. A persistent question. A hidden, heretical query that gnawed at the very marrow of his bones:

A warrior – a blade to strike down their foes. That's what they wanted for the girl.

But is that what she needed?