by Akilah Windsong on February 15th, 2012, 7:36 am
Her grandma gave her a knowing look at his words, tucking in a stray strand of silverly-white hair behind her ear. There was never wasted movement with her; she had the grace that came with experience and age. Even as she walked to the pair, a slight limp in her left leg, there was something powerful and eye catching about her.
Akilah paused, staring at her left leg. A hunting accident of her youth, an incident she talks about with a wry smile on her face and dismissal in her voice. What other stories did her grandma have that she never told? What of her father, her uncles, her aunts?
Nothing, she would have thought before, but Ronan had changed that. Now was not the time, but winter was coming. Soon enough the tales would flow.
"It seems the moment you step outside you return with some bruise or another," her grandma tutted, used to at least one of her grandchildren returning home bruised and bloody. There was strange pride in her voice, one that Akilah recognized over time, at the signs of strength in her family: strength of character, strength of arms.
Her knee stung slightly, a remainder that she would have to get her leg cleaned and looked at later. The ankle especially--it throbbed and she could feel a headache forming from the lines of pain.
Her grandma stopped in front of them, tilting her head down to survey the damage. "You have to get out of those pants."
"Before that," she interjected, gesturing to her cousin. There was no easy way to say this, the truth was all there was. "You have to meet him. Grandma, this is Ronan Windsong. He's a cousin."
That stopped her grandma, her head instantly shooting up to look at the youth. Her father turned from where he stood, shushing Fajra when she spoke up again. Keen eyes raked the stranger's continence and within moments her father was in front of them as well.
For a few minutes, there was silence, even Fajra not sure of what to say or do in the tense atmosphere. The two adults stared at Ronan, confusion marring their features.
This was no boy they knew. This was no child they had watched grow up in the pavilion. Another pavilion--but no, he was a Windsong and there were no others. Not since--
The older woman caught on first, glimmers of recognition dawning on her face as she stared at him. The last Ronan Windsong had been--but he had died, with the rest of them.
They had never found his body. Not even scraps of clothing or any signs to show where he had died. He was no more than a child, but--
Her breath hitched as she stared at him, taking in his nose, his eyes, his ears. They looked familiar, similar, like the ones...
She stopped her thoughts there. There was still the chance this could be an imposter, an accident, a mistake. Catching herself, she asked, her voice wavering slightly. "Could you really....?"
Akilah's father knew of the incident, knew of the members involved, but never knew them personally. It still shocked him to the core to see a survivor, to see the dead risen again.
He might have never known his dead kin but he had seen the aftermath in his own pavilion. Incidents leave marks, like ink, staining everything it touches. He had seen the depression that hit his clansmen, watched as they tied the Cairns to the web.
Even without the question, he could see their emotions paralleled in the man's face, the same mess playing across his features.
Someone had returned home after a very long time.
