Digging Up The Past (Ari'Yahal)

[Hirem]

56th of Summer, 510 A.V.

He came in during the previous night, starving, tired, and with a body held in his meaty arms. The night watch were surprised to say the least, since they didn't expect Hirem to return after venturing out on his lonesome into the sandstorm. They at first were eager to question him on the missing mount that he had set out after, but the sight of the silent Benshiran with cloth wrapped around his wounds and the dead body he was cradling silenced all questions. Immediately, they became very suspicious, but none of them wanted to dare anger the giant. He didn't say any words to them either, disappearing into his tent for the night.

The caravan found him early the next morning, out on the outskirts of camp digging a hole with a shovel that he had taken from the supplies. The caravan master was angry that he wasn't working with the others, but again, the dead body deterred his chiding. People simply left the man alone to dig his grave, avoiding him at every opportunity. Some kind souls that had taken a liking to the man tried to offer him food and coax a response from him, but he just accepted the food in silence and kept up at his task, focused on this singular duty, as if digging this grave was his life.

None of his emotions showed on his face, but inside he was hurting. The bleeding had long since stopped, but it still felt like parts of his being were ebbing away from him, parts of his soul. He barely felt alive, more like a corpse that had been ressurected from the storm in order to dig a grave for the holy Rapa that he had killed. The only indication that he was alive was the sweat on his brow, the result of his exertions, and he treasured it. He needed to keep working, needed to waste his strength, so that he could remind himself that he was alive.

The day carried on as usual, and soon people were getting accustomed to the stocky Benshiran at his chore, though most were more than a little perturbed that he had a dead body with him. The face had been covered by the ragged clothes that the man had worn, so nobody could tell exactly who this was. Still, people could tell from the body that the victim had been old, and it was more than likely the elderly man had simply passed away in the desert heat, so Hirem's part in the death couldn't be too sinister. Only he knew who this was, and what had happened. Only he could tell anyone that this old man, who had been the wise Rapa Netanel, had been killed by him.

Eventually, the grave was finished, a messy thing that looked less like a rectangle and more like some other deformed shape, but Hirem wasn't aiming for accuracy. He only needed it to serve it's function, and the body fit nicely inside the pit. He didn't scrape the sand over it yet though, and instead opted to sit by the grave and stare at the mangled body, his eyes wettening with the overwhelming sadness that he felt. He should just shut the grave right there, but he couldn't bring himself to do that. He needed time to face the consequences of what had transpired in the sandstorm, for his sins now ran many.

[Ari'Yahal]

A fine sheen of sweat glistened on Ari's brow and dripped down into her eyes as she gripped the horses' currycomb in her hands, brushing the gleaming flank of a packhorse with deliberate, circular motions. It had been two weeks since she had accepted the caravan master's offer of work, and during that time she had tried to prove her worth to the man, making sure that the horses and livestock stayed strong and healthy even in the harsh desert environment. After several days, she had fallen into a rhythm of waking at sunrise to prepare the packs that the sturdy horses carried, shepherding the goats and cows during the day, and rubbing down the horses at night. For the most part she kept to herself, although she was cordial to the other members of the caravan, telling stories and singing around the cookfires. It was true that Benshirans told the best tales, after all, and Yahal had given her a natural flair for storytelling.

Raziel spent half his time with her, carrying feed and water to the sturdy-chested bowbacked goats that provided milk and cheese for the caravan. Like many Benshiran boys his age, he was perfectly competent at accomplishing small tasks such as that. When he grew tired of his chores, he ran off to play with the raucous group of caravan children watched over by a rotating series of adults. He was far happier than she had seen him in some time, and although she grew more anxious every day at the thought of returning to Yahebah, she was gladdened to see him so alive.

“Alright, javeya,” she murmured, brushing the last of the sand from the horse's coat, “looks like you're about finished for the day.” The animal whinnied, flicking its tail as she lead it back to the herd. Ari'al passed several other workers carrying buckets of feed and skins of water, and she nodded to them as they continued on their way. As she tied up the packhorse, she surveyed the busy machinations of the caravan for Raziel. She caught sight of him scampering out of another tent, screaming and giggling as he tried to evade several other children chasing him through the encampment.

“Raziel? It's time to eat, love.”

He separated himself from his fellows and came running over to her, pouting. “Do I have to? I'm not so hungry tonight, Momma. And I wanted to keep playing with Malka and Aven.”

She shook her head, ruffling his dark hair. “No, sweet, we have to keep the Masha. But you can have some fun when we're done.”

“'Kay,” he said complacently, taking her hand. Ari began to lead her son back to the tent when she caught sight of a figure out of the corner of her eye, a figure that seemed familiar. Unlike the other bustling members of the caravan, this man was still, his large body bent awkwardly over a hole in the earth. After several moments, she recognized the man as Hirem, who had been kind enough to secure her a place in the caravan. She had spoken to him several more times since then, and he had always been kind to both her and Raziel. Without hesitation, she crossed the distance between them to see what was the matter – and stopped abruptly, several feet away.

A grave, that was what it was, that hole. It was obvious now. An old man, his face obscured by a cloth, lay in its depths. Ari did not recognize him from the caravan, but by the looks of his clothing and coloring, he was a fellow Benshiran.

“May Yahal guide his spirit,” she said, taking her left sleeve and ripping its edge in a symbol of bereavement. In her family, it had been a ritual to rend one's clothes at a death, to signify grief. She nudged Raziel to do the same as she bent down next to Hirem and the unfinished grave. The boy had seen dead bodies before, like that of his father, and knew to keep quiet. “Let me help you finish the grave, Hirem.”

She placed a hand on his arm and caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were wet with tears. So the dead man held some significance to him, then, and wasn't just a random caravan member he had been tasked with burying because of his strength, as she had thought. She didn't say anything else, hoping that approaching him hadn't been the wrong move. It made her feel uncomfortable to see such raw emotion on Hirem's face, but it was too late to move away now.

[Hirem]

Hirem had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't even notice Ari'Yahal approach until she was directly speaking to him. His mind seemed like it was sedated, which was some relief compared to the whirlwind of ideas and accusations that had raged on inside his head when he was imprisoned in the Courtyard of Jackals. The Benshiran man was still reflecting heavily on the matter, but at least now he wasn't tearing himself apart in his own head.

That could change at any moment though, given how volatile his emotions have proved to be in the past when it came to grief and regret. Netanel's death was weighing heavily on his conscience, and even though Savra had intended to do far worse to the man, Hirem still vividly remembered driving the sword through the Rapa's heart. The memory turned his belly to water and his hands to shake, so great was his sadness. There was some subdued feelings of anger in there, a cry for revenge, but he kept those under tight lock.

He did think of Savra also, but it wasn't in a fuming, angry manner. Instead, he was calmly reflecting on what she had said, what she had done, and what to do about her, formulating plan after plan on how to deal with this Prophet of the Redeemer. Of all that is holy, what happened to her? What caused her to turn down this path? He knew that Savra wouldn't even come close to bringing down his people or their religion, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that she was bound to come up again in his future, and when that happened, he would have to do something about it.

So when Ari'Yahal came up with her son and ripped off the edge of her sleeve, it startled Hirem to no end. Already he was mentally berating himself for letting the Benshiran woman approach undetected, (I need to be faster, more cautious if I face Savra again!) but there was nothing to do about it now, and she definitely would not harm Hirem. Ari'Yahal had come to be a friendly aid during his time in the caravan, since Dhanya was still all riled up about his incessant inquiries, and he had grown fond of her little boy. Raziel was an innocent soul in a bleak desert, an oasis of comfort in this dark time.

Still, Hirem had not meant to bother them with his plight, and so he felt guilty as the mother offered her aid in finishing the grave. But, they meant well, so he rubbed a hand across his eyes to dry them of tears and nodded, offering a tight smile to his friend. "Thank you, Ari'Yahal. It would be most appreciated." He had weeped enough; it was time to cover this grave up, and put Netanel to rest.

So they all worked together to finish the grave, and Hirem could admit that their help made the work go much faster than on his own. The work was easy, but it still helped distract Hirem from his sadness, so that when they were done, he had a happy face. It was all for appearance's sake only, but it was a welcome sight to see after so long frowning and keeping deathly still. As soon as they finished, Hirem gave a nod to Ari'Yahal, and a big smile to Raziel. "Thanks again for helping me finish this up. It's a lot easier with three people than one."

[Ari'Yahal]

As Ari shoveled dirt over the dead Benshiran, she continued to sneak covert looks at Hirem, trying to read on his face what had happened to the man, and why it had distressed Hirem so. Something was clearly bothering him, and though she didn't want to pry into the giant man's personal affairs, she couldn't deny that she wanted to know what had transpired. But he said nothing further on the subject, and she didn't ask.

“Well, you looked like you could use the help, and no one should dig a grave alone,” she said to him when they had finished, turning away to leave him be. It wasn't for her to ask him any more questions, and she had never been particularly good at gauging when grieving people wanted a friend to talk to or simply to be alone. “Goodnight, Hirem.”

But Raziel didn't follow his mother back to the tent. “What happened to that man?” the boy asked, his blue eyes serious. Although, living in the desert, he had encountered death many times before, Ari'al doubted if he understood what it meant. “And why are you all banged up, Hirem?”

Taking another look at the man, Ari'al saw what she had missed before – swatches of cloth that were obviously bandages wrapped around wounds on the Benshiran's body. She caught a whiff of the earthy tang that was dried blood, and she realized she had been glancing at his face so much that she hadn't noticed he was hurt. “What in Yahal's name happened to you?” she asked without thinking. Although seeing his tears had made her uncomfortable, seeing the wounds made her mothering instincts begin to kick in, and she felt ashamed not to have noticed before. Ari would never be one of those Benshiran matrons who could weave even the roughest goat hair into a work of art, bake bread as white as sun reflected on desert sand, and had a wise saying for every man, woman and child who came to her for help. But her mother had taught her to be hospitable, and she knew to offer a wounded man aid. “I mean – you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. It's not my place to pry into your personal matters.” She paused. “I was going to go get a meal started for Raziel and myself, but you're more than welcome to join us. If you'd like. And I've got some yarrow salve, to put on those wounds.” She gestured back to the cookfire she shared with several other women with whom she'd become friendly over the journey. One of them had already built up the flames, and it crackled merrily against the dun-colored desert backdrop. "If you don't want company right now - well, Raziel and I won't be offended.

[Hirem]

Hirem closed his eyes momentarily and gave a sigh as Raziel pointed out his wounds, realizing that there was no escaping what was to come next. Ari'Yahal was quick to spot his bandages and peered over him like a mother, a friend. To be honest, he found himself to be grateful that someone wanted to help him, someone that wanted to aid him for once. He did find himself to often be offering himself up for assistance, and while he certainly didn't resent that fact, it was nice to be looked after.

He hadn't paid any thought to removing his bandages and cleaning himself of the blood that had crusted around his wounds, so intent was he on his task of digging Netanel's grave. Now that Ari'Yahal had pointed it out though, he made a mental note to wash himself up tomorrow, but not today. Today, he would bear the memory of what had happened. Today, he would keep his wounds close to heart. It was discouraging to know that he would never forget the old Rapa, knowing that he would never lose sight of the pain he was experiencing now.

He thought briefly on whether to accept her offer or refuse it, but eventually he succumbed and commited himself to accept it. He was a bit hungry, and the yarrow salve would do wonders for the irritation he was experiencing with the crusted blood. He wasn't too eager to tell Ari'Yahal and several other women what had happened, telling Raziel was out of the question, but perhaps sharing what had happened with someone would help relieve himself of the burden, allieviate his pains. So, he nodded, and said, "I think some good company would do wonders for me now."

So he followed the woman back to her fire, and sat himself down facing the other woman, watching the crackling fires intently. He had seen plenty of fires before, sure, but somehow seeing this one after what had happened was enlightening, a wonderful sight to behold in its peace, its comfort. The other women surveyed him thoroughly, and while he couldn't tell what they were thinking, he could only guess what their impressions of him were. Such was the path of the desert wanderer, it seemed.

[Ari'Yahal]

Ari'Yahal nodded, her spirits rising a bit at the idea of having Hirem's company that night. “Good. It's decided, then. We're having roasted desert hare tonight, and Moralyn makes it like no one else.” She grinned briefly as she pointed out one of the others around the fire, a middle-aged human woman with sharp eyes like chips of stone and a penchant for gossip. “Isn't that right, Raziel?”

“Yeah!” said the boy, his eyes lighting up. “It's my favorite!” He paused, wrinkling his nose. “Except you shouldn't let Momma put the yarrow on you. It stings. And it smells like horse dung.”

Ari shook her head. “Men, you're all the same, always complaining. Even the young ones...” she muttered, tapping Raziel on the nose to make him laugh, and made her way over to the fire. While she and Raziel bustled around the tent, gathering their share of the food that would go into tonight's meal, Hirem had sat down by the other women. They eyed him with a mix of suspicion and interest as they assembled the elements of the meal.

“Wadn't you that one out there, diggin' in the sand all day long?” Moralyn asked him, surveying him as she turned the hare above the fire. “Would've thought they could find better work for you than that, a big strong man like you.” She winked and turned back to the food.

“Moralyn, you shameless flirt,” chastised Ari'al as she stuck her head out of the tent, grinning in spite of herself. “If you couldn't cook like you were gifted by the gods, I'd chase you out of here for being rude to my guest.” She beckoned to Hirem, holding a small pot in one hand. “Here, Hirem. The salve I was talking about.” She turned to Raziel, holding out an empty waterskin in the other hand. “Why don't you go refill this, love?”

“Yes, Momma.” He trotted away, towards the stream the caravan had stopped beside, leaving Ari'Yahal and Hirem alone. She drew him over to her pallet, indicating that he should sit down upon it, and began to fuss at his bandages, drawing them aside to check the wounds underneath. She didn't know a whole lot about herbal medicine, but she understood the basics of how to dress a wound. “Raziel was right, this will sting a bit. But I have a feeling you'll be able to bear it,” she told him. Using a damp cloth, she tried to wipe away the crusted blood as gently as possible from a slash near his collarbone. As she peered at the wound, she remembered a time when she was younger; sixteen, perhaps, and still living in her grandfather's tents. Two of her cousins had gotten into a fight, and one of them had stabbed the other several times with a butcher knife. Ari'al and her other female relatives had treated his wounds, which, now that she thought about it, looked remarkably similar to Hirem's. “Hirem...it's not my place to ask questions. But are these blade wounds?” she asked, smoothing salve over the gash. “You can talk about it, or not. Whatever pleases you. But I'll listen to whatever you've got to say.”

[Hirem]

Already, Hirem felt more comfortable in telling his story to Ari'Yahal, what with the pleasant banter going on between Raziel and his mother. She seemed intent on making this simply a pleasant evening, not an interrogation to pull his secrets from him. His tale was sure to spoil the mood for the evening, but if Ari'Yahal understood him, he would at least be in better shape than what happened at Ahnatep with Shena. That was truly a debacle, and as such, Hirem made sure not to tell anybody of his Eypharian crusade if they didn't need to hear it. It was a part of his past that he needed to face, but he wanted to face it alone.

The food was smelling quite nice, but it only really needed to be food to enrapture the wanderer completely. Food was never truly delicious for Hirem, as he often had to make do with something dried and small, never really satisfying the large Benshiran man. He never had much time to spend on cooking, but now that he was traveling with a caravan his meals had gotten considerably better. Today, he had eaten mere scraps from people inclined to charity, and now that he was finished working he was immensely hungry. He wouldn't eat more than his share of hare, but he would eat it voraciously.

Everyone that seemed to meet the wanderer these days seemed to be inclined towards shunning and ostracizing him, and it was no mere coincidence. Ever since Netanel had converted his army into his enemies, he never had quite the same effect on people, and they now thought of him as a crazy hermit that prowled the desert wastes alone rather than the charming Benshiran leader that fought for their salvation. Then again, Hirem never wanted to be known as a charming Benshiran leader ever again, as that had disastrous results. In any case, Moralyn didn't seem to care about his past, and was a refreshing change of pace, even if she was going to flirt with him in a shameless manner.

As he followed Ari'Yahal into her tent, he tried to formulate his story in his head, but it was admittedly a huge task. Should I tell her of the beginning? Of the dream? No! No, we've been over this! We will only tell her of Netanel's death, and Savra! He was so concentrated on this that he barely noticed the yarrow salve being applied to his skin, only giving a sharp intake of breath as a response. And, of course, Ari'Yahal's question about his wounds shattered his plans right there.

He was left speechless for a moment before he slowly began his tale. "Yes... yes, those are blade wounds. Received in a battle that I didn't wish for, one that awaited me when I was searching through the storm... " He interrupted his beginning and revised his tale, taking another deep breath. "I had been looking for the missing horse in the sandstorm when I found a horrible scene. There was a woman, more... a girl, really, that had pinned an old man to the sands with two swords impaled in his arms. I was horrified, and..."

As a swell of emotion rose in his heart, he locked eyes with Ari'Yahal, his gaze wavering as he revealed to her: "The old man's name was Netanel, and he was a Rapa. The dead man that we buried was a Rapa."

[Ari'Yahal]

Ari'Yahal listened without interrupting as Hirem spoke, his speech stopping and starting as he told the story of his battle wounds. Clearly it was not a subject he was treating lightly, and she didn't want to stem his jumbled flow of words and phrases before he meant to stop, so she continued unwrapping his bandages and rubbing salve over his wounds. Although her social graces were sometimes limited, she figured this would be the best course of action unless he said otherwise. She couldn't deny that she wanted to interrupt, though, and ask him to clarify what he'd said. A young girl, inflict these sorts of wounds? And so many of them? It made no sense to her how a girl could even take a swat at a giant man like Hirem.

Her hands froze, however, when the Benshiran went on, revealing what the mysterious girl had done to the old man in the desert. Ari's mouth opened in a silent O of shock. Brutality in the desert was to be expected; the circle of life and death had no beginning and no end, and sometimes pain was necessary to facilitate its continual cycles. But cruelty simply for cruelty's sake was abhorrent. To pin an old man to the ground like that took a malicious spirit and a mind that had clearly gone astray.

Hirem's gaze sought hers for the first time since he had begun his story, his eyes like chips of agate fastening on her green ones. "The old man's name was Netanel, and he was a Rapa. The dead man that we buried was a Rapa,” he said, his low voice filled with emotion: anger, sadness, regret? She couldn't put her finger on it, but she felt a tide of emotion rising in her to answer his. To kill a Rapa was the ultimate sin. Murdering in cold blood was bad enough; it embodied deceit and treachery, everything that Yahal was against. But Rapas were pillars of the Benshiran community. Taking away one of Yahal's own was tantamount to personally insulting the god himself.

She was silent for several seconds more, then dropped her gaze away from Hirem's, not knowing what to say. “May Yahal remember my father and my teacher,” she murmured at last, the first words that came to mind: the ritual prayer one said when a Rapa passed on. She had said it before, four years ago, when Raziel was little more than a toddler taking his first steps. When she saw her husband's body and whispered those words under her breath, a last benediction to a man she had once thought she loved. It had felt strange and unusual, to describe Malachi as a “father” and “teacher.” But then, they were an unusual pair; her grandfather Havid had been delighted and at the heights of his economic success when he married off his temperamental granddaughter to such a catch. Rapas rarely married, preferring to forgo the companionship of a spouse for the furthering of their studies, but clearly Malachi had not been an average Rapa, had he...?

She, the betrayed spouse, would have been within her rights to spare Malachi from the horrors of the adder pit. If she truly believed in the tenets Yahal set for his people, she would have forgiven him. Yet she closed her mouth so that she wouldn't be able to answer his pleas, and then covered her ears because she was too cowardly to listen to them anymore. And so the last words she said to him were “May Yahal remember my father and my teacher,” and that was when his spirit had already fled his body and his eyes were glazed over with poison.

“Oh, hik,” she muttered, a small tear escaping out of the corner of her eye. She turned away from Hirem, ostensibly fiddling with her pack, although there was nothing there she wanted to retrieve. When she had gotten herself under control, she faced the man again. “I'm sorry, Hirem. Truly, I am. You were...close to this Rapa, then? Netanel? You knew him?” She swallowed. “And...this girl. How did she end up so far astray, to do something like that?”

Outside, she could hear the voice of her son approaching with the waterskin, laughing as the women teased and tickled him. He seemed to be occupied, at least for the moment, and she doubted he would come into the tent while she had the detested yarrow salve open. Ari'Yahal estimated a few more minutes for the two of them to talk in private before the food was served.

OOC :

I just took the "May Yahal remember my father and my teacher" phrase from a traditional Jewish death rite called the Yizkor, not any actual lore on the wiki...hope it's alright to do that, but please feel free to smite me if it is not.

[Hirem]

OOC :

Hey, there's no rules about that, and it really works. Really well, in fact.

Hirem felt bad about bringing tears to Ari'Yahal, but she had asked him for his story and she had recieved it, whether she was prepared for it or not. He hadn't been prepared for it either, but all his tears were gone now, spilled during his long walk back to the caravan. Those days had been living hell, carrying and sometimes dragging the mangled corpse of Netanel along with him as he desperately tried to find his way home. Hell. It had been a place that Hirem had visited often in the past few years, it seemed.

He waited for Ari'Yahal to suitably collect herself and present her questions before he continued. The first one made Hirem shake his head, and his gaze to drift off as he was brought to the past, to the first day of winter when the Rapa first arrived. He ran the past events in his mind before he finally began, his eyes falling to the ground. "No, he wasn't. It was a while back really, but it feels like forever... he had tried to save me from a horrible path I was following, and I spurned his help. I treated him with... venom and I was left to my doomed way."

Hirem almost wavered right there and was about to tell her of it all when he stopped himself, forcing a desperate breath of air to exhale itself before he continued his speech. No, he wasn't ready to talk of Ahnatep, of Liviya or the Jackals. He was still harbouring his fears about what would have happened if he had commited to this course, what atrocities he would have been prepared to commit. "When I finally realized what I was doing, it was far too late. But I've changed since then, and I wanted to find the Rapa again and tell him that I had saved myself, that I had changed. But I came too late, it seemed."

The second question was about Savra, and Hirem had no answer to give, and his response showed it. "I... don't know. She was talking about some... thing, called the Redeemer. She called Yahal weak, and seemed to fully believe in this Redeemer. But there was something else, something wrong with her. There was hurt in her past, sadness and pain. She... she scared me, Ari'Yahal. She brought a chill to my spine."

And now, to continue the story. Hirem blinked once, twice, three times in a fierce bout of eye-wettening, the memories coursing through his mind in a furious storm. "And as I watched the life of Netanel slip before me, I knew that I couldn't let his suffering continue. I had to stop it, save him from this torture. So I..." Hirem's voice wavered for a moment before he continued, shaking to himself. "I drew a blade from one of his arms, and I killed him. I drove the sword down into his breast... and he died. From my hand."

Then, Hirem's voice took a more forceful, darker turn as he described what happened next: "I turned her own blade upon her in a rage. It was like my mind was slipping away from me, this horrible anger was filling me so. She drew the other blade and we fought... fought and fought and fought, giving into fury and bloodlust. I couldn't stop myself, it was so overwhelming. But she was fierce, and had been training with these blades far longer than I did. And then... my anger left me. The girl was alive, and I was done fighting. Done with my rage. She let me live, and take his body as long as I never forgot what happened there. And I never will forget, for as long as I live."

He was silent then, and was so for almost a chime before he spoke again. "I'm not sure if I did justice to what happened, but that is my story. That is what happened to the man we buried."

[Ari'Yahal]

As she listened to Hirem answer her questions, Ari watched his face out of the corner of her eye while she retied the bandages back over his skin. He seemed nervous and unsettled, as if there was still something at the back of his mind. Perhaps it was simply that he had revealed part of his past to her. In a sense, she now had the higher ground, because he had disclosed pieces of information that were important to him while she had barely spoken of her life before the caravan.

She had let that tear slip, though, and although she had tried to hide it, she was fairly certain Hirem had seen it anyway. Ari'al liked to think of herself as a woman that didn't cry without provocation, but here she was, letting loose a tear over something as silly as the words that fell out of her mouth on a whim. Lately, memories of the time she'd spent in Yahebah were assaulting her, making her mind spin. The dread in her stomach grew with each day they grew closer the holy city, but it was accompanied by something else, an emotion she didn't recognize. Why is it you feel this fear about a city so sacred to Yahal? she had wondered to herself late at night, when Raziel's even sleep-breath rose and fell in the air next to her. Is it because you're afraid of what people will think of you, when they see you? If they even remember who you are at all? Or is it just because you're afraid to gaze upon the places that haunt your nightmares again?

Yes, memory was a powerful force indeed.

Her lip twisted in anger as Hirem described the heretic girl. “Yahal will mark her, surely. For the things she's done to Netanel. No one – no matter what their past – can do such deeds and go unpunished,” she said fiercely, then bit her lip. Gods, that was a stupid thing to say. After what he just told me Netanel had done for him, that “horrible path” he had convinced him not to follow. “I – I mean only that – the girl will eventually learn what's right. As she grows older. We...all do.”

Don't we...?

As Hirem continued his tale, Ari tentatively reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. He, a giant of a man, was shaking like a leaf in a desert storm. “To end Netanel's life,” she murmured, “was compassionate. And brave of you.” A brief image flashed before her, of Raziel pinned beneath her as she drove a knife through his heart -

She shuddered and drew her hand away.

When the Benshiran had concluded his story, she too stood silent, once again unsure of the right words to put him at ease. She caught his eye and held his gaze for a moment, communicating with him without words – that she understood the horrible rage of which he spoke, and the tragedy of a man dead before his time had truly come.

“I didn't know Netanel. And I don't know what this...'horrible path' is that you mentioned.” She held up her hand. “I don't need to know, either. But based on what I know of you, Hirem – your actions towards me, and Raziel – you are a good man. And Netanel would be proud, to know that you repented of whatever it was you had done. And that you treated his body with care. What man can ask for more than that?” She tried to keep her tone soothing and motherly, the way she spoke when Raziel fell and skinned his knee or woke, feverish and crying, in the night.

“Raziel's father was a Rapa. My husband,” she added after a pause, quick to clarify that she had indeed been married to her son's father, that she wasn't some two-bit slattern. Then she flushed, not sure why she'd said it. “So...I can understand your grief.”

She was spared from embarrassing herself further when Raziel poked his head through the tent flap. The smell of seared hare drifted into the small space. “It's time to eat. Moralyn said to tell you so.”

“Thank you, love.” Ari reached into her satchel of possessions and pulled out three small earthenware trenchers, handing one to Hirem and one to Raziel. “Ready to eat, Hirem?” She held the tent flap open for him and, when he had passed through, ducked out into the camp. Hopefully the weighted atmosphere would lessen now, as the mundane sounds of women's chatter filled the air around her and the scent of meat and beans reached her nose.

When she had filled her and her son's trenchers with food, she settled herself on the ground, folding her legs underneath her. Raziel plopped down on her left and began to shovel food into his mouth. She patted the ground on her right, indicating that Hirem should sit there. “What is it you normally do for the Masha, Hirem?” She smiled at him, trying to lift the solemnity that she could still feel between them, but the smile was slightly strained.