The Journal of Morwyn mac Tíre
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More needed done after the violence with idiot children bandits and speaking to the sad Small God trapped beneath the earth, before we could leave and rest. The taken had to be done with. We should have just scattered them and let fate and gods take the foolish. No, Enzidh and Azah bickered like old wives about putting them to a blade or into cages and we talked to them all. Dragged out every story from them.
Rgg. It was the right thing to do. Sort the rot from the unspoiled. But so many words and so many stories that wound around and through me like thorned vines. All these braying two-leg herds are so tiring.
The innocent and the foolish were sent home. The less spoiled were thrown to the winds with warnings. The sinners and the unpardonable met Enzidh‘s sword. One went willingly, burdened by sins unspoken. Looked her in the eyes as she snuffed him out.
None were caged. It was the right thing to do, but why does it feel so wearisome. Why do I need to tell myself that?
Returned to Brolko after that, Erissin-irelum carried by Enzidh. Nitra-izisakh went her own path, wished her well. Bridiyya-namirska remained to free Ky’trrix, both would follow the next day to heal the sicked wife. Did not notice talk on the road, thoughts still stained by the thorny words and bloody ends of the taken bandits.
Brolko was bright. Sheriff was wrangling new deputies, glad that the bandits are gone but conflicted. Some old tangle of connection with dead Cormund, now severed and lost. Still seemed glad to see us. A strange feeling to be wanted, to be celebrated. Still too many voices. Lingered at the fringe, felt safer there.
Tried to rest. Good food helped but hunger remained. Sleep never came, driven off by every sound loud as screams and every scent burning. Everything howled and my blood sang with it. Had to get out, had to be free, had to hunt.
The rest is a broken mirror. Jagged fragments of memories drowned in night and blood. Killing a rodent thing and eating it blood-hot. Vivian-bhakhiir finding me devouring my prize. Hunting with her. Raking the eyes and splitting the belly of a water horse before getting tossed half-broken into mud and dust. The fire in my blood guttered out, engulfed by fog of shame and emptiness. Not at the pain but the loss of control. Why?
I remember running free like that before. Long ago. How long ago? I don’t know… After the silver light and before I saw myself and knew myself. Before I knew my name. I am myself. I am Morwyn mac Tíre. That’s what matters. I am me and I am free. Why do I feel shame for being free?
Vivian-bhakhiir guided me back to myself and my place of rest. She was kind, offered to hunt with me again. I will, in time. Urum da takus.
Finally was able to sleep after all. A few hours of dreams and tangled visions. Amahanam Iduth poured their light into my soul and I remember only fragments. Burning green stars and silver fire flowing like blood and the world writhing beneath its skin. And a word as bright and loud as screaming sunlight but gone before I could remember it.
Spent the rest of the night carving. Needed to make something of the water-horse teeth. Something for the pack. I do not know how long we will linger together, something for them to remember me by, for their kindness and company.
A butterfly for flitting changeable Lishan-azah. A falcon striking prey for deadly-sharp Leera-ninna. A sword-shape like moon-crescent and grass-blade for noble Hatsuko-enzidh, that she may know why. A sharp gemstone blade-shape for brilliant Charlotte-zaazi. A paw and flashing claws ready to strike for kind-sharp Vivian-bhakhiir. A ribbon-shape of wolf and magpie wings for Erissin-irelum and her wives.
Worked through until dawn on those, carving dreamshapes into ivory. Felt good to create with my claws. Felt clean, like I had cleaned the last remnant echoes of death from them.
Was finishing the carving in the common room of the inn when word rose of strange arrivals – Bridiyya-namirska and Ky’trrix. No violence or harm, Brolko too sleepy and confused. Ky’trrix got his crackers and cider, then helped Reane’s sickened wife. Freed her of a dream-curse that was eating her from within before they birthed new agyamut like it. Unpleasant end, good she was saved.
Remainder of the morning was spent with too many people. Talking. Trading. Shopping… rrgg… Something interesting broken the sea of grey, someone invisible tried to steal from a trader when I was buying wine, smelled like zaazi but why would she do that?
Gave the carvings to the pack when they stopped talking to all the people. Do not know what they think. Hope they liked or understood. Afraid they do not and think me buying their kindness or am sentimental and foolish. Fool old wolf! Gifts are gifts, not for any other reason.
Just as I was writing this, Zaazi gave me a gift. I did not expect that. Very kind. Embroidered a design of wolf and moon onto my cloak. Beautiful delicate needleworking. I will treasure it. Foolish old wolf, maybe they do enjoy your company…
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