The Solace of War

By: Shera Crawler 007

(Tarkath Vrlan: youngest son of Taschet Vrlan)

He came to us on a cold mid-morning, and I shall never forget that day for as long as I live.  I had been playing nantoo with Mischa, my far older and far wiser brother, liberally cursing the game as I always did.  I was never any good at it; the oil slicked balls always stayed secure in Mischa's hands, held fast with the blueish tendrils of mindpower that he had learned the use of through his many years.  On the other hand I was far younger and proportionally far weaker in our family gift, every attempt to use it to stabilize a ball usually sent it careening away at a far wilder angle. 

For once I was glad I was so, for if I hadn't, indeed if Mischa had stood on my side of the court and I on his, I never would have found him.  That would have been a great tragedy indeed…or a great blessing, I still cannot seem to decide.

As it was the ball slipped from my hand, my green tinted tendrils reaching out for it, and catching it.  I trembled from the weight of it, from the concentration it took to hold it with only the power of my mind, and I rejoiced for I had caught it, even if now I hadn't a clue as to how I would find the strength to lob it back.  It was so important to me; this was a sign that I was strengthening that I was gaining control of my gift, and one step closer to being as strong as my brother is.  I needn't have worried just yet, for as soon as I cast a flickering glance at my brother it slipped.  More like exploded from my grip and its black hide marred the perfect silver of the morning sky before landing with a very audible crash in the thick forest.

Mischa was laughing, loudly, at me.  It grated on my nerves, even though I knew why he resorted to it.  While a congratulation would have raised my spirit, his laughter angered me, drove me to try harder, to grow stronger faster.  Later he would take me aside and analyze my every move, praising me for the good and chiding me for the bad.

…For now he laughed and trained me in the same traditional way all our competition hungry Vrlan ancestors had been trained.  I ground my teeth and glared at him, causing him to laugh harder.  He sounded like a vinga bird on speed, half-strangled and diseased…I never sounded that idiotic when I laughed.  That thought made me feel marginally better as I stiffly strode into the cool dark of the forest.

The cool felt like ice to me and I pulled my thick cloak about me tighter, thinking of how Mischa had been panting in what was barely enough heat to hold back my shivers.  He would have enjoyed this. 

What a contrast, my family.  We are a mix of our own Vrlan blood and our distant allying family the more exotic Treysul's.  My mother was of their blood, coming directly to us from their wonderful sounding tropical island after meeting father at one of the gatherings.  They had fallen in love at first sight, and Mischa was conceived from their need for each other.  She told it in a rather captivating tale that I loved to hear over and over for it's romantic quality…and the added bonus that it made Mischa gag from the sap. 

Either way I am my mother's son, and I inherited her family's need for heat that the rest of our family could barely tolerate.  We were quite a contrast at the table when the rest of the hot-blooded thick furred Vrlan wore loose gauzy silk to cool off we contrasted our short scarce fur covered in layer upon layer of heavy winter clothing.  Our only relief from the cold was the winter vacation to mother's home isle to warm our blood while the rest of the family huddled in cool huts.

I drew away from the ramblings cold always brought out in me, and concentrated on finding the ball.  It's black hide made finding it a lesson in itself, one that was easy for me, my locating ability was my strongest family gift so far, unsurprisingly enough it was from my mother's side. 

While I traced it I practiced my silent stalk, wincing at every mistake that resulted in a cracking twig, there were far less than before.  Still any were too many; Mischa never made a sound. 

Mother's words rang though me again, 'Darling, Mischa is like your father, he knows how to fight and how to spy and he's beautiful for it.  But you and I, we know people, we will lead this family and they will fight for it.  I'm not saying you shouldn't learn all you can from Mischa…just keep in mind, you have something he can never learn in full, and don't be too disappointed if you never match Mischa's abilities.'

She was right of course, but just being with Mischa this much after missing his presence for a year's time during his tour of duty was all I wanted.  Although being like Mischa was something I wouldn't mind to terribly either, I was practical enough to realize it wouldn't happen and not get too upset when something brought that fact to my attention.

The ball appearing, lodged in a tree overhead, broke me out of my mind's ramblings and I sighed explosively as I stared up at it.  "Oh Mischa's going to laugh himself sick at this…" He would indeed…if I told him.  That wasn't going to happen. 

We had played this game plenty, and I knew I could sit out here all night getting the ball down and when I went back to the court in the morning he'd still be standing in the same spot waiting.  Not only waiting, the sadistic ass would make me play the game to the end even if another three nights went by, one for every ball I lost in this ancestor forsaken forest.  I love Mischa dearly, but some things he takes just a little to far.

Even though I knew this, hereditary family pride and my own tenacity prevented me from calling for his help.  If this game managed to be another three nighter…well so be it.

I scouted around the tree and turned up not one branch to knock the offending ball down with.  My gifts were too weak from my previous use to do the same.  I would have to climb…and hugging a freezing cold tree was not my favorite way to turn myself into an ice pop.  Mischa's laughter rose up in my mind, along with that strange gargled hoot he managed to tack on at the end, and determination strengthened again.  I began, smooth-soled boots scrabbling for, and barely finding, purchase on the trunk.

It was too soon before I was stretched out on a too-thin branch, shakily reaching out to smack the ball out of its position, the entire time worrying over how I would get down.  Just a little more, my panting breaths were loud in my ears and my body was wracked with freezing shivers.  A low moan reached my ears and everything took on a surreal haze as I looked down and discovered that all this time…a body…no a person had been lying unconscious at my feet.

All I could see from this vantagepoint was a mop of curly black hair; snarled, muddied, and tangled with twigs…that and a broad bloodied male back.  Oh boy.

Then I promptly fell out of the tree, not on purpose I assure you.  If Mischa were here to see that he would have been worthless for days after managing to injure himself laughing at me so hard. After he recovered I would be worthless for days after he retrained me, that I would fall over something so small as a shock was unforgivable.  Mischa wouldn't have reacted like that…but then Mischa knew how to get down out of a tree he had climbed up too.

That was my last thought for awhile as I concentrated on convincing myself that my back wasn't broken, and that breathing really was a good thing in situations like these. 

Slowly my body began to agree with me, and when everything was down to a dull roar of easily ignorable pain, I shakily stood.  The man moaned again, an obviously pained sound and my heart went out to him.  Something that happens too easily with me. 

My nickname used to be, of all the asinine, painfully obvious taunts, straymonger before I reached an age beyond childhood torture.  I suppose my capacity to bring home anything injured no matter how dangerous has now spread to the rest of the town as well.

Kneeling beside him, I cautiously rolled him on his back, careful of what I could now see were bloodied whip and burn lines.  I know I paled at the sight of him.  "Ancestors, who would do this?"  He was too far-gone to answer me but I had to ask. 

Torture methods such as what I could see here…well I hadn't even heard of them since I was a very very young little boy of nine and my father had mourned the death of his favorite first litter son.  Four years my elder, nine years Mischa's youth, Dylath was too young to die…far too young to die that horribly.  I could barely remember him now, but I could still remember the horror I had felt when I stumbled on his mutilated body in the stream that ran behind our house. 

My thoughts were broken again as he moaned, and I looked up from his well-lacerated chest.  His eyes opened.  Mine met his, and suddenly all the horror and disgust at the marks marring his skin drifted away as I fell into those gray-green eyes.  I felt like I knew him, like I had found someone close that I hadn't had contact with in years…but…no…it was stronger than that.  So strong that it almost felt like I had found a part of myself in him that I hadn't been aware was missing.

It slipped away from me as his eyes glazed over, closing and he was unconscious again.  The severing of that connection left an ache in my soul that I knew would never fade again into the blissful ignorance where it had lain before.  That ache drove me to act, and I was caught in a flurry of motion, wrapping wounds with cloth torn from my cloak, soothing burns and scrapes, wincing over scars that told of months of this treatment. 

When I found the huge gash hidden by the rough material of his pants that ran the width of both his thighs, just below the genitals something within me snapped.  Anger burned through me as I realized that he hadn't been meant to live.  This was the exact copy of the wound that bled my brother to death…Dylath hadn't escaped his tormenters…no, both arteries had been slit and then he had been released to crawl where he would, where he could in the short time left to him.  Just as this man had.

Cleansing rage flowed through my veins and flaring molten power of my healing gift answered its call, followed its course burning out of me with blissful heat.  It was out of my control, and yet followed my wants exactly.  Before my eyes flesh knit together, scars faded out of existence even as the blood flowing copiously from him began rolling back into the wound as if magnetized and the flesh closed over it fading into a faint white scar, that faded as well in time.

Over in seconds, the power began to leave me slowly with my anger, and my attention wavered into reality.  Dimly I could hear the angry yowling scream…my people's war cry…and with exhausted surprise I realized the voice was my own.  Then I stopped thinking at all as my body slipped into a healing trance to replenish the vast amounts of energy I had used, and I crumpled forward on the now healed man before me.