❝bare your teeth, little one, for you are made of stardust and divinity.❞
It is said, in the era before the mother of our mothers, when the ancients first built their ruins, we were not alone in this world. Creatures flitted through the skies above...
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Tip woke to the stinging scent of bitter herbs.
Tip knew he was in the care of the Practitioners of Restoration before he opened his eyes. Tip had always gotten sick more easily than others his age. The worst time had been after he spent the night in the rain while attempting to hear the song of The Ancestors. His fever had burned for the better part of a moon cycle. It was a small miracle that Tip managed to survive. Regardless of Tip's familiarity with the place, he loathed every moment he spent trapped within the tent. Nowhere else in the world smelled quite so foul. Its air was tainted with the overly pungent stench of herbs and souring blood.
Tip struggled to sit up but before he was able to fully free himself from his blanket, the Chief Elder pushed through the thin sheet of fabric that divided Tip's current bed from the rest of the tent. With her entrance, a new wave of sickening smells assaulted Tip's nose.
"You're awake," the Chief Elder said. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Tip said. "Want to leave."
"Not just yet," the Chief Elder said. "The Practitioners of Restoration still need to ensure that you are in good health. While we wait, I want to discuss what happened in the forest." Tip went rigid beneath the Chief Elder's gaze. "Ituha has already given me a more or less complete report. The girl, Jeadjin, corroborated."
"They are... well?" Tip asked.
"They are alive," the Chief Elder said. It was only a small splinter of information but Tip sagged with relief. "Ituha was wounded but he will recover with time. No physical harm came to Jeadjin but she speaks even less than before." The Chief Elder settled on the bed beside him. "And how are you, Tip? Are you well?"
"No." The word rushed from Tip's lips in a brutal breath of honesty. His hands were trembling as everything he was attempting to suppress threatened to spill from him. The sour air was suffocating.
"You saved their lives, Tip." The Chief Elder's voice had always been soft but now it felt as though it was made of velvet. Its softness left Tip aching—burning—with its attempt to soothe. "Focus on that, rather than the thing that tried to end those lives."
"I'm a monster."
"No, you're not."
"I'm a monster and you knew."
The Chief Elder sighed. "Are you angry with me?" she asked. "Does knowing that I hid this make you want to lash out? I am rather old. You could probably tear my throat out before anyone noticed. Certainly before anyone could stop you."
"No!" Tip said too loudly. He flinched, recoiling into himself. Much quieter, he repeated, "No."
"Then that's that," the Chief Elder said. "You are not a monster. Though you might have been born one of those-who-now-hunt, you are, undoubtedly, one of those-who-now-migrate."
