Spontanéité

The Wandering Realm 🔹 snapshot

Nobody questions the General when she leads the Wandering Lions' Realm to encamp at the foot of the Citadel's mountain. Maybe someone should have spoken up, should have questioned, should have perhaps talked to her soon after she made the decision and planted their emblem in the dirt.

It is too late now, with nightfall fast approaching, the shadows lengthening and darkening in the tent and in the camp. Somebody pushes the opening flap aside to enter. "You've changed." I look up to acknowledge his presence before returning my focus to the spear-point I sharpen with a knife's edge. The man comes and sits next to me on the pallet as I re-attach the point to the staff.

"Don't pretend you haven't," I say finally. I don't bother looking at him, rising to my feet with a thump of the spear against the ground. "And what of it?"

I push the flap aside, standing in front of my tent next to the emblem I know so well. The tents of the Families, and then the smaller tents of the other Wanderers, surround me in shadow and firelight. The Children of Wanderers tug at their parents' skirts, throw handfuls of dirt or misshapen stones at each other, pursue sheep, kids, dogs, cats or calves, or are carried in their parents' arms. Night is falling rapidly, the stars emerging as glimmers of pale light dusting the darkened sky.

The emblem flutters in the Airs of the night, attached to staffs planted in the earth on the borders of the camp, next to which stand Guards on their vigils. At the summit of this mountain are the Citadel of the Sky and its people, the Children of the Airs. Also on this mountain are animals, beasts of many kinds- the wilds, the Children of the Airs call them- as well as ice-cold waters, slippery slopes, jagged edges, landslides and snowfalls. Yes, the Realm have encamped at the foot and not on the mountain itself, but all those inhabitants and dangers make this place a risk.

What was the General thinking?

"You were thinking night was falling and we needed sleep." He places his hand on my shoulder, and although I don't look at him, I know he, too, lifts his head to the night. I hadn't realised I'd spoken aloud. Perhaps I hadn't.

"Don't be a goat. We could have continued further." A stray child, not looking where he is going, runs into my right side and falls to the ground, staring up at me with wide eyes. I crouch so I am at eye-level with him before offering my hand. He takes it and I straighten, pulling him to his feet, his hand so small in my own before it slips out. "Are you alright?" I ask him. His eyes are so grey. Grey like the stones by the streams of the valley.

He manages a nod, still staring at me in shock. What does he see? The General? Or me? Which woman does he see? A man hurries toward us upon catching sight of the boy, mumbling under his breath. "I'm so sorry," he whispers to me with a hasty bow, taking hold of the boy's shoulders and steering him away, admonishing his son.

"You can't let it define you forever," he says in a low voice. I press my lips in a line.

"Walk with me."

We move beyond the borders and the Guards, the General dismissing any questions they have of the safety of such a walk, not stopping even though it is difficult to see anything before us but for the outlines of our hands, perhaps only an upper-arm-length away. The camp is a mere glow of firelight surrounded by little-distinguishable darkness when we stop.

Above the summit, there are two lone silhouettes in the starlight, circling the Citadel. There is not much doubt as to the fact they can see the camp of the Wandering Realm. It has been many, many season-cycles since anyone has ascended the mountain. The Wanderers will not change that, not now. They are on shaky ground, encamping so close, and between two Peoples currently on terms not entirely peaceful.

The Airs ruffle our hair, flutter our skirts and cloaks. I turn to look at him in the darkness, to see him bathed in shadow and faint starlight. "You've changed," he says again.

"Don't pretend you haven't," I repeat dully.

"I'm not pretending anything." He holds out a hand, waiting. I sigh and clasp it in my own.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask tiredly. He laces his fingers through mine.

He shakes his head. "I want you to listen." I wait. "You can't let it define you," he emphasises. "A moon ago, we lost her. I know. I was there too." My hand tightens on his, near-crushing in its grip. "But the decision to camp here was not made by a goat. It was made by a General. One that cannot be defined by mistakes."

I release his hand, gripping the spear in both hands. "What man, woman or child is not shaped by mistakes? They hold more weight, they cut deeper than any victory ever will." I shake my head. "They aren't to be cast aside. They can't be."

"Regardless, you can't afford to doubt your every decision," he points out.

I press the flat of my spear-point against the leather covering over his chest. Over his heart. "I am General."

His gaze and voice don't waver. "So don't doubt the General's capacity to decide for her People."

I retract the spear. If not for his status as my helpmate and the fact his heart is pure in this, he would be treading dangerous ground. He leans in and brushes his lips across mine before I can react, then steps back. "This ground is unsafe to tread," I say finally. "There is hostility and conflict here that we aren't to be involved in."

The Children of the Airs have stopped circling and are no longer visibly flying overhead their Citadel. But there are Owls keeping vigil, no doubt about that. To our east, the Fortress of the Land with its Walls, its Watchers, its Children of the Earth. No Wandering Realm is fit for battles that may arise between two rooted Peoples. Yet here are the Lions, caught in the middle-ground.

There is still innocence, nestled in cloaks and blankets on pallets in tents, surrounded by Families and Wanderers, protected by Guards. The Children of Wanderers know wearied feet like no other. They know restlessness, they know the need for movement, they know it well; it runs in their blood. But their innocence remains. And their constant is their security. Their comfort is in the Families of the Realm. Families resting in the hands of the General.

"You know she's with the Keeper of All," he whispers. "Another pure lamb in the fold of the Shepherd." His voice is thick, and when I look at him, my vision is blurred.

"Where is our Keeper?" My fingers tighten around the staff, fingertips brushing over the engraved marks the three of us made together.

"You know He's right here. You know He's still here."

I stare at the distant fire-glow. "I know."

"He is still Keeper. Still Shepherd." He holds out a hand. "This Realm is still under His protection."

I take his hand in mine, releasing a sigh. "I know," I repeat.

We stand in the silent darkness, the Airs running their fingers through our hair and tugging at the skirts of our clothes. Like a child's hands. I can almost hear laughter. I can almost hear someone speaking to me.

I release his hand to drop to my knees, the breath leaving my lungs as the ground resists my fall, and he drops to his knees opposite me. "I can still hear her sometimes," I whisper, and I hear how loudly his breath lodges like a stone in his throat. "Her voice. Her laugh."

"Her smile is engraved into my mind," he says hoarsely.

I drop the spear, reaching blindly to clutch his hands, and we cry in the silent darkness with none but each other and our Keeper to hear us. 🔹