Alien Captive

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Turn of the moon -- a day.

Cycle of the moon -- a year.

Thaleous' POV

It was a dark time for the Wraks. Heavy clouds hung over the planet hiding the day star behind its thick fog of grey, casting the village in gloom.

The weather could not be blamed for the shadows that lingered on the faces and in the hearts of my people, rather it was merely a reflection of the sorrow that swept the land.

The masses stood behind me, their heads bowed in silence and hopelessness. Occasionally a whimper broke the quiet and my heart would clench.

Sharing in this loss with my people and grieving with the families that were destined to go home with only the memories of their love ones for comfort was the least I could do. It was not mandatory for the leader or outsiders to attend every sendoff, it was a private affair reserved for family, but I hadn't missed a single one since I took the throne as Ashin and neither had the rest of the village. It was as if we'd grown closer because of our individual losses; one family's loss was now everyone's loss. My people was once vast in numbers but now we were losing more of our own each turn of the moon, we had no choice but to become close to each other. Strangers were now family. We had grown closer through our deaths and our tears.

A gentle breeze threw a chill on the land, serving as a reminder that soon the skies would open up and shed its own tears on us all.

I stepped toward the wooden pyre that cradled five tightly wrapped bundles. Three of which had represented hope merely a single turn of the moon ago. It was hard to believe that they'd been the future of the Wraks, so precious in more ways than one, now ripped away from our fingers in the blink of an eye as if we'd stolen them and they hadn't been ours to begin with. They had been the last shred of our future, our last true hope. Now they were gone.

The other two larger bundles were brave men who'd fallen ill and had never recovered.

Pulling on the bräck in my spirit that I had inherited the moment I had turned Ashin-- ruler of the Wraks, I concentrated on the pile of wood. With great amount of regret I watch it ignite before my eyes. The flames quickly rose high, crackling, devouring the mismatched bundles of white and filling the air with the sickening but all too familiar smell of smoke and burning meat.

A wail erupted from behind me and I clenched my fist at the sound of a mother's grief. It was the wail of sheer agony, of hopelessness. It too was painfully familiar and very heartbreaking to bare witness to.

I turned to the female whose cry echoed around us. Darrah. She was the mother of one of the deceased youngling. Her mates surrounded her with sullen faces but they parted so I could rest a hand on her slim shoulders.

"T'shąk mävrąk suneek" -- we face this together I said in the old tongue. It was supposed to mean more that I used our mother dialect but to my ears it sounded hollow and devoid of any true promise.

She nodded, trying to control her sobs. But I saw trust reflect back at me in her glossy eyes and I subtly turned away from her and that look.

I had stood before my people too many times and had lit too many pyres. At this point I should've been numb. Instead it had become a constant punishment that promised no relief in the soft bussom of numbness. To routinely force myself to attend each sendoff... to helplessly witness the agony that my people faced... It was a punishment fit for the truly evil, for the scum of the land. And this begs the question, was I truly such a despicable being that the great mother would subject me and her people to such a punishment?