Tales of the Vangen: The Siege of Middengard (Book 2)

Chapter 5: Tenacity

{In all my years of travel, I can profoundly say without a shadow of a doubt that The Medial is a land of both great danger and even greater mystery. A strange, dubious mist permeates the place at all times, made possible by the warm winds drawn up from the south meeting the cold, still landscape. For you see, The Medial is the center of all things. Like a whirlpool, it pulls the clouds down from the surrounding mountains, cloaking the land like a thief stolen into the night. Why that is, I do not know. Perhaps one day, a Pathfinder, much like myself, will find the reason why.}

-Pathfinder Padfoot. An excerpt from "The Four Corners of the World and Everything In Between."

"How's he fairing?" Elba sat cross-legged on the floor, watching impatiently as Gretta leaned over her father, poking and prodding at the dressings draped across his chest.

"Not better, but not worse," Gretta mumbled. She peeled back the damp cloth and replaced it with a new one, warm steam rising into the still, smoky air of the yurt. "His breathing is still labored, but he's stopped coughing at least."

At that, Elba's father mumbled something unintelligible. His eyes moved beneath their lids, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"Don't worry. He's only dreaming," said Gretta assuringly.

Elba rose noiselessly and padded over, reaching out to stroke her father's forehead. "It's okay. You're safe. You can rest now." She watched him as he settled back down, wondering how many times he'd done the same for her when she was little. Back then, his hands had seemed so much bigger, big enough to wrap around her tiny waist and lift her on his shoulders so she could fly just like the Grayjays. But they were so small now, his hands. Old and withered, the skin like blotchy wax paper. So thin she could see the veins running through them. They didn't seem fit to lift anything now.

Elba's eyes drifted across the single, circular wall of the yurt as she ruminated. Everything felt larger when she was young. The people. The trees. Even her father's yurt seemed to tower over her, the smoke flume just out of reach. Now, she could have easily reached up and touched it, with hands that felt too big. Hands that held the fate of her entire tribe within them. Just like her father, all those years ago.

"Thank you, Gretta." Elba found herself saying. "Without your help. I don't think he'd have lived for as long as he has."

"Now, don't go saying that just yet," Gretta chided, her lips puckering into a frown. "Everett's strong. He'll pull through. All he needs is a little more rest and care, of which we've given him plenty of in my opinion." She placed a reassuring hand on Elba's shoulder. "Just give it time."

"Time?" The word felt bitter in Elba's mouth. "I don't think we have any more time."

"Hmm?" Gretta gave her a curious look as she pulled the covers back over Everett. The old man sank against them, smiling even, his mouth working out another half murmur before he drifted off to sleep.

"You saw how the others reacted when we came back empty-handed. Everyone's close to starving now, and they only have me to blame."

"This is the entire tribe's burden, Elba. Not just yours. There is no one person to blame for this ill omen."

"Then tell that to them." Elba felt her anger pulsate, hidden beneath a thin veneer of self-control as she jabbed an accusatory finger towards the outside. "Every day, I am harrowed by the other Elders, accusing me of driving our people to ruin because I'm not fit to lead."

Gretta snorted. "Oh, please. It's only Andelherd making noise most of the time, and his only reason being that you don't have a cock between your legs. His kind is always weeping over some such transgression." She puffed her chest out and strutted around the yurt, taking on a mocking tone that sounded a lot like Andelherd. "Back in my time, only the men could lead the tribe. Women are too emotional, too needy, too weak. Blah, blah, blah."