The morning after the fire I awoke with a sense of surrealism, that came from not understanding exactly what had happened. I can now accept the fact that for some reason, I had allowed myself to detach from reality again, which disturbed me greatly. It was just not me to do that. However, after my talk with Fonce last evening, I realize that it is natural. That there have been so many shocks to my mind recently, that it was only trying to protect itself, and me, from any more pain.
This morning, I awoke with a new resolve. All of my family is safe, not only here, but my brothers and their families in the outer wagons. Today was a day to start shuffling through the ashes, to salvage what we could of our former lives. The night of the fire, Rook had managed to save my wagon, the boys' wagon, one supply wagon and his personal wagon. How much more was left to bring to this side of the stream, was yet to be known.
The morning was spent in trying to round up the kaiila into some semblance of order, they are almost as important to our survival out here as the bosk. I finally made my way to where the wagons were, and began to survey the damage and to being to take care of what is mine. It was actually a blow to see all that people had lost, to see the death and sorrow that hung like a cloud over everyone. I even have this flash, of seeing Tarra find the remains of the slave lily in the ravages of what were once Kam and Chay's wagons. Thankfully, that is all she found.
Rook had brought teams to pull what was left of our wagons down across the stream to sit with the others. Some were not worth moving, but I needed to get inside them to see if their contents could be saved.
One that had taken a great deal of damage was Ba'atars' personal wagon. His sanctuary away from things. I have never set foot in this wagon, in fact, I was forbidden to do so. The closest I ever came to that wagon, was to set his laundry, done by my own hands, in the manner he insisted upon, on the steps of his wagon. From there his slaves tended to it. But this morning, that barrier was set aside, so that I could see if there was anything in there that I could salvage to keep and pass on to his children.
Stepping inside that wagon was almost like a physical blow for some reason. His presence was imprinted on this place. His extra lances, extra sets of quiva, the clothing that he did not take with him, they were all there, screaming his name to me. There was his sleeping platform, and beside it another platform that was covered with two of the most beautiful furs I have ever seen, one white and one black. He had mentioned these to me before. They were for his slaves, the one he had and the one he intended to get. I was hit by a rush of emotions. The only thing, in all of the time that we were together, that he had ever brought to me, was that small pot of blue flowers. I will not say they were not important, but they are little to show for our lives together. For some reason, this stabbed through me like a hot dagger, but I pushed it away.
I toed the edge of the furs with my boot, and saw the corner of a book hidden beneath them. Stooping, I threw the furs back, to discover another book. I probably should have just left them there, but the curiosity within me didn't do that.
Leaning my hip against a chest, I opened one tilting it towards the light coming in from the entrance and began to read. That darkness of anger began to eat at me again. I was over protective of the girls? When a man wants to dye one of his own children blue so that he can tell them apart, because he is too lazy to look and see the birthmark that one of them carried, do stand in the way of such folly, makes me over protective?
When one of my own sons, tells me quietly that his father doesn't like him, is it over protective to try and comfort him. To get angry, when one of your sons, calls you a wench, a word he has learned from his father, is that over protective?
So, he was going to wash his hands of the girls, of his own daughters? Why does that not surprise me, they are female, not much to get excited about there, now are they? Not like sons. I see again, where the lies he told about pride and love for them, were just that, lies told before others, to make him look a good father.
I think it is when I read about the death of his sweet nithya? Now, could this be the death of the slave that he had thrown to the Kassar sleen that were tracking him, to save his own behind? And even then, he did not have the balls to do it himself, he ordered Ayguili to do it. And now she haunts him with her beauty and her blue eyes. Bosk Shit!
The rage I felt at that moment was hotter than the fires that had consumed the grasses. I slammed that book shut, opened the other, and it only fed that rage more. Songs of beauty and love, written to another? In neither of these tomes was there a single word of kindness about me. His mate, the one he was supposed to treasure above all others, the woman that has given him children. Not a single word of love or kindness. In that moment, I realized how blind I had been. What a fool he had made of me.
My rage took on life. Taking my quiva, I shredded those two beautiful furs, then I took in after his own sleeping furs, shredding them with a strength that I did not know I had. I then turned around in the wagon, seeing the slave perfumes, the things he kept for them, and I began to toss them out onto the ground. Jealous? Hell yes I was jealous, but not so much of them, but I was jealous of the time that I have spent on him, loving him, trying to make him a good mate, and to suddenly realize how little it mattered to him. How little, I mattered to him.
Those stacks of laundered tunics, and cleaned and brushed leathers suddenly loomed up like monsters. I threw them out onto the ground, then followed them, kicking them around in the dirt, screaming at the absent warrior. ..How do you like that? How is that for doing your clothes just like your mother. I was not your damn mother, you bosk arse!
And I wasn't. Sometimes, I think that he should have stayed with his mother that was the perfect embodiment of womanhood. The perfect cook, the perfect mother, the perfect mate. I think if he could have gotten children from his mothers's womb, he would have had no need for me or any other woman.
I distinctly remember kicking a pair of leathers and mumbling to myself. Paint my ass for your amusement? What man even suggests that about his mate. Hmm? Did you find it amusing?
That rage just would not be cooled. I was not even aware that there were those around. I was totally beyond that, lost in my own world of anger and pain. And yes, it was pain that drove me too. The pain of loving someone, then knowing that they did not love you. I am not real sure that he even had the capacity to love anyone but himself..
I did become aware of Ayguili sort of pulling the others away from me, almost as if he were protecting them. I sensed amusement in them all. Finally, I regained some of my composure, brushed the tendrils of hair away from my cheeks, tucked those books under my arm and walked over to the group.
I handed the book of songs to Ayguili, and asked if he would give them to Aamon. When I was asked, didn't I want to keep them for his children, I whipped around, narrowing my eyes and said...
Why would I want to save songs for my children that were written for other women, than their mother?
With that, I looked back once more at that wagon then to Ayguili, and told him to take the wood from it, the contents that were left, and burn it. Use it as fuel for the pyres that we all knew were to be held. Then without another word, I lifted my head and walked with as much dignity as I could back to my wagons and my children.
The journal would be kept for now. I would read every word of it, then I would burn it, and in essence, burn than man out of my life.
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