Another Story

[MButcher]

The entire tribe had come to mourn the passing of one of its daughters. The air was surprisingly warm this night, but the warmth did nothing to ease their grief. The loss of one of their own was too great. They stood in a large circle around a funeral pyre, nearly a hundred in all. At the top of the pyre was the body of young girl. She had died of an unknown sickness. Her body had wasted away while her mind was in some far off place.

All but one of the tribesmen held torches in their hands, waiting to set the pile of wood ablaze. The old man did not keep his eyes downcast. His gaze was leveled on the girl's body.

Children are not meant to die before their elders, he thought, What caused her to die like this?

Her death had come too early. It had disrupted the natural order. He felt this not only in his grief but in the world around him. He felt the wind blow differently, animals fell silent and even the trees seemed to bow in their grief. But he was the only one to feel this. Only a shaman could. At length he broke the silence and everyone lifted their heads to hear him speak.

"Qealia's death has surprised even me. We will feel the grief of her passing for a long time. We must mourn her, but more importantly we must honor her memory."

The shaman continued to speak and all but one in the tribe listened. A small boy stood with his parents near the pyre. Daemon kept his eyes on the body of his sister, never letting her out of his sight. He had never seen death in all of his six years of life. He stared without emotion at the body. Not feeling anything was better than the pain.

The shaman finished what he wanted to say. He gave a brief nod to the tribesmen, who threw their torches onto the pyre. Daemon watched the wood burn with the same unfeeling stare.

"This is my fault," he whispered.

His father heard this and knelt down to be level with the boy. "I know you blame yourself, but you must understand that none of this is your fault. She was meant to die when she did. There is nothing you could have done to prevent this."

The boy did understand. He knew that her death had happened because of him, because he was born. Just being there had caused her to die. Daemon watched the fire consume his sister's body.

It should be me in that fire, not her, he thought.

The flames grew larger and Daemon saw black smoke begin to rise. She burned for an eternity before he could no longer see her in the inferno. A man walked past him. In his grief he had not seen that the tribesmen were beginning to leave.

Her death will not affect them, he thought, Their lives will go back to normal once the sun rises. They did not know her, they did not deserve to.

He hated them at that moment. They had never known her, so why did they have the right to mourn her? Only his family had the right. He continued to rage at the world and was surprised when he felt his mother tug on his shoulder.

"Come Daemon, we must leave."

Daemon looked up at his mother, with her dark hair and rounded face. She looked monstrous then, with the fire reflecting in her eyes. He took on last look at the pyre to say goodbye to his sister-

And saw something that would give him nightmares years later.

At first he thought that he saw a man inside the smoke. Then he realized that it was made of the smoke. Its form was wispy and insubstantial. It knelt down into the fire, onto the burned body. It reached for his sister, and suddenly looked at him. It seemed both surprised and amused to see Daemon staring at him. One edge of the smoky figure's lips parted in a smirk.

And it vanished.

[SpaceShip]

Oooo - good start. Hope it continues as well. Nice to meet you MButcher - welcome to the Chronicles.

[MButcher]

Thanks Spaceship. Do you think I should have written more on Daemon's grief? I was thinking of showing rather than telling, but I was never sure how to show his grief.

[The Pelagic Argosy]

Maybe you could have a paragraph where Daemon remembers what it was like when his sister was in the throes of her sickness. I don't know what kind of sickness it was, but maybe she would mutter fitfully in her sleep, or her breathing was labored and raspy, or maybe she was even moaning in pain. He would remember his parents being frantic with worry, dabbing at her forehead, keeping vigil over her bed, etc. Maybe he would remember the shaman coming over and performing healing rites. Maybe that would present a better picture of his grief.

[MButcher]

That's a really good idea, thanks!