He could give her anything she needed, but he couldn't give her Nunh and daughters back. It was too late for that. "I'm sorry," he said. "I already did everything I could, but, they aren't..." He couldn't finish. But he was sure that she was going to be okay, because she had survived this long, and he would take care of her.
The Tia held onto the woman, and watched her shiver. He watched the pallid skin, burned and dirty, dappled with salty sweat. He watched the way her blood-shot eyes shifted on her face, her ears twitched. He watched her fingers and her shoulders, the way her tail writhed like a sick worm in the sand.
* * *
Hours had passed before he had carried her back to camp. K'piru still wasn't moving under her own power, but she hadn't objected when he'd sought to move her either. They couldn't hide forever from K'yohko, and the tribe was still home, was still family. K'ile had found a fallen tent and hoisted it up, secured it in place. It hung as a broad, tattered triangle of skin, small and dark. But it was shadow against the rising sun, and the walls gave privacy. It was enough.
K'ile left K'piru there, and returned an hour later with scavenged water and food. As he stepped form the morning into the shadow of the tent, lit only by the pink light leaking through tattered holes in the shelter, K'ile Tia stopped and let his weakness pull at him another moment. He carried water and food, but partook of neither. He did not for a moment give thought to his injuries. None of these comforts were for himself.
K'piru's scent had filled the tent in his absence. The stink of death and fire still leaked in to a significant degree, and it clung as well to the shaman he'd left in the dark. Still the fear and sadness wrapped about her. But it was K'piru, and her smell was familiar and comforting, sisterly, dear blood preserved when all else had drained away.
"I have food and water, K'iru," he said, moving into the dark, towards the shaman, "Have you slept? Are you... alright?"
The Tia held onto the woman, and watched her shiver. He watched the pallid skin, burned and dirty, dappled with salty sweat. He watched the way her blood-shot eyes shifted on her face, her ears twitched. He watched her fingers and her shoulders, the way her tail writhed like a sick worm in the sand.
* * *
Hours had passed before he had carried her back to camp. K'piru still wasn't moving under her own power, but she hadn't objected when he'd sought to move her either. They couldn't hide forever from K'yohko, and the tribe was still home, was still family. K'ile had found a fallen tent and hoisted it up, secured it in place. It hung as a broad, tattered triangle of skin, small and dark. But it was shadow against the rising sun, and the walls gave privacy. It was enough.
K'ile left K'piru there, and returned an hour later with scavenged water and food. As he stepped form the morning into the shadow of the tent, lit only by the pink light leaking through tattered holes in the shelter, K'ile Tia stopped and let his weakness pull at him another moment. He carried water and food, but partook of neither. He did not for a moment give thought to his injuries. None of these comforts were for himself.
K'piru's scent had filled the tent in his absence. The stink of death and fire still leaked in to a significant degree, and it clung as well to the shaman he'd left in the dark. Still the fear and sadness wrapped about her. But it was K'piru, and her smell was familiar and comforting, sisterly, dear blood preserved when all else had drained away.
"I have food and water, K'iru," he said, moving into the dark, towards the shaman, "Have you slept? Are you... alright?"
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