((Retro RP based on retro RP. There's this thread over here for context.))
It was hard not to feel responsible. But it was so strange to admit guilt without the sensation of mourning to go along with it. He admitted his fault to himself as though he'd stepped off the wrong path, or misplaced an item which had very little actual value. He was sorry, but he was offhandedly sorry, and he didn't know if he was capable of feeling any other way.
K'aijeen Thalen was gone, probably dead, and K'ile Tia was the last person who had seen her alive. He'd released her from the rack at the center of town just before dawn, and her dehydrated, exhausted body had slipped from the ropes with a stubborn silence that belied the obvious pain which was pulling her body down. The way her limbs and tail had dropped under their own meager weight, seemingly thinner than they had been the day before, had made the child appear on the verge of collapsing. Her voice and eyes had been dark, small, when she'd muttered, "I need to be left alone. I will return to mother after I've had time to think."
"That's fine," K'ile had said to her, his tone empty of pity. It was the voice of the man chosen to enforce the rules, to punish the wrongdoers of the tribe, and not the voice of an uncle to his chided niece. She stood humiliated, and he was the one who had perpetrated it, if only by impersonal necessity.
His voice had been so much softer when he'd released K'airos from her rack moments later. There was familial care there, which K'aijeen had apparently not warranted. K'ile Tia's only explanation was that he was wicked in a place deep in his heart, so perfectly concealed that even he could only discern it after the passage of unkind actions and words.
It had been three days now since there had been any sign of K'aijeen Thalen. The tribe had begun to search when she did not turn up for any meals the day she had been released from the rack. It felt like they had searched ceaselessly since then, in the tribe, outside the tribe, at the girl's known haunt in the stony mountains where she had engaged in dark magic with childish ignorance. And yet they had not found so much as a single hair from her red tail, a single footprint from her thin feet.
K'ile had led several of the search parties himself. When word had come from the elders that they would be moving the tribe in search of water soon, and that the search parties would need to cease, K'ile had stopped sleeping and begun seeking in all his time. But now he walked home, as sunset reddened the sands on the third and final day. Azeyma's light burnt his skin, turned it red and dry and ugly as a beast's, and he accepted that. He envied his brother, the Nunh, for his children and the love of his women, but K'ile Tia had lost one of those children and did not mourn. He felt only wickedness and trepidation.
Coming home empty-handed, his spear feeling like a heated iron rod upon his back, K'ile watched the sand disturbed by his footsteps. His hair hung over his features like blades of dried, red grass. His eyes recessed like stagnant pools. His arms and fingers hung as though distended. K'ile Tia had led the very last of the search parties. There would be no more searching, or hope, or deluding oneself into thinking she might be found. His feet would not take him back to his own tent yet.
He would go first to the tent of the shaman, K'piru Jhanhi, to tell her that her daughter had not been found and there would be no more searching. K'ile did not feel sadness for having lost K'aijeen, nor would he miss her, but he did not want to tell K'piru that her daughter was dead.
It was hard not to feel responsible. But it was so strange to admit guilt without the sensation of mourning to go along with it. He admitted his fault to himself as though he'd stepped off the wrong path, or misplaced an item which had very little actual value. He was sorry, but he was offhandedly sorry, and he didn't know if he was capable of feeling any other way.
K'aijeen Thalen was gone, probably dead, and K'ile Tia was the last person who had seen her alive. He'd released her from the rack at the center of town just before dawn, and her dehydrated, exhausted body had slipped from the ropes with a stubborn silence that belied the obvious pain which was pulling her body down. The way her limbs and tail had dropped under their own meager weight, seemingly thinner than they had been the day before, had made the child appear on the verge of collapsing. Her voice and eyes had been dark, small, when she'd muttered, "I need to be left alone. I will return to mother after I've had time to think."
"That's fine," K'ile had said to her, his tone empty of pity. It was the voice of the man chosen to enforce the rules, to punish the wrongdoers of the tribe, and not the voice of an uncle to his chided niece. She stood humiliated, and he was the one who had perpetrated it, if only by impersonal necessity.
His voice had been so much softer when he'd released K'airos from her rack moments later. There was familial care there, which K'aijeen had apparently not warranted. K'ile Tia's only explanation was that he was wicked in a place deep in his heart, so perfectly concealed that even he could only discern it after the passage of unkind actions and words.
It had been three days now since there had been any sign of K'aijeen Thalen. The tribe had begun to search when she did not turn up for any meals the day she had been released from the rack. It felt like they had searched ceaselessly since then, in the tribe, outside the tribe, at the girl's known haunt in the stony mountains where she had engaged in dark magic with childish ignorance. And yet they had not found so much as a single hair from her red tail, a single footprint from her thin feet.
K'ile had led several of the search parties himself. When word had come from the elders that they would be moving the tribe in search of water soon, and that the search parties would need to cease, K'ile had stopped sleeping and begun seeking in all his time. But now he walked home, as sunset reddened the sands on the third and final day. Azeyma's light burnt his skin, turned it red and dry and ugly as a beast's, and he accepted that. He envied his brother, the Nunh, for his children and the love of his women, but K'ile Tia had lost one of those children and did not mourn. He felt only wickedness and trepidation.
Coming home empty-handed, his spear feeling like a heated iron rod upon his back, K'ile watched the sand disturbed by his footsteps. His hair hung over his features like blades of dried, red grass. His eyes recessed like stagnant pools. His arms and fingers hung as though distended. K'ile Tia had led the very last of the search parties. There would be no more searching, or hope, or deluding oneself into thinking she might be found. His feet would not take him back to his own tent yet.
He would go first to the tent of the shaman, K'piru Jhanhi, to tell her that her daughter had not been found and there would be no more searching. K'ile did not feel sadness for having lost K'aijeen, nor would he miss her, but he did not want to tell K'piru that her daughter was dead.
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