Revaramek the Resplendent - Chapter One Hundred Fifteen (Patreon)

When at last the sun’s fire seared the shadowy horizon, The First eased Mica to her pillows. He resisted the urge to freeze her world’s time a while. For as much as he wished to let her dreams last forever, he knew she would scold him if he dared so much as consider it. The First knew as well as she that mortals had but limited time, when compared to the life of a god. Her time was over, her story was ending, and it was only right to let it end. The best thing he could do for her now was to let it end the way she wished it, surrounded by her family. So few mortals would ever get to see their stories the way they wished it, and it was a blessing he knew Mica would not take for granted.

Once sunlight left the sky blushing, The First withdrew. He cast his vessel back into sand, and vanished through the window in a swirl of gold, then dissipated upon the winds. Clouds built on the horizon, a looming tide of sorrow. Mica’s eldest daughter awoke first, coming to check on her mother. She brought food and water, sat with her a while, and soon went to welcome the rest of the family in. They all knew the end was near for their beloved mother, and lately, had cherished each moment they had with her. What they did not know, what they did not need to know, was that Mica was meant to die, in the night. Without his intervention, her heart would have given out in her sleep, and they would have found her, already passed on to whatever realm awaited her next.

Instead, Mica got to say goodbye to each and every one of them. She knew her time on this world was over, and even without having to say it, her family knew the same. They all hugged her and cried with her, spoke of love and pleasant memories, and old times. Mica told them a story, about the day she met a god, when their world was young. The First knew where the story was going. Mica would tell them how proud she had been to see their people grow and flourish, and that the only thing she was prouder of were her children. But she never got that far. She drifted off, in the midst of her story, holding her eldest daughter’s hand and murmuring about the cosmos and the sand of which they were all made. Her last breath came as a gentle rattle, and then she was simply gone.

Thunder broke across the village as Mica’s family all cried for their mother, their grandmother, their great grandmother. News spread, and everyone gathered to howl in morning, to see and touch the body of their founder, their first high priest, she who first spoke to the gods. The First cried with them, and his tears came as a great deluge across the village. For he had lost something, too. In all his long existence, for all the years he drifted and wandered, all the lives he touched and gazed upon, all the people he effected, Mica was different.

Mica was his friend.

It hit him then, that with Mica gone, he was once more alone.

There was no one left for him to visit in their dreams, to sit with under the stars, to talk to when the mood struck him. All his other friends, he lost when he gave up his mortal form long ago, to inspire them to greatness, to give them the courage to tell their own story. And it was their story now. The First began their tale, and though he breathed life into them, Mica breathed life into their story. She gave it form and depth, history and culture. Mica shaped their story into something they could all believe in, and now, even without her, that story would go on. They had culture, they had purpose and duty, they had importance. This world was theirs to renew.

All at once, he realized his story was complete.

The First had set out to tell a story for urd’thin. He wanted a story where the urd’thin were heroes, were powerful, were important. With no one to enslave them or step on them or call them vermin. It took an entire mortal life time to tell that story, but at last, it was finished. Their people flourished. The desert was theirs to colonize, the wastes beyond theirs to shape and rejuvenate. If they were invaded again, they knew how to fight back. Through Mica, they had learned how to weather the droughts, how to escape the floods, how to bring dead lands back to life, and how to protect themselves from any threat.

Their story was at last, self-sustaining.

They did not need him anymore.

It hurt.

The First was not sure why. He wanted to feel pride, and happiness. In truth, he was immensely proud of them, and he was joyful they would succeed now with or without him. But the sudden emptiness left in the wake of Mica’s passing overwhelmed his joy and pride. For all the time he spent watching over them, all the care he put into their world, into their lives, all the laughter and tears he shared with them, they did not need him anymore.

It was their story now, and they needed no god to tell it for them. They needed not his shelter, nor his protection. They needed not his guidance, nor his dreams and stories. They guided themselves now, and they had set about a path that would lead them to flourish. It was everything he once hoped they would accomplish, and yet…he was no longer part of it.

If only he had someone to celebrate their success with. But he only wanted to celebrate with Mica, and Mica was gone. The First could not even mourn her as they did. He was not one of her people. None of them knew The First as Mica knew him. All the others who knew The First Chief were gone, just like she was, or aged beyond his memory. He could present himself as a wandering traveler, but such a nomad would have no reason to mourn a village elder he never knew. If he revealed himself in truth, it would alter the course of their very existence. They would come to rely on him, and though that might fill the emptiness in his ragged soul a while, it would not last.

And it was not right.

No, his part in their story was over.

Once, long ago, he told Mica this story began with her.

Only now did he realize it ended with her, too.

All he could do now was withdraw himself from it, and let his thriving people spin themselves a story of their own.

The First lingered long enough for Mica’s funeral. Urd’thin from nearby tribes and villages gathered, traveling through the rain. When his tears eased, and the sands dried beneath the shining sun, Mica’s children carried her through the village she founded, one last time. They set her atop a great pyre, and each took a turn to speak about their mother. One spoke of love, undying. Another told a funny story from her life that brought both laughter, and tears. The next talked about her mother’s pride, in her people, in her children, and how she hoped her mother knew that they were just as proud of her, as she was of them.

Before they lit the pyre, the gathered tribes conducted official ceremonies. Her eldest daughter took her place as High Priestess of all tribes, her son was named Prime Shaper, as they grew to revere healing above all, and her other daughter became Chief of Mica’s villages. When their new positions were appointed, they set flame to the pyre, and let the winds scatter Mica’s ashes, returning her to the sands from whence she came.

Built of sand, returned to sand.

Awash in grief, and afraid of flooding the tribe with his sorrow, The First withdrew from their world. Lonely and uncertain, he wondered what became of Mica when she did. He truly did believe that there was another sort of life awaiting of. He believed in the peace and happiness he promised her, but he knew not where it lay. Would she be born anew, in another story? Would she persist in some endless happy dream? Could he set such things in motion?

All his time existing, and The First still had so many questions. Some things were simply beyond even his perception. He had created life within a world, but he had not created the world itself. He wandered a spiraling universe, had the power to go anywhere, to spin civilizations out of sand, to alter the flow of a world’s time, and yet…His own consciousness had simply awoken, amidst a universe that already existed. Had he created it all, and forgotten again? Or had something greater than he built it all, long before his light first gained understanding?

As he was a god to mortals, was he himself but a mortal to something greater?

While the story he started flowed across the desert, The First wondered about existence. If Mica persisted, somewhere, could he find her? Could he cast his perception even unto the heavens, onto other planes, other existences? If she was born against, someone new, could he send his understanding to find her? Even if he could…should he?

If her first story relied upon him, was it not right for him to let her forge her second story, all on her own? If there even was a second story.

So many questions, so few answers.

The First’s light pulsed with frustration, and anger, a flickering star amidst the cosmos’ dark ocean. What good did aimless philosophizing do? A mortal could spend their days asking questions they could not answer, because they lacked the power to answer them. But The First was not a mortal. Though he knew he may not find answers, let alone answers that pleased him, The First decided to seek them anyway. He may as well do what mortals could not.

All at once, The First sent his understanding everywhere. He pushed his perception across the great spiral, a flash of brilliant light illuminating the skies over every world it passed. So many places he had visited, so many things he had seen, and none provided the answers he sought. So this time, he strengthened his perception, and pressed it against the edges of all existence. He sought not new worlds, or peoples, but rather, the edges of existence itself. What lay beyond that which knew? What existed beyond that which a god could perceive?

What was he never meant to know?

Something shuddered in him, left his light trembling and dimming, as if the cosmos pushed back against his perception. There was a great veil between worlds, that he knew. Yet now, he sensed something greater still. A veil not between worlds, but between existences. The First pushed harder against that veil, wanting to perceive all that lay beyond it. Gradually, parts of it came into hazy focus for his understanding. But perceiving through the veil was like gazing across the desert through a layer of gauze. The broad shapes were there, but the details were imperceptible.

Even the broad shapes seemed strangely familiar. As if he remembered them, despite having never seen them before. Had he dreamt them? Had he built them? The First focused all his perception on what lay beyond that veil. It shuddered, like a wall in danger of collapse. But the shapes beyond it grew more distinct, the existence more familiar still. He eased enough of his understanding back, to cast it across the cosmos, to compare what he knew, with what he perceived.

They were the same.

They weren’t.

The same, yet…different, somehow.

Familiar spheres in familiar places.

It was like a mirror image, as he perceived a reflection of existence itself, an entire reverse cosmos, as if to balance the first.

Balance.

The Cosmos sought balance.

Afraid of damaging the veil, The First withdrew his perception from it. He felt as though he had stumbled across the answer of a question that was impossible to ask. Or had he only found pieces of the answer, and had yet to properly assemble the question? How many existences were there, and how similar were they? Were they simple mirror images, or was it deeper than that? A memory struck him, then, from the day his mortal life ended.

“Your…gates. They’re not just piercing world veils, they’re…so there are other existences?” He wondered, briefly, if he had made those, or if it was something greater. “For every great choice…a new story. Live, or die, the story goes on…but it’s different, for everyone else. Something greater, then.”

In all the chaos, pain, and sorrow that followed, The First had forgotten his initial discovery of other existences. Even now, it seemed a puzzle he was not meant to solve. And yet, now he could see the vaguest outlines of its great truth, that existence was not singular, but plural. That if there was something greater than him, perhaps it was the cosmos itself. A force of nature, of great, unknowable balance, and unyielding tides, a push and pull of realities built upon realities. He had built a world in layers, once, sand and earth and stone, water and microbes, and higher life built atop them, everything in great balance. Now, The First wondered if he was but another layer himself, a means to an end, to create…or restore…balance.

To bring life where there was none.

To start a story, where once a story ended.

In all of existence, everything had a purpose, a place, a balance. He wondered then, if it was the cosmos itself that created him. Whether by conscious thought, or millions of years of cosmic balance slowly pulling him together, until at last he was ready to take his place. To build life upon a dead world, and in turn, the great spiral could build a story upon his world, and an existence upon that story.

Was that why he began? Was that why he existed? To tell stories, and build lives, so that greater things still could be built atop his own creation? He had laid the foundation for greater balance. The cosmos saw injustice done to urd’thin across the spiral, and thus, it set in motion a god who would one day build the urd’thin a world of the own.

Had it birthed a god of urd’thin, to bring force balance?

The First found himself more uncertain than ever. He hurled his perception against the veil once more, harder this time, pushing until it cracked. With his powers, he held the veil together even as he slipped his understanding through those cracks. Beyond the next existence he perceived anotherveil, and beyond it, another still. There were four, at least, four existences that each balanced the next, and all bound by a singular spiral. Stars and spheres beyond measure.

They all had stories, and some were familiar. With his perception stretched to its painful limit, he touched minds here and there, desperate to understand at least some measure of the universe. He found stories that were both familiar, and foreign, lives he had glimpsed in other worlds, different now. Altered by…choices that changed the course of civilizations.

For every great choice, a new story.

He saw it then, like mirrors reflecting mirrors, spheres repeating and a story told anew. Four great choices that altered a world’s history. A country saved, and a monster shown mercy. A tragedy avenged, and a country plunged into ruin. A life lived long into old age, and prosperity resulting. An early death, and a nation’s tragic collapse. Save, or slay. Life, or die.

Hero.

Villain.

Live.

Die.

It was like four stories, ever balancing one another, ever turning from one to the next. And when at last the story died, when the final page turned and the world lay cold, and empty, then it was time for a new story to take its place. It was like a great, ceaseless cycle, an endless end and renewal. Just like mortal life, when one story died, another was born to take its place.

Life.

That was what he was. That was his place in the cosmos.

The First was life borne anew, in the ashes of old stories.

When everyone died, The First ensured that everyone would live again.

No sooner did The First understand than he wished he did not.

Was that to be his only lot in life? To bring forth life, watch it flourish, and then be forgotten? To never live as they lived, to never know love as they knew it? Necessarily as his role may be, it left him feeling lonelier than ever. As if he existed solely to create life, and then watch it fade. What good did immortality do the father who had to watch his children age and die, time and again?

The mortals suffered death, and loss, but at least they also knew love and joy. The love and memories they made their families balanced they pain the knew when they lost them. Where then was his balance, his joy, his family? Mica’s voice drifted through his thoughts, and he clung to her memory’s warm comfort.

When this is done. When we don’t need you anymore…Promise me that one day, you’ll let yourself know love, as we know it.

Had she known, all along what answers he may one day find? Or did she just sense his looming loneliness? Either way, even in death, Mica continued to surprise him. And now, now she had the answer that would provide balm upon his wounded soul. They didn’t him anymore. His role here was done. But there would be…other existences, waiting for their new story. Other worlds, mirror to this, waiting for their urd’thin to come and bring life back to their barren wastes. They could…they could wait, a while.

The First did not want to be a god, right now. He did not want to feel so lonely, anymore, so empty. He wanted to know love, as they knew it. He wanted to know life as they knew it. At long last, it was time for The First to heed Mica’s words, and make himself mortal.

He considered taking a place amidst Mica’s descendants, but somehow, it did not seem right. He had promised to let them guide their own story, and even as a mortal, he feared what influence he may have upon them. Besides, if life was his place, then surely there were other existences where this world still lay waiting for its rebirth. If not, he would create one.

First, he had a story to protect. If the men who named themselves after him had escaped to other existences, then they might come back. Though he was certain his people could fend them off, if anything happened while he lived life as a mortal, he would not be able to fix it. He was sure Mica’s people would survive, and yet…he wanted to ensure their continuity, no matter what.

Gathering his powers, The First stretched his understanding all around that world. The descendants of his first tribes were numerous now, and gradually expanding their desert. Year by year, they were bringing that dead world back to life. He touched their world’s veil, strengthened it, altered its very structure. The powers he had inadvertently given the humans so long ago would no longer be enough to reach this place.

Now, only a power like his could pierce their veil.

Still, he wished another failsafe. Inspired by the great cosmic structure of renewal he glanced, his cast his perception out in a new way. This time, he sought to push it backwards, through all that had been. Stretched it through his own memories, back to the day he first made Mica’s tribe. At the same time, he pushed forward, imagining the future his world would one day know. If the worst were to happen, and his story here were to end while he was mortal, he was not sure he would be able to fix it. So he sent his great power down that road, gathered the story’s end, and tied it back to the beginning. He built the story a failsafe, a cycle that would ensure Mica’s world would persist, even without him.

Satisfied he had done all he could to keep his world safe throughout his absence, he withdrew once more. After that, he rested a while, preparing for what was next. He set himself to dreaming, as a mortal might dream, and in his sleep his mind was filled with memories of Mica. While he slumbered, as only a god can slumber, his powers probed the veil between existences, seeking another world.

When he awoke, and set Mica’s memories aside for a while, he discovered that his understanding had already found him a new home. A world, in another existence, much like the one where he built his people of sand. Humans dwelled there once, too, and has lasted longer. Most of them were long since gone, most of them dead, a few escaped to other worlds. Their choices had changed the way things played out, but in the end, almost everyone died.

The First focused his power, his perception on that place, and when it was clear and fixed in his mind, he opened a doorway across existences. He slipped through in an instant, and found his light and consciousness wandering their empty wastelands. Soon, he found the perfect place for his new tribe.

He fixed their broken veil, pulled water from beneath the ground to form an oasis, and built himself a vessel out of sand. Warm wind ruffled his fur. Hot sands shifted beneath his pads. He quenched his sudden, mortal thirst with cool water from the oasis. When he’d filled his belly with water, he stood back up and wiped his muzzle with the back of his hand.

The First smiled. For the first time since Mica’s death, he felt happy.

It was time to start again.

*****

It was easier this time. The First had done it all before. He knew what the world needed, he knew what foundation to build and what to construct atop it. Where before, remaking a world suitable for life took decades of experimentation and study, now he simply repeated the final results. Since everything worked so well once it was finished before, why not just do it the same?

The First sang to himself as he danced across sands forged from broken earth. He threw his arms wide, and cast the desert across the wasteland. Bigger, vaster, more room for more urd’thin. He lifted his hands to the sky, and pulled water from beneath the earth. Reeds sprang up where the waters pooled into deep oases. Towering hand fruit trees jutted from the sand, sprouting, growing, and setting fruit all in a breath. The First waved his hand over the water, and myriad microscopic life sprang to life.

Now, he knew just what would thrive, and what was needed to make the world habitable. His tiny creatures cleansed the water, and provided food for the next step. The first brought larger creatures into being to feed upon them, then larger still. It was the same process he used the first time he built tribes to populate his desert, but now rather than observe and guide, he replicated what he knew would work.

The First had built a thriving world, and now, he built it again.

As he created, so too did he wonder. He had no trouble wandering between existences, no difficult weaving life from nothingness. Had he come into being, so that he could repopulate every dead world, among all the existences? Did he follow in the footsteps of one like him? Maybe he was not The First, after all. Maybe he was only, The Latest. The Current. Or could it be, that he himself made these worlds, these existences, long ago? Had he grown so weary of watching things ended that he allowed himself to…stop being? Only to find his consciousness drifting back together, unaware of what it once was?

With a glance at the sky, The First built clouds, and brought nourishing rain to his desert. He let the cool water that splattered and slicked down his bare fur wash away his questions. As far as he was concerned, he had already found the answers he sought. This was his place, and life was his purpose. Beyond that, perhaps he simply had to be content in knowing that some things were meant to be unknowable, even to a god.

Besides, soon enough, he would be as a mortal, and such questions would beyond his realm of concern, let alone his comprehension.

The idea of living as a mortal left The First giddy. He laughed and sang as he built his world. The rain fell in time to his song, driven into waves by winds that rose and fell with the cadence of his ancient melody. The stars sang that song to him once, long ago, and now he was so sure he knew why. They were telling him of his purpose, calling him to it. Calling him to be life, for the lifeless.

The rain soaked the vast desert, and in its wake, new oases formed, and with them came new life. More trees, trees, brush, insects, birds, lizards, shellfish, desert foxes, rakatch, and a thousand-fold other forms of life. The First took everything that had succeeded in his great desert the first time, and brought it to life here, in equal measure. Now, he could start with everything already in balance.

The First let time flow as soon as everything was in its proper place. He left his vessel for a little while, to perceive and observe. Over the years he had learned that being in mortal form left his mind bound by mortal limitations. It was more difficult for him to perceive and understand things on a grander, planetary scale, let alone a cosmic scale, when his understanding was bound to mortal brain and mortal mind. Soon, that was exactly what he would seek, but for now, he wished to ensure his new world was functioning properly.

As he drifted about his desert, he set a small portion of his power to start building fresh urd’thin tribes from the sands. He knew the process now, and it was as easy as simply repeating it. For every oases he inspected, he created a new tribe. This time he started with higher numbers than before, every tribe would have dozens each of male and female. Now that he knew how to build them, now that he knew what mistakes to avoid, he did not have to be so cautious. By the time he was certain that his world’s life was functioning properly, he had built ten different tribes, all across the desert.

Despite his confidence, The First took his time in bringing his sand-sculpted children to life. After all, he planned to join them as a mortal this time. If there were mistakes he was not sure he would be able to fix them. As before, he brought each urd’thin to life with a droplet of his own blood, and his own breath. He wove into their minds a far more intricate tapestry than his first attempts.

Just as he promised Mica, her stories lived on. He filled their heads with the histories and culture Mica helped create. To The First, his new children were every bit as much Mica’s people as his. She had built a foundation upon which her people could grow and flourish, and now he put that same foundation into his newest tribes. After all, Mica had already answered all the questions a new tribe might ever have.

They were the gods’ story, sent to wander this beautiful desert, at the edge of a land ruined by Those Who Came Before. They called themselves the shapers, because of the powers the gods granted them to survive this difficult world. They believed in the gods, but also did they believe in the god’s punishment. That was the fate of Those Who Came Before, who the gods allowed to destroy themselves because they had abused their gifts.

She called them, Those Who Came Before.

From Mica’s stories, came history.

From Mica’s imagination, came answers.

Where his first tribes began with holes and gaps in their memories, in their histories, this time, Mica’s legacy filled out everything. The First even went a step further. Where the death of his vessel became a rallying cry for his tribe, it was history to his newest people. A story passed from elders to children, of a great sacrifice made to inspire their people to rise up. They would have chiefs and prime shapers and so on, just as Mica’s tribes had, and ever would they strive to follow the First Chief’s example.

The First started with a single tribe. Though he was confident everything would work fine, he wanted to be certain before he put himself amongst them. For a few months, he watched over that singular tribe as they set about building themselves a new village. To his delight, their minds held strong. All the added details and histories upon which he built them proved successful. Though they still had questions about their past, and their existence, they were the same sort questions all sapient life had. Even he had questions about his existence. What was important was that he saw no threads for them to pull at, no mental holes they might stumble into while he was unable to help them.

Satisfied, The First set most of his other tribes into motion. They all had the same shared history and culture, all built upon Mica’s tales. Each knew that other tribes also wandered the desert, and perhaps, one day, they would meet. The First took bits and pieces of some of his favorite urd’thin, and wove them into individual tales, to help prevent any two new tribe members from inadvertently having the same history or memories. Beyond that, he wanted to let them develop their own personalities, just as before. Each tribe was also free to develop its own unique culture, just as they had on his first world.

He watched over each tribe long enough to be certain they were not going to have any problems, and then moved onto the last one. Nervousness filled him even before he returned to his vessel. When he settled into flesh, his hands and feet were cold despite the warmth of sun and sand. His stomach was a tangled knot, and his throat remained dry no matter how much water he drank. It had been so long since he’d felt the sensations of mortal fear and uncertainty that he almost wished to flee his vessel.

The First spent a few days and nights alone, while his tribe remained frozen. Everything was ready, and they only waited on him. But faced with the prospect of removing his godhood, however temporarily, left The First nearly paralyzed with fear. Questions swirled in his mind day and night. What if something went wrong? What if he died? What if terrible things happened to the tribes, and he was unable to save them? Though he knew that mortals suffered these questions and worse every day, they were new to him. What if some great calamity befell them, while he was unable to stop it? If the story ended while he was mortal, what would become of his people? Of him?

Perhaps he needed a failsafe, of sorts. The First had given Mica’s world such a thing, perhaps he should give this place one, as well. He took a deep breath, held his arms out in opposite directions, and let his power flow across the sphere. The First’s grand power to create and re-create touched every corner of the world, of his story, of his very existence. When it was ready, he gave it a simple directive.

“If my story ends, begin it again.”

For a moment that seemed an eternity, existence itself shuddered, and bent to his great will.

Everything went still again, and The First lowered his arms. He was pleased to know that if the worst happened, the story would not end. Before he put himself among them, he gave each urd’thin a name, woven into their memories. Then he set within them a countdown, of sorts, and when that countdown finished, they would awaken, and begin their new lives, as all the rest had.

Then there was only one thing left to do.

It was time to embrace mortality.

Mica wanted him to live as one of them, to know love as she knew it, and now, at last, he would.

The First gathered his grand power, and bent it inward, wreathed himself in it, inside and out. “I am mortal. This vessel is mortal.” Pain poured through his body, but The First pushed onward. “For as long as I live in this vessel, I will forget the vastness of my power. My creation.” Blue lightning crackled around him, and the sand beneath his feet hardened, seared into black glass. The First imagined the greatest of his abilities, trapped inside a crystalline sphere in his head, sealed away until the day came when he would ascend to godhood once more. “My memories…forgotten. My reality, hidden. My life, as their life. My story, as their story.”

One by one, all his memories were washed away by a black tide that poured through his mind. He could not truly erase them, nor would he want too, but he could hide them away, just as he hid his powers. Moment by moment, everything about his existence until now was forgotten. The dark sea washed over images of the cosmos, leaving only darkness. The humans, the storytellers who first named him, enveloped by nothingness. The universe he wandered, the lives he saw, vanished into the aether. The world he built, the lives he touched, the people he knew, one by one, they winked out like stars fading into an empty sky. He left Mica for last. He pictured her smiling face, holding her hand out to him. In his mind, he reached for her. Just before their fingers touched, she was gone.

The First could not remember her name.

He gasped, wondering for a moment, what horrible thing he had done. And then, that memory too, was gone, and he could not even recall what he did to himself.

Now, he was only an urd’thin.

The urd’thin fell to his knees, clutching his throbbing head beneath his horns. A storm of memories raged inside his mind, tearing apart what once was, and replacing it with what would be. An entire life substituted for his own. A history, a culture, a nomadic existence. Everything he was, re-written in an instant until it was all he knew.

The urd’thin’s mind could not take it. The world flashed white, and he collapsed muzzle first into the sand. 

Darkness took him.

*****

“Etchka! Etchka!” A voice cut through the darkness like a knife, swift and sharp. “Etchka, can you hear me?” The sound pierced the darkened veil, and light flooded through. “Etchka, wake up! Wake up!”

Someone slapped the urd’thin’s muzzle, and the little jolt of pain helped rouse him. He lifted a gray-furred hand to blot out the sun as he blinked awake. “Mmrrrhhhrn.”

“Etchka!” Whoever was speaking took his hand, and squeezed it. Her touch was warm, and comforting. He savored it a moment, relishing the gentle balm it brought to the aching of his head. And then cold water poured across his face in an icy cascade. “ETCHKA!”

“ACK!” The urd’thin sat up on the sand, his ears flattened and eyes wide. “COLD!”

A female urd’thin sat alongside him, ears splayed and brow furrowed beneath her horns. “Are you alright, Etchka?”

Etchka. That was his name.

“I think so.” Etchka grimaced as his head throbbed harder. He wiped water from his fur with the back of a hand. “Should I not be?”

“I don’t know! You had me worried.” The female helped him wring some of the water out of his fur. “Most of the tribe felt strange, today, after everyone was awake. And no one could find you anywhere. You’re lucky I stumbled across you, out here on the far side of the oasis. But then I couldn’t get you to wake at all.”

“Sorry…” Ethcka rubbed his eyes. “Guess I musta been tired.”

“I think this is more than tired, Etchka.” She folded her arms, muzzle twisting up. “I was afraid you’d gone off to take a bath in the middle of the night, only to be bitten by something venomous. But I couldn’t find any bite marks, and you’re not feverish. So now I don’t know if you were delirious, or drunk.” She bared a few fangs at him. “I know the discovery of a new oasis is worth celebrating, but you shouldn’t drink so much kurat you go wandering into the desert, naked.”

“Naked?” Etchka lifted his head, and glanced down at himself. The urd’thin yelped, and heat flooded his ears when he saw everything exposed. He rolled away, covering himself with his hands. “S-sorry about that.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you are.” The female swatted him across the back of his head. “It’s a bit late to go covering everything up now. I’ve been trying to wake you for the last fifteen minutes, so it’s not as though I haven’t seen it. I’m glad the water did the trick, though.” She poked him in the back with a dull claw tip. “How do you feel?”

“Humiliated?”

The female laughed, a chorus of sharp, happy barks. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve seen less interesting males with their loincloths or breeches off.”

Etchka glanced back at her over his shoulder. “You have?” He flicked his bushy tail against the sand.

“Who hasn’t peeked around when half the tribe goes to bathe?” She giggled, a lopsided smirk on her muzzle. “Granted, they’re not usually all sprawled out like that. Now, seriously though, how do you feel? Are you ill? Nauseated? Mind you, these are just the sort of questions I’ve heard you ask when someone else is sick.”

“Just a headache.” Etchka swallowed, his throat was dry. He worked his tongue around his muzzle, and found it tried to stick to his teeth. “And thirsty.”

“So you are hungover.”

“Guess so.” He lifted a hand to rub his head, between his black horns. “But…it’s like…like my mind aches, too. Having trouble remembering last night.”

“There’s a surprise.” The female barked laughed again, then touched the inside of one of his ears. “At least you’re not feverish. But a few others were having issues remembering, too. You all must have been off partying while the rest of us were sleeping. I’m sure it will come back to you.”

“It’s not like they’re missing, they’re just…scrambled.”

The female checked his other ear, then felt down the sides of his neck, and around his throat. “I don’t feel any swelling. Wait, am I doing this right?”

“Doing what right?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I’m checking for signs of swelling, to make sure you don’t have any kind of infection. You’re the one who taught me this, you know. I saw no signs of bites or injuries, and you’re not showing any signs of illness, either. I think it’s just the fog of too much drink.”

“Probably right.” He lay his head back against the sand, and took a few deep breaths. “Who are you again?”

The female gave a loud growl, her fur bristling. “You’d better be joking.”

Etchka fought through the misty shroud that covered his mind. He peered up at the female, willing himself to remember her. Her fur was gray, but much darker than his, with an almost silvery sheen. She wore a turquoise-died vest with black ties, and hide breeches with silver and turquoise patterns down the side. Several bone charms were woven into the fur around her neck. Her muzzle was shorter and blunter than most, and where others thought it made her look stern, he thought it made her look cute. Just as where others thought her dark gray fur was like storm clouds on the horizon, it always reminded him of something better.

“Rain.”

“Oh, so you do remember me!” Rain put a hand her chest, smiling. “Good. Then you’ve saved yourself a beating.”

“Course I remember you.” The gears and cogs of memories and personal histories all clicked into place. He knew Rain well. Though they didn’t always get along, she’d become perhaps his closest friend on their journey across the desert. He rolled over onto his side, facing her, head propped up on a hand. “Who could forget a female as beautiful as you?”

Rain snorted. “Probably someone who forgets his pants.” She glanced down at him, staring openly. “Nice try, though.”

Etchka rolled away from her again to cover up once more. “Yeah, yeah. Quit starin’!”

“You say that as if you really want me too.” Rain pushed herself up, and dusted off her breeches. “Why don’t you crawl your drunken ass into the oasis and rinse all the sand out of your fur? I’ll go find you some spare breeches. And then…” She shook a finger at him, her thickly-furred tail swishing back and forth. “Then you’re going to have shake off that hangover, and come help the rest of us finish building our shelters. Our journey may be over, for now, but our work has only just begun.” She paused, staring at him in silence for a moment. “There’s going to be a vote on our new village’s prime shaper, later, and I think we all know it’s going to be you. It would be nice if you were sober.” She smirked again. “And dressed.”

The vote. He’d forgotten about that. “Dunno what makes me so deserving.”

“Aside from the fact you’re the only one the gods saw fit to gift with healing?” Rain shrugged, glancing across the large oasis towards the urd’thin setting up shelters and simple homes on the distant shoreline. Sunlight glittered on the waters. The breeze drove little sloshing waves against the sandy bank. “I suppose that’s a discussion for this evening. Anyway…get moving.”

Etchka struggled to his feet. His legs were weak and wobbly, and no sooner had he risen than he stumbled and nearly toppled over again.

Rain rushed to his side and caught his arm, concern heavy in her voice. “Easy!”

It took him a moment to catch his balance, and even when he had, he found it easier to lean against Rain. “Sorry…I think I need a moment.”

“I think you need a week. Here…” She wrapped her arms around his, guiding him towards the water. “I’ll walk you to the shore, and linger long enough to ensure you don’t drown.”

“Thank you, Rain.” He took a few slow steps, wondering just what the hell he must have done to himself the night before. Etchka leaned his head against her shoulder. Her thick fur was scented with sweet reed-flowers and hand-fruit peel. “You smell nice.”

“That makes one of us, then.” She turned her head and nipped at his ear, laughing. “Alright, the bank is soft here, so be cautious.”

“Don’t suppose you’d care to join me for a bath?” When they reached the oasis, and Rain released his arm, he sloshed a few steps out into the water.

Rain watched his steps careful. The way her muzzle twitched made Etchka think she was trying to fight back a smile. “I have already bathed today, thank you. Besides, you need to clean and sobered up, not…whatever you’ve in mind.”

Etchka laughed, wading in deeper until he could sit down up to his neck in the cool water. “Not like you haven’t bathed with the tribe before.”

“Exactly. Being asked to bath alone with a male is quite different than a communal bath. That’s simply a social event.”

“We’re social, aren’t we?” Etchka only laughed harder, shaking his head.

“You are still drunk.” Rain perked her ears and shook her head. “But at least you’re sober enough not to drown yourself by mistake. I’ll going to go and fetch you some clean clothes. If you’re lucky, I won’t tell everyone else what an ass you’re making of yourself right now.”

“And if I’m not lucky?”

“Then I won’t bring you any clothes, and you’ll have to trudge back to our new village naked, and explain why to everyone.”

“Good thing I’m lucky, then.”

Rain shared his laughter this time, shaking her head. She turned her way, flicking her tail at him. “Incorrigible, more like. Goodbye, Etchka.”

“Goodbye, Rain.”