“Before I put those stiff bandages on, I want you to look at it.”
“Why? Seeing it will not change what it is.”
“Because you need to know, so your mind can adjust to how you will live with it like this. How many warriors in Winten-ah are scarred by their battle wounds?”
The truth was, most of the people in Winten-ah carried some scar or disfigurement of one kind or another. Kragdon-ah is a brutal world.
Alex turned his head and looked down at his left hand. It was worse, even, than he had thought. There had been nerve damage, so not only was he missing his thumb and index finger, but the other three fingers were completely inflexible. The wounds were horrific, but Niten-eh had kept any infection at bay. He stared at the damage for long seconds, then looked back at the ceiling.
“Good,” Niten-eh said. “That is a beginning.”
Monda-ak recovered more quickly than Alex. He had an almost supernatural ability to heal. Though his wounds healed quickly, he showed little interest in leaving his bed, or Alex. He either slept, or kept a watchful eye on Alex and Sanda-eh.
When two weeks had passed, Niten-eh said, “It is time to move about. Your injured ribs will take more time to heal, and so it will hurt to take a deep breath for a time, but laying here is not making you better.”
Alex recognized what she said as truth. When he had broken his arm as a pre-teen, he had been out climbing and exploring again the next day, much to the chagrin of his mother.
But that young Alex had not absorbed the series of losses that this older Alex had.
His first friend, Doken-ak, killed on the scouting mission to Denta-ah. Then Janta-ak, who Alex had saved from wolves on his first day in Kragdon-ah, killed at the battle of Denta-ah itself.
Werda-ak, they young boy Alex had grown to love, just when Alex had believed they had escaped from Lasta-ah.
Most devastating, his beloved wife, Senta-eh.
But, most fresh in his mind—Lanta-eh, The Chosen One.
Together, these losses formed a black cloud around Alex that he could not dissipate.
“You are right, Niten-eh. Laying here feeling sorry for myself does not accomplish anything.”
“There is nothing at all you need to accomplish. But, moving around, getting the blood moving, spending time with your worried little girl, will only do you good.”
Niten-eh left and Alex swung his legs over the bed. Monda-ak lifted his head as if to say, Is this it? Are we going to start living again?
Alex felt weak, but his wounds were healing nicely. The crude cast on his left hand protected him from banging it into something accidentally. The gash godat-ta had taken out of his left side had scabbed over. Even his broken ribs were healing.
The slowest to recover was his spirit, but Alex Hawk had never been one to shrink away from any challenge, even when it came from within.
Alex opened the door and sunshine poured in. For the first time in weeks, he stepped outside. Life in Winten-ah had continued to spin on without him, just as it had before he had arrived. Children—older children mostly, as the curse of death limited the number of babies born—played in the field. A group of eight men walked toward the forest to relieve the guards on duty there. They laughed, pushed each other, and talked as they walked.
To his right, Alex saw Sekun-ak approaching.
“Gunta, Manta-ak.”
“Gunta, my brother.”
“I was just coming to see you, but I am happy to find you out in the world again.”
“It’s time,” Alex said, then squinted at Sekun-ak. “What was it all for?”
“What was all what for?”
“Lanta-eh. The Chosen One. Draka-ak kidnapping her, me going after her, her wasting away until she died. What was it all for?”
“The prophecies did not reveal that. We do not know. But we have faith that she did what was needed.”
“Your faith is greater than mine.”
“That’s what she loved about you, you know.”
“What?”
“That you always do the right thing, even when you don’t understand it or even believe it. It doesn’t matter. You still do it.”
“You buried her, I suppose.”
“Where she asked to be buried, yes.”
“Where is that?”
“On top of Prata-ah. She said there is a reason, but did not tell me what it is.”
Alex began his recovery by walking around Winten-ah. Sanda-eh held onto his right hand. Monda-ak limped along beside his injured left side.
Every step, every lap around the field, Alex felt better physically. He believed that as long as he kept his body in motion, the return of his spirit would follow.
After another month, Alex felt strong enough to walk to the top of Prata-ah. Monda-ak still limped, but Alex noted that when they got away from other people, it was less noticeable. Monda-ak liked sympathy even more than he did food.
He considered taking a horse, but he wanted to spend some time on top of Prata-ah and he did not want to leave a horse vulnerable to attack at the bottom of the hill.
And so they walked. It was a warm morning and for the first time since he battled godat-ta, he broke a sweat.
They stopped by a stream and ate their lunch, listening to the sounds of the brook and the birds singing in the trees.
By the time they reached the top of Prata-ah, the sun was at apex.
Alex walked directly to the stone structure Lanta-eh had directed him to build and touched it lightly. It was warm in the afternoon sun. He saw that the spot she had chosen for her burial was inside the walls. In the Winten-ah way, there was no grave marker, but the soil was still raised where they laid her body.
Alex leaned against the stone with his good right hand and felt a wall inside him break. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he sobbed for all the losses he had absorbed. Sanda-eh did not say anything, but simply leaned into him, supporting him.
When the flood of emotion
