Bruised Aftermath

I have never been struck like that, not intentionally. I do not know which hurt the most, the physical throbbing of my cheek, or the embarrassment and strike to my pride. I finished the washing and sequestered myself within the slave wagon, nursing both wounds. I was grateful for the solitary confines, and for once prayed that the other slave of the Brave Warrior would not make an appearance. I wanted to understand the why, though I knew fully well that slaves were often held beneath the lowest of the low. One thing I did understand was that the drumming, the music of the wagons and the Tuchuk, was much more than expressions of joy and sadness. I needed to learn this language, and as quickly as possible.

I hid within the darkness of the wagon for a long time. I didn't even light the chips for the small brazier, just letting the shadows claim me and make me as invisible as possible. I paced, learning every creak of board from front to back and side to side and eventually calmness pushed against all the turmoil I was feeling. I missed the Brave Warrior. I missed His understanding, His wisdom, His answers. I missed His eyes and the battered hands that inspired the want to hold them. It was an ache that grew and blossomed and spread, pushing away all the other feelings and emotions, until I finally realized it was only I that was keeping me locked away in the lack of light.

The night air was still streaked with warmth and the moonlight painted everything silver with light as I emerged from my cocoon. Sounds rode the breeze, gathering here and there, sometimes lost around the end of a wagon, only to reappear at the next opening. I wandered without any real direction, save keeping my bearings of where the wagons of Fonce had settled for the night. I came into a small clearing, rimmed by silent wagons and only the damp musty smell of mud and grass. No fire charmed the canvas, nor stained the moonlight with it's glow. But sound was an instant indicator that it was not empty. Sound and sight collided for a few moments waiting for comprehension to catch up, and when it did, I stepped back a few paces to assure I was not exposed by the moonlight. Two men were fighting, with the unmistakable sound of fists colliding with flesh.

The fight was one sided, with one thoroughly having advantage over the other. I started to turn away, and as I did all the light in the world seemed to beam from the skies and expose the two with utter detail. My Brave Warrior, and what struck me instantly as a younger version of himself, were the combatants. Wisdom and skill was the clear winner in this debate. I turned and, for the second time that day, found myself tucked inside the darkness of the slave wagon, though this time I kept watch through the slit of wagon flaps for the approach of my....Master.

There is much I do not yet understand; not of life in general, the ways of men, or the driving forces of the Tuchuk. Forced into reasoning it out, I was quickly flooded with the memory of Brave Warrior Fonce, standing replete with a blade and His courage against many more Vaci. The weak do not, can not, survive here. As much as giving and caring hold these people together, so does the will to survive anything - and best it. Youth must pay attention, and I can guarantee you that the younger warrior in that fight will be a better warrior for what he just survived. And I will be a better...slave...for I will learn.