Chapter the Third: Different Stripes
#3 of A Stage of Destinies
Couric watched excitedly as the soldier men of his village, and their slaves marched solemnly into the city. He stood arm to arm with many other children of the community as they and their mothers looked anxiously on for their lovers, fathers, masters or keepers among the throng. His eyes sparkled with admiration for the men of his village, lately home from war in protection of his stately nation, and gods. Great flags of red and white flourished above their dusty mail, and trumpets flourished in exaltation of their victory over the barbarous Beduin. The little cub felt the hardened hands of his mother rest gently on his shoulders. He placed his own paw on hers, and looked up into her worried eyes. Her long, dark hair was left unbraided and hung carelessly over her shoulders. She smiled in spite of herself, seeing the vivacity in her son's enthusiastic eyes.
The line of soldiers, home bred boys of Sherftii Blood, and slaves of various sort marched on gallantly across the city's thoroughfare with a strange mix of elation, and brooding sadness on their faces. The village had been won, but at a heavy cost. Many considered that this was only a small village of the Beduin, and taken completely by surprise yet. What would battle entail when the full lines of their nations met? Couric wondered at the dourness of their expression. If they had won the day, then why would they show such curmudgeon? "Momma, why aren't the men singing?" he queried, "Shouldn't they be laughing, or at least standing with full pride at their victory?" His mother looked at him for a moment, a hint of thoughtful sadness in her eye.
"Well, son" she said, her voice much louder than her tone would like to imply, "They've been to war, and sure enough there's cause to celebrate for those who've marched home in late victory, but what of their friends, lovers and comrades that they carry in solemn gravity? They'll never to war again. Think on this."
Couric watched the men walking in their ranks, and saw a slightly different picture. There were the soldiers, the mighty, the heroes, but there also were the glorious dead. Every other formation was stretched to carry dead men wrapped in white sheets. White sheets marred in the sweet red wine of the gurney-bound hero's life. That surely was not Beduin blood, but more likely Sherftii. The soldier's wouldn't be bringing any fox corpses home on exalted knight's shoulders. The cub's little heart fell a few pegs, and his mother watched his reaction thoughtfully. She smiled in spite of herself, and rubbed him on the head. It was rare that one of her lessons made it through to the young man. Bright though she knew he was, his father had the boy so conditioned to only respond to his particular brand of education. It wasn't her place to overstep him, and she had grown both accustomed and fond of her life here so she didn't want anything to jeopardize it. Kalafax was usually quite fair with her, but she had learned to know him well, and his temper was legendary throughout their land.
Small green eyes scanned over the procession, eyeing proud soldier and fallen hero sleeping heavily in fame. He wondered how many tigers were among the dead as compared to those of other stock. He expected probably fewer Sherftii Blood had fallen than slave, considering they were not nearly as well trained, or as strong as the noble tiger lineages. Couric took a long breath and let it out slowly. Spirits would soon lift again as the next part of the military parade came into view. Long poles held aloft by teams of soldiers bore yellow-haired foxes of various ages and genders tied to its length with heavy leather rope. Most were of youthful age, probably between thirteen and thirty he wagered. Each was an impressive specimen of fitness save their obvious wounds.
There were probably somewhere in the vein of fifty of them all tied to those poles. They were quite the spectacle, and the crowd was awed with their presence. Even Couric was deeply taken with the lines of muscle in them, and the quality of their apparent breeding. Slowly the crowd came out of its initial reverie and took to cheering, and mocking the prisoners. Couric remained still, and his mother beamed in pride. She looked around at all of the faces who had themselves been paraded through the city just like them. They were the lucky, all of cat stock and therefore a commodity rather than a pest. These poor souls were doomed to die for their accident of birth. The wife of Kalafax was never felt satisfied with the reactions of the slaves here, but rather surprised. At least those bloody and wounded warriors carrying the slaves would be set free to live among the Sherftii as citizens at the wars end.
Couric on the other hand was still quite intent on the image the foxes portrayed for him. Proud, straw headed bush-tails, he thought to himself. They simply marched, stone faced, and filled with seething hate. They reacted to nothing, those foxes, proud even in the state of slavery. The crowd mocked them, and still they stared ahead hard eyed and vengeful. The children threw rocks and spoiled vegetables at them, and they didn't flinch. Even when the soldiers whipped, or beat them for encouragement, revenge, or to the favor of the throng they did not react. A sort of admiration crept into his heart, and he wondered at the nature of their race for a moment. Most southerners who came to the village willingly or otherwise told stories of the foxes in their homelands. They spoke of them as fops, and tricksters, schemers and panderers. Mostly cowards of small frame, and craven as they might be, they were cunning and dangerous in games of intrigue. These foxes were nothing of the like. He had to respect their bravery, if nothing else unless they were so simple they thought his people would suffer them to live.
Time passed quickly for the cub, and painfully slowly for his mother, Aliera. She wondered terribly at her husbands place. Surely he should have been at the head of the procession, if not at the fore of the slaves. She held onto the hope that they had some even greater treasure returned that he had chosen to herald with his own voice and presence. Couric on the other hand smiled broadly. His young mind filled with visions and dreams of noble knightly warriors clad in shining plate, and riding astride great war-mounts of impeccable breeding. He could see his own face, much older, and much stronger peering down at him from such a height. Fancies of battle field glory and wanderlust teemed in his heart of hearts, and he hoped that his father had brought him some trophy as a present.
A tiny cub of a tiger girl approached the line, and her mother raced out to catch her. A captain of the turned, and glared down at them, and the woman apologized. He smiled and knelt down in front of the child. "What brings you so close to such dangerous and hateful creatures?" he asked her in a jovial, almost fatherly tone.
"Their tails" she replied, "They're pretty. I think they're the prettiest things I've ever seen." The soldier smiled warmly at her, and patted her on the shoulder.
"You can't interrupt a King's procession because you saw something pretty" he said, and looked up to her mother. "They can get away from you so quickly, can't they?" The woman nodded in assent, and smiled nervously at the warrior. "Is she normally a well behaved little lady, of proper boasting to the Sherftii Blood?" he posed, and she nodded again, this time venturing to comment on the virtues of the girl's upbringing. The soldier nodded pleasantly and told her to wait. He walked briskly over to the closest fox, a young woman, and bid the line to slow. The soldier's steady hand reached quickly forward, gripping the vixen's tail by the rump, and laying a blade to it. Couric watched in awe as he slid the sharp knife back and forth, sawing quickly between the bones. Blood fell in small drips from the wound as it deepened, and the cub was amazed at the young lady's fortitude. Her eyes were intense, and her features contorted, but she uttered not a sound. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that one of her teeth broke, and blood dripped from her mouth, but she held her resolve, even as her limb was severed and carried away. She marched on in shame, and cruel mutilation, stumbling, and miss-stepping as she tried to grow used to not having her bright white-tipped balance. Several more teeth snapped in her jaw, and blood ran freely as the guard behind jeered her and whipped at her rump demanding that she keep up.
The captain returned to the little girl as the line moved on, and gently placed the severed tail in her arms. Her eyes brightened, and she thanked him, as did her elated mother. The captain had given up one of his trophies, but he was satisfied to have brought a little joy to a young one and her mother. Considering the tragedy to be announced, they would need all the delight one could afford.
Couric watched as the girl marched on. The guard behind her grew increasingly irate, whipping and kicking her at each stumble. Finally, he grabbed her by the muzzle and screamed that if the line would have to drag the lazy bitch, there would be a damn good reason. His hand flew to his belt and quickly drew a knife. A bright arc flashed, and the expression of the vixen finally changed. Her eyes flew wide with shock and confusion as her throat opened, and her tender life drained down her bare chest and into her lungs. She coughed and choked making what Couric thought to be the most pitiful expressions he had ever seen. A few seconds passed and her mute, airless gasping slowed, and stilled as she sank to limply hang from her bonds. The sickening bubbles at the wound in her throat ceased, and her blood flowed freely as her feet drug the ground. The other foxes burned with hate, but nothing else changed. No tears, no calls, no pleas for mercy. There was only hate and the need for vengeance.
The cub's attention diverted to the wet tap of something falling on his shoulder. He looked up to find his dear Aliera with tears on her cheeks. He smiled at her, and placed his paw on hers in comfort. She smiled back at his show of warmth. He was a sweet thing, she thought. It's a marvel how killers grow from such kind children. Thoughts of flight filled her head, and she considered what it would take for her to escape, and flee with her son to a faraway land where she could raise him as a simple farmer, or tradesman who would never have to take steel and end the life of another. She sighed, relenting to her position, and the silliness of her musing. Where would she go, and what would she do if they were caught? She had grown to love Kalafax, as he had made her very comfortable, and was at times quite devout and loving. Especially since their son was born. She wouldn't get far with two small children, and even if she did what guarantee did she have of making a difference? They were born of warrior blood, and would grow restless in idle crafting, or the tending of boring plants. Besides, if war should touch them, then they wouldn't be trained as soldiers. Best they learn it now, she thought, or the world may swallow them in killing sorrow.
"Quite a show isn't it?" she asked her son, "Those foxes don't even care that he just killed one of their women. How about that?" She felt a little dirty saying it, because she could see as plain as day it was a lie. Couric nodded. So the Beduin simply didn't have feelings. That made more sense. He looked back at the last of them passing, and the line of soldiers that now were before him. His body cringed suddenly as his mother's worked hands suddenly tightened, and her claws dug into him. "Mama, you're hurting me!" he said meekly and looked up. The cub went quiet when he saw her face. She was staring wide-eyed, and white-faced down the line the opposite direction of the march. Her body trembled terribly, and tears were peeking at the corner of her eyes. A whimper came across her lips, and she shook her head slowly mouthing 'no'. Couric followed her gaze to find what she was so affecting her.
There he saw it. A large platform with a tent overhanging it, and heraldry finely set about. The flags were Sherftii red and white, but with a green box at the base...the livery of his father. His heart plummeted, and the sound of the crowd around him seemed to fade, and distort. Couric wanted to comfort his mother, but he couldn't gather the present mindedness. His own raging heart needed comforting as sorrow threatened to consume him.
The little tiger shot forward, darting through the crowd until he came to the clear edge. He bolted towards the conveyance of the King's corpse as quickly as his little legs would carry him. He heard Aliera calling for him, and running after, but nothing could break his mind from what he needed at this moment. It couldn't be true, his father wasn't dead he was merely honoring another of great importance. If he could just get to the funeral train, then he would see. The gauntleted hand of a soldier gripped him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. His mother screamed and pumped her legs furiously to catch up to him. "Do you know what your doing, sprat? This is the train of the Good King Kalafax! You'd dare disrespect his memory with your unworthiness!" He drew back a sword to strike him, as Couric panicked and fought.
"Stop it you dolt! Don't you recognize him? Let him go while your lungs draw breath through your mouth!"
The soldier holding him looked angry, and confused. Couric flailed madly in his grip, fighting desperately for air. "This is the King's son, you fool-headed simpleton!"
The guard looked a little closer at Prince Couric, and dropped him suddenly. "Forgive me your Highness!" he exclaimed, dropping to his face to press forgiveness. Couric didn't care. He scrambled to his feet and fought madly to free himself from his mother's arms. "Daddy!" he screamed and broke loose. The little tiger scrambled up the side of the platform, and sat over the cloth draped casket. He slowly slipped it down apprehensive of what he would see. His mother watched mournfully, trying to hold her tears back for the sake of her son.
The sheet descended bearing Kalafax' face. He choked, and sputtered on a held sob, and covered his mouth with his hand. His father was gone forever, and he finally understood. This is how his sire had felt when his Grandfather died. He was shaking so badly he could barely stay sitting up. His trembling paws moved forward, and he leaned his forehead against the ruined body of the warrior king. He sobbed into his chest for a moment. His weeping was interrupted by a curiosity as something caught his attention. He leaned back up to inspect his father more closely.
Couric stood up so quickly he hit his head on the supported tent poles. The blanket was yet pulled back, and he saw the curious wound in his neck. The wagon hit a bump, causing the king's head to jump a bit, and the nature of his death became apparent. Vomit leapt into Couric's mouth, and he clamped his hand over the opening to stop it. He stumbled towards the edge of the platform, swaying as he went. As he reached the edge, he spit and more sick followed it. A moment later, he was barely aware of himself falling semiconsciously to the ground.
Derek watched the large fox for weeks, sitting almost obediently by his side. He had nowhere to go, and he was beginning to find himself praying that the man would pull through. He had heard stories of the orphanages from his mother, and other children, and was loathed to find his self in such an institution. A life on the streets wouldn't be much better. Riadne had instructed him in the ways of dance, and he could pickpocket a little, but otherwise he knew no trade or skill and was far too little to do anything heavy. Above all else, he was alone. Someone had to be there for him, and his mother was gone forever as the priests and his father had told him. A strange resentment had grown in him over the preceding days, and a sense of self loathing. Why was everyone leaving him? Why did his mother have to die, and this man, his father, was now dying after having never been there for him.
Adrian moaned, and talked in his sleep often. On occasion, he had caused the boy to startle, and even weep with his somnambulistic cries, and lamentations. To look at him, the boy would appraise him unstoppable. He was big, and strong, and trained to fight, yet here he was, helpless, and ill, clinging to life like a child holding onto a doll that was inevitably going to be stripped away. The priests that attended him had often employed Derek to aid in cleaning and clothing him, and he had grown fascinated by the patchwork of scars about his body. Surely if none of these wounds would kill him, the new ones wouldn't. New feelings washed in him, and he began to wonder why his mother would try to murder his father. Why would she take him away from me, he thought, when he had longed to meet the man his entire life?
The Beduin whined and sobbed in his sleep, and Derek eased over near his head. He felt terrible for having wanted to murder him in this pitiable state, and his heart filled with sadness for the older man's condition. He wondered what could be making such a big man cry like that. Surely there must be nothing that could so frighten or distress such a big male as this. Derek could think of nothing that would bring about such a reaction in an adult as imposing and powerful as this one, except maybe a monster...or god. The commanding fox continued to weep louder in oneiromantic agony, and the boy began to fear that this was his death throe. He put his hands on his fathers face, and prayed to Shopil to spare him life that he might meet his son, and raise him.
Adrian gasped in horror and panic as his night terror passed into darkness, and his hand flew at whatever was accosting him. Derek tried to gasp in surprise as the large hand of the Beduin shot suddenly to his throat, and gripped it shut. His eyes widened in mortal terror, and awe of Adrian's strength. The wide, frightened eyes of his father stared deeply into his own, and slowly calmed with realization. He let go of his son, and collapsed onto the bed. The world was a chaotic haze of pain, and freshly remembered anguish, and screamed to express itself at his eyes. Adrian held his sobs firmly at bay, tightening his features into the hardened glare of a Beduin warrior. Derek fell backwards, and pushed himself against the wall gasping through his aching neck. Half repressed memories flashed through the fox' mind as he lay there, almost blocking out his waking sight. He saw the horror of his best friends ruined face, the sound of a tiger's head striking the ground followed by the heavy slump of his body, the last breath of his father, and the life leaving his mother's eyes. Lastly, he heard the vow of a mortally wounded kit that refused to die of cuts deeper than any bodily blow could ever land. "I'll live until the last stripe-back lies in blood at my feet, dying on the blade of my father!" The words echoed in his mind, and shame consumed him.
"Father?" a high voice choked near by to him. He turned his head with a grimace
because every movement was pain inconceivable. Finally his blurry vision fell on a tiny figure against the wall to his right. Clovis, I could have killed him, he thought to himself.
"I'm here, boy. Come to me, I'll not hurt you again" he groaned, "It was an accident, but consider it a lesson. Leave sleeping foxes lie, and mind yourself when their dreams are devilish." He forced a smile, and the boy slowly and nervously stood. Adrian's hand brushed against something cold, and he turned his gaze to it. Laboriously, he hefted the unreasonably heave object from under the sheets. His sword. He looked back to the boy, and let his weapon sink across his abdomen.
"Mother said the Beduin's sword was more important that their lives and that you'd never part with it while you still drew breath" he said meekly, and approached his father's bed at his beckoning. Adrian's heart burst with pride, and sorrow. How could he have done that to his only love...the only love since his sweet warrior-vixen.
"You did well, boy" he said as he looked the child over. He was slender, and under worked, but otherwise healthy and unflawed at a glance. He wondered if he had any defects under his cloths because Riadne's people were weak, and would not expose the deformed. It didn't matter now, he supposed, she had only one child, and he'd be damned to the darkest recesses of the abyss before he'd let anything happen to his first born son, and heir.
Derek smiled nervously at Adrian's kind words. He stood next to him, and looked him over. He was so different now. Still weak, still injured, but vivacity seemed to seep from ever inch of his body. He would live, the kit was sure of it.
"Tell me the name your mother gave you, child, as I'm most likely your father. If not, we'll never speak of it again, for I take you in name if not in blood." Derek looked deeply into his father's eyes. There was something there. It wasn't like when his mother looked at him with her eyes of unconditional devotion. Here was a man's love. It would be there in its own way, but the trueness of it and the respect of it needed to be earned.
"Derek" he said with a bit more gumption, "Son of Adrian, of Beduin Born." Adrian felt something in him melt. Some amount of hardness receded replaced by a fiery jois de vive he hadn't felt since his youth. If even then he mused, and reached out to pull the child close to him. This was his son, his heir, and blood. He could feel it in his heart of hearts, some deep instinct that assured him most honestly that no other seed had been planted to grow this kit.
"Derek" the man repeated, and kissed the boy on the head, "That's hardly the name for a warrior. We'll give you some miles under your feet, and then we'll see what name you earn. Until then, Derek of Beduin Born, I'll rear you, and see you nourished." He leaned back a bit, and looked over the boy up close. He was something more beautiful than anything Adrian had ever seen in his life. This was the universe, and nothing could ever hope to compare to the child's importance. He marveled at his features as he ran his paw over the boy's head. "Clovis" he muttered, "Your eyes...they look just like your mother's..."
The city of Sharaf mourned the loss of its leader. Though his title was mostly honorary, he was a symbol of the united Sherftii communities, and in his passing left a great gap that would have to be filled. No one had expected this. Many would die against the foxes, but who could have guessed that Kalafax, Son of Courigan would be among them? Black sheets hung from every window, and a candle lit every lattice that night.
Aliera waited anxiously in the chambers of assembly as the other politicians of the court gathered, and took their traditional seats. Each represented a tribe of the Sherftii, and their chairs were assigned based on the size of their fiefdom, and its proximity to the capital. Arguments were common during these preliminaries, and each man of the council took the opportunity to rail against his adversaries, blaming them for the fall of the king. The slave-queen of the city sat quietly with her son, and infant daughter apprehensively awaiting the reading of her late husband's post-mortem proclamations. This was possibly the last chance she would have to gain her freedom.
Large lanterns hung over the chamber, illuminating the wooden structure quite well. Today, the walls that were usually draped in Sherftii white and red were now hung with black tabards of mourning, and the crown of her husband rested on a heavy stone table in the center. Across the room, Dazzar, the king's good brother, eyed the queen contemplatively. She tried very hard to remain in his grace, but to her she was nothing but a slave. Kalafax, known for his fiery temper had held himself quiet in the face of his only brother and in spite of his rage never corrected his belittlement of his wife. Couric hated his uncle for the way he treated his mother, and his self for their relation to the Drugan. He often wished that her tribe had joined the Sherftii willingly, so she would have come to his father as a woman, rather than a spoil of war.
The arguments slowly quieted, and eventually silenced at the herald of the king's remains. His coffin and burial sheet were wheeled in by slaves, and decorated with his colors, and defaced flags of Beduin purple. The heads of fifty foxes rested on pins around the platform where his casket reposed, and a second slave boar a host of items on a table. Couric recognized them as belongings of his father. Behind them entered his father's attendant, and lawyer of sorts.
"Behold the famed remains of Kalafax, son of Courigan, Son of Drufax!" the official announced, and every person in attendance stood, and bowed in deep honor. "He waits for his dismissal to Urcain, and to sleep among his ancestors in glory, surrounded by his trophies of war! Let us not keep suffer him to tarry any longer. Here, I hold the bequeathal of our felled and cherished lord, presently to divulge so that he might be entombed." He held aloft a stack of leaves inscribed with the will of Kalafax. He began to read. Piece by piece, the king's estate was divvied amongst the assembled lords, until only the most precious remained.
"My beloved and cherished Son, Couric, Son of Kalafax, Son of Courigan shall be created King of the Sherftii. Only he, whom I love above all of the world will carry this title. It is my decree that Couric, Son of Kalafax, Son of Courigan shall be installed upon the throne of the United Peoples on the day of his sixteenth year, then to inherit the fullness of my estate. Also, he shall receive my armor, and mace. Let them guard his precious life better than they have mine own."
"Until such time as Couric shall ascend, I abdicate stewardship of my house, and holdings to my brother, Dazzar, Son of Courigan, Son of Drufax. Rule well in your time, my dear brother, and be honest with my son's house."
Very little was left to address, and found her self leaning forward in anxiety. Very little was indeed left to unspoken, but the next could be the most important to her. The man read on, and looked at her for a moment. "Of my most appreciated and deeply beloved wife, Aliera of the Drugan Blood" he continued, "I leave you to my brother, until such time as my son inherits his fee. Be as honest, and caring for him, as you have for me. Let the high council know in full posterity, that no finer woman dwells within the city of Sharaf, or the Sherftii lands as a whole. I leave to you, my sweet girl, the knowledge of my deepest and most true love which my proud heart was unable to express in life. It is you alone, Aliera, who has so tempered my heart as to spare other folks into slavery rather than death, for you have shown that even a foreign people can be Sherftii."
Aliera's heart sank. So she wouldn't be freed after all. Worst of all, he had bequeathed her to his brother. Sickness rose in her stomach, and she looked at the man across the room from her. The lawyer continued to speak of the slave soldiers place in the will, but she was no longer listening. Dazzar was speaking smugly to one of his attendants, and already they plotted. She could read the lines of his face like any scholar would divine the letters on a scroll: no son of Kalafax would ever sit on the throne, and no slave of Drugan Blood would ever have a place of honor in his city. She looked down at Couric, and hugged her daughter tightly in her arms. A servant carried the mace of Kalafax to Couric, and he accepted it graciously. It was far too heavy for him to wield, and truly all he could do to carry. He vowed to be one day worthy of its wielding.
"Come son" his mother quietly intoned, "It is time that we were leaving." Couric looked up at his mother's face, and marveled at the worry, and sadness there.
"But mother", he said, "the ceremony isn't over, and we've yet not buried father." Aliera handed her daughter to a servant, and grabbed her son by the arm. "Be quiet" she said, "and follow me. Do not argue, and do not fuss, I'll explain to you in time."
The four of them slipped quietly out the door, and back to her house. She rushed about, yelping at servants to assemble as much money as was at any time allowed to her, while she gathered the finer jewelries of her house. Others were bid to load a wagon with clothes, and food, and within an hour it departed. The wife and children of Kalafax rode quickly out of the city of Sharaf, and down the road to the south. Couric watched the city growing smaller in the distance, and anger mixed with confusion.
"Mother!" he demanded, "Why are we leaving? Didn't you hear? I'll be king in four years! I'll be king!" He looked at her, anger filling his face, and she saw the legacy of Kalafax already in him.
"You'll never sit as king as long as Dazzar is steward" she said calmly, "He'll kill you first." Couric punched the wall of the wagon, and pulled back a throbbing paw. He tendered it and looked indignantly at his dam. As the wagon pushed on, she explained to him the way that things would work. They would have to leave, because his uncle was no man of honor. They would return as soon as possible and demand the throne of him. The rest of the council would be forced to comply, and then he must have his brother executed. It would be the only way to ensure his reign, even though it would create a whole new group of problems for them to deal with. Couric curled up against her, wondering whether or not he should believe any of it. Execute his uncle? It seemed madness. He took up the handle of his father's mace, and played with it idly. How many had this weapon killed, he wondered. One too few, he concluded.
Brodry sulked in a somewhat ill reputed tavern, chafing under the berating of his partner. So what, he almost picked a fight with a fox...he was only a fox. Sure, he had a sword, but what difference did that make? Couric hated foxes more deeply than anyone he'd ever met. The Sherftii were a curious sort, he mused to himself, but his train of thought soon sped off course at the behest of the smaller tiger.
"I told you to let it be, and you should have listened. Your southern foxes are nothing compared to a Beduin!"
Everything is always better in the north, he thought bitterly, and took a long drought from his mug of ale. He was really getting tired of this. Couric had been in a foul spirit since they were out of eye-shot of that fox. Looking back, he wasn't even sure why he didn't just gut the sprat right then, and there. Couric would have been less angry had that happened.
"Enough" he said gruffly, as he rested his chin on his arms at the bar, "I don't deserve this, especially not after what you said to that boy..."
Couric paused. He could feel hot rage welling in his body, and pressed his claws into his palms to hold it back. Brodry didn't deserve all of that. Stupid boy, he thought to himself, no idea what he almost got himself into. He was a fighter, plain and true, but that fox was Beduin, and of a much hardier breed than any of these southern cubs. Perhaps he was being too scathing. Maybe it would be tenderness that got it into this fool's young head. He sighed deeply as his anger cooled, and really noticed the state that his brother was in. The junior of them had already put down three ales since they had been there, and now was slumped over the bar with red, puffy eyes. Couric felt a wave of guilt realizing that it was he who put those tears at the corners of his orbits.
"I'm sorry" he said, moving over and putting his hands on the young tiger's shoulders, "I know that I'm harsh sometimes, but that is the Sherftii way. You have to realize why I'm like this. We live hard lives, and deal with a great deal of loss. I've no one left but you, Brodry, and I can't bear the notion of losing you as well."
Brodry sighed, and eased a bit with the comfort of the older tiger's paws. His spirits almost lifted, but he forced them back down. Soft words wouldn't erase what he had heard earlier this time, what he was really upsetting him. "Back to your place for meal, and a woman, huh?" he grumbled.
"Ah" Couric responded. So this was what had him in such a funk. He thought about it, and realized what he had done. Of course he would be upset, the cub had hinted at this in the past.
"You want a woman, don't you? Of course, you know, dear brother that it would mean we couldn't travel together." Brodry sighed deeply, and mulled over what he had just told the older man. Men who took women generally did so to settle down. Settled men rarely left for war, and he had no place in a home like that. The thought of separating from Couric was unpalatable, but might be preferable to dragging it out. "Maybe it's time we went our separate ways. It might be better for all of us."
"No!" Couric exclaimed, and pulled the younger tiger upright in his chair, "you know I don't want that. Please stop being so melodramatic. It was a jest I was only trying to scare the boy. I'm not looking for retirement." He leaned forward and wrapped his strong arms around the young man. Brodry relaxed a bit, always feeling much more comfortable in the smaller, yet far stronger tiger's arms. Couric placed his face over Brodry's shoulder, and let their cheeks touch. He would rarely get so close to another person, and only did so to drive a point home.
"I don't want you to leave" he said quietly, "In any way. I know that you have never been north, so you wouldn't have any way to know what it is like there. I want to tell you a story about a great man, and his last ride into glory." Couric rose from his position, and seated himself beside Brodry at the bar.
"My father" he said reluctantly, "Was Kalafax, Son of Courigan of Sherftii Blood. He was the king of all the United Peoples." Brodry looked up, and smiled. Surely this was a jest?
"When I was twelve, he showed me a small village. There couldn't have been more than a thousand living there. A thousand total mind you, men, women and children, warriors, farmers, smiths and tanners. He told of their crimes against the sweet Mother Dalma, and how they would pay for their transgressions in blood on the following night." Couric stirred. Memories of his childhood surfaced, and brought further gloom to his already foul mood. "My father was one of the mightiest fighters among the People. He was a beast with this mace" he said, patting the weapon on the side. "He taught me many lessons in the short time that I knew him, but none graver than to fear, hate, and respect the Beduin foxes. He left my mother with fifteen hundred Sherftii soldiers, and another two thousand warriors of the slave people. He did not return the following day. One of their warriors gutted, and beheaded him. I wouldn't ever speak to mighty Kalafax another time in my life." A tear hinted at the corner of his eye.
Brodry was fairly enthralled. He loved stories of war, and was busy imagining the army marching. The realization that he could be in such a force any day now raised his spirits a bit. "So if your father was king" he posed, "Why are you here now?"
"My father made one mistake in his life, and that was that after his death, he left stewardship of his title to my uncle. Uncle Dazzar was not a trustworthy or noble man, and sought to kill me and my sister to cement himself as king. My mother fled with us, and two servants who were like parents to me to the south. She died some years later. One by one the servant's died of one cause or another. My sister grew to young womanhood under my care, until she met a man who wasn't worthy of her. In the silliness of her youth, she gave him all she had. He took it and left, as was to be expected. For her folly, the gods afflicted her with a wasting sickness, and nine months later she birthed a curse-baby. It was dead long before its term, and dragged her life out between her legs with it."
Couric sniffled once, and leaned forward. He placed his paw on Brodry's cheek, and sniffed back his tears. Brodry looked into his eyes, and found understanding there. He was serious about all of this, whether it was truth or mad fancy. There was a deep need, and care behind his bright green eyes. The young tiger suddenly felt bad for acting the way he did.
"So then" he said, "You don't want to settle down with a wife, and have children, whilst I am left to wander a shiftless tramp?" The question was almost a jest, but the look on Couric's face was most assuredly serious.
"No my sweet" he said, "I don't want that. You're all that I have left, and I love you more deeply than I can say. I've no desire to see you go that is why I am protective. You have no idea the ferocity or the capacity for evil that dwells in the hearts of the Beduin Blood." The bartender stared at them for a moment, and cocked an eyebrow. For once Couric did not care. Clovis, rot him he thought to himself, and leaned forward, kissing the younger tiger passionately on the lips. Brodry melted under his mate's attention, and was startled at the publicity of it. Couric would never act this way where others could see. He placed his hands on the older tiger's shoulders, and enjoyed the embrace.
Couric gently broke the kiss, and sat nose to nose with his junior. "I'm sorry I should not have said those things. Will you forgive? Are we yet brothers?"
Brodry smiled. Tears hinted at the corners of his eyes, and he laughed breathlessly. "Brother's in all but blood" he responded, and wrapped his arms around Couric's neck.