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_In my little town I never meant nothin'

I was just my Father's Son.

Saving my money, dreaming of glory,

Twitching like the finger on the trigger of a gun._

-Paul Simon, "My Little Town"

The wind blew a bit cooler, and the smell of the trees became more familiar as Adrian and Derek found their trek bringing them closer to the home that the older fox remembered from his youth. These were trees and paths that grew more and more amicable to the Beduin and less reminiscent of the populate city that he had known in his short life. He watched the wind tossing the foliage about him like the directorial hand of some ineffable impresario, and found that in spite of the chill nip of the air, its smell brought some instinctive calm over him that he couldn't explain.

Adrian's demeanor was grimly unchanging, but he could admit to himself that this clime was more to his liking than any other locus the world had to offer. This was Beduin land, and the stomping ground of his proud and mighty ancestors. That was all that it needed to be; everything was always better in the north.

Half remembered dreams and genius phantoms toyed at the elder fox's mind as the pair of travelers pressed onward through the days. There was the rub of the familiar and inviting nature of these woods: memory, and terror. In spite of his troubled past, the fox shook his mind free and sallied forth. It certainly would not be enough to deter the warrior from his destiny, and in fact, there was nothing he could think of that would. He had lived through a hundred battles to make it this far, many of which pit him against the blades of non-tigers which would be his only real worry of death. A long sigh passed from his lips, and he put those thoughts from his head. It wasn't the past that he needed to dwell on...it was the future.

Derek looked all around him as their mount moved along the poorly maintained trail. His eyes darted back and forth at the smallest noise, and though he could not reason why he felt the utmost on edge. It almost seemed like someone was watching them, or that something nearby was terribly amiss. He pressed more tightly against the tattered mail that his father wore, and shivered slightly with the unnamable worry that plagued his mind. He half expected his father to wrap the travel blanket tighter thinking him cold.

"I know, son" the man said in a low tone meant only for the kit, "I know."

Derek looked up at him in wonder and tried to understand what he meant exactly. After a moment of ratiocination his mind snapped to a small click nearby that he recognized as the button that peace-tied Stripe Splitter to its scabbard. He finally recognized the look in father's eyes. He knew, Derek realized, he knew. He was just as aware as his son that something was wrong in the wooded placidity that surrounded them, and his eyes belied readiness.

"Don't look with your eyes...there is nothing to see just yet" Adrian said in that same, hushed manner, "Look with your nose. There are other's about." Derek felt his father's hand pull him back as he began to lean forward from the blanket sniffing at the air. "Don't let on that you are looking" he said quietly, "You'll have to learn to smell beyond the cotton, and wax. If it is an ambush, its better that they think they have us at a disadvantage."

Derek drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Again, and again he tested the air but all he could smell in the darkness of his clamped lids was the dull, cool signal of the trees, and earth beyond the bright, hot scent of his father and the beast beneath him. His shoulder's slumped slightly, and his ear twitched involuntarily. Something was moving against the leaves, and he didn't know how he knew; only that he did. He tested the air again, but the wind betrayed him with its wicked reasoning of direction. In any event there was moving, and there was...moaning?

Adrian looked to his right, and stared into the tree line where his son's ears had pointed. Someone was moving slowly and carelessly towards them. There was a bit of wonder about the Beduin as he glared in this unseen scout's direction, for he was taking no precautions of detection, and smelled of blood. Either he was wounded, or blood-shocked from a killing. Either scenario could mean trouble in the nearby woods. He wondered at Clovis plan momentarily as he contemplated the unreasonable number of battles he had been involved in recently, but decided to let it rest. Their poorly faired stalker was barely visible through the density of the foliage.

A man stumbled out into the clearing and fell onto his face in the sparsely vegetated dirt of the trail. He was by his look a farmer and bore a pair of arrows that protruded from his body like dead branches from a blighted tree. Adrian's mount started, and took a few steps back from the man smelling the blood about him. The fox patted its neck, and cooed it out of panic as pity rose in his heart for this person whose wounds reminded him so much of his father's. Pity fled as the man began to crawl towards them. His eyes narrowed in disgust as he realized he had wasted his precious care on a tiger.

"Help!" the man wheezed, "They, they're after me! They're back again, oh Dalma save, spare me their terrible grasp! Please help me! I've got to get help! She's back! She's back!" Definitely a farmer, Adrian mused. No warrior would panic this way, at least not one worth his salt.

The fox stared at the tiger numb to his predicament long enough to wonder who "She" was when another shaft flew through the brush and struck the tiger a third in the back. He fell to the ground in the terrible throes of his death and Derek buried his face in his father's chest. He felt the weight of his the man's gloved hand on the back of his head, and calmed slightly. Adrian mused a moment that any "She" who might so throw down one of the wretched race of felines couldn't possibly be anything but a friend when shock and horror raced suddenly through his mind. Another shaft flew from the brush and his hand moved from his sword with a swiftness that boggled him. His eyes widened with a rare terror as he beheld the arrow mere inches from his face clutched tightly in his fist. Derek's own eyes widened at the incredible prowess of his father unaware that he was no less surprised than Adrian.

The Beduin clutched his son to his chest and fell backwards from the mount spinning to land on his feet, and yanked on the poor creature to lie down as he caught the unmistakable whipping sound of another deadly spike flying through the air above him. He ducked behind the frightened lizard's bulk as he tucked his child against its side commanding him in a serious tone to "stay". He risked pulling a heavy wooden shield from the packing above him, and tossed his hat down as he stood to face whatever menace so threatened them. He leapt over the creature, his body loose, but ready and prepared to catch any further arrows in his shield (not trusting himself another instance of such rare luck as to catch one in his fist) and shifted to a stance of preparation. No further arrows came, but the sound of a heavy bow drawn taught teased at his ears. Whoever was there was easily trained on him, and he always knew when he was being watched.

Moment's passed and Adrian's ears were greeted by the sound of the bow slackening, and the tearing of foliage which confused him but did not put him off his guard. He instead shifted one ear behind to catch anyone sneaking from his more precious side. No one seemed to be there, and he could sense no eyes from that direction. He only hoped that if someone was watching his son that his senses would prove as clear as they did for his self.

No more arrows emerged, but a figure moved cautiously towards him. He prepared to fight as a young woman of his own race appeared from the brush and outstretched her arms to show that she held small bundles of grass in each palm.

"A hand that holds the bounty of the Mother of Foxes holds no weapon" she said submissively, and bowed to him. Adrian's muscles tensed as he considered the woman, and what he should do. On the one hand she had fired on him in a most lethal manner, but something else was garnering his mind as he beheld her. She was tall and lean and garbed as a hunter of the Beduin race. Crowned in golden locks she knelt before him begging his grace with her supine action. On her side was a small sword, and on her back a heavy, finely crafted bow compounded and tightly strung. Her body was as far as he could reason the perfect shape of a lady of his race though her fur, and features were either painted or powdered white and she bore the trappings of death in paints on her face. His heart raced and he fought a fainting in his head as he took her in. He felt his lips part involuntarily and mouth

"Corinth".

The girl in the meantime swallowed deeply. She recognized him as Beduin, but what tribe or nation she could not guess and she had fired on him. She snuck an impertinent glance at him as his sword hand fell amazedly at his side and she read the astonishment in his face. She stood and offered him the grass in her hand momentarily as he struggled to regain the composure of his mind. At length, he sheathed his sword, dropped his shield to take the small bundles, and accepted them to show that he was no longer her enemy.

"I am Amelia, first daughter of Eldreth Born" she said as she stood to her full pride, "Behind me is my husband, and his brother: Alvin, son of Morrick, and Semuith. Both of Trippol Born."

She watched him for a moment as he stared at her perplexedly, still reeling from her uncanny resemblance to a ghost of his memory, and love.

"Trippol" he managed out, "I...I am Adrian, son of Sedric of Beduin Born...I...that is of Cordobin Born. My father had a cousin of the Trippol." The girl stared at him for a moment, and lifted an eyebrow.

"That is unlikely" she said as the figures of the men she had named (both similarly painted) emerged from the forest behind her, "The Cordobin are dead, the victim of the first Sherftii slaughter of the new war. My father was..." She trailed off as the incubus of memory stirred in her mind fitfully and the face of the young man before her melted into one of a younger fox. The men at her flank approached and presented similar handfuls of grass. Adrian nodded to them in acceptance but his eyes stayed fixed on the vixen before him.

"Adrian" the vixen spoke in a whisper, "It's impossible...Clovis' beard!" Her demeanor brightened noticeably, and she shook the man to her right's shoulder excitedly. "Al!" she chirped brightly, "This is Adrian! He is a child of my village! Our fathers were friends, and we were sure that he was lost in the battle with..." her face fell serious, "with my sister."

Adrian felt emotion well in his chest and scarcely heard the conversation around him. It was as if some demon distorted the voices that cascaded and coalesced around him. He felt a tiny shame in the back of his mind as his lips quivered and his eye moistened above his expression of irreconcilable confusion.

"Corinth" he said and the grass slowly fell from his hands as he dropped to his knees watched as a single lachrymose droplet fell slowly to the earth beneath him. Alvin and Semuith stepped to his sides and took hold of his arms speaking words of concern. They lifted him to his feet, and snapped their fingers in his face until they drew his attention. The dreadful, shocked reverie finally released his mind and he shook it clear with a gesture that he was fine and their concern while appreciated was undeserved. He called out his boy, and introduced him to the first Beduins that he had met aside from his father. The adults engaged in their odd custom of appraising the child, then speaking in their long words that the boy didn't understand the significance of just yet. It was decided that it would be best if they returned to Trippol and abandoned this road. It was after all in Sherftii land where they were wanted and despised criminals.

"You are Adrian, son of Sedric" she said in a hushed tone as the five of them stalked through the brush, "I recognize you now. You are more a ghost to me than I to you." She smiled as though she might laugh idly but her hunter's resolve held her firm to not betray herself to nearby ears. "I believe I would recognize you anywhere" she continued, "my sister... She died at your father's house in the massacre. We had all thought that the line of Sedric was lost. I am the only daughter of Eldreth that remains for this world, but I have myself a daughter now. It is for her sake that I appear before you thus."

She smiled warmly at the younger man with an expression of brightness, and welcome. He moved along with her as though in a trance. This was his darling Corinth's sister, and her presence made him question whether or not the gods were in fact truly cruel. Here was a beauty of a vixen that bore again those eyes that he had seen on every love before. His Corinth in his youth had looked through them, then his beloved Riadne and finally his own son. Every turn he made seemed to hold this torment for him. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts and chastised himself for his weakness. His heart had only room for two loves: His son, and his family's revenge.

"I was the last of my father's line" he said in a proper and strong tone though hushed so as to reduce the risk of him being overheard, "but now there is this youth. He is my son, and a proud bud of a warrior. I will tell you of him when it is appropriate."

The small band of Beduin pressed through the density of the forest slowly but with relative comfort. The test would come when they reached the farm clearings, and the flat lands that stretched across the good earth like the soft, enveloping arms of a mother comforting her child. Derrick breathed deeply here as though the cool air was crisper than it had been in the south. It seemed a long awaited homecoming to some veritable paradise even though the land was truthfully no different than the forestry and farmlands where he was born. Maybe it was a touch cooler, but certainly not particularly different. One thing was for certain: it was nice to meet some other foxes. Especially since his father seemed to get along with them so well.

His Father.

Derrick paused to consider the man for a moment. Up until now he had been relatively dour, though his humors had improved over the past two weeks. It had been a long, drudging journey that had seen the boy through a birthday (or at least he thought it had), and in spite of their hunger, and exhaustion the older fox seemed like the weight of travel was lifting from him the farther they went.

No tiger blocked their path, though some shouting was heard off in the distance at length. This had raised questions in the boys mind as it had inspired the four older foxes to move more swiftly as though they were running away. It was Derrick's understanding that a Beduin never runs away no matter what the cost of standing, but it was later explained to him that their haste was in fact not retreating. Their intentions had been to remain unseen, and unmolested by the tigers, so if they had not moved more swiftly then their goal would have been lost to bloodshed and battle. That would have been as dishonorable to them as if they had been engaged, and fled. It was something the kit did not understand, but he was sure that it would all make sense to him when he grew up.

...

The land of the Beduin was beautiful indeed to the eyes of the young fox as Derrick, son of Adrian learned how to live among these strange folk. It was hard at first to learn the ins and outs of the divine woodlands; there was much to figure out, and to be taught. No man lived that did not take his sustenance from the earth in one way or another whether he was a tradesman, ruler, or farmer. This was a new concept to the boy as he had grown among the crowded streets of the city where sustenance was purchased at dear price from other men.

Also, he learned that his was a brutal and unforgiving people and pain was a constant part of everyday life. Pain was around every corner but reacting to it was not looked kindly upon. At his age there would be lenience for he was only a boy and boys are unrefined iron waiting to have the impurities driven out of them by the cleansing fires of the forge. Derrick found himself working much of the waking day to learn his father's trade from him and to learn better the ways he had been given of the sword. He was growing strong for his age, and the men were impressed with his speed, but they found him soft and took it upon themselves to encourage the other children to beat his weakness out of him.

When not learning to stalk through the wood without noise, or overcome the shocking sting of a badly bloodied nose he found that he preferred to spend his time alone in the forest. No one saw anything odd or outstanding about this because his father's father had been a trapper and a tanner and the depth of the great copse was as much his home as any other plot on Dalma's wide bosom. For Derrick it was less about what had become common and more the burning idea that true peace lay out there in the darkening wood.

The air was thick with the scent of oak and cedar in his favorite spot and as well permeated with the soft, flowing sound and aroma of water. A gentle brook burbled and laughed as it flowed past the great boulder that stood proudly by the small grouping of great trees that gnarled their way around each other as they argued for dominance of prime real estate. The boulder itself was tall. It seemed a mammoth mountain to his young eyes an rose to a rounded point that angled slightly off till it wasn't strait any longer. The side had a concave bit of a dip that seemed in his young mind to have been crafted for whatever young kin of the woodland who found it to enthrone himself upon it. The northerly side of the monolith bore a beautiful patchwork of moss that clung to the rock as tightly as Derrick did.

Surrounding his throne was the grand court: a small, natural clearing that was occasionally washed out by the ebb and wane of the creek and carpeted with old leaves, and pine needles. Across the creek (that jeered and cajoled like the finest of jesters) was a high wall of earth that seemed a hill side cut in half. One could see grass at the top that leaned slightly over the edge as though dared by its fellows to see how close it could come to the drop without falling. The bottom swelled and reached towards the water as if to support the structure. This was Derrick's place for he had found it and no one else that he knew of spent any time at all here. Other children talked of great caves, and trees you could walk inside of and true enough he had been to and seen these marvels, but here was his place. He didn't share it with anyone and no one came looking for it. This was his faery realm and though he knew he could never turn someone away from it, he knew he would never make its location available.

He mostly came here to be by himself. He was a remote lad, aloof and solitary. The other children thought it was because he had been raised by strange people in a strange land and most of their parents agreed, but the older men and women said it was something more. They said that it was because he thought more than he said and it would prove the difference between a good warrior and a great one. He didn't like to think about that because it seemed too much to worry at. They said he was older than his years would lend but this wasn't his concern. He was wise enough to know what was truly wonderful, and right now it was the pride of his father, and the solitude of the wood.

His mind often considered his father. He had never met a man like Adrian, son of Sedric of the village of Cordobin. Since his arrival here he had proved himself among the top most warriors of their land in spite of the rust of the road that he referred to that hung hatefully on his muscles. He was a quiet man but that was respected for he said what he thought when the need for speech presented itself and he had shown something new to the boy. Adrian, son of Sedric could, when he felt like it, speak as silver tongued and glib as the finest dukes of Derrick's homeland. Still even this was different here because it was no lofty promising prattle that inspired these people but warrior's oath. Apparently, Adrian knew all the right ways, all the right words. He never would have made it in politics where the kit had lived but here he was quickly gathering support and making for his self a whispered reputation.

The village of Tripol was beginning to swell with envoys because over the preceding years Adrian had made many trips. Derrick had missed him terribly while he was gone but he had learned to keep himself quiet about it even though the other Beduin were less strict with him than his father. Adrian would always come back whether he left with the men and women who had led them to Trippol to slay tigers or to other villages to return with their war leaders to discuss what was coming. Derrick wasn't sure what was to be but he knew it was going to be big. The man who fathered him was always busy and it never ceased to amaze the boy that between his trade, his training, his raids and his envoys he always somehow found time for his son. There was a distance between them, but Derrick found it a comfortable distance and didn't begrudge it the way he felt a lesser child would have. There was no place for pining or jealousy in the heart of a warrior.

Derrick walked over to the creak and ran his young paw through it. He smiled sadly and shook the rushing water's hand as if to thank it for the good times. This would be the last time that he had the pleasure of this wonderful corner of the world's company. His father was moving to a larger, more central village and he knew that he had no recourse but to follow him. Holding onto something like this would be nice, but not as important as the onward and upward. He knew the official reasons for the move; more people to reach, easier trips. His father was becoming somebody important at a rate that even the older men and women didn't understand. In the five short years he had lived in Trippol his father had reached (from what he had heard) a hundred villages and earned their support to his cause. A hundred villages seemed an exaggeration to him, but he saw no reason to raise a question to it.

However, he knew that his father was becoming important, and that his would be a great story. He would lead his people against the oppressive and evil tigers and save the world of foxes, and the lesser races both from their tyranny. He smiled at his reflection distorted in the movement of the stream, and stood up.

"You've been a wonderful jester" he said, "and I'll never forget you. I never learned what the Beduin call you, but I've never told you my name either. I don't suppose we need to know that. It's not important in our relationship. Thank you for being my friend." Perhaps it was the imagination of a youthful boy, but as he left the grove he could swear he heard the congregation of his tiny kingdom bid him fair well in their own little rustling ways.

...

Adrian was rarely so happy as he was of late. His step was lively and he greeted others with soft smiles and pleasant words rather than his general quiet half-nod. He spoke to people like they were people rather than simply an entity outside of himself. One might consider it to be a good change if one knew him outside of his homeland, but in spite of his waking vivacity his sleep was restless, and troubled. He knew that there was something haunting him just outside of what his mortal mind could ken, and that it was something terrible, and awesome. Also, he knew that he had little to no time to pick up his trade where he had left it off.

The fox spent time in the woods training his boy in the ways of his family. They walked among the lush underbrush that reached and clung towards any who would trespass between their deciduous kingdom and slowly the boy learned how to avoid their jealous grasp. It struck him that his son's expression belied that he had never seen a place so green in his short life and there would be many lessons to teach him. He decided this was just to his liking and Adrian Son of Cedric found his sleep much more peaceful. Of course there was not nearly as much time for these activities as he would like but there was other work to be done.

As much as he would have like to simply spend his days and nights teaching his boy the way of his people he had found in himself a gift that he did not know had previously been there. Adrian had never believed himself to be a great speaker, but here in his homeland was the culture that he had clung to since his childhood in foreign lands. Here he learned that he had a way with words and a method of turning men's hearts. These were truly his people and the manner that had long made him seem strange, or alien in the eyes of lesser people made him a respectable person here. All that combined with the incredible nature of his survival made him a mystery; seemingly blessed by mighty Clovis himself. Put all that together with his unparalleled skill with the sword and you had Adrian. People liked him, people listened to him, and people whispered his stories and words in hushed voices long after he was away to something else.

Adrian had a greater destiny. He could see it. The longer he thought about it the more it became clear. His life was like a crystal glass of mud and water. Now that the glass was sitting at peace the mud was settling and the water was becoming as clear as the vessel that contained it. The demons that plagued his dreams were rare, and different. He no longer watched his family martyred by tigers while he slept in fitful night, but rather his family whispered soothing words of succor into his ears and spoke to him of why he had suffered so long.

He had once taken time to pause and wonder what it was about the Beduin that made them such a target for the treachery of other people. He was beginning to understand. The once great nation of the Beduin (at least it was spoken that they were once a unified kingdom) was now a far spread network of splinter cities and isolated villages with no one ruler. Perhaps this was good for them in a way, but the separation had become so great that there were times of need that other members of their own race and faith did not hear about it until long after it was too late. That is to say that it was too late if they ever heard of it at all.

In his twenty-seventh year, Adrian, Son of Cedric had won over the hearts of his fellows in the small village that he had come to call his new home. The sun hung heavy in the east and a feast was being held to honor him as he had grown so popular that even his dissenters had to admit that he was capable beyond what could be questioned, and amid the grumbles of those whom had been hopeful to have the position he was elevated to the level of chieftain. To be specific he had been selected as their war chief and was given a relatively unimportant position on the council that decided what was and wasn't in their corner of the world. This was enough for him because he had never considered himself to be one for politics. He was a man for action rather than arguing and prattling over crops, or peddling gossip about whose children were up to what mischief and what must be done. In his opinion a Beduin father did not need the advice of a sniveling cabal of semi-socialites but he wondered if that was an affliction of age that he would grow out of.

His age had become something of concern for him lately. On one hand he had the hands of a man and he could see that now more than ever. His thoughts, he had found, became cooler, more contemplative of this or that in general and most of all more sober. His hands were wide, and strong with the thick fingers of one who has worked very hard for a long number of years. However, there was the other side.

The other hand was just as vital and strong, but he could see something else in himself. Was he as fast as he used to be? As far as he could tell he was but at what age would his body begin to slow down and submit itself to the price of living? Of course his thoughts were slower, and much more sober of late. In spite of all that he had strived for through his younger years he had begun to grudgingly accept the wisdoms that older men had told him as he was growing up and realized that in spite of his resistance they were accurate. He was becoming more and more painfully aware of the meaning behind the expression "Headstrong, and Cock-sure."

He was also aware, but only dimly so of a rift between his self and his son. He wondered if it had always been there or if it was a sight of his aging. He was getting bigger every day it seemed, and already he was as strong as many of the older children if not as tall. He worried that he was growing too fast and it might be the sign of some cursed affliction that would bring him down long before his time, or worse, long before he had the chance to close that rift. It bothered him slightly that these thoughts troubled him in the soft bosom of darkness on the pleasantly cool nights in this country. It also bothered him that the only answer to this dilemma was that his son would "simply have to keep." He had much bigger things to worry about than his own life, and whether his son held some hidden crime against him or not. The time was coming for him to travel.

At twenty eight the trouble of sorts began. For some time he had found his eyes wondering to frontiers where they were better unwelcome. The Trippol had a habit (that is to say a faction) of raiding nearby Shertii lands dressed as ghosts and bringing them death and other ill fortunes. Not surprisingly it was Amelia and Alvin who were the main perpetrators of said venture, and had initially met Adrian thus attired. It was looked on as foolish by the elders of the village, but the group had convinced them to be allowed the vent for their hot young blood. If they could not war with enemies then they would find a more dubious way to work off that youthful vengeance. At least that was the decision of the council. With the addition of Adrian, son of Cedric their numbers had swollen until their parties were almost too big to accomplish what they intended. It was becoming a concern because before long the lumbering nation of tigers would no longer be able to ignore the least of their citizen's worries as the Beduin raids would begin affecting their economy.

This was of course disturbing to the elders but on the other hand it was also exhilarating to them. It had been decades since they had seen a young man as capable at catalyzing the other strong young warriors (and even those much older than he) into rising against the barbarous stripe-backs across the river. When they thought about it those lands were rightfully theirs after all. Still the threat of military reprisal was becoming very real and they knew the empire would only stand for so long without swiping at the small force that assaulted its toes. It would take more than the Trippol could muster, and truthfully more than their closest neighbors combined to truly reclaim that farmland. However, there was Adrian.

Adrian was steadfast and he wished to reclaim that land. Moreover he wished to do more than return lost land, he wanted to completely wipe the tigers off of the face of loving Dalma and end the threat of their return forever. Was it realistic? Not at all, but when he spoke of it you could simply see the land that he described: A land of peace and prosperity for foxes of all tribes, and maybe even for lesser races, like the Drugan. He spoke of them, and how for years they had been left to the devices of their cruel masters. It was a shame that any thinking creature should slave under a tiger he said, and when he said it, you believed it. It was whispered that the young man was blessed by Clovis, if not the return of Clovis himself. This of course did not quite overshadow the trouble.

...

Amelia had felt more alive in the last year than she had for years prior. This new warrior that had come to them was truly a blessing of the gods. He knew what to do, where to go, and how to move. Their raids were more productive, faster, more devastating than they had ever been before. Above all that she had noticed that his eye was prone to wander to her. However this was not without its own problems because she found her own eyes wandering to him. That is to say she found them wandering away from her husband. The trouble began.

...

Alvin was a dear friend. Alvin trusted Adrian with his life, and with the life of not only his brother, but with that of his wife. The pair were known to spend long hours together around fires, or walking in the woods or exchanging stories over strong liquor and laughing their hearty, and robust young laughs. This was the start of the trouble. Adrian could feel his heart turning against him in his chest. He could not help but notice the change in his body and mind when his dear and trusting young friend's beautiful wife was around

...

There are times in a person's life when they stop to consider things in a way they never expected to before. A jilted lover hears the droning click of a sprinkler somberly motioning through its intended task and wonders if he'll ever regain the favor of his lady. A soldier lies in a desiccated street staring at a plane going over head and really hears the sound of its engines as they pass. A lonely writer listens to the click-click-click of his keyboard as he distracted watches the passage of letters into words and wishes he had a more efficient word processor.

Sounds are strange and transient things that move over us in every moment of our lives but they are just as ephemeral as joy. Fleeting, elusive, and temporary we move past them and never give them a second thought as we press on about our ant like day to days as some sort of proud myrmidons carrying grains of glorified sand towards a goal we don't understand.

However, every once in a while a sound is heard -really HEARD- and it takes you off guard; strikes you to the core so to speak. Have you ever truly heard the wind blow through the grass unless it billows past the fresh grave of a loved one? What matter is a sound anyway unless a man attaches some meaning to it from his day to day?

Alvin, Son of Morrick stood over looking the wide expanse of nature that spread out beneath him. His face was as somber as the wind that ambled along the cliff face where he was standing. The breeze was stiff, and northerly, bringing with it a cold that he found bitter. It seemed to encircle his heart and freeze it to ice as stern as would cover the distant lake they called Kortuth when the winter arrived. Less than a foot in front of him the ground simply dropped away into a long, sharp descent. The land then resumed again some two Chains below.

The sun was hanging lazily in the sky but it still seemed dark to the fox as he stared off at the rolling green of the forested hills that lay so far below him. No one from Trippol ever ventured into that country because of the cliff. Clovis' Scar, they called it and every member of the village knew that it was cut by the great Father of Beduin with one mighty blow. He had been here with his wife many times. It was "their" spot in light of the beauty of the blossoms that wreathed the distant trees in the spring, transforming the deep green of the valley into ropes of pinks, whites and yellows. This was the very spot where he had first made love to her.

He remembered all of those times and his sharp teeth bit into his lip. The tips of his fingers seemed to run over the swell of her bosom and his nose would swear to grasp the scent of her womanhood. He could still see her eyes, smell her hair, feel her arms wrap lovingly around him as her voice lilted into his heart. He could feel the shudder of her body, and the release of anticipated fear as he took her maidenhead, and the grip of her fingers as she passed their daughter into the world.

His cheeks wet as tears began to stream down the fur beneath his eyes and his teeth clenched tightly. The tall, powerful man sank slowly to his knees as he released the most pitiful of squeaks in his throat. A moment later he let go of a gasping sob and clutched his face as he chastised himself his weakness. He wasn't sobbing, but letting go of a long, pained grown and tearing his own cheeks with his sharp nails. It was an odd sound that slowly rose until he was screaming over and over trying to drown out the sound in his head. The sound that he had heard -really heard- and struck him to the core. This was a place of firsts for he and his wife. The first place they kissed, the first place they made love, the first place they slept as husband and wife (the first place he slept as a Man), the first place she told him of their daughter, and the first place they would truly part.

His throat began to parch as his scream elongated bringing with it a touch of gravel to his voice. He didn't care. He had to drown that horrible noise out of his head. He had to erase the conversation they had. He had to forget why his Amelia had brought him out here. He had to forget that she was pregnant. He had to forget that he couldn't have done it. He had to forget the wound the tiger had given him that made future children impossible.

Most of all he had to forget the sound... The sound she made as he grabbed her, the sound she made as she fell. Somewhere, far below the ground had been beautified by something much more pure, much more precious and beautiful than any flower the valley had produced and he had put it there. Alvin screamed. Alvin wished thing could be undone. Alvin wished she would have screamed as he threw her instead of was she did... Instead of say "I'm sorry."

Finally he broke, and Alvin son of Morrick's screaming quieted into uncontrollable weeping. He fell to his side and lay along the precipice, pouring his sorrows out to echo below. The sun took it's lazy course and mocked his pain by returning to the arms of Day's erstwhile lover. Finally, he had not tears left to shed. Alvin slowly raised himself, and stood breathing heavily. His stomach was still in knots, but his loss, lament, and pain was falling away under something else. This was as it should be: no sorrow for one of Beduin Born, but rage. Bright burning rage as crimson as the sun grows as night reaches up to take it. The urge to grip his face fled from his urge to grip his sword.

"Adrian" he said in a deep, grating whisper, "Son of Sedrick... by Clovis' eyes, man. I'm coming."