Dimitryi/LiliasPrelude

Lilia's Prelude, Part One

The girl-child's sobbing joined in low harmony with the drums and bells of the tribe's women, shaken over her feverish body to draw the attention of healing spirits. In better times, the sound would be deafening, but with so many sick now, Lilia was left to dance for the girl's life with only a handful of women to accompany her. This was the fifth day she'd spent dancing and praying for the health of her people and with each glance at the girl's flushed face, she could tell that this dance would be as futile as it had been for the many others who had already died. Their camp was full of the wailing grief of the women, and the silent mourning of the men.

The child's mother shook twin bells fiercely over her daughter's body when Lilia finished the third circle and sank to her knees again. The shamaness tossed a tiny bag of herbs into the central fire to sweeten the smoke that filled the hut and then began to pass hands painted with twisting lines and circles over the girl. She was afraid to look at the mother, afraid to admit to the other woman that they worked without hope of a cure.

Lilia had saved no one since this plague had struck their tribe. Men, women, children, ancients and youths, they had all died. She knew that, given enough time, the grief of those still living would become anger and turn on her. After five days with little sleep, no food, and the slow death of hope, she could almost look forward to that time. It would mean an end to watching people she loved dying these horrible deaths, wracked with fever while foul fluids drained from their bodies.

A small bowl was pressed into her hands, filled with a fragrant tea. She bent to move an arm beneath the girl's shoulders, feeling the bones press through her skin as she lifted her to drink. As with everyone else, the girl only managed a few sips before convulsing with the force of bringing the tea back up. Lilia knew enough now to turn her onto her side before the bile could spatter on herself and the women who still played their discordant pleas to the spirits. Once the vomiting had passed, she eased the child onto her back again and looked down into that pinched face. She could see death in the hollows beneath the girl's eyes, in the tint of blue that stained chapped lips.

Murmuring one last prayer, she passed the bowl of tea to the girl's mother and stood, turning to leave the hut. In better times, she'd have stayed until health returned, or death claimed the child. Now, there were too many ill for her to stay.

The shamaness pushed the hide curtain aside and stepped out into a cloud of sunlight that stabbed at her eyes, and air fresh enough to make her reel with dizziness. The gloom and smoke of the hut seemed to melt away, if only for a minute, cleansed by the heat and power of the day. She knew that if she stood there for too long, eyes closed, face turned towards the sun's warmth, she'd slip into a faint. Part of her longed for the peace of unconsciousness, the same part of her that despaired and wondered if she would see her people safely through this crisis.

Lilia forced herself to open her eyes and draw in a breath, the fresh air that had struck her dizzy a few seconds ago now working to clear her head. It was time to get on with it. She walked through the camp, going slowly to ensure that her steps were steady and the path she chose straight. Too many of the grass and wicker huts that she passed bore the painted horse skull that marked a recent death and almost all of the people who greeted her with nods had faces crusted with ashes and tears. She had to blink to keep her own eyes free of tears as she walked to her brother's hut.

Alair was chief of their tribe, and her senior by fifteen years. She was eight when their father died after being thrown from his stallion, and Alair had taken on the task of raising her in their father's place. He'd taught her to ride, and to use a bow, and how to hold her own in a fight. It was Alair who'd insisted she not be forced into marriage, and placed her with the tribe's shaman once she'd bled and passed from childhood into the world of women. Alair who protected her and guided her and who now lay weak with fever, waiting for death to claim him as it had claimed his young wife and newborn child only days before.

A wail went up in the camp just as Lilia ducked to enter Alair's hut. Her heart seemed to stop and tighten in on itself with the sound. The girl-child had passed on. The chorus of grief ushered into her brother's presence even as it ushered the girl's spirit to the world beyond.

Alair was as she'd left him, stretched out on a pallet of horsehides beside the central fire. The tea she'd set to steeping still hung over the flames and sweetened the air, softening the stink of sweat and sickness that came off of the man. The hazel eyes she so loved were closed and fever-dreams moved his lips in an incoherant whisper while she went to kneel beside him.

"Alair..." Lilia swept greying hair back from his brow and waited for his name to call him back from the dreams. While she waited, she filled a shallow bowl with some of the tea and blew on it to cool it. This sickness drew one's fluids from the body and left the person tormented with thirst. "Alair."

This time the murmur of Lilia's voice caused the man's lashes to flutter, and slowly his eyes began to open. The tip of his tongue, swollen and covered with a white film, darted out to lick his chapped lips and when she bent to bring an arm under his shoulders, he grunted. "Lilia. How long?"

The woman brought the bowl of tea to his mouth and tilted it at a gentle angle to allow him a small sip. "You've been asleep for a few hours," she said as he swallowed, then brought his mouth to the bowl's rim for a larger gulp. "Zisra's girl is dead." Exhaustion kept her voice, usually rich and deep and expressive, flat and devoid of feeling.

Alair grunted and let his head fall back, eyes closing again. "I heard her crying, in my sleep. I heard all of them crying, the ones who've gone. I'll join them soon," he mumbled, ignoring Lilia's hiss of disapproval. "Father came to me, and our mother. My woman, my child... they're waiting."

"You will not die," Lilia whispered, voice all but stolen by the renewed threat of tears. "I won't let you."

"The spirits don't hear you." The man lifted his hand and set it over hers, calloused fingers squeezing hers to take some of the sting from his words. "For whatever reason, they aren't listening and I will die soon."

Lilia, unwilling to hear him speak so, shook his hand off and stood, anger allowing her more energy than she truly felt. "You will not die," she repeated fiercely. "We need you. I need you. You will not." She bent to set the tea beside him and then turned to leave. At the exit, she paused just long enough to look back at him, marking the gaunt lines of his face, the weakness of his hands, the brightness of his eyes brought on by the fever. These things she marked in her mind. "I will find a way," she said.

Lifting the hide curtain, she stepped outside and was swallowed by sunlight.