Let the Children Play at Death
(From the series "Gerantus and Pall")
Pall glided overhead in silence, just another shard of midnight breeze.
Gerantus, accustomed to his friend's terrifying hunting skills, stood at the edge of the Dreamwood with his lamp, thorns tugging at his woolen trousers.
They had been on alert all night, Pall circling among the stars and Gerantus cursing the thorns, as the battle raged in the distance.
"We are old and pitiful," Pall had said the day before. "Let the children play at death. They'll never learn to hate it unless they feel it."
"Speak for yourself," Gerantus had grunted even as he felt the familiar twinge in his lower back. "We have some role to play yet. I know it."
So here they were at midnight, seeking some way to help without feeling as useless as a first-time father watching his mate give birth.
"Maybe we can spot retreating enemy and finish them," Gerantus had offered as the sun had set and the sound of battle began in the Dreamwood.
"We?"
"I'll stand with my lamp and lure them out of the trees. You finish them from above."
"Hmmm," Pall said, a purr in his throat. "It might be fun."
It wasn't fun. Pall circled all night, and Gerantus ran through two candles while the thorns magically found every tender spot on his skin. And his back ached.
They found out later that neither side had achieved a clear victory, but there were many casualties. Did anyone learn to hate it? Probably. But probably not enough.
Pall landed nearby at sunrise and gingerly folded his wings with a long, tired exhalation. His ruby eyes closed to slits.
"We are old, my friend," Gerantus said as he tried to twist his frozen back.
"And pitiful," Pall said. "Don't forget."
They had been on alert all night, Pall circling among the stars and Gerantus cursing the thorns, as the battle raged in the distance.
"We are old and pitiful," Pall had said the day before. "Let the children play at death. They'll never learn to hate it unless they feel it."
"Speak for yourself," Gerantus had grunted even as he felt the familiar twinge in his lower back. "We have some role to play yet. I know it."
So here they were at midnight, seeking some way to help without feeling as useless as a first-time father watching his mate give birth.
"Maybe we can spot retreating enemy and finish them," Gerantus had offered as the sun had set and the sound of battle began in the Dreamwood.
"We?"
"I'll stand with my lamp and lure them out of the trees. You finish them from above."
"Hmmm," Pall said, a purr in his throat. "It might be fun."
It wasn't fun. Pall circled all night, and Gerantus ran through two candles while the thorns magically found every tender spot on his skin. And his back ached.
They found out later that neither side had achieved a clear victory, but there were many casualties. Did anyone learn to hate it? Probably. But probably not enough.
Pall landed nearby at sunrise and gingerly folded his wings with a long, tired exhalation. His ruby eyes closed to slits.
"We are old, my friend," Gerantus said as he tried to twist his frozen back.
"And pitiful," Pall said. "Don't forget."
///
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