Today is the day for submission for the reddit writing contest. I have posted it there and will post it here for other viewers to see and butcher to death. Please remember that the prompt was to describe, depict, or capture a single human emotion. I thank you in advance for reading!
There he stood, wrapped in fine furs of bear and wolf with a father so proud as to rap young Tronno’s back with a heavy hand. With each enthused slap, a little more ache and a little more pain seeped in from the day’s trial. Dancers stomped and bellowed and leapt and praised around the bonfire of new beginnings and an ending legacy. It was all for him, but still he seethed upon the pedestal for there was a stirring in his gut and it was wrong. He watched the flames as they licked toward the deep black sky to call an ending and renewal within its own jubilee of ascension.
Pain bubbled along his body until his eyes were drawn to rest upon his defeated brother. Still his brother hooted and sang a song of deep joy for his brother. A mockery after all... He thought before returning his gaze. The clan gorged and frolicked on the day of his new order until he could do all but retire to a soundless slumber.
Dreams of flight and fallacy did not dip to relieve Tronno’s tender mind but only took a recount of the day’s test. His brother, Rhaema, ever quick and agile a top burning coals dashed and dodged from his swoops and swings. Tap. Thud. The blows were quick and strong against his back and leg. Ever nimble he vaulted away like the hawk that he was. His speed was unmatched and his strength was uncanny, but his mind was only the fault of ego. Tronno knew the flaw and exploited it in measure for the title and glory of chieftain. A swift stroke, a subtle feint, and a daft counter sent Rhaema off the coals to sprawl in dirt and rock. The throbbing from his foot over the burning coals paled from the mockery of a blunting grin on his brother’s face. And then he woke under the open sky and ivory moon with a cold sweat on his brow and back.
He would have to lead his father, mother, brothers, and sisters to fertile grounds and through peace torn lands wroth with brutes of war and hate. The weight trenched in his body filling with the worry and regret at those ifs and if nots. An albatross of trust bore within his thoughts and after his actions with each passing of moon and sun and stars it only waxed ever more.
Each color of seasons staled at the face of his laboring people in misery and famine under his ambitious rule. In those seasons he watched sons and daughters born by Rhaema’s wife and as her beauty and wisdom matched his brother’s own strength and freedom only Tronno’s temper could deepen. His own wife was barren to his seed and lust beyond recount. He beseeched to the fertile Mother for an heir, instead she granted only disease and famine to cover his home and people. Their betrothal brought the bodies but that fruit withered and died as their clan was cursed to the path promised with abundance only to be tread as a fen. Again and again Tronno looked upon his brother with painful eyes. He knew not what he did when making me chief. He knew not the burden I took from him. He knew not the sorrow I hold tight for him. Days and nights came and went and still Rhaema prospered to leave his chief to boil in his follies.
Nights and days passed over until deep black peppered to grey and silver. Feuding clansmen attacked and raped and pillaged his people until the one that drove them off was not Tronno but Rhaema. Rhaema. Rhaema, Rhaema, is on their lips in secret and they praise him deep in fields and behind trees and out of earshot. It was Rhaema that trained the new strength of his people and fought off those who sought to break them apart. It was Rhaema’s wife who taught the new youth how to plant and harvest and gather and sow seeds of the future. Younka, Younka, is whom they whisper in tribute instead of my Kunukai. Loathing and despising consumed him to forget the comforts of her warmth and the bed they shared for the bitter cold of reality.
And so the time came when Kunukai passed and a choice revealed itself. Tronno offered up the seat in hopes of relief to Rhaema who rejected it under the guise of age and debility. The tether weakened at his brother’s words, but he stayed his anger if only for a time to act without the moonlight on his back.
A trial followed of boys and men danced the dance of chieftain over flaming coals and broken bones until concession or defeat came at last. It was a rare event to have the day of naming a chief and an even more the occasion for Tronno to forget himself as he saw the struggles of youth enthralling. A boy, no, a boy of a man defeated the last of hopefuls through muscle and pressure and strategy to stand on blistered soles and roar his claim above them all.
The feast that night was as grand as could be for those teemed with pestilent days. Soon he would consort and counsel for the new chief who was a boy eager for war. To Tronno it was more importantly he was a chief willing to take the gravity of his failures.
The night passed much as the day had; with fighting and action and bruises and blood as was the chief’s desire for his ceremony. A moment passed when Rhaema spoke with Tronno of the day they fought for the title. The spirits were with them and so their words were like leaves upon an elder tree; green, akin and fleeting. Tronno kept his thrice fold regrets inside and listened for once to his brother’s uttering.
They spoke of youthful times and blissful times. The moments in simple joy of chase through hills and streams and forgotten things. Oh the years of reveling and wondering and wandering and maturing were vivid and plain but harsh all the same. With wistful girls upon their eyes that gathered the storms of future feuds which turned to a mockery they made of a brotherly abandon. Yunka with her beauty so fair and Shinai with the fire she bared there was no compare. In the eyes and ears and mouth of them was the desire and passion to live and let live. It only took a fateful night that his soul was lost with dread. Tears formed of their own accord leaving their faces as wet and sodden as from a high storm. They said their sorrows and the fears and the speakings under the untamed mind until the spirits retired and cotton filled their mouths.
Snow faded into the Weeping which waned at the Great Heat and their clan prospered under the young warrior’s expositions. Words were wind on the coming morrow when lands and beasts were granted and songs were sung for Rhaema where Tronno was forgotten. Wars and women, battles and bread, fighting and futures all passed and the children grew to sprout new generations. Tronno’s mind retired to the mundane which left his heart to beat a suffering thrum at the smiles and laughs and love meant for all but him.
Tronno looked upon his brother on his day of death and the words etched inside were wounds upon his soul. It was to be he, Rhaema, the brother who should have taken the title to botch beyond compare. His brother who should have been the one to take the blame and bane that crowned this old and tired form. To take the throne and guide their people to pride and promise and prominence. To be the one to take his pain away. A brother that should be heavy with envy instead.
