Wander remembered the night he stole the sword, and what transpired after.
He traversed the steps that led up to a mountain plateau, overlooking the village. The cold night wind stung him, and made him shiver.
On the plateau, wrapped bodies were held aloft, placed in the scaffold branches of leafless trees. Sky-Burial.
Agro, without bridle or saddle, stood forlorn at the bottom of the tree which held the newest body: that of Wander's dearly-departed Mono.
Dark birds convened upon the body, unwrapping the shroud from her face with their beaks.
The horse watched as Wander climbed the tree. He waved away the eager carrion-birds, and gazed upon the exposed face of his dead beloved, with a painful yearning to see life bloom once more within it.
Tenderly did he cover her with the shroud once more, as he lifted her in his arms, and slowly carried her down from the tree.
As he neared the steps to make his descent, he heard a plaintive whinny: Agro would not be so ignored.
Wander's gaze went directly to the scar upon Agro's side, an arcing line where dark fur would not grow.
'Twas the indelible mark of the gash inflicted by the horn of the warrior's bull, in the midst of pitched battle; healed due to Mono's skill, it would never truly be gone, nor would it ever be forgotten by horse or man.
Agro knelt down, and thus was Wander able to place the body gently upon the horse's bare back; the noble beast would help to carry the burden of her erstwhile mistress' body, the maiden who had, in life, helped to heal her.
Wander caressed the grieving horse's muzzle, and with his fingertips traced the scar that linked Agro also to Mono.
The tears, which until now Wander had held back deep behind his eyes, fell forth unhindered; he no longer had the strength needed to restrain them.
Agro appeared to be waiting: she had not yet arisen.
Unsure, for never had he ridden her without Mono alive and riding also, Wander climbed atop her back: unlike before, Agro made no attempt to shake him off.
Agro rose; with one last look upon Wander, who held his beloved's body close to his heart, Agro began her solemn march down the plateau steps, toward the village below.
Though the horse could not know of, or indeed understand, Wander's plans to cheat death and rescue Mono from its clutches, man and horse were inexplicably bound and united in this shared purpose.
The village slumbered: all lights had been doused hours past, and not a sound emanated from their dwellings.
The finest of these dwellings belongs to none other than Lord Emon.
Inside Lord Emon's home were the shells of tortoises: larger ones to be worn on the arm as carapace shields, smaller ones filled with beads to be used as ritual-rattles.
For that was the animal that Lord Emon's soul was most affiliated with: the tortoise, with its hard and defensive exterior and rounded back, slow-moving and wise.
Lord Emon was experiencing a sleepless night, tossing and turning on his bedding. He was without his ritual mask, without his robes of office, and without his inscrutable air of authority.
No... this night he was only a man, an old and careworn man, the lines of his face deepened and made haggard from anxiety-riddled insomnia.
The words of the Shamaness haunted him: the girl had been marked as the future mother of a demon.
What would that have meant? Could a child she bore to Wander have been tainted by evil? Would she have been otherwise impregnated? In either event, how would this have come to be?
Dormin was sealed away, sealed far, far away, in a land where none in the village would dare to venture, least of all the good-hearted and obedient Mono.
What most preyed upon Lord Emon's mind was a niggling thought, a creeping insecurity, a whispering, taunting voice inside his skull warning that his sacrifice of the girl's life might have been in vain.
Perhaps he was a fool to think he, a mere mortal man, could confound an ancient power, and prevent such impossible things from coming to pass, be they miracles or disasters.
What power had he, to force the hand of fate from its path?
He heard soft hoofbeats outside the tent, and looked out of his doorway: Wander rode slowly upon Agro, carrying Mono's body in his arms.
Lord Emon emerged from the darkness of his dwelling, and spoke Wander's name.
Wander was deep in the turmoil of his thoughts, but Lord Emon's voice brought him out of his reverie: he tugged gently on the hair of Agro's mane, causing her to halt.
He did not look back at Lord Emon.
"Why disturb your beloved's rest?" asked Lord Emon.
Wander made no attempt to answer.
"You do her a dishonor," admonished the scowling Lord Emon. "Her body is nothing; her soul is ready to depart. To ascend to the skies, and be at peace with her ancestors. If you cling to her mortal shell, her soul will linger on the earth for your sake."
"...Good," the boy rumbled, darkly.
"I understand the pain you must feel. The bitterness. Hatred, even. I do not blame you for these feelings."
"Your sympathy is wasted upon me."
"I do not ask for your forgiveness. If I suffer a heavy heart for what has been taken from you, it is a price I pay willingly, and would do so again."
At that the boy bristled, taking grave offense. "You paid no price. She did."
Wander met his gaze at last, eyes ablaze. "To quell your fears of an ancient monster.
Was leaving the Forbidden Land to live here for untold ages, amongst the mud and stone, not enough?
Must you cower like a child, fearful of the dark after a nightmare?"
Lord Emon's face hardened. "...You are grieving. You know not of what you speak. Tomorrow, I pray, you will see the light of reason."
"I see clearer now than ever before. I do not ask for your forgiveness either, old man. If you desired me to blindly follow your 'wisdom', you made a grave error in refusing my service."
"It was blindness I saw," Lord Emon countered. "That is why I did not want you to become a cleric. You do not understand what it is to sacrifice."
"No. You did the sacrificing for me. Had I done the deed, I would have looked her in the eyes."
Lord Emon watched as a turtle slowly crossed the dirt path, making its way between them, and heeding them not.
"An individual life is fleeting; our happiness even more so," spake Lord Emon. "The tribe, the land, the world, these can be eternal... so long as we protect them. No single man or woman is worth endangering the eternal."
"If you would destroy that which is worth living for and protecting, then I want not your 'eternity'," asserted Wander with vehement disgust, "for you speak of hell."
Wander issued a commanding cry, and spurred Agro forward. She galloped away, leaving a trail of dust... but through the cloud was a glint of blue light.
Lord Emon squinted, glanced at the moon above, sensing there was something odd in that reflection.
The old chieftain nearly returned to the inside of his dwelling, but then stopped short.
He knew what that light was.
Donning his mask and robes, he went at once to the temple, startling the guards with his sudden presence.
His intention to enter was clear, and one of the guards forfeited his torch for Lord Emon to use, neither one daring to question the chieftain as to his purpose.
At first glance, nothing to Lord Emon appeared to be amiss: everything was in place, and as it should be.
But the sword, upon the pedestal, seemed wrong. Shabby.
Lord Emon lifted the sword and inspected it: it was a crude sword, Wander's practice weapon, left in the place of the ancient relic.
He turned upon the guards. "Who has entered?"
The guards exchange glances. "None but you, Lord Emon," came the meek and worried answer from one of the two, behind their ceremonial mask.
Lord Emon strode out of the temple. "Come with me. You will remedy this mistake by helping me catch the thief."
"But who shall guard the temple?" one guard asked.
"Naught remains worth guarding," was Lord Emon's curt reply. "Naught may remain at all, if we do not return the sacred sword."