Mighty on the Earth
by aishuu
Part 4:
He remained hidden for hours, until his own thirst forced him out of hiding. He could see his mother's limp arm lying from the cover of his leaves every time he glanced just a bit to his left. A part of him hoped that somehow another tribe member would come and help him. Maybe someone else had escaped to find aid.
He did not want to be a sole survivor. That was not a life he wanted to live.
Kurapica was in shock, and he knew it. His thinking process was rational and distant, and the fear that had kept him petrified had long since faded into a sick emptiness. There was a chance that the raiders were still around, but he couldn't stay in the bushes much longer. His bladder was threatening to explode, and he was starting to feel faint from lack of food. He needed to take action, or starve to death from cowardice.
He pushed himself out of hiding, his legs numb from being cramped for so long. Kurapica faced toward the forest, away from his mother's body. He knew he would have to look, but wanted to avoid it for as long as possible, to deny that this was real. Casually, he took the time to relieve himself, pretending things were normal. After wiping his hands on several leaves, he found he couldn't procrastinate anymore.
He took a deep breath, considering running away and just leaving everything behind, but knew that was a bad idea. He needed to know what had happened. If he was the only survivor, it was his task to make sure he took care of his people. It was his job to make sure they were buried properly. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, turning around to look at his mother where she lay ten feet away.
His mother's face looked almost peaceful - except her eyes had been gouged out.
He finally gave into the terror that had been slowly working at his sanity, screaming at the top of his lungs. His misery rose in pitch, and he could barely breathe as he kept keening. Had he been able to hear himself, he would have been appalled. The world went red again as his eyes turned crimson in sheer terror, but he didn't really process that. If any of the bandits had been around, he would have made easy prey.
He had no idea how long he mourned - his throat was raw and ached, and the screams came out more and more raggedly. Later he would wonder if he'd actually gone insane at that moment. Eventually, his terror spent itself, and he was left panting, trying to gather his shattered thoughts into a plan of action. Every time he started to calm, though, his sight fell on the bloody ruin of his mother.
Strangely, it was a picayune detail that managed to shake him completely out of his shock. One of Zaltana's earrings was missing. The sight calmed him like a splash of ice-water to the face. This was normal theft, not the theft of her. It didn't seem like the same kind of violation that the stealing of her eyes was. It got his mind working again.
He knelt down beside her, wishing he could close her ruined eyes, but her killers had not been cautious, and little remained of her eyelids. There wasn't as much blood, and he took it as a mixed blessing that she had at least been really dead, not just unconscious, when they had removed them.
"Mother," he whispered, touching her cheek. It was so cold, he thought, and her skin felt like rubber. With shaking hands, he removed the earring his mother was still wearing. Without thinking about it, he pushed it into the lobe of his own unpierced ear, forcing himself not to wince. He was the only one of the Kurata not to shed blood yesterday, so he had no right to complain. "I won't let them win," he promised her in a voice raspy from screaming. "I'll live for us."
That was what she had wanted. Zaltana had done everything she could to save her child, even sacrificing herself in a desperate gambit to distract the invaders. Amazingly, miraculously, it had worked, and he owed it to her to see her wish was honored.
He hadn't pierced his ear right. He felt the warmth of his own blood slipping down his neck with a detachment. It would heal, he told himself. His mother wouldn't.
He had to take things a step at a time. First, he needed to get some nourishment, and then he would have to take a survey of the village and find any other survivors. Someone else... someone else... there had to be someone else. The cynical part of his mind pointed out it wasn't likely, but he ruthlessly repressed it.
It was hard to leave her body, but the Kurata believed that the spirit returned to the earth, and the shell didn't matter. Tearing the bottom of her shirt, he created a cloth to cover her face, and the terrible damage her attackers had wrought. Mentally he promised that he would return, and see that she was buried.
They were only a few hundred feet from the nearest house - Huyana's - and it was with trepidation that he went toward it to seek the old woman. He had spoken to her at the birth celebration for Helaku as they indulged in the sweet mochi, entering a playful conspiracy.
Her house looked normal, and he found himself knocking although it was ridiculous in light of what had happened. "Huyana?" he called despite that, pushing the door open. "Are you here?"
She was, he found, right in the middle of her main room, clutching a knife. Her eyes, too, were gone. He stared at her body for a long moment, then left. Rage was beginning to course through his body, and his trembles were coming from anger. Anger was safer than sorrow.
One by one, he found them. Motega, holding a sword which hadn't managed to defend him; Olathe, lying on her back in bed, most likely one of the first killed; Kurak, pinned through the heart and tacked to the wall of his home with some kind of acupuncture needle... all of them. Elu's blades at least bore the sign of some kind of fight, with blood drying on the edge, but his attacker had still won.
They had even killed Helaku, a babe not yet a month old.
The deaths were all different, with only the absence of eyes explaining their purpose. All of the people appeared to have been awake when they were attacked, probably to make sure their eyes had been glowing red with panic.
Kurapica felt his eyes blazing, giving him a strange calm that allowed him to think more clearly. He could guess why this had happened. The tribe's eyes were legendary, collectors would want their eyes, no matter how they were achieved. It was one of the main reason's for the tribe's xenophobia, and apparently it had been a wise concern.
He found his father's body in the center of the village with a small group of Kurata, a hoe clutched in his hand. He had tried to fight back, but Anoke had been a musician. He hadn't stood a chance against his attackers.
Methodically, Kurapica went through all the houses, locating the others. Wyome and his family - eight total, the eight that had taken to the ships - were the only ones he didn't find, but he couldn't find it in himself to hope. The people who had gone after them were strong, and while he knew his tribe was trained as fighters, they weren't killers. Their ancestors may have been, but the Kurata's pride in their sword skill was laid bare to the truth: they were an agricultural people, unable to protect their own.
He was starting to feel weak from hunger, although he didn't want to eat. Starving himself, though, wouldn't help, he reminded himself, before going to his home to find a meal.
The house was too quiet as he opened the door. Just a few hours before, he'd been practicing with his father as his mother had packed up the mochi for the celebration. Now they were gone, and he knew he was in shock.
He forced some bread down his throat, knowing it was a good source of energy. He would need it, if he was to do what was necessary. Berries, just recently harvested, were surprisingly sweet on his tongue. They were a favorite of his, and he felt guilty that he could still enjoy them.
Shutting his eyes, he pretended for a moment that his parents were outside performing chores, and that the village was continuing its normal business. He tried to imagine the people as he'd known them, not the corpses that had been left behind, but the memory of the bloody holes that marked where their eyes had been haunted him.
He couldn't keep the charade up, the memory of his mother's savaged face coming unbidden into his mind. Dry sobs shook his body again, and he gasped for breath, trying to figure out what to do now.
Take things a step at a time, he told himself. He was too tired, both physically and emotionally, to make a rational decision. First he needed to rest, then he could plan what to do... and how to get even. He was only a child, but those who had killed his tribe would regret that they'd ever heard of the Kurata, he swore.
He started to head to his own room, but his footsteps faltered as he stared at his bed, its blankets strewn where he'd pushed them aside when Zaltana had arrived. Without conscious thought, he turned around to his parents' room.
Kuapica hadn't slept in with his parents for almost ten years, but he needed the comfort of their presence. He climbed into the bed, wrapping his hands around the pillow his mother had used. It still carried the scent of herbs she used to wash her hair.
Tears threatened again, but his fatigue dragged him down into sleep. Luckily, he had no dreams.
He awoke early the next morning, the light slanting gently across the bed. He'd forgotten to pull the drapes, and he had to shake the disorientation of waking in a different place. The memories came flooding back, and he held his hands over his face, telling himself that he needed to calm down.
He took a deep breath, forcing his mind to enter kotoo'êstse . He'd never used it before in ordinary life, but right now he needed to divorce his emotions from his actions.
He didn't need to think as he mechanically rose to his feet, and took the first step of the day. He washed, dressed himself in his oldest clothes and ate a light breakfast of slightly stale bread and mushy strawberries before turning to the door.
He went out to bury the dead.
He buried them where they fell, digging shallow graves with a shovel he didn't remember retrieving. The ones that died inside, he buried by their doorways. By early afternoon, his hands were blistered, but he didn't feel the pain. He worked until the sun had long since fled the sky, not even pausing for lunch.
He got used to shoving the bodies into the ground, mentally blocking out images of what these people had been to him while living. He wasn't moving Olathe or Kurak or any of the hundred people who had been his friends. He was merely performing a necessary chore, the final task his people had bequeathed to him.
He paused to rest only twice, retreating to the nearest dwelling and stealing a bed. The days blurred together, and he never knew how long that task took him, except that by the time he buried the last body, rigor mortis had long since passed, and there was a definite stench in the air.
Finally he planted the last tree over the site of the Motega's grave. The Kurata believed their bodies went back to nature, and eschewed stone memorials. Kurapica stood at the foot of the grave, and his mind went utterly blank about what to do next.
Kurapica had never given the course of his life any particular thought, assuming that he would go on his eamemeohe before taking his place in the tribe. Since birth, he had been the child of the village tale singer, destined to take Anoke's place as the one who kept the history records. It was an honorable position, and that was enough.
Now his tribe was gone, and he was alone. He couldn't stay here, not alone among the ghosts of his people. He couldn't let these people, these Genei Ryodan, defeat the spirit of the Kurata.
He needed to get even. He didn't know how to do that, but the blood of his ancestors, those mighty Kurata that had been warriors, roused within him. They destroyed what he held dear; it was his duty to take whatever they cherished in return.
He felt guilty as he went through the houses of his people, gathering items he would need. They has no use for their possessions any more, and their ghosts would share gladly to make sure he survived. His clan's murderers - Genrei Ryodan, a small part of his mind whispered - hadn't looted them. The only thing they had taken was their eyes - and their pride and future.
Becoming a vigilante wasn't a role he was cut out for, he recognized. Elu, who had been the tribe's best, should have been the one left to take revenge. Olathe, who had loved life so much, might have been able to overbearing grief and create something good from it. Even Motega, who had dreamed of never coming back to the clan, would have suited to continue on alone better than Kurapica. Kurapica knew himself well; he was just a bookworm, one with mediocre sword abilities and a tendency toward introversion. He was not the best among his tribe, but he would have to make due.
The last place he stopped was his own home. He carefully wrapped the three books in a cloth, including them in his pack. A couple changes of clothing, and the jewelry his mother had made. His ear was tender from where he had pierced it, but the pain served as a minor irritation that kept him grounded.
He found the swords where he had left them, hung by the foot of his bed. He hadn't had a chance to grab them when his mother shook him from his sleep, and now they stood in mute accusation, since he hadn't fought, only hid. He would not back away again; he would not let anyone else die so he could live.
It was nearly dawn by the time he finished preparations, and though he was exhausted, he intended to be on his way at the start of day. He sat at the front of the house, waiting for sunrise so he could perform. For one last time, a Kurata would welcome the sun with song in Rukuso Valley.
His voice was good, but it lacked the resounding depth of his father's tenor as he sang. He shut his eyes, concentrating on making sure he was enunciating clearly; this would serve as a death song for his people.
As the sky lightened, he took a breath, waiting until he saw the edge of the sun on the horizon. It was his duty to perform his best, and he thought of the way his people had lived, knowing their place in the world and being content with it. He sang, on key and better than he ever had before, offering a prayer to whatever was listening. It was a splendid performance, but there was no one to hear it.
Wishing for everlasting peace in our souls,
I desire to share happiness with my people,
And desire to share their sadness.
Kurapica planned to never sing it again.