Warmth

The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire. ~Ferdinand Foch

Cool and heat caressed my forehead and the round of my shoulder in a way that began to slip into my consciousness. One born of its own existence, the other created and therefore why they did not mingle together to be simply tepid. I stirred enough to glance up toward the flap. It was cracked open just a sliver letting in a stream of night breeze. With it came a scent too familiar to be ignored. There was a moment of indecision wanting to remain under the coziness of my fur but it was flipped back so I could rise. Jutting each foot into a boot helped brace against the shiver. I grabbed my coat and stepped outside.

The sky bore the weight of the night like the fur I had just left behind. Neither of us spoke as I settled on the middle step next to him and took the offer of the steaming bowl. It was a decent peace treaty for having woke me. Otherwise something a whole lot darker and more treacherous would have slit him deep and wide ... morning grouchiness.

About half the bowl's contents had begun to soothe away the chill by the time small fingerlets of creamy glow began to leak through the horizon. I was crouched in a huddle over the moist heat when I heard stirring in the next wagon. The slats creaked gently at first then seemed to explode in a plethora of sound and light. The glow of lanterns popped through fissures of the wood and continued on through to the wagon on the other side and the one on the other side of that as well.

Well now I was certainly attuned to the scene unfolding before me and I was not about to miss a single moment of it. The flap slung wide open on Duran's second wagon spilling light down the platform all the way out across the small clearing. Instantly a hulk of shadow came charging through ripping the air with a barrage of bellows that I would have blushed at if I weren't so amused. Clenched tight in the his fist Third Son was waving in the air for emphasis was what looked for all the world like an ost except that it was in truth only a curled thick strip of un-softened leather.

All of the wagons in our small circle began to empty their contents of sleepy eyed - wondering - what the F..ebruary - Tuchuks. Big ones, soft ones, ones still wrapped in furs. Now this all lifted a brow and pursed my lips together tight but it did take all I could do to remain silent in the shadows of my own platform steps when Duran's torch light lit his third son's face. There as pretty as you please was a yellow hand print over the boy's mouth.

The source of such a rousing morning's entertainment then fell beneath my gaze. I glared at Me Too as if I could have bore a hole right through him. I have to admit he pulled the curtain down well when he lifted his hand to wave at his buddy. The small palm was still covered with yellow paint. I studied him then, the smoothness of the unscarred face, the crinkle of merriment at the corner of his eyes, the taut half chisel of his mouth against his cheek. I knew too that my own features were an emotionless mask as I continued to watch him. I rose without a word to duck beneath my flap and returned with the dagger.

When he reached out for it, I didn't simply let it go but held it tight in my grasp until he met my eyes with his. In this .. there was no amusement, no merry mischief, no beamingly proud smile ... not in giving him back the weapon. My fingers did not ease away until he could see the fire inside, the glow of something fierce and could hear the low growl of my breath. I would not tell him that I was pleased to see that flicker of fear that widened his own or that slightest readjustment of his chin lower while the truth of the lesson hit him with full force.

I let him stew in his own emotions though all I did was draw my coat a bit tighter and step off the stairs to speak with Duran. It would be the second time in as many days that we exchanged a clap to each other's shoulder and shared words filled with conspiracy. Of course I had drawn him aside the day before to let him know what was about to happen. It was the right thing to do. Made an excellent opportunity to make a wager too and I had just won. There was going to be fresh meat in my cooling pit come next hunt.

Me Too would never know that I had put my saddle up on the bet. I had that much confidence that he would do the right thing and be good at it. If he hadn't then the loss would have been of something far more precious to me.