Fallen

I believe that Cana is right. My views are no longer in line with those of the Tribe. I cling too strongly to the ways of old, to tradition and honor for those around me. Am I a perfect man? Certainly not. I'm a fallible man, like all the rest. People have only to look at the last few days of my madness for the perfect example of that.

But I can not view what's taken place as everyone else. I cannot just shrug my shoulders and say oh well, all is forgiven. Come back to the fold and nothing else will happen to you. I don't expect this for myself, why should I extend it to others?

I grew up with a people who were fierce and full of pride. Who cherished tradition and their tribe. Not those who spit on the ways that once made the Tuchuks strong. Feared. Once they were. Now? I could not imagine so. I could not image the Turian's feeling any fear in their hearts at mention of the Tuchuks now.

So that begs the question of where do I belong now? I have no place among the shadows I see surrounding me now. As I stand looking at my wagons, I find myself drawing to a conclusion. The answer so obvious that I should have seen it sooner.

My place has moved elsewhere, and I must find it again.

With that final thought, I set aside these pages. For how long? I can't say.

Paths That Cross

I'd spent the morning in the trenches. Digging. Shoveling dirt. Working at a pace that seemed tireless. But all too soon I was told that I was done. Go clean up. Go. I didn't bother to argue and try to keep working. I grabbed my jerkin and made my way towards the stream to clean up.

As I approached I saw figures sitting on the bank. And a couple of others standing nearby. As we came within sight of one another I noticed how the two men tensed and suddenly moved closer to one of the women. When I looked, I saw who it was. Yamka and the Ghost-Woman. Then I realized that the men were there to... protect her? I felt my mouth begin to move, taking on the shape of a smile and merely shook my head.

I could only image what degrading a post it must be to be assigned as a guard to a woman who betrayed her Tribe. To follow that woman around and ensure her safety among a Tribe that she thought so little of as to throw away for the sake of... love? Lust? Selfishness? I could only shake my head.

Yamka raised other questions, though. I noticed, as I passed them, that she had stepped in front of the Ghost-Woman in some sort of defensive gesture. I haven't put myself around the Tribe much of late. I haven't bothered to pay any attention to the gossip. But I find myself wondering how far the traditions and beliefs of the Tuchuks have fallen. Perhaps it is nothing more than my own anger distorting my perceptions. But the closer I look, the more I see just a pale, civilized shadow of the great Tuckuks I was so proud to call my own.

Were these the same Peoples who were known, like the other three Tribes, to slay strangers at a whim? Were these the same Tuchuks that Kamchak led to Turia's gates and siezed that city for himself?

I find that lately, I can't answer these questions...

Gives You Hell

I wake up every evening, with a big smile on my face
And it never feels out of place

And your still probably working at a 9 to 5 pace
I wonder how bad that tastes

When you see my face
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
When you walk my way
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell

Now wheres you picket fence love
And wheres that shiny car,
And did it ever get you far

You've never seem so tense love
I've never seen you fall so hard,
Do you know where you are

And truth be told I miss you
And truth be told I'm lying

When you see my face
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
When you walk my way
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
If you find a man that's worth a damn and treats you well
Then he's a fool, your just as well, hope it gives you hell

Hope it gives you hell

Tomorrow you'll be thinking to yourself
Where'd it all go wrong, the list goes on and on

And truth be told I miss you
And truth be told I'm lying

When you see my face
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
When you walk my way
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
If you find a man that's worth a damn and treats you well
Then he's a fool, your just as well, hope it gives you hell

Now you'll never see, what you've done to me
You can take back your memories they're no good to me
And here's all your lies,
You can look me in my eyes
With that sad sad look that you wear so well

When you see my face
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
When you walk my way
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
If you find a man that's worth a damn and treats you well
Then he's a fool, your just as well, hope it gives you hell

When you see my face
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
When you walk my way
Hope it gives you hell
Hope it gives you hell
When you hear this song and sing along oh you'll never tell
Then you're the fool, I'm just as well
Hope it gives you hell
When you hear this song I hope that it will give you hell
You can sing along I hope that it will treat you well

What is the Mark of Insanity?

I've begun to wonder if I'm the one whose gone mad, or if it's simply everything and everyone else around me.

It was a day or so after my return to the harigga. I decided to wander for a bit and try to find a mark of familiarity among the wagons. At some point, I found myself nearing the fires of the first wagons.

I could hear voices before I saw anyone. Women. I didn't hear the deeper sounds of any mens voices. When the small group came into sight I saw Mezoo, Asria and Yamka. I offered up the expected greeting and sat down on the steps of someone's wagons.

I'm not sure what they were bantering about when I arrived. The mundane doesn't really sinks past the fog of my own thoughts these days. Which is why I've refrained from practicing my clan and spent the majority of my time of late working in the trenches. Simple, physical labor.

What I did notice were the expressions. The body language of each woman. Asria seemed wary. Unsure if what sat near her was a man or a dangerous beast. Yamka seemed wary, but not in the same way. It was as if she expected me to unleash every bit of rage and violence bottled up inside me... on her. I can't imagine why, of course.

As I was contemplating these things something broke through that fog. Someone was speaking to me. It took just a moment for me to realize it was Asria. She asked me about the new dome on my wagon. It had been replaced while I was gone on the plains for those few days. She'd spoken with the leatherworkers and had another made and put on. Yamka also mentioned that her father had helped replace it. I thanked them and fell back into silence. At some point Yamka brought me a bowl... blackwine, I think.

While I sat there, the conversation moved on to other things. I heard and listened, but nothing really stuck with me. That is, until Mezoo was asking me to assist her in babysitting. When I looked over, indeed, she had a baby in her lap and arms. I think it was Asria's son. I stared at the child for a moment, then just shook my head as I responded to Mezoo;

"I don't think that's wise."

But she was insisting. Something about it being good for me. I continued to stare at the child, and I found myself considering all the children I'd robbed of one or both of their parents. Having delivered them to death or slavery. Or even torture.

I just shook my head and delivered a firm refusal of her offer. It would not be good for me. It would not be good for the child. And I was left wondering about Mezoo's own sanity then.

I found that I couldn't remain there, among them, any longer. My skin felt hot and prickly, as if something was crawling over me. When I looked down at my hands I almost stood up from shock. They were covered in blood. It fell from my fingers in thick, fat, crimson drops. But all around me the chatting was going on just the same. I muttered a hasty excuse and left for the stream to clean my hands...

Lies That Poison. Truth That Breaks.

Many will call me heartless. Cruel. Unforgiving. And they are all right. I'm all those things and a great deal more. A great deal darker then they will ever be able to find words to describe it.

What I did with Yew. What I did with the keep sakes and memories of hers. What I plan to do with the rest of her belongings.

And what I've done to her. The things I said. They were not the cruelest words I could have flung at her, but they did the intended job by all appearances. I watched her cry, but her tears were simply cheap lies that would only poison me if I let them.

But the pain I inflicted upon her was real, though. The blood that poured from her mouth was tangible. Even now, days later, my own knuckles are bruised and scratched. I think I cut the skin on a tooth. I'm not sure. But looking at the discolored skin, the scab near a knuckle, I find no remorse swimming among my rage and hatred.

I returned yesterday from my pilgrimage out to the plains. Immediately, I began the cleaning up of the mess I had left at my wagons. Shoveling the ashes into a cart so they could be disposed of and the grass could be given a chance to grow once more. To heal. I was thankful for the work I had to do, though. Not necessarily because it kept my mind occupied, because it didn't. But it gave me an outled to expell the energy that was constantly building up inside me lately. But as for keeping my mind distracted? No, there was no chance of that.

I also saw that during my abscense someone had recovered my wagon. The canvas was bare, nothing had been painted on it yet. Later, I would have to find out who had gone to the trouble of having it replced. And thank them.

In fact, my mind kept wandering back to the pyre I performed yesterday. I know her ghost still walks among the wagons, but I've done what I can to honor the death of the last of my family. To ensure that the spirits of Lazlo and Saitirri are at peace, even though I know they will never truly rest again.

The inside of the wagon was a riot of color. A playground for the senses. The walls and floor were decorated with a lifetime of artwork. More than just canvas and paint. Everything in the wagon was a representation of a certain place and time in a life that had ended. Just as surely as the scars upon my cheeks represented certain times in my own life. In the middle of the wagon, laid out upon the finest set of sleeping furs I had, was a skirt and vest that she'd decorated with her own hands. I always thought she looked like a very attractive woman in it. I could imagine her taking her first steps inside a wagon she shared with her man. Those dreams for her were over, though.

Laying atop the vest was the tin that held Yew's heart. It was placed in the general area of where a persons heart lays in their chest. Laying beside this 'figure' were the set of quiva I had recently given her. Also nearby was the arrow she'd hit her first bullseye with the day I took her out to teach her archery. At the 'head' were the white bone combs that Saitirri had made for her daughter. The ones I had passed on to her to wear during her ringing ceremony. Line along one side of the 'body' were a row of jars that held pigments. Lazlo had made them for his daughter, that she might have something to keep her supplies in. On the other side were laid out the set of brushes that she used most often when painting. I had also placed Yew's body inside the wagon, to burn with the rest of the memories, that the woman I once called family might have her stallion to ride, if nowhere but in my mind.

The inside of the wagon was a memorial to a woman that had died. And in the center of it was the only body that I had to place there. A body made up of the details of her life.

I stepped outisde the wagon and removed a torch from the campfire, which was then thrown inside the wagon. It took several ehn before the flames started to spread. But when they did, they spread as if accelerated by oil. I stood there for ahns as I watched the flames burn. The leather canvas disintigrated relatively quickly. The artful designs she'd painted on its surface gone. The framework for the dome was next to sucumb to the flames. Splintering and falling inside the frame of the wagon. It all burned for some time before I began to hear the cracking of wood. It was one of the axles. The fire had weakened it and it could no longer support the weight of the wagon. It shattered and the wagon sagged to the front now. When it dropped to the ground a shower of sparks flew into the air.

The pyre burned for ahns before it finally started to reduce itself to little more than embers. The husk of the wagon was still discernable, but the wood was charred and splintered.

Looking up at the sky I bid my last fairwell to the spirits of my family. Then turned away from a life that had been shattered and went to the second kaiila he'd brought with him. And that woman, the Turian, stood in her ruined robs, a length of rope tied around her throat, which was secured to my saddle horn.

She being the only other witness to Seveya's Pyre.

I climbed back into the saddle and took the reins in my hands. Behind me, there rested a chest that was also secured to the saddle. I turned the kaiila and pointed it back towards the harigga.

I had much healing to do when I arrived.

Many failures to atone for.

Poor, Poor Yew...

I awoke early this morning; as the lar-torvis was coming up. The day ahead of me would be a long one and I needed to get started. I bathed again and changed my garments. Shaved my face, which had become unkempt with whiskers. I would have to speak with Ayguili about my need to leave for a few days. I could only hope he would understand.

After that it was the task of collecting everything. All her wagons. All her property and assets. The bosk would have to be harnessed and the rest tied off to the back of the first. A few men, those who seemed to accept my previous outpouring of emotion for what it was, offered to assist me in the task and I accepted.

And at the very end of that procession of wagons was Yew. Tethered to the rear of the last wagon. The work was steadily completed and done mostly in silence. Once everything had been relocated to the area of my own wagons, I had the daunting task of going through it all. Those things of Saitirri and Lazlo were seperated out first and placed in a single wagon. Next, things that could be redistributed amongst the Tribe were seperated out; food items, the basic art supplies, some of the clothing, etc.

All of this took the better half of the day to complete. And when it was done, everything else that was left had been loaded onto a single wagon. And that wagon was harnessed to a team of bosk. Yew and another kaiila were tethered to the rear of the wagon. I climbed aboard the wagon and took hold of the reins, giving them a sharp snap to start the bosk off. The team strained in their yokes, but the wagon began to move. And it was driven away from the harigga. The bosk herds seperated to make way for the wagon as I drove it towards the open plains. I rode until I couldn't see the harigga or the herds anymore, then kept riding. I rode until the sky was beginning to grow dusky, then finally decided to make camp.

I felt this would be the best time to begin. When the lar-torvis was still in the sky and the three moons were starting to rise and join him. It was neither day nor night and neither celestial ruled the sky unopposed. I gathered myself and rose, with quiva in hand, and approached Yew, who was still tethered. I think he could sense the turmoil within me. Smell it on my skin. I stood there with him for several ehn. Talking to him, stroking his neck, feeling the powerful beat of his heart.

I closed my eyes and lifted the quiva slowly. Opening them, I placed the quiva at the side of Yew's neck. With a sudden coiling of muscle the blade of the weapon was plunged into the kaiila's flesh and muscle. Yew squealed and reared, striking out with his clawed paws. He clipped the wagon and left a deep gouge in the wood. I think I started screaming then too. I can't be sure if the moisture I felt on my face were just more tears or the splattering of Yew's blood. I yanked down on the quiva with all my strength and the blade cut a large gash through the muscle, severing the artery in the creatures neck.

I staggered back and watched as Yew's blood poured from the wound, weakening the creature. I watched as his once strong legs began to shake until they could no longer support his weight. I watched as Yew collapsed to the ground, his blood still gushing from that wound. And I watched as he grew still and the last of his life poured out onto the ground. I bore witness to yet another death.

When Yew grew still and his chest ceased it's perpetual rise and fall, I approached his body. I laid my hands on the side of his chest and I could still feel the warmth of his body. It was already starting to fade, but I could still feel it. I dropped down onto my knees then, and lifted my quiva once more. I sliced open the kaiila's belly, spilling his innards onto the grass and across my thighs. I had slaughtered many an animal in my days. It was a simple fact of life. Thus, I couldn't understand why now, as I did this, I could feel my stomach turning sour. Why, as I pushed my hands inside his body, did it feel as though a pair of hands were digging through my own guts? When my hand closed around Yew's heart, why did my own chest suddenly feel so tight and constricted? I cut his heart free and began to draw the organ from within the body. And the closer I brought his heart to me, I felt a stirring within me. My hands were pulled free from the corpse and clutched in one was the heart of Yew. I leaned back on my heels then, throwing my head back and screamed. Again. I cursed the Sky. I cursed and damned the Sky from the very bottom of the blackness inside me.

When there was nothing left in me to pour out I slumped forward, over Yews body and asked for his forgiveness. Then I assured him his place of honor was secured.

After a few more ehn I finally stood once more. I was splattered in blood from nearly head to toe. Craddling that precious heart in my heads, as if it might break should I drop it, I went back to the plaform of the wagon. Sitting on the steps was a tin large enough to hold the heart. And I placed the organ in the tin and carefully sealed the lid back on. The tin was taken inside the wagon and laid with an arrangement of other objects that seemed to vaguely resemble a human shape. The tin with the heart was placed among the other objects, but in the general location of where a persons heart would be.

Afterwards, mentally exhausted, I went out to sit by the campfire. I hadn't cleaned myself of the blood and realized that I probably wouldn't any time soon. As I sat there, lost in the damnation of my own thoughts, I heard a woman's voice calling a name.

There was no conscious thought to it as I rose and moved away from the campfire to secret myself away in the shadows. The woman's footsteps were hurried. She called excitedly, the name of a man. And then suddenly, just outside the perimeter of the camp, she stopped and became quiet. She realized the mistake she made, no doubt, and began backing away. After she took a couple of steps back, I called out to her.

"There's no point in running. There's nowhere for you to run to."

She didn't listen. She ran anyway. Calling some polite apology for the misunderstanding and a farwell.

The madness in me siezed upon this moment. This fleeing woman. She was prey. She was mine to take and unleash myself upon! There was no conscious thought to rising from the grass and shadows I was crouched in. I was running; my legs pumping, my heart thundering in my chest, the air racking through my chest as I inhaled and exhaled. The fact that I would or could catch her was never in doubt. I was not incumbered by her robes or her dainty slippers. I was not fooled by the lay of the land and each step in my sprint after her was sure.

Reaching out, I grabbed at her shoulder. I felt my fingers close around the fabric of the robe, but also her joint. And my fingers dug in just as surely as if there had been claws sprouting from the tips of my fingers, instead of just brittle nails. Eventually, I wound up with a fistful of her robe, which I yanked back on as it slowed my pace and then stopped. The woman was jerked back suddenly and she bounced off my chest. My bloody chest. There was no hesiation on her part. She started thrashing and beating her small fists against my chest. Her attempts to struggle free were met with force in kind. I kicked her legs out from under her and forced her to the ground rather unpleasantly. I heard the air rush out of her lungs when her back met with the unyeilding ground.

I sat on her, struggling to catch her wrists so they could be likewise pinned to the ground. She continued to beat on my chest. I don't think she ever realized just how filthy she was becoming. Her expensive garments stained with blood. Her flesh also becoming smeared. Once I had her wrists pinned to the ground, she continued to buck her hips in the vain effort to throw me off. Leaning over her, my face mere horts from her own, I spoke in little more than a hissed whisper.

"Cease your struggles unless you wish for me to slit your throat."

She became very still suddenly, as I loomed over her. Then she... recognized me.

"I know you!" Her voice held the quality of grasping for hope, while not sure there would be anything there to actually hold onto. "I helpd you at the fair!" My own recognition took a few moments longer to trigger. But then I remembered. I had seen her at the Love War, among the merchant stalls. She was the Turian woman whose caravan I had planned to raid, just to secure her.

The whole time I struggled with her, binding her wrists behind her back and hobbling her feet, she was screaming that she knew me. That she'd helped me. Each time she threw those accusations at me, I felt a twinge of... something. Guilt? Pain? Sorrow? I don't know what it was, but I ignored it for now and brought her back to my camp.

The End Of Lies

I was sitting in the stream, trying to clean myself of the filth I had accumulated over the last three days. I'd sat there, out in the stream, for some time. Perched on a large rock whose top broke the surface of the water. The fingers of my right hand were barely piercing the water. I could feel the water gently rushing by me. Licking at my skin as I sat there in a deep contemplation.

I know my colorful and chaotic expression of everything I was feeling has taken its toll on my slave. As I sit here writing this, I realize that I haven't given her a name. I think after today, she deserves one.

She was trying to sneak along the bank, hiding in the taller grass. But there was no hiding from me. I think she knows this by now. I never spoke to her. Never called out to her. Never asked her for any comfort. But I could sense her drawing near once she spotted me. At a certain point, I finally spoke.

"It could be dangerous for you to remain near me..."

I wasn't threatening her. I wasn't trying to scare her away. She is mine to protect, even from myself. Especially from myself. I remember her asking, perhaps it had been before I spoke, if she should leave. But somewhere she found the courage to approach me. To close the distance between us. She sat down on the rock behind me, but was hesitant to touch me just yet. Afraid, most likely, that I would wheel around on her. Take her slender, collared throat in my hands and steal the life from her body. But I didn't do this. Instead, we just sat upon the rock for several ehns in silence.

It was during this moment of silence that a man came down to the waters edge. A warrior sent by Ayguili to bring word that I was to go immediately to the Ubar's wagon. With a breath drawn in, I rose from my perch and stepped away from my slave. I dressed myself in the days old, stained and wreaking leathers I had shed just a few ahns ago on the bank. And I made my way to the Ubar.

I arrived at the Ubar's wagon appearing as dirty, lost, comtemptous and mad as I had felt over the last three or four days. He and I spoke... at length. About more than just this ordeal with her. But that was the root of why I had been called. I learned a truth about the woman that had been my niece. That she was not the woman I had thought she was. The child I left behind those 15 years ago had grown into a woman that merely claimed the name and physical resemblance of who had been my niece.

We also spoke of the madness that's gripped me since this had taken place. To this man I confessed my darkness and my failures. That over the many decades in my life, I have killed and tortured and raided all for Tribe and Ubar. And admitted that I would continue to do so, without question or hesitation. But that I had lost my connection to the Tribe. And in truth, my connection to all life in general. He never went into any detail and I never asked it of. But he confided to me that he had also experienced a similarly dark moment in his life.

Eventually, he inquired whether or not I could manage to control myself if Fonce and... she were present. I had to think on his question. I had to ask myself if I had the selfcontrol to do this. And in the end, I informed him that I did. The only one to arrive, after Ayguili sent his man off, was Fonce. And the blatant disrespect that ensued in the conversation was shocking. The snears, the attempts to rile me, those were of little consequence. A person comes to expect the biting and snarls of the young. But his demeanor, his refusal to cooperate, his open hostility towards Ayguili was enough to turn the stomach of any man who wears the scars of the Wagon Peoples.

In the end, terms were set and settled. Ayguili asked if she would be safe from me, as a free woman. And once again I mulled this over before I offered any rash response.

"She is dead. And I have no reason to seek out her ghost. You have my word."

Final. Done.

No more lies. No more poison to choke on.

Of course, none of this reconciled the chaos in my mind and heart. There was so much pain and hatred still inside me. So much madnes. And I was choking on it all, drowning in it. Still losing sight. I went to the only place I thought I could find any solace. Any peace. I went back to the stream near the harigga.

As I sat on the grass bank, listening to the water, I felt moisture on my cheeks. Tears were spilling from my eyes, to run in a wild pattern down my scarred cheeks. I'm not sure how long those tears had been streaming down my face before I became aware of them. There were no sobs wracking my body. I simply... wept.

At some point my slave found me again. I can only assume that she had returned to my wagons after I was summoned. And now, so many ahns later, she came looking for me again. I could hear the concern in her voice. The fear of... something. But it wasn't me. In all of my mad, destructive glory over the past days, she didn't fear me. She come towards me once more and stood in front of me. She didn't want to know what happened. She didn't ask what was wrong. She only asked what she could do to make the pain easier for me. To tame the beast I had become.

The answer came in my actions, instead of words. I reached my hands out slowly and took hold of her waist, pulling her down to her knees, between my legs. She had braided her hair after I left and it was tied with a strip of leather. I undid the leather binding and began to methodically unravel the braid, finally speaking to her.

"You are not to braid your hair."

It was all I said to her as I concentrated on the task of taking down her hair. When that black mane was loose and free I combed my fingers through it for several more ihns before I spoke. I told her I had deemed her worthy of a name. She waited patiently for me to unveil this reward.

"You are my Courage. Through my madness these past days, you have been brave. The only living creature who has not fled my presence to find safety elsewhere. You have had the courage to be mine."

I also informed her that the garments of the Clad Kajir awaited her at my wagon. She would dress as a Tuchuk slave now. There were words of gratitude. The look in her eye told me far more than the words that passed her lips. Her lips parted again, I'm sure to speak, but before she could utter the first syllable I sealed her mouth with my own. I kissed her recklessly and dangerously. I think I could even taste blood, but I don't know if it was mine or hers. Had one of us bitten the other? Did I kiss her so forcefully that someones teeth had cut the inside of their lip? I didn't know. I didn't care. I could only keep kissing her. And I poured my frustration, my rage, my madness, and my pain into that kiss. I clutched her body fiercely to mine. I held onto her, I believe, from the fear that if I didn't, something would tear me away. What more could have been taken from me, I don't know.

Embraced wildly with one another, I lay her body on the grass and lay atop her. And still we kissed. Eventually, it would end. Like all things, it came to an end. I pulled away from her and sat back on my knees, removing the filthy jerkin I still wore, then returned to her. Once more I laid my body atop hers, searching for some solace in the warmth of her flesh. I didn't find salvation lying there with Courage, but I did find sleep. A deep, dreamless void of sleep.

Rage. Pain. Rage. Betrayal. Rage.

I feel an anger inside me I can't contain. I can't control. And I find that I don't want to control it. In fact, I want to unleash it. I want to set it free so that it might satisfy its thirst on every innocent soul it encounters. That my rage, given shape and form, can inflict misery such as I feel it now. It only seems fair.

"It's not fair and you know it."

"Revenge! Compensation!"

It's no great surprise that none have attempted to approach me. To offer any condolences. Who would dare approach a madman? There's no better way to describe it. Not after what took place at the fires. Not after I was dragged through the harigga, screaming like an animal. I've been burning things for ahns now. The small campfire I keep among my circle of wagons was now a blazing inferno. Enough to rival that of the first fires.

When I saw it I stormed inside my wagon to find a quiva. An arrow. My lance. Even a sharp piece of bone. As it turned out, I found an oval piece of bone that I'd been working on lately. I snatched it up in my hand and immediately went to slashing and tearing at the inside of the canvas. Yes, the leather canvas that covers the dome frame. The very same one that still bore the half finished, drunken painting of a woman that no longer existed.

When I could wreak no more havoc from the inside I stormed out of the wagon and went to work on the outside. I sawed at the ropes that secured it. Stabbed and tore at the leather itself. And little bit by little bit I tore away the canvas from the frame work, leaving the interior of the wagon bare to the eye.

The only reason I didn't throw the entire, shredded canvas onto the fire at once was simple.

It wouldn't fit. It would have smothered the flames.

With the same violent exuberance I cut and ripped the leather into smaller, somewhat more manageable pieces, which were fed to the flames. That took the better part of the day, actually. With a methodical order borne by insanity, I ransacked each of my wagons. The keepsakes I'd collected over the years. The paintings from her youth. The other creations that her imagination had given birth to. They were all collected and drug out to the bonfire I had now.

Reckless? Without question. I'm sure everyone was scrambling to collect buckets of water in the event the fire truly got out of control.

But the consideration of the danger was hardly a deterrent. From that pile I'd made I continued to feed the eternally hungry flames. And with each offering the flames seemed to grow. Leaping higher into the air.

There were... intermissions. Ahns were I refused to allow the flames anymore sustenance. But during those intermissions I, the madman, was usually pacing around the fire. Flinging curses to the wind. And when it became too much for me, I would give the flames more of my past to burn away.

This peculiar ritual went on for days. During that time the madman didn't sleep. He didn't eat or drink. There were times that he merely sat on the steps of his domeless wagon, sullen and despondent. A few took that first lull to mean the storm had passed. They even attempted to approach him, but quickly learned the error of their mistake when they were chased off by threats of being skinned alive or having a quiva thrown in their direction.

When the spirit of his vengeance seemed to move him again, which was usually when the fire started burning too low for his tastes, he would rise from the steps or the ground and hurl more of the past into the flames. The thought had even come to him to find Yew and slaughter the beast. String him up and drain his blood into a large bowl. And don't think that he hadn't given a great deal of consideration to taking a torch to the source, either.

A very few could fathom the black depths of his retribution. The chilling truth of the matter was very little kept him grounded in the many years of his life. The threads that tied him to his own humanity were tenuous at best. A part of the man knew this, though. It was an understanding he had with himself. An acceptance of sorts.

By the end of the third day of this bizarre ritual the majority of the semi-circle created by the placement of his wagons had been charred to a withered black. The pile of burnt, smoldering remains seemed more like the husk of some animal cast to the flames than the keep sakes and physical memories of a lifetime. The madman, for his part, looked the true part of a madman now. The stubble on his face was visible now. There were shadows lingering beneath his eyes. His cheeks had become sunken from the days of not eating or drinking. His clothes were smeared with ash and wreaked of smoke.

It was a wonder exhaustion hadn't claimed him at this point. But even as he milled about the charred remains of his offerings, he seemed intensely alert. Far too alert, in fact. Eventually he turned away from the death that those ashes represented and climbed the steps of his wagon. Inside, he went to his personal throne of pelts and cushions where he sat, once more cloaked in his sullen and violent contemplations.

Overhead, with no dome to cover the wagon, the Sky spread over him.