"What happened to your eye?" Lyolis asked, gently stroking her fingers beneath Zoars eyes. It was purplish-black and round as stone.
"Nothing, my care spirit," he said pulling away. He stood over her by a foot, his arms and thighs thick with muscles. Chest protruding outward firm as the ground beneath their feet. "I had an accident. Nothing to draw your worries."
"And yet," she said softly, "I am just so."
Zoar walked towards the window of the INN, staring towards the south. The sun making its arc above just passing over the town. They didn't belong confined by walls, she knew. But to be free with the wind and weather of the earth. She approached him, wrapping her arms around his body; he was stiff as a statue yet soft as fur and smooth as river stones.
"Were you in a fight?" she asked. "I saw you leave with Brylax and Droom."
Zoar turned in her grasp facing her through kind, earthy eyes. "Of course not." He smiled, waving his right hand through her sable strands of hair. "Have you prepared yourself for our travels?"
Lyolis looked to the bed in her room; buckskin hide dresses decorated with feathers and leather strands filled with colored beads were stacked on the bed. "Not quite," She said quietly, "I have not even begun to do my hair."
The desk against the wall was made of redwood; she walked over, picked up a long, needled object and began to comb her hair. The porcupine brush glided through her strands that always rested nicely on her head, extending down past her hips and tush.
Zoar looked to her and proceed in her direction. His buckhide breechcloth flapping against his legs. On top of his head rested a roach headdress; a dyed red feather spiked like needled-grass, while a brownish-black feather stuck upwards.
"Allow me." He grabbed the brush from her hand gently though she could feel the calluses.
"Sama'sei," she nodded, finding his earthy eyes watching her through the reflective glass on the desk. Looking upon her almond, soft flesh with wonder.
Zoar brushed his fingers downward following his hand with the brush. Her hair was well maintained and tangle free. "Like gliding hand through still river," he whispered, bringing his nose and smelling the calming, forestry spring of herbs in her hair; a secret of her people: made from aloe vera, chamomile, and red sandalwood. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with her scent.
Lyolis smiled and dropped her eyes. She felt his warmth penetrating through her back, warming her flesh down into her bones; she lifted her hand and outlined the sharp lining of his chin and cheeks.
"I do not want to watch the spirits of man lift from their bodies," she admitted. "We're not like the Cyoakians of the wolf—we're the Cyoakians of the bear—we do not glorify such savagery." She shook her head. "How these Pioneers condone such disrespect for life concerns me."
Zoar stopped, watching her lips. "They fight, as do we."
She felt a tug as his fingers and needles glide through her hair once more. "War is to keep peace...They fight for pleasure."
"Men fight for many reasons; some Cyoakians fight for pleasure—"
"Though our people do not watch the savagery. What I witnessed yesterday...those gunslingers dying at the cheers of their people made my heart weary."
"We do not quite understand those who take. Your father know we must coexistence."
"But why? Our world was sacred before they came. There was war, but there was also respect. They know no such thing." Lyolis said, somberly.
"Your father fears what these people are capable of. They want more, and at what cost—" Lyolis felt his fingers squeeze around her shoulder. "—they've taken our Brusk'Kab. We must be wary of where we step if she is to be returned."
Lyolis raised an eyebrow turning to face her care spirit. "Do you know something?" Zoar stared at her through cautious eyes. "Is this why my father has come? Is this why we must be exposed to their ways?"
"I have spoken too freely," he said, bowing his head. "My apologizes—"
Lyolis rose to her feet. "You must tell me." She placed her hands onto his arms. "If we are spirits are to join, we must not keep secrets."
Zoar grinned. "I have no secrets worth your ears, my Care Spirit. " I promise."
As much as her heart beat for the young warrior, an angry aggravation swelled inside her, disrupting her love for him, just in that moment. She dropped her hands. "Why must you hide amongst your fear? I am here by your side..."
"And that's where you must stay." He grabbed her cheeks softly, bringing his lips towards her forehead; Lyolis felt his wet, spongy flesh warm her skin. "Trust me...I have only you on my mind."
The way he spoke, the calmness and kindness in his deep voice gave her comfort. She was fifteen afterall; and Zoar being only seventeen had experienced three times as much in his lifetime as she had; crossing across the great earth. Waring to protect their territory. And being named Warclaw, the greatest title in their tribe; she her respected and feared him. Though since their sacred union he'd been nothing of the stories she had heard: a fierce warrior who'd slain any and all who opposed him: she had only met the gentle spirit within him—the loving spirit—and in due time, their spirits would become one and they would forever be bound in this life and in the next.
"Yes, my care spirit—"
There was a sound and the door squeaked open, allowing the hall light to brighten the dim room. "Why must your curtains be closed?" Said a sharp, stern voice that had the edge of a Tomahawk. A woman, not much taller than Lyolis, with a face much like her own; almond skinned and youthful, with eyes of the earth. She walked towards a window and pulled the curtains to allow the room to glow like sun beams off water. "Hiding from the eyes of our ancestors can bring witchery upon us."
"Mother…"
She turned towards them, her eyes sharply pointed, glaring at Warclaw's purpled eye. "Does the black bear tribe not allow their ancestors to watch over them?"
"My apologies, my Chieftess" Zoar brought his fist to his chest and bowed. "I did not mean to cloak us against the eyes of our—"
"Hush," she said, waving a hand in a circular motion. "The issue has been addressed."
As Lyseria walked her hair whipped at her back; oiled and braided, spun with beads and feathers, draping down to the back of her knees. She waved Zoar aside, taking the brush, and began combing her daughter's hair. Lyolis winced. There was no tenderness in the way she worked, not like the way Zoar did it; her mother focing her strands to cooperate.
"Have you been eating howlberries again?" She asked, yanking single strands from between the needles. "You're being to shed like a wolf."
"You know—" Lyolis shut her eyes, wincing. "—I'm not."
"The brush doesn't lie, My Child."
"I haven't made that mistake since I was young."
Zoar raised his hands to recover the brush. "I can do it," My Chieftess.
"Nonsense." Lyolis watched her mother glare at the boy through the reflective glass. "I'd like a word with my daughter." Zoar nodded, staying put. "Alone!"
"As you wish," He bowed. Zoar stared through the reflective glass, looking at Lyolis with worry. He bowed his head to her. "I'll see you at the carriage, My—" Lyseria's eyes were penetrating a hole into his spirit.
Zoar turned and left the room in a haste.