Tiuri remembered a time when the Wind used to dance.
She would pick up leaves from the ground, swirling them around him. Playfully nipping his nose, the Wind taught him how to dance like Her. Flowing through the motions. Not resisting, but going around obstacles. Light, but fast. Flexible, yet strong. Whenever he was in danger of falling after such long practice, She would help him up. Pushing his small arms and legs into the correct positions, touches as gentle as his mother’s.
The Wind was his first friend. She had always been there, ever since his birth.
She would bring him fragrances and whispers from far off lands, letting him explore the world around him even when he stood still.
If only he had known what the whispers were saying. Then the Wind wouldn’t have had to bring him the smell of fire, and blood, and death.
The stench of rotting corpses littered the air.
The Wind brought him the news that the soldiers were coming, but it was too late. Baba was dead. Tiuri and his mother were still alive, but not for long.
The Sun beat down on them, filling them up with remorseful energy, as they continued the dig graves. Graves which would be their own. The Wind brought a final whisper of a man who was against all of this, who was trying to save his people, before She went silent.
Tiuri remembered a time when the Wind used to dance. She doesn’t dance anymore.