Dawn Revealed

Chapter 31

Kokumthena covered the Prophet's naked body with her hair. Gently tucking the sliver strands around his shoulders to form a death shroud. She wiped away the crusted blood marring the beauty of his bronze skin with her tears. At the time she'd shared her gift with him, she knew what would happen. Time had no meaning for her. And she'd never counted how brief his days truly were. He was gone. Dead as it was intended. His gifts weren't meant for him. But, for his brother. The Prophet had merely held the gifts in safekeeping for the day when Tecumseh was finally ready to accept them.

The spirit wolf was no punishment. Although, she was certain there were plenty of times the Prophet thought it so. He was a gift...a guide...and through him, her children had what they longed for the most. If only, they were brave enough to seek it out. She had taken much to deliver her children into her service. To give them the tools they needed for the justice she sought. It was time to give them back what she could. Soon, one would learn how great her gift, her love for them, was.

Heartbroken, she gathered up the Prophet's empty shell into her arms. His physical body was lifeless and cold. The winds around her calmed and she crossed the barrier. This was the only place she could enter and manifest her presence into the corporeal plane. Here, she walked with earthly feet. She had flesh and bone. And was as real as the man standing at the edge of the bluffs with his back to her.

Tecumseh stood at the edge of the bluffs. Never in his life had he felt such pain, so alone, as he did right now. He'd known death would come for him one day. He'd never sought it out before. He'd never wished for it as he did now. He knew with the certainty of the rising sun the moment his brother died. It felt as if a part of his soul had been torn away and left an empty chasm in its place. No tears fell for his brother. He couldn't muster a single one. He was the one left alone to suffer. His brother had gone to the spirit world where he'd longed to be. The Great Father supposed that knowledge should make him happy, fortify him. It did not. The Windigo had taken his brother's life. And in return, he would find a way to take theirs.

The Great Father approached Kokumthena and on silent feet. His eyes fell to the limp body she carried in her arms. The Prophet was at peace. Wrapped in a death shroud of silver. Gently, he relived her of her burden. Cradling his brother's remains to his chest, he dropped to his knees at her feet and wept. Unable to see through the deluge of his tears, he stared out into the darkness. Wishing he didn't feel. Wishing he could let the eternal blackness claim his soul. There was no peace for anybody. He was cursed and his children were cursed. "My brother is dead," he wailed. Surrounded by nevers and last times, and drowning in the lifetimes' worth of memories that shouldn't have been, he mourned and vowed his vengeance.

The Prophet was new to this spirit world. The wolf had been part of him for so long he hardly knew how to function as a separate entity any longer. Death was an intriguing experience. He was everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. His brother wavered on the precipice. Tempted by the darkness inside all men. He held an empty shell, so convinced they'd never see one another again and he was alone in the world. He'd never been more wrong. He'd never been alone and never would be. Drawing his power to him, the Prophet solidified form and reached out to grasp his brother's quivering shoulder. Kokumthena would grant them both this last request. To say what he should have said the last time he saw his brother and they parted ways, goodbye.

The Great Father turned his head toward the cold brush of fingers across his shoulder. His brother stood over him, looking down on him with such love, such contentment, and such peace on his expression. The body in his arms was nothing but an empty vessel. His brother stood real, solid, and whole, truly whole before him. Tecumseh stretched out his trembling fingers and grabbed his brother's hand. Wincing at the energy that flowed between their palms, he held on as if he could pull his brother's spirit back into his body and give it life once again. "Brother."

The Prophet sighed over the sight of his broken body. Yeah, he'd miss being alive. But, not nearly as much as he'd once suspected. He understood so much more now than he had before his death. And only now, was he beginning to live. Smiling, he nodded, and returned the heartfelt sentiment. "Brother." He slid his fingers out of his brother's grip and drifted to Kokumthena's side. Dawn was on the horizon, chasing away the darkness. And there was much to be done.

His death had cleared the path. His brother had but to follow it where it led. Life had so many definitions, so many twists and turns. They were both alive. Both living. His life fell on the other side of death. And as for his brother's, well...wasn't that up to him?

In a blink and a gust of cool wind, his brother and the goddess were gone. In his arms lay the body of the Prophet. The shell. Cold. Dead. Empty. The Great Father lifted his face and focused on the last star, fluttering bravely, like a pale beacon before the light of day chased it from the sky. He clung to his brother's body. He knew what had to be done. And he would honor his brother. But, for now, he just want to cling to the last piece of him he had left. For just a little while longer before he had to let him go.

The Great Father released his tears and his agony. He cried as he'd never cried before. He cried for the baby brother he'd held in his arms. The little boy he'd raced through the woods. The gangly teenager he'd taught to hunt and to fight. And the man, he'd loved as only a brother could. They were supposed to grow old together. Tell stories of their glory days around the campfire. And when they died, they'd know they'd lived. Truly lived.

The brothers gathered around the Great Father. Each of brothers affected by the loss of the Prophet in their own way. To some, he was scary as shit with his cryptic visions of things yet to come. To others, he was a wise man, gentle and kind. But, to all of them, he was a friend. The entire compound shuddered when the Prophet drew his last breath. The brothers felt it deep in their bones, as if a vital part had been torn away from them and left nothing but agonizing emptiness in its wake.

They circled their father. Guarding him and the body clutched in his arms. They'd never seen the Great Father as he was now. Brokenhearted, so lost, and so human. He was a legend, their fearless father, and so stoic in his ways. He was more of an idea or a symbol of greatness than a man. Seeing him grieving his brother and the hot deluge of his tears of grief opened their eyes to many things. He was merely a man. Heart and soul, beneath his stony surface, their leader was only a man. And he was one of them. Not over or above them.

There were no words of comfort any of the brothers could give the Great Father. He hurt. He mourned. And he grieved violently. Rocking the body of his fallen brother in his arms. The sky above them lightened and turned a hazy shade of purple pink with the oncoming dawn. They knew what had to be done. And silently, they carried out the grim tasks of building the pyre and standing guard. Tonight at moonrise they would burn the empty shell and celebrate the life of the Prophet.

Alex faced the sun and stared into the burn of its golden rays. She was a prophetess. She was supposed to know. Yet, she hadn't seen this coming. There was nothing to prepare the brotherhood for what had yet to come. She saw the Windigo. And they were coming for them. Roark was coming. And the hardest tasks lay in wait before them. How many more pyres could she be expected to stand vigil over? How many more deaths would the brotherhood be expected to endure? One more was too many. She didn't have it in her. Not after Lucien. She didn't want this gift...this curse of foresight. Not when it did anyone any good. She should have done...something to prevent this. Might have...if she were better...a better vampire? A better person? One not so damned afraid of what she was.

She walked to the place, her special place. Her feet stopped just shy of the edge of the steep drop off at the edge of the bluffs. Here. Where she'd last seen Lucien. Where he'd held her in his ethereal embrace and told her to live. Told her goodbye. It hadn't really been him, not in the physical sense. But, to her he'd been no less real than when he'd kissed her before heading into the battle. Her tears fell gathering to drip off the tip of her chin. It was so unfair. Life happened. Death happened. It happened to them all. But why? Why did it have to be this way? Didn't immortality come with some kind of an escape clause? Some kind of an out? She'd saved Dane. Lucien had died. John Mark should have. But, Robbie had saved him. Her parents would die. Soon. And she'd be standing here again, time after time, with nothing but her tears and another piece of her heart missing, unable to do anything to stop them, to stop anyone from dying.

Chance dropped the log he'd been wrestling into place and excused himself. He felt Alex's pain as if it were his own. She blamed herself for the Prophet's death. Thought she'd missed some critical clue in one of her visions. She grappled with deeper emotions...old hurts...hurts yet to come... He should hate Lucien for leaving her...for dying to protect her. It caused her so much pain. Alex had let him go. But, he still lived...as a part of her...as a part of the brotherhood. Even in death, he still had a piece of her heart. And Chance couldn't bring himself to hate someone Alex loved so very much.

They were happily married. And she was deeply in love with him. Chance had no doubts about where he stood with Alex. And he'd known in part, he'd have to share her with Lucien. He walked to the edge of the bluffs and draped an arm around Alex's trembling shoulders. Drawing her to his chest, he stroked her hair. Below them the world stirred and drew in the first breath of the day oblivious to the drama high up on the rocky cliffs above. "It wasn't your fault," he whispered.

Janine hovered close to Patrick. He'd checked the woods and found them vacant. It was unclear who had killed the Prophet or where. He took his job very seriously and while the brothers stood immobilized in shock, he'd led the trackers into the trees to search for danger. It wouldn't be above Roark to strike them when they were down. The Great Father, so immersed in his grief, was in no shape to lead the brothers into battle. Emotionally shattered by the weight of his loss, the Great Father would be easy pickings for Roark. The brothers would fight, of course. But, with their father down and confronted by their own mortality, they wouldn't stand for long against an all out onslaught.

Certain the woods his no threat, Patrick had returned to her side and threaded his fingers through hers, holding her hand in a tight grip. There was a weight to his stare that he'd been able to hide from her to this point. An understanding they rarely spoke of. As a couple, they tried to immerse themselves in happiness and not think about the inevitable. But, that was hard to do when death stared you in the face. She understood there was no exit clause. No way out of dying. She knew what she had to do. What she would do to be with the man she loved for as long as inhumanly possible. She couldn't defeat the grim reaper. But, she sure as hell could give him a run for his money.

Patrick knew that look. He'd seen it a thousand times on Janine's pretty face. Determination. Good. He needed her to pull him out of the bleak direction of his thoughts. Somebody had to pay for the Prophet's death. And he had a pretty good idea of who was responsible. Patrick was ready to sound the trumpet and lead the charge. Sharpen up the tines and his pitchfork and go out on a witch-hunt until he had Roark's head mounted above the fireplace on the rec room wall.

Stupidity got you killed. And he had no intention of tasking his brothers with another pyre to build. Patrick squeezed Janine's fingers with his palm and brought her knuckles to his lips for a chaste kiss. The words he vowed he'd never ask balanced on the tip of his tongue. He'd seen enough of death to last an immortality. She didn't have to die some bleak someday. She never needed to wither and age. They hadn't spoken of it for a long time. And there wasn't much talking left to do anyway. There was only the waiting game left to play. The inevitable when that would lock them together for all time.

Dane had to do something. The brothers expected it of him. He stood silently, guarding the Great Father in his moment of weakness. He'd never seen the man so exposed before. Good men did cry after all. They did stumble and falter. He'd modeled himself after the wrong examples. Heroes. True. But, they were no less and certainly no greater than the man holding his brother's lifeless body and shedding tears of bitter grief over the life that should not have ended.

Everyone was looking for someone to blame. Alex for her lack of vision, or perhaps him for not keeping the Prophet safe, Roark because he was the easiest target and was most likely behind the murder, the Great Father for his perceived failure to protect his brother, and maybe, even themselves. Death happened. And it would keep happening no matter what anybody did or didn't do. He hated the feelings of helplessness gripping at his psyche. Shouldn't he say...something memorable? Do something...great? What? He was doing the only thing there was to do. Give the Great Father space. Time to grieve. Beyond that, what more could he do?

Chris unfolded the blanket from around her shoulders. She'd been stretched out on the lounge reading to Dane as they often did before settling in for the morning. Sometimes it was the funny pages out of the newspaper, sometimes an article about nothing from a magazine, and sometimes a work as deep as Dante's Inferno. Her dutiful husband listened to her ramble on and on just to hear the sound of her voice. The content wasn't the important thing. That they were together was.

She'd followed on Dane's heels, running behind him for the bluffs overwhelmed by the sense of dread and heartache that sent the entire brotherhood reeling. She'd forgotten she was wearing the blanket, clutching it to her chest gripped in her fists as if it would shield her from the grief. The Great Father needed help. He needed their help. Her help. The blanket wasn't much. A brightly colored fleece throw Candace had picked up on clearance last spring. But, it was something. Something she could do to help.

Pulling the blanket from her shoulders, she approached the Great Father and knelt at his side. Gently as she could, she draped the throw over the Prophet's lifeless body and carefully covered his face with the soft fabric. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. Chris stared down at the Great Father's fingers, clutching the bundle so tightly she thought the bones would splinter from the force. He needed something real to cling to, something warm and alive. A bit intimidated by the power rolling off of him, she reached out her hand and rested her palm over his knuckles.

The Great Father appreciated Dane's mate's kindness. Chris was a woman of worth. He stared down at the dainty fingers resting against his larger knuckles. Her nails, delicate and polished pink, were a pale contrast to his darker skin and the rougher texture of his hands. Sunlight glimmered off her wedding ring, reflecting prisms of color in a world with so much darkness. She was a tiny thing compared to him. And brave. She possessed an inner strength, that of a warrior. He'd understood what she'd said without saying a word. It was time to let his brothers do their jobs. Time to let his brother go.

He managed to find the will to open his fingers and release his grip on his brother. He couldn't do it. He couldn't let him go. John Mark and the Shaman stood to the side waiting to relieve him of his awful burden. The Great Father crouched on his knees. Half of him wanted to defend the helpless body of his brother. But, the part that knew better. That even magic had its limits. Reasoned that it was time to say goodbye. His brother wasn't in there anymore. He was gone. He pulled back the edge of the blanket for one last look at the face he knew even better than his own.

Doc rested a hand on the Great Father's bicep and waited for the man to finish memorizing every line and contour of the Prophet's face. Goodbyes were so hard. So painful. But, they had to be. It was just a part of the never ending cycle of the universe. He paused, discreetly laying the blanket over the Prophet's face as Chris gathered the Great Father up in an embrace. The Prophet was their burden and no longer his brother's to bear. Gently, as if he still had life in him, John Mark and he lifted the body. The ends of the blanket, where Chris had been unable to tuck it around the limbs, flapped in a gentle morning breeze.

The Great Father couldn't find the strength to stand. His limbs failed him. Strong hands gently lifted him to his feet. Dainty fingers wrapped around his arms. Arms so frail they didn't seem capable of holding him upright draped around his waist. Leading him away. Anna in her quiet grace and Candace, the protective mother wolf, shouldered his weight. And brave as any man, humbled by their kindness, he allowed it.

He walked past the pyre and the men guarding his brother with relentless vigilance. His brother was well protected. Robbie, the little warrior but no less fierce for her small size, stood guard beside Keene, the man he'd guided from the awfulness of his self-condemnation. Patrick, the fierce tracker, and Chance the found son, bowed to him in reverence. Will, the father and protector. And as always, Dane and his inseparable other half, John Mark, stood facing the east, their faces stoic and unreadable and their feet planted on the ground that had been stained red with so much blood.

Marcus and Sam, dropped to one knee, fists planted to their chests in a sign of humility and respect as the women guided him onto the trail. Lance and Bryce followed after, supporting him. Guarding his back. Kayla and Angel, the two newest additions to the brotherhood, gingerly tiptoed behind his trackers. Good could come from bad. Light from darkness. These two women, who had seen the worst and survived to tell the tale, were proof of that.

Humbled beyond measure and grateful for the people in his life, the Great Father slid free from the arms around his waist and the soft hands on his shoulders. He could stand. Walk. Silently, he moved through the woods as if he had some great purpose only he knew about. He didn't. He just wanted to be alone. Needed time to gather his thoughts before tonight. Otherwise, at moonrise, he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to burn what remained of his brother on the pyre.

The sunlight stung his vision. And the heat of the early morning was oppressive. He longed for shelter. But, there was no place he could go that would offer any solace from the storm battering his mind. His brother was dead. The Prophet was spirit. Ethereal. It should be a comfort that they'd gotten their goodbye. It really wasn't a goodbye. They would see each other. Again. Someday.

He sniffed, puzzled by the scent. A wolf? Was the animal stalking him, thinking him a tasty morsel? He was a little big for prey. Not typical faire for a lone wolf. Curious about the scent and glad to have something besides his grief to occupy his mind, the Great Father stalked the trail and wondered where it would lead him.