# 24 - Family


Kalin sunk down on to his cot, weary. It had been such a long, awful week. Three towns on the eastern coast were gone. Nothing remained but smoking ruins. Most adults were killed, men and women alike. Children had all been taken by the slavers. Kalin clenched his single hand into a fist thinking of that. There were times when he thought death would be more merciful for those poor, lost children.

And the Voice, in his wisdom, had seen fit to send Kalin to the ruins to help. He was serving not only as a spiritual leader, but as an organizer. He helped the Healers triage the survivors; he organized volunteers to scour the remains of the towns, bury any dead who the flames hadn't taken entirely, and try and rescue any possessions and goods that had somehow survived the fire. Both bodies and goods were scarce; the flames had taken their toll.

Kalin was supposed to counsel the survivors. He was supposed to help them find peace, to put their minds at rest, and to restore their faith. But how could he do that? How could he face survivors who were now marred for life by the flames, whose lovers, parents, siblings, and children had been killed?

The worst were the parents, mourning for children taken by slavers. They looked to him, desperate to be consoled, but what could he say? He had been an amazing liar in the days when he was a slave himself, but that ability had vanished when he entered the Goddess' service. And even if he could say the words, tell them the children would be fine, would grow up healthy and happy in slavery, they'd be able to see the lie. They could see it in his face, the flat area of his nose from when it had been broken years ago; they could see it in his missing hand; they could see it in scars all over his body. Even if he could say the words, his body showed them for lies.

He took a deep, strained breath. The worst part was that he found he couldn't even be happy for the survivors. The most bittersweet moment had been seeing a family—so far as he knew, the only family—that had managed to survive without losing a loved one. The mother had taken her two children into a basement; few houses in the town had them, but her husband was a trader who had needed somewhere to keep much of his stock; wines and cheeses aged best in the cold, stone basement. They had huddled behind barrels of goods, and though they heard the turmoil above, the Warriors had never found the door to their sanctuary, and the stone had protected them from the fire. The father, on the other hand, had taken up arms and joined the fight. He'd been badly wounded quite early on and left in a street for dead, but almost as soon as the Warriors had finally retreated, he'd been found almost immediately. Though badly wounded, it wasn't fatal, and with help from the Healers he would heal completely.

The looks of joy on his wife and children's faces when they saw him, injured but alive, on the make-shift hospital's cot, should have been moving. It should have helped Kalin restore his own faith, which struggled when he saw events like these, when he remembered what had happened in his own life. But the truth was it stung like a slap across the face.

Kalin had no family. He had next to no memories of his mother, and none of his father—the man he remembered saving him from fires in the raid where he was taken was a Knight friend of his mother's. He had never seen either one of them again after that night. As a slave, he hadn't been able to be close to anyone; there was always a chance of being sold away from friends, and slave owners usually frowned on seeing bonds between their (Kalin grimaced at the memory) property.

Of course, there had been Serissa…

Kalin closed his eyes, but it did nothing to banish her image from his mind. He could still see her so clearly; her hair gleaming in the sun, the sky reflected in her eyes. He yearned for her, even after so many years…

But it could never have worked, and he was left alone again. And since returning to Kalatsu, though he had several close friends, they had all married and had families of their own. Every leave they were granted was spent at home, happily surrounded by loved ones. And Kalin, when he had a break, spent it living in a Knight's Inn, lonely and missing Serissa and his friends.

A light shone from outside the canvas of his tent. There was no way to stay in the towns themselves, and so the survivors and those who'd come to help them had set up a camp not too far away. It was, luckily, warm enough that the tightly pulled canvas would keep out most of the cold. "Sir Priest?"

"I'm awake," Kalin answered, reaching for his lantern. He'd let it go out while he thought, but would need to light it again anyway in order to prepare for bed.

The canvas rustled, and for a moment Kalin felt the chill of the outside air. A bundled up figure made his way in, then turned and fasted the flap of the tent back down. Kalin lit his own lantern and broke into an exhausted smile on seeing the figure in front of him.

"Erra, what are you doing here?"

Erra settled himself on the cot next to Kalin. "A few of us who have some leave accumulated volunteered to come here for two weeks first, to stand guard and help rebuild. I was told to report to the stationed Priest; I only just found out it was you." Erra put a hand on Kalin's shoulder. "So how are you taking all this, Kalin?"

Kalin sighed. Erra knew him well, and rarely bothered to mince words. There was no need for Kalin to mask his reply, either; Erra knew him too well. "Not… not well," he finally said.

"No kidding." Erra waited.

Kalin finally took a deep breath. "There are the memories. Every night, I've had nightmares about being…being taken, being in the hold of the slave ship and being sold. Erra, it was…" He choked. "I've barely slept. And the more exhausted I am, the harder everything becomes."

Erra raised an eyebrow, waiting. "And?" he finally prompted.

"And I've been so alone."

Erra seemed to know that was the big one. "Oh?" he asked.

Kalin had the gift of a silver tongue; everyone who'd heard him preach knew it. So when the words came, they really flowed. "I see these people pulling together. Family members cling to each other, grateful; parents who lost children take in the orphans; friends rely on each other. Everyone relies on each other, and they all rely on me. And I see these people who've all come together over this tragedy, and I tell them that loving each other will get them through it, and I just… feel…" He took a breath. "They'll have each other. And they'll rebuild lost families—they'll fall in love, they'll have children. But when I leave here, I'll have no one to go to. My parents are long dead; my friends are few and busy with their own families. I'm married to my work, but it doesn't warm my bed at night."

Erra took a long breath. "Well, the weight of the world is always on your shoulders. You've got a talent for carrying it. But don't ever think you have no one."

"Erra—"

"Kalin, the fact that Jall and I have families has little to do with being your friends. You've been there for us through births and deaths, it would be criminal for us to do anything less for you."

Kalin smiled wistfully. "I never doubted that, Erra. I just don't want to intrude."

"Intrude? Kalin, you're closer to me than my brother." Erra stretched back on the cot. "Actually, you're a lot like a second younger brother to me. I found you, and brought you here; that makes me responsible for you."

"It does not."

"It does so," Erra said. "In the same way that being born before Ayles makes me responsible for him. I love you both, I worry about you both, and you're both welcome in my life any time. And," he added, "since you're not my brother, you're also less annoying than Ayles."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Kalin said, remembering some of the arguments he'd heard between Erra and Ayles. Erra could no longer win simply because he was the Heir, as he'd given up that privilege when he became a Knight, but now that Ayles was destined to become King, he was even more resentful when Erra won fights with him. And Erra usually won—he was more stubborn than his brother, and still the older of the two, even if the actual title now lay with his brother.

"Is it really bothering you, Kalin? Not having a family?" Erra finally asked, after a quiet had settled over them. Kalin was surprised to discover that just having Erra there made him feel more centered, more ready to handle the next day's challenges.

"Yes," Kalin said quietly.

"Hm." Erra sat up, then said, mostly to himself, "Hell, Kalin, if not having a family is the hardest part for you, we can fix that right now."

"Erra?" Kalin asked, but Erra seemed to have made up his mind about something. He sat up straight and reached down for his boot, but produced an almost absurdly small knife from it. It would be well hidden and overlooked by enemies, Kalin thought, but probably too small to do any real damage. A weapon for a last, desperate act.

But Erra wasn't desperate now. "Give me your hand," he said.

Kalin blinked, not knowing what Erra was doing, but he obeyed hesitantly. Erra took his hand in one of his own, held it palm up and open. Then with his knife in his other hand, he nicked Kalin's palm.

"Ow!" Kalin yelped. "What did you—"

But he stopped when Erra let his hand go, held his own palm up steadily, and cut it. Kalin looked down at both of them, seeing the blood welling up from two identical cuts, and understood.

Erra took Kalin's bleeding hand in his own, pressed them palm-to-palm together. "You're the Priest, Kalin," Erra said. "Seal it."

Kalin nodded. There was no real prayer for this, a small ceremony he knew Knights sometimes took. But that was no reason not to make one up. "May Kaleal see this bond and bless it; may She keep us keep each other safe, happy, and healthy."

"As brothers," Erra added.

"As brothers," Kalin agreed. "Amen."

"Amen." Erra nodded and pulled his palm away. The bleeding had already stopped; the cut had been tiny. He slid the knife back into its hidden sheath. "You know, we only have one tent for the three of us Knights, it will be pretty crowded. If I might impose, Brother, maybe I could stay here instead."

"What's mine is yours," Kalin tried out the word for himself, "Brother." It felt good. It felt right.

*

When the nightmares came that night and Kalin awoke in a sweat and panic, Erra was already sitting up on his own cot.

"I'm here, Kalin," he said simply. "And anyone who ever tries to harm you again will have to go through me to do it."

"Erra…" Kalin said softly.

"I'll keep watch over you, Kalin. Sleep."

And remarkably, Kalin slept.