She was not old, this one, but neither was she fully grown into her power. So many things were waiting out there for her to learn; so many behind her. The village was a blessed retreat from the world, a place of joy and memories, and she returned to it often. It reaffirmed her place in the world.

She returned her attention to the village itself, noting in passing the drumming had started up again. She smiled, her body moving slightly to the rhythm as she sat on the woven palm mat. The sounds, the scents, the feel of the place was home.

A home that almost wasn’t. So few of the Darkspears remained. This village was one of only a few left that held their people. They were a shadow of what they once were. And they were changing, too.

Where once outsiders were summarily killed – and most likely eaten – they now passed through safely. Old hatreds and enmities were set aside. Too few of the trolls remained to squander themselves in senseless rivalries. There were allies, now. Allies that one could not hunt and slaughter. Allies that would stand beside you when it counted.

Aoale meditated on that change, as well. She remembered the war, not so long past. Some things were better now, however much the old bemoaned that fact. Hatred had caused it. And Hatred was fast becoming a thing of the past. Tolerance seemed to be the new way.

A good way, I think, she said to herself, and nodded.

Slowly, the drumming easing the way into the trance, she slipped again into meditation. Spreading herself out like a veil, she touched the bright souls that were the people of the village, brushing by them even as the breeze brushed her hair.

She stopped, nearly jolted back into herself, as she brushed an extra one.

It moved slowly, almost wistfully, drifting through the village, and she reached for it reflexively. Her initial thought that this was an invader disappeared as she touched it.

Hands of energy caught the errant soul, and drew it back to her. It struggled a moment, but the weight of sudden death slowed it, and it subsided, allowing itself to be pulled back.

Aoale blinked, gazing with eyes that focussed not on her hands, but on the spirit world, and stared at the soul in shock.

"Kanyi?" she asked softly, then cradled the soul to her. "Oh no, not you! Not Kanyi!" Not another of them lost. Not another slain on a distant battlefield. So many had gone, so many fallen unseen and unheralded. She had mourned them, of course, when they did not return, and drummed for them.

But Kanyi she knew. Only days before...

The call came to her as she wrenched the axe from the breastbone of the dead canine. She straightened, and turned to the west.

Aoale held the warrior's soul, her own soul twisting inside her at the memory. But it had healed! How had she failed? How had Kanyi died? She had to know.

Swallowing, she brought the trance back upon her, keeping her grip on the spirit so that it could not escape.

"Kanyi?" she asked with words that made no sound. "I see ju. I know ju dere. What happened?"

Long moments passed before she received a response. It was not in words, but suddenly, she was there and then.

She pulled herself back from the other’s memories as they threatened to engulf her. She gulped air, shaken from the concentration that had allowed the communication.

Kanyi had been healed of wound and curse both, yes, but had not recovered from the weaknesses that follow such injuries. And she had not given herself the time needed to recover.

No, Aoale corrected herself. The war against the nasty bugs in the south had not given her time to recover. Sent back to the lines before she was ready, she had failed.

Broken and bleeding, she had died on the sands as the giant bugs pushed forward.

"Oh, my frien'," Aoale whispered. "Dat not be right."

If only....

If only she could have reached the body, she could have...

Aoale shook her head. It was far too late for that. The soul was here, and the bugs and their desert far to the south and west. She was lucky she had caught Kanyi as she slipped through the village, bidding a last farewell to her own loved places before she passed to the Ancestors.

Oh, what she would give to be able to...

She paused, her heart in her throat.

What would she give? There were so many ways of souls finding new bodies.. But all of them called for a sacrifice.

What would she give? Her own body?

Aoale shook her head. That would serve neither of them. Aoale was not ready to be an ancestor herself, and neither was her body fit for a warrior. At the same time, there was rather a dearth of useful soulless bodies lying around the village. She shook her head. If ever there was a time to bemoan the loss of some of the old traditions...

Well. No matter. There was another way. It would help to have the cooperation of the soul, of course, but it wasn’t strictly needed.

Aoale blessed her choice to follow her path. Her grandmother had been a powerful shaman, and some of the secrets, some of the old ways had come to her from that source. They would have died with her had there not been another spirit-talker to follow her footsteps.

The shaman nodded firmly. She could do this. And... the sacrifice was worth it. Kanyi was important. So many of the young ones looked up to her; so many loved her. She was as much a symbol of their people as any who lived.

And she would live again, Aoale vowed.

The shaman concentrated again, and bent her will to communication. This was why they called her a spirit-talker, after all....

"Kanyi?" Aoale called, and waited. Patience was important, for the spirits did not perceive time passing. But this time, at least, the response was immediate. An acknowledgement of the call.

"Kanyi, ju should not be here. I kin fix ju. Ju wanna help out? I kin make ju a new body...?"

"But... I so tired..." the shadow of a whisper in her mind was overlaid with weariness. But Aoale was jubilant. A real response! The warrior was reachable!

"I know. Dat be a part of bein' dead. But dat go away when de energy of livin' come in agin," the shaman explained. She smiled slightly. "Ju don' wanna be dead, do ju?"

"Want...to rest..." Kanyi sighed, and twisted a little in the shaman's grasp.

"We kin do dat too," Aoale promised. "Rest be good for ya, I tink." She maintained her grip. "Tink about dis, whatchu be missin' when ju dead. Seein' de sunrise in de mornin' over de ocean. Feelin' de breeze in yer hair. Hearin' de laugh of de frien' beside ju." She sent strong mental picures of these things, and felt the soul's attention grow stronger. "No more good food, no more feelin' de beat of de drum..."

Aoale smiled again; she had the warrior now. The soul was listening.

"Ju wanna lose all dat? I kin help ya rest here, too, hey?" The shaman loosed her hold a little, experimentally. "Ju gotta stay right here wit me, though... I kin help ju. Ju gotta trust me. Do ju trust me?"

The wait was interminable.... but finally...

"Yes..."

The response was all she needed. "Good. Den ju gotta let me set dis up. It be just a moment."

Aoale sprang into action. The ritual was both simple, and profound. The physical needs were small, but the other needs...

She grabbed a bowl from the corner where they were stored, and stepped out of her hut. The drums had fallen silent; it was full night now. The fire still glowed in the centre of the village, and it would work well. The only other things she needed, she had with her.

She pulled the ancient knife from the scabbard it hung in. It had been her grandmother's, and her grandmother's grandmother's. Shaped of simple copper and of bone, it was a thing of power. It would be needed to be a conduit in this ritual.

She drew out the blade, and slashed her wrist. Bright blood fell into the bowl, and the shaman nodded when there was enough, and murmured a word to heal herself. A bone - perhaps of that selfsame great-great-grandmother - she slipped from the necklace she wore, and ground to paste in her mortar. A handful of dirt she added to it, and stirred it into the blood. She set the bowl on the ground beside the fire, and held the knife to the flame.

A mental pull brought the soul closer, and she again caught it gently with hands shaped of power.

"Ju be ready, Kanyi?" she asked unnecessarily. It didn’t matter if the spirit was ready or not. It was going. But it was polite to ask anyway.

There was a silent response from the soul, and the shaman began the chant that would give new life to the warrior.

As she sang, she swayed to a music only she could hear, but she held the knife firm in the coals, and it began to glow dully as it drew in the heat. The chant pulled the spirit inexorably to the bowl and its contents.

In the last instant, Aoale paused. When she drew the knife from the fire, and plunged it into the bowl, the ritual would be complete. Was she willing to give up so much for this warrior? Was it really worth it?

Half of her life would go into this ritual. Half of the remaining time she had in this world. Time was the sacrifice needed here. Time she would not have to spend with her mate. Time she would not have to spend with her friends, with her people. How long a time was it? How many years would she have? Was it years? Was it months? Days? Hours?

Some would regenerate, of course. Time was a fluid thing. She couldn’t give it away entirely. Just as time would gather around the warrior after the body was created, improving on the amount she would give it.

But it was her time. Her life. She could stop now, and that would be it. Just a mess and some blood in a bowl. Was this really worth it?

And her heart sang to her in a resounding "Yes!"

The steam rose as the knife plunged into the bowl, and Aoale’s life poured out of her in a flood.

The contents of the bowl rose as a vapour, then coalesced into a figure hovering in the air. More, and more solid it became, as the flood continued, and the shaman’s hand trembled.

The knife fell to the ground; the bowl was empty. And the woman hanging in the air took a quivering breath.

Aoale pulled herself to her feet shakily, and reached out as the power holding the warrior vanished. She caught the woman awkwardly, and eased her down beside the fire.

"Hey dere," she said, wrapping a blanket around the nude woman’s shoulders. "How ju feelin'?"

Kanyi raised a shaky hand to her face, and touched herself. She blinked, then focussed on the shaman beside her. "I... I..."

"It be okay. Ju don' have ta answer." She smiled. "Let's getcha someting ta eat, an' getcha ta bed. Ju needta have a good rest ta make sure de body and de soul be attached right."

Kanyi reached down, and ran her hand along the place where the wound had been. There was no scar. She looked up at the shaman in surprise.

"Dis be a new body," Aoale reminded her. "It be strong, an' tough, an' pretty... it look like ju look, or as close as I can rememba. Most of de shaping is by ju, though. Ju soul be tellin' de body what to look like."

"....my hair be de wrong colour?" Kanyi asked, fingering a lock of it, and blinking at it owlishly.

Aoale stared. It was the wrong colour. It was as dark as her own, not the blood-red that she remembered the warrior having. "Dat be funny. I dunno why it came out like dat. I know ju gots red hair." She shrugged. "Dere be magick dat can fix dat. I do for ju lata. Right now... I got no magick left at all. I gotta rest too." She helped the warrior to her feet. "C'mon. Dis place ova here be a good one fer ju ta sleep in. An' I got some hot pot dat will make ju feel all kindsa betta." She led the warrior off towards the hut. "An' if ju wake up on time, we kin watch de sunrise ova de islands."

Fin