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This story is based on a drawing by Pan Hesekiel Shiroi, that was a commission for a client Sketchbook commission for Wolffire she did on this year's MMC (May 2009)

Art by Pan Hesekiel Shiroi::http://www.sofurry.com/view/93746

A story by Genesee Paws

I couldn't post it as a story before because of; "There was an error in your submission! Your story was too short! It needs to be at least 5000 characters (equals about 5 pages) in length, but it was just 4706 chars long." Meh, So I made it longer. Now it fits.

The fierce warrior is dancing! Oh, he is so handsome! He is so handsome, the North Wind Himself stills and pauses; hushed, and watching. The warrior spins and kicks, throwing all his caution and fear to the West Wind. He is so skilled a dancer that the South Wind feels she is honored, too, and she pauses to watch as well. Dancing and dancing, and while he dances he feels his heart tearing and breaking. He is dancing because of the pain in his heart, but at the same time, he is dancing into the pain. He is that brave! It is a battle with his pain and in this he feels he cannot loose.

I am watching him, too, and see that his is a battle he will win, and I feel a deep pride in his dance. He is battling both his pack's pain and his own pain, and well armored he is against them both with his skill at arms, and his skill in magic. No enemy of his can defeat him, he will defeat them all, save for a final single warrior -- The One Who Arches Over. He is that brave! He is dancing into the pain, holding it close, as you would hold an enemy that you wish to kill, not holding it as an enemy you wish to escape from. He leans into his pain, as one leans into the bitter biting winter wind.

And here I am sad, for it is my pain that caused his pain, and here I am glad, for I know he will defeat it. He will defeat the pain and pass it through with a spear, and watch his pain die. He is that brave! While I have been watching him, slowly the long hours have passed and yet no signs of fatigue are showing. He is strong, my dancing warrior, and he has been trained by the best. I feel it deeply in my heart soon he will be victorious, for his father has trained him well. He shows that he is the Son of the Chief of his pack; with his sinews taut, muscles firm, movements graceful, he stamps and twirls, squats and leaps, spinning; turning and twisting between the rocks. He is so young, and so handsome, it tears my heart to see him so full of his agony.

But, no, I have cried out all my tears, I have none to shed, now. No tears of mine will fall for him. He is so strong, and so brave. He is dancing his heart out, dancing the pain out of his heart, as one escorts the banished ones to the edge of one's camp. He is dancing with a staff, now. I think I recognize that staff as once belonging to his mother, the pack's healer. But she is gone, he must have selected it from her possessions. It is good that he has it. He learned well from her, as he does from his father. The Sacred Rocks have been painted with their symbols. Perhaps he painted them himself, although I have no way of knowing, ... perhaps he did, but - well, it doesn't matter. What matters to us, to his pack, is their pain. -- Although I can now feel that mine is lessening. He has learned both sides of the water skin. The inside and the outside; take the pain of the pack into your heart and bottle it up. Then beat the pain to a bloody defeat, and after that letting it flow out. Afterwards it will wash away as some berry juice is carried away by a rapid running stream. I see that his magic is as strong as his dancing. This is a very good sign in a pack that has lost its healer. This brave warrior stops for nothing, he pauses not for food nor drink. Since sunrise he has been dancing and as the sun approaches it's zenith, he shows no signal of stopping, no indication of weakness, no sign that the pain is overwhelming him. Oh! He is so brave!

I watch for a moment more, but I am easily fatigued by this, doing nothing but watching him dance. I feel myself growing weary, and I wish to rest, for I was up all night with a sick body. The coughing that is so tiring, the coughing allows the sick body no rest, but now that noon is coming I perhaps will rest, perhaps I'll sleep, now. I'll stand up and leave, just go -- cross over that bridge and then blessed rest. Yes, that is what I should do. He still is showing no signs of slowing, but I should go now. If no one is here watching him, perhaps the brave son of our pack will stop and rest.

I stand up and turn to go.

There! I think he noticed that I had stood up. Such a respectful cub! He has changed his dancing: he is is throwing his hands up high and shouting. Kicking up his heels so high, and stamping. Singing spells such as only I could have taught him. Such a brave young man! But as beautiful as his spell singing is; I am tired, and it is time now, time to leave here. I know I should go. Now it is time, I'll just go over there and have a rest.

I step onto the bridge, and turn to look, just one last glance back, then turning my tired feet toward the other side and moving across the bridge, I leave my brave son dancing. Dancing, dancing to mourn his Mother's passing over the bridge of life.