A chilly mist had settled over the Steppe during the nighttime, but the dawn’s rising sun was swiftly dispersing it as warm winds blew in from the southern desert. Tsensen planted her spear in the ground and crouched, looking out over the vista. Her adventuring gear, familiar as ever, seemed to hang strangely on her nonetheless, and she tugged at the hem absently. The Dawn Throne’s looming shadow was just barely visible, a silhouette against the brightening eastern skies.
When had the Steppe become so strange?
The approach of the footsteps behind her was gentle, and there was no attempt to hide their presence, so she did not tense, merely turning her head to look over her shoulder. Her eyes widened, and she scrambled to her feet. “Grandmother!” The woman’s wizened face cracked into a smile as Tsensen rushed to her, touching her shoulder as if unsure of her corporeality. “But--we’re malms from Dotharl Khaa!”
They embraced, and Tsensen took the opportunity to look around furtively for an escort. There seemed to be none, but surely the old woman knew better than to wander alone on the Steppe... “How did you… that is… I hadn’t exactly advertised my presence here. I wasn’t expecting--”
Her grandmother’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “Grandmothers can sense the presence of their grandchildren, didn’t you know?” Her eyes sparkled at Sen’s dubious look, and the wrinkles in her face deepened. “And news travels fast on the Steppe.”
“So I recall.” She shook her head as if to clear it. Her grandmother was an oddity among the Dotharl—few of them lived to old age, and those who did were considered to be near the end of their reincarnation cycle, full of wisdom from lifetimes past and afforded the corresponding respect. Tsensen could not recall her exact age, but the woman had to be at least midway through her seventies by now. “Please, grandmother, sit.”
“Oh, stop. You were sitting when I arrived, so you can sit again if you like. I want a good look at you, and I can only do that standing up.” It was true. The woman was even shorter than Sen, back bent with age, but her eyes were still sharp. They seemed to bore right through Sen’s body, turning her over like a stone on a riverbank and checking for secrets underneath. “How long will you be among us? The Dotharl will give your people a proper welcome, if I have anything to say about it.”
How long, indeed... “As long as it takes.”
“Did you find the answers you left to seek?”
“Mm.” She considered this. “Yes. But behind them, more questions.”
“Ah.” The woman’s noise of understanding managed to sound both enlightened and completely unsurprised at the same time. “When I heard word of your return, I was hopeful, and yet…” She reached out to touch Sen’s cheek, a gentle rasp of calloused skin against black scales. Her smile was tinged with a melancholy, rueful pride. “You are no longer of the Steppe.”
Sen nearly flinched back as if struck, the truth of those words cutting to the bone. She turned away, facing out toward the Dawn Throne. As a child on the Steppe—no, even as an adult, its shadow had loomed large, seeming to follow the tribe wherever it went. Now, the inverted dome seemed… small. Dwarfed by the rising sun, its shadows did not reach so far as she remembered. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
“When the man who fathered you was young,” her grandmother said, pausing to be sure she was listening. The phrasing was a mark of respect for Tsensen’s mother—it was never “your father,” or “my son,” not even now, 15 years after her mother’s death and almost 40 since her rape at the hands of the Dotharl man. Her grandmother continued, “One of the older warriors, one he looked up to, left the tribe. Left the Steppe entirely, to seek his fortune in other lands. He asked our khatun how such a thing could happen in this life, how he could abandon the place and the people from whence he’d come.
“She told him that the souls of many great warriors find their way to the Steppe, drawn to a community of kindred spirits. Those with the brightest souls, souls wreathed in the fires of battle, may choose to become part of the Dotharl tribe. That is why we have children whose previous selves were of other tribes, or even, sometimes, from outside the Steppe altogether.”
Sen turned to meet her eyes. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.
“The Dazkar are blind,” her grandmother said quietly, “if they think you could return now. The world outside the Steppe is too vast, greater and more terrible than any of us can imagine, and you belong to it now.”
Sen could not contradict this without uttering falsehoods, so she said nothing, glancing back out at the Dawn Throne.
“And,” her grandmother said, tawny braid falling over her shoulder as she leaned to peer at Sen’s face, “there’s a man.”
Sen’s skintone, dark as the night sky, prevented all but the most furious flush from showing to the naked eye. If one looked closely, one might see a tint of dusky purple. “There is no man.”
“Not a Xaela. Not of the Steppe. But a warrior nonetheless, eh?”
Someday, Sen would figure out how the elders of the Dotharl did that, and then there would be hell to pay. “...Mm.”
“Appreciate it, child. Where you might have fallen to despair, instead, you have managed to squeeze two lives into one lifetime.”
Sen considered this perspective on things. It was not inaccurate. She had left for many reasons, but prominent among them was pain avoidance, running from the memories of all she’d held dear that had been lost. Yet she’d found something in the end that she hadn’t even known to look for: a new life, outside the Steppe. More important than her old one? No. Equally so. The scale was simply grander.
“I feel death everywhere I am now,” Sen remarked, crouching once more to look out over the Steppe, a hand on her spear. “That is the nature of my Gift. Eorzeans call it the Echo. Even when there have been no recent deaths to upset the balance, I still hear them when it’s quiet, as if from a great distance. Often, they whisper. In some places, they scream, or cry. Sometimes laugh. In others they are silent altogether.” She paused. “The dead here are like nothing I have ever heard.”
“How so?” Her grandmother stepped forward to stand at her shoulder, taking in the sunrise as it threw lines of light and shadow over the rolling hills.
3. Dawning
When had the Steppe become so strange?
The approach of the footsteps behind her was gentle, and there was no attempt to hide their presence, so she did not tense, merely turning her head to look over her shoulder. Her eyes widened, and she scrambled to her feet. “Grandmother!” The woman’s wizened face cracked into a smile as Tsensen rushed to her, touching her shoulder as if unsure of her corporeality. “But--we’re malms from Dotharl Khaa!”
They embraced, and Tsensen took the opportunity to look around furtively for an escort. There seemed to be none, but surely the old woman knew better than to wander alone on the Steppe... “How did you… that is… I hadn’t exactly advertised my presence here. I wasn’t expecting--”
Her grandmother’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “Grandmothers can sense the presence of their grandchildren, didn’t you know?” Her eyes sparkled at Sen’s dubious look, and the wrinkles in her face deepened. “And news travels fast on the Steppe.”
“So I recall.” She shook her head as if to clear it. Her grandmother was an oddity among the Dotharl—few of them lived to old age, and those who did were considered to be near the end of their reincarnation cycle, full of wisdom from lifetimes past and afforded the corresponding respect. Tsensen could not recall her exact age, but the woman had to be at least midway through her seventies by now. “Please, grandmother, sit.”
“Oh, stop. You were sitting when I arrived, so you can sit again if you like. I want a good look at you, and I can only do that standing up.” It was true. The woman was even shorter than Sen, back bent with age, but her eyes were still sharp. They seemed to bore right through Sen’s body, turning her over like a stone on a riverbank and checking for secrets underneath. “How long will you be among us? The Dotharl will give your people a proper welcome, if I have anything to say about it.”
How long, indeed... “As long as it takes.”
“Did you find the answers you left to seek?”
“Mm.” She considered this. “Yes. But behind them, more questions.”
“Ah.” The woman’s noise of understanding managed to sound both enlightened and completely unsurprised at the same time. “When I heard word of your return, I was hopeful, and yet…” She reached out to touch Sen’s cheek, a gentle rasp of calloused skin against black scales. Her smile was tinged with a melancholy, rueful pride. “You are no longer of the Steppe.”
Sen nearly flinched back as if struck, the truth of those words cutting to the bone. She turned away, facing out toward the Dawn Throne. As a child on the Steppe—no, even as an adult, its shadow had loomed large, seeming to follow the tribe wherever it went. Now, the inverted dome seemed… small. Dwarfed by the rising sun, its shadows did not reach so far as she remembered. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
“When the man who fathered you was young,” her grandmother said, pausing to be sure she was listening. The phrasing was a mark of respect for Tsensen’s mother—it was never “your father,” or “my son,” not even now, 15 years after her mother’s death and almost 40 since her rape at the hands of the Dotharl man. Her grandmother continued, “One of the older warriors, one he looked up to, left the tribe. Left the Steppe entirely, to seek his fortune in other lands. He asked our khatun how such a thing could happen in this life, how he could abandon the place and the people from whence he’d come.
“She told him that the souls of many great warriors find their way to the Steppe, drawn to a community of kindred spirits. Those with the brightest souls, souls wreathed in the fires of battle, may choose to become part of the Dotharl tribe. That is why we have children whose previous selves were of other tribes, or even, sometimes, from outside the Steppe altogether.”
Sen turned to meet her eyes. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.
“The Dazkar are blind,” her grandmother said quietly, “if they think you could return now. The world outside the Steppe is too vast, greater and more terrible than any of us can imagine, and you belong to it now.”
Sen could not contradict this without uttering falsehoods, so she said nothing, glancing back out at the Dawn Throne.
“And,” her grandmother said, tawny braid falling over her shoulder as she leaned to peer at Sen’s face, “there’s a man.”
Sen’s skintone, dark as the night sky, prevented all but the most furious flush from showing to the naked eye. If one looked closely, one might see a tint of dusky purple. “There is no man.”
“Not a Xaela. Not of the Steppe. But a warrior nonetheless, eh?”
Someday, Sen would figure out how the elders of the Dotharl did that, and then there would be hell to pay. “...Mm.”
“Appreciate it, child. Where you might have fallen to despair, instead, you have managed to squeeze two lives into one lifetime.”
Sen considered this perspective on things. It was not inaccurate. She had left for many reasons, but prominent among them was pain avoidance, running from the memories of all she’d held dear that had been lost. Yet she’d found something in the end that she hadn’t even known to look for: a new life, outside the Steppe. More important than her old one? No. Equally so. The scale was simply grander.
“I feel death everywhere I am now,” Sen remarked, crouching once more to look out over the Steppe, a hand on her spear. “That is the nature of my Gift. Eorzeans call it the Echo. Even when there have been no recent deaths to upset the balance, I still hear them when it’s quiet, as if from a great distance. Often, they whisper. In some places, they scream, or cry. Sometimes laugh. In others they are silent altogether.” She paused. “The dead here are like nothing I have ever heard.”
“How so?” Her grandmother stepped forward to stand at her shoulder, taking in the sunrise as it threw lines of light and shadow over the rolling hills.
Sen smiled. “Here, they sing.”