Speak softly and carry ...

There is no line arrogant warrior and there is nothing wrong with my aim. It had been the grasp of my hair that turned me to rake a kiss that first stayed the return to my wagon.

Along with a bota of water, I was throwing everything that I could against the turmoil of feelings that had been manifesting inside. Maybe when I find you waiting for me, then I will think about whether you are serious and your aim would be better if it would make it to my lips each time. You are so beautiful. You haunt me. Soft spoken emotions too laden to be as thunderous as my heart, came confession, every where I went, everything I did .. I could see him, hear his voice.

The fierce backpeddling of fears, not wanting to be hurt was impacting in a tidal wave of forward thrust motion. I was falling head over heels. The resonance and the fold of strong arms around me now grounded me to a stand still. It is a curse. Of the myriads of endearing possibilities, that was definitely not what I wanted to hear.

Memory is selective and hearing can be too. I kept playing the evening over and over in my head, not letting it spiral with the fears added in to make it loom larger or worse than it seemed. Some things I did not hear until the wee ahns of the morning as my work joined that of others in delivering the difficult birth. I have tasted love but I have never felt anything like this.

It felt as if were killing me to pull away, to rein back and the bit was cutting deep. Yes, throw more at this .. this ... oh please skies ... every alarm system I had inside was clanging in full blare and there was a silencing shh from within that reached out to touch them gently. I had been about to ask something important when my words were hushed with more intimate gesture. My small fists had no more effect against the flat of a warrior's chest than the flutter of butterfly wings, especially when they were captured within the husk of larger ones to still them.

By the time the dawn broke over the horizon in fingerlet streams of light there would be a flood of thoughts that had filled every spare ihn of the time in between. It may surprise many to find what they comprised of most. Had it been entirely filled with the thoughts of the previous night? No, for as stirring as all that may have been, much of it was filled with something that touched me deeper ... Family. I am well aware that more than my appearance, I am different than most of those around me. Words spoken to me of another still haunt me ... the criteria for a mate. I am not Tuchuk by birth and proselyte is not a given cure for the predjudices of keeping a race pure. Nor did it mean that I was immune from the affectations of being human, a female one at that.

Once the new foal was settled and I knew that the mare would live, I went looking for Fonce or Kam to speak with them, when I couldn't find them, I sent message. I would stand and face my actions. There is a saying that a man who respects a woman does not know what to do with her. There are some who believe that is what the Tuchuk feel as well, but among them, respect is spoken in almost every conversation every day, of the Sky, of the Bosk, of Family, of Free men and of Free women. It has deep meaning to them, it has deep meaning to me. There were many who had stood for me, believing in me and it was my respect for them and myself that I did not wish to dishonor any of them.

I doubt many would realize that I no longer went beyond the perimeter of the wagons after dusk and that my ventures anywhere were shadowed. Even now as I rode to the outcrop overlooking the stream, they were patient with me, remaining a short distance away while I perched on the flatter part of the rise. In the moss crusted dirt along the surface, the tip of my finger left an image.