#craiga

“Of course you’ll be okay, Silly.”

Taiga is not his sister. He knows so little about mending bodies or spirits. All he knows is how to be a big brother. He knows how to hold small bodies against his own when they are broken, or ignited with fever. He knows how to shush fussy children who’ve stirred from unpleasant dreams. He knows how to kiss foreheads which is sort of a spell in its own way. It worked on Momoi when she was small, still plagued by the nightmares of being all alone in this world. 

But Chechelun isn’t seven cycles old, with a scraped knee and big ol’ tears in her eyes. She’s a grown huntress, with eyes glazed over in pain and a weak smile on her lips. It’s a phantom of her usual smile, always so cocky and full of life. He can’t find her pain though, can’t mend it with magic he doesn’t have. “Momoi will be here soon.” He promises, gathering her up against his chest like a princess in the fairy tails that litter the shelves of his sister’s library. For a woman made of muscle, she is far, far too light. The lack of strain to keep her cradled sends a cold pang of worry through his chest.

“She’ll get ya all fixed up.” He promises, rocking his weight back and forth on his feet. She’ll hate him for treating her like a child, but its all he knows. Its what he did for the kids back home, when by twelve he was a giant while the other kids may as well have been geckos at his feet. Not everyone had parents to sing them to sleep, or hold them when they were scared. He’ll at least spare her forehead kisses. He does not spare her his soft humming, carrying a gentle tune passed from his mother, who had learned from his father. ‘It’s a magic spell!’ The man had lead his mother to believe, having sang it to her the first time she got hurt hunting. ‘I swear Taiga! It healed my knee right up!’

To be fair, the man had probably been a healer of some sort, but he let his mother believe- and let himself believe. The deep tune reverberates in his chest, with nonsensical syllables. They’re a language he never understood, and doubt his mother ever understood them either. Xaela, probably, but far more complex than his limited knowledge. Whatever it is seems like a sweet sound. As a child it filled him with warmth to hear his mother croon it softly while she combed and braided his hair from a face flush with fever. As an adult, it tickles his chest until he can’t help but smile around the melody, flopping down onto an infirmary bed with the woman cradled against his chest.