The Grief of Egtair


The skies above Egtair were painted in hues of red and gray, the remnants of battle swirling in the wind like a haunting tapestry. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the faint metallic tang of blood. The once-thriving kingdom lay in ruin, its fields trampled and its proud citadel battered. Silence reigned, save for the mournful cries of those left behind—a silence far more deafening than the roar of war.


King Zare was gone.


At the center of the devastation, Zare’s body lay beneath the shelter of a shattered tree, his white feathers dull and stained with the marks of his sacrifice. Around him gathered the remnants of his people, egrets and cranes whose faces bore the anguish of irreparable loss. They formed a circle, their heads bowed low, wings drooping as though the weight of grief had sapped their strength. Each pair of eyes, hollow and tear-filled, was fixed on their fallen king, who had given everything to protect them.


Among the gathered was Ono, Zare’s most trusted lieutenant. His usually composed demeanor was shattered, his chest heaving with suppressed sobs. He stepped forward, his talons trembling as he reached out to touch the fallen monarch’s spear, now snapped in two beside him.


“Your Majesty,” Ono choked, his voice breaking, “you were the heart of Egtair. What are we to do without you?”


The question lingered in the air, unanswered, as if even the winds refused to carry it away. The flock remained motionless, their grief a collective weight that seemed to anchor them to the ground.


Farther back, young fledglings huddled together, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. They clung to their elders, who struggled to find words of comfort. “He’s gone to the Great Sky,” one mother whispered to her chick, though her voice quavered with doubt. “He watches over us now.” But the words rang hollow, as if even the heavens mourned the loss of their champion.


The elder crane Mwali, a figure of wisdom in the kingdom, finally broke the silence. His feathers, gray with age, seemed to ripple as he stepped forward. “King Zare gave his life for Egtair,” he began, his voice steady but laden with sorrow. “He fought not for himself, but for all of us, for the freedom of our skies. His sacrifice was not in vain, though it feels as if the sun has set on our hope.”


Mwali’s words rippled through the gathering like a stone dropped into still water. Heads nodded, though the pain in their hearts remained unyielding. Ono turned to Mwali, his eyes searching the elder’s face for guidance. “What do we do now?” Ono asked. “How do we honor his legacy when the kingdom is in ashes?”


Mwali’s gaze shifted to the horizon, where the faint outlines of Kifo’s forces could still be seen retreating, their dark shapes silhouetted against the smoldering ruins. “We grieve, Ono,” he said softly. “We allow ourselves this moment to mourn, for without grief, there can be no resolve. But grief must not break us. It must forge us into something stronger.”


As Mwali spoke, the skies began to weep. A gentle rain fell, mingling with the tears of the mourners and washing over Zare’s lifeless form. It was as though the heavens themselves shared in the sorrow of Egtair, their droplets falling like whispered condolences.


The rain drew a subtle shift among the flock. One by one, they began to step forward, each offering a token of remembrance. An egret placed a feather beside Zare, its pristine whiteness a stark contrast to the grime of battle. A crane laid down a fragment of reed, a symbol of the marshlands Zare had fought to protect. Even the fledglings, with their small and trembling talons, approached to offer flowers plucked from the battered fields.


Ono watched this procession, his heart torn between despair and a burgeoning sense of duty. He knelt beside Zare, his claws digging into the mud as he bowed his head. “You gave us everything,” he whispered. “I swear on my wings, your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Egtair will rise again, and your name will echo in its skies forever.”


As the last mourner stepped back, Mwali raised his wings, signaling for silence. “Let us remember our king not only for his valor but for his vision,” he said, his voice carrying across the gathered flock. “Zare dreamed of a kingdom united, where the skies were free and the weak were protected. That dream does not die with him. It lives on in each of us.”


The flock murmured in agreement, their grief tempered by the spark of resilience. The rain began to ease, and a faint ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow over Zare’s form. It was a fleeting moment, but it felt like a sign—a reminder that even in the darkest of times, light could still find a way.


Ono took a deep breath and rose to his feet. “We must prepare,” he said, addressing the flock. “Kifo will not stop with Zare’s fall. He will come for all of us. But we will be ready. We will honor our king by fighting for the freedom he gave his life to protect.”


A cheer, muted but determined, rose from the flock. It was not the triumphant cry of a victorious army, but the resolute vow of a people who refused to be broken. As they began to disperse, each bird carried with them a piece of Zare’s legacy, a fragment of the hope he had embodied.


That night, the skies over Egtair were quiet, save for the occasional distant call of Kifo’s patrols. The flock had retreated to the shelter of the marshlands, where they began the solemn task of laying their king to rest. A burial mound was constructed from reeds and stones, adorned with the tokens of remembrance left by his people. At its peak, they placed Zare’s broken spear, a symbol of his unyielding spirit.


Mwali led the ceremony, his voice trembling with emotion. “King Zare,” he intoned, “may your soul find rest among the stars. May your courage guide us, and your wisdom light our path. We pledge to carry your dream forward, to honor you with every beat of our wings.”


As Mwali’s words faded into the night, the flock bowed their heads in unison. For a moment, the grief that bound them felt less like a burden and more like a bond, a shared testament to their love for their fallen king.


Above them, the stars began to emerge, their light piercing the darkness. Among them, one seemed to shine brighter than the rest, a solitary beacon in the heavens. The flock gazed upward, their hearts swelling with a bittersweet mix of sorrow and hope.


Ono stepped forward, his voice steady and clear. “We will rebuild,” he declared. “For Zare. For Egtair. For the skies that belong to us all.”


The flock answered with a chorus of agreement, their voices rising into the night. It was not a lament, but a promise. And though the road ahead was fraught with peril, they knew they would face it together, guided by the legacy of their fallen king.