A cold wind blows into the tent as the flap is opened and hastily sealed again. Within the tent, all is darkness but for the remains of a tiny fire, now embers only. A man, his face painted with the markings of his tribe and his body covered in blood, filth, and the detritus of battle stands tall and proud.
A voice, low and tenuous with sorrow, speaks:
"What seek you in this place, child of war?"
The man, having entered the tent with trepidation despite being a victorious conqueror, settles himself before the Shaman of his enemy and speaks with respect:
"I seek nothing in this place. I have sought justice for many years, and The Tribunal has granted it to me this day. Your people, which have oppressed my tribe for generations uncounted, are defeated. Those that are not slain are fleeing, driven from their homeland out into the bitter snows. They will not return, I think. Therefore I seek nothing, for my quest is at an end."
The Shaman, bowing her head in grief, speaks:
"All that you say is truth. It is a bitter truth, the truth of blood, but still the truth withal. You have destroyed this tribe utterly; my people, my children. They are defeated, broken, lost – dead."
For a moment, the Shaman is unable to speak. The silence stretches uncomfortably as the last embers of the fire begin to fade.
"The deeds which you have enacted this day will be remembered with pride by the children of your children. It may come to pass that you will be remembered in storied fashion even in the next age. You stand before me in this age, however, and I sense that you are also defeated, broken, lost – and dead."
The man lurches to his feet, exclaiming:
"It is not so, witch-woman! I am strong! My people are strong! The blood of life flows strongly within us and we have scattered and broken our enemies!"
The Shaman considers her words carefully for a moment, then speaks with the authority that only the true Shaman may summon.
"You are strong, without doubt. Your people are also strong, without question. Have I not discovered the truth of your strength in the destruction of my people, in the precious blood of my children?"
The man grimaces, made uncomfortable by the words of the Shaman.
"You are strong, and yet you do not comprehend the source of your strength! What has made you – and your people – strong? I say unto you that it is the very oppression which you have sought justice for on this very day. Your tribe has risen from the ashes to become a mighty force against which none can stand. Without that oppression which you have so recently surmounted, you would be weak and frail like many of the other tribes. Consider, child of war, that I am a Shaman and I speak with the voice of the spirit realm. The spirits do not speak falsely."
The Shaman pauses once again, seemingly overcome by emotion. Still unsettled and confused by the strange conversation, the man speaks again:
"I do not understand. You say many of the same things that my own Shaman, Eluka, said to me ere she passed on to the spirit realm last spring. She also believed that our strength arose from our need to be strong. I do not understand how you can say that we are lost, broken, or defeated."
The shaman, using a small stick, stirs the embers of the fire before responding.
"I say to you that you are lost, for you are not guided by the denizens of the spirit realm. I say to you that you are broken because and defeated because you have not thought of the future. You have vanquished your enemy, to be sure, but the price was high and the youth of your tribe has been decimated. You may not live to see the next winter. I say to you that you are dead....because I wish it so with all my heart."
The Shaman pauses, shoulders slumping as if assuming a heavy burden, then continues with the weight of grief heavy upon her voice.
"You will not die, though, however much I wish it. Your fate is known to the sprits, written before them as clearly as you stand before me wearing the blood of my people. They speak to me of your destiny, and though I dearly wish to strike you dead where you stand, I will not. I bow to the will of the spirits, difficult though it is for me to do so, and I say to you that you have been made strong – your people have been made strong – through necessity. It is your destiny to gather together the scattered tribes of our people, that the world rightly call Barbarians! You will forge them into a mighty army, and that army will – in time – be a force of good to counter the evil growing in the south."
Stunned, the man staggers and falls to his knees.
"I cannot credit that this is so; I have only sought justice for my people. I want nothing more."
Bitterly, the Shaman laughs.
"You will have more, whether you want it or not. I will guide you along your path, and guide your people as well, as the spirits have commanded me to do. I am your Shaman. I am Anaskesia. Leave me now, child of war, for I am weary with sorrow and the pain of my people lies within me unanealed. We will begin the work of ensuring the bare survival of your tribe on the morrow."
