Chapter Text
The wind carried the scent of damp earth and charred wood as Nanba crouched by the river’s edge, his hands submerged in the frigid water. The healer’s fingers traced the smooth stones beneath the current, seeking the rounded ones that could be ground into powder for medicine. His thick fur cloak, stitched together from fox and rabbit pelts, hung heavy on his shoulders, and his breath rose in small clouds against the dawn air.
Behind him, the vast plain stretched toward the horizon, where their people, the Taka, made their camp for the season. The Taka followed the herds of shaggy bison, their lives bound to the rhythm of the land, the cycles of fire and frost. Their survival depended on their hunters, their gatherers, and their healers. And above all, on the Firekeeper.
Nanba turned at the sound of footfalls crunching against frostbitten grass. A figure approached, broad and wild-haired, wrapped in a cloak of wolf fur that draped over his massive shoulders. Ichiban, the Firekeeper of the Taka, walked with his usual energy, his bound leather boots sinking slightly into the damp earth with each step. His hair, tangled and thick, caught the weak morning light, a tangle of embers before the sun.
“You’ve been up before the sun again,” Ichiban said, his voice a low rumble, warm as the fire he was sworn to tend. He squatted beside Nanba, watching him sift through the river stones. “You don’t eat enough, you know. The others are saying you’ll shrivel up like a dried root.”
Nanba huffed, rolling a smooth stone between his fingers before slipping it into the pouch at his belt. “If I waited for the sun, people would be dead before I found the right medicine.” He flicked a sharp glance at Ichiban. “Besides, what do you know about shriveling? You eat enough for three hunters.”
Ichiban laughed, loud and unbothered. “Fire needs fuel,” he said, patting his broad chest. “And I am Firekeeper.”
The title was not given lightly. The Firekeeper was the one who ensured that the sacred flame—the heart of the Taka—never died. The fire, carried from one camp to the next, was as old as the people themselves. If it went out, it was a sign the spirits had abandoned them. It was Ichiban’s duty to tend it, to protect it from the howling winds and heavy rains. He was a man of great strength, but also of great heart, his warmth as essential to the tribe as the fire he bore.
Nanba pulled his fur cloak tighter, watching as Ichiban plucked a stick from the ground and poked at the earth. Even in stillness, he radiated life, his energy boundless, his laughter carrying on the wind. He was different from the other warriors—less harsh, more open. He spoke to even the lowliest of gatherers as if they were equals, and he defended the weak without hesitation.
“Ichiban,” Nanba murmured, feeling the weight of his own thoughts. “Do you ever think about leaving?”
The Firekeeper blinked at him. “Leaving?”
“The Taka. The cycle. The fire.” Nanba’s voice was quiet, but there was an urgency beneath it. “Do you ever wonder if we could go somewhere else? Start something new?”
Ichiban frowned, tossing the stick into the river. “Nanba,” he said, “the fire isn’t just mine to carry. It belongs to all of us. It’s what keeps us together.” He turned to face him fully, eyes dark with something like concern. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”
Nanba exhaled, shaking his head. “No. I just… wonder.”
Ichiban grinned, sudden and bright, nudging Nanba’s shoulder with his own. “You think too much. You should come eat. The elders want to talk about the coming winter, and I need you there. You’re the only one who knows how to keep them from arguing.”
Nanba scoffed, but he stood, brushing damp earth from his knees. “I think you just want an excuse to sneak more meat while they’re distracted.”
Ichiban threw an arm around Nanba’s shoulders as they walked back toward the camp, the smoke of the sacred fire curling into the sky. “That too,” he admitted.
As the wind shifted, carrying the scent of cooking meat and damp pine, Nanba allowed himself to believe—for now—that the fire would never go out.