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Chief Javan of the Tigers cut an imposing figure. He towered over everyone he met and seemed twice as wide. He carried himself with seriousness, hands folded behind his back and furs draped across his broad shoulders. Elegance seemed second nature. Javan was capable of leaping great distances, could run for hours and lift a Thunderian mount with ease. He seemed like an old hero told about in stories, and yet he was real. He was a cat you listened to, whose gaze commanded respect and a voice that you heeded. Age did not seem to affect him, like it did his siblings. His body never weakened, aches did not seem to hurt his bones and he never faltered in mind or movement. Javan remained the Tigers’ cunning and strong Chief.
As such, it had always seemed impossible for Bali to imagine his father any other way. As a cub he’d scoff at the notion of his father having once been sickly and small. Papa could hoist barrels over his head! Slay the Shadows with an awe inducing efficiency. Papa could have never been a tiny, mewling newborn, blind and deaf to the world. It seemed impossible. Even as an adult, Bali couldn’t imagine his father as that small, scrawny cub in the photos. Father seemed like he was born an adult, full grown, full of cunning and made of muscle. Like the warrior from the old stories, Qalilis. Father was steady and unchanging, no matter what.
A rattling cough echoed down the hall. Bali felt himself tense. Father was steady and unchanging, until now. The Illness set in three moon cycles ago. It had begun as a small cough during dinner, Uncle Binghe had laughed and teased Father; ‘Choking on water little brother? Need me to soothe your back?’ It had seemed like nothing then. But the cough stayed. And got worse. It now seemed that Father couldn’t go more than five minutes without nearly heaving up a lung. The healers had tried every herb and medicine they had, nothing worked.
After the first moon cycle of father’s illness, Uncle Binghe made the treacherous journey down the mountain, his goal was to head to the capital city and bring back other medicine. Father had fallen ill during the Darkest Season. Blizzards were constant, transport was unavailable, and no one could leave the Home due to both the weather and what hunted in the dark. Uncle Binghe still made the journey. And by the second moon cycle he returned. He came with new stories, scars and most importantly, medicine.
Bali couldn’t help but cringe when Uncle Binghe saw Father for the first time, for the Illness had begun to eat away his body. His clothes hung loose, you could almost count ribs then. The smile on Uncle Binghe’s face faded. Father’s didn’t. He’d laughed, nearly hacked up a lung and said,
“Took you long enough!” Uncle Binghe had snorted and made a comment about ‘spoiled baby brothers’ and then ushered Bali out of the room.
For a week or so Father improved, the coughing fits were happening farther and farther apart, and with a decreasing intensity. He laughed and smiled more. Food went down easier too. The Tiger Clan settled.
Father had been out walking with Tygra when it happened. Bali came rushing when he heard his younger brother’s cry.
In the snow covered gardens, there was Father on all fours coughing with an intensity Bali had never seen. Tygra was crouched beside Father, staring with horror at something underneath him. Bali felt ill as he stared at the red stained snow too.
Father’s condition nosedived, as the Illness ate away at his body and strength. It got to the point where Father couldn’t leave his bed anymore. Every day was a fight to convince him to eat, to drink and to sleep. Fear permeated the Home. Even the Elders were uneasy. One of the Old (the kind of old where you think they’ll keel over any day now, but don’t, kind of old) Elders, Wei, talked about how father had been ill like this once before. It had started the same way and progressed the same too. Father had survived it, with some herb Wei couldn’t remember. The other Old Elders corroborated Wei’s story, but were just as fuzzy on the details. Tygra had volunteered to try and find any information about this herb in the library.
Father coughed again. Bali began to walk towards Father’s bedchambers. Someone was always watching over him, making sure the fire pit roared, windows were shut, that Father had enough blankets and to fetch him anything he needed or wanted. Before, when it didn’t hurt to talk, Father had teased Bali, his siblings, cubs and grandcub about making them his personal servants, having them massage him feet and fan him when he wanted it. That comment had been met with a few amused growls and groans.
“Papa?” Father looked up and smiled, his face brightening, Bali he mouthed. Bali smiled back and entered. Father was frail, cheeks hollow and eyes sunken. He looked more like a skeleton than a tiger. A half whine escaped Bali’s
Throat before he could stop it, and Father’s face turned sad. He patted his bed.
Sit.
Bali sat. Father threaded his fingers with Bali’s. His other hand coming to rub the top of Bali’s hand. They sat like that. They sat like that, until Sunda came in. She was carefully balancing a tea tray in her hands.
“Papa, I brought some tea; you’re in luck! Uncia found some honey in the stores! We wouldn’t be able to get this until First Light!” And as if an afterthought, “Oh, hey Bali.”
Father snorted, either at Bali’s face or Sunda’s nonchalance. A moment passed as they waited for the coughing. It didn’t come. Either by luck or by the gods blessing, Father didn’t cough. A rush of relief flooded through Bali, and Sunda handed Father his tea.
His hands trembled. And Bali helped the tea to Father’s mouth. As Bali watched his father drink, slow pained swallows, he was struck with the horrible realization that, Father, Chief Javan, the hero straight from the stories, was an old man.
And that realization killed something inside of him.