Story for the Day: Menor and Borras

While Borras and Menor, Diras' Second and Fourth sons respectively, do get along, they do not always agree on everything, especially when it comes to Discipline and Punishment:

A moment passed. The clouds began to part, the nebulous curtain revealing the ranging iridescence of an early gloaming, pine martins dithered up and down trees, swallows kited after one another in streaks, the cypress and juniper moaned under the windward gale. A voice resonated from above: a member of the Brigade was passing again, the crunch and crepitation from rocks underfoot lilting the chorus of the rhythmic march, the glow of a torch passing through the rising brume. Low clouds decapitated the peaks above, droplets gleaming pearlescent hung on an invisible loom, and a roaring silence descended, suppressing the whispers of the adders slithering through the forest below and the fritinancy of the birds amidst the boughs above. The musical drip from the stalactites muted, an approaching brontide swallowed the echoes from the cove.

                The moss on the back of Menor’s neck bristled, and Menor turned northward, listening to the penetrating silence: it was moving, gradually at first, but once it was conscious of his attention, the exsibilation of unseen current rushed toward him. The mist around his shoulders cloaked him in a heavy shroud, and the stratal bands along his arms widened. “Borras is coming.”

                The cat’s ears perked and twisted mechanically toward the rumbling silence. “Mharac precedes him.”

                There was a pause. Menor glanced at the child in his arm and then at the cat on his shoulder. “Will you stay?”

                The cat sniffed and deliberated. “I will go,” said she, leaping down to the bowl. “I have no need to meet the Second Son today. But what will you do with the child? It is one of Gallia’s.”

                A horn above sounded, dampened by the imminent and violent calm.

                “I will give it to the Brigade,” Menor replied, peering up, investigating the mountain line. “Once their commander has taken the child to an orphanage, you may look after it there.” He returned the child to the bowl, and he pressed the clay cylinder into a nearby stone. “Are you certain you will not stay?” said Menor, melding the clay into the nearby rock. “My brother will know you have been here.”

                Menor looked up, but the cat had already gone. It vanished amidst his speech, and in its place was a large brown bear, its muzzle sagging, its eyes swimming and cernuous, its hulking form davering toward the mouth of the cove. It stopped below Menor and panted, its breath steaming in the mist, and presently sat down, watching Menor with an expectant gaze. It bellowed and canted its head, and began clawing impatiently at the ground.  

                Menor relented and sighed. “Very well.”

                He shambled toward the edge of the cove, the snow from his shoulders drifting down, and he spied an adjacent stream, its channel running down the mountain, its riffles and banks curving beside the cove. A wave of his hand drew a portion of the stream upward, pulling the water and the bed along. A large carp leapt out of the floating run, and a swift jolt hurled it toward the bear. The bear raised its nowl, caught the carp in its teeth, and with another gesture, the water sank back into its bed, the stream was fully restored, the water rippled on, flowing down the mountainside and through the channel amidst the trees beyond.

                 Menor observed over the bear from his place at the mouth of the cove and seemed mildly disconcerted. “You did not need me to do that for you,” he reminded the bear. “You are capable of catching fish on your own.”  

                “He is,” said an amiable voice, “but he enjoys watching you Perform Miracles.”

                A sudden presence filled the cove. The rush began and ended in a moment, the mellifluous tinkling of the water dripping down from the stalactites resumed, Menor turned, and standing next to the bowl where the baby had been put down was Borras, looking as pleased to see Menor as Menor was indifferent to see him. A cordial touch on the arm and a well-meaning smile was the extent of Borras’ greeting. He knew Menor was not fond of unannounced visits, but there was little Menor was fond of beyond what visiting their children and watching over the border might imply. Borras as the Second Son was much taller than Menor, but the hulking arms, stooping shoulders, and wide frame gave the Mountain God an air of superiority that not even Aoidhe could depose. He stood at the mouth of the cove, with the forest behind and the bowl beside, and though he sulked and sighed and pouted to himself, the crags in the corners of his eyes deepened.