Firebird
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 10: Awakening
Fire. Everything was fire.
Firebird’s eyes opened to darkness. No—not darkness. Dim light. The curved walls of a tipi. Smoke hole above showing ... day? Night? She couldn’t tell.
Pain lanced through her left side like a knife twisting. She tried to sit up, gasped, fell back.
“Shhh, be still.” A voice. Familiar. Beloved.
Morning Star’s face swam into view, blurred and doubled, then slowly coming into focus. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face drawn with exhaustion and worry.
“Morning Star...” Firebird’s voice was a croak, her throat raw and dry.
“Don’t try to talk. Here.” Morning Star lifted her head gently, brought a water skin to her lips. The water was cool and sweet, and Firebird drank greedily until Morning Star pulled it away. “Not too much at once. You’ll be sick.”
Firebird’s mind felt thick, slow, like moving through deep mud. Where was she? What had happened? She tried to remember, but everything was fragments and confusion.
Battle. She remembered battle. Soldiers. Red Hawk—
“Red Hawk,” she said, trying to sit up again. “Where is Red Hawk?”
Morning Star’s face crumpled, and that was answer enough.
“No,” Firebird whispered. “No, no, no—”
“I’m sorry.” Morning Star’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry. He didn’t ... he didn’t come back.”
The world tilted. Firebird felt like she was falling, drowning, being pulled under black water. Red Hawk. Dead. The word didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. He was strong, invincible, her husband, the father of her children—
“I need to see him,” Firebird said, trying to rise. “I need to—”
Pain exploded in her side, white-hot and all-consuming. She screamed, and Morning Star’s hands were on her shoulders, pushing her gently but firmly back down.
“You can’t. You’re hurt. Badly hurt. You have to stay still.”
“I don’t care—”
“He’s gone, Firebird.” Morning Star’s voice was gentle but unyielding. “He’s already ... the ceremony was two days ago. You were too sick. We couldn’t wait.”
Two days? How long had she been unconscious? Firebird tried to focus, tried to remember. The battle. Red Hawk falling from his horse. Standing over his body. Fighting—bow, spear, knife. So much blood. The soldier tackling her. The knife opening his stomach. The gun.
She’d been shot.
Her hand moved to her left side, found bandages thick with herbs and blood. The wound was just below her ribs, a burning agony that spread through her entire torso.
“How bad?” she asked.
“Bad enough.” Another voice—Fasting Woman, the ancient medicine woman, moving into her field of vision. Her face was a map of wrinkles, her body bent with age, but her eyes were sharp and knowing. “The bullet went clean through, which saved your life. But it tore through the muscles of your belly—ripped them badly. You’ve been fevered for four days. We weren’t sure you’d wake up.”
Four days. She’d been unconscious for four days. And Red Hawk—
“Tell me what happened,” Firebird said. “After I fell. Tell me everything.”
Morning Star and Fasting Woman exchanged glances, then Morning Star took Firebird’s hand, held it tight.
“The warriors who survived brought you both back,” Morning Star said quietly. “You and Red Hawk. White Bull said ... he said you killed seven soldiers before you fell. That you stood over Red Hawk’s body and wouldn’t let anyone near him. That you fought like the spirits themselves were guiding your hand.”
“But I couldn’t save him.”
“He was already gone when you started fighting. The bullet to his chest—it was instant, Firebird. He didn’t suffer long. And because of you, his body came home. We were able to give him proper rites. That matters. That means everything.”
Firebird closed her eyes, tears streaming down her temples into her hair. She had failed. She had promised to protect him, to fight beside him, and she had failed.
“The children,” she said suddenly, her eyes flying open. “Tall Elk and Little Bird—”
“They’re safe. They’re fine. Gentle Rain has been caring for them.” Morning Star squeezed her hand. “They’re too young to understand. Tall Elk keeps asking for you. Little Bird just ... nurses and sleeps. She doesn’t know yet what she’s lost.”
“I want to see them.”
“You will. Soon. When you’re stronger.” Morning Star’s voice was firm. “Right now, you need to rest. You need to heal. The children need you alive, Firebird. I need you alive.”
Firebird looked at Morning Star—really looked at her. Her wife’s face was gaunt, dark circles under her eyes, her skin pale beneath its brown. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Have you been here the whole time?” Firebird asked.
“Where else would I be? You’re my wife. My heart.” Morning Star’s voice was fierce despite its exhaustion. “I’m not leaving you.”
“You need to rest—”
“I’ll rest when you’re better. Not before.”
Fasting Woman made a sound that might have been approval. “She’s been unmovable. Won’t eat properly, won’t sleep. Just sits here and tends you.” The old woman’s voice softened. “You’re blessed in your wife, Firebird. Not many have someone who loves so fiercely.”
Firebird tried to smile, but the grief was too heavy. Red Hawk was dead. Gone. She would never see him again, never hear his voice, never feel his arms around her. Their children would grow up without their father. And it was her fault for not being fast enough, strong enough, good enough to save him.
“It’s not your fault,” Morning Star said, reading her face. “None of this is your fault. You did everything you could. More than anyone could have asked.”
But it didn’t feel like enough. It would never feel like enough.
The fever came back that evening, dragging Firebird down into delirium.
She thrashed in the furs, burning from the inside out, her wound screaming with infection despite the poultices and herbs Fasting Woman packed into it. Morning Star held her down when she tried to get up, tried to fight invisible enemies, tried to find Red Hawk in whatever fever-dream world she’d fallen into.
“He’s here,” Firebird gasped, her eyes wild and unfocused. “I can hear him calling me. I have to go to him—”
“No,” Morning Star said firmly, her hands on Firebird’s shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere. Stay here. Stay with me. With the children. Red Hawk is gone, but we’re here. We need you.”
“I promised him,” Firebird wept. “I promised I’d come back. I promised—”
“You did come back. You kept your promise. Now keep your promise to me. Fight this. Live.”
But the fever dragged her under again, and for three more days she floated between life and death, between this world and the next.
She dreamed of Red Hawk. Saw him standing on a hill in the distance, watching her with sad eyes. She tried to reach him, but her feet wouldn’t move. The distance between them grew wider and wider until he was just a speck on the horizon, and then nothing at all.
She dreamed of the battle. Lived it over and over—the soldiers, the blood, the desperate fight. But in the dreams, she was always too slow. Always failed. Always watched Red Hawk fall while she stood frozen, useless.
She dreamed of her children. Tall Elk and Little Bird, grown to adulthood, looking at her with accusing eyes. You let our father die, they said. You promised to protect him.
And she dreamed of Morning Star. The only good dreams. Morning Star holding her, singing to her, keeping the darkness at bay with sheer force of will and love.
On the fourth day after waking—the eighth day after the battle—the fever finally broke.
Firebird opened her eyes to find Morning Star asleep beside her, one hand clutching Firebird’s hand even in sleep. The tipi was quiet, early morning light filtering through the smoke hole.
She was alive.
She was alive, and Red Hawk was dead, and nothing would ever be right again.
Gently, so as not to wake Morning Star, Firebird tried to sit up. The pain was immense but bearable. She managed to prop herself on one elbow, breathing hard from the effort.
The tipi looked the same, but everything was different. Red Hawk’s weapons were gone—given to White Bull, probably, or buried with him. His sleeping furs were rolled and stored. The space where he should have been was empty, and the emptiness was louder than any sound.
Morning Star stirred, her eyes opening. When she saw Firebird sitting up, she scrambled upright, instantly alert.
“You’re awake. Really awake.” She pressed her hand to Firebird’s forehead. “The fever’s gone. Thank Maheo, the fever’s gone.”
“How long?” Firebird asked.
“Eight days since the battle. Four since you first woke up. The fever nearly took you twice.” Morning Star’s voice shook. “I thought ... I thought I was going to lose you both.”
“I’m sorry,” Firebird said. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”
“Don’t apologize for surviving.” Morning Star helped her lie back down, adjusting the furs around her. “Do you think you could eat something? You haven’t kept anything down in days.”
At the mention of food, Firebird’s stomach churned uneasily. But she nodded anyway. “I’ll try.”
Morning Star brought her broth—thin and weak, barely more than flavored water. Firebird managed several sips before her stomach protested with a wave of nausea. She stopped, breathing carefully through her nose until the feeling passed.
“It’s all right,” Morning Star soothed. “We’ll try again later.”
But later was no better. Nor the day after that. Food seemed to sit wrong in Firebird’s stomach, causing discomfort and nausea. She could keep down small amounts, but anything more made her sick.
Fasting Woman examined her carefully several days later, probing the wound site, feeling her abdomen with knowing hands.
“The bullet tore through the muscles here,” the old woman said, her weathered fingers tracing the area around the wound. “These muscles—they help move food through your belly, help with digestion. When they’re damaged like this, the stomach doesn’t work as it should. Food sits heavy. Doesn’t move properly.”
“Will it get better?” Morning Star asked, her voice tight with worry.
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