PULL ME UNDER - Angel Witch - Thirteen

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Thirteen

The route took a few days longer, as they were pelted by heavy rain the moment the grasses began sprouting up in more than the occasional tuft. That only gave more opportunity for Ddun to sneak his kisses and caresses upon Lauren, whenever they were left alone.

He respected Tanner like he would any warrior in the clan, but didn’t have the courage to tell him so, not yet. And, Ddun’s appreciation for Lauren would have to be kept from her brother, for now—memories of Orman’s death playing in his head. The wavering in his periphery around Lauren was stronger than before, almost hypnotizing, but it vanished whenever he looked at her straight on. Unlike Orman, it didn’t bother Ddun at all. In a way, it was thrilling.

Lauren’s spirits lifted as time and travel put distance between her and Kaddusk, which made his spirits lift, too. Something had happened to her, she claimed she didn’t remember, but the way she woke up in sweats made him wonder if she spoke true, or if she gently lied to both men, to keep them on task. She would speak about it when she was ready, Ddun was sure, and he never pressed the matter. Tanner did enough, and if she could spit acid, her brother would have no face. All Tanner ever did in defense was laugh, which only made Lauren angrier. Despite their bickering, she often slid into dolorous, ruminative stares, out at nothing and silent, and Ddun didn’t know what to do for her.

Following all the right waystones to where Grandmother told him to find the clan’s new pasture, the landscape more familiar, his shoulders eased. He could almost hear the bells and animals and woman and children, all cheering at their return.

But Antoll might not live to see them return to Kaddusk, and that left a sore pit in his heart, a clawing under his breastbone. They had parted ways with tight smiles and a stoic grip of arms, but they both knew. More damage was underneath those broken ribs than what they could see, and the wound from the barb only looked angrier and angrier as time passed. The dread made Ddun nauseous.

Tanner watched him, Lauren was relaxed in a nap against her brother. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Ahuh.” The sky darkened as a cool mist dampened them. “Should we set up camp you think?”

“Probably.”

“You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“No.”

“Shit, between you and Lauren I’ve had some great conversation—.”

“Fuck off, Tanner,” Lauren said softly in half-sleep, nudging her head and readjusting herself for comfort against the brother she just insulted. Ddun couldn’t help but chuckle, and Tanner wore that guilty grin he always did when the laughter was at his expense. They continued on, the mist letting up and coming back in cycles, threatening another downpour.

When they arrived, everything was somber. There had been a raid while they were away, no fanfare from the camp torn apart. Lauren couldn’t withhold her grief, wailing and crying to discover Ansa had been taken, probably killed. Her only friend, she had said, the only one who made Lauren feel welcome—and Tanner couldn't conceal his sadness either, not from anyone paying attention.

Ddun regretted those early days, he had been as distant as the others.

Lauren wanted a small tent to herself, like before, and Ddun arranged it all. Grandmother was ill, but her sister was there with her. A lot was changing, his liver twisted to think on it.

“It was wise to have our clans join together. Another raid so soon after… And our scouts tell us they may yet come back. They’ve become brazen.”

Antoll was right. They needed out of the capitals, peaceful or not. “I have news for you, as well. There’s going to be a moot, three months from when we left. Held in Kaddusk.”

“Three months—Kaddusk? Did Grandfather pass?” Grandmother put a quaking hand over her chest.

“In truth, I don’t know. I saw him alive when we visited the castle, and then he was gone. But he was not fit to lead when I saw him.” Ddun proceeded to tell her a shortened version of the visit. “The witch is gone, now, but not before corrupting the place.” The Grandmothers gave him inquisitive looks from under their masks, and he elaborated with the story. While he spoke, he showed them his wound under the linen and leather wrappings on his leg, healing up well, and they painted white lines around it as a prayer of gratitude.

“Oh, what a tale, what a song for the ages. And you, you’ll be going back? So soon.”

“Aye, the clan will follow, and gather more with us.”

“We will?”

She was testing him. “You will.”

“Of course. And what of…” She nodded to where Tanner plucked and sang for the crowd eager to hear him again.

“Is his mask ready and blessed?”

She nodded.

***

Dark red paint and gilded bands on wooden beams, latticed wood holding up the walls where weapons hung, earth covered in colourful rugs so rich in detail one could get lost in them; the warrior’s tent was the most lavish of all the tents in the camp, a sacred space. The open floor filled with every fighting man of the clan and the two Grandmothers seated at the far edge of the circle, all eyes on Tanner as he entered. Everyone shone in gilded scale armour, fanciful regalia, beadwork and embroidery passed down for generations. His heart flipped against his lungs and he hiccoughed at the attention—he had been called there, bathed and oiled, dressed in borrowed regalia, with every step the scales glinted and sang. The Grandmothers at the head of the tent waved him forward, and his legs moved stiff, as if he forgot how to use them under their watch. Ddun was near the Grandmothers, bowing his head as Tanner made his way down the length of red carpet.

He knelt before them, a mask facing him at his knees centered on a silk pillow. His mask. The Grandmothers united in prayer recited blessings and sang a beautifully out of tune hymn over his head, their crackling ancient voices like angels, his entire self overwhelmed with the warmth and welcoming spirit in the air. The power of the mask—maybe imagined, maybe not—radiated up at him like heat from a hearth, he couldn’t explain it. The ceremony went on, he didn’t know how long, a minute or an hour. His body seemed to swell, he was ready to burst. The eyes on his back—He was one of them. He was kin.

They had gone though this when they were maybe twelve, thirteen years old. But despite the embarrassment he had felt before at that fact, Tanner had proved himself in the short time he lived as Dvarri, and took pride in that instead. As he tied the mask over his face for the first time, his fingers struggled with the leather for all his trembling, but as he let go, his mask secured over his face… His soul felt complete, he felt a courage and a happiness in his chest he had never felt before, his muscles tingled as if the mask were a drug.

He knew it was just a symbol, but it was a sacred one, and he was grateful for it to hide the tears that streamed down to his lips. There was an intoxicating thrum behind him as they slapped at their thighs—he already knew he would die for any of them, his conviction was only strengthened. They were all his brothers-in-arms, now. He would die for them, they would die for him, too. It was an indescribable feeling, and he shook.