VI – The Retreat

Father’s owl mask watches him from the muddy shore, its top trim blackened by battle fire. Aedan’s snowy war prize comes to the water for a drink. She takes her fill before retreating to the grassy bank, where waterlogged cornflowers sate her hunger.

Rain stings Aedan’s shoulders, a necessary hurt that washes away his warpaint and admonishes him for losing his fiercest bitches. He sits his bare ass into the pebbled rivulet and spreads his spindly legs. Within the V between his thighs, rushing waters flush clean his foreskin.

Aedan stands, sopping yet clean, and plucks out a stone embedded in his narrow buttock. The nervous mare shifts from one hoof to the next as he approaches, speaking familiar Greek.

“You are no longer a Roman citizen,” he says, reaching under her barrel and unbuckling the saddle. “You will be naked as Epona intended.”

The mare lifts her muzzle and lets out a snort.

“Your name is Looir,” he whispers, touching a finger to the dark patch above her eyes, a sliver-moon concealing her whorl.

Clean hands admire her coup, and he notices that her lightly worn rump boasts no sores. He pulls the saddle from her by yanking one of its four cock-like prongs and finds the padding beneath it thicker than what’s in its seat. Her master also cares more for her comfort than his own.

“My grandfather raised horses.” His spindly arms curl around her neck. He presses his forehead to her withers. “You’ll like our pastures, Looir. Plenty of studs galloping about and just enough clover that you won’t get patchy.”

Her head comes about, and with her long nose, she pulls him closer. They comfort each other as the rain lessens, and soon, he detaches to dress himself. He steps into his britches and tightens the waist rope before snatching up his father’s owl mask.

“I miss my dad,” he says, hugging it. “He sounded like a god when his cock spat.”

The mare snorts, her glassy eyes upon him.

“Oy, my mother tended to him like that,” he clarifies. “The darkest place in Annwn’s bowels is reserved for any father that uses his child like a lover.”

A snort comes with a bit of voice and a single jerk of her head. He strolls to the tree line, hoping she follows, but hearing no hoof-falls behind him, he turns to find the mare lowering herself beside the saddle.

“Did he mean that much to you?”

Her bony, pale legs flex as she rolls over, her back kicking up water from the grass.

“Is he beautiful, your master?”

She nuzzles one of the saddle’s jutting grips.

“Is he that fierce fucker who came out of the reeds?”

A playful groan finds her rolling again.

“I couldn’t see his face behind that golden mask, but I saw his eyes. Green like hot seawater.” Aedan folds his arms. “I like men whose eyes grow dangerous when they see me.”

Looir jumps to her feet with a squeal as a collection of hardy warriors emerges from the trees. Blood runs long over their painted bulges, the blue riddled with holes from the rain.

“Owl King,” says the largest, his breasts flopping with each step. “You knew we’d fail. What say you now?”

“I’m not arch here,” Aedan says, his tone indifferent. He scans each face until he finds the one he wants. “Speak to Taran, he’s your leader.”

Kelr filters out as if chosen and points his head at the sack near the saddle. “We lost some good boys getting those drawings.”

The novice druid collects the saddle from the grass and returns it to Looir’s back. Without words, he retrieves the sack and proceeds to higher ground. The mare follows closely, her hefty presence dividing the warriors as they pass.

Kelr strips off his blood-stained britches and stomps into the creek, his heart heavy with exhaustion and grief. The pre-drawn battle replays in his mind: the masterful Owl and his clutch of women rush the scouts before shifting their attack to the arriving legions. Kelr and his comrades, resilient and determined, held the line, only to be overwhelmed by the advancing wolves and their sturdy shield formation.

In those final moments, he sought the Owl for his wisdom, only to find the druid had mysteriously vanished. No one curses the Ancalite’s name. This night, there is only praise for his burning the enemy stores. Paint joins the water, exposing pale, muscular arms. Whispers prevail when the druid sits upon the highest rock and watches them bathe in the downpour.

Every man dreads his interest, none knowing it is for Kelr. Free of the day’s carnage, he bids his brothers goodnight, his bright yet tired eyes drifting to Aedan with a guarded gaze.

Aedan follows quickly, his unspoken desires apparent. He has no reason to hide what everyone knows. Still, he loses sight of the strapping young man within the fort’s walls.

Shadows overtake his position as a freshly armored gang falls in behind him. He leads Looir along, and his newfound followers move people out of their path, even ousting an old warrior from his covered stable so Aedan can park the horse there. Afterward, they follow him to the largest roundhouse, where his uncle Taran holds court with Ciniod and her gaggle of sycophants.

It takes little effort for Ardan to shift from the morose Ancalite to the Owl King, and his newfound gang of toughs makes this transformation evident to all watching him.

He dumps the sack’s contents onto Taran’s sandbox while his brute brigade crowds the room so much that his mother’s ass-kissers have nowhere to sit. For her part, she quickly unravels a scroll to reveal its well-drawn map.

“This is the Tamesa,” she says.

“There’s more.” Aedan unrolls a clerical scroll and shoves it at Taran. “Every man’s name, rank, camp duties, and pay.”

“What the fuck does that give us?” Ciniod asks.

Taran studies it with hungry attention. “What time they eat, where they eat, how they eat.” Grinning, he thrusts the scroll in his sister’s face. “This camp layout is drawn for the non-fighters among them.”

“How did you know where these would be?” she asks her son.

“Someone drew the Greek word for administrator on the side of a wagon,” Aedan answers. “No doubt one of the Treberoi,”

“Fintan teaching you that gibberish wasn’t all bad,” she says.

Taran scolds her. “The Greek language binds us to the continent, Chinny.”

“Of course it does, dear,” she soothes, her hand on his.

“That being said,” Taran addresses Aedan gently. “We lost eight young ones taking that cart, not to mention risking yourself.”

Aedan says nothing—his skin took the paint, so he fought.

“You will sit out the next battle,” Taran decides. “I’ve lost Fintan, that’s enough.”

“You’re going to need me,” Aedan snaps. “The wolves will come before morning.”

“You’ll need us all then,” the largest of his gang speaks, the hair above his lip braided and his chin clean-shaven.

“They’re not coming here,” Taran assures.

Another tough speaks out, this one a stout giant with a little girl’s voice. “You shouldn’t doubt the words of the Owl King.”

“Owl King?” Taran scoffs. “Listen to me, all of you, a logical determination is not divination,”

“I got no idea what you just said,” the giant retorts.

“Makes no matter,” Aedan interjects. “His words are those of a dead man.”

Mother scowls, but Taran remains amiable.

“The waterlogged soil protects us,” he assures the toughs. “The wolves won’t find our tracks in this rain.”

He’s going to get us killed, thinks Aedan, who reaches for the scrolls and begins shoving them back into the sack. His uncle snatches one from him, and one of the toughs grabs it back.

“Give that to me,” Taran barks.

The toughs around Aedan draw their daggers as those behind Ciniod do the same. Silence sets in as rain taps the roof, and every armed man watches the other.

“What’s this division?” his mother declares. “The wolves want us all. Let’s not do their job for them.”

“Keep them,” Aedan says, raising his hands and walking out.

“Goodnight,” his mother’s voice calls.

Hard rain washes away his tears. Furious, he walks ahead of his gang and enters another roundhouse, where residents crowd the spiraling narrow, turning meager spaces into beds. His scant quarters lie near the center, a small room with a door.

Aedan hangs his father’s owl mask beside the real bird, who treads eagerly on her perch. He raises his arm so she can wrap her long talons around it.

“You belong outside,” he whispers.

He walks her back to the entrance, where she flaps her large wings and launches into the nighttime rain.

“Fly north, don’t come back here,” he murmurs.

Back in his room, the manlet snores on wool-covered hay.

Strong naked shoulders rise above a red and green tartan that bunches at the small of his back. He slumbers for several moments, his broad, boyish face dogshit when compared to that masked Roman’s green eyes. Most of those wolves have brown eyes like him—what makes that fierce fucker so special?

The manlet groans softly.

Aedan strips off his smock and hammers his foot into the boy’s shoulder blade, forcing him to his feet with a howl.

“Damn you!” Kelr cradles his arm. “I’m in no mood for this, not tonight!”

“Your mood is black?” Aedan admonishes. “Why? I told you we would fail.”

“You said that, yes,” says Kelr. “But seeing you fight so hard, we all thought your prophecy might change,”

“Prophecy?” Aedan dips his head and stares into his eyes. “I’m no seer,”

“You said we’d fail,” the manlet whispers.

“I did say that, yes. Anyone with a knack for strategy knows Taran has none.” Aedan unties his britches and pulls out his cock. “If you’re so sore at the loss, take it out on me, you whiny infant.”

A firm hand catches his neck, and the other grabs his wrists. Fingers dig into his throat and overcome with desire, Aedan lifts his limber leg and strikes Kelr’s gut with his knee. The redhead falls onto his ass, sobbing.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he cries.

Aedan sits with him and presses a foot to his shapely chest. “You say you want me,” he taunts with a push. “Take me,”

The manlet grits his teeth before jumping on him. Their wrestling soon fills Aedan’s cock with blood, until the manlet traps his arms and legs, giving him no means to strike back. Aedan twists lustily like an eel, and his angry lover rolls him onto his belly. Kelr forces his legs apart with determined knees, and Aedan bucks wildly, his hole eager for a dry stab.

Then, a gob of spit slides down his cleave, and a slick thumb douses his desires. When gentle hands knead his buttocks, Aedan thrashes in frustration.

“Oy,” says Kelr. “Let me admire your back end for a bit,”

Aedan wriggles free and confronts the manlet’s crotch.

“Why is it not up?”

“It’s not up, because,” the manlet stands. “Nothing about this brings me pleasure!”

Aedan pulls back his knees and exposes his hole.

“Not even this?”

“Where’s your hairs?” asks the manlet, fascinated.

“I scrape them away with a blade,”

The manlet’s cheeks flush.

“You run a blade over your balls?”

“A blade keeps it all clean.” Aedan flashes his tongue. “Taste my hole, you’ll see.”

The hulking redhead crawls to him, his meager cock bouncing to life. Aedan drives a foot heel into his nose, sending Kelr back with a howl. Aedan rolls from his position, laughing with fists ready—a good punch is all the kiss he needs.

The manlet isn’t coming for him. He stands there like an addled child, holding a bloodied nose, his adenoidal sobs killing Aedan’s mood.

“Why can’t you rut like a normal man?” he weeps.

Aedan sighs. “As if you know what a man is,”

“My mother is right,” he roars, his bruised sinuses clogged. “You wouldn’t know love if it bit you.”

Aedan pulls on his britches.

“Be somewhere else before I get back.”

Outside, the stinging rain feels good. He knows love. He loves more things than anyone, but he loves himself most, so it’s down to him to finish the night right.

Aedan walks the wall, seeking knots in the wood. It isn’t his first time pleasuring a tree, and the fort’s planks are just headless, rootless trees. He lost his innocence in the trees, regularly yanking off on the face of an old druid, a man who lost his forearms and hands to rot. Most pitied the bastard, but not Aedan, or the trees that kept their secret.

At the south wall, he frees himself, but before his cockhead touches the rough bark, the earth beneath his feet melts away. The sinkhole looks big enough for one man, but the downpour widens it. Ten paces ahead, another sinkhole emerges, with a clear bootprint beside it. Heart racing, Aedan sprints to Taran’s roundhouse.

“Stormy waters run just as deep,” Ciniod says.

“Yes, and your waters run deep enough to drown a man,” Taran counters as Aedan barges in, soaking wet.

“We need to flee,” the young druid pants. “We need to flee, now.”

“Does this boy never sleep?” Taran sighs.

“They’ll slaughter everyone,” he tells his mother.

Taran grouses. “This day’s been bitter enough.”

“Mother,” he grabs Ciniod’s arm. “Heed me, please.”

Ciniod stares at her son and wipes a wet curl from his forehead. “Let’s go, boy,” she whispers, taking his hand. “Sleep is what you need.”

Outside, however, she enables him.

“What do you know, boy?”

“They’re here,” he whispers. “We must go,”

Ciniod marches him to where his gang gathers, men whose names she knows well. It is she who orders them to prepare for their departure. Aedan regards her suspiciously.

“What?” she asks. “You thought they rallied behind you? No boy, Cassibelanus left them for me, and now it’s time we take them home.”

Aedan runs off to collect his war prize.

“Where you going?” she yells through the downpour.

“My horse,” he shouts back.

“You don’t have a horse,” she cries.

But he does, and the white mare waits where he left her, sheltering under a covered stable and still wearing that four-pronged saddle. He strokes her snout. “Come on, Looir, we’ll not die here.”

The regal mare snorts.

“Nothing will hurt you, not while I’m around.” He kisses her dark patch and mounts the saddle. He then grabs one of the prongs. “I might have to hurt myself on this later.”

Looir trots into the rain, her head nodding.

*

Across the field, behind a stormy curtain, their group slips into the woods. They number five on horseback and six on a cart; among them, Taran lies bound and gagged because Ciniod refuses to leave him.

Aedan casts a judgmental eye, and she explains that she’s not the sort to be alone in this life, or the next. Kelr’s glare finds her next, and after he complains of their cowardly retreat, she advises him to hate her all he likes, at least he’ll live to keep doing it. A nervous whinny escapes Looir as the other horses pass her. The gale at their backs, bringing with it the clamor of shrieking horses, deathly shouts, and clanging metal.