VI – The Retreat

Father’s owl mask watches from the muddy shore, its top trim black from battle fire. His snowy war prize approaches for a drink and takes her fill before retreating to the grassy bank, where waterlogged cornflowers await her hunger.

Falling rain stings his shoulders, a necessary hurt that washes away his warpaint. He drops his bare ass into the pebbled rivulet and spreads his spindly legs. Within the V bobs his pliable manhood as rushing waters flush clean his foreskin.

Aedan rises to his feet, 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 his familiar Greek.

“You are no longer a Roman citizen,” he scolds, 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 moon sliver that conceals a whorl.

Clean hands admire her coup, and a lightly worn hide reveals a back free of sores. Aedan pulls the saddle free by yanking one of the four cock-like prongs that rise from the top. He finds the padding beneath it thicker than what’s in its seat—her master cares more for her comfort than his own.

“My grandfather raised horses.” His spindly arms curl around her neck as 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 must detach to dress himself.

He steps into his britches and tightens its 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 that.”

A snort comes with a bit of voice and a single jerk of her head.

Aedan strolls to the tree line and, hearing no hoof-falls behind him, turns to find the mare lowering herself beside the saddle.

“Did he mean that much to you?”

Her skinny 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. I did see his eyes, though, green like hot seawater.” Aedan folds his arms. “I like men whose eyes grow dangerous when they see me.”

The mare jumps to her feet with a squeal when 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,” he says, his voice heavy.

The novice druid collects the saddle from the grass and sets it upon the Roman horse’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. Paint soon joins the water, revealing the freckles on his muscular arms.

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, they sought the Owl for his wisdom, only to find the druid had mysteriously vanished. No one curses the Ancalite’s name today. There is only praise for the burning of enemy stores.

Whispers prevail, however, 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, the manlet bids the men goodnight, his bright yet tired eyes drifting to Aedan while guarding his gaze from the others. Aedan follows, his unspoken desires apparent—he has no reason to hide what everyone knows.

He loses sight of the strapping young man within the fort’s walls, and shadows overtake his position when a freshly armored gang falls in behind him. He leads the horse along as some of his newfound followers move people out of their path, even ousting an old warrior from his covered stable when Aedan decides to park Looir there.

Afterward, they follow him to the largest roundhouse, where his uncle Taran holds court with Mother and her gaggle of sycophants. It takes little effort to shift from morose Ancalite to Owl King, and his newfound gang of toughs makes this transition evident.

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

“This is the Tamesa,” she says.

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

“What the fuck does that give us?” spits Mother.

Taran takes it in hand. “What time they eat, where they eat, how they eat,” he says with a grin, thrusting the scroll in his sister’s face. “This camp layout is drawn for the non-fighters among them,”

Mother wonders, “How did you know where these would be?”

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

She smiles. “Fintan teaching you that gibberish wasn’t all bad,”

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

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

“That being said,” Taran suddenly 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 fight no more,” 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 the gang behind him speaks, the hair above his lip braided and his chin clean-shaven.

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

Another tough speaks out, 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 at him then, while Taran presents an amiable smile.

“The waterlogged soil protects us,” he assures them while ignoring their Owl King. “The wolves won’t find our tracks in this rain.”

Aedan reaches for the scrolls to shove them back into the sack, but Taran snatches one from his hand. Two warriors flank Aedan, one grabbing the scroll back.

“Give that to me,” Taran barks, the men behind him stepping closer as the men around Aedan draw their swords.

Rain taps the roof as every armed man watches the other.

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

“Keep them,” Aedan retreats.

“Goodnight,” says his mother.

Outside, the pelting rain washes away his tears.

Furious, he walks ahead of his gang and enters another roundhouse, where residents crowd the spiral narrows, turning their spaces into beds. His scant quarters are near its center, a small room with a door that closes.

Aedan hangs his father’s owl mask beside a real night bird, who treads eagerly on her perch. He raises his arm so she can wrap her long talons around it and says, “You belong outside.”

He takes her to the entrance, where she flaps her large wings and launches to the stars.

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

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 no longer alluring when compared to that Roman mask and the green eyes behind it.

The manlet groans softly, and that’s when Aedan hammers his foot into the boy’s shoulder blade, forcing him to his feet with a howl.

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

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

“You said that, yes,” he grouses. “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,” he 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 pleasure, Aedan kicks up a limber leg and punches Kelr’s forehead with the top of his foot.

The redhead falls onto his ass with a sob. “I can’t do this anymore,”

Aedan sits before him and then 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 him. Their wrestling soon fills Aedan’s cock with blood, and when the manlet traps his arms and legs, giving him no means to strike back, he lustily begins twisting like an eel.

His angry lover rolls him onto his belly and forces his legs apart with determined knees. Aedan bucks wildly, his hole eager for a dry stab, until a gob of spit and a slick thumb douse his desires.

Gentle hands knead his buttocks until he thrashes in frustration.

“Oy,” the manlet cautions. “Let me admire your back end for a bit,”

Aedan quickly fights free and confronts the manlet and his crotch.

“Why is it not up?”

“It’s not up, because,” the manlet growls. “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, eyes set.

“I scrape them away with a blade,” he says.

The manlet’s cheeks flush. “You run a blade over your balls?”

“A blade keeps it all clean.” He flashes his tongue. “Taste it.”

The hulking redhead crawls to him, his meager cock bouncing to life. Then, without warning, Aedan drives a foot heel into his nose, sending the manlet howling back.

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—no, he stands there like an addled bitch, holding a bloodied nose, his adenoidal sobs killing the mood.

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

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

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

Aedan grabs his britches. “Be somewhere else before I get back,”

Outside, the stinging rain proves pleasant.

He knows love. He knows he loves more things than anyone—but he loves himself most, so it’s down to him to finish the night right. He walks the wall, seeking knots. It isn’t his first time pleasuring a tree, and the fort’s planks are just headless, rootless trees.

Aedan the Ancalite lost his innocence in the trees, regularly yanking off on the face of an old druid who lived among them, 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. It’s big enough for one man, but soon more as the downpour widens the sinkhole’s hem.

Ten paces ahead, another sinkhole emerges, a clear bootprint beside it.

Heart racing, Aedan sprints to Taran’s roundhouse.

“Stormy waters run just as deep,” Mother says as he enters.

“Yes, and your waters run deep enough to drown a man,” Taran says.

“We need to flee,” Aedan warns, panting. “We need to flee, now,”

“Does this boy never sleep?” Taran sighs.

“They’ll slaughter everyone,” he tells her, frantic.

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

“Mother,” he grabs her arm. “Heed me, please.”

Ciniod clears a wet curl from his forehead.

“Let’s go, boy,” she whispers, taking his hand. “Sleep is what you need.”

Outside and over the threshold, however, she confronts him.

“What do you know, boy?”

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

Ciniod marches him to where his gang gathers, men whose names she suddenly knows. She orders them to prepare for their departure and turns to find Aedan regarding her suspiciously.

“What? You thought they rallied behind you?” she says. “Cassibelanus left them for me, and now it’s time we take them home.”

Aedan dashes off to collect his war prize.

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

“My horse,” he shouts back.

“You don’t have a horse,” comes her cry.

But he does, and the white mare waits where he left her, sheltering under a covered stable and wearing that four-pronged saddle.

“Come on, Looir,” he strokes her snout. “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 slaps one of the prongs. “I might have to hurt myself on one of these later,”

She 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, 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. A sudden gale pushes through the rain, bringing with it the sound of shrieking horses, deathly shouts, and clanging metal.

Hours pass before a burning flame appears on the horizon.