VI – The Hillfort Retreat

Druid society includes seers, mediators, teachers, warriors, and healers, each earning a place in life’s tree through their achievements. Older druids accomplish more, which is why Ostin the Ageless stands above all others, and why Aedan the Ancalite remains on his knees.

Father’s owl mask watches from the muddy shore, its upper trim blackened by fire. Fintan, the former Owl King, served as a healer, but he also guided the chieftain with battlefield wisdom. Aedan’s education in all things real and imagined began with Fintan, who imparted much—especially the art of fighting. His mother, Ciniod, his mother, taught him how to feel—in this moment, Aedan feels unworthy of the title Owl King.

A sudden downpour pelts his shoulders, its sting washing away his warpaint. Naked, he sits in the pebbled rivulet and stretches out. The cold water passes between his thighs, flushing his foreskin and numbing his crack. His snowy war prize steps to the water, drinks, then returns to the bank where soggy cornflowers ease her hunger.

Aedan stands, clean of blood and paint, and plucks a stone from his buttock. The nervous mare shifts restlessly from hoof to hoof.

“You are no longer a Roman citizen,” he speaks to her in Greek as he unbuckles the saddle. “You will be as Epona intended—naked.”

The mare lifts her long face and lets out a snort.

Aedan touches the dark crescent above her eyes, which hides her whorl. “Your name is Looir.”

Clean hands admire her coup, finding her lightly worn rump without sores. He grasps one of the saddle’s four cock-like prongs, yanks it upward and away from her back. The padding beneath it appears thicker than the seat itself: her master cares more for her comfort than his own.

“My grandfather raised horses.” His arms curl around her neck before 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.”

Looir brings her head around, tugging him closer with her nose. They comfort each other as the rain begins to soften. He breaks away to dress, pulling on his britches and tying the waist rope, then grabs his father’s owl mask.

Aedan holds it tightly and says, “I miss my dad.” He pauses, voice unsteady. “He sounded like a god when his cock spat.”

Looir snorts, her glassy eye a mirror.

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

He strolls to the tree line, hoping she follows, but hearing no hooves, he turns to find the mare lowering herself by the saddle. “Did he mean that much to you?”

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

“Is he beautiful, your master?”

Looir 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 metal mask, but I saw his eyes. Green, like a dying pond in summer.” Aedan kneels, adding, “I like men whose eyes grow dangerous when they see me.”

Looir squeals and scrambles upright, startled, as a collection of hardy warriors emerges from the trees. Blood streaks their painted bulges; blue riddled with rain-slashed holes.

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

Amid shifting social rhythms, druids form their own remote villages, away from the noise of others. All eventually return to serve their clans, but these men are not his tribe, and they’re all standing where his uncle Taran holds sway.

“I’m not arch here,” he says, his eyes set on the red-head manlet.

Kelr steps forward as if chosen, and nods at the burlap sack in the grass. “We lost good men getting those drawings.”

Aedan lifts the saddle, places it securely on Looir’s back, then takes the sack and quietly walks up the slope to higher ground. Looir follows directly behind, her bulk parting the downtrodden warriors. He sits atop the highest rock, silently monitoring the warriors as they bathe in the downpour. His gaze lingers only on Kelr, the others shrinking away, unsure of what the druid sees in them.

Kelr peels off his blood-stained tartan pants, wades into the creek, and stands immersed, his face weighted by exhaustion and grief for the lost battle.

Aedan and his bitches rushed the scouts first, then stole their horses and rode to the back of the Roman march. Kelr and his comrades tried to hold the line but were soon overwhelmed by the advancing wolves and their strong shield wall. In those moments, Kelr must have searched for Aedan on the field, only to find him gone.

In the aftermath, a quiet respect settles over the fighters for Aedan. No one curses his name; instead, tension fades, admiration growing after his destruction of enemy stores. Kelr, eyes bright but tired, looks at Aedan with a guarded gaze as he says goodnight to his brothers.

Aedan leaves the riverside with him, following the manlet through the underbrush, Looir pressing behind them. He loses sight of Kelr among the battle-weary quickly ascending the rampart. They form a line near the wall of oak pillars that encircle the hillock fort, but soon push inside as the gates part.

Inside the yard, Aedan leads Looir past birch shacks topped with deer hide. Between the hovels lay empty gardens now muddy from the rain.

Steam rises from fires pits where matrons wearing soaked wool gloves pull heated stones from the flames. Nearby, they watch other women drop the hot stones into a hole while others wrap mutton and onions in wet leaves. Their young sons will layer these wraps over the stones, and when the hole is full, they will cover it with a tin shield and wait.

Shadows overtake Aedan and Looir as a hulking gang approaches from behind. The nervous mare slows, protesting with snorts as the gang moves to the front and sweeps people aside. One member even ousts an old warrior from a stable, making room for Aedan to park the mare under his makeshift canopy.

Without a word, Aedan leads them to the largest roundhouse and points to its upright planks and thatch crown, signaling them to enter. Inside, archdruid Taran stands at a tray table, lording over his strings and sticks that form places and rivers on a bed of sand.

Aedan shifts from brooding Ancalite to bold Owl King as his gang of toughs surrounds him, forcing the sycophants to Taran’s side of the room.

He empties the sack onto the sandbox and Ciniod quickly snatches up a scroll.

“What is this?” she asks, unraveling it.

“That map is irrelevant.” Aedan unfurls a clerical scroll, revealing several scrolls inside, and tosses the bundle toward Taran. “These will prove beneficial.”

Ciniod, watching her brother review the scrolls, scowls and asks, “What the fuck does this shit give us? We don’t speak the wolves’ language.”

Taran’s eyes light up as he studies it, a wide grin splitting his face. “Every man’s name, rank, duties, and pay,” the gaunt man says excitedly. “It shows when, where, and how they eat.” He waves another scroll. “This map is for their non-fighters.”

Ciniod side-eyes her son.

“How did you know where these would be?”

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

“Fintan teaching you that gibberish wasn’t a total waste of time,” she grins.

Taran stares at her, hurt by the ignorance. “Greek is the language of the sea. It binds us to the continent, Chinny.”

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

“That being said,” Taran addresses Aedan without looking at him, “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.

Aedan snaps, “You’ll need me there.”

“I’ve lost Fintan, that’s enough,” says Taran.

Aedan says, “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 says.

Another tough, huge with a girl’s voice, says, “Don’t doubt the Owl King.”

“Owl King?” Taran scoffs, but sees the determination in their eyes. “Listen, all of you. Logical deduction is not fortune-telling.”

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

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

Ciniod scowls, but Taran remains amiable.

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

He’ll get us killed, Aedan thinks, gathering the scrolls from the sand. Taran snatches a scroll from him, but one of Aedan’s toughs grabs it back.

“Give that to me,” Taran demands.

Aedan’s gang draws their daggers; Taran’s does the same. Silence comes as rain drums on the thatched roof, and each party stares the other down.

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

“Keep them,” Aedan says before walking out.

Back in the air, hard rain hides his tears. These baptisms wear down his grief, a darkness yielding light with each new battle. He takes a few pained steps before sensing the gang behind him.

“Leave me,” he orders, without turning around.

Whispers guide them away as the rain falls harder.

Aedan slips into a communal roundhouse where sleepy dwellers line narrow, spiraling paths. Closer to the center, he pushes aside the woven reed curtain to his quarters and lets memory guide him through the dark.

He hangs his father’s mask on the perch, where the real owl, Clota, paces to life. In the darkness, he steadies his arm, wincing as her large talons grip him. Once a solid scout and hunter, Clota has grown heavy with age and restless without Fintan.

“I’m setting you free,” he whispers. “You were never mine.”

Carrying the owl to the entrance, he notices the rain letting up. Clota turns her neck and blinks at him, black-centered eyes shimmering in a ring of gold. He blinks back as she spreads her spotty brown wings and launches into the mist.

“Fly north, Clota, and never return,” he murmurs as she vanishes into the night.

Back in his room, the focus lingers on the manlet, who snores on wool-padded hay, his bare shoulders exposed beneath red and green tartan that gathers at the small of his broad back.

Aedan strips off his smock and glances at the manlet, appraising him as a target. His mind wanders to the Roman. Most red-capes have brown eyes—what makes that fierce fucker so special? The manlet groans softly in his sleep and Aedan acts without a thought, driving his foot into the manlet’s shoulder blade.

Kelr jumps to his feet with a howl.

“Damn you!” He 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, I thought your prophecy changed.”

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

“But you said we’d fail,” Kelr whispers.

“Anyone with a knack for strategy knows Taran has none.” Aedan stands, undoes the tie at his waist, and, with a deliberate motion, pulls his cock out over the waistband. “If you’re so bitter about the loss, take it out on me, you whiny infant.”

Anger clouds Kelr’s eyes. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Aedan brings up his foot and presses it to the manlet’s sculpted chest.

“You say you want me,” he mocks with a shove. “Take me.”

Kelr gnashes his teeth. Torn between control and desire, he lunges. Their wrestling awakens Aedan. Still, it’s never enough. He yearns for harsh words and a punishing fist—craving the blow that hurls his senses beyond.

Yet the manlet cannot strike without anger, so Aedan ends up on his stomach, frustration pressing through coarse straw and tartan bedding. Arms restrained and his entrance aching for a dry stab, Aedan bucks as Kelr spreads his legs. Spit glides down his crease, a damp thumb circles. Gentle hands knead his buttocks; Aedan squirms in exasperation.

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

Aedan squirms loose and squares off with 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 freshly shaven privates. “Not even this?”

The manlet stares, fascinated. “Where’s your hairs?”

“I scrape them away with a blade.”

The manlet’s cheeks flush.

“You run a blade over your sack?”

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

The hulking redhead crawls to him, each movement making his meager cock bounce. Aedan drives a heel into his nose, sending him back with a howl. Rolling out of reach, Aedan laughs with fists ready—a punch, not a kiss, is what he craves—the manlet doesn’t come for him.

Kelr stands dazed, clutching his bloodied nose, his nasal moans drain Aedan’s desire.

“Why can’t you rut like a normal man?” cries Kelr.

Aedan rolls onto his shoulders and arching his back, whips onto feet. “As if you know what a man is.”

“My mother is right,” Kelr shouts, sending bloody spittle into the air. “You wouldn’t know love if it bit you.”

“The outrage of a boy when someone questions his worth carries enough weight to crush the world.” Aedan steps back into his trousers. “Be somewhere else before I get back.”

Outside, sharp rain stings Aedan’s skin, cold and insistent.

Fuck that fool. He knows love. He loves more things than anyone, including himself, so it’s down to him to finish the night right. He walks the wall, searching for knots in the wood. He’s ground himself into trees before—this fort’s planks are just trees without heads or roots.

Aedan lost his innocence among the trees, often spilling his seed on the face of an old druid who had lost his forearms and hands to rot. Most pitied the man—not Aedan, and not the trees—nothing keeps a secret better than a tree.

At the south wall, he frees himself, but before his cockhead touches the bark, the earth below melts away, nearly pulling him under. The sinkhole widens in the downpour until it is big enough for a man. Ten paces ahead, another sinkhole reveals a cavity beneath the wall, this one with many bootprints forming a path into the yard.

---

Shame no longer clouds her affections for Taran.

They share blood, but Ciniod cares little about such truths when it comes to her brother. She watches him over his sand-tray map, face set the way it was when he studied bugs as a child. They exchange words over Aedan, his anger at the gangly young druid being his son, fading with each new day.

“Stormy waters run deep,” Ciniod says, smiling.

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

“We need to flee,” her son insists, panting.

“Does this boy never sleep?” Taran sighs.

“We need to flee, now,” he says again, taking her arm. “They’ll slaughter everyone.”

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

“—Mother!” Fear clouds her son’s eyes, twisting her nerves. “Heed me, please.”

Ciniod wipes away the wet curl from his forehead.

“Let’s go, boy,” she says. “Sleep is what you need.”

Outside, however, she enables him.

“What do you know, boy?”

“The wolves are here,” he whispers. “We must go.”

Ciniod leads him to his gang, men whose names she suddenly knows. After she orders them to round up some horses, she finds her son measuring her with suspicion.

“What?” she scoffs. “You thought they rallied behind you?”

His glower fades to annoyance.

“Cassibelanus left them for me,” Ciniod adds. “Now we haul ass with them, back to the Tamesa.”

Before she can stop him, Aedan dashes into the rain.

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

“My horse,” he shouts back.

“You don’t have a horse,” she yells, running after him.

Moments later, they come upon a white mare, dry under the covered stable and wearing a four-pronged saddle. Her son’s hand lingers on her muzzle.

“Come on, Looir, we’ll not die here,” he whispers.

The regal mare snorts when Ciniod grabs one of the saddle’s prongs and yanks it off her back. “Look at this thing! This bitch belongs to someone important.” Ciniod comes between them, a hand on her hip. “Boy, you better have killed that someone.”

Aedan side-eyes the darkness.

“You idiotic little shit,” she scolds.

He steps around her and kisses the horses cheek. “Nothing will hurt you, not while I’m around.” He says in Greek, mounting her bare back.

The beast trots into the rain, her head nodding. Ciniod stands alone, soaking rain diminishing her patience. Before her wick burns out, the gang returns with horses and a cart.

It takes them under an hour to reach the woods.

They number five on horseback and six on the cart; among them lies Taran, bound and gagged because Ciniod cannot bear to leave her brother behind. Her son glances at her, judgment in his eyes, so she explains to him that she’s not the sort to be alone in this life, or the next.

Kelr’s glare finds her next, along with complaints about their cowardly retreat. Ciniod tells him he may hate her as much as he wants—at least he’ll live to do so.

A nervous whinny escapes her son’s Roman mare.

The beast halts at the tree line, letting the other horses pass. As her son leans close to whisper in her ear, Ciniod struggles to listen—Aedan’s words are lost to the gale, which carries horse shrieks, deathly shouts, and the clanging sword on metal.