The first raindrops hurt less than his father’s lifeless owl mask.
Free of warpaint, he drops his bareass into the pebbled rivulet and opens his legs. Within the V of his spindly thighs, his pliable manhood waggles as rushing waters flush his foreskin.
His snowy war prize approaches for a drink, the dark moon patch above her eyes concealing a hair whorl. She takes her fill before retreating to the grassy bank, where tasty cornflowers rise for her attention.
Aedan walks toward the nervous mare, picking out a stone embedded in his narrow buttock.
“You are no longer a Roman citizen.” He reaches under her barrel and unbuckles the saddle. “You will be naked as Epona intended.”
Looir lifts her muzzle and lets out a snort. Fingers admire her coup and discover a lightly worn hide and a back free of sores.
Aedan kicks the saddle over and examines it. Four cock-like prongs rise from the top, the front pair leaning outward to trap a rider’s thighs. The padding beneath is thicker than what’s on top; her master favors more about her comfort than his own.
“My grandfather raised horses.” He wraps his spindly arms around her neck and presses his forehead to her withers. “You’ll like our pastures. Plenty of studs and just enough clover that you won’t get patchy.”
Her head comes about, and with her long nose, she pulls him closer. She knows not a word of his language, so he speaks Greek—the language of the world, his father always said.
Aedan steps into his britches and ties the waist rope tight before collecting his owl mask and hugging it to his chest.
“I miss my father,” he tells her. “He sounded like a god when his cock spat.”
The mare whinnies.
“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.”
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?”
The mare’s skinny legs kick as she rolls over in 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?”
She playfully groans and rolls again.
“I couldn’t see his face behind that metal mask. I couldn’t even see his eyes. The slits were too small.” Aedan folds his arms. “I like men whose eyes grow dangerous when they see me.”
Suddenly, the mare stands and emits a squeal.
A collection of hardy warriors emerges from the trees, the blood upon their painted bulges running long in 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 searches their faces until he finds one he knows. “Speak to Taran.”
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.
Aedan collects the saddle from the grass and sets it upon her back. Without another word, he retrieves the sack and departs for higher ground. The mare follows closely, dividing the warriors as they pass.
Smitten with the druid’s strange beauty, Kelr strips off his blood-stained britches and stomps into the water. Others join him, whispering when the Owl King sits upon the highest rock to watch them through the downpour.
Paint joins the water, revealing the freckles on his muscular arms. Free of the day’s carnage, the boyish Kelr bids the men goodnight, his bright yet tired eyes drifting to the Owl before guarding his interest from the others.
Aedan departs after him with no reason to hide his desires.
At the fort, the freshly washed gang trails after him, moving people from his path and even ousting an older warrior from his covered stable when he lingers long, debating where to leave the mare.
They follow Aedan to the largest roundhouse, where Taran holds court with his mother and a gaggle of sycophants.
It takes little effort to shift from morose man to Owl King, and the newfound gang of toughs entering on his heels makes the transition all the more satisfying. He dumps the sack’s contents onto Taran’s sandbox while his brute-brigade crowds the room so much that Taran’s ass-kissers have nowhere to sit.
Ciniod unravels a scroll and reveals its well-drawn map.
“This is the Tamesa,” she says.
“There’s more.” Aedan unrolls another and shoves it at Taran. “This lists every man’s name, rank, camp duties, and pay,”
“What fuck does that give us?” his mother asks.
Taran examines it closely.
“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,”
Ciniod 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.”
Ciniod smiles. “Fintan teaching you that gibberish wasn’t all bad,”
“The Greek language binds us to the continent,” Taran scolds.
“Of course it does, dear,” she soothes.
“That being said,” Taran addresses Aedan with a gentle tone. “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,” the older druid decides. “I’ve lost Fintan, that’s enough.”
His mother’s self-serving look speaks volumes.
“You’re going to need me,” Aedan snaps. “The wolves will come before morning,”
“You’ll need us all if that’s true,” the largest of the gang speaks, the hair above his lip braided and his chin clean-shaven. “You should doubt nothing the Owl King says,”
Ciniod scoffs, “Owl King?”
“Logical determination is not divination,” Taran says, dismissive.
“I got no idea what you just said,” the largest retorts.
Taran’s words are those of a dead man.
“The waterlogged soil protects us,” Taran presents a paternal smile. “The wolves won’t find our tracks in this rain.”
Aedan gathers 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 from Taran while the other shoves the rest into the sack.
“Give that to me,” Taran barks, the men behind him stepping closer.
Rain taps the roof as every man with a sword watches the other.
“What’s this division?” Ciniod declares, her eyes volleying between them. “The wolves want us all. Let’s not do their job for them!”
“Keep them.” Aedan retreats with his hands up. “The Romans will have them back when they come for your head,”
Outside, hard rain washes away his tears.
Furious, he enters another roundhouse, walking the spiral narrows packed with residents turning their billets into beds. He enters his meager quarters and hangs the owl mask beside the real night bird on her perch.
He extends his arm for the owl to wrap her long talons around, and once hooked, he walks her back to the entrance. Outside, she flaps her large wings before launching herself into the stars.
Kelr snores upon Aedan’s wool-covered hay, his muscular back exposed and tartan blanket draping over the small of his back.
Aedan watches the slumbering manlet for several moments, then hammers his foot into his shoulder. The manlet jumps to his feet, howling, while Aedan falls to his knees, eager for that first fist.
“Damn, you!” Kelr cradles his shoulder. “I’m in no mood for this, not tonight,”
“Your mood is black, why?” Aedan admonishes. “You knew we would fail.”
“You said that, yes,” he scowls. “But seeing you fight so hard, we all thought your prophecy might change,”
“Prophecy?” Aedan dips his head and looks up into his eyes. “I’m no seer,”
“You said we’d fail,” he whispers.
“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 bawling baby,”
A firm hand catches his neck and the other his wrists. Fingers dig into his throat, and overcome with pleasure, he kicks out a limber leg and catches Kelr’s jaw with his foot.
The redhead retreats with a howl. “I can’t do this.”
Aedan presses his foot to Kelr’s shapely chest.
“You say you want me,” he taunts with a push. “Take me,”
Kelr grits his teeth before jumping him again.
Their wrestling soon fills Aedan’s cock with blood. The manlet traps his arms and legs, giving him no means to strike back. Drive by lust, he twists like an eel as Kelr rolls him onto his belly and forces his legs apart with determined knees.
Aedan bucks wildly, his hole eagerly anticipating a dry stab. Alas, a gob of spit and a slick thumb arrive instead. After several seconds of a gentle hand kneading his buttock, he thrashes in frustration.
“Oy,” Kelr cautions. “Let me admire your back end for a bit,”
Aedan quickly fights free and confronts Kelr’s crotch.
“Why is it not up?”
“It’s not up because,” Kelr growls through his teeth. “Nothing about this brings me pleasure,”
Aedan pulls back his knees and exposes his hole.
“Not even this?”
Kelr stares. “Where’s your hairs?”
“I scrape them away with a blade,” he tells him.
The manlet’s cheeks flush. “You run a blade over your balls?”
“A blade keeps it all clean.” Aedan flashes his tongue. “Taste it.”
Kelr crawls to him, his cock bouncing to life, and that’s when Aedan drives a foot heel into his nose. The young man cries out, and Aedan rolls from his position, laughing with fists ready.
Kelr isn’t coming for him. He stands there like an addled bitch, holding his bloodied nose while his adenoidal sobs kill the mood.
“Why can’t you rut like a normal man?” he cries.
“As if you know what a man is,” Aedan counters.
“My mother is right,” he snarls. “You wouldn’t know love if it bit you,”
“Biting is love.” Aedan grabs his britches. “Be somewhere else before I get back,”
Outside, the rain gives a pleasant sting, but Kelr’s insult lingers.
Aedan loves more things than anyone knows—but he loves himself most, so it’s down to him to finish himself right. He walks the wall, looking for knots. It isn’t his first time pleasuring a tree, and the fort’s planks are just headless, rootless trees.
He came of age in the trees, regularly yanking off on the face of an old druid who lived among them, having lost his forearms and hands to rot. Most pitied the bastard, but not Aedan or the trees that kept their secret. The old man died grateful, leaving him his stash of special mushrooms.
At the south wall, Aedan 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 under the gate’s hem.
Ten paces ahead, another sinkhole emerges, and beside it, a clear bootprint.
Aedan sprints to Taran’s roundhouse.
“Stormy waters run just as deep,” his mother snaps.
“Yes, and your waters run deep enough to drown a man,” says Taran, whose eyes find Aedan before Ciniod’s.
“We need to flee,” he warns, panting. “We need to flee, now,”
“Does this boy never sleep?” Taran sighs.
“They’ll slaughter everyone,” he says, 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 the roundhouse, however, she confronts him.
“What do you know, boy?”
“They’re here,” he whispers. “We must go,”
Ciniod marches to where his gang gathers—men whose names she suddenly knows. As she orders them to prepare for their departure, Aedan regards her suspiciously.
“What? You thought they rallied behind you?” she reveals. “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.
The white mare waits where he left her, sheltered under a covered stable and still donning that four-pronged Roman 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 moon-shaped patch and then slaps at a saddle prong. “I might have to hurt myself on one of these later.”
Across the field, under a curtain of rain, their group slips into the woods. They number five on horseback and six on the cart, along with Taran, bound and gagged because Ciniod refuses to leave him.
When Aedan turns a judgmental eye, 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 tells him to hate her all he likes—at least he’ll live to keep doing it.
A nervous whinny escapes Looir. The other horses pass as a sudden gale cuts through the rain, bringing the sound of shrieking horses, muted shouts, and clanging metal.
Hours pass before the horizon glows with a burning flame.
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