Aedan wakes to a gentle song of slapping water.
Household goods and jars surround him, but they restrict less than the tight ropes binding his legs. He tugs at the manacles around his wrists and, with a caterpillar’s skill, gets to his feet.
His toes warm in the small band of light cast from a narrow slit above the door. Hopping toward it, he gets as close as his chains allow and presses his forehead to the opening. Mossy fish stink tickles his nose, and looking down reveals a wheel motionless on planks fused by pitch.
A violent lurch knocks him onto a pile of rolled rugs, their course undersides chafing his bare back. The wagon moves in fits and starts, and once its iron-ringed wheels traverse pebble-laden sands, they leave the raft and lake behind.
Faceless voices ring out near his prison.
“You will see me before Saturnalia,” promises Milky.
Fuckface responds, “Make sure Castor’s mother gets her house back,”
“Restoring evicted patricians to their homes isn’t first on my list of things to do,” Milky jests. “But I’ll prioritize it in the name of acquiring their gratitude,”
“Please do,” Fuckface says. “Imperator will need that gratitude when he returns,”
Anger fuels Aedan’s determination. He works at the ropes, picking loose the first of many knots made by Reed Eyes; luckily, the raven-haired ball sack cinched them in front.
The ascending wagon rocks on a sharp turn, and the horses grunt as bends become frequent. Cold air pebbles his skin as the day wears on, and before long, an unyielding thirst finds him shaking jars.
In a corner, the horse’s water pail beckons. Pushing away its flat cap, Aedan dunks his head and growls at the biting cold.
The wagon rounds another uphill curl, the steepest by far. He gulps with greedy abandon, anything to lubricate these painful, dry heaves. Nausea attacks in relentless waves, making him wonder if Fuckface’s seed took root.
No, he has no womb for such predicaments. Thorny gas grinds his guts while pressure hammers his sinuses. His stomach jumps again, forcing him to retch up an endless deluge of glistening pain.
Laughter breaks outside. “Your druid isn’t used to being up this high in the world,” comes a gravelly voice. “Didn’t they have mountains in Britannia?”
Aedan spends hours picking at the knots in his binding. After a while, he senses the wagon making more turns than straight advances. Icy fingers labor until the last knot loosens. He kicks free of his binds before standing tall and cracking the tension from his back.
Fuckface’s heady bergamot smell lures him to a box wrapped in cloth, and inside finds a cache of the bastard’s oils. He uncorks a brown-glass bottle, licks the stopple, and tastes the man’s foreskin. He huffs a sigh as his cock jumps; even now, that gorgeous fucker owns him.
Aedan feels a fool for believing he could possess such a man. No marriage binds them, no love sparks, and no permanence reigns—so says the bastard he thought would love him to death.
He shoves the bottle back in place and discovers two finger-length ampules. Red, viscous fluid fills the sealed glass tube, and the first bears the name of Lucius Vitus Servius. The second wears his mother’s name, written in Latin as Ciniod Cassia. He clutches her blood tight as memories of their strange closeness scratch his brain.
Ancalite children spent little time with their mothers, and he was no exception until Fintan began wandering the continent. Aedan found himself stuck with her and his uncle nearly every day—and he stews the worst for it.
As if stung, he returns the ampule to its place, but before he ponders why the Roman saves these things, an owl feather pokes out of a gold-trim crimson cloak. Unwrapping the cloak dislodges tiny seashells that spill onto his thighs.
Before him are his feathery shoulder guards and owl mask. Beneath it are his tartan trousers—the ones he wore on the waterfall the day he came upon the alluring Fuckface.
Taking them out uncovers a leather chapbook of pressed leaves and flowers, but the sketches prove captivating. Coal-drawn trees, seen only from lying on the ground, touch something within.
Ashy grey and black battle scenes project more detail than he ever thought possible by human hands. Soon, he comes upon a faceless drawing of himself, lazing nude atop a long, thick tree branch in a storm of falling leaves. His large pinna juts out from the black curls on his head and bite marks cover his little buttocks.
Overcome, he tosses everything but his trousers back into the crate. The Lion is a sentimental imbecile—no—such mawkishness escapes the mighty Fuckface. No doubt, the Roman keeps these things as trophies.
The cumbersome restraints rattle as he pulls on his trousers. Each brace connects to a chain meant to secure the wagon’s goods; without them, a ream of colorful fabric topples. He unrolls a portion of the deep blue cloth and grips its thick hem with his toes and teeth, tearing free enough to swaddle his shoulders.
White smears the craggy peaks for miles, and their narrow gravel path offers no buffer against the massive gorge. The bluish-green river snaking through it is tiny from such heights.
Tree-covered hills give way to another rocky valley, its width broken by a bridge of multiple arches. The road rounds another bend, allowing him to inspect the bridge’s highest deck, where a watercourse splashes beneath weathered panels.
The bridge vanishes into the mountain as another turn takes them down into a new valley, where the gravel path becomes smooth, easing the ride.
Patchy sunlight marks endless green hills, warming the air, though not by much. A xanthous line emerges on the horizon, and Looir gallops through the grass with the handsome Fuckface on her back, their excitement palpable.
The line becomes a towering wall, surpassing any sacrificial platform Aedan has ever seen. Vibrant drawings of apple trees adorn its tawny length, while graven lion capstones mark its jagged top.
Past the wall is a vast valley surrounded by a slope of angular peaks. Water spills over the far crest, where another bridge stretches, its arches growing short on a descent toward the valley.
Another wall appears on a high ridge, much shorter than the first, with lifelike drawings of thick leafy oaks and green grass along its smooth white stoneface.
The wagon rounds again on a climb, where a grand house comes into view that appears to float on the lake beside it. Children’s laughter and women’s chatter grow on the other side of the wagon. With them comes the clucking of fowl and the sickening scent of dung.
No way to see, Aedan yanks at one of the chains until his arms ache. He plants his feet on the wall around its brace and pulls with all his might. It comes free, tearing a hole in the wood and sending him back onto the pile of spooled rugs.
Through the hand-size opening, he finds a low wall enclosing workspaces, miniature gardens, and a busy grain mill. The wall is anchored by smooth stone buildings, the largest of which is a pale blue two-story square with white-bordered windows. The roof, adorned with dark half-pipe tiles, emits gentle wisps of smoke from its chimneys.
Smaller buildings boast paintings on their front facing walls: horses grazing, chickens and rabbits wandering the greens, a cow floating in milk, and a giant fat pig with tiny wings etched on a doorless barn containing pens.
Farmhands gather, donning autumn leggings under their thick tunics. Their wives and children join them in eyeballing the wagon, and Looir trots past with the bastard on her back, eliciting greetings and laughter.
Lord Fuckface waves to them like a returning king, but then he dismounts and embraces many of the older men. He knows the women’s names and kneels to greet their children, asking who they are and what they did during the harvest. Their love for him is undeniable, yet his affection for them reveals none are slaves.
One of the young men chides ‘Lord Skipio’ for missing the apple yield—what in Annwin is an apple? An elderly stable hand approaches Looir, beaming with pride. Her tail jumps, and her long muzzle bobs as she moves into his embrace. According to him, he’s not seen her in over ten years…
[PLEASE CONTINUE TO FINISH CHAPTER]
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