Within a Wing Beat

The Blood Rite - Part II

The year had come to a close rather quickly, they had covered stances, fighting tactics, and discovered their preferred weaponry, They also learnt how to identify and dress wounds accordingly, often having to suture and dress their own when they occurred. It wasn't an easy journey, for Cluethael especially, who had to learn, practice and dine on her own. The first few months the loneliness had been excruciating, as was the hurt of her friend abandoning her. But she had pushed through, and now it was the night before the Blood Rite.

"You better watch your back, we will come for you, you ruminating cunt," Brynn hissed at her, holding her fingers to her forehead to represent horns. Cluethael felt her stomach twist painfully as she rolled on her side in her cot, closing her eyes to get some sleep, gods know she was going to need it.

The Blood rite was a great honour to participate in, she reasoned with herself, it is a ceremony to weed out the weak and allow the strong to flourish. Nothing she could tell herself would ever be able to bring her to terms with the fact that she may not survive past tomorrow. She may not live to grow old, to marry, to bear children and bring forth a new line of heirs; she would give anything to tell her past self to run away and never look back.

The cot creaked as she rolled onto her back, staring at the wooden beams that held the thatch roof over their heads. It sounded silly, but the beams had become her friends during her stay. She would tell them the details of her day, however small; she liked to pretend that they were her father. She murmured a prayer that she had not heard since she left her home:

"Kostilus gaomagon daor rual morghon naejot gūrogon ñuha riña,"

Please do not allow death to take me.

"Kostagon se ra isse se guēsin henujagon nyke sagon,'

May the things in the forest leave me be.

"Istin return lenton,"

I must return home.

"Mīsagon nyke hen ōdrikagon"

Protect me from harm.

Sleep was torn from her in the wee hours of the morning by the thunderous beating of drums to herald the Blood Rite. They dressed silently, all of them in leathers that suddenly looked far too big for them. Cluethael silently ate her porridge as she listened to the low hum of chatter between the girls around her as they prepared for the Rite. The food seemed to sour and turn to ash in her mouth, but she forced it down as best she could, as it would be her last proper meal for a while.

She threw her legs back over the bench seat she occupied at the table she inhabited by herself and turned to exit the mess hall. It was a stunning morning, a powdery robin's egg blue blanketed them as far as she could see; soft clouds floated by lazily, she couldn't help but begin to feel sick at the thought of what was to come.

Anxiety prickled all over her body as she slowly inched up the line to be fitted with all the necessary tools needed for the Rite. She tried not to crane her neck to see where the others were being led to, she would find out soon enough. As much as she tried to calm herself, her body would not settle; she picked nervously at her cuticles as her toes wriggled restlessly in her boots.

She was unaware that Runa was behind her until a small, cold hand reached out for her own, a silent offer of comfort for the both of them. She ripped her hand away from Runa's as if she had been burned by her very touch, "I thought you didn't mingle with cattle anymore," she spat. Runa offered no reply. Soon enough it was her turn to be led into the tent she had seen all the other girls enter.

They blindfolded her immediately, disembodied hands gripped her arms roughly and forced them outwards, slipping a contraption over both of her shoulders before binding her hands behind her back. She fought the urge to let out a frightened cry at her treatment. She wasn't sure what they placed on her but it made her shoulders stiff and was tight around her waist, it made her wings ache under the strain.