Man O' War

Always

Cold. Quye'ck had never liked it, especially not beneath his feet. The sensation told of the sun's departure, its waning light heralding the dangerous hours of night. The hours in which light came as a manufactured thing instead of a natural one. The hours he and the others withstood now. Hoisted in their hands, slim pillars of wax come from some faraway place called Jengar's Reach, each one punctuated with a small flame at its highest point. These lights pushed against the moon's pale one as the cold she brought with her threatened to part them with its frosty fingers.

They should all be sleeping at this unnatural hour, but instead, Clans Hartim and Lexlar crowded here, in the ritual circle of Miranx for the sixth consecutive night, together bearing the burden of silent observation. And the observed? The union of a man his Pa insisted was his cousin, though Quye'ck was sure he'd never seen him before. And his betrothed, one of Eiph'ck's cousins, was equally strange to him. Standing just inside the ritual circle to divide the crowd from the couple at its center were the grand architects of this scheme, some crop of nameless fathers, uncles, and other married men of both clans.

Well, Quye'ck was sure they had names, but there were just too many to count, let alone remember, and he didn't care so much about them anyway. All they did was carry on and on about who so owned that bit of land, that roof, or this particular stack of gold instead of the one just beside it. How much could they have to say after nearly a week of these assemblies?! Were he so lucky that he might sleep through their endless drawling, but such fortune was not to be had. Instead, he was made to stand there, cloistered by the uncharacteristically still and upstanding bodies of his clansman, endlessly suffering the sensation of melted candle wax dripping onto his fingers. The thick smell of vayesma stung his nose as it wafted about like a wandering dog that'd eventually stay its feet at his own. This unique form of torture might be easier to bear were he allowed to shoulder the burden with another...

He sighed, casting a glance across the night darkened circle to find his friend crowded amongst his kin, mirroring his sire's rigid posture and concentrated look. He wondered if he was truly listening or just pretending to. He frowned. Pretending, he decided, so he wouldn't feel so alone in his boredom. Although a little too good at pretending. The look on his face was much like when he was absorbed in one of his dear books...Kava forbid! Was he listening? No! No, just good at pretending, surely. He knew Eiph'ck too well. There was no way he found any sort of entertainment in this. Though before he could observe him any further, the figure of his friend was obscured by another, and this one was moving.

A man as tall and wide as his Pa, though far more wrinkled, circled the couple, speaking words not of contract but of unity. He donned robes in the same bright colors of the squawking birds that decorated the canopies of The Heartlands—rich greens, vivid yellows, and brilliant blues—to stand out against his maroon scales. Jewelry crafted of carefully carved wood and bone dangled around his neck, wrists, and ankles, making the pieces of steel in his nose all the more noticeable. They glinted in the candlelight. One, two, three, four, five rings straddled the space between his nostrils, one for each of his wives. Not just 'a man' then, no, he was the indelible, the ancient, Lord X'chtlama, Clan Leader of Lexlar. The only one worth remembering in that sea of faces.

He reached the apex of the ritual circle, marked out by two sabers sunken into the earth, and raised his hands. "Ikismoyi."

"Ikismoyi majeva." Quye'ck and the others echoed.

The couple stepped forward, their own colorful robes and wooden ornaments shuffling quietly as they moved. They acknowledged the clan leader before them, each withdrawing a blade from the ground with his permission, then turned to face each other. With a gentle sweep of the arm, they pressed their sabers against one another's throats. The sounds from before quickly became distant memories as the two passed a step in parallel to their right. His cousin's posture, rigid. Ungiving. His intended followed. Her eyes locked to his as if she were ready to devour him whole. With each movement, her painted and veil-draped hood flared open, then closed. His cousin's dorsal crest raised and lowered. To match or to compete?