In Service to the Beast King [18+]

Tangled

Tangled

Breya helped her mother with spinning at the wheel. When she first started the task upon receiving her first blood, she’d hated it. The threads tangled constantly under her inexperienced fingers and her yarn was lumpy and weak. Four years later, she still disliked spinning but worked quietly anyway as her mother told her stories of the old days. They were times for lessons, as an artisan and a woman; Breya must eventually hold the knowledge of her peoples.

“Ruta, have you forgotten me?” came a familiar voice that rumbled through an open window. Breya’s mother stopped her nimble hands at the sound, though one hand did stray up to touch nervously at her lovely dark hair, now threaded delicately with silver strands.

“Orik, you’ve come early!” Ruta exclaimed. She stroked her daughter’s hair, a sign for Breya to leave while her mother entertained one of her lovers. Because of the shortage of women ages ago, the Old Mothers devised a plan for men to relieve themselves and for women to gain an upper hand. Men may still have as many lovers as they could afford but now, women can as well. And because a woman can have multiple lovers, the child she bore had multiple probabilities for fathers, and thus each child was respected. Not very many women continued this tradition for fear of incestuous conditions. The few that do are wealthier, more capable of rearing many children and are respected. Their children are often beloved because they have been “Fathered by all,” and are considered everyone’s brother or sister.  Of course the men and women who copulate enough to bear children keep track of their lovers so as to keep their children from interbreeding.

Breya adjusted her spindle so that when she resumed her spinning, it would not be tangled. She then picked up her satchel and kissed her mother before leaving. She held the door for Orik, a man that looked so much like her that she was certain he was her father. He treated her warmly and gave her a single brilliant yellow Golden Gussy from a bouquet he held, her mother’s favorite.

“Sixteen and still not married, Breya? I know Drego is available to wed!” Orik teased her. She placed the Gussy in her wavy honey blond hair and smiled, happy to be done with part of her textile chores. Her mother was a great weaver but everything must be done in proper order.

“I shall choose in my time,” she stated wisely though had yet to feel any of the wisdom of Motherhood yet. He applauded her on her wisdom regardless.

She was about to head to The Tits, was just walking there when she heard shouts from the villagers all around her. They were pointing up, fearful, as a shower of fire rained from the sky in the distance. Each flame fell purposefully behind The Beast. Smoke rose up, black and vile, and then red flames danced up higher than the trees could ever reach. The Black Forest was burning.

Luckily for the people of The Valley, the wind took the terrible smoke down toward the crest of the great land, and the fire followed. Still, the villagers looked to the elders, the Old Mothers, for guidance. Nothing like this had ever happened before. No gods had ever rained fire down from the skies to punish its worshippers. And still, it was not the people of The Valley that had been smite, but the reclusive people of The Black Forest.

“Do not fear them,” murmured the oldest mother. She was nearing her ninetieth year and was the oldest living person of these known lands to date.

“Who?” Asked a worried young man, clinging to the hand of his own mother. Confusion furrowed his dark brows and made him look angry and older than his years.

“They will come to light,” she answered cryptically but most of the people understood. The all glanced to The Beast, as if to see the strangers climbing along it’s open maw, ready to enter into The Valley. The open hall quieted as the doom seemed to thunder in their ears. Fear was more powerful than a single woman’s wisdom and the people of The Valley rose up in unison, rushing home to bar their doors.

Breya’s mother did no such thing. Though she felt the fear that permeated the grass sweet air, she did not shudder away from it. She listened to the oldest mother and feared the rain of fire, not the people of The Black Forest. She worried about them as if they were her children, wanted to enter their deep dark world to save them. Ruta was a brave woman, a trait that was encouraged in all of her twelve children. Breya had this courage as well, and when they returned home, she filled the bathing tub with water.

“What are you doing that for, Breya?” Asked her mother as she unpinned her hair, letting the dusky brown fall thickly around her bare shoulders.

“For them,” she replied, imitating the cryptic speech of the oldest mother. Her own mother did not further question her, instead went to her youngest child and showered him with sweet affection. Campfires before had choked her and a drink of water usually soothed her burning throat.

“Help me put Moro to sleep,” her mother asked just as she finished filling the tub with water from the well. Breya suspected that her mother was trying to keep her from opening and closing the door and letting in the night’s draft. Still, she relented and went with her mother into Moro’s room where her small brother, of only six springs, curled up in his sleeping furs.

At the wee hours of the night, the watcher ran through the village slapping hallow sticks together, alerting everyone to danger. Breya thought the fires had spread to The Valley but when she opened the door, she saw that it had finally died down. The air smelled of fragrant smoke, but tasted bitter, tasted violent.

The few people who lived on the outskirts of the town, mostly farmlands, farthest from The Tits, looked out their doors and windows, looking toward The Beast as if they could see through it to the other side. But something was moving closer. And soon, doors shut all around them and the smell of fear overpowered the embers in the distance. Breya craned her neck to see as her mother roused and startled her. She jumped out, losing her balance and tumbled onto the dirt.

The smell of smoke hit her sharply as did the sound of her mother’s gasp. Before her was the soot black feet of a stranger. Her eyes traveled up bloody legs, a damaged leather tunic, up to a smeared face. Behind the darkness of cinder and night, two grass green eyes stared back at her. She recoiled and bolted toward her mother, slamming the door shut.

Breya’s heart thundered in her chest, threatening to break free of her ribcage. She swallowed down her frightened cry and glanced at her mother. Ruta was looking out through the window, studying the stranger closely. When she went to open the door again, Breya could not stop her. She did follow her mother, however, because she loved her dearly and did not want her to be harmed. But the sight of swaying dirty strangers outside her door had startled her.