Thump.

“Ye mus’ b’ faster, ‘sara,” the old warrior replied as he delivered a wicked blow to her abdomen.  “Ye mus’ b’ strong if ye ‘r t’ survive.” She narrowly escapes his next blow, twisting and using her elbow on his forearm, numbing it and making him drop his hammer.  He curses as she grins, and her impishness earns her a glower from the old guardian.  “Ye think yer doin’ well, lass? Take a look yonder t’ yer soon-t’-b’-mate, then.  Ye need a dose o’ sense.”  ‘sara loses her smile as she watches Aethel.  Oh, not because of him, but rather as she watches him dance with his hammer, all fluid grace and muscle, moving as she never could.  She did well, very well, but she could never match Aethel’s speed or finesse.  Her temper flares and she turns back to her teacher.  “Ye think I dunno I hae a time tryin’ t’ beat ‘im, ye old goat?”  She puts her hammer away and takes a last look at Aethel, her stomach knotting and clenching, knowing deep in herself she could never match up, but never giving up, smirking a bit as she thinks of beating him.

“Yer needed ‘n th’ Tent, ‘sara,” the warrior said, and as she turns she notices her mother standing at the doorway, hands on her hips as she waits for her daughter.  ‘sara sighs and pads silently to her mother’s side.  “Ye hae need o’ me, mother o’ mine?” Bent out of shape at being summoned she let her displeasure show, her blue eyes glinting in the light. “Ye watch yer manners, ‘sara, ‘r ye’ll be facin’ yer Da and Da Kier, ye ken?”  This last sizzles the anger from her.  Da and Da Kier were enough to make her tremble.  She fell into step beside Denae, her thoughts turning back to Aethel and her.

They had been together since birth, raised in the prophecy and the lore.  He was with her most of the time, and he watched over her, protected her.  Although where he was when she fell out of tree and broke her arm she didn’t know, only that he was the one that ran for help.  Nor where he was when she cracked her skull falling off the wall, but he was there to carry her home and tended to her.  She had a penchant for trouble, she did.  And a mouth to land her in it, she thought wryly.  As fierce as Aethel was to his enemies, he was never harsh with her.  They seemed to be two halves of a whole; they often thought the same and started sentences at the same time.  She cared for him and deeply—and she protected him when she had to.  Yet she knew there was something more that was intended for them; something that she was not going to want to hear.

And indeed it was.  The Tent was where Clan business was conducted, and she entered it with trepidation.  Da and Da Kier were there too.  They explained to her the role she played and what she must do.  Ma and Ma Bree told her of bedding and pleasures of the body, as well as birthing and child-tending.  They questioned her knowledge of herbs and spirits, of war and Clan governing.  When they felt she was ready they left her go, a girl on the cusp of her womanhood, a hawk ready to soar.

Her head was abuzz, her mind unsettled as she tried to pull herself back in.  Her feet took her wandering outside, where she longed to go back to the uncomplicated days… the days where worry did not eat her up.  She dawdles as she walks to her tent, her path taking her not to her tent, but rather to Aethel’s.  Restless and nervous, she nearly jumped when Aethel opened up his tent flap and motioned her in.

And so it began.  Their union, the meeting of their bodies in mutual surrender and pleasure…their journey…their Clan, strong in their belief and their hope for a return to the Ways.  Yes, they were ready.  Nothing stopping them from making Cimmeria the way it had been and should be.  Proud.  Strong.  True-blooded.  Ready.