Blood Feud [COMPLETED]

CHAPTER EIGHT ☽

At the great oak forest, the Fair Folk readied themselves for the Rutting Moon. 

Every year they built temporary structures to shelter for the long night before the alcohol burned away the evening's chill. The druids potted about their makeshift tents. High off their vapour-baths that made them loopy, as the evening progressed they were wilder than the cider drinkers. Last year a druid inhaled so much smoke he decided to go for a swim, lost control of his limbs and drowned. Too loopy to paddle.

Not understanding how they lost their minds by simply inhaling smoke, Tara realised their intoxicated state would help her enact the plan. With spectators, druid and Blood alike, distracted, she could escape the archaic Blood rite and find Erik.

The only variable was the mysterious concoction she had to drink.

Ethne complained of the foul taste but gushed about exhilarating effects of the druid drink. She was partly intrigued, but losing control of her senses was too worrisome a prospect to enjoy. This night probed her to be vulnerable enough as is. Losing herself to some potion would undoubtedly make her a sitting duck for lord Tiarnan's advances, and any other old men her brothers wanted her to marry.

She moved away from the tent flaps she peered out. She tried to warm herself up but nerves chilled her. Her attendant ran fingers through her hair, combing through with floral oils and using the remnants to rub her tense shoulders, wound up to the ears.

"Don't worry, mo rí,' Hazel rasped, 'Every young girl gets nervous before their Rutting Moon, you'll be grand.'

Even though she could not see her, Tara gave her a tight-lipped smile. Appreciative of the attempt to make her feel better but considering 'it'll be grand' as the verbal equivalent of patching a hole in a sinking boat with a leaf.

But her meaning was pure. The words softened the anxiety in her chest. Hazel was a fixture in the family household. She was a personal attendant to her mother, and her grandmother's before that. Her face was rosy and round, eyes creasing with well-worn laughter lines betraying her old-age.

She bore nine children-- all grown and labourers for her brothers, and Tara was in awe of her and her health. When she was a child, she thought Hazel was the oldest person ever, the long braid severely pulling her hair and forehead taught, enunciating wrinkles. She had a long life, far longer than any of Tara's family.

Hazel spun her by the shoulders, squeezing them, 'Just remember to down your druid's drink and you'll be able to run for the whole night. You won't be cold or fearful then but warm and fuzzy inside,'

That piqued her interest, 'It really works that well? I've always been a bit dubious of druidic magic, to be honest.'

Hazel's smile lines deepened, 'I'm sure you are, little rí, what with all that power you've got within you. But for Nobs like me, a druid is a sacred host of the gods, our link to them on earth, so their magic is less obvious than yours, divinely inspired as you are. You and yours are the very gods we worship, I believe it so, which is why it's been my life's pleasure to serve your family and watch you grow all these years.'

Tara's cheeks reddened at the flattery, 'And it's been our pleasure as well, though I wish you'd stop comparing us to the gods, we're not like them.' She thought of the Morrigan then, and the Dagda, Lugh and even Erik's Woden, all divine beings whose talents dwarfed that of her Clann.

They could choose who they married.

Hazel was busy polishing her arm torc, shining the gold before she attached them to Tara's wrists, 'Fine then, I'll just consider ye the mischievous fairies then, with your small pointy ears and upturned noses and face full of freckles. Now, I wonder whether to leave these torques on you or remove them for the rite.'