The hostages were being moved.
The Connacta had held them for one week in the pit. That dark hole was solely for those awaiting execution. She had managed to hold off on killing them all, for the time being, so her men unceremoniously dragged the nine hostages to different lodgings.
She mulled over her decision to keep them alive atop the watchtower, with the hostages below, grunting and jeering at the guards. They looked wretched and beneath the dirt-- furious. Nevermind the elevation from pit to mud-hut, their unwashed and unkempt state made them feral and itching for a means of escape.
"Get them washed."
Her single attendant exited readily to follow out her orders.
The hostages, halted outside of their mud-hut, were forced into a line facing Tara. She was without her elk skull this morning and far less imposing. Even though she was at a great height, her unbound hair and slender form may be seen as weaknesses. A little girl without a concubine and heir.
She scolded herself, remembering that the foreigners were just that, foreigners. There was no reason for them to know her unbound hair signalled her as a virgin.
She watched her men pull and mock the hostages' braids -- all of them had braids except one. The one with cropped hair must be Conn's assumed lord, his youthful complexion in comparison to the others was apparent. He stood straight and disinterested as the rest struggled to move, all chained together.
Tara's eyes focussed on him, the earthshaker. He shouted and made less rude signs than his companions. When he did look up from his forward stare, it was to marvel at the blue jays and starlings darting through nearby underbrush.
Young boys ran up to hostages, carrying pails of water and tripping over each other with excitement. They tittered nervously, bowled over by their proximity to newcomers and their strangeness. Tara's tiny cousins left the pails at her mens' feet and ran back to the well, giggling manically at the sight of such light, long-haired braids.
In Connacta culture, braids were for married women. Unbound hair, worn long, was customarily for maidens. Of course, there were no restrictions on male hairstyles. Most got it shorn on both sides and let the top grow freely, or wrapped twine around a knot on top and be done with it. With her hostages' long braids they hailed themselves married women or virgins.
Tara was jolted from her musings. The hostages began exclaiming loudly from the rough treatment and icy water thrown on them.
"Let them wash themselves!" She roared down from the watchtower.
Her younger brother, Cuán comically stopped mid-pail throw, the water landing a pathetic distance from the prisoners. The rest of her men stared at her blankly, if not slightly annoyed.
"One pail between two men. A sea-sponge on a stick each."
They dutifully carried out her orders, albeit they had to be hand-fed every specification she wanted. She did not think washing them could be seen as a weakness, as they were still held hostage, and she had killed one of them with her bolts earlier in the week. The mighty god, Dagda got his sacrifice, the Connacta loved the blood sport and Tara's rule was justified. An overall victory. Besides, the washing warded off disease festering in their camp.
Yet, a pang of insecurity still stung her heart. She turned away from them and jumped at Conn's form, blocking the stairway.
"You're going to keep them for ransom?"
She could not discern the emotion behind his eyes. His face was stony, expression immovable, "Yes," She could not help her wit, itching to revert them to their sibling rather than royal selves. "That is what's assumed when one takes hostages, no?"
He nodded. The twinging muscle in his clenched jaw revealed he was grinding his teeth, a pastime the three siblings reserved for sleep.
"You do realise the hostages will be here for an age. Who knows how long it will take to make contact with whatever savage Northern lord owns them. You wish for us to waste dear supplies on these trespassers? Nevermind the fact the quarrelling Irish will have something to say about it-"
"And that matters?" Tara's face reflected Conn's. They squared up to each other, a laughable move considering she was a head shorter than him. "To the Irish we," She thrust her finger between them, "Don't exist. We are the fabled Fair Folk. If the layman doesn't like us hosting Northerners, perhaps they can come on to our land and explain that to us."
He bobbed his head in silent assent, but his jaw still twitched, "Raiders looted and burned monasteries to the northeast a fortnight ago, my riders report." He pushed himself off the doorway and began pacing the watchtower. "What if our hostages are a small contingent of a much larger Northern force preparing to sack-"
"Well then, we'll be okay because we're not Christians."
"Who said they were solely against Christians? Perhaps they want riches in general, regardless of beliefs. Or," He punctuated the long pause with a smirk, "Maybe they want women."
A rock formed in the pit of her stomach at his words. Still, she managed to choke out a laugh. Her brother stalked down the stairwell, allowing her safe passage, but she barely paid attention. Her cheeks were heating up. She knew they stained a panicked red.
If a large force of Northerners were going to conquer the island of Ireland, surely they would want riches and women. She thought her brothers wouldn't offer her up to them, now they knew Bloods with power like theirs existed from their lands. Yet, she would rather die before it ever came to that.
Regardless of whatever powers she possessed; regardless of her ability to literally control the weather; the thought of a man's unwanted advances -- and the chance she may not be able to escape them, turned her insides to jelly; shattering her dreams of adventure into small defenceless pieces.
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Ernmas son of Elathan studied the druidic arts for two decades on the northernmost tip of the island. Rí Lorcan requested he be sent back to Connacta lands on his twentieth summer there, to help quell the Naithí rebellion on their eastern borders.
Druids were not Bloods. They were born to regular parents, chosen due to a striking deformity on their body from birth. If a Blood had a birth defect, the druid's demanded the babe be exposed on the cliff. The only Blood sacrifice still in practice.
In Tara's time, she had witnessed many a sage and their oddities traipse through her court: an armless druid levitating objects before her eyes, a druidess reinforcing incantations along the boundaries of Connacta, her face dark red, birthmarked and purple all over.
Ernmas was chosen for druidic arts because he had one green eye, one brown.
In his youth, he was a lanky thing, skinny as a scarecrow and covered in boils. Rí Lorcan said the lad could not take a whiff of air lest he comes out with another blister or hive or rash. Even the goosedown he slept on made him itch. The piss that trickled down his arse gave him sores. His body ostensibly rejected life itself and the natural world he found himself in. In defiance, he threw himself into the unnatural world.
So he practised druidic arts. Tara was never wholly sure what those arts were, that varied from healing to politics, lore keeping to dialects. She always kept her distance, never straying too near for fear he would bore her with tales of his long dissipated youth.
Usually, she loved hearing about adventures, but his stories featured visits to the deceased or tales of troublesome sacrifices which never held any allure for her. She wanted to know of distant lands, yes, but the druids never left that forsaken island, tucked away at the edge of the world, safe in their caves and woodland grottos muttering of their traditions, neglecting the sun.
Staring at Ernmas in the dining hall, she wondered if she would ever leave this godforsaken island either.
"Mo Rí," Ernmas' honeyed words did little to soften her feelings towards him. "I have returned from Ulaid territory to bring you this, most revered goddess."
Tara's eyes followed his outstretched palm to the cart rolling through the crowd, tugged along by two fledgelings. From her vantage point, she could make out an iron contraption on a bed of hay. She could feel the weight of it, burdening the wooden floors creaking with each turn of the wheel. The people cheered as it passed.
Tara was glad for the elk skull mask covering her face. Without it, she knew her dread would be noticed.
"An iron cast coffin inlaid with nails." The wagon tipped over, Ernmas' apprentices steadied it, shakily. "The only object I could find to trap that earthshaker. A curious device, I expect its use will provide a grand spectacle for your family's tribe when you put the dirt wielder in there."
The revelling crowd erupted into applause and stomping feet at the druid's words. His silken tongue was music to their ears, and he tried at every opportunity to provide her Clann with a show.
Yet he was keener still to incessantly differentiate his people -- the druids -- and Tara's, a Blood Clann he often slighted with the name 'tribe'.
"A wise choice, druid." She called out bluntly.
"More than wise," Conn moved swiftly off the promontory towards the torture device. "That is incredible, master druid, a brilliant idea."
Tara watched her older brother inspect the iron casket. He nimbly worked his giant antlers around the object as the fledgelings pulled it open to inspect the nails. Connacta warriors lined the edges of the crowd, arms splayed wide to hold them back. With Conn in full Connacta garb and a new iron trinket, it was too much for the people to handle. Conn swung the casket round to face them, nails out, and they roared their approval.
Cuán hopped down to investigate for himself. She remained stoic atop the rock, eyes flitting between her excitable brothers and the metallic burial device for the earthshaker.
"Explain to me its purpose, how could an earth wielder be without his power in one of those... gracious gifts?"
Ernmas' eyes glinted and a smile broke out across his darkened face. Despite an audience with the rí, he still kept his hood up, and she could not recall if he did that with her father. Another sign of disrespect.
"We trap the sod in here, I use a simple incantation to sequester him whilst the hooked nails keep him in place. Hopefully, the pain will shatter his mind, make him weak and unable to muster enough strength to use his affinity to free himself." The druid slowly paced the floor beneath her, unhurried in his master-plan making. "Not that he could, as the hooked nails will keep him inside no matter how hard he shakes the earth to set himself free.'
'And by then all we will need is a little lightning to burn the man in the box. With no chance of our precious goddess of abundance perishing in the fray-- no Blood's precious blood will be spilt, and the tribe's prosperity will remain."
Tara's spine stiffened. She realised that despite the torture device, her skills were still needed to effect the decisive blow. "I see."
She was prepped and preened to be her generation's goddess of abundance. Willingly she practised her arts to help her Clann and people, provided bountiful harvests, victory in war and checked natural disasters.
She did not foresee the lives she would have to take, some foreign some friendly. She was prepared to give every bit of her to provide her people with security, and yet still, she did not know if she could continue taking lives for the same reason.
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A serving girl gently brushed her hair, smoothing it into a braid for bed. Tomorrow was the Rutting Moon, and she was terrified.
"What's your gravest concern?"
Tara fussed with her fingers in her hand. "To be honest, I'm not sure what to prioritise. I'm frightened of the dark, the cold, the issue of running around the forest at night. I know it's a rite of passage for young people in our Clann but I never really thought they'd make me do it. And of course the... And of course the intercourse."
Ethne giggled at her brash anxiety.
"Just... tell me all. Speak plainly, don't leave any detail out."
Ethne's smile turned to one of intrigue and mischief.
The serving girl finished Tara's hair and darted quickly out of her room, cheeks blotchy with embarrassment. Their raunchy topic was only going to ramp up with her gone.
"I'm assuming it's the-"
"Yes, the insertion-"
"The insertion you're most concerned about? Right, I'll prepare you."
"Does it hurt?"
Instantly, Ethne's eyes softened. She moved along her bedding to comfort her. "With the amount of druid's brew you'll be having beforehand, I doubt it."
She jostled Ethne in playful warning as her companion heartily laughed at her own joke. She pulled back to face her, taking any information she could. Ethne was a loving wife, experienced in all things Tara was not. Femininity, duty, patience.
"No, it doesn't hurt. The worthy man will help make you comfortable and be gentle and understanding that it's your first time. So long as you are both gentle, careful, not moving too quickly to accidentally hurt you, all will be well," She winked, "Maybe all that horse-riding of yours has helped your wide-birthing hips."
Tara made a high-pitched noise of objection and glared, both girls surrendering to giggles. The high-walled, stone room was cast in the flickering candlelight. Small slanted windows protecting from rain and wind were fixed near the ceiling and abysmal at letting the light in. Yet candlelight always imbued a rosy tint to nighttime conversations.
"Tara..." Her eyes lifted, worried at her sudden change in tone, "May I ask, who do you propose meeting at the Rut?"
A burning desire to tell her and a crushing suspicion that Oisín and her brothers would find out should Tara let her secret desire slip.
Her friend continued, 'I know you're not making this much of a fuss over Tiarnan, you can't stand the man.'
Oh how could I forget, the little rí had ignored her brothers' choice for her hand for ages. They had been working on the betrothal for months, torturing her over who they wished her to marry -- describing elderly man after elderly man, churning her stomach. Their favourite choice was Tiarnan, a man named for his position as lord of the Tarrachta, his name aptly derived from tighearna 'lord'.
Last year when the final revolts had been squashed by their Clann, two puppet lords were needed to rule in her stead on Tarrachta and Naithí lands in person, whilst Tara lorded over them from afar. Not knowing who would be fit for the position, the sixteen-year-old Tara allowed her eldest brother Conn to decide who should govern them for her.
Tiarnan was their favourite for that position, and now he was to be the favourite for her position as husband. She wondered if her brothers likened lording over a land to lording over a wife. Something about his old-age and greed for power showed he would not bend to Tara's will, and she knew she would not bend to his.
'No, absolutely not, I will not marry that old Nob.'
She gazed at Ethne then, lovely hazel eyes mirroring her hopeful expression. Familiar indents in her cheeks, years of Tara looking over at her older, prettier friend and desperately praying to the Dagda for her dimples.
Her confidante released a beautiful aroma of sea lavender from the pot and pressed it on her skin. She smoothed it over Tara's pressure points, two drops of lavender oil on her wrists, two on each side of her neck, in between her breasts and the back of her knees.
Ethne's face was free from judgement. Tara believed she had no reason to fear repercussions if she told her the truth.
"One of the hostages...' The words left her lips before she was aware of the confession. "The good-looking one, I... We have yet to speak but I have this notion that if he were to find me tomorrow... At the Rut, it would be fate."
Ethne's expression veered from worried to pure delight in a flash, "Oh, Tara, yes!"
Her eagerness began tumbling out of her mouth, "He seems thoughtful and somewhat a gentle spirit even though a hostage-'
"Tara! He is so-o handsome. Oh, I had to put a hat on at the last Call to Session he was at. Otherwise, Oisín would have caught my roaming eyes,' She gripped Tara tightly with glee, "This is a brilliant plan you have concocted. You want no man from the Clann, but fate has delivered a dashing stranger to your lands, right before you are to take a husband, you must be right it is fated."
Her excitement was matched, 'If he is to be mine, he will find me, despite his bonds."
Nodding vigorously and gushing over Erik's appearance, Ethne said, "I love a romantic plan for star-crossed lovers."
She both agreed and disagreed. They were star-crossed in their current separation from each other, physically. But he was her hostage. Perhaps that could help her plan succeed.
In their dreams, Tara and Erik swirled together in eternal partnership. They were not star-crossed lovers. For them and their love, the stars would align.
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