A Promise Fulfilled: The Jay and the Jackdaw
Gráigdeireadh, Eastern Aurinsay, the Brythonic Isles.
The Twelfth Day of the Second Moon, 600 AD.
Gráinne didn't understand why the other kids were acting like the newcomer was weird. He seemed relatively normal to her. His voice sounded different to the rest of the villagers, but it wasn't like she couldn't understand him. Arwen, she'd heard him called. He seemed relatively quiet, though she supposed that the boys he was training with would make a direwolf seem quiet. They had a particular talent for making a lot of noise when doing very little.
Arwen was nice, by her estimation. He was different to the rest of the village, except Old Kerwyn, since he was... what was the word the grown-ups had used? Oh yeah, foreign. He was from somewhere else, basically. She thought it was silly that grown-ups had a fancy word for that, but then most of the things adults did were odd. He'd been living in the village for a week or two now, and whilst he was always polite to everyone he seemed to keep his distance from most of the other children in the village, and they from him. Something to do with him being from Brythonia.
Which was stupid. Brythonia was just across the water from Aurinsay. Why did it matter that he'd come here by boat instead of being born here?
Arwen might not have been Aurinsian as she was, but that didn't matter to her. She didn't understand why the men in the village shunned him for that. He kept the same gods as them, didn't he? He spoke the same language, if in a slightly weird way, and was already a better shot than the other boys in the village.
That last point didn't seem to be making him any friends, which was quite evident when it came to swordplay. He wasn't a particularly bad swordsman compared to the other boys, but it was clear that he was more at home with his bow than any blade. She watched from the side as two of the other boys ganged up on him again and he was sent back into the dirt almost as soon as he'd gotten up, and she resisted the urge to go down their and fight them herself.
As the huntsman called the bout and walked away, Arwen remained on his back in the dirt looking somewhat dazed. She couldn't make out exactly what was being said to him, but she thought it might be best to make sure nothing bad happened.
"Oi, you three, the bout's been called. You can bugger off now."
The two boys on their feet looked at her, somewhat surprised by the language coming out of her mouth, as she marched her way towards them.
"You got rocks between your ears or something? Scram, go!"
They might not have looked like they enjoyed being ordered around by her, but eventually one of them tugged on the sleeve of the other's tunic and motioned for them to leave. She watched them go with a feeling of satisfaction as she turned and offered her hand to the Brythonian boy.
"Thanks," he started, his voice somewhat hesitant, "my name's Arwen."
She scoffed a little before responding, pulling him to his feet.
"I know that; you've been here for a little while now. I'm Gráinne."
He smiled at her.
"Thanks for that. I still think they aren't used to me being here yet."
"Used to you being here? Arwen, they've had what, two weeks to get used to you by now? They've had time enough to know better. Do they do that often?"
He blinked at her.
"Do what?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Pick on you."
He shook his head hurriedly.
"No, of course not! They don't pick on me, I just... I just need a bit more training in swordplay, that's all!"
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he looked away with reddening cheeks.
"I don't believe that, and neither do you. Come on, dust yourself off then lets go play something. We're friends now."
He blinked a few times in surprise.
"Huh? Oh, okay! That sounds nice to me!"
She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
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Summer came and summer went, and the two of them became inseparable. It was rare for them to be seen apart for more than a day, and the two of them seemed to be growing around each other like intertwined branches. She very much enjoyed spending time with him, even more so whenever she got to thump someone giving him shit for being born somewhere different to everyone else. She thought it was stupid. Arwen had lived amongst the village for quite some time now, and had become well-liked by most of the parents for "keeping his nose clean", whatever that meant. She'd also become quite the terror to the boys in the village for her ability to seemingly show up whenever one of them was about to do something that might get them in trouble.
A bit like right now.
There was no real reason she'd decided to walk out to the fields between Gráigdeireadh and Grywhendaigh, especially not this late in the night, or should that be this early in the morning? Either way, it seemed her intuition when it came to catching people in the midst of trouble was still sharp. What she hadn't expected was to find Arwen lying down in the middle of one of the fields, arms behind his head as he looked up at the stars above. Normally she'd call one of the adults to report someone breaking the rules, but then this was Arwen, the boy who never broke the rules, and besides the adults were probably all asleep now anyway and he was only breaking curfew so it wasn't like he was hurting anyone-
She took a deep breath to slow her mind.
"Hey."
She stepped forwards and sat down next to him, his eyes never leaving the night sky.
"Hey."
The two of them were silent for a long time, neither making any real move to talk or even really acknowledge the other. It was... nice, she thought, to have someone she didn't need to do anything around. She could just... well, she could relax for a bit. There was a distant howl from somewhere to the north, answered by another to the south. She turned her head both times as though she would be able to see the hounds if she looked hard enough, and only stopped when she realised Arwen had turned to look at her as she did so, smiling at her.
"The hour of the hound. It's my favourite hour of the day."
She turned back to look at him, an unreadable emotion on his face.
"Why's that?"
"Well... you promise you won't laugh?"
She blinked a few times, a little taken aback by the vulnerability in his voice.
"Of course. If it's important to you I'd not make fun of it. Never."
He smiled up at her again, and something in her chest skipped a little at the expression.
"I'm still... I'm still an outsider to the other boys in the village. It doesn't matter what I do, they never see me as one of them. So I like to come out here for an hour or two most nights, usually at the hour of the hound. No-one's awake, just me. No-one's around to bother me, or belittle me. I like to come here to just... be alone for a little while."
She nodded at his words, the skip in her chest becoming a dull ache, and she resolved to beat some sense into the other boys until they treated Arwen better. But first, she should leave him be.
"I'm sorry for barging in on your alone time. I'll leave you be."
But as she made to rise from where she was sat, a hand gently tugged on her arm. She looked down at Arwen, the dark doing little to conceal the flush of red on his cheeks as he spoke.
"No, you can stay if you'd like."
The next words he spoke were almost a whisper, but she heard them nonetheless.
"I like being alone better when it's with you."
There was another howl in the distance as she slid down on the grass next to him, both of them staring up at the night sky.
"Why are there so many wild dogs on this island? There are some on Brythonia but nowhere near as many as here. The ones here are much bigger as well, but thinner. Why is that?"
"Well, they're the descendants of the greyhounds of Jainé Ó Braidislaigh of course!"
He blinked at her in confusion a few times, clearly trying to make sense of what she'd said and jog his memory.
"Isn't there a song about that?"
"Yes there is, but are you telling me in all the time you've lived here you haven't heard the story of Jainé Ó Braidislaigh yet?"
He shook his head
"Gods, how? I love that story. Here, listen, it goes something like this..."
He turned to her and paid seemingly absolute attention as she regaled him with a tale of a huntress and her two faithful hounds, of how they caught a hart that had evaded all other hunters before them, and of how she had her two faithful greyhounds gorge themselves on the flesh and blood of the hart before they whelped, and fell asleep with her against a tree.
His attention never faltered as she told the tale, and he rolled onto his front so as to look at her as she continued, telling him of how seven other hunters happened upon her and, infuriated that Jainé had succeeded where all of them had failed, resolved to kill her. She told him of how, despite arrows finding their mark below her breast and above one of her knees, she still managed to kill six of her assailants and gravely injure the last, who rode back home with great difficulty as a result.
There was a mixture of tears and wonder in his eyes as she finished the tale, telling of how at the end there was nowt but a slain huntress, a broken longbow, two dead dogs, and eight greyhound pups left alone in the forest.
"And as they grew in their wild homes, with neither mother nor father nor kennelmaster to nurture them, the eight hounds would become the first of the wildhounds of Aurinsay."
"Woah..."
She turned to look back at him, realising with a little start that she'd gotten so invested in the telling of the story that she'd nearly forgotten that she was telling it to someone.
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"Sorry, I got carried away a little bit. Would you like me to-"
"Are there any more stories?"
She dragged her gaze away from the waves crashing on the rocks of the breakwater somewhere off the coast, and turned to look back at him. There was a look of wonder and almost a star struck glaze over his eyes as he looked at her. How could she say no to him when he looked at her like that?
"Well, I can think of one or two, if you can remember any of your own from back home?"
He nodded fervently.
"Yeah! I remember loads of stories! There's the ones about the Jay and the Jackdaw, then there's all the ones about the Greystones, and there's even a few about the faerie circles on the ground in the woods."
"Tell me the one about the faerie circles and I'll tell you another."
He nodded again and sat up, his hands accentuating his words as he spoke excitedly.
"Okay, so it goes something like this..."
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"... and so that's why we venerate the Greystones so much! It's... things from Brythonia, and the rest of the islands come to that, have a connection with the mystical forces of the world that the mainlanders lack, or have forgot. There might not be any man or woman alive that can truly harness magic, but that doesn't mean it isn't affecting the world around us!"
She looked at him as he spoke, sure in the knowledge that the wonder in his eyes must surely be matched by her own.
"So magic lives in the Greystones? There isn't any magic here, so that would explain why."
He shook his head in an almost excited manner.
"No, silly! Magic has always been here!"
He grabbed her hand and lifted it up, as though it were necessary to make his point.
"Magic is in brambles and bird's nests, under the tongue and in the palm. Magic is in everything around us, we just need to look for it!"
He said the words with such assurance, such intensity, that she couldn't help but believe him. She barely stifled a yawn, but her efforts proved fruitless as Arwen yawned anyway, setting her off as well. To be fair they must have been led out here for hours now, and she was quite tired. He looked it as well. They really should think about heading back soon.
But it was surprisingly comfortable here. Maybe just five minutes to rest a little...
"Hey, Arwen?"
"Hm? What is it, Gráinne?"
"Do you think you could tell me another story?"
"Sure, if you'd like! Give me a moment to think of one though, I'm starting to get a little tired."
He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and gave a little chuckle at his own words. She only realised then that he was still holding her hand, which made her smile a little too. She felt her eyelids start to droop ever so slowly as he thought, the gentle sounds of waves in the distance lulling her to sleep.
"Okay, I think I've got one..."
But whatever he said next was drowned out by the embrace of sleep, becoming little more than white noise in her tired mind.
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They'd woken up the next day in a tangle of limbs from where they'd curled up with each other in their sleep, then had been subjected to what should have been quite an extensive telling off, but by her reckoning it had seemed half-hearted at best. Most of the adults seemed to either coo or snicker good-naturedly at them when they'd been found, so the two of them were let off with just a warning to "Make sure you bloody well come home next time."
Nights like that only became more common over time. If any of the adults noticed them sneaking out, they never mentioned it again.
Quite some time had passed since then. Well, the adults wouldn't have thought so, but to her two years was quite a long time. Arwen still might not have been fully accepted by the other youths in the village, but at least he wasn't being picked on any more. The last time someone had tried to pick on him she'd given them a glare that dared them not to burst into flames and uttered some very choice words that some of the adults would be mortified if they knew that she knew what they meant.
She was quite proud to say she'd grown up to be every bit as formidable as her mother, if mildly more uncouth in the language she used. But then that by itself was quite funny at times. She had a talent for running a household and making tough decisions, which meant she was already being taken in consideration for helping with the running the tribe in a few years when she grew a little older, since those skills were invaluable in a small village such as this.
As for him, well, today was to be special for him. It marked ten-and-four winters since his birth, and as such today he would be undergoing the ceremony that would turn him from a boy into a man. Almost everyone in the village would be in attendance, and apparently Old Kerwyn would be overseeing the ritual himself. It wasn't often the old druid led ceremonies nowadays, but he'd always had a soft spot for the only other Brythonian in the village. Arwen had been about as excited as she'd ever seen him earlier that day, and even now he was practically buzzing with a want to complete the ceremony right away.
"Eager, are we?"
He nodded earnestly.
"Yeah! I'll be a man! I'll be able to go out on hunts and track umbra with the other hunters in the village, after all, I'm good enough with my longbow, aren't I?"
She nodded at that. He might have been good with his bow a few years back, but time and practice had certainly lent itself well to his skills. He was a true marksman if ever she'd seen one. Time and exercise had also put more muscle on his body; nothing bulky like some of the warriors she'd seen, but certainly enough to make a difference when it came to the drawing of his bowstring or when helping with the autumn harvests.
He was still the least skilled swordsman out of all the boys in the village, but then no-one was perfect.
Truth be told, she was almost as excited as he was for this ceremony. She'd not been able to attend one since she was eight winters old, before Arwen had even arrived at the village, and as a result she was looking forwards to observing the ceremony once more. Last time she had bore witness to the ritual it seemed almost magical, or at the very least mystical in nature. It bound the boy undergoing it to the soil and trees and waters of the Brythonic Isles, imbuing them with the spirit of whatever animal they had caught earlier that day for the ceremony.
Six-hundred and four winters had gone by since everything had collapsed on the continent. She still wasn't sure why the people of the Brythonic Isles measured the passing of time from an event they had no part in involving some fallen king thousands of miles away, but who was she to question that decision? After all, it wasn't like she knew of any other ways to keep track of the years. Six-hundred and four winters. It was odd, she thought, that so much time had passed since everything fell apart for the men of the south, and yet still their kings and princes still bickered on.
If it had been her down there she would have knocked their heads together and got them to stop their bloody fighting before they managed to collapse everything again.
She shook her head and broke her own musings. The mainlanders were strange, and always would be strange. Not much she could do about that. Besides, it was time for her to start helping with the preparations.
Around an hour before twilight she found herself with Old Kerwyn on the ritual grounds helping him to prepare what little remained to be done.
"Has he come in with his kill yet?"
"Aye," came the gruff reply, "not long ago neither. Jackdaw, he brought. Makes sense."
She briefly looked over to the old man before she returned to cleaning out the oaken bowl.
"How so?"
"God of the hunt and wild. He always did worship that one more fervently."
She looked over at him in comprehension.
"He means to bind himself with the blood of the god he worships?"
Old Kerwyn smiled at her.
"Aye, he does. Good on him for that, that's what I say. Them other blockheads all went out and killed wildhounds, something about being 'pack'. It's a nice sentiment, if a bit overdone. Here, listen to this: one daft bugger from when I was younger tried to get a direwolf for his coming of age ceremony. Stupid bastard. Only found one of his shins, rest of him was long gone. But still, even if he'd succeeded, it wouldn't have gone well. After all, who'd want to be close to someone who tied their soul to a monster?"
She grunted a noise of agreement at that. Any man who wanted a piece of an umbra inside them was wrong.
"Is the bowl ready?"
"Yep. Here you go."
She placed the bowl gently upon the stump before the old Druid, and took a step back.
"Thanks. Grab that beaker while you're waiting."
She nodded and moved to follow his instructions as he quarter-filled the bowl with water and seven sprigs of mistletoe whilst mumbling a prayer under his breath. She did not know to which, of the seven corvids he was calling to, nor even how many of those gods he was calling to, but she trusted him to know what he was doing. He was approaching his eighth decade after all, and he'd performed this ceremony hundreds of times.
With a bronze knife he slit the body of the jackdaw open and let it's blood blossom in the water, careful not to allow anything but the blood fall into the mixture. When it was drained he gently wrapped it in a piece of cloth to the side, and motioned for the beaker. He added the unwatered wine held within the beaker into the bowl with the other liquids, using his bronze knife to stir the mix. Old Kerwyn looked over at her with a smile, and noticing the slightly confused expression on her face he began to explain what this ritual mix represented.
"Blessed water, that he may enjoy the protection of the gods. The blood of a fresh-slain animal, brought down by his own hand to tie his spirit to that of the animal, though that bit I think you knew already. Mistletoe for a oneness with the land, a promise that he will not take more than he needs from the world of the Corvid Gods."
"And the unwatered wine?"
Old Kerwyn smiled while chuckling.
"It's supposed to represent purity and strength. In reality I use it because everyone who undergoes their name-day ritual is nervous, no matter how much they say they aren't, and a stiff drink helps settle them somewhat."
She nodded, smiling mischievously. At that he rounded on her and poked her side, a stern yet amused tone to his voice.
"And no, you may not use the ritual wine to try and get him drunk, young lady."
She gave him an exaggerated sigh, to which he threw his head back and laughed.
"Oh, gods help the man you marry. You'll run roughshod all over him."
She laughed with him, ignoring how the thought of marriage made her stomach feel odd.
"I'll run roughshod over the village anyway."
"Heh, that much is true. Run along and get yourself ready, little 'un. Be back before the hour's up."
She nodded and took off back to the village.
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It was twilight. Most of the village were gathered in the small clearing just within the bounds of the forest, watching the ceremony. In front of the semi-circular crowd stood only Old Kerwyn the Druid and of course, Arwen. Between the two of them was the ritual drink in the small oaken bowl on a tree stump. All hushed whispers came to a stop as the old Druid raised a weathered hand, and for a moment the only sounds in the clearing were those made by the crackling of the animal fat as it burned atop the torches lining the ritual grounds.
Old Kerwyn lowered his hand and used his bronze knife to make a cut along Arwen's hand with just enough force to break skin and draw blood, and bid the boy hold his hand over the bowl, adding a few drops of his own life's blood to the ritual mixture.
"You are one with the gods in that drink, boy."
The old man let go of the boy's hand and nodded at him in a gesture of reassurance.
"Who stands before the gods today, and for what reason are they beseeched?"
"I am Arwen. I come to be raised to manhood under the eyes of the pantheon."
There was an ever-so-slight stutter to Arwen's voice that most people didn't notice, but she did. He was nervous, like Old Kerwyn said he'd be. She was glad that the old Druid had chosen to personally oversee Arwen's coming-of-age; not only were they from the same island but the old man had a wealth of experience at his beck and call, so she knew her friend's ascension to manhood would be seamless.
Old Kerwyn cleared his throat to speak, Arwen letting out what seemed to be a shaky breath as he readied his responses. She knew he'd been rehearsing what he'd say for days, maybe weeks. She knew that he really wanted to get this right.
"To which land does your soul belong?"
"I swear on soil and earth, I am born anew of this land."
"To those who would seek to harm those behind you, what course do you give?"
"I swear on wind and wave, no invader shall find my hand open in supplication. I shall face them, alongside my brothers or alone. I shall face them."
The atmosphere was somewhere between happiness and solemn. The adults were happy that there would soon be another trusted set of hands to help on hunts and tracks, but there was also the knowledge that this oath was binding. Of course she did not doubt his words for a second, she knew he would stand by the village that had become his home whether or not he had spoken a few serious words, but there was still an undercurrent that, no matter what, this was to be his life now. There was no recourse from this; a man who broke his name-day oath would never find either hearth or home open to him across any of the isles.
She saw Old Kerwyn nod and smile kindly at Arwen before continuing, a look in his eyes that seemed to be trying to convey that he was doing well.
"When you one day fall, where shall you lie?"
"I swear by moss, by stone, and by bronze, when I fall I shall remain a part of this land. I swear it."
"Do you have any other oaths you would swear?"
"I swear by soil and earth, by wind and wave, by moss and bronze and stone, I will forever stand by my new brothers in the protection of my home, and of the people who live within it.
I swear by all the gods, known and unknown, that I will strive to uphold that which they represent and believe in. I will never let them find me wanting."
"Then drink, Arwen. Drink, and rise a man."
Old Kerwyn handed the boy the small oak bowl containing the ritual drink, and he drunk deeply. When he at last removed the bowl from his lips he was a boy no longer. Old Kerwyn scooped some dirt from the forest floor and mixed it with what was left of the drink before swiping his thumb across Arwen's forehead and cheeks, leaving a thin trail of the dirtied liquid smeared where his thumb had passed.
Arwen turned around, crimson-brown beads dripping down his forehead, and when he looked at her his smile beamed so bright she thought she might go blind.