The Draoidh hold a mother most sacred. The only thing more important is the seedlings of the clan—the children a mother nurtures. A clan without mothers or children is a clan without roots or limbs. They are a people not long for this world.
~Mother Danu, The Primordial Goddess of Nature
A year later…
Conall struck empty air, each strike creating a vacuum of air and a faint popping sound. His broad shoulders and equally thick chest rippled with exposed muscle. His close-cut reddish-brown hung limply with sweat but whipped about, throwing beads of water with every movement. His beard was mixed with red, black, and white bristles, which framed his face and made his warm green eyes practically glow.
A cultivator rarely had to pay attention to the temperature, and he was no exception. He’d stripped down to just a loose pair of shorts explicitly used for training and cultivating. There wasn’t anything covering his feet, so his soles slapped lightly against the packed ground.
There was a time they filled this place with laughter and people. Crow missed those days. Now the only sounds coming from here were the light slapping of bare feet, faint pops of fists striking the air, and the labored breathing of a man driven by anger.
Across his bare skin, Crow could see simple scarification tattoos. These were much more complex than typical inked tattoos, and they’d often glow as his father’s Source activated. Crow was entirely too young to have awakened his Source, so unlike his father, he wore pants, light slip-on shoes, and a woolen sweater pulled over a thin shirt. Most Druids wore a hooded cloak instead of a heavier coat, especially cultivators because they could hide their markings. It was easier to throw off a cloak to fight than to remove standard outerwear.
Crow’s father also dual-wielded battle axes but rarely brought them out. There was something strange about the red-bladed ax heads. However, he had a pair of thick wooden rods he practiced with in their stead.
Nearly a year had passed since Gideon abducted his mother, and Crow had just turned four. He sat on the stairs leading to the private courtyard, staring at the scars on his palms—a constant reminder of how helpless he’d been during the events that had transpired. The only difference was he stood taller, a little less chubby, and his green eyes had lost some of their warmth. His black hair had grown out, something his mother usually cut back for him.
Sitting on these steps had become a ritual. Papa had lost interest in most clan-related events and trained or cultivated most of the day—every day. Crow hadn’t even realized he was sniffling or crying until fat drops of water landed on his scarred palms.
“Boy,” Conall snapped after losing part of his focus. “Will crying bring your mother back?”
“N-n-no,” Crow stuttered and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Power. There is only one thing that matters in this world—power. It is the only way to bring your mother back,” Conall told his boy, all the while keeping his body in motion. “This is a hard lesson you need to learn. Your father is worthless because he didn’t have the power to keep your mother safe.”
Crow’s tears stopped flowing. Papa was angry again, but lately, he was always angry. Compared to the wicked man that took mama, papa’s anger wasn’t that scary. He cried too because he was afraid papa would leave him, and every time Crow tried to talk to his papa, the older man never responded.
Was papa going to leave? Crow wondered. Now that his Druid bloodline was awake, Crow’s memory gave him insights a child his age shouldn’t have. The thought of papa leaving no longer felt like a fleeting fear but reality. He could be decisive, and Crow came to an important crossroads in his life at that moment. A decision loomed before him he’d later recognize as the most pivotal in his life.
“If papa won’t play with me, then I’ll play with papa,” Crow muttered, and maybe that didn’t feel like much of an awe-inspiring choice, but that’s because to play with papa, he had to do as papa did.
Stepping down off the stoop, his face hardened. After a few steps into the courtyard, the rising sun cast his father’s shadow across most of the yard. Not sure what else to do, Crow did as all good shadows do—he mimicked what the man that cast it did.
It didn’t take long before he also came to understand regret. Several life lessons came at him all at once. His little legs shook from the strain, but he stuck out his tongue and refused to stop. He was stubborn, just like that day a year ago when he ran through the forest naked and hurt—he refused to quit. Then, like now, his body shook—it wanted to stop, but Crow kept going.
Conall’s Topaz Shield, embedded in the center of his chest and roughly the size of his hand, gave off a slight glow as he spread his Mana Sense around him. It was an ability all cultivators would get when they opened their Source and allowed them to sense the mana all around them. It wasn’t sight, but if honed enough, it wasn’t far off either. Mana infused all things, so he could watch everything his boy did without ever turning his head. Not everyone’s Mana Sense was equal—his wife also had a Topaz Shield and several more stars than him, but his Mana Sense was more potent than hers. It allowed him to sense things further away and gave him more sensitivity to danger. But, like all senses, there were ways to trick them, and relying solely on that one sense was likely to get a person killed.
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The moment Crow stepped into the courtyard, Conall watched. A smile finally broke through his stony face, and with it came the first crack in the rage that filled him. The boy’s action had inadvertently started turning anger into resolve.
If his son wanted to learn the ways of a Druid, he’d teach him properly. Most kids didn’t start their martial training until ten because Druids were sticklers on history and learning. The early years were when kids would benefit from those things the most. However, Conall realized his child would never be like others. Not just because of his ability to remember everything instantly, but because he’d already started facing the reality of how the Heavens could punish him.
“Crow?” Conall asked—feeling a sense of pride towards the boy.
“Yes, papa?”
“I’m going to show you a set of moves that will strengthen your muscles. If you want to train with me, then you must do this every day.”
“Every day?” Crow’s emphasis on every nearly made Conall laugh.
“Not every day. How about until you can do the entire boiscin for three hours without collapsing?”
“What is a boiscin?”
“Every martial art has moves and stances. The boiscin is a set of actions that will help you react instinctively while fighting. We Druids practice an art called Bataireacht, and the first boiscin I am going to teach you has twenty steps, but you will only train the first ten.”
“Okay, papa.”
“Remember, without a solid martial foundation, you weaken your future techniques, spells, and abilities. Do you know why?”
“A weak foundation always collapses,” Crow said something he’d heard his grandpa say to his cousins.
Conall was about to correct his son only, but then he heard what the boy said and was stupefied. It shocked him enough he almost messed up his routine.
“While this set of movements is easy, I don’t want you focusing on power or speed. Understand? You are to do each movement slowly and with exact precision. Control your muscles as you strike and move. When you can get through the entire thing without faltering, you can go a little faster and strike a tad harder.”
Crow nodded, and Conall wasn’t sure if the boy knew about Mana Sense or if Crow had forgotten his papa wasn’t facing him.
“I know your Druid’s bloodline is active, so you’ll memorize everything I do and say. We must master skills before increasing their power or speed. Striking harder and faster without understanding will cause you to suffer and form bad habits. Rushing through the steps can do irreparable harm to your foundation. Mastering one skill is more powerful than knowing hundreds of skills.”
“Yes, sir,” Crow said, his spine straightening as he prepared to absorb everything his papa told him. Papa hadn’t said this many words to him in all the days of the last year combined, so he perked up to absorb every single word.
“Good, let’s begin.”
Father and son practiced as the sun rose above high into the sky. Crow thought he regretted mimicking skills earlier, but the boiscin his father taught him pushed him towards utter exhaustion. No way would he cry out or run away because papa was like papa again. The man even took the time to show him some stretches to do once his body was near collapse. After a time, he’d recover and begin the boiscin again. Finding his breaking point was easy at this stage, and Crow tried to push it time and time again.
Crow felt like half the day had passed, and he said as much. Conall shook his head, knowing it had only been about an hour in total.
Every morning for the next few weeks, Crow woke up and scurried out to the courtyard to work with his papa. Occasionally, cousin Aine or Otto would show up, but he ignored them and worked until he was sweaty and could barely stand. Otto, the simpleton, mimicked everything Crow did. Only, he was doing so without effort.
Unlike Crow, Otto didn’t tire or take breaks, but he was odd. Although he was Crow’s age, he was twice as tall, had violet-colored eyes, and had no hair. It was a case of all muscle and no brains, and Crow didn’t even think the big boy could talk.
Crow, not experienced with the world, didn’t know how to handle him, so he ignored the giant kid. Not that it would stop Otto from following him around like a lost puppy. If the kid’s height didn’t garner enough attention, the violet-colored eyes would. Crow’s uncle Lute was the one that adopted the boy, supposedly saving him from a dire fate within the tower.
Crow knew Otto wasn’t really his cousin. Despite the distinct lack of intelligence and the big guy’s bumbling manner—he was a gentle soul. Because of his simple nature, Crow acted as the big guy’s guardian most of the time. Only he could bully the dummy.
Almost a month to the day Crow had first stepped out into the courtyard, he maintained the boiscin for the entire three hours. A huge grin lit up his chubby little face, and he threw his hands in the air and shouted in joy before falling backward onto the ground like a felled tree.
Otto mimicked everything, including falling back, only he misjudged his size. Crow had to scramble out of his way before getting crushed.
The most irritating thing was the big idiot could do the entire routine after about a week. That caused Crow to stop talking to the dummy and push himself harder. Every day he focused his unbidden anger into his training, but he didn’t know why he was so mad. Now that he’d completed the task his papa set him, all that anger went away.
Crow was cleaning himself by the small pond at the back of the courtyard and looked at his reflection on the water’s smooth surface. His cheeks were still chubby, but his face looked thinner. The straight black hair hung nearly to his shoulders, and unlike others in his clan, there wasn’t a freckle or mark on his flawless tanned skin. He wondered if his shoulders would end up as broad as his father’s or look more like Gideon.
His reflection bothered him. Having a perfect memory, he had analyzed Gideon’s face many times and couldn’t help but find similarities in his own. It had even become the focus of his offerings to the various Druid gods. He begged them to give him his father’s visage because he did not want to walk around wearing an evil man’s face.
“Well done, boy,” Crow’s papa said from behind him, startling him, causing his hands to slip.
Splash!
Crow fell into the pond, unable to stop himself from completely submerging himself.
“Papa!” Crow sputtered as he came up out of the water.
Conall’s bellowing laughter rang out across the courtyard. Papa never laughed anymore, and a big smile instantly replaced Crow’s anger. Otto watched from nearby. His serene face never showed much emotion, but he smiled because Crow was smiling.
“Get changed and grab a cloak. We are going to meet someone.”