Chapter 59 Old Songs of Elders
OLD SONGS OF ELDERS
“They taught us to endure. We will teach them to bleed. A woman’s silence is not peace, it is the howl before the slaughter.”
—Eyleen ársa
Theron
“What a handsome boy you are!” An elder female studies my face, nodding in approval.
“Why didn’t we have men like this when we were young?!” another exclaims and clicks her tongue.
Before I can react, a cooked piece of meat is shoved toward my face. I open my mouth, I have no choice.
“If I were sixty years younger . . .” a third elder mutters.
I pause mid-chew. What is happening? What would she have done if she were younger? Does she not realize I’m older than her?
I sit here, on a log, chewing cooked meat, surrounded by a few dozen elder females as they inspect and feed me like I’m a small pup.
From Borodyn to Róvgrad, it took us nearly four sun cycles to arrive. Róvgrad was no different. Another weak village, another place stripped of nature, lifeless and gray. It was even smaller than Borodyn. Hardly worth a battle.
I ordered three packs to escort the females and children to the first village, so they were under protection.
As before, most of those who chose to stay behind were elders, but unlike Borodyn, those elders were .
. . different. Now, we stand in Velkyna, the third village we have taken as ours.
Since we left ávera, eleven—maybe twelve—passing suns have come and gone.
I have never been away from home this long before.
The elders here are livelier than the last. I take another bite of cooked meat.
The moment Velkyna’s females realized we had come to save them, not destroy them, the elders cheered. I hadn’t expected that.
Even my warriors changed, they softened. One scented his mate, and they are now at her home, claiming what fate has given them.
It gave the others hope.
We have been gone from ávera for nearly half a moon cycle, and finally, we have one pair. That is good.
Unlike Borodyn and Róvgrad, this village has color. The females dress in rich reds and vibrant blues with beautiful embroidery. Even the elders wear bright fabric, their head coverings far more vivid than the dull rags of the last two villages.
“So you’re telling me you bedded Noel?” the elder woman in front of me asks, eyes curious as she inspects my crystals.
Bedded. The word comes from bed, my mate once explained. I grin, arching my back and letting my chest muscles flex under the firelight. “Of course.”
They burst into laughter, some playfully smacking my arms. This is good, right?
“So when will you have babies?” another elder asks, shoving another piece of meat into my mouth before I can answer.
Both my mate and I want that. But we can’t.
I feel my shoulders sag on their own. She would be a great mother.
I would be a great father. But the goddesses chose us for war, and the choice was never ours to make.
I chew, swallow, and speak. “Not yet. First, we must free all the females. And enslave the males.”
“So that vólkin is now bedding Nessya!” An elder’s voice rises from the other side of the fire, her tone teasing.
The entire village gathered to celebrate our arrival, the first true welcome we’ve received. Compared to the first two villages, Velkyna had more soldiers and defenses, but they were nothing against vólkin strength.
“She’s my youngest granddaughter, Lyuba!” another elder laughs, her weathered hands clapping together.
I nod. “Yes, they’re mates.” I move to the side of the log to make space as an elder moves to sit beside me. “The goddesses choose two souls, and the vólkin feels it in his core.”
It is law. It is nature.
“You are such a charmer!” The elder grins, nudging me.
“Thank you,” I reply.
These elders are different. Bold and filled with something the others were missing.
Warmth.
My mate was taken away earlier, the elders eager to steal her for themselves, though for what purpose, I do not know.
At least she finished overseeing the disposal of the corpses before they dragged her away.
I fed them to the wolves. And still, the wolves wait.
They stick around at the edge of the village, never venturing too close, yet never leaving.
They are watching, waiting for something.
“Have you tried mead?” A younger female approaches the fire, carrying pointed jars in her hands. The moment she lifts them, the stench hits me.
I wrinkle my snout. “What is this?”
Behind me, I hear sneezes from my warriors. The scent is foul, strong enough to make even a vólkin recoil.
“Don’t you have alcohol in ávera?” the elder woman who has spent the evening feeding me cooked meat asks.
I shake my head. “It looks like water, but yellowed. What is it?”
“Oh, son, it is from Mother Nature!” She chuckles and takes a cup from another young female. “It is honey and water.”
Honey? Bee offerings to the goddesses?
“Try it!”
I take the cup from her, lifting it to my snout—
And immediately sneeze.
The scent is pungent and sour. My fur bristles. What an awful stench.
“It might make you dizzy.” The elder near me grins.
“You blind fuck! Don’t you see his size? It won’t even affect him,” another elder scoffs.
I am big, but I do not trust anything that dulls my senses.
I scan the gathering. Some of my warriors stand by the shackled men.
Others help cook the hunt, a few talk with the females.
Dozens have gathered by the central fire, filling the village with voices and laughter.
Different scents cross my snout—blood from the fresh game, sweat from the males in chains, the scent of mating from a home nearby, and meals the females have brought from their houses.
And then, the one scent that eclipses them all.
Sweet and mine. My mate. And she is still far from me.
“You’re a strong, big boy. But tell me, do you know how to please a woman?” My attention snaps to another elder as she approaches, carrying a wooden tray.
“Of course. My mate is very satisfied.”
The elder hums, setting the tray down. “Do you use your tongue?”
“I do.”
“Where?”
Isn’t it obvious? “In my mate’s cunt, of course.”
The elders burst into laughter, their amusement echoing through the firelit clearing. The younger females blush, their faces turning red, just like my mate does. She would probably blush too if she heard this conversation.
“Just there?” The elder’s eyebrows rise. “Do you kiss?”
I tilt my head. “It seems difficult. I do not have lips like you do.” If they ask, then perhaps it means something important.
“Use your tongue,” another elder chimes in.
I frown. “Where?”
“In her mouth!”
I freeze even as a gasp escapes me. Of course. How have I never thought of that?
ívar, seated beside me, nearly chokes on his meat. I see the realization strike his mind too. He’s already memorizing the information. Kael would love this conversation.
I lean forward. “Please, elder, tell me more.”
The scent of blue roses fills my snout, and I immediately turn toward its source, my mate in her full glory.
My tail sways on its own, left and right, unable to be contained.
They have changed her attire. She is wrapped in pale, flowing fabric, so light it clings to her like mist at dawn.
The long sleeves drape past her hands, making her look too delicate for war, too fragile for this world.
But I know better.
White, blue, and gold adorn her. On her head sits a pointed crown-like headpiece, its colors matching her dress. Her dark hair is woven into two long braids, falling down her back as she moves toward me. I rise to my paws.
“My, my! Dear, you are a delight!” Elder Lyuba exclaims, rushing Noel toward us.
“Delight,” I echo, because I have forgotten every other word in existence. I stride forward and sweep her into my arms.
She laughs, loud and carefree. My snout twitches. Mead.
Did she drink it?
The females behind her burst into laughter, lifting the hems of their dresses in their fists as they rush forward.
“Theron.” Noel giggles, and for the first time, I do not recognize my mate. “I”—she laughs, leaning into me—“must eat to sober up a bit. It’s no good to drink on an empty stomach.”
I turn on my heel, and my mate lets out a ‘woo’ noise as I move.
Mead is very dangerous.
“Elder Lyuba, could you please help me feed her?” I ask, settling onto the log with Noel perched on my thigh.
“We were just discussing you two!” The elder chuckles.
“You are popular.” My mate giggles.
I huff, glancing down at her. She is a powerful leader. A warrior. The one chosen by the goddesses.
And yet, at this moment, she is a drunken dove, giggling in my lap. What have they done to her?
I cup her face, and she looks at me with a wide, dazed smile.
My sweet dove. I cradle her against me as Elder Lyuba brings more meat.
As I begin to feed my mate, the other females form a circle around the fire—elders and youths alike—each grabbing the back of the other’s dress as they begin to move. Tradition.
It’s beautiful. It makes me feel at home. Noel opens her mouth, waiting for another piece of meat, and I give it to her. Then, the first voice rises, melodic, timeless.
Daughter, daughter, hear my song,
The night is deep, the road is long.
The fire burns, the bread will rise,
A mother’s love never dies.
One voice becomes many.
The circle moves slowly, in sync. Noel chews, eyes fixed on them.
When the wind calls, whisper low,
The trees will teach you where to go.
Moonlight fades but stars remain,
The river sings your name.
My fur bristles. This is nature. Feminine power, feminine voices. The sound vibrates in my bones. More females step forward, some carrying drums like the ones in ávera. Elder A?na once told me, the drums our warriors play today came from the human females who once fled to our lands.
Carry my voice, carry my name,
Daughter, my love, do the same.
Strength in your hands, fire in your soul,
Walk as the females before you once told.
Mothers sing to their daughters. My mate straightens, her body swaying to the rhythm of their song. She claps, her hands moving in sync with the females around us. The warriors join. They stomp their paws. They pound the drums. The fire roars higher.
Mother, Mother, hear my vow,
I take your words, I know them now.
I’ll weave my fate, I’ll braid my hair,
I’ll carry your song everywhere.
The younger females release their grips, raising their hands to the open sky.
More females arrive, arms full of fabrics, objects, things I can’t name. One by one, they throw them into the fire.
A young female steps forward. “For the fucking bastard who took me young!” she shouts, hurling a pair of boots into the fire, boots that look just like my mate’s.
Another woman follows, her voice trembling. She’s furious. “For you, Soyer—for murdering my mother!”
More objects fly into the flames. More names are spoken, shouted, spat like poison. Their voices rise. Their rage turns to laughter, to screams, to release.
The fire devours their pasts, and the night becomes theirs.
I glance down at my mate, her eyes glisten.
She doesn’t look like she is about to cry.
She looks like she will burn the entire land to the ground.
I gather the long sleeves of her dress, keeping them from dragging in the dirt, and set her straight on my lap.
She is tense, her body vibrating with rage.
“This is why we’re doing this,” she whispers, her voice low, dangerous. I feel it.
Her soul burns like an unyielding flame.
“Yes.” I smile, nuzzling her face.
Daughter, my daughter, strong as stone,
Sing when you fight, sing when you roam.
With fire and heart, with love and with blade,
You are the flower that never will fade.
Both of us turn toward the fire. The flames dim, burning lower, as the females form pairs. One by one, gripping each other’s hands tight, they leap over the embers. A symbol.
My chest swells with pride. This is why we fight. This is why we will never stop.