by Forthright
That was a good sign … probably.
“There is a proper order to things,” said Dwennon patiently.
Fira blurted, “I wanted this.”
The lead stallion’s lips twitched. “Mares—and maidens—answer to no one for their choices, though some may question your tastes.”
“I love Ricker.”
Dwennon’s expression softened. “I have no objections to your obvious ardor. Forge a bond, and I will bless it. But as I said, there is a proper order to things.”
Trisk spoke up. Although it was more of an aside. And in the old language.
Bavol arched his brows at Ricker, whose flush deepened.
“What?” Fira demanded.
Both males suddenly found some other portion of the landscape fascinating.
With obvious enjoyment, Dwennon said, “Trisk merely raised a concern on your behalf. A meadow may do for a mare, and a field for a filly, but when it comes to a bride, a bed is best.” To Ricker, he repeated, “Let her go, son. For now. Until the herd can gather, and the drums beat. Allow the clan to rejoice over you.”
Fira thought it best to make her intentions plain. “I want nothing less than everything. Ricker has promised me his pledge. He will be my bondmate.”
Dwennon quirked a challenging brow at his son.
Ricker stolidly affirmed, “I will have no other.”
“So be it.” The lead stallion offered the same pronouncement. “Forge your bond, and I will bless it.”
Soul’s Anchor
As it happened, there were certain traditions that accompanied the taking of a bondmate. Especially when one of the partners hailed from a different circle. Compensation. In a sense, Fira would rob the Thunderhoof herd of a fine colt, since she would not permit another mare to lead him away.
Gifts would normally be expected, but Dwennon was not requiring any. Provided Fira stayed at Glintrubble, continuing her apprenticeship with Willum, serving the community as a battler.
But Fira had no intention of skimping. Ricker was worthy of the finest she could offer. And she had all kinds of help in securing a suitable prize.
Rhoswen and Rhoslyn had talked her way into a dozen private corners of the Duntuffet warren, assuring aunts, uncles, siblings, and cousins that Fira’s way with stones could lead to valuable discoveries. Which she had done, again and again. But Fira knew that she could do better, because she kept catching a remnant of a song—faint at first. Locating its source in the rabbit clan’s tangled warren had taken days. Yet here it was, humming with anticipation, just out of reach.
“Are we close?” asked one of the fillies, her nose smudged with soil.
Fira smiled. “Yes, we are.”
“Where?” asked another of her young friends.
“Which wall? That one?”
“Are you sure?”
“Show me!” exclaimed the littlest colt, who wielded a battered trowel. “I can dig!”
Their voices rang in the close quarters of the mine shaft.
Fira pressed her hand to chisel-scarred stone. “We are very close. Mister Duntuffet, you had better take over.”
“It’s Cadmiel, my lovely, but Cadge for short. No cause for mistering among friends.” The rabbit clansman eased his way through the crowd of young helpers. “I’ll have it free in a trifling, but only if you’ll take it for your own.”
“Oh, but Cadge … I do not think you should give this stone away, sight unseen. We are in your mine, and the stone is especially fine.”
He laughed and shook his head. “This passage hasn’t lost so much as a chipping in seven centuries. What you’ve found you’ll keep. For it was lost without you.”
The foals rearranged themselves, craning their necks to see.
Fira coaxed a little more light from the crystal in her lantern and lifted it higher.
Cadge patiently prepared the stone wall for the sharp blow that laid bare its long-kept secret. Sitting back on his heels, he shook his head and reverently muttered, “Twitch my whiskers.”
On the appointed day, at the appointed hour, Fira strode into the Circle with Willum close on her heels. Every male of the Thunderhoof clan formed the inner ring, with the mares arrayed in a second rank, higher up the gentle slope. Even the Duntuffets had set aside their work for the day, crowding with the children along the terraces.
Dwennon spoke into the hush. “You brought something?”
“A gift.” Fira gestured.
Willum stepped forward, both arms wrapped around a linen-swathed bundle as if cradling his firstborn child—proud, protective, and still slightly dazed.
“The finest of gifts,” said Fira. “Something rare and precious, which will be a blessing to all of us.”
“While I required nothing, I am intrigued by your dedication to our traditions. Show us what you offer to the Thunderhoof herd and to all of Glintrubble.”
She helped Willum loosen the folds of cloth, which fell away to a chorus of gasps and whistles. The pink crystal dwarfed any of the others in Willum’s collection.
Dwennon strode forward for a closer inspection. “By your expressions, may I assume this is a remnant?”
“Yes, and more.” Willum’s voice trembled with excitement. “Dwennon, this can become our anchor, one that will endure. The herd, our home—Fira has seen to everyone’s future.”
Myla spoke up from her place. “For such a lavish gift, a lady might expect a double boon.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathering, and Dwennon raised a hand for silence. “You have heard the Mare. A double boon. What do you wish from us, Fira?”
“Two things?” She stole a look in Ricker’s direction.
“Name them,” urged Dwennon.
“One house. One colt.”
Dwennon’s eyebrows arched. “You want us to build you a house?”
“No. I want a house to be established. Willum’s house.”
Ricker’s eyes widened, then creased with ill-concealed amusement. He leaned over to whisper something in Bavol’s ear, and his brother actually dimpled.
Willum looked uncertain. “Fira …?”
“Your house. I will see it established. What name will you take?” More softly, she asked, “What name will you share with my sister?”
He managed a soft, “Oh. I had not really … ah.”
“Will you deny the song of your soul?” she challenged.
Hugging the pink crystal to his chest, he offered a sheepish smile and a small shake of his head.
Meanwhile, the Duntuffets were weary of waiting for Willum to come up with a name. Cheerful suggestions came from all sides.
“Rockpicker!”
“Flamehair!”
“Stoneheart!”
“Dapplecheeks!”
Willum laughed along with the rest, then scanned until he spotted the one he wanted. “Lord Brunwinger?”
Trisk strode forward, quick as ever to the side of any who needed him.
“What was the name you gave to my aptitude?”
The bat clansman rested his fingertips over Willum’s heart and spoke the word as if handing down a verdict. “Ward.”
Willum looked to Dwennon like a child hoping for his father’s approval.
The lead stallion inclined his head and lifted his voice. “Willum Ward. His house shall be established here in Glintrubble. Long may his line continue.”
Once the cheers faded, Dwennon said, “A house for Willum, and a colt for yourself. My sons are the strength of the Thunderhoof clan. Which of them pleases you?”
She held out her hand, and Ricker separated from the herd, unhurried in his confidence. He joined Fira in the Circle, then guided her to its center.
All that remained was for him to give his pledge, plain and simple, for all to hear. But Ricker was Ricker. “You do not want a new house, a new name?” he asked.
“I will take your name.”
“Fira Thunderhoof?” he asked.
“No. As much as I respect the herd that
has taken me in, I want you and only you.” She had wanted to surprise him, hoped he would approve. “Once your pledge is mine, I will be Fira Ricker.”
Her declaration plunged the circle into silence, but then the drumming began. Feet upon the earth, stamping out their slow beat. Fira wasn’t sure if they were showing their approval or egging Ricker on. But she was certain that Bavol had started it.
Ricker glanced around, found his grin, and laughed. Heedless of any dignity the occasion may have called for, he swept her off her feet and twirled her around, then pulled her close so they were almost nose-to-nose. “Fira, do you know? You are my every happiness.”
She touched the green stone woven safely into his forelock. “Then do not let go.”
“Will you hear my pledge?”
“I doubt any could hear it.”
A warren’s worth of Duntuffets were adding their encouragement to the herd’s, with claps and chants, whoops and whistles.
Ricker pressed his cheek to hers. “My pledge is for you and only you.”
“Onward,” she challenged.
He gave a low whicker, and his smile brushed her temple. And so amidst the giddy clamor, beneath the herd’s notice, Ricker recklessly promised, “Forever onward, I am your colt.”
Fira accepted his pledge with an earnest kiss and answered in kind. “Hoof and heel, we belong together.”
THE END
never more than
FORTHRIGHT
a teller of tales who began as a fandom ficcer. (Which basically means that no one in RL knows about her anime habit, her manga collection, or her penchant for serial storytelling.) Kinda sorta almost famous for gently-paced, WAFFy adventures that might inadvertently overturn your OTP, forthy will forever adore drabble challenges, surprise fanart, and twinkles (which are rumored to keep well in jars). As always... be nice, play fair, have fun! ::twinkle::
FORTHWRITES.COM
Songs of the Amaranthine is a collection of short stories set in FORTHRIGHT’s Amaranthine universe. Before the Emergence, the clans were nothing more than whispers and mysteries and legends and lore. But every so often—in out-of-the-way places or shockingly close to home—an unsuspecting person stumbles into a fateful encounter with someone who is decidedly other.
An eclectic collection, spanning continents and centuries. Tales of adventure, discovery, friendship, rescue, belonging, and love. Each short story stands alone and can be read in any order.
Amaranthine Saga
Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
Kimiko and the Accidental Proposal
Tamiko and the Two Janitors