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fellowshippers2004-07-03 08:42 pm
lucky-jack.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-07-03 08:42 pm
The Year of the Gods
DM/EW
Warning: Some non-consensual sex and high sexual content in some chapters.
I did have Bernard Cornwell's 'Stonehenge' in mind whilst writing this. Respect to him.
An AU story set in British prehistory. Dominic is the son of a tribal chief with the weight of his village’s problems on his shoulders. When Lijah, the rival chief’s son is taken captive, the gods demand that Dominic uses his new slave to appease them.
Archived at www.geocities.com/voyeur_ism. Feedback welcomed
It was the year of the gods. Geraint had been knapping flint in the fields and had seen a hare chase a fox. Anwyn’s child was born with three legs and a man was turned into a woman. That year the people buried their treasures under the floors of their huts or made offerings to the ponds and tarns, fearing the end of all things, whilst the tribal druids took themselves up to the mountains and ate strange berries, dancing and singing themselves into trances and praying for deliverance.
Then one morning, when the sky was a hazy blue and the water in the lake was so clear that one could gaze right down into its depths and see the home of its god, Lladwyn; the chief wizard came down from the mountain in a trance. His name was Danell and he was holding aloft mistletoe and chanting words that no man could catch. At first the villagers shrank from him, pulling their children indoors and spitting on the floor to stave off bad luck. But it was observed by some that Danell was smiling and that the tune of his wordless chant was the tune of victory, and furthermore that the mistletoe he carried was a sign of fertility and growth. Good luck then? And the village, indeed the whole tribe, was in sore need of luck. The harvest had all but failed that year and the warriors had suffered much in their raids on the neighbouring tribes. It was said by some that the gods had been offended and in revenge they had made the village infertile. Crops no longer grew, animals no longer produced and men in the village could not keep an erection long enough to produce sons. Daughters there were aplenty, but daughters could not carry a spear and hunt. Some people argued that the chief’s eldest, Dominic, had produced a son, but others sneered and pointed out that the brat was a weakling, its pitiful wailing and hacking cough being heard throughout the settlement day and night and that it was unlikely to survive the winter.
And so Danell’s progress through the village was viewed with hope and word of his return ran on ahead to the chief, Cendic and to his sons Dominic and Iffor. Dominic watched Danell’s coming with particular interest. He both loved and hated the gods as he loved and hated his father. He was awed by the power they wielded and feared to offend them in any way, yet he hated being slave to their whims and the feeling of weakness he suffered under their gaze. For Dominic had a belly full of fire and pride that far outweighed his years and that had made him the head of his war-band over the far older and far more experienced Morgan.
“I sing to you Cendic”, cried Danell suddenly stopping dead, his head cocked to one side and his eyes half-closed as one in a trance. “I sing to you as the gods have sung to me. Are you man enough to listen or is your prick dead too?”
A whisper of held-in laughter rippled around the gathered villagers and Dominic stifled his own mirth. The druid wizards were untouchable, to kill one was to bring ruin on the tribe, but whilst Cendic could not punish Danell for his words, he would certainly exact a terrible retribution on Dominic for his laughter, son or no. So Dominic gazed ahead with a stony face and waited his father to speak, which after an uncomfortable period of silence he did.
“We must all listen to the gods”, said Cendic quietly and with a terrible composure. “What have they revealed to you?”
Danell smiled slowly, an unnatural expression on his scarred and normally expressionless face, and then turned his gaze to Dominic. “Our neighbours, the northern most Deceangli, have stolen our fertility. Their warriors grow stronger and their women’s wombs team with the sons that the men-folk give them. The gods demand that we take it back from them. The gods roar to have their manhood returned.” He walked towards Dominic with a strange jerking motion, almost as if he had somebody at his back, pushing him along. Eventually they were face to face and he continued, much quieter now but still loud enough so that the whole village could hear. “You must take their masculinity away. You must rip it away from them by force. You must make women of their warriors. Only then will the Brigantes, abandoned by their gods as they have been, regain their strength”.
Dominic let a smile spread over his face, an expression he saw mirrored in the faces of his brother, father and those members of his war band that were present. From the way Danell had approached him, Dominic had thought he was being singled out for some special request, some act by which he alone would be responsible for his tribe’s survival. But this? This was easy. This he understood. Did not every man fear to have his masculinity taken? Was it not the first action of any right thinking warrior to rape his defeated opponent and to ensure that you took the one thing more important than their life; their pride? And if Danell wanted to make it into some sort of ceremony, some sort of ritual, well that was strange, certain, but by no means impossible. ‘Get enough mead inside me and I’ll rape the fucking pigs if the gods demand it’ thought Dominic.
Out loud, he laughed and looked to his friends, members of his war-band that were standing nearby and grinning from ear to ear in anticipation, “We will make them scream for more. They will know what real men are”.
The warriors laughed and cheered and Danell did a little dance of pleasure. The gods would be pleased.
That night a feast was held in Cerdic’s hut. The atmosphere was smoky and cloyed with the smell of roasting swine and smouldering peat. The mead was passed round by the women who served their men as they should and suffered their drunken roving hands and often submitted to their sexual demands. There was a heady sense of victory in the air, a real feeling that luck would return to the tribe. The raid on the Deceangli was planned for the next day, at dawn. The rival tribe had grown careless in their wanderings and it was hoped the first warriors could be surprised sometime at dawn, the gods willing. Dominic gulped down another pot of sweet, intoxicating liquid and his container was refilled by his wife Tian. His wife, who had been given to him when she was six and he just ten. He regarded her, in his drunken state, with a mixture of indifference and pity. They did not satisfy each other but that was not her fault. They slept together as they ought, they produced a son, but they never spoke. Even after seventeen years they did not know each other. But then, she was just a woman. What could you talk to a woman about? He stuck his hand up her skirts and into the hotness between her legs. He was suddenly aware that he was hard and needed a fuck.
“Go to the hut now” he told her, “I’ll be over in a minute”.
As she made her way out Bevan, one of Dominic’s war-band and his closest friend, laughed. “I see you’ll be leaving us soon, Dominic”.
Dominic winked, “My cock has not had exercise for a while. A feeling you would know all too well Bevan.
There was general merriment at this.
“None of us will have that problem soon, my friend” countered Bevan. “We will be fucking the Deceangli like the girls they are. They will wear skirts and crouch down to piss and open their legs to us and be grateful.”
Dominic nodded and lifted his pot in solidarity. “And talking of pissing, I think I must leave you”
He wandered outside into the clearness of a moonlit night and staggered a bit as the mead he had drunk truly made itself felt. Steadying himself, he sat down on a bench and gazed over to the borderlands, wondering what tomorrow would bring.
The Deceangli had grown complacent in their success. They were in favour with the gods and their wealth grew every day. Gains in territory had meant that their hunting grounds had grown larger and had encroached onto land far from their settlements. Occasionally an expedition for meat would take them as far as the border with the Brigantes where, before, they had never dared to ride. But the increase in power meant that they dared a great deal more every day. The deer roamed around the borderlands and their meat was succulent and much prized and the warriors of the Deceangli competed to bring home the finest beasts from these forbidden territories.
It had been a long day’s ride for Lijah, the Deceangli chief’s youngest son and for the war-band that accompanied him, for riding with him was his little boy, three only yesterday. Lijah was not a great warrior himself, indeed his brother was leader of this war-band, but he was much prized for his hunting skills and his good humour and he was determined that his son should learn the skills befitting a man at the earliest age. He, himself had been cosseted by his mother as the youngest and prettiest of his father’s sons and so he was not let loose from his mother’s skirts until much later than the other boys of his age. Therefore Lijah had brought Garren with him in this hunting party to show him the deer being taken and to give him practice at preparing the animal.
“I think we should make camp here for the night”, called Lijah to his company as he guided his horse to a halt. Gently he lowered Garren to the ground and dismounted himself. “It’s getting late and I don’t think we should go any further into Cendic’s territory this night”
“You’re not scared of them little brother?” teased Dafydd affectionately.
“No”, laughed Lijah as he sank to the ground and gratefully lay his aching back down onto the soft, springy grass, “The Brigantes are as weak as women and dare not provoke an attack on our tribe. It is Garren I think of, he grows fretful and is like to wail through the night if we go on. Any sentries they have posted would hear us and try their luck. I for one prefer to return home laden with deer meet and not spear heads!”
Dafydd laughed “Aye, true” he agreed, wandering off to find fuel for a fire and to organise his band into some system of lookouts.
Momentarily, Lijah was left alone. He ran a hand through his unruly brown hair and gazed up at the sky, the moon already visible as the sun began its descent. In the distance he could hear Garren laughing and he smiled to himself at the innocence of a boy born to a chieftain’s household through the slit of a slave girl. He frowned because he could not even remember her name. He had been given her as the spoils of war, a mere child she had been, but it was expected of him that he should fuck her and so he had. The gods had demanded it and he had not questioned. She had born him this boy and died as women so often did. He had no feelings for her but he loved his boy as he loved life and he prayed daily to the gods to protect him.
Sitting back up, he unfastened the leather bindings from round his wrists and his waist and let his sword fall to the ground. Stretching his legs in front of him, he took in a deep breath and gazed over to the three great stones that marked the border with Cerdic’s territory, and wondered if he would ever see what lay beyond there.
Warning: Some non-consensual sex and high sexual content in some chapters.
I did have Bernard Cornwell's 'Stonehenge' in mind whilst writing this. Respect to him.
An AU story set in British prehistory. Dominic is the son of a tribal chief with the weight of his village’s problems on his shoulders. When Lijah, the rival chief’s son is taken captive, the gods demand that Dominic uses his new slave to appease them.
Archived at www.geocities.com/voyeur_ism. Feedback welcomed
It was the year of the gods. Geraint had been knapping flint in the fields and had seen a hare chase a fox. Anwyn’s child was born with three legs and a man was turned into a woman. That year the people buried their treasures under the floors of their huts or made offerings to the ponds and tarns, fearing the end of all things, whilst the tribal druids took themselves up to the mountains and ate strange berries, dancing and singing themselves into trances and praying for deliverance.
Then one morning, when the sky was a hazy blue and the water in the lake was so clear that one could gaze right down into its depths and see the home of its god, Lladwyn; the chief wizard came down from the mountain in a trance. His name was Danell and he was holding aloft mistletoe and chanting words that no man could catch. At first the villagers shrank from him, pulling their children indoors and spitting on the floor to stave off bad luck. But it was observed by some that Danell was smiling and that the tune of his wordless chant was the tune of victory, and furthermore that the mistletoe he carried was a sign of fertility and growth. Good luck then? And the village, indeed the whole tribe, was in sore need of luck. The harvest had all but failed that year and the warriors had suffered much in their raids on the neighbouring tribes. It was said by some that the gods had been offended and in revenge they had made the village infertile. Crops no longer grew, animals no longer produced and men in the village could not keep an erection long enough to produce sons. Daughters there were aplenty, but daughters could not carry a spear and hunt. Some people argued that the chief’s eldest, Dominic, had produced a son, but others sneered and pointed out that the brat was a weakling, its pitiful wailing and hacking cough being heard throughout the settlement day and night and that it was unlikely to survive the winter.
And so Danell’s progress through the village was viewed with hope and word of his return ran on ahead to the chief, Cendic and to his sons Dominic and Iffor. Dominic watched Danell’s coming with particular interest. He both loved and hated the gods as he loved and hated his father. He was awed by the power they wielded and feared to offend them in any way, yet he hated being slave to their whims and the feeling of weakness he suffered under their gaze. For Dominic had a belly full of fire and pride that far outweighed his years and that had made him the head of his war-band over the far older and far more experienced Morgan.
“I sing to you Cendic”, cried Danell suddenly stopping dead, his head cocked to one side and his eyes half-closed as one in a trance. “I sing to you as the gods have sung to me. Are you man enough to listen or is your prick dead too?”
A whisper of held-in laughter rippled around the gathered villagers and Dominic stifled his own mirth. The druid wizards were untouchable, to kill one was to bring ruin on the tribe, but whilst Cendic could not punish Danell for his words, he would certainly exact a terrible retribution on Dominic for his laughter, son or no. So Dominic gazed ahead with a stony face and waited his father to speak, which after an uncomfortable period of silence he did.
“We must all listen to the gods”, said Cendic quietly and with a terrible composure. “What have they revealed to you?”
Danell smiled slowly, an unnatural expression on his scarred and normally expressionless face, and then turned his gaze to Dominic. “Our neighbours, the northern most Deceangli, have stolen our fertility. Their warriors grow stronger and their women’s wombs team with the sons that the men-folk give them. The gods demand that we take it back from them. The gods roar to have their manhood returned.” He walked towards Dominic with a strange jerking motion, almost as if he had somebody at his back, pushing him along. Eventually they were face to face and he continued, much quieter now but still loud enough so that the whole village could hear. “You must take their masculinity away. You must rip it away from them by force. You must make women of their warriors. Only then will the Brigantes, abandoned by their gods as they have been, regain their strength”.
Dominic let a smile spread over his face, an expression he saw mirrored in the faces of his brother, father and those members of his war band that were present. From the way Danell had approached him, Dominic had thought he was being singled out for some special request, some act by which he alone would be responsible for his tribe’s survival. But this? This was easy. This he understood. Did not every man fear to have his masculinity taken? Was it not the first action of any right thinking warrior to rape his defeated opponent and to ensure that you took the one thing more important than their life; their pride? And if Danell wanted to make it into some sort of ceremony, some sort of ritual, well that was strange, certain, but by no means impossible. ‘Get enough mead inside me and I’ll rape the fucking pigs if the gods demand it’ thought Dominic.
Out loud, he laughed and looked to his friends, members of his war-band that were standing nearby and grinning from ear to ear in anticipation, “We will make them scream for more. They will know what real men are”.
The warriors laughed and cheered and Danell did a little dance of pleasure. The gods would be pleased.
That night a feast was held in Cerdic’s hut. The atmosphere was smoky and cloyed with the smell of roasting swine and smouldering peat. The mead was passed round by the women who served their men as they should and suffered their drunken roving hands and often submitted to their sexual demands. There was a heady sense of victory in the air, a real feeling that luck would return to the tribe. The raid on the Deceangli was planned for the next day, at dawn. The rival tribe had grown careless in their wanderings and it was hoped the first warriors could be surprised sometime at dawn, the gods willing. Dominic gulped down another pot of sweet, intoxicating liquid and his container was refilled by his wife Tian. His wife, who had been given to him when she was six and he just ten. He regarded her, in his drunken state, with a mixture of indifference and pity. They did not satisfy each other but that was not her fault. They slept together as they ought, they produced a son, but they never spoke. Even after seventeen years they did not know each other. But then, she was just a woman. What could you talk to a woman about? He stuck his hand up her skirts and into the hotness between her legs. He was suddenly aware that he was hard and needed a fuck.
“Go to the hut now” he told her, “I’ll be over in a minute”.
As she made her way out Bevan, one of Dominic’s war-band and his closest friend, laughed. “I see you’ll be leaving us soon, Dominic”.
Dominic winked, “My cock has not had exercise for a while. A feeling you would know all too well Bevan.
There was general merriment at this.
“None of us will have that problem soon, my friend” countered Bevan. “We will be fucking the Deceangli like the girls they are. They will wear skirts and crouch down to piss and open their legs to us and be grateful.”
Dominic nodded and lifted his pot in solidarity. “And talking of pissing, I think I must leave you”
He wandered outside into the clearness of a moonlit night and staggered a bit as the mead he had drunk truly made itself felt. Steadying himself, he sat down on a bench and gazed over to the borderlands, wondering what tomorrow would bring.
The Deceangli had grown complacent in their success. They were in favour with the gods and their wealth grew every day. Gains in territory had meant that their hunting grounds had grown larger and had encroached onto land far from their settlements. Occasionally an expedition for meat would take them as far as the border with the Brigantes where, before, they had never dared to ride. But the increase in power meant that they dared a great deal more every day. The deer roamed around the borderlands and their meat was succulent and much prized and the warriors of the Deceangli competed to bring home the finest beasts from these forbidden territories.
It had been a long day’s ride for Lijah, the Deceangli chief’s youngest son and for the war-band that accompanied him, for riding with him was his little boy, three only yesterday. Lijah was not a great warrior himself, indeed his brother was leader of this war-band, but he was much prized for his hunting skills and his good humour and he was determined that his son should learn the skills befitting a man at the earliest age. He, himself had been cosseted by his mother as the youngest and prettiest of his father’s sons and so he was not let loose from his mother’s skirts until much later than the other boys of his age. Therefore Lijah had brought Garren with him in this hunting party to show him the deer being taken and to give him practice at preparing the animal.
“I think we should make camp here for the night”, called Lijah to his company as he guided his horse to a halt. Gently he lowered Garren to the ground and dismounted himself. “It’s getting late and I don’t think we should go any further into Cendic’s territory this night”
“You’re not scared of them little brother?” teased Dafydd affectionately.
“No”, laughed Lijah as he sank to the ground and gratefully lay his aching back down onto the soft, springy grass, “The Brigantes are as weak as women and dare not provoke an attack on our tribe. It is Garren I think of, he grows fretful and is like to wail through the night if we go on. Any sentries they have posted would hear us and try their luck. I for one prefer to return home laden with deer meet and not spear heads!”
Dafydd laughed “Aye, true” he agreed, wandering off to find fuel for a fire and to organise his band into some system of lookouts.
Momentarily, Lijah was left alone. He ran a hand through his unruly brown hair and gazed up at the sky, the moon already visible as the sun began its descent. In the distance he could hear Garren laughing and he smiled to himself at the innocence of a boy born to a chieftain’s household through the slit of a slave girl. He frowned because he could not even remember her name. He had been given her as the spoils of war, a mere child she had been, but it was expected of him that he should fuck her and so he had. The gods had demanded it and he had not questioned. She had born him this boy and died as women so often did. He had no feelings for her but he loved his boy as he loved life and he prayed daily to the gods to protect him.
Sitting back up, he unfastened the leather bindings from round his wrists and his waist and let his sword fall to the ground. Stretching his legs in front of him, he took in a deep breath and gazed over to the three great stones that marked the border with Cerdic’s territory, and wondered if he would ever see what lay beyond there.
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