[Barsoom] A Boy And His Thoatling, Part The Second

[we_dont_fly]

It's just before nightfall when the Thark hunting party returns to the ancient ruins known as the Old City. The settlement, once full of grand buildings with huge columns and broad paved plazas, was now home to the Thark Clan of Barsoom's green men. Since the war between Helium and Zodanga had ended, the Thark had taken their place as the biggest, most stable clan in the South under the guidance of the strongest tactician and most feared warrior in the entire Warhoon.

Tars Tarkas paces the stones in front of his encampment. The women have tried to bring him water, to bring him food. He will have none of it. If Dejah Thoris thinks he kidnapped one of her people, she will raze this place to the sand to get him back. The boy must be returned home and in one piece.

How in the seven hells they got separated, he has no idea. One moment he was riding and that stupid magical pocket universe opened up and swallowed him. The thoatling followed them through, and the crechemate* that had bonded to the little one almost stomped the boy into a grease stain. When they'd ran, Tars had watched the sky open up and swallow both boy and thoatling.

It had taken him half a day to make it back here, and the moment he did, he'd sent out riders. If he didn't return soon, he was going to have to swallow his pride and contact Helium. They would lend flyers to the search. Hopefully the boy had survived the night.

Alone. On the Warhoon. With only a thoatling to keep him company.


The cry goes up from the perimeter and ripples through the settlement. One of his lieutenants comes running through the crowd.

"Riders! And they have the boy! He's alive!"

"Praise Issus. Bring him here to me. He is to be treated with respect. Else Helium will see us ended."

"As you will it, my Jeddak! Right away!"


*Thark have words for mother and father. They just don't use them in polite company.

Comments

[hate_gettin_older]

There's no sure way to tell the time out here aside from the motion of the sun (fairly close to the western horizon now), and Edgar doesn't really think in terms of telling the time anyway, so the roughly twelve hours they've been riding are in his mind only as entirely too fucking long.

Somewhere along the course of the ride he was able to establish that the riding beasts are called thoats, and also that a thoat's back is too broad for a human to ride astride for any real length of time. Which is why right now he's lying on his back across his thoat's saddle, one arm shoved under the strap behind his head and one ankle hooked around the saddle's other edge to anchor himself. It's not exactly comfortable, but it is worlds ahead of trying to continue straddling that thing.

They've given him water out of a leather bag, and something that he thinks might have been dried meat, tough and salty. He's also figured out that the repeated phrase Sark-Iljat is something they're calling him, and it's a source of some irritation that he doesn't know what it means and whether or not he's being insulted.

Right now he's almost tired enough to fall asleep on thoat-back, and hoping like hell he won't have to.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars sees the boy draped across the saddle and calls out,

"Is he dead?"

"No." Tabras brings his thoat around and dismounts in one fluid gesture. "He's tired."

Nitwit trundles through the center of the band and heads straight for the thoat paddocks. There's moss and water there. And he's hungry.

Tars watches the thoatling as it goes passed. "Well, at least he brought the beast back alive."

"Oh and he killed a devil's snare. Or at least he claims to. He was carrying a beak with him when we found him."

One of the warriors presented the trophy to Tars. He turned it over in his hands. "He is truly of Jasoom, then. A descendant of Dotar Sojat. He will be revered as such." He turns to his household and shouts, "Prepare us a feast worthy of such a guest!"

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar drags himself into a sitting position once it becomes clear that they've arrived at their destination, and looks around. It's ... really hard to tell the different Martians apart, but he thinks maybe the one shouting at the others is Tars.

Well. Time to find out just how much trouble he's in.

He briefly considers, and discards, the idea of doing a showy leap off the thoat's back; he's not at all sure he could stick the landing. Instead he grabs hold of the edge of the saddle and slides down, carefully testing his legs for support before letting go of the stirrup.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars may or may not recognize that tentative quality to Edgar's movements, as if he's avoiding doing anything that requires strength. So he's already discovered how strong he is here.

Tars thinks his day just got a whole lot more interesting.

"Bring some food, and more water." Tars barks instructions to someone in his household and bodies fly into motion.

[hate_gettin_older]

He makes his way over to Tars, walking slowly so as not to either accidentally bounce or jar his aching back more than he has to.

"Hey, Tars." He offers his best polite smile. "Believe it or not, it's really good to see you."

[we_dont_fly]

The Thark Jeddak stands to his full height, both sets of arms crossed over his chest.

"It is good to see you alive, Sark-Iljat. And you kept the thoat alive as well." His tone implies you might be less than useless, Edgar. "So much for using a door, hmm?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"What's this Sark-Iljat thing?"

He's trying to sound more curious than suspicious, but isn't sure how well it's working.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars looks perplexed and then remembers, Edgar does not speak Thark. Someone in the Bar explained to him about the magical field that allows them all to understand one another, even if they're not speaking the same language. It must still be effecting the two of them.

"It is the name Tabras and his men have given you. I think it is a good name."

It's not the equivalent of My Right Arms, but it'll do for now.

[hate_gettin_older]

"... yeah?"

Both curiosity and suspicion are sharper, now. "What's it mean?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Sark-iljat." He gestures with one airy hand. "The one who bothers iljat."

[hate_gettin_older]

"... aaand what's iljat then?"

So help him, if they've been calling him pesterer of baby thoats this whole time --

[we_dont_fly]

"It's the thing you killed." Tars looks away across the camp, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from lifting just a hair.

"I assume it tried to kill you first."

[hate_gettin_older]

... ah hah.

"Tried to kill Nitwit first, actually. Uh, the baby thoat. But yeah, it had a go at me too."

[we_dont_fly]

"You named the thoatling?"

He somehow managed to frown and smirk at the same time.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Needed something to call it to get its attention," he says, a bit awkwardly.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars blinks.

"You are here for less than a week and already, you are training up thoats?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Well, it was that or let it get its stupid self killed every five fuckin minutes," Edgar snarks, "would that have been better? I mean I hate to think I overstepped myself here."

[we_dont_fly]

The Jeddak's laugh is rich, if somewhat graveled. "They can be hard to keep alive, it's true. But you managed. The Clan owes you a debt."

[hate_gettin_older]

"... yeah?" That manages to sound part intrigued and part uneasy. "What kind of a debt? I mean, I don't know fuckin anything about how you do things here."

[we_dont_fly]

"It means you should still talk less and listen more, at least when there are others around," Tars says, "and keep your eyes open, always. I may be Jeddak, but I can't protect you if you -- how would your friend put it? 'Fuck up.'"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Okay," he says slowly, "fair. What happens now? And can you get me back to -- where we met?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Now? We sit. We eat and drink. We rest. And we consider our next steps."

It's clear from the tone of his voice, Tars has no idea how to answer Edgar's question.

[hate_gettin_older]

And that causes a twist of definite unease in Edgar's stomach. What if he can't get back? What if he's stuck here?

(Could they find Dejah, so at least she could tell Curtis?)

"All right," he says, very low.

[we_dont_fly]

"Do not be concerned, Sark-Iljat. If there is a way, we will find it. Come. Have something to eat. You must be starving by now."

He gestures to Edgar to follow and he leads him through the encampment. There are probably a couple hundred Thark men and women going about their evening duties. The women are lighting the torches and the men are cleaning a multitude of weapons, from swords to strange looking long guns. They walk passed a cooking fire, and there's an animal roasting on a spit. It looks like it might have been a smaller thoat, but it's already blackened from the heat and whatever the woman cooking it is ladling over it. Another camp seems to be bustling with women tending to injured warriors.

When they pass the thoat pens, there's a familiar wonk from somewhere in the paddock. There's some grunting and a few of the larger thoats seem to be confused as the thoatling pushes under and through them, muttering under its breath.

WONK! Nitwit finally manages to get to the fenceline and is dancing on four front feet, clearly trying to get Edgar's attention.

[hate_gettin_older]

It takes Edgar a moment to realize what he's watching, when they pass the cooking fire -- he's heard of the process, but never actually seen anyone cook something before. It's the smell of roasting meat that makes the association click in his head, and abruptly he's ravenous.

But not so much as to ignore the familiar wonk up ahead. He breaks into a smile and jogs the few steps toward the fence, reaching through to pat Nitwit behind the horn nubs.