[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

[we_dont_fly]

"You are from Jasoom. They have heard stories. Come. Tars is waiting for you."

She waits for Edgar to rise and trusts him to follow her.

[hate_gettin_older]

He gets to his feet carefully, in case the dizziness hasn't quite run its course yet.

... and looks up, and further up, at Sola.

[we_dont_fly]

She crosses all four arms and smiles down at him.

"You will feel better for some food. This way."

She heads off into the camp. There's less activity now that the sun has gone down and the moons are out. The building she's leading him towards seems to be the center of most of it. There are drums playing and loud, raucous laughter.

As they come closer, the crowd grows a little quieter, more than a few pairs of eyes turning to watch him as they pass.

[hate_gettin_older]

The drumbeat is infectious; Edgar finds his footsteps wanting to fall into its rhythm.

He nods to the green men who look at him, not sure what else to do.

[we_dont_fly]

Sola takes a left turn before they get to the main building, leading them into a warren of dark hallways. The walls are half carved stone, half hewn directly from the mountain itself. The voices here are different, too.

He can hear Tars talking, laughing. And a bunch of odd snarling noises. "Oh goddess no! You've bitten my arm off! I am dying!"

Sola pulls back a leather doorway and gestures Edgar through. The Thark Jeddak is in the middle of a wide dirt floor, surrounded by -- young Thark. The largest among them is no more than three feet tall, and they're absolutely mobbing the warrior, dragging him down to the floor.

[hate_gettin_older]

They're ... kids. Thark kids. And Tars, play-tussling with them like he's never heard the word dignity in his life.

Edgar's staring a bit, and starting to smile.

[we_dont_fly]

"My Jeddak," Sola says.

Tars looks up and grins as one of the younglings throws its arms around his neck and bites down on one of his tusks, growling and shaking its head. It doesn't even move the old warrior.

"Edgar! Sola, why did you?" He tries to be stern, which is hard with a tharkling hanging from one tusk.

"You told me to bring him to you when he awoke."

"Fine," Tars grumbles. He starts to push himself up to standing and another wave of younglings pours over him. "Oh no! I am lost! Help!" He tumbles back to the ground, flat on his belly.

Sola giggles, covering her face with one hand. "You do not speak of this to the other warriors, Sark-Iljat. It is not spoken of, you understand?" She's firm, but not unkind.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Not a word," he promises.

"... he couldn't use a bit of help there, could he?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Oh I would not impinge on his honor. The metal of our entire tribe depends on these little ones. He will raise them up to be the fiercest warriors Barsoom has ever known."

Tars is laughing and moaning melodramatically under the heap.

"Okay, yes, perhaps a little. Go on!" She starts grabbing them up, one by an arm, another by a heel, and tossing them aside like laundry.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar's a little taken aback by that -- those are kids she's tossing around, isn't she worried she'll hurt one of them?

When he moves in to help haul them off Tars, it's with a great deal more care, hoisting the first green kid with a two-handed grip under its lower arms. More or less the way he might have picked up Timmy or Andy, back home.

[we_dont_fly]

Those 'kids' go flying, tumble across the floor, and come up laughing only to run back and obviously ask for another go. That said, Edgar's care is probably warranted, considering his new found strength.

He'll discover that a young Thark is lighter than a human toddler, and also, far more limber. The youngling twists in his grasp and gasps when he sees who's holding him.

"White ape! White ape!" And he lunges at Edgar's face with an adorable if still somewhat terrifying war cry.

"Child, no!" Sola is there to intercept, her hand grabbing the boy's face. "We do not eat our guests!"

[hate_gettin_older]

Sola's interception saves the kid from getting instinctively thrown across the room, or at least dropped, as well as saving Edgar from getting his face chewed on.

"... That's right," he adds his own admonishment to Sola's. "And you especially don't eat me."

[we_dont_fly]

Sola takes the child from Edgar with a firm hand. "This is why I do not grab onto them when they are in battle." She set the youngling down and pointed with a firm hand. "Go! Back to the creche with you! Time for you to eat anyway."

Tars struggles up to sitting with the last few younglings hanging off his neck. He sweeps them up in a four-armed hug and clutches them close, even as they snap and snarl. "My warriors, you must go eat. It is the only way you will grow big and strong! Now go!" He sets them down and shoos them away before standing and dusting himself off.

His face settles into a cool, hard expression and he glances down at Edgar. "Not a word." Only the corner of his mouth twitches up.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar mimes closing his own mouth with his hand, and doesn't make a sound.

... He might have a similar twitch at one corner of his mouth, though.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars stalks out ahead of Sola and Edgar, his daughter unable to keep from chuckling under her breath. She holds the door flap for Edgar and indicates he should follow the Jeddak.

"When John Carter came to us," she says, "we green men knew nothing of compassion. We thought it a sickness. To show kindness to another being was to be seen as weak. Weakness was not tolerated. It threatened the lives of the entire clan. But John Carter showed us there is strength in taking care of those weaker than us. That there is strength in compassion. We still struggle with the idea. A fist is much easier to understand than an open hand. But the truth of his words still linger among us. It will take time before they are shown in the open without fear of retaliation."

[hate_gettin_older]

He's quiet as she talks, half-jogging to keep up with her long strides (and Tars's, ahead of them).

"All right, yeah," he says slowly, "I get that."

[we_dont_fly]

Sola turns back to look at him, slowing her steps so he can keep up. "How much do you know of Barsoom, Sark-Iljat?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Not fuckin much," he mutters.

And what he does know, from Dejah, doesn't seem to fit with how they do things here.

[we_dont_fly]

"Hmm. Well, you have survived your first night and found your way back to camp. So long as you do not start a war before Tars takes you back, you should be fine."

She may be joking. Maybe.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar flicks a glance up at her face, and risks a grin.

"I'll do my very best not to," he promises.

[we_dont_fly]

They emerge into the main feast hall and a cheer goes up at the Jeddak's return. Sola points that Edgar should follow, and she excuses herself.

"You will sit at my table, Sark-Iljat." Tars greets his men and exchanges grips with a few of his lieutenants. Every one of the warriors watches Edgar as he passes by, and Tabras calls out a greeting.

[hate_gettin_older]

The cheer startles him, but he recovers quickly and makes his way across the feast hall in Tars's wake as nonchalantly as though he belongs there, even raising a hand to wave to Tabras in response to his shout.

"There anything I should know about the order here?" he mutters to Tars as they sit down.

[we_dont_fly]

"The strong lead," Tars says, flopping down onto a pile of furs and smiling up at the serving women as they bring a huge platter of something that's clearly roasted meat.

"Show no weakness, Edgar. And if you would, I would be grateful if you do not usurp my position here. At least not today." He shoots a wry grin at Edgar.

[hate_gettin_older]

He grins back. "No starting a war, no usurping your position, got it."

And snags two slices of the meat as the platter passes him, right after Tars takes his portion.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars nods, short and sweet, and digs into his meal.

There's a disturbance at the far edge of the room. Voices raised, someone or something seems to be shoving its way into the room. A group of men start shouting and kicking, and the crowd gathers closer to see what the commotion is.

"What is going on?" Tars calls out.

A pitiful WONK! rises above the din.