[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]

"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.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar chokes on a mouthful of meat, swallows hastily and scrambles to his feet on the bench to try to get a better view.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars stands as well, keeping one eye on Edgar and one on his men. A few of the warriors fall back out of the scrum and spill wine over themselves. Someone reaches for a long gun.

"This thoat has lost its mind!" Some one called out from the crowd.

WONK! Nitwit lowers its head against the blows raining around its horn buds, and tries to shove its way through the mass of bodies. It's not making very good progress, and with each passing second, more of the warriors start aiming vicious kicks at the young thoat.

[hate_gettin_older]

"HEY!" Edgar's shout is loud enough (and piercing enough, by comparison to the voices of the green men) to cut through the noise. "What the fuck are you doing?"

He's got one foot up on the table by now, braced to leap.

[we_dont_fly]

A couple of heads turn, but there are probably thirty or forty warriors crowded around Nitwit. The little beast falls to his knees under the rain of fists and broken crockery.

"Go." Tars says, his voice sharp. His voice carries across the room as well. "Go and get your thoat, Sark-Iljat."

[hate_gettin_older]

Before the words are quite out of his mouth, Edgar's gone -- in one leap that carries him over the heads of most of the crowd, only to collide with the shoulders of one warrior standing over the little thoat, with one foot drawn back to kick.

Standing on one foot means that warrior can't regain his balance after the impact, and he and Edgar tumble to the floor in a tangle of mismatched limbs.

Edgar's the first to regain his footing, and stands braced in front of Nitwit. "All right, y' bastards," he snarls, "you want to beat on something smaller than your own selves, do you? Fuckin try me."

[we_dont_fly]

Tars does not surround himself with fools. The tackled warrior starts to go for a blade until he saw the look on Edgar's face. In a heartbeat, there's a gap forming around the human and the thoatling.

Nitwit pushes its way to its feet and shoves its face into Edgar's hip, grumbling under its breath. I thought you'd left me! I thought you were gone!

Tabras stepped through the crowd. "Your thoat -- she thinks she should be here with us, celebrating your victory. What say you, Sark-Iljat?"

[hate_gettin_older]

Nitwit's a she? is his first off-balance thought, but it's sidelined rapidly; he pats Nitwit's leathery back by way of reassurance, thinking hard.

"Tars Tarkas," he calls out in turn, "would I be right if I guessed that you don't generally allow thoats in here?"

[we_dont_fly]

"No, Sark-Iljat. Thoats drink too much wine. And they shit on the floor."

His remarks are met with a wave of raucous laughter. Tabras looks at Edgar and nods at him with a wry grin.

"You want to put her back in the pens outside?"