[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]

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?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Well," in his most offensively reasonable voice, "that might make a bit more sense than kicking her ribs in for the fun of it, don't you think?"

[we_dont_fly]

Tabras's eyes narrow but he says nothing. He points and a path to the outside clears. The other warriors are similarly silent. It was said that Dotar Sojat had a soft spot in his heart for the great beasts. It was also said he could kill a man with a single blow, bare-handed.

None of these men wished to try out the legend and see if it was based in truth.

[hate_gettin_older]

It only takes Edgar a moment to realize they mean him to put Nitwit back in the pen, and another moment to wonder whether or not that's meant as some kind of elaborate insult, and to decide he doesn't really give a shit.

"Right then," he says flatly, and then raises his voice again. "If you'll excuse me for a few minutes, Jeddak?"

[we_dont_fly]

They assume the beast will listen to the great warrior, if she won't listen to them.

Tars nods and raises his hand in salute. "She will be a fine mount some day, Sark-Iljat. She has heart!"

[hate_gettin_older]

"That she does," Edgar agrees, and pats Nitwit's flank again. Not so much brain, maybe, but definitely heart.

"All right," he murmurs to the little thoat, "come on, this way," and nudges her along with him in the direction of the door.

[we_dont_fly]

Nitwit frowns at him. It may not look like a frown on a human face, but he gets the distinct impression that she's not happy with him. She takes a few nudges to get moving again, but she seems to know exactly where she's supposed to be going.

And she grumbles at him under her breath the entire way back. The thoat keeper is in the process of repairing the pickets she slipped under and laughs at the two of them as they walk up.

"She is going to be a handful, that one. Far too clever for her own good." The Thark pushes himself up to standing, his expression far less bellicose than most of the warriors Edgar has met. He extends a hand, in the American fashion. "I am Majat Mataseen. I am pleased to meet you, Sark-Iljat. It is not every day one meets a descendant of Dotar Sojat."

[hate_gettin_older]

... you know what, he's just not going to argue with that one.

"Pleased to meet you too," he says, reaching up to return the handshake.

[we_dont_fly]

"Here, we can put her over here, in one of the heavier pens. I am going to assume you do not want her hobbled?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"... what's 'hobbled' mean?" he asks, guardedly.

[we_dont_fly]

"When we have nothing to pen in a thoat, and nothing to tie them to, we tie their feet together, front and back, so they can't run. They don't like it, and truth be told, I don't care for it either. Means they can't run away if something happens. But it keeps them in one place."

[hate_gettin_older]

"... yeah," he says after a moment, "yeah, don't do that."

He's feeling weirdly unhappy about leaving Nitwit here at all, after she made such an effort to find him.

[we_dont_fly]

Nitwit headbutts Majat's knee and looks back, mournfully at Edgar. She gives him a quiet little wonk.

Bye. I guess.

Majat herds her back into a pen all her own, away from the other thoats.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Hang on, one mo --"

Edgar breaks into a jog and follows them into the pen, and reaches to scratch Nitwit's head behind the horn nubs one more time.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "you're a good thoat, you are."

[we_dont_fly]

Nitwit shuffles her four front feet and leans into the scritches, grumbling out a low sound that might be mistaken for a purr. A moment of that, and she circles around him and tries to touch her head to her tail. A thoat hug if you will.

Majat just chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. "Well, I guess she's yours now."

[hate_gettin_older]

"You behave yourself," Edgar's starting to say to Nitwit, but stops and glances up at Majat.

"What?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Once a thoat picks a rider, there's no giving them to another. They end up meat for the stew pot before they'll be broken to the saddle. And well, you did bring her out of the desert. I don't think anyone will dispute your claim to her."

He throws a glance back at the feast hall. "Not even the Jeddak, who seems to already have a soft spot for you."

[hate_gettin_older]

"... ah, Christ," he groans, half-laughing. "Look, can you -- just make sure she stays here while I go back and tell him?"

[we_dont_fly]

"It is my duty and my pleasure to do so, Sark-Iljat. Have you given her a name yet?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Uh," he says, struggling free through the gap between Nitwit's head and tail, "not exactly a name, no -- let me get back to you on that."

And to the little thoat again, firmly: "Look, you stay here for now, right? Hear me?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Wonk." The thoat shuffles her feet again and then knuckles down until she's laying on her belly, feet tucked under her. She lays her chin on the ground and she watches him with bright eyes.

Waiting. Here.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Good girl," he says, and turns to head back to the feast hall.

And hopes, as he goes, that he'll get a chance to explain things to Tars without the whole crowd hearing.

[we_dont_fly]

He's welcomed back into the press of the party as if the conflict of five minutes before is completely forgotten. Hands clap him on the shoulders as he walks passed, and as he sits down, someone lays the lower section of the beak on the table next to his plate. It's been cleaned and polished, and someone has crafted a leather holder for it, so it can be used as a drinking cup.

"Everything all right?" Tars says to him as he settles beside the Jeddak.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar breaks away from admiring the cup -- it's actually very pleasing to the eye now, with the beak polished up to a gleaming iridescence -- to say "Oh yeah, fine."

A beat.

"Except I think I may have adopted that baby thoat by accident?"