Going Feet First Ch. 02

Celia nodded as she spotted it, "Thank you, Mila. I will take care of it. Join your festival, we will come to you when all is well."

The Neko gave her a nod and the Elf pulled Galen off to the side toward separate path. The two of them quickly rounding a corner in the direction of the Elder's hall and disappearing down the side-street.

Mila had to admit it was a round-about way to get to where they needed to go, but that was likely so Celia would not have to face her tribe wearing that "Rubber face." The tracker couldn't deny the chilling look the mask gave her. If she didn't see Galen pull it from his pack and if Michael hadn't explained its purpose, she would likely have gone into a panic and call for a warrior if she ever saw a person wearing it.

She could only hope nobody else did so.

But that was Galen's concern now, she and Michael had to deal with their next ritual at the Ceremony of the Tribe. Together they would face a sort of trial by the Great Fire where they, alongside other young couples, had to publicly declare their love and hope to be blessed by their elders. Though Michael had been given another task to perform as well. Since he did not grow up among them, he had to prove his worth.

As she and Michael arrived at the ceremony, two of her tribal elders immediately took notice of their arrival as they had been both expecting and waiting for them. The greying Willher women quickly took Mila by the hand and escorted her and her suitor to the center of the crowd where a bench was waiting for them. There they were sat down among other prospective couples under the critical gaze of the tribe.

While the tracker had little issue with so many staring at her, they were her people after all, she notice how Michael shifted uncomfortably at her side. His eyes darting around suspiciously as he rubbed a hand over his wounded leg. In an attempt to calm him, she took his hand in her own and gave it a squeeze. The effect was immediate as the Human warrior sighed and relaxed in his place as his eyes met with hers.

This moment was broken when an Elder started yelling above the crowd, silencing them so they could begin a ceremonial speech. Michael frowned as he tried to listen to the foreign language, trying to take in both what the old Neko said as well as what Mila whispered in his ear in translation. He did his best to catch common words or articles and commit them to memory, but without a basic set of words or grammar rules it was proving difficult.

By now he had become used to the constant stares he received from the others of the village. He was able to passively ignore them by now as Elder Misn stepped up to replace the speaker; the whole crowd going so quiet one could hear a pin drop. When that old cat spoke, his wisdom could be felt whether one understood him or not. A soothing calm came out in his words and invoke certain respect from the lone Human in the listening crowd.

Especially since he had personally okayed Michael getting the privilege to stay. Or at least stick around long enough for everyone to come to know him better.

He still needed to undergo the Willher traditions for the decision to be final and to satisfy Mila and her clan's expectations. Despite being blessed by their goddess and voted by slim majority to have potential value for the tribe, he still needed to persuade the people themselves that he was worth the effort. To do this, he needed to prove that he wasn't weak or useless.

Their kittens faced tests for this while growing up, probes into their abilities to see what purpose they would find in life. Whether that was becoming a hunter or tracker, a warrior or diplomat, a merchant or a village keeper, their proficiency would be found. And when it was they would get the chance to train and prove themselves throughout their youth. Michael had no such chance, yet he stated that he intended to be both a warrior and a hunter for the tribe.

This came as a shock to many of the tribe, as taking a dual role was only reserved for those who showed themselves to be the elite among the others. Especially in those two professions. Being both a hunter and warrior meant that only a single day per every five would be reserved for rest while the others would be spent alternating between hunting or training. If he adopted a single profession then he would only have to do one day of work before getting a day of rest. As per tribal standard.

With his injury in his leg impairing his mobility, Michael wouldn't be able to prove his skills in a physical demonstration for quite some time. Thus, his proving would not be a physical challenge for now. Instead he had to impress the tribe by giving a verbal history of his greatest moments, use words as his tool for acceptance.

At the same time, the Willher's four Keepers of Age would be listening close; the elders taking note of every detail. It would be up to them to watch Michael for over-embellishment and they held discretion to challenge him at any time his stories may seem untrue. Their presence was meant to keep the soldier from lying to the tribe, and when the time came, they would judge him as he physically proved he was capable of the tale he spun.

........................

Galen and Celia circled around several homes in the village, steering clear of the Neko gathering as they snuck up on the woodpile by their "Elder's Hall."

"Why are we sneaking?" Galen asked his companion for the third time after she jumped as if to hide from some passersby.

As they had snuck from street to street, moving in the shadows, she explained in a loud whisper, "Because I am wearing the face of a demon!"

"It's a rubber mask."

"It is unflattering."

"Well, true, but—"

Her ears drooped to hear him say that and he almost saw tears forming behind her mask. He had to listen close to hear her desperate whisper. "Galen, please understand, clothes like what you wear are not part of my culture. It hides our glow and masks our true beauty. Our magic is stronger for being what it is, not shamed or hidden!"

Given how many nude Elves he saw recently and her own gorgeous and revealing armor, Galen could only swallow and nod in agreement. "Okay. So... we're sneaking. You don't want to be seen with the gas mask?"

"Not wearing this thing!" she agreed. "My appearance and those of my sisters is a gift from our god and it shames him if we hide our forms."

It was going to take time to wrap his head around that, but for the moment he figured it did no harm to be subtle. He nodded and helped them stay on task.

After taking a very indirect route and hiding from the few stragglers that didn't join the ceremony, the couple moved in behind the Elder's hall around the corner from the wood pile. The Nekos that had been tending to the wood reserve had gone to watch a display in the circle and thankfully left the store unwatched.

With nobody to see her, Celia raised a glowing hand toward the stack of logs, closing her eyes as she chanted, "By my power, under Atzlar's gaze, I release you all from your earthly bonds. Be free now, suffer no more, slip from your physical shells and do as Atzlar wills."

The golden glow in her palm reached a new intensity as a trail of white wisps emerged from both the wood store, the walls of the nearby buildings, and the Great Fire. The column of black smoke from the ceremonious blaze suddenly thinned out, the flames rising even higher than before and the heat becoming more intense. The escaping spirits, though, did not simply vanish as Celia had believed they would. The collection of white wisps pooled on the ground beside the wood pile and came together until they had wound into a dense fog.

"Celia, what's happening?" Galen wondered.

The Elf shrugged and shook her head as she pulled off the mask and passed it back to the soldier. Being curious herself as to what brewed in front of her, she stepped forward and knelt down to inspect the pool of white vapor. She nearly jumped when the gathered mass suddenly flattened out and squeezed down until it became a white dart no bigger that her finger. Blinking in confusion, the Elf reached out to touch it. Only her eyes widened as it suddenly shot forward at lightning speed to pierce clean through her chest.

A scream tried to hurtle out from Galen's throat, but the air in his lungs had turned flat. Something struck him in the ribs to freeze his body solid. Not a muscle could move nor would his mouth open up. His dear Celia was still kneeling where the fog had been, her hands cupped over her chest where the dart had gone through.

Tears welling up under her eyes, she slowly tilted her head forward to see how much damage had been done. With the lump in her throat refusing to go down, she removed her hands expecting to see a hole going straight through her torso and spilling over with her life blood.

Instead, there was nothing.

The skin had not been broken, nor was her breastplate scratched in the slightest. A sense of relief washed over her as she turned to face Galen with a smile on her face. That golden grin disappearing the second she saw that silver dart thrust into his chest right over his heart.

Silent agony burned in his face has he tried so desperately to scream, to find some way to unleash his pain. The only thing he managed to do was reach out with a trembling hand for Celia, slowly mouthing her name. As she moved to take his hand, the dart plunged the rest of the way into his chest. Passing through his uniform like a drop of water without damaging the cloth. There was a green flash in Galen's eyes, a momentary spark that caused his whole body to jolt and shiver violently.

"Galen?" Celia tearfully murmured as he stumbled forth, collapsing down to his knees. The Elf dashed toward him, catching him mid-fall and holding him upright as his body continued to undergo a shaking fit.

"Galen?!" she cried, the moment before he went cold.

His ocean blue eyes turned to a dull black color. As a scream built up in her throat, another green light flashed over his pupils to restore the colour to his irises as well as the air to his lungs with a gasp and a swell of his chest. His control over his body came back to bring the trembling to an end, his breaths hard and shallow as sweat dripped over his brow. The second he realized his arm could move, one hand grasped onto Celia's shoulder while the other clamped down over his heart as one last shudder racked his body.

"W-what was that?" he gasped, probing the spot where the dart had entered him to find a distinct lack of a wound to prove it.

"I have no idea," Celia answered. "The spirits... They went inside you. I thought it was going to kill us, but now... are you alright?"

He coughed and rubbed his ribs over his heart, but ultimately gave a nod. "I'm a bit cold, but that's because I'm sweating in a breeze. Other than that... I'm alright. I'm a bit sore, and even more drowsy, but I'm alright."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Celia wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed the side of her face against his chest as she whispered, "Good. I'm glad you're okay."

Heat swelled in her chest as his arms wrapped around her to return the embrace. His cheek resting atop her head, she grinned as his soft voice whispered, "I can say the same for you. Come on, let's go join the Willhers by the fire. I think you'll be fine now with the spirits being released."

"I think so, too," she agreed before helping him get back onto his feet.

Taking her usual place hugged against his arm, she rested her head against her soldier's shoulder as they joined the outer ranks of the Nekos surrounding the bonfire. Michael, propped up against his crutch, stood in the middle of the circle telling a story. Right beside him was Mila and two other Willher males who swiftly translated his tale for those in the crowd who didn't know his language.

Understanding both languages, Galen had to give his head a shake and grit his teeth as he heard more than one mistranslation come up. Though they were quickly corrected as more than a few of the elders pitched in to help their interpreters when necessary.

"So there I was, walking down a dirt path in the middle of the forest, trying the find the man who had been shooting at me, when I see this kid. A girl fourteen or so years old," Michael paused, looking around at his rapt audience as his translators caught up. When the age of the girl was clarified, there was a new spark of interest from the Willhers. As their kind needed a little more than twenty five years to fully mature, and a century to be declared 'Elder', a fourteen year-old was still considered a young child.

"This girl, she sees me, my face covered in black paint, weapon in my hands. The look of fear in her eyes made me worry she might scream. Before I can calm her down, she starts running. I continue on thinking she isn't worth my time. But after she runs off into the bush, I hear the sudden thunder of other weapons and the forest is suddenly being torn apart. Bang, bang, bang, thunder-sticks rattling off in the same direction that the girl had run. Now, any idiot would have charged into the fight and gotten themselves killed. Not me. I circled around the thunder, coming in behind the Charlies that were waiting in ambush. I crept though the bush, low in the grass with the dew brushing against my face-"

"Uhh, Michael?" Mila interrupted.

He stopped and turned, noticing the frowning faces of his translators. "What?"

"What is 'ambush' and 'dew'?" one of the men asked, making the Sergeant frown.

"Ambush is hiding and waiting for an enemy so you can surprise attack him. Dew is the water that forms on grass in the evening," he clarified. Mila and the other two translators nodded in understanding and caught up in their translation of the story.

"As I was saying; with the thunder of their weapons roaring so loud, I was able to sneak behind them like a ghost-"

"What is 'ghost'?" another translator interrupted.

With a sigh and roll of the eyes, Michael answered, "A spirit still walking amongst the living. A person who didn't go into the afterlife. Now, AS I was saying..."

He paused a moment, allowing the Willher interpreters to catch up and then spoke again. "Before they even knew I was there, I came up behind one, drawing out my tomahawk and sinking the blade into his skull without pity or mercy," Michael emphasized this scene as he pulled out the weapon, raising it high and bringing it down in some unfortunate, imaginary, Viet Cong's head.

The display earned him several respectable nods from the warriors in the tribe, but others cringed in response.

"When I killed my third Charlie, though, the rest finally spotted me and began turning their weapons on me. First bastard to try and kill me, I threw this axe at him and stuck it into his forehead as I got my thunder-stick ready."

"And girl? What happen with her?" a Neko female asked, drawing Michael's attention toward her part of the circle.

While not appreciating the interruption, he understood the concern a non-warrior type had over the outcome of the battle. "She was hit in the shoulder and one of her legs, but she lived. When I killed the last of the Charlies, I carried her a great distance to get her to a healer. Saved her life."

A smile drew across Galen's face as he realized what story Michael was telling. Last week he had snuck out of the barracks at night to go out on a patrol by himself, determined to get his first kill with his handmade tomahawk he got smuggled in from home. What he ended up accomplishing was wiping out a Viet Cong fire team sent in to harass the airbase while saving a teen that had been sent out to fetch some supplies for her village. The Captain was left debating between reprimanding him for disobeying orders to stay put, or to recommend him a medal for his successful patrol.

To think, if Michael had been disciplined with more than the slap on the wrist, he may still be in the barracks or on guard duty back at base. He would still be on Earth. Instead he was here, retelling stories of his short life to impress a tribe of alien feline-creatures on some planet called Raska. From what Galen now saw among their pleased faces, his Sergeant was doing a good job.

"He is brutal!" Celia blurted out in Elvish, having listened to the Nekonian translations.

"Only to his enemies. People that would do no less to us," the Private defended.

"He relishes in his kills!" she cried, tightening her hug around his arm. "There is proudness for victory, and there is having a lack of sympathy for the dead... but that... it's sadistic."

"Any warrior is that way, no matter who they are." Galen muttered, earning a worried look from his Elven companion. "I guarantee any of the warriors here would do the same."

"Is that how it is in your world? The fighting men are like him?"

With a sigh, he nodded. "Where I come from, there are whole countries a thousand times worse than him. Both in our history and our present, people of my world always hungered for war and death."

"But not you," she said rather firmly. "I saw your memories of when you killed the Ra'zorlichs. You found no joy in their end. It's why you passed our trials. It is why I chose you." She concluded her words by giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to work a grin out of the Private's grim face. With a renewed liveliness, he threw his arm over her shoulder and pulled her in close. The two exchanging sweet words as Michael concluded his last story, the translators finishing moments after.

Seated on a bench close to the fire, Elder Misn took a moment to absorb these new tales he had heard from their tribal prospect. By repeating the scenes again in his imagination he could lock the verbal history into his aged mind to reflect upon at a later date. And as he did this, his tired eyes closed as his breathing slowed, his chest hardly moving as though no air pressed into it at all. In a very relaxed, lazy manner, his head nodded twice before his eyes opened once again.

"And you can... show us... how you hunt... when you are well, Michael?" he asked, pausing to take several long breaths.

"Once I'm off this crutch, I'll show you a whole lot more than that," the Sergeant answered with a powerful air of confidence.

On the Human's final words, the Elder weakly smiled while his gaze drifted over to Mila. Her tail rigidly swayed behind her as her ears perked up in anticipation. Misn's gaze continued to drift over the numbers of his village, watching the collective body language carefully. A growing air of approval graced his senses with the growing nods and murmurs of approval.

With these his eyes came back to focus upon Mila. Her eagerness was as palpable as her excitement was contagious. His chin rose slightly, his lungs swelling as he breathed deep to take in Michael's scent. Making his final judgement based on what he could decipher from the musk coming off the Human as he sweated from the heat of their Great Fire.

"No more waiting, dear tracker. In your family's absence this decision falls to me. I know of only one who would object to your union tonight, and in his absence, I voice it for him. Do you accept it?"

"I reject it, Elder," Mila stated firmly. "On grounds that he has failed Necela's test of spirits."

"Let it be known by the Keepers," Misn said, looking to the other elders in question who were quick to acknowledge his words before his attention returned to the tracker in question. "Now turn your feelings to words for our tribe to hear, Mila Preatu, give us your declaration."