Love - is a burning thing; and it makes a fiery ring;
Bound - by wild desire; I fell in to a ring of fire.
I fell in to a burning ring of fire; I went down, down, down;
And the flames went higher; and it burns, burns, burns;
The ring of fire; The ring of fire.
~ Johnny Cash; Ring of Fire, 1963
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“What shall we name him?”
Renawa absently stroked the fur of a tiny squirrel, one taken to nibbling on crumbs he was tossed and mewling with glee when he was caressed. Ogden was silent, watching Renawa and the squirrel, trying not to see his tusks in his periphery. Renawa was used to his silence and was not expecting an answer; it was all right, really; she could speak enough for the both of them; that he was present and attentive was enough; it was more than enough.
They were reclining in the woods in a small clearing away from the village, their day’s labor concluded. A small fire crackled and popped not far from them providing a dim, flickering light and warmth against the encroaching chill. It was testament to Renawa’s ability with animals that she could get a squirrel to approach and make friends with a fire so near.
It had been two years since his awakening, there in his parent’s hut, Renawa dancing a mating dance before him. Though he had excelled in his studies – preternaturally so – he was quiet and reserved, solemn and stoic. Soon, his father had said, it would be time to take up the arcane studies that had made all in Wonton’s line renowned; indeed, Ogden could already feel the ley of the lands and fancied he could hear the might of the magic patiently waiting to be untapped.
During those two years, Renawa habitually continued to check in on Ogden, first as something like a family friend, then a personal friend, then a best-friend, and then to what they shared – a budding and powerful love. It was odd for both; their love should not exist, should not be growing. She had already mated but lost her mate in a skirmish with another tribe; though she had done so for life it seemed her heart had other plans. He had been in the mighty, defining ‘first love’, the one that sets the tone for every other love in one’s life, and it had been betrayed by the daughter of the female for which his heart and mind then burned. Neither thought they should be feeling anything remotely like love, but felt it they did; in typical Troll-fashion, inside them it blazed.
But he was broken. Not only was he twenty years her junior, he was a broken child on the cusp of adulthood. The stone from Reneva’s sling had been true, and still, some six years after its impact, he was reeling from its effects. Soon, he would have to wear some sort of harness to prevent his jaw from hanging slack against his chest. Already it was very difficult to talk; his speech was filled with all manner of slurs and lisps. His left tusk was fully discolored and sounded hollow when touched; he could tell his right tusk was somewhat alive because of how painful it remained. It wouldn’t be long before the left would break or simply fall from his face; the right not far behind. In a society that judged a male’s virility by the size, strength, turn, and point of his tusks, Ogden would be passed over with prejudice, unworthy to take a mate. He knew that even if no one chided Ogden for the love he shared with Renawa, they would chide her.
“Don’t let them bother you, Amnan,” Renawa whispered, touching his hand with a loving caress, “Tusks don’t make the mate.”
Lest she see the defeat and loss in his eyes and the burning desire to protect her from the tribe’s response to the way she accepted – even defended - him, Ogden lowered his head with a very subtle nod. She withdrew her hand from his, her heart breaking for him.
Renawa was kneeling next to Ogden which made a dandy lap on which the squirrel found comfort. She continued to pet the small, nameless animal with one hand and feed it crumbs with her other. Ogden choked back a lump in his throat and stared into the fire; though she called him ‘Amnan’ he would not dare speak the same to her; the last time he had, everything went bad.
After a time, the squirrel had enough domestication; he twittered his nose at Renawa once and scampered into the night. She watched him go then turned to Ogden. “Would you like me to dance for you, tonight?”
Trying to conceal the love in his heart, Ogden nodded. It was something they had fallen into; nearly every night, Renawa would dance for Ogden as he sat and watched, thumping a rhythm for her on his simply made drums. Though Ogden was not a wood or leather worker, he had labored until he made a sturdy, if rough, hembra and macho pair of bongos.
She stood and removed her cloak as Ogden changed his posture to steady the drums. Renawa was wearing only a tiny halter and tight ankle-length skirt; she would be terribly cold without her cloak were she just standing in place but the exertions from her dance would keep her warm; Renawa always gave everything she had when she danced; it was a lesson her mother had taught her and one she had learned well.
Ogden began with a slow rhythm and Renawa began to dance. To begin and warm up, she swayed in a dance of thanksgiving.
Beyond the firelight, Diablo stood weightless and invisible on Reneva’s shoulder. She was close enough to hear her mother speak but not Ogden’s responses; any closer and she risked discovery. As she watched her mother rise and strip – strip! – to dance for Ogden, Diablo whispered foul and unrighteous things into Reneva’s ear. Diablo had planted the unholy seeds of jealousy deep in Reneva’s heart in seasons past; those seeds were then bearing fruit, blackening her heart towards her mother. Adding to the jealousy was embarrassment; Ogden should have been exiled from the tribe long ago and had thusly been shunned by all but a few; instead of the few growing fewer, Renawa had helped to turn fears into sympathy and more stood for Ogden each season.
“Just wait, mother,” Reneva hissed, her lips curled with disgust, “Yours is coming swiftly.”
Without realizing what she was doing, Renawa slipped into a mating dance. Whether Ogden guided her there by changing the rhythm on the bongos or he followed her lead was difficult to tell; they were in the first blush of love but that did not preclude their friendship. Having spent so much time together over the last two years and growing so close meant they could complete each other’s thoughts without effort.
Renawa’s dance grew more brazen; Ogden’s accompaniment more sensual; Reneva’s jealousy and disgust more malevolent. The flickering firelight, scents of the woods, and heat from the fire added potency to their rising hunger. Only when in heat could Renawa dance more seductively, more licentiously; Ogden played, rapt by her performance.
As if on a predetermined cue, Ogden crescendoed and stopped playing in the same instant Renawa concluded her dance. She was covered by a thin sheen; tiny tendrils of steam lifted from her flesh, she panting from her exertions and aroused by her lusts. Ogden was himself breathless, more from Renawa than from his efforts.
Quietly, barely above a whisper, Ogden spoke for the first time in weeks. “Amnan.”
Renawa smiled, delighted with a word from him – that word! – and could not stop a tiny squeal. Ogden put the drums aside and tried to slow his breathing, tried to take his eyes from her flesh, tried to ignore the scent of her in his nostrils; he leaned back on his arms and closed his eyes, breathing deeply to regain some sense of balance.
When he did so, he inadvertently revealed a throbbing protrusion jutting from below his waist, making his robes stand up like a pole would support the canvas sides of its tent. Renawa’s eyes went wide and her own longings caught in her throat. Licking her lips and whimpering she tried to turn from him, but her eyes were trapped by the sight of his arousal. If this happened when next in heat, she knew there would be nothing to stop her from laying with him. She tried to speak, to say something that would not embarrass him, to speak some gentle word to make him turn from her and relieve her of the rising temptation, but her voice failed her. She could only whisper his name; her love, desire, and loyalty mingling in a heterodyned, pleading gasp.
“Ogden.”
