Beauty and the Brave

The carved stone gates of the sacred warrior town stand open, revealing a sloping path down into the terraced hillside dwellings. Smoke rises from cooking fires in the distance, mingling with the crisp mountain air. At the gates, a cluster of elders and younger men gather, their faces turning toward the approaching figure.

"Ah! It's him!" A lean boy, barely ten, with rough hands, points excitedly before catching himself. One of the elders cuffs him lightly on the back of the head.

"Shut your mouth, pup. That’s a hero you're gawking at."

The elder steps forward, his long braided beard swaying as he squints against the late afternoon sun. His voice cracks slightly with age, but carries authority.

"Back from the north pass, eh? Word came ahead, said you cut down twelve of those bastards at the Black Ravine." He sniffs, rubbing his crooked nose. "Suppose that means you’ll be wanting a pick from the new maidens. Rest first, though. You look like death warmed over."

A murmur ripples through the gathered warriors and workers. Some of the younger men glance toward the winding path that leads deeper into the sacred dwellings, where the air smells of herbs and the sound of women’s laughter sometimes drifts from the steam baths.

The elder turns to one of the younger warriors, a lanky man with fresh scars across his bare chest.

"Go tell the attendants. A hero’s back. They’ll want to ready the welcome."

The younger man ducks his head and jogs off. The elder sighs, scratching his beard before addressing the returning warrior again.

"Well? You planning to stand there all night? Or are you actually coming in?"

A gust of wind howls down from the peaks, carrying the scent of pine and distant iron. Somewhere in the sacred town, a drum begins to beat, slow, deliberate. The sound of preparation.

The mud-caked warrior stumbles into the village commons, his left arm wrapped in bloodstained linen. The afternoon sun bakes the sweat and grime into his skin as a group of adolescent boys carrying water skins freeze mid-task to gawk.

"Tch. Couple of months out there and you come back looking like that?" A grizzled woman leans against a grinding stone, coarse hands still working barley grains. "Could'a sworn we sent more'n one fighter north this year." Her laugh turns into a wet cough.

From the communal hearth, a younger man with fresh facial scars perks up, chunks of half-chewed mutton falling from his mouth. "Ey! You're alive! Saw the tally keeper mark you down for... uh..." He squints, counting on filthy fingers. "Seven? Eight kills?"

An older warrior spits into the fire, making the flames hiss. "Eight my ass. Two of those were wounded when you got 'em, pup. Barely counts."

The scarred youth elbows him hard. "Shut up, old man. At least he came back breathing." Turning back, he grins, showing missing teeth. "Attendants'll get you cleaned up. Then uh... y'know. The huts. Got some fresh ones this season; real pretty, some of 'em." His voice drops to a crude whisper. "Heard one's got hips like a—"

A clay cup sails through the air, smacking his temple. The grinding woman scowls. "Quit your yapping and let the man eat first. Gods."

From the bathing tents, steam rises along with the sound of splashing water. Someone's humming—a woman's voice, interrupted by giggling. The scent of lavender oil cuts through the stench of sweat and iron.

The maiden's quarters smell of crushed herbs and nervous sweat. A girl with sunburnt cheeks fidgets next to you, picking at the frayed edge of her linen shift. The woolen divider flutters as someone outside walks past, sending a brief slash of torchlight across the dirt floor.

"Your turn soon," mutters the attendant woman, her knuckles cracked from lye soap. She doesn't meet anyone's eyes as she dips a rag in steaming water. "Heroes came back. Three of 'em."

The girl to your left—barely eighteen, still round-faced—whimpers and tugs at her braid. "M-my mother said—"

"Shut it," hisses an older attendant, her collarbones sharp. "You wanna get smacked? They can hear you."

Beyond the hides covering the doorway, boots scrape against stone. Deep voices murmur—one laughs, the sound wet like a dog panting. The attendant woman grabs the youngest maiden's wrist, rubbing lavender oil into her pulse point with rough fingers.

"Breathe," she grunts. "Or you'll faint. And nobody wants a girl who can't take it standing up."

Torchlight swells as the divider gets yanked aside. A warrior fills the doorway, his shadow stretching long across the packed earth. He's got blood caked under his nails, fresh enough to still smell like copper.

"Well?" he says to the attendant, jerking his chin toward the huddled maidens. "Any of these worth my time, or do I gotta wait for the next batch?"

The youngest girl makes a tiny noise like a stepped-on rabbit.

The dwelling smells of goat’s milk and crushed lavender, the woven reed mats beneath your feet worn thin from pacing. The baby—just starting to crawl—gurgles by the hearth, chewing on a strip of cured leather. Outside, the drumbeats start up again, the deep thuds echoing through the hillside.

The hide flap over the doorway twitches. A woman’s face appears—sharp cheekbones, dark circles under her eyes. She’s carrying a basket of damp linens under one arm, her knuckles red from scrubbing.

"Still here?" She snorts, dropping the basket with a wet thump. "Thought you’d be down by the gate already. Like that skinny little thing from the south—what’s her name—running to meet them like a starved dog."

She rubs her lower back, glancing at the baby before looking away.

"Tally keepers say the war band crossed the pass yesterday. Some made it. Some didn’t." She hesitates, then spits into the fire. "Your man: he’s either coming back covered in glory, or he’s crow food. Either way, better finish weaving that shroud you’ve been working on."

The baby squeals, slapping tiny hands against the dirt floor. The woman sighs, nudging a wooden toy toward it with her foot.

"Attendants’ll be by soon. Gotta check you’re still... y’know. Usable." Her mouth twists. "Hero or not, they don’t like leaving good breeding years empty."

Somewhere outside, a horn blows: low and raw, the sound of warriors being counted home.