To Discover His Truth

A Winter Sacrifice

Brynnan hung from the oak tree suspended by one leg; his other leg hooked behind the opposite knee, arms bound behind his back and around his waist so that he could not move them.

He felt a strange sense of expectancy. Kian-Hen’s influence no longer affected him, but something told him to be patient. A fluttering above him resolved into Branwen, the white raven. She flew to the snowy ground and half-hopped, half-walked towards him. Then flapping her wings, she sprung up at his face. ‘She is going to take my eyes,’  Brynnan thought, but no, the raven settled back on the ground.

She crouched forward, opening her beak to make repeated creaking noises, like a door with rusty hinges, then she abruptly flew away. Returning only moments later, she again launched herself towards Brynnan’s face, but this time she gripped and bunched the clothing at his chest. Swinging herself around, bird and man now faced each other. The Bard stared at the wickedly curved beak only to see that she held a red berry in its tip. The bird delicately put the berry into Brynnan’s mouth, then again made the creaking sound.

Brynnan tentatively tasted the berry; it was a dried-up hawthorn and not a poisonous holly berry. All of a sudden, the raven’s behaviour made sense. Rather than peck out his eyes, she was feeding him, showing him affection. Brynnan made the affectionate sound back to the bird, and she reacted by bending her head and pressing it against his face. Then she let go of his clothing and flew up into the oak, where she made a challenging croak and then settled.

‘She guards me,’ the Bard thought.

A feeling of numbness claimed him, and time lost meaning. A familiar silver mist surrounded him: the pathway to the spirit realm. And then he knew that something was approaching.

Brynnan seemed to stand at the base of the oak tree. Behind him, his own body hung, connected to his spirit form by a glowing blue cord. Then a tree uprooted itself and stepped forward, resolving into a man – or mostly man, for he was crowned with the antlers of a stag and a wreath of holly. His eyes were not of human aspect, but animal and yellow.

“Hail, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, Servant of Ravens and King of Winter!”

“I do not seek to usurp your title, Lord of the Wood and Winter King,” Brynnan answered humbly.

“No, Brynnan,” said the Horned One. “But you are my representative in the material world. It was I who chose you, not the so-called ‘Ancient Mage’: he is but a child in comparison to myself. I was brought with your First Peoples as a locus of belief.”

“In the long Dark between stars, separated from their beginnings, people must have clung to their identities with an intensity that we would scarce understand now,” said Brynnan as realization dawned on him. His spirit-form shuddered, “Dreams do come true….”

“And nightmares,” added the Lord of the Wood. “Spilled blood has become part of the ritual of my appeasement. You know that it’s your blood Kian-Hen plans to spill in the morning. The people will gather, but they will not see you: instead, they will see the stag and do nothing to save you.”

“Then I am doomed.”

“But no, this night, I have gifted you with knowledge of the power of knowledge in this world. You have already encountered other Powers, and you know how to guide the dying. I will give you a chance. My raven servant guards you, and she will do what she may at the appointed time. But now, let me pledge my aid to you directly, for keeping faith with me,” said the Forest God.

New understanding came to the Bard and his spirit form, now naked, seemed solid and real. So did the body of the Lord of the Wood. He was magnificent; his skin the colour of aged oak, powerfully muscled as if sculpted and taller than Brynnan. His cock stood proud and erect. It reminded the Bard of the Warlord Samir’s. An aromatic essence emanated from him, an incense composed of forest, snow, and animal musk.

He took the Bard by the shoulders and placed him against the shadowy, great oak tree. Brynnan clasped the tree and spread his legs. The Lord of the Wood seized the Bard’s hips and, without ceremony, pushed his cock, dripping with precum, into the Bard’s ass. Brynnan felt the antlers on the being’s head rake against his shoulders. An animal lust shook him in waves, and he pushed back against the God’s thrusting penis. He expected the rutting to be brief, but it seemed to be prolonged and intense, for time had little meaning here. Brynnan knew from experience that ages in the spirit world could be but moments in the material world.

With the belling roar of a stag, the Winter God came into the Bard’s ass. Brynnan cried out and shot his own load. Rarely had he felt a more intense orgasm. But to his surprise, the Winter Lord dropped to his knees and took Brynnan’s cock in his mouth. It stiffened almost immediately. Brynnan dared grip the God’s antlers. Again, the Bard found himself immersed in intensely erotic sensations as he was sucked until he climaxed once more. This time the Winter Lord did embrace him, and the Bard knelt so that he rested his head on the muscled shoulder.

“Before this night is over, my brother will visit you. Be aware of his coming. You will know him by his horse.”

Brynnan closed his eyes and felt a kiss on his forehead. Dizziness overcame him, and he opened his eyes to darkness and stars once more and an upside-down world.

*    *    *

He heard a horse whicker softly in the trees. Three dogs entered the clearing. The Bard could see them clearly, for they glowed; two of the beasts were white hounds, but the third was much larger and shaggier and of a brindled grey colour. They approached but did not attack. The large grey one reached up and licked Brynnan’s face.

‘Ci Annwn,’ murmured the Bard. “Hound of the Shadow Realm, where is your Lord?”

He heard the horse whicker again, and Rhiannon stepped out. She bore a rider. He was pale-skinned with flowing black hair bound with a silver circlet, and he wore a huntsman’s garb of black, silver and dark green. A grey cloak flowed from his shoulders over the horse's hindquarters. A silver horn was slung across his shoulder, and a sheathed sword hung at his side: a bow and a quiver of arrows attached to the saddle behind him. Brynnan could see the rider plainly; he did not seem to be in the spirit world but real and solid.

But Brynnan felt a clenching in his gut. “My Lord Arawn, is my horse dead?”

“No. I found her in the wood. As you can see, she knows me. My own horse awaits me in the Shadow Realm. I can cross the boundaries at will, not unlike yourself, Brynnan, my Son.  She will return to you at dawn when I ride on another hunt.”

The King of Annwn looked up and raised his arm. The white raven descended from the oak and settled on his fist.

“When the dawn comes, Branwen will hunt with me. She is a special bird and has her own destiny to fulfill.” He cast the bird into the night.

Brynnan, looking up into the high oak branches, saw the white raven settle there again. She uttered a bell-like note.

“You may not be aware of it, but you already have my gifts, Brynnan. You will know this at dawn. It is not far off now; you have but a little time left to endure. Farewell!”

The King of the Shadow realm melted back into the trees with Rhiannon and the dogs. Brynnan was alone again, save for the raven. He wondered what Arawn had meant by ‘little time left.’ Was it his death that the Lord of Death foretold? Was he to be hunted? He turned his head and noticed a lightening in the sky.

*    *    *

He might have slept because the next time he opened his eyes, the stars were fading, and there was a faint blush in the east. There was also the sound of an approaching horse.

Kian-Hen rode into the clearing. He dismounted from his white horse and approached the Bard.

“Alive and awake, I see. Good. I would not have had you succumb to the cold. Did you acquire much wisdom?”

Brynnan chose not to answer. What he had experienced was his alone. Although the Ancient One stared at him, the Bard felt no influence or control upon him now, and he blessed both the Lord of the Wood and the King of the Underworld.

Kian-Hen looked puzzled and frowned. Then he raised his fist and called his raven. The bird answered with a piercing alarm call but did not leave the branch where she perched. Kian-Hen’s frown deepened.

“No doubt she senses the people coming to assemble here. It will not be long.”

The Mage took hold of Brynnan’s clothing and parted it, exposing his throat. King Rhydian’s torc gleamed. “We won’t need this, I think,” Kian-Hen said as he removed the torc from Brynnan’s neck and tucked it inside his robes. “Now I have a clean strike, which is merciful for you. It looks as though your throat was pierced once before. This time, the act will be completed, and your blood will stain the snow. But now I hear the assembly approaching. Still have nothing to say? Then pray to the Gods that your soul may swiftly enter the Shadow Realm.”

Kian-Hen stepped back and assumed a formal pose. He held the long, curved knife in his right hand.

People began to fill the clearing. As well as members from the court, soldiers and villagers joined the throng. No one spoke.

They all awaited the first ray of the rising sun to illuminate the oak and its sacrificial victim. Geraint, Nijal and Andri were among the people near the front.

“Where’s Brynnan?” said Geraint. Surely, he must be present for their sacrifice. The sun is about to rise.”

Nijal urgently gripped Geraint’s sleeve. “That is no stag! Look, man. See it for what it is!”

Then several things happened: the sun rose, Kian-Hen raised his arm holding the flashing knife, Geraint pulled his strung bow from his back, and Nijal passed him an arrow, but it would be too late.

Then, with a fierce cry, the white raven dropped from on high and flew into Kian-Hen’s face, pecking at his eyes. The Mage cursed and slashed with his knife. It caught the raven and flung it, bleeding, into the snow. He raised the knife again to strike into the Bard’s unprotected throat.

Geraint loosed his arrow, even as Nijal sprang forward like a pouncing lion. But the old Warrior’s arrow found its mark first, burying itself deep into Kian-Hen’s exposed side, under his arm. The arrow pierced the Mage’s heart, and he was dead before his body hit the ground. Blood from the strike splashed the snow.

Nijal cut the Bard down, and he and Geraint removed the ropes. Rhydian approached and knelt, moving Brynnan’s head and shoulders to rest on his knees. But Andri stood cradling the white raven in his hands. “It gave its life for Brynnan,” he murmured disconsolately.

Geraint understood that Andri grieved for Brynnan, too, but grief was more manageable in smaller amounts.

Nijal touched the Bard’s neck and felt for a pulse. Brynnan opened his eyes and looked at Geraint.

“We must stop meeting like this, old Warrior,” he whispered.

“Don’t talk just now, dear lad,” said Geraint, tears in his eyes.

Nijal cut in, “We need to massage his limbs, Geraint. He must have been hanging here all night.”

As Nijal and Geraint worked on Brynnan, Rhydian put in, “I have some cordial.” He called to his page to bring him the flask, then supported Brynnan’s head to help him sip it.

The drink seemed to help, for the Bard spoke to Rhydian. “Kian-Hen… Inside his robes, your torc….”

Then, “Help me stand.”

Once Brynnan was on his feet, strength seemed to flow into him. He straightened and assumed an air of command. Raising his voice to the assembled people, he announced, “The sun is rising; let us ride forth on this new morning. Let the captive deer be freed, for the sacrifice is completed. No, I do not speak of this traitorous Mage who sought power only for himself. I speak of this noble bird that gave its life to save mine. Build its body a cairn in an honoured place. As for the mage, let the place of his burial be forgotten. His spirit will not trouble you. It has become sport for Arawn, King of Annwn. This I pledge as truth.”

The assembled crowd responded with heartened cries. They did not fully understand but knew that some great evil had passed. They turned and sought their horses.

An attendant of King Rhydian came forward and relieved Andri of his feathered burden, wrapping it in a silk cloth. Another came forward with Brynnan’s cloak, and King Rhydian himself replaced his torc around the Bard’s neck.

Brynnan whistled loudly. Rhiannon stepped out of the forest, looking as fresh as if she had spent the night in a stable.

Nijal commented to Geraint as they went to their own horses, “He recovers fast, does he not?”

“The man amazes me sometimes. Just when you think he is down . . .” replied the old Warrior, shaking his head.

As they rode out from the grove and into open land, a deep, sustained horn call filled the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. Faintly, Brynnan heard the call of hunting hounds. Instinctively, he went into the sound, and his sight changed. The landscape rippled, and the sun dimmed.

He rode on a silver plain, and the Wild Hunt ranged all about him. White hounds with red eyes surged ahead of the riders, and a great, grey shaggy one kept pace with the lead rider on his pale horse. Brynnan recognized King Arawn. A white raven perched on the Huntsman’s shoulder. Ahead of the hunt, in the distance, ran a figure all in white, and Brynnan knew it was the soul of Kian-Hen.

Arawn turned and looked straight at the Bard, an enigmatic smile on his face, then he raised the silver horn and sounded it again.

The vision faded, and he was in the open meadows with King Rhydian’s people. Ahead something white burst out of the thicket and paused, one leg raised. It was a white stag with a seven-point rack of antlers, through which the sun shone like a golden crown. It stayed a few moments, then crossed to the other side, where it disappeared into the trees once more.

Brynnan held up a hand, and the riders pulled to a halt. “Let all creatures be undisturbed this day of celebration. We will return to the King’s hall and our feast and the ceremony that completes my reign as your Winter King.”

*    *    *