Protector

I just laid on the mattress for a moment, trying to get my bearings. What had happened last night? I mean, I knew. My mind had been a haze but I was there, behind it all. During the fight and the following evening, I had been playing second fiddle to instincts that were not my own. I was better now. Still, I could feel the soft and occasionally bristly fur of a pile of minotaur girls weighing down on me, sleeping gently. And, though I could think with a far clearer mind, a lingering sensation of affection and protectiveness still passed through me when I concentrated on the radiator-like body heat of their fur.

The girls were nice. The girls were good. But I was gross. The desperately-in-need-of-a-shower kind of feeling pervaded every inch of me, from the tips of my horn to the cleft in my hooves. Another trip to the riverbed looked to be on my schedule. But, first, there was the question of the bodies draped over my own. Was I expected to perform aftercare for a dozen girls, cook breakfast for a village, or cuddle for several days?

Silencing my doubts, I tried to slip out of the bed, sliding grasping arms off me ever so slowly, the sleeping bodies they were attached to only shifting ever so slightly as I moved. I was practically playing limbo, trying to make my way under the tangled mess of limbs. I paused for a second as a black-furred leg twitched, its cloven hoof dragging up and down the bed, searching for the warm fur it had been buried in moments before. After a moment, it stopped. I was still good. Finally taking a second to orient myself once there were no more women on top of me, I realised that I had been lower to the ground than I thought I should be. Sitting up on the mattress, I discovered that it was laid flat on the ground, sans-bedframe. Don’t think about it. I would just have to remember that I was on the line for a bed. Everything else later, river now. I stood up.

Thinking myself the nimblest minotaur in existence, I hadn’t made it a step away from the bed before feeling a gentle hand grip my left leg’s calf.

“You’re not going, are you?” A sleepy voice asked, a hint of sadness in its inflection.

Pivoting, I turned back around to the collapsed mattress, finding a reddish brown minotaur woman held onto my leg. The front of her coat, down the underside of her chin and neck to her trim waist was of a lighter rose fur. Surprisingly intact undergarments cupped her breasts, hanging loosely off the drowsy girl. And, somewhat amusingly, a little brass cowbell necklace dangled off the minotaur’s neck, clinking mutedly as the girl’s torso lurched from the mattress to my leg.

Credit: Luryry

The question asked hung in the air for a second, cutting into my core. I wasn’t going, was I? I supposed I knew the answer before the question had ever been asked.

“I will be sticking around,” I rumbled with a warm smile, the minotauress’ features being burned into my eyes. Evidently pleased at my answer, the grip on my leg fell away and the prone minotaur instead used her hand to prop up her head, eying me up from her position on the mattress.

Embarrassment clouded my thoughts. In the haze of last night, somehow I hadn’t even noticed her joining the pile. I hadn’t noticed a lot of the sleeping minotauresses join the pile. I didn’t like to think of myself as someone who slept around with no sense of personal connection. However, just holding on to that feeling of dissociation with the minotauresses around me was difficult. The longer I looked at the red-brown girl before me, the fonder I felt of her. It was bizarre, we hadn’t even done introductions yet. I blinked. That truth hit me like a truck, we hadn’t done introductions.

“Apologies, I don’t think I introduced myself last night. You can call me Parting Blade,” I said, extending a hand to the smiling minotauress. Brushing a hand across her hair, the minotauress placed her smaller hand in my own, giving a light squeeze.

“That’s quite alright, deary. Can’t say I was in much of a talking mood last night either,” the rust-coloured minotauress tittered, her eyes lidding halfway playfully. “The name’s Angus, Red Angus. But you can call me Angy, darling.”

Angy. I liked the name. I liked the girl it was attached to. Leaning down, I gave the rust fur of Angy’s cheek a parting kiss. As soon as I touched the fur, the taste hit me and I struggled to not recoil. Ew ew ew. It looked like all of us could use a pretty thorough rinse.

Waving the minotauress goodbye, I lumbered outside. I was single-minded in my path to the river, trying to sprint through the walk of shame

Hoofstrong’s smithy was lit and smoking when I finished bathing. Black fur was an easy colour to miss impurities in, but I was fairly sure I had cleaned up as well as cold water and roughly scrubbing hands would allow.

I had been wandering around the village after my dip in the river. It was nice to get some fresh air, but I was catching some stares from the minotaurs. The sun was fairly high in the sky, probably making it the afternoon, but there were few people out and about. And, those I did see, were doing the whole point-and-whisper schtick with each other. I didn’t really want to hang around but I absolutely could not go back into my temporary home right now. And so, Hoofstrong’s smithy, with little puffs of smoke just beginning to peek out of its smokestack, became my destination.

The inside of the workshop, now that I took the time to look at it, was actually quite nice. Tools hung on racks in the wall, some bigger and some smaller. The wear on their edges helped show which ones saw more use than others. Over a table, a blade’s hilt sat wrapped in cloth, unfinished. In the centre of the room, there was an anvil to strike blades upon and a bucket of still water to cool them in. And, just beyond these, sat a glowing furnace, coals just beginning to come alight in the orange flames. It was a new day and the smithy was just about to come online.

Credit: ZoeyPeltier

To my right, a door running along the wall of the smithy, heading deeper into the building opened up and I saw a familiar chocolate minotaur dripping from head to toe in water rubbing a ragged towel through her long, black hair.

“Oh”–Hoofstrong exclaimed, pausing by the door to her quarters, the towel in her hand frozen for a second–“the warrior.”

Did she have a bath in there? It was a far cry from indoor plumbing and picking buckets of water by hand all the way from the stream sounded like a pain, but I would have to look into that as an option if I wanted to stay here for long. She had, apparently, gotten clean and was well into starting her day in the time it had taken me to travel all the way to the river and back.

“Sorry for the intrusion. I just needed somewhere to duck into, away from all of the eyes out there,” I apologised, with a short bow of my head to the smith.

“No worries. No worries,” the smith repeated absentmindedly. Walking over to her hearth, she picked up a great air-bellows. Bringing its pointed nozzle to the fireplace, she gave the contraption a good push and, with a rush of air, the hearth’s embers exploded into a fiery blaze. “The girls around here are just a little excited”–Hoofstrong explained, casually keeping an eye on the blazing inferno just before her eyes–“because it’s been so long since a strong man came to town. Let alone such a potent specimen.” Turning her head ever so slightly, the minotauress cast an eye back to me. “You shouldn’t have anything to worry about, unless you were planning on running away and leaving some broken hearts behind,” Hoofstrong finished, leaving the awkward sentence hanging in the air for a few seconds. I pursed my lips, looking at her curiously. Was she asking for herself?

“I made a promise to protect Highcliff. I intend on keeping it,” I said resolutely. I didn’t know if Hoofstrong was being vulnerable or not, but now was the time to be direct in my intentions to support her and every other minotaur here.

Hoofstrong had had her back turned to me, fixated for several seconds longer than seemed necessary on the furnace. Standing, she turned back to me with a small smile on her face. Leaning over to me, she gave a quick peck on my cheek.

“You can protect me any day,” Hoofstrong purred, leaning by my ear. Straightening out, she adopted a more serious expression. “But, if you are going to be sticking around, I would like to take a look at your sword. Maybe you’d like a shield too? There’s no shame in one of those. The Diamond Dogs left plenty of metal scraps behind as they ran off, so I have a lot more to work with than the ingots Lulu brought in on her last supply run.”

Looking expectantly at the belt around my waist, Hoofstrong offered an upturned hand. Unsheathing my sword, I gently turned it around, passing the hilt to the smith. Her brow furrowed slightly as she took the blade and closely examined its length, betraying her interest.

I pursed my lips, running a calloused hand over my chest and through the thick fur covering it. A layer of fur blunted blows, lessened scratches from claws, and provided decent protection from bugs and chill. But blades? For how much stronger I had been than the Diamond Dogs that had attacked, I was hobbled by the carefulness I had needed to take during the fight. One lucky slash could have cut me wide open, leaving me here to bleed out without a proper hospital in the whole country.

“If we’ve got the resources, how about some armour?” I proposed tentatively, the fur over my chest returning to its natural shape as I lifted my hand away from it.

“Armour?” Hoofstrong rumbled absentmindedly, her focus still entirely on the weapon in her hands. “You’d have to head a few days west to find any minotaurs working with leather.” Humming appreciatively, Hoofstrong held the shaft of my sword in the sun’s light, the metal glinting in her eye. Glancing over to me, she continued, “I can inlay some steel studs into leather if you bring me some elbow pads or a heart-protector, but I’m a smith at heart.”

She thought I wanted something in leather? I mean, it would be much better than what I had right now, however thick my skin was. Still, it didn’t play into my strengths. I was a walking mountain, a force of nature. Any armour, no matter how heavy, I was confident that I could wear.

“Since we salvaged so much iron from the Diamond Dogs, I was hoping I could get something in metal. A chestplate maybe?” There was a pregnant pause.

“You’re joking,” Hoofstrong barked, her focus now completely on me. “No minotaur has ever had the gall or cowardice to ask me for armour before.”

“Cowardice?” I asked, turning to the smith. She had a sternness in her eyes now. Had I committed some unknown faux pas?

Like a roaring furnace lived in her chest, Hoofstrong snorted and billowing clouds of condensation fired from her snout. Dropping my sword ignominiously on the table, Hoofstrong plodded over to me, each hoofstep sounding against the smithy floor like a blow. She stopped short in front of me, her eyes burrowing into my skull like a drill. She paused for a second, looking for something, before opening her mouth.

“Did you plan to claim me, just before announcing that you had no intention to trade blows with competitors?”

“Fight competitors? What does that even”–I paused, rubbing my temple in exasperation. This was going to be one of those things that didn’t translate over well–“what does that mean? And, please, remember that I’m not from around here when you explain.”

“Yes, you’ve said that before,” Hoofstrong grunted irritably. Her arms had crossed and she looked moments away from bashing me up the head with one of her hammers. Alright, she was mad.

Huffing angrily, her only action for several seconds was to stand there and stare. I had nothing to say. Frankly, I didn’t even know where to begin. Cooling down slightly, she finally addressed my question with an accusation, warning, “to wear more than the most basic of leather straps is to invite mockery for cowardice. It announces that one is afraid of being struck, or afraid of shedding blood to protect their claims. True minotaurs are supposed to move free of constraints, like the wind through the grass.”

“This tradition is longstanding and is and has always been part of our history. No matter what part of the plains you grew up in, you should have known this.” Hoofstrong took a provocative step towards me, projecting absolute confidence through her posture. Despite standing just shorter than me, her aggressive, unflinching approach and granite muscles made no hint of the implicit threat. With conviction, Hoofstrong dictated, “you have taken me as a mate and you will respect the history of our people.”

I met the chocolate minotaur in her fiery eyes. The ornamental metal bands around her horns glimmered in the sunlight, drawing attention to the spear like tips of bone. She brokered no compromise, drawing on history and tradition and all the things that made rational people fly into a rage. Some small part of me wanted to not push her on this, to let it slide and avoid conflict. The crackle of embers snapped in the background. But, deep down, I knew that was the same part of me that still demanded I leave Highcliff and its minotaurs behind.

I stepped forward.

“I made a promise to protect these people,” I rumbled with an uncompromising firmness in my voice. Hoofstrong ceded no ground, but I was a bulwark against her will. “I have a duty to keep them safe, to winfights protecting them. The minotaurs who would judge me are gone. I have seen nothing but the ruins of their society. If fighting with honour in their eyes means dying and leaving this village to the dogs, then I would rather live dishonourably and keep Highcliff safe.”

There was a moment of silence. The tension in the air was thick enough to be cut like a knife. Hoofstrong’s piercing blue eyes darted between my own, looking for any hint of insincerity. My muscles were taut, ready to block a strike that hadn’t yet come. If Hoofstrong was going to bring this to blows, I wouldn’t strike back. But I still didn’t want to take a blacksmith’s hammer directly to the head, that was part of why I was asking for armour after all. The room was dead still, except for the spitting and crackling of embers in the hearth. It was just me, squared up against Highcliff’s powerful smith. I held for a few seconds, then a few more. Finally, Hoofstrong’s iron stance softened and she took a step back from me.

“I have never made armour before, but ancients smite me if I am not the best smith this side of the plains. I will have it to you before the week is through.”

Hoofstrong looked me up and down, smouldering coals in the furnace’s hearth casting a gentle glow around the chocolate minotaur’s frame. Her blue eyes, like glittering sapphires, reflected the dancing flames of the smithy.

“If I must invite the mockery of my ancestors to keep you around”–Hoofstrong lamented, exhaling slowly. Brushing various tools and debris from a workbench, she’d turned her back to me–“so be it. You don’t fight like a minotaur, you don’t think like a minotaur, you don’t act like a minotaur.” There was a pause.

“But maybe you’re just what we need.”

Author's Note

My computer was broken, apologies for the delays in posting. Back to regular updates, people.