Futile Love
One-off quickie
In the shadow of the great sea, a small peninsula has been cultivated by a race of pantherine peoples. Fur black as jet and eyes green like jade, these panthers have developed their culture and society. Lacking deposits of valuable minerals or great forests from which to collect timber, they remain quite primitive. Though they possess arable land in abundance, they lay claim to little else. It is their misfortune then that other tribes seek their singular resource.
For uncountable generations, the panthers have risen to meet their rivals in warfare. Generations of men have risen to meet the rigors of battle, but none have succeeded in driving away the enemy permanently. At worst, they resist the frequent tides of hostile men at great cost in blood. At best, they do likewise, simply with fewer but still substantial losses. To simply hold what they already possess requires many, many bodies constantly marching forward. A centuries long stalemate.
It is the want of rigid materials that forces the panthers to rely principally on numbers. What little iron can be mined is refined and forged into plows and tools of production. Scarce wood is reserved for pushing back against dilapidation. As such, the men who depart for battle are armed only with simple spears with tips made from stone, daggers of the same and a pair of flax pants to be worn. Men march, fight, kill and die barefoot and bare-chested. No man has been particularly bothered by this arrangement. From youth, they are trained for inevitable war. Toughened soles and powerful chests demand little and are comforted little by the protection of cumbersome garb and armor.
By natural fortune, the valley which the panthers inhabit is sheltered by the sea and great, unfordable rivers. The single entrance to the peninsula is a great plain that extends outward for miles. At the narrowest point, the panthers have erected as fortified an encampment as they are able. With no stone and little timber, their bastion is humble, but well known by its defenders. Days are spent familiarizing the men with the fortification, allowing them small advantages when the garrison comes under attack.
Battles are infrequent, but incredibly deadly when they come to pass. It is not uncommon for the garrison to be emptied of its entire complement of warriors. Though every panther has been killed, the enemy will have been bled enough to forsake pressing forward for fear of being overrun. Those foolish enough to advance are met with reinforcements, fresh and hungering for battle. In this way, centuries have passed. The sable felines retain firmly their lands, but at the cost of their male population.
Few males survive to grow old and though there are always young men more than willing to defend their lands, their existence is tragic. For them, physical training, war and breeding will be their singular lot in life. Most will never know their children. Perhaps that is for the best. When a man is called to march toward the bastion, it is a death sentence of absolute certainty. It is near perfectly certain that he will die, but the when is unknown. Some will go months without even a hint of an upcoming battle, others will spend only a few hours marching forward until they meet their ends, bloody and screaming, at the speartips of an encroaching enemy.
It is those gifted time to waste who are the most fortunate. Time spent waiting is a stay of execution, one in which the men inevitably begin to contemplate their own mortality. At first, continued training remains the order of the day. Familiarization with the camp, understanding the terrain and constant physical duress to retain strength and agility occupy the minds of new arrivals.
Over time, the warriors begin to do more. Scouts and patrols frequently return with scavenged goods. Though the plain offers little, what little offered compounds over time. Straw mats gain woven tops stuffed with plumage or fur. Loose timber is brought up to form blockades against the undaunted wind. Needles are fashioned from bones, often those of long dead panthers, and used to stitch up the single article of clothing the men were given.
And yet, even with additional activity to supplement their boredom, loneliness becomes a problem. Relationships are seldom developed between male warriors and the women they fight for. There is rarely ever enough time to consummate anything more than sex for the explicit purpose of procreation. Most don't ever bother to even try. But when there are days or weeks with little to do and much time to reflect on life and its fragility, the personal bounds for intimacy begin to break down and men find comfort with one another. In the coldest months, that comfort is near mandatory as the half-naked warriors huddle together to pool their warmth during the nights and dark days. Invariably, many men will escalate their comfort into physical intimacy.
Caressing, kissing, fondling; all of it starts with physical demands which, if given time, blossom into deeper, if ephemeral relationships. Men will spend many hours of night in the embrace of one another, content for all the time left in their world: eyes fixed upon one another, muscled arms wrapped tight, chiseled, naked chests pressed tightly together, toes twitching in excitement. The more days that go without combat, the more men who come to enjoy this sensation.
As comfort and trust waxes, touch becomes more intimate, more demanding. Calloused hands that clasp tight around tools of war and bloodshed gently cup a man's most delicate flesh, tenderly fondling erect, unsatisfied manhood. It is a sure expression of trust for warriors to allow themselves and their bodies to be vulnerable, to allow another access to a physical weakness and to know that it will be treated with delicacy and affection.
It is certain that most would prefer to escalate their intimacy, to fully enjoy their fleeting sexuality. However, sex and sexual release is impermissible without the order of the war leader on penalty of slow death. At a moment's notice, warriors must be aggressive and enraged when the time comes for battle. Sexual satisfaction reduces that physical power and in allowing it frivolously, the lives of all in the tribe are put at risk. And so, those with short lives are denied the erotic release they crave, but cling to their partners tightly regardless, glad to have their presence and their intimacy. Clear nights are spent staring at the stars, heads rested on shoulders, arms wrapping loosely around ebon fur, tails swishing and delighted purrs being the only sound heard for miles.
In moments like these, minds do not dwell on the inevitable. So many have fallen before and those that wait are soon to meet their ends, but none ponder it in their final days. In the moment, they are content.
But death is an inevitability in so empty and serene a place. Many lovers have gone to their graves together, facing down a hated foe. In their final moments, they think of sacrifice, not for the tribe or for their lands, but for each other. It is these strong bonds that compel men to fight harder, suffer more grievous wounds and hold their ground long past the point where they should be dead upon that ground. Woe towards the fool that murders a warrior's beloved. The frenzy such horror induces is terrifying in its savagery.
Indeed, such violent grief may be all that keeps the panther's lands in their control. With only numbers to their advantage and sometimes not even that, they must fight and they must kill. Death does not serve in the defense of the tribe, except in these tragic cases. But if tragedy will ensure survival, it will continue endlessly.