The Memorial Cave

"Thanks Laya, you saved our necks," Allen said. "And it's already dead, so don't stomp on its head again." 

Layla froze at her chief's words. She had already lifted her leg, ready to crush the manticore's skull again. Not knowing where to put herself, she awkwardly stepped back, and although her chief assured her the thing was dead, she couldn't help but crouch and poke its busted head. 

Was it really, really dead?

Myrven arrived at that exact moment. He raised an eyebrow but didn't seem put off by the woman's antics. Instead, he whistled, "A manticore, huh? Good job, Layla!"

He ruffled the woman's short hair, turning it into a bird's nest. Layla didn't mind, cheerfully rubbing her head against Myrven's hand, a proud look on her face. She did well, didn't she?

'What is she? A dog?' The thought crossed an empty mind as Nyell was still stunned silly, doubting his eyes.

Manticores were mythical beasts, kings ruling over the jungle. They were among the mightiest beings in the vicinity, like basilisks and dryads. People were usually gobbled whole when they crossed their paths. It was rarely the other way around. 

And yet, a few punches and kicks from Layla had been enough to kill one of these oh-so-impressive beings.

Nyell did fight a manticore a few years back, and he barely managed to come out alive. He was well aware of how dangerous these beasts could be. The thing was swift on its feet despite its massive body, and its bones and skin were tough, solid like steel.

Nyell remembered as clear as day when the enormous scorpion tail had pierced through his body, impaling him like barbecue meat on a stick. The horrifying scar on his flank still occasionally soared with pain. If it hadn't been for his incredible healing abilities and high resistance to venom, he probably would have died. He had lost so much blood back then that his pale brown skin had turned whitish-gray. 

The only reason he managed to kill the manticore and survive was because it had grown careless after impaling him, certain of its victory. It never saw the counterattack coming: Nyell plucked a spike from its tail and trusted it into one of its eyes. It went through its brain, ending its life on the spot.

To think someone could kill it by stomping on its head… It felt unreal.

"Gosh, it stinks," Myrven grimaced.

After dying, the beast released a nauseous odour. It had no scent when alive but smelled like rotten meat when dead. Nyell felt his nose itch, and he couldn't help but rub it. He was then reminded of Allen and his arms around his waist. The bastard had pressed his body even further against his while he was out of it, taking advantage of the situation.

"Let go," Nyell grunted, elbowing the man.

"I'd like to hold you a little longer though."

"Do you want to be stabbed in your sleep tonight?"

"Alright." Allen reluctantly let go and gave his destined mate some space. He didn't doubt he would stab him in his sleep if he let his hands wander on his body a moment longer. 

Once freed, Nyell distanced himself. He peered at the poor mutilated manticore, then the spikes sticking out of the ground. He pinched his lips before muttering, "Thanks for earlier." 

"Hm? Do you hate me a little less now?"

"No," was the curt answer. 

.

.

When they arrived at the cave, Nyell seemed to hesitate. Strangers weren't usually allowed to enter the memorial cave as it was a sacred place for the Black Moon tribe. But Allen was a shaman, a seemingly powerful one at that. Since he asked to come here, there must have been a reason. 

"I'll go pay my homage first; you wait there until I call you," Nyell eventually said.

He then walked down the steep slope leading inside the cave, not waiting for an answer. Thankfully, Allen and his aides had enough common sense not to follow him.

Shiny, whitish-blue moss covered the cave walls, illuminating the path downward. It was narrow, leaving just enough space for one grown-up man to pass at a time. At the end of the pathway lay a spacious opening. A round stone platform, which served as an altar, stood in the middle. Atop it, the Black Moon tribe's people often put offerings such as flowers and fruits. Meanwhile, on each side of the platform rested various weapons, old and new. They were the previous chiefs' weapons of choice.

Nyell smiled. It seemed his sister had come by yesterday before venturing into the jungle. Only Isa would bring carnivorous plants as offerings. She had believed since her toddler days that carnivorous plants devoured the vile spirits, allowing their ancestors to rest in peace. Even though the shaman had told her it wasn't the case, she refused to believe her. The small carnivorous plants ate the insects that brought about diseases and whatnot to their tribe, so they were the protectors of living beings and as such should also be the guardians of the dead.

"Everyone in our family does as they please, don't they?" Nyell chuckled, his eyes wandering to the wooden tablets on the wall behind the stone platform.

Names had been engraved on the said wooden tablets. Because beasts filled the vicinity, the Black Moon tribe couldn't bury their dead, or their corpses would be dug out and gnawed upon. Thus, they had no choice but to burn their fellow tribe members after they passed away. The ceremony would last a whole night, for it was when the two moons shone high in the sky and could watch over their brethren's souls as they ascended to the heavens. Then, after the fire died, they would scoop the ash to put it into urns and bring them to this burial cave.

The shiny moss was ever-so-present and cast a pale blue light on the memorial tablets, drawing the eyes. 

Nyell's gaze stopped on a particular name, his eyes growing gentle. 

"Hi, mom. It's been a while."

***

Layla tugged on Allen's sleeve to draw his attention. The man lowered his eyes and hummed, "Hm? Is something wrong?"

As an answer, Layla moved her hands and fingers around, making signs. It could be translated as: "Why did you call me over earlier? You could have killed the manticore yourself."

"How could I have? I am but a weak shaman."

His aides threw him a deadpan look. What kind of bullshit was he spouting this time? To their silent question, Allen responded with his usual languid smile. It was a well-known fact that shamans were physically weak, and who was he to prove people wrong?