Datu Dumaalon
Dumaalon stood at the shore, the morning tide lapping gently at his knees, swirling around his legs with a familiar pull. The salt in the air mixed with the damp earthiness of the sand beneath his feet, grounding him in the present even as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. His gaze remained fixed on the diminishing silhouette of his daughter's boat, her figure steady and sure. She had always been fearless, unshaken by the vast unknown that stretched before her. He had never told her, but in those moments, as he watched her vanish into the horizon, his heart clenched with the instinct to keep her close, to shield her from the unknown. Yet the warrior in him saw not a child adrift, but a leader carving her own path.
The hunters had left before the first light touched the treetops, their bodies blending seamlessly into the dense foliage. Kalawti, the village's babaylan, had assured them that the spirits were in their favor, that the forest would provide and the sea would not return them empty-handed. Even the tides, she said, carried blessings that morning. Not just fish, but pearls, the kind of wealth that Rajah Bugtas had been hounding him for.
Dumaalon exhaled sharply. The Rajah's demands had only grown over the years, like roots creeping ever closer to his domain, tangling with his own authority. Pearls, woven mats, salted fish, salt, warriors, always something, always more. The Rajah spoke of loyalty, of duty, but Dumaalon knew the truth. It was never just about trade or offerings. It was about power, about reminding him that even as a datu, his autonomy was not absolute.
He clenched his fists, letting the water cool his rising frustration. The day had barely begun, and already, the weight of his burdens pressed against his chest. But for now, he pushed them aside. There were still tasks ahead, and a village waiting for his steady hand.
Datu Dumaalon was once a man of unmatched strength, a warrior whose name carried the weight of a dozen victorious raids and countless defended borders. His spear had pierced the hearts of enemies who dared to test the might of his heart, and his shield had withstood the harshest of battles, from clashes with rival datus to repelling slave-raiding pirates from the south. Even the wind seemed to bend to his will when he stood atop the cliffs, watching the horizon, his men behind him awaiting his orders. In his youth, he was unstoppable, a tempest of skill and fury, a leader whose mere presence inspired both fear and respect.
He still is strong, but he can feel the years creeping upon him. His grip on his sword remains firm, but it does not swing as swiftly as it once did. His back, once straight and unyielding, now tightens with the weight of time. There are mornings when his bones ache before the sun has fully risen, and he knows, though he does not say it aloud, that he is past his prime. The village still whispers his name with reverence, but he wonders how long before they start speaking of him in the past tense, a legend fading into memory.
The latest challenge in his life is the 3rd daughter of Rajah Bugtas, disguised as a babaylan-wife that the rajah bound to him three years ago, a union he never sought but could not refuse. It was a calculated move, a final assertion of the Rajah's will after their long-standing disagreement. He had made it clear whom he wished to see as his successor, but Bugtas would not allow it. And so, with the weight of authority and tradition behind him, the Rajah forced a wife into his arms.
Bugtas had once been a generous ally, extending his hand in times of crisis. When storms battered the land and floods swallowed the fields, he sent food and workers to aid in recovery. After Mayon Volcano's fury left villages in ruin, it was his wealth that helped rebuild homes and restore their granaries. But his latest 'gift', Dumaalon saw it for what it truly was. Not an act of kindness, but a calculated move. A way to sink the Rajah's roots deep into his domain, wrapping them around his people until they could no longer tell where loyalty ended and debt began.
At first, he dismissed it as another burden to bear, another maneuver in the endless game of power. But something changed after their marriage was consummated. He felt it almost immediately, an unnatural fatigue creeping into his limbs, a dull weight pressing upon his chest, a strange frailty that had never touched him before. His strength did not vanish overnight, but as the days passed, it waned, subtle yet undeniable, as though something had been drained from him, leaving him diminished.
He has kept his suspicions to himself, unwilling to voice them without proof. Yet in the solitude of night, when his breath comes slower, when his body aches in ways it never did before, he wonders: Was this merely the march of time, or was there something more sinister at work? He watches his wife carefully, taking note of every ritual she performs, every whispered prayer to unseen forces.
A babaylan is no ordinary woman, she wields power not of muscle and steel, but of spirit and the unknown. This is not a battle of swords or strategy, not a fight he was trained for. He does not know how to strike at what he cannot see, nor how to defend against a foe who does not raise a blade. And so, for now, he remains silent, watching, waiting. Not for himself, he has accepted this long ago, his strength will fade, whether by time or by curse, but for his daughter and their village's future. That is the only fight left worth winning.
The current babaylan, the spiritual pillar of the village, is the older sister of his late wife. They were both powerful women in their own right. His wife, Kalinay, was the healer, the one who knew the secrets of the earth, the language of leaves, and the power of roots. Her touch could soothe a fever, and her whispers could calm a storm. Her sister, Kalawti, the current babaylan, walks a different path, one that treads between the world of the living and the unseen. It is she who converses with the nature spirits, who reads the flight of birds and the crackle of flames to divine the will of the gods. While Kalinay's hands healed wounds, Kalawti's hands unveiled fate.
Dumaalon married Kalinay not just for power, but for love. While it was not unheard of for a datu to marry for love, such unions were usually reserved for a second wife, a luxury taken after securing political alliances. Yet, Kalinay was different, she was his anchor, his wisdom, the calm that steadied him through the tempests of leadership. In his youth, when victory and prestige clouded his judgment, he believed himself invincible, untouchable, a man who could shape fate to his will. But fate is never tamed. When Kalinay succumbed to a relentless plague ten years ago after exhausting herself healing the afflicted, Dumaalon lost more than his wife, he lost a part of himself.
Their daughter, Alunay, was the only piece of Kalinay that remained, a child who had inherited her mother's keen eyes and her father's unyielding will. Her name carried an echo of his own, a subtle reminder that she was his blood, his legacy. But where Dumaalon had years to learn restraint, to temper his storms with wisdom, Alunay was still young, yet the trials ahead of her were far greater than those faced by others her age.
She was supposed to learn grace and wisdom, to be the kind of woman who knew her place in the intricate weave of alliances and duty. Instead, she ran barefoot through the forests, sparring with warriors twice her size, climbing trees with the agility of a monkey, and diving into the deepest waters with no fear. She defied expectations with a smirk on her face, refusing to be contained by the walls of tradition.
Kalawti tried to guide Alunay toward the path of a babaylan, recognizing the same spiritual fire that ran through their lineage. But Alunay resisted, unmoved by the call of rituals and offerings. The thought of spending her days surrounded by darkness in a small hut, whispering prayers to unseen spirits, felt suffocating, like a cage rather than a calling. She craved something else, something greater. She wanted to rule, to lead warriors into battle, to stand where her father once stood, not behind the veil of mysticism, but at the forefront of destiny.
Dumaalon was both proud and troubled by his daughter's nature. In her, he saw a reflection of his own spirit, fierce, unyielding, and unwilling to be confined by expectations. Even the villagers already regarded her as second in command, perhaps third after himself and Kalawti, her aunt. She carried herself like a leader, and they followed her without question. But despite her natural strength, Dumaalon knew that not everyone would accept her place so easily. Rajah Bugtas had his own plans, and they loomed over Alunay like a storm on the horizon, threatening to strip her of the future that should rightfully be hers.
Dumaalon knew that a confrontation was inevitable. And so, when he finally stood before the Rajah, the conversation that followed was heavy with unspoken battles.
"I have given you a wife," the Rajah said, leaning forward from his seat, his many gold ornaments glinting in the torchlight. "And she has given you a son. Our bloodlines are entwined now, Dumaalon. He will rule after you. It is the way of things."
Dayang Kaluna was a good wife, an able healer, and had dutifully given birth to a son two years ago. But Dumaalon did not love her, nor did he see the child as his rightful heir. His heart, his vision, remained with Alunay. But the Rajah would not allow it. He had made it clear that the son born from his daughter was to inherit the datu's seat.
Dumaalon met the Rajah's gaze, unyielding. "And yet, my daughter is strong. She is fit to lead. She has the mind of a ruler and the heart of a warrior. She should inherit my seat."
The Rajah scoffed. "She is a woman, she will marry, and it will be her husband who rules your lands. You understand the importance of the territory entrusted to you. I cannot allow it to fall into uncertainty."
Dumaalon clenched his fists. The Rajah's words were not without wisdom, but that did not make them right. "What makes you think she will not rule as I have? She is capable, and she is loyal, I would trust her with my life."
The Rajah's eyes softened with something like understanding, but his voice remained firm. "I believe you, Dumaalon. Tell you what, when the time comes, bring your daughter to me, and I will see for myself if she is worthy of being a Datu."
Dumaalon's jaw tightened. He knew these trials well, tests designed to be brutally unfair to the challenger. He had nearly been forced into one himself, but fate had spared him when he saved the Rajah in battle, proving his worth without the need for further trials.
His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it now. "You can test her however you like, Rajah. Twist the odds, make the trial as ruthless as you see fit. It won't matter." He met the Rajah's gaze, unwavering. "My daughter will not fail. No matter what you throw at her, she will rise."
The Rajah held his gaze for a moment before nodding, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Very well, Dumaalon. Test her, I shall." His expression darkened, though not unkindly. "But if she fails… I will have my backup." He leaned forward slightly. "My grandson. Your son."
Lunch came and went, the midday heat settling over the village like a thick, drowsy veil. Dumaalon retreated to his hut, seeking respite from both the sun and the weight pressing on his mind. As he lay on the woven mat, his thoughts drifted to the open sea, to the small boat carrying his daughter farther from his reach. He had sent warriors into battle, had watched men march toward their deaths without flinching, but letting his daughter sail into the unknown, this, he found, required a different kind of courage.
His son toddled over, his small hands grasping at Dumaalon's fingers, demanding his attention. With an effort, he indulged the boy, lifting him onto his lap, letting him tug at his braids and pat his weathered face. The child giggled, bright and unburdened, yet Dumaalon felt a strange distance between them. He did not blame the boy, nor did he resent his existence, but his heart could not deny the cold barrier between them, the blood of Rajah Bugtas ran through his veins, a tie Dumaalon had never wanted. He forced himself to silence the thought, rocking the boy gently, humming an old warrior's lullaby. Before long, the warmth of the afternoon and the rhythmic rise and fall of the child's breath lulled him into an uneasy sleep.
The sound of hurried voices pulled him back to wakefulness. Blinking against the dimming light, he sat up, instantly alert. Outside, the village stirred. The guards were calling out, their voices laced with something more than the usual return of the hunting party. Rising swiftly, Dumaalon handed the sleeping boy to a waiting servant and stepped out into the evening air.
The hunters had returned. But instead of a deer or boar slung over their shoulders, they carried something, or someone, else. A human.