Chapel Orahamm's Blog, page 15

Fyskar: Ch 21

“So, what’s in the box?” Seonaid asked the following day after breakfast. Eoin had finished plaiting his hair out of the way, leaving it to hang for the day. He was in his blue breeches, having left his shirt off. The Fyskar despised the Southron garment. It was constricting around the throat and pressed his torc in all the wrong places. His other clothes hung washed and drying at the fire.

He got up and stretched before walking into the second room, followed by Fearchar and Seonaid. He peeled ropes and oiled cloth off the chest. Seonaid gasped. It was immaculately etched with swirling knots and vines. Eoin smiled, fingering a particularly clean swirl. “Bercilack’s work?” Fearchar guessed. Eoin nodded as he popped the lid free. His husband had sealed the chest with wax and tar in hopes of keeping water out of it.

The inside of the chest was lined with more of the oiled cloth. The top of the hoard held a leather folio in which was a signed deed to the land. In it was tied a ring. He brushed at the engraving of a fish and hook. He had to fight off another tear. It was the same engraving as the pendant he had left at the grave. He slipped it onto his index finger, disappointed to find it a shade tight. He would put it with his other personal effects later.

He allowed Seonaid to look over the document. Her breath hitched as she read the lines before handing it back to Eoin, her eyes round. Fearchar nudged her, wanting to know what was going on. She swallowed, trying to wrap her head around it. “Ye’r a Laird, Eoin? He practically owns the whole peninsula from the main docks all the way out to the other harbour and all the buildings on that land,” she explained to her husband.

Fearchar contemplated that for a moment before comprehending. “Mean ‘e owns the land this ‘ouse is on?” Fearchar asked. She nodded slowly.

“It goes all the way to the hills on the south end and then some,” she shifted.

Won’t ask you to pay rent, Eoin joked as he unpacked the chest in earnest.

Packages were wrapped carefully in leather and canvas. He pulled each one out reverently before opening them. Near the bottom of the chest were larger, soft bundles. These were the first Eoin opened with barely contained excitement. A large white wool robe with long flowing sleeves was in the first package. Eoin fingered raised embroidery. It was my father’s robe for his marriage, and his great-grandfather’s before that. Osla was the one who decided to add the embroidery along the edges, though. He carefully wrapped the garment back in its package and laid it aside.

The next one contained several kilt cloths of pure white and one of light blue, lavender, and white. Ceremonial kilts, one was my wedding kilt. This one, he unfolded the coloured one to trace a line of lavender, was a spare. I forgot I stored it in here. He laid it out on the floor and put away the white cloth.

He proceeded to open up the other packages on the kilt. He arranged strange round and cylindrical carved black stones on it. We use them as predictions to cast future events in the lives of White Horses at their coming-of-age ceremony. My own did not come up with the best of casts. Storms, Upheaval, and Break were all used by my father when he threw my stones. He regarded the rocks with a derisive glare. Hopefully, my sons will have a better cast. Grey stones with shallowly carved depressions and little pouring troughs were unwrapped next. I will have to make the oil for their hair when I get home, he said to himself.

A pair of white feathered fans created from the wings of a young seagull were carefully preserved. Eoin let out a breath of relief. That was one project he had not looked forward to having to make. Intricately pulled gold thread wrapped about the feather shafts, creating a glinting tie to burnished redwood handles. It would have been a chore to find a seagull of proper age at this time of year.

A knife followed the fans. It was short, not much longer than a pinky finger. The handle was made of a roebuck’s antler. “What is that for?” Seonaid asked, curious.

Their first and only haircut, he emphasized the statement.

“Hair is a status symbol for your clan, isn’t it?” she asked him.

Women born with the talent can cut it, as can the men without the talent. For Princes, it is a statement of who you are in the clan. It is my tie between here and The Forest. It is an extension, a part of my spirit.

If you do not have the talent, it is customary to shave the head entirely when a person close to you dies. I had thought of it in those days I lay unable to speak, thinking on my people. I had thought to sever my tie with The Forest. What good could I do if I could not Walk my people to it?

Cutting the hair to the shoulder just the once is a sign of stepping from childhood into manhood for Princes, cutting away from this world to open up a connection to The Forest. We can snip the ragged ends to clean it of knots when needed; otherwise, it is left to grow as long as it will. My father’s hair grew all the way to his mid-thighs before he lost himself to the sea. Mine has not grown past my hips in many years.

The next bundle was a simple box that contained multiple lumps of red-brown rock. “Ah told ye ‘e ‘ad rocks in there,” Fearchar muttered to his wife. She nodded sympathetically at her husband’s plight. Eoin snorted at the redhead.

Following the rocks, he produced a package of needles and a tapping stick. He pulled one out to look at it, checking it for rust. It was still gleaming and shiny, its thin layer of applied oil preserving it. “Sewing?” Seonaid scooted over to look at them closer, reaching to touch one.

Eoin’s hand snaked out, grasping her fingers before she could touch the implements. The sound of tapping was the first sign that she had fallen into the void again. Vibrating heat passed across her right shoulder blade, a scratching, tearing sensation, followed by an unpleasant drowning numbness. Eoin released her, wrapping the needles back up. Sorry, he apologized quickly. Women aren’t supposed to touch them…I didn’t mean to… Eoin pushed away his braid restlessly.

“The red bands, they’re ceremonial?”

He ducked his head, nodding. He had not meant to drag her into the void.

“What’s up, love?” Fearchar rubbed at his wife’s tense shoulders.

She couldn’t quite shake the feeling of the tap needles dragging across her shoulder where Fearchar rubbed at it. “Accident.”

Eoin pointed to the bands on his arms. These are to hold me to the earth, to bind me with it: the creag, the uisge, the feur, and the teine. Seonaid fought through his translation. This was not something Eoin wanted to share directly with them through his void. They are the last of the tattoos to go on. I was responsible for applying the uisge and the teine on my own – had a bit of help from Bercilack and Osla with the back of my arms where I couldn’t reach.

The first bar, the camhanaich, the shortest on my back, is to symbolize the upper thought, the empty space where I take you. The middle bar, the turadh, the one that is longer than the shortest and shorter than the longest, is my memories. The last bar, the gloaming, the one that runs from my hip to my shoulder, is my feeling, my senses, my emotion, to show how far it stretches. The line at my low back, the jagged one, is the first one to go on; it is fear, the eagal, terror. It is there to allow the body to learn what a needle is, to master fear. The two diamonds above them are pain, the craidh, and anger, the corraich. They are reminders of the base most emotions that I must always control as a Prince. Easier to say… he mused.

“And you’ll put these on your sons?” Fearchar leaned away from Eoin.

Not all at once. Eagal will be the first one for them to receive at their coming-of-age ceremony. Craidh and Corraich I put on a fortnight later. Camhanaich is for their eleventh year, Turadh for their twelfth, and Gloaming for their thirteenth. The four bands on the arms are reserved for a fortnight before their weddings. My wife and husband exchanged gold bands with each other. My marriage bands are permanent, Eoin explained.

He turned from the conversation to the last four packages. In one lay a set of fine jewellery tools. Another contained a large square of gold. To make their torcs, he explained. My father was a brilliant craftsman. I can only hope to do as good a job as he in crafting theirs.

The last two packages were left wrapped. One was bizarrely massive and cumbersome, having been safely packed around with the soft cloth packages. The other was smaller, not much larger than a saucer. He fingered the larger one momentarily before thinking better of opening it. He carefully returned all the items to their wraps and put them into the chest.

“E’erythin’ there?” Fearchar asked. Eoin nodded his head, breathing a sigh of relief.

“You said you’d explain the roundhouse to me. Why was it so short?” Fearchar pressed his curiosity.

Eoin mused on it a moment. The fact the Dalerochs burned it tells me everything about their state of mind. It was a talking house. It was short not because I am inept at building, but because it makes one sit to converse. When the Fyskar had arguments, my husband, wife, or I would sit as a negotiator between the parties. We would all be allowed to leave when a compromise had been met.

“Rather diplomatic,” pondered Fearchar.

It worked for my people. Eoin ran a finger along the carving on the chest.

“They destroyed everything in yer house. Only by luck and burying it under dirt and rock, did your birthright survive. The toy box, though,” Fearchar growled as he dug around in his storage boxes. Eoin watched him curiously. The handyman came back with a cube of soft wax and a handful of cloths. He rubbed the fabric into the wax and handed the rest to Eoin to help. He pulled the embroidered blanket of toys and the vials from the box and set them near the big trunk. Eoin was still nervous about touching the objects.

“Somethin’s been bothering me, doc. Ye call yerself a Prince. Ye seem ta have a lot a’ uppity titles floatin’ about. Ye were married ta a clan chief, though. What gives?” Fearchar picked up a worn wooden top and handed it to Eoin. The Fyskar cradled the little toy in his fingers. The redhead gently rubbed wax into the dry wood of the box around Torcall’s name.

Bless the man; he had no knowledge that the words encircling the box were the names of Eoin’s family. It was no toy box, but a space by which to save the spirits of the dead against calamity. Toys, embroidery, carvings, hair, teeth were all items that could house their owners’ souls. He had thought the remains destroyed when the Dalerochs burned his house. He would be able to Walk his family into The Forest with these few remains still tethering their spirits.

Eoin stilled from handling the old top, one of the first toys his husband had carved for his Dughlas. He watched the man polish the wood to a mirrored gleam. Eoin tapped his bracer to draw Fearchar’s attention. How do you mean?

“Wouldn’t that reduce your status?” Fearchar carefully dug out a gritty soft spot in the wood and smoothed it with a bit of wax.

Eoin sat for a moment in utter confusion. Seonaid watched his perplexed face, waiting to translate. He looked up at her. I still don’t think I understand.

“William and Mary are King and Queen of Scotland and England. Why are you a Prince and marriage transformed your husband and wife into a clan chief and lady?” Seonaid tried a more precise route.

First off, the Fyskar never accepted the rule of the Prince of Orange as legitimate or that of his cousin. Secondly, the concept of King – the Righ, and Prince – the Flath, is different within the Fyskar. The deed of the land is passed down within my family line. I represent that land, the embodiment of it. I take care of it and the land of the afterlife for my people. I see to their spirit. I negotiate grievances with the land, welcome life, lay death at peace. I do not see to the governance of the clan.

Bercilack took care of that aspect of the clan. He saw to the economic portion, negotiation of trade routes, grievances between the people and those that we allied with. I am a holy man; he was a politician. Osla saw to the women’s issues and sought either Bercilack or my guidance when it came to their needs, depending on what had to be done. Violence committed against a wife by her husband, Bercilack saw too. The river ran dry in the grazing pasture a widow had used for decades? I went and found a new source and helped dig the well.

Fearchar blinked at the explanation. “That. Oh. That makes more sense. Ye’re a priest?”

Duine Naomh na coille. White Horse. Not like Innocence XII. In a way, like William and his Church of England, but without the political drive outside of it. Eoin shrugged and nodded. It was a close enough approximation for the layman.

“Head of.”

William III and Innocence XII see to far more people than I ever did, or ever will, but yes, in much the same fashion. My acolytes, some from my father – the Righ’s era, some that I was training myself, were murdered with the rest of the clan. All I have now is a deed stating my ownership of the land, but no one left to see to. I have a terrible habit of losing my apprentices.

“Are ye gammy? The entire village sits on yer land. Our house sits on yer land, same as the Daleroch’s who took yer husband and wife’s house. Ye have more people than ye know what ta do with. I can count two hundred right now without thinking hard on it.” Fearchar put the remainder of his wax away.

Eoin handed Fearchar the cloth he had used to help clean and shine the top in his hand. You think they would accept me walking into the village with a decree stating that a mute man with witchcraft in his blood would now oversee them? That they are now incorporated as Fyskar? They never took the incorporation back when my father’s great-grandfather tried that.

“You call it a gift. You never claimed it as witchcraft,” Fearchar defended.

The Dalerochs did. The town of Salem did. Mary Trembles. Susannah Edwards. Loudun. The Würzburg trials. No one looks friendly on those with a talent or those who dissent their rulers.

The villagers left us alone. Tolerated us. They knew we owned the land they lived on, but we didn’t ask for taxes, rent, or revenue, and they didn’t interfere with how we conducted our affairs. The fact they haven’t talked – they knew what the Dalerochs did and said nothing. Allowed them to massacre us through their own indifference.

“You are scared?” Seonaid stood and shook out her skirts. Eoin and Fearchar followed suit to join her in the main room.

Terrified.

“Of death?” Seonaid settled a shallow pan on a trivet to start heating.

Of burning.

She glanced at the flames and back at Eoin, who was staring at the cooking fire morosely. “This?” she pointed at it.

The Dalerochs burned my wife and daughter at the stake, along with every other woman of the clan. They knew our beliefs. They knew that for us, if we are burned, our spirit is burned. We don’t Walk back into The Forest. We are no more. They took our women from us. We will see those who Walked into The Forest before the Dalerochs’ time. But they took entire generations and made them disappear. They tried to take my family. Only through Fearchar’s curiosity will I be able to Walk my family into The Forest. I can’t thank him enough for rescuing the box. He buried his head in his hands and collapsed onto a chair.

Seonaid sat back on her stool, stunned. She watched the man tremble uncontrollably. It broke her heart to listen to him cry. She went to him, folding him into a soft embrace. He pulled her small frame to him, encompassing her, and buried his head into her shoulder. Hot tears tracked down her collarbone. “I’m so sorry, Eoin,” she crooned. Brushing at the top of his head rhythmically, she glanced up to Fearchar. He nodded to her with a look of pain and sympathy.

“I can never bring them back.” His thoughts flowed through her. “I won’t grow old with them. I won’t watch my children grow up. I won’t conduct their wedding ceremonies. Welcome their children into the world. Watch my husband teach them to carve or my wife how to weave.

“I can’t be here anymore. I can’t turn at every stone and remember every conversation, every smile, every touch that took place. I hear their voices, their laughter here, and it’s too much to know I can never touch them again. I can’t do it. I have to be up and away from here.” Eoin sank back from her kindness. His fingers trailed along the line of her skirt, bunching handfuls of the material. He didn’t release her, clinging to her like a small child, lost and vulnerable. She waited as his mind raced away from him.

“You will go back to this Mirza?” Seonaid asked, throwing a questioning eyebrow at her husband over Eoin’s head.

The doctor nodded once in thought, then dropped his hold on her skirts to turn and pin Fearchar with broody eyes. Do you still want to come with me?

“Wha d’ye think, Seonaid?” Fearchar turned to his wife. 

She put a finger to her chin and thought for a minute. “You said that your guard was serving as ambassador in England currently?” 

Eoin nodded, not sure where she was going with the question.

“Well, if you don’t mind us travelling with you, we can make our way there. If the guard won’t allow us to follow, then we can always return here or find somewhere new,” she smiled up at her husband, pleased with her idea. 

Eoin contemplated the idea then shrugged. It couldn’t hurt.

He would have to struggle his way through the snow the next day to the docks where a pigeon waited to take a message to summon a boat to take them to the mainland. Then there was the matter of their parcels. He forced himself to relax. His journey was coming to an end.

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The Fire in My Blood: Ch 25

I rolled over to the sky suggesting light at the edges of the tree line. The biodome panels radiated with shimmering greens and purples, creating murky swaths of smudged stars.  The dome was cooling with autumn’s approach. The birds were whispering in the quiet. I pulled together my best clothes and trench coat. With some goading, I convinced Sanctus to emerge with me for an early morning walk.

The rock path clipped under my heel. A cold hand tucked into mine. Sanctus was bundled into his trench coat. A knit hat and scarf wrapped around his ears, leaving his nose pink in the chill. He ran the fingers of his other hand along the bobbing grasses, amused with their texture. “Where are we going?” he asked, unable to make out shapes in the dark shadows between the fields and the woods. 

Keeping the house a secret for three months was killing me. Cortex had almost let Sanctus in on the present by accident once. Otherwise, everyone else knew to keep their mouth shut about it when he was around. “You’ll have to wait and see.” I teased. Medicus had given me the good news that I was free from his medical restrictions the night before. Mater and Aurelia had been there when he told me. We set up the plan for the following morning, if only to provide a semblance of suddenness that was traditional to bond tying.

The two story structure loomed up in front of us, perched at the edge of the forest. “You’re having a house built?” Sanctus asked me. The barn was already finished and the paddocks had been installed for Praesepe to move his herd in the following week. The main structure was projected to be finished in time for the autumn family tying ceremony. I helped him climb up to the wrap porch. The steps had not bee installed yet. I shimmied up to the boards and motioned him in to explore. He peered in nervously as magenta bands on the horizon lit the inside in steel blue shadows.

“Do you want to live in it with me?” I pulled his hand into mine before he could take the steps up to the second floor.

“Yes, I would love to.” He let me tug him into my embrace. “Has Sam and Abby seen it yet?”

“They told me where to put the stairs and that a proper living room needed a fireplace. They even got Scriba in on it with her picture books.” I had found their opinions amusing and implemented some of the good ideas. Having the living room pointed to catch the sunrise, and the eat in kitchen to look out on the vineyard at sunset had been Sam’s idea. I loved the thought he had put into the arrangement. The two had also asked for their rooms to have closets. Not having ever been privy to a closet, I found the idea nice. Somewhere to hide all my junk. A large master bedroom was off on the shadowed end of the first floor, facing a section of the woods that I had hollowed out for a small shade garden.

“You ready for today?” Sanctus’s fingers crept to my hips as he pulled me into a secluded alcove in the kitchen.

“Someone told you?” I mused against his lips, savoring their softness.

“Rain was singing. Aurelia must have told him. He told me I was supposed to keep it a secret.” He laughed. 

I invited myself to taste the corner of his smile before moving up his cheek to plant a kiss on his forehead. “I’ve been looking forward to this evening. Sorry it couldn’t be here in the house. I didn’t get my timing organized.” I pushed his hair off his shoulder to run a series of small kisses down his neck to his collarbone.

“As long as I get to have this evening with you, I don’t care where.” He turned to capture my lips, annoyed with my teasing. I relented to his touch and let his desire swamp me. “What is with you and giving me things? You’ve given me so much already.” His fingers found my pony-tail, twisting the ends as he let me back to my amusement.

“I like it. Something I enjoy doing is seeing people’s reactions when I give them things they like. Also, if I’m being honest, you feel like fireworks when I give you something you like.”

“I do not!” he protested.

“No, you do. Providentia emotions have different sensations to them, and I like the one when you’re happy the most. You can feel like a thunderstorm, or like standing in the canal, and the first wave hits when the main is opened up, like mountain fog at dawn. This one, though. It’s like a waterfall, fireworks, sunrise in autumn.” I rested into his shoulder, his arms wrapped around my back, and breathed him in. I watched as the grey shadows around us shifted to lilac.

“I never knew it felt like anything for an Ustor,” Sanctus mused, his thumb rubbing rhythmically against my shoulder blade. “Paul and Aurelia?” he asked, curiously.

“Similar sensations. Your brother tends more towards rain, and Aurelia is like the surface tension of a lake or the mist that hangs over it in the early morning. That’s from the couple times I’ve touched them. I don’t know about when they are happy or in pain.”

“Pain? Does that feel different?” he asked, his voice going low.

“Live wire, a broken electric bulb in my palm. That jumpy sensation that raises hairs when you stand in a lightning storm. The dark blue almost black cold of deep water. It makes my heart stutter,” I admitted quietly. I hated that feeling. I would do everything in my power to help him never touch that sensation again. 

“Do others feel it?” he swallowed.

“Cortex and Mater said they could after we got back from Mercurius that once. Medicus does. Ustors can feel it. Sam doesn’t. You feel like any normal person to him.” I backed up to give him a bit of space.  I had thought he would be sullen about this news. Instead, contemplation was wiggling his eyebrows like when he had too many questions flitting through his head. “They’ll be getting impatient soon,” I cautioned, returning to kiss the hollow behind his jaw.

“I’m impatient now,” Sanctus quipped, nipping my earlobe.

“You’re going to have to wait. I don’t think you want your first time with me on the subfloor. Or in a pantry for that matter.” I pointed out the splintered boards.

“If you’d let me have my way it would have been on flagstone and three months ago.” His fingers were playing magic against my stomach.

“Aren’t you glad you waited?” I had to keep from untucking his shirt and having my own bit of fun. Instead, I wrested my arms on his shoulders and let him do whatever torturous thing he was doing that was going to leave me hard as infernus and dying for this evening to come.

“I question that decision frequently. Probably would not have done your stomach any good at the time, though,” he huffed, returning my shirt back to its proper location.

“I’m glad we’re doing this proper, though, with everyone’s blessing.” I brushed my thumb along his chin and kissed the tip of his nose.

“I am too. Sam and Abby were excited, and you were right. Medicus said pretty much what you said he’d threaten to do if his family hadn’t been invited. Even Praetemptura and Ambulatio were thrilled to be invited. Their son looks so much like Prae, I’m amazed Ambulatio was the one to have him. He’s adorable. 

“It’s been nice, it really has been, to have such a large family. I had the embroiders guild, my mother, and my siblings, but nothing like this. Thank you for bringing me into Caeruleum.”

“I had made an arrangement with Prae and Ambulatio to not talk about this with anyone, but if we’re bond-tied, you should know,” I stuttered as he found the line of my hip.

He stalled, his power spiking with adrenaline. “What?”

“Their son’s mine.”

He stalled at that news.

“We have an arrangement. I helped them conceive, and no one finds out unless something happens to both of them. If something does, I claim him back as my own.”

He found his tongue. “You weren’t joking when you said you’d dance with anyone willing.”

“Prae and I share a heritage, and she wanted her kid to look like her, but she can’t carry. I didn’t want this to come as an unwelcome surprise, or that I was hiding something from you.”

He pulled me into a fierce hug.

“I’m taking that as you aren’t mad at me about that. I know we are no longer of Angelus, but I’ve wanted to ask you for a while now,” I started, reaching for my back pocket while I continued my fixation with the wealth of skin his white shirt exposed.

“Ask me what?” He molded himself to me as I teased him.

I flipped open the little black box to expose a pair of matched steel rings. Clavis had enjoyed taking the commission, amused with the idea of the tradition. Inlaid in mine was Sanctus’s cobalt blue thread. He had my turquoise. He looked down at the little box, and his eyes went teary. I took out his band and presented it to him. “Marry me, Jude?”

He nodded his head mutely, his cheeks going mottled red behind the largest smile I had ever seen from him. I slipped it on his finger and held it to the light. Kissing his knuckles I went to shove the little box back into my pocket. He stalled me, taking the box and the ring. “As long as you’ll have me, Dimitri.” He placed my ring on my left ring finger and returned the kiss.

“For as long as you’ll tolerate my shenanigans. Now, we really should get to the festivities if we don’t want Mater chucking a plasma ball at our little love nest.” I planted one last kiss on his neck before turning him from our spot in the pantry and let him lead me outside.

On the opposite side of the warehouse, the sun coming up over the heads of half of Caeruleum, Praesepe threatened his small farm. It was less terrifying this time hearing the threats that was part of this dome’s traditions. Flumen would leave the plants to die in the greenhouse. Clavis and Tempestatis would take the fleet and machine shop.

Sam and Abby, beaming with pride, stood watch next to Cortex and Maria Mater. Rain shifted from foot to foot next to Sanctus’s siblings, wanting to play with Abby. Praetemptura and Ambulatio were back in the front row of the crowd with their son. Medicus had warned off my family ties from threatening Sanctus, as would have been tradition for both bond-tie families to do. They kept their word and let Sanctus have his ray of happiness.

Mater, Cortex, Aurelia and Paul were last to come forward after all the half-hearted threats were finished. My brother and sister ties stood next to me. Aurelia and Paul took up Sanctus’s hands. Cortex pulled me into a fierce bear hug after all of those threats. “We are brother-tied, Nigrae Lunam. I take responsibility for you with Caeruleum as you take responsibility for me.” 

Mater crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me. “As I am sister tied to you and your Persephone of Caeruleum. Are you intent on joining with Sanctus?” she demanded of me. Words failed me in the moment as the reality I found myself in finally hit me. Cortex twisted me to face Sanctus with this deluge. Sanctus stared at the group in confusion. His brother and sister spoke with him in hushed tones in Angelus. They turned him to me as Vestitor produced a long scarf of sky blue sateen. He took our left hands and joined them together, wrapping the fabric around and tying it into a not. 

“Who here recognizes the bonding-ties Nigrae Lunam and Sanctus share?” Mater asked, her hands on ours.

“I do,” those of Caeruleum who had come out for this unusual bond-tying responded unanimously.

“Nigrae Lunam, do you accept the bonding-tie you share with Sanctus? Will you protect him and see to his happiness? Will you keep his best interest for Caeruleum?” Mater asked me. I gulped as cognac eyes studied me in a pale face. Aurelia quietly translated for Sanctus, aware that this situation might have caused his grasp of Imperian to evaporate.

“Gladly, I do.” I responded in both Imperian and Angelus. I squeezed Sanctus’s hand in gentle reassurance, our rings clinking against each other. Maria Mater turned the question over to Sanctus as Aurelia translated for her. His tongue touched his bottom lip as he watched her speak before turning back to me. “Yes, I do.” His eyes were shining, and his power washing through me was that of a shaded spot of water in the canal on a hot summer day. Relief filled my lungs. “We here recognize the bonding ties shared between Nigrae Lunam and Sanctus. If these bonds should be broken, those present will hear claim and delegate upon that time. Nigrae Lunam and Sanctus’s bond ties are officially recognized in Caeruleum,” Maria Mater pronounced, removing the strip of blue sateen. “Let me be the first to congratulate you two. Make each other happy. You already do that, so you don’t really need my demand, though, do you?” She folded the fabric and handed it to us for safekeeping.

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Subgalaxia: Ch 8

“We’re dragging in a pair of men from New Punjab this time, Bern.” Corbin prepared the machines.  Bern, leaning against the door of the lab, nodded his head indifferently. He had been present for over four hundred and fifty pulls so far.  Most had gone down with a tranq and been put into their tanks without too much difficulty. He had only been called through the portal a few times to help drag someone through.  This didn’t sound like it was going to be any different from last time, or the many times before that. “With some luck, we won’t miss them,” Corbin muttered more to himself then the companions in the room.

“We’re gonna get one shot at this, Corbin,” Sophia agreed with him as she tapped a line of commands into the terminal.

“Why’s so hard?” Bern asked, curious at their anxiety.  It had been, if they missed a person, they just came back, searched their computer for another missing person and tried again.

“We’re picking them up right before the Grey Monster completely wastes the MidIndian subcontinent.  As it stands right now, they were noted as dead in the medical reports, so if they go missing, it won’t affect the timeline adversely.  We also need them to make it through the layer skips,” Corbin explained.

“Need me for anything?” Bern offered.

“Both of the men can speak English well enough.  We just might need you for…one of them,” Corbin hedged.  He had the print-off of the medical files stacked on a table next to him.

If anything, they’d need Bern to keep one of the men down long enough to explain things reasonably.  He glanced at Sophia. She had prefilled a pair of green coloured syringes. Corbin cocked an eyebrow at her.  That would do the trick too.

“All right, all’s go!” Ms Teslanovich signalled Corbin and Sophia.  They took their spots at either side of the Radius. The shield fell away into the sides of the frame.  A murky green and blue plasma took over the area. “This never gets old.” Sophia grinned up at Corbin as they pushed through the energy field to find themselves inside of a massive armoury.

A blue electric current wavered in the air, throwing plasma arks out to channel along the metal shelves.  A short red-haired man’s eyes travelled with the light, flinching, waiting for it to arc through the munitions.  It danced around the tubes, the powder refusing to blow.

“Fane Anson?” Corbin’s voice beckoned from inside the blue arc. He pressed through the blue portal, the energy field washing across his skin like water.  Following close behind, Sophia was stunned to find their targets looking at them on the other side. The redhead stood defensively in front of a taller platinum-blonde man.  The shorter man’s olive cargos and fitted black t-shirt blended into the dim armoury, though his steel blue eyes flashed in the space. The man behind him was most likely the New Punjabi prince.  Sophia was only making that guess because of the rather extravagantly embroidered gold and blood-red kurta and matching pants that fit him like a glove.

“Ishan…are you seeing this?” Fane whispered, praying this was part of his dream.  Ishan pressed his hand against Fane’s hip, leaving his hands free. “I’m seeing it all right, but my brain is saying it wants to melt,” he whispered, his gaze fixed on the couple coming out of the strange rip in the air.

“Ishan Orlov?” the woman pushed her way through.

“And you are?” the man at least had the wherewithal to begin asking questions.

“Corbin Ziphle and Sophia Lisgon.  We need for you to come with us,” the pink-haired woman motioned them to the blue arc.

“Not happening, sister,” Fane growled.

“Zephyr is dead, Fane.  And the Grey Monster has swept a burning path from Eand to Afghan in the course of four hours.  You’ll be dead in the next,” the man stated bluntly. Fane drew in a rough breath, his heart determined to escape his ribcage.

“We’ve got to get you away from the city,” Fane stated to Ishan as he slowly back the man toward the door.

“You’ll be too slow for that.  He’ll die, vaporized by the river, you wrapped around him; the only identifier’ll be the serial number on the plate in your head,” Corbin stated flatly.

“How can you know that!” Fane hissed.

“We’re a few years ahead of your time.  This Grey Monster starts a war that is going to destroy this world, and we need you!” Sophia yelled as a boom shook the whole palace.

“Shit…it’s here…” Corbin looked up at the ceiling.

“Did we…” Sophia looked at him.

“Calculated the Meridian just an hour off,” Corbin admitted.

“Ah, fuckin’ hell!  You two, here, now!” Sophia screamed at them.  Fane didn’t know what was happening, but the creeping wet tentacle feel across his skin was enough to have him pulling Ishan to the couple.

“What about -” Ishan asked as Sophia pulled him to the blue arc of light.  

Corbin grabbed Fane’s arm and heaved him into the portal.  “No more time!” he shouted. They found themselves in a large lab-looking room as a loud phoom burst through the room, a bright searing light and rubble bouncing against the blue barrier.  The prince and the bodyguard looked around, startled. Blue cylinders clung around the perimeter, each encasing a body in stasis.

Corbin dropped Fane’s arm and sank to a stool at a large black-topped table.  A series of monitors and chords fell from the table in a massive cascade. Fane looked down and followed the line of the chords to an eight-foot-tall white metal ring.  The centre had closed down a metal iris, shutting off the blue light. Fane turned to look at Ishan. “Tell me this is just one of my bad dreams,” he pleaded quietly in the space.

Sophia approached them with a stethoscope.  “Nope, those dreams you have aren’t dreams, just that fuckin’ creature looking for a way into this world,” she bit off.  “Here, sit down,” she pointed at a pair of chairs.

“What do you mean by that!” Fane demanded.  Ishan went and sat down, waiting for the adrenaline in his system to give him a break.

“You really didn’t know?” Sophia asked as she approached the man, reaching out to touch the side of his head.  He shifted away from her, drawing the dagger up to block her hand. She stepped into his line faster than he expected.  She grasped his wrist and spun. He spun with her, pushing himself over her, freeing his wrist and retaining possession of the knife.  His head began spinning. He looked down, disoriented as the floor tried to seep up to greet him. A large green tube with a short needle stuck out of his wrist.  “Wha the…” he dropped into a black void.

“Prince?” Fane peeled his eyelids open. He found himself on cold concrete. His head was splintering. Throbbing ran up his temples.  He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth. He looked around the dim room. A pair of crossed legs sat next to him.  He followed the legs up to his prince. The man was watching him with a gentle smile.  Ishan was holding his hand. “Right here, Fane. Just woke up myself.” The man squeezed his hand gently.  Then the world started to come back to him in the same manner as walking onto a rail line and getting smacked by a bullet train.  He sat up, riding through the dizzy spell. He reached for his back sheath. His knife was at the tips of his fingers. “Where are they,” he hissed.

“He finally awake?” A man with utterly long white hair leaned his hip against a backlit door frame.  Fane met the man’s eyes. He was a challenger. A right brumby. “Who are you?” Fane eased into a crouch in front of Ishan.

“Bern a’ the Fyskar.  Ye’re lowlander. What’s y’er clan?” the man stated matter-of-factly.  Fane could feel his piercing eyes crawl across his skin.

“Nae clan I kin ta, Bern, jus’ born ‘n raised.” Fane shifted his feet, testing, tasting the air.  Ishan raised an eyebrow. Fane’s skin practically crackled.  Hairs raised along his arm. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling he was being looked down on.

“Y’er name?” Bern pressed.

“Fane Anson.” He pressed the release on the safety latch of his knife.  Why had they left the knife with him?

“Ah’d be leave’n that poker be, if Ah were ye,” Bern cautioned.

“Give me a good reason,” Fane cautioned, seething, barely containing a desire that ran through his arms.  Ishan had seen this before. This could get bloody, fast.

“Ye’r nae a prison’r,” Bern stated flatly, motioning to the lit hall.  Fane twitched. He hadn’t expected that. He watched the highlander warily as he stood up to his full height, which wasn’t much compared to the man standing in front of him.

Fane pressed the clip back on the knife at his back, securing it.  He offered his hand to help Ishan up, keeping his body in front of the prince, his eyes never leaving Bern.  “Cautious lad, ain’t ye?” Bern mused as he backed away from the door frame into the hall, knowing better than to turn his back on the will ‘o the wisp.

Ishan followed Fane’s lead.  Fane eased out to the hall and looked around.  He was in a facility of some kind. It stank of new drywall and metal.  He checked his periphery. They were in some kind of warehouse. That was his bet.  The hallway proportions were just off enough to not be standard construction.

“Where are the other two?” Fane tried his best not to growl, but it forced his voice to be rough.  

“Waitin’ f’r ye in the canteen,” the man answered, careful with the unusual word.  Fane glanced at the man again. Where had he come from in the highlands to have never used the word canteen?

They followed Bern through a set of corridors before they entered a large room with windows overlooking a massive work floor.  Fane sucked in a breath. The area was covered in machinists and individuals in white lab coats. A huge spaceship of sorts was being assembled.  The hull was a brilliant iridescent black and blue. What was this place?

The man and woman who had pulled them into the blue light were sitting in a pair of chairs turned to face the window.  They glanced up at a noise from the highlander. “Bern! I see you got them up, thank you.” The woman with pink hair smiled happily.

“Careful, Sophia, the lad’s jumpy.” Bern walked over to a coffee pot and filled a paper cup with the brown liquid.  He leaned up against the counter and downed the liquid. Must not be that hot.

“Not a kid, Bern,” Fane grouched at the man.

“Ye look it,” the man retorted.

Fane ground his teeth.  Now was neither the time nor place.  He turned from the man, though his instinct was to put the prince as far from the highlander as possible.

“Come look at this, Fane!  Ishan, you’ll find this interesting.” Corbin motioned for them to join him at the window.

Fane stiffened.  He shot a look to Ishan.  “Did you talk to them?” he asked gently, knowing that Ishan could have done that while he was asleep.  Ishan frowned and shrugged. He didn’t know how these two knew them.

“Didn’t mean to lay you out for so long, but I read in your file that you might be a bit trigger-happy and didn’t want you tearing up the jump room.” Corbin smiled, pointing at a set of manila envelopes on the desk.

“Do you work with Abedelli?” Fane didn’t make a move toward the man.

“No, no, he’s been dead for a couple years now.  We got your files off of a server that hadn’t quite been compromised during the rising,” Corbin explained nonchalantly.

“Years…?” Fane wasn’t sure what the man was on about.

“It’s not the same time you came from,” Bern elaborated.

“What do ye mean, ‘it’s not the same time?’” Fane pressed.

“Mean that blue cloud you went through transported you ahead of your time by a few years.” Bern threw his empty cup in the trash.  He watched the four people at the other end of the room. The platinum blonde was refined and carried himself like royalty. Fane and Sophia had called him a prince.  The redhead must be a guardian of some kind to the man. The prince took to his body direction with calm acceptance, not questioning the spitfire. Bern was intrigued.

“We had been told that you were the catalyst for the Grey Monster rising.  At least, that’s what those records show.” Corbin pointed at the envelopes again.

“Catalyst?” Fane was beginning to feel like a parrot.

“You weren’t aware of it?” Sophia asked, her eyes going round.

“I don’t even know what Grey Monster you’re talking about.  I only just heard about it this morning over the radio,” Fane protested.

“That was a few years ago, Mr Anson.  The Grey Monster has almost wiped out the entirety of the Euro-Asian continents.  It appears to currently be trapped by land, but I’m not going to dismiss the possibility that it can enter the oceans,” Corbin elaborated.  “You were created to bring in the Grey Monster.” He stated with distaste, his eyes burning holes into the man.

“You want me dead?” Fane hissed at Corbin, calming the flow of electricity in his bones.  Ishan’s hand settled at his waist, and he dodged a glance. Fane’s hand came up to point a blade at Bern’s jugular as the large man’s hand settled on his forehead.

Crackling pain shot straight through his heart.  He stumbled and fell into a dark pit. His lungs contracted as a roar began in his head.  “What kind of demon are you?” A deep voice asked from in the void. Slowly light crept around the edges of his vision.  His muscles contracted. Every scar itched and burned. His sight cleared slowly. He found himself on a beach, the smell of fish and ocean waves swamping his senses.

“Y’er’s,” Fane spat as he glanced around, quickly spotting the white-haired man.  The man was dressed out in a bizarrely coloured kilt of white, sky blue and lavender and very little else.  Bands of red tattoos circled his upper arms. His white hair was tied back in a thick braid.

“Where are we?” demanded Fane.

“Corbin says it’s a telepathic plane; he likes to call it a void.” Bern pointed up at his head.  “‘owever, ye’re somethin’ different.” Bern tilted his head to regard the man. “He said that the bloodline had died out.  Who are ye ‘n where’re the rest ‘a the Fyskar?” Bern approached Fane.

“What’re ye on about?” Fane slid away from the man, falling into a defensive stance.

“Ye’ve the taint a White Horse about ye.  Ye cannae tell me that yer mum and pap diddnae instruct ye in our ways.” Bern descended upon him.

“Got no memory of a mum or pa.” Fane held his ground.  He had been stripped of his armaments in the space.  This would be through fists and feet if the man tried anything.

“Ye seem awful bent on protectin’ y’er Prince,” Bern regarded him with curiosity.

“Y’er nae gunna touch him,” Fane barked.

“I’m nae interested in him,” Bern smiled amiably, trying to disarm the man.  Fane flinched. A cold pick ran through his side. Bern watched the twitch curiously.  “I donnae mean ye harm, Fane Anson,” he placated gently.

“Then what do ye mean?” Fane bristled.

“I mean to find out who ye are.” Bern reached out once more, his reach seeming to cross space in a flash.  His hand wrapped around his forehead once more. Bern plunged into the depths of Fane’s subconscious, looking for his void.

The highlander snatched his hand away from Fane’s forehead in the cafeteria only half an instant after contact.  Fane’s pupils and irises flashed silver. An icy chill spread through the room, the windows frosting over.  Corbin shifted back in his chair as his heart beat faster. Ishan pulled Fane to his chest. “The hell did you do to him!” Ishan shouted at Bern, who took another step away from Fane.

“Corbin, who is this man?” Bern demanded.

“His medical files refer to him as Subject 15, a known Fane Anson.  He was taken in by the military medical ward as a project to bring about the Grey Monster.” Corbin scrambled for the documents.

“He’s Fyskar,” Bern seethed.  He couldn’t take his gaze away from the small man’s eyes.  “What’id they do ta him?” The white-haired man bit out between clenched teeth.  He had never encountered such a void. He swallowed, willing himself to not vomit up the coffee he had just downed.

“Fyskar!? You’ve gotta be joking, Bern.  He doesn’t fit your genetic profile. Ishan’s the one who’s related to you as a multi-times great-grandchild.  Fane isn’t related. We did the sequencing,” Sophia protested as she rifled through papers. She dragged out her papers and paled as she read through the file once more.  “He isn’t related. See. He has a partial match to one of the vials in Eoin’s tomb, not to your DNA.” She looked up at Bern in confusion.

“Which one?” he pressed as he backed away from the bodyguard.

“The male with the light brown hair.” Sophia handed him the paper with the graphs.  He stared at it in confusion and handed it back to her.

“How is he related to Bercilack?”

“Partial relation.  Bercilack, if that’s who’s hair is in the vial, has a first cousin that is the main relation to Fane here.”

“Impossible.  Bercilack’s father Drostan and Rory were the only ones left of that line.  Bercilack was the only one born to the line, and his mother was Caointiorn.  Rory never had a kid with Fenella.”  

Sophia wasn’t sure who all Bercilack was listing, but she could follow the genetic relations she saw mapped out in front of her on the paper. “He doesn’t share the same sequence with Eoin or Bercilack’s mothers.  Different woman, Bern. Rory had a kid with someone else, it looks like.” Sophia reiterated her point by circling a set of marks on her paper. Bern turned to the bodyguard as the blood drained from his face.  

Fane watched them warily.  His skin crackled and itched.  His head felt like it was shattering.  The rage in his gut was tinged with cold fire.

“He’s not White Horse, though.  Rory’s line never bore a White Horse in all the years we could trace.  Does he dye his hair?” Bern demanded of Ishan as another thought burst through his senses.

Ishan looked at him, confused.  “Carpet matches the drapes is all I know,” Ishan’n fingers held more tightly to Fane’s side.

“Impossible…” Bern breathed.  He had never seen a White Horse with red hair.  This was not a good thing. He flicked a glance between Corbin and Ishan and licked his bottom lip momentarily.  This was very bad.

“Is there a problem, Bern?  What is he doing to our windows?” Corbin asked worriedly.

“Legend from a’fore receivin’ the land in the Isle.  There were those a’ us who fought ‘gainst the legions.  They…Red Hares are dead! They died out fightin’ the Romans,” protested Bern.

“Bern, what’s a Red Hare?” Sophia demanded.

“This is bad…this is really bad.  Get him out of this room, now!” Bern commanded Ishan.  The prince blinked up at him, startled. “Take that hall out a’ this door n’ down ta the exit doors. There’s land on that end a’ the building.  Find a shaded spot where the soil is cold. Bury ‘is hands in the ground, now!” Bern pointed Ishan out of the building.  

Corbin and Sophia rose in unison.  “What is going on, Bern?” Sophia scuttled after the fleeing form of Ishan, pulling Fane along.  “Outside, just, outside now!” Bern followed Corbin and Sophia down the hall and out the door.

Ishan shoved the door open to a humid gust of air and the deeply mulched scent of palm trees.  The asphalt at the door was cracked and rust stained. On the other side of the parking lot was a grassy field that was used as a reservoir.  Fane collapsed on the grass, burying his hands in the unmowed tendrils. He drew in a painful breath. Ishan put himself behind Fane, knowing it would worry him less.

Bern, Corbin, and Sophia watched unsteadily as a patch of frost deadened the grass around Fane.  “What happened to him? There was nothing in the files saying he could do that,” Sophia asked Corbin.  Corbin shook his head. He hadn’t seen anything that would indicate he could do what he was doing.

“Donnae release him, whate’er ye do,” Bern directed Ishan.  He sat down at the edge of the grass, providing Fane with more than plenty of space.  He waved Corbin and Sophia down to sit next to him.

Ishan rested his hand on Fane’s shoulder gently, not wanting to get in the way if possible.  Fane tried to draw in a steadying breath. He watched the grass around his knees frost over. He couldn’t help the feel of razor blades slicing across his skin like fire.  The lightness of Ishan’s hand, though, comforted the pain. He could focus on that one spot on his arm. He didn’t want the frost spreading to Ishan. It took several willing moments for the chill to fall away from him, for his bones to stop arcing electricity.  

“Fane?” Ishan drew the man’s attention.  His bodyguard’s soft blue eyes were iridescent silver, but they met the prince’s amber eyes.  “What can I do to help?” he asked quietly. Fane’s lips trembled. His brow lined with sweat.  Ishan could read pain around his eyes. “Easy, easy,” Ishan softly pulled Fane to him, willing the man to ease from his guarded position.  Fane resisted the press for a second before allowing Ishan to comfort him.

Corbin shifted, wanting to get closer.  Bern restrained him stiffly. Corbin looked up at the white-haired man curiously.  Bern shot him a stern look. “Ye wanna die t’day? ‘Cause ‘e’ll guarantee it,” he hissed quietly.  Fane’s gaze flicked to Bern, but he was starting to lose his stamina.

“What is going on, Bern?” Sophia whispered.  She felt like they were trying to approach a wounded dog on the freeway and were trying not to get hit by a truck or bit by the dog.  Fane’s slicing glance shifted between Corbin and Sophia before a tremble ran through his spine. The world dimmed around the edges.  Sophia watched as Fane’s body slumped into Ishan’s as he collapsed. Ishan held him close, his fingers brushing his arm rhythmically, reassuringly.

“Wanna explain what you just did to my boyfriend?” Ishan seethed.  He wasn’t as worried about Corbin being a problem, but Sophia had outwitted Fane in the small space, and Bern was fast on his feet.  The fact that the big man had gotten them out of the warehouse and sat way away from them told him that there was more to this matter than just a possible abduction.

“Can we move closer?” Corbin asked Bern.

“Nae yet,” Bern calmed the man.  He was waiting for the will ‘o wisp to be at more ease.  Though his eyes were closed, and he leaned into the cockle-coloured man, he was not completely unconscious and probably would not willingly allow himself to drift off.

“That is a Red Hare-” Bern started.

“His name is Mr Anson by you,” Ishan interrupted the man.  

Bern bowed his head deferentially to the reprimand.  “I mean nae offence. He’s a Red Hare Horse a’ the Fyskar. Though, how he came ta be here so many years af’er the loss a’ the Fyskar, I ken as anyone’s guess.  His kind shoulda died out at least a thousand years a’fore my time. Ye understand what I can do, right, Corbin?” Bern asked the man at his side.

Corbin bobbed his head in a so-so way.  “You can communicate through skin contact.  You can pull me into your mind, or you can share feelings by touching another person and myself.  You can even take memories from me. You can allow me to feel your varying emotions through contact,” Corbin summarized, though he was aware part of that explanation was for the benefit of the Indian man sitting out in the field with the walking ball of death in his lap.

“Now, I’ve never met an actual Red Hare, but the legends say that Red Hare Horses can project their feelin’s without touch.  This donnae sound bad, other than f’r understandin’ that Red Hares travelled in herds, bands of soldiers that could take out battalions in one step, leavin’ behind blood fallin’ like snow, no bones to tell of the dead.  Volatile, explosive, guarded.

“Innately one with a’ devil; fire ‘n ice as their body and soul.  They’ld be sent away from the tribe ta be raised when they turned five in order to help them control themselves and keep the tribe safe,” Bern elaborated.  Fane listened quietly to the superstition. It sounded too fantastic, but a running throb burst through his head at the mention of blood and snow. His chest constricted at a scurrying thought.

“Fane?” Ishan whispered under his breath.  He had felt the man curl into himself only a fraction, nothing visible, but a tensing of his muscles beneath his black shirt.

“What’d ye find, old man,” Fane’s voice rattled roughly in his chest as he fought the constriction.

“I’d like ta take ye back into my void, ta help explain, Mr Anson,” Bern offered softly.  He made no move to change his position, and he rested a steadying hand on Sophia and Corbin, willing them to make no move.  This was a delicate situation.

“Why?” Fane felt safe in Ishan’s arms; he had no desire to leave them and return to that beach.

“Nae one has taught ya how ta use yer talents proper, ‘ave they?  Ye said ye donnae remember a mum or pap?” Bern asked him.

“I don’t have any memory of talents like what you’re talking about,” Fane muttered.  

A thought occurred to Ishan, though, of a conversation he had with Zephyr back in the armoury.  “Sanguis,” Ishan barely breathed, not realizing he spoke as he did so.  

Fane’s glance flicked to Ishan before settling back on Bern.  “Why does my head feel like it’s splitting, old man?” Fane growled.

Bern looked a little embarrassed.  “I – I think I touched somethin’ I shouldnae have…?” he offered apologetically.

“Fix it,” Fane practically spat.  “I live in pain most of the time, but this is exhausting,” he admitted.

“Is it all right if I approach ye?” Bern asked permission.  Fane pulled the blade at his back. Bern flinched, gritting his teeth.  Fane placed the handle in Ishan’s hand. He glanced back at Bern and sighed heavily.  “You made the mess; clean it up.” Fane sat up more fully, trying to clear his head. Ishan pressed himself against Fane’s back, the blade directed at Bern.  Bern rubbed his neck uncertainly before standing slowly. He approached the man with caution and eased in front of him with glacial calm. He had never encountered a Red Hare, and if legends were anything to go by, he was not in the mood to find himself dead in a fine mist of blood.“Is this all right?” Bern asked from where he sat, an arm’s distance from Fane. 

Fane glared at him, not entirely sure. He knew Ishan could at least stab the man at that range, but he didn’t like having anyone he didn’t know that close to the prince.  He drew in a breath and gritted his teeth. He nodded.

“I’m gonna lay my hand out.  I’d like f’r ye ta take it, if ye’r comfortable with that.” Bern laid out an upward-facing palm on his knee.  Fane stared at the appendage for a good minute before reaching out and touching the calloused palm.

This time the drop into the void was less nauseating, but it still ripped across his senses in a displeasing way.  He stood on the beach with Bern. They looked out on the lapping waves. Bern allowed the silence to draw out. He could feel the rippling and tearing of emotions and pain that swirled around the man.

“Ah’m sorry f’r puttin’ ye on edge and invadin’ yer space,” Bern apologized gingerly.  Fane watched him cautiously. “Ah have nae had anyone do that ta me in a long time, ‘n I know it is worse as Fyskar ta have another invade yer void.  It can be quite disconcertin’,” he hedged. Fane waited quietly.

“Do ye know what’s happened to ye?” Bern sat down on a log, leaving himself vulnerable.  Fane shrugged, turning to look at the man. “Corbin and Sophia donnae mean ye harm, neither do I.  We…I know I didnae start off with ye well.” Bern was making an effort, but the cold wall in front of him didn’t seem to be budging.

“Ye can feel him around ye, right?” Bern asked after another silent minute.  Maybe a different tact would break the wall for him. Fane looked at him uncertainly.  “I want ta instruct ye on pullin’, but I donnae think that is completely wise as a’ yet.  ‘owever, feelin’, though harder than pullin’, would help right now, I think,” Bern half explained to Fane, half hoped to himself.

“If pullin’s easier, why not start there?” Fane finally broke his mute silence.

Bern considered his thoughts first.  “I donnae want you to break,” he admitted.

Fane held Bern’s eyes disdainfully.  “Try me,” he snarled. He was itching for a fight.  A warmth spread across his chest. He could sense Ishan there at the edges of his mind.  

Bern swallowed and shook his head only a fraction.  He was not happy with what that would mean. “Do ye trust the man at yer back?”

“More than most,” Fane conceded.  

Bern raised an eyebrow.  “Ye seem awful protective a’ him,” he pointed out.

“‘n it’s gonna stay that way,” stated Fane.

“Do ye want him knowing ye?” Bern asked.

“How do you mean?” Fane returned the question.

“May I bring him into this space with us?” Bern asked.  Handling this man was like handling a handful of needles, doable, but prickly.

“And that will help these talents?” Fane sneered, still not sure what the man was on about.

“My end goal is actually f’r ye to pull Corbin into yer void, if ye must know,” Bern offered.  Fane shot him a whithering glance. “I’d rather do that when ye can competently bring in yer…what is he to ye?  A master, a chief of some kind?” Bern asked, not sure of what the state of the relationship was. The man had called Fane a boyfriend, but that didn’t quite mean anything to him.

“You speak the old tongue.  Leanan. He’s my leanan,” Fane admitted freely.  

Bern looked up at him in surprise at the honesty.  “That explains it.” Bern sighed, just an edge of relaxation seeping across his shoulders.  “That’s good then.””

“Why do I need to be able to pull Corbin?” Fane sat down near the man on the log.

“I donnae understand what yer healers have done to yer void?  Ye’re going to be his way of space jumping…somehow. I donnae really understand all his high blether.  Somethin’ ‘bout the portal the Grey Monster came through is supposed to help him get his ship through to another galaxy.  He’s predictin’ the end a’ the world ‘n has gathered up a large amount a’ people n’ froze them…something like that. He’s tryin’ ta save the human race n’ ye seem to be the key to gettin’ us there,” Bern elaborated.

“And what does this have to do with the medical treatments I received at the military hospital?” Fane pressed, a creeping uneasiness rocking his gut.

“I cannae leave yer void the way it is, but…this is hard ta explain when I cannae talk ta ye in yer space.” Bern rubbed at the back of his head.  “I need f’r Corbin ta see it. He needs ta know what he’s doing, ‘n ye do too.” Bern stood up.

“What do I need to do?” Fane acquiesced.

“I’m goin’ ta bring yer prince.  That means I am going to touch him.  Do ye understand?” Bern was not going to set off the Red Hare if he could help it.  Fane nodded, knowing that any more threats directed at the white-haired man were needless.

The ocean darkened, going grey for only a second before it brightened once again.  Ishan stood, startled, in the waves of the beach. Bern sat again at the log to give them space. Fane went out to meet Ishan.

 The waves seeped up his cargoes and dampened his compression top and t-shirt.  Ishan, though, for having been brought into a wave, was dry as a bone. He wore a deep burgundy kurta edged with fine gold.  A shawl of the same colour and embroidery draped across his shoulder and arm. His pants were tight fitting at the ankle, and his jutis shone gold against the sand. 

“Where am I?” Ishan asked.

“In Bern’s head.  He calls this a void. Says I can do it to,” Fane murmured to the man.

“It’s my bein’, my centre.  It’s where I feel the most comfort, my truest self.  My surroundin’ and clothin’ reflect my most calm. Yer Prince’s void is unique ta him, with a room or landscape that he feels at home in, and the clothes he wears is reflective of a moment of joy or comfort that has stuck with him.

 “I look out over the bright days a’ my homeland.  Everyone a’ us has this spot, our dreamin’ plane, where we go ta when we’re all alone.  I’d welcome ye, Prince, but ye willnae be here f’r too long,” Bern motioned to the beach in front of him.

“Can ye feel his hand on yer’s?” Bern called out to the men.  Fane sought his nerve endings in the void. It was there, right at the edges of his senses.  He nodded, still sceptical. They approached the log.

“Prince,” Bern directed the man to sit across from him.  “Mr Anson,” he pointed at a spot next to Ishan. “I will need ye to do absolutely what I tell ye, without budgin’.  This is dangerous, ‘n I donnae think any a’ us wanna get hurt t’day, right?” Bern spoke solemnly.  

“Long as you’re not threatening him, I don’t see that happening.” Fane studied Bern quietly.  

“Ye’re the threat here, Mr Anson.  I need f’r ye to be aware of yer position.  I went into yer void…uninvited…and touched somethin’ I shouldnae ‘ave, n’ that almost set ye off, without yer awareness.  Prince, whate’er happens, whate’er ye see or hear or feel, ye donnae let go a him, do ye understand?” Bern demanded absolute obedience.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” the Prince wrapped his fingers with Fane’s.

Bern breathed in a frustrated breath.  This was not going to be a good time. He closed his eyes for a minute, waiting, concentrating.  “Mr Anson, close yer eyes. Yer leanan is sitting next ta ye. ‘e’s there n’ nae goin’ anywhere.  It’s all right. I need f’r ye to take yer time. Feel the space ye’re in. Feel the connections that have yer prince sitting here next to ye.  Feel the connection that I have with ye, keeping ye here. Find it, memorize every detail.” Bern paused between statements, slow and methodical with his directions, his voice soothing, hypnotizing.

Fane’s grip on Ishan’s hand hardened for a second as he willingly closed his eyes, leaving himself vulnerable.  He sucked in his breath and reached with every sense of his being. A roar at the base of his skull tried to dampen his efforts, but he pressed through it.  He reached through the darkness behind his eyelids and fought through a gripping, yanking pain that pulled at his flesh and muscles. The warmth at his hand kept him grounded as he struggled.  Slowly his mind tuned to that warmth. Unassuming and gentle, it radiated into his palm, through his arm. He followed the line as it wove its way up through his bones into his skull.

The darkness burst around Ishan and Bern as they were swallowed into a murky grey.  The first distinct sound was a muffled scream, barely noticeable; it grated at the nerves, raising hairs along their arms.  A drip, slow and even, was much louder in the echo. A tang of copper and trimethylamine pitched their stomachs sideways. There was barely enough light to make out the room they were in.  The cold was dank and moulded. It felt closed off, close, but it echoed like a hollowed cavern. A rattle above their heads directed their attention upward. “Donnae lose yer connection,” Bern instructed, aware that Ishan’s eyes had fallen upon the noise.

Soft peach-colored hair tumbled in rivulets, caught up in wires and chains.  A deep red liquid dripped from the tips. Fine porcelain skin clung to razor wires, supported by hooks, bolts, and piercings.  The body was snagged up in a disorienting rat’s nest of sharp metal. Blood from the cuts and gashes seeped from the wounds to travel along his legs to drip singularly from his toes, the steady beat pooling into a deep, bottomless pool.  Iridescent red rippled at each slow drop. Something rode below the tension of the liquid. An uneasy sensation of a creature slithering around them crept along their senses.

Fane’s eyes slowly opened into the darkness.  Ishan marvelled at their glow, the blue almost silver against the gloom.  A soft smile crossed Fane’s lips. He was strung out and in pain.  It took all his effort to breathe through the restraints. His right hand willingly curled around one single rope.  He held it tightly, the comfort of the golden loop taking the strain from the wire only just.

Ishan swallowed hard.  His heart was ripping apart.  “Fane!” Ishan shouted up to the man. He looked around hurriedly.  He had to find a way to help him down.

“This is what I need Corbin ta see,” Bern expressed to both of them.  Fane regarded the man indifferently. He sighed.  

“Why, Bern?” Ishan asked as he walked around on the tension of the liquid.

Fane watched the two in his space, but he felt distant, adrift.  “Donnae touch the wires, Prince.” Bern cautioned Ishan from reaching for a particularly close strand.  

“We have to get him out of this!” Ishan protested.  

“It’ll set him off.  What happened in the cafeteria, he couldnae control it.  These wires, this pain he’s caught up in, it’s barely holdin’ him up there, but it’s the only thing holding him above an abyss.  Ye’re the only one taking his weight off those hooks.” Bern pointed to the golden rope. Ishan studied the length that disappeared up into the depths of the cavern.  It was wrapped about Fane’s wrist. He had a death grip on it.

The screaming beat at them, and their hearts paced to meet it.  The room chilled, the humid wet sticking to their skin. Fane glanced down at the pool, too aware of what was coming.  Terror warped the space, and it all began going askew. A muffled groan escaped him. It was the best he could do to forewarn them.  Fane pulled against his restraints, the wires popping and zinging in the chamber. Blood flowed thicker into the pool.  

“Back, get back.” Bern pushed Ishan away from the area directly under the man.  The tension of the liquid pooled and burbled. The screaming grew louder. A pinching headache buried into Ishan’s head.  Grey tentacles burst from the pool, fog pouring from it to shroud the space in a cloying sweet sourness.  

“The fuck is that?” Ishan demanded as he pressed against Bern’s restraining arms.  He couldn’t stand by and watch. He had to get to Fane. Fane watched the tentacles, terrified, as the slime pulled its way around the wires.  He whimpered. “Fane, Fane! Wake up, Fane!” Ishan demanded desperately. The slime burned, leaving the skin red and inflamed. Fane could only take so much before he willingly dissolved the connection.

Chapel Orahamm (C) 2022-2023. All Rights Reserved.

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Polaris Skies: Ch 31

NSFW – EROTICA, BDSM play

Yeller drew in a muffled gasp, almost dropping the rope in his hand. “This won’t be a good thing, Nat,” he protested, trying to return the equipment. Nat took the bundle, his heart fluttering. Maybe it had been too much to ask after all this time. Yeller pulled him back into a hug. “Why?” Yeller’s voice cracked in his ear.

Nat rested his forehead against Yeller’s sternum. His voice echoed coarse and hard in his reply, “I want it burned out of me. I need for there to be something good from what Cashia and Tereza’s relationship is based on. I can’t take running and hiding forever. It’s exhausting, and I don’t like it conquering me. I need to know I can be a good host for her. I need this for myself. I’ve tried to come out so many times in the many weeks that have gone by, and every time I’ve thought I could do it, flashes of memories bore down on me, and I froze.

“He has interrupted my life. My skin, my bones are no longer my own. My heart and my lungs obey his rhythm, and I feel like I’m drowning. My spirit is tethered and strangled. I can’t let that bird rule my body anymore. I can’t let him direct my every action like a puppet. I need the stench burned off of my flesh and scrubbed out of my mouth. I need help. Show me this can be good.”

Yeller swallowed at the admission. Cashia? he asked, needing guidance. He was caught in two directions. One was that he did not want to hurt Nat again by exposing him to Cashia’s version of courtship with his mate. The other was that he did not want to hurt Nat by telling him no.

“We don’t have to. I should have known this would be too much,” Nat apologised, extracting himself from Yeller’s hold to put the rope back in the pack.

Yeller stood back and watched as Nat shoved the hardware back in the bag hurriedly. Should I? Cashia asked Yeller. He had not expected that level of honesty from Nat, or to find him begging, let alone demanding something like this.

I don’t know. I don’t know, Cashia. That PTSD flashback practically broke him last time. We haven’t seen him in a month. We may never see him again if we push him over the edge. Yeller watched Nat fidget as his own heart slowly sped up. Sven said ‘fix’. Will this shatter him? Yeller pressed a hand against his chest, trying to still the pain in his ribs as his heart throbbed.

Nat…I think he wants us to break him, like when a broken bone has set wrong, and it has to be broken again to set it proper. If it’s set wrong, it is interruptive and painful, and there’s no forgetting how bad and wrong it is. You can’t straighten out a bad set by bending the bone most times. This time we aren’t going to strain and bend him, hoping for everything to be rosy. If we break him, we have to make sure we set him in a good way. Cashia pinned Nat with a steady gaze.

I’m not sure it works that way, Cashia. Yeller tensed.

This isn’t something I’ve ever approached like this. You may be right, and this is all wrong, Cashia admitted. He was not familiar with how to treat PTSD. It was a new term to him, let alone psychology in any form of modern understanding.

He had watched men return from battlefields, scarred and terrified. Their eyes would glass over at sudden noises, things that they saw, things that they felt. Small triggers or large. Dogs, blades, the shift of a horse, the smell of the butchered chicken their wives were plucking. Gunpowder, the cacophony of a church bell, cannons, a broom falling over in a corner. Some would scream and run; others would hide. There were those who attacked violently in unseeing retaliation. Sleep evaded them. They lived a split life, between the now and the then. Some learned to hide it, few overcame it, and most suffered through flashbacks. There were those who exposed themselves over and over again to stimulation to become numb to the constriction that an episode would cause. Some drowned it out and took to floating. There were those that made it through and those that took a more permanent path out. He could not answer Yeller honestly about what type Nat would be at the end of this.

Do you have any idea how to do what he’s wanting? Yeller asked nervously, letting Cashia brush past him to take over. He had watched the wolf parade a series of morbid memories across his periphery. He was all too aware Nat was trying to treat a symptom, hoping it would touch the cause in a desperate need to feel normal and in control.

Help me reassure him when he needs it, but we’re going to push this time until he knows it’s us that are doing it and not those chicken shits. Cashia’s eyes glowed feral.

Nat shivered as a glance slid down his back while he squatted over the pack. Hair raised on the back of his neck. He glanced up in time for a hand to swim into his vision. He fell back, startled. Cashia pressed on his sternum, pinning him to the ground. Cashia, in Yeller’s form, straddled him; the man’s body weight settled across his hips, effectively immobilizing him.

“Yeller?” Nat gasped at the pressure on his chest as the man rummaged in the pack. Blazing gold eyes refused to leave him. Nat swallowed. It was definitely Cashia this time and not Yeller.

The man spilt the pack back out and glanced at the contents, deliberating on his choices. He took a second to set a hand over Nat’s heart to feel the beat. It was fast, but the rhythm was solid. ” Da, ne, stop, nastavi, remember?”

Cashia’s rough accent slipped along Nat’s skin and crawled into his gut. Tereza rubbed against his insides. Sven stood guard at the edge of his conscience, ready to take over. Cashia traced along Nat’s wrist, pulling a hand to him, raising an eyebrow.

Nat licked his lower lip. He offered the other hand. “Da.”

Nat didn’t need to provide rope, but he had brought a lot of it. Cashia was a presence enough to rule over him if he had wanted it. Why then? Yeller asked in the background.

Remember the rope burns? Cashia measured out a long length of jute, cutting it from its bundle. Yeller would never be able to unsee the angry bleeding red wounds that had imprinted sickly purple and black lines on his love’s skin. He’s asking loudly to face that demon. Cashia replied as he continued measuring out another set of ropes. He didn’t flinch at me taking his hands away from him back in the trailer. This is probably going to be a simple one to master for him. I’m going to show you a few decorative rope bindings. Because it is done slowly and with precision, it is meant to build anticipation, not cause anxiety and distress. Remember, if you do this, to leave at least a finger or two widths beneath the chords. This is restraint but not meant to cause pain. This type of rope can cause rope burn naturally. Goal here is to not leave behind injurious burns but to let him know this can be done comfortably and safely.

“Hold your hands here, and don’t move.” Cashia positioned Nat’s hands up an equidistant apart, providing a gap of a hand width. He took up the long cordage and made an easy opposing circuit of equal distance. He tied off a cross knot at the bottom and pulled tight, bringing together the circle between his hands. Looping the remaining length around the circle of rope, he created a thick separation and a short tether, leaving a finger width of space between the cuffs and wrists. He shifted off of Nat to settle next to his knees. “Nastavi?” Cashia asked before beginning his next project.

“Da.” Nat nodded. He was doing all right as Cashia showed him what he was doing and explained along the way.

Cashia proceeded at a slow, deliberate pace. He bent in one of Nat’s knees and began a drawn-out process of laying out a length of thin jute and doubling it over. He pulled up Nat’s foot and folded the rope over it several times before slipping an overhand knot through the cordage. He lifted up and tied a double knot, the work tightening enough to stay, but not enough to cut off circulation. He shifted Nat’s foot behind the waif. He wrapped the cordage over Nat’s thigh and around his calf to meet back on the outside of the leg where he crossed the strand under at the cord’s meeting point. He pulled the strands over and wrapped them under the calf and up over the thigh in the opposite direction, repeating the over-and-under pattern up four times before joining the cords at the bend of the knee with another overhand knot. He was meticulously efficient, the rope evenly spaced and beautiful.

“Stop?” Cashia asked when he finished with the first knee. He laid a hand on Nat’s chest again. The man’s heart was still beating firmly, slower than a minute before, but still a touch fast. His skin was warm to the touch and maintaining good colour.

Nat shook his head, “Ne, nastavi.” If nothing else came of this event, he would have command of four distinct words. Cashia shifted to sit between his legs, spreading him wide. Heat coursed through Nat’s body at the position, his cock going semi-hard.

Cashia raised an eyebrow at the movement before turning to bind the other leg. Yeller found it interesting how Cashia found the tying process meditative.

As the rope tightened around Nat’s other leg, his heart tripped, dancing unevenly. He drew in a breath, trying to banish the darkness pushing against his thoughts. Cashia turned to him, finished with the knots and again laid a hand on his pulse. “Stop.” Nat tried to draw in a breath as his chest constricted and his fingers startled to tremble.

You’re up. Cashia pushed Yeller forward.

“Mo grá1?” Yeller leaned over Nat’s spread legs to look into his eyes. “Tá mé ceart anseo. Anáil2,” he demanded, his heat pressed against his love.

Nat ground his teeth as he fought with his own demons. He bent his head up until Yeller met his forehead. Pulling in one deep breath after another, his heart continued to stutter painfully in his chest.

“Do you want them off?” Yeller reached for one of Nat’s knees, drawing it up.

Nat shook his head. He felt like he was about to start crying, but he really didn’t want to. For once in months, he didn’t want to run. He used to think he was all that and a box of rocks, but this journey had ground his edges down and taken away his bite. He desperately wanted to not feel like he had been run through the spin cycle with razor blades and spikes a couple dozen times. He knew the demons wouldn’t forever stay at bay, and the darkness would creep in again. He wanted a tight collar, a short leash, and a bit more control for when they would raise their ugly heads. He knew that the solution he was seeking was not the healthiest option, and it would do him better to sit in a shrink’s office. The world wasn’t giving him a lot of options at that moment, though.

“You sure?” Yeller asked, his body more aware of his position than his mind. It did catch up about the time Nat nodded his head again.

“Ta me go maith,” Nat finally wrapped his mouth around the words stuck in his throat. His heart was beginning to slow, to return to its steady rhythm, if a bit fast with anticipation.

“We can stop this here and now.” Yeller willed his body to a more chaste plain of existence, but it was coming up around cloud nine. He ground his teeth at the difficulties.

“Keep going.” Nat’s voice slipped coarse and quiet through the room. Yeller bent forward and kissed him gently, pushing his forehead against his. Nat nuzzled back. “Ready for Cashia, or…?” Yeller asked as he leaned back to trace a finger appreciatively along the skin of Nat’s knee where it met the rope.

Electricity snapped through his nerve endings, building low in Nat’s gut, providing rising evidence to his desire to continue with what they were doing. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

Yeller nodded. His eyes glowed in the moonlight streaming through the window. Cashia stared at the man for a contemplative minute. “Were you able to figure out what set you off last time?” He hated killing the mood, but he really didn’t want to kill it later, especially not after working through at least one more set of knots he wanted to set up. The white-haired man’s pale skin was sultry in the moonlight and calling for more jute.

Nat closed his eyes to think. He allowed the memory to brush up against his nerves, trusting Sven and Tereza to support the danger. “I did okay with you behind me. And commanding. My arms? I’m okay with that too. The fingers in my mouth.” His gaze drifted, his gut tightening, his cock bobbed at the idea.

Cashia watched the flush run up his body and the movement between his legs. Well, that something I know how to work with, Cashia mused. Nat might have a bit of an oral fixation, and that can very much be toyed with.

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be getting hard at that statement, Cashia, but you’re not helping my willpower if you keep talking to yourself in here. Yeller warned.

“It-it was about the time that I couldn’t see you, when you sat up against the bed, and all I saw were legs.” Nat tried to feel through the memory.

“Was it me touching your hair and your head, or was it having your mouth and your ass filled at the same time, maybe?” Cashia offered a couple of alternatives. He had seen the bruises and rope burns when Dietrich and Heinrich brought him back to the cave, and he watched the latent bruises form over the days after Michael’s men. He saw a good bit of what they had done to Nat. He had a few impressions of what might be perched in the man’s brain, waiting to eat him alive.

Nat sought the answer at the periphery of his memory. He furrowed his brows. “I’m not sure,” he answered truthfully.

Cashia dragged a contemplative finger down Nat’s chest and stomach as he rummaged through the pack’s contents. His fingers brushed up against something ridged wrapped in cloth. He pulled a bandanna out of the pack, his eyebrow rising as a small amber-coloured resin glinted in the light. It took him a moment to comprehend what it was he was looking at. It wasn’t much longer than his thumb. A soft taper into an oval egg shape, it meshed into a short post and smoothly rounded flange. An end finial to a curtain rod. “All right. We’re going to try a few options, and see if we can pin down at least one of these triggers and make it yours to command. Is that still good with you?” Cashia laid the bandanna near Nat’s head.

Nat turned to look at it, ever aware of the fingers dragging along his skin. “Da.”

Cashia pulled Nat’s hands up and behind his head, letting him lean the back of his head on his bound fists. He pulled a length of rope through the binding, making it even on both sides. As long as Nat stretched far enough, he would be able to slip his arms back over his head and release the rope.

Cashia brought one of Nat’s bound knees up to his chest and slipped the rope between his thigh and calf behind his knee. He used the same release knot as he had used throughout the process. He shifted Nat’s other knee, spreading him wider as he tightened the rope point to the other knee.

Nat rested into the stretch of the rope. He shifted uncomfortably at the position; the tantalising slip of jute against his flesh brushed his nerves, setting fire to his senses. He wasn’t aware of the hitched moan that escaped his throat.

Cashia caught it, though, his eyes narrowing, pleased. It was an improvement. “Let’s start with the blindfold. It’s less invasive. I’m going to put it on and then go look for something. You can get out of this, right? And you can call out.” He lifted up the bandanna for Nat to see.

Nat was losing to the burn of his desires, though. He nodded again. Cashia raised an eyebrow at him, challenging him for an answer.

“Keep going.” Nat swallowed a breathy voice. He wanted to be touched; the anticipation was killing him. Cashia folded the bandanna and leaned over Nat, cradling his head gently while he pulled the material around his eyes. He left the knot simple to finger and set it back in Nat’s fist.

Yeller wasn’t expecting it when Cashia threw him forward. Enjoy for a minute. It’ll heighten his anticipation while we go find some oil. They’d left him bound and blind back in that garage. This may set him off, but it may help him. We’ll see. Make it good. Kitchen probably has something, or the guy who lived here might’ve left something useful in the bathroom.

Yeller studied the face under him. His hand rested on porcelain skin, always checking the beat there. He leaned in, pressing against Nat’s heat. His lover’s breath hitched as he shifted at the touch. Yeller nuzzled his nose and lightly kissed his lips. He nibbled along the line of his chin and down his chest to lick at an aroused nipple. Feathering a finger over the opposite, he rubbed softly at the rising ridge.

Nat wiggled, the current igniting a demand in his bloodstream. A muted, begging moan escaped him before he could tamp down his voice. His desires were flooding his brain.

Yeller gently twisted, enough to elicit a hitch in Nat’s pattern and an arching of his back. “Be right back. We will hear you if you need us to come back. Right?” Yeller ran a tongue along Nat’s shaft once as he pulled himself away and stood up.

Nat took a second to find his voice after that sensation. “Yes.” his voice strained, but for a good reason.

Yeller left the room, the carpet muffling his steps. Nat lay in the room, the chill distinct after Yeller’s warmth. Footsteps descended the stairs, and cabinet doors slammed. Drawers jiggled, and utensils clanged. The footsteps drifted into silence.

Darkness dripped, unsettling. Sven and Tereza circled, hackles rising at the intrusion. His heartbeat jumped. He drew in steadying breaths as his fingers fidgeted at the blindfold. He knew Yeller was still in the townhouse with him. For all he knew, he was standing in the door watching him, but the quiet dark drove at him like a heavy fog.

The blindfold loosened as Cashia had said it would. His heart rate slowed at the discovery. He drew in a full breath as the panic stilled. He squeaked as a hand crept along the back of his thigh.

“You doing all right?” Yeller asked. Nat shook his head. Hands yanked the blindfold the rest of the way off. Nat blinked up at Yeller, the moonlight almost blinding. “Do you want out?” Yeller reached for the ropes on his legs. Nat shook his head again.

“Tell me,” Cashia demanded quietly, his eyes hard gold. Nat looked away as he tried to steady his heart and lungs. Cashia pulled his chin around, forcing Nat to look at him. “Talk. You’re safe here, and we can stop,” urged Cashia, his accent slithering, his body heat burning up against Nat’s sensitive skin.

Nat shivered at the command. His skin caught, throbbed, burned. Cashia’s eyebrows flicked at the reaction, the only tell on his stolid face. “It was good with you and Yeller here, on me. I liked that. When you left…as long as I could hear you, I was okay. When I couldn’t hear you, being like this…it started coming back,” pleaded Nat.

Cashia nodded, filing that away. He had figured it might happen, and it was something that they could easily leave off now that they knew it was a trigger. Sound deprivation was definitely out. Visual deprivation was to be used only sparingly and within certain parameters.

“Wanna try it again or leave it off?” Cashia offered, trying to be okay with providing Nat with the option to battle his triggers.

“Ne. I feel better seeing you,” Nat admitted quietly, warmth spreading across his cheeks and turning his ears red. He glanced to Cashia’s side to see what he had gone off to look for. A small, opaque plastic bottle no longer than his thumb had fallen at his knees.

“What do you say to another set of knots in a minute?” Cashia asked as he pushed Yeller forward again. Nat nodded, nibbling his bottom lip. Yeller was beginning to get the hint. Cashia would set him up. He was showing him how to treat Nat but leaving it to him. It was different from last time. Why? Yeller asked, running a finger down Nat’s inner thigh and up over his hip to his stomach.

Nat watched him, catching the change. His foot twitched at the ticklish sensation. “Déan é2.”

Your boyfriend needs help. When we’ve got him sorted, I’ll be able to pursue my mate. Right now, it’s not about her, so you get to do most of the work. You have a decent imagination up here to work around with, but you’re still a bit naive on some things that need to be done with a more experienced touch. He expects you to treat him a certain way and me another way. I edge him; you make him cum.

Here, scootch under him, pull his legs up a bit more. We’ll switch to something else after a couple of minutes. For now, let’s warm him back up, Cashia directed Yeller, showing him how he wanted Nat.

Yeller obeyed the instructions. He pulled Nat up in such a way that his back and butt perched on Yeller’s kneeling thighs, leaving his shoulders and head on the floor, almost inverting him. The bulge in Yeller’s jeans pressed against Nat’s heat.

Nat glanced down at the contact, his cheeks turning red once more and his breath catching in the back of his throat.

Try something, and watch. Like you listen to his heartbeat, watch his body react. Give him your fingers. Touch his lips, Cashia backed up. He wasn’t exactly used to directing someone through an s/m session. He was in a way, directing the sub, but this – maybe he could think of it like that. He nodded to himself as the idea crystallised in his mind. There was nothing against a dom working on a sub with another. All right, let’s go with that. He was used to being the master, but it might not be bad to take on an apprentice.

Yeller crept a hand up Nat’s chest and rubbed a thumb along his soft lower lip. The texture sent a bolt through Yeller’s spine, and he found himself licking his own lip at the feeling. Nat opened for him, his tongue darting out to trace the pad. He throbbed and quivered against Yeller’s bulge. Yeller watched his skin warm and had to fight a gasp of his own when Nat pulled his thumb into his cruel heat. A memory of a kitchen and Nat sitting on a white Formica counter under a rising moon eased up in his mind. Nat’s tongue swept down the length greedily, his eyes closing at the texture.

Nat’s body ran hot and restless and demanding, a thin clear liquid dripping from his tip to spread across his skin in a rivulet. Yeller’s eyes had turned two-toned, one a brilliant glowing gold, the other a warm honey. Nat turned from them to hunt out Yeller’s index finger.

Don’t give it to him, not yet. You’re winding him up. We have two options, either we stay in this position and use that thing he brought along, Cashia pointed Yeller’s attention to the plug replacement, or you shift out from under him, and we put him in another set of knots. Either way can be a tease as long as you don’t take it all the way with the plug. Your goal here is to turn him into a begging, squirming mess, and all he can see is you. Cashia sat back and waited. Yeller took the first option.

Don’t let him have your finger outright. Use it the same way you do the plug. Ease it, take it back, circle and tease, but don’t give in to his demands, cause that’s you fulfilling your desires and giving into the easy way. Not bad, but not the point here. You’re priming him, associating the connections together so that when he comes to suck you off, he can feel you back there, or at least desire it desperately. You can use the oil, or you can let him suck on that for a sec, seeing as you’re not using it entirely yet.

Yeller let Nat have his thumb for a second as he reached for the finial. He had thought it resin, but it turned out to be glass. He rubbed it against his jeans before slipping it into the hand that Nat was administering to.

Nat pulled back only momentarily at the change in texture and temperature. He opened his eyes a slit, lost to the heat burning through him as he licked the coolness, trying to communicate his every desire through gesture alone. He wanted so badly to run his hands along Yeller’s body. It was exquisite torture.

Not sure how you do this, Cashia. Yeller swallowed, fixated on Nat’s lips and tongue, fighting his desire for them to be doing something else entirely. He could almost feel them caressing him, wrapped around his shaft. His head pounded as his stomach tightened, making incessant demands.

Cool your head, apprentice. I’ve had more than a couple of years of practice. It doesn’t come immediately or easily. There is no right or wrong way, and sometimes you do cum before your sub. It happens. It’s not always perfect, and it’s all right. For now, you’ll have to mute that feeling. It’s called edging for a reason. Find that happy place and move into it and make it home.

Yeller drew in a breath for patience and got comfortable. His free hand spread across Nat’s chest and stomach, kneaded at tight muscles and caressed soft skin. He drew along the separation between Nat’s thigh and his nethers, avoiding touching his most sensitive parts, waiting, playing. It was a rolling battle with his body to not take him then and there. This had to qualify as masochistic in some way. He traced back up and took the solid glass from Nat, finding it thoroughly warm and returned his index finger to brush at his swelling lips. He ran the tip of the glass down Nat’s skin to caress along his hard shaft, collecting the thin liquid to spread along his length, eliciting a shiver from him. Nat nipped at the sensation, causing Yeller to throb painfully at the current flowing through him. He ran the tip under the flaring head and traced the line of veins that ran under the light skin. He circled, gentle with Nat’s balls to rub along the soft spot below his weights and above his entrance. Nat’s breath caught. His cock jerked and more clear liquid pooled at the tip. His legs flexed under their binding as Yeller traced his entrance with the warmed glass and feathered his lips with his index finger, mirroring the movements. He backed away from both when Nat tried to draw him in and came back when he slackened, moaning in desperation.

They continued the dance for a couple of frustrating minutes. Yeller delved deeper and deeper into his watchfulness, almost entering a trance-like meditation on how far he could push Nat and back off to elicit the variety of begging reactions from the white-haired man beneath him. “Mo chroi3, Ruben,” panted Nat, his voice strained and cracking.

And this is where you back off and switch tactics. Cashia directed. Yeller removed the glass and shifted from under Nat, gently letting his hips come back in contact with the floor. Nat breathed through shivers as his body yelled at him to finish. Grab up two long lengths of rope. You’re looking for about four arm-spans of length for both strands, about thirty feet or so. Yeller took up more cordage and began measuring out the length while Nat watched, trying to breathe through the waves of demanding heat. The cordage slipped and accumulated on Nat’s stomach as Yeller measured it out, eliciting more shivers and groans from Nat as every movement over sensitized skin threatened to send him over the edge.

Goal here is to push and prod at his senses, at how his skin interprets contact. Fold the ropes in half and let him out of the restraining tether between his arms and his legs. Yeller followed Cashia’s directions closely and helped Nat sit upright on his knees. Nat stretched his shoulders as he brought his hands back in front of him. You don’t want to keep them in the same position for too long, even if it is tempting. It’s not good on tendons. Cashia continued his explanation.

“Do you want to continue?” Yeller kissed Nat gently as he rubbed at his boyfriend’s shoulders, helping to release the tension.

Nat kissed him back fiercely, strung out and hot as hell. “Dia, da,” he mixed his verbiage, his head no longer completely able to differentiate between Yeller’s Irish and Cashia’s Croatian. He was so freaking close.

Cashia took over for the next part, trusting his senses over his apprentice’s. He created a lark’s knot in the centre of both doubled strands and slipped them over Nat’s shoulders. This would give Nat some time to come down from his edge, though Cashia wasn’t about to let him burn out. He pulled the four strands to the front of the chest and created a simple overhand knot. He glanced up, pressing it against Nat’s sternum. “Da?” he asked, still trying to feel out what the trigger for last time had done it.

“Da.” Nat nodded, throbbing in anticipation. Cashia wrapped the ropes behind the middle of Nat’s back, the ropes sliding against his hard cock. Nat groaned and whimpered. He was close, and he couldn’t imagine hardening more than he already was, but his body wasn’t relenting.

Cashia pulled the ropes back around to the front and created another knot, this one at Nat’s belly button before sending the ropes again to the back where he crossed them at Nat’s hips. The next time he brought the ropes around, he pulled them around the front of the thighs at the joinder of the groin. Nat shivered, his skin begging for contact. Cashia wrapped the strand up to the outside of the thighs, the rope cupping the line of his butt. He hitched the line under the strands on the outside, taking his time to evenly work between both the left and right sides. He hitched the lines up Nat’s side, creating an intricate pattern. He formed a stopper knot at the lark’s head at Nat’s shoulders to keep the ropes from sliding. Nat shifted restlessly, the texture of the rope constant fingers slipping across his skin, the knots kneaded and pressed.

“Please.” Nat dug fingers into the carpet to support his kneeling body.

Cashia stilled, a blowtorch ignited in his gut. “Do you want me to stop?”

Nat shook his head slowly, his high washing over his body in waves of hot and cold. He had never been dragged along for this long. He leaned forward, trying to find balance as he pressed his hands against Cashia’s chest, his fingers twisting into his t-shirt. His eyes fell to the bulge in Cashia’s jeans, and a shudder ran down his spine.

“Do you want it off?” Cashia touched the collar of his t-shirt, drawing Nat’s eyes up.

Nat’s gaze was turning fuzzy. He wanted to taste, to feel Yeller’s skin beneath his tongue. He nodded desperately.

“Do you want it off?” Cashia pressed again.

Nat wrapped his mouth around his words. They spun around his head. He nodded again. Cashia trailed a hand up Nat’s arm and down the knots, skimming skin.

“Da?” Cashia ran a light finger over the head of Nat’s shaft, smearing clear liquid across the top.

“Da,” he mimicked through a raspy gasp. Cashia shifted Nat’s bound hands to the bulge in his jeans as he pulled his shirt off, giving into Nat’s desires for a moment. The white-haired man caressed hungrily, groaning at the thought of what lay beneath that zipper.

I’m going to test something. Be ready for him to baulk, Cashia cautioned. Yeller perked up, his full attention concentrated on every move with the warning. Cashia stood up and unzipped his pants, keeping Nat’s full attention. His length emerged into the moonlight, stiff and as desperately demanding as Nat’s. Cashia shifted, letting the material fall down his legs to leave him naked. Nat, more than eager, lapped at the length hungrily. He moaned pleasurably as he filled his mouth with the flaring head. Cashia kept his hands off Nat and let him lead for a bit. He hissed at the tightness, the sensation heady and dangerous. It had been a while since his host had felt any relief.

After a few strokes that Nat found utterly enjoyable, Cashia touched his hand gently. Nat gave him his hand, thinking he wanted to direct him. Cashia moved his hands to cup his balls gently. It took everything in him to remain standing at the contact. He waited, trying to catch his bearings as they tried to take flight. A grunt escaped his throat as Nat’s tongue curled around his shaft tenderly.

Cashia slowly shifted his hands up Nat’s arm until he reached his shoulder. Nat continued, though his concentration split, his fixation waning in intensity. Cashia paused, and Nat resumed assuaging his insatiable appetite. Cashia shared the sensations, driving at Yeller’s desires. He also shared his trepidation, revealing his plans and impressions. He traced the skin along the lark’s knot and over to run a line along his clavicle.

Nat’s skin sang beneath him, but the knots were tightening in his mind as Cashia’s fingers trailed along his collarbone. He swallowed, moving away from his deep bobbing to lick at the tip gently. Cashia’s fingers brushed into his hair, and he continued with what he was so intrigued with, though the darkness drifted along his awareness in a haze. Cashia’s hand cupped his chin delicately before tracing the column of his throat. Nat paused, the darkness pressing in like a trap on a tight spring. He pushed back from Cashia’s fingers and looked up at him, startled. Cashia watched him with an apologetic look.

He knelt in front of Nat. They sat knee to knee. He kept from touching Nat, willing the man to stop shaking under his own volition.

Nat bowed his head, resting against Cashia’s chest. Cashia brushed a reassuring hand along his back. “Found your trigger.” His voice scratched at Nat’s sensitive skin. He was still hot and in desperate need, the blackness beginning to evaporate with every deep breath he stole back from the night. Nat sighed, his eyes falling on Cashia’s twitching length.

“Why?” Nat’s voice broke, his disappointment and frustration taking over the room.

Cashia continued to brush his skin reassuringly. Should we stop here? He turned to his host. Yeller shared in Cashia’s sensation, trying his best to comfort Nat.

We could return to what he was apparently happy doing and finish this, but I think that would leave both us and him feeling emptier than he came here being. Yeller didn’t like putting this feeling into words.

“Do you want out of the ropes?” Cashia twisted a larks knot free.

“Fix this.” Nat balled his bound hands into fists, pressing himself into Cashia’s warmth.

Cashia pulled him closer, hugging him carefully. “It will break you if I do that.”

“Make it stop doing this. Please.” Nat looked up, his eyes glittering.

“You know what is causing this?” Cashia asked him as he shifted Nat to sit more upright, his hands holding him steady by his upper arms. Nat elongated his neck, glancing away from Cashia as he pulled at the half memory flashing in splintered fragments. Nat’s hands came up to his throat, forming a spot that Yeller recognised. His stomach flopped at the admission.

“Yeah. I know what’s causing it now.” Nat nodded, turning back to look up at Cashia fully. His green eyes sparked like emeralds in the dark of the room. He was angry this time, though, compared to last time.

“Will you be able to look at Yeller again after this?” Cashia didn’t want to jeopardise their relationship to fix something that could be easily avoided.

“I don’t know if I can come to him complete if he can’t touch my throat, my shoulders during sex. I can’t take that knowledge.” Nat shook his head. “I hate being like this.”

Yeller? Cashia reached for his host, desperate.

Yeller paced inside of himself uncomfortably. He had seen the flashes in Cashia’s mind of what he’d do to fix the problem, but he didn’t trust himself to do it. If you don’t want to do this, don’t, Cashia. Yeller leaned forward and kissed Nat’s forehead. Nat lifted his face, savouring a deeper kiss as Yeller pulled his lover against him, toppling his balance on his bound knees. “Your choice, mo gra. How do you want this?” Yeller trembled.

“I want to see you,” he admitted.

Yeller nodded. “Do you want me on top or under you?”

Nat thought quietly for a minute, before sucking in a breath. “Under.” He barely got the word out.

“Do you want me in you?”

Nat drew in a shaky broken sound at the question. “Please,” he gasped as another burning throb told him he was too close.

“We can do that.” Yeller stood up and picked up Nat, tenderly cradling him before moving to the wall that was covered in chalkboard paint. He deposited Nat near the wall and went and picked up the small opaque bottle. He came back and slid down the wall, pulling Nat to straddle him. He kissed him tenderly, running his hands along the bindings.

Nat shivered under the soft assault, his body still warm and willing. Yeller pulled his waist tightly to him as he nipped at open spots of skin. Nat allowed his senses to drift at the torment. He rested his hands on Yeller’s chest, trying hard to find balance.

Yeller unscrewed a light blue cap off of the little bottle behind his back or his infuriated struggle to peel the safety seal off of it. He didn’t completely realise how hard he bit down on a particularly soft spot between the lines of ropes as he tore the seal off. Nat shivered, his cock hardening to the point of pain and his moan escaping as he rubbed against Yeller’s length insistently.

Yeller poured the clear liquid into his hand and set the bottle down, careful to lean it against the wall to prevent it from falling over and spilling. He held the liquid in his hand for a moment as he licked the bite to let the lube come up to body temp before rubbing it in his hands. He shifted, breaking contact with Nat as he reached between them, sliding oiled finger up and down Nat’s cock and his in rhythm. Nat gasped, his body igniting, his breath coming in small panting moans.

The blond leaned forward and licked Nat’s lips, demanding as he traced the path of the ropes along Nat’s inner thighs that led him to pulsing heat. His love inhaled sharply and sighed when Yeller pushed a single digit in carefully. Nat’s lips tingled as he drew in Yeller’s tongue, duelling with it. Yeller pressed slowly until he hit a sweet spot that forced a bead of whitish liquid to pool at Nat’s tip. A breathy mewl escaped Nat’s lips. Yeller nipped at his tongue, his lower lip, as he pulled out and pushed again. Hesitant, he inserted a second finger into Nat’s heat and continued his deliberate ministrations.

He dragged out his time until he was as tight and strung out at the man on top of him. He hit a point where his body cried at him, and Nat couldn’t keep from rubbing in a desperate need for satisfaction. Yeller shifted down farther under Nat. His lover curled over him as Yeller brought him more fully over his length. Nat let out a disappointed whimper as Yeller extracted his fingers and positioned him. His pleasured gasps echoed in the quiet of the townhouse as he impaled himself on Yeller’s length fully.

He gritted his teeth at his lewd, betraying voice. He waited as the sweltering pinch and pull of his internals burned against his back and shot pleasure through his pulsing shaft.

Yeller pulled and pushed experimentally at Nat’s hardness, eliciting more moans as he encouraged movement along his length. Nat didn’t have much of a give with his knees wrapped, his shifting only slight, leaving him filled and edgy. Yeller, sensing the frustration, fingered the tie-offs, pulling them loose. He tugged at the ropes, slowly slipping them from their hold. Nat trembled at the sensation as he gained more momentum. He relaxed into the hollowness starting at his toes.

One leg free, the double knot at his foot still tied, Yeller worked the other knot free. He paused at the first clenching of Nat’s muscles around his length. He reached down between them to encircle Nat’s shaft, pressing a stilling thumb at the base and pulling at his balls gently until Nat calmed. His lover let out a muffled, frustrated hiss as Yeller freed his other leg.

He took Nat’s bound hands and brought them to take his hand’s place. Nat glanced up at Yeller, noticing the split-coloured eyes again.

“We’re in a good place right now. Are you sure?” Cashia asked as he ran his hands up Nat’s feverish arms.

“Yes, are you?” Nat held tight, fighting the tidal wave beating at him. The blackness pulsed around him as Cashia’s hands crept up his shoulders firmly. This time it was no light touch of testing. Cashia gently cupped Nat’s cheek and pulled him in for a hungry kiss. He circled his throat; though his hands were firm, they were gentle. Darkness crowded down, eliciting a rumble from Sven and Tereza. Nat waited, standing against the current as best he could.

Cashia pulled his length out halfway and tightened his grip, pushing Nat down on top of him as his breathing became ragged and his pulse beat like butterfly wings under his palms. Nat was torn between the hard pressure feathering up his neck to beat behind his eyes and nose and the numbing pressure below begging for release. Cashia continued the hard push, driving into Nat, pounding him as his breathing shallowed and his eyes closed to slits. Then, just as Cashia knew his grip was tight enough to cause his own heart to stutter, he watched Nat’s teeth grit momentarily, then relax with a caught breath and a moan. A hard spasm clamped around Cashia’s shaft as Nat drew in a harried breath.

Under Cashia’s tight grip, the wave broke, the blackness evaporated like water in the desert. It curled from his toes, a wash of heat pushing through his balls and out. His stomach and hands went numb. Cashia loosened up, switching Yeller back fast as he edged. Yeller drug his hands away from Nat’s neck and tunnelled into his hair, directing his lips into a feverish kiss as he allowed himself to bury deep into Nat once more. His own need broke, pinpoints of numbing heat bursting across his fingertips and skin.

Exhausted, Nat lay on top of Yeller for a time. He closed his eyes, drawing in shallow gasps as aftershocks rocked his body. Yeller pulled himself from Nat and laid him down to retrieve the bandanna. Quietly, he cleaned them up. Finished, he curled around Nat and threw an arm over his chest, closing his eyes.

“Mo milseain5?” Nat’s voice was scratchy and low, but satisfied.

“Mo grá6?” Yeller kissed Nat’s temple tenderly.

“Go raibh maith agat7.” Nat turned his head to capture Yeller’s lips tenderly.

“Is brea liom tu8.” Yeller pressed his forehead to Nat’s, rubbing their noses together lovingly.

“Tá mé i ngrá leat freisin9.” Nat laid back, sated.

Cashia let them stay the way they were for several minutes, long enough that Nat fell asleep. He eventually roused Yeller from his peace. Come on, let’s get him out of those ropes. Yeller nodded and sat up to kneel over his lover. Nat looked up at him, dreamily brushing his hands over Yeller’s cheek. Yeller held the warm hand against his skin before pulling the restraints apart. It took him less time getting the ropes around his torso off with Nat’s assistance than it had taken for Cashia to put them on. They freed his feet of the last of the ropes.

“Better?” Yeller asked, his finger brushing along his love’s throat.

Nat leaned into the touch and waited. A soft smile spread across his swollen lips. “Better,” he agreed. The demons were still there, but the leash was properly short and the collar insufferably tight at that exact moment. The deep pit behind him looked like a puddle, and he was going to savour that moment of controlled freedom. He knew it would not last forever, but he would take what he could get.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Yeller’s voice was a soft comfort in the foreign room.

“Someday. Maybe.” Nat couldn’t meet Yeller’s eyes.

“I meant…well, if and when you want to talk about what happened in Esterwood, I’ll be there for you. I meant what we just did? I may not know a lot about the whole BDSM world. I was depending on Cashia there pretty heavy for guidance. But I know aftercare or cool down, or something is good. Help with psychology?” Yeller offered.

Cashia brushed against Yeller’s side. Yeller eased over to give Cashia room. He traced a callused finger along Nat’s jawline. “I don’t want to have what happened to us back in the trailer happen again. I will never take your voice from you or anything you do not wish to give. If you are to continue hosting my mate, and we continue along these paths, talk to me. Tell me what you are comfortable with and what makes you uncomfortable.”

“Thank you for this, Cashia. Thank you for your patience and for understanding my problem.” Nat rested into his hand.

“I’m going to give you back your lover, Medeni mjesec10.” Cashia switched with Yeller. Nat closed his eyes, a faint smile passing his lips.

Thank you, Cashia. He seems to be a little more at peace. Yeller tagged in with Cashia.

Thank the snows of Siberia for that. Breath control is fucking dangerous. Cashia shifted to the edge of Yeller’s conscience and laid down.

“I see Cashia finally went to sleep.” Nat smiled up at Yeller. Yeller raised an eyebrow, curious how Nat had known. “Your eyes were two-toned since I asked you to fix me. You’ve both been watching. When he wakes again, I should thank him properly for helping us – me.” Nat pulled Yeller back down to lay on the floor with him, ropes and other paraphernalia spread around them. He felt like he could sleep for a week, and this time purely out of euphoric exhaustion and no boogie man creeping in his dreams.

[1] My love?

[2] I’m right here. Breath.

[3] Do it.

[4] My heart

[5] My sweets?

[6] My love?

[7] Thank you.

[8] I love you.

[9] I love you too.

[10] Honeymoon

Chapel Orahamm (C) 2022-2023. All Rights Reserved.

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Fyskar: Ch 20

Eoin peeled his eyes open and yawned. Hands splayed across his chest. The tingling of the void nagged at the back of his head. He blinked, bringing Seonaid’s face into focus. She had tucked up under his left arm, happily wrapping her thigh over one of his. He blinked again, trying to clear the cobwebs of his dreams away. Turning his head, Eoin found he was using Fearchar’s outstretched arm as a pillow. They both were still dead asleep. He lay for a time, allowing his mind to wander as he contemplated the ceiling rafters.

The day before came into clear focus, as did the night. Heat swamped his system. Seonaid shifted closer to him, and a hard need of Fearchar’s pressed against his leg. Eoin pulled his thoughts away and breathed, willing his mind to blank. He was a boat tethered to a pole in the middle of a never-ending black lake. His goal was to keep the water still. With each deep breath, their need abated. He licked his upper lip in thought. He did not want to wake them, but he was growing restless. Pushing himself back into his boat in his head, he paid attention to his breathing, emptying his mind of everything else.

He must have drifted off in his meditation. Once more, he awoke, this time to Seonaid watching him intently from her spot at the fireplace where she had fish cooking. Eoin’s stomach growled at the smell. She snorted and hid a smile.

The Fyskar extracted himself from Fearchar and went looking for his shirt. It had been hung on a peg on the wall with his large belt. Eoin exchanged them for his English clothing and his boots. The physician thought better of the single layer and doubled up on his undershirts and pants for the day ahead.

Fearchar roused himself from the covers, his braids clicking in their full fall. They swept forward as he sat up. He grabbed the leather strap that had fallen on the floor and tied his red strands out of the way. “Morning,” he yawned, rubbing at his eyes.

Morning. How are you? Eoin clasped the top button of his justacorps around his throat.

Fearchar stretched momentarily. Blinking, he looked around the room in confusion. Eoin watched the redhead’s thoughts wander until they found a path by which to travel unimpeded. Fearchar met his eyes with lucid clarity. Addicted, he admitted.

Eoin nodded at the statement. I should not have exposed you to it. He bowed.

“What do you get out of this type of relationship? You give, and you give, and you give. I never knew I could experience something like that, but it was all Seonaid. Not you. You were there, and yet, not. Am I missing something?” Fearchar fiddled with his necklaces.

Eoin smiled to himself at the question. Fearchar was the first person he ever encountered who asked. That floating feeling you get momentarily? It feels like the world is correct, and every fibre of your being has reached perfect fulfilment? It lasts longer for me when I’m tethered to a couple. Substantially. It is a mutual relationship between myself and my partners. They reach heights that they otherwise would not attain on their own. As I pass it between the two, I get to take part in it.

“I can only imagine, with how I’m feeling right now and my desire to have it again, what it must feel like for you.” Seonaid ducked, her cheeks reddening at her brashness. Fearchar raised an eyebrow at her statement and nodded. He turned to Eoin.

Eoin shrugged, unable to meet their eyes. How could he explain the depth of need he experienced from his talent? Or what it was like after ten years to sate himself on the feeling once again. A starving man in front of a feast of honeyed desserts and roasted meats. That feeling of pureness, numbness, bliss. He would never be able to forget the driving desire that pushed him for fulfilment. Ten years had been too long. The years in the palace had been one-sided with Mirza.

“Seems ye’ll be wantin’ ta go fur yer bairns’ birthright, aye?” Fearchar yawned once more, willing himself awake. Eoin nodded, pulling his leather cloak out from under Fearchar’s arms. He slung it across his shoulders and pinned it into place. “Oye! Ah’s usin’ ‘at,” grouched Fearchar.

Put your kilt on, pretty boy. Eoin flipped, sitting down to a plate of smoked fish and beef suet fried cabbage. Seonaid chortled before she could stifle the outburst.

Fearchar levelled a steely gaze at her, cocking an eyebrow. He had a concept of what Eoin said but decided to play it out. “D’ah even wanna ken wha’ ‘e called me?” He was having difficulty keeping a grin from crawling across his lips, happy at his wife’s humour.

“No, nothing, everything is all right!” she tried to protest, setting his plate on the table.

He reached out to her, catching her by the skirts. “Ye ne’er’ll make a believable liar.” He pulled her down to his lap, growling into her ear. ” ‘e called me a purty laddy, didnae ‘e?” He nipped at her collarbone. She burst into a fit of giggles and pressed for her release. He buried his head into her neck, his beard tickling her skin. She looked down into his laughing eyes and kissed him. They broke from their kiss to lean their foreheads against each other, breathing in for a second in their embrace. She pecked his nose lightly and escaped his grasp.

“It sounds like you have a long morning to go digging in the snow.” She produced a pair of cloth-wrapped packages. Eoin pointed at them with a question. “Lunch for when you two get hungry.” She smiled proudly.

Thank you! Eoin thrilled with the idea of not working on an empty stomach. He and Fearchar downed their breakfast and a cup of his magic brown brew. Eoin pulled on his mask once again. Fully awake, if not buzzing from the bitter liquid, they made their way from the snowed-in house.

Forgot how cold this place was, Eoin grumbled as he led Fearchar through a path the hired hand was unaware existed. It brought them along the coastline at low tide. Eoin pressed through the sloshing sand, his boots holding up against the ice and muck. Fearchar followed him, bundled in many layers. The Skye man was more used to the snow than the physician who had spent a decade in the heart of Africa and Persia.

Eoin’s path led to the Daleroch docks in short order. From there, they climbed through the back trail up to the house.

“Where’s this birthright?” Fearchar peeked through one of the darkened windows.

Not in there. Eoin tapped him on the shoulder and pointed Fearchar around the house. The Fyskar had no desire to lay eyes on the bloated bodies that littered the floor of the house. He dropped by Vanora’s home to feed and put out fresh water for her. She was still skittish of the redheaded handyman’s presence in her mews.

Fearchar followed the man’s sweeping cape to the burned-out roundhouse once they finished with seeing to the eagle. As they got closer, he pointed at a second building behind it with curiosity set across his features. It had been erected in such a way between two smaller hills on the property that unless one approached it dead on, it would not be noticed. He peered out at the snow-covered road. No one had used it since the snowstorm. The white stuff had piled up in drifts to the tops of dry-stack fence. He had not witnessed that unrelenting deep coverage in years.

Eoin stepped into the roundhouse. The rafters had fallen in from the fire, and the thatch had burned away, crumbling into dark ash piles, only disturbed by years of snow and weeds. He glanced about it morosely before winding his way around to a path at the back. A short-walled section led into the second building. The rafters here, too, collapsed in desecrated sections. The dry-stacked rocks, once plastered in white on the inside of the space to cut the wind, now stood in charred black.

An antechamber led into a central room with a stone-floored hearth. Off to the left and right sides were walled-off rock partitions that would have stored heat from the fire.

Fearchar glanced into the spaces. One held a massive bed frame suited for three that had been hacked to pieces and charred. Cubbies and nooks in the wall had held pots, jars, baskets, and boxes of medicinals. The other side was similar in nature, with a decimated pair of bed frames and strewn materials. Though fire had been set to the lacquered furnishings, much remained under the preservative. At the end of the building sat a conical room with a clay oven and pits.

“Your house?” Fearchar’s skin crawled at the anger exhibited against the residence’s contents. He wandered to the bed frame on the left of the house. An upended wooden box under the frame caught his eye. A series of words, waves, and birds had been engraved into it lovingly. It was about three hand-spans wide, two deep, and another three high. He dislodged it from its confinement. A series of thumps echoed against the lid.

Eoin emerged from his clearing of the centre room to see what Fearchar had discovered. His hired hand turned to him to show him the box. Eoin went to touch it. His hand stilled before contact. The plague mask hid his emotions.

“Eoin?”

The cloaked figure motioned Fearchar to it, his gloved fingers quivering. The Skye man lifted the small silver latch holding the lid closed. Inside, he found wooden tops, balls, knucklebones, a set of worn, painted tipcats, a carved cow and sheep, all nestled in a threadbare embroidered blanket. Under the children’s toys were five glass vials waxed at the top, four of brown hair, one of which contained a set of four baby teeth. The other held a lock of blonde hair tied with a small red leather strap.

“Ah’m – Ah’m…Ah donnae even ken. Ah’m sorry, Eoin.” Fearchar blanched, staring up at the plague mask apologetically.

I’m amazed there’s anything here still after all these years. You have no idea how much this means to me that you found that, Fear. Set it over there for now. I-I can’t deal with it right now. Here, help me. Eoin pointed to one particular beam that had fallen over an area of rock in the central room. It had at one point been the hearth for the room. They shifted the burned-out beam to look at the carefully drawn-out rock circle.

“Wha’ am Ah look’n at here, chief?” Fearchar whispered, not wanting his voice to carry through the hills in the calm of the morning.

Under. Eoin took the shovel and leveraged the interlocking rocks until they peeled back from the earth. Fearchar went to work clearing the stones. The circle of the hearth had to be taken up. It sat at least six feet wide.

They broke for Fearchar to eat his lunch. “Ye gonna eat?” He waved his loaf of bread at Eoin.

Eoin shook his head. I’ll eat back in the house. He returned to digging.

Fearchar settled a hand on Eoin’s shoulder, stalling the man’s desperate movement. “Nae. Doc. Nae’n’s here. Take yer mask aw ‘n eat. Seo sent it ta make sure we can come back.” Fearchar pressed. Eoin glanced at his hired hand and sighed. He pulled his mask off. Fearchar passed him the pack of food.

“What’s with the house at the front. It was really short? First try at building?” Fearchar asked around mouthfuls of bread.

Eoin took a bite out of a chunk of smoked fish and set it aside. He flicked his gloved fingers of crumbs and thought. Might be difficult to explain. He motioned.

“Tell me back at the house?” Fearchar guessed. Eoin nodded. He would either need Seonaid’s translation or his gloves off. In the chill of winter, he appreciated his gloves on.

The sun was lowering in the deep grey sky when a clack resonated through the shovel blade. “Found it?” Fearchar peeked into the hole. It had to be at least three feet down at this point from the surface of the hard, frozen earth and stone floor. Eoin nodded, scraping away the remainder of the dirt. The hole was too small for both of them to fit in it. Eoin had to dig out the dirt from around an emerging trunk wrapped in oiled cloth. Fearchar eventually convinced the physician to tag out and let him have a go at the packed earth. They were anxious to have the box out and them on their way before the sun reached the horizon.

Another half an hour of struggle, and they had the box out. They tossed the earth and hearthstones back into the hole and piled snow and rafter beams on top of it. Flakes fell lightly, dusting their shoulders in melting white.

Fearchar swept at the powder and rubbed it between his fingers. He frowned at the texture before turning his attention to the sky. Taking in a deep breath, he wrinkled his nose. “Jist in time ta walk back in a cathadh.”

Between the two of them, they got the chest and the toy box down the path to the docks. They slogged through the deep snowpack to the beach. The tides had swept away their footprints from the morning already.

Fearchar and Eoin made it back to the little house in time for the skies to darken such that they would have been well put out without a torch. Seonaid welcomed them in, eyeing the muddy chest. “Got one a’ them waxed sheets, love?” Fearchar called to her as he and Eoin waddled past the fireplace. She scrambled to find the material and quickly laid it out in the second room. Eoin and Fearchar collapsed to the floor next to the chest, exhausted from their day of work.

I want a bath, Eoin sighed.

“Bath?” Fearchar grunted. He was too exhausted to contemplate dragging his carcass off the floor.

And clean clothes. Eoin brushed at mud caked to his light blue breeches.

“Sounds to be laundry day a’morrow.” Fearchar leaned against the chest and closed his eyes. He flexed his aching fingers, the joints of his wrists cracking in the silence.

Seonaid popped her head in to look at the fallen men. “Dinner?” she offered. Fearchar and Eoin nodded eagerly but made no move to get up.

“Wha’the ‘ell d’ya ‘ave in this chest anyway? Rocks?” Fearchar grumbled, heaving himself off of the floor when Seonaid had not come back.

Pigments, tattooing needles, casting stones, Eoin rattled off before Fearchar interrupted him, “needles, got it. Ye’ve got a massive sewin’ kit. Aye right,” his hired hand muttered as he stumbled from the room, fatigue stooping his shoulders. Eoin dropped his head and let out a frustrated hiss before getting up.

Bath? Mind if I’m clean before I eat? Eoin slumped against the doorframe.

“Have at it. The tub’s in the corner.” She waved him to his work.

He dragged out the tub, bucket, and kettle all over again. Fearchar and Seonaid downed their dinner and discussed the day while Eoin shed his persona, stepped into the tub of tepid water and scrubbed the mud from his fingernails. Mind if I wash my clothes? He asked Seonaid as he dried off. He pulled on his drawstring pants and took the tub out to dump it.

“If you want. You know where the hooks are for drying.” She picked up Fearchar’s and her plate. “But first.” She tapped on his shoulder, pulling him from another tiresome task. “You should eat.” He nodded his head and sat down at the table. Downing the fish stew, he stifled a yawn once more. He was determined to not let the dirt set in if he could help it.

It was late into the evening when he got through all the clothes and multiple tubs of water and rinsing. His hands were wrinkled, and his bracers chafed. He hung up the hooks and banked the fire for the evening before clambering into the bed with Fearchar and Seonaid, who were already fast asleep. He had what he had come back for. Breathing a relieved sigh, he sank into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

Chapel Orahamm (C) 2022-2023. All Rights Reserved.

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Polaris Skies: Ch 28

NSFW, Erotica; Trigger Warning – Managing flashbacks of SA

Yeller emerged from the bedroom and flopped down in the living room. He was tired in a content way. The sun slowly burned off the clouds. It cast harsh golden shadows through the slats of the blinds, illuminating the dingy interior in brilliant oranges and browns. Yeller glanced out to watch the rising fireball against the cold desert. The sharp tang of snow was dissipating.

Deck and Benj emerged from their respective rooms, closing their doors quietly. They were startled to see Yeller already comfy in the room. “Morning,” Benj yawned as he rummaged through their sacks. He tossed a bottle of soda to Yeller, who caught it, flashing an easy, fanged smile.

“Maidin mhaith,” he greeted, cracking the seal on the cap.

“You’re in a good mood.” Deck pulled out a box of stale toaster tarts. He peeled the packaging open and handed the three of them each a foil bag of the pastries. Yeller dug into his, shrugging at the comment. “Ready to make a run for it?” Deck sat down next to him.

“Think it’ll be pretty empty. Haven’t seen much in the way of humans since we left out of that town,” Cashia muttered, brushing flaking crumbs from his t-shirt.

“Michael’s been following us.” Benj’s gaze swept the trailer. A red feather wavered in the window screen. The others glanced at it in trepidation.

“He’s not here right now. Priority is to get these pups to Hana’s godfather,” Cashia devoured his breakfast, ignoring the message. The bastard could wait one more day. Nat had slept comfortably for once since the cave. He shared Yeller’s opinion that rest was the best plan for the porcelain man.

“He’s messing with us,” Dietrich stepped in.

Cashia glanced up at his commander. The golden wolf’s eyes gleamed in the morning sunlight. His fangs practically dripped. “Host’ll let me off the leash this time.” Cashia’s teeth clicked together sharply.

“You’re not alone.” Benj smiled slyly.

“Is Sylvi ready?” Dietrich asked the question they had been needing the answer to for weeks.

Yeller relaxed back against the wall and waved the question away. “I’ve left Sven and Sylvi to their morning. They should have been reincarnated as turtle doves,” he sighed dismissively.

“Glad to hear that’s finally fixed.” Benj finished the last of his tart.

“You and Tereza?” Deck hedged.

Cashia pinned him with a glare, drinking his soda. “She’ll come out one of these days.”

“Is she ignoring you?” Benj popped open a can of mixed veggies and drained it down the sink. He pulled a spoon out of a draw and rubbed it against his jeans to clear it of dust. He ate the cold veg, ignoring the glare he knew Cashia was throwing at him.

“It’s her way, and both my host and her new host have talked about pain they have in lettering her out. She always stepped to a different tune,” Cashia muttered.

“Heinrich has explained to me in not exactly modest tones exactly what you and she are together.” Benj leaned against the counter to look down on the man.

Cashia didn’t drop his gaze, returning it inch for inch. “I’ll not apologise for who I am.”

“Didn’t ask you to. Tereza can’t take on the transformation in Nat’s body. It’s too much of a change on his organs,” Heinrich mused around the spoon in his mouth. He pulled the spoon out of his mouth and jabbed it in Cashia’s direction, “but you and your mate need to get this shit figured out before we get going again. The Heat is debilitating and distracting as hell, and with him still hosting your mate…” he shrugged and stared at the mixed carrots and peas unsatisfied. “Her smell is everywhere. How you’re ignoring it is anyone’s guess right now. We have to run, and the fact we only got ten miles yesterday ’cause of the women isn’t something we can be repeating.” He chomped down on another spoonful of the mix, a sour note crossing his face. “How can he eat this crap?”

“You telling me off of pursuing her?” Cashia bristled.

“Ne. Wanting to know what your plan is to tame your,” Benj pulled the spoon from his mouth and motioned it up and down at Cashia, “predicament.”

“Not that there’s much of a way to fix this at the moment with her being a tease and not talking. She seems to only come when Nat is being unguarded or indecisive.” Cashia glanced away from Benj to the bleak landscape out the window. He was not partial to the knowing look the human was giving him.

“Talked to Yeller or Nat ‘bout it?” Deck eased into the conversation.

Cashia flicked a dismissive glance at him before returning to watching the desert winds fluff snowflakes off of banks. “Not much to talk about. Sven and Sylvi are finally together again. Yeller seems to have calmed himself. Not like Nat can take me on the way I am. I could tell what happened to him when you brought him back to that cave. My mate, if she comes out, which she would if I pushed. I would scare him like we did last night when she popped out for that split second. Tereza and I will have to wait to change hosts. Deal with her Heat until it dissipates. A week probably.” Cashia rubbed at his forehead, a throbbing beginning at the base of his neck. How could Heinrich even consider he was ignoring the smell when it practically coated his body from the night before when he had given Yeller back his body? His gut burned, and his skin practically itched from the pressure. He was barely contained and only civil at that moment because he was managing to let his host’s satiety ride over his needs.

“Think it’s still possible to change hosts at this point?” Dietrich asked.

Cashia’s head snapped up, a cold pick driving into his gut. “Why wouldn’t we? Sylvi’s fully shifted to Hana,” Cashia baulked at the implication.

Dietrich waved off the comment. “Just an annoying nagging feeling at the back of my mind. I don’t think it’s safe for us to stay combined for too much longer. I’ve noticed my thought patterns beginning to reflect my host more and more as the days go on.”

Cashia turned into himself, asking, questioning if he and Yeller were becoming more than one body, but one mind. He ran from the idea. He shook it off, though the inkling put there by Dietrich stuck, at the edge, out of reach. “Your mates?” Cashia turned the tables.

Benj drew his shoulders in a shrug. “Better, more settled now…The last few weeks have been difficult for her. With some luck, this doc’ll be able to help us,” Heinrich answered. Deck nodded in agreement.

“Should we get everyone and get out of here before dead-bird-flying comes to interrupt us?” Yeller pulled himself up and set his trash on the counter. Let’s talk to Nat, he drove at his wolf.

Cashia turned to his host, glaring. I’ll help get him wrapped for the walk, he offered offhand, not wanting to have a full conversation this early in the morning.

He’s more resilient than you know. He’s also pretty damn selfless. A pit dropped into Yeller’s stomach and calcified.

Cashia raised an eyebrow at his host. You sure you know what you’re doing? You’ll see things that you may not wish to know about. Cashia promised.

‘S why I said talk. Yeller shrugged, pulling in a deep breath.

“Probably a good idea.” Deck followed suit, snapping Yeller’s attention back to the living room. Benj took another moment for a yawn before easing off the counter to wake Zola. “Get it figured out,” Dietrich demanded from his end of the hallway.

Yeller walked down the opposite hall to the bedroom and rapped on the door gently. “Come in!” a light female voice called out softly. Yeller twitched at a painful jab to his chest and understood it to relate to Cashia’s knowledge.

You all right? Yeller hesitated.

Just glad Sven and Sylvi got some time. Cashia muttered.

I’m reading between some lines here… Yeller admonished.

Keep reading, and you might learn a thing…or two… Cashia forewarned, already on edge with his pack leader to be taking more commentary from his host. He eased the doorknob and pressed the door in.

Nat had managed to pull on his pants. He held one boot by the laces, getting ready to put his shoes on. His silvery skin gleamed in the morning sunlight, though his crimson shoulder wounds were angry, and the inflamed line of his cracked ribs was unimproved. He was waiting for help getting the spica and wraps on, along with the compression tops. He looked up with a bashful smile. Curled around his back on the bed was a massive pitch-black wolf.

“Sylvi,” Cashia greeted with a courtly bow.

“Cashia. It is lovely to see you again in the flesh. Chose a rather fine human.” The wolf eased off the bed fluidly to sniff at Yeller.

“Did I give you and Sven enough time to yourselves?” Cashia rose from his bow to regard the wolf with relief. The others would also welcome the arrival of their cherished friend.

“Mnogo. You smell like food. Is there more? I’ll step out and get breakfast.” She eased around him and let herself out.

Cashia closed the door behind him and flipped the lock. Nat looked up at him, startled. “Yeller?” he asked, puzzled. Goosebumps ran down the side of his face and raised the hairs on his arm. “Cashia?” he reassessed.

Yeller’s eyes almost glowed in the dim shadow of the door’s alcove. “Shouldn’t be transforming too often, human. We’re going to be going shortly, and we’re planning on running. Now that your woman has taken Sylvi, we’ll be capable of covering greater distances. I can either wrap you as human, or I can wrap Sven. If I wrap you as human, you’re riding someone’s back today.” Cashia remained standing at the door, his back hiding his hands that held tight to the handle in a death grip.

Screw the smell of Heat smeared across his skin. The room was overwhelming in the scent. The throb at the base of his skull pushed at his senses, igniting them. How did we not resolve Tereza’s Heat from last night’s interactions? Cashia demanded of Yeller. He fought to keep his incisors from sharpening under the pressure. Yeller flitted at the edge of Cashia’s mind, aware of the internal fight his wolf was trying to still. He had no answer for his wolf. Sylvi’s Heat had been overwhelming in the early dawn as Hana took her form. The smell of it had driven Cashia to seek refuge in the living room.

Nat fidgeted with his bootlaces for a second. He set the shoe down and folded his hands in his lap to still his flicking nerves. He rubbed at his fingers for another second.

He’s about to offer you the world, beast. Don’t fucking break him. Yeller growled.

Da. Cashia swallowed.

Nat stared at the pack Yeller had brought in the night before, spacing out as so many thoughts flashed across his face. A chickadee chirped at the windowsill, disturbing the quiet. He glanced up to meet Cashia’s gleaming gaze. “I heard what they said out there. You gave Yeller and me and Hana time.” Nat couldn’t keep his focus on one object in the room. He sucked in a breath. “You also gave Sven and Sylvi their time-” his eyes came up to meet the man suddenly towering over him. Nat wrestled with the pounding of his heart. He had heard what they had been talking about in the living room. They had not tried to be quiet about it, and the mobile’s walls were paper thin.

You’re playing with fire, mali, Sven cautioned languidly, having also been party to the conversation in the living room.

You threaten that frequently. Nat shot, trying to force his heart out of his throat.

Sure you wanna do this, brat? You haven’t seen those two really together yet. Sven mused.

Have you? Nat was hoping that maybe they boasted a lot.

On more than several occasions, being as old as we are.

Will it be like –

Absolutely not, Sven bit back fast, cutting off Nat’s memory. He rubbed against his host apologetically, reassuringly. What I see from them…what will happen to you in the position you hold…think of it like you’ve been fed raw meat in the last few days. Add some seasoning and fire to it, and it becomes exceptional. What he does is like adding salt and heat. His type of pain is a seasoning, modest and masterfully timed to enhance the experience, not subject her or you.

I don’t have that kind of a relationship with Sylvi, as you saw this morning. We are quite bland in our perusal of each other if you must, but I’m happy with that kind of a relationship. I’m glad to have my mate back. It’s not bad or wrong, just different. Sven admitted.

I can’t let Tereza continue doing this to him, running and hiding like she’s been doing. He’s been waiting as long as you have. Nat bit down on his lower lip. He rubbed his hands along his jeans, trying to anchor his nerves.

Oh, she’s not running, Sven slunk off.

Nat sought the female wolf napping at the edge of his consciousness. We have time, Tereza. Wanna come out? Nat offered, hopeful. With some luck, he could let her take over and throw his mind to the outer edges.

Tereza’s glowing eyes watched him intently, but she made no move toward him. You realise I can’t that easily, right, dijete? There are those rare moments when I can slip through you when you are defenceless, but your mind is such a tangle of thoughts… Tereza clipped her fangs together dismissively. She had figured it out last night when the most she could handle were the pair of ears. Heinrich’s suspicion was her reality.

It…you don’t… Nat shifted his weight, his heart dancing in his chest. You don’t have to take over my body physically like Sven and Sylvi if it means you can see him again, he offered.

She would never admit it if she could help it. She may have to, though. It was a struggle to navigate the man’s mind enough to take over his brain as easily as Sven did. With Sylvi there, it had been a fraction easier. Now that the black wolf was gone, there were too many paths for her to navigate on her own. It was tiring at best, and she could only maintain it for short moments of conversation when Sylvi was there. Make it truly convincing for me to take it over again; otherwise, it’s too much work. She yawned dismissively. I’d rather be there for the climax than the foreplay.

It sounds rather one-sided if you get to have the orgasm alone. He flushed at his own brashness.

Says the guy who had a threesome last night and then Sven and Sylvi. I vaguely remember being referred to as a peanut gallery. Join me if you can figure it out, dijete. Just forewarning. I take longer than Sylvi to find relief, and there’s more involved. Make it convincing, such that your very senses are on fire and drowning with desperation to reach an end. You will find an opening there, where your mind goes numb, and your thoughts unwind. Then I will come out. She supplied him with her demands. If you have reservations, say no. Cashia respects it and won’t press you.

Convincing, huh? Fire and desperation?

He rose to stand in front of Cashia, though the man stood so close that he brushed up against his chest. Nat stilled the tremble in his legs and heart. He swallowed. His tongue darted out to moisten his bottom lip. His hands, held loosely in front of him, coated in sweat. Nervously, he flattened them against his chest, willing himself to calm down.

Why is this a struggle now? Last night was easy. Giving you your body for Sylvi was easy. Why is this terrifying? Nat grabbed for Sven.

The wolf caught him. Because you have nightmares, and Cashia’s energy brings them back.

I didn’t mean for you to be that blunt. Nat let go.

You’re scared that he won’t go with ‘stop’.

Nat went quiet at that.

He will. I will. Dietrich will. Tereza’ll tear him a new one. You say it, say it now, say it in the middle if things start not going how you like. You aren’t in the garage. You’re here, and I can help you now.

Cashia’s burning gaze didn’t leave his eyes. Heat crept into Nat’s face as he slid his hands down to the waistband of his jeans. He looked away from Cashia as he flipped the buttons of his fly, his knuckles grazing Cashia’s proximity.

Carefully, Cashia brushed the line of Nat’s jaw. Nat looked up at him, his lower lip trembled. “Gently. You’re okay. Dietrich and his son can eat mud, Nathaniel.”Cashia’s finger feathered across Nat’s lip. He pressed gently, the tip of his thumb rubbing along the edge of Nat’s bottom teeth momentarily before his hand crept behind his head to tunnel into his hair. He twisted the strands in his fingers, pulling Nat’s head back slowly. Red blotched the alabaster man’s cheeks. “Is this alright?”

“She’s there, right at the edge, always at the edge.” Nat tried to still the tremble running through his shoulder blades. Cashia reached for Nat’s fumbling fingers, pulling them away from his jeans when the last button came undone. “I…” Nat hiccuped apologetically. “I can’t transform into Tereza for you,” he tried to meet Cashia’s steady gaze and failed. “She won’t let me.” He swallowed hard again.

“You can’t let her out because you are you. Her mind will come. And I have to be okay with that; if you are?” Cashia brought Nat’s hand to his lips. He nibbled along the thumb pad and down the wrist, following the scar line. Releasing Nat’s hair, he traced a nail down Nat’s chest and stomach. A red welt followed the sharp line.

Yeller stood back, fighting to give Cashia room. He and Cashia had walked out that morning to distance themselves, but he couldn’t distance himself from seeing this now. What Nat was offering, Yeller was not sure if his heart was breaking or overflowing.

“She,” Nat willed the words to stop clinging to his throat, “she said to make it convincing enough for her to come out; otherwise, it’s too much work. That’s what’s scaring me right now. I don’t know what to expect, and I-the nightmares keep coming back. You grabbed me, and now…” He wanted to hide at that statement.

“And for that, I will apologize every day for the rest of my life.” Cashia rested his head against Nat’s shoulder.

“You’ve been strung out just as bad as Sven, and if I was in your position with Yeller, I’d probably have done the same.”

“It’s no excuse, though,” Cashia seethed.

“She’s shown me some of what you do, when you were able to shift. All I can taste is concrete at the idea.” Nat swallowed, inky hands grasping at his subconscious. “I don’t want to be bound to this flashback.”

“And you’re hoping I’ll be the one to get you through it?”

“No. I’m hoping to not be afraid of who you and Tereza are just based on my flashbacks trying to eat me alive.”

“Stvarno? Are you all right with me pursuing my mate for a bit?” Cashia slowly, with meticulous care to not startle the young man, turned him around, his nail tracing the edge of his jeans. Nat’s power marks flashed in the early morning light. Yeller could not tell if the question was for Nat, or himself.

Cashia eased the white-haired man’s back to his chest, one hand smoothly, firmly kneading the curve of his oblique. He followed the line he was creating with his mouth from the back of the man’s shoulder blade to the base of his neck. “Da ili ne?” Cashia nipped at his flesh, testing, tasting.

Nat released a harried breath. This was different from last night. “Ruben?” Nat let his hair curtain his eyes. He trembled beneath the onslaught as his skin went cold.

Ruben? Cashia turned his attention inward as he pulled with exquisite slowness Nat’s outstretched hand around behind the man’s back to brush against his t-shirt. He allowed Yeller to shift forward for a moment.

Yeller kissed the middle of the back of Nat’s neck. His lover shivered as a chill ran down his spine. “Is breá liom tú. Tá mé anseo. Deir tú an focal1.” Yeller rested his head against the back of Nat’s head as he fought with his raging body. Cashia pressed to take back his position.

“An bhfuil ceart go leor2?” Nat leaned into Yeller and closed his eyes. His heart rate slowed when Yeller moved to rest his head on his shoulder momentarily.

“Chomh fada is atá tú go maith3,” Yeller wrapped one of his hands around Nat’s chest, hugging him gently. Nat nodded his understanding, swallowing. “I’m going to let Cashia take over again. Ceart go leor4?” Yeller asked once more before giving Cashia back the reins.

“Tá5.” Nat’s body quivered as his nerve endings lit. Cashia’s nails scratched, pulling down to cup below his pecs and slide along the line of his ribs. Cashia was gentle enough to not press hard on them. His fingers still sent flashes of pleasure across Nat’s skin.

“I need a yes or a no.” Cashia’s deeper voice resonated through his back. “I’ll stop if you tell me to. Dietrich can fuck off if this isn’t something you’re comfortable with. Tell me if you want me to stop, and I will,” he added tenderly.

Nat trembled at the care in the man’s tone. “Yes,” he whispered so low that he was sure Cashia would not have even heard him.

“I’m starting. Klečati6,” Cashia ordered, his voice no louder than the twang of a spider’s thread. Cashia fed Yeller’s fire with every nerve ending, allowing his host to drown in the high. With infinite slowness, careful to support the now unbalanced man, Cashia pressed Nat down till he knelt under the blonde’s bulk, repeating his demand until the meaning crystallised in Nat’s brain. Cashia stabilised his position over Nat, boxing him in near the bed frame.

What do you speak? Yeller watched, wide-eyed. A shiver ran down his spine at Cashia’s raspy voice. It was persistent, demanding, undeniable. The position, the power there was shameless. He says no one damn time, and you stop! Yeller bellowed, fighting his rising alarm, his rising fever.

The last tongue I used before acquiring yours. There have been many. The last place I remember living in with the pack along the Sava and Una, Jasenovac during the early time of the Unabhangiger Staat Kroatien. We were caught when they came in with construction equipment.

Nat’s power marks burned across his back. The rawboned man eased at the reassurance. His heart spattered into a different pattern as he allowed his senses to tune to the indomitable man above him.

“Say the word,” Cashia breathed in his ear. He ran a hand down Nat’s supporting arm until he could entwine their fingers together. He pulled gently at the appendage and helped Nat shift his weight to his knees. He brought it back to meet the other, pinning the wrists with one hand.

Tereza? Nat called out to the wolf as Cashia’s free hand moved along his chest to patiently press lower.

Human? She answered dismissively.

Cashia wants you. He gulped as a piercing intensity washed across his core. He shifted, flexing his hand slightly. He bunched Cashia’s shirt in his hand, his balance precarious. Cashia eased off him momentarily, waiting, watching. Nat’s feet and shoulders shifted to keep himself upright while his arms shook with effort. Cashia nudged the lanky man, splaying his base wider to return his balance. “Nizi,” he pressed.

I see that. She rose from her nest and shook herself.

He’s here for you, not me. Do something about this! Nat demanded, hoping that she would switch out before the flashbacks dropped him into an abyss he wouldn’t come back from. Tereza mutely regarded him. He released Cashia’s shirt, bowing his head dejectedly. Nat slacked his arm, breathing through the stretch of his muscles.

Cashia bent farther into the stretch, listening for the faint changing in breathing, for the tell-tale hitch. He was honoured that Nat would allow himself to be debased for Tereza and his relationship. The Glendweller was determined to not take the mild-mannered man’s emotions for granted.

Like what? Tereza murmured, rubbing up against Nat’s inner self softly.

God, I hate you…Nat spat at her.

Enjoy this learning experience. You don’t have a lot of it. Try not to lock up your shoulders. She paced around him. Dominance radiated off of her, and her frustration as she sought the path she had found with more ease the night before. Keywords to remember, dijete: Yes or Da, No – Ne, Stop – Stop, and Keep Going – Nastavi will all be respected if you use them. If you don’t like something, say it. Communication is a magical word. You’ll end up a lot lower before I feel it’s time for me to come out.

Damn it. “Who the fuck is ‘S’ and who’s ‘M’ in this relationship, Cashia? You’re both bein’ really ‘S’ right now,” Nat muttered, shifting his shoulders restlessly to assuage the draw in his tendons. “Ye’r wife’s bein’ a complete cuckquean.”

Cashia’s fingers travelled to the waistband of his jeans, brushing the heat that peeped out of the fly. “I could stop?” His accent intensified. The golden man’s voice echoed through Nat’s chest.

Nat inhaled sharply and shook his head. Cashia eased the material from his hips, taking plenty of time. He pressed and pulled at Nat’s joints and tendons, enough to inflame and tantalise, but not too much to cause his existing wounds harm.

Nat knew that his arms, though pressed up high behind his back would be released the instant he wanted them to be. He knew Cashia was waiting patiently for him to baulk, to stop it all, and the man would back off again. Nat shivered as a zipper unfasten. A cold sweat broke out along his back. Cashia’s body was hot and insistent against his.

“Just say ne…or da,” Cashia whispered, trailing fingers along his shaft. Nat quivered as Cashia’s hand encircled him tightly, pumping a momentary question. Nat’s breath hitched at the intense wash that hit his system. Cashia shifted his hand to bite into the hollow of his hip. The golden man drew him more fully against his girth, eliciting another involuntary hungry gasp.

He slowly traced the line of Nat’s thigh to his knee, pushing material away from his skin. Cashia ran his nails up the length he had trailed down, leaving behind red lines. He eased from the alabaster man’s thigh to gently hold Nat’s balls, sweeping the sensitive skin that rested behind them to bring back his tight grasp on Nat’s throbbing length.

“She’s voyeuristic and likes it when I’m the ‘s’.” Cashia nipped at the tips of Nat’s fingers for a second, letting his comment sink in, giving Nat all the time in the world.

Nat swallowed, drowning in his nerve endings. “-es…” Nat’s breath caught on the word, barely audible in the space.

“I didn’t hear that.” Cashia nicked Nat’s palm.

Nat shuddered. “Nastavi.” He surrendered, his head falling into the carpet as Cashia pressed him lower.

Cashia trailed fire along Nat’s hips. He ran a nail up Nat’s backbone over the power marks and down his shoulder to circle his jaw, bringing his fingers to brush at Nat’s lips. “She taught you something interesting.” He smiled, all teeth gleaming. “Poliži,” he demanded, pushing his index finger and middle finger into the warmth of Nat’s mouth. Nat’s tongue twisted around his fingers obediently. He moaned at the firecracker of heat that burst in his gut.

“She’ll come out when she thinks you’re close.” Cashia bit down on his shoulder, dominating him. Nat gasped, his incisors clamping down on Cashia’s fingers. He tasted copper on his tongue, but Cashia did not move to take his fingers back yet. He lapped at the digits. His imagination rode him hard. He rolled back, pressing against Cashia, begging.

Yeller drifted with the sensations, disintegrating in the heady numbness burning his gut. He fell into the lust swamping Cashia.

Cashia shifted around, releasing one of Nat’s arms. He sat back against the bed frame and pulled Nat’s hips in and around. Nat rested his weight on his arm, blanketing himself over Cashia’s dick, one arm still pinned up behind his back. He arched as Cashia’s fingers dragged along his spine and down along his backside. His view was all-encompassed by a pair of muscled legs sheathed in a pair of blue jeans and a cock that was almost impermissible in length bulging from the open fly.

“Sisati ga,” the voice that whispered the demand behind him splintered. Nat leaned into it, tasting experimentally. Heat filled his mouth, the duality of soft yet firm texture was fixating as the curve eased over his tongue perfectly.

He tuned into a pair of fingers rubbing across his vulnerable entrance and down the soft spot to cup his balls before circling back up. The hand came around and pressed his head away from Cashia’s shaft, demanding they be licked. He obliged. He curled his tongue around the fingers, drawing them into his damp warmth. He bobbed his head up and down their length, pleased with a hitch in Cashia’s breathing. Two could play this game. Thoroughly soaked, Cashia pulled his fingers away and pushed Nat back to what he had been doing. He shifted and eased, trying to relax under the pressure of the invading digit. He took up his fixation with Cashia’s length as a second digit joined the first to slowly loosen him.

He pushed himself with the invading pressure until Cashia’s length practically touched the back of his throat, cutting off his breathing for a short moment. His heart skipped a beat. His free fingers burrowed into the carpet. He drew back to work over the head more readily.

Yeller brushed against Cashia’s awareness, a state of worry digging into his nerves. Nat had tensed up over something. Maybe though, as Yeller sunk deeper into Cashia’s preoccupation, it was his own fretfulness.

Nat’s heart rate abated with the change. He felt Cashia’s shallow breathing pressed up against his side and took pride in bringing the man to that point. He moaned against Cashia’s length when fingers pressed a particularly luscious spot.

Cashia’s hand squeezed down on Nat’s wrist tight for a second before releasing it to brush at his hair, thinking it might reduce Yeller’s worry. He collected Nat’s hair up into a loose knot around his fist, trying to help keep it out of the way.

Nat’s heart stuttered.

Cashia gently caressed, easing Nat’s mouth around his begging cock.

Nat took the full length, bobbing along the length once, twice, a little too far as his throat closed off. A freezing dark flashed across his senses. Nat faltered, gasping, swallowing, choking. His nails scraped against the base of the carpet. The room’s temperature plummeted. His shoulders tensed. He tasted bile. A field of darkness rimmed his vision.

Brat? Sven’s ears pricked up.

Dijete7! Tereza rose from her spot.

Cashia pulled Nat’s head off of him and extracted his fingers. He rolled Nat over onto his back on the floor in one swift movement. “Damn it, I knew this wasn’t a good idea.” Cashia spat a slew of profanities at himself. Nat stared up, tears glistening in his eyes. His pupils were taking over most of his irises, leaving his eyes almost black. His skin chilled, growing clammy and pallid in a matter of seconds.

“Sto se dogodilo, Medeni8?” Cashia leaned over Nat, pinning his arms across his chest. He wrapped his hips and thighs up to circle Nat’s shoulders and head, trying to bring heat back to the white-haired man’s chest. He placed a hand over Nat’s heart, feeling the stuttering beats struggling under his skin. Nat’s hands trembled. “Do you want me to give you back Ruben?” Cashia knit his brows. His own heart was in his throat. He replayed every move he had made in his head. Not one particular movement over another stood out in his head. They all could have done this.

Nat dragged in stuttering gasps as he fought for his lungs to work properly. He rested his quivering fingers over Cashia’s hand, waiting, begging for the half memory to dissolve. He leaned his head back against Cashia’s thigh and stared up at the ceiling, contending with his body’s reactions. His hearing drifted, and his sight tunnelled. Saliva and nausea made him gag.

“Mirovati, Medeni. Mirovati9. Dah. Easy, easy, you’re okay.” Cashia rubbed one of Nat’s forearms rhythmically.

Nat dropped into a deep blackness, the only hope a sharp dot of white beyond the roll of his eyes. Cement. Cold. The tang of oil and decades of leaf dust. His wrists and ankles ached beneath ghostly ties. Hands reached up into the drowning darkness, pulling him farther down. He thrashed and baulked. He grabbed and pulled with every instinctive breath to come out of that pit, wrestling with snarled rope and grasping hands.

The struggle lasted an eternity before he found the phosphorescent circle widening to reveal the trailer’s bedroom. He dragged in a full breath. He was barely able to force his throat to swallow properly. He closed his eyes and relaxed against Cashia’s warmth in relief as the memory dissipated. He smiled weakly, tears still staining his eyes, heart still too slow. He looked down to see Yeller watching him expectantly. “I’m okay,” Nat reassured, pressing Yeller’s hand on his chest down hard against his skin. He watched the man counting beats. It took what could have been minutes, could have been hours to finally see Yeller counting faster. His heart retreated to its rightful place in his chest.

“You sure?” Yeller looked over his lover in trepidation.

Nat nodded. His hearing recovered slower than he would have liked. It took longer for his hands and, subsequently, the rest of his body to stop shaking. He snatched at his fraying pieces, trying to keep from flying apart.

“Tá brón orm. I shouldn’t have let this happen,” Yeller apologised. He brushed the hair out of Nat’s face and tucked it behind his ear. His love stilled in Yeller’s palm, closing his eyes for that one sweet moment. Yeller leaned in and rested his forehead against Nat as they waited.

I am going to butcher that winged bastard. String him out and let the vultures tear out his eyeballs. Castrate and feed it back to him. Cashia growled, pacing off restless energy at the edge of Yeller’s conscience. To ruin someone so completely? Cashia fangs dripped, his hackles rising. He and his flock are going to bloody pay for this. I thought what I was doing was going easy, enough to satisfy Tereza and get her to come out, but not enough to scare off her host. Fuck it. That colony is going to burn. Cashia shook with rage.

“I’m sorry, Ruben. I didn’t want that to happen,” Nat tried to speak, his voice strained and broken. His throat felt raw and swollen.

Cashia stilled, his rigid anger burning a hole in Yeller’s heart.

Nat extracted one of his arms from being pinned. His fingers still ticked rhythmically. He ran his hand along Yeller’s cheek and down the line of his neck. He reassured himself Yeller was real and right in front of him. “I’m sorry, Cashia,” he apologised as more tears threatened to fall.

Yeller was startled to be thrown back from his perch. “Never apologise for this, Nathaniel, Medeni mjesec10, ever. This was not your doing.” Cashia’s accent was throaty and rough, his teeth clipping his syllables. He fought his instinct to change into his full wolf, and he felt like he was on the losing end of the battle. “For all your yesses, I should not have pushed you into this. I pressed to sate my own selfish appetite. We will find a way to switch Tereza. You should not have to suffer for my mate and me. Even when you agreed to it, I should have paid more attention to what your body was saying also. Forgive me.” Cashia leaned forward, kissing Nat on the forehead apologetically. He slowly unwrapped himself from around Nat when he was confident the white-haired man no longer appeared to be falling into a state of shock. He rearranged himself and pulled the zipper on his fly.

Nat sat up on his elbows, watching Cashia’s restless movements. His heart beat painfully. He laid back and pulled up his jeans, buttoning himself back in. He curled up on his side away from Cashia, disappointed and irritated with himself. Then he thought better of it. He flipped the buttons on his jeans and shucked himself out of them. Sven, you’re taking over. I need some time. He yanked the shift forcefully.

Sven shook himself, trying to ease the tension in his body. Cashia and Yeller watched, both frustrated and angry they had let things get so out of hand.

[1] I love you. I’m here. You say the word.

[2] Is this alright?

[3] As long as you’re good.

[4] Okay?

[5] yes

[6] kneel

[7] child

[8] What happened, honey?

[9] Breath, honey, breath

[10] honeymoon

Chapel Orahamm (C) 2022-2023. All Rights Reserved.

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The Fire in My Blood: Ch 21

Sanctus’s trench coat slipped on my left shoulder as I pushed the massive carved doors open to the Rubrum meeting chamber. It cracked with an ominous thud as the hinges protested. Ash piled up behind me. Clouds of grey and silver sifted the setting sun coming in from the high windows. I had used what power I could from Paul and Aurelia on my path of destruction if only to keep me civil in my approach to Gemma’s throne room. I had a short amount of time before people would turn into pulsing stars. A swamping mix of scents threatened a headache. 

The chamber was a soaring cathedral of sandstone and tile. Tattered banners and threadbare tapestries hung from walls and columns. Gemma’s court had stepped out of a mythical fantasy, or at least, as close as they could with makeshift parts. Her hand-picked stood as a mob, dressed in fantastical costumes. Though the fabric was beautiful and would have made Vestitor swoon, the cut and fit made her followers look like performers in a circus. That might be an apt description for them. Her court of clowns.

Her throne, comprised of polished metal and repurposed velvet upholstery stood upon a dais made of a stack of rough slab marble. She had seen to a queenly dress of red. It was fluffy and frilly, laced with yellow thread and glass beads. A short crop rested precariously across her lap, a red lacquered nail tapping against it incessantly. I eased my gaze down her outlandish form to what truly mattered to me in that chamber. In her other hand, she held tight to a heavy length of chain. It lead to a brass collar circling Sanctus’s throat. His cord of knotted blue family ties peaked out from beneath it, now stained and dark. He sat, leaning against her throne and knee, naked to his feet. His skin was marked and marred. One eye was bruised purple. She had taken her frustrations out on him. Silent and trembling, he kept his eyes on the floor.

Relief washed down my spine when I watched him draw in a breath. She hadn’t killed him. Heat smoldered off my skin. She had put a hand to him. She would die today. “Gemma! So nice to see you. It has been years since it was just you and I.” I bowed congenially. The clowns quieted instantly, turning to stare at me.

“Nigrae Lunam? I do believe it’s been at least five,” she purred. “What is the pleasure of the Leader of Caeruleum dropping in so unexpectedly?” She raised her chin so as to look down on me. Unexpected my butt. What was her game?

“I received a calling card.” I pulled out a thin strip of fabric from my pants pocket. Her lips parted in momentary confusion before an egotistical smile made her teeth gleam like a ravenous dog. Her laugh echoed across the chamber. Sounded like Praesepe’s pet donkey.

“So you came to return it? I do believe Mons’s jacket has been mended since then.” Her voice was like listening to needles on tin. Mons was an apt Alias for her mountain that had helped ground me.

“Still, it reminded me that it had been a time since our last visit. Aren’t the leaders supposed to inform each other at least once in a while when lines are redrawn? Keeps our fighting to a minimum, yes?” I offered.

“Oh, yes. I forget. You weren’t born in Imperium. So you don’t really know how all this works.” Her sarcasm dripped.

“Do enlighten me Gemma. I am the baby of this odd family as you say.” I spread my right arm to the crowd, keeping my left rigid so the coat didn’t fall off. I had no hope of putting it on. It was too tight in the shoulder and chest and short in the sleeves. It served to make me look pretty dang regal off the shoulder in that indifferent egotistic way though if I were pressed to admit it.

“Yes, I do believe Aurantiaco and I have gotten together on several occasions to discuss our boundary lines. Seeing as your’s always ran up more against his side then mine, I never really thought it would matter to you to discuss it with me.”

“Well then. I’m here to discuss our lines,” I smiled. Her lackies might have nabbed Sanctus from me, but she still didn’t know. Her brows furrowed in confusion. Paul produced from beneath his coat a ring of three keys and Aurelia held out a golden circlet. Gemma studied the paraphernalia, uncertain, before her eyes widened in recognition.

I ran a finger along the line of Mercurius’s crown. “You see, Gemma. My lines have grown extensively, and I figured it was due time for us to talk.”

“You have replaced Mercurius?” Her voice shifted from derision to calculated appreciation.

“Massacred him and all his generals is more like it. Means we’ll be seeing to the grain and orchard crops from now on.” I held my hand out to Paul. He handed me the keys, and Aurelia set the circlet on my head.

“He must have really pissed you off for once. You two were always playing a rather polite game of cat and mouse up to this point. What did he do, ransack that greenhouse of yours your people are so proud of?” she smiled.

“No. Nothing as complex as that. Though he did try to take something that I had claimed as mine and had hold of something precious to one of my own. He wasn’t too keen on being lectured on the follies of his selfishness. The convergence of a windstorm and a wildfire. It never ends well with his type. Know what I mean?” I walked closer to her throne until her guards became restless.

“And now you have Caeruleum and Aurantiaco territories to oversee. I hope you can keep up with it all.” Her fingers tightened on Sanctus’s chain, pulling him closer to her. The shift of metal. His whimper. It echoed in the mortified hall.

“Just Caeruleum. No need to worry about me. I have plenty of help there.” I extended my hands to indicate Aurelia and Paul at my sides. They bowed in acknowledgment.

“Ah. You took Mercurius’s pets did you? I guess you would if you took Aurantiaco territory.” She yawned. “However did you get the things to obey you so calmly? Choke collars? I don’t see a leash of some kind,” she mused.

My skin ran cold, and it took way too much willpower to keep that disgusting mask of droll aristocratic entitlement plastered to my face. “You worry over me having no energy to control my new people. You expend so much energy, Gemma, on taming,” I replied sweetly, antagonistically, indicating Sanctus.

“It’s stubbornness knows no bounds. It takes many whippings to make it cower, to make it obey properly,” she lamented. I ground my teeth at the touch. It took me everything to continue my charade. Aurelia and Paul stood behind me, prepared.

“I never found that I needed the whips, Gemma,” I enticed. I snapped my fingers. Aurelia and Paul immediately knelt at either side of my feet, touching their foreheads to the floor. Their coats covered them completely from scalp to toe. “You see, Gemma, the Sancti already heel so prettily.” 

Gemma watched in lewd curiosity. The gears were turning in her head as she flicked a contemptuous gaze at Sanctus. Intrigue her, play her, make her come to me. I didn’t want an all-out war with a bunch of Ustor. The wound to my gut hurt too much for me to be leaping about like a hare evading a pack of coyotes. I wanted her docile. “Two Sancti, Gemma, and they cower before me, no whip, no energy wasted. You should see what I taught him while he was in my possession. You might find you like him better after,” I suggested with a twisted smile.

“I thought your Caeruleum collar cute on it. Thought I’d keep it as a reminder. What could you possibly have done to make it behave? Though, you do have two Sancti that do as you tell them.” She rose, dragging Sanctus down the dais with her. He cringed at his tether, pulling at his collar, tripping over his short leg chains as she jerked him forward.

I cocked my head at her question. “You know,” I started as I pulled the trench coat off, “you randomly deposited him in Caeruleum territory, like you were looking to get rid of him, to perhaps gift him to me? Maybe you had run out of patience with his dawdling. At least, that was my thinking. I collected him. Put a couple months in on him. Why don’t you watch? I think it might interest you. At the very least, an evening of entertainment,” I offered. She raised an eyebrow at my coat.

“You took my coat rack quite effectively. I do miss having somewhere to put this, and none of your vast army or court seems to know how to properly meet a guest. They are failing you, Gemma. How about, as a gift to you, seeing as I forgot to bring something more appropriate for this fortuitous occasion, I’ll help you put them to your best use? If you’ll allow it, I’ll show you an easy way to control a Providentia, and then the others will fall in line nicely for you,” I admonished, casting my glance about the court.

She sighed with disgust. “They have been told on many occasions to gain some sense of decorum. What would you have it do?” She sneered, her eyes slashing Sanctus to ribbons. His colour had turned grey and mottled. He had stopped shaking, but that didn’t bode well. Cognac eyes had gone flat and unfocused on the floor. 

Medicus was going to be screaming at me for this. “You see, you treat them as a ruler. Here, drop his chain and see. He will not run,” I directed the last statement at Sanctus, hoping to tell him what was coming.

“Surely you jest. It always runs. Reason I must keep such a tight leash on it,” she argued.

“As I said. Ruler,” I tsked. “Thinking too small. You treat them like a queen.” I pulled a piece of lint from the shearling and flicked it away.

“What would you have them treat me like other than a queen? I will be no replaceable president,” she laughed, though she loosened her death grip on the chain.

“You think too little of yourself if you would only call yourself a queen, Gemma.” I held her gaze, willing charm into every word until it dripped.

“Show me, Nigrae Lunam, what is better than being a queen, or a king for that matter? That gold crown does make you look like royalty.” She dropped Sanctus’s chain. The metal clanked to the floor. He stood motionless, afraid to raise his gaze.

I sighed a pleased breath. I slipped my finger and thumb along his family ties, and lowered my gaze to give him a speculative appraisal, allowing Gemma to watch me study him. “You see, Gemma? He doesn’t run.” I slid the coat over Sanctus’s shoulders and pulled the hood over his hair. “He makes a lovely coat rack, doesn’t he? It’s that mahogany colour in his hair. Just have to straighten it out or else it’ll wrinkle. Can’t have my best coat wrinkled. There, that’s better. Now I feel like a proper guest.” I relaxed my shoulders, playing up the charismatic charade. I motioned to the court around me as I drew Gemma’s hand in mine. I stepped into the lead position of a boxed step in a dance, letting her bell skirt swish against the concrete floor. She relented against my formal position, pressing into me. Her eyebrows curved up, perplexed as I spun her around, putting her back to my chest and drew a hand up the column of her throat. “You think too small if you think as a queen. Now, let me show you. What do these Sancti, saints in my native tongue, value most, queen?” I turned the question to her as I directed her gaze to Sanctus. She pursed her lips and studied his compliance. His fingers twisted together, shielding himself. His cheeks had pinked at my description of his hair.

“Watch, queen. Learning some proper commands is a good start. Remember,” I commanded, my voice flicking out as a stinging whip that caught his breath. Sanctus straightened at the order to look up at me. His eyes were glassy and terrified, but he was listening.

“What?” Gemma asked, curious, pressing up against me suggestively. She didn’t know Angelus. She felt like oil against me, her smell that of rose and necrosis.

“Worship the very ground I walk on.” I smiled sardonically as I kept Gemma tight next to me. Sanctus swallowed, his eyes going round as he immediately sank to the stone floor, completely covered from head to two with his new trench coat.

“What are you saying? You’re a god? Hades?” Gemma laughed at the performance as she looked at the three Sancti kneeling around me. The rest of the court joined in.

I pulled her closer to me until I could define every curve under her corseted ball gown. Her breath caught, and her cheeks went red. I studied her lifeless eyes, now that they were in front of me. Her eyelashes drifted down as her laugh turned from derision to nervous flirtation. I joined in with her in laughter to bolster her impression before cutting it short. “No, bitch. I’m the Vampire of the Urbs.” I snared her, puncturing her throat at the same time I finally let the fire in my blood boil over. The building shook under the pressure wave as the blast incinerated all those standing above the line of my waist. I lost a good shirt, my leather suspenders and the bandaging on my stomach that Medicus had insisted I use to keep pressure against the wound, but the hall was effectively cleansed. The upper half of Gemma disintegrated into dust in my fingers. The remainder of her torso and legs dropped away as other partial bodies did the same.

My stomach rolled as a ringing in my ears threatened to make me vomit. I spat, wiping my mouth of the ash that filled it. I knelt down to the same level as the siblings to escape the heat that was contained within the scorched tile and the rock. “You all okay?” I asked, touching their hoods.

Aurelia was first to respond. “Is it over? Did it work?” She peeked out from under her hood.

“Safe enough for the moment. You can design a building to be bomb-proof, but it’s harder to design people to be,” I reassured.

Paul threw off his hood to survey the damage in awe. “Glad you explained that earlier. That was terrifying,” he quipped as he helped Aurelia off the floor.

I turned to Sanctus, who was still cowering under his new coat. “Sanctus?” I reached out and gently ran my hand along the back of the hood. He startled at the contact. He sniffled in the darkness. “Sanctus?” I asked again, waiting patiently.

“She…she’s gone? She’s gone, right?” His voice was barely louder than the tread of boots as Clavis and Vestitor entered the chamber.

“If she’s still alive, all we gotta worry about is her kicking us to death,” Vestitor laughed as he surveyed the wreckage. Aurelia and Paul joined Clavis in waiting orders.

“Sanctus?” I encouraged, moving the hood off his head. He looked up at me, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Sanctus? Where does she keep the others? Do you know? We’re getting the rest out,” I asked softly, giving him something else to think about outside of the sadistic dead woman.

“Down,” he hiccuped as he finally sat back a little. “Downstairs. She has a labyrinth down there, but she keeps the cages there. The rooms on this floor are for official business. Upstairs are the apartments for her court.” He swallowed, glancing around, slipping his fingers into mine. If he could turn paler, he did.

“Right. Clavis, take Paul and fifteen down to clear the basement. Get everyone out, scavenge what you can. Vestitor, Aurelia, wait on Maria Mater’s party. Tempestatis and Cortex should be here before her. Find and guard all stairs leading to the upper floors until she gets here. Send ten to start clearing this floor. Have them go in pairs. No one ventures alone. I suspect more people loyal to Gemma will give you trouble. Be prepared for full-blown retaliation. Give them the option of either join Caeruleum or get out of Urbs Aquarum by any means they see fit. This will be a safe place for ALL Ustor. Post Praesepe at the basement entrance to show anyone sent up outside.” I was starting to lose my senses with Vestitor and Clavis standing so close to me and Sanctus at my knees. Aluminum, vinegar, sage, copper. My fangs had already made my commands sound like I was drunk. I leaned over Sanctus and melted through one of the links of the chain hobbling him. Clavis would have to take the manacles off later.

“You need to eat, Lunam,” Clavis hedged, glancing between Sanctus and me.

“I can’t take time right now, Clavis. I need for you to start sweeping the halls. There will be time later. I’ll have you take this blasted collar off him when we get back to base.” I pushed myself off the floor, dragging Sanctus up with me. I stumbled upon gaining my feet, my brain saying half of it wanted to remain on the floor. Sanctus looked up at me, puzzled as I started buttoning the trench coat on him.

“I’ll take him.” Sanctus gathered up the chain still dangling from his collar. Clavis blinked at Sanctus’s sudden command of the situation. Either that or the fact that it was the first thing Sanctus had told Clavis without having been asked a direct question first.

“See to him, Sanctus. We need to get this processed. We’ll send Cortex and Tempestatis when they get here.” Vestitor waved the rest of the team out of the court.

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The Fire in My Blood: Ch 20

I dug around in the pile of storage boxes I had sequestered into the weird alcove corner a support beam in my room provided me. One box looked promising. I hadn’t gotten into it from five years ago. I shifted some papers and random shirts off the top and found the black fabric I was after.

“You want our help, but you don’t want us touching you? What gives, boss? It’s what we do. We’re Providentia. What good are we if we aren’t buffing?” Paul demanded. I tossed my prototype trench coat at him. He caught it, perplexed, and shook it out. “What’s this for?”

Aurelia’s little one wiggled and moaned in frustration. She tried to hold onto him, but he was determined to get away. “Momma, I want to play with Astrum!” Rain demanded. Aurelia sighed and set him down. Abby and Sam were peeking in from the hallway to see what all the fuss was about. “Go play, but be careful about the stairs. Solis, make sure he gets down okay and doesn’t eat anything around Clavis’s station!” Aurelia directed.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam held out his hand for Abby and Rain.

“I promise I’ll get you back to your son.” I handed her the trench coat Vestitor had finished for Sanctus. I had commissioned the piece to give him on Persephone’s Feast day, which I had missed due to my unconscious state.

“What’s with the trench coats?” Aurelia pulled it on. The hem fell all the way to her ankles, and the sleeves were too long. It was too tight for her figure, refusing to button over her hips or bust.

I slid onto my bed to regard the two quietly. The wound in my side was hot and throbbing again, but the coagulant had done its job sealing it. They glanced at each other nervously. I rubbed at the bandaging in hopes of relieving the pain. “Tell me if you don’t want to do this. Okay? I’ll find another way. There are always other ways. This just seemed to be one idea that might work.”

“Boss?” Paul swallowed.

“You remember the Angelus soldiers, right? The ones that gathered you all up in the town square, yeah?” I asked. They nodded. “You remember ever hearing about Sweepers?” I pressed. Aurelia shook her head. Paul nodded. “Sweepers are Providentia. I’d stake my life on that claim at this point. They were Angelus military and were used to ferret out Ustor. You three were some kind of mutation that didn’t get picked up by the military. Outliers. You remember the news about me, right?” I asked.

“Sure, the Lamia of the Hades Purge. It was all over the radios they insisted on playing in the detention camps. Wipes out an entire city worth of buildings. Lots of people died. Blast radius didn’t pick up everything, reason we’re alive, but it did a lot of damage.” Paul answered.

“I had never exhibited any symptoms until your brother touched me,” I told him. He blinked, his brows furrowing. “Honestly, and I haven’t told more than Mater, Cortex, and Tempestatis this, so I don’t need it leaving this room: I don’t think I can do that level of damage again unless a Providentia is touching me. I think I did that much damage because Sanctus grabbed my hand when he went for my gun, and you two were clinging to him.”

“You think you were more powerful because all of us were boosting you?” Aurelia asked.

“Maybe? I know from what Medicus said when I passed out, I still exploded with enough force to take down a building. Tempestatis said I left a depression in the street, and there were scorch marks four buildings over. I’m still pretty destructive, but not like what got me thrown in here. Sanctus shared his power a couple times with me when we rescued you from Mercurius, but it was never a lot, or for long.”

“If we’re going up against Gemma, isn’t that more reason for us to be there, to buff you?” Paul demanded.

“Let’s not go decimating a building on top of us, shall we?” I retorted.

A dawning light reached his eyes. “Oh. Oh…yeah, no, let’s not buff you. I’d like to keep living.”

“Exactly. What I need from you two is to be there, at my side and to take commands without hesitation until Gemma is dead. No balking, no squawking. Those coats are blast-proof, at least the one I gave Aurelia is. You got my old test coat, Paul. It should hold up, maybe? I only used it a couple times before Vestitor found me some other materials for the one I have on now.”

“Why the trench? This is too tight for me by the way. It’s nice, but I can’t breath with all this crap in it.” Aurelia buried her fingers into the shearling wool sewn into the lapels of the brown and black strapped leather before pulling it off and handing it back to me. Inner layers of aramid and metal plating fit into steel boning, lending structure to the design. Sanctus’s eye for detail was all over it. Rivets, buckles, pockets and zippers. His fingers had been in it without knowing it was for him. Vestitor had kept my name anonymous on the receipts. It had taken me three months to save for the piece after our war with Mercurius. I couldn’t be more happy with how it turned out.

I fretted with the cuff and contemplated Aurelia. I pulled my regular trench off and handed it over to her. She pulled it over her shoulders. It was wide enough to button fully, though it dragged on the floor. A couple safety pins fixed that problem.“You’re going in with one of these on. Gemma is a sadistic psycho. She hurts Sanctus to get more power out of him. He’s a toy to her, not even quite a pet. She’s the type that would take the heads off dolls and pull teeth from dogs. I hate it, but she doesn’t understand common reason. I’m going in with the goal of playing her game her way to get in close.”

“Go in with two shiny new pet Providentia and show her you can tame them faster than she can?” Aurelia touched her lip in contemplation. I nodded.

“You’re hoping she’ll drop her guard?” Paul asked.

“Main goal is to get Sanctus away from her. Secondary goal is to burn her people to the ground. She’s being overprotective because of the siege. I have one chance in, and currently my co-leader and right-hand men are all nixed out of the party arrangements. She won’t let me in with any of my regular crew. She never said anything about bringing along a pair of Sancti, though. Right now, I’m in no shape to exchange much more than sharp wit with the woman.” I leaned back, waiting for another sharp jab of pain to stop its stranglehold on my lung.

“I don’t want Gemma having him. So don’t get me wrong, here, but, why are you so interested in getting him back?” Paul asked.

I swallowed nervously at the question. Paul’s grey eyes wouldn’t let me look away. “If I said I wanted to ask him to join me in being a father to Sam and Abby, would that make sense?” I asked.

He cocked his head and frowned. “You want him to help you parent?”

“I don’t think that’s what he means, Paul.” Aurelia had grasped my meaning.

“I’m not following, Aura.” Paul pulled his trench off and laid it over his arm.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you, Lunam?” she asked gently. My teeth locked up. Did I have to admit this to his siblings? I swallowed and nodded.

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Subgalaxia: Ch 4

“I just wish that you could actually get this thing to go into the future.  I want to know that the chry-chambers stay fully functional all the way through the trip,” Sophia grouched.  It had been a full two years since Corbin’s offer, and since the War began. Drought had set in after the destruction of most of the Asian continent by the Grey Monster.  The drought had also brought with it pestilence. In its wake, half of the population of America disappeared over the course of a year.

Sophia had successfully brought dogs and rebus monkeys out of a series of test chambers counting from days to months and a year.  Today she was defrosting a rebus at the longest time they had for testing, eighteen months. She was betting with this test that they would finally be able to start acquiring people for Corbin’s proposal.

She tapped the end of her pencil on her desk and hung her head over notes.  She was exhausted. She had left from the California office and made it to Fort Dade a month ago, before the bombings hit the West Coast.  Corbin had barely made it away from California before all air traffic was grounded due to a lack of personnel. Military operations were retracted from the European continent.  Soldiers coming home were faced with a wasteland, and many came home to empty and decaying houses. The troops decreased by a third within the first several weeks of being back on shore.

Corbin stood at the edge of the blue portal, ready to make his first true leap into the past to retrieve a person for the purpose of the Subgalaxia protocol. He looked back at her, pursing his lips. He shared her fears and trepidations.  He had been relieved with every successful awakening. The scientists and machinists he had acquired were working on the spacecraft he had designed to house the chambers.  With the discovery of a set of military files on a server that had once been connected to the facility that the Grey Monster was reported to have come out of, he and Sophia had been able to come up with a design for the spacecraft to hyperjump.  That, too, was something that they were going to have to trust to scale. Small testing on many more monkeys and special brain implants designed off of the military files had successfully moved a ball from one end of a short room to another, but they would needed a much larger catalyst to make the spaceship jump.

“Go, find us this polyglot you found in your super great-grandmother’s journals.  We’ll need her.” Sophia waved Corbin through the portal. They only had one chance in the person’s timeline.  They couldn’t recycle back on a line if Corbin missed them by just a second. They couldn’t back up their years or go forward the years if they were too young.  If they didn’t get it right the first time, they were screwed and would have to go find a replacement. They figured this out the hard way when Sophia got it in her head to test the question why no one who could time travel wouldn’t get rid of Hitler.  They entered in on his timeline right after he committed suicide. That was a bitterly frustrating week of try and retry.

They had tried to enter the military compound reported to have produced the Grey Monster.  They had ended up in it as the building collapsed. Corbin had almost ended up getting impaled by falling rebar.  Sophia pitched a fit and banned him from going into dangerous timelines like that. She also sat him down at his computer and set him to the task of re-coding his time machine for better time prediction accuracy.  SAM had been created to continuously monitor the clock for this reason.

He stepped out onto poorly clad wood flooring.  It smelled of bitter body odour and faeces. The room was closed off, and the windows boarded up.  He glanced around quickly, wondering where he had ended up. He heard gunshots on the other side of the wall, a distance away, but the report echoed, telling him they were up against hills.  A thick report with a rolling echo had him ducking his head. Cannons. He had stepped out of the portal into the civil war, but he hadn’t expected to be dropped so close to the fight.  

A wet cough drew his attention to a dim corner of the room.  A frail, middle-aged woman lay on a ragged blanket. Her skin had gone sallow and ashy, her fingernails chipping and splitting.  Her vitiligo left her smattered with a constellation of spots and speckles. An emaciated young girl of no more than five with massive markings more pronounced than her grandmother slept under the bed, her foot chained to a hole in the bed frame.  Corbin’s gut twisted. He couldn’t take her with him if he wanted to come into existence.

He moved toward the bed quietly, afraid to startle the two.  He knelt down near the head of the bed and laid a gentle hand on the older woman’s forehead.  She was burning up with fever. He checked her up and down and found that she had been shot in the leg, the wound left to fester and turn gangrenous.  His heart dropped along with his gut. The reality of how his family had come into existence hit him like getting squashed between a mac truck and a brick wall.

“Mera?” he asked gently.  The woman rolled her head back and forth as she tried to come awake.  She groaned. Yellowed eyes finally opened to look at him.  She would have gasped, but she was too exhausted.

“Are you Gabriel?” She smiled up at him, hopeful.

“Who is Gabriel, Mera?” Softly, he brushed her frizz back behind her ear.

“God’s angel, come to take me away from here.” She leaned into his hand.

He smiled sadly.  “No, I’m sorry, Mera.  I’m not Gabriel. My name is Corbin.  I’ve come to ask you a question. Is that all right?” He took her hand and held it, trying not to cry.

“How do you know me, Mr Corbin?” She coughed wetly.

“I’ve heard of you and that you knew of a great translator once.  Are you the translator, Mera?” He pushed gently.  

She leaned against the hay mattress and closed her eyes, trying to draw in wheezing gasps.  The woman shook her head, but when she looked up at him again, a spark glittered in her eyes. A nostalgic smile touched her chapped lips for a moment.  “I heard once, from my great-grandfather, of men…men who could talk any language, just through touch.” The woman reached her hand up to Corbin’s face.  Corbin leaned forward, allowing her to touch his forehead. “Here.” She touched the centre of his head. “White-haired twins. They were healers, knowing when men were sick and hurting.”

“When would I find these men, Mera?” he asked, willing her to not give up.

“They were spoken of so long ago, though, Mr Corbin.  It has been a century and a time since those days,” she murmured, fighting the pain.  Corbin could have cursed if not for the lady present. Gunshots echoed out along the hills.  He cringed as a thump and reverberating boom told him the cannons had been brought in closer.  She was running out of time, but he couldn’t move her. If she was dying, she surely would die if he picked her up.

“Corbin!” Sophia called from the blue arc in the corner.

“I know!” he called back to her, feeling the strain, “I know, dammit all,” he mumbled quietly under his breath, low enough the old woman thankfully couldn’t hear.

“Who am I looking for? Where, Mera?” he pressed the woman.

“Tau said they came to our people as father and children.  We called the father Lightning Bird, the great Impundulu. They became the water-lilies, the purest flowers of Persia,” she wheezed, her breath rattling in her chest. Her eyes drifted behind heavy lids.

“No, no, no, no.  Mera!” He begged as her eyes slipped into the unseeing.  Her breath stilled, and her heart slowed to a stuttering stop. Corbin bowed his head over her hand and thought for a second.  This was going to need research. There wasn’t time for research. He rose and laid her hand upon her chest, closing her unblinking eyes.  “Rest free, Mera,” he whispered. He turned and took Sophia’s outstretched hand. “Take me home, please.” He fell into her, wrapping his arms around her as his sorrow tried to pull him into the ground.  He had come too late to do any more for her.

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Polaris Skies: Ch 27

The sun had yet to bathe the horizon in its blanket of midnight blue and lavender. Snow plopped on the tin roof, creating a new patter to the sleet from the night before. Nat woke to being at the back, Sven forward in his wolfish form.

This is alright, brat?

What, Sven?

Sylvi.

Nat shared in Sven’s appraisal of a pitch-black wolf laid out next to his own white fur. The wolf’s heart ticked away like a scared rabbit.

Are you afraid?

Sven kept quiet, his entire focus on the sleeping canine.

She has very pretty fur.

She is real, right? I’m not seeing things, brat?

It has been a lot of work getting here. Enjoy your time. Give me my body back when you can. Nat settled into the back, curled up against Tereza’s soul.

“Sylvi?” Sven broached, waking both the black and gold wolf.

Cashia slinked off the bed and padded out of the room after sniffing at Sylvi.

The black wolf stretched, blue almost white eyes finally opening. “It’s been a while, liten due[1].”

“Too long, min brud[2]. Too long. How are you feeling, your host?” Sven nuzzled against her.

“Hana is doing well with the transformation. She’s giving us time to be. It is nice to be whole. To float aimlessly detached between two bodies for so long has been exhausting.” Sylvi nipped at Sven’s scruff in play.

“It has been so long since I’ve seen you, held you.”

“Have they found how to let our human side out?” Sylvi rolled over to tease the white wolf.

“Not that I’ve found. Even my shape in my mind has started to blur between who I was and my host. I don’t know if I would ever be able to summon that side of me again,” Sven confided, heart sinking.

“Then, we learn to love our new bodies and learn their intricacies.” Sylvi yipped in an invitation for Sven to play with her.

Human side? Nat pried.

We’re Vulkodlak, Varulv? What do you humans call it? Sven supplied the image of a man and a wolf.

Werewolf?

That. We are Glendwellers, immortal, but we have both our human and our wolf side. I guess we still do. Sylvi was glorious. I met her from a Norse noble family when we moved west from the plateaus. Talk to her. She would tell you about it all. Sven pushed Nat to the front.

“Human?” Sylvi sniffed at the wolf form.

“Sorry. Not trying to take over. I was asking Sven about the human thing, and he said you were Norse, and I should talk to you?” Nat took the shift and sat up in the bed.

“Jeg er norsk. Hva ønsker du å vite[3]?” Sylvi’s bright blue eyes were spooky.

Feel like translating, Sven? She was speaking English there for a minute.

She’s messing with you, just talk to her normal.

Her eyes.

Beautiful, right?

In a fog-in-the-graveyard kinda way.

Sven laughed at that. Oh, she’ll love you for that.

In a Tereza kinda way?

No, in a Sylvi kinda way.

“You two are talking about me.” Sylvi pushed at Nat’s hand until he rubbed at her ears.

“A bit. Told him your eyes are kind of like fog in a graveyard. A bit spooky.”

The wolf chuffed at him and rolled over for him to pet her belly. “Did he tell you to say that? The charmer.”

“I’m a bit amazed he’s letting me be me for a minute and not just permanently throwing me out to be a wolf.” Nat found a spot along Sylvi’s ribs that made her scratch. “He’s been worried about you ever since he got mixed into my DNA. Feels out of pattern for him.”

“Now that I’m here, he’s calmed down?” Sylvi rolled over and jumped off the bed, shaking out her fur.

“Feels like. He said you were glorious. His words. From when you were a Norse noble?” Nat returned to why Sven had put him into his human form.

“I met him in the Wōdnesfeld battle. He had an arrow through his ribs, and I couldn’t just leave him bleeding out there. Took down…oh, how many was it now? It’s been a handful of centuries since then. Took another five months before we could have a civil conversation that didn’t end in his masculinity being brought into it. Regardless, he fell in love with a battle maiden, and I fell for an ice bunny.”

The sun blazed through the side window, casting soft gold across the dusty interior.

“You want your husband back?” Nat offered, tugging Sven forward.

You wanted me to be okay with Sylvi before using me, huh?

I…yes, I did. Your nightmares are getting worse, and it’s making me realize you need some space, and I just…

Thank you for your effort. Take over. Let me nap. Come get me when you’ve had your fill and then some. The group is probably going to move out again.

Thank you, brat.

Why do you call me that?

It means brother.

Go on with you. I’ll be here when you get back.

[1] Little dove

[2] My bride

[3] I’m Norwegian. What do you want to know?

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