Chapel Orahamm's Blog, page 16

Fyskar: Ch 17

Eoin sat at a well-lit desk overlooking a sunny courtyard. A variety of apothecary materials, flasks, burners, droppers lay scattered across it’s polished surface. A mortar and pestle stood unused at the far end of the table.

Eoin faced into the sun-filled room, back resting against the table edge to push the tension from his spine. Henri sat at a smaller table occupied by food and a massive book. “This one is grape.” The portly man pointed at the fruit and made a sign after reading a page. Eoin fumbled through the motion, gritting his teeth. It didn’t feel natural to the pidgin language he had created with Egret Nest. “Better. What about this?” Henri held up a bone.

Eoin moved through the word and subsequent other anatomical terminology with more ease.

“You’re improving, Niloofar. It takes time to put together a language, but if you are skilled enough to work this pharmacy and read these manuals, you are intelligent enough to learn to speak with your hands.” Henri heaved himself from his stool and collected his belongings. “Your sons are picking up the language quickly with their teacher. Soon they will be able to help you if you need.” He smiled kindly. Eoin nodded back, exhausted. The Huguenot bustled around the room to collect his books and props.

They had taken to enjoying each other’s company in the afternoons when many of the staff left to the cool areas for rest. Eoin could write his communications with Henri and tended to work over a slate as they shared jasmine tea and small foodstuffs. Time had made them fast friends.

“You should probably head to Mirza. He will be preparing for tonight’s banquet,” Henri suggested over his shoulder as he left the room.

Eoin slumped against his workbench. How many banquets could the man possibly attend? Third in the last five days. Eoin silently groaned and pushed himself away from the table. Coming along with his words? Seriously? He had about twenty down in a language that required thousands. How would he ever be able to express himself adequately, and even at that, who of the staff and court would understand him waving his hands about?

He pulled a key from a floss thin strand of gold around his neck and unlocked the lock at his bracer. He went to the peg on his wall and grabbed his long-sleeve undershirt. The physician pulled his short-sleeved tunic off and exchanged it for the long-sleeves. Eoin sighed, the gossamer soft fabric settling against his skin. It made him warmer than he’d like, but it deterred the staff from accidentally bumping into him and dropping into the void uninvited.

Over the course of several dark evenings, he had shown Mirza the horror the Daleroch had instigated against his clan. In time, he showed the depraved depths of the slaving raid, of his own act of murder. He revealed his fear of being touched and found out for his talent. To still Eoin’s terror, Mirza issued a decree to the palace that no one was to touch him under pain of death, but the Fyskar decided to be more proactive in his actions.

Eoin pulled his short tunic back on over the long-sleeves and slipped on thin leather gloves. He fumbled his gold chain before pushing the lock closed. It reminded the people of the palace that he was the property of the prince and caretaker of one of the king’s young sons. To interfere with the physician was a reprehensible act against not only the princes but also the king.

He dropped the necklace back over his head and tucked it under his torc and shirts. Last he pushed his minor poisons and antidotes kit into a pouch at his hip. Eoin sucked in a deep breath and left the room, winding the stupidly long chain around his right bracer to keep from tripping on it.

As he eased out of his room and down the hall, he passed by a pair of people speaking in hushed whispers in an alcove. The physician tip-toed his way quickly to the prince’s chamber. A guard at the door knocked for him.

“Come in,” the prince issued the command. It had been almost a year of study for Eoin to gain a solid grasp on simple conversation in the prince’s native tongue. Henri had been a good friend and a dear help in his studies.

Eoin strode into the chamber, head held high. He glanced at the guard dismissively and bowed generously to the prince before walking to his side.

“Good evening, physician,” the giant greeted amiably.

Good evening, prince, he returned.

“Shall we?” Mirza gained his feet. Eoin bowed once more.

The physician, once the guard had fallen far enough behind for their privacy, slipped his hand up to the back of the prince’s neck. The prince had established a consistent pain in his neck that Eoin was watching, which provided him with the delicate form of communication when discretion was necessary.

“I heard a pair talking on my way here. Don’t eat the fruit. It’s been poisoned,” Eoin whispered into the prince’s mind.

“Do you know with what?” Mirza’s pace faltered a beat.

“I think so. I want to say he called the plant Bladvna in your language. I am familiar with it as Atropa Belladonna. I have a distillation in my pack that will counteract it, though it is about as poisonous. I will pass out. Do not let them bury me until I have started to decompose. With luck, I may revive in a few days’ time,” Eoin answered the prince.

“Is it fast-acting?” Mirza quickened his pace.

“Depends on the concentration and dosage. It will cause heart problems, sweating, light sensitivity, impaired memory, vertigo, potential death.” Eoin matched Mirza’s stride with ease.

“And you are sure you have an antidote?” the prince asked once again.

“I do. I’ve been taking small dosages of the poison for a year now for a situation like this. I won’t die, most likely. I’d really rather you didn’t eat it.” He put his foot down. The giant might have the size to deal with the dosage, reason he was more likely to be used to test the foods, but lethal was still lethal.

“Would you eat an unknown dose of it, little White Bird?” The men drew close to the dining area, stepping behind a massive support pillar outside of the ornate doors for a private conversation.

“I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I eat it, you make sure I get the blue bottle in my pouch and down it all or else you may have a dead physician. Have a servant on hand to clean up. The physical reaction will be distasteful. I might die from the distillation, but I’d rather not die from belladonna,” he commanded.

“As you instruct, physician.” The prince straightened himself and approached the series of doors that would lead them into the banquet. Eoin pulled his glove back and returned to a diminutive step behind the man.

They made their way through the halls to one of the rooms that led to the throne room. Tables had been lavishly spread with a variety of dishes, large platters of meat, and desserts. The room was practically filled to bursting with people. All were waiting on the royal family to greet them.

The prince motioned for a guard to come over and take a message. He whispered a command to the man who dashed out of the hall quickly. Mirza turned to the expectant hall of diplomats and merchants who were growing ravenous under the smells that flooded the area.

“My father and brothers will be a moment late. They have sent me in their stead as they prepare their entrance. They have been looking forward to this evening. His Highness is thrilled to have you join him with this banquet. Thank you for your contributions. The lamb looks delicious as always, Dilshad.” He smiled to a small man who returned a deep, pleased bow.

“May I especially thank those of you who have brought in the fruit from the coast?” he asked. “I was not here for the delivery. I am sorry. If you would?” he asked the chamber. A pair of men emerged, thrilled to be singled out. They stared eagerly as Mirza fingered a grape. He plucked one with a light wash of white yeast atop it. He turned to Eoin and offered the grape to him. Eoin received it with a theatrical show of gratitude, trying to make it appear that the prince was extending a great honour to him. He hated this part.

Every time someone of economic importance decided that poison was a fantastic way to kill off the royal family, it was turned over to Eoin or his prince to be the testers. These were the circumstances when it would be otherwise rude to have the poison testers in the room – diplomats with too high of a rank or merchants with too much money who would feel distrusted.

Eoin took in a deep breath. No going back now. He steadied his nerves and downed the atrociously sweet grape. The room quieted. His throat ran dry. He swallowed against it. The lingering insipid sweetness of belladonna coated his palette. The smell of sugar-coated every laboured breath. The world went kaleidoscopically coloured. Mirza warbled disproportionately. The two men twitched nervously.

“Is everything all right?” the prince turned to them with a toothy smile. They knew they were out. “Whatever is the matter?” Mirza pressed again as the floor shifted under Eoin.

The physician-turned-poison-tester took one subtle step away from the table. He was not keen to pull the cloth down over himself and several fully laden silver platters on his head. He had done that once and learned from the bruises after. Eoin sank to the ground, the chill of the tile pleasant against the obnoxious bursts of bright colour and dancing guards surrounding him. Closing his eyes against the dazzling confusion, he drifted to the sound of his prince issuing commands.

“You’ve killed Niloofar, the physician!” Incredulous, Mirza turned to regard his physician with theatrical horror and sorrow. “Guards!” Men in uniform rushed in to protect the prince and pounce on the two men responsible for the fruit.

The prince turned back to Eoin, crouching down as the guards stood around him. He pulled apart Eoin’s pack and found the blue vial his physician had spoken of. “It would be a shame here to lose my best physician, wouldn’t you say, Niloofar?” Mirza forced the man to consume the bottle as Eoin’s ears lost all sound and the chamber’s light dimmed.

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The Fire in My Blood: Ch 19

A pasty cream-coloured world slowly came into focus, along with a raging headache. More like Medicus’s sick yellow cement walls. I studied the lines between brick and mortar in apathetic indifference for a time. I kept my breathing shallow. It felt better that way. I had to wonder. I had been in my great-grandmother’s apartment. We had been talking. I had been holding onto my lion. Why was I here? It was too bright. I was warm but cold. A clicking sound grated at my nerves. Willing myself to focus on something other than the wall was like telling me to look into the sun. It hurt. It was uncomfortable. I didn’t want to play today. Let me go back to sleep.

“Lunam!” Hyacinthus drove my attention away from hibernation. I rolled my head until I could squint up at her, feeling like a cave newt introduced to the afternoon.

“Oh, thank the first fire,” Mater sighed at the foot of my bed. I blinked, trying to bring her into focus. My mouth was dry and tasted of glass and wood, and my fangs stuck to my lips. That nagging burn for copper was threatening to strangle me.

“Boss? You in the land of the living?” Medicus came over and shined a penlight in my eyes.

“Do I need to be?” My voice rattled around in my throat, tearing and scratching.

“Preferably. Abby and Sam are worried,” Mater’s voice was soft and smooth. I wanted mine to not feel like I had licked a lead acid battery. A little hand crept into mine. I turned to look. Sam held it, his eyes searching mine for some confirmation. “I’m alive, Sam. Everything going to be okay. You and Abby doing good?” I asked him. He nodded before bursting into tears and strangling me with a bear hug.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” I patted his back while he cried himself out.  “I need to get up, Sam. That okay?” He pulled himself off me and wiped at his nose.

“More than okay, sir. I’m glad you’re awake. Abby will be really happy.” He stalled his tears and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Good.” I went to remove the sheet I was wrapped up in.

“I wouldn’t move that,” Medicus suggested.

“Why not?” I moved it anyway. I had been stripped down. My stomach was wrapped up in probably forty pounds of bandaging. Breathing in was killer. “Can I get some pants?” I asked. “And maybe some privacy for oh say, five minutes?” I glanced toward the door on the opposing end of Medicus’s clinic that was used for the clean-up closet and lavatory. Medicus cleared his throat and ushered the women and Sam out of the main area to the hall. He returned and handed me a pair of trousers. “Don’t go buttoning those. No pressure on your stomach at all, Lunam. You hear me? I shouldn’t even be letting you get – oh, Hade’s first soul, you’re heavy.” He caught me as I tried to put feet to earth. I balanced on him for a solid minute as the pounding in my head made me watch my heartbeat in my eyes. Pain radiated across the back of my shoulders, stealing the oxygen from my lungs.

“I burned, didn’t I?” I asked. I was salivating at this point, and in pain, and needing to use the bathroom, and wanting that pair of pants on. My brain was not helping me with prioritizing, though.

“You blacked out and exploded. Not bad, but, bad. You knocked down the vacant building next to you, apparently.”

“Tempestatis and Cortex?” I turned to him as my heart dropped into my gut.

“No one else was injured. Maria Mater had Abby and got her out of the way. Cortex and Tempestatis had gone to chase after one of the Rubrum guys that attacked them.

“Then what?” I asked as he steadied me to the closet. How was I going to use that damn bucket? If I even thought of squatting down, I was liable to pass out. “Cortex caught the guy, momentarily. He bruised him up pretty rough, nothing a quick stitch and some plasters wouldn’t fix. Do not under any circumstance try to flex those abs lest you want to bleed out, you behemoth.” I’m not sure what type of fortitude the man had, or lack of embarrassment. He had probably seen it all. I had not. And would rather never remember that experience again.

“Mater called Clavis in with the tank. Thought you were going to bleed out where you lay. They got you back to me, and I worked my brilliant magic, if I might boast.” Medicus smiled, pleased with his job.

“What happened to me?” I asked, rubbing at the bandages. My stomach and back felt like a lead pipe had been used to tenderize me. The spot where the knife had been was hot and seared when I got too close to it.

“You are now one appendix shy of a full house. Thing had to go anyways. It wasn’t looking too healthy.” He helped guide me over to the wash basin, though he wasn’t having to hold me up any longer. The wobbliness in my knees was seeing itself out.

“Lucky me,” I grumbled as I pulled at my trousers, wishing for a pair of suspenders. The longer I was upright, the clearer my body felt. Though the pounding behind my eyes was insistent that I address it, and the shifting colours was not a good sign.

“Lucky indeed. We thought we were going to be out a Caeruleum co-leader.”

“Sanctus? What about Sanctus? Did someone find him?”

Medicus’s face fell at the question.

“How long have I been asleep?” That was going to be my next task. Get back to the alley before all the scent disappeared.

“Six days.”

“Say what?” I blinked. Surely I hadn’t heard him correctly. I couldn’t have been out for six days. That was ludicrous. I could still feel the gravel of the road beneath my skin. Seconds, hours maybe, but not days.

“It’s been six days. You passed out, and we haven’t seen Sanctus since. Mater sent out a group to check the alley and see what clues they could find.” He helped me back to sit on the gurney.

Mater popped back into the ward side of the clinic. “Conscribo and Praesepe looked over the alley from top to bottom. They did find something,” she explained, though she didn’t sound as pleased as I would have hoped.

“Go on,” I growled. Sanctus wasn’t here. Therefore, he wasn’t in Caeruleum territory. Look, I can do mental math. And I can add up facial expressions like the best of them.

“Tracks from the guys who ambushed you and a couple others were leading him out of Caeruleum territory. They were heading toward Rubrum lines. A pair of guzzler tracks meshed with a bunch of others, though, and we lost them. Cortex took fabric off the guy who jumped Tempestatis. Had Vestitor look at it, see what he could figure out. Told us he wasn’t a scientist, but if there was a red diamond on the jacket, it was definitely one of Gemma’s main crew.”

“Has a delegation been sent?” I walked out to the hall.

She followed behind quickly. “Tempestatis has had a volley going along Rubrum line on our border. She hasn’t laid off. So, she wasn’t starting her siege over Sanctus in the first place. She hasn’t stopped in seven months now. This has to be about the water ration. Cortex has had teams sweeping out the Aurantiaco of any dissenters and sending them out of Urbs Aquarum. Some have chosen Stagnum Ignis -”

I had quit listening. Like infernus it was staying that way. “Why has no one been sent?” I demanded, interrupting her.

“No one’s made it through the line. She’s got her men bunked down hard. Said she’d only take delegation if you came. You were kind of dying. If she was asking for you, she either didn’t know one of her men stabbed you, or if she did, figured she’d hamstring us with an unreasonable demand,” she snapped.

“Then I’m going.” I opened the door.

“Like infernus you are. You can barely stand right now! You need rest. Get back in here and sit your ass down! Lunam!” Molly commanded, trying to get me to come back inside.

“I’m busy!” I bellowed, escaping the clinic.

“Nigrae Lunam! You can’t be up yet!”

“Watch me!” I bit back.

“That ain’t a flesh wound, you stubborn bear!” She stocked after me and grabbed my hand. “Ow!” she dropped it. She glared daggers at me.

I was burning up and having a time keeping it bottled. She was resembling a walking constellation, and I was fearing for not only her safety, but everyone in the clinic. “You really want to have me back in there right now? I don’t think Medicus’ll appreciate all his materials going up.” I was seething. “I’m hungry, and my Repercussion is not playing fair right now, Molly.”

“You open that laceration, and you’re gonna bleed out.”

“That Rubrum bitch is going to massacre him.”

“Why are you so bent out of shape about this? You’re more level-headed about getting your men back when Rubrum and Aurantiaco take hostages, and you know it. True we obliterated Mercurius, but before that. We’ve done this enough times.”

I span on her, stopping her short. She looked up at me, startled as the colour drained from her face. “Not my men.”

“He is.”

“Not yet.”

“You accepted him into the Caeruleum, formally. He’s one of your men.”

“I never claimed brother ties with him. He isn’t one of my men.”

“What are you saying, Lunam?”

“I want him to be my vir.”

“You’re in love with him?”

“Drown me in the canal if I find Gemma’s killed him.”

“You’d rather die if he’s dead than continue supporting all of us? Your family?”

“There’s not going to be much left of Urbs Aquarum if I see his body.”

“You’d explode?”

“I’ll burn the whole damn Dome down. I will take a knife to the stomach for you, Cortex, Tempestatis, Abby, Sam. There’s something else here, though, for him.” I pointed at my head.

“You’ve had other partners in the past.”

“One night stands, a weekend fling, and you know it. Never dated. Never stuck around longer than mutual benefit. I never considered bond ties.”

“How long has this been going on, Lunam? You’d actually share bond ties?” She looked at me in confusion.

“You taught me the Urbs Aquarum ways. I’m not allowed to say anything about bond ties, and you know it. That’s for the families to recognize. But this thing, it’s been spiralling in my head since the day I met him.” I swallowed that admission.

“Love at first sight isn’t a thing.”

“Molly, I don’t think you can understand this one.”

“I’m asexual. Doesn’t mean I can’t fall in love, asshole. First sight is just lust.”

“You’re telling me this after I’ve literally had him laying in the same bed with me for the last couple months and waking up every morning thankful that he’s there. I breath him in, and all the tension from the day slips away. I close that door in the evening and can listen to his discoveries, his improvements, his joys and bottle it up inside me for the next day. I’m not leaving him there another day, Molly. I’m bringing him home.” Bravado is great, but it doesn’t keep away ringing in the ears.

“Easier to do if you aren’t dying in front of me,” she quipped, catching me as I sank down to the ground. 

I put a hand to my side where a radiating pain was shooting from the front of my stomach to the back of my lung. Blood came away, sticky and dark. “Damn it.”

“See. Told you, he-man. Go rescue your damoiseau in distress after we get you bandaged enough to keep you from bleeding out. I’m not holding a transfusion bag for you while you trade barbed words with Gemma.”

“Fair enough.” I let her pull me up and drag my sorry ass back into the clinic where Medicus gave me a full-on death glare for mangling his work. “I’m sorry,” I apologized to Molly quietly while Medicus went about cleaning everything all over again.

“Hey. I get it.” She brushed it away.

“You did incinerate that guy that got me, right?”

“Hey, no one touches my Caeruleum, let alone my niece and nephew.”

“Thank you for watching out for us, Maria Mater.”

“Any time, Lunam. Mommy and daddy have to be on the same page most of the time,” she teased.

“I only had to explain that once for Abby and Sam to the rest of you people, and now the whole of Caeruleum is still calling us Mom and Dad?” I drew in a flabbergasted sigh.

“And right now, mommy’s telling you to eat.” She shoved her wrist in front of me. I frowned, but that lilac smell had my eyelids drifting down involuntarily. I glared at her. I still wasn’t comfortable taking her blood.

“Keep it up, Lunam. We’ve had volunteers in here for the last six days trying to get you to eat. Your brain’s gotta be on for the Repercussion to quit, and tomato juice ain’t cutting it.”

I huffed and sank my fangs in her wrist for the first time. She squeaked, startled at my suddenness. It got her to stop for a minute. “Have you fed off him?” she asked, her voice having gone low. 

I flicked a dismissive glance her way. “Absolutely not,” I replied when I had finished. She took enough of the edge off to get the throbbing migraine down to a stabbing headache. I’d need more. Hyacinthus came forward to offer me help.

Medicus finished cleaning while I fixed my Repercussion. “Mommy! Looks like Daddy wants to take a lover,” Medicus whispered beneath his breath. He ran a new series of stitches along my gut and completely doused it in coagulant.

“Mommy would prefer he takes a lover who keeps him home. Keeps him from being a stupid grouch,” she growled.

Holy shit I didn’t realize coagulant stung! I’d rather put my hand to the guzzler’s muffler after an hour running before touching that stuff without my anaesthetic again.“Medicus!” I beseeched, my voice hitting an octave I had not visited since my cadet years.

“Deserved that,” he chuckled at me, pulling me to sit up.

“You knew this hurt?” I balanced against him.

“Of course it stings. Try telling your nerve endings to bind up with each other in seconds. That hurts.” He took a proffered roll of gauze and bandaging from Hyacinthus.

“Hades, give me the anaesthetic next time while you’re at it.” I fought to stay sitting upright, but dizziness was seeing me to leaning over my knees.

“Infernus no. You needed to remember this for next time.” Medicus motioned for Mater and Hyacinthus to help keep me upright in my dizziness while he wrapped my gut. It wasn’t going to bleed out from the coagulant, but it hadn’t miraculously healed my internal problems.

“I’m not planning on getting another flesh wound.” I gripped onto Maria Mater’s shoulder at the flash of searing heat that ran from my hip into my trap when Medicus applied pressure to the spot and put another layer of wrap on it.

“You didn’t plan on a flesh wound the first time.” He had Maria Mater and Hyacinthus help lay me back down on the gurney.

“True.” I waited for my blood pressure to even out, slipping in and out of the present. Half an hour later and less likely to pass out, I was able to stand up and not bleed all over the clinic floor.

Medicus was not amused with my plan, glowering at me as I buttoned up a white shirt Maria Mater had brought me. “If you’re going to endanger my handiwork, bring Sanctus back. Bring him back safe. And for the love of the first fire, tell him how you actually feel.”

“Medicus?” I pulled a pair of leather suspenders over my shoulders to keep my trousers up.

“You turn puppy-eyed with him.”

A note strangled in my throat.

“Oh, don’t think the rest of us haven’t noticed.” Medicus checked the tightness of my waistband and suspenders.

“Was it that freaking obvious?” I waited for his approval that I was not going to damage his work.

“Hello. Did you see yourself dancing with him at New Years? Everyone in Caeruleum who came knows you’re infatuated. How long have you two been sharing a bed? Of course, it’s obvious!”

“I – we – haven’t…”

“Haven’t what? Don’t go telling me you haven’t had sex yet! Bull.” He crossed his arms.

“Of course not!”

“So you have?”

“No. We haven’t. I knew a lot of kids back during my cadet days who came from homes with multiple siblings. They’d share beds with their brothers and sisters because their parents couldn’t afford more than that. I figured he was used to that with his siblings and tried my damnedest to keep it platonic for him. Not everyone is like me, and I try to not assume they are.” I pulled my trench coat on.

Medicus sighed in exasperation. “No pressure. At all.” He muttered under his breath before speaking up. “You’ve gotta be joking. Boy, go bring him home, and you’d better make sure he knows how you feel.” 

I swallowed my surprise. 

“Now. That coagulant of yours has at least knitted the skin together. I don’t know how much it’s helped with internals. Just don’t do anything stupid. Got it!” he shoved a finger in my face. I nodded my head mutely. “When you get back, you get your butt back in here. The last thing we need is for you to be bleeding internally. And no! Don’t you dare go burning the Dome down around you! I very well like my job and would like to keep doing it!” Medicus warned.

“Sorry, Medicus,” I mumbled quietly.

“You’d better be,” he snapped. His shoulders softened. “I understand, Lunam. I do. I get that firey burn of yours, and your feelings are stuck to it. Come home and bring our Sanctus back with you.”

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Polaris Skies: Ch 26

NSFW: Erotica

Inside the double-wide, the group found sparse living quarters. Basic couch, table, chairs, cabinets hanging off their frames. The flooring had rotten through in a few spots in the hallways. The walls were free of black mould, though, and the group was thankful for that. Dust settled thickly on all the surfaces, casting a fine white sheen against the walls.

“I think we’ll be safe in here for a little while, guys,” Deck said as he checked all the rooms on either side of the main living area. He returned to the group, rubbing his hands along his arms to warm up.

“Probably for the best.” Sun Hee puffed, wiping sweat accumulating under her beanie. Her cheeks splotched in rosy hues. Glassy, her eyes flitted from the room to roam over Deck’s form in frenzied inconsistency. Zola leaned her head on Sun Hee’s shoulder.

Nat watched them, unease slipping down his spine. Deck, Benj, Yeller were all cold by the way they were huddling and shivering. The women and him, though, were warm and panting. The space felt like the central heating was on full blast. Maybe they had caught a cold of some kind, come down with a sickness. It hadn’t been that far of a walk they covered that day, ten – fifteen miles at most.

The wind set to howling as they settled in for the afternoon. They wiped away as much dust from the main room as they could bear while the metal roof shook under the onslaught. Windows rattled in their sashes as a wave of sleet bore down on the side of the building. The group cowered nervously, suddenly not entirely sure if the mobile home would stand up against the storm.

Nat crouched into himself with the next nerve-shattering blast of wind. He had been fighting a headache since the beginning of their morning walk. It was leaving him light-headed. He stumbled, trying to reach the couch. A weird buzz in the back of his brain, and the fire in his stomach told him he was probably going to puke. Yeller and Hana reached to steady him. She flinched away, leaving Yeller to support Nat.

Deck sighed. “Hana, Yeller, you guys take Nat and get him comfortable. The rest of us’ll see ’bout getting this place warm and maybe some food.” He held up the bags of cans they had pilfered out of the old gas station, “We’ll let you know when we’ve got something put together, ‘k?” He waved the three towards a pair of doors at one end of the mobile home. The doors turned out to lead to a small bedroom and a questionable bathroom.

Yeller and Hana eased Nat down onto the mattress in the little bedroom they were assigned to. The trailer house seams were curling from the walls. A halo of tobacco tar ran along the ceiling edge. The queen mattress and frame sat beneath the window, looking out at the old gas station. The blinds had collapsed into a disintegrated pile of dust and metal years ago.

Nat stared vacantly at the floor, trying to calm his stomach. He was burning up. The wolves were restless under his skin. He reached for them to find out what their deal was. They neglected a response, only growing more agitated at his interference.

“Here, come on, Hana.” Yeller motioned the woman over. “Help me get these bandages off.” They slipped Nat’s pea coat off, his shoulders stiff to the movement.

Deck and Benj, during their stay in the cave, had snuck back into town and rummaged warm clothes for everyone. Where they found the winter gear was anyone’s guess.

Following the coat, with work, Yeller and Hana stripped off Nat’s waffle weave long sleeves. It had been the warmer option versus a button-up. It wasn’t hurting him as much to raise his hands above his head recently. Lastly, a compression tank top was used to help hold all of his bindings in place. This one took more effort to get on and off, but it had been well worth the extra time Deck and Benj had spent searching for it.

Freed of his overclothes, Nat looked like a wrapped mummy.

“Conas atá tú?” Yeller inquired.

Nat traced the baseboard with his eyes. He wasn’t cold like he thought he’d be. His skin practically buzzed. The loss of the compression top hadn’t helped him like he thought it would. “Te.” He licked his lips, uncertain how to describe the suffocating constriction in his chest. He rubbed at the bandaging on his bicep that held his left spica on.

“We’ll see if we can help that.” Yeller unravelled the wraps around his ribs. Hana gathered up the cloth and rolled them back into their little bundles. “The blizzard might be rather fortuitous. He needs to rest more than we’ve been able to let him without these things on,” Yeller mumbled to her. She nodded a mute reply.

The holes in Nat’s shoulders were steadily improving. Many of the bruises had yellowed. The hand print on his throat had turned a sickly green shade, and the fist-sized mark on his side was still taking its sweet time dissipating. The red zigzags on his ribs had lightened considerably since the first day.

With the bandages around his ribs removed, Nat finally inhaled fully, releasing the tension in his neck giving him most of his headache. His stomach still burned. It ran up his skin, prickling and irksome, demanding his attention fall on glimpses of muscle and curves. “Thanks,” he whispered. Hands settled on both of his shoulders, one small and dainty, the other large and calloused. He didn’t dare look at either of them, lest he burn away to nothing.

“It’s okay,” Yeller and Hana said in unison, flinching as their skin made contact. They snatched their hands away from Nat’s shoulders as heat reddened the tips of their ears. Nat sighed, sinking to the edge of the bed. His chest tightened, and frustration constricted the back of his neck below his skull. Tears threatened at the corner of his eyes with his desire for everything to be normal again. The timid dance everyone had been circling him was getting old. With some work, he was able to quiet his emotions while waiting for Hana and Yeller to figure out what they were doing.

Sven? Nat reached for the wolf, accepting the creature’s comforting brush when the abyss threatened at the edge of his being.

Brat?

What should I do? Nat tried to crawl into himself. The cold darkness beckoned and promised a solution. It was terrifying, but it was the demon he knew now, and maybe it was better than the world outside. He couldn’t navigate the light much longer with the heat building and frustration threatening to squash him. His skin tingled at every brushing glance of fabric and hands. It was singing, demanding, rolling, and he couldn’t take it.

Well, first thing first, don’t go climbing in here; it’s already crowded and hard to get you out when you turn into a miserable little ball of self-pity. Sven bit back, pushing Nat to stay away from the starless black.

Why did I even bother asking you? Nat collapsed into the comment, his frustration washing into a haze of need. A hug. A brush of a hand along his back in reassurance. A shoulder to lean on.

Good question. Why don’t you go embarrass yourself? That always seems to help the tension in the room. Maybe you should have asked Tereza? Sven badgered. Nat, done with the creature’s grouchy mood, turned his attention to the other wolf.

Tereza? Nat reached for her.

Dijete? Tereza returned, her fur brushing under his skin, raising the heat another degree. Her voice rippled along his nerve endings as shattered glittering glass and punctured his joints.

Why do you have to hurt every time I talk to you? Whatever. Do you have any guidance? Nat implored, a throbbing line of electricity running from his left eye to the back of his head with the conversation.

With Sylvi still here… Hmmm. Can’t for long, but want me to take over for a while? Tereza offered. Nat blanched at the thought, the concept of pain uppermost as he pursued this conversation. He remembered what had happened last time. With Yeller and Hana studiously avoiding eye contact with each other, he figured it might not be such a bad idea. Tereza was Cashia’s mate after all, and maybe Hana would feel more comfortable at the moment talking to another woman.

All right, take the reigns; maybe I can get some rest. Probably coming down sick. I can’t take the pressure in my chest anymore. Nat let Tereza forward, and he receded into the background to watch. Pinpricks shot through his skin and dug into his organs as Tereza took the proffered perch.

Yeller and Hana sensed a shift in Nat and looked down to find his general demeanour changed. He settled his shoulders to sit more squarely, elongating his neck slightly. Yeller held a startled gasp, watching as Nat’s wolf ears grew out. Sure, the women had their fun playing with that change back in the cave, but why was Nat doing it now? They weren’t his usual white, indicative of Sven. They were reddish-brown. Yeller cringed as Cashia went silent at the sight. “Nat?” Yeller slipped a finger along Nat’s middle finger to draw his attention.

“Cashia?” Tereza asked, turning with a smile.

Yeller landed with a thud in the blackness at the back of his mind.

“Tereza, it has been some time.” Cashia kissed her hand. She used the leverage to rise, smoothly manoeuvred around him, skimming across his abs to his back. Rising on tiptoe, she placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“It has been too long, my dear. You know, it’s the end of winter? Poor human stuck with the last of Sylvi and me. He’s not feeling too well,” she cooed. Both Nat and Yeller blinked in the back of their minds as they parsed her comment. Yeller was distinctly aware, though, that Tereza’s words were causing a myriad of reactions in Cashia and in himself in return.

Well, what did you expect? Sven asked Nat as he settled himself into a ball to fall asleep.

What is she doing? Nat gulped.

Playing with your emotions. Sven answered back languidly.

You knew she’d do this, didn’t you? Nat seethed.

Oh, yeah. She’s the perfect individual to settle situations like this. Sven shrugged.

Should I stop her? Nat asked, trying to ease the radiating pain running down his spine while Tereza was front.

I’m gonna leave that up to you. I think it’s more fun to watch. Though, the way she works, you might get slapped in the process; just warning you. Sven shifted deeper into the dark corners. Nat sat stunned in the back of his mind, a tremor running through his subconscious.

“Tereza?” Hana asked, touching her hand to draw her attention. Tereza swivelled to study the woman. Hana shrunk back at the whirling eye colour, her lungs fighting to drag in air. Her heart hit the inside of her rib cage. Heat flushed her body, electricity tracing whorls under her skin.

“I wonder, Cashia?” Tereza eased around her partner and purposefully stepped toward Hana. Tereza reached out to her, gently gliding thin fingers into Hana’s hair. She pulled Hana forward until they fit together like a pair of puzzle pieces. Every curve moulded against hard muscle. Hana, not sure how to respond, melted as lips nuzzled her neck and cheek. Tereza turned a piercing eye on Cashia over Hana’s shoulder. “I wonder who’s having the most difficulty now?” she whispered, nibbling Hana’s lips until she opened to the pressure and their tongues could dance.

Please don’t kill me, Hana, Yeller! Nat screamed in his personal abyss, razors dragging parallel lines below the skin covering his shoulders. The heat in his stomach was melting into a familiar tingling numbness that made forbidden promises. A roar at the back of his head he had originally thought was a headache resembled something else more clearly now that he found himself dragged along by the creature.

Sven‽ Nat demanded the white wolf’s attention.

Something wrong?

Is Tereza…? Nat gulped, fixated on Tereza’s antics as red hot pokers dragged his scapula.

Is she what? Sven rolled over.

Don’t make me say this… Nat begged. The image of Sun Hee and Zola flashed through his head. Red cheeks, feverish. They hadn’t been paying much attention to the road either. Were they suffering the same feelings? Sven snorted in the darkness. Is Tereza in heat? Nat’s voice cracked in his head.

Wow, and I thought there were no brains up here. Sven wiggled, his paws flipping.

Tension gathered through Nat’s subconscious. What’s going to happen to me if she’s in such a state?

If Yeller doesn’t take over soon, Cashia’s probably going to fulfil some of your fantasies instead. Sven replied.

Cashia pulled Tereza away from Hana at about the same time Hana landed a solid slap to Nat’s face. To add insult to injury, Tereza pushed Nat forward and went to recede, his wolf ears changing to his typical white.

“Tereza!” Cashia demanded.

“I’m so sorry, Hana!” Nat begged at the same point. Cashia pushed against him hard, a fierce kiss crushing his lips.

“Damn it,” Cashia spat, “Nat, give me back my mate!”

Nat stalled against the tower that was Yeller when possessed by Cashia. Dripping acid. Blackness. Hands pulled at his skin. Other memories flooded in uninvited. He pulled at the sensation of rope slipping along his wrists. “Ruben, tóg go bog é!” Nat pleaded, hoping that might push Yeller forward.

“Not happening this time. Give me back my woman,” Cashia growled, fighting both his own emotions and the battle Yeller was putting up, trying to come forward. An acrid punch of fear permeated the room.

A bang at the door startled all of them. They looked up to find Deck, a displeased frown knotting his brow. Hana was close to tears, her face red, and Yeller, his hands were wrapped around Nat’s shoulders in a death grip. Nat’s eyes had sunk into the hollows, his face pale, white wolf ears laying flat to his head. “What the hell is going on in here‽” demanded their leader.

“Give me Dietrich,” Cashia demanded, retaining possession of Nat.

“Let go of him, Cashia.” Dietrich barred his fangs.

“Not until I talk to my woman again,” Cashia hissed.

“Cashia, you and Tereza might enjoy an s/m relationship all you want, but you’re scaring him. You have better control than this, and you bloody know it.” Dietrich pointed to Nat. Cashia’s gaze dropped to Nat’s large green eyes. He was chewing his lip, trying to keep from sobbing. Red blotches covered his cheeks. He was shaking. Exasperated, Cashia released his grip. Nat tumbled back to the edge of the bed.

“Now, I want an orderly explanation of what’s going on here. I know you don’t go for humiliation,” Dietrich demanded.

“Hana and I got Nat’s bandage off when Tereza took over. She proceeded to greet me and kiss Hana before disappearing again. I’m just trying to get him to give me Tereza back,” Cashia summarised.

“Figured Tereza was going to butt in soon. The others are in the same boat right now; I hope you realise that. So, as it is, Heinrich and I have our hands full. I have enough to deal with here,” Dietrich chastised. “You three,” he pointed at Yeller, Nat, and Hana, “need to sort your emotions out. And Cashia, Tereza, Sylvi, and Sven, it’s not nice to play the kids’ like this. Talk about a hormone problem.” He slammed the door shut behind him.

Yeller pushed past Cashia’s crumbling defences. “Nat?” he knelt in front of his love.

“Um, I’m…I’m okay,” Nat bit out, trying to suppress the shaking in his shoulders, the pressing numb desire in his gut, and the slime of cold concrete rubbing against his memories.

“Damn it, that wasn’t a good idea. Why did Tereza come out? You never let her out,” Yeller demanded.

“It hurts.” Nat pushed the heel of his hand against his eye.

“What hurts? Are you okay? I’m sorry for letting Cashia get away with what he did.” Yeller lifted his hands to make sure he wasn’t touching Nat’s skin.

“Tereza. She feels like acid when she comes out. I don’t let her out because it feels like my skin is getting pulled off me with a pair of tweezers, and it doesn’t go away quickly.” He tightened one arm around his other, balling up on the bed.

“Oh, Nat.” Yeller settled a hand on his knee.

Nat dragged in a harried breath, fighting the swamping heat trickling sweat down his back and the restriction threatening to strangle him. He took in the rattle of the metal roof in the snowstorm, counting the reverberations to centre himself and escape the pain. Four hundred later and he dislodged his hands to settle one on Yeller’s fingers, able to drag in a full breath without crying. The itch of need scrabbled about under his breastbone and at his hips, and he dearly wished that he wasn’t falling into a million pieces.

“Nat?” Hana whispered. Trembling fingers pressed swollen lips.

He sighed, trying to gain some sense of self-preservation. “I don’t know how to act when I’m around both of you at the same time, so I went and asked Sven for some help, and he said Tereza could fix the situation. She said she didn’t have a lot of time but could see about helping, so I let her out.” He looked up at both Hana and Yeller beseechingly. “Honest. I didn’t know she was planning to do that. I didn’t know she would do that. I should have after last time. I’m such a moron. I’m so sorry, Hana. I know I promised you that I wouldn’t let Sven do that to you, but I forgot about Tereza.” His fingers fumbled at a wrinkle of his pants. His ears had lowered balefully. “Can I talk to Cashia, Yeller?” Nat asked, his nail catching in a loose thread in the hole in his jeans.

Yeller glanced at him carefully. Cashia. Do you wanna explain exactly what is going on? And you better apologize for terrorizing my lover or else I’ll find a way to draw and quarter you when I get you out of me. Yeller demanded.

Heat. Cashia responded, low. He sounded guarded, almost in pain.

Heat? Yeller asked, not following.

Two females in a male. Who would have thought? Cashia asked.

Cashia, you cryptic bastard, stop talking in riddles and tell me what the hell is going on with Nat and don’t you dare dodge this apology or else I’m taking a long walk into that blizzard out there. Yeller hissed.

Tereza and Sylvi have gone into heat. Cashia curled around to sit with his head down. Yeller regarded the beast in his subconscious with barely restrained fury. The creature continued his explanation, but Yeller had given up on the frustrating monologue and the tornadic demand building in his gut at the flitting images Cashia failed to keep hidden. He forcibly pushed the wolf forward.

He hadn’t expected such a steep reaction from Cashia or himself. The wolf ears. He had never thought of such a thing before. A blowtorch lit in his gut when he first saw Nat’s ears. He never thought he was that kind of a person, but it had a certain draw.

Cashia stood up, easing his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight to create a more powerful, nonchalant stance.

“Cashia? You and Tereza…?” Nat swallowed. He rose, challenging, uncomfortable at being looked down on.

“We’re not the most conventional of lovers.” Cashia shrugged, avoiding Nat’s eyes, aware that several spots of blue bruising on his arms were his doing.

“I don’t know why she did that or why she suddenly went and hid. Sven and Tereza are avoiding me now. At least the running needles have stopped. I promise to let you talk to her when I can get her to come out again.” Nat crossed his arms over his chest, rubbing a thumb along the tender spots under his collarbone. He couldn’t shake the burning, heady sensation drowning his senses and rendering his decision-making skills useless. The more he fought it, the more the cactus-barbed memories dug under his nails and into the soft spot at his lower back. Relaxing into the warmth and giving in to the numbness was a trip in trusting himself. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of that yet.

“And I promise to restrain myself better. I apologize for scaring you and hurting you.” Cashia pushed his hair out of his face. Nat studied the floor and nodded, a sense of foreboding and relief mixing in his gut, his ears drooping.

Hana eased onto the bed next to where he stood. Nat held himself from touching her, aware of her proximity. She had regained her composure. “You don’t know how to act around us when it’s the three of us?” She asked, her voice soft under the beat of snow on the window. Nat’s ears flipped toward her. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Do any of us?” Yeller supplied, covering for Nat. They had come to some kind of mutual agreement. Nat glanced away, his ears continuing their twitch. Yeller, intrigued, skimmed the furry softness.

Nat met his eyes, drowning under the new nerve senses. His breathing shallowed, cheeks flaming red, and leaned into the touch. It felt too good not to.

“Are they soft?” Hana whispered. Nat, enraptured under the touch, melted as her voice climbed up his spine.

When he wanted to shy away and hide, Yeller captured his gaze, rubbing a spot more firmly. “Very.” Yeller’s pitch lowered, smouldering. His gaze flicked to Hana momentarily. Though she didn’t have all of Sylvi, she too was probably going through the same feelings. Her cheeks were flushed, only adding to his suspicions. Her glassy gaze was focused on Nat’s wolf ears. “Touch them,” Yeller commanded quietly.

A pit dropped in Nat’s gut at the tone. It slithered over him, rubbed against him. Heat skittered up his face. She crept behind him. Resting a hand on his shoulder, as if reassuring him she was there or asking permission, she ran her fingertip along the soft fur. Yeller’s hand massaged one side. His ear flicked as Hana tested the tip of it, watching it bounce. He relaxed into the attention. Nat let out a harried breath, unaware that he did so.

A throb ran through Yeller. Nat’s eyes had glazed over under the onslaught. He swallowed at the sight.

“They’re so fluffy,” Hana admired faintly.

“Mm,” Yeller grunted. He watched Hana’s other hand settle on Nat’s side, below his spica. Yeller’s gaze wavered across his chest. He was having his own distinctive problems. Cashia mercilessly fed the fire burning in his gut. Yeller slid fingers into Nat’s silvery-white hair, down to his chin.

Nat closed his eyes, enraptured, yet nervous as a slight black fog tried to dash across his brain. He turned into the hand, lips grazing Yeller’s thumb. Yeller’s breath hitched as he watched Nat’s tongue dart out to taste the saltiness of his skin. Heated breath bathed his hand. Yeller leaned in, gently pressing his thigh into Nat’s crotch, enjoying the groan that escaped his muffled throat. “Tá tú go hálainn1,” Yeller whispered in his ear, rubbing suggestively.

Nat glanced up, embarrassed. “Tá tú ar cheann chun labhairt2.” His voice hitched at the friction Yeller was causing. Hana’s hands wandered on his side. It swept up, barely brushing his already sensitive nipples. Swallowing, he averted his eyes from Yeller’s prodding gaze. He nipped gently at Yeller’s thumb, nicking it with a fang.

“You know,” Hana’s voice poured over him like honey, “Sun Hee and Zola figured out how to grow out their tails too.”

Yeller’s met her eyes at Nat’s shoulder. He didn’t need to know that. Damn it, I want to see it. No. Yes. The images infiltrating his brain brushed against already sensitive nerve endings. Cashia chuckled in the dark spaces.

His gaze flickered back to Nat’s feathered eyelashes. He did not need to have that picture in his head. Cashia laughed indulgently as swirling images flashed in and out of his desires. Yeller’s breathing shallowed out as a sweet numbness settled across his gut, a pinpoint throb interrupting him. He quaked, trying to regain his voice. It came out rough. “Show me.”

Nat, lost in the heady high of heat, reached for the button of his pants. He fumbled, his fingers shaking. Yeller, impatient, flipped the buttons for him. Nat shivered as a separate pair of hands rubbed against the v of his hips, easing the waistband of his jeans down. A shiver ran up his back. The material pooled around his feet. He stepped out of them, flicking them to a corner. A tightness crawled through his chest, and his lower gut as the heat abated for a moment, letting his mind connect to that abyss perpetually floating at the edges. “Don’t look at me,” he pleaded, trying to cover dark spots lingering around his hips and thighs.

“Do you not want to do this? We can stop.” Yeller drew Nat’s fingers into his. “You’ve already dealt with Cashia going off the deep end; I can’t see this as good for your mental health right now.”

“I want the burning in my chest to stop.” Nat pulled Yeller’s hands closer, placing one over his heart, one on the hip Hana wasn’t brushing. “Make it stop.”

“I can’t quite make the room dark if you don’t want us seeing you. Want your clothes back?” Yeller crowded closer, giving him a tower to hide within.

“No. I want to not be reminded of them.”

“Them? Sex might do that, Nat. We probably shouldn’t. Even if the wolves are being horny brats.” Yeller eased his arms around Nat’s waist to draw him closer as Hana backed up to give them space.

“Do you not feel it? I’m strung tight. You could pluck me, and I’d probably vibrate a clear c right now.” Nat drew in a breath to fight the shaking in his fingers.

“Cashia’s not playing fair, and my imagination is having a field day, but you’re setting the pace. If you don’t want to, we won’t, and the dogs can live with it.” He tucked Nat’s head under his chin, the white wolf ear flicking against his jaw.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be clean enough that I’ll feel like you can touch me without being disgusted.” His voice cracked in Yeller’s shoulder. He gulped, “but we need Sylvi whole, and I really need the burning to stop.”

“The wolves can eat mud. This is you. I can say it until I’m blue in the face: you will never disgust me, not for being you, not for what happened to you. If this is something you can’t or won’t do, then don’t. Stop sacrificing yourself for everyone else,” Yeller demanded.

“Maybe getting her out of my system will make this easier.”

“Is that something you want to do right now?”

“I’m being pulled in too many directions, I’m horny as hell, and I want to feel like I can be normal for a hot minute,” Nat confided.

Yeller regarded him sceptically before sweeping the room and the window with his eyes and sighed. “Why not?” Yeller’s low voice slid along Nat’s shoulders, sending heat spiralling. “Where’s that tail I’ve heard so much about?”

Nat’s ears flipped back at the question, a note dancing through the quiet of the room. In a couple of seconds, a fluffy white tail wagged well to the floor. Yeller’s breath caught in his throat. Heat wrapped around his gut and pooled low, throbbing an unending demand.

Nat relaxed into Hana’s massage down his back to the root of his tail. New nerve endings. She kissed the hollow spot between his shoulder blades. Yeller eased a hand behind his head. Nat leaned into the soft touch. Yeller tunnelled his fingers into his hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck. Nat swallowed, fire racing through his limbs. Yeller eased closer, towering over him. He feathered kisses along his chin until Nat’s gut tightened around a coiled spring.

Yeller rested his head against Nat’s shoulder, his gaze falling on Nat’s stiffness. He was trying to regain some level of control, but a translucent bead of liquid had gathered at the tip. Yeller feathered his thumb along it, spreading the liquid. Nat uncertainly swayed, assaulted from both sides. Yeller, aware of Hana’s hands, reached for one. Hana stiffened instinctively before relaxing, allowing Yeller to direct her. He led her to Nat’s base, encouraging her to encircle it tightly. Nat’s audible groan burned through all of them.

She rubbed carefully, testing. Yeller almost buckled under the mewls rising from Nat’s constricted throat.

Yeller had not released his hair. He was strung out, nerves on fire. Thin, translucent dampness allowed Hana’s hand to glide over his shaft, ringing him out.

“What are we going to do with you?” Yeller kissed the side of his mouth. Nat was panting, unable to control his breathing. Heat, a ticklish prickling, lashed out through Yeller’s insides, burned at him, numbing his skin. “Hana?” he asked, courteous of the other person in the room. She looked up at the man, beseeching. “Do you want to do this?” he asked for Nat, knowing he would at least have afforded her such a courtesy.

“Where do you want me?” she stammered.

“You know what we’re doing?” he inquired, his mouth inches from Nat’s ear. His breath was warm on his fur. Hana’s hand hadn’t stopped its incessant movement.

“I think so. You going to be alright with me in here?” she hesitated.

Nat hissed, a frustrated moan escaped him with the loss of her hands as they relented. “Behave,” chided Yeller. Nat’s knees buckled when Yeller nipped his ear. “Easy.” Cloth rustled behind him. A creak of the bed told him Hana had found a perch. “You ready?” Yeller nibbled at the corner of Nat’s jaw. A stifled groan answered him. Yeller let go of Nat’s hair, turning him to face Hana.

Her cheeks were burning as brightly as his. Creamy skin against pitch-black hair made Nat’s breath hitch. Sven rose in his gut, demanding. He thought he was hard before. He glanced back at Yeller imploringly. Yeller nudged him a step forward. Nat stumbled, tumbling onto Hana, pinning her to the bed. His breathing was harried, his gut burning. His tip brushed against the curls covering her warmth.

“Ha-Hana?” he tried to say between controlling breaths. Her skin burned against his arms. She reached between them, stroking him. He moaned, his back curling up. His ears twitched down under the pleasure.

Yeller watched, entranced at the buckling of Nat’s hips. Maybe it wasn’t completely bad that Tereza and Sylvi had gone into heat, he conceded to himself. He left them to get comfortable, making for his pack. He had stowed a vial of lube he’d lifted from the old house, knowing now was a good time to put it to use.

Hana pulled her legs up, leading Nat to her entrance. His throat clicked as he tried to swallow. He eased in, and the world stopped spinning. The sweet heat, the tightness that gripped him, her soft inner thighs against his hips. He lost himself to the starburst. She arched back to meet him as he slid his full length into her. Both of them gasped at the sensation. A tremble ran through his legs. The bittersweet numbness of pleasure that had been wrapping around his gut spread to his chest, scattering to the back of his head. Gently, he slipped a thumb against her nub to watch her breath catch.

What are you doing?

Something you clearly never read up on. Poor Sylvi.

What do you mean by that? Sven hissed.

Look, this may be my first time having sex with a man and a woman, doesn’t mean I haven’t watched porn or read up on what to do with a person. She’s not going to get much out of this other than a faked orgasm if I don’t give her a bit more attention than whatever this little warm-up was. Going and poking her a few times is only going to leave her feeling like a third wheel, and after that experience back in the garage, I swear, no one I ever go near will come out of something with me feeling used. So, back off and let the humans have their fun, wolf brain. He pursued his fixation until her nails dug into his shoulders, and a sigh told him she found heaven.

A hand brushed his tail. He flicked it away for a second, startled from his fascination. He glanced to find Yeller’s possessive gaze meeting his. The throbbing in his lower gut pushed through to his shaft. Hana’s gasp told him she felt his reaction. He didn’t know how much more he would be able to take.

Yeller’s power mark burned unsteadily. A different sensation emanated from it from the usual. The warm emotion from Nat was warped, almost sharp, like a sword wrapped in fleece.

Lust burned at him. The white-haired man had lost his sense of embarrassment. Yeller grabbed the root of Nat’s tail, gently pulling from the base to the tip, admiring the sensation of long, silky fur. Nat quivered under the onslaught. He went to turn to look at Hana’s more than alluring breasts, but a distinctive squeak of a cork against glass caught his attention. He swivelled his head back to Yeller.

The golden-haired man had a cork between his teeth, a tiny vial in one hand. Nat watched Yeller pour half the content along his backside. The waif shuddered at the cold viciousness of the oil. His breath hitched, suddenly nervous. Hana’s warmth around his shaft convulsed, gripping him tightly. Nat’s eyes closed involuntarily at the bubble of ecstasy bursting in his limbs.

Yeller poured the remaining half of the oil along his length while Nat was distracted. The drummer kneaded his lover’s butt gently, rubbing his shaft at the same time. Nat shifted away from the delving fingers for a second, startled and uncertain. He was feeling too good, though, not to relent to the wandering digits.

Nat relaxed as Yeller blanket him, one of his hands snaked across his chest, supporting him gently. “An ndéanann sé dochar duit3?” Yeller whispered, worried, in Nat’s ear. He wasn’t entirely certain of how much weight Nat could support yet on his ribs and shoulders.

Nat turned to face Yeller’s close mouth, kissing it lightly. He had entered into some level of neutral numbness, the ecstasy that coursed through his body diluting the pain of his chest and shoulders. “Beidh mé ceart go leor4,” Nat responded in stuttering breaths, aware of Yeller’s other rubbing fingers. Nat’s skin burned under his touch.

He kept his hand over Nat’s heart as he eased a single oiled digit into his tightness. Nat gasped, his body fighting, yielding to the intrusion. His heartbeat accelerated. Yeller slowed his invasion. He took his time, considerate of Nat’s varying reactions. His ears, his gasping breaths, the ever-persistent twitch of his tail all stacked together to lull Yeller into a state of bliss.

Nat’s couldn’t help but move in Hana, the tight heat encompassing his shaft stirring him, teasing him. He leaned in, enjoying Hana’s spicy scent, nipping at a gloriously aroused nipple. She arched up to meet him, his shaft driving into a sweet spot.

A second digit pushed its way in, easier than before. He moaned pleasurably. Hana’s hands brushed at his cheeks. Her eyes were closed, the sweet ache of euphoria spread across her face. Yeller found a spot Nat had never been aware of before. He practically crumpled as white stars burst into his senses. It was all he could do not to cum under that beautiful pressure. He throbbed; his body tightened reflexively around Yeller, drawing him in. Gingerly, Yeller pulled out of him. Nat stiffened as a different, larger heat pressed against him, suddenly scared of the fog that pressed in. Repressed memories flashed up. Yeller waited, sensing a cold sweep across his power mark. He lingered, not wanting to press his vantage.

Nat’s breathing was shaky as Yeller waited on the power mark to warm again. “Ar mhaith leat dom a stopadh[5]?” Yeller breathed in Nat’s ear.

Nat gritted his teeth, hating himself for turning coward so suddenly. He wanted this. He tried to throw the flashbacks away. He wanted to give Yeller everything. “Tá mé réidh, ach a bheith milis. Tá roinnt tromluí orm6.” Nat bit out as he moved back, not only to encourage Hana’s grinding hips but to encourage Yeller.

“Ní féidir liom iarracht a dhéanamh ach. Anáil, mo ghrá7,” Yeller whispered in Nat’s ear as he pressed in. The oil made it easier, but Nat was so tight, Yeller could only hope he was doing as he had promised. It felt like an eternity, but finally, he buried himself to the hilt.

Nat was losing to the sweet numbness, knowing he was so close. Then Yeller began gently moving. The golden-haired man pressed his sweet spot mercilessly. Nat arched into the feeling, accentuating it, deepening it. Yeller pulled his hips to him, accelerating his speed, thrusting forcefully. Nat’s sweet mewls only stoked his fire more.

Nat no longer could quite meet up with his ability to think. “Pl -plea…huh, please,” stuttered the waif stuck between two heavens, begging for the release he was so close to reaching. That simple admission sent shock waves rippling through Hana. Her grip tightened around him spasmodically. She curled into him, her nails biting at his flesh as pleasure swept over her.

The roaring in the base of his head, the numbing, tingling spring wrapped in his chest, the heat that encompassed his body tightened painfully until he felt something snap, like a rope pushed beyond its tension. Wave after wave coursed through him, spilling himself into Hana’s heat. Yeller buried himself once more as Nat’s body constricted around him. Rough hands pulled Nat’s hips firmly. He rolled into the feeling. Warmth filled him. Hot, shallow gasps fluttered against his back where Yeller rested his head.

They stayed there a minute, breathing, trying to find themselves. Yeller pushed once more, ringing himself dry. Nat was left with a sense of loss as Yeller extracted himself. Hana stared up at him, sultry contentment hooding her eyes. He ran his tongue along her breast, gently nipping at her nipple once more before pulling himself from her warmth. She shivered at the movement.

He rolled to his side, curling around her, his tail limp, his ears shifting contentedly. He watched Yeller out of the corner of his eye. The man had somehow managed to extract a couple torn-up clothes to clean themselves with from his pack and handed them to Nat and Hana before laying down on the other side of Nat. He sighed, content.

“You alright?” Hana traced a nail across Nat’s spica.

“Tired now,” he muttered against her hair.

“Your shoulders? And the wolves?” She straightened the bandaging that had bunched in their fervour.

“Sore. Think I’m going to be out for a while. Wolves seem to have backed down. You going to be okay? We didn’t have a condom.” A flash of fear pinged from Nat’s soles to the top of his head.

“Curse of being a bird mutant, I have pretty inconsistent cycles, so I’m not worried.” Hana shrugged, but her hand went to brush at her stomach in thought.

Yeller tensed by Nat’s side. “That was a bad idea.”

“You seemed into it,” Hana teased.

Yeller weaselled his hand between Nat and Hana to rest a hand around the man’s lower stomach. “No, well, yes, I enjoyed myself. But, yeah, should have had a condom on hand for something like this. Didn’t even think about it.”

“If something happens, it happens. Where the hell would you find a condom in this day and age? One that isn’t dried out and gross?” Hana brushed at Nat’s arm where it lifted her breasts.

“If something does happen, tell me. I don’t want you hiding it for some reason. We’re here, and this would be my fault for not pulling out.” Nat rose on an arm to look down at the woman next to him.

“And if something did, and I told you?” Her brows furrowed a fraction, giving away a touch of anxious fear.

“I don’t know? You’re leading on that, your body. I don’t know where you’re at in keeping it or getting rid of it and after what happened with Raphael…but we’d find you what you need, whatever you decide.” Nat brushed hair from her cheek.

“Not having a hospital around or a good supply of food makes me nervous, but I really would rather not bleed out from something done at home. Hah, home. What home? We’re in a freezing trailer with no clean water or sanitation. We’ll play it by ear. Again, I’m really not nervous about this. I’ve probably only cycled twice in the last ten months. I don’t think there’s anything to worry for.” She gave him a small, reassuring smile.

Nat wasn’t keen on leaving the conversation this way, but he nodded and lay back.

They lay for a time, exhaustion ringing out their strength. Nat tucked Hana’s head under his chin, pulling her small frame into his embrace as he rested his back against Yeller’s chest.

Yeller wrapped an arm around his waist, curling around him. Nat’s tail draped over his leg, warm and soft. Yeller discovered he was stroking the fur unconsciously. Nat smiled, fulfilled.

Nat shifted at a burn down his spine but was too exhausted to pay it much mind. He knew what it was, though. “Power mark, Ruben?” Nat whispered, trying not to disturb the sleeping woman in his arms.

“How’d you guess?” murmured Yeller happily.

“It’s complex,” Nat purred, trying to identify it. He could visualise it as many small lines, but it wasn’t an image like Hana’s collar or Yeller’s Celtic dogs.

“Do you want to know?” Yeller asked, a little embarrassed.

“I want to guess,” Nat played.

“Okay, try,” Yeller laughed quietly.

“It’s a pattern of some kind,” mused Nat.

“Sort of,” Yeller avoided.

“There are…three of them?” Nat asked, realizing suddenly that three different emotions ran the length of his spine.

“You’re doing pretty good,” admitted Yeller.

“The middle one is warm…reassuring. I feel… comforted,” Nat stated, curiosity lacing his words.

“Protection,” Yeller supplied quietly. He was becoming embarrassed, actually having Nat analyze the marks.

“The lowest one is like the middle one, reassuring, but softer, hopeful,” Nat mused. It was right at the base of where his tail met his spine. The whole set of power marks ran the length of his spine from his lowest cervical vertebrae to his sacrum.

“Devotion, I think,” Yeller whispered, leaning his head more fully into Nat’s back, pulling to him tighter.

“The top, I’m having difficulty understanding,” Nat admitted. He couldn’t place it. It felt like…like warm water, like a relaxing shower. It washed over him. The constriction in his chest he had felt since the events in the town were…lesser.

Yeller hesitated. “They’re ogham fewsets.” Nat nodded. It was almost inevitable that Yeller would know at least a couple. He shivered from the cold at his back as Yeller moved back from him. Fingers gently traced his spine near his tail at his sacrum. He was giving Nat a sense of the shapes. The first was a heart shape, a twenty-four-pointed star radiating out of it. Hooks and a type of lined box sat in the centre of it. “This is an open heart,” he elaborated. Nat shivered at the ticklishness of the act. It was small, not much larger than his middle finger and thumb forming a circle.

Yeller trailed his finger up Nat’s spine to trace the next one. This one was significantly larger than the open-heart ogham. It ran the length of his lumbar, stopping shy of his thoracic. It spread out towards his obliques and down, only a finger width from mingling with the open heart. It was cross-shaped, the middle inscribed with a circle. Cross-hatching occupied the circle, while each of the arms of the cross contained many small lines. His tail twitched, out of ticklishness or impatient eagerness, he wasn’t sure. “This is considered a ‘major’ protection fewset. I can’t say that the mark itself will protect you, but it is my promise that I will keep. You will be safe,” Yeller’s voice hitched in his throat.

“Ruben,” Nat protested quietly. He turned his head toward Yeller. He caught the sight of a tear escaping Yeller’s guarded gaze.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you,” Yeller bit out, trembling.

“You’re here now, Ruben. I couldn’t ask for more.” Nat rested his head against Yeller’s shoulder, trying to comfort him.

“Nat,” Yeller squeezed him, his emotions a wreck.

“What’s the last one?” Nat asked, hoping it would distract. Yeller traced it once. Again, it was a finger length from the last ogham. This one ran to his neck, shy of where his shirt collar would lay. Most of it was hidden under the spica, but Yeller traced it, assured of its complete shape. It took up much of his shoulders. A large rectangle with lines slashing out towards his shoulders and cross-hatching contained a symmetrical line full of small markings. A sideways cross extended out towards what felt like the shape of animals. The feeling of Yeller tracing the shape of this particular ogham fewset seemed to release the last of Nat’s tension, lulling him into a sense of security, unlike the protection shape. “It’s a combination of three fewsets. The primary is a consecration fewset. A cleansing energy, purity,” Yeller murmured, kissing the centre of it. “The one on the left of the rectangle is a guardian, the one on the right is a warrior,” he traced the smaller set of lines that extended from the centre.

Nat’s back was covered in dark brown lines, like henna. “Thank you,” Nat murmured, pulling Hana’s resting form closer to him with one hand and grasping Yeller’s arm, still wrapped around his waist, encouraging him to curl closer to him once again. He closed his eyes, exhausted and happy.

[1] You are beautiful

[2] You are one to talk.

[3] Does it hurt you?

[4] I’ll be alright

[5] Do you want me to stop?

[6] I’m ready, just be gentle. I have some nightmares.

[7] I can only try. Breath, my love.

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

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Fyskar: Ch 16

Eoin, bleary-eyed and numb, brought the room into focus. He had never been in it before directly. The rag rug smelled of sheep. He blinked again, his eyes focusing on his left bracer, then the wall of the room. There was sparse decoration in the room save for a box bed, carved trunks, and the myriad-coloured rug.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, his head still throbbing. Rubbing his hands along his face and through his hair, he banished the pain. The physician dragged himself off the warm rug and stumbled to the door. Easing it open, he peered out into the dimly lit main room.

Seonaid and Fearchar sat at the little table, she at some mending, he whittling away at another of his tiny birds. His hired hand glanced at the creak in the door.

Sorry about that. Eoin’s shoulders slumped against the door frame. He drew in a ragged breath, willing himself to move beyond the memories nagging at the back of his brain. The trapped man walked into the room and stood near the fireplace, absorbing the warmth.

“Dinnae ye mind, Eoin. We pushed ye to tell us when ye were knackered. Can’nae be ‘elped.” Fearchar gently set the little statue on the table and picked up another small block.

What are those for? Eoin pointed to the accruing flock of birds.

“Send ’em outta the mainland where’s a couple shops like to sell little trinkets ta the sight seein’ nobility. Is nae a lot, but is somethin’ I enjoy doin’ when there’s snow and nothin’ else up here.”

Eoin nodded, accepting the answer. He recalled a different carpenter creating beautifully simple furniture and the telltale scrolls across all his works.

“You all right?” Seonaid asked.

Eoin nodded sluggishly, easing himself onto the bed frame. I was tired. Sorry about that disorientation.

“You’re doing better though, aye?” she pressed.

I can journey if that’s what you’re asking, he offered. Maybe he could keep some of his memories securely locked away with some luck.

“Do you need to eat?” Seonaid nodded to the pot near the low fire.

He shook his head. Eoin wasn’t hungry. It had been a few hours, but the sleep had helped him immensely. Shall we? he asked. Seonaid and Fearchar reached out and dove in.

In the darkness of the void, the forest of Ethiopia, Egret’s Nest, Eoin paced his firepit. “What you saw back there. I -” He shrugged, unable to put words to it. “Here’s what lead up to that.”

The room opened to them, revealing the prince sitting on a long bench with other men in court attire, deep in discussion. The black-haired man looked up, a malicious smile scampering across his face.

Eoin shifted under the hawk-like stare. The prince dismissed the men who left, shaking their heads, mumbling between themselves. The Fyskar turned palace property glanced back at the shutting door. The prince approached him, and it took everything in Eoin not to run, to try to hide. The royal appraised his acquisition, pulling at the delicate chain of the bracers. Eoin raised his hands to allow the prince a closer look. The man muttered something. Eoin was becoming more and more frustrated at his lack of understanding the hissing language.

The prince dropped the chain and reached for Eoin’s neck. “A pair of jesses for a flighty hawk, though it looks like your prior owner thought to collar you like a dog.” He fingered the torc thoughtfully. Eoin pulled away from the man. The prince reached to rest his hand across Eoin’s cheek, his thumb brushing the village doctor’s lips, intentions swamping his system.

Eoin swallowed. He grabbed the prince’s hand that fiddled with his torc. “Take anything you want of me as long as my family is safe and the torc stays.” He handed the giant his freedom.

“Whatever the little white bird wants.” The prince dragged the white-haired man to him by the chain, kissing him roughly.

Eoin threw the vision away, pulling Fearchar and Seonaid into his inky black void. He paced in the depths, rubbing at the back of his head. Fearchar stood stunned, his eyes bulging.

“E-Eoin?” Fearchar cleared his throat. The physician turned to the handyman, his face set in a pained grimace. He paced back to the redhead and waited, gritting his teeth. The walls built up, crushing them.

“He took everything?” Fearchar’s voice echoed in the quiet.

Eoin shifted, unable to meet the man’s eyes. “You could say that.”

“Um…” Seonaid searched for something, anything to change the path of this conversation. “How did you learn your sign language?” She reached for a safe question. Eoin was not ready to face them yet with some of his emotions.

Dim light woke him. He had fallen asleep at his work table once again. Eoin had been teaching himself to read the prince’s language. The script and word order were complicated. He was, however, learning a great deal of new medical methodologies for his effort. Combining his people’s customs with this material was exhilarating. Falling asleep at the work table was becoming a habit.

Since the boys had been sent off to train with tutors in Isfahan, he no longer found it worth his time to make it back to his bed-chamber. He would see them soon, though, for a break. Eoin was excited to see how far they had advanced.

A hiccuping mewl echoed through the halls. The physician closed his eyes and listened to the sound. A note sounded familiar to him. He rubbed away the sleep at the corner of his eyelids and contemplated the next task he needed to complete.

Looking at the mess spread out on his table, he chastised himself for falling asleep on a scroll. Eoin had ink and kohl smudges across his skin and his shirt. He grimaced in distaste. That would take work to get out. The whooping mewls echoed again down the hall.

He scrambled from his desk. The physician knew that sound. Eoin pulled bottles from his drawers in a hurry, checking concentrations. He stuffed them all into an oversized clutch and dashed from his room, startling a servant cleaning the floors. Eoin ducked an apology, rushed down the slick tile, and turned a corner, following the cry. A flight of stairs down and a dash across another hall delivered him in front of a pair of massive, intricately carved wooden doors.

Guards barred his way with lethal spears. Eoin drew to a halt. The hiccupping wails were strained and garbled. Women chattered loudly with worry on the other side of the door. The men, directing spears at his chest, shouted orders at him. Eoin backed away, trying to look behind them. He paced a step, the men not giving up on whatever they were shouting about.

Heavy steps echoed in the hall from the direction he had come. A voice asked him a question, Eoin knew that much, but he still didn’t know what the man said. Mirza approached him in steady strides. The guards took up yelling at both Eoin and the prince.

The prince’s physician pointed to the door frantically, holding up the bag. Mirza pushed the bag down and told him something. The guards continued their tirade, and Eoin hunched in on himself, his heart hammering in his chest. With his teeth, he angrily pulled the glove off his hand. Mirza, anticipating a sudden issue, threw his cloak up between the guards and the white-haired man.

Eoin grabbed Mirza’s hand and drove him deep into the void, frustration rippling through his core. The giant bore the brunt of the force.

“The baby is sick! He has to have medicine. If he keeps crying like that, he’ll breathe too fast. He’ll choke. He…” Eoin pushed his restlessness at the prince. He had to help. “I’ve seen this before with my people. My daughter almost -“

“This is not my place to be, and neither is it yours, White Bird. This is my father’s harem, and we should not be here,” Mirza tried to dissuade the man.

“I don’t understand? The child -” Eoin lashed out with confusion.

“We aren’t allowed in there,” Mirza replied calmly, absorbing the emotion like a sponge.

“Who is?” Eoin dragged in deep breaths. Spiders crawled across his shoulders. His chest constricted, and rushing blood in his ears provided him with tunnel vision. Eoin dropped Mirza from the void, scared he might do more than he wanted to in there.

Mirza turned to the guards and issued a command. The two quieted, looking at each other uncertainly. Mirza took up Eoin’s hand once more. 

“If I can’t go in, bring the child out. He has to be treated,” Eoin begged again.

“Let me get my father. He will sort this out. Wait here, and don’t move from this spot.” Mirza pointed to a large tile. Eoin let go and stepped back against the wall, clutching his bag to his chest. Mirza snapped a demand to one of his personal guards, who ran down the hall out of sight. Mirza growled a command at the door guards before dashing away.

Eoin didn’t know where the prince went, but it felt like an eternity for him to make a return. He did not stray from the single square tile he occupied when the prince left. The guards had stopped screaming, but that didn’t prevent them from glaring death at him.

Footsteps set Eoin’s heart pounding and hands sweating. Mirza returned with his father and his father’s guards. The man stared Eoin up and down and asked him something. The physician bowed, not sure how to reply. Mirza spoke for him; he knew that was happening. He maintained his low bow where he waited. The man asked something else. Again, Mirza had to answer.

An order was issued to the guards. The doors were unlocked, and the king entered. A minute elapsed, two, before the man returned, holding a screaming child not more than three months of age. Eoin finally rose from his bow at the king’s approach.

The man appeared to be out of his element, holding the spluttering little one. Eoin glanced between the king and Mirza apprehensively before setting his clutch down and motioning for the babe. The king quickly passed the child to him, glad to be rid of the screaming in his ear. Eoin held the little one up to his shoulder, his bare hand searching out the nape of the child’s neck. He swept into a graceful cross-legged sit and pulled apart his medical clutch with one hand. The child calmed ever so slightly, but the hiccupping coughs did not abate.

It took a moment to put together the materials. The child, though, was still young enough that getting down a spoonful of the medicine was a battle of wills. Eventually, the baby swallowed the bitter liquid, wailing louder. Eoin held the child gently, using a cloth-covered ball of sweet herbs for the little one to suck on until the whimpering stopped.

Eoin put together five small bottles of the liquid as he rocked the child in his arm, soothing the sniffling. Scribbling a note as best he could on a scrap of parchment with a kohl pencil, he hoped it would get the message across as to when to use the vials.

With his five tiny glass vials filled, he returned his materials to the bag and closed it. The physician rose, still rocking the child to an easy rhythm, shifting him from upright to lying on his side. The child let go of the soothing ball as his eyes slowly closed. A gentle snore let the men in the hallway know the child had finally found sleep.

Eoin looked up at the prince and the king, relief washing through his system. A soft smile flitted across his lips, pleased with the little bundle. The king regarded him, as did the prince. They spoke together for a moment more. Mirza shook his head. The king approached Eoin and held out his hands for his child.

Eoin could not quell his disappointment upon passing the little one off but carefully transferred the sleeping bundle to the king. The man took a moment to study the child. By the set of his shoulders and the expression on his face, Eoin suspected it was foreign for the king to care of his own in such an intimate way often. The king returned the baby to the harem along with the five vials and walked back through the door.

The royal did something unexpected. He nodded with a respectful bow to Eoin. The physician sank to the floor in a return bow, as he had seen done by the other servants when the man walked through the halls, aware the situation had become too many levels of strange for him to contemplate. The man was not known for showing such gratitude to the palace workers. The guards ogled Eoin around the king’s massive frame. The ancient giant spoke a single word softly: “Niloofar”, turned, and left. Eoin did not look up until the footsteps had faded.

Mirza stepped up to his physician. Eoin eased himself off the floor and retrieved his clutch. They walked away from the doors and up the flight of steps to the younger giant’s chambers. The prince sent one of his guards off to retrieve food. Eoin stepped away from the prince to leave him to the rest of the day. Mirza motioned him inside.

Eoin stilled, not certain. He was well aware of what tended to happen when he entered those rooms. He got a grip on his facial expressions and followed the giant into the room.

There the man motioned for Eoin to sit on his raised bench. The guard and a servant returned bearing trays of finely crafted bites of food and qahva. Eoin spotted the pot. He had taken a particular liking to the stimulating drink. The guard and the servant left the two to the quiet room.

Mirza encouraged Eoin to eat his fill, aware it had not only been the medicine that had calmed the child. Sated, Eoin looked up at the man not much older than him by a handful of years. The physician wasn’t sure if he was dismissed to leave or if there would be more to do there. Mirza eased next to him, took his hand, and pushed into the void.

“You have greatly pleased my father. The boy is from his favourite wife, though he would never admit as such, and he would not have her sad. His Majesty has gifted you with a name and permission that you may continue to see to the boy’s health. He will place a servant in the harem with the sole duty to bring you his son to act as physician until the child is of age to leave the confines. Then you will continue not only as my physician in the palace but also his,” the prince explained.

Eoin looked up at him, perplexed. “But I am your physician?”

“Everything in this country belongs to my father. I might have bought you, but you have made my father incredibly happy, so he has made it pointedly clear to me that you are now worth his time. I would encourage you to learn our language quickly,” Mirza huffed.

“I am trying, but the script is so much more different from where I come from.” Eoin clasped his hands together and rubbed at the nail on his thumb to settle the vibration in his skin.

“You have minded children before it appears,” noted the prince.

“I cared for Albin and Callum since they were as small as the king’s child. I have learned.” He smiled weakly.

“I forget some days, now that they are with the other children in Isfahan for tutoring. White Bird? You never told me your name. You refuse. I have heard your children and the two others that came with you call you a name, Impundulu, your white blood bird of some kind, though it seems to be more of a title that you adhere to than your actual name. However, in the court, you were the physician, or my servant, until today. My father asked for your name. Seeing as you will not confide it, I left it up to my father to name you. He has blessed you with the name Niloofar.” Mirza walked away from Eoin in the void before returning.

“Is this a good thing?” Trepidation pattered across Eoin’s lungs.

“That he would call you by name shows his respect for you, that you have position.” Mirza ruffled his black hair in exhausted thought.

The gold chain on Eoin’s bracers clinked in the quiet that settled around them. “What does Niloofar mean?”

Mirza smiled, amused at the choice in name. “I’m not sure what he was thinking. It is a girl’s name. It means water-lily.”

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

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The Fire in My Blood: Ch 18

Six months passed. Summer took over the dome, and the newly acquired grain fields and orchards came into their own. Ambulatio and Praetemptura took on the responsibility of outfitting an overseer for what had been Aurantiaco territory. There were the loyalists to Mercurius that were exiled from Urbs Aquarum. They were dumped out in the Stagnum ignis where they could form their own band or whatever their hearts desired with the forewarning of death if they entered the Urbs.

Defectors to Caeruleum were placed on probation while we watched to see if any other loyalists had remained behind. All were under strict order that Rubrum was not to find out that Mercurius was dead. We did not need her trying to upend us during transition.

Paul and Aurelia were welcomed by Vestitor with excitement. Sanctus had been sharing the virtues of his siblings for weeks with the tailor. They moved Vestitor’s shop out of the compound to a building off-site and converted his old shop into a pseudo residence for Paul, Aurelia and Rain. The new shop was on the other side of Argenti’s house by another block.

I joined with the three on their walks up to the shop, dropping off Sam and Abby at Argenti’s for class. In the evenings, I would walk up to collect them. I thought I was in good shape from my walking before. Making it an ingrained habit five days a week, though, had me feeling pretty good. Even Clavis had mentioned he’d notice my profile slimming up. I’d take it.

Today was different from our regular schedule. I went with Maria Mater, Cortex, and Tempestatis to see Praetemptura. We were deciding how the new food stuffs would be split up among the expanded territories fairly. Storage was proving difficult. Clavis may be a genius with fixing broken parts, but he could only do so much with undersized silos. We needed to put up and process foodstuffs before rot was liable to set in with the humid summer impending.

By acquiring Aurantiaco, we had tripled the population of Caeruleum. The stress of figuring out how to keep that many mouths fed with undersized storage was whirling through my head in the late afternoon. Cortex, Maria Mater, and I were passing through that side of town in time for Abby and Sam to be getting out from Argenti’s. “Mind if we swing by? We’re only a couple blocks over anyway,” I asked the group.

Cortex shrugged. “No harms done with a bit of extra walking.”

“I swear, we’ll get the guzzler back up and running. Just need to find a new gasket.” Tempestatis balled his fists at the dome, his shoulders sagging. He slumped forward and shoved his hands into his pocket, kicking a rock into the grass at the side of the road.

“One?” I asked Tempestatis.

“Well. No.” He kicked another rock.

“Just a gasket?”

“All right, so it needs an overhaul. There’s a leak, and something keeps discharging the battery. I don’t know. I’m going to have to do a full tear down, and that’s going to take all week.” Tempestatis rubbed at his face.

“Tried the garages in old Aurantiaco? Anyone got the parts?” I asked as we turned up the shop-lined road that led to Vestitor’s new shop.

“A couple. They said the old beater’s engine model is pretty rare on this side of town. They told me to go check the junkyard on the outskirts. I haven’t gotten the opportunity to get myself all the way out there. That’s a full two-day trip now with the guzzler’s busted.”

“You need the guzzler to speed up your ability to fix the guzzler.” Maria Mater laughed, pulling open Vestitor’s door. A bell on the handle jingled, announcing our presence.

“Lunam! You brought friends.” Aurelia set her bobbins down and came to greet us, hugging Mater. Rain crawled out from under her work table where he had been colouring pictures.

“Lune-lune!” Rain squealed, barreling toward me. I knelt down, taking his full tackle. “Lune-lune, lookey! I drew all us!” he beamed, showing me a variety of coloured stick figures.

“Oh, wow! You spent a lot of time on this. It’s marvellous,” I praised him.

“See, here’s Astrum. She’s in her yellow dress. And here’s Solis. He’s driving his guz-er. And here’s mommy and uncle Paul and uncle Jude and you.” He beamed, pleased with his handiwork.

“What about you? Where are you?” I asked. 

He looked down at his paper, puzzled. He put a hand to his chin in thought. His pencil in his hand left a cerulean line on his cheek. “I’m not done yet.” He took his paper back beneath the table with the rest of his colours.

I rose, chuckling at the tot. Aurelia watched him return to work on his masterpiece. “Is it already closing time?” she glanced out the window toward the sun.

“Takes longer for the sun to set in summer. You’ve worked an extra hour. Argenti’s gonna be mad if I don’t collect Astrum and Solis. I need to talk to Vestitor, though.” I mentioned.

“We’re gonna head out. Nice seeing you, Aurelia. We’re having Persephone’s Feast day at the end of next week. You should drag your hermit of a brother out. Archimagirus’s roasts are to die for.” Mater waived, letting herself out the door.

Sanctus came out of the backrooms to find out what all the noise was about. “Lunam!” he greeted, his smile seeping all the way to my toes. I smiled back, words failing me. Cortex elbowed me in the ribs before letting himself out the door.

“We need to get to Solis and Astrum.” I cleared my throat, casting a glare at Cortex’s fleeing back. Tempestatis tried to hide a snort before following Cortex. “You’re not helping.” I hissed.

“You fail at subtle, boss.” He flicked back before closing the door.

“You needed to talk to Vestitor?” Sanctus asked as he gathered his personal effects.

“He’s redoing my robes for the feast and asked me to come by.”

“Oh, yeah. You ripped it last month when you tripped on the stairs for family ties. Vestitor wouldn’t let me touch it, said I had too many other commissions to get through. He’s in the far back. You know the way?” He pointed to the doors that would lead farther into the shop. I nodded.

“I’ll go get Astrum. Solis was going to stay overnight at Argenti’s to play with Magnus.”

“He was really happy when Magnus invited him. Hope he has fun.” I moved to the back door and waived as Sanctus let himself out.

“You working late, Aurelia?” I asked. She usually joined Sanctus on his walk to collect the Accendium.

“Rain’s here with a fever. I didn’t want to get all of Argenti’s kids sick by sending him to her.”

“Ah, right. Guess you can stay as late as you want then if you don’t have to go collect him.”

“Doesn’t interrupt my work none. Go get yourself measured. Vestitor’s been beside himself all week with that robe. Proud as he’s going to get about any piece he’s done in the last two months. Didn’t know you’d make him so happy tearing a hole all the way up that thing in the middle of the acceptance ceremony.”

“At least you’re in, regardless of a hole in my costume.”

“We’re all happy to be in, Lunam. Thank you for giving us the chance.”

“I’m glad that you all joined Caeruleum. Really.” I let myself into the back rooms and closed the door behind me. I sought out Vestitor at the end of the long building. “Vestitor!” I greeted him.

“Oh, thank Hades. I was beginning to panic. Couldn’t you have shown up like last week?” He grumbled past pins in his mouth.

“Sorry, didn’t know you needed me last week.” I approached the raised stand in front of the three mirrors in his workspace.

“I didn’t need you last week. I didn’t even have the whole thing assembled last week.”

“I thought you just said you needed me -”

“Figure of speech, Lunam.” He draped the massive black robes around me. They were a thick canvas instead of the cotton of the last robe. “Best I could find for colour. I ran out of dye, oh, you know, the day before you went and decimated the thing.” Rolling the hem to its proper height, he settled the robe squarely on my shoulders. He flipped the hood over my head and muttered to himself. I turned to see what was getting him riled. He returned with the belt and cinched me into it. “Does no good to hem the dang thing if I don’t know where this thing rests on your hips. Hades, you’ve gotten skinny in the stomach. The infernus you trying to do? Change my orders?” He grouched. I waited while he removed all the hem pins and re-orchestrated them to fit with where the belt now had the drapes falling.

“Stick out your arms. I need to make sure this thing isn’t too long,” He directed. I did as I was told, the sleeves reaching all the way to my index fingers. “For the love of Hades, what’s wrong with me? How’d I goof this up this badly? I took measurements!” he chastised himself. He marked the new point for the sleeves and took back the belt and robe.

“Sorry about this, Vestitor. I know you’ve got other orders piling up.” I rubbed at the back of my neck sheepishly.

“Hey, you brought me back a whole slew of workers. I’ve never done so well since they came and joined me. It just means my quality has improved, which is bringing in even more demand.” He folded the garment over his arm and led me back out to the front of the shop. “Go get dinner. Have an evening.” He saw me out the door with a wave.

I turned to the street and enjoyed the view of the sunset glinting through the dome panels. I pulled out my com and flipped through the settings. “Hail Maria Mater,” I called.

“Maria Mater here.”

“Hey, I’m heading back to base. Need me to swing by anywhere?” I asked, passing by Argenti’s house. Sam waved at me over the gate. I waved back and held my hand over the mike. “Have fun. Listen to Argenti!”

“Yes, sir!” Solis dashed back to his friend. I turned back to the mic in time to hear Cortex over the com.

“We’re a couple blocks over. Stopped at the park. Forgot there was one over here. Anyway, we’ll meet up with you. What say we grab food on this end of town? I heard someone opened up a diner. Don’t tell Archimagirus.”

“I’m past Argenti’s. Where do you want to meet?” I asked as I continued up the block.

“I take it you just got out of Vestitor’s?” Maria Mater came back over the com.

“Yep. He’s got my robe size proper. Should be done in time for the feast.” I turned a corner toward the main road that would lead me back to base.

“Awesome.”

A sniffle startled me from my mindless wandering down the street. I glanced around the road, trying to pinpoint it. Elderberry and soap. My skin chilled. I followed the scent to the dark side of a building. A small form was buried in the deep shadows.

“Abby?” I asked the tiny ball of firey tears. She held up her hands. I picked her up, holding her close to me, pulling a salt crystal from my pocket. “Where’s Sanctus, Abby? Why’d he leave you here?” This wasn’t like him. He was practically attached to the children. He wouldn’t abandon them in an alley.

“I don’t know. Some men came, and he fell down. Then they took him. I told them to bring him back. They ignored me. I ran after them, and one of them kicked me. I couldn’t save Sanctus. Daddy, why did they take Sanctus?” She cried harder.

Someone had taken Sanctus? Who the infernus? “Do you remember what they looked like, Abby? Anything? Their clothing, their hair, what they smelled like?”

She shook her head slowly as more tears tracked down her grimy cheeks. She shoved a thumb in her mouth and set her head on my shoulder as I looked around for my team. Seeing no one coming my way, I backtracked through the street, catching wafts of sage and rosemary intermingled with concrete and sand. Pine and petrol punched into my line of thought, and I looked up to see Tempestatis and Cortex making their way to me, Maria Mater following behind them at a clip.

Horror splashed across Cortex’s face. Tempestatis took off at a run my way. “Boss!” he screamed. I turned to see what Cortex was looking at in time to catch a solid punch to the jaw. I went down like a ton of bricks. Abby fell with me, tumbling away into the gutter. I shook my head, trying to shake out the stars flashing in my eyes. I reached for Tempestatis who was getting manhandled by a mountain in a jean jacket. On the back was a massive red diamond patch. Searing heat bit into my gut and stole my breath. I looked down in confusion. A knife handle protruded from my stomach, a long gash turning my shirt a ghastly shade of red. 

A green plasma ball erupted over my head. I cringed back at the sparks that split from the ball. It landed square to the man crouching over me, sending him flying. The man holding onto Tempestatis pushed him before he caught one of Mater’s balls to the face. She strode up to stand guard over me, Abby in her arms. The world dropped out from under me. Black and purple and red swirled together as the emptiness cradled me into a cold floating oblivion.

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Polaris Skies: Ch 25

Nat slipped into a deep sleep, only emerging when his body demanded other base needs. He slept on and off in the cave for the better part of three days. By the second day of his sleep, Hana’s wings had completed sloughing off. The group had taken the decaying matter far down the river before submerging them under several rocks, hoping that they’d disappear before Michael’s cronies could find them and trace them. With any luck, the birds wouldn’t have vultures in their genetics. The wolves didn’t hold their breath.

While the men roamed the woods and the outskirts of the city for food, the women tended to Nat. Hana had been tasked with caring for his punctures. The group hoped that by having her work with the fluids, she’d absorb Sylvi faster. It seemed to be working. Frequently after caring for Nat, she would end up with short-term pain that didn’t last as long as it had in the past. It was at the point that Deck was only ever rarely disturbed by the pain.

Zola and Sun Hee learned a new trick in their boredom that amused them greatly. They used it to make Nat chuckle when he was barely conscious. He had a lot less restraint on his embarrassment and tended to laugh more for it. With some practice, they figured out how to pinpoint certain aspects of the wolf to come out. They were able to grow their ears into their furry pointed counterparts. They even achieved a wagging tail.

Nat gained a semblance of conscious thought by the third day outside of general feelings of amusement or uncertainty. His ribs and face were still killing him. His body didn’t feel like he was going to die immediately if he tried to move at least.

He woke up freezing. The group had left off lighting a fire, huddling together for warmth. A drizzle sprinkled the rock out front of the cave.

Nat blinked, confused. Drizzle. Not sleet or snow. It was actual light rain. He crawled toward the entrance, the women watching his every move. The exhausted man reached to cup the modest flecking on his hand. Water. It hadn’t legitimately rained in months. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw real rain. “Warm rain,” he whispered. Swivelling his head around, he fixed Sun Hee with a questioning look. “How long have we been out here?”

Sun Hee shrugged. She had lost count a long time ago. Anastasia responded to his question, “The bomb that released us was dropped in the beginning of January. You’ve been on the road since then for probably…eight weeks? I think… It’s near the end of February now.”

“Spring? It’s almost spring?” Nat rolled over, enjoying the few sprinkles of rain that found their way to his face at the lip of the cave.

“You seem rather happy about this,” Anastasia observed the grey wet.

“How long have you guys been out of circulation?” Nat blinked up at the wolf.

She sat down next to him and contemplated it for a while. “We were taken near the end of your great war. They were burning the fields and forests, desolating the villages. Massive machines rolled through our little cottage town. The people called them tanks. Many of the things we have seen with you humans have been new to us,” she supplied.

“Great War? Tanks…that could be World War I or World War II,” Nat contemplated.

“There was a second war?” Anastasia asked in surprise.

“You guys haven’t been in our world in almost three hundred years,” Nat struggled to sit up. Zola shifted him until he rested in the hollow of a rock overlooking the woods outside the cave entrance.

“If you say so. Time for us wolves draws on differently than it does for you humans.” Anastasia shrugged.

“This is our fourth war, though politicians like to not call the third a true war. The last broke out shortly after a war between India and China during a pandemic that wiped three per cent of the population off the map. The states fell apart and re-conglomerated. Our basic system of government was turned on its head from an economic crash and drought and wildfires. The pandemic led to a shortage in the meat industry, impacting corn and the other grain industry. Things never got better after that,” he told her.

“You humans and war,” she sneered. Nat snorted in agreement. “Can you not rip into each other for a day?” She stared up at the trembling, writhing clouds.

“Humans have a few base needs – sleeping, eating, bathroom breaks, sex, and being right. When we can’t have one of those things, we get all kinds of mean. That’s what I’ve found,” Nat grumbled.

“You’re more talkative than usual.” Sibor padded up to them.

“Must have been a hit to the head. I got a couple of those recently,” Nat quipped, suddenly self-conscious.

“So, what is so special about the rain?” Sibor asked, curious at the man’s fixation.

“I haven’t seen rain in a year, literally. Like, real, legit, it’s not going to turn into sleet or snow later, rain. Tajikistan or Kazakhstan or one of those stan places sent up an atmosphere bomb. It disturbed our climate so severely; we’ve been in drought for a year. Like, the whole world in drought, and that’s not including the environmental problems we already have because of imbecilic corporate greed.

“Jenton lucked out, like some of the other rural areas along the coasts. At least we had irrigation from the rivers for the orchards and the fields. So, as a local community, we weren’t going to die. Portland though? It only got bombed out last summer I think, but it doesn’t have a lot of fresh water resources. It was beginning to fold like Detroit back in the 2000s.

“There were areas in the Americas, mainly the centre land, that really suffered. People, the ones who hadn’t died from RWE diseases, left in droves, and there was a rise in crime along the coast from the emigrants. It didn’t take long for disease to wipe out the shanty towns without working vaccines, and even to infiltrate the bigger areas. LA and Chicago collapsed, full out.

“Our school and college kept on operating because our community hadn’t shrunk. We hadn’t seen an influx in people, really, so it seemed safe. I think the community leaders who helped keep the doors open hoped that by the time we finished, the war would have resolved itself. Now? I don’t even know if there’s anything left to be fighting for. We’ve barely seen anyone, other than Michael’s birds and the kids back there. If we drop from here, we’d be going through The Rockie states. We could cut across Flat Land and drop into Texoma. From there, we could follow the coastline till we got to Florgia.

“Our real problem, with spring coming and no food in early spring is going to really be in the centre of the states. There are rumours that people still occupy large tracts of land out that way, and as wolves, we run a serious risk of getting shot at. We’ll need to be careful if we do that,” he wheezed. His chest cried at him. He had talked too much.

Hana eased over to sit near the group in the shadow of the cave mouth. “So, you still want to go to Florgia?” she asked tentatively.

Nat flicked a glance to the hollow woman. She was thin and ashen. Losing her wings had taken a lot out of her. “You need to go there as much as the rest of us. If there’s a lab still operating there, we will make an attempt at becoming regular humans again. Maybe someone there will have help for your brother.” He turned back to the little rivulets streaming through the rocks at the cave edge. All three women perked up, staring at him with a wash of startled confusion.

“You are not your brother, and you haven’t given me a reason to hate you. Don’t be so fearful.” Nat dropped a shoulder in a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. His chest burned with that small movement. He raised an inviting hand to Hana. She eased over cautiously and let him pull her down into his lap. “You’re freezing, woman.” He wrapped his oversized coat around them both. “Maybe he’ll become a rational person when we can get rid of his wings, the thing tying him to his cult.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. Sibor and Anastasia eased away from the two to give them privacy.

“Why would you…?” Hana couldn’t understand the man lying on the ground at the cave mouth, unable to sit up unsupported due to cracked ribs, marred with black and yellow and sickly green bruises from head to toe, his eyes like a mask from a cracked nose. Her brother had left four men to commit despicable acts on him. A massive hand print showed up around his throat the day before, a latent bruise.

He tucked her head under his chin and rubbed a thumb along the fabric of the peacoat rhythmically in thought. “Forgive him?” Nat put a finger to a dribble of water to admire the pull of the liquid against his skin. Hana nodded mutely. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t rip apart every one of those men when I see them again. I’d rather, if I face your brother, put us on even footing next time. He has too much reach with those wings. If he proves to be Gandhi without them, then he can spend the rest of his life repenting his crimes, but if he doesn’t change, I think I’ll have a bit easier time turning him to mush,” he stated candidly.

“Oh,” Hana fiddled with her fingers in her lap.

“Gandhi was pretty messed up anyways. For now, if we can get out of here, we should try to put distance between him and us as much as possible. Won’t do you any good getting trapped there again. You were trying to escape them by living out in Portland, right?”

They left Shoshone Falls seven days after Michael’s attack. The pack hadn’t seen any evidence of the birdmen since the attack. It concerned them that they would disappear so quickly, without any more attacks.

Many of Nat’s bruises had dimmed in that time, though some were still evidently dark and painful. His ribs were still inflamed, and to get him more than a couple of miles down the road required bandaging. Every couple of hours they stopped to sit down and take the bandages off to encourage Nat’s breathing.

The group trudged along 84 East heading for the 84 south clover that would drop them down into The Rockie States. The chill grip of winter fought hard to keep its hold on the group, even as they changed lateral lines. The asphalt highway froze and melted throughout the days and nights as the sleet and rain proclaimed the coming of spring and breakage of the drought.

Ten days from leaving Shoshone Falls, the group found a micro-town called Snowville in Sevier Desert as a blizzard picked up. A ghost town with less than thirty standing houses and mobile homes, a post office, and a closed-down Flying J they ransacked for canned goods and nonperishables. The pack crawled into a deserted mobile home for a couple of days to wait out the white deluge.

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Fyskar: Ch 15

Eoin released Seonaid and Fearchar. His head throbbed behind his temples, and his stomach made to greet the back of his mouth. His hearing turned fuzzy, his vision tunnelling. He collapsed face-first onto the floor between the two. They looked down at him then to each other. Eoin ground his teeth with frustration and horror. That had been a terror he had not meant to revisit.

“Food?” Fearchar asked Seonaid. Eoin motioned with his hand in agreement. She nodded solemnly, extracting her skirts from beneath the leather figure. Standing up, she went about preparing a simple porridge. Something heavy on the stomach.

Fearchar sighed. It would not do to let Eoin lay about the floor. There was little enough walking room as it was. He dragged the physician up and deposited him on the bed. Eoin leaned against the wall, drawing in deep breaths. “Cummoen, Eoin, off with tha mask. Ye’re nae goin’ anywhere t’night.” Fearchar unbuckled the straps. He peeled the leather off of sweating skin and tossed it onto the table, followed shortly by the discarded gloves. He fought with the brooch on the cape. It eventually came unpinned, the leather drooping lazily on Eoin’s shoulders.

Seonaid shoved a bowl of porridge and a rough spoon in Eoin’s hands, imploring him to eat. He brought the weak-smelling mush to his mouth and ate it without tasting. His mind wandered the hills of his memories numbly. He could barely fathom continuing the story through the night.

Eoin glanced to the door when Fearchar let himself out once more that day to retrieve peat turfs. The sun hung a scant inch past midafternoon. Wet grey-black clouds stood guard against the skyline. He washed down the porridge with a thin ale from the pitcher by the fire.

Setting aside the dishware, he motioned to Seonaid. She sat down on the bed frame next to him. I’m sorry for that. I don’t like forcing my memories on people, forcing my will on you and your husband.

Seonaid stilled his hand at the bracers. “Whit’s fur ye’ll nae go past ye.” She picked up the plates and took them back to the little tub she kept cleaning sands in.

“Feeling more alive, Eoin?” Fearchar asked as he gulped down his porridge. Eoin nodded slowly. Sleep would do him much good. Sharing too deep on exhaustion often led to fractured, uncontrolled memories and emotions, but he wanted to finish his story. The heavy snowfall would be the perfect cover for retrieving his sons’ birthright, but he’d need to explain more to the husband and wife before Fearchar would help him.

“G’an, get yerself out’ta those fribbeties. Ye looked more comfortable in whatever the ‘ell ye’re wearin’ earlier. Ah am nae pickin’ ye carcass off’a floor again. Weigh as much as a seal.” Fearchar motioned Eoin to his bags. Eoin thought for a moment on it. Fearchar’s brogue thickened again. The doctor was losing focus. The handyman’s accent always thickened the more exhausted Eoin was mentally, which made understanding his hired hand worse. He would feel better in the less confining garments, yes, but that meant having to get up.

Eoin pushed himself from the cot to find the floor with slow feet, the cloak falling into a soft heap on the bed. He made his way back to his pack and rummaged through it to pull out his trousers and shirt.

Eoin shucked himself out of his suit and jumped with the drag of a cool finger across his skin. “What are ye doin’?” He turned to Seonaid as she traced the long lines of his tattoos from his left hip up to his right shoulder. The doctor pulled his shirt in front of him as a shield. Fearchar watched the two, eyes half-lidded.

“What are these for?” She broke the touch with his clothes protectively in the way.

Eoin skittered away from her and quickly pulled on his pants and his shirt, carefully keeping out of touching distance from her. He looked back at Fearchar. I…um…I, he swallowed. Fearchar shrugged, approached his wife and pulled her into his embrace. She turned to him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Better?” Seonaid asked Eoin as she sat down on the bed, drawing the leather cloak across her lap like a blanket.

I’m not sure how much more I’ll be able to tell you this afternoon. I’m tired. He stated plainly. Fearchar pulled Eoin down to sit between him and Seonaid. “Sounds like ye’ll need’a start talkin’ faster then.” He placed his hand in Eoin’s, as did Seonaid.

“Ah am goin’ to give ye the worst headache a’ yer lives if ye keep this up,” quipped Eoin.

“Ye’re fault fur takin’ so much time ta blether,” Fearchar goaded.

“Ah thought Ah was bein’ rather succinct,” Eoin grumbled, dragging them through the void and dropping them into a lavishly decorated room filled with pillows and rugs.

The guard opened the door, and Eoin and the boys stumbled into the room after being released from their manacles and chains. The door closed with a slam, and a bolt clacked.

The children rushed to the pillows while Eoin stood in the centre of the room, uncertain of what was happening. He noted a second door off to the side near a large flat-topped chest. The father peaked in to find a privy of sorts, bucket and basin.

He removed a small brass oil lamp from the chest and peeked inside to find a few pairs of neatly folded clothes. Smaller pants and shirts the boys might fit with some imagination. He found a short leather shirt of a strange design and a long buttonless vest. Anything felt better than walking around with all of his upper skin exposed in this weird place where people could touch him too easily.

The village doctor pulled off his adornments and clothing from Egret’s Nest and traded for the palace standard. He tugged the short leather shirt on, fighting with the buttons at the back. At least it would keep his shoulders from being touched by the giant.

Soon tiring of the pillows, the boys turned to him, asking for food and water. The basin had been filled with clean-looking water. He helped them drink from it. Sated for the time, Callum and Albin sat down on the floor to count tiles.

The sun descended through the latticework window. The wind pressed through the gaps, keeping the room cool, forcing in the musky smell of stink lily that populated the mountainsides in massive swaths of orange and yellow. Soon the boys, tired of the day, were well on their way to a deep sleep in a hill of silk pillows. Eoin eased next to them, thrilled to shut his eyes on something more comfortable than splintered wood.

It was dark when a thud of metal woke Eoin from his sleep. A guard held a lamp at the door. The young giant took up the frame, blocking out much of the light from the hallway.

Eoin scrambled to his feet, putting himself between the giant and his boys. The dark-haired man motioned him from the room. The father looked back at his sons, unsure if he was supposed to wake them. The guard snapped an order at him. Eoin flinched as one son rolled over, returning to his soft snoring. He looked back at the prince. The man waved away the children and motioned for him to follow once more. Eoin approached quietly, lest he wake his sons. He desperately wanted to know what was happening.

The guard clipped the chains back to his cuffs and motioned him down the hall. Eoin followed the guard and the prince through the dark hallways, out of the building and through a courtyard to another row of buildings, these lower than the main palace. Livestock, fire, and metal rolled over him with nostalgic familiarity, wiping away the smell of white jasmine. A gentle, rhythmic ping told him he was heading into a smithy.

The guard pointed toward a man in a long red leather gown and a squat little hat. The smith smiled widely when the prince issued him several direct commands and handed him a large scroll. The guard ushered Eoin to a stool next to the robed man’s desk. He looked at it uncertainly but eventually approached it at another command from the guard. One of his manacles was removed while the chain was hitched to a deeply buried post.

The robed man pulled on a pair of fine leather gloves and took measurements of Eoin’s right arm. The man chattered insistently, smiling and laughing at whatever he had said. He turned from his measurements and sketched out a few images on the sheet Mirza had provided him with. The giant left the guard, the smithy, and Eoin to their work.

The smithy took from his stores a few lumps of gold and set them to melt while he prepared his workspace. The man chattered, though he had to be aware Eoin could not understand him. The guard leaned against the strut of the workshop, keeping a keen eye on his bound charge. Tiredness soon dragged him into the depths with the ping of a hammer on an anvil.

A heavy hand settled on his shoulder, yanking him from his dreams into his nightmare of a reality. He jerked, the chain rattling, reminding him of his position.

The smithy motioned to a pair of long coils of patterned gold and then to Eoin’s feet. The man in the leather robe warmed the metal to pliable and bent it into shape. Cooling the c-shaped rings, the smithy proceeded to twist the gold onto Eoin’s ankles and cold weld the ends through pressure. The metal was warm to the touch but did not burn his skin. The jeweller knelt to his task of stamping the remaining pattern over the weld marks of the ring.

Eoin fell asleep once more, resting his head against the post, his left arm pinned up against his chest at an uncomfortable angle. Sometime close to morning, he was coaxed into handing over his other arm. The weight of the massive gold manacle, the bracer, on his right hand fell heavily in his lap. He laid his head on the table and continued sleeping. The guard didn’t bother tying him to the post. Eoin figured that the bracers proclaimed to the whole city that he was the prince’s property. Running and hiding would be of no benefit here.

His stomach growled and pinched, waking him at the smith’s bench at dawn. The smithy had cajoled him into a position to slowly work on engraving intricate patterns around a set of large gems installed into the top of the bracers. Mirza’s acquisition blinked at the gleaming metal, trying to focus on it. Eoin’s eyes adjusted in the glaring sun. Head pounding and mouth dry, his stomach growled again.

The smithy glanced up at him, all smiles and laughs. He rambled on and called out to a boy pumping the bellows of the forge to the man’s side. Eoin watched the child scuttle off to shortly return with a basket of flat-breads and a flask.

The boy approached the bench warily and offered the smithy the basket. The man pointed to Eoin and told the boy another command. The boy ducked and approached Eoin, offering him the basket. Eoin looked between the smithy and the basket. The smithy nodded encouragingly.

Eoin took the basket from the boy with an uncertain nod of his head and set it in his lap. The boy smiled and ran back to his little furnace. The man babbled on, happy to have an audience.

The first solid food Eoin had seen in three days. It was heaven. He had to fight himself to not eat the entire basket clean. It would serve to give him a stomach ache if he did.

It had to be around noon when the smithy sent the boy for the guard. The right bracer was finished, and the left had a few more strokes of the chisel to finish the decorations. The guard, having found a cot to rest his head upon on the other side of a dividing wall in the stable near the smithy, hurried back with the excited boy.

A memory of the boy, five years older, a young teen in an apprentice gown, flickered momentarily. Eoin’s mask and cape tripped through light brown fingers, thick needle and leather thimbles protecting pads from gouges.

Finished with his last strokes, the man in the red hat produced a length of gold chain the span of Eoin’s outstretched arms. He had the cuffed man roll his arms, for the underside of the bracers held long loops that reached from the top to the bottom. The chains were locked into place with small gold padlocks, though Eoin was as aware as the guard and the smith that gold was not strong enough to hold if he truly wanted them off. It was a status symbol for Mirza, a way to flaunt his possessions. The meaning wasn’t lost on Eoin.

The guard pocketed his key and motioned for Eoin to follow him. Eoin wound the length of chain about his right bracer, for the chain hung too low with its length. He snorted at the loops, at having to shorten it himself. The gems were large and of brilliant clarity that sparkled, throwing dashes of colour across the marble facade of the building as they crossed a particularly sunny spot.

The compound was massive. That was the overpowering impression Eoin got as he navigated the labyrinth of stairs and hallways that eventually delivered him and the guard to a pair of intricately carved wooden doors. The guard knocked.

Gardens skipped through the memory in unfocused pools. Different seasons slipped through the leaves and left flowers blooming out of sync. The disorienting memories scrambled to order themselves, and Eoin fought with his exhaustion.

The door opened to a room of shifting furniture. The young prince appeared and disappeared from various seats. His clothing shifted regal to casual as morning and night flickered through the lattice windows. Eoin pushed for the memories to stay still, trembling at the effort.

A flash of an image burst through the memory, a different memory interfering in the line of thought he was barely holding onto. Eoin’s hands bound, his bracers blinking in flickering dim light. A smaller, more private room came and went in the darkness. Heat of a different nature pushed through his system into Fearchar and Seonaid as shock waves burst across his back and up through his chest.

Large hands unbuttoned the short leather shirt. The warmth of a body pressed against his back. His hands protested the twist of rope and metal. Searing heat wrapped across his lower back and hips. A moan barely echoed in his head.

Eoin dropped Fearchar and Seonaid out of his memory and back to their little house. He tried to catch his breath, but his heart raced too hard for his lungs to expand.

“Wha’ the feck was that?” Fearchar demanded, turning on the Fyskar.

Eoin crossed his arms and shoved his shaking hands under them. He bit down on his lip to stall it from trembling. Heat at the back of his eyes threatened rain. The Fyskar swallowed, wishing to be left alone. He rose and stumbled into Fearchar and Seonaid’s bedroom, closing the door on the terrifying situation.

The white-haired man was too exhausted to keep his thoughts coherent. Eoin spread himself on the ground and allowed the throbbing in his head to subside. He needed sleep. That was all he needed. He …

Fearchar eased the door open gently, the hinge creaking a protest. Eoin had curled into a ball, his hands tightly hidden. He shifted at the noise of the door, putting more of his back to it protectively. Tears dripped steadily onto the rug. Fearchar closed the door behind him and walked back to Seonaid. “He fell asleep on the rug,” he told his wife quietly. She nodded, pushing herself back on their bed frames to lean against the wall.

“Can’nae ‘magine it. Ah thought they’s some kinda status symbol, like ‘e ‘as made a’ money.” Fearchar rubbed a hand across his face and beard.

“They’re manacles,” Seonaid breathed out, wrapping her head around the scene. The heat, the shock waves still rippled through her body. Fearchar nodded mutely and leaned his head onto his wife’s lap. He curled his feet up onto the frames as he fought with his realizations about the man in the other room.

“Winter’s kip?” she smoothed his braids out of his face. Fearchar yawned in agreement. Neither were ready to understand, though they already knew. “A’right, scootch o’er lad.” She wiggled her hips down the bed until they were both curled around each other under the covers. They drifted off to the quiet sizzle of peat and the slashing of ice at the door.

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

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The Next Tower

I drag piercing, ragged air into my lungs, fingers slipping on ice-crusted granite. The burn sinks behind my ribs, leaving me reaching for the next foothold in hopes of escaping the whiteout. A crack of twigs turns me to my partner. He’d slipped against the trail, one hand desperately clutching at a pine tree limb. Snow dumps across his shoulders and head. You okay? I sign, dashing my gaze to the horizon and the undergrowth.

Slick spot. He reassures. Quietly, he pulls his way back to my side.

You hear them? The pounding of my heartbeat in my ears is footsteps in the timberline.

Not yet. You good to move? He motions toward the top of the ridge. The fire watch tower stands against the dim wane of the moon, leaving shadows on shadows. Swirling crystals blanket our legs. I rub my gloved hands together, puffing to warm them momentarily and nod. The hills echo with the precipitation of winter in its twisting black and blue deluge. A tug at my elbow has me following my partner, the reflectors on his coat marking my path.

Trudging against the murk, billows of wet snow cling to my trousers. My waterproof boots do nothing against the water wicking down my socks. The swing of his red backpack lulls me into miserable indifference. Blisters and chilled fingers demand their due. 

The hordes no longer clamber against the wind. They creep through my ears. Cling to the back of my mind. Snake up my spine.

The base of the tower splays wider than I expect. Staring up at the rusting struts, I swallow. Sleet coats the ladder in a glimmering coat. Think it’ll keep them away? I take out my carabiners and check my knots.

Hopefully. He tugs at my harness, squaring the straps before turning me to the rungs. Hand over hand, snap and clip of the hinge, I ascend the death trap. The growl of snow shifting through the trees runs nails up my shoulder blades. I rush, trying to escape the terror at the base of my neck, foot slipping as I miss a pole. The metal clangs beneath my equipment. I suck in my breath, turning to the skyline. A hand tapping at the bottom of my boot sends my heart to my throat. I gulp, looking down, green eyes reassuring below me. He secures my footing and puts a finger to his lips, pointing to the top. I swallow, returning to my task, the wind tugging at my hood.

The deck is a white sheet beneath my treads. I collect the sniper rifle and shotgun he hands up before helping steady my partner as he pulls himself over the edge. A freestanding desk at the wall of the cabin makes for a passable trap door. I cringe at every shuffle and groan of steel and wood, the backs of my ears cramping from listening for the scream beneath the sleet.

Let’s get in. He points me at the peeling white cabin door, a set of lockpicks in hand. I flip on my keychain torch, blocking the shine with my body while he slips the tumblers. Hinges squeal as he tests the door, rust and neglect forcing us to push against it until we stumble into the windless glass box. He spins to the threshold, eyeing the makeshift cover at the end of the deck, waiting, counting, fingers curling five times five until all we hear is the howl of the blizzard against the tin roof. I cower in, watching, searching, keeping my light low under the sills to search the thin shadows. Empty save for the minor furnishings of the last tenant, we count ourselves lucky. A chest of drawers and moving boxes filled with books, pinecones, and firewood are all we can shove against the door. Not that the four walls of glass windows will do much if they determine to make us into midnight hors d’oeuvres.

I slump into the far corner from the door. Too often I’ve seen others grabbed for being too close when they come. A crowbar at hand will break the glass above my head. The shotgun at my heels is close enough to my reach, the ammo box tucked into a pocket on my hip. I can jump the rails and slide the struts down. I can get away. My heart and gut say otherwise.

Fingers, chapped and cold, draw my attention from gnarled floor boards. He leans over me, concern crinkling lines in his forehead. My smile dips and warbles in an attempt to reassure him. Nose to nose, his hands cover my ears from the persistent ticking flakes until my limbs ease their shaking. 

Our glance snaps to the wood stove in the centre of the single room. Regret and reluctant acceptance flicks across our fingertips. Dinner will have to be partially frozen, non-perishables dug from our bags. The pop and hiss of the tins as he opens them have me watching the glass surreptitiously. Canned meat, canned fruit, our plastic utensils muffle under our gloves. All I taste is salt and syrup. Flavour in this wasteland is worthless. Many things are worthless in this desolate blackness under a starless sky as the storm blankets spectres on the window sills. Empty cans resting against panes are our last alarm against the horde.

We curl against each other in the drift, desperate for closeness, for reality, for the world to shift. He’s drifting to the beat of my heart, hands curled between my side and his chest as winter digs in. I pull the insulated blanket around us, wishing for sleep which has refused my advances for days. At each moment where I slip the bounds between the waking and the damned, I see the creatures. Clawing, ragged, rawring, screaming, screeching. 

I come awake, one of his hands holding tight to the back of my sweater, the other across my mouth. The shallows of midnight are passing into the depths before the dawn. I draw in alarm, clamping onto his wrist, holding it until I beat the squeak in my larynx into submission. Letting go, I pull at my turtleneck beneath my cable knit.

You’re safe. He signs against my arm, frozen fingers sending shafts of ice to my neck. I squeeze him closer, burying my cold nose into his halo of curls. Tears would have threatened, but they stopped weeks ago. I ease my fingers around his, hoping to warm his hands. They’re the same. I suck in my breath. He stills. I pull the sweater and layers up, tugging the zipper at my salopettes, and shove his hands onto the warmth of my stomach, drawing the layers back down to conserve the heat. He baulks as a shiver runs up my spine, and I pull him until the space between us is parkas and sweaters. A count of heartbeats and he relaxes into the offer, thawing his palms and backs of his hands while I adamantly refuse to let go of him for the ice creeping under my skin.

I watch the snowballs against the bubbled barrier between us and the impossible, begging them not to move as his fingers twitch, shift, ask questions. Tentative promises, permissions, desires number my ribs and trace the hollow of my belly button. I relax my stubborn grasp, stretching into discovery, my heart racing, throat dry. With every change in direction, he waits for my embrace to shift, to switch, to answer in our silent world. Tender spots where the horde got me yesterday morning have me moving away. Singing electricity has me loosening my hold. Fingers dance, skimming curves and ridges. He forms letters against my sternum. This okay?

Don’t stop. I bury my hands under his parka, the wool knit of his sweater scratching against my palms.

You watching? He finds the tuck at my lower ribs. 

A starburst slinks to hide between my lungs and my backbone. Always. The promise of dawn in the blizzard is cascading away with the snow drifting through the rails of the tower.

Heat blossoms between us, his fingers finding heaven. A note catches in my throat. He covers my mouth again, silencing me as I swallow, my glance swivelling the two hundred degrees of vision I can get without moving my head. They haven’t found us yet.

Retribution. I draw in a quieting digit, the pad of his finger salty against my tongue. A stutter in his breathing against my knee leaves a sly smirk on my lips. Two can play this game, even if I’m on watch duty. Twining along the joints, he stills, his thigh flexing against my leg, his teeth nipping at me in protest.

Tight heat wraps around me. Dancing threads of gold and cinnamon race through my sides. His smile sinks into my skin, and I’m struggling to constrain my voice. Determined, he’s pushing, seeing how far he can take me in the silence of our snowbound cabin. 

I tunnel my fingers through his hair as he finds that one point of brightness stretching into my desires. Silk strands brush against my knuckles, through the webbing between my digits. Kindling in the dark. A spark ignites the star behind my lungs, a numb wave washing in tides of light and need through my bones. If he presses much further, I’ll be the tsunami after an earthquake. Please. I tap against his neck. The star is burning me away to a flashpoint, one grain from ignition. He relents, easing back for me to come out of the thunderhead, electricity dissipating.

Warm yet? He asks at my hip.

You think? I pull his sweater from his ski pants.

You watch. He demanded.

I want my fun. I keep my words small against his lower stomach, flipping buttons.

Next tower. He promises, drawing my face to meet his chapped lips. I startle at the vow, leaving him to his exploration. Several more weeks of walking this wilderness, escaping the horde, before I would watch his expression rather than the windows. He carries me along, listening to the hitch in my breath, leading me through skittering pressure until the snow eases with the lavender of dawn. The view lightens, and all that greets us is the grey powder against our window panes. At the peak of the horizon line casting sharp light and shadow through the down blanket of the mountainside, he lets me find satisfaction, his curls twisting in my fingers.

The morning breaks as a chickadee hops across the rail of the fire tower, chirping its cheeseburger cheeseburger call, leaving pronged footprints in the alabaster. Tension eases out of my shoulders at the jumping creature. If the birds haven’t fled the mountainside, we’ve outrun the horde for another day, maybe two. 

He tugs me to his chest in the sunrise bathing the whitewashed walls, pulling the insulated blanket over my head, where I’ll be able to sleep to the bird calls overriding the terror waiting for the silence in the night.

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

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To Be Gilded: Ch 3

The carriage ride back to the Goldsman’s Guildhall was quiet between his mother and himself for a time. Restless energy swarmed the cabin as it jostled on the path. He cradled one of the small boxes from Albrecht, ginger with the contents.

            “Out with it, son. Your fidgeting is worse than a horse waiting on its oats.” His mother broke the silence.

            “How many years do you think it took for him to figure out how to make the iris?” He traced the petals in his mind.

            “You’re just as bad as he was.” She pulled out her embroidery, setting it on her lap. Her fingers did not find needle and thread, though.

            “It is a poor match?” He kept his eyes to the pastures and the sheep in the heatherland.

            “It is not what I said.” She rubbed a thumb over her threads. Deryk allowed silence to hang in the carriage, as pendulous as the velvet handholds. Eventually, she tried again. “His work is beautiful. I’ll give him that much. He is no jeweller, though.”

            “He need not be, though, with his eye for small detail, I would not put it against him to create pendants and beads easily comparable to gemstone.” Deryk returned his focus to his mother.

            “And you prepared a piece for him before even meeting him. Were you going to take him whether his art was to your liking or not?” She ventured as they passed into a smoother section of terrain.

            “No. I would not have even shown him the piece if I did not appreciate what I saw.” He folded his hands in his lap to watch emerald thread slip through the fine linen.

            “No. I guess you could have pointed out your pocket watch face, your bracelet, even your signet ring if you thought to.” She twisted her thread to create a raised decorative knot.

            “It is not that I am without enough material on my personage to show off at a moment’s notice.” He dismissed the concept with a flick of his wrist.

            “Why those then?” She tied off her thread and snipped it to start with an amethyst shade.

            “A ring would be presumptuous, would it not? Same as a necklace or a bracelet. All things that would either conflict with the university uniform or single him out from the crowd quickly as to who his patron is or how well off. Earrings would also fall within that bracket and mark him more openly if for some reason the patronage fell apart before a wedding.” Deryk tugged to settle his gloves more closely against the webbing of his fingers.

            “Those will leave a mark.” Angelica set thread to cloth.

            “If he decides to have them placed. I left a note in the box for him that it’s up to him. In the end, if he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t have to, and it leaves him with a bit of spending money if he decides to pawn them later.” He relaxed as they passed into the farmland before the suburbs and city proper.

            “I only now realized, in inviting myself along, that you were placed in an awkward position.” His mother made way for an apology.

            “It is not that anything changed in what would have happened had you been occupied elsewhere.” Deryk noted the harvest coming in.

            “Anyone within the Queen’s domain knows of what is typical in the acquisition of a Designer.” His mother insisted on having this conversation.

            He would have rather it stopped before it began. “Yes, mother. I have a type. Redheads and freckles are my type. If that is what you are after. It was fortunate he had a craft skill. I don’t think I would have honestly considered him much further than a glance at his photo otherwise. If, instead, Albrecht had been a woman with the same skill, I would have been interviewing her in the same manner. You of all people should know you taught me to be better than a pig in the mud.”

            “Not entirely what I was expecting, but I am reassured at how you handled the situation. The Guild leaders will be pleased to know you’re at least pursuing patronage at the Universite. That should keep them from raising a fuss before the Queen’s Jubilee.” She set aside her sewing as they emerged from the grain fields into the first sets of estate settlements.

            “May I assume they will not be made privy to my exchange gift?” He fingered the smoothed wood that held the ocean globe.

            “It would not raise my status any to tell of such personal matters, and it would neither lower nor raise yours for others to know of it. What of the gift you received?” She turned her glance to the little box.

            “For now, it will go in my study. If the time comes, I plan to display it in the head store alongside a series of aquamarine and pink sapphire series Alexandro is intent on completing for a Duchess as an example of his homeland’s works.” He tightened his grip on the lid, a shaft of fear running through his spine at the thought of the ball breaking by some unfortunate accident.

            “Is that why you chose it over the other pieces?” She straightened the pleats in her skirts as they crossed the paving into cobblestone, designating the shift from suburbs to city.

            “It is what he was saying when he used it as his opening act.” A soft crease of his lip cast a dimple on his cheek.

            “As bad as your father, you are, Deryk. I don’t believe I will ever fully understand when you begin talking of others’ work in such a fashion.” She studied her son’s features, questions flitting across her own face.

            “It is not like you are without your own creativity, mother. Often you tell me you can tell if Cassandra or Beatrix is in a good mood or a foul just by the way their handwriting lays on the paper. You talk to them not only through the words you write but how you write them.” He recalled the many conversations she had gossiped with him.

            She paused at the consideration. “I had never thought of it that way. You are not entirely wrong in the assumption. If the script is hurried or the structure patterned in a particular way, I can tell if one is in a mood. If Beatrix’s wife has offended the maid again. You do this with jewellery? He can do this with glass? You can tell that just by looking?”

            “It tends to be easier when the medium is shared. His dedication and his curiosity, though, cannot be missed. That is what I want in both my employees and my partner. The drive to master a craft and the capacity to divert from old traditions for new innovations.” He flipped through his memories of the other boxes, wondering at how many other spectacular pieces Albrecht Van Dermarch had accumulated.

            “What does that one tell you, then?” Angelica motioned to the box.

            “It told me he could find intrigue in the mundane. See a world in a drop of water.” The carriage drew to a halt in front of his mother’s townhouse.

            “And that was enough to offer him your patronage?” She took his hand as he helped her step down.

            “It told me that being fianced to a workaholic jeweller would not cast him into shades of boredness.” He escorted her to the door of her house, where her butler and a maid waited to welcome her home.

            “You are quite strange, Deryk; you know that, right?” She patted him on the cheek.

            “It was not father that I got it from.” He bowed, a twinkle in his eye.

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Subject 15: Ch 26

Fane woke to a throbbing headache. The last thing he remembered was walking into a dance club with Shelly, Ajay, and the prince. The sky shifted to a soft grey in the window, jasmine dancing against the pane. He scrambled to sit up. “Oh, crap! I’m going to be late.”

He threw on his palace uniform and put his hygiene ritual in order. Flicking at his curls in frustration, he muttered to himself over and over to go get a haircut that evening.

“Shelly!” He almost collided with the short woman on his run out the door.

“Fane! I can’t believe you opened up the map last night. So many people were online talking about the Bone Crowned newb.” Shelly waited for Fane to lock the door.

“Oh, shit. I forgot all about it. Killer headache too. I don’t remember anything before stepping into the dance floor last night. What happened? Wait, we opened the map? So, we made it back to the palace in time?” Fane sagged with relief.

“You weren’t joking about that music, Fane. You seriously don’t remember last night?” Concern creased Shelly’s face.

“Not a thing. I hope I didn’t say anything stupid.” Fane glanced toward the far end of the hallway and Ishan’s door.

“Ajay was whistling this morning. I have a feeling you impressed him. Can’t say you have anything to worry about.” Shelly shrugged and led the way to the stairs. “Breakfast?”

“Yes, please. Something to get the throbbing behind my eyes to stop.” He threw a hand over his eyes as they descended past the eastern window and the pouring morning light.

“Heard from Ajay that he’s transferring over to the girls today formally, so you’ll need to get this headache sorted in time for the changing of the bodyguards.” Shelly opened the door to the canteen. They grabbed plates and slid through the line. Gulping down fruit and eggy rice mixture, Fane desperately tried to pull out memories from the night before. It was a complete blank.

The day proceeded in a mind-numbing flurry of pointless procedures in the name of ritual and ceremony. Fane had no chance to grab a word with Prince Orlov to clarify what had happened the night before. He looked as tired as Fane felt.

Standing out in the training field, they finally had a moment, while watching men run through fire drills on the cement towers, to talk.

“You did great last night. Marmar sent me an email this morning telling me the new section of the map is a desert. No one knew what the new territory was going to be like. Seeing as you opened it, the server admins named it Desert of the Lamp Sleepers.” Ishan smirked before frowning as a man slipped on the fire tower.

“Is this a good time to tell you that I don’t remember last night?” Fane asked and marked a name on his clipboard.

“Seriously? That sucks. You were pretty epic to watch. Had to help you with the bow and arrow, though,” Ishan leaned against the fence railing.

“Bow and arrow?” He waved his pencil for the next batch of recruits to latch into their harnesses.

“I should have you join me on the royal archery field later. You’d probably find it interesting,” Ishan smirked.

“I wouldn’t mind giving it a go.” Fane nodded.

Ajay formally shifted to being the twins’ daytime bodyguard, leaving Fane as the Prince’s daytime bodyguard now. The only time they really were apart was in the evenings when the Prince retired to his quarters, and Fane returned to the armoury, the men, and his room. That was when Ajay returned to the Prince’s apartment. One of the rooms within the apartment was dedicated to the man’s sleeping quarters.

The twins were left with the heir-apparent’s guard in the evenings when the family came back together. Fane had met Zahar several times in ushering the Prince to and from meetings. The man was an old war machine. He perceived the world in cold calculation through flat dead eyes. Fane respected the techniques he had shown in the trainings and simulations he directed over the last half a year.

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