Hubris - 28. An Act of Shame

Each second was a second too long, each minute drawn out by torture. He paced back and forth, growling and whining as the seer chastised him.

“Foolish pup! He said he would return and he will…”

Barghast slashed at a tree, ripping bark from its trunk. Pine needles rained down on his head, catching in his fur. He rounded on her, lips peeling back from his teeth. “You don’t understand. While he’s down there, without me with him, he’s vulnerable to the attack of foul spirits.”

The seer bowed her head with a whine of sympathy. “I do understand. There are moments where you will not always be able to protect him and there are moments where he will not be able to protect you…”

The barbarian cut her off with a sharp bark. “You’re wrong. I will always be there to protect him. And what might you be? Are you a spirit who has come to drive me mad or a figment of my imagination?”

It was the seer’s turn to snarl, her tail flicking through the air. “Neither. I guide you in the same way your beloved Crowe is guided…”

“Do not speak his name!” Barghast barked. He jabbed at his chest with a thumb. “Only I can speak his name.”

The seer eyed him with amusement. “Brazen pup.”

“He is mine…I wish you’d leave me be. I don’t need a guide. He is my guide, the only one I need.”

“You do need me,” the seer insisted. “Danger abounds in that town. It will only get worse until you reach the Mirror Expanse. For now I will step back into the shadows and watch. I will return when you call for me.”

She slunk back into the darkness of the trees as she said she would…and out of existence…or so it seemed.

“Barghast…”

Crowe! His tail sprung up. His hackles, which had been raised, lowered, the very sound of his twin o’rre’s voice a tonic to all his worries. Here his beloved was now coming through the trees, sweating and stinking of fear, but Barghast didn’t care. He was safe. He had returned just as the seer said he would, just as his guide promised he would, because he always kept his promises - the seer is right about one thing, I am a foolish pup…foolish for doubting him - and Barghast loved him for it.

He lunged forward, seizing his beloved, lifting him off the ground as he might a babe. He whined shamelessly, ears flattened against his head, so happy, so relieved he could barely think. He licked his face, careful to avoid his broken nose, marking him so that the entire world knew Crowe was his - mine, mine, mine, all mine.

Crowe waved his arms, laughing. It pleased Barghast to know he could make his twin o’rre make such a sound; and with so little effort. Crowe’s voice eventually became stern. He barked a command that clearly meant he wanted the Okanavian to put him down. Barghast obeyed but with great reluctance. Even though he was tired and hungry, lycans were made to survive in harsh conditions. He knew little to nothing about the sorcerer’s people, their physiology, but his sense of smell told him what he needed to know. Barghast didn’t like the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way they were so close to the surface. As if any moment they would break through his pale skin.

Barghast bit back a whine of panic. Once he was sure they were safe, he would scavenge for food. He would wait until Crowe was asleep, too deep in dreams to be bothered by the evil spirits those sorcerers - they were like his twin o’rre and nothing like his twin o’rre at the same time - had cast upon him. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the practitioner, not even for a second, but the seer had been right about one thing: There would be times when they would have to separate. But I will always find you. Wherever you are, wherever you go, know matter how many leagues separate us, I will always come looking for you. Nothing can keep us apart, my beloved.

He wanted to tell Crowe this, through touch if necessary, but the practitioner had taken his paw and was leading him down the hill. He muttered things under his breath, his eyes fixed ahead on whatever goal he deemed important. Barghast didn’t like the distant look on his face - the look on his face that said he wasn’t truly there. He didn’t like the stench that hovered around him like a black cloud. Barghast could smell the sickness lying dormant within him, The seer’s words about Barghast’s beloved being in the most danger of all returned to him.

I will not let anything happen. Just as it is his duty to guide us through our pilgrimage, it is my duty to protect him. I must find sustenance for us. I must keep him well.

Crowe led him through the dark streets of this new dwelling. It was the largest settlement Barghast had encountered in this land yet. Larger even than the one with those people with the black eyes. And the bear. The lycan would never forget about the bear that had nearly killed Crowe and he on more than one occasion. Just thinking about that place made him want to growl.

The practitioner led him through narrow alleyways with flooded gutters and dumpsters overfilled with heaping bags of trash. He whipped off what appeared to be a drape from a hanging and demonstrated wrapping it around his head. He handed the drape to Barghast, meaning for him to put it on. The Okanavian didn’t want to wrap this strange object around his head - who knew where it had been or who it belonged to - but he would do it for Crowe. He knew it was so unwanted eyes couldn’t see him for what he was.

At times it amazed Barghast how resourceful the sorcerer was. He was quick for someone so tiny and he adapted quickly in unfamiliar places. He lifted a fist, gesturing for Barghast to stop when a wood door to their right burst open, spilling light and raucous laughter into the gloom. A man wearing a helm on top of his head stepped out. Barghast recognized the silver torch on the back of his armor. Ushering them back behind a tall stack of crates, Crowe lifted a finger to his lips, the sign he made when he wanted the Okanavian to remain quiet.

Rather than entertain fantasies of the torchcoat’s death, Barghast focused on his companion, his steady breath, the way he appeared calm on the surface despite the pounding of his heart. It distracted him from fantasies of pouncing on the torchcoat’s back, tearing into his flesh, ripping him open with his teeth and feasting on his insides. Apart from rabbits and the occasional deer, it had been weeks since Barghast had feasted on real prey.

No, he told himself. Better to be like Crowe who had the temperament and wisdom to know when to strike and when not to. Like now. Crowe hid not because he was weak, but because he always thought about the consequences of his actions before he carried them out. Even the most powerful lycan warrior could learn from his restraint.

The torchcoat was close enough Barghast could smell the heady mixture of spirits and sweat coming off the man; a spicy smell that made the lycan salivate. The torchcoat pulled the front of his breeches down, exposing his member to the cold night air. Barghast imagined ripping it out with his teeth…the man would be bound so he had no choice but to watch. Crowe and I will torture him just the way they tortured me. We’ll make him watch. He could hear more thunderous laughter coming inside the building. Beside him Crowe rolled his eyes at the patter of piss against the soggy cobblestones.

The hot, yellow smell of human piss touched Barghast’s nose. He began to pant. He looked at his twin o’rre, pleading with his eyes. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.

Crowe nodded, seeming to understand the Okanavian’s plight. Withdrawing his dagger, Crowe darted from behind the crate. He veered into them, almost knocking them over, his gait clumsier than it normally was, but the torchcoat never saw him coming. He was too quiet. He grabbed the man by the shoulders, yanking him around the corner out of sight. Barghast heard a small yelp that was abruptly cut short by the sound of a fist crashing against bone.

The lycan rounded the corner. Crowe stood the man, locking his head in the crook of his arm. A flash of thunder ignited the sky just as Crowe slid the dagger across the torchcoat’s throat. Stowing the dagger away in his pocket, the sorcerer clapped his free hand over his mouth. The barbarian stepped forward, licking his chops.

“Not here,” Crowe hissed. He cocked his head to a nearby window where shadows could be seen moving about. At any second someone could step out, starting a panic that would put them in more danger than they could afford.

It was agonizing to hold back for a second longer, but Barghast would do it for Crowe. He would do it to keep them both safe and so he did. Tucked behind a large stack of logs on the outskirts of the settlement, Crowe stood three yards away while Barghast indulged in his baser instincts. He was glad his beloved had decided to give him space. Not because he feared hurting his beloved without meaning to - even the mere notion was inconceivable, bad, bad - but because he didn’t want Crowe to see him behave this way. This animal way.

He was not clean about what he did. The man came apart as if he were made of clay, flesh sloughing away from bone in bloody flaps. Barghast started with his cock and balls, ripping them away with his teeth, rolling them around in his mouth, savoring the hot taste of blood as it warmed his belly. He hunched on the ground, groaning with relish, wanting more more more. He tried to muffle the sound: those deep growls of satisfaction, the wet slopping sound as he tore into the man’s guts.

Not once did his twin o’rre look back at him, not once did he make a sound. Nor did he bat an eye or flinch as if afraid when Barghast returned to him. He nodded, looking determined…and weary as ever…but not frightened or repulsed. All he said was, “You made a mess; we’re going to have to wash you up when we get to the room,” in a casual, almost light tone that put the barbarian at ease.

Once they were outside the place they were to stay, Crowe led Barghast to the back of the building. He pointed to the third story window. “Stay here,” he said. With his hands he motioned the action of climbing stairs. With unwavering patience, he repeated the instructions, mouth talking in time with the graceful dancing of his long fingers. It didn’t take long for Barghast to understand that he was to wait here while the practitioner went upstairs to their room. Once inside he would open the window and the lycan would climb up. It was the only way to get him inside without being noticed.

“I…stay,” the barbarian said reluctantly. He flattened his ears and tucked his tail, but this time he did not whine. It’s time to stop acting like a foolish pup. We must do what we have to in order to survive. He felt better now that he’d eaten, now that he’d indulged his blood lust. He could think better now; it wasn’t so difficult to restrain himself.

Crowe soothed him with a shoulder rub. Always comforting. Always soothing. He was a guide, a hunter, a leader, and a protector all rolled into one. The Okanavian had seen him show kindness to those who did not deserve it. Barghast loved him for it. Not just because they were twin o’rre. He loved him for these things. These qualities that the barbarian hoped to cultivate for himself over time as they traveled together and got to know each other better.

It touched him that Crowe seemed every bit as reluctant to part from him. Even if it was only for a moment. His lips trembled with a smile that was meant to convince Barghast he was not afraid, but the lycan knew better. Once we are alone and we are safe, I’m going to hold you and kiss you all night. You won’t be able to get away from me.

Again the sorcerer walked away and again the Okanavian feared it would be the last time he saw him.

                                                                        …

“Hey, boy!”

Crowe turned his head slowly. What was it now? I just want to go upstairs to the room I paid for, strip off these clothes, and go to bed. “Aye?”

It was the barkeeper from before. This time he didn’t have parasites wiggling out of his eyes, but the room around him was all wrong. The floor beneath the practitioner’s feet felt unsteady, tilted. He had to grip the table to remain standing in fear he would go rolling away. The lighting was wrong, too. The candle flames kept flickering in and out of existence as if someone were flipping a switch.

“You didn’t pay me enough for the room.” The man fixed him with beady brown eyes narrowed in dislike. The gruffness of his voice hit the practitioner like a slap to the face.

“What? I gave you everything I had!”

The man shook his head without a shred of sympathy. “It still wasn’t enough.”

“Surely in the name of Elysia you could make an exception in light of this storm,” the sorcerer said with forced patience, knowing the man would not budge.

“Sorry - I can’t. You understand we’re living in hard times.”

“I can wash dishes…”

The man merely sneered at him.

Crowe thought of Barghast standing outside, waiting for him in the dark, most likely confused and alone. It had been too long already. At any point something could go wrong…he could be discovered by a drunken torchcoat or the necromancers and their foul summonings could catch up. He took a step towards the man. He briefly considered killing him. He’d already killed a torchcoat for Barghast. Who else would he kill to keep his Okanavian companion safe?

No, he thought. Enough people have died at my hands. I will not take another life if I can help it. “What do I have to do?”

The man raised his brow, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as if he needed to think about it. The dread mounting in the pit of his stomach and the growing dent at the front of the barkeep’s grease-stained breeches told the sorcerer exactly what he wanted. The man snapped his fingers. “I know just the thing.” He dropped his pants. He seized his engorged prick in his hand and shook at Crowe. “You want the room, you can tend to this. I’ll even throw in some food.”

Crowe tried not to feel the hot sting of tears as he crossed the room. “Yes, go on,” Petras taunted him from the shadowed corner of the room. “It’s nothing you haven’t done before…You’d do anything for your lycan lover…”

Yes, he thought as he kneeled before the man, as his gorge rose at the meaty stench of unwashed flesh, as he pushed it back down. Anything.

He thought of Barghast strapped to a tree, being beaten, helpless to defend himself as he wetted his fingers with his tongue. Taking the man into his mouth, he saw Barghast being hauled up the steps of a black spire towards his death. When the man’s fingers clenched through his hair, he thought of the storm. A storm that would continue to spread wherever he went. It would flood the entire North if he didn’t reach the necropolis where his next test awaited.

When the man grunted, Crowe tried to pull away.

“No, you don’t!” the man snarled. Pulling Crowe’s hair hard, he pulled the practitioner forward.

When it was over, Crowe lurched to his feet, gagging and sputtering. The barkeeper’s laughter followed him up the steps. Steps that shook underneath his feet. The world spun like a revolving top so that the floor became the ceiling and the ceiling the floor. His fingers itched for an aether joint if only to get the taste of the man out of his mouth, but he’d have to wait until he let Barghast inside. The lycan comes first.

“Look at you!” Petras cackled, his animated corpse shambling up the stairs after a fleeing Crowe. “You really have fallen from grace, haven’t you? You could stoop no lower, could you? YOU WHORE!”.

“YOU WHORE! YOU WHORE! YOU WHOREEEE!” chanted a thousand voices. Voices so loud it made the walls of The Staggering Pig shake.

“He’ll suckle any prick he can get his mouth around, be it man or beast…!”

Step after step Petras pursued Crowe, taunting him. Crowe’s shoulder slammed against the door at the end of the corridor. At last he was on the top floor, he was just outside his room. He shoved the key in the lock with shaking, sweating hands, hissing prayers to Monad under his breath. “Monad, guide me just a minute longer…”

At last the door sprang open, almost spilling him onto the floor. Kicking the door shut with his boot, he scrabbled across the sitting room - his boot bounced off the leg of an end table; it fell over with a crash of breaking glass - to the window. He shoved it open, thrust his head into the night where he could see Barghast crouched behind a pile of burlap sacks. “Barghast,” he gasped. “Hurry…climb!”

“The barkeeper had his fun. Now it’s the beast’s turn…”

Barghast sprang up from behind the pile of trash. He leapt into the air, baring his claws. The tips of his claws sunk into the wall as if the building were made of clay and not wood. He bounded up the wall, defying gravity, his eyes fixed avidly on Crowe. With the upper half of his body completely covered in blood and filth he looked feral and predatory.

Crowe clung to the window sill, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles turned white. Panic closed around him like a suffocating fist. Behind him Petras whispered a final insult before vanishing in a wisp of black smoke. He ushered Barghast through the window, marveling at how the lycan was able to fit his broad body gracefully through the narrow passage; he had done something similar on the night of their first encounter.

The lycan reached for him as if hours had passed since the practitioner had told him to remain where he was - not for the first time the sorcerer wondered if the Okanavian perceived time the same way he did. Crowe stepped back. He shook his head. “Don’t touch me…”

The effect of his denial was immediate. Barghast’s ears flattened against his head. He lowered his muzzle as if Crowe had struck him, but remained where he was.

A deep part of Crowe - the deep-rooted child that needed to be accepted, held, comforted, loved - almost went to him. He couldn’t. His skin was buzzing. Every part of him felt as if it was unraveling, fighting to break free of his body and escape. He felt the barkeeper’s hand yank at his hair once more - No, no you don’t! - tasted the bitterness of his seed shooting into the back of his throat, felt hot bile shoot up his throat. He lunged across the room. He managed to kick the door shut and drop into a crouch before the commode just in time.

He vomited until there was nothing left inside him. Until it felt as if he’d been punched repeatedly in the gut. He laid on the floor, his face resting on tile that felt like a balm on his heated skin. It felt smooth underneath his fingers, sanded down by skilled hands. He wondered if Bennett would have been able to make something like this.

“Twin o’rre?”

The door started to open.

Crowe kicked it shut.

“Crowe?” The alarm in the lycan’s thunderous rumble pulled at the practitioner’s heart.

“Not right now, Barghast. I just…I just need a minute.” The tears broke out of him like a dam then. He simply couldn’t hold them back any longer. He’d been holding them back day after day, tucking the fear away until he could release it later. That moment was now.

He folded under its weight, pinned in place by shame. You didn’t have to do what that man wanted. You could have done something else. Instead you opened your mouth for him…

One thing he knew for sure: If Barghast knew what he’d done to secure them the room, the lycan wouldn’t be able to stand him.