Hubris - 33. The Aberration

“Barghast, help me. You said you’d help me…You said you’d keep me safe.”

His twin o’rre watched him with wide eyes, begging. Begging in a language he couldn’t understand, only the high pitch of his voice raised in desperation. I’m coming, my beloved! Do not lose hope…

Only he couldn’t move. His paws were planted to the ground. A shadow fell across Crowe, who was shackled to the metal table. Unable to flee. Unable to do anything to defend himself. The silver glint of a knife caught the light. A tall winged finger leaned forward, blocking the practitioner from view. That didn’t stop the Okanavian from hearing his screams.

Upon waking, Barghast was on his feet in an instant. He dropped into a crouch, his teeth bared in a snarl. He snatched his rifle up from where it leaned against the wall. The sounds he’d mistaken for the sound of boots pounding through the earth was the house creaking, buffeted by the wind. Slowly his hackles lowered. After several seconds his pulse slowed.

His ears twitched at another sound. A crackling, wheezing sound he didn’t like. He sniffed the air. The air smelled sweet, like overripe fruit. He whimpered, dropping beside the bed where his twin o’rre rested on his side. Crowe, shivered, muttering in his sleep, eyes roving behind closed eyelids. His teeth rattled together. His breath came out in puffs of white air. Barghast sniffed him once more. He wanted to throw his head up towards the ceiling and howl in distress. The fever that he’d smelled in Crowe over the past several days had taken old of his beloved at last, no doubt shaken into motion by the miracle the practitioner had achieved back in the war fort. Barghast could still remember being eclipsed by white light, the way the earth shuddered beneath his feet before it all went away in the blink of an eye. Now he was discovering the price the sorcerer’s people paid to use such gifts.

He pressed his paw to Crowe’s forehead. His skin felt sweaty and hot to the touch. His pallor had turned from pale white to a deadly shade of gray. Beneath the smell of overripe smell was another, more unpleasant smell that made the barbarian think of wilted flowers: Death.

“No,” he growled to the empty room. “I will not let you die. Not after I failed you. I will not fail you again.” This time he could not hold back a yelp of shame, remembering the smell of blood when he entered the angel’s torture room, remembering the dazed look of agony on Crowe’s face. Barghast jammed his wrist into his mouth. Before he could make another sound, he bit into his own flesh until he drew blood.

“He will need his things if he is to survive,” the seer told him through a series of growls and yips from her position in the corner of the room. Barghast hadn’t felt the spirit - if a spirit she was - enter his sphere of awareness. “You are not far from your last settlement. You must grab his staff, the horse, and medicine if he is to survive. You must help him get better.”

“Torchcoats will be roaming all over the place.” Barghast whimpered at the thought of going back to that settlement where so many bad things had happened.

The seer gnashed her teeth together in disapproval. “Foolish pup! Your beloved is but a step away from death if you do not act. Look what already happened because of your recklessness. What more must he endure due to your failings?”

Her words burrowed into him like red hot barbs. He only needed to look at his twin o’rre’s pallid face to know he must act once more. Kneeling back down, he nosed Crowe’s face. Even if he was sick, even if he smelled unpleasant, it made Barghast’s heart flutter with delight just to breathe him in. Delight that turned into tears of reluctance and despair. The sorcerer stirred. He moaned something under his breath, then went still.

The barbarian lifted his legs gently so he could pull the blankets out from underneath him. They’d been so exhausted from their ordeal, they'd simply tumbled straight into bed, into one another’s arms. Now Barghast tucked him safely under the blanket. He wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him, to hold him until he got better, to chase the fever away with the heat from his own body. To never part from him again. The seer must have thoughts, for she said, gently, “Part from him now so you don’t have to later, pup.”

“He’ll be vulnerable to the spirits,” the Okanavian protested.

“They are weak conjurings summoned by their masters. Even in his vulnerable state, the spirits can do little but whisper foul things in Crowe’s ears. If you quit your groveling, you can be back before he ever knows you were gone. Right now he is deep in fever dreams. Say your goodbyes to him and do what needs to be done.”

Barghast pressed his ears back against his head in submission. He kissed Crowe’s cheek, the red swell of his nose. He wanted to pick him up. He wanted to hold him. He wanted to rock him in his arms and sing to him all the Okanavian prayers his mothers back in the desert had sung to him. The sorcerer seemed to like it when the lycan sang to him. “I will be back before you know it,” he whispered in his beloved’s ear. “Please don’t wake up and think I left you. I would never leave you. When I get back I will make you strong again.”

And so with one last lingering glance, Barghast stole through the night.

The seer guided him across the field, back to the main highway. She pointed at the sky with a clawed finger. In the distance Barghast could easily pick out a long wavering red line that spread from one end of the horizon to the other. He growled at the thought of heading back into the necromancers’ accursed stew, but he knew if he wanted to keep Crowe alive he didn’t have a choice. He would do the same for me.

He broke into a full run. Without anything to carry, he could travel unburdened. Open fields of snow, overgrown weeds, and pine trees blurred past him in lines of white, green, and black.

Not since his days in the desert had he been able to run like this. Since coming to the North it felt like he’d always restrained himself in fear that his more animalistic instincts would draw unwanted attention to himself. Now he felt his chest expand. He loved the feel of the wind passing through his fur, keeping him cool. Elk, wolves, and other creatures from the mountain fleeing from the necromancer’s storm veered away from him. Were he not intent on his task, Barghast might have given chase, but he’d feasted on plenty of torchcoats. He felt stronger and sharper than he had in weeks. I can do anything. His feet carried him farther and faster than the shire horse at a full gallop.

Nothing had changed about the town since his last visit here. The streets still looked deserted, the villagers tucked inside away from the storm. The seer led the way down the slope, bone earrings rattling in the wind. The sound took him back to his life back in the desert, when he and all the other pups would visit her cave to sit around the fire and listen to her tell stories. Only he didn’t want to hear her stories anymore - I’m too old for them. What he wanted was resting in an empty house, deathly sick. It felt wrong to leave Crowe so shortly after reuniting. His thoughts shot back to his hand. The stumps of his fingers. The very image made him yip and whine. He stopped in the middle of an alleyway long enough to bite into himself again. It was the only thing he could to stay focused. I must be quick. Crowe depends on me.

The seer led him around to the back of a square building. He’d yet to step inside, but already he could smell the herbs stored inside. This would be a place of healing then. He saw no lights inside. Scanning both ends of the streets for torchcoats, he crawled through the window, pulling his rifle after him. Once inside he slung the rifle back over his shoulder. He knew Crowe would not want him to kill if absolutely yesterday. For the time being his bloodlust had been quenched.

Even in this strange building, made of wood unlike the buffalo hide huts he’d shared with his mothers and siblings, it was not hard to find his way to the storeroom. His nose was the perfect guide. He ripped the lock away from the storeroom door. Inside he found shelf upon shelf filled from end to end with glass jars of various herbs. He found empty jars and cloth bags in a large square object with double doors. Carefully he climbed the shelves, lowering the jars, removing the tops to sniff them. Despite the urge to ask hastily, he worked meticulously. He did not want to give his twin o’rre a substance that would make him more sick than he already was.

He snorted when he happened upon peppermint, almost dropping the bottle.

“Peppermint is good for you!” the seer told him. “Good for fevers and…” She flattened her ears disapprovingly, her eyes flashing. “...bad breath.”

“I hate the taste of peppermint!” the Okanavian snarled with a dismissive wave of his paw.

“You don’t intend to kiss your twin o’rre with that foul breath of yours, do you! Not when you’ve been muzzle-deep in a man’s guts. Show your beloved the respect you say you behold for him…”

Tucking his tail in between his legs, he tucked the jar of peppermint in the bag. In went the jars of garlic, ginger, and honey. To make sure the bag would hold all that it contained, he fitted into another bag.

“That should be enough!” the seer hissed. “You don’t want to carry too much. You still need to get his staff…he’ll need that…and the horse.”

“I know what I need to grab!” he yipped. He stepped out into the corridor without bothering to close the door behind him. He walked out the front entrance. There was no one around to see him leave.

He hesitated outside the tavern door only a moment before ducking inside. He lunged swiftly up the steps before he could give himself time to see if his sins still remained untouched.

May Gaia take mercy on my foolish ways…

He found the unfinished staff on the floor by the bed. He wished he’d thought to grab it sooner, but he’d been too panicked and it would have been just another thing to carry. Now he knew this object could be crucial to his and his twin o’rre’s survival. Would Crowe be able to finish it with his damaged hand? He bit another hole into his tongue. He descended through the broken window, dropping fifteen feet to the ground below. He barely felt the impact race up his legs.

A quarter of an hour later, the Okanavian raced up the hill, saddled on Mammoth’s back for what he hoped would be the last time. He tried not to wag his tail in excitement. He wasn’t coming back empty-pawed. On his way out the stables, he’d managed to fill a saddlebag with chicken eggs. Tonight his twin o’rre would eat and eat well. And I will eat the heart of anyone who tries to touch him, be it man or beast or undead thing. He is mine. He snapped the reins, willing the horse to go faster, wanting more than anything to be back with Crowe.

                                                                                …

Crowe drifted in the yellow seas of his fever. He wiggled beneath the blanket, now soaked in his sick-sweat. He was at the crossroads between dream and memory.

The sorcerer cut a knife’s path through the woods. Tree branches snagged at his robes and hair. He ducked under the last line of trees, arriving at the cave where he was to meet Bennett. He tried to contain his eagerness, hoping to find the older boy inside already waiting for him.

A high-pitched girlish laugh sounded from inside the cave. The sorcerer stopped, listening. Rather than slink away before he could be seen, he inched his way inside to see what betrayals life had in store for him today. Bennett danced around a crackling fire with a towheaded girl. She was pretty, Crowe thought, and that was one of the reasons why he didn’t like her. She was the quintessential sixteen year old girl any randy young man like Bennett would desire, with a fully developed figure and eyes that lit up when she laughed.

When Delilah saw Crowe, she stopped dancing and gasped. Bennett didn’t seem to notice; he raised a bottle of whiskey to his lips, taking a long swig. He beamed at the practitioner before clapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy, glad you could make it! Look who I found. Figured we could make it a trio and have a party tonight!”

“I didn’t realize this was your spot…” Delilah looked only at Bennett, refusing to look at Crowe.

She’s afraid of me.

The sat around the fire, Bennett and Delilah together on one side, the practitioner on the other by himself. Cedric the mongrel slumbered in the corner of the cave, head resting on his paws. Crowe kept trying to catch Bennett’s eyes. As the silence stretched itself thin the resentment began to build in him. He watched Delilah take a swig of the drink. She made a face, swallowing as if it pained her. Not much of a drinker, is she? he thought smugly.

“May I?” he asked. He reached a hand out for the bottle.

She actually looked at them. Her eyes appeared to be black in the shadows. When she did not offer the bottle to him, Bennett pried it from her stiff fingers with a scowl. He held it out to Crowe with a stiff smile. “There you go, mate.”

Crowe took a long swig from the bottle. Then another, then a third. The whiskey burned his throat, but the sting of spirits could not quell his emotions.

Bennett forced a chuckle. A crease of worry appeared between his eyebrows. It was unlike Crowe to drink this much at once.

The practitioner glared at him over the flames. He pulled at the bottle a fourth time. “Why? I thought we were having a party.” He lit an aether joint and passed the bottle back to Bennett. He turned his attention to Delilah. “Did he tell you we got stuck in the snowstorm the other day?”

Delilah arched her golden eyebrows at Bennett in accusation. Her voice sounded stiff when she answered. “No, he didn’t.”

Bennett’s eyes fastened on the practitioner, warning him not to say another word.

What are you so afraid of? You don’t want her to know what went on in this cave, do you? Afraid of what she might think? Afraid she’ll run to your father and tell him you’re in love with a practitioner…As if he doesn’t already know.

The satisfaction he felt was both black as pitch and suffocating. It seemed only fair he should indulge in some trickery of his own after Bennet had invited him…for what? The truth of Bennett’s character hit him as it never had before. There was no turning away from it this time. “I would have died if it wasn’t for him,” he croaked hoarsely. He pinned the older boy in place with his glare, daring him to challenge him. “I got caught in the storm and came to this cave. I was at death’s door from exposure to the cold. Luckily he was here. He nursed me back to health. Kept me warm by sharing his body with me…”

Bennett staggered to his feet with a roar. He charged at Crowe like a bull. Before the practitioner could get up, Bennett pinned him to the ground, straddling him. Bennett’s fist filled his vision. Never before had the boy struck Crowe with fury before. Now every impact drove his head back into the cave floor, filling the black behind his eyes with stars. When Bennett’s fury receded, Crowe clung to the edge of consciousness, bruised and bleeding. Delilah’s voice sounded shrill. Far away. Stupid bitch, he thought. She never should have come here. This was our place. The thought hurt more than he would ever be willing to say.

She sounded distressed. Perhaps she was crying. She’s crying, but I’m the one who’s bleeding.

His face smarted. His head throbbed. He could taste blood in his mouth. How had the tables turned so quickly? How had things gone so wrong?

When Bennett drifted back into the field of Crowe’s vision, he looked at the practitioner with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d done. “I’m sorry,” he said in a gruff voice. Tear tracks marked his ruddy face. “Oh, Monad help me, your face, Crowe…” He reached out.

The practitioner staggered to his feet, backing up until there was nowhere else to go. He glared at the other boy through his good eye; the other was swollen completely shut. Delilah wasn’t in the cave. She must have done the smart thing and fled the scene before Bennett could start swinging again. “Go get your girlfriend before she falls and breaks her neck!”

It was his turn to escape. The cold air was a balm to his bruised flesh, Bennett’s voice a distant echo at his back thanks to the ringing in his ears.

“Damn you to the Void, stop!” Bennett ducked around him, blocking his path.

Crowe gave him a hard shove. “Get a good look at my face! Is this what you do to the people you claim to love?”

The older boy’s eyes shined with tears. “I don’t know why I did that…I didn’t mean to…”

“You’re not a healer. There isn’t anything you can do about it. You did it because you’re just like everyone else in these Monad-forsaken mountains: you’re a liar who cares too much about what other people think.” Tears of his own stung his eyes. Tears of betrayal and a hurt that went down to the core of him. “I love you, Bennett. I always have. I would do anything for you. I thought you loved me. You told me I was beautiful. That you loved me and then you fucked me.” The older boy’s head turned as if the practitioner had struck him. Crowe continued unabated. “But the moment that stupid girl comes along, you’re all over her and you leave me hanging! Now look at me!” He stepped into a shaft of moonlight so the other boy had no choice but to look at him. “Get a good look at my face - get a good look at what you did. Because this is the last time you’ll ever see it…”

                                                                …

…because this is the last time you’ll ever see it.

Those final words echoed in the herald’s mind, following him into the waking world. He opened his eyes, aware he was no longer alone. He could feel someone watching him through the dark.

He sat up with a wince. His body ached in a thousand places. His robes stuck to him. His eyeballs felt like hot coals in his skull; it felt as if someone had stuffed it full of cotton. The only illumination in the room came from the pool of moonlight streaming through the window. Unfamiliar objects left over from a life not his own loomed out of the shadows to taunt him. He expected - hoped - to find the Okanavian close by but no matter which way he turned his head, Barghast was nowhere in sight.

“Barghast.” His voice sounded alien to his own ears. The inside of his throat was inflamed by fever.

Only silence and shadow answered him.

No, he thought. Not again. Determined to find the barbarian, he threw off the sweat-stained blankets. He knew he should remain in bed but the thought of being alone again, even for a moment. The floor tilted precariously beneath his clammy his sticky heels. His unmangled hand fell on top of the nightstand. He leaned on it, feeling the wood groan beneath his weight. His back screamed. The mere act of getting out of bed had rendered him completely breathless. The phlegmy rattle of his lungs made him think of Petras, an unwelcome parallel.

He turned, determined to cross the room to the door. He didn't want to be alone in this room, in this house. He didn't want to be trapped in bed, unable to defend himself. He made it no more than a few steps when his legs gave out from underneath him, dumping him on the floor. There he remained, more breathless than before, momentarily defeated. His feverish eyes remained fixed avidly on the puddle of moonlight next to his foot as he counted each breath.

A giggle sounded from the other side of the room. The voice sounded clogged, as if it came out of the silty waters of an ancient well.

Crowe froze. His pallid skin broke out in gooseflesh.

“Alone,” said a girl’s voice.

“Alone,” said the deeper voice of a male. Both sounded as if they came out of the same ruined throat.

“He doesn't want you,” giggled Delilah's voice.

“He’ll never want you,” laughed Bennett's.

“Why would he want you?”

“Why would anyone want you?”

Slowly a hunched form rose to its feet, towering over Crowe's shivering form. Swathed in black, its back turned, the practitioner couldn't make out the intruder’s face, but he had no doubt the voices of Delilah and Bennett emerged from a single mouth.

It turned, stepping into the moonlight.

A low moan escaped Crowe. If he’d had the voice to scream, he would have.

The creature was an aberration if he’d ever seen one. Its face was one-half Bennett's, one-half Delilah's; it was as if a cruel surgeon had merged both halves together to make something wholly new. Its throat was an open slit that opened and closed like a hungry mouth, spurting out a clear transcluent fluid that splattered Crowe's face every time it snapped shut. It's tongue was a long tendril that writhed out of its mouth like a twin headed snake.

The practitioner's fingers reached instinctively for his necklace; it surprised him to find it dangling around his neck. I thought I lost it back in Fort Erikson! Barghast must have put it around his neck before leaving. Proof he hadn't abandoned Crowe. Proof he would return. The sorcerer drew courage from the thought.

The abomination took a jerky step towards him, cackling with uncontained mania in its twin voices. Both eyes watched him blindly from behind white cataracts. With large hands much too wide for its bone-thin wrists, the aberration removed its robes, letting them fall to the floor with a whisper. Crowe blinked, too terrified to move let alone think. Thousands of faces with gaping mouths and eyes glaring into his. High-pitched screams deafened him. He clapped his hands over his ears, but there was no getting away from it. A few of them were faces he knew; many of them were faces he didn't.

The creature drifted closer.

Somehow the herald managed to rise to his feet. The action made him break into a series of racking coughs. He tried to smother them. Once he could breathe, he gasped, “Stay back.”

He couldn't take his eyes off those faces - so many, too many to count - all stitched together, merging and separating with no pattern to hint at the purpose of this terrifying phenomenon. They pulled at his attention despite the shrill voice in his head that begged him to turn away. To run.

“You're tired,” the abomination said in Delilah's voice.

“Broken,” it said in Bennett's.

“We can smell your fear.”

“The illness that has taken hold of you.”

“Your mangled hand…”

“...it pains you still.”

The aberration reached out with both disfigured hands. Crowe drew away from its touch with an audible shudder. The spirit continued to taunt him, its mutilated face set in a permanent rictus.

“We know you are tired of struggling.”

“Tired of suffering…”

“We can end the struggle.”

“We can end your suffering.”

“For what is a warrior with a crippled hand…?”

“A nothing. A reject.”

“How could a proud and fearless warrior like Barghast ever want you?”

“If you are tired of suffering and want to know true peace…”

“...then all you need to do is take our hand.”

The creature unfurled its arms. Bones creaked beneath it's wriggling flesh. The faces that stitched it together screamed and moaned and panted in pain and in ecstasy. The room was filled with the smell of blood, of shit, of sex and cum. Crowe gagged, choking on the taste of bitter fruit. The last shred of his resistance fell away like a severed rope. He caved in, stepping towards the abberation’s embrace if only so he didn't have to bear the burden of being herald anymore; the abomination’s words echoed in his head, taking root.

Monad saved him yet again.

The charm caught the moonlight, reflecting it straight into his eyes. He wrenched it from around his neck with a snarl. “Get back, creature! I know what you are. Do not think you can fool me so easily a second time!”

Brandishing the crucifix, he advanced towards the creature. The aberration unleashed an ear piercing shriek. It shrunk back against the wall, shielding with its withered arms in a pathetic attempt to ward the practitioner off. Crowe would not be so easily swayed from his faith this time. “Even in my weakest moment, Monad is still with me! He will never leave me and nor will Barghast! I trust him more than anyone I’ve trusted in my life. Whenever he’s gone I know he will return…I know he will keep me safe!”

He stopped, wheezing. He felt as if his lungs would burst. Feeling as if his legs were too thin to bear his weight. The room teetered. He was paying for his overconfidence. His arrogance. Just as Petras always told me I would.

The sound of hooves pounding into dirt made him turn his head towards the window; he staggered towards it, still holding up the necklace, using it as a shield. It was the only thing keeping the abomination from devouring his soul. Even in his feverish state, he recognized the large equine shape racing across the creek. Mammoth!

Gathering what little strength he had left, Crowe lurched drunkenly out of the room. It was everything he could to remain upright. The aberration stalked after him, never letting him out of its sight. Thousands of mouths screamed in fury at his act of defiance, deafening him. He feared his skull would explode at any second. Monad must have been with him still, for somehow he managed to drag himself down the stairs, clinging to the banister. At last he reached the door, flinging it open. He tripped over the threshold, crawling across the porch. The aberration was almost upon him. Its mouth yawned open, ready to devour him whole.

The herald dragged himself down the porch steps, through the snow, towards the sound of footsteps running his way. It was all he had breath for. Strength for. A deep bark cut through the air. A towering figure with broad shoulder covered in dark gray fur (black when under the night sky) stepped between him and the abomination. The glint of claws flashed through the cool air.

The creature came apart in a burst of writhing fleshy tendrils that crumpled to ash. Its agonized screams made the sorcerer want to burrow into the earth to get away from the pain spiking through his skull. Only when the shrieking ceased did he let his head fall into the snow.

No sooner had he taken his first shuddering breath, he was being hauled up and carted back towards the house. He burrowed into the familiar warmth, burying his nose in the chest fur of the one who carried him. Protected him when he could not protect himself. They wound up the stairs, the house caught in a whirlwind. Amber eyes held his feverish blue ones intently. Unblinking. Unwavering.

The spirit is gone. My lycan has returned. I am safe. I can rest now.

Safe in all ways but dreams.

Crowe lifted his leaden arms, reaching for the barbarian. “Come here,” he said. “I want to look at you.”

Tail thumping eagerly against the bed, Barghast leaned forward until the upper half of his body covered Crowe and their noses almost touched and all Crowe could see were the twin suns of his eyes. He licked the practitioner's face with a whine that turned into a rumble of pleasure when the sorcerer started scratching the fur between his ears. The Okanavian nosed at him, his ears flat against his massive head. The herald didn’t last before he was seized by another fit of body shuddering coughs. Barghast lapped at him anxiously.

“It's…it's alright,” the practitioner reassured him with a sickly sniff. “I just don't feel the greatest. I need a day or two to rest…to get my strength back. That's all.”

Barghast did not appear relieved by Crowe’s feeble attempt at consolation. He held the sorcerer in a vice grip, just short of crushing him. After several moments of silence, broken only by Crowe coughing, wheezing, and retching, Barghast pressed a handkerchief to his bruised face. “Ictu,” he said. The word was sharp and abrupt, almost a bark.

Crowe blew until his bruised cheeks turned a flamy red color. When the Okanavian pulled the soiled rag away, the practitioner let his head fall back with a tortured moan. All at once he was exhausted again. I think I'm dying, he thought. Perhaps dying wouldn’t be such a bad thing as long as he was alone with the barbarian when it happened. Just the two of us…I think I could let him hold me like this for the rest of my life.

When Barghast lifted his body to set him down on the bed, Crowe clung to him, desperate to remain exactly where he was. His hands rested against Barghast’s shoulders. He marveled at the broad wall of solid muscle beneath the Okanavian’s fur. Shoulders as broad and solid as a boulder. Crowe fitted perfectly in his lap, giving him plenty of room to move about if the lycan would give him enough room to do so. His toes poked out from underneath his blanket, exposed to the chilly air inside the house. “Don’t leave me!” he cried. He didn’t care how pathetic he looked or sounded. The thought of Barghast leaving him again even for only a second filled the practitioner with a panic that left no room for rationality.

Resting a paw against the back of his neck to support his head, Barghast helped Crowe to sit up. “I stay,” he rumbled. He kissed the practitioner’s forehead. “I keep you safe.”

The herald pressed his face to the Okanavian’s chest so that his cheek rested upon a pillow of fur. There was nowhere else he would rather be.