Waylon's Crossing - 19. Chapter 19: Blood Bond

Waylon's Crossing
Chapter 19: Blood Bond

"Don't say that." Kynan's whispered response startled Alan and he quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

"Why not?" he demanded. "I've fucked up so bad, all my life. Damn it! Damn it! Why? Why am I always in the fucking way? Why can't I do something right for once in my life? Why do I always have to mess things up?! We were supposed to rescue you!"

Strong fingers squeezed a nearby ankle. Kynan smiled weakly. "There's nothing to be guilty about, you were only trying to help. And, whatever else, I'm glad you're here."

"Why? What good am I?" he cried. "I'm just a burden, to everyone!"

"You're not. You're amazing." The things he could do ... Memories were all Kynan had left, and he clung to them stubbornly.

Alan frowned. "Liar."

Kynan huffed a quiet laugh, heart aching through his own pain for the misery he saw in those brown eyes, eyes even more beautiful than he remembered. "You're ... you ... Alan?"

Brown eyes locked with blue. "Yeah?"

He blushed under the unhealthy flush on his cheeks. "May I have some water?"

"Oh! Oh, yes, of course!"

Through their short conversations, Alan slowly pieced together parts of Kynan's past, and of how he came to be a prisoner. There was more, Alan knew there was, but although the halfling spoke truthfully, the number of topics he would speak of was frightfully small. There was something big that he was hiding, several things, Alan was sure, but he wasn't sure what, and he was loathe to push too hard. Kynan said he didn't know why the Prince had switched tactics, or why he'd flown into such a rage, but, from the expression in his face and eyes, Alan suspected that Kynan had a pretty good idea.

The way Kynan's moods shifted erratically reminded Alan of what his father had called "The Change" with capital letters, explaining that all women went through it at a certain age. Alan’s mom had been moody and snappish, prone to sudden bouts of tears occasionally, and suffered irrational temperature fluctuations. Alan had simply avoided her as much as possible.

Kynan's fever only grew worse with each passing hour, but he still shivered. He also woke up frightfully fast and it never failed that the first thing he did was to scramble around for Alan, calling his name. Every time Alan talked him back into resting, he replied the same way: "Don't want to sleep! What if I wake up and you're gone?"

And, as he always did, Alan answered, "You worry too much. I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

Once, Kynan grumbled, in response to the werewolf's light teasing, "I do not worry too much." But then his stomach growled, making both of them laugh.

"Hungry much?" joked Alan.

"Constantly," sighed Kynan. "But, uh," he quickly added, "not in the suck-your-blood way ... heh." He giggled. "Although ..." and he wrapped an arm loosely around Alan's shoulders, pulling him closer to whisper in his ear, "you are here ...."

Alan sucked in a breath with a startled, "Eep!" Despite the circumstances, or perhaps because of them, desire coiled tightly in his belly, pulling him half-erect. He flushed guiltily, embarrassed and wiggling to get away, but he couldn't stay nervous with those lips so teasingly close to his ear. "Ky!" he protested, laughing, "That tickles!"

"Ow," said Kynan softly as the playful gestures shot fresh waves of agony up his arm from the blistered hand. He tensed, which pulled at his abused skin. With a sigh, he withdrew, leaning his forehead against Alan's back. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. I'm not thinking straight."

"Wait! I ... if you want to ...."

"No. No, can't -- shouldn't -- crap." He turned his head away. "Ow! Dammit."

With a sigh of his own, Alan rolled over and kissed Kynan on the cheek.

He scowled. "What was that for?"

Alan blushed and looked away. "I ... I don't know. Because you were there."

Kynan sniffed and adjusted his head in his arms again, dropping off to yet another uneasy rest. What seemed like a small forever passed before the sounds of feet approaching woke both werewolf and half-demon from fitful sleep. They stared at each other and then Alan scrambled away, to crouch beside Kynan, shaking hands wringing out the rag, eyes on the door.

The black, female demon entered first, glaring around. Alan dropped the rag and pushed backward and away. She grunted in dismissal and stepped to the side. The demon prince followed her. The malice in his body language made Alan shiver, but he also stepped to the side, bowing slightly to another demon wearing a long, black cloak. Subtle symbols on his robe oozed and slithered under Alan's gaze. Feeling sick, the werewolf dragged his eyes away, hugging his legs to his chest, suddenly feeling dreadfully exposed.

More guards waited at the door and out in the hallway. Xeran ignored them, striding over to Kynan. He grabbed the halfling by the hair, ignoring both Alan's swallowed protest and Kynan's soft cry, and shook him, dragging him upright.

The priest, for Alan was sure that's what this new demon was, with his tattoos, didn't alter his expression, but his mood changed to one of suppressed annoyance.

"No."

The Prince dropped Kynan. "Perform the test!" he ordered.

The two demons locked eyes. Alan backed up against the wall, exchanging a quick, worried look with Kynan. The halfling shook his head slightly. He had no idea what was going on, either.

The priest backed down first. "As you will, milord," he said evenly, bowing slightly and not looking pleased in the least. His hands appeared with startling quickness, one bearing a small, wickedly curved blade, and the other a small, stone bowl. He gestured to Kynan with the knife. "His hand."

A short scuffle ensued before the guards had werewolf and half-demon subdued. The priest cut open a blister on Kynan's palm, trickling blood into his bowl. Then he turned to Alan and nicked his palm, adding some of the werewolf's blood. He stared down at the bowl, watching as the slightly different colored blood recoiled from each other like a live thing, like oil and water. He was about to look up, to give voice to his mocking triumph, when the blood slid together, joining. The blood-priest swirled the blood with his knife, but the new form didn't separate. He gave Kynan's blue demon-eyes a closer look, and then glanced over at the werewolf before turning to the Prince.

"So, it's true."

Xeran smirked. "Of course it is."

"There were rumors, in the priesthood," said the demon, red eyes flicking back to Alan. "As there are stories elsewhere. I had never thought I'd actually prove them true."

"They both have our blood," said the Prince. "Will it work?"

The priest shrugged. "Even among our own kind, the ritual kills as often as not. Only a true pairing will survive the Bond. And, as weak as he is," he added, frowning at Kynan, "it may kill them anyway."

Alan glanced at Kynan again. The halfling was deathly white under his fevered flush. As if he felt Alan's eyes on him, Kynan glanced over, and then quickly away, squeezing his all-too-expressive eyes closed. Nervous fear clenched a fist in Alan's gut.

"I'm willing to take that risk," the Prince decided.

"Very well," said the priest, bowing again. Bowl and knife disappeared into the folds of his robe. "Very well" he said again in a huff. "There is no need to delay. Bring them." Without a glance back, the priest strode from the room.

The Prince paused by Kynan, grabbing his chin to leer at him. "You are mine," he growled. Kynan scowled, mouth too dry to spit, but Xeran just laughed. "You had best hope the ritual kills you, Little One, for that's the only way you'll escape what's coming. I've waited too long."

Kynan's fear was infectious, making Alan's knees weak so that he sagged against the demon that held him, but beneath the fear was a rising panic and despair. Kynan wouldn't look at Alan, and he struggled as the other demons released his chain, binding his feet together and dragging him out into the hall.

"No!" Alan heard him shout, feet dragging, shackles rattling. "No! NO!"

Three demons remained. They released Alan's bonds, hands resting lightly on weapons.

"You heard the priest," said one. He drew his force-rod. "Come willing or unconscious, doesn't matter to me."

Alan bit his lip and glanced away before bowing his head, silently telling these giants that he would cause no trouble.

The room they led him to was built completely in black stone, with an altar on one side. A silver disk on a chain hung suspended from the ceiling, and two braziers burned incense on either end. A goblet, knife, and a few other odds and ends rested on a white cloth on the altar. Two chairs had been placed inside a silvery-white pentagram painted on the floor. The priest knelt in front of the altar, head bowed. He had shed his robe, revealing the swirling patterns of tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin.

Kynan was bound into one of the chairs and gagged. Ropes went around his elbow and wrist fastening his left arm so that his palm faced up and his right arm so that his palm faced down. More rope wrapped around his chest, again at his waist, and both ankles were secured to the chair legs. He watched as they brought Alan in, the werewolf’s eyes darting around in panic.

They bound the werewolf into the second chair that was adjacent to and facing the first, also with his left palm facing up. As soon as both prisoners were secure, the guards disappeared, and the door closed behind them with a muffled, final sound. Only Xeran and his chief bodyguard remained, standing carefully outside the pentagram.

The incense burned down, leaving thick shadows and smoky clouds behind. They waited in tense silence until the priest started chanting in a deep baritone. The words were ancient, unknown to any outside the priesthood, but Kynan understood the intent and he held Alan's eyes with his own.

I'm sorry! he tried to say. He blinked away more tears, and prayed for death.

The chanting could have taken minutes or hours or days; time had no meaning in that little room. Cold settled over them, all the heat sucked into the silver disk over the altar. Alan was shivering as hard as Kynan by the time the priest rose. He handed strips of red-dyed leather to the black demon, gave the goblet to the Prince, and gathered up the knife himself. Turning, he approached the prisoners.

The knife flashed, and then plunged down into the goblet, that Alan could now see was filled with some kind of amber liquid. The priest swirled the drink clockwise, then counter-clockwise, chanting all the while. When he pulled out the blade, he ran the edge along the inside of Kynan's arm, following the vein. Kynan jerked back, startled, and watched the blood bubble to the skin, then run over the arm of the chair to drip into the waiting goblet. The priest again swirled the knife, mixing the blood and liquid, before slashing the werewolf's matching arm.

Fuck! thought Kynan, swallowing against the sharp, biting pain, feeling the echo of Alan's fear and pain, the Prince's impatient interest, his guard's morbid fascination, and the priest's all-consuming concentration. Kynan wanted to throw up. He'd lost so much blood over the last few days that his injury trickled rather than flowed the way Alan's did, and although he knew the slice wasn't a mortal wound, it might as well have been. It hurt with enough force that Kynan could hardly drag his eyes away, sure that they'd cut off his arm, rather than just cutting him a little.

Kynan?

He snapped alert again to that desperate call, feeling the pull of those demanding eyes from across the seeming abyss that separated them. The priest was chanting again, swirling the knife in the goblet, and then shaking drops over the two prisoners. The liquid hissed and stung like acid. Kynan whimpered around his gag, letting his head loll back against the chair, eyes falling closed.

Ky! Kynan! Please, stay awake! I'm scared! I don't want to die! Kynan! He stared at the half-demon, begging him to stay conscious. Alan clenched his jaw tight around the gag, forcing the fear back down, telling himself that if he threw up he'd choke. Whatever this was, they could get through it together.

Sharp emotions picked at Kynan and he traced them back to Alan. He couldn’t make out individual words, but his mind insisted on assigning meaning to the bombarding feeling. Against his will, Kynan's eyes opened. Tears glistened on Alan's cheeks, his eyes fastened on the half-demon as if force of will alone could keep Kynan conscious and aware. He looked frightened -- that much was clear in the whiteness of his skin and the shape of his eyes -- but he also stared with intense focus and his lips were little more than a thin line. Alan’s jaw bulged from gritting his teeth.

Kynan groaned. No, Alan, please, no ... Let me go, let me go.

Alan whined as the priest grabbed his hair, forcing his head back and untying the gag. He held the goblet to the werewolf's lips, forcing his mouth open. Alan had to either swallow or drown. He swallowed, a glazed look coming to his eyes. Then the priest turned to Kynan. He pulled the gag free and put the goblet to Kynan's lips.

Kynan!

His eyes flicked from the goblet to the priest, over to Alan, and then back to the noxious drink under his nose. He drank. The liquid oozed down his throat like honey, tasted the way piss smelled, and burned all the way down like the worst bootleg liquor he'd ever had the misfortune of consuming. The potion numbed his insides, hitting his empty stomach like a punch to the gut and spreading fire outward, making his limbs feel oppressively heavy, but his head light, disconnected, almost. He coughed, eyes watering, gasping as he finished the last swallow. Every little hurt, every injury felt newly inflicted and separate. His head swam in the misery. Sharp, stabbing impressions between his shoulder blades hurt the worst, throbbing in time to each beat of his heart, making it feel like there were two sharp spikes digging into his back from the smooth surface of the chair back.

Kynan leaned forward against his bonds, fighting to get away, to ease the torment, but he was too tightly bound. Alan's pains came to him also, strangely emphasized, the other three fading away as if they didn't exist. He wanted to give in, to the darkness creeping up at the edges of his vision, tempting him with its cold fingers along his skin.

I don't want to hurt anymore!

Kynan, Kynan look at me! Look at me, please!

He shook his head weakly, not wanting to open his eyes, not wanting to acknowledge the need, just wanting everything to end. No, no, let me go, leave me be.

Look at me, damn you! I -- augh! OW! Owowowowow!

Kynan looked. Alan had his head turned away, eyes closed, and mouth open in a silent scream. The priest had a small crock open in his hand, smearing paste into the cut on the werewolf's arm. His chanting was faster now, harsher, demanding. Finished with Alan's arm, he slathered the paste on Kynan's. The halfling screamed. Tears flowed down his face.

The priest didn't falter. Calmly, he handed the crock to the Prince and slashed through the cords binding Alan's left arm to the chair. Lifting the limp limb, he turned the arm over, palm down, aligning the paste-covered cuts over each other, and then binding them together with the red straps, blood to blood.

Kynan didn't feel Alan's hand in his elbow or the elbow on his wrist. He gasped, retching a little, and losing even the energy to scream as the new pain assaulted him, coming at him with a doubled echo from Alan. At first, there was only pain and a desperate refusal, the need to remain apart, but dragged irresistibly together.

"No! Fuck! Fuck, no!"

Feelings, memories, sounds, smells, tastes, assaulted Kynan and made his head spin. A weathered, stern face smiled down at him in joy. The heat of the forge pounded on his skin, little girls' laughter -- and screams -- reverberated inside his skull, hot rock and steam filled his nose. Countless images floated into his head, stunning and beautiful and frightening and breath-takingly lonely. He jerked away from it all, pushed it back, threw up crumbling walls, and managed to hold it back for a time. Mentally, he no longer felt the pain wracking his body in fierce convulsions that pulled screams from his raw throat.

He could do it, he was strong enough to block off the invasion. He could refuse. He saw that with stunning, startling clarity. He could kill them both and end this....

But something managed to find a way through the cracks in his defenses. There was a pattern to it, a rhythm or song in the way the sounds, images, and smells all swirled together. He could hear the beat of hammer on anvil and bright, boyish laughter; he smelled dirt under his nose and the grass of an open field; he felt the heat of a touch, of skin against skin; and he saw golden eyes shaped with sorrow, hope, and need. They touched something inside the half-demon making him ache as the werewolf called to him, imploring, offering ... offering what?

Kynan. Take my hand. Don't leave me, please, just take my hand. Kynan!

He refused automatically, pushing up his walls again, keeping his secrets close, his mind apart. No!

Hurt blossomed outward from the cold heat in his arm.

No, he said again, but for a different reason. It shouldn't be allowed, that hurt. No one should be allowed to make those golden eyes sad. No one should hurt this boy, this werewolf who was now undeniably his, body, heart, and soul. Here was someone to love, who would cherish -- who loved him in return! That's what it was! Love!

His darker side stirred, resisting.

Warmth, a tender, caring touch slithered between the cracks to caress Kynan as surely as any physical touch. He sobbed for it, wanted it, but he was afraid. Such things were not for him, he didn't deserve them. Even his own mother hated to look upon him. He snarled in mindless fury, mirrored by Alan's baser side as they strained each to savage the other.

And yet, Kynan also yearned for what was denied, what he denied himself. The half he'd always identified with the most reminded him of all that he'd ever wanted, that whispered pleas that reached toward that offer of love not with hatred or repulsion but with gratitude, with ... with laughter and warm memories and security. He wanted to drink in the smells and tastes, to know what his -- his! -- werewolf would feel like, for real in his arms.

Pain was a distant thing now, the barriers between minds thinning. Alan and Kynan faced each other across the distance, surrounded by darkness. Staring at him, Kynan saw himself, reflected in Alan's eyes, and he wasn't sure he recognized the creature he saw.

The part of himself that he'd always felt as his human half ... wasn't. This, this was his demon half, the half that resonated with something in Alan and wanted to embrace the Bond, that sought it, even. He'd cursed as a weakness this side of himself most of his life, and it was all that was keeping him sane. The other half, what he'd always thought was his inner monster, his demon side ... wasn't. He didn't know what it was, except dark, predatory, and with a tiny piece that might have been human once, that hinted at things he should know and didn't. This was the half that struggled away, that he'd fought his life to contain, and that insisted it would be better to die than be shackled to anyone or anything that would cripple its ability to break free and hunt.