Hubris - 26. The Seeds of Deceit

He dreamed of small hands sifting through his fur, washing him where he was filthy, comforting him when he was afraid. That sweet voice whose words were foreign to him, but soft, like the whisper of the wind against his hot, hot skin. He dreamed of his twin o’rre’s body laying on the ground before him, his skin furless and soft, glowing and clean. Looking up at him with eyes the color of blue sapphires. He dreamed of running his tongue down Crowe’s back, eliciting shivers of pleasure from him.

A loud bang and the frightened screams of the horses jerked Barghast awake. He was on his feet in an instant, rifle in hand, eyes roving the stable for his twin o’rre. “Crowe.” He searched frantically for his companion, yanking open the stall doors and peering inside without bothering to shut them. Each stall in which Crowe did not appear made him whine. Fear made his heart clench in his chest and his tail tuck down in between his legs. Something’s wrong. My twin o’rre wouldn’t just leave me. This much he knew.

He found the tree branch Crowe had risked his life to acquire. Now he knew why. While the Okanavian had slept, the practitioner had been hard at work making a new staff. Splinters littered the ground where he’d sat. Barghast whined - this time out of guilt, not of fear. While he’d slept, his beloved had been working tirelessly to protect him. To keep him safe. It is my job to protect him not the other way around. He brought the staff to his nose, sniffing. He could smell the practitioner all over it. That sweet, piney smell that made Barghast feel as if he was floating. The staff was unfinished. The stall doors hung open, banging against the wall. The Okanavian sniffed again, following the scent-trail his sorcerer had left behind.

Another whine escaped him. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. He wouldn’t have gotten up and left without waking me first -

BAM!

“BARGHAST!”

Barghast snarled. “Crowe!” he growled.

Making sure the rifle was loaded, he marched out into the rain.

His twin o’rre stood in the middle of the courtyard, naked as the day he was born, his skin shiny and wet with blood. A corpse lay face down in the growing flood. A tall figure lurched towards Crowe, the blade of a knife in gray desiccated fingers. Barghast squinted against the furious wind that had risen. Two more shapes appeared behind the undead creature: robed figures dressed in black similar to his twin o’rre. Barghast only needed to sniff the air to know they were nothing like Crowe. They brought the smell of death and rot with them. These were the hunters who had been pursuing them all this way.

Snarling, Barghast took aim. Aiming for the female, he fired, already preparing another shot. The necromancers ducked behind the fountain. A scream drew his attention back to Crowe. A second undead creature advanced on the practitioner, swinging a meat hook at his face. The sorcerer backed away but the creature was relentless in its efforts to maim him. Crowe’s eyes were burning pinpoints of white light, his face, covered in blood, set in a feral grin of distress. Something had happened to his nose…the shape of it was all wrong. Barghast filed this detail in the back of his mind. He would be sure to deal with it later once they were safe.

A wall of flame shot from the practitioner’s hands, engulfing the creature as it raised its hook above its head. Barghast shouted his name, jogging across the courtyard. Before he could reach his twin o’rre, Crowe disappeared in a whirlwind of black smoke. A sonic boom that made Barghast’s ears pop filled the air and the whirlwind died, the smoke dissipating rapidly. As soon as Crowe appeared, the Okanavian grabbed his hand, pulling him close, out of the way of the burning revenant. Barghast swung his paw, severing the revenant’s head with his claws.

Barghast steered the practitioner ahead of the pursuers. They ducked back into the stables out of the rain. Already Crowe was pulling the doors shut, latching them, buying them a few precious extra seconds. The black stench of the necromancers was everywhere now. It seeped under the door and through the cracks in the wood, smothering Barghast. He shook his head, nose twitching. The same helpless fear he’d felt in the clearing with the scouts was with him again. The doors shook under the deafening blows of their adversaries, making his head ring with a thousand bells. It was impossible to think.

Crowe shouted something at him, but Barghast was lost at sea. A sea of raw panic. He was making gestures with his hands, trying to communicate with the Okanavian through the use of his fingers, placing his thumb on his right temple and wiggling them about. Another helpless whine escaped Barghast. The rifle shook in his paws. He knew the practitioner needed his help, but he couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. It was only when he heard the fear and distress in his twin o’rre’s voice the second time that he moved.

He grabbed the big horse, making sure to pick up the saddlebag and Crowe’s staff, all too aware that he was wasting precious seconds. Still, he knew they could not afford to leave behind what little supplies they had. He pulled Crowe up onto the shadow, folding his arms around him the second his twin o’rre was pressed against his chest. He steered the big beast around until they faced the doors at the opposite end of the stables. He wished they could trade the massive steed for a smaller, faster horse, but this was the only horse big enough to carry the Okanavian’s weight.

With a snap of the reins they raced forward. Crowe blew the doors open with a flick of his wrist. They galloped past the smoke and flames into the night. Barghast snatched a quick glance over his shoulder. Still the two remaining undead creatures pursued them, stalking through the trees, undeterred by the storm their summoners ha created. The lycan sensed that unlike the practitioner and he, these monsters did not need rest, were not slowed by injuries or illness, or the maladies of the conscious mind. With these thoughts racing through his mind in a maddening whirlwind, he snapped the reins with a growl, willing the horse to go faster, faster, faster. He wanted to put as much distance between them and those foul-smelling agents of chaos.

They raced along the curve of the road, traveling further North. The back of Crowe’s head thumped against the lycan’s chest with every jolt. The Okanavian instinctively curled his shoulders and arms around the practitioner, trying to protect him from the jarring impact. The urge to stop and check his beloved for injuries pulled at him insistently, wrestling with the knowledge that they needed to keep going - they couldn’t afford to stop. He hated that he couldn’t see Crowe’s face. He hated that the practitioner wasn’t saying anything. He looked down, his ears twitching. Straining to listen.

Crowe’s hair had become a matted tangle, blocking the top half of his face from view. It was impossible to tell what blood came from the storm and what came from his injuries.

Something was wrong with his twin o’rre. Each breath he made sounded like a broken whistle, labored and obstructed. Worry tugged at Barghast’s guts with savage pulls, the lycan instinct to protect what was his warring with the more primal instinct to survive. Crowe must have sensed his confliction because he said, “Don’t stop.” Two words. Barghast didn’t know what they meant, but the sharpness in his voice was clear enough. He wanted them to keep going and so they would.

It was impossible to tell how long they rode on without stopping. The Okanavian’s biological clock told him it should be the morning - the sun should be out - but red tinged clouds shrouded the black night sky. A night sky that should have been blue with the light of day. Eventually Crowe leaned forward, pressing glowing hands against the horse's flanks, feeding his blessed life-giving energy into the beast so that they could ride on. Barghast could feel his exhaustion, feel it in the tenseness of his shoulders. Barghast could also sense his determination and knew the wraith would not let them stop until he was sure they were safe.

Minutes passed. An hour and then two.

The storm raged on.

Barghast caught the occasional flicker of life fleeing through the trees: a fox, a badger, a mother bear. It loped through the trees, urging its two cubs ahead of it, nosing at their rumps. Had they time, the lycan would have killed them to use their fur to clothe his twin o’rre - he was still naked, his hairless body exposed to the uncaring elements of the mountains - and their meat to feed him. It had been almost a full day since their last meal of rabbit. Barghast whined mournfully at the thought of food.

Eventually Crowe did bring them to a stop beside a large bed of rock that rose up out of the ground like the molar of a dead beast. A shelf of stone at the top of the boulder provided shelter from the rain.

“I need to…I need to stop…” Crowe panted. “I need to sleep just a few minutes…”

He slumped forward. If Barhast had not been there to support him he would have fallen off the saddle. Parking the shire horse beneath a tall pine tree, the lycan helped the practitioner down. The sorcerer’s movements were clumsy and slow. Now that they had stopped, Barghast could see that Crowe's nose was broken. Barghast felt a growl start to rise up from the cavern of his chest to his throat that turned into a whine. Someone had hurt his twin o’rre. Someone had damaged his face. A face the Okanavian loved. He held the practitioner’s head this way and that, wanting to help but uncertain how to.

“It’s okay,” Crowe whispered. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He spoke in a slurred voice. Mucus ran from his nose down his chin. He hugged himself, shivering. “Monad, help me, I’m a mess.”

The nervous chuckle he made told Barghast Crowe was trying to hide his distress. He knew his twin o’rre did not like to feel weak. He thinks I’ll look down on him. He thinks I’ll think him less of a warrior. A warrior is not weak because he’s afraid. He’s weak if he chooses to let fear keep him at bay. But if he fights in spite of being afraid, then he is the strongest of all warriors. He thought back to that moment in the stable when he had frozen. Frozen like a weak pup. His beloved had to shout at him to break him from his paralysis. You are far stronger a warrior than I. Barghast wished he could find the words to convey this to his beloved. One day I will be able to speak your language and you will be able to speak mine.

Taking his hand, the Okanavian led the practitioner under the shelter of the rock. It was enough to protect them from the rain, nothing more. It would have to do for a couple hours. He pulled a shivering Crowe into his lap, wrapping him in his embrace. The practitioner sighed, resting his head against the Okanavian’s chest. He muttered something under his breath, too quietly for even Barghast to hear. The lycan’s ears drooped in Crowe’s direction, straining to catch his next words, but Crowe had closed his eyes, his wheezes easing down to a steady rattle.

Barghast watched him. Watched the flutter of activity behind those soft, pale eyelids. He marveled at the fine black hair around his eyes; Barghast didn’t have brows. He took the opportunity to examine Crowe naked. It was wrong, he knew, to take advantage while his beloved was vulnerable, but he couldn’t help himself. Last night was the first time he’d seen the practitioner naked. He knew it embarrassed Crowe to be seen without àclothes on; his pheromones took on a minty smell that was not entirely unpleasant. Now he was not in a position to hide his nakedness from the Okanavian’s lecherous gaze.

Crowe’s body was slender, graceful, perfect for squeezing in tiny spaces. It hurt Barghast to see the bruises and scrapes that marked his flesh. Bags the colors of bruises darkened his sockets. His skin had begun to take on a gray pallor. In the time they’d known each other, the practitioner had pushed himself harder than Barghast could ever expect, determined to keep them alive. In the two weeks they’d known each other, Crowe had grown thin, the slats of his ribs showing beneath his flesh. Barghast worried about how thin the practitioner was. He did not eat enough, this much he knew. So far they’d lived well enough off of what the mountains provided, but the Okanavian knew they both needed a proper meal.

The lycan let his eyes drift down the length of the practitioner’s torso, until they stopped at the small patch of dark hair where his little cock was. Barghast’s mouth watered at the thought of taking it in his mouth. He didn’t want to eat it - no, he would never do anything to hurt his twin o’rre, he’d hurt himself before he did that - but he wanted to taste it. That soft, sweet little organ. He imagined wrapping his tongue around it, sucking on it until his beloved wraith went livid with pleasure. Barghast would hold him in his arms the way he was now and he would swallow whatever nectar Crowe had to offer. He felt his knot swell within his sheath. He began to pant, to feel hot despite the cool breeze that blew against them, ruffling his fur.

He tried to turn his face away so as not to breathe on the morsel dozing in his lap. Still, his eyes kept drifting back…back to that sleeping face. If only he could lick the bruises away. If only he could heal his nose with a touch.

Crowe whimpered, stirring in his sleep. Worry twisted his mouth into an uneasy grimace. “Bennett,” he moaned. “Don’t leave me…You always leave me when I need you most…”

The Okanavian’s ears twitched, listening intently. He’d heard that word before. Bennett. Crowe often whispered it in his sleep. When he did, his face would contort in the same way it did now, creases of unrest forming around his mouth like cracks in the earth.

“Bennett…”

Barghast growled, pulling the sorcerer as tight against him as he could without crushing him. He tried to muffle it, but the sound was loud in the absolute darkness. He needn’t have worried about waking Crowe. His wraith was lost in dreams - perhaps memories - of a life the Okanavian knew nothing about. It was easy to forget - and painful to remember - that his twin o’rre had once lived a life without him. Crowe bore scars that went deeper than the eye could see. This Bennett was one of the causes of these scars. Barghast knew this because Crowe’s scent changed when he uttered the name, he secreted a spicy smell that permeated the air.

Was this Bennett a person? Was it an object? Whatever it was, Barghast imagined getting a hold of it and destroy it. He imagined ripping it apart and offering its remains to Crowe. See this and know that Bennett, whoever or whatever it is, will never hurt you again.

He leaned forward, nosing at Crowe’s ear. He licked his cheek. “I keep you safe.” The words came to him easier and easier with each time he said it. He wanted to learn more. He wanted to learn everything his twin o’rre had to teach him. He yearned to be able to talk to him, to be able to understand him. If I can understand you I can protect you better. What thoughts go on behind those pretty, blue eyes.

He repeated the words over and over. He licked Crowe’s forehead, marking him with his spit. Still the storm raged on, unabated, eternal.

Somewhere in the dark of night a twig or a tree branch snapped.

Barghast looked up, a snarl on his lips. A figure in earthy brown robes stepped out of the trees. Barghast couldn’t see his face due to the raised hood.

The lycan rose to his feet, lifting his twin o’rre with him, being careful to avoid the rock shelf above his head. Again he tried to muffle his growling, pressing his muzzle against the crevice between the practitioner’s neck and his shoulder. Of course this awoke Crowe, causing him to stir. “Barghast?” he mumbled.

The intruder, almost past the cave, spun around at the sound with such speed, the hood fell back, revealing the whiskered face of a middle-aged man. Wide gleaming eyes regarded the lycan and the human-shaped morsel in his arms.

Barghast set Crowe on his feet, pulling him behind his back. Already his twin o’rre was injured, weakened from exhaustion. He would not let another foul creature of the night do him harm. Outstretching his claws, he stepped towards the man, keeping the practitioner behind his back.

                                                                …

 

Crowe’s sleep-addled mind floundered, trying to make sense of what was happening. He watched Barghast advance towards the man, his fur raised, his lips peeled back in a snarl. His eyes were gold coins of threatening intent. The man stared, apparently too frightened to move. It was hard to see his face in the dark, but the practitioner sensed no threat in him. Only when the Okanavian unfurled his claws did the sorcerer realize what he intended to do. His rage deepened his scars into cracks.

“Barghast - stop!” Before he realized what he was doing, he slid in between the Okanavian and the stranger. “He’s just a man. He’s stuck in the same situation we are.”

The sound of his voice snapped the Okanavian out of his rage. He made a grousing sound and then a whimper, taking a step back. His furry shoulders heaved like mountains erupting out of the earth before settling.

When Crowe turned away from his companion, he hoped to find the man gone, having fled for his life. Then I can go back to sleep…if such a thing is possible at this point. His heart plummeted when he saw the man had not moved from his spot, but continued to gape stupidly at Crowe.

It took the practitioner a long moment to realize why.

He was still naked, covered in blood, his flesh marked with bruises and scrapes, running around with an eight foot tall wolfman. He could only imagine how things must appear to someone who didn’t know any better. And understandably, the man was simply frightened.

The sorcerer backed away from the man, shivering, reaching up to run his fingers through Barghast’s fur. The Okanavian took that as an invitation to hold him. The practitioner was grateful when Barghast’s arms closed around him, hiding his modest parts from view.

“We’re sorry,” Crowe said when the stranger still did not move or speak. “We mean you know harm. Truly. You just startled us, is all.” The words were a lie. Had he not interceded who knew what sins Barghast would have committed in the name of keeping him safe.

“I-I have lost my home,” the man stammered in a shaky voice. His voice was deep enough but timid. “This storm…it won’t stop. It flooded my home, my crops. I have no food. This is the closest thing I’ve found to shelter for miles. Please. Might I sit with you, just for a few hours so that I may rest. I promise I mean you no harm.”

Even in an extreme state of fatigue, the man’s plight tugged at the practitioner’s heart strings. “Of course you may sit with us.” Crowe urged Barghast back towards the rock-shelter. The Okanavian went willingly enough but his focus remained on the man. Keep your distance lest you incur my wrath that look said.

While the sorcerer had no intention of turning any man in need away, he hoped the stranger would not hang around for long. He’d managed to advert Barghast’s wrath once, he didn’t know if he would be able to do so a second time. Nor could he blame the lycan for being overprotective. Everywhere we go trouble awaits us. Is there nowhere we can go where we are safe from the necromancers?

There was only one place: the dead city to the North. But they were still leagues away from reaching the Mirror Expanse. I can’t get us there, not like this. He felt a small pulse of panic. A panic that would have grown into a full throb were it not for the Okanavian’s presence. Only in trusting each other would they make the journey.

The practitioner, the lycan, and the man sat in a long, tense silence, gauging each other’s intent. The man wore a thick coat over his broad shoulders and round potbelly. He lowered his hood, showing long brown shoulder-length hair shout through with streaks of gray. Barghast no longer watched the man, seeming content to cuddle with his twin o’rre, clingy as ever. Not that the sorcerer could complain. What clothes he had had been ruined by the storm. Even now Barghast’s fur was soft and warm, making for the perfect coat. Before long Crowe found himself drifting sleepily into fantasies of traveling through the North while Barghast carted him around like an ox. It was ridiculous, but he also suspected the lycan would do so if he let him. He imagined galloping along the Daminion Highway, completely nude, with only Barghast’s hold to keep him warm, the lycan’s hard cock pressing against his rump…

“Will this storm ever end, do you think?” the man muttered thickly, prying the practitioner from his salacious fantasies.

“If Monad wills it.”

The man’s eyes focused on the necklace around the sorcerer’s neck. “I didn’t think there were any practitioners left. I thought they’d all fled to Caemyth. I hear Governor Matthiesen is offering shelter. Rumor has it he’s gearing up to rebel against Pope Drajen. Where are you headed, then?”

“The Mirror Expanse.”

The man blinked; apparently it wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “There’s nothing out there but ice and rock. What are you going out there for?”

The question churned an uneasiness in Crowe, evoking suspicion. Why is he asking so many questions? He felt Barghast tense beneath him, the start of a growl vibrating against the practitioner’s back, reacting to the sorcerer’s change in body chemistry. The practitioner forced himself to inhale - it hurt to do so, his nose still throbbed and it was difficult to breathe. He continued to run his fingernails through Barghast’s fur, adding pressure. This earned him a groan of pleasure. Another disaster possibly averted. He smiled, hoping to show the man he was still safe…at least from them. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude or seem suspicious, but our journey is our own. These are dangerous times and one cannot be too careful these days.” He lifted a palm towards the sky to illustrate his point.

“Aye,” the man said amiably enough. “No offense taken.” His eyes shot to Barghast before quickly darting away. “You travel in the company of a lycan? A practitioner and a lycan…what an odd pair.”

The practitioner chuckled, color rising to his pallid cheeks. “So everyone keeps saying.”

“No judgment here.” The man raised his hands in supplication. “These are strange times we live in, indeed, if this accursed storm is anything to go by. People keep saying we’re approaching the end of this Iteration…and I didn’t want to believe it, but now the proof is literally hitting me in the face.” He grinned cynically. “The name’s Holden. I’d shake your hand, but…” He eyed the lycan a third time.

The practitioner chuckled shakily. “It’s probably best if you don’t. Not if you want to keep it. I’m Crowe. This furry man…” He lifted the Okanavian’s paw to his lips. “...is Barghast.” The lycan’s tongue swiped diagonally across his face, his saliva hot and sticky like oil.

Holden relaxed, his shoulders slumping.

Just when it seemed the tension between the trio had settled into something akin to tolerance, the steady flutters of wind turned into a wailing force, bringing with it the smell of decay, the smell excrement, the smell of corruption.

Barghast hauled Crowe up, sliding an arm beneath his legs while supporting the upper half of his body with the other.

He bowed forward, shielding him from the wind. Holden shouted something, but the words were lost in the chaos. Crowe turned to look at the man. His eyes widened. A scream caught in his throat.

Holden was changing before his eyes. His skin writhed, sloughing off the bone like a snake outgrowing its flesh. His eyes turned black. His nails elongated into claws. Black ichor dripped from his eyes, his mouth, a mouthful of razor sharp teeth, serpentine tongue lashing out, threatening to do harm.

This time Crowe really did scream. He wriggled in the Okanavian’s embrace, scrambling to break free. Fear turned his mind into a gaping void. He should have listened to Barghast. He should have let the Okanavian kill the man. Instead he’d let the creature, another servant of Hamon posing as a human, get close to them. A mistake they were about to pay for.

Again Barghast set him down, pushing Crowe behind him. This time the practitioner did not stop him when the lycan lunged forward, claws slashing through the air. The sound of flesh parting from bone burrowed into the sorcerer’s mind. He moaned, watching the nightmare unfold before his eyes. He knew he needed to do something…I’m the herald for Monad’s sake!...but he couldn’t move. It was as if his blood had frozen inside his veins.

The creature fell with a wet thud, black ichor spurting from the bone-deep slash in its neck. With a single swipe Barghast had almost entirely severed its head; only a scrap of flesh kept it attached to the body.

In the wind a voice echoed, cackling with mirth. A familiar voice that rode the wind and stirred the trees. “Smite thine enemy. Burrow into his mind like the parasites you are. Lay your eggs of deceit and madness…”

“Oh no,” he moaned. “Oh Monad, please no…” Hot tears stung his eyes before he could stop their descent.

Stepping around the lycan, he dropped to his knees in the blood-sodden dirt. Holden looked up at him, wide-eyed and accusing. Why did you do this to me? those eyes demanded. Not the eyes of a servant of Hamon, but the eyes of a man. A man who had been fleeing for his life and paid dearly for it by bumping into Crowe and Barghast.

“No, no, no, no,” Crowe heard himself cry. He was sobbing now, his body shaking uncontrollably, from the cold, from terror, from the suffocating guilt of what he’d just done. Another human life snuffed out like a candle by the necromancers. They tricked me. They put scales of deceit over my eyes. It was another illusion and I fell for it. He pressed his hands against the man’s gaping wound. It seemed like the right thing to do. It was better than simply standing by while the man bled out. “Please, please, please, I’m so sorry.”

“Crowe.”

Large paws pulled his hands away from the mortal wound. Holden looked up at the sky with empty eyes, his face fixed in a perpetual expression of terror and agony. Crowe looked down at his hands. Hands soaked in the blood of another man. A man who had not deserved to die.

“No…no…no…no…” He shook his head, the ringing in his head rising to a deafening pitch. Not even the lycan’s touch or the familiar deep rumble of his voice could free Crowe from the shame that smothered him like an apocalyptic tidal wave.

Only when the lycan began to lick his face, whimpering, did the practitioner rise up from the black waves of his panic.

When Crowe looked up, the barbarian looked away, pressing his ears back flat against his head. Did he know what he’d done? Did he know that because of Crowe he’d killed an innocent man?

“Hey, hey, hey.” The practitioner rose on his knees, taking the lycan’s face in his hands. “It’s not your fault. You were protecting me…” He kissed his snout. When this did not work he kissed the Okanavian on the lips, wrapping his legs around the barbarian’s broad hips. Just as he suspected, Barghast pressed back fervently, his lips completely engulfing Crowe’s own.

The sorcerer’s heart quickened in his chest, his blood hot in his veins, his cock hard as a rock. He wasn’t the only one. He could feel the pointed tip of Barghast’s cock pressing against his rear. His skin buzzed with the need for release, for comfort. To be held, to be sheltered, to be loved. Searing images filled the mind. He imagined the lycan on top of him, taking him right there on the floor of the earth. He wondered what it would feel like to have Barghast inside him. Would I even be able to take him without hurting myself? He’d only had one lover in the past and Bennett had been large enough. Barghast’s cock wasn’t just long. It was girthy.

There was no time for comfort or satiating lustful desires. We’re not safe. We won’t be safe until we reach the dead city in the Mirror Expanse.

“There’s no one I trust more,” he whispered, pressing another kiss on Barghast’s snout. “There’s no one I feel more safe around. But we have to go. We can’t stay here, not another minute.” He brought his left fist to his mouth before crossing his fists over each other; he pulled them away from each other with a firm shake of his head. “Unsafe.” He repeated the gesture three times.

Barghast mimicked him. “Unsa…?”

Crowe repeated the words three times.

“Unsafe,” the Okanavian said again; this time he had it.

Taking the barbarian’s paws in his hands, Crowe stood. Boar’s Head was still a day’s ride away. He stooped long enough to slide his palm over Holden’s eyes. If not for the blood and near decapitation, he almost looked as if he were sleeping. Or so he told himself.