Index - Original Fiction - Hybrid Theory contents
Hybrid Theory 2:
By
Myself
-1-
226 RE
(Faen village Enia,
Kraen kingdom)
The small boy woke abruptly, eyes opening to stare blankly into the darkness above his head. Images of the fading nightmare swirled through his mind: demons in the forms of men, blazing dark eyes and hands of fire, wide, toothless mouths breathing smoke and sulfur… The memories caused the boy to shudder with terror even as they dissolved into the mist of waking.
He experienced a few moments of disorientation before realizing what had saved him from his rampaging imagination. The room was stiflingly hot for a late fall night, and light was pouring in through the crack beneath his bedroom door. The child’s keen nose twitched, the smell of wood smoke flooding his senses and nearly causing him to sneeze. Mixed with the wood smoke was another, sickeningly unpleasant smell.
The child rolled from his low trundle bed, disentangling himself from the blanket as he stood. He reached his full height of just over three feet before recoiling instinctively and dropping down to the floor.
The light was not alone as it poured through the crack beneath the door. The pleasant, tickling wood smoke and the sickening smell of something else burning were rolling in and collecting in a thick, large cloud near the ceiling.
Terror rose, icy claws tearing at the child’s stomach and heart, stirring violent butterflies to beat against his ribs and stomach walls. He crawled along the worn wooden floor, a small hand touching the door, jerking away at the heat.
Sounds filtered through the heated wood. The crackling of a fire, voices… A stranger’s voice, his mother’s panicked, tearful voice.
“One kid, that’s all?” The stranger was gruff, deep-voiced and angry. “You demons always have two or three by the time yer forty!”
“No, no, no…” The boy imagined his mother; saw her in his mind’s eye, cowering in a corner, white nightdress and arms, blue hair, all tinted red and orange by the firelight. Her arms would be holding his baby brother, just three-months-old, tight to her chest. “Only one, just my baby…”
The baby wasn’t crying, the hidden child realized. Why wasn’t the baby crying?
“Demon witch,” the stranger growled. The boy could barely hear them over the growing noise of the fire. “You will burn with your spawn.”
The child crawled quickly away from the door as the heat grew. He went to the window, holding his breath as he stood and pushed the shutter open. The smoke was pulled quickly through the unblocked portal, and the boy scrambled through beneath it.
He hit the dirt and moved away from the house, pulling himself along on his stomach, small body concealed in the moonless night by dark violet hair and his brown pajamas.
Reaching the cover of the trees, the boy pulled himself into a tangled thicket before looking back at his village. Each building was burning, two dozen deadly torches lighting the night.
Tears streamed through the dirt and smoke-grime on the boy’s face. He watched helplessly as his home burned, as the delicate, lifeless bodies of his mother and brother, charred by the fire, bloodied by the blades of their human murderers, were dragged from the house and dumped in the dirt beside his father’s headless corpse. The same scene repeated itself nearly a dozen times over, and the boy knew he was the only one left. The energy swirling through the smoke and around the bodies, both living and dead, was black and dark, bloody red, poisoned by pain, death, fear, and hatred. The tainted energy wove around the boy, drawn and strengthened by his own fear.
His stomach twisted violently, and the partially digested remnants of his dinner, just seven hours old, spilled onto the ground of his hiding spot. He heaved until his stomach was empty, until warm blood fell in droplets from his lips.
In the village below, the hunters were overwhelmed by the heady odors of burning wood, burning flesh, and warm, steaming blood. Busily harvesting from the still-warm bodies, they carved organs free, carefully removed unburned patches of pale, flawless skin, removed eyes and teeth and tongues. They packed the body parts into bottles, jars, and tightly woven sacks, all to be sold in the blank markets by the next sundown.
The Faen were odd creatures. Elven in appearance, their bodies were depositories of magical and natural energies, though they had no talent which would allow them to expel it as mages or elves would. As a result, that energy lingered in their tissues, even after death, and the body parts could be used to create various potions and talismans. Hated for the way they seemed to stare into the souls of those around them, hunted for the gold they were worth, the Faen were becoming hard to find, and the prices on their hides were rising to the point that a single organ would be worth a fortune.
Caught up as they were in their whirlwind of greed and furious energy, none of the hunters knew that they had missed a beautiful child, nor did they know that he was so close.
The child curled in the dirt as far from the vomit as he could be without leaving the safe camouflage of the tangled branches. Huddled into a ball, protecting himself from the cool night air, the boy cried himself to sleep, the crackling fires his gruesome lullaby.
-2-
The small boy of ten became an attractive young man of sixteen. Violet hair had lightened significantly, almost pure gray, because of the trauma of his childhood. Only when truly clean and caught in the appropriate light could the pale ghost of his original color be seen.
He kept to the night, to the alley, to the crowded tavern where he could go unnoticed. Hair pulled into his eyes hid the odd spiraling shape of his pupils, the only truly visible mark of his Faen heritage. On the rare occasions when he was noticed, he was dismissed as an elven or half-elven youth.
Slender, almost bony limbs were quick, long fingers skillfully trained to lift a coin or a bauble, or on the rare occasion, an entire purse. It was in this way that he survived for years, preying on those who would prey on him if given the chance.
His career as a pickpocket ended when he was sixteen.
--
Denba was a large city, busy for all but the wee hours following
When the dancing black and white flecks faded from his sight, the teen was gazing up at the gleaming, mirrored length of a dangerously sharp short-sword. He froze.
“Excellent prediction, Demetrus. A gray-haired child picking my pocket… I thought you vision was false this time.”
The owner of the cultured, quietly arrogant voice was also the owner of the silk robe. The man was tall, with narrow shoulders and strong features which could have been carved from stone. Cold eyes were nearly black, and neatly trimmed hair was the rich brown of chocolate.
The one referred to as Demetrus stood a few steps back, an old man in a black shirt and trousers, a gray cape fastened at his shoulders with small golden disks. His hair and short beard were silver with a few stray strands of black still visible.
“You look at me, boy,” the silk-clothed aristocrat commanded. The teen’s ice-blue eyes snapped back to him. “How old are you? Twelve?”
“Sixteen,” the boy snarled, hatred for the man’s race bubbling to the surface, focusing intently on the figure in front of him.
“Sixteen? Impossible…” The flat of the cold sword blade slid against the boy’s cheek, dangerously close to his eye. The young man froze again. The blade lifted the hair from the side of his head, revealing one delicately pointed ear.
“Elvenkind, my lord,” Demetrus intoned.
“Perhaps. What is your name, boy?”
“Kellon[*],” the boy said quietly.
The sword withdrew as the man tried the pronunciation of the name, and the boy nodded.
The sword point pressed against the thin skin of the teen’s throat again. “Kellon, I caught you attempting to steal from me. My right, now, is to take your hand, or your life, if I choose. Do you understand?”
The hatred had fled back into the dark depths of Kellon’s mind, replaced by the raw fear he knew so well. A whimper of acknowledgement escaped.
“Good. Today is your lucky day, however. I came to the market tonight looking specifically for you. I have need of skills you possess, and it was you my seer found when I questioned him.”
A whine escaped Kellon’s lips, a sound of pain as the sword pierced the skin of his throat and a trickle of blood ran down into his shirt. His head throbbed, and he hovered on the edge of consciousness. The edges of his vision blackened, and he was only distantly aware of the sword being removed.
His mind cleared suddenly when the noble knelt before him, dealing an open-handed slap to his face. “Kellon, I have a deal for you. Work for me, and I will take neither your hand nor your life.”
“You aren’t giving me much of a choice,” Kellon whispered.
“True.” The lord laughed quietly, and then fell silent as Kellon’s pale eyes focused on him. At this close distance, the orbs were visible even through the curtain of hair meant to hide them. “Destiny, kind creature, what have you brought into my hands?” he whispered.
“Don’t kill me…”
“You accept my offer?”
The thin, spiraling pupils and icy blue eyes vanished behind dark lashes, and the boy nodded.
“Excellent.” The nobleman’s face remained expressionless, though his eyes gleamed greedily as they were lost in thought. He stood. “Help him along to the carriage, Demetrus. He won’t run.”
“I thought I was the seer, my lord.” Demetrus’ voice contained a hint of humor, a wry smile forming on his face.
“Just take him,” the noble snapped.
“Yes, my lord.”
--
Kellon was staring dully at the plush scarlet walls inside the carriage when his new employer entered the box. The door closed, and the carriage jerked forward.
“Kellon.” The blank eyes of one condemned moved to the voice. “You may refer to me as Lord Arman. And cheer up, child. This could be a good thing for you.”
Kellon pulled his lips back, baring his teeth at Arman, a growl starting deep in his throat. Demetrus uttered a sharp word, and the boy’s head fell back, eyes shut in pain, hands clawing at his throat.
“Demetrus!” Arman scolded. The seer spoke the word of release, and Kellon gasped for breath, curling into a fetal position in the corner of the carriage.
“I apologize for his behavior, Kellon, but he will use such tricks if he feels he must protect me.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you safe from bounty hunters. As such, I will ensure you are capable of protecting yourself.”
“Bounty hunters…”
“I can see what you are, boy. I also know something you may not: You are alone.”
The teen’s head lifted to stare questioningly at Lord Arman. “What do you mean…?”
“The Faen have been hunted to extinction, Kellon. You may well be the last alive.”
Shock registered harshly on the teenager’s face. Tears welled, but did not fall, could not trace paths down suddenly bloodless cheeks. Lips quivered, a raspy, breathless whisper falling from them. “No.”
“I understand that it is difficult to think about. With time, however, you will come to terms.”
“It’s not possible.”
“You must realize—“
“It’s not possible!” The boy’s voice was shrill as he shouted, and the two men winced.
Arman moved to sit on the bench beside Kellon, shooing the seer to the opposite bench seat. “It is a shock, Kellon. In time, you will realize the truth. You may even come to accept it. For now, you should rest.”
“Rest…”
“Just sleep. Allow yourself to recover.” Arman’s voice had taken on a soothing, almost hypnotic tone. Kellon’s head dropped slowly to the cushioned bench seat again. His eyes closed, and the noble’s even-toned words lulled him to sleep. Dreamless darkness overtook him, wiping the pain and shock from his mind and features.
-3-
The blade fell, the point of the sword digging into the hard-packed dirt of the training arena. The broadsword slowly lifted, wobbled unsteadily, then fell sharply again. The hilt impacted the dirt a moment later, and boot-clad feet stepped away from it.
“It’s too heavy,” Kellon complained, growling at the weaponsmaster as he rubbed his sore and reddened hands. “You have to give me something lighter.”
Bane, the brawny man responsible for training and supplying Lord Arman’s guard, held back a sigh and easily scooped the large sword up with a single broad hand. The boy’s attitude had worn down his patience after the first day, so that even just a week after their training had begun, he felt like sparring with the boy, wounding or killing him, and simply being done with it. The hateful child was Arman’s new pet project, though, so the easy way out was out of the question.
The broadsword soon rested on the weapon rack again, and Bane selected a lighter rapier for the teenager.
Kellon took the blade when it was offered, and experimentally sliced the air with the long, thin blade. “Oh, this is much better.”
“You can’t do much damage with a light blade like that,” Bane warned.
“Fight me!”
The boy’s fiery challenge surprised his teacher. Kellon had a natural talent for moving with a blade, but he wasn’t ready for any sort of spar.
“Not yet,” Bane said. “You’re not ready.”
“You bastard! Fight me!”
“No.” Bane’s voice
remained level and calm.
“Fight him.” The amused voice caused both boy and master to turn. Demetrus stood at the edge of the arena, watching them. “Arman wishes to know his young charge’s skill with a blade when wielded against such a skilled opponent as yourself, Bane.”
Bane growled lightly. “The boy is not ready for even mock battle.”
“Fight him.”
The large man’s hand closed around the hilt of a broadsword larger than the sword Kellon had been using earlier. He lifted it from the rack and had to use both hands to steady and support it. The boy’s pale eyes narrowed as he studied his opponent’s weapon.
Bane took a fighting stance, sliding his feet laterally apart, leaning his weight on the front foot, his rear leg ready to push him out of the stance in an instant. The sword he held in front of him at an angle, the point aimed toward a point in the air above Kellon’s head. The boy’s stance was different, a natural fencing stance, his body turned to the side, the rapier held loosely in his front hand and aimed at his teacher. His legs were straight, but his knees were not locked, and his feet were a few inches apart.
Kellon twitched his head to the side, eyes focused on Bane. The man nodded grimly, shifted his weight to prepare to attack.
The young Faen’s lithe body moved as soon as Bane shifted, and the violet-haired boy moved under the man’s guard, rapier flashing as it sliced the air. Shocked by the fury and the power of the attack, Bane was pushed backward. The weight of the broadsword threw him off balance, and he fell to the ground.
Kellon continued to attack, and would not have stopped had one arm not wrapped around his throat, another hooking beneath his sword arm to still it. He choked, fought against the hold, and went slack.
Bane’s face showed bewilderment as he saw the blood coating the thin silver blade. Looking down, the man saw that the blood was his, running from numerous cuts that suddenly began to burn with pain. He groaned.
Demetrus move to the weaponsmaster’s side, and Lord Arman pulled Kellon away from the wounded man, fingers wrapping around the boy’s wrist and forcing him to drop the sword.
“Your skill is admirable,” the noble whispered, “but you need to learn self-control.”
Kellon snarled, and Arman shook him.
“I understand the bloodlust, Kellon. Let it fade. Relax.”
Kellon shook his head, fighting the arm still around his throat. The arm tightened. He went slack, exhaling slowly. His eyes closed.
“Excellent.” Arman released the teen, and the thin body crumpled to the ground.
--
Arman stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching his young charge at the window. In the distance, the sun was setting, the sky blazing brilliantly. Kellon sat on the window seat, watching the shifting colors, a mournful song pouring from his throat. Arman had easily followed the beautiful sound through the hallways, and now simply waited for the end.
The last notes faded from the air, and Kellon slumped against the glass. The sky was dark. “Lullaby for the Sun,” he said quietly, speaking to Arman, though not turning to face him. “There is an entire ritual… We used to perform it daily when I was young, but I’ve lost it…”
“Your people were the only ones with such beautiful sun rituals,” Arman said softly.
“Have you seen the rituals?”
“Once, yes.”
“Mm.”
“Your talent is admirable. Ah, speaking of which… Bane will recover.”
“Too bad.”
“Why such hatred, Kellon? In my arms today, you fairly vibrated with it.”
“Because I had to sit there and watch them burn our homes, kill my family, my friends, defile their bodies in the name of gold.” Kellon turned to face Arman, eyes blazing with cold blue fire. “I will never forgive him, or you, or any of your kind for that horror. Never.”
“We had nothing to do with that, Kellon. You cannot place the blame on us.” Arman put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and watched his face soften. “We are, indeed, the opposite, seeking to protect you, not hurt you. Can you see that?”
Kellon nodded slowly, looking out at the stars as they appeared in the velvet sky. “That doesn’t change anything, though.”
“I saw how easily you defeated Bane. I think you’re ready to start your work.”
Kellon turned a suspicious eye to the nobleman. “Work?”
“That was our deal. You work for me, and I leave you intact.”
“What kind of work?”
“You, my boy, are going to go from being the hunted to being the hunger.”
The boy’s icy eyes narrowed to slits. “You want to turn me into what I hate, is that it?”
“Would you rather be destroyed by what you hate?”
“It might be preferable.”
“Then you have no love for your race?”
Kellon’s head tilted slightly, a birdlike habit that matched the beautiful trill of his voice. “What do you mean?”
“So long as you are alive, there is a hope, there is a chance that the Faen can return.”
“But if I am the only one…”
“The children would be half-bloods, unless you somehow found a woman of your race who survives. Isn’t half better than none, Kellon?”
“I…” The teen fell silent, turning his head to gaze out the window again. “You cannot put this burden on me.”
“Kellon…”
“You cannot put this burden on me!” the boy screamed, turning and standing from the seat in one fluid motion. His eyes were blazing again, murderous rage boiling inside of him, turning his vision red.
Arman was undisturbed by the transformation, his narrow hands falling together in two sharp claps. The Shadow Guards[†], in their black armor and masks, seemed to appear from nowhere, their hands firmly closing on Kellon’s arms, effectively immobilizing him.
“He needs a change of view until he has a change of mind,” Lord Arman said coldly. The Guards carried the boy out, gloved fingers digging into his thin arms. The nobleman’s face was completely impassive as he heard Kellon’s cry of pain drifting down the hall to him.
--
After three days spent shivering in a cold, uncomfortable cell, Kellon took what was offered him: a sword, a map, and a set of instructions.
Within a week, the head of the man named in the instructions was deposited on the dining room table in front of Lord Arman[‡]. The nobleman paused in mid-bite, lowered his fork, and pushed his plate away to better inspect the bloody head.
A pleased smirk formed on Arman’s face, and the disembodied head was placed into a trophy case.
Kellon was paid well for the murder, and over the next several years, dozens of trophies joined the head. Specialized weapons, jewelry, trinkets, and assorted body parts filled case after case, each marking the completion of a job, whether the person it was taken from was killed, imprisoned, or simply incapacitated.
The money Kellon received, from Lord Arman and from outside clients who hired him through the nobleman, was carefully hidden away in his reclaimed bedroom. The total amount grew, and Kellon watched it greedily, building a future in his mind on the foundation of gold orn.
Time passed.
-4-
Kellon was twenty-three years old, tall and wiry, his muscles hard, but neither bulging nor overly-defined. To the eye, he was lean and athletic, but he was usually not seen as strong or dangerous.
His chest and arms were marked with scars from wounds taken in close combat. The majority of the scars were faint, but some were large, ragged, and highly visible, scars from wounds that had become infected during long periods of hunting a target. He had learned how to care for his wounds when no one else would, and the incidences of infection dropped.
He let his hair grow long, and then tied it back in a ponytail or braid as he hunted. The silken, well-cared-for strands served him well during “civilized” periods, hiding his heritage at Lord Arman’s occasional social gatherings and attracting the beautiful young men and women produced by the aristocratic families who frequented these events. His elfin features, his oddly colored hair, and the mystery surrounding him attracted them. Local gossip circulated that he was Arman’s adopted son and heir-apparent.
Gossip was not far from the truth.
Kellon wanted none of it, however. Bred convictions prevented him from returning the attentions of the boys around him, while sour experiences from the years before he met his employer kept him from giving the females a second thought or glance. Arman’s fortune and titles did not tempt him, because the Faen had developed a taste for the violence of his new job, and the money was accumulating quickly.
Kellon’s contempt was growing just as quickly. His hatred for humans had not abated. Arman used him, and Kellon suspected the nobleman was being paid even more than he who did the work was. It wasn’t the money that angered Kellon about the arrangement, but rather, it was the dishonesty, the sensation of being a pet, a trained hound.
After seven years of living and working beneath the noble’s controlling hand, Kellon made his grand exit.
Lord Arman died in his bed, throat gaping like a demonic second mouth, the sheets around his head saturated and sticky with blood, eyes wide with fear and pain atop betrayal. His wrists were bruised where the incredibly strong young man had held him immobile. His fingers were frozen eternally, curled into agonized claw shapes, bits of skin under the nails, which had reached Kellon’s hands, fighting for release and unattainable survival.
Kellon walked away from the mansion that night, a free man for the first time in years. He was splattered with blood and weighed down with a small collection of weapons in addition to his accumulated earnings. He did not feel the weight of the gaze on his back.
Despite the bloody trail he walked, there was a smile on his face.
-5-
249 R.E.
He wore a dark cloak and hood, his face hidden, as he walked through the city streets. He earned several strange looks from the people he passed, though nothing about him was odd, aside from his garb.
He seemed completely unaware of the openly staring eyes following him. There was no way, then, for him to know of the discreet eyes watching him from the darkness of the alleyway. The observer thought it was impossible, at least.
The man pushed through a knot of people gathered around an off-key street bard and dropped his hand to his side, pulling a dagger from his belt and tucking it into his tunic sleeve beneath the cloak. He was no mage, but knew when he was being watched.
He turned onto another street and noted that fewer people milled in this place. The eyes never left him. Another turn brought him onto a narrow street, the building walls dingy, the cobblestones of the road rough, almost unworn.
He continued walking, then turned suddenly, cloak flaring around him. The street was empty, but he could still feel the eyes.
“You sulking bastard, show yourself!” His voice rang out crystal clear, a wonderful tenor that would have made his one-time fiancée twitter, tremble, and maybe even faint. Most women he met had such reactions, so he assumed hers would have been the same, had she heard it.
The pursuer was not female, apparently, because no body fainted and fell from the shadows.
“You’ll not take me by hiding,” he said, carefully keeping the panic from his voice. “Face me. Let me see my doom as it comes.”
There was no response for a long while. The man was on the verge of running away when a slender form emerged from the shadows. For a moment, the hunted thought he was mistaken about his pursuer’s gender. The lithe body was androgynous, waist-length hair tied back, facial features delicate, though partially obscured by long, wispy bangs. The hair was odd on its own, pale violet, almost gray in color. From what he could see, though, the hunter’s chest was flat, though muscled, beneath the plated leather jerkin. He finally determined the stranger to be male.
“Trevor Aerril,” the hunter spoke in an accented, well-bred voice. “You are he?”
“Yes.” Trevor’s face was expressionless as stone, but a fluttering in his stomach mimicked what he was sure those fainting women felt when they heard him speak. The hunter had a voice capable of melting women and men, and Trevor was certain he was being subjected to a mere fraction of its power.
“Then you face not your doom. The price on your head is good only if you are delivered alive and in good condition.”
Trevor’s face contorted despite the control he exerted. “Even worse,” he whispered. “I’ll not be caged like a bird, to sing for some madman’s pleasure.”
“The decision is not yours, boy.”
“I am no boy!” Trevor shot back. “I am twenty-two years of age, and you seem younger than I!”
“I am eleven years your senior, boy,” the bounty hunter responded venomously. “I will be delivering you to your cage and you will sing to shame the nightingale!”
The dagger slid from Trevor’s sleeve into his hand, and he put the blade to his throat within the shadow of his hood. “You will deliver no songbird.”
The hunter froze, and Trevor smiled grimly as he saw the blurred outlines of eyes widening beneath the screen of hair. “Lower the dagger, Trevor.” The hunter’s voice had taken on a warning tone.
Trevor took a few steps backwards, widening the distance between himself and the older man. He tightened his grip on the leather-wrapped handle of his dagger. He drew a breath, preparing himself to break and run.
He had only begun to release the breath when a hand closed around his wrist, a painful steel vice, pulling it away from his throat. It took his mind a moment to process the fact that the hunter had closed the distance between them in the split second his thoughts had been distracted.
The dagger fell from his number fingers to clatter on the cobblestones, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet area. The wall of wood and hardened clay was unyielding as the bounty hunter pressed Trevor against it.
“The bird must sing,” the hunter’s delightful voice whispered. He pulled Trevor away from the wall and slammed him hard against it again.
The younger man’s world flashed bright colors, then went dark.
--
Two senses began sending signals to Trevor’s brain as it stirred towards consciousness. The mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat and wood smoke was followed closely by the uncomfortable sensation of gritty dirt digging into his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw only blackness.
“Have you blinded me?” he asked in a whisper.
There was no response. After a few minutes, however, the black cloth blindfold was removed from his eyes.
Sitting not far away, blindfold crumpled in one hand, was the hunter. His hair was loose, spilled around his shoulders and down his back. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, though the ridges of the jerkin were visible beneath it.
“Where are we?” Trevor whispered again, realizing his throat was painfully dry, his voice too weak to be louder.
“My camp.” The hunter dropped the blindfold and poked at the fire with a stick. In the midst of the flames, Trevor could see an oven constructed of smooth stones.
The rest of the camp was simple and uninteresting. A blanket was spread out on the far side of the fire. A pair of damp trousers hung from a tree limb, a circle of stones and white powder marked the edges of the circular camp, the small clearing in the woods.
With effort, Trevor sat up. His hands were tied at his stomach. The blood rushed from his head, causing it to pound mercilessly in time with his suddenly rapid heartbeat.
“Lie down,” his captor commanded gruffly. Trevor gratefully lowered himself to the ground again.
“What’s your name?” Trevor asked, curling on his side to watch the other man. A pale eye focused on Trevor, the androgynous face around it curious.
“Kellon.”
“Kellon, why am I here? Why did you not deliver me to whomever has sent you to retrieve me?”
“You were injured. I cannot deliver you in anything but perfect condition.”
Trevor forced his still-foggy mind back to his capture, then further back, to the days before. His comments to a drunken brute in a bar had resulted in a brawl that left him with a black eye and a split lip, though the brute was likely still bedridden. Trevor brought his bound hands up, a fingertip brushing against the healing cut on his lip. It still hurt.
“Your head, as well,” Kellon said. “Don’t try to reach it!” he snapped as Trevor’s hands lifted to the top of his head.
“Let me go,” Trevor whispered, his hands returning to his stomach. “Please let me go…”
“Begging is very unbecoming, Trevor.” Kellon filled a small cup with water from a flask and helped the younger man drink.
“Thank you,” Trevor murmured, his eyes closing.
“Don’t fall asleep. The food will be ready in a moment.”
--
The venison was flavored with wild onions and garlic, cooked in it’s own juices, warm and delicious.
Trevor ate greedily, his fingers tingling as blood returned to them, the rope removed to let him eat. Kellon was eating slower, watching Trevor closely.
“I thought a bounty hunter would be… be… crueler.”
“Only when called for.” Kellon folded the remnants of the meat into an insulated leather pouch.
Trevor sighed softly, massaging a fist into his abdomen. “Thank you, Kellon.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m delivering you to your doom, remember?”
“What is my doom? Who intends to cage me?”
“A sorcerer. He did not give me his name.”
“Sorcerer…” Trevor shuddered, curling up on the bedroll Kellon had given him.
“There must be some reason he seeks you. You don’t know?
Trevor shook his head. “No. The only sorcerer I know is dead.”
“You are certain?”
The young man’s voice grew icy. “I saw him die. He couldn’t have survived.”
“My apologies.”
“Why are you a bounty hunter? You’re not like the mercenaries I’ve met before.”
“It is what I learned, what I’m best at.” Kellon raked at the embers of the fire, concentrating the burning wood in the center of the stone fire circle.
Trevor fell silent and remained still as Kellon tied his hands again, then tied his feet together.
“Sleep now. You need your rest.”
Trevor sighed and closed his eyes, certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Darkness drew him in within minutes.
Kellon watched the young man’s face, peaceful in sleep, the bruises making it almost childish. The tugging strings of attraction were not unusual; the solitary life of the mercenary left a rather painful void he wished to fill with his long-dead family, with a lover with whom he could feel safe. It was impossible, though, and Kellon was aware of that.
He had carved his revenge into the bodies of hundreds of his targets. His anger had been spilled away, and only his sorrow was left. He had no tears left to shed for himself, though. He was a shell now, motivated by the glint of light off gold.
Kellon’s hands, callused from years of using his swords, shoveled dirt onto the fire. He wrapped himself in a cloak and forced all thought from his mind, slipping into a watchful trance to guard his camp and prize for the rest of the night.
--
Trevor woke the next morning to the sound of a bird-like song. The notes trilled and wove through the air, weaving a cheerful greeting. The young man soon realized that the sound was too well organized for a bird’s song. He opened his eyes.
Kellon was standing by the cold fire pit, head tilted back, eyes closed, greeting the sunrise with a song that sent shivers down Trevor’s spine. The orange sky brightened to blue, and the song faded away.
“What was that?” Trevor whispered in awe.
“The song from the sunrise ritual. ‘Glory in the triumph of light over darkness.’” Kellon moved to his captive and unbound his feet before helping him to stand.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s going to rain. We need to head into the city.”
“And closer to the delivery point?” Trevor asked with a note of regret in his voice.
Kellon hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, closer to our destination.”
“Please—“
The bounty hunter interrupted him. “Don’t beg, Trevor. It doesn’t work.”
Trevor moved into the trees as Kellon packed up the camp. The bedroll, the tinderbox, cup and flask, and the leftover meat from dinner fit nicely into a knapsack Kellon pulled onto his back. Beneath the knapsack, a sword was sheathed across the hunter’s back. A folded light crossbow and a quiver of bolts hung from his belt, and a skinning knife was tucked into his boot.
Trevor looked at him. “You’re like a walking arsenal.”
“Ha ha.” Kellon pulled the knife from his boot and moved to the younger man, grabbing his arm. Trevor flinched, but the blade sliced cleanly through the rope. “What…?”
“Running would only delay the inevitable. Someone else will take you to the sorcerer if I don’t. Don’t try to fight it.”
Trevor sighed, rubbing his wrists until life returned to his hands. “Alright.”
Kellon pushed the younger man onto a track. “Just stick to the path. I’m right behind you.”
They walked in silence for hours, stopping occasionally to let Trevor
rest. The air warmed as the morning
wore on. Around
The day began to cool, and clouds rolled in to block the sun. They emerged from the forest and merged onto the road as rain began to fall.
Trevor drew his hood up over his short brown hair, and Kellon drew closer to the young man, guiding him south, where a town could be seen. “Not more than an hour,” the mercenary said. “Less if we move quickly.”
The young man nodded, then set off toward the town at an increased pace.
They were both soaked by the time the road widened to merge with the streets of the town. Warm light glowed from the windows of an inn, and Trevor made a grateful beeline for the door, Kellon a few steps behind.
Inside the warm inn, Trevor planted himself in front of the fireplace. He could feel Kellon’s gaze constantly on him as the mercenary spoke to the innkeeper.
“Two rooms?” the man behind the bar questioned.
“One room, two beds.”
“None of those. One room, one bed. That’s the way it works.”
Kellon sighed. “Fine. One room, and a bottle of brandy.”
“What relation are you?” It was the barkeep’s curiosity that spoke.
“He’s my nephew,” Kellon replied casually. The story didn’t sound rehearsed, but it had run through his head a few dozen times as he planned the path ahead of them.
“But you’re elven.”
“Half.”
“And he’s not.”
“His father was pureblooded human.”
“Ah.” The keeper handed Kellon a key and took his payment. Kellon picked up the bottle of brandy the keeper placed on the bar, then returned to his companion. They climbed the stairs and entered their room.
Trevor quickly stripped his wet clothes off and wrapped himself in the bed’s top blanket. A scowl formed on his face. “Where’s the other bed?”
“Only one bed per room.” Kellon went through his clothes and sighed as he noted that everything was wet. With less modesty than his prisoner, he stripped his clothes off and spread them by the fireplaces. The complimentary tinderbox worked well to light the wood already stacked neatly in the fireplace.
“Why are you walking around naked?” Trevor demanded, his face flushed.
“Because my clothes are soaked, and you took the blanket. So, unless you want to share—“
“No!” Trevor’s face turned a deep crimson.
“Then be quiet. You might as well go to sleep.” Kellon sat in front of the fire, legs crossed so that his feet were beneath his thighs.
Trevor fell silent, pulling the blanket more firmly around himself, and observed his captor. Wet violet was pulled forward over Kellon’s shoulder, and his back was exposed. Tanned skin was pulled tight over lean, hard muscles, and networks of scars marred the flesh. Trevor imagined that each scar told a story, that this man’s entire life was carved into his skin.
“That’s awful,” Trevor said softly.
“What is?” Kellon turned toward him, and the young man on the bed could see a deeply gouged scar on the center of the mercenary’s chest.
“All that pain… All the pain that must have come from those wounds.”
Kellon scowled and pulled his still-damp tunic back on, covering the skin of his upper body.
Trevor sighed. “Alright, I won’t mention it again…”
The bounty hunter took a drink from the bottle of brandy, then stood and moved to the bed. “Drink this. It will help you warm up.” Trevor sipped from the bottle at his lips. The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, then tingling warmth spread through his body, erasing the last of the rain chill.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Kellon nodded and returned to the fire.
Trevor curled up on the bed and closed his eyes, the alcohol buzzing in his brain. He didn’t drink much, and had almost no alcohol tolerance. He could only guess that what he felt was the beginning of drunkenness.
Kellon watched the flush spreading across the young man’s skin, sighed, and shook his head. He wasn’t sure why the sorcerer wanted the boy, but the perfect condition stipulation was going to be a pain. It seemed like Trevor was made of glass. While Kellon tried to put him back together, he broke in another spot.
Kellon removed his damp tunic and spread it out to dry again, then stood and locked the door before moving to the bed.
Trevor opened one eye as he was nudged. “You have to share the bed,” Kellon said quietly. The young man uncurled and released the blanket, allowing Kellon to spread it out. They both settled on the bed, more than a body’s width between them.
Trevor’s steady breathing and the soft popping of the fire became the only sounds in the room. Kellon stared at the ceiling, wide awake, mind wandering in the silence. He kept his thoughts away from the closed doors in his mind. It was a difficult task. Locked in those dozens of rooms, hundreds of closets, cubby holes were filled with nightmarish images of death and destruction. Burning bodies, bloody bodies, screaming children, screaming heads with wild eyes searching for their bodies, headless corpses shambling around, seeking screaming, bloody crowns. They filled his mind, and he locked them away. They remained hidden until he slept, then they sprang from their dark prisons to torment his dreams.
He didn’t sleep much.
Kellon directed his mind to the boy beside him. He wasn’t sure how long he would be able to handle babysitting Trevor back to health before turning him in. He focused on the substantial reward—five hundred orn—and determined not to snap under the stress of attraction and protection, not to violently lash out.
Kellon jumped in surprise as a warm body pressed close to his side. Trevor’s arms wrapped around his middle, the young man’s head resting against his ribs, brown hair tickling him.
Realizing Trevor was asleep, Kellon remained still, not wishing to disturb him. He was painfully aware of the heated places their skin touched, but kept his arms rigidly at his sides.
“Xan… You have to stay this time…” Trevor’s voice was soft, the breath of his sleep-talk warm against Kellon’s skin.
The mercenary carefully untangled himself from the boy, moving to the other side of the mattress. He stretched out again and tried to sleep, trying to block out the soft sounds of Trevor’s sobs.
-6-
When Kellon woke several hours later, Trevor’s soft form was again wrapped intimately around the mercenary’s scarred body. The older man groaned slightly and removed Trevor’s arms and legs from their tight holds, then moved to he cold fireplace to dress in his dried clothes.
He could hear the brown-haired boy waking as he pulled his leather jerkin on over his undershirt. Another tunic went over his jerkin, and Kellon stretched to get rid of the stiffness in his clothes and body.
“Comfortable bed,” Trevor murmured.
“Good morning, Trevor.”
“Morning? Mm.” Trevor stretched and sat up on the bed. He quickly pulled the blanket over his naked lap, face turning red. Kellon wasn’t watching, though.
“The sun will rise soon. We need to get back on the road.”
“Could you give me my clothes?”
“No.” Kellon walked out of the room, leaving Trevor staring at him in shock, wondering why he was suddenly so aloof.
Kellon waited in the hall until a fully-dressed Trevor emerged from the room. The key clicked in the lock, and the two left the inn, returning the key to the desk clerk on their way.
“How far is it?” Trevor asked after they had walked a while in silence.
“It should take us about two days.”
“Two days? That’s how long I will be free?”
A nod was his answer. Trevor sighed.
“Two days isn’t a long time.”
“I know.”
“I can’t change your mind?”
“No.”
“Can I bribe you?”
Kellon stopped, turning to face the boy. “Even if you could afford to bribe me, could you afford to bribe the dozens of other bounty hunters who would come after me?”
Trevor lowered his head. “I guess not…”
“Just give up, Trevor. He wouldn’t want you in good health if he just wanted to harm you.”
Trevor’s face was mournful, and when he spoke, his voice was the same. “A caged bird in a madman’s tower, the song if its sorrow pleasant to his ears.”
“You know nothing. Stop frightening yourself.”
Trevor shook his head and turned away, tears rolling down his cheeks. Kellon tried to harden his heart against the soft sobs, but they broke past the barrier, and his heart broke.
“Trevor, please… Don’t cry…”
“Shut up!” the boy screamed, a raw cry. “Save your false pity for someone else! I don’t need it, especially from a selfish, self-serving, heartless bastard like you!” Kellon grabbed the young man’s arm, but Trevor jerked away from him.
Trevor ran for the edge of the road, tripped in a ditch dug by the rainstorm, and fell. Kellon’s arms wrapped around him, stopping his downward motion. The breath left his lungs, and he fought the arms wrapped tightly around his ribs.
“Stop it!” Kellon commanded gruffly. Trevor ignored him, twisting around to push at his captor’s chest.
The boy went deathly still, a bolt of white lightning shot through his brain, as Kellon’s lips pressed violently to his. The kiss broke when he stopped fighting, and Trevor slapped Kellon.
“How dare you… Put me down, damn you,” the young man said, a sob caught in his throat. Kellon released him, and Trevor sank to the ground. He scooted away when the mercenary reached down to help him up. “Don’t touch me…”
Kellon waited until the young man had calmed himself, then helped him to his feet. Trevor jerked away.
“Why did you kiss me?” he demanded.
“It was the only way to make you stop.”
“I…” Trevor’s face reflected his struggle for the right words. “Don’t play with me. Kill me, beat me, sell me to some mad sorcerer… But don’t play with my feelings. My wounds are raw. Avoid them.”
The mercenary gazed in shock at the young man, not quite understanding him. “What are you—“
Trevor didn’t give him a chance to finish, instead walking off in the direction they had been headed. Kellon fell silent and went after him.
--
The weather was cool, and after several hours of travel, the rain began again. There was no shelter in sight, and Trevor drew close to his captor, seeking warmth. Kellon drew him close and picked up their pace.
“There’s a town not far from here.”
“I don’t see a town,” Trevor said softly.
“Trust me. I know this area.”
The young man nodded.
Their feet churned through the mud, carrying them over a hill. Below, they could see the warmly-lit windows of a small town. The cheerful orange glows burned through the rain and mist, calling to the cold travelers.
They entered the inn and took places in front of the fire, Trevor trembling violently, Kellon’s teeth tapping rapidly together.
A woman came over to them, an apron tied around her waist and covering her bright yellow skirt. “Can I get you anything, my lords?”
“Something warm to eat and drink,” Kellon managed.
“The temperature has dropped,” she said thoughtfully. “Immediately, my lord.” The woman moved back to the bar and disappeared into the kitchen behind it.
Trevor dropped his wet cloak to the floor and huddled close to the flames, the heat evaporating the cold water from his clothing and body. He pulled his sleeves up to expose more skin.
Kellon stood behind the boy, a large portion of his skin cold, but dry. The water had been absorbed by his outer tunic or run off the oiled surface of his jerkin, never reaching the skin of his upper body.
The waitress returned several minutes later, placing a wooden tray on the nearest table. The inn was neither crowded nor empty, and there were plenty of empty chairs. The two men sat at the table, bowls of steaming beef and vegetable stew sitting before them. Mugs of warm mead were placed beside the bowls. They ate eagerly as the waitress left them alone again.
The soup and alcohol warmed them, inside and out. His stomach full, Trevor’s head drooped to the back of his chair. Had his eyes not been closed, he would have appeared to be studying the wood grain of the ceiling. Kellon stood and went to speak with the innkeeper.
The room Kellon rented had two single beds. Waking the younger man from his half-sleep, Kellon led him upstairs and guided him into his bed. Kellon took the other bed, stripping down to just his undershirt and his mostly-dry trousers, then slid under the blankets to sleep.
--
When Kellon woke the next morning, Trevor was wrapped around him again. The bed was small enough to put both of them in danger of falling off the edges.
Kellon put his hands on Trevor’s shoulders to shake him awake, but froze. Through the younger man’s tunic, heat radiated in burning waves from his skin. Kellon touched Trevor’s cheek. It was just as hot; during the night, Trevor had come down with a fever.
“Dammit.” Kellon slide out from under him, eliciting a quiet, frustrated noise from the boy. The mercenary arranged his charge on the bed, wrapping the blankets snugly around him. The blankets on the other bed were tangled and partially on the floor.
Kellon left the room and went downstairs to the common room.
“How may I help you, sir?” the waitress from the night before greeted him.
“I need medicine for fever. My companion took ill during the night.”
“Oh my… I’ll send the stableboy to fetch the healer. You have room twenty-three, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll send her up immediately. Here, give him sips of water to keep him from dehydrating.”
Kellon took the offered glass of water with a nod of thanks, then moved upstairs.
Trevor seemed to be trapped in a dream as Kellon entered the room. His face contorted, his body thrashed, the blankets tangling around him. Kellon shook him awake. Trevor’s eyes opened wide, unfocused and vividly blue in his flushed face.
“It’s alright, Trevor. Calm down.” Kellon sat on the edge of the bed, slipping an arm beneath the boy’s shoulders to help him sit up and sip the water.
The cool liquid slid down Trevor’s parched throat, and he released a soft sigh. He had calmed, and slumped against Kellon’s chest.
“I was in a river,” he whispered. “Monsters… monsters with long arms and claws were grabbing my head…” His feverish body trembled. “It’s… so cold…”
“You’re sick from the rain,” Kellon explained, holding him close. “A doctor is coming to help.”
“I’m sorry…” Trevor started to cry.
“What?”
“I was cruel… I shouldn’t have been cruel…”
“You’re not—“ Kellon was cut off as Trevor used his shoulders to pull himself up, then pressed dry, heated lips to the bounty hunter’s. Kellon’s pale eyes widened, and he pulled Trevor away.
“Stop. You’re sick; you don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it…” Tears rolled down the young man’s cheeks. “It’s what I meant yesterday… I like you, and I didn’t want you toying with that, stringing me along until you handed me over in exchange for a bag of coins…”
Kellon studied the glassy eyes for a moment, then kissed the young man softly. He held him close as the feverish body responded.
--
The scene played as clearly in the mirror as it would have played through a window. Dark eyes watched the pair, and the voyeur’s lips twisted in disgust.
“Don’t mix business and pleasure, bounty hunter. You will lose both.”
The figure turned from the scrying mirror to face a hunched, robed woman. “You saw it all. Deal with the situation.”
“Yes, my lord.” The woman vanished, and the voyeur turned back to the mirror. A finger tapped the surface where Kellon’s head was. The image rippled like a reflection in a pond.
“Shame, shame shame…”
-7-
Kellon finally coaxed Trevor to lie back again, covering him with the blanket. “Don’t get yourself worked up.”
“I’m not getting—“
“Yes, you are. Relax, or you’ll never get better.”
“That fog makes your face so pretty…”
“Be quiet. Go back to sleep until the doctor arrives.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to kiss you again.”
“Go to sleep.”
Trevor started to cry again. “You don’t care. You don’t care about me, just about selling me off in good condition.”
Kellon sighed. “I don’t want you to be sick, Trev… Please just relax. We’ll figure out what we’re going to do when you get better.”
“Give me a kiss and I’ll relax.”
Relenting, the mercenary leaned down to press his lips to the young man’s. The feverish lips parted, and Kellon held back a groan as he pulled away. “Rest, Trevor.”
The boy’s blue eyes closed obediently.
Kellon sighed again and stood. A quiet knock on the door caught his attention, and he moved to open it.
A pile of rags stood in the hall, the topmost curve coming only to his waist. As Kellon stared, the pile shuffled forward and pushed past him.
“What the hell?”
The rags turned to face him, and a face appeared. The oval of flesh was the color of the belly of a dead fish, wrinkled and worn like the bark of a tree. Squinting eyes were a vivid, shocking violet, and cracked lips split into a brown-toothed scowl.
“I’m the healer,” the creature croaked in a voice that might once have been female.
“You?”
“Yes, me! Stop your backtalk, child, and show me to my patient.”
“There, on the bed.”
The ancient, hunch-backed woman shuffled to the bed and dropped a bag to the mattress beside Trevor’s reclined form. The young man’s eyes opened as a leathery, skeletal hand touched his forehead.
“Burning with fever, burning with life!” she crowed. Trevor winced at the grating sound.
“Just help him,” Kellon growled.
“Patience, patience! Wait outside while I deal with the patient!” The crone cackled at her own verse.
“No.” Kellon’s tone left no room for argument.
“Stubborn one,” the old healer said to Trevor. “He’s your bodyguard?”
“Something like that,” Trevor whispered.
“I’ll mix a potion, herbs and honey, herbs and honey! A yummy tea to chase the fever away!”
Kellon sat by Trevor, and together they watched as the woman mixed and brewed herbs and squeezes of honey. The boy rested his head on Kellon’s leg, closing his eyes. When the tea was finished, he was asleep again, and his “pillow” was forced to wake him up and feed him the potion.
Trevor grimaced as the hot liquid flowed over his tongue and down his throat. The healer packed up her things and snickered at his expression. “You do not taste the yummy!”
“No, I don’t,” he whined.
“Get better little patient!” She shuffled out of the room.
“What a bizarre woman,” Kellon murmured. Trevor was already asleep again.
--
“A single bed?”
“I want to be able to wake up if something happens in the night.”
“I’ll help you push your beds together,” the innkeeper said gruffly. “The beds large enough to fit two people are all taken.”
“That will work,” Kellon said. “Thank you.”
Trevor didn’t budge as the bed beneath him was moved. When dinner was brought, he woke enough to refuse the food before returning to his dreams.
The small body that curled against Kellon’s that night was still feverish, but less dramatically so. The night passed peacefully, with neither nightmares nor restless sleep disturbing it.
They were both soaked with sweat the next morning. Trevor’s fever had broken as they slept. Kellon took their clothes downstairs to be washed as Trevor cleaned himself in the bathing room at the end of the hall. When Trevor finished, Kellon bathed. They were clean and fresh, wearing clothing the innkeeper allowed them to borrow, when they returned to their room.
“How do you feel?”
“Much better.” Trevor’s fingers combed through his damp hair, watching Kellon’s reflection in the mirror. “You took good care of me.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Sitting on the bed, Kellon watched him closely, wondering how much of the boy’s behavior over the last day was caused by the fever.
Trevor turned and walked to stand close in front of Kellon. Their noses almost touched. Trevor reached out to run his fingers along the ridges of Kellon’s delicately pointed ears. The older man’s eyes half-closed.
“You look like you’re about to purr,” Trevor whispered with a grin.