“...don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

“Twin o’rre?”

It wasn’t until he turned to face Barghast that Crowe realized he’d lit one of the joints Rake had sent him as a going away gift from Timberford. Half of the paper was burnt away. He’d been so lost in the power of memory he hadn’t realized he’d lit one.

Before he could turn around, Barghast’s arms were around him, pulling his back against his chest with a whine. Across the courtyard Elise’s slight form disappeared around the corner of the church. The practitioner watched the lights of the church, wondering if he would be able to catch another glimpse of Father Monroe. I hope not. Father Monroe does not sound like a pleasant man.

Barghast pulled his attention away with a whimpering sound. He nosed at Crowe, his snout cold against his cheek. The practitioner sensed the Okanavian would not stop until he gave him the attention he desired. “What do you want?” he muttered. He was beyond exhausted. He was scraped, bruised, and filthy, his thighs rubbed raw from riding saddle at a constant gallop. He hated sounding short with Barghast who he knew had to be frightened, who depended on him to keep them safe...But I’m so tired and there’s still much to do.

Barghast was not one to be denied. Not when he could just pick an unresisting Crowe up and cart him around as he pleased. Which was what he did now, half carrying half dragging the practitioner back to a wooden bench. The bench groaned beneath the Okanavian’s weight but he was too focused on the sorcerer to have noticed. He set Crowe down on the sturdy shelf of his thigh.

“I guess to you I’m just a laphuman, huh?” Crowe drawled in a slurred voice.

This earned him a tail wag and a particularly slobbery lick across the face. He tucked the practitioner to his chest, lapping at his mouth, whining. Begging.

“No, no, no.” Crowe turned away, laughing. He tried to ward the lycan off with his hands but pushing at Barghast was like pushing at a stone wall. In the end it was impossible to resist the adoring look on his face: eyes bulging from his skull so Crowe could see their whites. Ropes of slobber dangled from his fat tongue.

The moment the sorcerer presented himself, Barghast was at him again. His paw closed around Crowe's jaw, securing him so he couldn't wiggle away. To be held like this…dominated? sheltered?...sent thrills through the practitioner. This time when Barghast's lips brushed against his, the practitioner did not hesitate. Barghast pushed his tongue into Crowe's mouth in a greedy kiss. A deep growl of satisfaction vibrated in his chest.

For someone with a pointed muzzle, Barghast was surprisingly a very good snogger. If snogging was what Crowe could call it. No that was not what he would call what Barghast was doing to him or how thoroughly he went about it. No corner of his mouth was unexplored. He was a man obsessively fixed on a tax.

A startled gasp alerted Crowe to Elise’s presence. In Barghast's haste for his attention, they'd forgotten to close the stable doors. Elise gawked at them, two buckets of soapy water resting at her feet. Once more all the color had drained from her face. Crowe wondered if the poor girl would be able to sleep tonight after helping them. Barghast would have continued his ministrations had Crowe not flicked him in the nose. As such he set the practitioner down with a reluctant snort, setting his ears back against his skull in disappointment.

Crowe jumped to his feet. He stumbled towards the girl, his cheeks burning. “T-Thank you. You didn't have to go through the trouble, really - “

He stooped to pick up the buckets when he saw she still watched him with wide-eyed fascination. He froze, waiting for her to speak. For a moment the only sound he could hear was the blood rain spewing out of the gutters and the pounding of his own heart. “What were you two doing?” she squeaked at last.

“Snogging,” he said. He blinked inwardly at the defensive tone of his voice. He glanced at Barghast from the corner of his eye. The lycan’s hand drifted slowly towards the butt of his rifle; he was moving carefully so as not to be seen by the girl. Apparently he didn't want to frighten her anymore than she already was. Once more a part of Crowe's mind wondered what level of logic his Okanavian friend was truly capable of.

“Snogging?” The girl choked on the world. Her brow furrowed in unmistakable disgust. “You would snog with a beast?”

“He's not a beast!” the practitioner scowled. The Okanavian's eyes snapped in his direction intently, lingered, and then switched back to the girl. He'd pushed his rifle into his paws without being noticed. “He's a man.”

“Aye.” The girl nodded sagely. “He's part man, part wolf. More wolf than man from the looks of it.”

I'm finished with this conversation. “Don't judge what you don't understand.” His voice sounded steady while his insides stood on edge; her words had struck a nerve whether he wanted to admit it or not. “He's a man. A man who I've come to trust and care for greatly.” It did not surprise him to find every word was true. His skin glowed with the force of them.

“You're right, I don't understand,” Elise replied dryly. “Elysia help me. This is the best I can do for the night. Please be gone in the morning.”

Crowe assured her not to worry, they would be. The moment she'd stepped clear of the stall doors, he closed them shut. He did not turn around to face the lycan until he could no longer hear the slosh of her footsteps. Barghast stood, his shoulders tensed, his tail pointed straight up to the ceiling. He still held the rifle in his paws.

“You can put it away,” Crowe hissed. “She's gone. It's just you and me now . Let's wash up. I feel so nasty right now...”

The water was cold and spotted with a few drops of blood but he didn't care. His skin itched to be free of the dried blood that coated it. He stripped out of his robes, hating the fetid smell his body gave when he peeled the garments off. He didn't know how Barghast could stand to be around him. He doesn't smell that great either. We both smell like the pit of Inferno. His thoughts were a racing mess. He hadn't slept in days.

He straightened, lifting the sponge out of the bucket. Drops of sudsy water pattered on the floor. A familiar prickle at the back of his neck made him stop, made him look up. A sliver of ice slid down his spine. He shivered.

Barghast's eyes, so gold they were almost white, watched him from the shadows. He was nothing more than a black outline before. He stood so still time seemed to have frozen. He had the same intent look on his face he reserved for his prey. Crowe reminded himself not only could one look have more than one meaning, but one look could look very similar to another and have more than one meaning. A tail pointed straight up could mean anger or concentration for example. One stance, two meanings.

Crowe merely stood in the middle of the stable, alone with the horses, alone with Barghast. Outside the barn he could hear the crash of thunder and the moan of the wind. His skin prickled underneath the weight of the Okanavian's unwavering scrutiny. Those twin amber coins of fire scaled him from head to toe again before Barghast parted from the shadows. In the confines of the barn, he appeared far more broad than he did on Mammoth's saddles. Solid muscle rippled, flexing with each step he took as he bridged the distance between them; he'd removed his shirt so the practitioner could see his hardened pecs. Crowe's gaze drifted down to the one inevitable spot he'd been trying to avoid. The bulge denting the front of his gown pulled the fabric so the sorcerer could see the prominent heft of his balls. The sorcerer turned away before he could allow himself to see the rest. While he had no doubt the Okanavian intended to hurt him, he was all too aware of how much taller Barghast was than he; standing at his back all Barghast need do was crane his neck a little to look down at the practitioner.

He did so now. Crowe swayed back into his embrace, already knowing Barghast needed to touch him as much as he needed to be touched.

Words withstanding, it always surprised Crowe at how emotional the Okanavian was; he quite literally wore them on his sleeve. He sensed Barghast's reverence of him was cultural, emotional, and sexual, and he found his body responding in ways that were alien to him but not unwelcome. With one beefy arm wound around his torso and hips, Barghast slipped the sponge from Crowe's hand into his paw, resting the pad of the other against the practitioner's ribs. He raised the sponge to the sorcerer's chest; he pressed down gently, rubbing at the dried crusts of blood with fluid circular motions.

The cold touch of the sponge made Crowe's skin break out in gooseflesh; the heat Barghast exuded warmed him. When Barghast's lips enveloped his, tongue slipping into his mouth while still tending to his body, the practitioner could no longer hide his arousal. The lycan's paw engulfed his erection. The friction of the leathery pads against his hardened cock made the sorcerer gasp. All the while Barghast never ceased washing him or kissing him, his fist pumping, pumping, pumping. All while a voice frantically reminded Crowe of what the lycan could be capable of when he gave into his more predatory instincts. All while his body continued to respond of its own volition, reaching hands grabbing the Okanavian's fur by the fistfuls.

Pressure built in Crowe's cock. Hot spit sluiced down the side of his face, greasing his flesh. He pulled away to suck in a breath. “Barghast,” he managed to utter. Fireworks exploded behind his eyes. His back arched against Barghast's belly. If it wasn't for the lycan holding him up his legs would have given out from underneath him with the force of his orgasm. Barghast’s body quaked around him, his hackles raised. He growled Crowe's name over and over in a mixture of growls and whines.

The practitioner sagged against his Okanavian companion, his skin glowing with fresh lather. “Oh Monad, help me,” he gasped. “That was…wild. Alright big guy, your turn.”

The Okanavian raised his head quizzically. “Hmmm?”

Crowe reached up, threading his fingers through the lycan's fur until he felt a ripple of pleasure pass through Barghast. Until his tongue out of his mouth in a goofy grin. He only looks this way for me, Crowe thought. He thumbed at the thought only for a moment before tucking it in the back of his mind. “You didn't think I was going to let you do all that without reciprocating, did you?” He knew the Okanavian couldn't understand what he was saying…he hoped the playful tone of his voice spoke for him.

He ran his fingers along Barghast's torso until he circled around to his back. The lycan's tail drooped down to his heels. Though he stood very still with his head facing forward, his ears twitched, tracking the practitioner's movements. Crowe traced the line of his shoulder blades until he reached the leather of the Okanavian's kilt, breathing in the wet smell of his mask. Now that he stood in Barghast's shadow the idea of trying to pull down his kilt seemed laughable at best; still Crowe was not one to be deterred by a challenge.

In the end Barghast helped Crowe after he struggled to undress him. Tail wagging, he grinned at the practitioner over his shoulder as he tugged his kilt down over his muscled thighs. He turned around, presenting a full unabashed view of his body. He even pulled his arms behind his back, clasping his paws together so that the muscles along his arms and shoulders stood out. He grinned broadly. Crowe couldn't hold back a laugh. He knows exactly what he's doing…and he knows it works.

Crowe's gaze drifted down the length of the lycan's torso, his jaw slackening. His eyes stopped on the Okanavian's sheath. The flared head of his cock poked out. The entryway of the sheath was lined with a thick transparent fluid. Lower yet, his balls dangled between his muscular thighs; like everything else on Barghast they were larger than Crowe's hand. The practitioner's mind spun with lurid fantasies. He imagined hefting them in his hand, feeling the weight of them. The thought made his cheeks burn with embarrassment. Still he did not turn away. Would not turn away from the only person he knew he could trust.

A particularly strong gust of wind slammed the stable doors open. The screams of the horses made Crowe and Barghast both jump. Barghast hunkered low, his lips frothing with a snarl. The wind swept flecks of blood rain into the barn, soaking the straw in red. Crowe cursed, running towards the door. He looked up at the church windows; all the lights in the building appeared to be out. Breathing a sigh of relief, the practitioner pulled the doors shut. His pulse beat thickly in his throat.

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Barghast still stood tense, his ears pressed back against his head. His tail flicked anxiously left and right, left and right. “Hey,” Crowe called.

The lycan did not look away. There was a distant look on his face Crowe didn't like. It pulled at him like a magnet even as a frantic voice in the back of his mind told him he should stay back from the Okanavian when he had that look on his face. He's my friend and he's frightened. He's comforted me plenty of times. Now it's my turn.

He sifted his fingers through the thick bush of fur on Barghast's chest. He had the absurdly compulsive urge to pull at the Okanavian's nipples. He tucked it away, watching Barghast's face. He pressed in until the Okanavian’s eyes swiveled to the practitioner, the tension in his face settling to bliss.

“You’re safe,” Crowe whispered.

“Sa…?” Barghast frowned, dipping his head towards Crowe quizzically.

“Safe. I…” Crowe gestured to himself. “Keep.” He moved his right hand to the left hand, wondering why he hadn’t thought of communicating with the Okanavian through sign language before; he held his left hand away from his body, keeping his hand stationary. He repeated the gesture again before pointing to the lycan again. “You. Safe…” He made an X, crossing his right fist over his left. He repeated the motions three more times. Barghast watched him intently, never looking away.

Before Crowe could finish going through the motions a fourth time, Barghast stopped him, gripping his chin between his thumb and index finger. “I. Keep. You. Safe.” The words came out deep and gravelly, but they were unmistakable.

The practitioner grinned. “You’re a quick learner. I’ll teach you more as soon as we can get somewhere safe.” Safe. He frowned at the word. Was there anywhere they could go that was truly safe from the necromancer’s wrath? Just how far did this blood storm truly spread? He thought of his dream of the dead city in the Mirror Expanse. That was his next true destination. It would take them weeks alone to reach the frozen tundra. Crossing it was a task he couldn’t bear to think about; getting there would be challenging enough. Hamon's servants were not the only threat.

Torchcoats were hellbent on forcing every practitioner out of the North.

Forcing these distressing thoughts from his mind, Crowe patted Barghast on the shoulder, gesturing for the lycan to sit down. The Okanavian obliged him, his tail wagging happily, taking full advantage of the practitioner's ministrations. Even whilst sitting, the tips of his ears came up to Crowe's chin. They twitched in anticipation. He panted hotly, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Crowe dipped the sponge in the second bucket. He squeezed it, wringing it of sudsy water, enjoying the trickling sound it made as it fell back into the bucket. He got to work, starting with the spot between Barghast's ears, spinning the sponge in circular motions. He was careful not to get soap in the lycan's eyes.

“Bet you've never had anyone give you a bath before, huh?” the practitioner said. Barghast's tail tapped against the heel of his bare foot. “I'm rather good at giving baths. I used to give Petras baths all the time when he got ill. And now I'm doing the same for you. It feels good to feel clean…and you have such soft fur…”

He lost himself in the task of tending to Barghast. It was a relief to do something so mundane…and yet so intimate…after days spent in terror riding on horseback. To wash the blood off the shoulders of the man who had saved his life several times now. He talked without knowing what he was saying. The talking wasn't important, only that Barghast could hear it and feel safe while the world came apart around them. It was working. Not once over the passing of minutes did Barghast give Crowe the feeling he wasn't listening. But for the flicker of his tail and the twitch of his ears he remained completely still. Not once did he interrupt or act disinterested. It was a thrill to be listened to after those first days of Petras' true decline into madness, when the practitioner had sat by his bed talking to an empty husk.

Drops of water and soap pooled on the ground, mixed with the dirt and blood washed free from Barghast's coat. Once he'd washed the top half of the Okanavian's body, Barghast stood for him to finish. Crowe made sure to take his time with Barghast's belly, eliciting growls and whimpers of pleasure. At last his hand cautiously reached for the pulsing organ in between Barghast's legs…the thing he'd never fully stopped thinking about this whole time.

He watched Barghast's face closely when he touched his cock. The lycan growled a little, his cock bouncing as if it had a life of its own. Startled slightly, Crowe took a step back. Before he could back another step, Barghast's arm closed around him, pulling him to his chest. “Twin o'rre,” he whined. His body swayed with the force of his tail wags which fluffed out. He leaned forward, ears pressed flat against his head, and lapped at the practitioner's face. He said his name and the growl of need in his voice could not be mistaken. “Safe,” he rumbled. “I. Keep. You. Safe.”

“Alright.” Crowe wrapped his fingers around the Okanavian's cock. The flesh of his sheath, a color between pink and purple, was feverishly hot and spongy to the touch, veins rippling like tributaries. He ran his hand down the length and watched it bounce free with stupid fascination. He had no intention of teasing the barbarian, but he wanted to take his time exploring the Okanavian. Who knew when they would get the chance to do so again.

This time he seized Barghast's cock with fervor, wrapping as much of the sponge as he could around the Okanavian's burning erection; cutting short a foot in length the lycan's cock was not thin in girth. His other hand experimented with Barghast's balls. They were heavy enough he could barely lift one with his free hand. Barghast's breath beat hotly against his face; his eyes had taken on the dreamy cast of pleasure. He exuded a musk that filled the barn, strong enough to make Crowe feel lightheaded.

A moment later he found himself half laying on the ground beside Barghast's supine position, his cheek resting against the lycan's belly. Barghast's digits wound through his hair, curling the practitioner’s long black locks around his claws. His hand ached, slippery with the lycan's secretions but he didn't dare stop. He could tell from the build up of the Okanavian's whines he was getting close. Crowe was determined to see it through.

He knew to prepare himself when Barghast pulled in a particularly deep breath, his belly rising beneath Crowe's cheek; simultaneously his balls shifted visibly, his cock heating up in the practitioner's hand. At the last second Barghast hauled him up. In a single fluid movement he switched Crowe around so the sorcerer was the one resting on the ground and the Okanavian hunkered over him.

The practitioner froze as Barghast's cock pulsed against his thigh, hot as warmed oil. Barghast pressed his muzzle against Crowe's throat. For the flash of a second the practitioner worried the Okanavian intended to bite him - sink his teeth into him, devour him - but Barghast merely kissed the pulse at his throat, groaning as he climaxed, bathing the practitioner in his seed. There was so much of it. More than the sorcerer ever could have anticipated.

Crowe wasn't sure how long the lycan's orgasm lasted before he gently lowered the practitioner to the floor. The bed of hay beneath them was sodden with a mixture of soapy water, sweat, and semen.

No sooner than he'd plopped down on the ground, he was trying to scoop Crowe back into his lap.

“No, no, no.” Crowe pushed at Barghast's arm. It was like trying to push a boulder but the lycan got the hint and moved with a reluctant grumble. “I don't get to rest. There's work I have to do. I have to keep us safe.”

“I. Keep. You. Safe.” He'd only done it a few times and already the lycan could signal the words fluidly. Crowe wondered how much he could learn and how quickly. Perhaps bridging the gap in communication wouldn't be so difficult of a task after all.

He rubbed at eyes puffy and raw with exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than to curl up with the lycan. In Timberford it had started as something of a coping mechanism - it still was if the practitioner was being honest with himself - and morphed into something more intimate and habitual. We were trapped in that tavern with those people. Those strangers. We comforted each other because each other was all we had.

“Not tonight,” he whispered. “Tonight I'm actually going to do my job as herald and get to working on a new staff while we have the downtime. You're going to get some sleep.”

The Okanavian frowned quizzically. “Sle…?”

“Sleep. Shut eye.” Crowe motioned for Barghast to lay down. The lycan whined, but obeyed, offering no further protest. Pope Drajen and his ilk are afraid of the Okanavi but he doesn't know what big puppies they are…at least this one. Monad, help me this one is gold.

Once he was sure his clingy companion wouldn't get up, Crowe went to the saddlebag where he'd bound the aether tree branch to it with a knotted rope. He picked it up experimentally, marveling at the way contact with the bark made his skin tingle. It was with a white hot flash he remembered the joints Rake had given him as a going away present before they'd left Timberford. They'd been so busy running from Hamon's servants he hadn't had time to indulge in one. Now his nerves screamed at him.

All at once a black wave of panic crashed over him; it hit with the suddenness of a punch to the stomach, every muscle in his body so tight he felt as if he was being crushed from the inside out. He forced himself to take a deep breath. It's not that you can't breathe, it just feels like you can't breathe.

He reached into the duffel bag. Beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face. He pushed aside objects blindly until his fingers snatched compulsively around the book of matches. Objects spilled out of the bag, dropping onto the floor. Crowe froze. His eyes shot to the furry back of his lycan companion. Surely Barghast would have heard that - the barbarian could hear the fall of rocks a mile away it seemed; he was far better at picking up danger before it revealed itself than Crowe. He needn't have worried. The Okanavian's thunderous snores filled the stall.

The practitioner would let the barbarian sleep a few hours and then they would have to leave, braving the blood rain whether they wanted to or not. He had no doubt the necromancers were searching intently for him. If they found him who knew what nastiness they had hidden up their sleeves; a blood storm couldn't be the worst of it.

His hand shook so bad he almost dropped the matches. “Come on, damn you!” he snarled under his breath. The match sparked against the box but no flame. His face was white with desperation. He struck the match again and almost wept with relief when a flame popped up. He brought the flame to the end of the joint and sucked in a long breath. The piney taste of aether smoke filled his lungs. A shudder passed through him.

Nursing the aether branch in his lap, Crowe sat on the floor in the corner of the stable. At this point he no longer cared if he got hay or dirt on him. After miles of traveling on the open road, sleeping wherever and whenever the earth allowed, he was used to being covered in dirt, sweat, and other less than desirable things. He smoked the joint down until the heat burned his fingers, tinging them with black soot, holding the dagger in his hand.

Outside thunder clashed overhead. Blood rain pattered the stable roof unceasing. Did the necromancers intend to wash him out by drowning the world in blood?

It was time to start carving.

He set to work, whittling away with strips of bark with the sharp edge of his dagger. Hot needles of exhaustion pricked at his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to give into his fatigue and sleep where he was, Monad, help me, I’m so tired. I just want to sleep. The rest of the world can go to the Void for all I care…

No…no…no. He couldn’t start thinking that way. He had to stay awake. He promised he would keep Barghast safe, keep him safe the way the lycan had kept him safe and he intended to keep his promise.

Monad, help me. How did Petras do this? I watched him do it once. He made me sit on the floor for hours, for nights on end, and watch him whittle the wood into shape.

His mind started to chart back to that day but the memory kept slipping from his fingers like webbing that had lost its stickiness. He resisted the urge to slam his fist into his head in frustration - to shake the memory loose until it rolled to the forefront of his sleep-deprived mind. Crowe forced himself to stop. Forced himself to take a deep breath. It won’t come if you force it. That’s how these things always work. He set the aether branch and dagger down on the ground beside him, far enough away he couldn’t cut himself with the blade.

He held the Lion Headed Serpent in the cups of his palms, running splintered fingers along the edges of the trinket. His eyes were desperate rings of red. “Monad, help me,” he whispered. “Guide my hand as you have done many times before already.”

At first nothing happened. No celestial fire burned within him such as the one that had ignited when the damned had started pulling Barghast and he into the pit of Inferno. Tears of frustration burned his eyes. He clenched them shut, forcing his mind out of his body, searching the sky above him for Metropolis. He needed its light to shine on him like a beacon and guide his hand. He looked up, recalling the weightlessness in his dreams when he felt. The sense that something integral was amiss persisted.

You keep searching outside of yourself when you should be looking within. Petra's throaty voice rose in his mind like the crackle of dried leaves. Yes, a memory wiggled in the back of his mind, trying to break free from its dormancy. After the night he'd come home from the cave…after that night when Bennett had stirred hope anew in him with his affections.

Petras left me in the cold and he gave me warmth. I loved him for that.

Yes, he was starting to remember now. The moan of the wind helped. The way it made the roof creak and groan reminded him of the house…the house he’d taken such joy in burning down.

Somewhere inside him the flame started, small but warm and impossible to miss. He felt his mind leave his body as his hand readjusted around the handle of the dagger. Slowly but steadily the sharp edge moved along the side of the aether branch, stripping off bits of bark.

He floated towards the cosmos where Metropolis sat on a bed of clouds. These were not the blood red clouds the necromancers had summoned to prey after Crowe, but great wispy currents that surrounded the grand city like waves. Down below in the stable his body remained sitting on the floor, his puffy eyes open but distant, his mind lost in the land of memory while his hands continued their work.