Crowe dangled in the air, clinging to the tree branch for dare life. The ground spun precariously below him. It occurred to him the stunt he was trying to pull may have not been the best idea, but he hadn’t exactly

been thinking clearly lately. He straddled the branch between his thighs, clenching his teeth in equal parts determination and frustration. The thought of fleeing while he still could lingered in the back of his mind; another told him the acquisition of an aether tree branch could be the difference between life and death. Aether trees were a gift from Monad to his people, the only wood capable of channeling a practitioner’s mana. With Drajen’s order to burn all the trees down to restrict practitioners' access to them, who knew when he would cross another one.

He held his hands over the branch just short of touching it. He forced himself to inhale a deep breath. I only need a small flame, he reminded himself. Just enough to burn through the wood.

He didn’t need a staff to channel his mana. There was a reason why the Theocracy feared the practitioners; perhaps they were right to. Mana was a chaotic force born of the same force from which it came, passed down from generation to generation. Without the wood of the aether tree to direct its currents it could spread if unchecked, doing unintended damage. A crash of thunder, felt from within, not heard, pulled his gaze East. Dark clouds converged a hundred leagues to the south, amassing into a large blemish. He couldn’t see it but he could feel it moving in his direction. …There are those who want to keep the cycle of suffering - world after world, Iteration after Iteration. Forces that want to keep Monad’s people - your people - from finding their way back home. They are out there now in search of you and they draw close.

The practitioner pushed all thought from his mind, focusing on the task at hand. He willed the current of mana to travel down his arms to the tips of his fingers. Steeled by his determination and his intent to survive, blue flame shot from the tips of his fingers, burning through the wood. He ignored the twinge of resistance that pulled at him. He was already pushing himself, using his mana reserve to push himself further. Had to keep going. Had to keep moving. Had to stay ahead of the black cloud that pursued. He didn’t want to think what would happen when it reached him -

The tree branch beneath his thighs gave way with a brutal snap.

He fell, the ground rushing up to meet him. He could feel bones breaking already like a cruel premonition. A fraction of a second before he hit the forest floor his rump landed squarely in the arms of the hulking figure who had been standing under the tree to catch his fall for this very purpose. Amber eyes stared down at him from the borders of a furry face. A fat wet tongue pressed against his face, leaving a streak of warm saliva from chin to forehead.

“Crowe,” he said amiably before planting a more human kiss on the practitioner's burning cheek. His tail bounced happily back and forth. The eight foot tall wolfman had taken to kissing him any chance he could get whether it was helping him climb onto the saddle or checking him for injuries. He kissed him anywhere he could get away with it: on the forehead, the cheek like now, the tip of his nose, full on the lips. Already he was lowering his head to go for another smooch, this time on the lips. Crowe could feel his body beginning to settle, already starting to give into an arousal it didn’t understand - or that it understood all too well.

A mounting sense of peril tugged Crowe’s mind back to the crisis at hand. Reluctantly he turned his head away. “You can put me down, Barghast.”

Barghast did not put him down. His eyes were closed, his lips puckered; he continued to make wet smooching sounds. He pressed his lips to Crowe’s. The practitioner mentally stomped a steel toe on the thrill that immediately passed through his body down to his groin. “Put me down now!”

He felt the lycan’s shoulders sag. Watched as his scarred face drooped in the pitiful expression of an overgrown child who has been reprimanded. He whined unhappily. “Don’t give me that look!” Crowe snapped. “We have to stay on the move!” He pointed at the sky. Barghast turned in the direction of his finger. He sniffed the air before making another wrinkled face of displeasure.

“You can smell it, too, can’t you?” Crowe demanded. “So start listening to me!” It occurred to him with a delayed flash of insight that the Okanavian could listen to him and always did. No matter which way he turned or went, the lycan followed him like an oversized shadow, always hungry for…another expression, another word. As if everything Crowe said or did had to be transcribed in his memory for later examination. It was both endearing and unsettling to be the undisguised focus of someone’s attention…especially when Crowe knew nothing but his name. Especially when they couldn't understand each other. He needed to start teaching Barghast new words. Their very survival depended on it. He would have to do so while on the road.

Once the Okanavian set him down on his feet - he did so with a grousing sound - Crowe stooped to pick it up. The branch felt sturdy in his fingers. A current emanated from its bark, traveling into his fingers. Like recognizing like; both contained the ember of Monad. Already his fingers yearned to reach into the pocket of his robes and pull out his dagger to start carving. There’s no time. He held his arms out, already feeling the lycan close in behind him to help him up. Rather than fight him, the practitioner decided it was best to go with it. It was one of the few strange norms that had formed between them. He tried not to ponder how quickly he became used to these norms.

Mammoth, the shire horse that had been given to them as a parting gift from the town of Timberford, was not an animal bred for speed. Standing just under eighteen hands tall, the beast was meant for bearing and pulling great weight. Barghast was no light freight. At eight feet tall and all muscle, it was a wonder Mammoth could carry them all let alone travel over the Plaesil Mountain’s rugged terrain. The horse’s boundless stamina was a testament to the danger pursuing them. While the massive horse never moved at a full gallop, his steps were careful and quick for a beast of his size.

Crowe’s heart swelled with relief. He was glad to be on the move again, to put distance between themselves and the darkness at their back. Never mind that he’d been up for almost two days. Never mind that his eyes burned like hot coals, reddened from where he’d rubbed them raw with the palms of his hands. He’d pulled such stints before on those long purgatorial days when he’d lived alone with an ailing Petras. Always listening for the sound of breaking glass. Always waiting for the moment when he’d found Petras had shattered a portrait frame or a window to slash his wrists open and free Crowe from his prison.

He tried to focus on the Passage of Silver, a mountain pass that cut through a forest of pine trees. The shadows of the trees grew longer with each passing minute. Soon night would be upon them. Soon he would have no choice but to stop if only to sleep a few hours…just long enough so he could push himself another few hours. You act as if you haven’t done this before, Bennett spoke up in his mind as he so often did. It’s just like the old days when Petras used to wake you up in the dead of night to leave you out in the middle of a snow storm.

Night had fallen completely when he could no longer keep his eyes open. He felt his body start to tilt off the saddle only for Barghast to pull him back.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“No,” Crowe croaked. “We have to keep going.”

Barghast growled deep within his throat, the Okanavian equivalent of no. He hauled the practitioner off the saddle before the sorcerer could object. Crowe pulled blankets out of the saddle bag and laid out the bedroll. The moment he was settled on the pallet the lycan had him wrapped up and secure in his embrace like a swaddling babe to a mother’s bosom. Another strange…what? Custom? Ritual? Would he ever know? He knew other than his name - the only word Barghast knew - the Okanavian called him twin o’rre, a word that meant “twin-spirit” in Okanavi. He knew the lycan was overly protective of him, going so far as to brave spirit-infested homes before him and hold him so his feet didn’t touch the ground.

Even more confusing was the way his own body reacted to him, pulled by a thread that was white-hot. It was becoming instinctual. The first thing he did when he opened his eyes was search for Barghast. Every time he sensed danger he checked to make sure the Okanavian wasn’t injured. Placing him above himself. In the nine days they’d traveled together a bond of weeks had been forged between them. Now it seemed unnatural not to surrender his body to the Okanavian’s embrace. After all, all he ever did was pet him and kiss him and run his warm fingers through his hair…

…like he was doing now, lapping at Crowe’s lips with his tongue. He pressed his lips firmly to the practitioner’s in a sloppy kiss that lit a final spark of desire in the young sorcerer. His head fell into the cradle of Barghast’s arm, using it as a pillow. He smiled in his sleep, knowing this was where he was meant to be.`

…

Gaia had given Barghast a twin o’rre unlike any other. A warrior who appeared strong in front of the crowd when strength was needed of him, but was capable of showing humility and weakness in privacy with those he trusted. Such a dichotomy made for a good leader in Barghast’s experience.

For all that he was young. They both were. By the standards of the Okanavi he was on the cusp of adulthood. He’d already gone through the Trial, a passage of growth that marked the transition from pup to adolescence. He feared the second Trial was close on the horizon. He didn’t like to think about what that would mean for his twin o’rre and he. He told himself it was of little consequence for the time being. They still had time to get to know each other before he had to prepare Crowe for the inevitable.

He watched the practitioner sleep, unable to look away. No matter what beautiful vista awaited them on the horizon, his twin o’rre was the most beautiful thing in this land by a long shot. Soft looking on the outside, strong on the inside - a ferocity that dazzled and destroyed when it presented itself. Hair black as night, eyes blue that could glint with uncertainty and fear in one second then turn white in the next, glowing with the wrath of his fury.

Moments like this were his favorite. The times when he revealed his true self to Barghast. The Okanavian knew it shamed him to do so…the lycan wished he had the words to tell him never to worry on his account. Barghast wanted him to rely on the Okanavian no matter how it might appear to others. Who cared what anyone else thought, practitioner or lycan? The only person whose thoughts he cared about - if only he could discern them - was cradled in his lap, snoring lightly. Barghast loved the feel of his twin orre’s breath fluttering against the bristles of his chin, cooling him.

Crowe had pushed them hard today. Harder than he’d pushed them before. Barghast shifted his back against the tree trunk, wincing. He was not familiar with fatigue like this. Exhaustion sure, but not from travel. Even back home he’d been known for his prowess as a lycan. Still they were of little concern to him. He ran a digit along the crease of worry etched into the skin around the practitioner’s mouth. He wanted to rub it away. No. Better yet he wanted to kiss it away. His mothers back home had always taught him kisses made everything better…and he knew his twin o’rre liked it when Barghast kissed him. Even when he didn’t want to show it. Even when he was asleep.

He bent forward a little, being careful not to awaken the morsel in his arms. He pressed his lips to the wrinkle. He ran his tongue along it, wanting to smooth it out. He pressed another to his lips, relishing the contact. He wanted to press harder. Wanted to press his tongue into his twin o’rre’s mouth, wanted to feel him shudder against him in pleasure. Oh, had he ever wanted anything more?

“He is not your plaything to do with what you want!” the seer’s voice scolded. Golden eyes glared at him, her gnarled shadow stooped beneath the branches of a dead tree. “He is to be treasured. Disciplined. Gaia has not granted you with just any twin o’rre. She has granted you a twin o’rre who will change the world. Only he can lead our clans out of the desert to roam free the way we were meant to…the way we used to in the calm days of the First Iteration.”

Barghast flinched as if she’d slapped him, his tail dropping in shame. She hadn’t. If she was there at all she was a ghost…and he couldn’t be sure of what she was other than a guide who pestered him when he wanted to touch Crowe’s rump while he slept or do other things. She only appeared at night, offering tidbits of advice. Do this, don’t do that. It was annoying. He didn’t need her advice. He knew how to take care of his own twin o’rre.

Don’t I?

“Foolish pup!” the sneer snapped, revealing pointed teeth. For an apparition she certainly was a convincing imitation of the real thing. “For someone who knows so little about the world you certainly have a lot of confidence in yourself! The ones who chase you…they are unlike you’ve encountered thus far. Like the demon you encountered in the depths of the temple, they have the power to spin illusion from thin air. They serve a being who directly opposes Gaia and the deity your twin o’rre so blindly follows. They are anathema to your Crowe. They will attack him relentlessly, do everything to burrow in his mind. Fear not. Gaia foresaw this cycles ago and crafted one who could keep them at bay with his mere presence…you. Be on your guard!”

The seer dissipated in a cloud of smoke that quickly faded from view. Had she truly been there at all? It didn’t matter. As always her words carried the weight of prophecy. Sure enough a gust of wind howled at the trees, battering his face bringing with it the smell of something rotten. Within seconds of its start, the gales picked up speed, kicking up drifts of snow. It ripped a tree out of the ground, flinging it in the lycan’s direction. Cradling his twin o’rre against his chest, Barghast jumped out of its way before the tree could crush them to a pulp. It sailed past them, slamming into the ground with the sound of breaking bone.

“Twin o’rre!”

Barghast tried to set Crowe on his limp only for the practitioner’s body to start tilting limply. He patted his face urgently, careful not to cut him with his claws. Nothing he did woke the young sorcerer. He’d fallen under the spell of the evil force who attacked them. By the grace of Gaia the horse fate had granted them was still there, urging them with a neighing sound that transcended the bridge between animal and human; the beast wanted to survive just as much as Barghast did.

Once he was sure they were both secure on the saddle, he steered the mount North with a cluck of his tongue - the direction Crowe had been leading them in. Twice more he tried to wake his twin o’rre to no avail. Crowe only moaned uneasily in his sleep, fighting a battle of his own.

Barghast hugged Crowe to him, steering the horse through the dark. With the howling in his face it was difficult even for him to see. The lycan gnashed his teeth in frustration. He resisted the urge to snap the reins against the beast as hard as he could, to drive the horse to go faster. They were racing against the dead winds at a full gallop and it wasn’t fast enough.

He looked down when he felt something wet seep through his fur. His pads came back wet with blood. He wetted his tongue, tasting. A sweet honey taste. It was Crowe’s blood. No, no, no. He pulled the practitioner’s limp body off the horse, easing him on the ground as gently as he could. With the world coming apart all around them there was no way of being gentle.

He hiked up his robes, whining apologies in this manner, wishing there was some way to explain to his twin o’rre he wasn’t trying to undress him. All thoughts of molesting Crowe without consent vanished when he saw the claw marks on the back of the practitioner's hip.

“Twin o’rre!” he roared over the wind. He sobbed, resisting the urge to throttle his beloved until Crowe’s eyes opened, but knew doing so would only harm him. Crowe had the power to summon fire and influence the multitudes but one wrong touch from the Okanavian could kill him. So he waited and he prayed to Gaia. What else could he do?