I nearly died, or rather I was nearly lost, in the last transfusion. The chosen had been bonded against my knowing, and the Garru menace, despite the benefits they wrought, nearly cost me. If the child had been stronger, or the Garru for that matter, I likely would have failed in the transfusion. In the end, the mass of Kraken I contain overloaded the creature.
The animal tried to contain it all, but eventually it burst into a shimmering blotch of gore. The acolytes could likely hear my laughter from the tops of the monastery to the depths of the reservoir.
Dorian knew, without a doubt, that the trek home was going to be brutal. Despite this, Kurt had insisted he bled then skinned the prize, as it was his “due for slaying such a monstrous animal.” So, instead of arguing about it, Dorian did what he could to help the process, which really wasn't much. After they had tied the back paws and strung the can up, Kurt slit the creature's throat and started up a fire.
It was good practice to start a fire when skinning, apparently, for two reasons. First, the fire would drown out the smell of blood in the air, keeping other predators at bay. Secondly, for those that were hungry enough, meat was still meat. Dorian didn't feel hungry, he felt beat up. He had lost consciousness twice that day, and despite having broken his fast on the cheese and bread some six hours prior, food was the last thing on his mind. That was, until the smell of blood wafted into the air, thick and tangy.
When Kurt left to gather wood, Dorian simply couldn't help himself. The flowing blood that spattered to the ground became the call to action that he couldn't deny. Crawling on his knees, exhausted, he made his way to the draining blood, cupped his hands, and drank deeply. He knew it was disgusting, but at the same time, it was everything he wanted and needed and more. As soon as the disgusting red fluid hit his lips, he started feeling better. Then, oddly, better than better, better than he'd ever felt.
“Uh...” commented a distant voice, “That's not weird at all.”
Dorian, with the look of a kid caught in the act, turned slowly. Rather than hide his guilt, Dorian just smiled with an expression that said, “nobody said it was against the rules.”
He could feel his brother radiating disgust and revulsion, and for good reason. Dorian must have looked like something out of a nightmare, smiling, teeth covered in blood, the remainder of which was dripping down his chin. Unable to help himself, Dorian belched.
“Grrrooooosss.” Kurt drew out the word, frowning. “What the fuck Dorian?”
“I told you it made me hungry,” he replied. He paused a moment, “I do feel much better though.” Dorian stood tall, no longer ashamed, and went to the pond to wash up. The pond lost the iridescent glow it had when they arrived, but the water was still clear. He washed up, rinsing the blood out of his mouth.
When he came back to the fire, there were sticks roasting a few haunches of meat resting above it. Realizing he was still mostly naked; he wandered his way over and got dressed. Kurt called out while skinning the mountain lion, though Dorian couldn't really make it out. “Huh?” Dorian called back, but Kurt didn't respond. Dorian, now fully dressed and dragging his pack behind him, made his way to his brother.
Kurt was deftly peeling back the skin of the animal, he would slice, pull hard on the fur, then slice again. Repeating this process sheared the skin from the beast with a swiftness Dorian didn't expect.
“Did you bring it?” Kurt asked, not taking his eyes off his labor.
“Bring what?” Dorian asked, sensing a tightness in Kurt's tone.
“The salt, I asked for it.” Kurt sighed, and Dorian got the distinct impression that Kurt was sick of his brother's company.
“Sorry, I called out, but you must have not heard me.” Dorian searched his pack, finding and offering the mentioned salt. As he handed it off, he asked, “What's the salt for?”
Dorian knew if his brother was in a bad mood, all he had to do was ask him a question about something Kurt was knowledgeable about, and by the time he was done with his lecture, he'd be settled out. Surprisingly, however, Kurt gave a short response of, “Keeps the rot out, the fact that its half cooked already isn't really in my favor here. And I like my pack to smell like tanned hides, not rotting flesh.”
Kurt's eyes went hollow for a moment, and he began salting the inside of the hide. Dorian just kept his quiet for a time, realizing that the day hadn't just been long for himself, his brother had been carrying the burden of worry for most of the day. “Anything I can do to help?” Dorian asked, trying to open a conversation. Kurt just shook his head, swatted lazily at a fly, then continued to salt his new prize.
“Thanks for everything Kurt, I'm sorry today didn't go perfectly. It was perfect to me though, despite a few hitches, it was an adventure.” Kurt responded with a noise that was somewhere between a “hmm” and a grunt. Getting frustrated, Dorian tuned in to the mental link, trying to pick up on what had put his brother in such an abruptly bad place.
“It just wasn’t right, I’ve never heard of anyone drinking blood. Not like that.” The image flashed across his mind, and Dorian surprisingly saw it as Kurt had seen it. Dorian, looking ragged, hair matted, mostly naked, with blood dripping down his face, then, without guilt, smiling. Painting it in that way made Dorian quiver with disgust.
Recognizing the sensation, Kurt stood up, fury on his face.
In two large bounds, he was right in front of Dorian's face. He shouted, “Don't you ever dare do that to spy on me!” He shoved Dorian, but Dorian expected it. Dorian felt something, kind of like a tether. He pulled himself downward, it felt exactly the opposite of what he had done to lift the stick of Gwam. When Kurt shoved Dorian, he may as well have been trying to knock over a tree. Dorian didn't budge but put his hands up, “Wait, Kurt, I'm sorry. I just didn't know. I could smell it, and somehow, I knew it would help. I don't know how, but I just knew.”
Dorian scowled and looked away, letting go of whatever anchored him. “Look, Kurt, I don't know what happened today, but you were the one who had to get curious. I... I don't know how to describe what happened, but I owe you, my life. Twice over, and more besides. You're my only friend, please don't close me out like this.” Pleading wasn't Dorian's strong suite, but it was his brother, and his brother had always been forgiving, if not generous.
Kurt sighed, “It’s one thing to know that blood, of all things, gets your horn stiff, but it’s a whole other thing to catch you in the act. I just...” He took a breath and restarted. “I still don't know how to deal with how strange you make things. It just came at me sideways. Sorry Dor, it’s been a long day.”
Nodding, and letting things go in lieu of dealing with the tasks at hand, helped gathering things and packing away the skin. They then grabbed their meat, doused the fire with some loose earth, and made their way towards home.
They passed the salt pouch back and forth as they ate and walked, dripping juices everywhere. After a bit, they were back to their usual banter, poking fun at each other, and reminiscing over the events of the day.
When they each had nearly finished their meal, Kurt threw what was left of his meal into the woods. Dorian gave a low moan.
“What?” Kurt asked.
“I was gonna ask if you were planning on finishing that.” Dorian replied.
Confused, Kurt repeated, “What?” but dragged the word out. “I was finished, there wasn't much left on the thing.”
“Okay, don't get freaked out, but I think I’ve got a better feel on a few things. I need to have certain things, you know, to do some of those Priorius things. There's got to be something in blood, and a little in dark meats. It drives me nuts, but I think it’s what made me strong enough to pick up the Gwam.” Dorian said, feeling excited at the revelation. “And I'd bet my birthday dinner the caretakers must report whatever is in that supplement, it's like fuel to a fire. I caught the priest taking a swig from his flask after he built the new forge, he was all wobbly beforehand, afterwards he looked fine.” As he spoke, he picked up in speed and pitch, almost out of breath by the time he finished his sentence.
Kurt looked pensive for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Do you ever get that hunger when you're by the forge?”
Dorian thought but couldn't recall. He told his brother as much, but Kurt wasn't dismayed. “Okay, okay, uh...” He thought a moment longer, then said, “Keep your eyes open for a reddish rock. They're all over the place in the valley. I have a hunch.”
Dorian, finishing his meat, said, “Okay, remember when I said don't freak out?”“Yeah,” Kurt replied.
“Double that order, with extra bread. Hold the mold.” Dorian said, feeling guilty for the urge he was having.
Curious, Kurt asked, “What in Kressor's empty sack are you talking about?”
Not looking away, Dorian sniffed the bone leftover from the haunch of meat, pondered it, then bit. It crunched under the pressure of his jaw, but Dorian seemed to make swift work of grinding it down to mush and swallowing.
Aghast, Kurt just stared at him, mouth open.
“See, told you it wasn’t finished it.” Dorian said, flatly.
“There is absolutely no way you're that hungry.” Kurt poked Dorian's gut with the flat end of his line staff.
After a moment, Dorian had a sense of clarity. Just like letting go of the paranoia that let him hear what his brother was thinking, a weight seemed to lift off Dorian. He felt stupendous.
Kurt stopped walking and peered at his brother. He tilted his head, then his mouth made an O. Kurt said, “Do that again.” The rhythm of his speech was drawn out.
Dorian looked about, inspecting the leaves caking themselves over the forest floor. When they both stopped, the quiet became eerie, his ears oddly missing the swish of their footsteps.
He looked at his brother, then bit into the bone again. Chewed, then swallowed. Kurt started to lean down.
“Quit looming, it's creepy.” Dorian said. Kurt shook his head, then chuckled.
Still smirking, Kurt said, “Little big brother, you just grew three inches, at the least.”
Mouth making a line, Dorian said, “You're standing in a ditch or something.” Kurt gestured down, he was actually standing at a slightly higher ground than where Dorian was. He frowned.
“I guess if you want to make bone, ya gotta eat bone. Maybe the same is true to meat, eh?”
Putting on an air of superiority, Dorian asked, “Are you simple? Maybe we should feed you some brains, eh?” Dorian said this in the same tone his brother had.
“Yeah,” Kurt said, quick witted as ever, he followed it up, “And it looks like we still need to lean out your meals. No fat, no butter, no bread.”
Dorian scowled at his brother, “Why not any bread, if you grow what you eat?”
“Well,” Kurt gestured at the whole of Dorian, “You're becoming doughy.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Dorian, out of quips, laughed and said, “You're a dick sometimes.”
Kurt just laughed and laughed.
That was the general pace of both their conversation and their walk as they headed home. It was just before sunset when they got back, and their mother was waiting for them. The look of fury on her face would make the gods pale. Or flee. Or get pale then flee.
“Where in Kressor's black hell have you been?!” Their mother demanded, arms crossed. Dorian had never noticed, but her frame was outright fortified, and despite her lack of vertical ascension, she was still intimidating.
Dorian, having never been at the bad end of her whip like anger, paled. Kurt, having gotten into enough trouble in his misadventures, was used to dealing with the matronly wrath their mother could inflict. He, to Dorian's relief, spoke for both of them.
“Went to go show him some wilds, nothing too far, but I got turned about. We found some line trees, and I got distracted, lost my sense of direction. We waited until the sun dropped enough to be sure I knew where we were heading.” Kurt, while speaking, took his pack off and took out a few line tree branches, the bottoms had sacks tied to each, and there was water leaking from them as he proffered them to their mother.
She took them in hand and inspected them. She chortled a sound somewhere between exasperation and acceptance. She gingerly placed them down next to the steps leading to their front door. “The staves.” She didn't have to say any more, Kurt offered his up and so did Dorian. She inspected them, checking the bottom tips and the general shape of the staves. “Undoubtedly line trees. Want to explain something to me, oh fine son of mine?”
“Hmm?” Kurt said, looking a bit green.
“Why is there gore on the bottom of this stave?”
“Oh, yeah, we got hungry. We were stuck there planting these guys for a good while and I went off and got us some lunch.” He looked suddenly sure. Dorian wondered if telling a half-truth was as good as lying or close enough to the truth that it didn't matter. Kurt obviously didn't mind.
“What did we have for lunch then?” Her eyes were open wide, Dorian thought for just a moment, they mimicked the color of the setting sun.
“Just a poor old defenseless Garru.”
Looking down at Kurt, she narrowed her eyes. After a pause she said, “you're lying to me.” She spoke this with the stern certainty only a mother has.
The look of complete innocence Kurt was wearing shattered like a granite slate plate. “How'd you know?”
“In all my years, I've never met anyone so desperate. They bleed black, you know? And the way the blood pools will make anyone lose their appetite. Besides, those things don't hurt anything, its borderline blasphemy to kill something that only perpetuates life.” Dorian started to understand where Kurt got the inclination to always add extra information, their mother must be a great instructor.
She sighed, “suppose I won’t get the truth from you. Go inside, and get cleaned up, the both of you.” Dorian lowered his eyes, following Kurt's lead. They started heading inside, “Kurtis?” She called. Kurt stopped, back stiffening. “Do be sure that you don't bring any untreated skins into this house.” He took a breath. “Yes, mom.” He took his pack out back, and hung it up, not taking the skin out. Dorian ran inside, and looked out one of the windows, noticing his mother glaring daggers at Kurt the whole way.
After dinner that night, Dorian asked his brother what a Garru was. He described it as a neat little creature, about the size of a grown man's forearm, without legs and about the dimensions of a slug if it were so large. It had large eyes, a cat-like face, and was covered in fur that changed color with the season. Apparently, they were relatively rare unless you were in the Wilds, but some people kept them as pets. They ate scraps mostly, or carrion. They were essential to the ecosystem, apparently, as their scat was basically perfectly rich black dirt. It's assumed that part of why the wilds grow the way they do is because most of the soil out beyond the villages was heavily comprised of their waste, though the domesticated variety lacked the potency of the wilder ones. There had been many attempts to industrialize on this, but every time, nothing came of it. It was one of the many mysteries of the valley.
Dorian, and Kurt, were both punished for the next several weeks for being out so late, though Kurt didn't seem to get into any trouble over the mountain lion skin. Dorian suspected this was because he had it made into a rug, which he gifted to their mother, saying something along the lines of, “lucky catch, fell right into a pit that I spiked out in the southwestern region.” His mother chided him for not informing them of any pits, as other trappers might get hurt, so he apologized and said he'd mark the map later. Kurt was much smoother than Dorian thought he could ever be, something Dorian quietly envied in his big brother.
Though the punishments were long, they weren't awful. Dorian honestly suspected they were things the two of them would have to do regardless, sweeping leaves, stocking wood, and the like. The only part that seemed to be a true punishment was when their parents occasionally came out and merrily chided them as they worked. The only other punishment was the temporary requisition of their line poles. Dorian wasn't terribly attached to his, he had it for a single day, though Kurt was distraught at being stripped of his new favorite thing.
After a few weeks of manual labor, Dorian's father came out to the backyard with both line staffs and one of his own. Kurt immediately stopped clearing the back pond of muck, not out of earnest interest, more so because it was the first excuse he had to cut out of the disgusting duty. Dorian, on the other hand, was busy breaking up walnuts, a sizable number of shells had been stacked beside him. He was seated on an old tree stump taking in the view of mid-to-late autumn. The leafless trees around them became shadowy frame by which they would live for the next four months, and the ambiance of it all had Dorian feeling on edge over the upcoming Autumnal Equinox Festival.
Dorian's father, Rand, had begun bellowing with laughter at the approach of Kurt. After Dorian had realized he was sending his thoughts outward he had made a special note to keep himself from Sending. He had developed a consistent fear of either being noticed by somebody else or of hearing things he would never want to know. Since they were so far away, Dorian simply started using the ability. He had come to realize that all people, whether they realized it or not, thought about what they were saying. Some people barely did, Dorian mused, but like a filter, the mind picked up on the words coming out of anyone's mouth whether intentionally or not.
“I see you've got my line staff there, Da. I hope you don't intend it for kindling, it likely couldn't start a fire, not even for such a prestigious cook as yourself.” Kurt was obviously playing a part, Dorian could tell, and his father wasn't amused.
“Don't grovel, it's unbecoming.” Rand stuck the first two poles in the earth, then hefted the third. “I see you know that you can burn the end to make them keep a point, but did you know you can smoke them?”
Kurt frowned, “No I didn't, what does that do?” He still seemed to be playing innocent.
“Care to find out?” Rand raised an eyebrow, then said, “Have you been working on your swimming?”
Kurt, eyes wide, put his hands out in a “please, don't do whatever it is you're going to do!” Rand smirked in a way very reminiscent of Kurt's smirk, hefted the pole like a javelin, took two heavy steps and threw. The pole arced through the air, launched with the skill and grace Dorian had seldom seen from his father. The pole flew so far that, instead of landing in the pond, actually made its way to the opposing bank and stuck straight into the shoreline, with just a few inches of water actually touching it. Kurt bellowed in alarm and started sprinting for the pond.
“It's gonna be ruined!” Kurt shouted as he ran away, the sound of his father's laughter echoing all the way through the valley.
Dorian took this as an opportunity to go see what his father was doing with their line staves out. He stood, dusted some splintered shells off himself, and made his way to his father. He was still chortling and chuckling as he watched Kurt dive headlong into the pond rather than run all the way around it.
“What's going on Dad?”
Rand, taking a break from his laughter as best he could, replied “The first thing I wanted is to see your brother run, he looked pretty miserable cleaning out the pond.” He cackled again when he heard Kurt get out of the water with a whine, taking up his pole, and inspecting it. After a moment, he started walking the long way back, wiping his ears and hair of moss.
“Also, I did some work on your poles. We've got the festival coming up, and I assumed you two would want to take them with you. Here, I've got yours here.” He tossed Dorian the staff sidelong, and Dorian caught it deftly. He did like the stupid thing.
Inspecting it, it was now a slight shade darker across the whole of it, with exception to just above the tip. A straight line had been seared down the staff on either side, with cross hatches every six inches or so. It looked kind of stylish, but in a practical kind of way.
“What's with-” Rand cut Dorian off, “Be patient son, I don't like to repeat myself, and Kurtis is nearly back.” Dorian fidgeted a bit, then decided to inspect the staff more thoroughly while they waited on Kurt.
When he arrived, he did so with scorn on his face. “You could have ruined it, you know.”
Smirking at his son, Rand said, “No, I couldn't have. I wanted to show you, and there's a few tricks I've managed to work in.”Kurt chimed in contemptuously, “how would you know how to work a line staff, you're the village cook.”
“Just because I'm a village cook, doesn't mean I don't know my way around a stave, boy.” Rand seemed to be peeved about the comment. Eyebrow raised, their father asked, “can you read?” Kurt nodded, catching on to the fact that he had hit a sore subject. “Then by your logic, you should be a priest or a scribe. Should I call your mother to switch your trade?” Kurt shook his head, and mumbled a “No, sir.”
“Good.” Rand seemed to lighten. “When I was a young man, despite my craft, was trained with the spear properly, not a stave, but the concept works the same for individual combat.”
Curious, Dorian spoke up then, putting on the air of a ten-year-old, “Wait, but isn't that a weapon? Aren't those forbidden?”
“Yes.” Rand said, with a touch of reproach in his voice. “History isn't really my subject, but it was a demand of our priest at the time, there was talk of unrest in Kresson. That doesn't matter.” He sighed, then began again, “Since we're a few weeks away from the festival, and your mother isn't going to be attending due to her condition. I'm going to train you in the spear,” he pointed at Kurt, “and the same for you but for different reasons.” He pointed at Dorian.
Kurt, not missing this excellent opportunity to embarrass his brother, poked a finger into Dorian's stomach, muttering “different reasons.” Kurt laughed then, and Dorian's face started to go hot.
Swift as a bird of prey, Rand swiped out Kurt's back heel in a whirl of motion, Kurt hit the dirt making a “whump” noise as the air shot out of his lungs. Rand finished the maneuver by tapping Kurt's stomach lightly once, twisting the staff about and pointing an end at Kurt's neck. It happened so fast that Dorian would have missed it with a long blink.
Kurt's eyes were wide, but he didn't move. Rand spoke then, quiet in a way that would make anyone listen intently. “Don't be an insolent little snot, that's not how I raised you.” Rand withdrew his stave, whirled, and stood tall with his shoulders back. He tapped his line staff against the ground once, demanding attention. The man was a gods damned giant.
“Take form!” Rand barked, and Kurt shot up right, mimicking the posture of his father. They both looked at Dorian, not sure what to do, he took his staff up and mimicked as well.
They practiced in the yard until sunset, covering what Rand called “Basics for basics.” Dorian had immediately registered the jibe and scowled. It took Kurt another hour before he got it, when he did it was midway through the transition between defensive and offensive stances. He fell right over, giggling to himself. Dorian wanted to give Kurt a tough time over being an idiot but assumed it would be lost on him all the same. More's the pity.
The physical practice ended with the sun setting, despite this, it bled into their conversations all throughout dinner. The dinner itself wasn't entirely opulent, day old bread with chicken that had been seared in a walnut sauce his father had made from flour and rendered fat. It was tasty, but half-hearted. The conversation, however, involved an argument between Rand and Rita over the practicality of teaching them how to wield a stave over a spear. It got relatively heated, Kurt chiming in on his mother's behalf. Rand, realizing he was outnumbered began backing off, but Kurt and Rita were wolves. The trick with wolves is to never show weakness.
“Hold on then, if stave work is for fending off wildlife, and spears for everything, why don't the trappers all train for spears?” Dorian finally spoke.
The table went quiet for a long moment, then Kurt said, “Better to be a master of the one skill that's practical, than to be an apprentice in two.” Rita nodded, gesturing to Kurt, as though he captured the point perfectly.
“Can't someone be a master in more than one field? I've seen Kurt dress a kill in the wilds with the expertise that few at the cookery could keep up with, does that mean we should drag him over to our trade? I think that if you can master one skill, you can master another and be talented at both. Otherwise, you just waste yourself on trying to live in someone else’s idea of what you can or can't be.” Rand gestured to Dorian in the exact same fashion his mother had done to Kurt. He grinned at Dorian and flashed him a wink.
It was quiet at the table for a moment, then Rita spoke up. “Well, since you seem to believe you can master two trades there, my young and ambitious little Dor, I suppose you'll be meeting us at noon for staff training from now on.” She quirked an eyebrow at Rand, he shrugged. Looking over, he just said, “Dorian?”
“I don't know mom, I wouldn't want to put your trappers to shame.” He smiled, and Rand burst into laughter so raucous that Dorian could feel the vibrations echoing from his father's chest. His mother was glaring at him, but it swiftly evolved into a smile. Rand spoke then, putting a hand on Dorian's shoulder. “That's my boy, and we'll work on the staff every night. I suppose, we'll have to get someone else for log duty from here on out.”
“Really?!” Dorian nearly shouted in elation.
“No, now you'll just have to get it all done by noon. It'll be a reminder that confidence is good, aptitude and application is better.” Rand stood and began collecting the stone plates from everyone at the table. Like magic, he balanced them all on one hand and left to where the pump was to stack the dirty dishes. His mother spoke up then, “And arrogance is shit. Maybe we should both pay more attention to raising our children humble, before they both become as arrogant as you.”
His father just chimed back, not even looking their way, “Coming from the best Hunt in ten generations, I'll assume that the best cook in the valley should just bow and grovel. If our children are to be excellent, we should treat them as such, is all I mean, love.”
Kurt took the chance to speak up, “What do you mean mom? I'm the humblest young man in the valley.” He said this with a nonchalance that could only be fake. Rita gave him a frank look, so Dorian said, “Good thing you're the humblest in the valley, otherwise people would notice that I'm the humblest in the world.” He said it, intoning it in exactly the right way an ignorant ten-year-old should. The laughter that erupted from his parents was so uplifting that the two brothers couldn't help but join in.
In that moment, Dorian accidentally tuned in to the emotions of those around him, and the feeling of warmth, hope, excitement and love was almost overwhelming. He knew, as young as he was, that it would likely be one of the most carefree and purely joyous moments of his life.