Barghast and Crowe watched the wagon travel South until it receded from view. The Okanavian was happy to see it go. He glanced at his guide, sensing an uneasiness about the practitioner. He stared heavily into the distance, his mouth shrunk down to a thin line.
“Crowe.” Barghast winced, unable to hold back a whine. It hurt to move. The wound in his back burned from where the bullet was still lodged in the muscle; it would not begin to heal until the bullet was extracted. Still he reached out when Crowe did not turn to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. The practitioner jerked away from his touch, eyes sharpened and alert. He muttered something hastily under his breath, cheeks burning.
Something's wrong. I can sense it but I don't know what it is. Barghast scanned the length of the practitioner's body for wounds he could not find. The Okanavian bit back a growl of frustration. How can I help you if you can't tell me what's wrong? I wish more than anything that I could understand you.
Crowe looked South and North. Nothing moved in both directions. The cowl of his robes were down. Bracing gusts of wind blew locks of black hair out of his face, revealing the pensive crease between his brows. “We need to get off the road.” His voice was urgent, his movements twitchy and uncertain as if a dozen impulses pulled him in different directions and he couldn't decide which one to take. Seeming to come to a decision, he placed cools fingers above the wound at Barghast's back. The Okanavian went still under his soothing touch. “We’ll get that bullet out of your shoulder but first we need to leave.”
Hearing the panic in his voice, Barghast reached for Crowe's hand before he could back away. He had such tiny, delicate hands. Fine hands. The Okanavian tried to reassure him through their physical proximity. It's not that bad. I’ll live. He grinned, panting and wagging his tail to show he could live with the pain a moment longer. This time Crowe did not pull away. A small smile tugged at his chapped lips. He reached for Barghast’s muzzle; even while standing on the tips of his toes he could not reach the Okanavian’s snouts. Barghast lowered himself to his knees so the practitioner could rub along the length of his muzzle, For someone with such tiny hands, he really knew how to dig in. “It's going to take more than a silver bullet to keep you down. You’ll be okay. Let's see if one of these Theocracy bastards brought a map with them. I have no idea where we are.”
Crowe picked uneasily through the bodies, his breath quickening. Barghast was satisfied with the rifle he’d lifted from the dead scouts; its weight felt substantial in his paws. He searched the pockets for ammo; it was impossible to reach into the pockets of the dead; they were too small for his fat paws. I will make good use of it. A moment later Crowe made a small sound of satisfaction. He’d found what he was looking for. He knelt in the dirt, unfolding a map. He pointed at a spot on the map, muttering under his breath. With a final nod he tucked the map away.
They traveled east, cutting through a field to a line of trees. Barghast tried to hide his whines of pain. He was paying for the bullet wound now. He panted heavily, feverishly hot all over in spite of the cool mountain air. Crowe stopped every few feet, waiting for the Okanavian to catch up, his mouth upturned in a perpetual frown of concern. Barghast did not like seeing the look of concern on his twin orre’s face - not for him; he wanted to kiss it away. By the time they reached the small stream marked on the map darkness had fallen. Crowe guided them through the trees by the light glowing at the end of his staff. He laid a blanket in front of the water and gestured for Barghast to sit down. Barghast dropped to the ground, feverish from the pain.
Crowe pulled out a small satchel. He pulled one of the rolled joints he always smoked, lighting it with a wooden match. He took a long drag, blowing the smoke out towards the water.
He held the joint out to Barghast. “Take this, hit it. It will help with the pain.” His voice was clipped, commanding.
Barghast took it gingerly, pinching the tip between his thumb and index claw the way he’d seen the practitioner do. The sorcerer mimed the action, raising empty fingers to his lips. His mouth made a round O as he inhaled, looking at the lycan through long black eyelashes. Barghast imitated the action, inhaling. Smoke filled his throat, choking him. He coughed and sputtered and snorted, his lungs seizing. Crowe snatched the joint back before Barghast could drop it, muttering as he laughed. Such a sweet, beautiful sound. Too sweet for this brutal, war-torn region of the world. It made his tail wag happily and a euphoric feeling of warmth spread through his chest to hear it.
Once the Okanavian could breathe again, the practitioner said, “Next time don't hit it so hard.” Once more the joint went to his lip. He inhaled briefly, his face doing interesting things that made Barghast want to trace the hollows of his cheeks with a finger.
They sat like this for several minutes, passing the joint back and forth in a comfortable silence. Barghast could feel the herb take hold of him. It started out as a gentle tingling sensation along his cheeks and jaw that built into an electrifying buzz. Crowe shook the leather pouch, muttering under his breath. Clearly he wasn't happy that the satchel was empty. He sighed and said, “I can't wait to get to Timberford. According to the map we’ll be there in a couple days. It's either that or we get lucky and find an aether tree along the way. Alright, let's get this bullet out of you.” He gestured for Barghast to face the water. “I’ll try to make this quick and be gentle, but I’m not going to lie, I'm no surgeon.”
The Okanavian's ears twitched, detecting conflicting undercurrents of reassurance and anxiety in his voice. I trust you, twin o’rre, he wanted to tell him. You who saved me from death, you who did not abandon me in my time of need. I will follow you anywhere, into the blackness of the Void itself. Can you feel it? Already an unshakable bond has begun to build between us.
On the surface of the half frozen water, Barghast caught a stagnant glimpse of his reflection. Newly made scars layered over old ones from a hard life of hunting and skirmishes with warring lycan clans - in regards to war and death the desert to the West was no different from these rugged black mountains. All of that behind him in the wake of a greater war. It is me and my twin o’rre against the world. Not since the day he’d been born had his flesh been unblemished. No wonder his twin o’rre had first balked at the sight of him.
He winced when he felt the tip of the tweezers bite into the bullet wound which had yet to heal. He remained still. The herb flowing through his system worked its magic, dulling the pain to something manageable. Crowe distracted him by talking, his voice soothing and thoughtful. His hand rested on Barghast's good shoulder, steadying him. A thin line of blood streamed down his back, catching in his fur. The Okanavian didn’t mind. It would be a relief just to have the bullet out of him. And there was a stream he could wash the blood away in.
Once the bullet was out, Crowe held it out for him to see. It sat in the valley of his palm, smoking. Barghast breathed a sigh of relief. The bullet was out. In a few moments the wound would no longer pain him; it would be just another scar. He knew he would collect many more before their journey was through. He grinned at the practitioner over his shoulder to show he was grateful. This earned him an affectionate pat on his good shoulder.
Gesturing for Barghast to stand, Crowe packed the blanket, map, and tweezers back in his bag. It was time to move on.
…
They stuck to the cover of the trees, walking more or less North. A cord of intuitive certainty pulled at Crowe, guiding him towards the village of Timberford. There he would receive his first real test. He tried not to wonder what mysteries awaited him there.
Barghast stopped him by touching him on the shoulder, breathing, “Twin o’rre!” Except for the silver light that framed bare tree branches, his eyes were the only light in the dark. His ears were pressed flat against his head; an uneasy whine built in his throat. The rifle looked like a toy in his paws, His tail twitched agitatedly. He pointed East. The practitioner looked in the direction he’d indicated. A mysterious red glow beckoned to them, faint but impossible to ignore now that he could see it. He marveled at how much stronger the lycan’s senses were to his own. He cocked his head in the direction of the glow. Should we check it out?
They pushed cautiously through the trees until they reached a grove of red leaved trees. Crowe sucked in a breath of relief. Aether trees! Monad could not have sent him a more needed blessing. Once aether trees had grown aplenty all over the north, flourishing in the winter months when everything else died. Now aether was an expensive commodity among practitioners since the Theocracy had made it their mission to burn it down. He stopped, setting the bag on the ground. He pulled out a small empty flask and his dagger. He brushed past Barghast who stood beneath the glowing fronds, staring up at the glowing fronds with open-mouthed wonder.
Things are finally looking up.
It was a test of strength to break the bark with the tip of a knife dulled from use; the bark was thick and healthy. White sap bled from the wound, trickling in between the ancient ridges and dips in the bark. He stooped, puckering his lips around the hole, letting the sap fall on his tongue. The sweet tang of aether sap saturated his tongue, sending waves of ecstasy through him. He forced himself to part from the tree before he could over indulge. Aether sap in its purest form was naturally more potent than the ground up leaves he used to roll his joints.
Barghast's eyes flashed keenly, his snout flaring. He no longer seemed weary of the aether tree - if the practitioner could drink the sap from the tree without hurting himself then he could too, He sniffed experimentally at the wound in the bark. The smell of wine, the smell of honey. His twin o’rres smell. He lapped at the wound cautiously.
Crowe watched him drink from the tree. “Not too much.” He pulled at the lycan's paw, coaxing him away from the tree like a mother hen. “You’ll be higher than a kite.”
Barghast came away easily enough, smacking his lips experimentally. They sat on the ground, leaning against the trunk of the tree. Barghast leaned slightly against Crowe, their shoulders touching. He looked up at the sky. The red glow of the aether fonds warded off the darkness.
I could sit here all night. Maybe even forever. There's no Theocracy here. No war, no death, no one needing me…
“Crowe!” Barghast's digits closed around his arm, cutting off his thoughts. The lycan pointed up to a single point in the sky. Crowe’s breath caught in his throat. Not because Metropolis sat on the night’s horizon, but because Barghast could see it. Barghast stood up, pacing back and forth excitedly, tail wagging with unmistakable excitement. He spoke in a series of muddled syllables, yips, growls, and whines that became increasingly less discernible the longer he prowled.
Crowe couldn't restrain a giggle. He’d never seen the lycan look this animated. Barghast pulled at his arm, tugging him to his feet. “What What? Do you want to go?”
Barghast continued to gesture and chatter, wild with excitement. Suddenly his arms closed around Crowe, lifting him into the air as if he weighed nothing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing? Put me down!” Crowe let out a nervous bray of laughter. Everything was happening so fast, time sped up. The lycan’s pads gripped his thighs firmly, securing him to the broad expanse of his shoulders; he was extra careful not to cut the practitioner with his paws. The same could not be said for the sorcerer. Crowe clung to him like a clumsy bird afraid to let go and fly, nails digging into the lycan's flesh. Gas lamp eyes tracking Crowe, the way an adult might comfort a child when they dip into the water for the first time.
“Alright, alright.” The practitioner stopped struggling, his breath heavy. “I trust you, I trust you.”
This earned him a conciliatory pat on the thigh and a toothy grin as if to say I’ve got you and then they were off again, racing through the trees; it was only then Crowe realized they’d stopped at all. Barghast ducked and weaved beneath bare tree branches, moving so fast the world turned into a blur.
If you close your eyes it will feel like you’re flying.
Crowe did just that, closing them slowly, wanting to give his trust completely to the lycan. Passing air kissed his cheeks, blowing back his hair. He straightened his back and spread up his arms and did not fall. Barghast would not let him. If he needed further proof that the lycan would not let harm come to him this was it. It truly did feel like he was flying, soaring through the dark, unbound by physical limitations. Comfort in the fact he was safe, he was held. Comfort in the fact he no longer had to face the world alone. I´ve been alone for so long with no one to help me…
The Okanavian stopped abruptly. Gravity shoved at Crowe, knocking him from his perch. For a terrible moment he fell, the ground racing up to meet him. Solid arms caught him, setting him down to his feet, wrapping around his body, pulling the practitioner into a protective hug. His face was pressed up against Barghast’s chest. The lycan’s heart kicked powerfully against his cheek, filling his ears with a rapid drumbeat.
¨What's…?¨ A paw covered his mouth, silencing him with a growl constraint. The size of a dinner plate, the Okanavian’s paw engulfed his face. Barghast made a shushing sound. A blade of uneasiness slid into Crowe´s gut, cutting through the aether induced confusion. What´s happening? He untethered his sixth sense, combing the darkness, searching for danger. He didn't need to search for long. Hanging from the branches of a tree was the bottom half of a dead buck. Something had torn away the front half completely, leaving behind a trail of entrails in its wake. Another trail of blood marked its path through the woods.
With effort the practitioner managed to extricate himself from Barghast´s uncompromising grip. He stepped warily around the half carcass, half blind. He pulled his staff from the strap at his back. Cautiously they followed the trail of blood to the next grim discovery. Another half carcass. Another and another and another, forming a trail of dead animals until all Crowe could smell was rot and raw meat.
