Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu

by Constantine, Storm

  “And so you should.” Hroth had taken a chalice of mead but was sipping it, mindful of his recent fast. He didn’t want to be out of sorts with Ottar; that would dishonour the har’s first aruna.

  Ottar seemed nervous as he chewed some tart berries. He was obviously trying to keep his eyes trained on Hroth’s face and was failing miserably as his gaze returned to Hroth’s stump, again and again.

  Take him under my wing? he thought sourly. He may flee my bed as soon as the act is over.

  “Not to be rude, tiahaar,” Ottar said at last, watching avidly as Hroth licked some marinade off of his fingers, “but—” He gestured at Hroth’s left arm. “Did that happen before or after you became har?”

  “After. I’ll tell you what happened, but it’s not a pleasant story, so I don’t want to elaborate now.”

  Ottar chewed thoughtfully, his gaze sliding over Hroth like quicksilver. Hroth knew he could be considered a short straw to draw, as it were, especially by somehar who didn’t know that he’d been one of the first Wraeththu in Freyhella — and that he was tender-hearted to a fault. A rising tide of dignity rose in him.

  “I assure you that your first aruna will be a memorable one, and not just because you picked the rune held by the only one-handed har in Freygard,” Hroth said a bit defensively.

  “Yes, light an extra candle to the Aghama, dark one!” Hansggedir boomed from behind Hroth. His eyes sparkled with mirth and drink. “You’re fortunate— Hroth is quite skilled.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “It’s only the truth!” Hansggedir grinned at Hroth and took a deep quaff of mead. “Journey well.”

  “I will, tiahaar.”

  Ottar’s mobile face belied his conflicting feelings: desire, trepidation, excitement. Confused agitation poured off of him in waves. No doubt the senses in his new harish body were going haywire.

  “What’s your name, seal-eyes?” Hansggedir prompted.

  “Ottar.”

  Hansggedir gave Hroth a look of disbelief. “Has there ever been a more apt name?”

  “It’s indeed fitting,” Hroth agreed. “Go on — you’re making him even more uncomfortable. Find Sveinn and drape yourself on him. He’s used to your blunt speech.”

  “Hroth, I’m fine,” Ottar stammered, a flush creeping up his long neck. “I just — I just didn’t expect…” His voice trailed off helplessly.

  “You’re the luckiest har in this room,” Hansggedir stated emphatically. “And don’t listen to any troglodyte who tells you otherwise.”

  Hroth began to shove him away with his shoulder.

  “I’m leaving! Loki’s stones,” Hansggedir swore, grinning as he swaggered off.

  Ottar seemed more relaxed after this banter, to Hroth’s relief. He glanced at the new har’s plate and saw much of the food was untouched. “Do you mind if I have a piece of your fish?”

  “Not at all!”

  Hroth put his cup down on a nearby table, but Ottar, with a heated smile, fed it to him instead.

  “Mmmmm. Salty,” Hroth murmured.

  He picked up a piece of candied ginger and placed it in Ottar’s awaiting mouth. Ottar kept his eyes trained on Hroth’s as he chewed, and then said, “Sweet. And spicy.”

  “Much as I suspect you’ll taste,” Hroth said in a low voice, gratified when a flush again crept up Ottar’s neck.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” he said. “It better be soon. I feel like I’m on fire!”

  “I won’t make you linger,” Hroth promised, tracing Ottar’s fine jaw with his fingers and giving him a reassuring smile.

  They stayed for another hour or so, Hroth meeting the other new inceptees and introducing Ottar to a few of the other founders. When Hroth discovered that they’d circled around to Hansggedir and Sveinn, he gratefully knew they could leave. What had Hansggedir said about other hara’s perception of him? Beautiful and revered? Respected and preferred at his usual distance was more like it. Better to go ahead and enjoy the novelty of a new har and then let him get on with his life, he thought resignedly to himself.

  “Go on!” Hansggedir said at last. Ottar gave the older har a grateful look.

  “Come and get your blessing from the hienama,” Hroth suggested as they made their way toward the doors. He stood behind Ottar as Trygve made a symbol of power over the new har, then drew him into a firm embrace.

  “Welcome, beloved,” he said, and Hroth was surprised to feel tears prick at his eyes. The hienama caught his gaze and gave him a sympathetic look before releasing Ottar.

  “My house isn’t far away,” Hroth said as they left the Hall of Voices, accepting well wishes along the way. The other hara would celebrate and make merry until the early hours of morning, but Hroth had no reason to begrudge them their fun. Once they were outside, Ottar threaded his arm in Hroth’s and Hroth turned to smile at him.

  “You’re really tall!” he noted.

  Ottar laughed. “Guilty.”

  “Not guilty, just tall.”

  At first they walked in silence, but then Ottar asked Hroth about his cape.

  “It’s one of the only things I kept from my human past,” he said, glancing down at it. “It belonged to my grandfather. He was quite the hunter, and it took him several years to track and kill the foxes whose skins now keep me so warm. Seems a bit barbaric to me now, but when I was a young boy it seemed that he was a giant among men.”

  “I can imagine!”

  Hroth watched his own breath, each exhalation creating a huff of white into the cold air. He felt more comfortable now that he was away from dozens of pitying eyes, but grew increasingly discomfited as they approached his house. It was quite rustic, and Hroth almost never had guests, besides Hansggedir and Sveinn.

  “I live just up here.”

  He turned up a cobbled street, which at first glance appeared abandoned. Many houses were in disrepair, abandoned by their human owners and the few neighbours Hroth did have were all at the celebration.

  Once inside his house, Hroth took off his cape, watching as Ottar took in his surroundings.

  “I prefer to live simply,” he explained. “Would you like some tea?”

  He ran his fingers through Ottar’s dark hair. It was as silky to the touch as it looked, and Ottar gave him a bold smile.

  “No, but thank you. I’d like…”

  “Yes, of course. Let me get a fire going in my bedroom so the room’s not so cold.”

  “I can help,” Ottar said quickly, looking at Hroth’s left arm.

  “It’s okay. Do me a favour, first.” He looked beguilingly at the new har. “Share breath with me.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Ottar turned and cupped Hroth’s face in his hands, pressing his lips firmly to Hroth’s. With a soft moan, Hroth opened his mouth to Ottar’s questing tongue, the kiss quickly turning to a tangle of tongues as it evolved into a sharing of breath. Ottar’s breath was lapping waves and sunrise, fresh with a taste of clear sapphire. Hroth let himself be carried away by his desire, eventually pulling away with a throaty laugh.

  “You burn hotter than any fire, but I want us to be able to lie on top of my blankets. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  Ottar clung to him, stealing kisses as they stumbled down the short hallway. Hroth made quick work of getting the fire started, then waved his hand toward two pillared candles, which burst into life.

  Ottar’s eyes grew wide. “How did you do that?”

  “It’s a skill that comes with caste ascension,” Hroth explained. “Not hard. You’ll get there as you study with one of the Pyralisits. All in time. For now, though, it’s time for you to discover some of the bountiful delights of being har.”

  Hroth pressed his lips to Ottar’s, kissing him before it became a sharing of breath. Ottar rubbed Hroth’s back while with his one hand, Hroth let his fingers slide under Ottar’s tunic to press against his warm skin.

  “Will you undress?” he husked, nibbling on Ottar’s earlobe. “And undress me? I can’t wait t
o taste every part of you.”

  “Yes, please,” Ottar groaned, his arousal evident and pressing against Hroth’s hip. Soon they were gloriously naked. Almost shyly, Ottar held Hroth’s left arm and brought the stump at his wrist to his mouth to kiss it.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked in a low voice.

  “No, but in times like this, I do especially miss it,” Hroth admitted with a rueful smile. “Lie back. I’m going to play your body like the beautiful instrument it is.”

  Ottar was reduced to monosyllables and moans of pleasure as Hroth did as promised, lying down between his legs, kissing and licking his tangy flesh. He found the nub of his outermost sikra, and as he rubbed it, Ottar bucked and cried out. Once he’d awakened three of the sikras and Ottar was thrashing on the bed, Hroth decided it was time to take pity on him. With a swift thrust and growl of possession, he joined Ottar’s body, pushing deep into tight heat. Again and again he took him, riding the waves of pleasure as Ottar instinctively clenched his new organ around him.

  The butterfly tongue in his ouana-lim lashed out to connect to the burning star in Ottar’s body. Ottar arched off the bed with a wild cry, spontaneously bursting into tears even as he laughed aloud.

  “No har told me it would be like that,” Ottar murmured once his breathing slowed.

  “It isn’t like that all the time,” Hroth said gently, kissing his eyelids. “But there’s something truly magical the first time your harish body is brought to life.”

  After a while Hroth got up and gave Ottar a glass of water, which he drank gratefully.

  “Will you tell me about your injury?” he asked afterward. “I hate to keep asking, especially after what we just experienced but… I really want to know.”

  “Of course,” soothed Hroth. “I understand. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve told someone new. Let’s get comfortable.”

  Hroth took Ottar’s lead, which meant that Ottar suggested that they sit in front of the fire on one of Hroth’s woven rugs.

  “I’d like it if you’d let me lay my head in your lap,” Ottar said as he sat up, pulling Hroth’s hand to splay on his chest. “Maybe it’s this aruna thing, or just you, but I don’t mind being a bit, well, needy.”

  “Now that we Wraeththu are a bit more civilized, one’s first aruna should be a ceremony of joy and rapture,” Hroth said, opening his arms. “Be as needy as you wish. Back in the very first days, it was a bit more brutal. Are you certain you want to hear my story now?”

  “Yes, unless it makes you uncomfortable.”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  They situated themselves in front of the blazing fire, Hroth able to play with Ottar’s hair, the chestnut colour taking on a coppery glow from the fire.

  “There weren’t many of us back then,” he began, “and the human population was seized by terror, certain that the world was ending. Theirs was, but not in the way they expected. We first Wraeththu were choosy, selecting those who could seek and find us out, who wanted to reach beyond their human selves. I prowled the cities, sending out a siren call to those who could hear it. But it became too much with all of the disease and despair. I left my fledgling tribe for a time to go to the countryside, now nearly abandoned, to meditate and draw energy I knew I would find out in nature. I had to get away from the decaying centres of human civilization.”

  Hroth’s fingers slid through silky hair to even softer skin, and smiled as Ottar made a contented, purring sound. Despite the violence Ottar must know was coming in his tale, Hroth knew the new har’s blood throbbed hot in his veins. Once he’d finished his story and maybe after a bit of wine, it would be time for Ottar to experience the role of ouana.

  “I went to an abandoned farm in one of the valleys, beautiful in its disrepair. I retreated far within myself, and was in such a deep state that I was able to be ambushed. It was a group of three humans, one ill and two distressingly strong. I’d been caught so unawares that they were able to restrain me. They thought if they made a sacrifice of me to one of the old gods, he would take pity on them, and make the plague go away. Probably they were hoping both for health and also for creatures like me to vanish as well.”

  Ottar had moved to lie on his side and was staring intently at him. Seeing the anguish that filled his expression, Hroth gave him a soft smile.

  “This happened a few years ago, dear Ottar. I’ll get through the story, but please don’t be troubled on my behalf. This night should be one of memorable joy, not melancholy.”

  “I won’t obsess about it, I promise,” Ottar said, placing a hand on Hroth’s knee. “Already it doesn’t startle me like it did at first. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”

  “It’s not exactly a secret I can hide!” Hroth said ruefully, shaking his head. “Here. Let me share breath with you and show you that way.”

  Ottar seemed a bit perplexed, but gamely he climbed into Hroth’s lap, straddling him and wrapping his arms around Hroth’s strong shoulders. The older har let his hand and arm smooth down to the swell above Ottar’s buttocks, hot skin warmed by its proximity to the fire. Hroth didn’t want to overwhelm him since it had been a gruesome experience.

  “If it’s too much, break the connection,” he said.

  “I will. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things myself,” Ottar noted, his fingers rubbing Hroth’s neck under his braids.

  “Of course.”

  Ottar leaned in to press their lips together. Hroth let the kiss remain just that for a time, enjoying the warm sensuality of the purely physical connection of lips and searching tongues. He guided it to a sharing of breath, bringing a smattering of images to send on the current of their breathing.

  There were his terrified tormentors who’d bound him to a table as he snarled, struggling against the ropes that burned against his chafing flesh. They’d prayed to the ancient god, offering Hroth to be like him, the dirty cleaver held high as Hroth roared in comprehension. Roc had appeared, cawing and attacking the humans, but there were too many of them.

  After that came the sickening sound and then pain exploded up his arm as though his veins carried burning acid. Hroth had gone berserk. Wild energy erupted all around him as he screamed and screamed, both aloud and in his mind. The world went redblack, a pulsing, wild agony at the wrist where his hand had been. Everything in him focused on that, miraculously knitting together gashed arteries so he didn’t bleed to death.

  Some time later he was rescued by hara from his tribe; Roc had flown to them and led them to the house, now silent except for Hroth’s sobs and groans. His maelstrom of chaotic power had stopped the hearts of his human captors.

  Back in the here and now, Hroth sensed Ottar’s distress and changed what images he sent to soothing things. Ottar drew away, gasping for air and looking at Hroth with both pity and awe.

  “I… I…” he fumbled.

  Hroth was about to reassure him once again when there was a cawing sound and flapping of wings. Ottar blinked in surprise at the raven that perched on a wooden chair, eyeing them with its beady gaze.

  “That’s my familiar,” Hroth explained. “He came to me during my own althaia. I thought it was part of my hallucinations at first, but he’s remained with me ever since, appearing from time to time.”

  “This is the one,” Roc croaked. “You shall train and guide him. He is destined to bring tremendous change.”

  Hroth bowed his head in acknowledgment, deciding to keep that information to himself until more time had passed.

  “You can—” Ottar began before chewing on his bottom lip. “Can you understand it?”

  “Yes, seal-eyes. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, the spirits chose me to be able to communicate with Roc after that day.”

  “Tend to him,” Roc cawed. “I will visit again at the solstice festival. Be careful in the mind realms you visit. I cannot follow you there.”

  The raven tilted its head, glancing at them and then to the bed before cawing again, a messageless cry. It hopped and ha
lf-flew back out of the room.

  “Let’s go back to the bed,” Hroth suggested, and Ottar eased off of his lap to stand, holding out his hands to help him up from the floor. Once standing, he pulled Hroth into an embrace.

  “I’m so glad were picked for me,” he said fiercely.

  “So am I. I’m glad you’re glad. I had more than my share of doubts. Not of my ability, but it’s wearing on me, knowing I make hara uncomfortable.”

  “Well,” said Ottar, some shame reaching his eyes, “if I’d known you were missing a hand and that you can talk to birds—”

  “Only Roc,” Hroth interrupted.

  “One bird. Still, it would have been a lot that’s so different.”

  “Speaking of different, you should have a go at being ouana,” Hroth murmured before sucking hard on Ottar’s neck to distract him.

  “What’s that? Oh.”

  With a low chuckle, Hroth led Ottar down another path of harish arunic delights.

  Later in the night, shivering violently, Hroth came to himself. He thought somehar had been calling him. He looked around, dazed, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. His skin felt like slick marble, and his jaw was clenched against the cold. Startled, he stopped walking, uncertain whether or not he was in an exceptionally vivid dream. If not, all evidence seemed to indicate that he’d walked to the sea and gone in— all while asleep.

  Hansggedir? he called via mindtouch. The evening’s events poured back to him, gushing like a geyser. Ottar?!

  Hroth! Thank the gods! Where are you? Ottar’s frantic voice sounded in his head, warming his frigid body if only for a moment.

  I’m just outside of Freygard. I’m… naked. And freezing. I seem to have gone swimming while sleepwalking.

  I’ll get a horse. I’m coming to get you.

  Yes, please!

  Hroth began to jog toward the town, grateful when he saw Ottar approach him. He was on Hansggedir’s horse, his face a mask of worry and relief. He pulled up and jumped down, enfolding Hroth in his arms.

  “You scared the shit out of me!” he said, bathing Hroth’s face with kisses before wrapping a blanket around him. “I was so worn out I didn’t hear you leave. Tell me this didn’t have anything to do with our taking aruna.”