by J. C. Owens
Brenaith felt a chill run over him, but he shook it off.
“Are you sure that is truth?”
Shaynith-una blinked, confusion registering on his face. “Of course it is truth. My father said so.”
Brenaith found himself reaching out, and gently clasping a bandaged hand. “Even gods do not always tell the truth.”
“He told me that the elves would kill me if they could, that they would torture me to punish him. That their gods hate us, would destroy all demonkind. Would destroy Lutan. Is that not what is happening? He is everything. He is truth.”
Brenaith could not help feeling compassion. Outside the matter, he could see the god for what he truly was. But for Shaynith-una, who had been raised within the god’s grasp, raised to do his bidding and even—in some fashion the knight would never understand—to love him, it was mind control at its finest.
“You are more than simply his creation. You are a being in your own right. It may not feel like it at this moment, but you are strong, even without him. You just have to believe in yourself, in your ability to be more than your father has said.”
Shaynith-una sucked in a shuddering breath, eyes fixed upon his, as though he tried to draw strength from his nearness.
“How do you bear it? This isolation?” At Brenaith’s look of incomprehension, he clarified. “To be so distant from all around you, to be unable to sense everyone, everything. There is no one else in your mind. I have always, since birth, heard my father, my brothers, the other demons in the fortress. The only being I have never heard speak in my mind is my bearer. All others are open to me, and I hear them constantly. It is soothing. I am never alone, never out of contact. But you… You are utterly alone. You cannot hear others, cannot see their thoughts or communicate with them from any distance.” He shivered. “It is stark and empty, so painfully alone.”
Brenaith shrugged, gently patted the damaged hand, and laid it down in his master’s lap. Then he sat back beside him. “I was born this way, have lived all my life this way. To have it different would be disturbing. To have others in our mind would be—is—terrifying to us, the way this is terrifying to you. But I survive all the same, as will you.”
Shaynith-una lay back on the bed, eyes dark-ringed with exhaustion.
“The elves will kill me. I will not have time to find out if I can survive.”
* * *
Food was brought later, and slid through a small hole in the wall before the metal door slid shut again. Food enough for both of them. Brenaith had been half worried that they would be starved as part of the coming torture.
There was plenty for both, but Brenaith had to force his master to eat. “You can feed from me tonight, as well. You need it. You cannot simply hand them your sacrifice. You have to be strong, body and mind, for what is to come.”
He could not help but wonder at his own actions. Was he protecting himself, because Shaynith-una’s fate would be his own, or was there something more to this? His compassion seemed to be at full force for a creature that symbolized everything that had destroyed his world.
But at this moment, all he could see was Shaynith-una and his pain. That seemed far more immediate, more real, than anything else. He remembered what it was like when he had been torn away from his life, from his family, into a world he had no way of understanding. Perhaps that was why he could not stand by and do nothing, even if, in the scheme of things, this shadow knight was his enemy. An enemy who had been kinder, if that word truly applied, to him, than anyone else since the day of his capture.
Was Shaynith-una even capable of kindness? Or was Brenaith, in desperation, trying to see something in his actions that was not there at all?
Was there something beyond the cold implacability, or was Brenaith creating the fantasy for his own peace of mind?
Still, Shaynith-una had held back from harming him, had believed Brenaith’s words, even in his state of panic. Surely that had to mean something, show that there was so much more beneath the surface of the demon-elven cross.
The knight ate sparingly, but then sat staring into space. Brenaith was quite sure he was searching for his father, and some time later, when the knight slumped back, a look of defeat upon his face, he was proven right.
“I cannot get past this block. How are they doing this? He is a god, he can find me anywhere.”
Brenaith swallowed his mouthful. “Do they not have gods of their own? Is a god versus a god not an even match? If he is capable of great deeds, so too must be the elven gods.”
Shaynith-una’s body seemed to relax somewhat, as though the words made an impact, as though they held a degree of comfort. “That is true. He will battle them, and he will win. We will not be here long.”
Brenaith opened his mouth to dispute the matter, then shook his head and fell silent. If believing that was a comfort to the knight, who was he to destroy his hope? Brenaith had felt Lutan, he shivered at the remembrance. It was hard to imagine the elven gods being as powerful as that, but then, what did he understand of gods? His own god was nowhere when their country had fallen to the demons. No divine intervention had saved them.
Perhaps that indicated that the demon god was stronger, or perhaps some string of fate had been part of it, and Lutan was less than he appeared.
He shook himself free of the musings. The doings of gods were not for a small human to ponder on. He had enough to deal with here.
For now, he had to keep himself, and his master, alive and hope there might be some future beyond this.
“You humans are so full of hope.” Shaynith-una shook his head at Brenaith’s look. “No, I am not reading your mind. Your thoughts are written all over your face. I believe that is what makes your people so incredibly resilient. Hope. You believe that something better is sure to come. Dars was like that.”
Brenaith made an enquiring noise.
“My former bloodservant. He was entirely hopeful for so long. I could not believe that any creature could be so strong, so full of clean, pure energy. He held out against the dark energy of my home for so very long. It was only when he realized…” The knight paused, as though even now he tried to understand. “It was only when he finally understood that I could not give him this—love—he spoke of, that he chose to go.” Dark red eyes rose to meet Brenaith’s. “I think I would have given it to him, if I had understood what it was he wanted. He was good to me, interesting, strong. I enjoyed his company. But in the end, he lost that hope that made him who he was. I destroyed him. And I don’t even understand how, or why.” He got up and began to pace the room. “You are very like him, full of hope, full of life.” He stopped abruptly and faced Brenaith from some distance away.
“You must never love me. It would kill you. I don’t understand how it killed Dars, but it did. So you must not do the same.” The tone was firm, decided.
Brenaith felt a surge of pity so strong that he had to clench his fingernails into his palms so as to not get up and go to his master. The demigod was so child-like in his understanding of relationships and what they were. So crippled.
Lutan had made a mistake when he chose an elf as his brood mare. Somewhere, in the depths of Shaynith-una’s mind, there lay something far greater than a demon could conceive of.
That he was capable of atrocities was truth. That there was something more within him that did not see the need for it on a daily basis was also true. Whatever his mother might be, she had given him something strong. Half demon he might be, half the merciless shadow knight, but what was the other half and how did it affect him? If he was a half demon demigod, then that also meant he was a half elven demigod. Light against darkness, good against evil.
Brenaith could only pity a being caught in the middle of such a birthright.
* * *
Brenaith finally coaxed his master to bed, and he was sure Shaynith-una only complied because he was close to collapse. But once they were within the warm confines of the covers, he turned to Brenaith almost desperately and kissed him
deeply.
This was not the normal prelude to feeding. Pleasant, but strange indeed. He lay pliant, accepting, even feeling a pull to return the gesture on his own.
His master paused and eyed him for a moment when Brenaith kissed him back, then continued with more fervor.
Brenaith found his fingers sliding into long, soft hair, stroking through the heavy mass with tactile pleasure. Having seen the elven woman, his master’s mother, he now realized that the hair was almost entirely inherited from the elven side of his parentage. The feel of it made him hum, and he stroked the lengths with slow appreciation. As if in return, Shaynith-una plunged his fingers into Brenaith’s hair, rubbing over his scalp with blissful pressure.
Brenaith arched up into the touch. For once, he felt no fear, no feeling of this being against his will. The how or the why made no sense, but he went with the moment. For once, he wanted this, and matched his master’s touch with his own.
“You always taste so good,” the knight whispered. “Like sunlight and mountain air.” His long tongue curled around a nipple, and Brenaith gasped, shivering in reaction, his hands sliding upward, wrapping around his master’s neck, holding him there.
He waited for the bite, half tensing, half anticipating, but it did not come. There was only sweet suction as his master drew the hardened nub within his mouth.
He writhed under the assault. In all his encounters as a young man with girls and then with demons, he had never thought his chest could be so wildly sensitive, so tender that every lick, every suckle seemed to pulse clear through to his shaft.
This was so different than all the other times the knight had taken him, and he could not understand why. Was it because here he felt more equal, less a slave? At this moment, it felt like he could do this of his own volition. At this time, he felt the stronger of himself and his master, and it seemed to release something within him.
There was no fear, no pain, no humiliation. He blamed the blue light, as though it had changed some fundamental part of him. But not just him. Shaynith-una’s touch was different too, as though he were speaking with his hands, his tongue, showing something he could never verbalize with words, never even form into a thought.
Whatever it was, it seemed to bring Brenaith into a state of higher being, as though each touch, each kiss, drove away the past and cleansed him.
It made no sense.
Shaynith-una was no different than he had ever been, was he?
Bandaged hands stroked down over his ribs, so gently, almost tickling they were so light. It made his skin bloom with goose bumps, and he shivered abruptly, fingers clenching on the hard muscle of the knight’s back.
His master nipped at his neck, humming against the skin as he enjoyed the taste.
“As long as I live, know that your lifespan will be lengthened. If they take you from me, break the bond, you will live perhaps twice a normal span. If, by some chance, we stay together, you will stay at my side, forever. But if the bond remains and I am killed, then you will die.”
Brenaith froze, then pushed the knight back so he could read his expression.
“That is not possible.”
Slim eyebrows rose, a smile tilting one corner of those generous lips. “You did not think I was possible only a short while ago, little human. It is true.”
Brenaith blinked, wanting to panic, but unable to believe enough to do so. Immortality could not be…
Shaynith-una slid down his body, and swallowed his shaft.
Brenaith flung his head back and cried out, as that long tongue wrapped around his girth and then flickered into the slit.
Immortality and its possible repercussions flew from his mind.
* * *
On the fourth day of their captivity, a bath was brought for them, and after his master ordered him in first, Brenaith gleefully made use of it. He sighed with pleasure at being clean. When Shaynith-una took his own turn, Brenaith wanted to offer to wash him, to touch that silken body, but he glanced at his master’s cold, withdrawn expression and changed his mind.
He washed and combed his hair, and the urge to touch his master grew too powerful.
“Would you let me comb your hair? It is very tangled and will only get worse if it is not tended to soon.”
Shaynith-una turned his head listlessly from the tub, then got up with a sigh, completely unaware of his own beauty. Brenaith could not help but watch. His master’s body was pure art, almost too perfect to possibly be real. The knight toweled himself dry, eyeing Brenaith for a moment, before he nodded and came to sit in front of him, folding his long legs beneath him and leaning back against Brenaith’s legs to stare quietly into the fire.
Brenaith paused at this display of trust, the knight committing to such a vulnerable position. Trust, from Shaynith-una. It had seemed impossible that such a thing could ever develop between them, but here it was, undeniable.
He would take what he could get. Since their last bout of sexual congress, his master had been different. Forced to have no one other than Brenaith for company, it seemed he was opening to his human servant in a way that most likely would have taken years otherwise, if it had happened at all.
In some strange fashion he could not understand, Brenaith felt something for this being, this creature of legend that had seemed the worst of all fates.
Was this truth? Or was this something created between them borne out of desperation on Shaynith-una’s side, and a longing for a gentle touch on Brenaith’s?
It seemed a terribly unstable foundation on which to form any sort of relationship, but foolishly, Brenaith found himself leaning toward it instead of backing away as his experiences should have taught him.
His master gave a small, low sigh as Brenaith gathered up a long tress and began to work gently upon it, starting from the bottom and working his way up with patient, gentle fingers and comb.
The fire crackled and the knight let his head loll against Brenaith’s thigh as he guided him this way and that during his ministrations. It was sheer pleasure to run his hands freely through the silky mass, to take his time and tease the tangles out, bringing back its beautiful sheen. It was very intimate, very beguiling, something that lovers would do.
He had never even done this for Tynan.
He took his time, enjoying the peace of it all, the sense of freedom at the lack of dark energy. Though they might be imprisoned, this place held none of the horrors and malice of Lutan’s fortress.
Brenaith frowned. If this was energizing him, what was it doing to Shaynith-una? Would the lack of Lutan’s energy, his essence, eventually kill his son?
His touch softened, worry rising. Were things improving for him, only to become deadly to his master, and so signal the end for Brenaith also?
He wondered what purpose the elves had with them. Torture did not seem to be part of their imprisonment, as least not at the moment. The food was plentiful, water and wine freely given, and fresh bandages were provided every day for both their wounds, with a sweet smelling ointment that Brenaith applied liberally to his master’s hands.
Shaynith-una allowed his ministrations with a calm placidity that did not seem to be anything he had possessed before. Was there something in the food? The water or wine?
If there was, it did not seem to affect Brenaith at all, but his master was becoming docile as a lamb. There must be a cause.
He carefully braided the thick hair back, lingering over the task, finally tying off the end and letting it fall over his master’s shoulder and pooling in his naked lap.
Shaynith-una did not move from his spot, leaving his head resting against Brenaith’s thigh, with no indication of self-consciousness.
The sound of the door was loud in the peace, and immediately Brenaith felt tension spring to life in the knight, his head snapping round, eyes blazing, to stare at the intruder.
It was his mother.
She stood just beyond the barrier, a wave of her hand moving it forward so that she could advance safely into the roo
m.
Her son froze, half crouched in place like a wild animal about to spring. He growled, a hair-raising rumble that rose in his chest and made Brenaith shiver.
At this moment, he seemed more beast than rational being.
She stood in silence, viewing him with calm dispassion, although Brenaith thought he saw the merest shadow of concern in her eyes. Her gaze traveled over his bruised form, his bandaged hands. For whatever reason, he was not healing as he should. The shadow knights were renowned for their ability to self heal; it was part of their mystique. His master had never been injured in his presence, so Brenaith was not sure of the truth of the rumors, but he was definitely not healing even as fast as a human.
Another elf appeared at her side, bowing low and bringing a chair for her. She nodded regally and sat, gesturing to the elf to leave them. He hesitated, shooting a scandalized glance at Shaynith-una before conceding. The door shut quietly behind him and they were alone.
The barrier hummed at her presence, stronger and more solid than it had been before.
Her son snarled, soft and low. Brenaith realized with a start that he had not seen his master’s fangs since their arrival. He had wondered that their sex had included no feeding, had imagined that his master would indicate when he needed the blood. But now, watching, he was beginning to wonder if something was terribly wrong, that perhaps Shaynith-una could not feed.
Was this the cause of his listlessness?
He glanced at the elf, wishing to know, wondering if it was his place to question. In no way did he wish to come between them. Their silent stares were almost physical in nature.
When the silence had stretched too long and Brenaith could no longer take the strain of it, he finally spoke, watching his master’s reactions with a cautious eye.
“My master is not doing well here, my lady. Could you tell us why? And why have you taken us?”
