"My father..." Nethel began.
"Just borrowed you!" Ylv interrupted. "I..." he whispered hotly. "Have waited for you to come back."
"You did come for me then?"
"I did."
The silence fell as a gentle caress, as natural as breathing.
"You are calling to my soul, to my all... Yet I do not know who you are," Nethel whispered.
"I am yours." Ylv replied.
"The call of the blood is like a curse, is it not? Am I yours?" Nethel asked.
"You are mine!"
"What are we then?" Nethel crept closer, winding his limbs with Ylv's.
"Do you not know?" Ylv's voice was gentle, and green gaze serious and serene. Nethel thought he had seen it somewhere, on someone else, yet not. He told Ylv that.
"You have," Ylv said. "Sleep now, until night arrives. We can travel better in darkness."
Somehow Nethel knew that Ylv was right, and so he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep. Never having felt more safe, and more alive, than with this magnificent killer. This murderous man.
When Nethel woke up he was alone in the bundle of wool. It was night; he could see fire, and the horse moved restlessly between the trees. The wind was gone, and so was the snowdrift. Ylv was sitting nearby, kindling a small fire. He was wearing Nethel's white shirt. It was too tight for him, and unlaced, clinging to his form like an awkward second skin. It did not matter. He did not have use for it much longer.
Nethel rose and stood tall and naked in the night, under the starlit, black sky. The moon hung full and yellow like butter on the velvet drape and Nethel pulled his trousers back over his hips and secured his belt. He padded across the snow-covered ground towards the fire.
"Doesn't it scare you anymore?" He nodded towards the flames.
"No..." Ylv smiled. "I have grown used to it."
Nethel sat down beside him, took his hand.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked quietly.
"Don't you?" Ylv draped his arm across Nethel's shoulders and pulled him close.
"I do." Nethel smiled to himself, feeling a quiet anticipation rise inside. A buried joy and longing.
Ylv read him so easily, always had. His gaze became soft while he watched Nethel's expression change, then he lifted his own hand to his lips and bit into the wrist with sharp teeth.
"Curses are made to be broken," Nethel said quietly and sprinkled some snow in the fire; it hissed and fought the water angrily. Nethel watched the blood, the flow that trickled down his lover's dark skin. Liquid garnets. Gems of life. The he leaned forth and caught the red drops, seven in all, on his tongue.
The horse neighed and moved restlessly. He spun around, then made the decision to trot off, away from the clearing. Nethel did not notice.
He was heaving for breath now and his eyes were rolling back in his head. His chest rose and fell heavily as his body convulsed on the snow-covered ground. Ylv rose and stepped away from him, extinguishing the fire with his feet. Calmly he watched while Nethel's trousers ripped when his shape slowly shifted, until he lay there as a newborn pup, covered in clear water, on the snow.
It took hours, but finally Nethel moved. He struggled to his feet, and licked what remained of the fluids of birth from his fur. He licked his paws too, and the member between his legs. Then his keen eyes scanned the darkness until he found what he was looking for. The one who made the air smell so rich and safe and familiar. The large wolf with the ragged fur was sitting under the pine, waiting for him.
The black wolf approached him with a wagging tail. They met and greeted, yapping like puppies, licking each other's ears and snouts. Then they wandered off between the snow-covered trees. The big wolf first, the smaller one after. Fur like ebony, teeth flashing white, and eyes the color of garnets.
The End
A Promise of Garnets in Winter Page 4
