by RJ Scott
Kian himself didn't reply at first. He was clearly searching for the right words. Kian swallowed and half rolled to face Regan. His face was so damn serious. "When I was born, my father was told my Fire bond was a Hunter, a man. Not of the world we knew but of the world here."
"I know. Me."
"You." Kian went deathly quiet, and Regan could feel the tension in his lover's body. He gentled the younger man with a firm hold and soft caressing touches with his free hand. He was getting a little fed up with Kian's half finished stories, and he wondered if maybe he should push Kian to talk more. Or should he possibly just kiss him until he relaxed and was pliable enough to keep talking. He struggled with the decision as only a lover could. Finally Kian's faint trembling made Regan prompt for more. Kian was upset, and Regan didn't know enough about Kian's Fire to chance him turning into some kind of supernova or shit if he didn't calm down.
"And Darach's destiny? What was it?" His prompt was gentle but firm.
"Re, I can't… I don't know how to explain. There isn't a pronouncement for every child born. The seers only choose a certain few whose destinies are foretold. Special families."
"Okay. And?"
"There were three of us, all born close together. Eoin first, always the eldest, the responsible one, then myself, and then Darach. We were close friends, and we grew up together. Our infant Fires were as different as they could be, but we were brothers in all but name."
"I still don't wholly get this different Fire thing."
"I have green fire, the Fire for nature, for protection, nurturing. Darach had blue, a sapphire so brilliant everyone knew when he came of age he would be special. Then there was Eoin, his Fire was a stunning gold and bronze, and it shimmered."
"You never told me before that your Fire meant something."
Kian buried his face into Regan's neck. His voice was muffled, and he rested a little before repeating what he had said a little louder this time. "I wasn't so sure you would want to hear all the explanations of magik, or even understand them."
Regan huffed a laugh, curling one hand into Kian's short mop of soft hair. "Wanna try explaining the whole thing to me in words of one syllable then?"
Kian looked directly at him and smiled, his green eyes sparking with humor. That simple gesture filled Regan with a lightness he hadn't had in a while. They exchanged a kiss, little more than a touch of reassurance, and Kian settled back into Regan's embrace.
"It's all tied up with destiny, much as my destiny is tied with yours." Regan listened carefully. He wanted to understand this and wanted to help Kian if he could. "Eoin was told his world would align with another only known as Guardian, but Eoin died so his destiny could never be fulfilled."
"I'm sorry," Regan offered immediately at the sadness he heard in Kian's voice. It seemed like the thing to say. "How did he die?"
Kian didn't answer immediately, shifting slightly and running a hand up Regan's leg to rest on his hip bone, his thumb setting a steady rhythm of movement on the skin stretched taut there. Regan's dick took notice, but he really tried hard to listen to what his lover was saying. Now was not the time to let their Fire out to play. Things were much too serious.
"It was horrific. How he died I mean. I can still see the—" He shook his head slightly, the movement of his thumb stopping briefly. "He was the eldest by a few weeks, and didn't we know it! He was always the sensible one, the mature one. He received his Fire first, but when his Fire was born, he… was consumed by it." Kian said the words matter-of-factly, but Regan's heart twisted at the mental image, not so much because of this Eoin he didn't know, but at the thought of Kian burning to death in his Fire.
"Jesus. That happens?" Regan wished he could pull the question back as soon as it left his mouth, but Kian just reacted to his shock with a sad nod.
"We were there, Darach and I. We had been three for so long, and then suddenly, we were two. To lose Eoin, one of us, one of the three, was the hardest thing I'd ever known. Darach and I had each other, and we were strong, but we mourned Eoin. He was our friend."
"I'm so sorry," Regan offered again, still wondering where exactly Kian's disjointed tale was going. So far it wasn't so much about destiny and dreams but about horrible deaths in flames. He couldn't help the shiver that chased down his spine.
"Darach was told he would fall from grace and his mated Fire would be the crimson and scarlet of a healer."
"Like me? My Fire?"
"The same."
"My Fire has something to do with healing?"
Kian nodded his agreement. "It's rare as well."
Regan couldn't have stopped his response even if he'd tired. He smirked. "Of course it's rare. I'm too special to have common green or blue."
Kian pinched the skin at Regan's hip bone in retaliation, and in revenge Regan twisted until Kian lay under him, kissing him lightly. This was the good side of them, the passion that edged into everything they did. The kisses deepened. Regan couldn't take away talk of destiny or death in Fire, but he could kiss away the nightmares for a short time. A sudden thought had him lifting his head, Kian reaching up to chase for the kiss he was clearly enjoying.
"Wait. This Darach, mating with red… Jeez, was he supposed to bond with me?" Was that what Kian was trying to tell him? God no. There was no way he was going to bond with another. Kian was his as much as he was Kian's. There would be no one else, could be no one else. Regan was confused, and Kian reached up and gripped the back of Regan's head with strong hands.
"No, Hunter." Soft laughter came with the word. "You were always all mine."
"Good," Regan offered, supporting his weight on his elbows, pressing against Kian's fingers. His own Fire answered Kian's green, fitting and starting in him, sparking behind his eyes. They meshed together so perfectly. He wanted to kiss more, but Kian kept talking.
"When I left, I had to leave Darach, and it broke my heart to see him standing there, watching me go. He tried to stop me, wanted me to wait for him. But I couldn't."
"So, why do you think you have the dreams? And what did the seer mean about a fall from grace? The way you say it… I mean, is Darach some kind of angel?" Regan thought it was a fair question, but all Kian did was snort along with his laughter and then shake his head.
"No, he is no angel. But, if I believe my waking dreams, he is attempting to do something damned stupid. He is searching for the Cariad. If or when he finds them, his fall from grace will be complete. He will be hunted like a thief and a murderer." Kian's tone changed from soft to hard and the sparks from his fingers stung, causing Regan to wince and pull away.
"What the hell is a Carry-ad?" he asked, shaking his head to dispel the spark that had sizzled painfully against his skin.
"Sorry," Kian apologized, with a rueful expression on his face. After offering a kiss, he continued. "Not a Cariad, the Cariad. They are a tribe of people who have a connection to old magik." Kian stopped and closed his eyes, appearing to recall the rest of his dreams and visions without opening them once. "I see other things—it's a jumble of random nothings that scare me. I can't help Darach, or warn him to be careful, to contact the Cariad, but to be discreet, and it terrifies me. And I feel guilty, because I left him behind to cross to this world" He opened his eyes again. Confusion flickered in their depths briefly.
"And he couldn't come with you because he didn't have his Fire yet, I get that."
"Yes, he wanted to, but the Fire protects you as you pass the veil, a normal person would die instantly, even with infant Fire in them."
"These Cariad then, if he finds them, will they hurt him?"
Kian shook his head. "No, it was the Cariad, well, one of them in particular—Ceithin Morgan—who assisted me in crossing to here. He was a good person, they are good people, just misunderstood. They practice old magik, and it goes against everything the twelve Primary Edicts of the Council. They have no home as such, and are a wandering tribe. What's the word you use?"
"Gypsies? Travelers? Nomads?"
"The same. When I was a child, my mom would tell me stories of the Cariad and what she called 'their wicked ways'. It was always whispered as bedtime stories, you never mentioned the Cariad outside of the home. When I grew, I learned there was a lot I didn't understand about the old magik. Stories are just that, and I don't believe them to be all true. But the Cariad are traditionally outcasts from what is perceived to be normal society, and for Darach to be involved with them is bad. He's a reckless idiot and he isn't as strong as I am, and it scares me."
"Why would it scare you? If you went to them for help, why can't Darach?"
"It isn't that he is in danger if he goes there. I spent time with them and the Cariad are a peaceful tribe. Others don't know that. They just accept what they are told and blame the Cariad for everything that goes wrong in my world. What people think, what the Council thinks about his actions… That is what worries me. If anyone knows he is associated with the outcasts, he is open for censure, imprisonment, maybe even death. The Cariad are a part of our society that is taboo."
"It's that serious?"
"More than. Like I said, to even speak of the Cariad outside the home is forbidden."
Regan listened to the explanation, realizing he didn't know enough about the world Kian had called home. He resolved to learn more, because he wanted to understand. "Can we somehow go to your world?"
"Not until All Hallows. Only then is the barrier thin enough for me to pass through without extra magik and power that I have no hope of accessing before then."
"For us to pass through you mean," Regan corrected quickly.
"Us. Of course—us."
"So, if we can't go over, and you're this worried for him, can we find a way to help Darach from here? Seems like we should take some downtime and see what we can find out." Unspoken were the added words I love you, Kian, and I'll help any way I can.
Kian raised his gaze, his eyes wide, his expression hopeful. The four words he spoke sent warmth coursing through Regan's body as his Fire responded to the energy within Kian.
"I love you, Hunter."
Chapter 2
Ceithin Morgan had no energy left to scream. His vocal chords were shredded and the shudders wracking his body were impossible to control. They wanted information from him. They wanted his Fire. And he would not give them either. A combination of ancient magik and his own stubborn determination meant he would go to his grave with his Fire intact. His scarlet was weakened by what they did; no Fire could stop all the energy they threw at him. But he had protected his Fire with magik as old as time, and in such a way that nothing they could do would break the Fire Bond.
They tried everything they knew, pulling at the silver-tipped crimson tangling around him in a messy scramble of light. Whispering words in their own magik, they ripped and pulled until his skin tore into Fire-laced shreds. Still his skin. Still his Fire. He knew he was bleeding; he could smell it and taste it in his mouth, coppery hot, liquid rivers, and feel it running into his eyes, half blinding him. The skin peeled away from him, and it was an agony he had to force himself to bear. He focused on the Valley, on home; the grass beneath his feet, the trees and pathways, the rainbows glittering in the waterfalls. The visions kept him centered. They couldn't touch his memories.
They had tortured him for hours, inflicting pain for the sake of knowledge and for the Fire at the center of his soul. Three men, three magiks, three Fires—ochre, gold, orange—evil and tainted with the brown of dead earth and the sickness of greed and ambition. They were the Council that governed the City and they used the power of the amber Fire to rule.
Sulien, the eldest of the three—tall, thin, and dressed in white from head to toe—he was splashed with blood, Ceithin's blood. The second, Ceithin knew as Ephraim, a rotund, fearful man who hovered nervously to one side, only every so often throwing his Fire into the attack. Finally, Madoc, who hunched over him spitting curses and Fire in a flurry of movement, with hate in his eyes. They wanted what Ceithin had. They wanted his Fire. There was no chance in the hell of Annwn that Ceithin would submit his will or pass anything of worth to anyone, much less these three.
"It's over. He'll give nothing to us while he's alive," Sulien snapped harshly.
"He is a Cariad. This is too dangerous. What if Guardian finds out?" Ephraim sounded worried, frightened even. As Ceithin sprawled, still as death in the dirt, he imagined the name Cariad sending fear into others' hearts. They were right to fear the violence of the Cariad Fire—it was his birthright, and it had kept him alive this long day.
"Sulien, the Cariad has scarlet Fire. We need his Fire. Guardian is withholding what we need, and I want the red Fire," Madoc insisted. Less concerned and scared than Ephraim, he sounded stronger, more forceful.
"If Guardian ever suspects what we are doing here—" Ephraim's hurried insertion, voicing his worry, was dismissed immediately as Sulien cut him off with firm words.
"He's so new he wouldn't see beyond what we cast." Sulien's voice had a smug edge and Ceithin tried to focus on what they were saying, needing to learn all he could if he ever had a hope of finding his brother in this Annwn forsaken place.
Madoc had clearly reached the limit of patience. "The Cariad will not give up Fire willingly, nor will his Fire choose to leave him. The bond between the two is too strong."
"I agree," Ephraim said quickly. "It's coiled in his spine, bound by old magik I have never seen."
Ceithin groaned low as a wave of intense pain shot through his chest. It wasn't inflicted by the three men who stood a careful distance from him. His Fire was burning bright and hot inside him. Although it hid, it wanted vengeance. He was losing control of it, and he concentrated, using every pore within him to push his fire down. Laying still, he willed his breathing slower.
"He is dying, even his scarlet can't help him now. We'll simply allow his body to decay and harvest the Fire when we are able." Sulien's voice dripped with distaste for Ceithin and his Fire, clearly dismissive of his death. Impatient and spiked, the sound of the words flowed into Ceithin's subconscious.
"Sulien, if we allow a Cariad to die here and Guardian discovers—" Ephraim's voice had taken on a new inflection—naked fear.
"Enough. We should not fear a newborn Guardian. Find your backbone." Sulien snapped into sudden, complete, inflexible command mode. "I am first in the Council of Three. Ward the space and leave him. We'll capture the Fire just before his body desiccates. Guardian does not venture this far into the prison; he will not know."
There were no more words spoken, just magik thrown at Ceithin. Enough to kill a normal man, it mercilessly assaulted his senses, a net of energy holding him pinned to the stone floor. He heard low laughter, then retreating footsteps. A groan tore from his chest, unbidden and deep, but he at least had some hope. If the Council were hiding him from Guardian, then surely that was a point in his favor. On their own, they were no match for Cariad, and without Guardian's amber Fire they were just three old men with limited knowledge of the Ancients' magik.
He didn't remember much about how he had become a prisoner after arriving at the gate. He'd been following instincts telling him which entry to use. He'd passed through the first warding easily and then onto the main courtyard, just another citizen visiting the Council stronghold. Then all he remembered were cat's eyes, amber gold, and a Fire taking him to his knees. Amber Fire. Like nothing he had seen before, stronger than his father's. Council Fire.
But the Fire of the three he saw today—Sulien, Ephraim, and Madoc—their Fire was dying. It had been deteriorating, the dirty brown of early decay, destroyed from the inside. So that really only left Guardian with any kind of powerful amber Fire. What did Guardian need with him? Why hand him over to the Council? The Council said Guardian didn't know he was here? The level of ruin in the Council's Fire was nothing Ceithin had ever seen before; and the fact they craved his Fire served to convince him something was wrong, horribly wrong. Terminal. He'd sensed an echo of this as he stood in the courtyard looking at t
he people who moved around with no real purpose and limited emotions. Their Fire had been dampened somehow. None of it seemed right; and as soon as he got out of this damn prison, he needed to trace the root of whatever it was that was polluting the Fire.
He waited as he allowed his own Fire to seep out of every single one of his tortured nerves and muscles. They had left him in magik bonds so flimsy a Cariad babe could have released himself. But he needed to rest, to allow his tortured body to begin to heal.
The skin began to be restored to health first. His Fire worked to heal the shell and senses, and at the same time, spread to repair his core. Images spun in front of him in viridian, scarlet, silver, and blinding white; they made him nauseous and dizzy. When his vision finally cleared, his first thought was that there wasn't anything to see anyway. Apparently, light wasn't needed by the dead. He had been left in the inky dark. His fingers scrabbled at the earth he could reach then he laid his palms flat to the ground and willed himself into a meditative state, allowing the red of his Fire to work.
Sparks skimmed over cells, encouraging connections. He could imagine them in his head. Painfully, finally, each bone snapped, slid, and clicked back into place, every muscle knitted with delicate accuracy until, with a shuddering breath, he came fully awake.
Ceithin pressed himself up on his elbows, dizziness forcing his eyes closed as his Fire retreated. He catalogued as much as he could of what had happened. Whatever they had thrown at him had been enough to drive his Fire into hiding, however much he sensed it wanted to strike out and kill, particularly at the end when they had pronounced him dead.
He questioned his sanity in this whole thing again. How he had ever thought it was a wise idea to attempt to break into the archives, he would never know. His father had warned him it was unlikely there would be any trace of Trystyn after so long. He'd said it was dangerous for Ceithin to expose himself to anyone who was non-Cariad, never mind the whole Council. Why hadn't he just listened? His brother was gone. Trystyn was dead or gone to the Otherworld. Ceithin couldn't feel his brother's Fire because he'd been murdered by the Council, and he should just begin to accept this. Familiar grief clawed inside him, an ache, a stabbing loneliness.
