by J B Black
Once, his cousins had teased him about his inability to discern the meaning of birds which squawked in the high branches. Whether purebred dryads or otherwise mixed, they had all inherited their dryad parent’s ability to speak with wildlife, and his relatively mediocre talents with plants in the face of his father’s species and his mother’s gifts only worsened the less than clever jeering. Time and determination acquired him gifts where his birth and fate denied him.
The gold of his hair faded with long days spent beneath the sun. Bleached to be pale and coarse as straw, the once soft golden hue aged him where the lack of lines on his face hid his years. His skin tanned well. Small freckles spotted his nose and cheeks, and the rough stubble of his jaw never came into a proper beard, but it accentuated the lines of his jaw. Many women and more than a few men found him handsome enough to proposition, and though he had intended to wait when he was young, times came now and again where he questioned if his fated love even wanted him. Experience suggested his fated mate held experience, and the years separating them excused his prior pursuits, but even considering kissing another irked Castor. His mate had undoubtedly been cursed long before he had been born, so the other man’s romantic - or at the very least sensual - encounters could not be held against him. He likely never realized he had a mate.
“You don’t need to wait for me,” his mate had told him. “You’re young. You should have fun with those your own age.”
Castor had only huffed, stating, “You are my mate.”
He resisted for a long time. No matter how many times his mate repeated the sentiment in a thousand different ways, Castor recalled his mother’s fond recollection of how she saved herself for her husband and he for her. Ronan didn’t. His mate thread stretched unclear - worse than Castor’s and not as determinedly hidden as Fannar’s, so Ronan pursued love with the desperation of a man obsessed.
The first time doubt clouded his mind, Castor bunkered down in a tavern. He drank until the hole inside his chest felt smaller and woke in a man’s bed with little recollection of what had happened. Terrified, the warlock left the man asleep there. He intended to never repeat that effort, but time continued on, and his work left him in a bar across the continent from where he had grieved his fate the first time around. Again, he drank, but he kept himself from getting completely drunk. Still, he made out with a woman with pitch black hair, curling his fingers in her fine locks, but it wasn’t the same. No braids or metal bindings to decorate her mane.
“Can I braid your hair?” Castor had asked the woman, and when she asked him why, he told her, “He braids his hair, and I like the way his metal bindings feel against my rings.”
She had slapped him, but a larger man with an impressive beard and braids offered himself as an alternative. The hair was too coarse to match, but the metal clinked in that delightful way. Of course, the beard put him off. His fated mate never had one. The muscular build of the bearded man was equal in broadness of his shoulders and the musculature of his thighs; however, his torso seemed like a barrel where Castor’s mate tapered to a surprisingly narrow waist. All over his mate was leaner. His muscles served as tight cording upon his tall frame - taller than even the man before him. A bit disappointing, but both drunk, the bearded man seemed fine with allowing the warlock to experiment, so when the bearded man confessed he never considered submitting to another man but found himself unable to resist the pleasure, Castor puffed up his chest.
When on the road again, the warlock dreamt of his fated mate. They spoke quietly, and when he could no longer resist, he kissed and rocked against the other, mouthing at his fated mate’s neck. “I’ve been told I’m good with my mouth. Good enough to make a man melt.”
His mate hummed softly. No sign of envy or jealousy. Castor wished it stemmed from trust, but he feared apathy. When he pushed, the other man reclined, and pulling open the ties of his fated mate’s robe, the warlock claimed victory in finally being allowed access to his fated love’s most private place, but as his hand wrapped around the other’s soft length, he woke without even the knowledge of its full form.
His life cycled: roads and curses, dreams and drinks. Each time he heard of another cursed prince or king or lord, he imagined it could be his mate. Every frog he transformed back led to disappointment. Swans swooned for others, and Fannar even beat him to a cursed group of dancing princes. Cycling back toward depression, the blond warlock studied the statue before him.
“Your hair’s too short,” Castor complained.
The statue - of course - didn’t answer. A circlet crowned straight hair which fell about a traditionally handsome face. Stone gave no color, and often, Castor found, those trapped in curses projected themselves as they aspired to be rather than their actuality, so some chance remained that the dream form wasn’t his true face. Still, maybe it was simply the depression talking, but he doubted the cursed prince was his fated mate.
At his side, the king frowned. “What ever do you mean?”
Castor waved a hand dismissively at the gray-haired monarch. “Nothing. You said some sorceress did this?”
“A priestess of the old religion,” the king offered as if that meant anything at all.
“Any blood relation?”
“Does that matter?” the old man growled.
Rolling his eyes, Castor met the glare. “I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t.”
“His half-sister,” the king sneered.
Undoubtedly the child of an affair by the way the king acted. Too exhausted to care, Castor took the king’s hand, and as the man pulled back, he prick his finger, drawing the royal’s blood. With the ease of years of practice, he mixed the small vials of potions together, chanting as he marked the stone before tossing it over.
Gray melted into color. Hair as golden as his own had once been. Crystal blue eyes blinked in a tan face. Taller than Castor and undoubtedly somewhat younger or simply lucky in his youthful countenance, the prince stumbled forward.
“Thank you,” the prince murmured in a low, hoarse voice.
“You’re welcome. The warlock Castor, at your service,” the blond said with a small bow. Every instinct said this wasn’t his mate, but it wouldn't hurt to be polite.
Clearing his throat, the prince looked around the room. “Where’s Myrddin? Where’s my mate?”
“You’re human, Artair!” the king spat. “Humans don’t have mates!”
Eyes narrowing, Castor glanced between the two. “Mate?”
“My fated mate, Myrddin. Perhaps you know him. He is a wizard,” the prince brightly informed the warlock, ignoring the way his father fumed. “He was at my side when I was cursed.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, the king tilted his head up, glowering down his nose. “Like the rest of the magic users sworn to me, that wretch is on the front line. If there is any grace in the world, he has already di -”
Before he could complete his scornful sentiment, Artair punched his father in the face, breaking his nose. “Never,” he hissed, looming over the king’s fallen and bleeding form. “Never speak of Myrddin with that spiteful tongue, you arrogant old fool.”
“You are human! You have no mate!” the king asserted, but the warlock watched in rapt interest as Artair gave his father no quarter.
The prince seemed to radiate power as his voice dropped low. “Your mother was a druid. Her fated mate was your father, and your mate - my mother - was a nymph, but you betrayed her! You knew she would die, but you wanted another child so badly you spread your seed, and what did it get you? A dead wife. A curse upon your seed, and a daughter who threatens to tear down your kingdom.”
“Then you see what a fool I was marrying for love! They call it fate, but it is nothing more than whimsy,” the king bellowed.
Artair scoffed. “If you truly loved her, you wouldn’t have betrayed her. I will take no other but Myrddin. If I must forsake my throne…” without hesitation, the prince tore the circlet from his head and dropped it at his father’s feet. “Wi
thout Myrddin, the world and all the wealth within it - all the life within it has no meaning to me.”
Turning on his heels, the prince marched out, and only as he stood alone with the king did Castor realize the sound of clapping came from his own hands.
Laughing, the warlock picked up the circlet. “I’ll take this as payment.”
“You wretched warlock! My son would never -”
Whatever the king intended to spit at him, Castor did not care to hear. He strode from the room, determined to find the next curse. If a prince could so vehemently profess his love for his fated mate when war tore through his country and his father’s betrayal sent his mother to an early grave, Castor could hold out hope a bit longer.
A thought curled about his head. While he had no hint of the next curse which might lead him to his fated mate, the blond warlock could ensure at least one pair of mates had a happy ending. Rushing ahead, he tracked down the prince in the stable. He had his sword at his side, and his servants bustled about him despite his protests.
“I’m no longer your prince. I’ve given up the right -” Artair informed them, but they waved away his words, forcing him to take food and supplies.
An older woman took his face in her hands. “I nursed you as a boy, and I watched you become such a wonderful man. You will always be our prince.”
“Our king,” a young maid added.
Swallowing, Artair bowed his head. “I’m unworthy of such affection.”
But the stableboy smiled up at him brightly. “You’re going to bring Sir Myrddin back, aren’t you?” When the prince nodded, determination lighting his eyes, the boy beamed. “He’ll be so happy to know you’re back!”
“Your father had to inflict the full power of the oath to get him to leave your side,” the maid informed the prince, and horror paled Artair’s face.
“What does that mean?” Castor asked, coming up close to them. “The full power of the oath?”
The servants shifted as if to guard the prince from him, but he moved before them with the same fierceness. “Magic isn’t common within our kingdom. Those born with the gift must sign a pledge to the king...to my father, and it gives him a cruel amount of control to punish and force them to his will.”
Disgust curled around Castor’s heart. “I should have killed that bastard.”
“It would only kill all those within his service,” Artair informed the warlock. “Or I would have separated his head from his neck myself.”
Running a hand through his pale blond hair, the warlock murmured, “If only you had the contracts. Face to face, I could sever almost any contract if I had the original in hand.”
Artair shook his head. “I don’t even know where he keeps them.”
“In his desk,” the maid whispered, and all eyes leapt to her. She lifted her apron, revealing a pocket on the underside. “I - I thought Sir Warlock might be able to free my brother.”
Pulling out a pile of parchments, she held it out to Castor. Page after page tethered one individual to the blood of the king. Each one represented a child stolen from their society and bound in service. Every word fuels the flame within. Though he never intended to find anything beyond his fated mate on his journey, the skills he earned made him the best to free these unfortunate souls from their enslavement.
“I can do this,” Castor affirmed. Meeting the young woman’s hopeful gaze and then the prince’s, the warlock reaffirmed, “I can free them.”
The sound of metal against stone alerted them to the guards before they arrived. Mounting his steed, the prince held out his hand. “We have to hurry.”
Castor shoved the contracts into his enchanted bag. Taking Artair’s outstretched hand, the warlock swung onto the back of the horse, holding tight as they sped off, just missing the guards as the servants who came to the prince’s aid scattered.
“Hold tight, warlock, we have a long ride ahead of us,” Prince Artair warned.
Not for the first time, Castor slid into a place between waking and dreaming. His body held fast, and as the prince guided the horse through the gates, escaping as guards bellowed but only half-heartedly came after them. Magic leaping to his fingers, he threw a shield around them while his mind reached out along the red thread of his connection to his mate.
“Praise me,” the warlock pleaded as his mind’s self entwined his fingers with his mate who shimmered on the edge of his awareness. “I’m risking my head for justice. Aren’t I admirable? Aren’t I a mate you’d be proud to call your own?”
Quicksilver eyes shimmered with an emotion Castor had never seen. It wasn’t pride, but after so long seeing such muted expressions, the warlock yearned to absorb every aspect of his mate’s sudden sentiment. Desperately, he wrapped his arms around the other’s waist, but his body and mind clashed, bouncing between the prince’s form and his mate’s. Artair leaned forward, urging the stallion they rode faster and faster. In his mind, his mate stood still. The thread binding them twisted around them both, threatening to tether them together or to slice through them as a garrote.
“Focus,” his mate commanded. “You are heading to a battlefield.”
Chuckling, Castor pressed his forehead against his mate’s in his mind as he bowed his physical head forward. “Are you worried for me?”
His mate released a long sigh. “All the dangers you avoid on the road, you cannot hide from in battle. With any luck, you’ll find them after the battle has finished.”
Arrows rained down around them, but Castor’s shield held. Faster and faster, they rode. Feeling closer to his mate than he had ever felt before, the blond warlock held tight.
Chapter Three
While Castor rode with the once cursed prince, his mate Athanasius paced, filled with dread. The curse which prevented the warlock from tracing him via their red thread forced Athanasius to constant vigilance. Wherever the warlock wandered, his mate knew. All Athanasius’s powers as the son of the god of death meant nothing when bound by his stepfather’s curse, and his fated love - beautiful and brave and hoping for more than Athanasius knew how to give - would suffer for it.
“He’s too close,” the demigod grumbled, biting his nail as he glared about the ruins of the castle where his stepfather had trapped him.
Ravens watched from overhead. His father’s spies offered no assistance. They had no point at all. It wasn’t as if his godly father gave a damn about him. The God of Death had long ago abandoned his half-human son to birth his own for that flamboyant god of spring. Even if none of his half-siblings wanted to take over for the god of death, they were full gods in their own right and able to select their patronage. The very purpose for which the god of death slept with Athanasius’s mother - the very reason for his birth was to allow the god to retire, and yet no matter how many of his half-siblings rejected, neither his godly father or his stepfather intended to allow Athanasius to fulfill his birthright. Because perhaps the next child might want the role instead.
Growling, Athanasius slammed his fist into stone, watching it disintegrate without any pleasure at all. He had never wanted a mate. Gods of forests and lakes and mountains gained their string when they accepted territory, but there was only one god of death, and unless his godly father - or another deity - selected to give him some territory or something to patron god of, Athanasius remained a demigod. Mostly immortal and without a mate of his own - until the damn curse. Now he was tethered to someone who he could never give a happy life to with dreams of a man far better than him. A man without blood soaking his hands. All the battles won and territories conquered lost themselves to time and his human half-brother’s death. An entire continent brought to heel save one damned citystate which called upon a god of spring to save them.
And the blood bastard answered.
“Of course, I answered,” the damn god himself intoned from where he sat upon a mostly ruined wall. Flowers sprouted around him. Bright colors crowned his head. “You know, if you told him your name, this could all be over already.”
<
br /> Athanasius sneered up at his stepfather. “As if you care, or has my father continued to refuse your touch while this curse remains?”
Vasant flushed with anger. His naturally jovial expression contorting into such an ugly vengeful glower that it almost appeased the rage within the demigod’s heart. For as little as the god of death involved himself in his half-mortal son’s life after being mated by this particular god of spring, a lower deity than the one and only god of death by all accounts, the long centuries of the curse eased when he learned from one of his half-siblings that they had had no more births in the family as his godly father refused his stepfather until the curse was broken. That damn citystate might have called upon Vasant to stop the conquest, but all knew death to be the kinder method.
Athanasius never ached for love. Born to be a prisoner to the underworld and to the care of the dead, he saw no point in loving someone who he could not keep. But he had not been bitter. Honored to be the heir to the god of death, he took his duties seriously, and when he had been forsaken because of his stepfather’s assertion that a legitimate heir between mates deserved the title first, he dedicated himself to expanding his human half-brother’s kingdom. Demigods had no mates. Humans had none, and gods never gained theirs without title. Unable to claim territory or title, he could not force the connection, and if he gave up his godhood, he would be mortal without such certainty in love. After a lifetime without searching for love, Athanasius was more comfortable with the duty-driven life he had planned to live than one of heartbreak. Just because his stepfather guised his curse in a title earned by its end and an awakening of fated love did not mean Athanasius had changed who he was. Love belonged to gentler folk. Sweet Castor deserved better.
