Where it all Began

by J P Sayle

  Intense bicoloured eyes fixed on him, causing goosebumps to erupt all over his arms, as shivers cascaded over his body, wracking his broad shoulders when Max nodded his head.

  Waves of dizziness buzzed through Aaden as Max’s hypnotic eyes held him captive. A sudden bright light exploded behind his eyes, blinding him and leaving his ears ringing, Aaden felt a sting of a band snapping in his mind. Blinking rapidly, he shook his head, trying to clear the lingering flashing white spots, reminiscent of a camera flashing into his eyes. It was much the same as when his mother managed to drag them in front of the camera, blinding them with multiple flashes as she tried to figure out if the picture was any good.

  His gaze never wavered from Max’s while he attempted not to lose his shit. Aaden made a concerted effort to shift his head, breaking the connection. He was pleased when the ringing in his ears died, leaving only the odd stinging sensation at the back of his head. He would be tempted to believe Max had unwittingly found a way to snap an elastic band against his head when he hadn’t been looking. Aaden wondered if his tired mind was playing tricks on him. Shrugging his broad shoulders, pretending he wasn’t having a night from the twilight zone. Aaden settled back so he could go back to sleep and forget how crazy the night had been.

  Nuzzling whiskers scraped Aaden’s soft cheek, forcing him to bring his attention back to Max.

  “It’s all right. You’re not going mad. You were right. I do belong to you. Don’t worry. Just let the idea settle inside you that I can hear your thoughts and I can talk to you.”

  The deep rumbling inside his head had Aaden hightailing it out of bed, searching the room for a different source for the voice he heard. Oh mother of God, what is going on?

  As he sucked in an alarmed breath, the blood drained out of his face while his body struggled to cooperate. He wobbled on unsteady legs, hugging his trembling arms around his torso, his mind racing.

  Maybe I’m going mad? What if I have… what was it, bipolar or something? Didn’t they hear voices in their heads? Christ, I thought being gay was bad enough. How am I going to tell people about the very masculine voice in my head and explain I felt it was my cat?

  Aaden hunched in defence when a commanding tone shouted inside his head.

  “Aaden, stop this! You’re not going mad. Listen to me. It’s hard to explain without making you think you’re crazy. Just breathe and sit down.”

  Aaden found himself obeying the voice, the command reminding him of his dad when he got all bossy and demanding that Nick and he behave. Sitting down, he gripped the duvet with frozen fingers, pulling it closer to shield himself. Willing his body to stop freaking out, he inhaled, breathing in the smell of cum. He rested his head in his hands, his mortification complete when heat flooded his face. Do cats have a good sense of smell?

  He shifted uncomfortably, getting another waft of saltiness, the smell a bit like Max’s fresh-fish dinners, err gross. The twinkle he caught in Max’s eyes confirmed his suspicions.

  “Yes, Aaden. Of course, I can smell what you’ve been up to.” The loud rumbling chuckle that followed had Aaden wanting to bury his head back in his hands. This is the weirdest thing ever. Maybe I’m still dreaming, and this is all part of it?

  “No, you are not dreaming, Aaden. This is real. I know it’s a lot to take in. Come on, get into bed, and let it settle. You’ll get used to the reality, I promise. And when you’re ready to ask questions, I’ll answer them the best as I can. I’m a guardian and have been for a very long time. I’m now yours, and we have plenty of time to explore what that means for you and me.”

  The quiet confidence seemed to sway Aaden’s decision to run to his parents screaming blue murder about cats that could talk to him. He climbed back under the covers, surprised to see his brother still sleeping soundly after all his jumping around. Max shifted beside him, drawing his attention away from Nick.

  “Relax, Aaden, shut your eyes and sleep now. All is well.”

  Aaden wanted to refute that, but a wave of tiredness swept over him. Giving in, he shut his eyes, praying that he wouldn’t wake up in a loony bin with no one believing him about talking cats. He ignored the tutting in his mind. Rolling over, he cuddled his pillow into his chest. His tired mind thinking that maybe it was like having a superpower, and a pretty cool one at that, he drifted off to sleep.

  Max felt Aaden sink into sleep as children do, dropping like a stone. Aaden barely stirred as Max contemplated how to handle things. He understood a child’s mind was broader, easier at accepting the strange and different things the world had to offer.

  His original plans had been scuppered by rushing to imbue King Óláfr’s soul into Aaden’s. It had been a risk he’d taken when he’d recognised Aaden as the actual recipient of the soul he’d protected for centuries. The urge to offload his burden had been too much to resist.

  Now Aaden was paying the price. Feeling King Óláfr’s pull stronger tonight, he’d been compelled to go to Aaden to alleviate his confusion. He wasn’t entirely sure Aaden was ready for what he needed to explain.

  Worrying his whiskers, he prayed Aaden didn’t do or say anything stupid, like telling people he could talk to cats. Some of the previous owners had done just that, and none had understood his purpose when he’d tried to explain it. His chest rumbled with the hope Aaden would be different.

  Max shifted his vast bulk, getting comfortable on the narrow single bed. Resting his head down, he yearned for this to be the end of his very, very long journey. He paid no attention to the voices in his head telling him not to count his chickens, just yet. Instead, he closed his eyes, resting his head on Aaden’s chest, listening to the solid drumming heartbeat, his mind drifting back to when it all began.

  The Past

  The year was 1200; the place, the Isle of Mann.

  Maximillian shifted his massive bulk on the warm stone wall, peering down at the vast battleground below. The large Viking castle barricade had been built to protect the west coast from the possibility of attack. He could view from his vantage point the vast expanse of the Irish Sea and out towards Scotland.

  The castle sat at the edge of the coastline overlooking the fields and hills that stretched as far as the eye could see, ensuring there were very few surprise attacks from either land or sea.

  Over the centuries there had been many attacks on the Isle of Mann. The fight for ownership of this small parcel of land continued to be bloody, with loss of life a price many were willing to pay to conquer the Isle.

  The large stockade was manned at all times by hulking Norsemen to protect the boundaries, and he had come to understand training on the practice field below was an essential part of their everyday life. The clanging swords, battle axes, and spears were wielded with precision, creating music. Their manoeuvres mimicking a macabre dance blocked out the cry of the birds as they circled above as if waiting for an offering.

  Shifting, he felt the sharpness of the rock bite into the soft pads of his paws, making him twitch. His pure white body shuddered against the dark stone, he surveyed the men below with unblinking, bicoloured eyes. The lowering sun flamed as it filled the clear blue sky, causing the metal below to glint. The glint blinded, and he blinked owlishly.

  Unease washed over him, causing his hackles to rise. His mind searched through the thoughts of the large group of sweaty Norsemen for the source. Assaulted by waves of disquiet, his stomach heaved as if he was once again forced onto one of the Viking longboats in the midst of a storm.

  His eyes narrowed, pinpointing the big brute of a Norseman, Arngrim. The angst he felt grew inside him as the large Norseman used his powerful shoulders to wield the battle axe with intent to harm rather than keep with their planned daily training practice. He could hear the whistle of the axe as it cut through the air with the murderous intent, barely missing its intended target. The determination Arngrim had to harm the small red-haired man, Magnus, developed into a ball of ugliness Maximillian sensed was unravelling fast.

  Fur bristling,
Maximillian concentrated on Arngrim’s cold, metal-grey eyes, seeing them spark with malicious intent. Their depths were drenched in hate and viciousness. His large lips parted, and spittle flew from his mouth with the nasty obscenities. All the while he attacked Magnus.

  Maximillian held his breath watching Magnus stagger back under the force of the axe hitting his shield. The strain of the battle was evident as hair glued to their sweaty faces. Droplets ran down their flushed necks, soaking their kyrtills, making them cling to their heaving chests. Eyes locked together in a battle of wills. Maximillian could sense the fear in Magnus when Arngrim towered over him using his height advantage to drive Magnus towards the stockade behind him, ensuring there would be no escape from the swishing axe.

  Centring himself, Maximillian concentrated on reducing the violent thoughts pulsing through the larger Norseman while giving Magnus something to fight harder for. His body bowed under the tension, willing a different thing for both men. It took all of his effort to stay centered, only stopping when he felt the violence reduce and Magnus accept what he needed to do.

  His energy waning, Maximillian collapsed against the warm stone, struggling to lift his eyelids to make sure Arngrim had eased back, letting Magnus regroup and move away from the stockade, giving him more space to manoeuvre.

  Maximillian arched his spine, stretching to release the tension, hoping it would reduce the tightness inside him. As it eased a little, he sat rubbing his whiskers. He let his mind seek out Magnus’s thoughts. Sensing a newfound conviction to battle his way out of the dangerous situation, Maximillian couldn’t stop the broad cat grin that spread across his feline face. As it grew larger, his eyes twinkled with mischief when he caught Magnus’s silent prayer to the God Njord and Goddess Freyja that the images in his mind would come to fruition.

  The tutting in the back of his mind had him rolling his eyes. I’m the King for Njord’s sake, and if I want to assist, then I bloody well will. Anyway, I didn’t do much more than pluck some of those violent thoughts away and give some incentive to Magnus. He rolled his eyes at how pathetic he sounded. Ignoring the voices all talking at once about how naughty he was, he watched for a few minutes, ensuring his safeguards had worked to protect Magnus.

  A feeling of relief swept over him, making his fur settle when the fight stopped and Magnus was summoned to return to his duties, away from the evil intent still lingering in the air.

  Maximillian searched Arngrim’s mind, looking for the source of his angry discord. He considered the larger Norseman below; his bicoloured eyes narrowed with worry. What he had found hiding inside Arngrim had him shaking. The sense of foreboding slithered through his massive body. Feeling the need to move, Maximillian got up, prowling along the stone barricade and heading to the one place he could find solace.

  He continued to disregard the voices still wittering in his mind expressing their thoughts on his arrogance. They were always concentrating on the negative, and at the moment, he didn’t need it. He was tired after all the effort he had used to assist Magnus, and their chatter just made him weary.

  He’d not met any of his relatives because they were based all over the world. Their method of talking to each other through telepathy, was vital to maintain their connection to his kind. As a significant part of whom and what he was, he’d had to accept they were a part of him, even if they were annoying, like right now.

  Over the centuries his kind had been described in mythological texts as far back as he could tell to the ninth century. Their functional euhemerism was based on mythological accounts of true Manx Guardian familiars. Their significance was symbolised by a lack of tail which identified them as unique, different.

  Although he was too young to remember the history, he knew the stories of their origins his parents had told him and how the Manx Cat Guardians had been created. Their creator, the King of the Otherworld, Manannán, had foretold of times when the human race would come to despise those who chose a different path to love. Foretelling that those destined to be together would be forced to hide and consider a different path than the one chosen. Deciding to entrust the Manx Cat Guardians to protect those souls and their mates, ensuring humanity never forgot what life was all about—love, in its purest form. And no matter what, life had been created in love and not hate, regardless of sex, religion, colour, creed, or race.

  He considered his parents’ teachings, and the truth of Manannán’s foretelling as the human race were beginning to forget about his kind. Hate of otherness forever a battle the human race needed to fight against, whether they remembered or not. His haunches slumped at the weight of responsibly, of past mistakes. Maximillian gave an internal yowl of disgust, feeling the heaviness pushing into his soul.

  Putting a shutter in his mind against his negative thoughts, he concentrated on the stockade in front of him, but his mind would not let up. Growls rumbled out when he considered all the guardian cats that had chosen not to follow their path. The King Manannán gave each cat, once of age, the opportunity to become mortal and denounce their true nature. It had meant that over the centuries, their numbers had dwindled, making them appear mythical rather than a reality.

  He’d not been afforded this luxury. Born of royal descent, his bicoloured eyes, one green and one blue along with his snow-white fur, signified his status. As his kind lived long and undeterminable life spans, Maximillian had believed he’d have centuries of freedom before he’d have to pick up the mantle and become King. Unfortunately, his parents perished in a fire before his fortieth birthday, leaving him no options but becoming King of the Manx Cat Guardians before he’d fully come into all his powers.

  Having no choice and too young to manage in the eyes of Manannán, he had received a Manx Wiccan guide, Christina.

  Accepting his fate, Maximillian had left his home on the south side of the Island, travelling west to find his first charge guided by Christina. All his charges were male, with male soulmates, the highest gift bestowed on a Guardian. The beauty of those relationships sustained him through the long years as he moved from one charge to the next.

  He was reminded of conversations with Christina as he felt the smear of Arngrim’s thoughts still touching his soul. Arngrim sensed there was something different about Magnus, though he couldn’t explain what, but he detested him even when he didn’t understand where the hate came from. Maximillian did, and it worried him about what future role his kind would play in maintaining the universal balance of love.

  Christina had spoken of the changes she observed with the introduction of Christianity and Catholicism as it replaced Paganism. Men loving men would create struggles with new religious beliefs embedded into the fabric of the small island and the world as a whole. Christina believed his kind, cat guardians, would be even more pertinent to sustaining a force of love and commitment for those who might struggle to acknowledge or accept who they truly were and who they loved, as society judged them with hate under the guise of religious beliefs.

  Maximillian hadn’t initially taken the warnings as dangerous, but now, this evolving civilisation had him struggling, he’d admit that, though not out loud. For the first time, he couldn’t convince himself his charge would accept his soul mate.

  New religions were portraying same-sex relationships as blasphemous, making people hide their true feelings from the world and each other. The cost attached to being found out, a price no man who loved would be willing pay—death, for them or their loved one. Maximillian felt the weight of these changes as they gathered inside his soul daily. His intuition spoke of something coming, though he was uncertain as to what.

  His thoughts derailed, shuddering, his fur displaced when Óláfr’s cries reverberated through his massive body. Fear coursed through him at the screams that would soon be heard all over the settlement if Óláfr continued to rage in such a manner. It would surely alert others to his inner turmoil, and that would not be a good thing. The anger, confusion, and sadness pouring through their link was overwhelming, Maximillian sh
ook off a sense of foreboding.

  Low growls of frustration got lost under the fading sounds of sword fighting as he skulked along the cooling dark stone, purposefully avoiding the internal shouts from his master. Feeling sorry for himself, Maximillian rolled his sagging shoulders as he headed in the direction of the one place he would find solace from his charge Óláfr.

  He remembered how happy he’d been when he had met the squawking red-faced, dark headed infant. Óláfr had been born in 1177, destined to inherit the lands and title of King due to his status as the son born in wedlock. Óláfr had only been a child when his father, King Guðrøðr, had died. Too young to claim his rightful position, it brought much discord to the people of the island, allowing his much older brother Rögnvaldr, not born in wedlock, to take control.

  Óláfr, now twenty-three years old, fought for what he felt rightfully belonged to him. Maximillian having lived among men a very long time, understood Óláfr’s needed to claim his birthright and be King of Mann. What he struggled to understand was that it appeared to be to the detriment of connecting with his soul mate, Magnus.

  The urge to huff at the circumstances had him hurrying to escape his own moodiness. Silently, he slinked down the walls, jumping effortlessly, his padded feet making no sound as he landed on the hard dirt floor. Maximillian prowled through the dim, cold corridors, his fur protecting him from the constant chill. The thick castle walls prevented any warmth from seeping past the exterior, leaving the castle inside at the same stony-cold temperature regardless of the season.

  Following the light infiltrating through the castle wall slits, he travelled undetected down the dim passages and through the stockades. He threaded carefully through small gaps because his whiskers were never a good indicator as his arse seemed more prominent than their breadth.

  Attempting to squeeze through the last stockade, Maximillian hissed and spat, his gums peeled back, revealing his sharp white teeth. He was embarrassed at having to wiggle from side to side. His fur brushed against the roughened wood, splinters catching in his coat. Seething, he finally managed to drag his arse through the tiny gap; grateful no one had seen his lack of dignity. He shook his body vigorously, dislodging the remnants of the wood stuck in his fur.