by J P Sayle
His ire grew at the chuckles and nasty whispers about the size of his arse floating through his mind. Rumbles reverberated out of his heaving chest as he gave a quick chant. He rolled his massive shoulders, arse swaying, and he stalked away from the stockade wall, not looking back at the offending stockade or acknowledging the sniggers he hadn’t been able to silence with a blocking spell.
Padding on the soft, sun-warmed grass, Maximillian avoided the rocky cliff. Skirting the shielding wall, he moved stealthily under the fading sunlight. He knew he would likely be spotted as his gleaming white fur stood out proudly against the thick green grass and dark rocks, making him appear brighter than a star bursting out of the sky as it darkened. Maximillian travelled swiftly from the castle, barely noticing the light salty breeze from the sea stirring the air or the birds quietening around him as they sensed a predator.
The coolness of the air indicated the changing seasons and that the winter solstice was drawing closer. His hope that Óláfr would have claimed Magnus by then was diminishing. His ability to read Óláfr’s thoughts was irrelevant when his actions spoke louder than any thought or word.
Óláfr’s uncertainty about Magnus had him heading off to sea, conquering lands and putting him at risk often. It appeared he was avoiding his soul mate at all costs which only added to the unease growing in the pit of Maximillian’s stomach. He contemplated the possibility that Óláfr might not return from one of those trips before he could fulfil his destiny.
Magnus’s status had not helped either, a lowly peasant to Óláfr’s mind. Magnus worked in the castle, fetching and carrying for Óláfr, his equal only in battle and in the protection of their Isle.
Months he had watched Óláfr stare longingly at Magnus. Every time Magnus entered the room, Óláfr’s dark gaze landed on the lithe, red-haired, fair-skinned man. As yet, Óláfr had not personally acknowledged Magnus’s existence. Well, not that he was aware of, and he was cognizant of a lot of Óláfr’s thoughts as they would make a virgin sweat; the heat was so powerful.
Maximillian was finding it hard to be in the same room as the pair of them. The pull and sparks of energy from their souls ignited the space. He knew both men must be experiencing the same heat and spark of recognition, but, for the Goddess Freyja, they seemed to be ignoring it. Which probably meant they were undoubtedly struggling not to act on it because I couldn’t be the only one feeling it, surely?
He’d been encouraging Óláfr for weeks now to make contact and create the connection, but to no avail. He snarled at his misfortune and at his increasing need for space to clear the torment from his own mind, away from Óláfr’s constant tirades.
He’d hoped space would help him to see a path to aid both men because if Óláfr confusion continued, Maximillian would surely go mad. The rantings were now a daily occurrence, and he felt it was the sole reason Óláfr planned to leave on yet another trip. The day was fast approaching, making Maximillian feel antsy with the need to act now.
He ran across the open fields, going inland away from the sea, travelling up the small hill covered with deep purple heather towards Christina’s lonely small cloister. It sat unobtrusively next to the church, overlooking a small inlet. The enclosed bay offered privacy for Christina and protection for the Viking longships out of the harsh gales that tended to batter the coastline.
The irony of where she lived had Maximillian smirking. If the village people learnt of her true nature, she would be tossed in a barrel down witch’s hill on the south of the island. Ignorance and lack of understanding had fear of witches increasing. As with everything in life, there was a balance between good and evil. Regardless of the goodness in Christina, he knew it would be outbalanced by prejudice if the people knew she was a witch.
Christina’s magic was something he’d come to respect; it was intense and pure, allowing her to mask her true identity. She was nearly as old as he, but her magic concealed her true youthful beauty, as not to raise suspicion. Opening the mind link she had taught him to develop over the years, he spoke.
“Christina, are you home? I’m in need of your help.” Maximillian kept moving in the fading light of dusk through the long grass. He let it conceal him while he waited for a response.
“Yes, I’m home, but you will need to hide behind the wood pile and keep out of sight. The Bishop of the Isles has visited me.”
Christina’s sexy rasp faded away as he drew nearer to the cloister. Maximillian’s rarity made it challenging to camouflage himself. Most of the other guardian cats were black or multicoloured. His presence here would raise suspicion because everyone knew he belonged to Óláfr. He had no reason to visit, so he tended to go under the cover of darkness, but his need today was too great to wait.
He sidled down behind the giant pile of logs, and the stench of decaying wood had his nose twitching. Avoiding the damp wood, he stretched out on clumps of purple heather that surrounded the herb garden next to the cloister. Letting it cushion his massive body, he buried his nose in the fragrant lavender, allowing the scents of the herbs to calm his mind.
Unsure how long the bishop would be, he settled in for the duration. Licking his paws, Maximillian washed away the dirt from his trip across the fields. His gaze fixed on the landscape and the setting sun as it exploded in vibrant hues of orange, purple, and reds before dying slowly as the sea swallowed the fiery ball.
His eyes locked on to the sky while he tried ruthlessly to push away the feelings of guilt swamping him for leaving Óláfr as he wept inconsolably. Óláfr has no one to blame but himself, so why should I feel guilty?
Christina’s tutting came through his link loud and clear, making him lower his head between his paws and huffing out his chest against his short legs. Maximillian failed to understand how she could open and shut their link with so little effort, whereas he had to push his mind to make the transitions.
The sound of voices had him sinking lower to the ground. The bishop’s voice reminded him of a squawking bird: high-pitched and screechy. Covering his ears with his paws he sighed in relief when Christina called to him moments later.
As he entered her small cloister, the smell of dried herbs and cooking meats tantalised his taste buds. He mooched up to the table, giving her his best cat grin.
“All right, I’ll feed you, but I’m not convinced you’ve haven’t already eaten. I’m sure you get bigger every time I see you, Max.”
Her seductive, low raspy voice stroked across his fur, leaving him a little unsettled. Shivering, he established himself in front of the hearth. Distracted by Christina’s use of the shortened version of his name, he thought he might keep it.
My parents couldn’t object or be offended if I changed my name, could they? Shrugging, he rolled his shoulders. Well, I don’t think it would, whereas my wish to be human at times might? Those times, like now, when Christina enticed him with her scent and her straight, silky, auburn tresses, which flowed freely down her back to the bottom of her spine. The slow, seductive movements made her hair sway around her body, creating a curtaining effect that didn’t entirely hide the voluptuous curves inside her kyrtill tunic. The setting sun filtered through the tiny windows, causing her smooth, iridescent skin to gleam like polished gold coins formed in the island’s mint.
Maximillian wondered what was perplexing her as she chewed her lower lip between small white teeth, making the subtle pink turn deep red. Her wide-set hazel eyes darkened as the firelight made them gleam like berries while she moved around the small room. Her tiny work-roughened hands fluttered about dishing up bowls of stew. Lost in thought, she placed them down. Only then did she sit next to him on the little wooden stool by the fire.
Hesitating for a moment, he collected his thoughts as she settled before speaking. “I need to ask how I can block Óláfr for a short time. The daily struggles and infernal ranting he has taken to doing is wearing and taking its toll out on me.” Max continued speaking but got up to stalk the short distance to the door and back. His agitation had him f
orgetting the cooling food. “I am unable to concentrate on finding the right path to guide him and Magnus. I have learnt to do it with my internal family, so why can’t I find a way with Óláfr?” He begged, his eyes imploring her to understand.
“Max, you can’t interfere. I have told you this many times. There will be consequences if you mess with the fates. You need to let Óláfr and Magnus find their own way. All of your other charges lived in different times and found it easier to come to the compromise required to connect. It is different. The responsibility Óláfr has to the throne, his people and his heritage, weighs heavy on him. You feel it. I know you do. Óláfr needs to figure this out for himself, Max. I understand. I can feel your distress, and this is why you make such a wonderful guardian King. The level of empathy makes you different. You have yet to come into all your powers fully, and once you do, your life will change again.”
Christina’s tinkling laughter ran up his spine, unnerving him further with her cryptic talk. Maximillian relaxed when she leant down, placing her work-roughened fingers into his silky fur, sliding deep into the hairs using a rhythmic movement to caress his body. Pleasure spread under his fur distracting him from the task at hand. His chest rumbled, purrs escaping. Feeling the heat inside his body build, he gave the roasting fire a hard glare, knowing, in reality, it had little to do with the fire and everything to do with Christina.
Mewling in pleasure, he gave up trying to pretend he wouldn’t have given anything right about now to be human and have those amazing hands on places no cat should be thinking about. His fur lifted as Christina’s warm, herbed breath wafted over his face. Her gaze pierced his with a warning look, the message clear even before she spoke.
“Listen to me, Max. Hear my words. You can’t interfere. We have often spoken of the rules that govern you and your habit of flouting them on a regular basis. When you decided to start communicating with your charges telepathically, well, to say you gave the otherworld much to talk about is an understatement.”
Maximillian found it a struggle to listen when her hands were still touching him. He almost demanded she sit back down when she became agitated and moved off the small wooden stool. Her leather-bound feet padded across the dirt floor while her arms moved around her body. The firelight haloing her figure made him sigh deeply in pleasure when her breasts jiggled in her kyrtill.
“You know you caused a huge stir, and though now it is common practice and found to be of benefit, you were lucky not to have had a severe punishment. You could find yourself without me to guide you if you continue to break the rules. Mark my words.”
He smiled in contentment, his mind not hearing the critical warning when she bent, lifting him, snuggling him into her ample breasts. He nuzzled into the warmth, luxuriating in the heated flesh under the tunic. Maximillian’s mind was a whirl of impossible possibilities, making him forget Óláfr entirely under his wishful thinking.
Óláfr’s commanding six-foot-six frame vibrated with rage. Where the hell was Maximillian? His hands curled into fists as he moved with the stealth of a predator, anger pulsing out, making those in the corridors avoid eye contact as he stormed towards his chamber. He couldn’t find it in himself to care about how rude he was being. His status offered him the privilege to behave any way he chose.
He barged through the large wooden door, disregarding the pain in his shoulder from hitting the door too hard. He slammed the door behind him, getting no satisfaction from the loud echoing as he ripped off his kyrtill, feeling strangled by his clothing.
His sweat-soaked bare chest gleamed under flickering candles and firelight as he prowled his chamber. His long, midnight-black hair flowed over his shoulders in waves, barely concealing the honed muscles or the dark patterns scattered across his back, arms, and neck. They were the markings of power and status. The runes detailed underneath offered protection and a warning to others that choose to challenge. Chiselled into his skin, they’d taken hours, days, and even months to create, showing off his endurance.
His dark, fathomless eyes searched the chamber. Tormented, he looked blindly around the room. He knew of stories his people told, of how his eyes sucked the souls of those he’d killed into him, making his name all the more formidable. Óláfr the Black, his name was synonymous with terror and evoked fear in his enemies, which were legion. His thoughts had him scowling at the empty room. It was a pitiful joke. If his men could see him now, cowering like a yellow-bellied coward in his quarters, avoiding the object of his unmanly desires.
His heart beat a furious tempo against his ribs, and his hands clenched at his side in anger when the image of Arngrim welding his battle axe pushed at the tiny thread of control when he remembered why he’d fled. The urge to go back and hurt his brother in arms, Arngrim, for daring to try and maim his beloved had him quaking to restrain himself. His fists clenched, blunt nails dug into his blistered palms, anger vibrated in his wire-taut body. His fear had all but swallowed him whole as he had stood watching Arngrim attack, aiming his battle axe with such violent intent.
Oblivious to the wetness glistening on his bronze cheeks he swiped at them, pushing back the locks of hair falling into his face. The hair falling into my eyes is the only explanation as to why my eyes are stinging, surely?
He discredited the niggling voice at the back of his head calling him a liar. Instead, he gave another internal shout for the one voice he wanted in his mind, Maximillian. Breathing deeply, he held himself still, willing a response; his nerves frayed the same as the cloth of his kyrtill when he fought too hard as seconds passed without an answer.
Thinking back to his earlier worry for Maximillian’s safety, Óláfr had hunted for him, wasting time and energy he could ill afford to search the castle, the barracks, and the stockades but gaining nothing. Well, that was if he discounted his run-in with his red-haired beauty, whom he had ensured was removed from harm’s way before he’d escaped himself, only to run into him while searching for Maximillian and the main reason he was now hiding out.
Óláfr sighed in disgust when it hit that Maximillian would be able to hear his shouts regardless of where he was, but for some reason he could not fathom, he was not responding.
His arms lifted before flopping back and slapping loudly against his sides. The noise seemed louder in the quiet of his chamber. He prowled back to the door, his leather-wrapped feet hitting against the stone floor, his mind in turmoil.
He grunted to himself when his head continued to argue with his heart and soul. The fact they seemed perfectly happy with their choice of soul mate only made his mind scream louder. He still failed to see how Maximillian knew that Magnus belonged to him, that he was perfect for him in every way. How was that even possible when he is a man? He purposely pushed aside the part inside him that explicitly acknowledged the rightness of his soul mate.
Gripping his hair tightly, he pulled, hoping the pain would distract from his tumbled confusion.
Am I not supposed to handfast with a woman, have heirs to carry on the traditions, fight, and be the ruler, their King?
How could he do that with a man, a pale, red-haired, lithe man with a tight, firm body and a cock? Growling, he yanked at his hair harder when his body responded as it always tended to do with thoughts of Magnus.
He’d debated at length with the bishop about many things, but he couldn’t find it in him to talk about this, seeking guidance. He already kept secrets, not sure that the people wouldn’t turn on him if they knew he had the power to communicate with his cat, understand his thoughts, and have conversations.
If the bloody cat was about, that was!
He’d learnt from a small boy that what he had with Maximillian was a gift from the King of the Otherworld, and he had treasured the bond. Never more so than when his father had died. Maximilian had helped to keep him sane when his brother had turned against him. That same brother who had ensured his imprisonment on the Isle of Lewis for several years when he had gone seeking help to regain his throne.
Maximillian had somehow managed to find a way to free him so that he could seek his vengeance. Now he was ready to unleash his revenge. He’d found himself planning the attack earlier than he’d wanted, but his need to escape from his desires was forcing his hand.
The driving urges of his body had him fighting daily against his mind, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. The months of wanting, of needing Magnus in a way he couldn’t even describe to Maximillian, were making him weak. The scent of lemongrass taunted him, the feel of work-roughed hands touching his skin as they undressed him, caressing. Sky-blue eyes that begged for more, lips that called for him to do unseemly things to them, had him feeling bewitched, and it was making him doubt his own sanity.
He’d argued with Maximillian that he thought the King of the Otherworld was making him pay the price for the privilege of having a guardian. Using his desires against him. Óláfr cursed Odin’s Ravens when he was not sure that he could pay the debt. Even if his body craved Magnus, his mind fought against it. The battle made him suffer. He had to end this and soon, before he lost his sanity and acted on his urges.
A loud knocking on his wooden chamber door resounded through the room, causing him to pause mid-stride. He cursed under his breath when he knew who was on this other side of the wood. He pushed back his shoulders, firming his spine before moving. His feet slapped loudly on the stone floor. Bracing himself, he pulled open the door, his nostrils flaring at the delicious scent filling his nose. Forcing himself to stand still and not retreat away, Óláfr breathed through his open mouth.
He glared down at the smaller man, whose head barely came to the centre of his chest. His eyes noted the fading light in the hallway didn’t diminish the bright red hair flopping over Magnus’s delicate forehead and into his eyes. Óláfr felt a sliver of disappointment pierce his heart that the long red lashes lying against Magnus’s slashing cheekbones shielded his eyes from his gaze; eyes he knew if they had been looking up would be as blue as the sky.
