Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu (41 page)

Once Hansggedir had tossed
water on the logs, the two friends went out into the crisp air of
late afternoon and down the road to the Hall of Voices, greeting
other hara along the way. These rituals were becoming few and far
between since the human population had been morbidly decimated by
plague and disease. Everyhar in Freygard took great joy in
welcoming the few humans who could still be incepted into
Wraeththu.

They walked up to the tall
wooden doors, held open with golden hooks to welcome those
attending the occasion. Two stone pillars, each topped with a wide
granite bowl, flanked the doorway. The bowls held stones, each
carved with a different rune. Each har in Freygard had chosen a
symbol after his inception and made a pilgrimage to the sea to find
the two stones that would represent him in future group settings.
They were marked with the har’s symbol and deposited in bowls for
the rune-throwing.

Hroth reached up to a bowl and
pulled out an oval, flat stone, dark mossy in colour. Its rune was
an ash tree. He wasn’t sure whose rune it was, but for that day’s
ritual, it didn’t matter.

“Let’s sit up front,”
Hansggedir suggested.

“Let’s not!” Hroth argued. “I
don’t like being stared at, and I make hara uncomfortable.”

“Only those who are ignorant.
And who cares about them? Come on. I want every damn Freyhellan to
see my masterpiece of handiwork.”

Hroth growled under his breath.
“Fine.”

Golden-haired hara with strong
features filled benches three deep. Despite his disquiet, Hroth
felt a warmth of pride at seeing his kinshar assembled together.
He’d been among the first to offer himself to the exotic creatures
who had arrived, an amalgam of the sexes, fey and beautiful. He
chatted with a friend he’d not seen in quite some time, until
finally Trygve, their hienama, beat his staff against the floor
four times. At that, silence claimed the room.

“Tiahaara,” Trygve intoned,
“today we welcome three new hara into our midst. It is the
rune-throwing, a time for the spirits to guide these newly through
their althaia to the hara with whom they will take their first
aruna. Each new har will pick in turn, and that har will come to
stand by his side. May the Aghama watch over us and may our new
hara grow in light.”

There was a thrum of excitement
as the three newly incepted hara walked forward, each clad in
ceremonial garb of leather and fur. The table used for inception
three days earlier now stood gleaming on a dais, holding a bowl
with the stones of all present.

One by one the new hara went up
and selected a rune. Two had fair hair, and the third one a
waterfall of burnished mahogany. Hroth felt his stone heat in his
hand as the third har approached the deep bowl and reached in. The
Hienama read the three runes: twilight, blood, and ash tree.

Hroth nudged Hansggedir,
spreading open his palm to show that indeed, he had been
chosen.

“I guess I won’t be seeing you
for a couple of days,” Hansggedir murmured under his breath.

“I’ll be busy,” Hroth whispered
without thinking. He was stunned and out of sorts; Roc’s prediction
had been too direct a portend. “But— why now?”

“Why not?”

Hroth shook his head, then
stood and walked up to the new hara with the two others chosen
until they all stood side by side.

“Journey well, tiahaara,”
Trygve said. The hienama placed a daub of scented oil at the throat
of each of new har, symbolizing their sacred seal to Wraeththu.
“With your first aruna you will shed completely your human self.
Let the celebrations begin!”

The new har at Hroth’s side
gave him a hesitant smile, glanced down at Hroth’s left arm, and
then his alarmed gaze flew back up to Hroth’s face.

“I’ll explain later,” Hroth
said.

He steered the har toward the
adjoining room where tables groaned under the weight of food and
drink. “What’s your name?”

“My new one?”

“That’s the only one now,”
Hroth said gently.

The har flushed, which only
added to his refined beauty. “Ottar.”

“Ottar,” Hroth echoed. “I’m
Hroth. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Well, hand,” he said with
a wry smile. “Are you from Freygard?”

Ottar heaped his plate with
smoked fish and poured himself a large chalice of mead. “No. I fled
from the upcountry. I’d rather not speak of it — I’m ready to leave
that behind.”

He spoke fervently and Hroth
felt new gratitude to the spirits who presided over the
rune-throwing — and to Roc for having spoken to him on the
beach.

“And so you should.” Hroth had
taken a chalice of mead but was sipping it, mindful of his recent
fast. He didn’t want to be out of sorts with Ottar; that would
dishonour the har’s first aruna.

Ottar seemed nervous as he
chewed some tart berries. He was obviously trying to keep his eyes
trained on Hroth’s face and was failing miserably as his gaze
returned to Hroth’s stump, again and again.

Take him under my wing? he
thought sourly. He may flee my bed as soon as the act is over.

“Not to be rude, tiahaar,”
Ottar said at last, watching avidly as Hroth licked some marinade
off of his fingers, “but—” He gestured at Hroth’s left arm. “Did
that happen before or after you became har?”

“After. I’ll tell you what
happened, but it’s not a pleasant story, so I don’t want to
elaborate now.”

Ottar chewed thoughtfully, his
gaze sliding over Hroth like quicksilver. Hroth knew he could be
considered a short straw to draw, as it were, especially by somehar
who didn’t know that he’d been one of the first Wraeththu in
Freyhella — and that he was tender-hearted to a fault. A rising
tide of dignity rose in him.

“I assure you that your first
aruna will be a memorable one, and not just because you picked the
rune held by the only one-handed har in Freygard,” Hroth said a bit
defensively.

“Yes, light an extra candle to
the Aghama, dark one!” Hansggedir boomed from behind Hroth. His
eyes sparkled with mirth and drink. “You’re fortunate— Hroth is
quite skilled.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s only the truth!”
Hansggedir grinned at Hroth and took a deep quaff of mead. “Journey
well.”

“I will, tiahaar.”

Ottar’s mobile face belied his
conflicting feelings: desire, trepidation, excitement. Confused
agitation poured off of him in waves. No doubt the senses in his
new harish body were going haywire.

“What’s your name, seal-eyes?”
Hansggedir prompted.

“Ottar.”

Hansggedir gave Hroth a look of
disbelief. “Has there ever been a more apt name?”

“It’s indeed fitting,” Hroth
agreed. “Go on — you’re making him even more uncomfortable. Find
Sveinn and drape yourself on him. He’s used to your blunt
speech.”

“Hroth, I’m fine,” Ottar
stammered, a flush creeping up his long neck. “I just — I just
didn’t expect…” His voice trailed off helplessly.

“You’re the luckiest har in
this room,” Hansggedir stated emphatically. “And don’t listen to
any troglodyte who tells you otherwise.”

Hroth began to shove him away
with his shoulder.

“I’m leaving! Loki’s stones,”
Hansggedir swore, grinning as he swaggered off.

Ottar seemed more relaxed after
this banter, to Hroth’s relief. He glanced at the new har’s plate
and saw much of the food was untouched. “Do you mind if I have a
piece of your fish?”

“Not at all!”

Hroth put his cup down on a
nearby table, but Ottar, with a heated smile, fed it to him
instead.

“Mmmmm. Salty,” Hroth
murmured.

He picked up a piece of candied
ginger and placed it in Ottar’s awaiting mouth. Ottar kept his eyes
trained on Hroth’s as he chewed, and then said, “Sweet. And
spicy.”

“Much as I suspect you’ll
taste,” Hroth said in a low voice, gratified when a flush again
crept up Ottar’s neck.

“You’ll be the first to know,”
he said. “It better be soon. I feel like I’m on fire!”

“I won’t make you linger,”
Hroth promised, tracing Ottar’s fine jaw with his fingers and
giving him a reassuring smile.

They stayed for another hour or
so, Hroth meeting the other new inceptees and introducing Ottar to
a few of the other founders. When Hroth discovered that they’d
circled around to Hansggedir and Sveinn, he gratefully knew they
could leave. What had Hansggedir said about other hara’s perception
of him? Beautiful and revered? Respected and preferred at his usual
distance was more like it.
Better to go ahead and enjoy the
novelty of a new har and then let him get on with his life
, he
thought resignedly to himself.

“Go on!” Hansggedir said at
last. Ottar gave the older har a grateful look.

“Come and get your blessing
from the hienama,” Hroth suggested as they made their way toward
the doors. He stood behind Ottar as Trygve made a symbol of power
over the new har, then drew him into a firm embrace.

“Welcome, beloved,” he said,
and Hroth was surprised to feel tears prick at his eyes. The
hienama caught his gaze and gave him a sympathetic look before
releasing Ottar.

“My house isn’t far away,”
Hroth said as they left the Hall of Voices, accepting well wishes
along the way. The other hara would celebrate and make merry until
the early hours of morning, but Hroth had no reason to begrudge
them their fun. Once they were outside, Ottar threaded his arm in
Hroth’s and Hroth turned to smile at him.

“You’re really tall!” he
noted.

Ottar laughed. “Guilty.”

“Not guilty, just tall.”

At first they walked in
silence, but then Ottar asked Hroth about his cape.

“It’s one of the only things I
kept from my human past,” he said, glancing down at it. “It
belonged to my grandfather. He was quite the hunter, and it took
him several years to track and kill the foxes whose skins now keep
me so warm. Seems a bit barbaric to me now, but when I was a young
boy it seemed that he was a giant among men.”

“I can imagine!”

Hroth watched his own breath,
each exhalation creating a huff of white into the cold air. He felt
more comfortable now that he was away from dozens of pitying eyes,
but grew increasingly discomfited as they approached his house. It
was quite rustic, and Hroth almost never had guests, besides
Hansggedir and Sveinn.

“I live just up here.”

He turned up a cobbled street,
which at first glance appeared abandoned. Many houses were in
disrepair, abandoned by their human owners and the few neighbours
Hroth did have were all at the celebration.

Once inside his house, Hroth
took off his cape, watching as Ottar took in his surroundings.

“I prefer to live simply,” he
explained. “Would you like some tea?”

He ran his fingers through
Ottar’s dark hair. It was as silky to the touch as it looked, and
Ottar gave him a bold smile.

“No, but thank you. I’d
like…”

“Yes, of course. Let me get a
fire going in my bedroom so the room’s not so cold.”

“I can help,” Ottar said
quickly, looking at Hroth’s left arm.

“It’s okay. Do me a favour,
first.” He looked beguilingly at the new har. “Share breath with
me.”

“With pleasure.”

Ottar turned and cupped Hroth’s
face in his hands, pressing his lips firmly to Hroth’s. With a soft
moan, Hroth opened his mouth to Ottar’s questing tongue, the kiss
quickly turning to a tangle of tongues as it evolved into a sharing
of breath. Ottar’s breath was lapping waves and sunrise, fresh with
a taste of clear sapphire. Hroth let himself be carried away by his
desire, eventually pulling away with a throaty laugh.

“You burn hotter than any fire,
but I want us to be able to lie on top of my blankets. Let’s go to
the bedroom.”

Ottar clung to him, stealing
kisses as they stumbled down the short hallway. Hroth made quick
work of getting the fire started, then waved his hand toward two
pillared candles, which burst into life.

Ottar’s eyes grew wide. “How
did you do that?”

“It’s a skill that comes with
caste ascension,” Hroth explained. “Not hard. You’ll get there as
you study with one of the Pyralisits. All in time. For now, though,
it’s time for you to discover some of the bountiful delights of
being har.”

Hroth pressed his lips to
Ottar’s, kissing him before it became a sharing of breath. Ottar
rubbed Hroth’s back while with his one hand, Hroth let his fingers
slide under Ottar’s tunic to press against his warm skin.

“Will you undress?” he husked,
nibbling on Ottar’s earlobe. “And undress me? I can’t wait to taste
every part of you.”

“Yes, please,” Ottar groaned,
his arousal evident and pressing against Hroth’s hip. Soon they
were gloriously naked. Almost shyly, Ottar held Hroth’s left arm
and brought the stump at his wrist to his mouth to kiss it.

“Does it hurt?” he asked in a
low voice.

“No, but in times like this, I
do especially miss it,” Hroth admitted with a rueful smile. “Lie
back. I’m going to play your body like the beautiful instrument it
is.”

Ottar was reduced to
monosyllables and moans of pleasure as Hroth did as promised, lying
down between his legs, kissing and licking his tangy flesh. He
found the nub of his outermost sikra, and as he rubbed it, Ottar
bucked and cried out. Once he’d awakened three of the sikras and
Ottar was thrashing on the bed, Hroth decided it was time to take
pity on him. With a swift thrust and growl of possession, he joined
Ottar’s body, pushing deep into tight heat. Again and again he took
him, riding the waves of pleasure as Ottar instinctively clenched
his new organ around him.

The butterfly tongue in his
ouana-lim lashed out to connect to the burning star in Ottar’s
body. Ottar arched off the bed with a wild cry, spontaneously
bursting into tears even as he laughed aloud.