Myths

by Rob Knight editor

  *** He doesn't know how long it's been since he drifted into a slumber, but when he wakes up enough to open his eyes, it's getting dark. He's thirsty and hot, or maybe cold, he's not sure any more, but that doesn't matter now. He knows he's never been this deep into the woods. Dark, dense forest surrounds them, trees all around, every branch decorated by a long beard of lichen. There is something strange straight ahead and the stag is impatient. It stomps its feet, lets out a quiet snort. The man peers ahead and then slides down onto unsteady feet, grabs the animal for support but it shakes him loose and walks forth. The man sways and squints his weary eyes.

  Two ancient elms grow side by side, far enough apart so that the man could perhaps just touch each of them if he went to stand between them and spread his arms. Their gnarled trunks bend toward each other, so that at the height of about two men they entwine together in a riot of leaves and twigs. Between them, the forest looks brighter, greener, lighter.

  The man frowns. Is this his fever making him see things? Surely that's just a trick of the waning light, or maybe it's just because the shining black stag is standing between him and the strange gateway, looking over its shoulder at him. Then it turns and leaps into the passage.

  He stares after it. He's so cold, his head is throbbing and his feet don't want to move an inch, but he doesn't want to lose the living warmth that has carried him this far. He trudges closer, takes the last few steps and closes his eyes.

  When he opens them again, he has to blink. Is he dreaming again? This is not the forest he has seen in his dreams, yet the light is the same. It's dusky and he can't really see colors, but he can see textures, shadows, movement. The forest around. The shrubbery. Deeper darkness under trees. Berries. The eyes of an owl. A tiny mouse that freezes for a moment before darting away, leaving behind a scent trail of startled fear.

  He wants to look around but something slows him down. His head is heavy, his body feels strange and he tries to raise a hand to touch his head, then realizes that he cannot feel his arms. They have no feeling. Frightened, he looks down at himself, feels a weight pulling his head down, hears a snapping sound and sees

  -- hooves.

  That's when he truly panics for the first time. He yells, except that what comes out is a groaning hoot, deep and penetrating. It echoes in the woods, he bursts into a run and understands in a flash that he's moving not on two, but four legs, that the weight on his head is something that snags on branches as he runs blindly onward, on and on. The air smells of a million things but he doesn't stop until the heavy something on his head catches on a thick branch so hard that he loses his balance and lurches forward, lungs burning.

  And there it is again, the black stag, the devil's deer. It has been running alongside him with an easy gait, keeping abreast of him, and now it has stopped to watch as he staggers up. His fear and panic and sheer fury rise once more, he has no idea what is happening and why and how, can he do it or not, but he wants revenge and he can think of only one way to have it now. A red haze fills his mind as he lowers his head and charges.

  The crash is deafening, the impact enough to make him see stars, but he stands his ground, hind legs straining. Antlers crackle as they smash together, breath turns into harsh groans, hooves and tendons snap with exertion. His adversary is strong. He pants for air, feels his footing slip, falls on his knees.

  The air tastes sweet and heavy, it's full of something he can't name. It intoxicates him. Neither of them is giving in. Heads sink slowly lower, spiky crowns still locked together. He's exhausted. His last thought before oblivion is that the black stag has won. Just like he knew it would in the end.

  ***

  Light is the first thing he's conscious of. He opens his eyes slowly, sees the light screened by dense trees into a soft, green dusk, and wonders what this new dream is. He turns his head, marveling at the softness underneath him, grabs a handful of it and looks. Dry moss and lichen, animal hairs, leaves. They have been worked into a nest-like bed in a recess between high tree roots and undergrowth, they smell of forest and sleep and safety. He breathes in the scent, then starts and raises his hand once more in front of his face. A hand, yes, his hand. Tanned, scarred, scraped. His own hand. He sinks bony fingers into his hair, combs them through tangled curls, touches his body. He's a man again, a bunch of bones and dry muscle, like cords of rope; but a man. Even in this new dream.

  The fever is gone and so are the cold and the splitting headache and weariness and dull pain in his lungs. He feels rested and for a while he just lies there to relish the feeling. Why and how and if he's still alive to dream like this, he doesn't know. He doesn't want to think, just enjoy, and he closes his eyes again, smiling to himself.

  He's not really tired any more, but it's so easy to drift back into sleep in this gentle light, on a soft bed that smells of warmth. He raises an arm, nestles his head more comfortably in the crook, sighs contentedly. The forest is silent once more, but this time it's a comfortable silence.

  He knows he has dozed off because a slight movement nearby startles him awake. He peers through his eyelashes at the offender, then gasps and his eyes open wide. Next to him squats a youth, hardly more than a boy. He is very slim, face triangular and tanned, hair a wild, ragged mess of dark brown. The man wonders if it has ever even seen a comb, then almost laughs at his own crazy thoughts. The youth looks at him, head tilting in an oddly familiar gesture, lips twitching a little. His eyes are huge, slanted, like brown amber or the honey of heather blossoms.

  "How do you feel?" The man chokes at the voice. It's dark, too, yet somehow translucent, clear and cool. Like the water in bog springs.

  He has to try a few times before his throat, so used to silence, is willing to work.

  "Who are you?" he asks hoarsely. The youth smiles and cocks his head again and now the man knows what it makes him think of. He remembers the fox cubs he came across a few summers previously, their small faces and bright eyes. Too young to be afraid of him, that's exactly how they looked at him from between the grass and shrubbery: heads turning this way and that, trying to decide what to make of this strange giant standing in front of them. He remembers grinning and letting them be; too small for furs, he told himself then. Not worth the trouble.

  "Thelenor," the youth says. "My name is Thelenor." "Thelenor," he repeats slowly, trying to get the name to roll from his tongue in that same way. Like water tumbling over stones in a brook. The youth smiles and nods, hugs his knees to his chest with bare arms and sets his narrow chin on them. The man pushes himself up on an elbow, suddenly wary.

  "Thelenor," he says again. It sounds strange in his mouth, the word, and he sits up. They are all alone in the quiet forest. "What are you?"

  This time the youth laughs a little. "Does it matter?" The man stares at him, then slowly shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "But where are we? What happened? What happens now? Did you bring me here?"

  "You have many questions." The boy's smile widens. "Won't you tell me your name first?"

  "I'm Bareth," he says. "Please, Thelenor. Tell me. Is this a dream?"

  Thelenor laughs again, rocks a little, and Bareth glowers at him. "What's so funny?"

  "I cannot tell you where we are," the youth says. "It wouldn't mean anything to you anyway. You don't know this place."

  Bareth snorts a little, frustrated. "All right then. At least tell me whether this is a dream or what. Am I dreaming? Am I dead?" "You tell me." Thelenor's gaze is intense. "What do you think?" Bareth frowns, then leans closer and slowly raises a hand. He looks into those amber eyes, hand hovering closer, still closer. Thelenor holds his breath, he's biting his lip a little and Bareth can feel the warmth of soft skin even before his fingers brush against it. He hears the hiss of Thelenor's breath, sees dark eyelashes flutter as if wanting to close, but the eyes don't turn away. And now it's his turn not to breathe as he cups the boy's face in his palm for a moment before snatching his hand back and turning away.

  But Thelenor smiles still, touc
hes Bareth's arm with his fingers. "Am I real?" he asks quietly.

  Bareth is panting hard, not saying a word, and Thelenor nudges him a little. "Am I?"

  "How would I know?" Bareth whispers. "This has to be a dream. I'm dreaming this all."

  "Then you know what will happen next." Thelenor nods and hugs his knees again, looks sagely at Bareth who turns to face him once more. "Yes," Bareth says slowly. Inside him, confusion is battling with exasperation. He's fumbling in the dark, he's lost his footing in this bizarre dream, and his temper is rising to fight. "Yes, I know. This is my dream. None of this is really happening, I'm dreaming this all, and you're just part of this dream. So you will do what I want and right now I want you to tell me how I got here."

  "I think you know it already," Thelenor says and Bareth huffs. Now he's angry; Thelenor is not playing by the rules.

  "The stag," he grinds out. "Yes. It was the stag, it brought me here -- but why? Is it yours?" Thelenor's lips pull into a thoughtful pout, then he shakes his head. "No." He draws the word out. "No, it's not mine."

  "But you know why it brought me here?" Bareth presses on. "Remember -- this is my dream. You have to answer me. Now. Why am I here?"

  "Because." Thelenor stops rocking, sits cross-legged on the ground and leans his elbows on his knees. "Because I want to ask you something."

  Bareth simply waits, silent. Thelenor's face is intense, his lips parted. Under the dark hair his eyes are strangely luminous even in the dim evening light.

  "You must choose, Bareth." Thelenor's hands creep up to grab slim upper arms. They squeeze, as if he's feeling cold. "Will you stay here with me, or will you go back?"

  "Back?" Bareth gapes. "What do you mean, back?"

  "Back to the -- to your old life." Thelenor nods, as if to assure them both. "If you want to return and live on like nothing has happened, I'll show you the way back and then say goodbye. You will forget all this."

  "Is that it?" Bareth's eyes narrow into slits. "Is that really all? The stag brought me here, all the way here, just so that you could offer to take me back?"

  "Of course not!" The youth huffs in disdain. "No, you're here so that I could ask you to stay." "But why?" Bareth tries to read an answer from the clear amber of the boy's eyes but fails. All he sees is the luster, like a spring mirroring the sun. "What does it all mean? What will happen then?" Thelenor opens his mouth, then suddenly looks frightened and shakes his head. "I cannot say more. I'm sorry."

  "You cannot?" Bareth laughs incredulously, harshly. "Like hell you cannot! This is my dream, remember? And I say that you must tell me."

  "I can't!" Thelenor pulls away but Bareth follows him, nostrils flaring as he recognizes the scent.

  "If I stay," he growls, crawling towards the boy, "what will I be? Tell me, Thelenor! What will I be then? A man? A stag? Or something else?"

  Thelenor is breathing hard, trying to get away, but Bareth's hand grabs his arm and yanks him back. Bareth shakes him roughly, then suddenly freezes and his eyes glaze over. He feels it again. The fury, the heat, the haze, the scream of straining muscles and the creaking of antlers locked to each other in a death grip. Sensations hit him like a flash flood and leave him gulping for air, and he just knows he hasn't imagined a single second of it. He's trapped inside a mad dream, but it's still the same dream.

  Slowly his eyes focus again, and he sees once more Thelenor's face in front of him.

  "There is no choice really, is there?" he whispers through clenched teeth. "It did happen -- the trees, the stag, the battle... Something has already happened to me, isn't that so?"

  His grip tightens. "Tell me the truth, now! What is this all about? What's -- what will -- happen..." Words catch in his throat as he looks down into huge honey-brown eyes. They are wide and wild, the boy's lips part as he meets Bareth's gaze. He's breathing quickly, pale throat throbbing, frightened and yet not. It's not fear Bareth sees in those eyes, or rather, not only fear. There's a challenge and a sorrow.

  His fingers dig into thin shoulders and then recognition clicks in his brain as he breathes in the scent of Thelenor's hair. It's musky, it's heady, it's the scent of lust, it makes his whole body go aflame. Bareth swallows, tries to speak again through the thickening haze in his mind. "This is my dream, and you... will do what I... want you to."

  His mouth crushes Thelenor's lips. The youth makes a startled sound and his whole body tenses, then simply melts under Bareth's hands. Slim arms snake around Bareth's wiry torso, lips press together, tongues entwine. Bareth devours the strange, willing youth, he licks and bites unblemished skin, and if they were wearing something a moment ago or not, he can't tell, because very soon there is nothing to hide Thelenor's body from his eyes.

  Yes, this is Bareth's dream. His secret obsession, the thing he has longed for in vain, something he has closed outside his consciousness as best he can. Nobody must know or even guess this quirk in his nature, so he has hidden it deep and well, guarded jealously his painful secret. Dreams have kept him company in his solitude, but fearing ridicule and rejection he has always avoided the reality. Let the others shun and suspect what they will, as long as they don't know the truth: that women leave him indifferent whereas the beauty of a male body fills him with craving, lust and awe.

  And here is Thelenor, splayed nude in front of him. Thelenor with his messy mop of dark hair, slim limbs quivering with tension, large eyes smiling at him in incredulous glee. He's beautiful, so beautiful and so strange. There is no body hair on Thelenor's skin, supple and smooth, and Bareth wants to touch it, to kiss it. Thelenor's hands rise to touch him, they tickle the pale trail of hair on his chest, follow it down to his navel and lower still. The boy pulls his lip between sharp white teeth and lets out a little laugh when Bareth, on hands and knees above him, bows down and buries his face into a gently tanned neck.

  Thelenor tastes of many things, sweet and salty and bitter, he smells of green, of pitch and marsh and moss and deer. Bareth nuzzles his hair, it's full of twigs and leaves from the earthy mattress underneath them, he closes his eyes and sees once more the odd nighttime light and the black stag running through it. His lips find a curving shell underneath the hair, he listens to Thelenor's shuddering breath as the tip of his tongue traces its contour, then his eyes blink open and he stares at the pointy ear.

  Pointy. Is this a dream after all? Bareth thinks. But why is he dreaming of pointy ears and messy hair, why not of someone more like himself? Of a fellow hunter, or a young man from the villages? Then he forgets all such thoughts when cool fingers curl around his swollen cock and squeeze gently. How can it be that such a slim hand feels so infinitely better than his own? Thelenor pants and moans, teeth nipping Bareth's shoulder, whispers something over and over again.

  "Mine... my mate... my own." Bareth kisses him, gathers Thelenor in his arms. He doesn't care what this creature is, all he cares for is the way Thelenor feels against him, the way those arms and legs wrap around him, the way busy lips touch his skin. Thelenor is cool and smooth to touch, Bareth lets one hand tousle that dark hair and laughs when his other palm glides along the flat planes of the boy's body.

  Such an odd dream, he thinks, but he doesn't want it to end. Not now, when he's kissing a beautiful youth who hums eagerly into the kiss and pleasures him with long strokes that make his eyes roll back in his head. Not now, when he's sucking Thelenor's nipples that are hard as barely ripe berries, when Thelenor laughs breathlessly and spreads his legs to wrap them around Bareth's hips. Not now when his hand slips between their bodies to play with the slick, hard length that presses against his stomach, to squeeze it gently, to feel the incredible smoothness of its head, to make Thelenor nearly wail with pleasure.

  Bareth wants this dream to go on and on, he wants to do all the things he's only ever imagined during lonely nights when his own hands have been so hopelessly inadequate to quench the ache and yearning of his body. He tastes the creamy droplets glistening on Thelenor's cock, laughs when the youth sobs in ecstasy, lifts
Thelenor in his arms and kisses him again. And when his body convulses and the burst of release makes him groan into Thelenor's mouth, when Thelenor's nails dig into his shoulders and the boy throws his head back with a low gasp, Bareth would gladly give everything, save the youth in his arms, if that would make this dream last forever.

  Afterwards he just holds Thelenor, who curls against him, and thinks hazily what a good thing it is to be dreaming, because he doesn't feel at all cold even though he's lying stark naked on the ground, in the middle of forest, an equally naked youth hugged to his chest. Thelenor can't get close enough and Bareth laughs gently as slim limbs hold him tight.

  "My mate," Thelenor whispers. "My own mate."

  "Is this what you wanted all along?" Bareth mumbles and feels the nod. "Why didn't you just tell me, silly?"

  "I couldn't," Thelenor sighs. "It's part of the curse. That I can only ask once. Not plead or explain, nothing, just..."

  Bareth squeezes tighter. "The curse?" He's frowning. "What have you done, beautiful one?"

  "Nothing." Thelenor sniffs a little. "Let me tell you a story." And he tells, the words rolling over Bareth like a relentless stream. Thelenor tells of elves, like humans but children of a different god, and a treaty some of them have broken a long time ago, in times immemorial. He tells of the curse placed upon his race, of the punishment that runs forever in their blood and strikes blindly, capriciously. He tells of elf families anxiously watching their sons grow up and approach maturity, of sleepless nights spent hoping and praying that the critical time would pass without incident, that the boy could look forward to an ordinary elf's life.