Soulseeker

  Gatekeeper. Focus.

  He moved uncertainly ahead. The soulseeker spirits had been unable to tell him what the soul would look like or indeed, where it might be. They said that those things were unique to each seeker.

  To his right, some small distance off, a light flickered, warm in the chill gloom of this place. It drew him and he wandered toward it, needing, wanting that warmth.

  It grew brighter as he approached, and the feelings it engendered thrummed through him. Peace, home, safe…

  It was almost anticlimactic to come face-to-face with an incredibly small and wizened old man with long silver hair, leaning heavily upon a staff. His body was bent and stooped, but his bright blue eyes were young and strong, meeting Rian’s astonished look with equanimity. His clothing seemed familiar… It looked so strangely similar to what a Marshlander would wear…

  The little man gave a small bow. “It is good to finally meet you, soulseeker. Rian. We have waited for you to grow to this moment.”

  Rian flinched, thrusting aside his shock. Had he been too slow? Had spirits been suffering because of…?

  “Young one, cease. Such useless speculation only weakens your abilities. If you are here now, then this is the right time. If the universe decrees this is the time for you, then who can gainsay that? Even the gods themselves cannot fully predict what the universe will decide.”

  Rian slowly nodded, wanting so desperately to believe, to think that perhaps all he had done was not without worth, not a complete series of mistakes that indicated a foolish and ultimately worthless soul.

  “No soul is worthless. No matter what they have done, what has been done to them; such experiences bring learning. No matter how often we stray from the best path, we are loved. Completely, utterly, in a way we cannot possibly understand. In our next life, we will be gently guided to find better ways, to heal what tore us asunder in the last one. Sometimes we get diverted, but we will always be found. And now, with your rebirth, we will at last be able to bring the lost home.”

  He reached out with gnarled and worn hands, taking Rian’s hands between his palms. The energy shocked Rian into a gasp. Pure energy, white light, coursing through Rian like a cleansing tide, washing away so much debris, so much self-hatred and doubt.

  He went to his knees, shaking, almost convulsing.

  Rian had no idea how long he was there, only that when he blinked, opened his eyes, he was face to face with the old man who knelt with him, still clasping his hands, understanding and compassion written large in his expression.

  “You have a long way to go, young man. But now you realize you are who you were meant to be, scars and all. With time, you will understand and forgive yourself. That is true learning, that is when you will move on into who you can be and leave the past behind, where it can no longer hurt you.”

  Rian choked down a sob. He found this so difficult to believe in. It seemed impossible, as though his own mind had come up with this in a dream to comfort himself. It seemed too perfect, too simple to be real.

  “The truth is often simple. It is the mind that twists it into something very convoluted.” The man’s tone was gentle and held a kindness that made Rian feel small and very young.

  “You cannot stay here for any length of time, Rian. This place is not for you. You must return swiftly. But it was needed that you meet me, can envision me. That is the link. You will find the ghosts, the spirits who are lost to even the sight of the gods, and you will call upon me, bring them to me. We will take things from there.”

  He smiled at Rian’s expression.

  “I told you. Simple.”

  “Simple.” Hamon watched as Rian’s eyes flickered, the frighteningly shallow breathing gradually increasing to normal. The small whisper seemed to hold a great deal of meaning, and when those beautiful eyes finally opened, there was something new there, a bit more confidence, and perhaps, a sliver of hope.

  Hamon brushed back the tousled hair, letting his fingers linger in the silken strands.

  Rian blinked, then frowned. “My shoulder, my back…” He sucked in a breath of wonder. “No pain, none at all. This was real. It was.”

  “You did it.”

  Rian blinked again, seemed to focus on their surroundings, as though grounding himself to the here and now.

  “I…did.” He looked back at Hamon and smiled.

  * * *

  Rian woke slowly, languorously, a sense of calm and rightness that made him curl more tightly against the heat and pressure that enclosed him.

  He did not wish to wake further, to lose this contact…

  His eyes opened slowly, widening as he realized he lay held in Hamon’s arms, outside, where they had both fallen into restorative sleep shortly after Rian’s return from finding the gatekeeper.

  They now lay under a thick blanket, hidden and private.

  Zacar’s doing, no doubt. He smiled, savoring the evidence of his friend’s untiring care. It was the little things that he held close, that he could accept more easily than any outpouring of loving words.

  Actions, he found, meant far more.

  Shifting cautiously, he rediscovered there was no pain. Easing off the sling, he gently moved the arm, anticipating…

  There was nothing of discomfort. A physical representation of divine intervention. The wonder of it struck hard.

  Attempting to bring himself back into the moment, he breathed deep, taking in Hamon’s scent, an intoxicating blend of horse, wood smoke, and something deeply, uniquely Hamon himself. Very male. Very potent.

  He pulled back slightly. The morning sun was streaming from the east, lighting up even under the blanket, and he could see Hamon quite clearly.

  Greatly daring, he raised his hand, letting it settle upon the other man’s cheek, his fingertips feeling the prick of morning stubble. The warmth radiated into his palm, and he was fascinated. He could not remember ever touching another man in this fashion, as though he wished to discover more, to be curious instead of terrified.

  He paused, then let out a gentle huff of breath.

  Hamon was not Arran. At least, up until this point, he had shown no signs of possessive behavior and madness.

  Although, now and then, he would look at Rian and his eyes would heat up. That look… It made something within Rian tighten, ache, a need and a want he did not understand or entirely trust.

  It was strange, with an edge of fear that seemed blunted by growing curiosity.

  What drew him to Hamon was a mystery.

  There was a sigh from the Hawk, a gentle shifting of muscles under his touch, then a press against his palm.

  Rian froze, feeling a rush of emotion he could not explain, something warm and tender and so very strange.

  Someone who leaned into him, someone who appreciated his touch, not as a sign he was tamed, but for the simple act itself, an acknowledgement of his presence and that it was wanted, even appreciated.

  He grew brave then, biting his lip as he let his fingers gently trace over those high, prominent cheekbones, then slowly, cautiously brushing into thick, soft, golden strands of hair that wound around his fingers as though they also craved his touch.

  It was heady, wondrous.

  Hamon sighed once more, a more awake sound, though he did not open his eyes, only moved a degree closer, his arm, where it lay over Rian’s waist, flexing a little, fingers twitching against his spine.

  It seemed permission enough. He let the softness trail through his fingers, savoring the texture, the intimacy of such a gesture. It took effort to pull his touch away, but there was so much he wanted to discover before this moment would be taken away and they would return to the day and, once more, be relative strangers.

  He would take what he could get.

  To willingly touch, to want it, desire it, was so very strange, a little frightening, but nothing he could stop.

  Hamon’s neck below the stubble line was smooth, his collarbone prominent, the hollow beside it quite fascinating. He found the strang
est desire to lick there, and he flushed at the forbidden thought, his touch faltering and then quickly passing over the area to land on lean ribs. He could feel the muscle there shifting ever so slightly as Hamon breathed, and he stayed there for long moments, palm pressed flat, as though that sign of life was to be savored, appreciated.

  Hesitantly, ready to jerk away if his actions were deemed too forward, his touch trailed across to hard pectorals, the mound of muscle curving into his hand so perfectly. He paused, but there was no refusal, only a faint hum of approval that vibrated the chest under his fingers. Holding his breath, he gently touched a nipple with a single fingertip.

  He caught his breath, fascinated as it hardened instantly, from flat to pebbled.

  He had caused that. His touch.

  He had never had this amount of freedom. Never wanted it.

  He felt so young, so without knowledge. No doubt Hamon was a man of experience, wanted by many. The likelihood of these tentative, painfully ignorant touches being at all desired seemed so slim.

  Yet the faint gasp that escaped Hamon’s lips seemed to point to the contrary.

  Rian caught his breath, waited anxiously to be pushed away, or for Hamon to laugh at his fumblings.

  Instead, the hand on his back began to circle soothingly, calmly.

  That did not feel like rejection. More like encouragement.

  He brushed over the nipple again, watching the reaction with utter absorption. He fought back another impulse to use his mouth, shocked at this second need that made his cock stir.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly fearful. It was so rarely that he became hard. It always seemed a sign of what Arran had made him. Less than a man, like there was no need for such a thing.

  When he had been used to sire children, only intoxicants and stimulants had brought him to any sort of virility. To feel himself stirring now, with no encouragement whatsoever, was frightening.

  He jerked back, only to pause as Hamon caught his hand, brought it to his lips to kiss gently before guiding it back onto his chest.

  They lay there breathing softly, neither making a move to either stop this or take it further.

  It became greatly evident that Hamon was giving him choices, neither pressing him to continue, but making it clear that he was enjoying the encounter.

  Rian had never been given a choice on this matter, and he hardly knew what to do with it.

  It helped that Hamon did not open his eyes, did not force him to face that steady gaze. He was free to do as he wished, if he could find courage.

  He tried not to think of his future, of the future Arran had decried, but it loomed large and larger with every hour that passed. Even now, Arran would be journeying to join the army, to join him.

  This may well be the only time he would ever touch in want.

  He could only pray that his brother never discovered how far Rian had already strayed from Arran’s rigid standards.

  Biting his lip, he resumed his perfidy, letting his touch trail downward, over the smooth chest and then further, tracing the faint trail of fine golden hair that led down to the waist band of the light sleep pants Hamon had been wearing since his healing, the most clothing Rian had ever seen him in.

  He halted there, unable to go further, even on the courage he had found up until this point.

  A large hand engulfed his, a thumb stroking over his knuckles soothingly, before it guided him beneath the fabric.

  “Pull the pants down,” the breathy whisper trembled ever so slightly.

  Rian hesitated. This was leading to something—more. Was he prepared to handle what would come?

  This time, he raised his eyes to meet dark brown ones, searching their depths, wanting to believe…

  Hamon smiled very slightly, his expression amazingly relaxed and non-forceful considering his normal demeanor.

  Sucking in an unsteady breath, Rian lowered his gaze, as his hand and Hamon’s hand slowly pushed down the intruding fabric, exposing curly golden hair surrounding a fully hard and very impressive-looking dusky pink cock.

  Rian was fascinated. The skin was so sleek, almost soft, veins clearly delineated. So much darker than his own slimmer and paler member. He stroked the tip, feeling it twitch under his fingertip, a bead of moisture forming, dampening his skin.

  He raised the finger to his lips, unable to resist the impulse to taste.

  Musky, a little bitter, but somehow good upon his tongue.

  A groan from Hamon took his attention, and he stared into the Hawk’s face, which was drawn into a predatory stare that made shivers run down his spine.

  Hamon closed his eyes tightly, looking away, breathing deeply.

  Rian should have felt fear, a desire to withdraw, but somehow that lustful glance had not affected him as he would have expected. None of his reactions to Hamon made sense—not before, and certainly not now.

  He did not flinch away, did not wish to escape this temporary bower that shielded them from other eyes, other expectations.

  In fact, Hamon’s obvious need and equally obvious control of it for Rian’s sake made him feel safer than he could ever remember. Almost without conscious thought, he reached out, closed his fingers around that thick shaft, breath catching at the play of skin over hard flesh.

  So hot and sleek. More moisture seeped over his fingers, and he spread it over the head gently, curling his fingers around the sensitive rim and playing there.

  Hamon’s breath paused completely, then resumed in short, jerky gasps.

  Rian felt heat curl within him, his own shaft rising to a painful hardness he could scarcely remember encountering. His own breath came more quickly as he watched what he was creating. The power to make another person lose control was heady. His touch was doing this. He was in control of this moment, something he had never experienced.

  He firmed his grip, sliding lower and beginning to twist and pull. The few times he had felt the desire to bring himself to completion, this motion had felt the best.

  It seemed to work. Hamon’s hips began to lift, almost helplessly, his face turned back to Rian, but his eyes were wide and unseeing, his hands clenching and unclenching in rhythm to Rian’s hand.

  The sight was entrancing, and Rian found his free hand falling to his own member, lightly stroking it, his body tensing, his breath catching…

  Hamon came with a sharp cry, hips flexing for a moment before freezing in place, his cum splattering over Rian’s hand and that hard chest.

  The sight made Rian shudder, and he came almost in unison, back arched, lips parted in a silent cry. No sound escaped him.

  He leaned over Hamon then, breathless, shocked, unable to believe what had just occurred. It was sexual. But it had been—pleasant. Not painful, not degrading.

  A large hand guided his head down, and his breath mingled with Hamon’s as they shared a languid kiss.

  Rian filed the images, the sensations, somewhere deep and safe. Something precious to be taken out when all seemed dark.

  It was impossible that he might know something this wonderful, this soul deep, ever again.

  * * *

  “Who knew sex was such an excellent antidote to spirit plane exhaustion? I have never seen you recover this quickly.” Wravon’s tone was wry as he watched Hamon wolf down incredible amounts of food.

  Hamon quirked a brow at him but did not cease his eating, a ravenous need that was currently overwhelming.

  Across the table, Rian was mirroring him, while Telan watched with a smile of approval. It was more than Hamon had ever seen Rian consume since he had met him, a healthy glow on those pale cheeks.

  Long, pale fingers tore at the chicken meat with delicate precision, and Hamon licked his lips, remembering those talented fingers upon him, stronger than he would have thought.

  Beautiful. The boy was utterly beautiful, in so many ways.

  Wravon elbowed him, drawing him back to the present, eyeing him with laughter sparkling in his eyes. Hamon flushed, realizing his thoughts
had been all too clear to those around him.

  For himself, he wanted to crow it from the rooftops, but for Rian there was only a protective instinct to shield the younger man from anything that might discomfort him in the least.

  Although, surprisingly, the prince had not reacted negatively to the teasing that the Hawks showered them with once they had risen and joined those at the table. He had seemed bemused and perhaps had not caught the meaning of some of the comments, but he had not shrunk away from the others, or retreated back into his own area of the pavilion, as Hamon had half expected.

  Instead, there was a new light in his eyes, his posture more erect and proud. Perhaps Hamon was not the only one who came away from this feeling strong and protective.

  Protective.

  He drew a sharp breath, forcing himself out of the bubble of contentment he had been savoring.

  Tomorrow…tomorrow the king would arrive. All they had achieved, newborn and fragile, would face the full might of a man who held ultimate power here. A man who claimed Rian for his own.

  Hamon stopped eating, his right hand clenching. The thought of Arran touching Rian, harming him in any fashion…

  It was unbearable.

  Wravon shot him a look, frowning, immediately picking up on his change of mood. Hamon rose to his feet, his cousin following, as he covered up his thoughts, clapping the other Hawks on the shoulder and sending Rian a calm look when the prince looked up.

  The two of them left the pavilion, silent now as they passed through the guards that ringed the prince’s area. It was only when they reached the area where the horses were kept that Hamon stopped, the presence of the animals calming his heart, even if they were not his own.

  “What are we going to do, Hamon? None of us are going to be able to stand aside if—when—that bastard harms Rian.” Wravon’s voice was low. As ever, they had to be cautious of being overheard.

  Hamon stood stolidly, arms folded over his chest, staring at the horses unseeingly. How indeed.