by J P Sayle
The wet heat shocked him back to reality. Sucking in a breath, he glanced at the other side of the room, letting it out when his brother didn’t stir. Aaden puffed his cheeks out trying to calm himself as he cleaned up.
The euphoria was not letting him escape the reality of what was happening to him. The images that got him off stood forefront and centre. Shit! I’m gay! Flopping back, he was unable to ignore it any longer. He was gay. I couldn’t be having all these weird-arse dreams about men sucking each other off, night after night, and not be gay, could I?
He swiped half-heartedly at the mess on his tummy with his forgotten T-shirt. Flinging it on the floor, he dressed before sinking back on the bed, his mind not shutting up. How on earth am I going to tell my parents this? Hey, Mum, Dad, I have been having dreams about being sucked off by a man in some century where they wear clothes that look like Vikings, and on top of that, I think I may be gay.
His inane thoughts had him burying his flushed face in the cool soft cotton of his pillowcase, hiding. The hysteria bubbled up into his throat, choking him just like the fizzy Tango he drank too fast at tea time, making him burrow deeper. Sliding up the duvet, he tried to blank out his crazy thoughts.
Kirk had been going on for weeks about a girl in their class, Louisa, ever since her boobs had started to grow. Kirk had become obsessed with wanting to cop a feel, whereas he couldn’t see what the big deal was. Maybe that should have been a clue, girls weren’t my thing or perhaps it was Louisa?
Aaden ran through all the girls in his year at school, ticking them off one by one, and then considered the seniors. He huffed loudly when he realised he was fighting a losing battle. Slamming his hand over his mouth, he gave Nick a panicked look, checking he hadn’t woken him. It was not the time for Nick’s twenty questions, not when all his freaked-out mind could think was that none of the girls were appealing.
His mind flipped to some of the recent movies he’d watched, realising the actors were what had drawn his attention. Mercury Rising with Bruce Willis had his spent penis want to vibrate in glee, Deep Impact with Elijah Wood getting the same response, only stronger. His brows drew tighter together. Concentrating hard, he tried to remember who the leading ladies were, only to draw a complete blank. The frustration had him pulling the pillow further down over his head so he could hide the whine that escaped.
Sagging, Aaden gave up trying to think of the women when other male film actors darted into his head: Viggo Mortensen in A Perfect Murder. His penis, as if it had a will of its own, responded instantly to the picture his mind conjured.
Buggering hell.
His arse clenched at what that essentially meant when the thought penetrated, making a wry chuckle escape his dry mouth. Aaden was grateful the pillow had muffled the sound, but he realised he was trying to suffocate himself. He took a breath, shoving the pillow away from his flushed, sweaty face and placed it back under his head. Licking his dry lips, he pouted up at the ceiling when he recognised he was going to have to think about it all at some point, but maybe not right now.
A soft swishing noise had him jumping in fright, turning to the door. He remembered his mother hadn’t shut it when she’d left after tucking Nick into bed. Nick’s new fear of being closed in the dark made Aaden scoff at him for being such a pussy. The night-light and the partially closed door started because Nick had watched some stupid episode of the X-files, freaking himself out with thoughts of alien abductions that might happen in the middle of the night.
Distracted, Aaden watched a sizeable white head poke around the door. He grinned at the bicoloured eyes that peered up at him. He made room for Max to jump up. Their routine had been established over the last few months, though Max was late tonight. As he fidgeted with the edge of his Marvel comic PJ top, his eye caught on the discarded dirty T-shirt telling himself it was maybe the best thing Max was late.
The mattress shifted under Max’s substantial weight as he settled down next to Aaden, making it hard for Aaden to contain the giggle. Who would have thought you could have a cat that was as nearly as big as a dog. His lack of tail was maybe a good thing because that would have only added extra weight Max could ill afford to carry.
He couldn’t believe his dad’s good fortune when he’d found Max in the cat shelter several months earlier. His mum and dad had been talking for a while about getting a pet, and somehow they’d decided that, now they were living in the country on the outskirts of Dartmoor, they suddenly needed a cat of all things. He and Nick had been annoyed. Having talked it over between themselves, they were both set on having a dog. A huge one that would frighten mean old Mr Cartwright who had a habit of spitting when he spoke.
Had his parents listened? Nope, and now he was grateful they hadn’t. Max was unique, his lack of tail only a part of it. He couldn’t explain why he knew Max was different, he just did. The two different coloured eyes didn’t harm either, making him look more like a big pure white, fierce lion. Aaden had bragged for weeks to his friends after they’d gotten him, thinking that Max belonged solely to him. Staring at him now, he was filled with burgeoning sensations giving him a sense of togetherness that left him centred and more aware of who he was.
“Come here, boy. I wondered where you had got to,” Aaden whispered into his soft, warm white fur, letting the deep rumble soothe him as he pulled him into his chest. He couldn’t understand how Max could make all his worries seem to float away, but at the moment he wasn’t going to complain.
Compelled to talk about them with Max, he spoke quietly, “Max, do you think there is anything wrong with being gay?” The quick negative head shake had his arms slacken along with his jaw as he gawped.
Aaden felt a shaky breath release, heating his suddenly cold lips as the next question came out in a rush of words. “Max, do you know what I’m talking about, understand what I’m saying?”
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, Aaden 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
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
Maximillian shifted his massive bulk on the warm stone wall, peering down at the vast battleground below. The giant Viking castle barricade had been built to protect the west coast from the possibility of an 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 beneath 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 amid 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 centred, 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. Ignorin
g 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. His insides shook at what he had found hiding inside Arngrim. 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, and 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 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.