by J P Sayle
He considered his parents’ teachings, and the truth of Manannán’s foretelling as the human race was beginning to forget about his kind. The hate of otherness forever a battle the human race needed to fight against, whether they remembered or not. His haunches slumped at the weight of responsibly, of past mistakes. Maximillian gave an internal yowl of disgust, feeling the heaviness pushing into his soul.
Putting a shutter in his mind against his negative thoughts, he concentrated on the enclosure in front of him, but his mind would not let up. Growls rumbled out when he considered all the guardian cats that had chosen not to follow their path. King Manannán gave each cat, once of age, the opportunity to become mortal and denounce their true nature. It had meant that over the centuries, their numbers had dwindled, making them appear mythical rather than a reality.
He’d not been afforded this luxury. Born of royal descent, his bicoloured eyes, one green and one blue along with his snow-white fur, signified his status. As his kind lived long and undeterminable life spans, Maximillian had believed he’d have centuries of freedom before picking up the mantle and becoming King. Unfortunately, his parents perished in a fire before his fortieth birthday, leaving him no options but becoming King of the Manx Cat Guardians before he’d fully come into all his powers.
Having no choice and too young to manage in the eyes of Manannán, he had received a Manx Wiccan guide, Christina.
Accepting his fate, Maximillian had left his home on the south side of the Island, travelling west to find his first charge guided by Christina. All his charges were male, with male soulmates, the highest gift bestowed on a Guardian. The beauty of those relationships sustained him through the long years as he moved from one charge to the next.
He was reminded of conversations with Christina as he felt the smear of Arngrim’s thoughts still touching his soul. Arngrim sensed there was something different about Magnus, though he couldn’t explain what, but he detested him even when he didn’t understand where the hate came from. Maximillian did, and it worried him about what future role his kind would play in maintaining the universal balance of love.
Christina had spoken of the changes she observed with the introduction of Christianity and Catholicism as it replaced Paganism. Men loving men would create struggles with new religious beliefs embedded into the fabric of the small island and the world as a whole. Christina believed his kind, cat guardians, would be even more pertinent to sustaining a force of love and commitment for those who might struggle to acknowledge or accept who they were and who they loved, as society judged them with hate under the guise of religious beliefs.
Maximillian hadn’t initially taken the warnings as dangerous, but now, he struggled with this evolving civilisation, though he’d admit that out loud. For the first time, he couldn’t convince himself his charge would accept his soul mate.
New religions were portraying same-sex relationships as blasphemous, making people hide their true feelings from the world and each other. The cost attached to being found out, a price no man who loved would be willing pay—death, for them or their loved one. Maximillian felt the weight of these changes as they gathered inside his soul daily. His intuition spoke of something coming, though he was uncertain as to what.
His thoughts derailed, shuddering, his fur displaced when Óláfr’s cries reverberated through his massive body. Fear coursed through him at the screams that would soon be heard all over the settlement if Óláfr continued to rage in such a manner. It would surely alert others to his inner turmoil, and that would not be a good thing. The anger, confusion, and sadness pouring through their link were overwhelming; Maximillian shook off a sense of foreboding.
Low growls of frustration got lost under the fading sounds of sword fighting as he skulked along the cooling dark stone, purposefully avoiding the internal shouts from his master. Maximillian rolled his sagging shoulders as he headed in the direction of the one place he would find solace from his charge Óláfr.
He remembered how happy he’d been when he had met the squawking red-faced, dark-headed infant. Óláfr had been born in 1177, destined to inherit the lands and title of King due to his status as the son born in wedlock. Óláfr had only been a child when his father, King Guðrøðr, had died. Too young to claim his rightful position, it brought much discord to the people of the island, allowing his much older brother Rögnvaldr, not born in wedlock, to take control.
Óláfr, now twenty-three years old, fought for what he felt rightfully belonged to him. Maximillian having lived among men a very long time, and understood Óláfr’s needed to claim his birthright to be King of Mann. What he struggled to understand was that it appeared to be to the detriment of connecting with his soul mate, Magnus.
The urge to huff at the circumstances had him hurrying to escape his moodiness. Silently, he prowled down the walls, jumping effortlessly, his padded feet making no sound as he landed on the hard dirt floor. Maximillian skulked through the dim, cold corridors, his fur protecting him from the constant chill. The thick castle walls prevented any warmth from seeping past the exterior, leaving the castle inside at the same stone-cold temperature regardless of the season.
Following the light infiltrating through the castle wall slits, he travelled undetected down the dim passages and through the stockades. He threaded carefully through small gaps because his whiskers were never a good indicator as his arse seemed more prominent than their breadth.
Attempting to squeeze through the last stockade, Maximillian hissed and spat, his gums peeled back, revealing his sharp white teeth. He was embarrassed at having to wiggle from side to side. His fur brushed against the roughened wood, splinters catching in his coat. Seething, he finally managed to drag his arse through the tiny gap; grateful no one had seen his lack of dignity. He shook his body vigorously, dislodging the remnants of the wood stuck in his fur.
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 the increasing need for space to clear the torment from his 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 a 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 woodpile 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 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 timber, 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 forgetting 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 at 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 pelt, 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 regularly. 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
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.