THE BEGUILED

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As he approached the halfway point of his journey, just before his path looped back toward where he’d come, he was greeted by a familiar sight. There was no motion by the patch of birch trees, nor any disturbance in the snow at their base. This trap was empty, as were the many before, but Titon was well aware that he had within his clutches another kind of prey.

His nostrils flared, though he was not in need of breath, and his skin went hot, threatening to break sweat, though he was not warm. He did not know with certainty who trailed him, but could wager a guess. Had he been followed by any other, he’d simply have been flattered and amused, but for her to be at his heels put a fire in his chest—a fire he could not pretend was purely anger.

She had made her choice, and by all accounts she’d chosen well. Their friendship undiminished, Titon and Keethro had waged a tacit war, a war of two fronts, and each had scored a victory. Just as Titon had won the respect of the men, his fearless aggression having placed him above all others, Keethro had won the affection of the women with more subtle tactics. But whereas the battle for leadership required the swaying of many, the other struggle had always been over just one.

She was a most alluring contradiction in her design. The other women called her wanton names, and she dressed and walked—her stride was itself a sinful act—as if they were deserved. Yet among the men, raucous and coarse, none had ever claimed to have bedded her, save perhaps in boastful jest. Brazen though she seemed from afar, she turned coquettish and bashful when in private, increasing desire while thwarting its fulfillment. Lithe and youthful though she was, she had the fullness of a nursing mother—a fullness impossible not to notice given the way in which it was displayed. Yet unlike the other girls who bathed in the river with carelessness, making a peek easy enough for restive eyes, Kilandra was never seen exposed.

Without need of speaking, she called his name.

Rage was all that kept him from turning. Why she had chosen to come to him now was enough to drive him to madness. Two years prior she would have come an angel, but now her furs of white hid a fiendish succubus. Had she planned this? To wait for Elise’s belly to have swollen? Had she heard it gossiped that Titon no longer stole the souls of Dogmen women, furthering his lustful agony?

But the more he mulled her intentions, the less they seemed to matter, and before he knew it, he was upon her. With a ferocity that had built for years, he assaulted her, and as though she had always felt the same, she answered. Naked upon her white furs, the two embraced, exchanging with their lips a lifetime of longing, now acknowledged, and an unspoken agreement to a lifetime of secrecy that would be theirs alone.

As his trespass became irreversible, she suddenly refused him, giving way to a one-sided skirmish. Her initial savagery was impressive as she screamed and bit, but the duration of her struggle betrayed its insincerity. Nonetheless, her having yielded spurred him to heightened passion, and he consumed her with his every sense: her soft skin, given as if for the first time to gooseflesh; her taste, ripened yet virgin; and her eyes, stripped of their usual defiance.

Elation upon guilt and relief upon dread, he looked at her in the finality of his act, studying her expression of ecstasy. That he was a leader meant nothing—that he was her master meant all. But as he enjoyed his newfound glory, his ultimate conquest, so did his prize change. Her body shrunk beneath him, replaced by the slight frame of a woman svelte and lithesome. Her dark hair, first losing its cobalt luster, went grey and then white. But in the throes of euphoria, he did not notice, nor did it matter, as he realized his most coveted triumph.

His eyes would not yet open, but he could sense he was in darkness. This was a place he had never before awoken in—Keethro was at least sure of that much. These unfamiliar and potentially threatening surroundings did not allow him the presence of mind to be properly disturbed by the illusion he’d just experienced…dreamt through the eyes of another.

It felt more as if he had slipped from a womb than merely been roused to consciousness. Moisture clung to his skin, and an uncomfortable heat blanketed him near completely. One part of him, however, was cold, exposed, erect…and damp—a dampness not fully explained by an erotic dream envisioned to completion.

No stranger to awakening to physical intercourse, his priority was regaining his sight without looking foolish, and he made no move to hide his turgidity. The quiet stillness he was in felt somehow contrived. It was as if he was the subject of hushed observation.

How odd it was, to find he was somewhat relieved by the repugnant sight before him. Keethro’s memories returned to him, with a suddenness that was to be expected. Chief among them was the fear that he would have awoken to an act of violation far worse than it appeared he had suffered. It was odd as well, that which he felt toward the man who now looked at him, sickly thin and hunched, toothlessly beaming as if he’d committed a proud mischief. Those were not the only eyes upon Keethro. As he’d guessed, his molestation had been the focal point of the underground community. The light of the solitary sconce outside their cage glimmered in those eager eyes, all awaiting Keethro’s response.

Pity—that was what he felt toward the skinny creature who had profaned him. He taunted Keethro, licking his gums and lips, apparently taking pleasure in something he saw in Keethro’s expression. The vile thing sat upon the lap of his large keeper, another beast similar to the guards in that he seemed at home in this place as he stroked what remained of the hair on the head of his pet. A notion crossed Keethro’s mind that perhaps he had misplaced master and servant as he watched them interact, those gentle strokes denoting more pride than ownership, but it made no difference. Keethro would kill them both—that much was certain, and he would do so with less malice than he would have previously imagined.

The two rightmost fingers of his axe hand twitched and cramped in rebellion—they were the true price he’d pay for his mortal needs of sleep and dignity. Before having drifted to troubling dreams, Keethro had surveyed the mangled fingers of all the men, finding none who had lost any on their left before their right. In doing so, Keethro had resigned himself to the inevitable loss of some of his most important digits, and the reality that he would never throw an axe again with any mastery. It was a small price to pay, he reasoned, should he be able to some day escape and have his revenge on the man who put him here.

The bigger man died quickly, but Keethro was surprised by the strength and rage of the smaller. He died regardless, though his neck was so small and wiry it proved impossible to break cleanly, forcing Keethro to kill him gruesomely by bashing his head against the clay ground. Smashing the life from him gave Keethro time to ponder and gain clarity. There was a strange sadness that came with destroying these two creatures who’d found a home, if not a happiness, in this horrid place. Keethro came to realize that if anything, he thanked them. Two fingers was less than he’d expected to lose in teaching the others the result of interfering with his slumber, the sodden taint on his honor now all but expunged by his revenge. “I am a heavy sleeper,” he admitted to the corpse, ensuring it was dead with a final thud against the ground, “and I value my rest.”

I have no hatred to spare for these two, Keethro realized as he returned to his corner to close his eyes, no longer having to fear being disturbed by his fellow prisoners. It would be several hours before the guards would come and notice the bodies. All my hatred has been promised, in full, to my faithful friend and brother. The one responsible for my being here. The one who will die when I find my way out.