Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

7.7

The full moon crept nearer. As any elf, Ithildin could sense it. But he no more could feel at ease about that phase of the moon. He was afraid that every time he looked at full moon he would remember his vision and the black shadows gliding through the forest.

"We should spend the night at the warrior's side," Dshetra said. "Send the Northerner to the guest house, our women will take care of him. And don't forget your kriss."

Ithildin felt like the earth had shifted under his feet.

"What is it, Dshetra? What else the cruel fate has in store for us?" he whispered and clenched his fists, to prevent his fingers from shaking.

"Haven't you guessed? He who is bitten by an ashwastha changes into one during the first full moon."

Ithildin hung his head. He wanted to scream, "I can't take it anymore! I didn't spend any time alone with Lielle! I haven't forgotten what my beloved's kiss tastes like only because an elf forgets nothing!"

But he rose and did what he'd been asked.

To Alva he said nothing. He thought bitterly that it had become a habit.

It was the first time the elf saw Dshetra with a weapon − the old man had a silver dagger at his belt. They sat at Kintaro's bedside. The barbarian's sleep was troubled: he tossed and turned in his sleep, sometimes groaned. The old oracle had the foresight to buckle him to the bed.

"How will it be?" Ithildin asked, his voice caught in his throat.

"If he manages to change, we must kill him. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"He will turn into a beast. There will be nothing human in him, only the bloodlust."

"I understand."

"It's possible he will die before changing. The first metamorphosis is very painful. Only the ashwasthas know how to manage it. When they want to make somebody one of them, they initiate them in a temple, under their priests' care. A bite victim, who has survived an attack, usually dies during the first change without an antidote. I want you to see how it happens. Let's wait for the moon to rise."

They didn't have to wait long.

Once the shining silver circle of the moon emerged from the clouds, Kintaro started to toss and turn even more, rolling his head about. His body shook violently, and a strange sound very akin to a growl formed in his chest.

"Look closely," Dshetra said.

Kintaro opened his eyes, and Ithildin couldn't help gasping. The nomad's eyes had been as black as olives before, but now they were like gleaming amber. With a trembling hand the elf reached for the hilt of his kriss. Had he believed in the One God, like Alva, he would have started to pray.

The nomad twitched and suddenly shook in violent convulsions, his terrifying yellow eyes rolling into his head. His upper lip jerked up, showing teeth, and a feral growl escaped his frothed mouth.

"Eliu Dirfion!" the elf whispered, clasping the sword hilt harder.

Seized by mortal fear, the elves didn't call for gods. They called for their valiant ancestors, to find their courage inside. The last time Ithildin had done it was before the fateful fight in the Wild Steppe, which he had lost so miserably. Before the fight with the Essanti chief. With Kintaro who now tossed about the bed, tore at his bandages, growled and ground his teeth, being devoured by the beast inside.

A suitable fate for the Essanti chief, who had lived his life a predator. He had always been heedless of the suffering of others. Namely, of the suffering of a prisoner, chained to a post as a toy for the whole tribe. Maybe he hadn't even noticed him.

Ithildin remembered the saying of his people: "Justice tastes like blood."

But was a predator capable of spilling his blood for the sake of his victim?

How was it possible to judge someone whom you ate with, slept with, and shared pleasure with?

None of my ancestors asked themselves such questions. They knew only one kind of mercy − with a sharp blade or a poisoned cup.

He called to mind one of the stories from the Great War. A young elf who had barely come of age was serving as a physician in the train. When it became clear the field was lost, the wounded elves asked him for ithair, 'easy death.' The young elf hesitated for a long time, but in the end made up his mind and killed all the patients in his care. By then the humans had already overran the train, and he hadn't had time to kill himself before they took him prisoner.

The story went that the humans killed the young elf and defiled his body. Now Ithildin knew better − they defiled his body without killing him. He probably died in the tent of his rapists some time after − days, weeks, or months maybe.

It was a moral tale from a book for young adults. Its purpose was to show that ithair should be carried out as swiftly as possible. But now Ithildin saw it in a new light: as a story about an elf who had cast doubt on his ancestors' tradition. He should have followed through with it. He should have stood at the threshold and defend the wounded till his last breath. At least that was what Ithildin would have done in his place.

"I saw all I had to see," he said firmly. "Give him the antidote."

Dshetra nodded and took out a small bottle made of dark glass. He brought Kintaro's head up, nimbly pitched his nose and made him swallow some of the medicine.

"A few drops is enough. The medicine is very strong. We soak arrowheads and spearheads in it for hunting ashwasthas. That way their wounds don't heal."

Meanwhile the nomad ceased his tossing and became motionless. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed... slowed some more...

Ithildin jumped to his feet and bent over Kintaro, afraid to believe his own eyes. The barbarian lay pale and still like a dead man.

"What have you done, old man? You've killed him!" he gasped in terror.

"Calm down. He will sleep till morning."

Ithildin's legs gave way. He sat on the floor and buried his face in the bedspread.

This, every full moon? He didn't say it out loud, but Dshetra heard him, of course.

"Every full moon. In time the fits will became more prolonged and violent. More exhausting. More dangerous."

The old man came closer, put his bony hand on Ithildin's shoulder.

"I can stop his suffering. It will be painless. Permanent."

"I've long stopped believing in merciful death," the elf answered. "Please, forgive my lack of restraint, Dshetra. Show me how to make the antidote, and I'll be making it myself from now on."

Dshetra touched his head lightly, and the elf sensed the sympathy coming from him. The oracle of Ujjay was passionless, but in no way heartless.

"You are kind and generous." His mind-speech almost sounded gentle. "Your husbands are lucky."

"Why do you call them my husbands?"

"Our women sometimes take two husbands too, and our men − two wives."

"But I'm not a woman."

"That's why you are a husband to them, not a wife."

Ithildin couldn't found any objections to the naïve Jarsh reasoning.

Sometimes, when he dressed Kintaro's and Alva's wounds, he would remember that conversation and smile.