CHAPTER NINE: LESSER CREATURE

“We’ll find your Blade,” Ciaran promised the fallen Elven King.

Ciaran would have promised Aethaden anything at that moment to remove that stricken look on the Elf’s beautiful face.  Yet, strangely, his words did not seem to comfort Aethaden.

“No,” Aethaden whispered and seemed to both cringe away from him and cling to him.  “You do not understand --”

“We will find him. Don’t lose hope.  I know all about losing hope. It’s what brought me here,” Ciaran told him.  “But then I found you and …” He shook his head. “Everything changed. Or it feels like it has.”

“You came here … what brought you here?” Aethadan asked, very intent all of the sudden, even though his body still trembled.

Ciaran found himself unable to answer that.  Though he felt so much better, he knew that he couldn’t be.  A death-dealing illness couldn’t simply go away overnight. Especially not his that had been with him all his life.  Maybe this was the eye of the storm, where he would feel better, but then worse would come.

So he answered, “Now that is a complicated answer.  Which requires beer or something stronger.  But first … I’d like to carry you inside. I think you’d be more comfortable.  You’re still weak. Is that all right?”

“Carry me … inside?  Y-yes, please,” Aethaden answered.  “I’m still … not recovered.” He paused then tossed his hair back. “But I am stronger than I look.”

“I can believe it.”

“I just want you to understand that my weakness will … go away. I will not always be as I am now, but powerful,” Aethaden told him.

Ciaran let out a little laugh. It seemed like the Elven King wanted to make sure he knew that he was big and strong and not prone to fainting or something.  He assumed it was just Aethaden’s pride talking at having to be carried.

“I understand,” Ciaran said, trying to hide his amusement. “You’re big and strong and --”

“I am.  You must remember that,” Aethaden interrupted.

“All righty then,” he said agreeably.  “Ready to be picked up.”

“Yes, you may lift me.”

Despite the assent, the Elven King seemed to shrink in his arms.  Huge purple eyes gazed up at his face filled with almost fear. Was it so terrible for Ciaran to touch him?  That hurt to know. But Ciaran shook himself. This was not about him, but about Aethaden.  He had to take his feelings out of it. Or rather, he had to remind himself what the Elf must be feeling.  He’d come to a place that was clearly alien to him. He had thought to find his people here, but he had not.  And he was dying.  That alone would make someone afraid.  Ciaran could definitely relate to that.

Even though I feel well right now.

He tenderly lifted Aethaden up in his arms. The Elf was so light even though he was muscular and very tall.  Aethaden, surprisingly, wrapped his arms around Ciaran’s neck, his hands seeming to reach for his birthmark.  Aethaden’s fingers, which had been barely brushing over Ciaran’s birthmark landed more solidly on it. Ciaran shivered.  Every time the Elf touched his birthmark electric shocks seemed to go through him, but not unpleasant.

“This … This marks you.”  

A shiver of a different kind went through Ciaran.  It wasn’t fear, but it felt portentiousness.

“You make it sound … important. But it’s just a weird birthmark, I know. It looks like a tattoo, but it isn’t.”

“I know,” Aethaden said quietly and one of his hands stole to his collar and tugged it up towards his chin.

“Okay.”  Ciaran decided not to pursue that.  Perhaps it was a remnant of the language barrier that made the Elven King sound so mysterious when he was just being agreeable.

Or maybe he knows something about my birthmark, but … but why would he?  Yet it was when he saw it that he nearly fainted. Or maybe I’m wrong, but it seemed … seemed that way.

Twig had jumped off the stump and was nosing and pawing open the front screen door. She’d gotten it open enough that he could use his foot to kick it open the rest of the way.

“Thanks, Twig.” He grinned at her and she gave him a returning smile.  

She loped inside ahead of them and went directly to the comfortable couch before the fireplace.  He brought Aethaden over there. He thought it might be good for the Elf to be out of the bedroom. Besides, it was less intimate to speak here then near a bed.  Aethaden allowed himself to be placed on the sofa with his head on one of the overlarge pillows.

“I shall be myself directly again. I have just …”  Again, Aethaden’s gaze went to Ciaran’s birthmark and then quickly away. “Had a shock.”

“What shock?  Did something happen in the house?”  But he already knew nothing had happened in the house. It was when Aethaden had come outside and seen him that his expression had changed.  So he asked further as he pointed to the birthmark, “Does -- does this mean something to you?”

“Tell me first why you came here,” Aethaden demanded, but gently.  Those big purple eyes tracked him.

Ciaran raked his fingers through his sweat dampened hair. “That’s really personal.”

“There can be nothing more personal or life changing than what I will tell you about your Mark,” the Elven King said and the way he said “Mark” he heard that it was capitalized.

“You can’t just say something like that and expect me to talk about anything else,” Ciaran let out an uncomfortable laugh, not that he found this funny in the least.

The Elven King sat up, one hand pressed to the sofa, while the other played with his collar. “Please tell me why you lost hope.”

Ciaran turned away from the Elven King.  “I need a drink.”

He went to the refrigerator, feeling Aethaden’s eyes on him the whole time. He wasn’t sure what was more surreal: that an Elf was in his living room or that he was about to confess to an Elf something he hadn’t told to anyone else.  He pulled out two beers. He had no idea if the Elf drank or if he’d like beer, but it was worth a shot. He turned to find Aethaden and Twig both on the couch, staring at him.

He wrenched off the tops of both and came back into the living room. He handed one to Aethaden.  The Elven King took it from him after a moment. He wiped his hand along the perspiring sides of the bottle then sniffed the top before taking a tentative sip. His eyes widened in pleasure and he took a larger swallow.

“I know it’s still morning, but I figured we could use one or two or five of these.” He drank deeply of the beer. He rarely drank alcohol, because it interfered with his training and made his illness worse. But he didn’t care about any of that at that moment. If he was going to talk about him dying then he was going to be drinking.

“This is fermented. Some kind of grain, yes?” Aethaden asked as he licked beer off his lips. It was a completely unselfconscious act that was completely sexy and adorable at the same time. Ciaran’s mood lifted immediately.

“Yeah, it’s called beer. You like it?”

“I do. It is very similar to something we brew called Kazir.”  Aethaden drank more, licking at the top of the glass bottle which had Ciaran staring overly long at that pink tongue.

He quickly blinked and looked away. “So … Elves drink beer, who knew?”

“I imagine your ancestor knew very well,” Aethaden murmured.

Ciaran’s head jerked up. His beer foamed a little at the top.  Twig’s ears were twitching. She was looking between the two of them.

“My ancestor …”

“Your ancestor was an Elf. A Riven Elf,” Aethaden stated.  He didn’t look necessarily pleased about this. His voice was strictly neutral.  

Ciaran’s mouth went very dry.  “You’re a Valore Elf so … Riven Elves are … different?  You don’t like them?”

“Like them?” Aethaden let out a dry laugh. “They are both the ones we absolutely depend upon for our lives and … and our greatest enemies.”

“I don’t understand.” And he really didn’t. And he really didn’t believe he was part Elf.  

“The Riven were once the Valore’s greatest enemy.  Many of them still are actually. They have abilities to control the dark things.” Aethaden swallowed and rolled the beer bottle between his delicate hands. “Like the Black Knights you fought last night and there are Storm Maidens and many other terrible creatures that seek to do nothing more than destroy all that is good and light in the worlds. The Riven control them all.”

Thinking on the Black Knights from the night before, Ciaran could readily believe that.  They’d seemed foul to him.  Then he shook himself.  Aethaden was saying that he was part Riven and that the Riven were Blades and …

“But you’re looking for Riven Elves, right?  Those Blades are Riven?” Ciaran clarified.

“Yes. The wars between the Valore and Riven were doing nothing but destroying us both.  And there was a noble house - the most noble - of Riven kind, which were called Blades who wished the end to his bloodshed,”  Aethaden explained. He took another larger swallow of beer. “So this royal house of powerful warriors magically joined themselves to the Undriels, my family, the rules of all the Valore.  This gave each of us greater power than alone. And with the Blades to protect us, we could wield the Guardians without fear against the rest of the Riven if they broke the peace.”

“And if the Valore broke the peace?” Ciaran asked.

“We haven’t.” Aethaden’s purple eyes blazed. “We never would.”

“But if you did, what would happen to you?” Ciaran pressed.

“We would …”  Aethaden clutched his beer bottle so hard that his knuckles went white. “We would lose our Blades and we would … fall into the Black Sleep.  All the Valore would be at risk from the Riven for there would be none to call the Guardians to protect them.”

Ciaran blinked, even more confused. “But didn’t you say you were looking for your Blade?  So you lost him and --”

“We did not betray our promise. We have not brought war to the Riven so what has happened with our Blades can have nothing to do with that!  You are ignorant! That cannot likely be helped because you are human and … and there is that,” Aethaden interrupted.

Ciaran grimaced at his use of the word “ignorant”.  But he kept his temper. “I can only become knowledgeable about this if you explain it clearly.  If you didn’t break your promise, where’s your Blade?  Why are you looking for Blades here? On Earth?”

“They were taken from us.  We don’t know how or why. I was not old enough to have mine yet.  I came looking for him … here, because when this peace was forged, there were some of the Blades that would not agree to be bound.  They were exiled here.”

“But there are no Elves here!  Other than … you,” Ciaran said almost helplessly.  He knew where Aethaden was going with this. It was insane, but he knew.

“There are … descendants of Elves, of Riven Elves,” Aethaden said so softly that Ciaran could hardly hear him.  “So … now you must tell me why you had no hope and you came here. I have said far more than I intended to already.”

Ciaran’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Aethaden was trying to tell him that he was a descendant of Riven Elves and … could it explain his family’s illness?  But why would it? Why would being part Elf be killing him?  

“I’m … I’m dying,” Ciaran finally got out. He drank the rest of his beer.  He was still thirsty. God, so thirsty for more life.

“Not anymore,” Aethaden said. He had lowered his head. His hair was like a waterfall of snowy silk, but he raised it now.  “Neither of us is going to die of the Wasting.”

“The Wasting?”

Aethaden nodded. “Since my one thousandth year, I have been losing my strength, my health, my power.  Because I was unbound.  There were no Blades in our lands.  My whole family has fallen into the Black Sleep. I am the last Undriel.  And you …”

Ciaran started to pace.  “People on my mom’s side of my family have always died young. A blood cancer, they think. Rare and deadly.  My time was finally up. This isn’t magic! It’s science!  This --”

“This is the Wasting. It was just like your Riven ancestor believed.” Aethaden’s purple eyes grew distant. “Unbound Riven Blades. Here. All this time.  Wasting away as we did. And we did not know and you did not know.”

“Why aren’t we dying now? If I even believe that --”

“Because you are my Blade,” Aethaden said with absolutely no joy. It was a dead statement.

But Ciaran was too busy trying to wrap his head around all of this to truly register the Elf’s behavior.  “No, that’s … how do you know?”

Aethaden did not answer him.  “I want you to stay where you are. You are not to approach me.”

Ciaran was blinking again. “What? Why?  Why can’t I approach you? I’m not going to hurt you. According to you, I’m your Blade!”

“You do not accept that you are yet. You may do something foolish. Your human nature may cause you to -- to act as humans do,” Aethaden answered vaguely. He’d put the beer down and now both hands had moved to the delicate buttons that held his tunic closed.  

“What humans do? I have no idea what you are talking about,” Ciaran answered him peevishly, but his eyes were locked on Aethaden’s hands.

“I am going to undo my tunic --”

“Why are you getting undressed --”

“Because I must show you my Mark and then you will understand,” Aethaden answered and he stood. “But you will not approach. You will not dare touch me. You will stay where you are. The Violine should protect me.”

“The Violine …” Ciaran glanced at Twig who was listening with a great deal of intentness. She understands what we’re saying. She knows something about this.  “She won’t need to protect you. Aethaden, I don’t know what you think about humans, in general, or about me, in particular, but … but I would never hurt you.”

“Your words ring true, but … we shall see.”  Aethaden’s nimble fingers went to those buttons again and he slowly undid each one.  

Ciaran crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look like he wasn’t interested in what he was about to see. The truth was that the Elf fascinated him. His skin. That hair. Those eyes.  And now more skin was being revealed to him in this sensual stripping. The Elf wasn’t meaning to be sensual, but everything he did was.  

Ciaran surreptitiously wiped perspiration that had broken across his upper lip.  Aethaden had undone the buttons halfway down his chest. He then slid the tunic down his shoulders. So much pale, creamy flesh was revealed.  All muscled and beautiful. Aethaden then moved his hair out of the way and Ciaran’s breath caught.

His birthmark was on Aethaden’s skin.  Though he had only seen most of it in pictures, he recognized it.  The delicate purples and blues.  The pattern that wasn’t a human pattern.  He touched his own neck where it was.  His birthmark throbbed.

“The same,” Ciaran breathed.

“Yes,” Aethaden said dully. “We are Marked for one another. For all to see.”

Ciaran let out a shrill bark of laughter.  “We’re what? Fated mates or something?”

“No!” Aethaden cried and drew up his tunic, clutching it at the front. “It is not a love match.  We are simply … magically suited.”

Ciaran rubbed his face. “So … what does that mean exactly?”

“Once we complete the bond, we will both not only be freed of the Wasting, but will have an increase in our powers.  We will be … bound. Forever.” Aethaden looked disturbed by this.

“I … I don’t have any powers.”  Ciaran was immediately crestfallen, but then he was grinning again.  He wasn’t dying. He wouldn’t die.  If this was true … if it was true … and how could it be?  But the Elf was directly before him!  And his sense of greater health since he’d met Aethaden would also confirm what he was saying.

“Of course, you have powers.  You showed them with the Black Knights.  No normal human or Elf could do such a thing,” Aethaden assured him as he shakily redid those buttons.

Ciaran had a mad desire to do them for him, but he knew that would be insane to offer that.  “All right. The thing with the Black Knights was pretty bad ass of me. But you said forever, but humans … humans don’t live that long. You know that, right?”

“Once you come to the Elven Realm, you will be blessed with eternal youth,” Aethaden stated as he finished doing up the last button.  

“Oh, that’s … that’s cool.” Not ever having believed he’d reach thirty, Ciaran couldn’t imagine forever spreading out before him.  

To live forever. To be young and strong forever … But wait, he said in the Elven Realm … I’d have to leave here?  I can’t leave ...

“That is what they say about humans in any case,” Aethaden answered.

“There are many humans in the Elven Realm?” Ciaran asked vaguely, not really paying attention, his mind still trapped in the idea that he was somehow not going to die and could live forever, but in a different realm.

“No, of course not.  There are none. We would not have such crea … beings in our realm,” Aethaden muttered.

Ciaran narrowed his eyes.  “Creatures? Okay, what is the deal here?  What’s your problem with humans?”

“I have no problem with them.  Humans are considered lesser beings,” Aethaden answered him as he sat down on the couch again.

“Lesser?  Wow. You’ve said a few things that have made me wonder about how you view humans,” Ciaran said as his mind began to pick up the pieces. “You’re afraid I’m going to attack you though you have no reason to think that of me.  I’ve saved your life and kept you safe.”  Aethaden looked a little uncomfortable at that. “You’re convinced that simply seeing your naked chest that I would -- would try and rape you?” He made that a question. He saw the answer in Aethaden’s eyes and the flared nostrils. He felt a mixture of righteous anger and sorrow for the Elf that he was living with such misplaced fear. But then he remembered. “And now you nearly called me a creature, but definitely called me lesser?”

Aethaden picked up his beer and drank it down.  “These are facts of human nature and position in the worlds.  Not opinions.  Humans are brutish creatures.  Your Elven blood has clearly refined you but I am certain that others would not be so civilized.”  

“Civilized?!  But you’re bound to me!” Ciaran sputtered, his arms flying up into the air, beer spilling on himself.  “You said it yourself, we’re magically … connected, suited, whatever! How can you be magically suited to a lesser creature?”

Aethaden lowered his head.  Clear worry furrowed his brow and Ciaran realized that he really believed humans were less. He was worried about the fact that they were bound.  That’s why his joy had dimmed to ashes when he’d realized that Ciaran was his Blade rather than some Elven warrior riding off in the woods someplace.

“I do not know,” Aethaden said after a moment. “It will be an … issue.  But once they see you are semi-civilized and I am fully restored, they will not care.  Too much. Given time. You will never be one of us, but you will have a role to play as my Blade.”

“Oh, how good of them and you,” Ciaran remarked faintly. His good feelings about being free of the Wasting was now being replaced with very bad feelings. He felt stunned as if someone had knocked him on the head.  Aethaden’s words were impossibly ugly. They were the exact opposite of the outside appearance of the being in front of them.

I wish another of these.” Aethaden stuck out the empty bottle to Ciaran.

Ciaran stared at it.  “This lesser creature is certain that the greater creature can get his own damned beer.”

“I am a king. I am your king.” Aethaden’s eyes narrowed.

“You might be a king, but you are not mine.  I might be your Blade or whatever, but from what you’ve told me, that makes me your equal,” Ciaran answered hotly.  His temper was burning now. His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were flashing.  He was angry and hurt and he wasn’t getting Aethaden a damned drink!

More narrowed purple eyes at him.  “That is not how this works.”  

“Really?  You think you know how this works! You insult me!  You … you pompous ass! I’m not getting you a beer, yourmajesty!”  Ciaran glared at him. “And I’m not going with you to the Elven Realm where I can be grateful to be among the Elves. I’m staying here.  On Earth. You? You can go home.”

With that, he turned his back on King Aethaden Undriel and went upstairs to shower and change. He was going out.  The Elf could take care of his own goddamned self.

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