Wyrm

Barclay laid awake, eyes pointed skyward but not seeing the stars. His thoughts were elsewhere, but not far away. In fact, they were opposite him, separated only by the black remains of their fire. The seemingly young, though in truth far older, cursed being slept peacefully, untouched by the troubles gnawing at Barclay's stomach. Wyrmheart was 80 years old, an age which marked the beginning of eligibility as a possible mate for dragons, as Barclay had learned. His new body reflected that, appearing to be between 18 and 20 years in age. A child still, compared to himself. Barclay would be 40 in less than half a year. It was an age to be proud of for one who makes their coin by hunting game. Now, however, he felt like a predator more than an honest huntsman. It certainly wasn't uncommon for such a difference in age between couples, and there are those degenerate enough to take children who have not reached the age of 10 as their betrothed. Those were typically the result of arranged marriages or parents who sell their children for money, and while he could perhaps judge those disgusting enough to pray on children, he could not judge the practice of arranged or sold marriages. He had inflicted a far worse fate on the young half-bred.

The moonlight glinted off the silver tag threaded through his companion's ear. Companion. Who was he fooling when he referred to Wyrmheart as such. He was his slave. He had pressed the hot iron crest into the boy's pale chest himself, and later watched his ear be pierced and the tag attached. There was a purpose without cruelty behind these acts, or so he told himself. Sad to think that slavery was the fate of most, if not all, wyrms. Wyrms were the result of some kind of magicks that transformed dragons to humans. It was imperfect, leaving behind patches of scales and draconic teeth, which marked them as less than both their halves. Alongside the transformation, the curse stole their victim's memory, though not entirely. Even so, none can recall why they changed or any names, including their own. When the enslavement of humans became forbidden, wyrms became a convenient replacement. Their mostly human bodies meant that not much had to be adjusted to keep them, and the remnants of their former figure separated them from civilized society, removing any feeling of guilt. Perhaps for the heartless there was no guilt, but Barclay despised the practice. Except, he was now in possession of a slave. Such a hypocrite he had become, but he would rather have Wyrmheart be in his gentle hands than in ones far crueler. He had planned to be a caregiver to this lost little lamb, but perhaps his intentions were not so pure.

The first instance happened during the branding. He had secretly administered a powerful aphrodisiac to Wyrmheart beforehand, and used the herb's effects to spare his victim from the pain of heated iron. In order to infuse enough pleasure into his blood, however, he had to kiss him. When the kiss wasn't enough, he moved his mouth to the youth's nipple, and that seemed to suffice. He had not planned for the act to stir feelings of lust in the inexperienced virgin. When the cursed dragon revealed that he did not understand his new body, and that the kiss and suckle had left him desperately confused, Barclay offered his body as a tool for exploration. It was a poor and hasty idea that could only have ended in the manor it had; he saw that now. Still, the lingering felling of their penises pressed together and of the dragon's forked tongue running along his shaft resurfaced whenever they were close.

That memory came back to him now, as arousing as ever. He slid his trousers and linen briefs down until his penis was free. It was half erect, waiting expectantly to be touched. He took it in his hand and closed his eyes to conjured images of Wyrmheart in his mind. The streaks of golden scales running along his bald head, the feeling of his inquisitive lips, the golden threads in his blue eyes, and his supple pale skin. His alluringly feminine features and his boyish voice. An image appeared his little lamb kneeling, mouth wrapped around his shaft. He could see him swallow and suck on his meat while he looked up with his innocent young eyes. Yes, and when he was thoroughly wetted, his lamb would be beneath him moaning "Oh Barclay! Oh Barclay!" as he received Barclay's excited penis again and again and again-

The horny huntsman ejaculated semen with a pleased exhale. He was unable to clear the length of his attire, evidenced by the white goo in his briefs. He should be thankful that it did not splatter on his trousers, otherwise he would have to explain the stain to Wyrmheart. Wyrmheart. He looked back towards the young man. His mouth moved with his silent breaths and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He could watch him sleep for hours. The sudden remembrance of the dirty fantasies played out in his mind just moments before tainted that simple joy into something more perverse. More perverse? How could it be more perverse?

"Barclay?" Wyrmheart asked in a sleepy voice.

He wanted to reply with "Yes, Love?" or "Yes, Dear?" or "Yes, Lamb?" or some such expression of his feelings, but he couldn't. Instead, his reply was a simple, "Yes?"

"Have you stirred for a reason? Why are you awake?"

Barclay turned away and swallowed his panic, "I woke to relieve myself, but I was unable to sleep again. It's this damned cold. I wished I brought more blankets, but alas I must simply be patient and hope for sleep to come."

Wyrmheart appeared at his side before he finished his excuse. The young man laid next to him, taking his arm in his embrace.

"I am cold, too," Wyrmheart said in a sleepy, soft voice.

Barclay tried to harden his voice, "Wyrm. I did not ask for your company. If I need more warmth, I will take your blankets and leave you to sleep on the dirt. Now go lay in your bed and sleep."

Wyrmheart rose reluctantly, shuffled to his blankets and covered himself. He was asleep in moments. Barclay sighed, resigning himself to another sleepless night.

If nothing else, Barclay still had his sanctuary: the hunt. His earliest memories are of his time spent silently stalking game with his father. It was just a hobby for his beloved Papa, but for young Barclay, it was an obsession. The domestic life of his parents, who had wished he would inherit their profession, never satisfied him. He would spend days deep in the forests around his home; so often that the whole village came to accept his abscesses. Should little Barclay be missing, he would surely turn up within a day or two. Any sane man could see the danger inherent in letting a child hunt alone for such extended periods, but he consistently brought back meat the villagers were more than happy to trade for.

At first, it was foul. Wild grouse, duck, and the occasional raven, though only for it's feathers. Those he would trade for dried and salted meat and water skins to take with him. Rabbits would typically earn him rope or string, and a fox would see his clothes and tools mended. Things became much more lucrative once he started hunting deer and wild goats. That would earn him more arrows and blankets. His first real injury came from a wild boar which had gored his leg. He was sick for many days after he sustained that wound, but he could still remember the taste of that pig's fatty flesh. He would trade meat with caravans for lessons in herbalism and natural cures, which he now fancied himself an expert in. He had nearly died when he hunted down a full family of wolves, but as a reward he was given a cage to store living animals. He crafted an excellent scheme where he began catching rabbits and selling them to the children of the wealthy. Inevitably, the children would take the creature outside, thinking they had become friends, only to watch their pet run away into the forest. The same forest where Barclay had his traps set. This meant that he could capture and sell the rabbits again and again and never need to search far. And with that scheme, he bought a cart.

Now, however, he was no longer engaging in the dubious schemes of his youth. He knew he needed to make the best out of every discovery. Be it as little as a frog or as large as a stag, his profession demanded flexibility and preparation. Each animal had a value dead and alive. Some birds were valued for their meat, where others were valued as pets. Wolf pelts sold best when they showed little damage. A severed deer head can be saved and stuffed while the venison can be carved, then you sell the head to the lazy landlord and the venison to his cooks. It was a challenging and fickle market, but there was one thing that truly separated the amateur from the professional: perseverance.

"We have found nothing, Barclay," Wyrmheart moaned.

"Hush, noisy child," Barclay warned, "You carry nothing and contribute less, the terrible servant you are. You have nothing of which to complain, yet you still badger me with your woes."

The two had been stalking the silent woods for half a day now, and Barclay was exhausted from lack of sleep. He carried his sack of supplies in addition to his weapon, whereas Wyrmheart simply walked behind him and tried to keep pace. Despite his light and springy appearance, the youth was slowed by even the most minor of obstacles. Tripping over tree roots, walking into spiderwebs, it didn't matter. He slowed Barclay down to a snail's pace, perhaps slower.

Wyrmheart pouted, "We have not seen any tracks or signs of life. We will be here for days before we see even a caterpillar!"

"Then days it shall be. You doubt me always yet never offer any assistance."

Wyrmheart grumbled, then froze. Barclay turned to see him standing still with his eyes closed.

"This is truly childish, Wyrm," Barclay said, "You stamp your feet and hold your breath because you haven't gotten your way. I have cages I can lock you in if you are too loath to walk."

"You would never put me in one of your cages," Wyrmheart retorted, "And I am not being obstinate. Do you not hear the babbling water?"

"Water? Yes, of course I do. We passed a brook not long ago. It has no fish or frogs, so we will get nothing from it."

"No, not simply the stream. My ears may be much smaller, but I know the sound of tumbling water. Let us follow it, Barclay. I promise it will be worthwhile. Come!"

Wyrmheart started to run back towards the brook. He tripped once on a stone not 10 steps from where he began, but he was running again before he rose. Barclay shouted after and gave chase. The half-bred was not so quick, so it took little effort to catch him and match his speed. When the stream came into view, the youth turned sharply to run upstream towards its head. Barclay slipped on a patch of mud when he attempted the drastic turn, and by the time he was caught up again, they were in view of a tiny falls, barely shoulder high.

Barclay sighed, "Were you hoping to find animals bathing? It is not a bad presumption, little one, but animals do not bathe as we do. They often use their tongue to clean themselves-"

"I know how animals bathe!" Wyrmheart snapped, "We are not here for the animals. We are here to speak with spirits."

Wyrm drew as close as he dared to the water, leaning his head in to avoid stepping into the stream. His caution was quite silly, as he was being splashed with water all the same.

"Spirits of my slumbering ancestors, I wish to commune with thee," He began, "Masters of the hunt, I entreat your counsel."

Barclay watched with curiosity; his head tilting subconsciously. He was no skeptic of magic. Many times he had seen practitioners vanish stones and sticks into nothing without so much as a sound. He was initially hesitant when Wyrmheart claimed he was clairvoyant, both because the little lamb had claimed it was a result of his priestly duties and because Barclay had once paid a clairvoyant for a prediction, only to be swindled. The phoney said he would be showered with wealth these last three months only to find the forests empty and half his coin now gone. Wyrmheart did prove his claim, however, by seeing an old friend of Barclay's making love to a tavern wench. His ability to see great distances was not a question, but his ability to commune with spirits? He said he could see the dead, but failed to conjure the image of Barclay's past father. He altered his claim to add that the only deceased he could see were dragons, and now, Barclay supposed, that claim would be tested.

"Yes, honored spirits. I am not wholly a dragon at present... I am not sure of the state of my honors, no, but see the gifts I've received? This cloth and pin here, don't you see?"

"Strange," Barclay thought, "Is he arguing with the dead?"

"Yes they are small, but they hold great meaning. It matters not their size, I cannot deny a gift... No, the tag in my ear serves another purpose. I wish not to discuss it... Ah, yes, I see you have noticed the stocking on my arm... Yes, it was a gift... I cannot deny a gift, I've said so before... Oh, you wish to hear of passions... I, um..."

Wyrmheart covered his mouth and whispered his next words so that Barclay could not hear or see. Passions? Was he speaking of their romance?

"...My name? I do not know my true name. When I changed, I lost many memories. I cannot seek counsel from my ancestors with a name, so I seek counsel from whoever will offer it... Thank you, honored Bronzen. I see by your gilded wings that you were a fine hunter in life. You must have received much praise, and I am sure your aid shall earn you more... Oh, you wish for... but what need do you have of... I understand. Please wait a moment."

Wyrmheart stepped away from the falls and returned to Barclay.

"I require a coin of silver," He said, holding his hand out expectantly.

Barclay looked into the empty palm and raised one eyebrow, "And what for?"

"To offer."

"And how exactly do you plan to offer this coin to the realm of your deceased?"

"By throwing it in the stream."

Barclay closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Of course that was his plan. First he hears water speaking to him, and now he must pay for it to continue.

"I suppose greed follows us beyond the grave," Barclay took in a sharp breath as he retrieved the asked for coin, "I don't trust you not to take it for yourself, Wyrm. I'll be the one to throw the coin."

Wyrmheart nodded, "That is acceptable."

He grabbed Barclay's hand unprompted, surprising the older man. Then, as he was pulled along, the touch's sensation changed. It brought back the memory of the night that hand felt along his body and held the back of his hand. Barclay tried to slip his fingers between Wyrmheart's, just as they had done, but they arrived before he was able to.

"Toss it in and be done," Wyrmheart said with a tone of impatience, "We've made the spirits wait long enough."

Barclay didn't bother with a reprimand, knowing it would be a waste. He slid his thumb under the coin and flicked. It glinted once in the air before slipping into the gently moving water with barely a splash.

Wyrmheart brought his ear close to the water again, "It has been done... Yes... I am ready... Yes... Yes... I am aware. Must we hasten..? I see. Thank you, honored spirit. May you receive further honors and praises during your rest. Farewell."

Wyrmheart's step seemed particularly bouncy as he returned. He stopped before Barclay with both eyes closed in mock enlightenment.

"We must continue up stream," He said, his voice thin and lengthy, "30 trees up, then 20 trees over."

"You measure the distance in trees?"

"In a way, yes."

"And how exactly do you count trees, given they are so uneven."

"They are the trees nearest to the stream, naturally."

"How near?"

Wyrmheart's faked serenity broke, "That... should be obvious. There is no ambiguity in the measure."

"Ah, so if there is a gap of, say, 3 paces, and a tree stands 10 paces from the stream, it would not count because of its distance."

"So you understand then. Good, we should be on our-"

"But what if the tree is 8 paces away, and the gap is 6?"

"Um... In that case..."

"And what of size? How large is a tree? Are we to count all breeds of tree, or only the oaks? I did not hear you ask these questions."

Wyrmheart pouted, a look that Barclay had grown quite fond of over the past few days.

"You humans are only confused because you cannot fly," The former dragon grumbled, "If you had wings, you would not need to ask such questions."

"You haven't l claimed to know, either. Your wings are gone, and thus you are as bound to your feet as I. So I ask again; how shall we know how many trees we have passed?"

Wyrmheart didn't answer. Instead, he clambered up to the top of the natural wall and began to walk away. Barclay rolled his eyes in exasperation before following after. The small and unintimidating youth marched along the bank with as much ferocity as, well, a dragon. His focus was entirely on moving forward, and Barclay questioned whether he was bothering to count the trees or simply being stubborn. It appeared to be the former, as after so many trees, he veered away from the stream and into the forest.

"Now we will be lost for sure," Barclay thought hopelessly, "What good is a measure of trees in a grove such as this?"

But the veteran was wrong. Not too long after their turn, Wyrmheart stopped. He corrected his posture, straightening his spine and setting his fists on his hips. Barclay could see his smug satisfaction before he even said a word.

"You doubt me and once again are proven wrong," He said to his master with a wide smile.

Barclay followed the cocky youth's gaze to find a bear with black fur, easily twice the weight of himself, lumbering through the maze of trees. Playing around her were two cubs; fairly young and highly energetic. They ran, tumbled, stood and let out a squeaky roar, completely unaware of the danger nearby.

"I suppose it's useless to argue your claim's validity," He sighed, "But we won't slay these bears. Your guidance was of no use to us, I'm sorry to say."

Wyrmheart's eyes sagged along with his shoulders, "Why not? I'm sure bears must be very valuable. They are worthy prey to dragons, they must be far more so to tiny, weak, clawless humans."

"We, which includes you, would indeed be at a disadvantage were we to hunt this bear, and that is why we will not. We have not the weapons to slay one; it would be suicide," The huntsman rubbed his bearded chin, contemplating the mother and her children, "Even if we were sufficiently armed, I would not pursue her."

"Why is that? Don't you love to hunt?"

"Hunting mothers and children only brings ruin. Cubs have no desirable meat and a small pelt, and if we were to slay all the sows, the females, there would be none to birth and raise cubs. Boars, males, are not as crucial. A single boar can sire many cubs with many different sows over its life, so they do not need to be so numerous."

"But don't the cubs need fathers as well?"

"Don't they need a-..." Barclay blinked, caught off guard by the simple question, "I'm not sure, but bears who sire rarely stay with their offspring or the mother. Some even claim that boars will kill out of annoyance alone. In that case, then, I would say they do not need a father. At least, not one so brutal."

"How can you tell them apart?"

Barclay cocked his head, "Hmm, if you are curious how I know that bear is a mother, beyond the presence of children, it is not sizable enough to be a male. Male bears can be easily twice my size and many times my weight."

"I see. Barclay?"

"Yes?"

"We weren't sent here to hunt the female."

Barclay squinted, then a roar loud enough to shake the ground sounded out from behind. He slowly turned around, just far enough to see out of the corner of his eye, the gargantuan beast of black fur and teeth bellow out another defining roar.