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The Cocklebur King Part V: An Inevitable Fate |
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Even in the throes of passionate love, the warning from the goddess was always there in the back of his mind. An itch he couldn’t scratch, and one he dared not to ignore. Sometimes it felt that icy needles crept into his heart merely to taint the memories of those glorious years. It was bittersweet at times, and he longed to be able to devote himself to Harte, entirely, without the gnawing fear that he would hurt the one he loved the most. The canid knew he was walking a fine line between lifelong happiness and mortal fear of being incapable of harnessing his bloodlust. He did not care; being with Harte made every agonizing conscious choice more than worth it.
The former beast scratched his scalp irritably as he waited for Harte to come to bed. He’d been so anxious about looking so wild and feral that he tried to cut his long locks so that they would be trim and match his husband’s. It was supposed to be a surprise, perhaps an alluring one, since Harte operated on a militaristic level of efficiency. Half his head appeared to be shaved before he gave up on trying cutting his locks. Every time he tried to make it match his mental image, the haircut grew shorter and shorter. Apparently butcher knives were not how humans groomed themselves. Frustrated that he could not even prime himself for his husband, he flopped on the bed spread-eagle. Harte was going to have to work for it if he wanted bed sharing rights. A faint smile appeared on his scruffy face as he began to recall the fond memories of Harte “working”.
Days slipped by into years, and Harte could not believe that he was so lucky to have met his man, with his fierce brown eyes. He didn’t care what the other villagers thought; he had his dear hairy hunk of a husband. Together they hunted and dreamed, and relished the fruits of their labor. He couldn’t believe how skilled his hubby was, finding trails and leading to game with ease that made him secretly jealous. At least his lovely beast of a man was openly in awe at his weaponry skills. Still, there were times he wondered in all the time they spent together so far if there was something…his husband still hid from him.
Most often it was when they bed together or after a fresh kill. He would get a strange, faraway glint in his eye, a wildness that even made Harte shudder. Perhaps his husband was haunted by a terrible past? Maybe he wasn’t ready to share yet. Whatever the case, the hunter resolved to stick to his husband’s side and be there for him when he needed it most.
Harte had felt the connection; he felt the strength of their marital bond to join together forever vibrate through his body and spirit. Sometimes, he’d feel breathless just thinking about his husband, and it wasn’t because of his hairy hands that worked magic on him at the slightest touch. He pitied the couples that were bitter after their first year of marriage, finding the eternal promise of monogamy to be a dreary concept. Not so with his magnificent beast of a man. Everyday felt like it was different; a new experience to live life to its fullness, and Harte always found that he was practically delirious with the newfound sense of freedom that his husband showed him, pushing him to his very limits. Gods above, it was such a rush.
Harte gathered his cloak around him as the day began to wane to a dusky twilight, covering the packaged goods he’d bought from the village general store. Hardly any produce was among the groceries—he’d long given up on trying to convince his husband that vegetables were more than just “prey food”. Normally, he’d ask his delightful husband to accompany him to the store, but he had been banned from stepping foot ever again after criticizing the local butcher’s meat cuts and comparing them to his lily wife’s figure.
Half grinning at that memory, Harte opened the door to their house, rolling his eyes at his husband splaying himself wantonly over the bed. Once upon a time, he made the mistake of having some friends spontaneously come over. Now it was no longer shocking, but almost expected, and hubby had to be reminded three days in advance when company was going to come over since nudity is a private marital matter according to the village populace. It took a few blushing staring wives and suddenly insecure husbands ranting about the improprieties before it finally clicked for his darling beast man that other people meant that pants were needed. Not just a lovely furred scarf to strut around bare a** naked with, but actual clothing that enveloped his package and the rest of his goods.
When the former beast sat up in bed trying to make the “come hither” motion instead of his favorite method—hugtackling—Harte’s amber eyes widened in surprise at the dramatic change in appearance. It took only a cursory glance to put the story together, with the pile of locks and hair-encrusted butcher knife stabbing the kitchen table. It was a true testament to his character and devotion as a husband that he didn’t bust up laughing at the hack job attempt to style hair. Bless him, his husband trying his best to fit in and meld with the rest of the villagers. Harte felt his heart swell with happiness and desire for him, the poor soul who was so wild and free but very lonely. Kindred spirits, the both of them, and by the kindest blessings of the forest, their solitary lives transpired into marital bliss.
Without a second thought, Harte practically threw the packages on the table and struggled to free himself from his clothes at the same time.
Long into the night, they enjoyed each other’s embraces before collapsing in a heap of sweaty limbs and muscles, with the former beast spooning his husband, stroking Harte’s smoother skin quite tenderly. Quiet snores reverberated through the house as the exhausted pair fell fast asleep.
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Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he sped after his prey in the forest. He could smell its terror, hear the throbbing breaths as its muscles screamed for oxygen in a desperate attempt to flee him. What creature would dare to stand their ground against the ferocious might of the King?
His heart began to race as the bloodlust began to take hold, an incredible fervor that was a drug to him, making him feel even more alive than before, in some ways, orgasmic. Tracking down his prey, terrifying it to engage in mad, desperate scrambling where mistakes were bound to occur. For this was the law of nature; mistakes had a high price, and it was often your life. Crashing of branches, crushing of twigs, the wild thrashing…he could see it now, the shadow in the bushes, a fine form indeed, one to fill his starving belly for many a night.
With the grace of a panther, he arched his back and pounced, biting deeply into the shoulder, knocking his prey to the ground from the incredible force. It was a beautiful grip, and it would be only a matter of moments before he crushed the trachea with his powerful jaws. Warm blood gushed over his face, such sweet liquid of victory. It felt so real, the sinking of teeth in flesh…blood’s scent so intense he could taste it…why was blood going up his nose? Why can’t he breathe?
The canid woke with a start, blood dripping down his face and onto the sheets. Not his…he stared in horror, aghast at the discovery. Harte’s shoulder had deep, penetrating bite marks, with fresh blood oozing out of the wounds.
The man fell out of bed, scrambling to untangle himself as Harte turned pale as a ghost and the very sheets that were now being stained bright red. It was difficult to determine who was more shocked, Harte being woken up via mauling or the canid waking up mid-maul. For a few moments, there was utter silence between the two, aside from heavy breathing.
He was paralyzed with fear, disgusted with himself as the nightmare he tried so fiercely to flee became a terrifying reality. Even worse—he couldn’t process the taste of blood; madly torn between drinking in the flavor or utterly revolted. What had happened? Why did it happen? He was so good, taking the extra precautions, doing his best to quell the dangerous creature that lurked within, wrestling with that primal nature every second of every day for three years. The canid forced himself to look at Harte, who remained very still, unsure whether he was awake or stuck in some night terror that was feeling appallingly real. Shock had prevented him from feeling the pain of the bite, but it didn’t stop his eyes from watering as he clutched his wounded arm.
The canid—it couldn’t think of itself as a former beast, not now—saw the blank, stunned look on Harte’s face. Betrayal, astonishment…it was written all over his face. Heart in its throat, the canid fled, nearly tearing the door off its hinges. Salty tears mixed with bitter iron as the once succulent taste of blood turned to ashes in his mouth. He didn’t…it didn’t deserve this man’s love. It was nothing more than a feral creature, a wild monster who thought it could love and care like any human, that carnal desires could be surpassed by emotions and bonds of kindness.
Soft human feet, crashing haphazardly through the woods began to harden into padded paws, and soon two feet became four. Long locks; what was left of them, spread along its once-human body like a flame to a piece of paper, erupting into fur. Human shrieks of pain as the agonizing transformation process turned into bloodcurdling howls that echoed through the forest, chilling all those nearby that heard it. It was nothing more than a monster, it couldn’t care, it couldn’t love, all it knew was how to hunt, stalk and kill. There was no room in its life for anything else. It was incapable of feeling anything else, the beast decided, panting heavily as it crawled through the bushes into familiar territory. Then why did it feel like it had already been shot in the heart? With Harte’s appalled face burned deep in its mind, no, implanted on its soul—if it ever had one—the beast fled deeper into the woodlands, trying to banish the pain that consumed him.
Far away, back in the house, now feeling incredibly lonely and empty, Harte clung to the pillow that still held his husband’s scent. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to think any more. Was that his husband? Why the vicious…attack? To his surprise, despite the agonizing burning pain in his shoulder, he wondered where his husband went. Why did he leave? Tears began to dribble down his weather-worn face.
He didn’t know why he was crying anymore, he just felt so broken and alone. Abandoned and shattered heart into a thousand pieces. Black spots began to edge on his vision, a faint reminder of the physical damage that had been done, let alone the mental. Harte found himself curling around the pillow, clutching it desperately as if he expected it to flee on its own after all. Through cracked lips, he moaned quietly, words barely audible, “I belong with you, you belong with me…my sweetheart…”
 Slick Southpaw · Sat Mar 29, 2014 @ 07:52am · 7 Comments |
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