A gay sex stories: Zasha's Capture If you are under 18 years of age, this is not for you.
If you are offended by male/male relationships, then do not read this work.
This story contains some slight nonconsensual elements.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This is a copyrighted work of fiction. All right reserved.
Unlike my previous work, this is a fantasy/nonhuman based work. This is a new genre for me to tackle, hopefully you will enjoy it. I always look forward to feedback and comments.
To Colandra, who edited this chapter, thank you for all you help. I really appreciate the time you take from your life to help me shape my hobby into something that is a little easier to read.
*
Terror filled Zasha, spurring him on. He clutched his open tunic to his chest and fought panic. He was desperately searching for the hiding place he and his twin sister, Cora, had used when they were children. It was a concealed underground chamber, used long ago as a storehouse, and they had discovered it by pure accident. They had often gone there to play when they were very young. He prayed to Areala that he could find it again, even though it had been more than ten cycles since he had been there. He could not return to the castle now, it was sure to be locked down because of the threat of an outsider in the area. Zasha was glad for that threat, it was what had spared him from being raped.
Zasha knew he was never supposed to leave the castle without an escort. His reason for sneaking out was innocent enough. The soldiers were in the area, making some of their regular rounds. He had only wanted to see them up close. He had never intended to be seen by them, much less mistaken for one of the lovers for hire that often followed the army. He had accidentally stumbled upon a pair of soldiers who were bathing in the stream. Zasha did not know that was where those who sold their bodies would wait to ply their trade. It was very unfortunate for him that he had not known such a thing.
Zasha had always admired the men who served as soldiers for his nation. Every time he had seen them in their uniforms, they had been tall, lithe, and handsome. They wore their hair pulled back high on the back of their heads, and their uniforms were always immaculate. He had wanted to see them in the field, going through their training exercises, outside of the confines of the royal court. He wanted to know what their everyday life was like, how they looked out in the field, not in their dress uniforms. He had gotten a much closer look than he had intended.
Zasha had been searching for the troops he wanted to observe, when he had heard deep voices and followed them to find a pair of men bathing in the stream. He had hidden, wide eyed, behind foliage, as he watched the pair splash each other, as they played and frolicked. He had gasped aloud when their playful antics had turned heated as the pair began to embrace and kiss. The sound of his gasp did not go unnoticed. Two pairs of eyes had turned to Zasha’s hiding place as he had stood frozen, unnerved by the site his voyeurism had captured. Their was no stigma in his culture for those who loved the same sex, but Zasha had been well guarded against almost all carnal knowledge. He only had basic sexual knowledge, and had certainly never seen anyone locked in a sensual embrace. He had been shocked to feel the heat that spread across his face mirrored in his groin. The pair had moved towards him, one of them easily lifting him from the branches that were no longer enough to hide him.
“So pretty,” one of the soldiers said, as he ran his fingers through Zasha’s deep purple tresses. Zasha had shivered involuntarily, too frightened to speak, as the other man had stroked the quivering moth-like antennae atop Zasha’s head. The intimate touch caused Zasha to cry out as he felt himself harden under his tunic. His body had grown warmer, answering the clever fingers.
“Mmm. You are very sensitive,” the one who had stroked had said. “Come and join us, we can pay you well.”
“No!” Zasha had not been able to put any force behind his refusal. His fear, coupled with his confusion at his body’s reaction, seemed to effect his power of speech. He had not been able to convince them that he was truly unwilling. The pair had caressed him gently as they unclothed him, each taking turns holding his wrists captive, kissing his face as he cried and protested over and over.
“What a lovely game. We have not been able to enjoy someone as sweet as you in decades,” the taller soldier was saying as he nibbled across Zasha’s soft lilac skin. He sucked on a violet nipple and said, “If your antennae were not fully formed, I would not believe you were of age to work as a lover.”
“I am not a lover, I am the Prince…Stop! Not there!” Zasha’s body had betrayed him when an exploring tongue swept across that most private place. He had shuddered in shock as his essence filled the other man’s hand while one of the pair had sucked that puckered hole as the other stroked his small member. He had felt something prod at his entrance right before an alarm was sounded. It pierced the air, warning of an intruder. Suddenly released from their grasp, Zasha lie trembling. The soldiers had kissed him and told him that they were sorry, but they must go. Zasha had lain unmoving while they dressed quickly and left him lying there, several heavy coins on the ground next to him.
Once they were gone, he had dressed haphazardly and fled, his mind a mass of shame and confusion.
Zasha caught his bare foot on an unearthed root. he fell headlong, wrenching his wrist and slicing his palm open on a hidden rock. The pain caused him to gasp as he felt his flesh rend. There was no time to stop and heal himself. He had to find that hiding place so that he could calm himself and wait until it was safe to return to the palace. He was sure to be scolded terribly when he returned. By now, his absence would be noted, his parents and sister were probably frantic with worry. Guilt could come later, right now he was traumatized with the memory of those caresses.
He heard a sob escape his throat as he stumbled again. A fallen log was the culprit, causing him to land on his hands and knees in the rich soil of the forest. As he forced himself to his feet, he thought he recognized a marking in the bark on the tree in front of him. He sobbed in relief when he pushed aside underbrush and saw the door that looked almost identical to the forest floor. He grasped it in his trembling fingers and tugged, he was shocked at how easily it opened. He descended inside the passageway, allowing the door to shut behind him. Safely obscured from any chance of being seen, he finally allowed himself to fall apart.
*****
Gowron was dying. He could not believe he had been so careless. He was only on this planet to observe and scout, but he had been distracted by a luscious smell in the air. Deep inside enemy territory, the place where he most needed to be free from mistakes, he had made a fatal error. He had stood to taste the air with his tongue, that moment of distraction was all it had taken to be spotted by an archer. A moment was all it had taken to be pierced by an arrow. A moment was all it had taken to be mortally wounded. Even so, in the first moments of his injury his training had allowed him to evade capture as the alarm went up. That sweet smell still taunting him as he lost more and more blood. He covered it best as he could as he fled, not wanting to leave a trail to be followed.
He stumbled, noticing the sound of the ground he fell on was unusual. Brushing aside vines, he miraculously found a door hidden on the forest floor. He grasped it, pulling it open with the last of his strength. He tumbled inside, crawling as far as his weakening body would allow him, following the sloping passageway until it opened into a room. He moved to the farthest end from the entrance and leaned back against a stone wall.
Finally free from that torturously sweet smell, he sank into unconsciousness.
A scraping noise followed by loud, wracking sobs, disturbed him as he lie waiting to die. That damn smell was back, filling the air as he pried his eyes open to watch a small figure crawling on the floor. Its small arms were outstretched, trying to feel its way in the pitch black. Hmm, it seemed these creatures were at a disadvantage in the dark. Too bad Gowron would die with that knowledge.
The creature was sobbing uncontrollably. It disturbed him for some reason. He had the urge to pet and comfort the small being. It was an alien feeling. Breathing became more difficult. That sweet smell from earlier had returned, filling the stone cavern, mingling with the smell of the earth.
It was coming from the small creature.
Gowron could see places on the creatures body that were warmer than normal. There were tracks down the creature’s face, where tears were flowing. When the creature stood, its slender arms and delicate hands crawling over the wall, Gowron could tell that the creature was a male, despite its size. The heat patterns radiating from its groin announced that he had recently felt ecstasy.
Gowron’s eyes widened when the creature presented him with its back. There was a warmth radiating from an intimate place there, too.
The creature was very small, yet Gowron sensed it was not a child. The way it moved was too mature, and Gowron could see tiny traces of heat in a feathery pattern extending from the creatures head. He knew enough about the creature’s race to recognize the sign for adulthood. Gowron knitted his brows as the small male’s fingers sank into a recess in the wall, accompanied by a sound of triumph.
A light flashed, hurting Gowron’s eyes and blinding him for a second, before allowing him to see outside of the infrared spectrum.
It was truly a lovely image to behold before death took him. Long hair flowed, reaching the creatures slender hips. It was a deep rich purple, only a few shades off black. There were two braids at each temple. The braids connected as they reached the base of the creature’s skull, forming into one, larger braid. Bits of leaves and grass were here and there in the mussed coif.
Flawless skin in a shade of soft lilac, unique even for the creature’s purple skinned race. A small heart shaped face, and full cupid’s bow mouth that was a few shades darker than the lilac skin. Gowron could see that shade was mimicked on a nipple peeking out from the open front of the creature’s soft green tunic. He wondered if that same shade graced more intimate areas.
The small male appeared to have a slight softness to him, unlike the warriors that Gowron had seen. He was sure that skin would give way very pleasantly to slightly forceful caresses.
As the creature turned to face him, Gowron was granted a full view of the male’s face. Its eyes had lovely violet irises. Its eyes were enormous. And not just because they were wide with terror and shock, as they noticed Gowron’s presence in the room.
A strangled sound escaped its throat as the antennae on its head quivered and laid back in fright and apprehension. It shrank back against the wall, trembling and scooting away from him.
Gowron felt suddenly bereft; he did not wish to be the cause for such distress to the tiny male.
“Shhh. I wish you no harm.” He addressed him in the common tongue.
Gowron did not even have the strength to shrug deprecatingly, so he just nodded his head towards his wound. “Even if I did, I could not act on it in my condition.”
“You…” The creature’s voice was shaking badly.
“I…I am dying. I’ll not harm you.”
“You’re dying?” The male said, still trembling, but at least able to finish its sentence.
Gowron chuckled. It hurt. He closed his eyes and allowed his tongue out to taste the air, the delicious, sweetly saturated air.
“Yes. Very soon I believe.”
“I’m sorry.” The creature was crying again. No wracking sobs this time, just gentle tears rolling down his cheeks.
“How many cycles are you? You almost look like a child.” Gowron’s pain was fading. He was sure that his time was approaching.
“I’m twenty eight cycles.” The creature seemed to have stopped crying. Gowron was glad. He wanted to hear more of that voice, to let it usher him into death.
“Is that an adult in your race?”
Yes, just like this, engulfed in this wicked, teasing smell, speaking to this beautiful, exotic being. It would not be too bad to die this way.
“Yes, though I still look like this.” The voice was closer. “I’m…different.”
“Hmm.” Gowron could not seem to form words. Small hands touched his wound as he slipped into death with a smile on his face.
*****
The last thing Zasha had expected to see in his secret hiding place was the frightening, and enormous figure of another race slumped against a wall. He had been shocked senseless as he activated the endless flame orb. It was a product of his sister’s earliest strides in sorcery, and they had hidden here long in the past.
The sight of another being in the enclosed place with him almost frightened him enough to make him faint. The creature was huge and fearsome looking. When the man had shushed him and assured Zasha he meant him no harm, Zasha had noticed the wound the man had indicated with a nod of his head. Zasha could tell it was deadly.
Unsure of what to do, but certain the creature could not harm him, Zasha studied the stranger carefully. He was unlike anything Zasha had ever seen. Even slumped against the wall, he could tell the creature was tall. Taller that any other person Zasha had encountered. Unlike Zasha’s slender, willowy race, the creature’s muscles were large and heavily defined. His hair was in varying sizes of dreadlocks, and it spilled all around him. The locks would probably hang to his knees, if he were standing. The eyes that were regarding him were completely golden, faceted with different shades of gold. The only break in the color was a vertical black iris, like a serpent.
Those eyes made Zasha shiver for some reason.
The alien’s skin was completely smooth, and upon closer inspection it appeared to shimmer in the light. Zasha realized that it was varying shades of gold, brown, and black. Its face was a light golden brown and darkened towards its hairline, and down either side of its throat. The edges of the lighter color gave way to the mixture of other color that flowed together seamlessly, creating geometrical patterns.
Like its body, there was no hair on its face, neither eyelashes nor eyebrows, instead there was darker skin on the area around its eyes, and where brows would be. Its lips were also a few shades darker than the surrounding skin. Geometrical patterns were visible on all the skin Zasha could see, and they appeared to continue down the creature’s chest, exposed by the gap in its clothing.
Zasha was brought back to the seriousness of the injured man’s plight. The creature’s jerkin was torn, and stained with blood. Its leather leggings had not escaped the blood and were also covered with earth.
“You…” Zasha could not even speak. He had never heard of such a race as this frightening, yet beautiful thing before him. He could sense it was a dangerous creature, but that did not change the fact that it was more attractive to him than any other being he had ever seen.
“I…I am dying. I’ll not harm you.” The man was saying.
“You’re dying?” No. Zasha did not want him to die. He inched closer.
“Yes. Very soon I believe.”
Zasha could hear the slowing sound of the creature’s voice. He was startled when a forked tongue darted out to taste the air.
The creature was much nearer to a serpent than Zasha had guessed. Now that he was closer, Zasha could see the patterns he noticed earlier were on scaled skin, and they were almost exactly like one of the poisonous serpents Zasha had been warned of since childhood.
Movement around the stranger’s body drew Zasha’s eyes, and he realized what he had thought were dreadlocks were actually a myriad of tentacles, each one looking like a serpent unto itself. Some were thick as his wrist and others thinner than his smallest finger. They were writhing around on the ground slowly, almost contentedly, Zasha thought.
He had decided. He would not allow this being to die, even though it was supposed to be an enemy. Everything in Zasha told him he must save this creature.
“I’m sorry.” Zasha did not know why he was apologizing for the wound. For some reason, he felt certain he played a part in it.
“How many cycles are you? You almost look like a child.”
“I’m twenty eight cycles.” He kept talking to the dying man, trying to distract him, as he moved closer, needing to be close enough to touch the wound.
“Is that an adult in your race?” The creature was close to death, so very close.
“Yes, though I still look like this.” Finally. Zasha was close enough to touch the cause of the creature’s deterioration. “I’m…different.”
“Hmm.” The creature said, as Zasha laid his hands on him, not a moment too soon. He threw back his head, and poured his power into that gaping tear. Praying to Areala that such a wound was not beyond his ability.
This was different than any healing Zasha had done before. It was no mere triage, or even an intense outpouring for a serious trauma. He did not just feel like a vessel pouring out his power, he was a direct connection to the source. An unending wealth of power flowed through him, using him as a gateway to bind and knit the broken body beneath his hands. It was a blessing, a binding, a bridge between Goddess and mortal. It burned like fire and purged like a flood.
The world flashed white and dissolved around him. Zasha felt himself become weightless. He was Nowhere and Everywhere. Gowron stood with him.
Ah. It seemed he knew the creature’s name now. Gowron turned to look at him with disbelief in his eyes before looking forward. An unspeakably beautiful woman was standing before them. She was nearly impossible to look at. Light radiated from her, seeping into Zasha’s skin. He knew her immediately. This was his goddess, beloved Areala.
Goodness and Love radiated from Her like rays of the sun. She was clothed in a robe that appeared to be living plants, constantly shifting and blooming, thousands of flowers opening to the warmth of Her smile. Golden skin that reminded Zasha of the fruits of the first harvest. Eyes the color of the first tender shoots of spring beheld them. All around her flowed her silver hair, shifting and shimmering, mimicking the way rain danced in the wind on a warm day.
As they stood staring at her overwhelming beauty, She reached and took a single silver hair from her flowing locks. She pulled their right hands together, laying Gowron’s on top of Zasha’s before binding them together with the silver thread.
She spoke, the sound of bubbling waters and growing things.
“Bound. Now and forever. You share your wounds. You share your joys. You share you lives. This is My Touch. None may sever it.”
She turned her gaze to Zasha. She caressed his cheek, though there was a small smile on her lips, Zasha saw great sorrow in her eyes. Foreboding ran along his spine, even in this sacred place.
“Go, my child. Take my gift to the darkest places. There will be much need of you before the end. Know you carry My Touch with you.”
She turned and looked at Gowron, but she did not touch him as she had Zasha.
“I entrust him to you. You have the strength to tether him to this world. A time will come when he will not hear my call, you must be the binding for him then. Now go, and carve your path as best you can.”
A sudden pull was tugging Zasha back from that place. It was like being sucked through a whirlwind. Zasha watched as the silver thread pulled taut, as he was jerked back into his own world.
He was still pressing into the flesh over Gowron wound. Only the wound under his hands was gone, along with any mark on the flesh that showed it had been there.
He drew a breath to speak the creature’s name, but was interrupted by the squeeze of tentacles wrapping around his throat. They coiled around his wrists, pulling them behind his back. More encircled his soft belly and chest, sinking into his giving abdomen, as they tightened and lifted his body off the ground. Zasha stared into wild, golden eyes, as he felt even his thighs and ankles being bound by living ropes.
He hung helplessly before Gowron, struggling uselessly against his bonds. He was pulled close to those endless, golden eyes. The bonds around his throat mercifully loosened enough for Zasha to breathe.
“What did you do to me?!” Gowron hissed.
Zasha was so shocked at the feeling of those appendages wrapped all around him, he could not speak. They were smooth, a silken touch encasing supple muscle, and so strong his struggles had no effect on their grip.
Zasha recognized confusion, anger, and something unknown, in Gowron’s eyes, right before that wicked tongue of his flicked across Zasha’s lips. In spite of the dire situation he was in, a jolt of pleasure shot through him.
“What did you do to me…” Gowron’s voice was very soft. The tone still sent a frisson of fear running up Zasha’s spine.
Fear, and something else.
*****
Impossible. He was dead. He should be dead!
Gowron had been slipping into the last world, when fire had erupted through his body, and he was snatched into a vision. He could still feel the tightness of the silver thread that bound his and Zasha’s hands. He knew Zasha’s name!
A magician, the beauty had to be a wicked sorcerer. A spellbinding was the only thing that could be affecting Gowron this way. There was no reason he should feel such an unbearable attachment to this tiny male. No reason Gowron’s heart should ache at the expression the bound Zasha was showing him. No reason he should wish to release him and caress all such trepidation from him.
The Tsa’tsay felt such feelings only for their mates.
Gowron remembered that voice…
Bound. Now and forever.
Gowron pulled Zasha close to his face, loosening his grip on the tiny throat.
“What did you do to me?!”
The only answer was small gasps of air, and struggling limbs. Those abnormally large, violet eyes, were opened impossibly wide. Gowron allowed his own eyes to roam over Zasha’s face, pausing to look at the parted, quivering lips.
He pulled Zasha even closer, close enough to flick them with his tongue. He could feel the jolt that went through Zasha’s body.
“What did you do to me…”
Gowron gave up the fight. He surrendered to his feelings, wrapping his arms around the tiny form and thrusting his tongue past those open lips. He allowed his hands to roam through those silky tresses, finding those feathery antennae, and brushing them softly with his fingertips.
Gowron loved the shudders that answered his caresses. He slowly began to lower Zasha, loosening, but not unwinding, his tentacles, as he brought him closer into his embrace. He was fully prepared for Zasha to recoil once his grip on him loosened.
Gowron had not been prepared to feel tiny hands on his chest, tracing over his scaled skin. He had not been prepared for the moans, or the fervent response to his invading kiss. He had not been prepared for the press of Zasha’s firm erection on his thigh.
*****
As Gowron brought Zasha close into his embrace, Zasha found himself assaulted with a pleasure he had never known. This was nothing like the experience he had earlier today with the soldiers.
That serpentine tongue assaulted his mouth, wrapping around and squeezing his own tongue. Rational thought fled him as Zasha surrendered to Gowron’s will. He splayed his fingers across that silky, scaled flesh. The feeling of being caressed with all those squeezing, stroking tentacles, fanning the flames of his arousal. When he felt some tug at the waist of his leggings, he could not stop the moan that escaped him.
Zasha was suddenly lifted in the air, the tentacles at his waist replaced by Gowron’s seeking hands. Once the leggings were pushed out of the way, Gowron lowered him again. He had broken off the kiss and was seeking out Zasha’s nipple, left vulnerable by the open tunic. When his hands found Zasha’s hardness, Gowron made a hissing sound.
It was exactly like a snake, and his tongue vibrated delicately, on the very tip of one of Zasha exposed nipples. Zasha threw back his head and cried out, overwhelmed by the combined sensations. He gripped Gowron’s shoulders, clutching them for support, and felt more tentacles wrap around his forearms. Gowron’s hands were inside of Zasha’s leggings, one working him slowly, teasing back and forth over the length of his shaft, while the other cupped his sac and massaged it gently.
“No one else may touch you again.” Gowron was saying. Zasha felt his cock being gripped tighter as Gowron spoke. “I claim you as mine, my Tsar’sen. My mate. All of this is for me alone.” With that last statement, Gowron rubbed Zasha’s twitching hole. At the same time he increased the pressure and speed of his other hand. Zasha shivered, knowing he wanted no one else to touch him like this. He felt his imminent orgasm. His head was forced down, allowing Gowron access to his mouth. The feeling of all those rubbing, massaging tentacles, along with the sucking and stroking of Gowron’s tongue and fingers, pushed Zasha over the edge.
“Gowron!” Zasha cried against his mouth, as he spurted into Gowron’s waiting hand. His body arched, taut as an archer’s bowstring, for what seemed like eternity, as he rode out his orgasm. He collapsed into the expanse of Gowron’s chest, trying to catch his breath. He watched as Gowron raised his hand to his lips and licked it clean, all the while keeping his eyes locked with Zasha’s.
Zasha gulped, suddenly wondering what Gowron would taste like. He slid his hands down Gowron’s chest, over the ridges of muscle, down to the waist of his leggings.
Where he encountered dried and crusted blood.
He snatched his hands away. Horror filled him as he realized they were also covered with Gowron’s blood. Gowron looked down in confusion, and then back to Zasha’s face. Zasha was surprised at the expression of understanding. Gowron opened his mouth to speak.
A creaking sound rumbled in the air. The door, someone was opening the door! Zasha dove for the endless light’s orb, extinguishing it. At the same moment his sister’s voice rang from the entrance to the stone cavern.
“Zasha! Are you here?” Cora’s voice was frantic. He turned to Gowron, even though he could not see him.
A tentacle once again wrapped around his throat.
*****
Gowron had pleasured his Tsar’sen for the first time. Watching Zasha had given Gowron almost as much pleasure as touching him and enwrapping him. He had never imagined taking such a creature as his mate, but now he would never touch another. The way Zasha had reacted to the Words of Claiming, without even knowing of the ritual, proved Zasha was indeed his destined Tsar’sen. Zasha had come in his hand, offering himself in the most intimate way.
When Gowron had tasted the offering, he had been surprised at the sweetness that filled his mouth. It was almost the exact same as the sweetness that Zasha released into the air. The cry of his name as Zasha came still echoed in his ears. Zasha had gazed at him with those large eyes, as Gowron felt those tiny hands slide down his chest, tracing over his chest and down his stomach. When they reached the top of his leggings, a look of shock crossed Zasha’s face as he removed his hands.
Gowron did not understand until he looked down and saw the remnants of his injury. The blood that had seeped into his jerkin and leggings was dried. He had somehow forgotten that he had just been snatched back from the verge of death. Only then did he notice that his blood soiled Zasha’s hands as well. He understood the expression on Zasha’s face. He opened his mouth to reassure him, and was interrupted by another intrusion into their hiding place.
“Zasha! Are you here?” It was a female’s voice.
Zasha abandoned his lap to scramble for the small orb that was lighting the chamber, in a second they were thrust into darkness once more. When Zasha turned back to Gowron, the only thing that crossed his mind was that he would not allow anyone to take Zasha away.
He grasped Zasha’s throat with a tentacle to keep him silent. Gowron watched Zasha’s eyes widen, as he shook his head, and tugged at the limb encasing his throat.
“They cannot find you here!” Zasha whispered vehemently. Gowron did not understand.
“They will kill you!”
Gowron understood. If Zasha did not answer, they would likely search the cavern. He released him.
It crossed his mind suddenly that Zasha could very well betray him. How could he not have thought of that sooner? Panic filled him as he heard Zasha say, “I’m here. Stay there, I have a light here with me.”
“Thank Areala,” the female voice was saying, “I remembered where this place was by Her grace. The intruder still has not been found. I had to bring our own personal guards, Mother and Father will be angry when they find out.”
The voice faded a bit as she moved towards the opening.
“Hurry Zasha, we must get back to the palace.”
Personal guard. Palace. The words echoed in Gowron’s mind.
Zasha was royalty. How had he not guessed? It seemed his capture of Zasha was not going to be so easy.
Zasha turned towards him, obviously unable to see, reaching out with his hands. The seeking gesture touched Gowron in a way he had never experienced. He reached out and pulled Zasha close.
The enormity of the embrace dawned on Gowron. He and Zasha were about to be separated. He had no way of knowing when they would be reunited.
“I have to leave you,” Zasha whispered.
Gowron could once again see the tracks of tears roll down Zasha’s face.
“I will come back for you, wait for me. You belong to me, I will come back to claim you.” Gowron kissed Zasha passionately. Wanting to make sure he was understood.
“I’ll wait for you,” Zasha was sobbing. “I will wait, as long as it takes. You have to come back for me.”
One last kiss, and Zasha was gone, lighting his way with the orb. Gowron watched as Zasha turned back to look at him one last time, before disappearing into the corridor that led to the hidden door.
The sound of the door closing left Gowron alone with only his and Zasha’s promise.
And that damned sweet smell in the air.
*****
Fifty Three Cycles Later
Zasha knelt and packed a poultice into the soldier’s wound. When the soldier grunted in pain, Zasha wished for the countless time that he could use his healing on every injury. Even after seventeen cycles of war, he still was not used to sounds of pain from the injured soldiers surrounding him. Unfortunately, healing took a great deal of energy. He needed to save that for those soldiers who would die without immediate healing.
He found it a bit ironic that he worked in such close proximity to the soldiers, considering the experience he had in the past. He had long ago forgiven the two men, understanding they were mistaken. He had come to realize that they had meant him no harm. Besides, he was a healer and his gift was needed.
Many of their race were granted the powers of healing, some directly from the Goddess herself, and others with the knowledge of herbs. Out of all those blessed by Areala with the healing touch, Zasha was easily the most powerful. He knew why. Once, long ago he had been Touched by the Goddess herself. He pushed that memory back inside him, refusing to dredge up those painful thoughts. There was enough pain and misery around him without adding his own personal demons. He prayed that today his healing would not be required.
He moved down the line, cleansing and treating the various wounds. No matter their pain, the soldiers always thanked him. Zasha smiled at each of them, sometimes he recognized those he had healed before.
“You look stunning again today, Zasha.” The speaker was one of the soldiers Zasha had healed more times than he cared to remember. A few of them barely in time.
Zasha laughed. He was covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. He had not been able to really cleanse himself in weeks, and his hair was a filthy, tangled atrocity.
“Strange, Taran, your eyes seem to be uninjured. Did you take a blow to the head?”
“Perhaps.” Taran grinned. “I hear that a kiss from a Princess can heal almost anything.”
Zasha smiled. Taran did not know how close to the truth he was with that bit of flirting. It was a well kept secret that he was royalty. It would be a dangerous thing if it were to fall into the hands of the enemy. Zasha remembered how hard it had been to convince his sister that he should be involved in the war. She had argued that he was next in line for the throne, but Zasha had told her that her children could take his place if something happened to him. He had been blessed by Areala, and though no one knew he had been Touched, he knew his place was where he could help those who needed it most.
As the eldest twin, Cora had become ruler after his parents had been killed in the first wave of attacks. By some tragic coincidence, they had been out touring the region where the enemy’s portals had opened unexpectedly. Their peaceful nation had been dragged into war.
It had been a disastrous time. Cora had to take the throne, and command of the army, at the young age of sixty four cycles. She, like Zasha, had been nearly helpless with grief and shock in the beginning. Thankfully, there were trusted advisors there to help her. Even so, she had proved to be an amazing queen, holding the Faerian together, as they fought against the invaders.
The attacking race were from a planet near the end of the same galaxy as Zasha’s people. There had been no warning of any impending war. The Faerian and the Garkian had never had any contact at all, due to the conflict of their basic beliefs.
The Garkian worshipped the dark Goddess, Vrasam, who was Areala’s sister. Areala was the goddess of peace and healing. Vrasam was the goddess of strife and death. It seemed that both goddesses blessed their followers with power. Where Areala granted the gift of healing, Vrasam granted the opposite. Her gift was the ability to withdraw the life force of others. Thankfully, it seemed Vrasam granted very few her gift, and those blessed with it had to be able to physically lay hands on their victims, skin to skin. In the first few months of fighting, this had not been known. The results had been catastrophic. Entire troops had been wiped out. Zasha shuddered in revulsion at the memory of what had been left of those killed by the cursed touch. It was an atrocious way to die, the life force being drained until nothing was left but a shell.
After the discovery, Cora had ordered every warriors to be coated with a substance that clung to their skin, preventing direct contact. It was easy enough to remove with water mixed with certain herbs, but that formula was a cherished secret, even Zasha did not know the compound.
His niece and nephew had actually invented it. Mora and Naban were also twins. Naban was the eldest, but they looked almost identical. The two of them were gifted with herbs. At only twenty two cycles, they were already more skilled than the elders.
Long ago, when Zasha had first realized that he was blessed with the gift of healing, he had gone to the temple to seek guidance and answers. A priestess had told him that Areala watched over the needs of her people, granting her blessings to the benefit of her followers. He believed it. He wondered how many soldiers lives had been spared due to his own gift. That was a fraction of the numbers spared by the medicine of his niece and nephew.
Mora and Naban had been born five cycles before the war had started. His sister had married a common soldier, the Faerian did not believe in arranged marriages, and they had been blessed soon after their union. Dafa and Cora had been ecstatic at the birth of the twins, and Zasha remembered the boundless joy he had felt as he had touched the tiny pairs of hands.
It had been a rare moment of happiness amidst his feelings of loneliness and abandonment, but even that had been disturbed. He remembered the stabbing pain he had felt a mere second after the bursting joy. It had felt as if his right eye were splitting open, it had been so intense he had actually lost consciousness. He still had a phantom ache there now and again.
“Thank you Princess.”
The voice pulled him from his musings. Taran was smiling at him. Zasha was finally done dressing his wound.
“You are welcome, Taran. I hope I don’t have to see you for a while.”
“Ah! How sad! If you would accept my advances, I wouldn’t have to resort to being wounded just to see you.”
Zasha just grinned and moved to the next soldier. It was true, Taran would probably offer for Zasha seriously if he gave the man any indication that he would accept. But he would not. Zasha might have been abandoned, but he would not accept another in place of the one he loved. Even now he remembered in detail what had transpired fifty three cycles ago.
It had been a long time. He had come to accept that he would never be united to another. So many cycles, watching and waiting, visiting the secret chamber over and over, looking for any sign. After twenty cycles had passed, he had slowly begun to despair. After thirty, he had resigned himself to his fate. When Mora and Naban had been born, he had felt himself beginning to live again. They were the light of his world, along with his sister.
For many cycles after the initial separation, Cora had urged Zasha to find a mate. She had introduced him to many suitors, both male and female. Some he would have been seriously interested in, if not for the one already in his heart. He had finally told his sister that he was only interested in one person, and if that person returned to him, then and only then would he bind himself to another.
Cora had told him that she knew he meant it, and that she also knew he had been different since the day she had found him in the woods. Zasha had only looked at her; he had refused to answer the unspoken question. After that, she had never mentioned it again, and she no longer pushed him to get married. It still pained Zasha sometimes to see how happy Cora was with Dafa and their children, but he pushed those thoughts away when they came to him. He did not begrudge his sister’s happiness. One must take what little bit was granted in these times.
He pushed the thoughts from his mind and set to treating all the soldiers who had been left to his care.
Hours later he had finally attended all the wounded that had been left to his charge. He walked to healers tent and fell asleep as soon as his body hit the cot, surrounded by the sound of soft breathing from the other healers.
A deafening explosion woke him. Shrieks, screams, and an awful acrid smell assaulted his senses. His ears were ringing and he felt dizzy, as if he had taken a blow to the head.
The healers were panicking, running here and there. Zasha dashed outside of the useless protection of the tent.
And stepped into total chaos.
An enormous ball of fire was burning right in the middle of the healers encampment. Zasha saw the bodies of soldiers lying everywhere.
“Wounded! Heal the wounded!” Zasha was trying to get the attention of other healers as he ran towards the body nearest him.
It was too late for that soldier.
He ran to the next, searching for those who were not beyond his help. The number was too few. He lay his hands on every soldier he could find with even a tiny bit of life, pouring his power and energy into them.
Zasha could hear the sounds of battle ringing out around him. He ignored it, focused on the task at hand. Around him, other healers began scrambling toward the wounded. He knew tonight the limits of their powers would be tested, as more burning orbs rained from the sky. They were enormous, standing a head over Zasha. They bounced and rolled before stopping, leaving trails of a burning substance in their wake.
The stench of burning flesh assaulted Zasha as he searched for survivors, each one he healed moving towards the battle as soon as they were able.
Looking up, Zasha called out to a healer, pointing her to the direction of a prone soldier. She ran to him, kneeling beside the body to heal him. Zasha knelt at another soldier, not ten yards away, before looking up to see the healer crushed along with the soldier she was healing.
The ball of fire that crushed them left nothing but smoldering remains as it rolled a bit farther. Heavy drops rained down Zasha’s front, he dared not inspect them too closely.
It felt as if he had just walked into a nightmare.
Even though it was his feet and his hands that were feeling everything, his antennae that were hearing everything, it seemed as if he were moving in a dream. As he fell to his knees beside what turned out to be another lifeless body, he wondered how long he could keep this up. How long his energy would last as he kept searching among this horror for those who could be saved.
He had a responsibility. He was a healer before all else. He had been Touched by Areala Herself. He could not fail Her now.
He would heal until he could not. It was all he could do.
He moved to another body, burnt almost past recognition, barely alive. Zasha touched deep into that pool of innate power inside him, pouring out that energy like water from a pitcher.
The face being brought back from the ruins of savage burns was one he knew.
“Zasha.” He recognized Taran’s voice. “You have to go back to the castle! If you are captured-”
Taran stopped speaking abruptly and shoved Zasha to the ground. Only just healed, he stood, grabbing the sword from his side and moving between Zasha and an attacking Garkian.
The presence of the enemy here meant the front line had been broken. Zasha sat on the ground frozen, watching Taran and the Garkian battle.
It was awful. Zasha had never witnessed the front lines of the war first hand. He had seen the results, but never the actual sight of someone being run through with a sword.
He saw it now, as the Garkian thrust its own through Taran, blood dripping from the end of the blade that exited Taran’s back. The blade was jagged, made to destroy the flesh when it thrust in. The Garkian laughed, turning to smile at Zasha, where he watched in horror from the ground.
Zasha did the only thing he could, he lay hands on Taran’s leg and healed him where he stood, pouring more of his power into the injured man. Taran kept his feet as the confused Garkian pulled its blade from his body, horrid ripping noises and a new river of blood accompanying the exit.
He felt the spray of blood as Taran used his own sword to sever the creatures head. It ran down his face, mingling with the blood that was there from countless others, before dripping off his nose and chin.
The head plopped down, followed by the crumpling of the Garkian’s lifeless body.
It was the first Garkian he had ever seen up close.
It was hideous.
The creature would have been huge, if the length of its body weren’t stooped over. It looked remarkably like an overgrown, deformed frog, even down to its hands. Its skin looked as if it would be slimy to the touch, not that he had any intention of touching it. It had a huge head with a round, bulbous eye set on each side, and a long wide mouth with thin lips. It was shades of green, but not like the plants and forests that Zasha loved. Instead, the colors reminded him of putrid wounds and decaying vegetation.
Zasha was dragged from the ground, glad to leave his macabre observation behind.
“We have to get you out of here.” Taran was trying to pull him from the encampment.
“No! Put me down! There are others who need healing!” Zasha struggled in Taran’s grasp. He could not abandon men to die that could still be saved!
“I cannot do that. You cannot be captured!”
Zasha did not understand.
Until he looked across the burning field and saw Garkian’s grabbing healers. He felt his blood run cold as he watched swirling portals open before each of the Garkian’s with a healer in their possession. Once they stepped through, the portals snapped closed before anyone could follow.
It seemed this attack had a specific purpose.
The army would be at a terrible disadvantage without Areala’s blessed. Zasha stopped struggling as Taran lifted him over his shoulder before running to the edge of the encampment.
It was a miracle that they encountered no more enemies. When they reached the woods, Taran set Zasha down and began to drag him along. Zasha just followed behind him, feeling an impending sense of dread settle over his heart, as he thought of the healers who were now in the hands of their enemies.
Taran pulled a white pebble from somewhere inside of his armor and chanted a word before throwing it on the ground. A silver portal opened before him, and he once more lifted Zasha and stepped through.
They were in a room Zasha did not recognize. It was completely covered with runes that swirled and connected. They were all silver and converged in the center of the room, where he and Taran were now standing. There was a door set into the wall in front of them, the runes ran across it, too. This was the result of an accomplished sorcerer, and would have taken many cycles to create. He turned to question Taran as the door burst open and Cora burst inside the room.
“Cora?” Zasha stared at her in disbelief as she ran to him and embraced him, sobbing his name.
“Zasha, Zasha. I thought you were dead! I had a vision of you being tortured…” Cora fell to her knees, taking him with her as she sobbed. “Taran has been watching over you all this time. I warned him not to be far from you when I had my vision.”
So, it seemed Taran had known who he was all this time. It also seemed his twin was skilled with sorcery as he was with healing. He had never heard her speak of visions before. He turned to regard Taran, who was apparently his appointed guardian.
“I am sorry,” the voice was Taran’s, “I could not tell you, by order of the Queen.”
Zasha thought it was a bit ridiculous of him to be hurt, but he was. He had thought Taran had liked him, not knowing he was the Prince. It seemed insignificant when he began to realize the magnitude of tonight’s events. Being liked for who he was, was really nothing when he considered the slaughter and devastation he had witnessed only moments ago.
“Cora,” he remembered there were things his sister should know. “They were taking healers as captives.”
She looked at him and her face paled as the enormity of what he was saying sank in.
“Oh, Goddess. No…”
The war had already been hard. The only reason that they had been able to hold off the enemy was because of those blessed by Areala. All of the most skilled healers had been at that camp because they were the closest to those in the direst need of healing. From what Zasha had seen, their numbers would be decimated. Without healers, the casualties would jump exponentially. Not to mention the ruin to the morale of the army.
“What can we do?” Zasha’s voice sounded hollow, even to himself.
They had no allies. The Faerian kept to themselves, to their own planet. They had an army only because one was essential. Now that they were under attack, they had no ties with any other race. No one on who they could call for help.
“We need allies,” Zasha spoke what he knew they were all thinking. “But who would want to come to our aid now? There would be no benefit to helping us when we are at our weakest point.”
Cora grew silent. She looked into Zasha’s eyes and said, “There is one who has offered to help us. They have sought audience with me more than once.”
“What?! Why did you not accept before!” Zasha was filled with disbelief. How could she have turned away an ally? She looked away from him.
“Their price is too steep.” There was a strange quality to Cora’s voice.
“It cannot be too steep now. Even if they demand half the planet, it is impossible to refuse. Unless you intend to watch as our world is destroyed before our eyes?!”
“It is too steep!” She sounded frantic.
Before he realized it, Zasha was screaming at Cora, digging his fingers into her arms and shaking her. “What could you possible refuse to give up! Are you so selfish?! What could be so precious to you that you would refuse to save our people for it!”
“You,” Cora whispered.
Zasha stared at her, sure he had misheard.
“They will only accept an alliance by marriage…to the one in direct line of the throne.”
She looked at him fully, reaching her hands to stoke his face. When she pulled them away, they were stained with the blood of both Garkian and Faerian that Zasha had encountered that day. It was an ill omen.
“It is too steep.” Her voice was barely audible.
Zasha thought of Gowron. Somewhere out in the expanse of the universe was the one his heart was bound to. It seemed they were truly never to be. He felt the tiny spark of hope he had not realized was still burning in his chest, die. His fingers lost their grip on Cora’s shoulders as he slumped to the floor.
Gone.
Gone was the last tiny ember of hope.
The room was silent until Zasha spoke.
“Then they shall have me.”