Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

Title: Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright
Author: Flameboi
Archived: You want it? Go for it.
Summary/Notes: Original Slash fic based on WhiteWolf's World Of Darkness (mage/changeling)
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: M/M - original characters
Feedback: Reviews always wanted
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no money off this fic, so, don't sue my ass.

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Chapter 1 - Zazou's Voice

He was beautiful, a fine and glowing spark of lovely desperate joy, and he danced, and he was dying, when I first saw him. The pall of ashes hung over the city, the dead hung over the city, and I was weary to my bones, and walking to my rest for the night, when the feeling I have come to know better than to ignore summoned my shuffling feet, and I followed, into the little night club which pulsed with too much noise, the throbbing electronic music, and too artful light designed to conceal as much as reveal, like an old conjurer's trick. As soon as I saw him, I knew why I had come here, but still, I waited at the side of a long bar of black and chrome, nursing a bright and bittersweet drink, watching him in glimpses and awaiting some further revelation, being what I so often am: unnoticed and unseen.

There are times when I feel as if I am a lost and restless spirit, myself. I suppose this gives roots to empathic compassion; just lately I have wondered what gives me wings, though, as I have stood above the brink of the spiral down into despair that would be a surrender to the jhor.

I had come, of course, because of the destruction of the towers; I woke to the scream of it through the pama and then to the now familiar images on every channel on the television: the planes crashing into the towers. I came, first, just with a suitcase in the trunk of my car, to see. I had to see, and if there had been any of the killers left to kill, I would have done it, without question, but there were none, only the dead and the dying, and so I did what I could for the still living, among the fire and the rubble. I was the grey man, all my lovely clean black dyed with the pall of ash, and there were those I saved- a good thing, perhaps, but what I needed to do, most certainly. When it was clear that there were no more living amongst the destruction, I comforted their loved ones when I could, though it is nothing easy for me, this letting myself feel the grief of others; also I worked behind the ripped and sundered veil, guiding the spirits too lost in terror and pain to find their way back to the wheel, as much as I dared, for that is no place where magic will be sane nor anything like safe, for as long as it reverberates.

A week later, now, and, I am simply exhausted already; I feel it yawning, my despair, my abyss, and I thought I was ready to go home, as much of a home as any Radamanthys' Knight might be said to have; instead I am here, in this bright-dark place, watching this dancer with his molten eyes, slipping on the glasses, thin and silver, lenses tinted silvery, so that I might see him clear, and I see his body, dying, his soul laughing despite it, and his desperate reaching out; I see the whirl of something full of sweet peacock-feathered colors around him, like a dim and glorious rainbow- he is not quite human, my dancer. Not only human, I should say, as I realize it, and I think I might have a guess at what he is, impossible as he is.

The bodies move all around us, these men so hungry to lose themselves a little while in this cheap and somewhat sad Bacchanalia, and none of them give me a second glance; they all have eyes for him, though. He, though, sees me, now, and he moves, towards me, and I almost tremble, wondering what sort of hunching carrion crow I must look to him; still, I will not shrink as if I must be ashamed to be myself, jaded and faded and Chakravanti, here before this sparkling, smiling, glimmering child.

He saunters right up to me, and this is what I see: he is small, no more than five and half feet, lightly made, the bones like a bird's almost, the muscle over that, wiry and streamlined, as if he all made for speed; his features are sharp and strange and delicate, and feminine pretty, mocha skin. He is too young to be in this place, and his scent is spice and sweat and musk, almost primal; under it, the faintest hint of death, though it is very slight, still. His spikes of short hair bob with his motions, highlighted and dappled dark blonde to copper; the loops in either earlobe and one eyebrow, his nylon clothes highlighted in the colors of a neon rainbow- too baggy below his waist, too tight above it; even his luscious cupid's mouth, I see all of this, and lose all of it, in the fire of his eyes. Topaz I would call the color, but it isn't, the color of his eyes- it is all the colors of fire and sunlight, to me at least, those intense irises surrounding pupils black as midnight and ever so slightly elliptical, but then I am falling into those wide bright eyes. I barely feel it at first, when he takes hold of my hand, and then it is electricity flashing up my arm from his too warm touch, and his voice is barely loud enough to hear above the wall of sound, but, it touches me with an echo that feels like a child's laugh, "Come on you, you need to dance too, before you freeze!" before I am pulled forward, almost stumbling, and dragged into the crowd, with him whirling around me.

I dance with him, and the weariness begins to fall from my shoulders like a shroud; I can dance, though when have I danced, last, that was not for ritual? Crow I may be, but I can match his grace, at least, and his pace, and he loves it, I can tell, and no one else comes too close to us now, my doing. I am too fascinated to share his attention. We gyrate and shimmy to the beat, so fast, then slow, and fast again, I am sweating, but then, so is he, and we are alive, very alive, and he looks up at me, the whole while, grinning- his canine teeth are somewhat elongated and look sharp, but there is nothing else of the vampire in him. Tired as I had been, I should have reached the end of my endurance for this frivolous pleasure quickly, but suddenly my energy was boundless, and some time, minutes or hours, later, it was he who was pulling me off the floor and towards the door.

Outside, deaf now in the comparative silence of the A.M. street, I ask him, "Where are we going?" and he shrugs, "You tell me!" and laughs, then asks, "What's your name, anyhow, Hamlet?" I have to chuckle, and shake my head no, answering him, "Zazou, Zazou Acheimedes. And yours?" as if this is a formal introduction, with us both damp and drifting up the sidewalk. "Cherry. Call me that?" and I look at him, feeling myself smiling, "Well, is it your name?"

"It's short of 'chat de rire', and that's my name enough, if anything is," he offers, with another of those shrugs, and I nod, "It suits you, anyhow, laughing cat," which pleases him, his grin tells me, and his lips tell me more surely, as he pushes me against the wall of a darkened shopfront and pounces up to kiss me, his mouth wet and hot and tasting like candy and blood; I kiss back, after a stunned moment, and then I pull him along with me, now impatient with the street. We walk, and we ask with the same breath, "What are you?" and his light little laugh answers for us both. It doesn't matter, at the moment; he slips his hand into mine, and we go on toward my rooms in this darkened city, though I am not seeing the darkness, now.

I should, though, ask Cherry my questions, and as we slip through the door and turn on the light, I begin to, "Cherry, there is something wrong inside of you, you're sick, aren't you?" as gently as I can; his whole little lithe body slumps, and he shuts the door behind us with a too hard kick from one canvas clad foot, looking up at me with almost a glare, "If there is it's not anything you can catch, and anyhow, there isn't, and it doesn't matter, and I'd love to talk about it but, we are not going to," he replies, leaving me wondering if he always talks in circles, but I let it go, for now. It wasn't that I was worried for myself: I kill virii and bacteria with less effort than anything else- there has to be some small selfish benefit to being a mage, after all.

Easy to let go of the questioning when his little hands are pulling off my jacket, and pulling my hair free from the ponytail; he grins at me, running his hands through my hair, mood back to ebullient; he's mercurial, this laughing cat. "Your hair's pretty, like a panther's fur!" he declares, petting as if I am the feline one, I know he exaggerates- it is only very black, and too long, past my shoulders. He pulls me down with a hand on the back of my neck and kisses me again, and the fire in his eyes ignites inside me, and it is I who am tearing off his clothes now, not as gentle as I meant to be, but he seems to mind not at all, tongue slightly rough and very demanding inside my mouth, he whimpers a sound like a low mew: cat indeed, and then our hands are all over one another, clothes falling to the floor. We caress and gasp, and he writhes sinuous into my touch; I toe off my unlaced boots and pick him up, and we tumble onto the bed.

Cherry isn't a patient boy, whatever else he is, and his mouth and hands are everywhere, on my throat, and licking at my nipples; the sound of my own groan reminds me how long it has been, and I am achingly hard for him. My hands tangle into the covers as his hands nudge my legs apart, caress my thighs, fondle my balls, and it is heaven hissed out between my lips as his tongue slides up the length of my cock, swirls around the head, and his mouth descends, taking me in, seven inches down into his throat, and oh, when he swallows, I nearly come, one hand now in his hair, and he moans along with me as his lips and tongue slide up and down, writhing between my legs. He leaves me gasping, bereft, simply needing, as his mouth is suddenly gone, and I stare at him stupidly for a moment, then my Cherry is above me, straddling me, and guiding me into him, so unbelievably tight and fever hot; he moves all at once, making me wince in sympathy as he sits too fast and hisses pain at me, baring his white sharp teeth.

I bring my hands to his hips to try to still him, but Cherry is having none of it, wailing as he begins to rock and move and ride me, his lovely face scrunched up in pain and pleasure, and thought deserts me, I thrust to meet him, and it feels indescribably good, his tight little hole around my prick. Cherry's yowling is driving me crazy; he is loud, and plants his hands on my chest; dimly I feel the prick of claws that shouldn't be there, and he slams himself down again and again onto me, driving me closer by the moment, until I feel my balls tight and drawn up, and the explosion of stars in my brain, as I start to come far too soon. He stills atop me and pants, writhing his hips, looking down dazedly, lips parted, I see, as I blink open my eyes again after the surges shudder through me; Cherry's hand is around his cock now, stroking fast, and when he brings himself to orgasm he wails in a cat's howl, spasming around my cock and spurting onto my skin, white sticky pearls of ecstasy.

Cherry lets himself fall on me, his weight too slight to bother me, gasping quick and softly, and making a strange sound it takes me a moment to identify as a purr; I bring my hand up to stroke his damp hair, and he shivers, and presses his face against the side of my neck- it feels utterly right, this moment. My mind comes back, with my Atman behind it whispering as much curiosity as I am trying to suppress; I know for a fact he is not human, and it hardly matters any more, but I do, still, want to know. And I ask him, after long moments of simply laying so with him, starting with the easiest, most elemental, what we ignored before, "What are you, Cherry, besides exquisite- we both know the answer isn't 'human'?"

Cherry doesn't stir, doesn't lift his head, and his voice is a purr below my ear, so soft: "The magic you aren't looking for but find anyhow, maybe, Zazou? Just a fairy cat boy from out of nowhere but dreams to fall into your arms- maybe I am yours, now- you tell me." and that stuns me, answering nothing specifically, but it is the word 'yours' that grabs me, twists a knot below my heart, reminding me that Cherry's own body is betraying him. I know death, so familiar, but just for a moment, now, it seems terrifying again, and I cannot help but tighten my arms around him, press him into me, the rightness of him, there, against me, hitting hard again. "Perhaps you are," I murmur as my reply, and, his tongue darts out to flicker along my jaw, his purr rumbling.

Then, I know: somehow, I am going to save him. I have to; selfishness is an abyss, too, a deep well, but not even yet so deep as love, which is bottomless, and I feel the edge crumbling beneath my feet. I feel myself begin to fall, and I do nothing to prevent it, if I even could: I spread my arms as if they are wings, and let it take me.

I reach out to turn off the light beside the bed, and in the darkness, I hear Cherry's breathing, and I can almost feel his heart beating, still chest to chest, sweaty and sticky and glued together with his semen and not caring at all about that, because I do not want to let him go, just yet. Or, ever. I remember love, now that I feel it stirring to life within me, once again; all that surprises me is how I lived without it these endless days. I know he will be there when I wake, and nothing will ever be the same again. I close my eyes, and soon, dream, a boy with eyes of sun and a leopard's spots, laughing.

Chapter 2 - Cherry's Voice

I wake up, still dark out: dark dark go away come again another day. Hah. Like that doesn't always happen. He's got his arms around me. Zazou. Zazzie. I wonder if he'd laugh at that. Oh I want to make him laugh, laugh and moan and dance and sing. Poor little lost boy. Well, ok, he's not a boy, he's a man, though he isn't as old as he feels he is, not by half. He said I'm not human, called that one right enough, but he isn't either is he, Zaz. Real humans don't feel so good, under my skin, like razorbright firecrackers and cherry jello straight from the packet on the tongue. Not unless they're crazy or brilliant. Maybe he's both, but he's something else too. Just, sort of lost. So it's my job to help him out, help him remember his dreams.

He knows I'm sick, too, Zazzie does; maybe I'll tell him it's HIV and watch him freak his shit. It'd be funny. I could tell him what it really is, a darkspot of dead in my brain. Could tell him that m'Lady Arionha keeps healing it away gone and it keeps coming back hard cause it wants to eat me alive. Or tell him the icy doctors wanted to shoot me full of radiation and make me die for real in their ice palace, and that's why I ran away, cause when your mom is mundane and your dad doesn't remember himself at all and ran off besides, there's no one to listen when you scream "No!"

I'll tell him backwards and upsides down too and he maybe will get mad and hit me. Then I'll know I'm not really his, anyhow. He's nice and warm here with me now, and he's sparkling with his dream now, pretty dream, pretty not-man. The banal ice wants him but it can't have him. Not while I'm here. Not a fuckin chance! Hah! Pooka Knight Extrodinaire, superman with a tail! No cape though, and no tights. I'd probably look good in tights though. Maybe for New Years.

Have to pee. Wriggle out smooth, not waking him, find the toilet. Ok, much better. Flush a towel and flood the.. no, bad idea. He'd probably think it wasn't funny. He's not advanced enough yet. I'm working on it. I wonder what Secily would think of Zaz. She'd maybe like him all in black like he is. I bet her spiders wouldn't even flip him out, neither. He thinks he isn't pretty but he is, kinda like Lord Coldheart, but he's Scathach so I'm supposed to think he's gross. Zaz isn't gross though. Just pale and all. I bet dangerous too, now that I'm going through his coat pockets. No One Ring to call Precious, and I can't wait for that movie to be out finally, it's going to kick so much serious ass, but that kind of skinny blade knife called a stiletto. Up one sleeve in a funny sheath.

I wonder what that button does. "OOOOW! SHITFUCK!" I yell cause I can't help it! My hand's got a hole in it!! And he's sitting up oh I bet I get it now! He's coming over, oh shitshitshit! "What happened, Cherry?" he asks, crouching down here by me, naked, and not angry, he's just worried, wow. I shrug, and he shakes his head, "I must be crazy," says Zazou, and then he reaches into the pocket I didn't get to check yet and pulls out this neato looking little skull only its carved out of some kinda quartz maybe, and he holds it and he holds my hand, and this is so cool! Zazou sings something, real soft, it sounds like sort of the way the cabbies holler at people, that language, this is soft though, and sweet, and my hand is all not hurting and the hole is going closed and not even leaving a scar.

Zaz looks at me, and I have to just hug him tight, he's trembling, and cold, I didn't know I scared him that much, so I kiss him to make up for it, and say, "I'm more terribly sorry than I have ever been for anything for scaring you!" and he shakes his head, and I can see that it wasn't that, he wasn't scared, "It's a consequence of healing you. Reality's argument with me over that, Cherry, don't worry," he says, and then he adds, "But you shouldn't be touching my things, you know. That isn't the only dangerous one." I nod, and Zazzie puts things right with his jacket, and I grin, "I know what you are, you're a wizard, right?" and he nods, "More or less, yes," and looks almost sad, I bet cause of he isn't supposed to say so even to me. Nobody's ever supposed to say what he really is, rules rules stupid rules, boring! So I nuzzle and pounce onto his lap and he laughs at me when I get up all nose to nose with him.

"Good morning!" I say, cause now the sun is rising up all fireball over the city and flooding into the room, and I can see the butterflies outside the window, dancing hello to me; he can't see them though, I know, poor Zaz. "Good morning, Cherry Cat," he answers me, smiling, and hugging me close. "What you wanna do today? More sex and then let's go on an adventure!" I offer, and he smiles, "And we need to talk," he says. I don't say anything, cause I know he's going to want to talk all serious, about what's wrong with me and all, but maybe it'll even be ok, because he smells almost like he loves me.

Chapter 3 - A View From Without

Zazou and Cherry tumbled through another session of intensely heated, but less frantic, sex, and this time the mage was able to be as tender as he wanted, and able to enjoy seeing and feeling Cherry, to appreciate his unique beauty. Cherry's yowls of pleasure brought pounding on the wall from the neighboring room, which had them both laughing moments after recovering from shattering climaxes; the Pooka couldn't quite help himself, and, pounded back on their side of the wall, offering up all manner of creative suggestions involving various phallic implements, bodily orifices, and family members, until Zazou dragged him into the shower, hoping they'd be washed and ready before the manager and security arrived to throw them out: usually, the Euthantos kept a deliberately low profile- usually, he cultivated as few potential disruptions as possible, but this fine morning, it didn't really bother him. Zazou and Cherry dressed, the mage grabbed his leather duffel and hoisted it over one shoulder, then they headed down together to check out to a disgruntled clerk. Next on the agenda was breakfast, which, since Cherry seemed to have his heart set on it, turned out to be Belgian waffles.

Over breakfast, they spoke very quietly in a corner booth, covering Cherry's illness, and Zazou's grim reason for being in New York, with Zazou finding that indeed, the fae did speak in such a backwards and random manner all the time, and Cherry being impressed that the mage could for the most part decipher the truth from the lies with ease, and by the time they'd each finished a third cup of coffee (and Cherry looked ready to try to swing from the neon lights above), had somehow decided that their course of action was to swing by Cherry's squat after picking up Zaz's Wrangler Sahara from the parking garage, and then head back to the mage's current home in Philadelphia, together. Somehow, the craziness of that decision just felt right and sane to Zazou, as if it was meant to be.

By noon they were underway, and headed away from the city, Cherry trying to sing along to Zazou's CD of The Pogues 'Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash', though he'd obviously never encountered the band before in his life- it should have been annoying as anything, really, but the mage actually found himself smiling, and singing along too. He felt, in fact, sixteen, and stupid, and as if the world was full of the bright and possible. Zazou had been much relieved, actually, that it was a tumor and not a systemic illness that was Cherry's trouble: once within his sanctum, he should be able to eliminate the cancer, with not too much difficulty.

"How old are you, anyhow?" Cherry asked out of the blue, and Zazou looked over at him, "Guess."

Cherry giggled, and looked at his new lover intently, not even blinking, then offered, "Twenty-four?" which got Zazou laughing, and shaking his head, "Thirty-seven, actually."

"Whoa! Holy SHIT! No WAY!" was the reply, which got another nod, and lots of teasing from Cherry about Zazou being an old man, followed by an explanation of how sometimes, mages didn't age quite at the same pace as an ordinary human. To seventeen year old Cherry, thirty-seven seemed both ancient, and nothing, since he could dimly recall having been around for many more years than that, himself.

The highway miles ran together over Cherry's choice of music, a tape of re- mixed Moby, and the talk of their respective societies, the disclosures that would have gotten either of them into enormous trouble if anyone discovered they'd told such secrets: that too, felt right, to share something dangerous and volatile and precious.

Midway between NYC and Philly, after a rest stop for the bathroom and greaseball cheeseburgers, Cherry's eyes began to droop and close, and Zazou turned the music down, and let him doze, driving and conversing with his other self, the Atman who inspired the magic; Zazou was a bit surprised not to hear the argument for sense and reason that he'd anticipated, but wholehearted approval from his avatar, ~It has been far too long since you dared to risk yourself: good that you do so at last.~ to which he replied, speaking in a sub-vocalized whisper aloud, "I risk myself constantly; it's only what I am."

~You risk the body, the bones and blood, the shell: nothing you haven't been prepared to lose since you first opened your true eyes. But your heart you have guarded like a dragon with it's horde.~

To that, Zazou had no reply, because it was simply the truth, and recalled painful memories of the lover in his past, and the betrayal so awful that he had sought for death like a coward, anything to escape the hurt. What if Cherry turned against him, too? What if beneath the sweet kitten surface lay waiting, a dark and dreadful serpent? The voice of the Atman tried to speak to the doubts as they surfaced, but it was finally Cherry's voice that got through, as he blinked open his eyes, and looked sleepily at Zazou, mumbling, "Maybe I think I love you now, you know?" and the smile, so full of bright promise, before it disappeared in a wide yawn.

"Maybe I think I love you back," Zazou replied, softly, realizing at least to himself, there was no maybe about it, and that all there was to do now was embrace the chance, come whatever may. One hand on the wheel, the mage reached the other over to slide under Cherry's hand, and felt it taken in both the boy's smaller hands, tight, like he would never be letting go, and the music for that stretch of road was the soft sound of Cherry's purr.

Chapter 4 - Zazou's Voice

Getting home was a relief, and Cherry's reaction to my house was the comic sort, as he bounced through the rooms and looked at everything; handbound ancient books bored him, as he gave them no second glance, and the decor is admittedly, nothing special, but he loved the second bedroom. Actually, only one is a bedroom, per se, since it is the only one with a bed, mine, large and comfortable though fairly plain, but the other has the PC and laptop, and the game consoles I rarely had time to play, as well as my collection of compact discs (considerable) and movies on video or DVD (even more so); I had immediate visions of Cherry plopping himself down in the living room in front of the entertainment center and not moving again until, say, 2004.

I told him to make himself comfortable, which he did, after raiding the fridge and concocting a sandwich variation that I think was tuna and peanut butter, but that was one of those rare instances of something I'd actually rather not know, besides, I wanted a shower, and needed to check my email and voicemail; taking care of all of that took the better part of an hour, by which time I was looking forward to lounging on the couch and watching the second half of 'The Matrix' with Cherry. Followed by just enjoying Cherry, again.

Naturally, I'd just settled down to do that, and gotten a lapful of very affectionate warm fae, when the phone rang: I debated whether to answer, then did, reaching over and grabbing the cordless, hearing the voice of Caliah on the other end, I shifted Cherry off my lap, and took the call into the bedroom. She was, she said, sorry she had to bear such news as soon as I'd gotten home, but that she knew I would need to know: Rohan had been spotted in Atlanta, though he had gone untraceable once again since being seen, and was possibly working his way north, judging by the location of the two corpses with his brutal signature all over the remains. Caliah warned me not to go after him alone, of course, as it'd be only a waste of my self, but with my head reeling as I sat down heavily in my desk chair, I hardly heard that, or anything else of the conversation.

Once I'd hung up, I spent a self-pity moment asking myself, why now? I knew, though. Rohan had been watching me, and now he was coming back, for me. Pamaguru Rohan Weistkruz, descended from Indian caliphs and German barons: Nephandus, and the man who nearly broke me. To be fair, he'd saved me, too, when I'd been a sixteen year old manic Orphan flinging about magic like it was nothing and living as though the point of existence was to snuff it as fast as possible in a haze of drugs. I still do not know if he was corrupt, even then, but I prefer to think not: if he was, then what was I? A last desperate attempt to save himself, perhaps? Whatever it was, I'd loved him, trusted him; he remade me, brought me into the Tradition, into his life.

For over a year, when I was just twenty, first coming into my own as a disciple, Rohan disappeared, traceless, last seen in the Sudan, and I mourned, of course, but I survived that, just like I survived, with a great deal more joy, his return, just as sudden and mysterious, and telling me nothing much at all; what he told the others, how he lied convincingly to those who can see one's soul, I don't know, but I could see that he had changed. There was a sadistic streak in Weistkruz, then, a real gleeful delight in causing pain, and I suppose if he'd shown that side more openly, he'd have been caught out in a very short time, but he was too clever for that: he showed it only to his chosen victim, me, knowing I would never say a word, and, he was all too right. I loved him, and it made me blind.

Almost, cost me everything, too, loving him, because I was not going to overlook it when I began to suspect that my beloved Rohan was doing terrible things: in his manor, I prowled like the evil king's wife in the fairytale, into the rooms I was forbidden, and in the last I found enough to show me whose face was behind the ill shadow the press had named 'The Vanisher', the new serial killer who left no trace but the bodies. It was Caliah I called, then, and then, desperate to save Rohan if I could, I sought him out, myself, before the others could find him, and he admitted it, laughing, the last thing I remember, before waking in the marabout. My lover had nearly killed me, and not quickly, I was told: I did not then, and still do not, want to remember the details of it; enough that it had happened, and that he was gone, and I survived, trust shattered, but alive to learn from my mistake. If I still woke screaming from nightmares sometimes, what was that, compared to what would have been if I'd submitted to whatever it was he'd wished of me?

That was the last I had known of him, except for a sighting here or there, as he was hunted across one continent and another, until now. Now, because I knew, intuitively, that he was coming back to finish what he had left undone: killing me, or claiming me, and knew, too, that it was claiming he'd prefer. Which meant, that Cherry, too, was in terrible danger. I would have to find somewhere for him, somewhere safe, and it was thinking this that I went back to him.

Cherry looked up and saw me, and his eyes went wide, and the television went off with a click from the remote; the call had shaken me more than I even knew, because his tackling me nearly knocked me off my feet, a hundred and something pounds of worried Cherry clinging to me, begging and badgering to know what was wrong, as I sat holding him. I told him, simply as I could, and he listened, questioning only when he didn't understand, nodding, kissing my cheek, and petting my hair as if he could make it all better.

"Oh, well, that's ok, you know," Cherry said, after I'd finished speaking; he managed a brave little smile, "We battle evil enchanters all the time, where I'm from, and we can handle this one too, easy, me and you."

I shook my head, but he was having none of it, and when I mentioned relocating him, he burst into tears, and yowled, not the erotic yowls I'd heard before, but a plain cattish tantrum; it would have seemed funny as anything, if it wasn't so painful. Finally, I gave in, at least in my words, to quiet him, and he kissed me all over my face, and bounced painfully on my lap, and grinned, "Great! I'll get started planning the defenses, Zazzie, this is going to be a piece of cake, I love you!"

I held him, and mused. Perhaps this was why I'd found him, after all, Cherry: perhaps he was a shard of bright fate, the light I could carry against the darkness that was coming.

Only time will tell.

Chapter 5 - Cherry's Voice

So some stinky old shadowthings wizard thinks he's going to get his shitpaws on my Zazzie? Think again. You'd better be good and ready before you come to my playground, mister. Cause I am a Pooka Knight. I really am, and what Zaz isn't thinking is what I can do, only what I can't. And what I can do is move faster than lightning, and be invisible, and move things through the air. I'll bash him with a couch. His demon too.

Most important, I'm not scared. Well, not much. Not anyhow so much I can't hide it from Zaz, cause he is not sending me any where! Not a chance. Zaz is scared too, I can tell. He needs to forget about it a while. He needs a cat on his knees. Besides he didn't hit me when I screamed and that deserves a reward anyhow, cause I have been told that I could bug the dead when I caterwaul.

Slink down to my knees between his legs on the couch, and he blinks at me like he's almost forgotten we're lovers and why I'm doing this, funny old mage. Mine. I tug down the waistband of his sweats, and his poor cock is all soft. Bet I can fix that fast, if I don't let him think first and decide this isn't 'the time' like a silly, so I lean in and lick, and he tastes faintly like soap, and he twitches.

Number one rule, don't catch with your teeth, and I never forget that anyhow, taking him into my mouth and suckling, he gasps and moves squirming a little, and his hand comes up on my head, and his soft little thing goes hard and long and like a sweet popsicle, only hot instead of cold. I have been told I am pretty good at sucking, and I do the best I can, and forget about even trying when he moans. Then its just about tasting him and licking and bobbing my head up and down, quick, and most important, not gagging. And trying to rub myself against his leg, because my dick is screaming too, while I suck, holding his cock in one hand and his hip in the other, jerking him off too when I'm not deepthroating him.

Moaning: him or me? Both, cause mine are all muffled up and his aren't, he's tangling up his hand in my hair and his hips dance up, I breathe through my nose and let him go at it, thrusting, gasping and sounding so hot, and it's not too much longer before my throat gets a break from getting pounded, and he's all still except his dick pulsing and throbbing as he spurts. Mmmmyum! Score one for me! Bonus points for licking him all clean and tucking his cock away, then climb back into his lap and lick his lips while I rub on him and get myself off all trembling to yowl the way he likes while I come. Not the first pair of pants I got all sticky, and won't be the last.

"Peanutbutter and tunafish?" he murmurs, after kissing me, and I pant and nod, and he laughs, "You're crazy, Cherry mine," says Zazou, and I know, what he means is, he loves me.

Either that or he wants a peanut butter and tuna sandwich, too. But anyhow, we're going to be all right.

Chapter 6 - Everything At Once

** He's the thing you don't see coming from behind in the dark, stalking the shadows, silent as thought; he glides through the dark hidden pathways between pama and trivial world, and he is watching, and waiting, just now, for his chance to strike. Not too quickly. The student has nowhere near outreached the master, but he has gotten quite proficient, and Zazou would never have done it without him; Zazou who turned on him, as if some silly ideals mean more than what was owed. No matter; he will have both his cake and the eating- Zazou, and revenge. In the darkness, he laughs, without a sound at all. **

Zazou has his home well warded, and yet he worries that he left a crack just big enough for Rohan to slip through, and now, miles away, at the tall old mansion behind the tall iron fence, dilapidated exterior hiding the blend of ancient esoteric tradition and modern uber-technology of the marabout, he worries more, meeting with Caliah and his old teacher Vasily, all the survivors now from his first days here; in on the meeting too are Kyoko, and Jacob, but they are even younger than Zazou, and besides, what worries him, as they discuss the hunting of monsters, is that the monster is out there, and so is Cherry, practically unguarded.

Cherry dashes through the house like a rhesus monkey on crack, jumping on the couch, and to the mail carrier who spots him through the bay window, or the neighbor who catches a glimpse, he looks like a mad thing, waving around a plastic scimitar and shouting exuberance at nothing. The neighbor, who up til now had filed Zazou under the modern catch-all, quiet and keeps to himself (if a little weird), rakes his yard and mutters about the neighborhood going to the dogs, still muttering when he retires to his couch later in the hour to watch the talk shows. Inside, though, Cherry the Pooka not-quite-knight practices with his faintly glowing silver scimitar, wielding the blade fiercely, though never actually striking, as that would be unkind, and unthinkable, against the friendly jumping three-foot purple caterpillar chimera who'd shown up that morning, slipping through Zazou's magic as if it weren't there, to come and play with someone who shone as sparkling to it's dream vision as a sunburst. The chimera didn't speak, seeming about as smart as a really bright dog, and Cherry had named it Lancelot, and invited it to stay.

** Cherry can't be seen, except in glimpses through mist, to the eyes that watch, but he knows better than to watch his lover where he is: the quintet in the marabout would be too much for him, perhaps, and besides, that place is wrapped in unseeing. What, though, if Zazou's new little boy toy were to come outside, where the wards are weaker? Yes. Now how to lure.. Ah, yes. That will work, beautifully. **

Zazou, after the meeting, after the decision to mount a group effort to hunt and track the Nephandus beginning that night, drives for home a good bit faster than the law or safety recommend, but luck, as always, is with him, and neither patrol car nor equally reckless driver or unwary pedestrian crosses his path.

Looking out the window of Zazzie's house, Cherry sees sitting, forlorn, on the sidewalk, a bedraggled kitten, huddled up, and he knows, that while his mage told him to stay put, and not leave the house at all, no matter what, he couldn't have meant in the case of stray kittens needing rescued, and, so, he opens the front door, and heads for the little cat. Behind him, Lancelot shrills a panicked shriek, senses sharper, and Cherry sees the nimbus of green swirling behind the kitten a fraction of a second before the figure within strikes, and he is able to leap back, and run, faster than thinking, back into the house with a feeling like the stink of open sewers right on his heels.

** An open door is an invitation, and while the magic of the wards still sting and prick, buzzing at him like hornets, now he can see beyond the door, and follow, too, and he does, coming over the threshold in hot pursuit, surprised a bit to find himself confronting now a figure in scaled motley leather, brandishing a curved short sword, a figure with a leopard's tail and ears and spotted skin, claws, sharp teeth bared in a snarl; well, then, Zazou's toy is one of the Shining Ones, is he? No matter. A Changeling child will die the same as any; he feels playful, and brings the blood black kriss to his hand, and advances on the faery, hissing, "So you want to play?" **

Zazou feels the alarm of his wards being crossed, and floors the gas, suddenly not driving just fast, but almost suicidally so, weaving quickly to keep everything out of his path and all the lights green, gripped with real fear.

"I'm going to CUT YOU TO BITS!" yells Cherry as he does out of necessity what he is not supposed to do, his wyrd glowing over him and showing his true mein to the evil man, and he has never been so scared in his life, but he jumps and yowls, glamouring himself, and charges in a blur of speed and darting scimitar, scoring deep, satisfaction at seeing the shocked surprise on the scarred and leering face, and right behind the scream of pain in his nerves as the thing-like-a-man's own curving blade finds it's worming way into his side. Cherry stumbles but whirls again, bleeding like the enemy, facing him again.

Zazou doesn't park, just slams the car to a stop and into park on the lawn; he is across the path of grass, drawing his talisman pistol and running inside, his hand scored by the serrated edge of the weapon's butt, blood merging with metal in magic, and he fires at the figure looming over Cherry, once, twice, again. The first of the charged bullets actually strikes home, knocking Rohan onto Cherry; he struggles up and turns, and for a split second Zazou can see the puddle of bright blood beneath Cherry, and then everything is an explosion of pain as the Nephandus casts; countering, his eyes blurring and his lungs feeling filled with liquid fire, Zazou manages to fire once more at Rohan who is surrounded now in a nimbus of pale green flame. The bullet barely staggers him, this time, but a moment later, he shrieks in thwarted rage as he is driven forward by Cherry's slashing blow from behind.

** This can't be happening, what went wrong.. No matter, no, go: hide, heal, strike again, damn that faery, who would ever have thought a little pussy cat.. Hissing and clawing his way into the pama, going, going, gone... **

Zazou's shot finds only the wall as the target rips a slash into the fabric of reality and steps beyond; Cherry, now exposed, to the side, falls onto his knees, and mews at the new flare of pain from the impact, but he looks up at Zazou and smiles a little through bloody lips, "Told you I was good, Zazzie, I was, right?" before his slit-pupiled eyes roll up and he topples in a faint.

Zazou knows that someone has heard the shots and called 9-1-1, knows to that Cherry is dying before his eyes, and doesn't spare a moment to think, only spends the magic as he trades talisman for foci and bleeds again for the boy he loves, healing him, and scooping up the still unconscious form, and his brave little sword with him, to run out to the car with him, put him in the back, and escape, before the authorities, of who knows what kind, show up here- better than being caught in a massive breach of sanity and reality.

Lancelot, though Zazou doesn't see him, humps his segmented body into the car before it speeds away; it is his bifurcated tongue on Cherry's cheek that wakes the Pooka, and he sits, "Zazzie, where we going?"

Zazou glances in the rearview, and has to smile at the bright eyes and the curious expression, "Some where safe, Cherry, don't worry."

"I wasn't worried, Zazzie, you'll protect me from whole hordes of demons. Sleepy, ok if I nap til we get Somewhere Safe?" as Cherry curls up on the seat and drapes an arm over the wiggly chimera.

"Whatever you want, my brave knight; I love you," and Zazou drives away from the sound of sirens wailing.

Chapter 7 - Cherry's Voice

They're arguing with him, these magic sparkly but so serious humans, arguing in their somber suits with my Zazzie, here in this place we have gotten to after about six years in the car. They think I can't hear them, but they don't know about cat's ears, I guess. About me, they're arguing, saying they have a situation here, that I'm a liability. Assholes. He's saying back, though, that losing me isn't an option, and the "no matter what" he adds revibes and makes my hair stand up, like an omen.

Lancelot doesn't like it in here, much, it makes him shiver, even though it's not so cold to me as that. He wiggles against me and whine, and I hug him, and I feel like whining too. Lance licks my face, and reminds me, I'm not alone when I can't quite catch Zazou's quiet voice from down below.

Almost dying makes you realize stuff, like, how much this mage has gotten under my skin and in my heart, and that's just where I want him. Someone down there smacks a hand on wood, and a minute later there's a door slamming, then more of the voices, minus one, and the voice of the one who sounds the most in charge here is telling Zazou that since he's insisting on it being this way that they're going to have to do something yada yada or other immediately- they're talking about how to kill off that slimy shithead Rohan.

Zazzie comes after I've napped again, and he has a sandwich, beanut putter and jelly, and milk for me, I tease him, and say, "Thanks, Warden. So did my parole come through?" and even though I grin he doesn't, so I have to kiss him even though I haven't quite swallowed my first bite.

My mage sighs, and hugs me, and says, "I'm sorry, Cherry," and I shake my head and nuzzle him, "No, I like it, Zaz, it's the nicest room ever," and he has to smile a little, cause I make him smile. I eat my sandwich and drink my milk while he tells me what. He and these other mages are going to go out and hunt down the Nephandi and they can't take me with them but I'll be safe here. I can tell there's no use arguing with him about it, so, I don't, cause, he doesn't need it- Zazzie looks all like he's drowning or something, and so I tell him it's ok. The last bit of my sandwich sticks in my throat and the milk doesn't help much.

Chapter 8 - Zazou's Voice

Sweet Cherry, I do not think I have done many things in my life that were harder than getting up from that bed while he still trembled with the strain of not yowling pleasure out loud, unless it was to kiss him goodbye after I had showered and dressed. Better behaved about it than I thought he would be, still I could see that he hated to let me go, to be left all alone in this place strange to him, which did not welcome him; my little lover is very brave, and has the heart of pure kindness, and he didn't even ask what would happen to him if I failed to return. I would not have had an answer for him, but can only swear to myself that I will survive this and come back to him.

Before the attack on Cherry, I suppose I hated Rohan, but more, I pitied him; now though, I hate him truly, and I try to shed that from my spirit, because hate makes it personal, and it is supposed to never be personal. Yet, what else can this be? I am not going out with the others to simply eliminate a threat or return a hopelessly lost soul to the wheel- I am going out to kill the bastard who nearly took Cherry from me. I can erase that from my face, and show impassive, for the others, though, and good enough- it isn't as though they are pleased with me as it is, nor with having a 'faery child' in the house, as if he is predestined to cause disaster merely by the fact of his existence.

The Master here tried to unravel Cherry's fate, read his thread of destiny, I know, and he saw only what I have seen, a bright tangled chaos that somehow goes on and on even after it seems to end. Perhaps the Fae are, then, truly immortal. No matter. I will be with him for this lifetime, as long as I may, and that is enough.

We go, and not by car nor plane, but into the world between, once Rohan has been, so they believe, located. There will be others with us, my old companions, working on the other side to keep him from escaping; eight of us in all, and when have there been so many together lately? This Nephandi, though, has become a very serious matter. Eight- eternity on it's side, symbolically. After this, there will be time to simply love Cherry, to learn to breathe again without inhaling fear for him.

Chapter 9 - The Battle Joined

Rohan screamed into the void as he tried to escape them, all of them, but there was no where he could run to, now, and, no where he could hide, and so like any cornered animal, he turned to fight. Hopeless; stronger than any one of them alone, but not all together, and he knew it, and in the abyss of his mind he heard the Infernal laughing at him even as the servitors formed up around him to battle with him. Still he was lost, and Rohan knew it, as the Chakravanti and the minor infernals battled in howling unfire; he would, then, have what he wished, even as he was defeated, even as he died, and began to concentrate his magic for one great strike, focused on the tall and beautifully splendid, too fearless, Zazou.

Zazou whirls from the form of one of the twisted spirit beasts as it falls, the magic, almost pure for a change like a bright cyclone of a dozen small blades around him; there is no pleasure in destroying these things, but there is satisfaction. The others battle on, too, and the demon's servants fall, one by shrieking, stinking one, until there is only Rohan left, surrounded by five, for three of the mages have fallen. The twisted smile on the face of the one he once loved almost taught Zazou a new lesson in fear, except that for now, he feared nothing. Nothing is all that he knew, too, a moment after, as all became blackness on the wings of a scream of agony in the mage's mind and spirit, following the exploding nimbus of Rohan's last and final, desperate, dying strike. Oblivion's unconsciousness stole Zazou's awareness before he even fell.

Warm and wet on his face, and Zazou blinked his eyes open, and stared into the tear bright eyes of Cherry, and for half a moment, he tasted the sweetest, finest joy he had ever known, and hugged the laughing, crying, cat fae close, but even then he felt the absence and the loss, the echo in his mindvoice, silent. The bright spirit twined with his own was still, too still, as if it was barely there at all; Zazou could not rouse his Atman, the avatar, to any response, as if it lay in some deep and fatal coma, beyond his reach, and the mage began to shake, gone pale.

Cherry whimpered, and licked Zazou's ear, "Is ok, Zazzie, he's dead, you're alive, its all ok now, you know, better than ever, I love you, see?" Zazou shook his head, slowly, pulling back, away from him, hunched over like he was in terrible pain. "No, Cherry. Nothing is ok. Nothing at all," he whispers, and Cherry's voice, raised, almost panicked but volumes of reassurance trying to write themselves into his heart, Zazou hears, but he hears no words. One of the others, and Zazou does not even know who survived, is pulling the struggling fae away now, but Zazou cannot find the strength, at that moment, to move to stop it, knowing only loss and a depth of pain he'd never known. Another of his fellows steps close to Zazou, looking down at him with the most terrible sympathy, no, pity, before a hand passed close to him, and a voice spoke gentle: "You should rest." The magically enforced sleep cradled Zazou into uneasy rest to the far off sounding yowl of Cherry's misery.

Chapter 10 - Cherry's Voice

"Stop this tantrum this instant, you aren't helping him at all!" she says at me, over me, down into my face, and she isn't angry, she just looks sad and wounded and tired and not wanting to deal with me, and her hands on my shoulders are way too strong for me, unless I wanted to fight her for real, but I don't, I just want to know what's wrong with Zazzie, and so I stop struggling, and try not to cry anymore, sniffles that sound pathetic. "What's wrong with Zazzie?" I ask then, as the other mage leaves quietly, and she just shakes her head, looking like the other one looked, like he was dying or something.

"Zazou has lost the voice of his Atman. The spirit which allows him his magic has gone into silence, and, that is a terrible thing for him to bear, a great shock," she explains softly, letting me go. I sit on the end of the bed and look at her, scared inside. "Will he be ok, will it come back to him?"

"I don't know, Cherry, none of us do," and she sounds so bleak, I almost want to leave her be, but I have to know, so I am asking, "What's going to happen if it doesn't?" and she shakes her head, "That remains to be seen; we will have to see what he wishes, if he wants to continue on."

Continue? Of course he wants to continue, mage or not, he's MINE, and he can't leave me cause of this! I almost yell it, but I don't, because I think she'd just keep on being calm and sad at me, and I think then I'd end up screaming until my throat went all bloody. So I just say, "Can I stay here with him?" while Lancelot who she doesn't see whines and licks my ear. She nods, and tells me just to try to let him rest, and she goes out, and I just curl up around Zazzie and hold on to him, and I cry again a little, but mostly I just tell him, over and over in my best softest whisper, "It isn't like I love you more than anything, it isn't like this won't all be ok, you'll see."

Chapter 11 - Aftermath and Beyond (Cherry's Voice)

They took us someplace by the sea, cause that's where I wanted, and so Zazzie said, that's what he wanted too. A little house all for us. All of his things were there, my things too though I don't have much, just my clothes and sword and a couple tapes, and Lancelot. All the days of trying to talk to the inner spirit-man that's supposed to not go back asleep but did cause he was hurt bad. I tried to talk to him too, Zaz's magic spirit, but he caught me at it when he wasn't quite as out cold as I thought, and it made tears in his eyes, so now I only whisper, when I know he's asleep and dreaming, and I wander down on the beach where there are summer people, and I play with the kids. make sandcastles and steal the little sparkles from their dreams. Sometimes I make Zazzie sparkle too, but then he sleeps, longer each time, and I can feel him slip, slip, slipping away from me, through my fingers. It's like watching the tide take a castle made of sand, bit by bit, til it's all gone. And I try not to be sad, but I am. It makes my head hurt, but I don't tell him, cause he's sad enough all ready.

Then today I get back to the house expecting to find him sleeping, but he's not. And there's singing, but it isn't him. He isn't alone, either. "All the streets are crammed with thing , eager to be held, I know what hands are for and I'd like to help myself. You ask me the time, but I sense something more, and I would like to give, what I think you're asking for, you handsome devil. Oh, you handsome..." The song cuts off when I walk in the room, and there he is, sitting on the couch, beside my Zazzie, who is looking at him as if he isn't real. Lance won't even go in the room, but goes and hides under the porch instead.

After the voice fades silent I realize he sang very well, good enough for stage and screen and much better than horseshoes or nuclear war, but that doesn't make me trust him, little as me but bigger than explosions, maybe in his middle twenties, allwhite hair cropped in spikes, and aster eyes behind small oval lenses. If he wasn't wearing such nice clothes, all suit and spiffy and you can tell it cost thousands of bucks, maybe I'd trust him a little. Or not, not the way he looks at Zazzie, not when he's too pretty for real life. Another thing, when I look hard- he's sparkly with magic but almost cold, like one of the grey men. Except it isn't him that's cold, but something on him, or.. in him, I can't tell.

Zazou smiles when he sees me, though- he always remembers to try to smile, for me. "Cherry, this is Malcolm, Malcolm, Cherry." Ugh! Intros! But I stick out my hand and too-pretty Malcolm stands up and shakes it, and he is- he's even shorter than I am, so why do I feel like I'm looking up? "Pleasure to meet you, Cherry. You've done wonderfully, thank you." As if it were something to him, something personal. I nod, mumble something.

I'm confused, and Zazzie, he looks sort of freaked out, like hopeful and scared and withdrawn and reaching all at once. He motions me over and pulls me down, though, into his lap. I try not to smirk at Malcolm, who sits again. That's another thing, his expression barely changes, like he's just drifting, except one look at the pale blue eyes lets you know there's no drift. Undertow, maybe, but not drift.

"Cherry, Mal's here to try to help me heal my Atman," Zaz says, and I notice the suitcase at the side of the couch, and give Zazzie the 'huh' look. "He's taken time off from work to come and help." The way Zazzie says 'work' is all bitter like aspirin on the tongue, and Malcolm almost winces, except he doesn't let himself, and I look between them. Mal smiles, a pure pleasant smile that makes him even prettier, "Well, I had the vacation weeks, use or lose, you know." A look passes between them. And I know, then, that they used to be what Zaz and I are now, lovers, and that something about this 'work' of Malcolm's drove them apart.

"Besides, this situation's intolerable, isn't it? I've designed a procedure that should reactivate..." Malcolm speaks, then flashes a genuine emotion, the first one I caught except for the half second before he knew I was in the room, amused with himself, it seems, "Well, I need to relax, don't I, or it won't be much of a vacation. I mean to say, we'll get Zazou's avatar to talk to him again, all right, Cherry?" I just nod, and then he says something about resting, Zazzie says something about guest bedroom, and he's gone down the hall.

Zazzie pulls me in close, and sighs, but he seems more solid than he has in weeks. "I should tell you a little about Malcolm," he murmurs.