My Blood, Your Blood by Robinka

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My Blood, Your Blood

 

"I will go!"

"You, Beren?"

"I have an unfinished business with the Red Maw, Your Majesty."

"Granted. Gentlemen, let us not waste any more time!"

"Your Majesty, this is madness!"

"Neither the first, nor the last one in my life. You may inquire Her Majesty about it, but now please, move yourself out of my way, Saeros!"

~*~

Fresh blood.

It tasted better than ever, sweeter with each lap.

Its first drops had rained down the throat and had flowed along the tongue, when the wolf had clenched his teeth around the wretched victim's neck. But he could not get enough of its dizzying flavor. His fangs went deeper, razing through the delicate tissues underneath the thick skin and tearing them apart as he bucked his head upward. Motionlessly, the wolf sniffed in the gust of the northern wind; no threat he smelled though, so he licked his snout and poked out his tongue, panting.

His trophy was still warm. Only slight tremors passed through the tensing muscles, but the aurochs did not fight - the horns were no deadly weapon any longer; the hooves, covered with grass, had stopped digging in the soil. With one of his paws across the bulky form and the other one tucked underneath him, the wolf smacked his tongue and yawned. He was not hungry. He had not hunted for meat. Sniffing once again, he stood up and slowly stretched forward and backward, exposing his monstrous claws. Then unhurriedly, he proceeded toward the cutting, along the edge of the bushes and trees, with his nose right above the ground.

After a couple of steps, the wolf froze and whined; laying his ears flat on his triangular skull, he raised his head and bared his yellowed fangs. Once more, he felt pain - it was light at first, like a pleasant, prickling feeling in his stomach upon smelling raw meat, but it increased and soon, fire burned inside him, scorching his innards to ashes. The crimson tongue flicked around the black snout, then the beast yawned and sniffed nervously, lowering his head and causing dribble to leak from between his jaws. The torment seemed diminishing, so he sat down and shook his head.

Upon another flash of pain, the wolf fell and began rolling over, whining and rubbing his snout against the grass. When that did not help, he jumped up and trotted several circles growling, while his bristle rose on his back. The pain kept intensifying.

A short, warning growl emanated from the wolf's throat. He snapped his teeth as he attempted to reach his side and the pain that stabbed him mercilessly, but at the same time he swiftly dodged from under his own fangs and tumbled onto the forest bed, wallowing in sheer despair. But he could find no comfort; nothing was going to ease the fire within him. The wolf sat up and raised his head to the sky.

~*~

"Son of a bitch!"

"I could not say that better, Sire."

"To break an aurochs' neck just like that?"

"I mentioned the beast was gigantic, but you hardly believed me, Your Majesty."

"It must be somewhere here. Ready your weapon, Beren. Beleg! Mablung! Flanking positions! I would rather have two spearmen as my advance-guard!"

"Aye!"

~*~

A languishing howl resounded in the forest with a sinister note.

The wolf darted forward blindly. Each leap seemed to swallow the distance between him and the bushes nearby, and bits of the soil sprang from beneath his claws as he rampaged in frenzy. Pain, like a whiplash, flogged him over and over, hastening his maddened gallop. At last, he barreled into the thicket which hindered him.

Crouching in the tangle, the beast listened intently. Cocking his ears, amongst the swish of the water apparently cascading near the bushes that soughed lightly, he recognized the sound that prompted him that someone, or something, was approaching - a still soft, yet undeniable sound of footfalls against the damp grass. This time it was not a lone animal, he decided, looking around hastily and licking his snout, while his front paws stamped. The pain did not let him forget about it though, lashing him, cracking his bones as if it were the heavy hand of his master. The wolf crouched more, yelping and waggling his tail briefly as he recalled the images of a dark hand that held a piece of bloodied meat. The hand meant both generosity and punishment, the wolf lay down and set his head between his outstretched paws, still whining quietly; but the hand could not free him from the pain. He was bereft of his master, and now he could think about only one other source of salvation.

He knew what could possibly bring him, at least momentarily, solace and lessen the madness that raged inside him. It was not the gust of wind he had felt against his snout hurrying across the plains, mountains and valleys with his tongue poured out in morbid thirst. It was not the nobler, sweeter blood of those fair two-legged creatures that he had assailed during his livid venture. He had lapped it eagerly in the false hope that it would erase the suffering, but it had not, and he had howled even more loudly because his innards had seemed to burn more with each gulp. And it was not the dark blood of those clumsy and noisy creatures that had always shrieked from fear nearing him. His master had allowed him to assassinate them at will, the wolf remembered, and his fangs glinted murderously when he bared them.

The water was close, yet someone was intruding in the space between the water and the wolf.

Judging by the sounds that echoed in the twigs and leaves, the enemy was heading straight toward him. He growled menacingly and sniffed again. The alluring fragrances he caught made the spittle wet his mouth and his fur stand up on his back. The wolf lowered his head and stood still.

The wind that only a moment ago had seemed to sleep in the branches brought a new scent. The beast turned his head, and a growl, threatening and icy, grew in his throat, only to be replaced by a yelp of pain. Somewhere in the dark, the voices, muffled yet recognizable to his keen ears, began to whisper, and he could discern them - one of them was demanding, the other, quieter, sounded very familiar. The wolf decided - it was high time for him to make them understand that he was the hunter.

With his head high up to the clouds, he howled sonorously. A vehement and loud barking was an immediate answer. In spite of the pain, he did not fail to notice the threat, its position and an estimated moment to attack; he was no fool, not by anyone's standards. The sound and the scent clearly showed him where and when to get ready. With the muscles in his hind legs quivering rhythmically, the wolf waited.

~*~

"My lord?"

"What is it, Mablung?"

"Carcharoth!"

"Let us hurry then! Where is Huan?"

~*~

A sudden noise beyond the thicket drew the wolf's attention for what seemed only the blink of an eye. It was enough though for the strike to come from whence he did not expect. He sprang aside and counterattacked, thrusting himself forward when his paws had barely touched the ground. He tried to reach the assailant's neck, smacking his teeth in the process, but only a cluster of hair was left in his mouth. The attacker was equally fast, and the force of his defense, when he had whacked the wolf's side with his head, proved that the wolf should not disregard his grandeur. Keeping that in mind, he turned back and wanted to advance, growling in pure hate, but the invader retreated.

In deft pursuit, the wolf jumped out of the bushes, straight onto a shadowy glade on the bank of a river. He stopped and cast a quick look around. Slowly backing in the direction of the bank in need to secure his rear, he emitted a short howl, half provoking, half painful, and the aggressor disappeared.

Exhausted by the pain and thirsty beyond tolerance, the wolf paid no attention to the fugitive that had lured him out of the fairly safe thicket. Setting his nose against the soft blow of wind, he looked at the river, then behind him, and once again at the river, as if uncertain as to what to do next. After another moment, he was drinking, eagerly, greedily, almost with his whole being so as to kill the burning pain within him. Then, he raised his head, flicking his ears, and his eyes became locked on a blurry silhouette that darkened in the distance. With a feral growl as his response, the wolf slowly turned still fixing his sight at the newcomer that, he knew, would not leave this glade alive, unlike his previous prey. Step by step, he moved forward with his head lowered and his watery saliva trickling onto the grass.

The figure shouted in anger, and the sound stung the wolf's ears with an insulting tone, which challenged him in an instant. He broke into a run to reach the victim in the next moment, and the growl was growing in his chest. All he could focus on now was the prey, human judging by the smell, and the thought of tearing its flesh to pieces. Uplifted by the instinct of a hunter and by the relief after the pain had gone away, he bounced forward with his paws stretched out and his fangs bared in menace.

But he did not achieve his goal. Something tumbled into him from the side, stole his entire impact by wounding him and blocking his way. The wolf understood now that this creature was the owner of that human scent he had smelled, the scent by all means known to him. Once he landed, his legs immediately sent him forward and his fangs and claws aimed precisely at the human's chest. The wolf's teeth clenched powerfully, his weight and speed knocking down the man at the same time, and he felt a spring of blood on his tongue. Spurred by its taste, he put more force into his attack until he heard a creak of the bones underneath his teeth. Rocking his head up, he decided that this one had enough for the time being, and he released the victim to prepare his next charge. He bounced off stepping on the fallen body, when an unparagoned force swept him away, colliding with him so that he collapsed onto the bank, growling through his teeth set on the fur of the attacker. Both of them rolled several times, wrestling in a deadly clasp.

Desperately seeking some support, the wolf raised himself pulling the hound along with him. Then, he rose to his hind paws and furiously jerked his head from side to side. His fangs, stuck in the hound's neck, clenched more forcefully. The wolf tasted blood on his tongue; his grip grew stronger, then he let his teeth cut through the muscles he had reached. The dog pulled back with a horrifying whine. The wolf felt no teeth in his back, so he yanked at the hound's fur once again, and then he moved forward, pushing the dog onto the ground. Towering above him, he once again reached the exposed throat, even though the dog fought back fiercely. The wolf pushed him further, almost embossing him into the soil, and pressed him with his body. He knew that the dog's claws were not dangerous to his sides and underbelly, but somehow he seemed to disregard the power of the other animal's legs.

The writhing hound managed to duck away from the sharp fangs; he pulled his hind paws under the wolf's form and kicked upward, pushing the wolf away from him in one violent move. The wolf lost his grip, tumbling down, but he instantly rose and was ready to attack again. The hound jumped aside and bared his teeth. Bloodied foam covered the battlefield.

~*~

"Beleg!!! Mablung!!!"

~*~

Eyeing the dog cautiously, the wolf estimated his chances and capabilities. He knew that his enemy had no fear of him. He could not smell it, though he for certain could smell wrath and hate. The dog began slowly moving, carefully taking his steps, in a circle around the wolf. He was trying to provoke him, growling quietly and a clear challenge could be heard in the sound; the challenge to attack first, but the wolf waited, though his patience was rapidly growing thin. The hound made another circle, and one more, flashing his eyes, in which white mingled with red. And with anger. The wolf's muscles tensed as his spine bowed a little, but he still kept himself in firm check. He did not let himself foolishly respond to the hound's provocation. In the background, he heard the wheezing that emanated from the fallen man and he knew that he would finish the business with that one later. Once the dog was in front of him again, the wolf straightened up and cast a look over the dog's back. His enemy froze, and then flung himself forward.

That was what the wolf was waiting for. He threw himself against the hound, turning slightly, and bashed the attacking dog's chest with his shoulder. Rising on his hind paws, he bit his enemy's neck and stilled him in place. His triumph was close, within the reach of his paws. But when his fangs ground on the dog's bones, a sudden, wild flash of pain surged through him. He realized it was not his enemy that had hit him; it was that almost forgotten fire that reminded him now of its existence in a most vicious, unbidden way. Having felt the torture coming back, the wolf had released the victim and howled mortified. Too late he corrected his actions. It was enough though for the hound to strike back, perfidiously, in a downward bite straight through the wolf's throat. Knocking the wolf down, the dog tightened his jaws, and then he tore his flesh in one powerful movement. The wolf saw him fall down and near his head to his own snout, exhausted beyond recognition, but alert and ready to hit once again. Suffering overwhelmed him.

He was dying. His misted eyes would not allow him to see clearly. He heard grunting noises, and he realized in panic that it was his torn throat that caused them as he tried to breathe. He knew that the victorious hound would not let him be; he would be watched until he drew his last breath. Still he attempted to move his head up despite the pain that coursed through him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught two figures approaching in haste, and another one that crouched over the fallen man - the human he had slaughtered. The wolf raised his snout more and tried to make a sound, but he could not. The hound's growl answered him, so he locked his eyesight on his killer's head as he regained his focus. The dog stopped growling and watched him.

His terminal, hopeless effort was to sink his fangs into the hound's snout, but it was going to waste. The dog turned his head away and bit back with lethal precision.

~*~

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, Sire. But he will not last long."

"And the hound?"

"Breathing, but badly wounded."

"Victory... but at what expense? His mortal blood traded for..."

"...yours, Your Majesty?"

"Yes, Mablung. There is, in the whole world, no crueler price than this."

Chapter End Notes

The aurochs or urus [Latin: Bos primigenius] was a very large type of cattle that was prevalent in Europe until its extinction in 1627. The animal's original scientific name was meant as a Latin translation of the German term Auerochse or Urochs. Aurochs were about 1,75 meters high at the withers. Aurochs also had several features rarely seen in modern cattle, such as lyre-shaped horns set at a forward angle, a pale stripe down the spine, and sexual dimorphism of coat color. Males were black; females and calves were reddish. Aurochs were also known to have very aggressive temperaments and killing one was seen as a great act of courage in ancient cultures. The mention of an aurochs' appearance in the story is my licentia poetica. Since the last one of this kind was killed in the XVII century in Poland, I thought the species might have as well inhabited the ancient woods such as Doriath in Beleriand.

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