Stars in the Sand

[Sol]

The beast claws its way up into the ruins of Xendai, castle frames parting amidst black teeth and hungry, snapping maws. The sky darkens to purple, and the sword glows radiant blue in his hand.

Jarek kills it, and then kills it again.

His bones crack and rejoin, his flesh rends and heals, steady blue light pulsing under his skin like a living thing. It's exhausting.

In the aftermath, the sky glows sickly yellow before fading to orange, while black tar stains the ground, a sticky miasma dissipating under the evening sun. In the aftermath, there is something alive. 

Jarek crosses the path to it, passing the severed head of the beast, tongue lolling and eyes unseeing. He spares it no glance. 

In the aftermath, there is not one man, but two. 

Naked and curled as the day he was born, skin bronzed and unmarred, with a brilliant shock of long red hair. He appears just as young as Jarek, perhaps a bit younger, but nearly twice as large. Jarek wonders if he is even breathing, until his ribs rise and fall in even measure. Jarek shakes his shoulder gently, the warm skin searing, but the man merely shifts and does not wake. He almost feels guilt for tampering with such a peaceful state. 

He could kill him, man or not, the beast has chosen its vessel... but Jarek must be going soft, because he finds that he cannot. Man or not, the man and the beast are never the same.

Steeling himself, and feeling very tired, Jarek turns his head to the sky and sighs. 

 

Carrying a man twice his size is already difficult, and the task is made more so by said man being unconscious. He manages eventually, bundling the man up in a torn tapestry and onto his back. He's heavy, but the weight is comforting rather than stifling. 

The sun is setting, barely peeking over the horizon when Jarek finally arrives at the run down shack he has called home for the last four nights. He settles for kicking the door open, banging against the stone wall before gliding back. 

The shack is simply furnished, only a bed, chair, and wooden tub cluttering the dirt floor. Jarek settles his guest onto the bed, rearranging the tapestry to act more as a blanket than a wrap. It's a poor substitute, but Jarek is too tired to do anything more. 

The man's face is peaceful and slack with sleep, and Jarek's neck heats in remembrance of gentle breaths. His body aches in remembrance of wounds, old and new, and the soreness of muscles stretched beyond their limits. 

He brushes a strand of red hair out of the man's face, tangled and curled and soft in his fingers. It's bright as blood and flowers against his skin. The man moves his head to the new source of warmth, and Jarek is so struck with it that he jerks back. Unsettled in his skin, feeling more like a voyeur and shell than a person, he stumbles to the chair. 

Sleep takes him under quickly after that, mind racing too much to remember he never removed his binds. 

He dreams of black tar and red hair that night.