Mated to the Warrior Beast

~ TARKYN (Pronounced TAR-kin) ~

Tarkyn grunted, pain stabbing through his chest and arms as he swung the spear, but he pressed on. The dirt and gravel crunched under the dry soles of his feet, the dust and sharp stones cutting and splitting the skin. But he ignored the pain as he stood tall once again, brought the spear upright to the guard position and breathed deeply five times before widening his stance and beginning the forms again.

The blindfold he wore stopped his sweat running into his eyes, but covering his ears as it did, not only made his entire body warmer, but muffled his hearing in a deeply disturbing way. But that was the point. The ritual traditions were clear. When Tarkyn had entered the Hallowed Grounds the day before, he'd put himself in the Creator's hands. He brought his plea to the feet of God, and he sacrificed himself for the answer.

Either the Creator would reveal his mate, or Tarkyn would fall prey to the ends of his physical limits. After over a full day of the forms in the beating sun, even his warrior body was exhausted. He wondered if that was to be his fate.

There was a part of him that would be relieved.

When he turned, his head spun and without his sight, without a landmark or the horizon to focus upon, his balance went with it. He stumbled sideways and had to catch his weight with a stutter-step to his right.

The blindfold hadn't left his eyes since he found his place in the Hallowed Grounds the previous morning. He had no idea how much he'd traveled in the forms in the hours between. But his body was beginning to fail. He recognized the signs.

He didn't know the hour, only that his skin burned after two afternoons in the sun without food or water.

He didn't know the answer to his plea, only that if he didn't receive it soon, he likely would meet the Creator and be able to ask him face to face.

"Please… I beg you…" he breathed. Then returned to the forms, though he knew his movements were slowing.

"The blindfold because I am blind," he panted as he stepped to the right and swung the spear as if clearing a path through enemies. "My ears blocked because I am deaf," he grunted, thrusting, then twisting it as if an enemy died under the blade of it. "Every ounce of breath and sweat because my efforts are for naught."

He turned, swinging the spear back up to the defensive position, then thrust again, "I am nothing…" then turning his head as if to hear something behind him, and he yanked the butt of the spear sharply back as if to catch an ambusher.

"I am nothing. I bleed myself dry. Please… show your plan. Show me the face of my mate."

Tarkyn was the greatest living warrior in a people of warriors. The Captain of the Queen's guard. Accomplished, strong and fit even among the Anima people. But he was still mortal. And for the first time in his life, his body was… dying.

"Please..." he whispered as he drew himself upright again, but his foot dragged, the sharp gravel biting into the dry cracks in his skin. "Please... I..."

He … what?

For a moment, blinking under the blindfold, Tarkyn couldn't remember what he was doing.

But his limbs began to move, as if programmed—step to the right and swing. Turn and thrust. Forward, then behind—and he was reminded.

The Hallowed Grounds.

The Creator.

The Ritual.

He had come to plead for his mate.

For the first time, he wondered if perhaps he was not blind. Or deaf. Perhaps his solitude was the Creator's plan? Perhaps the Creator had always intended for him to spend this life alone?

Despair, thick and choking, crawled into his throat at the thought.

He had fulfilled his duty for decades! Serving first the great King Reth when he was yet a cub! And now he had led the Anima soldiers in battle, overrun their enemies, the humans, and honored his Queen, Elreth, in clearing the land from threat.

He'd shared his soldiers with the Queen's brother, and embraced the Protectors. He had walked the people through invasion and loss and grief, and now they were safe.

They were all safe. And happy.

Except him.

He had done everything asked of him. Everything! Why would the Creator deny him this? It was every Anima's deepest desire to find their True Mate—or any mate—and build a family.

Why would Tarkyn be deprived of it when he had been so faithful?

His head spun. His body shuddered. He was no longer sweating, he realized. His head ached.

Instinctively he turned his eyes down to look at the skin on his arm, though he knew it was dry. But he was blindfolded. And it was as if the earth under his feet shifted. Turned. The Hallowed Grounds lurching to flip him onto his aching head.

He tried to catch himself as his weight shifted and he toppled, landing with a grunt when his dry skin scraped on the gravel.

He had fallen. An embarrassment. But it was no matter. Soldiers fell often. They just got back to their feet and pressed on...

But he'd lost his spear. And when he tried to hold the weight of his upper body on one braced arm, to search with the other, his strength gave out.

He sprawled in the dust, dirt and heat in his nostrils, the sunbaked pebbles under his cheek searing his dry skin.

He could not stop! The ritual demanded that he continue until his plea was answered, or he received his death. He had vowed to the Creator Himself…

Was that the plan, though?

The niggling thought wouldn't leave him. Had he reached the moment of his death? The moment he would stand before the Creator and answer for his life? Had it truly come?

Spiraling fear twisted his guts. It couldn't be…

He tried one more time to feel for his spear, but his arm flailed uselessly at his side. His body unable to follow his instructions.

The pain in his head increased, and yet he seemed to swim away from it. Darkness much deeper than the blindfold sank over him to grasp him in its claws.

The wind—usually so damp and full of life in the forest—rushed over him, shockingly dry, carrying with it what little sanity he had left. He tried to push up on his arms and failed. Tried to reach for the blindfold, but his fingers couldn't grip.

And so, Tarkyn the Warrior, the Captain of the Queen's Guard, the Protector of the Royal Family, and the male who had sought his mate with everything within him, gave up.

As the breath of wind rushed by leaving only the searing sun and barren earth of the Hallowed Ground beneath him, Tarkyn couldn't even identify the scents in its tendrils as it faded.

Terrified as he felt his death prowl towards him, he tried to call for his mate, the yearning in his heart given voice for the first time. But his throat was too dry, and his tongue was beginning to swell.

Sprawled in the dirt, unable to move more than his fingers, Tarkyn reached finally for his beast—the massive lion that lived within him. But even his beast had gone silent.

He would have wept if he had tears.

Tarkyn had remained faithful. He had tried. And he had failed. He was utterly alone—even without his Beast.

He hadn't found his mate, and he was dying.

The Creator was going to have a lot to answer for when Tarkyn stepped into the next realm. But perhaps it was for the best.

What life could he truly have without ever hearing the match for his soul's song?

*****

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