Mate

NAME PRONOUNCIATION: Jayah is pronounced "JAI-yah"

***** 

~ HARTH ~

She couldn't drag him over the stones. He was utterly naked.

Averting her eyes from his maleness—Harth had spent little time with males since she'd been an adult, and certainly none that were naked, the humans had made sure of that. She looked around for any sign of his belongings. Surely he hadn't travelled out to this remote place, naked and armed only with a spear?

The dirt and pebbles were disrupted in strange swirling patterns for a large section of the ground around him, but there was no pile of clothing or supplies nearby.

Following the trail of his scent—pale though it was after baking in the sun for what must have been days—Harth crept towards the open end of this strange place, keeping her body low and shifting to a wolf when a long, broad meadow was revealed, sloping down from the level of the amphitheater—or whatever it was.

She waited precious minutes, but could see no one and nothing nearby—except a small pile of clothing and a leather bag that had been left neatly where the ground began to slope away from the flat bottom of this… bowl.

Relieved, Harth snatched up his clothing and things, then hurried back into the strange place, running as fast as she could back to him while digging through the bag to see if there was anything within it that would help him.

A few dry, crumbling oat cakes, some dried beef, and two small bottles. She uncorked them and sniffed, but couldn't know what was within them—the scents were nothing she recognized. So she turned her attention to dressing him to protect his body from the sun.

But even when she'd struggled and gotten him dressed, it was clear that the linen shirt would never hold up to being dragged across this rocky ground.

And he was no longer responding. When she tried to trickle more water into his mouth, it simply pooled there until she was afraid she might suffocate him. So she turned his head to let it dribble out, instead using some of the precious water to wet the blindfold, and his shirt, placing the one on his head, and leaving the other saturated as she draped his bag around her neck. Looping his bag over her neck, she tied his spear to his belt, then wrestling and grunting, pulled his upper body up and onto her back—almost spearing herself in the process—until, finally, she stood hunched over, with his arms over her shoulders, clasped to her chest.

At first she was able to bend forward and keep his feet from the ground, carrying him awkwardly. But he was so much taller than her, and so heavy, that by the time she'd heaved him up the side of the bowl in the direction where she'd come from, he was beginning to drag.

When she made it to the peak of that hill, where she'd first stood and spied him and realized it had taken several minutes just to move those one hundred feet, she knew she needed to find a better way.

Reluctantly, she let him down on the other side, holding his upper body and allowing them both to slide down the shale on the other side, praying his leather pants wouldn't be torn by a sharp rock.

And when she got to the base of the hill and could see the beginnings of the green grass and the shade of the trees just a few hundred feet away, she clenched her jaw and snorted the air from her nose.

"If you truly are…. My mate… she huffed, grunting as she struggled to get his weight back up onto her shoulders, "we will… discuss… the wisdom of… fighting the air… in the desert… alone…"

His chin dug into her shoulder and he already felt even heavier. But she pushed on.

If he truly was her mate, she would save him.

She would protect him with her very life.

*****

~ TARKYN ~

Tarkyn woke in the dark, the scent of damp rock. He must have been taken to Jayah's cave, though he didn't remember it smelling quite so… wet.

He tried to roll, but his body punished him with sharp lines of pain crackling down his back that stole his breath.

He waited a moment, forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply and tried to shake the fog from his mind. But his stiff, sore neck wouldn't allow it.

He couldn't see anything. Was he still wearing the blindfold? He clearly wasn't in the Hallowed Grounds any longer. He tried to reach for his face, but his fingers refused to work properly. His hand fluttered uselessly, and his arm barely moved at all.

"You're awake!"

Tarkyn's eyes flew open at the voice that called his heart to a painful thudding in his chest. But his eyes were stabbed by the light of bright yellow of flames and he was forced to close them again, sucking in a breath, breathing too fast, but forcing himself to calm until a shadow passed over him, blocking the heat of the flames as well, and he could slowly flutter his eyes open.

Sight still glaring with the retina burn of the flames, he couldn't make out anything but her shape, kneeling in front of him, hair falling past her shoulders as her hands worked quickly, shifting something soft under his head. Then she took his hand and checked his pulse in exactly the right way, the way he taught all his soldiers to measure for a heartbeat.

"Who…?" he tried to ask, but his mouth was so dry, his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and it came out only as a rush of breath.

"Don't try to move. Your body is very weak. I'm going to give you some more water—please try to swallow. It will help."

He must have been on his side, because she leaned over him. Soft hands eased his shoulder back so he lay flat on his back, then turned his head.

A small stream of water appeared suddenly and he spluttered, then began to gulp hungrily at the water as his parched body screamed at him to drink—drink!

Swallowing noisily, coughing once when he got the timing wrong with her pouring, he tried to take the waterskin from her hands, but couldn't get his hands past his waist.

"Just rest, I'll do it," she whispered, cool fingers combing gently into his hair as she poured.

He was still gulping at the water when she stopped, but when he grunted, she shook her head. "If you have too much, your stomach will just send it all back up."

He knew she was right, but his entire being yearned for more. He tried to grab her wrist, but was barely able to raise his hands from his stomach where she'd placed them for him.

His instincts screamed at him. He was in an unknown cave, with an unknown wolf, unable to move. Had she drugged him?

But no… he thought back as his heart began to race… He'd been praying. He'd been… the ritual. The Hallowed grounds. His petition to the Creator—

"You're very weak. Don't be afraid. I'll help you and… and keep you safe, until you can get back on your feet."

His breath stopped.

"Who?" he rasped, his voice so hoarse it was barely more than a breath.

She took a deep breath, then her soft fingers curled into his hand and she squeezed it with her own.

"I'm Harth," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "I'm… what is your name?"

"Tar…" his voice cracked, disappeared. He tried to clear his throat, but only succeeded in in a rough grunt. "Tah-rk…"

"Tark?"

He growled in his throat, then swallowed and concentrated. "Tar-kyn."

"Tar-kin?"

"Yes."

A tiny whimper broke from her throat. "Tarkyn," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm… I'm so happy to… I've been waiting my whole life for you."

Tarkyn blinked, then sucked in, inhaling her scent.

When it hit the back of his throat, the mating call wanted to rise, almost choking him. But before he could ask, his eyes began to drag closed again.

He tried to reach for her, but she had his hand clasped in both of hers. She raised it, kissing his knuckles, and a jolt of lightening crackled from the point where her lips had touched his skin, to the deepest part of his chest.

A rough, strangled call broke in his throat, but his heart hammered painfully, and everything went black.