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Sarachan
The feeling in the pit of his
stomach grew more intense as he neared the clearing. He was early - he'd
been waiting for this moment for years, in a way - and he was far too
scared, too exhilarated, to be late.
He was at the clearing now. It
was around 15 metres wide, with thick tufty grass covering its floor. Taking a
crumpled packet of cheap cigarettes from his pocket, he found he was shaking
slightly in fear. The rain put paid to any efforts to light one, though, so he
shoved them back in his pocket and moved slowly to the centre of the clearing,
feeling very exposed.
The setting sun lit the trees on
the side of the clearing with fire and blood. His breath made clouds in the
air, thick fogs that hung in the motionless air, and even the birds seemed to
have fallen silent.
Piercing his reverie, it came. A
soft, sibilant whisper, cutting through the air.
"Brentt..."
He turned, and saw what he had
been waiting for, what he had been fearful of. The man. The beast. The
Immortal. Sarachan. Or, to give him his full title, Sarachan The Endless. He
was tall, dark. Hair flowed like an endless waterfall to his waist, jet black
and poker straight. He seemed to suck the light into him, the air blurring and
twisting as he moved towards Brentt, the grass parting as he approached. His
long raincoat flapped in the wind, slower and more deliberately than it should
have.
Deep within his eyesocket, the
setting sun flared in a blood-red pinpoint.
"Walk with me..." A gentle command,
not a request. Brentt was powerless to refuse anyway. A cool, manicured, pale
hand was extended to him, and he took it. Sarachan twined his fingers around
Brentt's and began to pace very slowly across the clearing, stopping as they
reached the trees. "What shall we do with you now, young Brentt, since you're
here, hmm?" Brentt said nothing, facing the tree he'd been stopped in front of,
unable to move. Sarachan dropped his hand and drifted silently back towards the
centre of the clearing, leaving Brentt to stand.
His knees began to shake, very
slightly. His breathing was a little more ragged now, his mouth dry. The
sunlight was starting to go in earnest now; more than 5 yards into the forest
and the darkness was impenetrable.
Brentt almost collapsed when he
felt a pair of hard, cold points on the side of his neck. He'd not heard
Sarachan come close. The hands that found their way to his waist we soft but
insistent, and they pulled his shirt from his trousers, tugging it over his
head, nails scraping his skin just slightly. There was unmistakeable urgency in
his actions, mirrored in the way that his teeth dug deeper into the skin of his
neck, the tips just breaking the surface.
Sweat rolled down Brentt's back
in the cold air. Cool fingernails echoed its trail down, underneath the back of
his waistband. Long fingers worked
their way down, and dug inside him. His fingers slid over the slick bark of the
tree as his back arched, his heels leaving the ground.
Sarachan growled.
A second hand ripped Brentt's
jeans off in one swift movement. One final movement, and Sarachan was buried
deep inside Brentt, motionless again.
Bark splintered under Brentt's
fingers. Copper blossomed in his mouth as his teeth broke the skin of his lip.
His shoulderblades stood out from his back, tendons making hard ropes under his
skin.
For the first time, Brentt heard
Sarachan breathe.
"Brennnntt..." Sarachan hissed, as he began to move his hips, driving
himself deeper. Brentt found himself pushed against the tree, his back arched
so his chest was flat against the trunk, while his legs were still half a yard
away from it. He felt Sarachan's nails dig into the soft hollows by his hips,
the slight pop of released tension as
they cut into him, the cool air stinging it just slightly. Sarachan reached
forward to find Brentt's erection, sliding smooth fingers teasingly over it in
time with his thrusts.
Unable to control himself, Brentt
pushed back into Sarachan, gripping the tree tighter. A moan escaped him as
Sarachan pushed deeper and harder into Brentt, quickening his pace slightly,
his grip on Brentt's erection tightening as he began to slide his hand over it
faster.
Sarachan's breathing grew
harsher. His teeth sunk into Brentt's neck again, deeper, until a trickle of
blood slid slowly to the small of his back. He was moving quickly now, forcefully, setting up a rhythm
between the movement of his hips and his hand on Brentt's erection, until
Brentt gasped and threw his head back and cried that he was losing control.
Sarachan could feel Brentt's heartrate increasing, and bit his neck harder,
tasting him, until he felt Brentt buck and twitch violently in his hand, felt
the warm wet of his essence as it spilt on the clearing floor, and knew his own
end was inevitable
His breath rasping against
Brentt's shoulder, he drove in one final time, emptying himself into the man,
the release as exquisite as the taste of his blood. For interminable moments he
shuddered at Brentt's back, before releasing his breath in one final rattling
sigh.
At last, he stepped back. Brentt
clung to the tree, unable to move, naked and shivering in the cold. "I will see
you again, young lover. You will be different then," he heard Sarachan say, as
if from a great distance. There was a sound like a great bird taking flight,
and then he was gone. Resting his head against the trunk of the tree, Brentt
knew what he was at last.
He was now The Waiting One.
Sarachan had seen him, and he had been marked.
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