Brynnan: The Alsar Imperative : Chapter 2

Mavrenn’s Tale

“So,” said Geraint, “Will you tell us why Nijal disapproves of your harp? And what bearing can it have on visiting him in Narib?”

“As to your second question, I don’t know—yet. All we know is that some Alsar Guardians have a concern with Mavrenn. Hear my tale, and judge for yourselves.”

The three men were on the broad terrace adjoining the Warlord’s rooms. Lord Samir, sharing the stone bench with Brynnan, nodded at him to continue, and the Bard began.

“The people, simply known as Alsar, like the name of our world, existed here before the First Settlement when our race came to this world through the Long Dark. The visitors—our ancestors—altered this world to suit their needs, replacing native species with their own.

“One of the species they discovered was the Alsar. This is a race intimately connected to the World Soul, the Mother-of-All. They are not like us: they can change to adapt to threats. We change very slowly over time, but their genetics are far different.

“After the first settlers arrived, they destroyed the cities of the Alsar—only ruins are left today. But they did not manage to exterminate these former inhabitants as the Alsar evolved to fit the new threat. They have always had mind powers far beyond our people. Their current physiological differences are known to us three: the blood they gave us has changed us at the cellular level.

“In response to the settlers, the Alsar eliminated any technology that did not fit this world. Humans are a war-like race, and the Alsar destroyed our ancestors’ advanced weapons, much like they did in the Mothership of the Invaders, which still orbits our planet. The Guardians act mentally in concert with each other, generating powerful mind forces. But there have been renegades: Mavrenn is one of those.”

“What are you saying, Brynnan?” said Samir, frowning. “Are you talking about your harp or of one of the Alsar?”

“Both. Mavrenn was once a living being, in the form of a woman of the Alsar.”

“How is that even possible?” Geraint said in disbelief.

“Mavrenn took an interest in “her” humans, using her powers as an Alsar Guardian to become a type of battle goddess to the ArMorican people, taking sides and defending them against the onslaught of others during the Era of Conflict. She used her unique powers: her voice was enchanting and phenomenal and could sway warring factions. Also, she acted much as I do, leading the souls of the dying to the gates of death.

The other Guardians took issue with this undue influence and condemned her, but before they could strip her of her powers, she had her favourite harpist, Dristan Brdydd Mawr, construct a harp. She allowed herself to die, striking a bargain with my Father, King Arawn, so that she put her spirit into the harp while her soul dwells in Annwn, out of reach of the Guardians.”

Brynnan paused to caress the harp’s shoulder. “This harp has her beautiful voice. Thus, harpists were chosen, beginning with the harp’s maker, Dristan, to be her Servant and continue escorting the souls of the dying or easing their deaths. Their title was “Marec Mavrenn”—Servant of Ravens. “Mavrenn” is the Alsar word for our ravens, which accompanied her in battle. When the Servants died, their souls were pledged to the Shadow Lord’s kingdom. It was part of the bargain Mavrenn had struck with them and Arawn.”

Geraint looked troubled. “This sounds too complicated to me and hard to fathom. All I know is that I love to hear you play, and you have developed the Shadow-singing technique into an art that can influence people’s emotions. But with that power, how in the Good Spirit’s name have you survived without being sought out and killed by strangers?”

“Very few are aware of the extent of my powers, and the Servants have pledged themselves to the Grandmaster at the ArMor-ys College, who directs their assignments. As for myself, after many travels, I was eventually assigned to accompany my Lord’s wife, Mara, to her hand-fasting in Torrent Mountain. For six Turns, I acted as her spiritual counsellor and teacher and served my Lord as an emissary.”

He looked at the Warlord as he said this, and there was an indefinable expression on Samir’s face, almost one of pain. “Comment no further on that matter, Brynnan,” Samir said sternly. “Return to the issue of the harp.”

The Bard bowed his head in acknowledgment and continued his tale. “There was one thing about the harp’s making: the bone figurehead was added later by Dristan after Mavrenn died. It is said that it is her bone, but that is just a tale and has never been substantiated. But in any case, Nijal disapproves of Mavrenn’s formation, even as he supports my role as a guide to the dying. And there ends my tale.”

“So your Father, King Arawn, shelters her soul?” said Geraint, struggling to understand.

“Indeed. I’m sure that, as usual, he has an ultimate purpose. He does nothing without cause, but I will not speculate,” Brynnan replied.

Samir’s head was bent in thought. Brynnan waited patiently for him to speak.

“My Bard, I wish you to travel to Annwn through the Shadow-ways and discuss this with your Father. He may refuse to divulge information, but see what you can accomplish. I will wait here for you.”

“Now, my Lord?” said Brynnan in surprise.

“Yes. Go and prepare yourself. Your harp, Mavrenn, will be safe here, as I know you cannot take her with you.”

“What would happen if Mavrenn’s soul and the harp came face-to-face in Annwn?” said Geraint, curious.

“I’m not sure I would want to know,” Brynnan said.

* * *

Travelling the Shadow-ways was usually very quick, but this time it seemed to Brynnan that he lingered in the cold, grey, misty tracks. He was aware of a howling wind tearing at his living form. Usually, only spirits could travel along the paths, but Brynnan was an exception as he was now more than human. So it was almost a surprise when, with a shifting that vibrated through his body, he found himself standing on a hillside of purple grass with a scattering of alder trees. He was within a circle, some thirty paces across, of grey, man-high stones. A low slab of rock occupied the centre. Walking to it, Brynnan saw that someone had placed flowers there. They were wilted. Sacred stone or not, Brynnan sat on it to gather his thoughts. He watched as mist swirled along the ground and then coalesced, forming the figure of King Arawn.

“No, my son: don’t get up. But you are on sacred ground.”

Brynnan replied, “Then I will lay down my pride as a sacrifice, like these flowers, and beg your aid.” He shifted over as Arawn approached and sat beside him.

Tonight, the Shadow Lord was young-seeming. His features were the familiar ones, but his ordinarily black hair, shaded with silver, blew around his face in the incessant breeze.

“Who comes here to lay their offerings on this stone?” Brynnan asked curiously.

“Oh, souls who want my aid as you do. Or they wish to celebrate the beauty of these hills.”

“Do you grant them their desires?”

“It’s not my business to go about granting wishes. I am no fae.”

“Yet some have called you the Erl King, the Elf-King.”

Arawn laughed. “Yes. That King who, in the material realm, finds children in the woods and lures them with promises, but his touch is death. Humans have fine ideas about me.”

“But you do invite the souls of children to your realm.”

“And men, and women, and young people dying of love denied or broken dreams.”

“You are particular in whom you choose, my Father. But you also hunt souls,” said Brynnan. He never knew when Arawn was testing him. But he persisted and asked, “Why this place to meet me?”

“I was out walking, and a child’s voice called me. It was she who laid flowers upon this stone.”

Brynnan shook his head. His Father could sometimes be obtuse.

“But come, my son. You did not travel to debate flowers or children. Take my hand, and we will travel to Caer Annwn, our home.”

Brynnan stood and held on to his Father. The mists swiftly took them, and only a breath passed before they were inside Arawn’s Great Hall, formed of stone and timbered beams. Rhiardan, the King’s steward, always alert to the comings and goings of his Lord, brought cups of wine.

“Drink, my son. We will not stay to greet my guests but go instead to my chambers.”

Brynnan finished the goblet of green wine, which flooded his body with a refreshing sensation, like leaping into a cool river. Hardly had he set the cup down than they were inside Arawn’s bed chamber. The King eyed his son knowingly.

“What—?” Brynnan began.

“Don’t ask questions: just come into my arms,” Arawn said, his voice turning husky.

Brynnan did not stop to think: he knew then what he needed and desired. He shivered as Arawn wrapped his arms about him and kissed his mouth. The Bard opened his lips to receive the probing tongue as one kiss followed another, forceful yet gentle. Eventually, the Shadow Lord stood back, holding his son at arm’s length.

“Strip, and join me on the bed,” he commanded.

Brynnan unfastened the purple robe he wore and laid it nearby. He stood before his Father, hands at his sides, patiently waiting. Arawn’s form rippled, and he was suddenly naked. He reached out and stroked his son’s lithe body, running his long-fingered hands over the Bard’s breast. He traced each branded sigil with a fingertip, and Brynnan held his breath in sudden apprehension.

Arawn laughed softly. “Do not be afraid, my son. Only you can summon that gift.” Arawn pushed Brynnan down upon a coverlet of grey satin.

“Your Lord and lover binds you at times. Do you wish me to do likewise?”

Brynnan found his voice hoarse as he answered, “If you will.”

There were ropes on a green marble table beside them. Taking a length of the braided black silk, Arawn knotted it around Brynnan’s outstretched hands, then he tied the lead end to the head of the bed, stretching his son’s arms above his head.

“You surrender to your Warlord, do you not? You want him to be in control.”

“Yes.”

Arawn traced each branded sigil on the Bard’s chest with a fingertip, and Brynnan held his breath in sudden apprehension.

Arawn laughed softly. “Do not be afraid, my son. Only you can summon that gift. Although I sincerely caution you against invoking the sigils’ powers, there will come a time when you must choose. The art is in the Balance. Their power can destroy worlds.”

Brynnan found his voice hoarse as he answered, “I know. It nearly happened in Aegir’s realm. I decided to never invoke them again.”

“At least you didn’t swear. Beware of oaths that can be broken.”

“I do not want to put my Lord at risk,” Brynnan said.

“You have such power, my son. You could sweep an army into the Void with a thought. Yet a human man can bind your will,” said Arawn, pouring a scented oil over the Bard’s skin. He massaged it in, paying particular attention to Brynnan’s rising cock. The long fingers grasped the proud phallus, stroking the oil back and forth on the shaft.

Brynnan gasped as waves of passion washed over him. “It is precisely that, Father, which gives me such relief when I place myself under Samir’s will. I want to feel powerless for a little while.”

Arawn kneaded his son’s testicles. “Yet once, he made you truly powerless, taking your voice and hands.”

“I know. That is where I learned the language of powerlessness. Now it is by choice or compulsion under my Lord, which I barely understand sometimes. But why do you remind me?”

“That’s because when you choose powerlessness, you are not helpless. No one will ever truly control you. Your own nature and the duties you follow preclude it. You are like me: there is no ultimate rest for us until we choose the Void ourselves.”

“I did so once already, Father. But you and my Lord Samir pulled me back to the living world.”

“Just remember this when it seems you have no choice: when others have bound your will. They cannot succeed.”

“Another lesson, Father?”

“Just so. But when you are faced with the need to save others, how badly will you want it?” Arawn smiled, his dark eyes, lit from within by eldritch fires, shimmering with mischief.

“You strive to pit me against myself?”

“Accept your whole self, Brynnan, even the dark corridors where nightmares live. Otherwise, some will use your nightmares against you. Now relax and take my love.” Arawn bent his head, and his long silver-shadowed hair flowed over Brynnan’s chest.

Brynnan felt his nipples being sucked, his body kissed and licked as the Shadow King rubbed his hardness over his son’s body. Their cocks, now fully engorged, slid together, slippery from the oil. Arawn moved his hips, dry-fucking his son until Brynnan opened his thighs.

“Take me, Father. Put your cock inside me.”

“How badly do you want it?” Arawn said.

“Bad enough to beg for it. Bad enough that I will serve your own desires however I can . . .”

“Don’t worry, dear one. I give you my love freely, with an open hand.”

Arawn reared back and pushed his substantial cock against the Bard’s anal opening. It entered with hardly a pause, claiming all of the passage within its length.

Brynnan moaned openly and raised his legs, and Arawn braced against the bent thighs with his outstretched arms. His body moved in a powerful rhythm, fucking his son, pounding into him. Brynnan simply let go, trusting his Father to take him where he would go. The waves of ecstasy climbed higher, and not only their bodies, but their minds merged. Brynnan was again made aware of the vastness and complexity of Arawn’s being and the awareness of other worlds. A simple human’s brain could not have borne that sharing: it would have consumed him, but Brynnan embraced his Father’s great soul with all the love he could give him. Then he was aware of the surge of his ejaculation, and his Father’s coinciding passion overtook him. He dissolved into rainbow light.

“Here, my son, stay with me. Come back,” Arawn commanded in a voice that resonated with power, and Brynnan was drawn back into his body despite himself.

Arawn held him tightly. “You must focus when that occurs and master yourself. You cannot allow your power to run uncontrolled. Guard yourself.”

“It would be so easy to let go . . .” Brynnan murmured. “Father, I love you. Thank you for understanding me.”

* * *

Father and son sat outside Caer Annwn’s walls in the apple orchard. They rested on sheepskins spread under a gnarled old tree, sipping the green wine of Annwn. The King’s great dog, Ysbryd, lay nearby, guarding his Lord.

Brynnan, idly stroking a Ysbryd’s shaggy head, shared his concerns with his Father, telling him of his worries about Mavrenn and Nijal’s request that he and his Lord travel to Narib.

“Should we not summon her?” Brynnan asked.

“Not at this time, Brynnan. I would wait to see how much trouble could be caused. I have a far-seeing that Nijal’s problem could affect my realm, so I am most interested in your plight. However, we don’t want to apply a heavy hand now. Let matters develop. Where the Alsar Guardians are concerned, we shall tread lightly. When they die, they do not seek my kingdom. There is a place for their souls of the Mother-of-All’s making. Mavrenn is the exception; her soul has asylum here—”

Arawn seemed about to say something further, but he fell silent, and Brynnan knew not to push him further. Finally, he spoke again. “You came seeking guidance: tell Lord Samir that he may travel to Narib, but to beware of visitors to Jehanadir’s court that he may encounter. I see several strands of a complex weave developing. The issue will not be simple. But I am not far away, should you need me. Now go with my blessing.”

* * *

“Back so soon, my lover? But I forget: time in that realm is malleable,” said the Warlord as Brynnan materialized in their bed chamber.

The Warlord was half-dressed. His riding leathers lay on a nearby chair. He continued stripping as he gestured Brynnan towards the bed. “Tell me your news,” he said.

Brynnan took off his robe and lay back on the soft bedding. “I found my Father on a hillside, but we moved to Caer Annwn.” Then the Bard told of the act of love and the conversation in detail. “He encourages us to travel to Narib but warns us of visitors to the Red Prince’s court. I am more concerned with what Nijal will have to say. But I see your riding leathers. Were you going out?”

“A quick trip to the Deieros Compound to see Kyros. You may accompany me. But as to your news, it is no surprise, but I’m glad I sent you to see Arawn. And I will heed your Father’s warning.”

Samir approached and rested on the bed, kneeling over Brynnan’s chest. His erect stallion’s cock probed his lover’s lips. The Bard obediently opened his mouth, taking in the broad head.

“That’s it. Suck my cock. You have been well-used by your Father, and I want to use you more. Is his cum still in your ass?”

Brynnan paused in sucking to reply. “Yes, beloved, but it will not harm you now should you choose to fuck me. It is death to the average mortal, but he has previously given you his seed, which you took willingly.”

The Warlord’s gaze looked into the past as he said, remembering, “I did take it willingly. It was necessary to allow me to travel to Annwn with him, even as a living man. I needed to bring you back.”

“You did bring me back, dear Lord. Now let me please you.” Brynnan resumed sucking the large phallus as best as he could. Pre-cum dripped from the tip of the glans, and he lapped it up, craving its taste.

Samir watched for a time, fascinated, as his cock stiffened until it was rigid and throbbing. Then he lifted himself off Brynnan’s chest. “Turn over, and get on your hands and knees. I’m going to take you from behind.” His voice was thick with lust.

Brynnan felt cool, slippery lubricant being drizzled over his anal passage. He felt Samir’s strong fingers reach between his thighs and stroke his cock, spreading the liquid over the warm flesh. Then he groaned as Samir pushed his huge rod against Brynnan’s anus until it reamed him open. “Fuck me, my lover,” he moaned.

Samir obliged. His shaft sank deep until fully hilted, and the Bard’s body was speared upon it. The Warlord’s hips thrust back and forth in a slow but steady rhythm.

“Tell me whose bitch you are,” he breathed.

“I’m yours, my Lord. Your bitch, and your lover.”

“That’s right. You know who your body belongs to. Each time I fuck you, I claim it for myself.”

Then Samir ceased talking as he fucked Brynnan hard, his thrusts increasing as his heavy ball sack slapped against his lover’s. He held Brynnan’s upper thighs and pulled him back against his body so there was no escaping.

Brynnan had no intention of freeing himself. He gladly let the Warlord claim him as his body shook with the pounding. He felt the rising tide of Samir’s lust and the beginnings of ejaculation, the hot sperm erupting into his anal passage, filling him and mingling with his Father’s cum deep inside.

Samir gave a few final thrusts before he withdrew. He turned his lover’s body over and placed his big hands beneath the Bard’s ass cheeks, lifting him up. Then he swallowed Brynnan’s stiff cock, sucking it lustily.

It didn’t take Brynnan long to cum. He could not have held back if he’d tried: his passion was overriding. With a cry, he shot his load and felt his lover swallow. He surrendered utterly to the sensations as the Warlord fell across his body, pinning it under his own.

As their heartbeats slowed, Samir roused himself to say, “When I came in your ass, I could feel the slipperiness of your Father’s seed. I was filled with a strange flood of energy. Is this how it affects you when you are fucked by him?”

“Yes, my lover. Travelling the Shadow-ways drains me, and my Father’s physical act of love restores the Balance. See, I told you that it would not harm you.”

“But nevertheless, I think we should bathe thoroughly. Should Geraint join us, I would not want anything to happen if he took your ass. Now get up. That old Warrior will be waiting impatiently for us with the horses. We have already delayed overlong: Kyros expects us.”

* * *

To be continued . . .

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