Faerie Story:  Chapter Three

Fortunately for Skinner, Alexin’s eyelashes began to flutter open after only a few minutes and then the realization he was lying on the filthy floor of Skinner’s cell was clearly sufficient motivation for him to scramble quickly back to his feet, because he leapt upwards, wrinkling his nose and rubbing fretfully at his soiled nightgown.

Less fortunately, those minutes had been long enough for Skinner to start having second thoughts about his plan to kill the boy.

It was one thing to *think* about Alexin being dead, but having seen the beauty’s face so still and lifeless because of the faint, it was almost unbearable for him to imagine himself putting the boy into a condition of permanent repose.

And yet his duty to his people, and in particular to Crystal City, *demanded* the life of the boy.

Alexin's offer to help him escape changed nothing.

Skinner wasn’t even sure he could walk, let alone run, and fighting was out of the question. He needed food, water, medicine and several days of rest before he had any possibility of moving faster than a broken hobble. It wasn’t only his feet that were the problem, the savage burns on his inner thighs and genitals would also make walking almost impossible.

If it were just *his* life at stake, perhaps he would have accepted the boy’s offer of help and would have *crawled*, if that was all he could do, in an attempt at freedom. But that way led to inevitable capture and, with his own capture, Alexin would *also* be captured and he would have selfishly abandoned his people to their fate for no more than a few hours of painful freedom, simply because he was too cowardly to accept the stain of the boy’s blood on his hands.

He was going to have to kill the beautiful creature and, having accepted that, he decided the sooner the better.

“Let me down, boy,” he barked.

Alexin shrugged with obvious confusion. It was clear there was a huge difference between him offering his help and him knowing *how* to help.

“The pulley,” Skinner snapped impatiently. “Use it to lower me down to the ground. Then find a key for my shackles.”

Alexin moved towards the pulley but then hesitated and turned back to face him.

“How…how do I know you won’t attack me if you’re free?” he demanded.

Skinner’s heart leapt guiltily inside his chest, but he kept his voice gruff and emotionless. “You said you could get me out of here. Do I look stupid enough to attack my only chance of escape? I promise I won’t hurt you.”

The boy chewed his lower lip for a moment but then nodded his acceptance of the promise. It took him several minutes to release the pulley, since his hands and wrists were far weaker than those of the woman who had tightened it, but eventually he managed to free the chain enough to lower Skinner to the ground. Then Alexin searched for the keys. It took him a little time but, finally, next to the fireplace, he found the keys to Skinner’s wrist shackles and released him.

If Skinner had thought it painful to remain suspended, he soon learned there was nothing worse than the sensation of being released. The moment he moved his arms forward, it felt as though burning oil had been poured over his shoulders. He screamed so loudly at the agony flooding through him that Alexin backed away in obvious terror.

Skinner waited for his arms to return to some semblance of normality, gritting his teeth against crying out as his limbs came back to life with the maddening sensation of his muscles being eaten alive by tiny insects. Then, when he was satisfied that his earlier screams hadn’t alerted any guards and the Faerie boy had settled down enough not to flinch every time he moved, Skinner gathered his little remaining strength, remembered that the fate of his entire people was in his hands, and he launched himself at the boy.

It wasn’t until he was moving that he realized his body was completely refusing to co-operate with him. Instead of rising fully to his feet as he’d intended, he could manage no more than a pained crouch. Instead of moving so swiftly that the boy had no chance to discern his intention, he moved as though he were in quicksand as his burned, whipped and bruised body shuddered in protest with every step.

In fact, the only reason he managed to get his hands around Alexin’s throat at all was because the boy froze instead of fleeing. He was clearly terrified, but didn’t have the correct instincts to protect himself. And so, despite his slow, ungainly attack, Skinner found himself with his fingers tightening around the boy’s fragile neck.

Three days previously it would have taken him barely a minute to choke the boy into unconsciousness. But three days of torture, starvation and thirst had stolen the strength from his limbs. Furthermore, Alexin began to struggle wildly, batting at him with his hands and, although the blows were almost laughably weak, each slap still felt as sharp as a knife blade against the savage burns on Skinner’s body. Half a dozen puny slaps from the boy and Skinner had to release him and step back.

Alexin scrambled away from him to the far side of the cell, his neck darkening where Skinner’s fingers had dug into his flesh, and he promptly burst into tears.

“I…I… tried….tried to h…h…h…help you,” the boy sobbed brokenly. “Y…y…you… prom…promised y… you…wou…wouldn’t hu… hurt me! You…you PROMISED!”

Skinner felt as guilty and ashamed as if he had attempted to murder a helpless child. In a way, he thought perhaps he had. Even though it hurt his throat to speak, he felt he owed the boy an explanation for the breaking of his word.

“I can’t let you live, boy,” he grunted roughly. “Or, at least, I can’t face my own death without knowing I did everything within my power to *try* to kill you.”

“But why?” Alexin wailed. “You ARE an animal. My mother was right. You’re just a nasty, savage monkey-man and I’m GLAD they hurt you!”

Skinner’s face suffused with angry color at the vicious words, and yet he accepted the boy’s right to be angry with him. He’d proven himself both murderous and untrustworthy. Of course the boy hated him. So he found himself needing to explain himself.

“I don’t *want* to hurt you, boy. But your marriage can’t be allowed,” he said. “Your death is the only way I can hope to prevent the Faerie queendoms joining forces and annihilating my people.”

“But I don’t WANT to be married at all,” Alexin sniffled. “And I hate Ariana. Hate her. HATE HER. You promised to help me escape. To protect me. You *promised*.”

Again, listening to the boy, Skinner was forcefully struck that he was dealing here with a ‘child’. Perhaps in years Alexin was an adult, but emotionally he was prepubescent. He seemed almost incapable of seeing Skinner’s attack as the real ‘crime’ that had just been committed upon him. His misery seemed mainly to be that Skinner had lied to him.

Yet, because Skinner *wasn’t* the kind of man who would have lied under any other circumstances, he fully sympathized with the Faerie boy’s disappointment in him.

“How do you imagine I can help you escape?” he demanded. “I can’t even walk. How can I protect anyone in this condition? I’ve just proven myself incapable of even subduing *you*. And, even if I weren’t so badly injured, do you honestly think the guards are going to let us out of the castle with a smile and a wave?”

Alexin just blinked at him tearfully for a moment, but then he seemed to make a decision and reached inside his ripped bodice to withdraw an old, flat metallic key. “I have this,” he explained. “It opens any door in the castle.”

“Perhaps it does,” Skinner snapped rudely. “But I doubt it opens the castle’s portcullis or magics us past the guard. Neither is it miraculously going to put me on my feet again.”

Alexin pouted, his lower lip trembling and his luminous eyes darkening with obvious hurt at Skinner’s sarcasm. “I’m not STUPID,” he exclaimed petulantly. “I know I’m not a girl, and so maybe I don’t know much, but I’m not an IDIOT."

Oddly, Skinner found he liked this unexpected, spirited, defiant Alexin far more than the passive, crying boy of before.

“Go on,” he prompted.

“Everyone’s asleep, well except for the night guard and I know where they’re stationed,” Alexin explained nervously. Having yelled he wasn’t ‘stupid’, he was suddenly doubly conscious of the need to sound like he had a real plan. “And, anyway, even if I’m caught no one will think I’m doing anything more than taking a walk that I shouldn’t and I guess they’ll be mad with me, but not mean mad like they would be with you, just scolding mad, and all they’ll do is threaten to tell my mother if I don’t immediately go back to my room, and..."

“Is there actually a point to this and, if so, can we reach it before I die of old age?” Skinner drawled impatiently.

Alexin flushed and flinched at Skinner’s tone but still lifted his chin defiantly. “I can… um… I can get in and out of the stores,” he declared proudly.

When Skinner still failed to seem impressed, he swiftly added, “I can get us food and clean water and some of the medicant’s potion. She keeps a huge batch in there near to the honey. I know that, because I really like honey so I go in there a lot.”

“In the middle of the night, no doubt,” Skinner chuckled, deciding the boy wasn’t *quite* as obedient and well behaved as his mother thought (which was a *good* thing, in Skinner’s opinion). He also appreciated the fact the boy was clearly more intelligent than he’d thought. At least Alexin was considering practicalities rather than simply fantasizing about a miraculous escape. But, still, the conversation was ultimately pointless.

“I need more than a potion, boy,” he said dryly, indicating his extensive injuries with one of his hands. “And we still have no way of getting out of the castle.”

“I *hate* you,” Alexin spat. “It’s not fair. I thought…thought you’d be nice to me. You’re not supposed to talk to me like you’re a woman and I’m just a stupid boy. You’re a male too, even if you are a monkey-man, and anyway it’s *you* who’s stupid, because you don’t know what the potion can do.”

Skinner’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. What if the Faerie boy *did* genuinely know a way to escape? Alexin was right. He *was* automatically treating the boy with condescension instead of hearing him out with the respect he’d accord any other person under the same circumstances. Just because the boy was so alien to how he himself expected a boy to look and behave, didn’t *necessarily* mean Alexin was stupid. He should accept that Alexin was of a completely different species and stop judging him on his failure to be like a human boy.

“Tell me about the potion, Alexin,” he said, carefully offering the boy a small smile.

The boy immediately grinned at him, seemingly willing to accept his smile not only as a gesture of reconciliation but also as a reaffirmation of Skinner’s earlier ‘promise’ to help him escape. Which just made Skinner feel guiltier over his own behavior. It was difficult to knowingly betray someone as naturally forgiving and sweet-spirited as the beautiful Faerie boy.

“It’s magic. Female magic,” Alexin told him earnestly. “When I was little I broke my arm and it really hurt, but everyone said I was really brave and that a broken bone was the worst pain in the world. Anyway, the potion made me better so I don’t see why it won’t make *you* better. I mean, you don’t have any broken bones, do you?”

Skinner almost laughed. The way he felt he’d have cheerfully exchanged his burned and whipped body for *two* broken arms, but the Faerie boy seemed perfectly sincere.

If the potion *was* magic….

“How long did it take for you to get better, Alexin?”

“A few weeks,” Alexin replied, and Skinner’s heart began to sink. “But it stopped *hurting* straight away.”

Skinner’s face cleared. It sounded to him as though the ‘magic’ potion was actually a strong drug that masked pain. In his own way, Alexin was right yet again. None of Skinner’s injuries were as bad as broken bones. Drugs or not, he couldn’t have fled on broken feet but, if he could mask the pain, he could run on *burned* feet.

“Did the potion make you sleepy, Alexin?” he asked urgently, since he knew the downside of many strong drugs was that they incapacitated a patient.

Alexin thought hard, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. I remember being really bored, because I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere, not even my garden, and it was hard to remember *why* I wasn’t allowed to go out, since my arm didn’t even hurt. I don’t think I would have been bored if I’d been sleepy.”

Skinner nodded, satisfied by the boy’s answer. So Alexin could apparently obtain supplies and the drug. The question was whether he could also find them a way out of the castle.

“How do we get out of here?” he asked.

Alexin smiled smugly in response. “There’s a secret way out,” he confided.

Skinner’s heart thumped with sudden adrenaline. “Secret?” he prompted.

“Well, I guess everyone in the castle knows about it, so it’s only secret in that no one *else* knows about it,” Alexin confessed. “But it’s not guarded because it *is* only a secret way out, in case the castle is ever besieged.”

“Tell me about it,” Skinner prompted.

“There’s a small cave under the third Eastern tower. It’s used for storing spare armor. At the back of it, there’s a secret door and that leads into a passage that runs underground all the way out into the deep forest.”

Skinner frowned. “If it’s a way out, it’s a way in too. Why isn’t it guarded?”

“You have to know the ward-spells to pass through it. They aren’t like the general wards that just keep monkey-men out of Faerie land. They’re specific. If you don’t know the right spells, you can’t get through them even if you’re a Faerie.”

“And you know the spells?” Skinner demanded.

“My nurse taught them to me. I know all the places to hide inside the castle *and* the way through the secret passage. My nurse said that if the castle was ever attacked by other Faerie, it was most likely *me* they’d be after. Not to hurt me, but in order to hold me hostage. I understood that. I always knew my mother would pay any amount of ransom for me. What I never understood before tonight was why,” Alexin replied, his face bleak. “I thought she loved me.”.

Skinner cleared his throat awkwardly. As much as he wanted to comfort the grieving boy, he refused to give in to the temptation.

Even if Alexin managed to obtain the potion, food and water and get the pair of them through the ward-spells, it wouldn’t be long before the Faerie set off in pursuit of them. Once they were free of the spells, Alexin would no longer be an asset to the escape. He’d just be dead weight. Skinner highly doubted the boy would manage to run more than 500 feet before whimpering about blisters and saying he was exhausted.

Skinner’s only true chance of escape was probably if he left the boy behind as soon as they were in the forest, and he wouldn’t dare leave Alexin behind him still *alive*.

For some inexplicable reason, despite his earlier assault on the boy, even the thought of killing him now sickened Skinner. So he decided to draw that sword when he had to. In the meantime, the important thing was to get both of them out of the castle.

“Do you have more jewels? Or gold maybe?” he asked the boy, pointing at the large emerald pendant hanging around Alexin’s neck.

“Lots of both,” the boy replied.

“Can you collect them without being caught?”

“If I’m quiet,” Alexin agreed cheerfully. “Anyway, I need to go back to my quarters and change my gown. I refuse to run away in this,” he added, frowning down at his soiled nightgown.

Skinner rolled his eyes impatiently. Just as he’d thought, the boy clearly wouldn’t last five minutes in the real world.

“Put something on with looser skirts. You need to be able to run,” he suggested, hoping that if Alexin was in flowing skirts, he himself would be able to ‘forget’ his companion was a boy. It would be far easier to be tolerant of Alexin’s delicacy if he thought of him as a ‘girl’.

“I suppose I can’t bring my cloth,” Alexin said, his expression suddenly miserable

“Your cloth?”

“All my bolts of beautiful lace and silk,” Alexin moaned.

“Not unless you can carry them yourself,” Skinner drawled.

Alexin flushed, looked miserable for a moment, and then shrugged. “Oh well. At least I’ll have my jewels, so I’ll still look beautiful,” he said brightly.

Skinner decided it would be counterproductive to point out the only reason he wanted Alexin’s jewelry was to finance the escape. He’d need horses and money to flee pursuit by the Faerie – particularly if he *did* end up killing the boy - and he certainly had no intention of leading his pursuers in the direction of Crystal City to collect his own possessions.

If they and the city were even still there.

Who knew how many years had passed in the mortal realm during his four days in the Faerie land?

It would be ironic if he escaped only to discover that the city he’d suffered such torment for no longer even existed.

~~~

The waiting was the hardest part.

Since he was barely able to move, Skinner simply armed himself with one of the iron rods, crawled slowly to the wall at the bottom of the dungeon steps and waited for either Alexin’s return or the arrival of the guards if the boy was caught or changed his mind about trying to escape.

Skinner privately suspected the latter would happen. A boy like Alexin might *dream* of running away from home but, at the last minute, was unlikely to go through with it.

For all he knew, Alexin had already returned to his room, looked at all his bolts of precious cloth, and decided that marrying Ariana wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

It even briefly crossed Skinner’s mind that the entire thing, from Alexin’s arrival in his cell, had been an elaborate joke on the part of the Faerie. It wasn’t his nature to be paranoid but, after four days in the Faerie’s hands, he now believed they were capable of any cruelty, up to and including setting up a fake escape attempt to finally shatter his spirit.

But he couldn’t actually believe Alexin capable of being part of the deception, if indeed that was what it was. If the Faerie *were* toying with him, they were toying with the boy too, and he supposed that made little sense. The boy was obviously considered to be a possession of great value and so, while the women might joke of ‘beating’ him, Skinner highly doubted they’d risk upsetting such a highly-strung boy for no other reason than to torment a mere ‘monkey-man’.

He growled deep in his throat, deciding that *if* he and Alexin escaped and there was any way to keep the boy alive, his first task would be to break the boy of using that awful, derogatory phrase.

Which led him to consider whether it was even possible for him to take Alexin into the ‘real’ world, even in the highly unlikely event that they could somehow evade pursuit. The idea of entering any Southern town or city with a Faerie boy at his side was insane. Alexin would be torn to pieces by the angry humans in vengeance for the cruelty of the Faerie against them, and he himself would be lucky to escape with his life.

Every human naturally assumed the Faerie raiders were male. So no one would believe that Alexin was no threat to them. No one would listen long enough to let Skinner explain that a Faerie male was no more dangerous than a spring lamb (not to mention far less useful).

And Alexin couldn’t pass as a human. It wasn’t his height, though he was almost as tall as Skinner, nor even his ears since they could be concealed by his long hair. The problem was Alexin’s intense iridescent green stare. His eyes marked him as Faerie even from ten paces away.

If Alexin *were* a girl, things would be different. It wasn’t his people’s way to kill women. Particularly not *beautiful* women. Certainly, with the hatred for the Faerie in the Southern Territories, there would be many people who’d spit in her face or refuse her refuge simply because of her blood but, overall, most would accept her as long as he himself swore she was merely an Eirendish girl. Most people *would* accept a hybrid woman. Even those who would draw their knives even at the rumor that a *man* was part-Faerie.

Although he loathed the boy simply for the fact he *was* a boy, it was impossible for Skinner not to think of how different things would have been had Alexin truly turned out to be the female he’d first thought him to be.

He would have accepted her Faerie blood, despite his hatred of her race. He would have accepted the danger to himself and his people in attempting to save her. Perhaps if it had ever been safe enough to do so, he could even have taken her to Crystal City and explained his long absence away by saying he’d simply traveled to the North to find himself a bride.

In fact, if Alexin were a *girl*, Skinner would probably have taken the easiest option and returned with her to live in the Northern Territories, where the fact she was clearly at least a hybrid would barely be commented upon, since none of the occupants of that land had ever experienced the terror of a Faerie attack.

But Alexin *wasn’t* a girl.

He couldn’t take Alexin to be his wife.

And Skinner was damned if he was going to give up his new life and move back to the freezing inhospitable North simply to make a *boy* safe.

No matter how beautiful and ‘innocent’ that boy was. No matter that the idea of killing a boy who was clearly as harmless as a kitten was beginning to make Skinner feel ill.

No, he told himself. Better to stick to the original plan and kill the boy as soon as they cleared the ward-spells.

And although the idea of going through with it made him feel sick to his stomach, he told himself it was the only ‘wise’ thing to do.

Yet, as he sat there in the dark, waiting for the boy’s return, Skinner still found himself desperately trying to come up with a solution that would enable him to keep the Faerie boy alive. If they could just get deep enough into the forest to evade the initial pursuit they *would* have a chance of finding a way out of the Faerie lands. He could deal with the dilemma of what to do with Alexin in the human realm, if and when they actually reached it.

The idea of putting off such an important decision, rather than dealing with it head on, was alien to him. He’d always prided himself on his decisiveness and foresight. He wouldn’t have become such a great leader of his people if he were prone to procrastination. So the fact he found himself trying to find excuses to delay a decision on the boy, in a vague hope that some ‘miracle’ might occur, made him curse himself for a thrice-damned idiot.

It would be bad enough that he was such a fool for Alexin’s beauty if the child had been a girl. But Alexin was a *boy*. A useless boy. Away from his own kind, Alexin was not even going to be of use as breeding stock. No human woman would want a husband who was more beautiful than herself, even if Alexin *were* capable of providing for her.

He choked back a laugh at the idea of Alexin attempting to hunt for his own supper.

It briefly occurred to him that Alexin might find a home and protection with one of the lovers of men. But then he shook his head in negation. Unless living in the ‘real’ world rapidly put some muscle on the boy and tempered his feminine ways, there was no way Alexin would attract a man who loved other men because the only thing ‘male’ about the boy was the bulge in his skirts.

Besides, although he refused to examine the feeling, Skinner found himself bristling with indignation at the thought of anyone, male or female, touching Alexin in a sexual way.

Still, by the time Alexin returned to the dungeon, almost two hours later, Skinner had decided he was *definitely* going to kill the boy.

Slowly.

Just for scaring him so badly by being gone for so long.

But not until he’d filled his stomach with the half a roast chicken and tankard of frothy ale that Alexin thrust into his hands. He was pretty sure that he’d later regret stuffing so much food and ale into his empty stomach, but at that moment he just needed to feel the taste and texture in his mouth to prove to himself that he was really alive.

When he finished eating, he wiped his greasy fingers on his thighs and reached for the small bag that Alexin had carried into the dungeon.

“This is all you got?” he groaned. There was barely enough food and water inside the bag to last the pair of them a day. Just a couple of loaves of bread, a round cheese, a comb of honey and a small pot of dripping.

“It was heavy. I brought all I could carry,” Alexin replied, his face twisting with hurt at Skinner’s immediate rude and dismissive snort.

“Well, at least you brought your jewelry,” Skinner commented, as he rifled through the bag in amazement at the wealth of gemstones and intricate gold chains that nestled under the few items of food, the water skin and a bottle of what he assumed was the potion.

The boy gave him a sulky glare. “I wanted to bring all of it, but I’d have needed another bag and I couldn’t carry two bags *and* your chicken and ale.”

“You have more than this?” Skinner demanded, shocked beyond belief that anyone, even a spoiled Faerie prince, could have as much personal wealth. He’d been hoping for at least enough to buy a couple of good horses. Instead, there was enough treasure in the bag to buy his city a hundred times over. And Alexin had left more jewelry behind?

“Nice gown by the way,” he said, as he reached gratefully for the bottle of potion. His comment was as much sarcasm as compliment, since from the appearance of Alexin it was clear that the reason he’d waited so long for the boy’s return was that the boy had wasted at least an hour not only changing his dress but bathing himself and changing the flowers in his hair to match the new outfit.

Still, there was no denying that Alexin *did* look stunning again and in the new, full-skirted green dress he looked *nothing* like a boy. And Skinner supposed he owed the boy some kindness for making the surprising decision to carry the chicken and ale rather than the remainder of his gemstones.

For a brief moment, it occurred to Skinner that, dressed like that, Alexin could pass as a beautiful hybrid woman in any human settlement. Alexin *could* survive in the human world as long as he concealed the fact he was male.

Perhaps there was a way for Skinner to save him after all.

If he could just get the boy onto a Northern Territories ship, Skinner’s problems would be solved. Getting the boy out of the country would prevent the Faerie queens from using him to unite their armies and, as long as Alexin was careful, he could make a new life for himself in Skinner’s old homeland. Skinner could even give the boy directions of how to find the Eirendi. Surely *they* would take Alexin in. The boy would be safe there.

Well, until the inevitable day some man refused to take ‘no’ for an answer from such a beautiful woman and Alexin was revealed to be male.

Skinner cursed under his breath and took a deep drought of the potion.

“Is it making you feel better?” Alexin asked brightly, still smiling at Skinner’s comment about his gown.

“Not *yet*,” Skinner growled.

“Only it’s getting close to dawn. I really think we need to start heading for the Eastern Tower if we’re going to get a good enough head start,” Alexin continued earnestly.

Skinner opened his mouth to snap that if Alexin hadn’t wasted so much time prettying himself they’d already be gone but, before he could say it, he abruptly felt the myriad of aches in his body dramatically easing. He blinked in amazement. Surely *no* drug could work so fast. Perhaps it *was* Faerie magic.

He climbed cautiously to his feet and found he could not only bear his weight on his burned soles but could straighten his back and stand perfectly upright. He wasn’t free of pain, but he *did* feel capable of making the escape attempt.

His only remaining problem was…

“Where are my clothes?” he asked.

Alexin just blinked at him stupidly.

“You *did* bring me something to wear?”

Alexin gave him an embarrassed smile. “I never thought about it,” he admitted sheepishly. “Do you monkey-men wear clothes?”

Skinner just growled under his breath, deciding it was probably just as well the boy hadn’t bothered since Alexin would have probably brought him a ‘dress’ to wear. He grabbed the bag of food and jewels and led the way up the dungeon steps.

Alexin took over the lead as they crossed the inner courtyard of the castle, since he said he knew where the guards patrolled. Skinner was impressed, despite himself, at how quietly Alexin moved through the shadows despite his heavy skirts. The boy had natural grace, he decided, and then he had to angrily remind himself that it wasn’t natural for a boy to have ‘grace’ at all.

His mood improved when Alexin led him into the cave that concealed the secret passage.

As Alexin had told him earlier, the room contained a collection of old, slightly rusted, armor and weapons. While Alexin worked on deactivating the ward-spell on the entrance door, Skinner managed to find himself some boots that were only a couple of sizes too big, some protective arm and leg bands, a sword belt, a long knife to serve as a sword(since all the Faerie swords were too long and heavy for him to wield), a couple of short hunting knives and even an old fur cape that he quickly formed into a makeshift loincloth.

It didn’t matter that he knew the weapons would be useless against the Faerie, he still felt considerably better just to be dressed and armed again.

Then Alexin called that the gate had opened, and they went through.

Without a torch it should have been impossible to make their way through the dark tunnel, since it branched endlessly into dead ends and small side passages, but Alexin had no difficulty in leading the way.

Although he frantically denied having *any* magic abilities when Skinner accused him of such, it was clear that he could unerringly sense where the spells were located and, by following the spells, they managed to make their way all the way through the pitch black tunnel.

What Alexin’s senses *couldn’t* tell him, however, was where the floor was broken and uneven, so both he and Skinner stumbled and fell several times in the darkness before they gave up any attempt at haste and self-protectively slowed their progress so much that dawn was breaking when they finally emerged, blinking, into the dense forest.

Alexin immediately collapsed heavily to the ground, groaning that he was completely exhausted, that his feet hurt too much for him to walk even another step and that his beautiful gown was “ruined”.

This was the moment, Skinner realized. The moment he should kill the boy, take the jewelry and flee. He’d not only save his people but he’d increase his own chances of escape exponentially.

He was armed now, and the potion would absorb the pain of any blows if Alexin should struggle with him.

He had no excuse not to do it.

Alexin wasn’t a mere white wolf that *might* kill again if he let it live. Left alive, Alexin threatened the survival of the entire human race.

Skinner *had* to kill him. His hand edged towards the hilt of one of his knives, his eyes quickly scanning Alexin’s neck. He had no thoughts now to smother the boy. Instead he decided a quick slide of a sharp knife across that fine throat would be quick and merciful. Just above the collarbone. Just where the pale skin was mottled with the bruises of his earlier attack.

Skinner’s hand dropped back to his side.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t simply slay the boy and run off.

He didn’t know *why* he was suddenly so compelled to protect the boy. Even though the boy had opened the ward-spells, it wasn’t any ‘natural’ feeling of gratitude that stayed Skinner’s hand. His gut was insisting that the only logical thing to do was draw his knife. And yet some other part of him was insisting that somehow he *had* to get both of them to safety if such was possible.

Perhaps they’d *both* die in the attempt, but he couldn’t simply murder Alexin in cold blood.

He shook his head furiously at his own sudden weakness. Just as he’d been unable to kill the white wolf, it seemed he was still a fool for extraordinary beauty. “So drink some of the potion,” he snapped impatiently. “We need to keep moving. If we don’t get deep inside the forest soon, they’re going to catch us, Alexin.”

Alexin fluttered his eyelashes and pouted miserably. “I don’t care,” he announced petulantly.

Skinner scowled at him in disbelief. “WHAT?” he roared.

“Go without me,” Alexin said. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Changed your mind?” Skinner demanded.

“I don’t like this already,” Alexin sniveled. “My feet hurt and my back hurts and I’ve scraped my knees. I’m tired and dirty and my dress is torn and my hair’s all tangled. Even marrying Ariana can’t be worse than this.”

“Now you listen to me, you spoiled stupid brat,” Skinner snarled. “If you think a couple of blisters hurt, believe me that having your buttocks beaten would make you wish you’re dead. And dead is *exactly* what you’re going to be if you don’t get up and get moving now. I already warned you, I *can’t* let you get married. You either come with me or I kill you now.”

Instead of his words shocking the boy into compliance, Alexin’s response was to raise his face to Skinner’s and sulkily snap that he didn’t care. He said he’d rather be killed quickly by Skinner’s hand than die of exhaustion and starvation in the forest.

Strangely, despite his gut feeling that killing the boy *would* be his wisest option, the fact the boy was practically daring him to do so made Skinner furious.

“If you don’t get up and start walking, right NOW, I’ll put you over my lap and give you such a spanking that I won’t need to light a fire tonight. I’ll keep warm from the heat off of your buttocks!” he roared.

Alexin’s eyes immediately flooded with tears and his chin trembled with misery.

“I HATE YOU!” he cried.

“You’ll hate me even *more* if I take my hands to your behind,” Skinner promised him grimly. “So start walking.”

After a nervous look at Skinner’s hands, Alexin sulkily rose to his feet and, very slowly, started to walk towards the treeline.

With a grim smile of satisfaction, Skinner threw the bag of provisions over his shoulder, straightened his sword belt, strode after the boy and landed a hard swat on his well padded rear.

Alexin yelped in outrage and gave Skinner a dirty, furious pout over his shoulder, but began to walk considerably faster.

A couple of hours later, after several more ‘encouraging’ spanks to Alexin’s rear, they were so deep in the dense forest that they could barely see daylight through the foliage of the trees, and yet Skinner suddenly heard the far off sound of battle horns. It seemed that their escape had finally been discovered by the Faerie.

Or, more likely, *his* escape.

It was highly doubtful that the Faerie would believe Alexin had left with him willingly. They probably assumed he had somehow broken out of the dungeon and kidnapped the boy to use as a hostage.

Looking at the pouting, sulking expression of his beauty, Skinner realized that wasn’t so far from the truth now anyway.

He was sure the Faerie would pursue them relentlessly either way, but if they genuinely believed the boy to be in danger from him they *would* presumably be far more cautious in their hunt, not wanting to corner the ‘monkey-man’ in such a way that he’d automatically kill his ‘hostage’.

“They’re coming,” he said.

“Good,” Alexin muttered, deliberately slowing his pace even more.

Skinner’s temper flared. This time he not only slapped the boy’s rear to encourage his co-operation but took a large handful of Alexin’s over-long hair and used it like a rope to tow the boy in his wake.

They made far better progress then, with the boy swiftly deciding that sore feet and legs were far more tolerable than having his hair cruelly yanked whenever he attempted to slow the speed of their escape.

It was late afternoon before Skinner finally tired of Alexin’s piteous wails enough to call a brief rest halt. Not out of a sense of pity, as much as a desire to somehow gag the boy. Alexin was caterwauling so much by then that they might as well have been sending flares to mark their location to the Faerie.

Yet, even above the boy’s loud sniveling, Skinner heard another sound. He focused his ears and listened carefully again. Some way to their left, he could hear the distant trickle of flowing water. The sound of a stream perhaps. He caught hold of Alexin’s hair once more and dragged him in that direction, knowing the importance of covering their tracks from their pursuers. If the water was shallow enough to wade through, it would be the best way to conceal their escape route.

The trees were considerably closer set as they approached the stream, and Alexin began to howl and whine considerably about branches catching in his hair. He only stopped complaining when Skinner offered to solve the problem by cutting the boy’s hair off completely. Although he wouldn’t have really done so, since the hair was proving to be such a wonderful tether, the threat was dire enough that the verbal protests were replaced with copious sulky tears. And at least Alexin kept moving forwards.

It wasn’t until they reached a break in the trees that led down to a sparkling, gently flowing stream, that the boy baulked completely. “I am *NOT* getting in there,” he announced firmly. “I’ll completely *ruin* my gown.”

Skinner refrained from pointing out the gown was already considerably stained and torn, since that would inevitably just add to the boy’s hysterics. Instead, he just drew one of the small hunting knives, grabbed Alexin by the shoulder and pushed the boy down to the ground.

“I’m sorry. Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me,” Alexin begged, his eyes wide with sudden terror.

Skinner narrowed his eyes at the boy’s panic, as he realized that Alexin’s earlier words that he didn’t care whether Skinner killed him had been nothing more than dramatics. It was patently obvious that the boy *didn’t* want to die anytime soon. Skinner was so angry that he didn’t even bother to explain himself. He just pinned the boy down with his left knee, grabbed hold of Alexin’s skirts in his left hand and then used the knife in his right hand to cut the material just above Alexin’s knees. Then he put the knife down, took the fabric in both hands and ripped it until the entire lower half of Alexin’s skirt had been separated from the gown.

“Now you can walk in the water without worrying about getting your skirts wet,” he announced smugly.

For a long moment, Alexin just gaped in shocked horror between Skinner’s face and the pale flesh of his lower legs. He’d never, in his whole life, had his legs exposed. Even during the ‘examinations’ to ascertain his suitability for marriage, his examiners had been required to crawl under his skirts and look *only* at his maleness.

Even though Skinner was male, and a mere monkey-man, *and* even more exposed than himself, Alexin felt so ashamed to be so ‘naked’ in front of him that he burst into hysterical tears.

Skinner’s first reaction was to growl with irritation at the boy’s theatrics, but then his heart softened as he saw Alexin’s beautiful face streaming with tears. He forced himself to think of Alexin as a ‘girl’ in the same circumstances. A human ‘princess’ would be just as mortified to have her flesh exposed in public, he realized. So Alexin’s distress at his actions was perfectly genuine.

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “I promise I won’t *look* at your legs, alright? And as soon as we get out of Faerie land, I promise to buy you a new gown.”

Alexin continued to sniffle for a few minutes, but then he nodded his acceptance of Skinner’s offer. It wasn’t as though he had any choice, but Skinner was still touched at the boy’s attempt to be brave about the situation.

“Come on,” he said. “Dry your tears. We need to get moving.”

He reached for Alexin’s face to gently wipe some of the moisture from the boy’s perfect cheekbones. In that moment, he forgot Alexin was a *boy*. All he saw were tears on the most beautiful face in the world, tears that *he’d* caused, and all he felt was the desperate need to smooth them away.

But the moment his fingers touched the boy’s skin, something happened.

At first, it was just a strange tingling sensation in his fingertips as though he’d touched something static. Then, the weird feeling turned to a burning that began to flow up his entire arms and even *through* his arms. He felt his heart begin to hammer inside his chest as his whole body seemed to become charged. He had the sensation of being boiled alive as all the blood in his body heated past endurance, and all along his muscular arms he could see his veins rising like black spiders crawling under his skin.

Despite the potion, which had left his entire frame blessedly numb from the physical pain from the torture he’d suffered, he was fully aware of every sharp knifing sensation from the poison, and it *had* to be poison, of Alexin’s tears. Even his member and sac, which he’d doubted would ever come willingly to life again after the abuse they’d suffered in the dungeon, became rigid and hot inside his loin cloth. So hot that his fingers scrambled desperately to tear the fur from around his waist and thus free his throbbing, aching maleness from its constraint.

He was dying. He was *sure* he was dying. His whole body was going to simply explode as the heat inside him grew. Even his member was swollen with the thick, spider-like pulsation of his poisoned, blackened blood.

He threw back his head and screamed in agony.

He was burning alive, and all sense and reason fled him. Even the knowledge that he should probably run and throw himself into the cool, bubbling stream was muted by a deep animal instinct that Alexin had caused the pain and so only Alexin could soothe it. Alexin’s tears were the poison and, somehow, only Alexin possessed the antidote.

In the back of his mind, Skinner heard the voice of the Faerie woman in the dungeon. “From the moment Alexin’s tears first touch your skin, you’ll be more than satisfied with our arrangement.”

And, though he was too crazed with pain to ‘consciously’ understand what his mind was trying to tell him, somewhere deep inside himself he made the connection between Alexin’s tears and the fact that male Faerie were kept as sexual playthings by their wives and, thus, he understood that the antidote to the fire ripping through his body resided somewhere in Alexin’s loins.

Instinctively, he began tearing at Alexin’s shortened skirts, completely immune to the terrified yelps of the boy, uncaring of the wails of distress he caused as he threw the material up over Alexin’s waist and revealed the silken, lacy panties that concealed the boy’s maleness.

His frantic fingers ripped the delicate fabric apart, so that Alexin’s member and sac were revealed, and then Skinner pushed himself between the boy’s legs, using his bodyweight to force the slim thighs apart, his eyes fixated on the tip of Alexin’s member. Surely the antidote to the fire ripping through his veins was the seed of the Faerie boy, else why would Faerie women desire to ride their husbands so incessantly?

He was too insane with his own pain to hesitate about the idea of taking the boy’s member inside his mouth, even though he’d never touched any of his previous male bed partners in such a way. It didn’t even occur to him that he was raping the boy. All he knew was that he was dying, and the boy was both the cause and the possible cure, and everything else was sheer animal instinct.

So it was, as he pressed forward, with the intention of swallowing the boy’s member, that his own burning maleness pressed inadvertently against the soft flesh of Alexin’s legs. The friction sent a jolt of almost lightening bright sensation through his entire body and he rocked himself forward, almost drowning in the sudden wave of pleasure that swept through his agonized frame like cool water over hot coals.

That’s when he knew that the cure lay not simply within Alexin’s member, but within the boy himself.

He clawed brutally at the boy’s legs, forcing them both wider apart and upwards, until he revealed the tiny, dark seal of wrinkled skin that marked the entranceway into Alexin’s body.

With a roar of triumph, he pressed his aching, swollen, black veined member against the tight entrance and shoved his hips forward with such force that he completely breached the boy’s weak defenses with one savage thrust.

Vaguely, as though it were miles in the distance, he heard Alexin’s howl of terrified agony at the brutal penetration, but his own scream of pleasure drowned the faint irritation as he began thrusting his flesh inside the tight, silken heat.

Harder and harder he plunged, each spearing motion of his member transforming the burning fire inside his body into an ecstasy such as he’d never experienced. And, though he wasn’t conscious of his choice to do so, he began lapping his tongue over the boy’s face as he thrust his hips, drinking in the boy’s tears, tears that now tasted like nectar rather than poison, tears that flowed more freely into his mouth the more savagely and deeply he thrust his member inside the boy’s body.

Time blurred.

He could have been riding the ecstasy for hours or days for all he knew. He could have spent eternity coasting on the waves of pleasure wracking his frame. All he knew, after three days of mind-shattering torture, was that his body had finally found more than enough bliss to completely forget the aches and humiliations it had suffered.

He had, he decided, possibly died and passed over to a kind of heaven.

He came back to himself so gradually that he was barely aware of waking from his lust haze. As exhaustion overwhelmed desire and satiation replaced need and the burn in his veins settled to a faint tingling of enduring sensations of bodily pleasure, his assault on the boy’s body steadily eased. His savage thrusts slowed to a gentle rocking. His tongue ceased its relentless lapping of the boy’s face. And, eventually, his member softened and slipped out of Alexin’s body and nestled contentedly against the boy’s thighs.

With a final groan of satisfaction, Skinner gave into his exhaustion, instinctively draped his body weight like a blanket over the boy to trap him in place, and he slept peacefully.

His dreams were good. Filled with conquest and pleasure and satisfaction.

It was his waking that was the nightmare.

Dawn, the cheerful rumbling of the stream, and the faint but distinct sound of someone sobbing desperately underneath him, brought him back to consciousness and, like a thunderclap into his head, he abruptly realized what he had done.

Horrified, he scrambled upwards, jerking off the boy’s body as though it was as burning hot as his own body had been the evening before.

Alexin was…decimated.

He looked as though he’d been savaged by a pack of wild dogs. His gown was ripped and torn and, wherever his flesh was revealed, his pale skin was mottled with bruises. His throat and shoulders were even covered with savage bite marks.

His skirts were still thrown up over his waist, revealing his naked groin and darkly bruised thighs. The soil beneath his buttocks was darkly stained and from the smears of dried blood on the inside of Alexin’s legs, it was clear what liquid had spilled to darken the soil.

But the worst sight of all was Alexin’s face.

His eyes were dazed and distant. His mouth was slack. Even the constant, heart wrenching sobs emerging from his lips were distant and indistinct as though the boy wasn’t even aware he was crying.

Skinner looked at him and knew his attack had shattered the boy’s mind.

He found himself reaching for his dagger. Not to put the creature he’d so savagely abused out of his misery, but to plunge the blade into his own heart. No matter what insanity had taken him over the night before, Skinner couldn’t live with the knowledge of what he’d done.

He was a rapist.

He was a savage, brutal beast.

He deserved to die in the most terrible, horrific way.

Yet, his knife hand suddenly hesitated. He was a coward, he told himself.

Killing himself was *more* than he deserved. The only just punishment for his crime was the torture which would be meted out to him by the Faerie when they discovered what he’d done.

That was it.

He would carry the poor, broken boy back to his home – and the consequences of *that* to the rest of the world be damned – and he would give himself up to the justice of Alexin’s people.

The boy flinched as he approached, but made no effort to close his legs or adjust his skirts. Indeed, if anything, he seemed almost resigned to the fact that Skinner was intending to rape him again.

“It’s alright,” Skinner soothed, though he knew nothing could ever be alright again. “I’m taking you home, Alexin. That’s all. I’m just going to take you home.”

He wasn’t sure if the shell-shocked boy would understand him but, to his surprise, Alexin’s eyes cleared a little and then focused on his face.

“Just leave me here. They’ll find me. Go,” Alexin rasped, his voice hoarse from screaming but his tone strangely dignified.

“I…I …” Skinner stuttered.

“I understand,” Alexin replied bitterly, slow tears starting to trickle down his face. “You didn’t want to help me but you didn’t want to kill me either, so you just stole my magic instead. Ariana won’t want me now. *No one* will want me. So now you’ll let me go home.”

“I didn’t know, Alexin,” Skinner said, struggling not to cry himself. “I didn’t understand about your tears. I didn’t plan or *want* to…to… hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m SO damned sorry. I’ll take you back to the castle myself and I’ll pay the price for what I did to you.”

“Just GO,” Alexin sobbed.

“I’m not leaving you here like this,” Skinner growled firmly. “I’m going to clean you up, give you some of the potion and then I’ll take you home, even if you need me to carry you all the way.”

His words were enough for Alexin to force himself to struggle weakly into a sitting position and desperately try to push his skirts downwards to conceal his nakedness.

“You can’t touch me,” the boy sobbed. “You can’t even come *near* me. Or you’ll just hurt me again. Don’t you understand? You stole my magic.”

Skinner sank to his haunches, not only to appear less threatening but because his legs had suddenly gone weak. His mind was racing furiously, trying to piece together the fragments of what little he knew about the Faerie.

“This…this ‘magic’ of yours can only be stolen once?” he asked carefully.

The sobbing boy nodded.

“You’re talking about your virginity, right?”

Alexin closed his eyes and nodded again.

“Then…then maybe I *haven’t* stolen it,” Skinner suggested cautiously. “I mean, I did of course, but I’m a man. Maybe that won’t count. I don’t know the customs of your people but maybe Ariana won’t hold it against you. You’re still a virgin with a woman.”

He couldn’t believe he was actively trying to convince the boy that his marriage could still go ahead, considering what that marriage would mean to humankind, and yet the crime he’d committed against the boy was so grievous that he knew he’d make any amends, no matter how paltry, in an attempt to put things right again.

Alexin rolled his eyes in frustration, anger replacing his previously haunted expression. “Customs have nothing to do with it,” he spat. “You took my *magic*.”

Skinner shook his head in confusion. “What exactly *is* your magic?” he demanded. “You told me you didn’t *have* any magic.”

“It’s hardly the kind of magic I was going to talk about to a monkey-man!” Alexin snarled.

Skinner’s temper spiked, but then he remembered his shame and guilt and forced himself to swallow the emotion. He had no right to be angry with the boy. He had no rights here except to grovel for a forgiveness he knew could never be granted.

“Tell me about your magic, Alexin. Please. Help me to understand the true depths of the crime I’ve committed against you.”

Alexin flushed deeply, dropping his face from Skinner’s view, and began haltingly, in a voice filled with shame.

“A Faerie boy has one sole magic,” he whispered. “The power to bind his wife to him forever. It can be given only once. To the woman who touches his tears and so is compelled to take his virginity. And, thereafter, for the entire life of the male, she will be bound to his protection through her relentless desire for the pleasure his body gives her. That’s why no one will want me now. My magic is gone. No one can ever again feel the ecstasy from my body that you so clearly felt last night.”

The final comment was understandably bitter, but it rocked Skinner to the core. Although he’d had no control of himself at the time, he remembered perfectly that he had been insane with lust. His rape of the boy *had* made him experience the most intense feeling of ecstasy he’d ever felt in his life.

And, suddenly, that understanding sparked a feeling of intense resentment inside him.

“What you’re *saying* is that you bewitched me,” he accused. “*You’re* the one responsible for what happened last night. Your tears *did* poison me. They *forced* me to rape you.”

Then Skinner rocked back on his heels and stared at the boy in dawning horror. “I *didn’t* rape you. You raped *me*! That’s the truth of it, isn’t it, boy? Your thrice-damned magic turned me into a rutting beast because you *wanted* to bind me to you. You were afraid I wouldn’t protect you, so you used your damned Faerie magic on me.”

“You HURT me!” Alexin howled. “You hurt me so bad I wanted to DIE! You think I wanted your…your… *thing* inside me? I…I… didn’t even know a male could take my magic. I didn’t know a monkey-man could steal it. And I NEVER wanted your filthy, disgusting monkey-man *thing* inside my body. I HATE YOU!”

Skinner groaned in distress, buried his face in his hands and forced himself to take several deep breaths. He *was* a filthy, disgusting brute. Not satisfied with his horrific physical assault on the Faerie boy, he’d actually dared to *blame* the boy for his own rape.

He was so confused he didn’t know *what* to think.

In a way, he supposed *neither* of them were to blame. Alexin couldn’t have anticipated his assault and he himself couldn’t have prevented it. Which brought him to his next obvious question.

“This binding… how does it work?”

“I don’t know,” Alexin replied sulkily. “I’m not even supposed to know about the magic. That kind of thing would have been explained to me by my wife, after I was veiled and bedded.”

“But your tears initiate the magic?”

“I think so. That’s…that’s why wives spank their husbands. Apparently.”

“Then maybe it’s a chemical reaction,” Skinner mused, “and the binding is only that the women enjoy the coupling so much that they don’t care whether their males are hurt during the act. Fortunately, I *do* care, Alexin. Although I can’t imagine you believing me, I’d never willingly take my own pleasure at the expense of your pain. So all I have to do to keep you safe is ensure I don’t make contact with your tears again.”

“Well,” Alexin snapped. “If you don’t touch me *at all*, you won’t have to worry about that, will you?”

Skinner nodded his assent. “I won’t touch you,” he agreed. “But at least let me come near enough to bring you the potion.”

~~~

Alexin nodded his reluctant consent, since he was too sore to crawl over to the bag himself. He tried to be brave as the monkey-man approached him, but his memories of the night before assaulted him and he began to tremble helplessly. He also, inadvertently, burst into tears.

Which, at least, caused the monkey-man to leap back in obvious fright and back right away from him.

Although Alexin was still in too much shock over the assault to truly think clearly yet, the beast-man’s reaction *did* suggest it genuinely had no intent to hurt him again.

Hurt.

It was too small a word.

But then *no* word could possibly describe the feel of being pierced by the monkey-man’s huge maleness. It had felt like a sword entering his buttocks and tearing him apart from the inside out. That first brutal thrust had been so agonizing that he’d thought he would die. But he hadn’t died, and the pain had just grown worse.

Harder and harder the monkey-man had thrust its ‘thing’ in and out of his body, and the more he’d screamed and begged for the torment to cease, the more excited the beast had become. The more he’d cried, the happier he’d made his assailant. The monkey-man had begun to lick his face as it drove itself in and out of his body. Lapping his tears up as though they were honey. Delighting in his pain. *Drinking* it.

And the torture had continued for hours.

HOURS.

As he’d lain there, twisting in torment, begging for mercy, he’d watched the sun lower and set. He’d watched the stars come out, and the moon rise high in the sky, and *still* the monkey-man had continued to savage the place between his buttocks until he was certain his bottom was nothing more than a gaping wound.

He’d bled so much he didn’t understand *why* he hadn’t died.

Certainly, after the monkey-man had finally passed out on top of him and he’d lain there, crushed by its weight, feeling his blood and what he shudderingly suspected was vast quantities of monkey-man seed trickling out of his torn bottom, Alexin had prayed to die.

The beast-man had stolen his magic. Which meant, presumably, that he’d spend the rest of his miserable life as its ‘wife’, being constantly skewered on its *thing*, and so he cursed himself for being so stupid as to run-away from his home.

At least Ariana would only have beaten him *before* the bedding. No matter what she’d done to him to put him in tears, surely the bedding itself couldn’t possibly be as agonizing as being used the way that the monkey-man had used him.

And yet, he didn’t actually *know* that, did he?

Although he’d rarely touched his own member, understanding that to do so was shameful and painful and forbidden, he was obviously aware of how sensitive it was to touch. In fact, the last few weeks of wearing tight skirts had made him *horribly* aware of its tenderness. The silken slide of his skirt over its flesh had even made it weep on occasion and he’d been forced to wear a woven girdle around his waist to conceal the staining of his dress.

He’d never fully understood what bedding entailed, but he was pretty sure that a woman somehow took his member into her own body. It was, therefore, perfectly feasible that having his maleness crushed inside a female’s body was even *more* painful than having the monkey-man’s *thing* inside himself.

Perhaps *all* bedding was agonizing.

Perhaps that’s why males lived such short lives.

He’d certainly hoped *his* life would be short, if he were to be owned by the monkey-man thereafter.

But then the monkey-man had woken and had offered to take him back to his people.

It had even seemed distressed that it had hurt him.

Not that Alexin cared about *that*. He’d have happily knifed the beast himself, had he been capable. He didn’t care if it was sorry *now*. It hadn’t been ‘sorry’ when it was thrusting inside him, licking at his tears and deliberately hurting him to make him cry even harder.

*He* was sorry, too. Sorry he’d ever set foot in the dungeon. Sorry he’d ever allowed himself to feel sympathy for the creature. Sorry he’d ever left the castle walls.

He wasn’t looking forward to returning home. Facing his mother. Admitting he’d been forever tainted. Confessing a monkey-man had spilled its seed inside his body and stolen his magic. He’d be lucky if he was even allowed to be a barracks man. Certainly, no woman of position would want him now.

But then, he didn’t really believe he *was* going home.

He’d lied when he’d said he knew nothing of how the binding worked. He knew that his magic wasn’t simply a ‘chemical reaction’ as the monkey-man thought, but an actual addiction. *That’s* why he’d begged the monkey-man to leave him and flee. Not because he wanted it to escape, but just because he’d wanted it far enough away that he’d be rescued before it became aware of its compulsion to bed him again.

Maybe the monkey-man *thought* it was going to let him go, but Alexin had *seen* the look on its face as it had raped him. It *was* already addicted to him. The magic would call to it. Keep it bound to him. Keep it coming back to torment him again and again with its *thing*.

So the monkey-man *wouldn’t* ever willingly let him go.

And that’s why, regardless of his terror of what would happen to him when he was finally back at his mother’s castle, Alexin realized his only hope was for the Faerie to find him and kill his captor.

That’s what the monkey-man was, he decided. His captor, his rapist, his… his *kidnapper*. That was it. He’d swear his innocence. Blame the beast for the fact he’d left the castle in the first place and then, maybe, even without his magic, maybe *some* woman would accept him. Rhianna, perhaps. *She’d* been kind. Surely *she* might offer him some sanctuary as her concubine, if not as her husband.

All he had to do was somehow stay alive for the next day or so until the Faerie found them.

So, after drinking the potion, and nibbling half-heartedly at the piece of cheese his captor insisted he ate, Alexin calmly took the material that had been ripped off his skirts, waded far enough downstream to be out of the monkey-man’s sight, carefully cleansed the raw, abused flesh between his legs and prayed desperately that he’d be rescued before his ‘magic’ called to the beast again.

~~~

Although he was understandably terrified of returning to the castle, Skinner could no more have abandoned the wounded boy than have grown wings and flown to safety. Neither did he hesitate about his decision to take Alexin back to his people.

What he’d done couldn’t be undone, and he even forgave himself a little now that he understood that he’d been acting under a magical compulsion. Nevertheless, whether he’d intended to rape the beautiful boy or not, the fact remained that he *had* done it.

He’d stolen Alexin’s virginity, magic and innocence. He’d stolen the boy’s dignity. He’d stolen the boy’s pride and he’d, probably, stolen any possibility of Alexin ever learning that the making of love between two people could be a gentle, beautiful thing.

He was a thief.

It mattered not that his thefts had been unintentional and caused by the boy’s own magic.

And he wasn’t the kind of man who walked away from his responsibilities simply because they terrified him.

He no longer believed he *deserved* to die, but surely, if he was brave enough to turn around and accompany Alexin back to the castle, he would at least prove to the Faerie boy that a ‘real’ man never shirked his responsibilities to those under his protection.

Alexin was gone a long time. So long that twice Skinner crept down the bank under the shade of the trees to check on his safety. It broke his heart to see the boy frantically scrubbing between his legs, as though water could somehow wash away the pain and degradation he’d inadvertently subjected him to.

Perhaps two hours passed before the boy returned to the place of his ‘deflowering’. His torn gown was wet and clinging to his body, but it was clean at least. His long hair was still damp but it too had been washed, and Alexin had clearly found some wild flowers near the bank of the stream and had woven them into his locks. Except for the visible bruises on his neck and lower arms, he’d managed to restore his beauty.

Though it was, admittedly, a pale wan imitation of his previous exquisite appearance.

Alexin no longer looked like a ‘princess’. More like a slightly bedraggled river nymph. But he was *still* heart wrenchingly lovely.

He wanted to say as much to the boy, since he was beginning to suspect that Alexin *needed* the comfort of physical compliments but, even if he was right, under the circumstances he knew he was the last person in the world Alexin would want such a comment from.

Skinner reached out for the bag, tied it to his sword belt, began to rise to his feet and suddenly froze.

His extremities were beginning to tingle again. He could feel the heat rising inside his body and his member had suddenly leapt back to attention inside his loin cloth. With each step Alexin took towards him, the fire in his blood increased. By the time the boy was within five paces, Skinner’s veins were beginning to rise under his skin once more.

“Run,” he choked, as he struggled to control himself.

The boy just looked at him with bewildered eyes.

Skinner raised his arms, letting the boy see the veins beginning to spiderweb over his biceps.

“RUN,” he roared.

Alexin’s eyes widened in terrified understanding, then he spun around, raced towards the stream and then began to run through it, heading for the opposite bank.

For a moment, Skinner let him go, relieved he was fleeing, but then, as his blood continued to boil, a dark haze swept over his consciousness, he gave a bellow of sudden outrage at the sight of the Faerie boy splashing through the shallow stream away from him, and he gave chase.

By the time he caught the boy, Alexin had scrambled out onto the opposite bank and was already running, breathless and terrified, through the trees. Skinner brought him down in a small clearing with a flying tackle that knocked Alexin down onto his hands and knees. It only took seconds for Skinner to rip off his loincloth, yank the boy’s skirts up and enter him from behind.

As the boy screamed in pain, Skinner roared with triumph and began to move inside him.

A couple of brutal thrusts and the boy began to sob wildly. Skinner instinctively reached his right arm out, wiped his palm over the boy’s face and then brought it to his mouth again and again so he could taste the magic. It was hard to keep the boy still under his enthusiastic rutting with just his left hand holding the boy’s hip, so he reached around Alexin’s slim waist and grasped the boy’s member instead. By tightening his grip until the boy squealed, he found he could keep Alexin trapped in place, unable to escape his thrusting member, and *still* use his right hand to continuously bring the honey sweet tears to his lips.

This time the coupling lasted less than an hour. Now it had experienced the intensity of its initial dose of Alexin’s magic, it seemed that his body required only a brief ‘taste’ of the boy to reach satiation point.

So neither Skinner nor Alexin passed out this time, and Skinner’s return to his senses was swift rather than gradual. As soon as he’d emptied his seed into the boy with a bellow of satisfaction, the dark haze receded from his mind and he found himself kneeling on the forest floor, with his softening member still buried inside the boy’s buttocks and Alexin sobbing face first into a pile of leaves.

He quickly disengaged himself and stuffed his member back into his loincloth. Then he opened his mouth to frantically apologize.

But what actually emerged from his throat was an accusation.

“I didn’t touch you. You weren’t even *near* me. And you weren’t crying,” he yelled, grabbing the boy’s shoulder and rolling him over onto his back so he could look into the weeping reddened eyes. “What happened, Alexin? How did this happen? TELL ME!”

He felt like the worst kind of brute, as the boy’s already tearful face crumpled and the green eyes widened with fear. Yelling at someone he’d raped twice in less than a day wasn’t something to take pride in. But still, he *had* to know the answer.

He listened in horror as the boy chokingly confessed that the ‘magic’ had made his body addicted to Alexin’s. Apparently, he’d feel the uncontrollable urge to slake himself in the boy’s body until one or the other of them died. He grimly accepted the reason the boy had concealed this little fact from him. Of course the boy had hoped to be rescued before the complete perfidy of the magic was revealed. It was completely understandable that Alexin had believed Skinner would change his mind about letting him go.

But the boy was *wrong*.

“Get up,” Skinner snapped. “I’m taking you home.”

Alexin’s tearful face twisted with total confusion. “You’re…you’re still going to take me back?”

“I can’t promise I won’t touch you again,” Skinner growled. “It doesn’t seem like I have any choice. But the sooner we get back to your people, the sooner this nightmare will be over for you.”

Alexin’s lower lip trembled. “I don’t understand you,” he confessed. “You’re just a monkey-man. Why are you…”

“I am NOT a monkey-man. I’m a human. And my name is Skinner. Call me or my people monkey-men again and I *will* tan your hide scarlet and we *both* know what the probable outcome of *that* will be.”

Alexin burst into hysterical tears at the threat. Skinner sighed and cursed himself for his temper and, extremely carefully, pulled the boy to his feet.

“Come on. We need to get moving.”

Still whimpering and limping dramatically, even though Alexin had drunk enough of the potion earlier for Skinner to be reasonably certain the second rape, while terrifying, hadn’t *truly* hurt the boy, Alexin followed him as he led his way through the trees.

After ten minutes, Skinner halted in confusion. “We must have gotten turned around somehow. We should have reached the stream by now.”

He backtracked to the place he’d tackled the boy and tried again. Then again. And again.

No matter what direction they walked in, they found nothing but an endless expanse of forest.

“It’s a wards-warp,” Alexin finally condescended to explain, when his determination to never even *talk* to the monkey-man again finally gave in under his frustration at following Skinner back and forth over the small clearing.

“What, by the Gods, is a wards-warp?” Skinner snarled.

“It’s a kind of ward-gate, but it’s not a gate. It’s not really a ward, either.”

“So what *is* it?” Skinner demanded impatiently.

“I don’t know for sure,” Alexin confessed, then pouted at Skinner’s look of exasperation. “I’m a BOY. All my tutors ever taught me was how to be beautiful and how to sew. The only ‘womenly’ things I know are bits and pieces I overheard here and there.”

Skinner nodded his acceptance. “I’m sorry. Tell me what you *do* know about wards-warps.”

“Well, back in the times before the monkey-men…” Alexin began, only to yelp with sudden fear and clasp his hands protectively over his bottom.

Skinner’s lips twitched. “I’ll let you off *that* one, but don’t do it again,” he warned, with a deliberate smile to show the boy he wasn’t angry with him.

To his amazement, Alexin tremulously returned the smile. Despite the boy having every reason to consider him no more than a monster, the boy was *still* too sweet natured not to respond to kindness. Even from *him*. That made Skinner doubly determined to start treating the boy better. Maybe he couldn’t do anything about the ‘magic’ but he could damned well be kinder to the boy the *rest* of the time.

“Before hurmens…” Alexin began nervously.

“Humans,” Skinner corrected gently.

“Before *humans*, there was a huge war between the Faerie queendoms. It was so terrible that it split the world in two and that’s why there are two Territories now,” Alexin explained. “It didn’t split equally in two, because the Southern queendoms were the most powerful and they won more land. When the land broke up, there were bits and pieces left floating and they became the islands between the Northern and Southern Territories.”

Skinner nodded and resisted the urge to tell the boy to get to the point. For one thing, it was interesting to hear a Faerie version of history, for another it was obviously calming the boy somewhat to talk.

“But the war didn’t just break the land up, it *changed* the land. So many spells were thrown during the war that a lot of them got lost. Some of them went underground and woke up the mountains, making them burst and spout fire into the sky. Some of them fell into the water, turning it into ice and forming huge glaciers over the Northern Territories. Some of them fell on the beasts and transformed them. Horses lost their horns. Cats lost their ability to speak. And ….um… some…um…monkeys began to walk upright. Though …. Though I’m sure that’s not right,” Alexin garbled, clutching worriedly at his buttocks again.

“It’s alright, boy,” Skinner chuckled, “I won’t spank you for reciting a story.”

Alexin visibly swallowed with relief.

“Well, *other* spells fell among the forests and changed them. It’s said there are places where the trees are alive now and, because they’re centuries old, they still remember the time of the war. It’s said some of them hate the Faerie for the destruction they wrought. Others love the Faerie for giving them sentience. And wards-warps are when you step through a place where one of the old spells still linger. Which means we’re still *probably* close to the brook but the trees here are alive and are constantly moving to prevent us from going back the way we came.”

“But why?” Skinner demanded.

“Who knows?” Alexin shrugged helplessly. “Maybe they’re the trees that hate Faerie and they just want to trap us in the forest until we starve.”

“Very comforting thought,” Skinner grumbled. “But I guess what you’re saying is we’re wasting our time looking for the brook so we should just keep moving.”

Alexin nodded glumly, as though he’d only just realized that the longer they were trapped in the forest, the longer he’d have to accept Skinner’s attentions.

Skinner flushed deeply as an inspiration struck him. He reached into the bag of provisions and withdrew the tiny pot of dripping that Alexin had packed to spread on their two loaves of hard bread. He found he couldn’t meet the boy’s eyes as he spoke.

“From now on, until we find your people, I want you to…um… use this, Alexin. You need to press it inside yourself. It will…” He hesitated, thought quickly and scooped a tiny piece of dripping between his finger and thumb. “See how it makes my finger glide?” he said. “Well, that’s why you need to apply it to your… um… your bottom. It will make things…easier. Less painful for you.”

Alexin’s face blushed scarlet, but he snatched the pot out of Skinner’s hands and buried it in a pocket of his skirts.

The trees seemed to open into a path and so Skinner, not completely accepting the idea of sentient trees but willing to at least put his credulity aside for a moment, chose to follow the path they indicated. It brought them, eventually, to another small stream where they could, at least, quench their thirst and refill their water skin.

Skinner also shared out one of the loaves of bread and a portion of hard cheese. He even, chuckling ruefully under his breath, handed Alexin a small piece of honeycomb through he took none for himself.

An hour or so later, feeling refreshed and revived, they moved forwards again. Alexin had removed his soft boots at the stream and was now walking barefoot. The back of his ankles *were* red and raw, so Skinner had a momentary feeling of guilt over his earlier accusation that the boy was exaggerating his blisters. But the forest floor was smooth, with only the occasional branch strewn across the pathway, so Alexin found no difficulty in walking without his boots on.

It was nightfall before Skinner called a halt again. By that time Alexin was stumbling more than walking and he was sniveling quietly that his thighs and calves and *bottom* ached so much he was possibly “dying”.

It wasn’t just the dimming light and his awareness of exhaustion that led Skinner to call a halt however. Yet again he was feeling a faint tingling in his extremities, and this time he was determined not to hurt the boy if it could be helped.

“You need to use the dripping now,” he told Alexin bluntly.

Alexin looked understandably terrified but, after a moment, he swallowed heavily, nodded his reluctant understanding and disappeared behind the cover of some trees to squat and ease the fatty substance between his buttocks. By the time Alexin returned, white faced but his expression resigned, the first veins were beginning to rise on Skinner’s arms.

“It won’t be long now,” he warned the boy ruefully.

“Then start now,” Alexin replied calmly.

Skinner looked at him in surprise, but then shrugged his assent. He understood that it *would* be less painful for the boy if his first penetration was slow and controlled, before the fever of need struck him, but he was surprised at Alexin’s air of resignation.

It was somehow quite terrible to watch the beautiful, pale faced boy silently lay himself down on the ground, lift his skirts up to his waist and passively open his legs in preparation for the assault.

Skinner felt almost too sickened to move between Alexin’s legs. Although his blood was already starting to bubble and boil, he was still in control of himself at that moment. To actually begin the ‘rape’ before the insanity of the magic ripped away his morals felt impossible.

And yet his member was already hard and aching and he *knew* that the dark haze would descend upon him at any moment so he *owed* it to the boy to try and at least ease the first entrance of his flesh into Alexin’s obviously sore body.

So he dropped to his knees and gently pressed a fingertip against the greased, red swollen flesh between Alexin’s buttocks .

The boy shivered and whimpered, his hands forming into fists at his sides and his eyes closing tightly in fear, but still he lay passive – except for involuntary shudders – and allowed Skinner’s finger to breach him.

Tears began to flow down Skinner’s own face as he used first one and then two fingers to slide the dripping deeper into the boy’s body and loosen the tight flesh for his entrance. It even, briefly, occurred to him to try and reach that special place inside the boy that would hopefully turn Alexin’s expression of pained terror into one of surprised pleasure.

But before the thought had fully formed in his mind, the dark magic took him over.

One moment he was gently and apologetically gliding two fingers inside the boy’s flesh, the next all thoughts of shame or gentleness were drowned in a black wave of uncontrollable desire and he ripped his fingers out of the boy’s bottom, tore frantically at his loincloth and then plunged his member greedily into the lubricated hole.

He was both delighted and disappointed with his easy entrance into Alexin’s body. The ease with which his member glided inside the fleshy cavern brought an almost instant initial relief to his overwhelming need, and yet the boy’s failure to scream and howl at his entrance confused and frustrated the dark urges that drove him.

He needed the boy’s tears. He understood that not consciously but instinctively, and so drove himself harder and deeper in search of the drug that his body wanted and needed so badly.

And, finally, as the brutality of his thrusts increased until each drive of his hips made the boy gasp and cry out in agony, the magical tears began to stream down Alexin’s face and Skinner began to lick and lap desperately to devour their bright, jewel-like perfection.

Later, after he’d roared his seed into the boy and the lust-haze faded from his mind, he gathered the limp, sobbing boy into his arms and held him gently until Alexin cried himself to sleep. He fortunately found that when he was freshly satiated, the Faerie boy’s tears had no effect upon him, and so he could pet and soothe and comfort the boy without fear of attacking him again.

He felt hypocritical and cruel insisting the sobbing boy took comfort over the rape from the man who had raped him, and yet he couldn’t simply let Alexin curl up in solitary misery and cry himself to sleep. Skinner decided that the gentle hug of any arms, even those of the man who had hurt him, had to be better than the boy having *no one to turn to in his grief and pain.

And, as he lay there, he also began to understand his earlier mistake.

It was not in giving the boy the dripping to ease the penetration but the fact he’d completely disregarded his own ‘need’ for the boy’s tears. What point was there in easing his passage into the boy if that only increased his savagery afterwards? He understood now why the Faerie women beat their husbands *before* mounting them. The tears were clearly a crucial, integral part of the ‘magic’.

It would, Skinner reluctantly decided, be necessary in future – if the Faerie failed to find them in time to prevent him further assaulting the boy – to perhaps spank the boy to tears *before* the dark haze overwhelmed him. If the boy was already weeping at the point of penetration, perhaps it would gentle the actual mating process.

The next morning, he said as much to the boy in his arms, who quivered miserably but then nodded his silent consent as though he’d agree to *anything* to avoid being so brutally ridden again.

“I’m sorry,” Alexin whimpered.

Skinner was so startled he almost choked.

“Sorry?”

“That I… that I find the pain so hard to take.”

Skinner shook his head in total disbelief. “You don’t have to apologize to me,” he snapped. “It’s I who should be begging *your* forgiveness for my brutality.”

Alexin just shrugged in his arms, his gaze distant and without hope.

“It’s alright for you to hate me,” Skinner continued. “I don’t blame you. I’d expect nothing less.”

“I don’t hate you,” Alexin said, his tone dull.

“Of course you hate me. I’ve raped you three times now. What else *can* you feel for me but hate?” Skinner demanded.

“Confusion,” Alexin replied. “I don’t understand why you tried to ease my pain in the first place.”

Skinner blinked at him in amazement. “What?”

“My pain brings you pleasure. So it makes no sense to me that you try to make our couplings less painful for me.”

“It’s because I don’t *want* to hurt you,” Skinner snapped impatiently. Although he could understand the boy not believing his words, Alexin’s strange attitude completely bewildered him.

“Why?” Alexin asked, his expression genuinely confused.

“I don’t understand you. Do you *want*me to hurt you?”

Alexin shrugged. “What I want is irrelevant.”

“I see.”

“I don’t think so,” Alexin challenged, his tone suddenly edged with bitterness. “You don’t understand *anything*.”

“Then explain yourself to me. Help me to understand.”

“I knew my destiny was this. I accepted that my role would be to bring sexual pleasure regardless of my own pain. I was born to be no more than a pleasing bed partner, and instructed that I must always be passive and accepting of what happens to me when I’m bedded. You speak of what you do to me as *rape*. But the more I consider it, the more I fail to see the essential difference between what you do to me and what any female of my kind would do to me. Don’t you understand? I don’t *care* whether you hurt me or not. I only care that you touch me at all.”

At Skinner’s look of incomprehension, Alexin groaned with frustration.

“You’re a *male*,” he spat. “And more than that you’re a mon…a *human* male. Do you really think it makes any difference whether you hurt me a little or a lot? All that matters to *me* is that I belong to *you*. Not a female. Not someone with the *right* to use me this way. But a male. A *human* male. That’s my shame, Skinner. That’s what’s unbearable. That I have become merely the plaything of another male.”

Skinner was infuriated by Alexin’s words. Not that the boy had said he was horrified to have become *his*, but that Alexin seemed to genuinely believe that he wouldn’t have a right to complain at all if Skinner were a Faerie female.

“No one has the *right* to take another person by force,” he growled. “Your magic may create a compulsion that I can’t fight, but what I’m doing to you is still *wrong* and it would be wrong even if I were one of your damned Faerie women.”

Alexin just shrugged and refused to look at him.

“No man *or* woman has the *right* to use you, Alexin,” Skinner insisted angrily.

Alexin shrugged again. “My *wife* would have the right,” he whispered. “And though you are male, and a mon… a human, you’ve stolen my magic so I accept that gives *you* the right, even though I wish it were not so.”

“Gods,” Skinner gasped, barely able to breathe for the sudden blinding anger that rippled through him.

Not fury towards the boy.

Towards the Faerie *and*, almost equally, fury towards himself.

“Forgive me,” he said heavily. “I usually see clearer than this. Accept that I am still suffering the effects of my torture at the hands of your people and so it’s harder for me to be objective here.”

Alexin cocked his head and peered up at him with wary curiosity.

“You confuse me utterly, boy,” Skinner explained. “Yet I accept that the fault is mine, not yours. Even though I *know* who and what you are, I still keep judging your behavior and attitudes by human standards and then become upset and angry when you fail to behave according to my preconceptions.

“Because of your innocence of worldly things, because of your *virginity* when you fell into my hands, I expected you to behave in a particular way regarding our… couplings. I expected you to curse me and fight me and hate me for the things I was doing to you. Not simply complain that I am *male*. I expected you to react in the way of a human bedded against his or her will. I expected you to cry *rape* and attempt to knife me in my sleep.

“I have, truth be told, felt as much contempt over your acceptance of my behavior as shame over my actions. And yet, now I see that I have misjudged you terribly,” Skinner confessed. “I should have understood that you have been programmed your entire life to passively accept the idea of having your body abused in such a fashion. From the moment of your birth, the females of your species have deliberately raised you to accept that you have no physical rights.”

“I’m a male,” Alexin agreed quietly. “My only *duty* is to be pleasing and beautiful for my wife.”

“No, it’s not,” Skinner replied. “Though I now understand that *you* believe that to be so.”

“And now I’m not even beautiful anymore,” Alexin whimpered, fingering listlessly at his ripped, filthy gown and his tangled hair.

Skinner cleared his throat awkwardly, flushed a little and then grunted, “You could never be anything *but* beautiful, Alexin. Even bedraggled as you currently are, you’re still a vision of loveliness and perfection.”

A small, grateful smile teased the corners of the boy’s sorrowful mouth and Skinner felt something tug at his heart. He determined that from then on, regardless of the circumstances or his worry at the appropriateness of making such comments to his ‘victim’, he *would* make an effort to verbally assure Alexin of his beauty. The need to be beautiful was obviously so ingrained in the boy that Skinner’s failing to offer regular compliments was as cruel, in its own way, as his raping of the boy.

And beauty like Alexin’s *was* such that the boy’s dishevelment was irrelevant. It wasn’t Alexin’s couture that gave him his beauty. The boy’s loveliness was natural and so remained unaffected by the unkempt state of his hair and clothing.

“You are more lovely than any human female I’ve ever laid eyes upon. Even including my mother,” Skinner told him.

At the boy’s startled, suspicious look, Skinner chuckled wryly. “That was *intended* as a compliment, boy. My mother was a spectacularly beautiful woman. People always said she had Faerie blood, and now I find it probable that they were right.”

“Then…is it… is it true that the females of your species are like the males of mine?” Alexin asked cautiously.

“No,” Skinner said, shaking his head. “There *are* similarities, I suppose. Many female humans are beautiful, though not as beautiful as you. Human males are generally bigger and stronger. Their role is that of hunters and fighters who provide for their wives. And, I suppose, women are ‘sold’ into marriage by their fathers in the same way as your mother intended to sell *you*. But the similarities are superficial. Human males rarely abuse their wives and, if they do, their wife can demand the dissolution of the marriage and will return home to her father’s people with her dowry. A man might risk the loss of his wife, but few risk the loss of the dowry,” Skinner chuckled. “Women may *seem* weak in our society, but they aren’t. They have the right to forbid their male from the marriage bed if they so choose. To take a woman against her will is considered a crime by my people, even if the man who does so is her husband.

“And a woman *can* become a hunter or a fighter if she chooses to do so. A woman doesn’t have to marry at all. She can make the choice to live without a male as long as she’s capable of providing for herself. So, no, Alexin. The way of your people is completely alien to my experience. I would feel as offended by your role in your society even if you were a female who had been taught to accept the dominance of a male.”

“It’s our way,” Alexin said, with a slight shrug. “It’s the way the Faerie have always been.”

“That doesn’t make it *right*,” Skinner pointed out. “It seems to me that the only reason males are so subjugated in your society is because of your ‘magic’. You have something that the women want, and the only way they can be *sure* of getting it is to ensure that you don’t even *want* to refuse to give it to them.”

A thought suddenly struck him. “Are you *sure* this has always been the Faerie way?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems to me that the females of your species must have had a *reason* to make your society develop in the way that it has. Perhaps, back in the past, the males *didn’t* willingly share their magic and so the females devised a way to control them. You must have heard Ariana say that you were deliberately raised in such a way as to make you physically weak. You were pampered and petted and treated like a delicate flower *mainly* to prevent you ever developing any physical strength. If it’s a Faerie male’s natural *destiny* to be no more than a woman’s weak and helpless plaything, why does he have the ‘capacity’ to develop muscle at all?”

Alexin shook his head obstinately. “It’s nothing to do with strength,” he argued. “It’s about *beauty*. A male is most beautiful when he’s slight. You could as well say, why can a male become fat if he isn’t *supposed* to be fat? Even if I were as womanly in appearance as *you*, I would still be far weaker than a female.”

“Womanly?” Skinner choked, his eyes bugging, but then he grinned wryly. “Yes, I suppose I can see how you’d think of me that way. I’ll try to accept it as a compliment.”

“It makes it easier,” Alexin whispered.

“Easier?”

“I…I find it hard that you have… have a… a maleness,” Alexin mumbled, blushing furiously. “And what you use it for is… is hard, too. But… but when you bed me, it *is* easier that you are womanly.”

Skinner barked with surprised laughter. “You’re saying you find me attractive because I look like a woman?” he demanded.

Alexin flushed even deeper. “Not *attractive*,” he denied. “And you’re small for a woman. But… but otherwise you’re much as I expected my wife to look.”

“Again, I’ll try and take that as a compliment,” Skinner said, with a rueful smile.

“And… well, if I *must* be yours, I feel grateful that you *are* womanly enough to protect me. It’s hardly fair for you to have stolen my magic if you *aren’t* to be my protector.”

Skinner grunted his agreement. He *would* protect the boy with his life until… until…

And something cold trickled down his spine as he abruptly realized that somehow, subconsciously, just as swiftly as he’d changed his mind about killing the boy he’d *now* changed his mind about returning the boy to his people. It wasn’t until the moment he’d tried to put the thought into words, and found he couldn’t even *consider* the prospect of giving Alexin up, that he even realized his feelings had taken such an about-turn.

It wasn’t through fear of his own fate at the hands of the Faerie.

It wasn’t even any recognizable feeling of *affection* for Alexin.

It was something deeper and more instinctual than that. It was, perhaps, the power of the dark magic working through his brain.

All he knew, suddenly, was that Alexin was *his* and no one was taking the boy from him unless they did so over his dead body.

He growled, deep in his throat, at even the *thought* of some other person touching *his* beauty.

Alexin immediately flinched in his arms. “Again, so soon?” he whimpered.

Skinner opened his mouth to reassure the boy but then felt the familiar tingle starting in his fingertips. Either because the night had passed since his last ‘dose’ of the magic or, perhaps, simply because of his sudden fury at the idea of Alexin being taken from him, his body *was* yet again demanding a taste of the boy’s tears.

“Quickly,” Skinner snapped. “Lift your skirts and lie across my lap.”

“You’re going to *spank* me?” Alexin wailed, tears welling in his eyes.

“I’d say not too hard,” Skinner assured him, “considering you look ready to bawl already and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Alexin’s face crumpled, yet he raised his skirts and laid himself carefully over Skinner’s knees.

There *was* something to be said for the boy’s passivity, Skinner decided. Now he could only pray that his idea worked.

Worried that once the tears began to flow he’d be too consumed with desire to remember the boy’s comfort, he reached for the pot of animal fat and smeared a generous amount between Alexin’s buttocks. As he had the night before, Skinner used two fingers to slowly tease the boy open but, this time, because he’d begun the stretching before his compulsion was too strong, he was still in control of himself enough to remember to hook his middle finger and touch the secret place inside Alexin’s body in the hope that a Faerie boy was anatomically similar to a human male.

It seemed Faerie *were* similar, because Alexin immediately yelped in shock and stiffened across his lap.

That wasn’t *all* that stiffened, Skinner realized with a grin, as he felt the boy’s member twitch and harden against his inner thighs. He began to deliberately stroke and tease the little nub of flesh inside Alexin’s passage until the boy was squirming and gasping on his lap. He carefully eased his left hand under Alexin’s waist, caught gentle hold of the boy’s member and stroked it in time with his stabbing finger.

“Oh, oh, OH,” Alexin sobbed, as Skinner’s fingers brought his member to life.

“Bedding isn’t *all* pain, Alexin,” Skinner whispered, as he tugged gently on the boy’s flesh.

He would have liked to see if he could tease the boy to orgasm, but already he could see the veins rising on his arms, so he knew he was running out of time. He kept his left hand on the boy’s member, continuing to stroke and pull the rigid flesh, but he withdrew his fingers from between Alexin’s buttocks and brought his right hand down on the boy’s left cheek.

Alexin squealed and jerked wildly on his lap, but Skinner continued to pull at the boy’s member as he spanked his hand against the quivering right buttock.

His first spanks were light, barely enough to raise color on the pale globes but, as he gained his rhythm, he began to darken the white flesh to an even, rosy pink.

Alexin kicked his legs wildly while loudly yelling his protest, and his member shriveled in Skinner’s hands, sulking back to disinterest, now that his buttocks were heating up. It took only minutes for Alexin’s howls of protest to turn into loud, broken sobs.

Which was fortunate, since the dark magic descended upon Skinner so rapidly that he was barely aware of rolling the boy off his lap and then diving on top of him.

Their coupling was as intense as always but, no longer driven by the compulsion to make the boy cry since he was already tasting Alexin’s tears, Skinner found himself slightly more in control of himself. The dark haze didn’t descend quite as completely and so, although it took no less time for Skinner to reach the point of satiation, his member was definitely less savage in its assault as it plunged in and out of Alexin’s body.

“My bottom’s really sore,” Alexin sniffled, perhaps an hour later, when Skinner finally rolled off him.

“It *looks* sore,” Skinner agreed regretfully, looking at the boy’s scarlet buttocks.

“But… but… it’s a *better* sore,” Alexin admitted quietly. “It’s less painful *inside* my bottom this time.”

Skinner offered him a small smile, both in relief at the boy’s admission and in pleasure that Alexin had made the effort to make the comment. Since Alexin claimed not to care either way, he could only take the boy’s words as a deliberate attempt to make *him* feel better.

He reached inside his bag and, after taking a mouthful himself, he offered the boy the potion. Though he was aware it was rapidly deplenishing and he *should* be saving it for himself since his own injuries were more severe, it was impossible for him to let the boy suffer unnecessarily.

Alexin took a sip of the potion and a few minutes later gave an audible sigh of relief as numbness stole the sting from his spanked behind.

“Do you feel capable of walking some more?” Skinner asked, after they’d eaten. “We really should keep moving. We’re almost out of food and our water skin is nearly empty again.”

Alexin quietly nodded his assent, rose to his feet, took a step forward, and then halted in confusion. “The path has gone.”

Skinner looked up from repacking their bag and blinked with confusion. Where the trees had widened into a natural pathway before, suddenly they were all clustered together. Even the route they had walked to arrive in the tiny clearing was gone. The trees surrounding them now were so closely gathered together that not even a boy as slim as Alexin could slip between them.

“We’re trapped,” Alexin said, with a note of hysteria in his voice.

It was as though the forest had led them deliberately into its depths and then had closed to form an oubliette from which there was no escape.

Skinner understood the boy’s fear, though he himself felt no sense of menace from the trees. Perhaps his calmness was the understanding that if the trees hadn’t forced he and Alexin into the forest, he would already be back in the clutches of the Faerie. The trees had forced him to remain with the boy until he had fallen completely under the spell of the boy’s magic and, despite the distress he was causing Alexin, Skinner was honest enough to admit that he no longer saw Alexin’s magic as a curse.

Well, not to *himself* anyway.

The trees had forced him to accept that much.

So that begged the question of what further lesson the trees wanted him to learn before he was allowed to move on from this place.

//Why don’t you just *tell* me what you want?// he demanded of the old, gnarled trunks.

Their only answer was a faint whisper that *could* have been the echo of a soft breeze through soft leaves and yet sounded like distant soft mirth. He gained the distinct impression that the trees were laughing at him, but it wasn’t a cruel laughter. It was the wry, fond amusement of an ancient towards a young, impetuous child.

Or perhaps it was just wind, after all.

Either way, it was enough for Skinner to realize that, whether it was the trees talking to him or his own subconscious, there was *something* undone that yet needed to be done before he and Alexin continued their journey.

It took a long time to come to him. Several hours of quiet reflection. But then he groaned with shame as understanding came.

He’d been wrong when he’d accused himself of stealing Alexin’s innocence by his rapes. He’d stolen the boy’s virginity and magic, but he’d barely even *tried* to awaken the boy’s own sexuality.

That was his omission, he decided.

His care had been almost totally to merely ease the boy’s suffering during their coupling. Even that morning, he’d forgotten his desire to bring pleasure to the boy as soon as his own urges had taken him over. Four times now he had bedded the boy, taken his own satisfaction, and then had been too consumed by guilt to even consider that the boy might desire satisfaction of his own.

And still a voice insisted in the back of his head that he was insane to even think such a thing. Alexin was the victim of rape. For Skinner to attempt to make him take pleasure in that rape was, perhaps, an even greater crime than the rape itself.

/Who is raping whom?/ a different voice chuckled inside his head. /Do you truly believe that Alexin holds *you* responsible for what is happening between you? It is *his* magic at work here. He understands that. His difficulty in accepting your touch is only that you’re a male of the human breed. It’s time, perhaps, for you to prove to him that having a male human mate is preferable to the fate he was bred to accept./

Skinner’s eyes widened with astonishment. That voice hadn’t been his own.

//Are you truly talking to me?// he thought at the trees.

Again, he heard only a slight rippling of leaves in the wind.

Except that there *was* no wind.

He was hearing, perhaps, simply the sound of the trees silently shaking with gentle laughter.

He rubbed his face in his hands and wondered whether he had finally gone insane. He was, in truth, already amazed that he hadn’t done so. Between the torture he’d suffered and the wild compulsion of the Faerie magic, he had every *excuse* to claim madness.

/Teach the boy pleasure,/ the wind whispered inside his head. /In *that* way alone you might begin to undo his upbringing, for he has been told to expect nothing but pain from another’s touch./

Skinner nodded. Perhaps the trees were talking to him, or perhaps the voice was merely in his imagination, but either way the advice *was* sound. To somehow teach the boy that bedding *could* be pleasurable, was surely the best way to prove to Alexin that the way the Faerie women treated their males was *wrong*.

“I must speak of the details of our bedding,” he said to the boy. “Forgive me if that makes you uncomfortable.”

Alexin blushed furiously and dropped his gaze towards the floor, but nodded a silent consent for Skinner to continue.

“Earlier, you seemed to feel pleasure when I touched you inside, and when I stroked your ‘maleness’,” Skinner said.

Alexin cringed slightly, but then gave a reluctant nod of agreement.

“Do you… do you think perhaps our bedding would be easier for you if you touched yourself *as* I ride you?” Skinner suggested gently.

Alexin’s face jerked up and he gave Skinner an incredulous, horrified stare. “That’s shameful,” he hissed. “It’s *forbidden*. I’m no ill-bred barracks man.”

Skinner frowned in confusion. He wanted to ask what a barracks man was, but that could wait. What he *needed* to know was why Alexin was so clearly outraged by the idea.

“Are Faerie males forbidden to touch themselves?” he asked carefully.

The boy nodded firmly, his expression such that it appeared Skinner had just proven himself a beast, after all, by his failure to understand how a ‘well-bred’ boy should behave.

“Ever?” Skinner persisted. “You’ve *never* touched yourself there?”

Alexin shook his head vehemently. Then hesitated, flushed, and fearfully admitted that perhaps, once or twice, he’d inadvertently done so while dressing.

“Only once or twice? Didn’t you even handle yourself there while bathing?”

“I have…*had*… a special cloth,” Alexin replied quietly. “It was fixed to a long stick so that I never had to even move my hands *near* that part of myself that should belong only to my wife.”

“But did you never wake of a morn and find yourself with the compulsion to ease an ache in your member?” Skinner asked incredulously. In his experience, boys’ members became their closest secret ‘friends’ from perhaps the age of eleven or twelve.

Alexin flushed and dropped his gaze to his feet. “The nightgown of a Faerie boy doesn’t allow for such sin.”

Skinner was about to ask about urination, then he blushed himself as he considered how Alexin always squatted like a woman to take care of his bodily needs. He’d assumed that to be because of the boy’s skirts, but now he saw there was another reason for Alexin not to pass water as a man did.

He rolled his eyes. Even after his own experiences at the hands of the Faerie women, he could scarcely believe they were * so* cruel to their males as to forbid them to even touch their own bodies.

“It’s no ‘sin’ for a male to touch himself, Alexin,” he declared firmly.

“You’re a mo… human. What would you know of what is or isn’t a sin for my people?” Alexin challenged.

“Don’t tempt me to answer that, boy. What I’ve learned of your people so far is that they are savage, brutal barbarians who take pleasure in the pain of others. To me that is a far greater sin than the breaking of any of the stupid, cruel traditions of how a male should be treated within your society.”

Alexin pouted. “You have no right to criticize my people.”

“I have EVERY right,” Skinner roared, pointing at the burns and welts blemishing all of his visible skin.

Alexin flinched and looked ashamed.

“Just as I have the right to tell *you* what is or isn’t a sin where your body is concerned. Have we not established that, rightly or wrongly, I am, to all extent and purposes, your ‘wife’ now?” Skinner demanded, though he cringed internally at calling himself such a word.

“Yes, Skinner,” Alexin agreed miserably.

“And so, that part of your body belongs to me now?”

“All of my body belongs to you,” Alexin whispered, though he looked far from happy at the idea.

“So if I, who owns your hands, tell you to use them to touch your member, which I *also* own, how can it be shameful or wrong for you to obey me?” Skinner demanded. “How can it be a ‘sin’?”

Alexin’s lips quivered with confused misery and he looked as though he were struggling against tears. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”

Skinner took a deep breath, released it slowly and then nodded his acceptance. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “I obviously can’t change eighteen years of conditioning overnight. Let’s talk about *me* touching you. Is *that* a sin?”

“Yes,” Alexin answered automatically, then paused in sudden confusion and reconsidered his answer. “I’m not sure.”

“You aren’t sure?” Skinner questioned gently.

“You’re a male. A human male. So it can’t be right for you to touch me,” Alexin said. “And yet you have my magic, and I’m *supposed* to submit to whomever takes my magic, so it can’t be *wrong* either. I don’t know what to think, Skinner. I really don’t. I know I can’t *stop* you touching me but it hurts me beyond bearing and my head tells me I should at least be *trying* to prevent you using me in that way. The problem is….” He paused, his face twisting with confusion, “My *head* tells me to stop you, but my… my *instincts* tell me to accept you. Perhaps I *can’t* refuse the holder of my magic, even if I want to.”

“Perhaps so,” Skinner agreed. “There’s little point in you having a magic that compels someone to bed you, if it doesn’t also make you accept that bedding. But what makes no sense to me is that your magic brings *me* pleasure but brings *you* only pain. Can you explain the reason why a male is forbidden to feel pleasure?”

Alexin shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I never really asked. It’s just how it is.”

“It’s only ‘how it is’ because the females of your species have ensured it to be that way, and I can only imagine that’s a way of controlling you. Yet it makes no sense to me. If you were to enjoy being bedded, surely you’d be far more eager to share your magic.”

Alexin paled dramatically.

“What is it?” Skinner demanded, seeing the boy’s sudden pallor.

“I think… I don’t *know*, but I *think* perhaps I do know, after all,” Alexin whispered.

“Go on,” Skinner encouraged.

“The… the magic can be lost. Forever. If… if I should be bedded by another, my magic would no longer affect you. Even if you took me back to your bed afterwards, it would never be the same. You could still gain some pleasure from me, but my tears would no longer taste sweet to you. So… so perhaps I am forbidden pleasure myself to prevent me ever desiring to be unfaithful.”

“Of course,” Skinner breathed. “You lied to me when you claimed to be stupid, Alexin.”

Alexin flinched initially at the suggestion he’d lied, but then beamed widely as the true implication of Skinner’s words struck him.

“You… you think me clever? Like a girl?”

Skinner wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, so he settled for saying, “I think you’re very clever, Alexin. Just lacking in education, and that can be remedied. I definitely think you’re right about your females’ need to keep their males faithful. How better to do so than to make a male see his bedding as a painful duty rather than a pleasure? He would never be tempted to lie with another female if he believed that all bedding is simply an agony to be endured. So, you see? The pleasure of a male isn’t a ‘sin’ in itself. Your females simply pretend so because they fear losing the magic.”

“Then… then bedding doesn’t *have* to hurt?” Alexin queried cautiously.

Skinner shook his head sorrowfully. “I think the nature of your magic means it *will* always be painful. However, pain *can* be a feel