Syn met his own eyes in the mirror. As his cousin’s words rebounded in his head, his thoughts went back to the past—and though he tried to fight it, the memories were stronger than his resolve to deny them.
* * *
’Twas three nights following the death of his sire and the onset of his transition that Syn stood in the hut that had been the only home he had ever known. As he looked at the pallet where his sire had slept, and the remains of his mahmen, and the pathetic valuables that were nothing more than containers for rope and fur, and bladders for mead, he knew what he had to do.
“You’re leaving?”
He pivoted to the heavy tarp flap. Balthazar was standing just inside the doorway, the male’s pre-transition face grown up in spite of the immaturity of the features.
“I dinnae hear you come in, cousin,” Syn said.
“You know me. I’m very quiet.”
Outside the cave, the cold wind howled, a harbinger of autumn. Summer was indeed over, and Syn felt in his bones that it would never come again.
Not that it had ever been there for him, no matter how warm any night was.
“Thank you,” Syn said as he went over and picked up one of the discarded bladders of mead.
“For what?”
As Syn sniffed the open neck, he grimaced and knew he would ne’er drink such. Ever. The memories that came with the scent made him cringe. Tossing the empty aside, he went to find another, sifting through the discord.
“Getting the female when you did,” he said. “I would have died.”
“She came on her own.”
Syn looked up with a frown. “How did she know then?”
“You saved her life. Did you think she wouldnae come see about you?”
“She should have stayed away.”
“She had the choice to or not only because of you. She told me what you did. She saw your sire in one of his moods, on the verge of their property. You drew him away. She was home alone with her brother. Fates know what would have happened.”
Syn grunted, for he couldnae speak any further of her, especially as both he and his cousin knew exactly what his sire would have done to such a delicate beauty.
Leaning down, he at last found a bladder that was half full. Lucky. His father rarely left them with anything in their confines.
“You saved her life,” Balthazar said. “She saved yours.”
“Not a fair swap,” Syn said as he took the cork out of the neck. “Not by any distance at all.”
Walking around, he poured the strong, fermented alcohol out, the smell making him choke. Since his transition, his senses were painfully acute, and his body did not feel like his own. He was so tall, his limbs flopping about, his feet too large for even his sire’s old shoes, his hands broad and long-fingered.
He didnae know what his face looked like. He didnae care about that.
“What are you doing?” Balthazar asked.
Syn paused as he came up to the feet of his mahmen. “Why did he keep her here? He didnae care for her.”
Even as he asked that of someone who wouldnae know, Syn himself had the answer. The remains were a visceral reminder of why doing what he was told was his only chance for survival. His sire had had to ensure Syn’s submission. There were many nights and days when the male was too drunk to be able to forage for food. He needed to be attended.
And he had wanted to be obeyed.
Syn murmured something to his mahmen and then he proceeded to pour the mead upon her, the dark liquid sinking into the layers of blanketing that surrounded her skeleton.
When he had emptied the bladder, he tossed the thing upon the pallet.
“Are you burning this down then, cousin?”
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he couldnae stand the stink of the mead. It took him back to nights he had been smaller. Weaker. Glancing behind himself, he saw a broken chair and remembered how he had been thrown into it, his little body splitting the arm and one of the legs.
At least his full set of teeth had come in during his change. His father had only knocked out the little ones.
Syn turned to the fire and picked out one of the logs that was alit. “You need to leave.”
Balthazar frowned. “Were you not even going to say goodbye to me?”
“You need to go.”
There was a long pause, and Syn prayed that the male didnae fall victim to emotions that were best left unexpressed.