Part 3
"Cuthlain!" Geoffrey shouted in glee. "Cuthlain, wake up!"
With a groan of teenage protest, the bulky warrior stirred and stretched out his long limbs. He rubbed his painted eyes and opened them to gaze upon the small boy he had bedded a few hours earlier, and he could not help but gasp when he saw the change come upon him. The green eyes, formerly those of a jungle cat on the prowl, now seemed like those of a little child lost in wonder as the warrior exclaimed, "Gods, comrade! I mean, yes, the gods must have visited last night, for you are no longer the little boy!"
Cuthlain pounced upright and stood on his bare feet, walking toward the lad still admiring his own freshly grown muscle. When they stood facing each other, Geoffrey could see that he experienced no illusion, for last night his blonde topknot had not risen beyond the giant's nipples. Today, Geoffrey gazed upon his lover's neck, and he merely had to glance up, tilting his head slightly to look into those beautiful eyes. He still fell far short of Cuthlain's stature, but the knight-to-be figured he now must stand close to six feet. He now would serve as tallest knight among Baron Osric's legion.
Cuthlain placed his hands tenderly on thicker, broader shoulders, admiring the handiwork of gods or fairyfolk. "Indeed, now you seem more like a lad of my tribe, twelve or thirteen years of age and ready to train among our ranks!" Cuthlain had meant it as a compliment, but it still irked the modern descendant of this pagan to know even with such growth he still only looked a boy to this warrior who was his own peer.
But Cuthlain cut off Geoffrey's moping by kissing him fully on the lips, his hands roaming along the tattoos that had magically appeared along the swell of the biceps, tracing down to bigger hands. Geoffrey felt his exposed member plump again, especially when Cuthlain's bigger manhood pressed up against his stomach, leaving a trail of stickiness, but the growling from both their stomachs alerted them that it was past time to break their fast.
They parted only long enough for the taller warrior to gather some forest berries, while Geoffrey took out some dried beef from the satchel attached to the horse. They sat before the embers of the fire, naked, as they enjoyed the repast, Cuthlain tearing into the meat with strong bicuspids, the canines gnashing the meal into mush. Afterwards, Cuthlain tended to his dishevelment, undoing the long braid and tucking the stray locks back among the other strands, his nimble, long fingers working nearly an hour at tying the feathers and bones back into the snaking tail.
Meanwhile, Geoffrey had discovered another mystery, as he returned to the spread-out cloak to find that all his clothes had vanished. Even the boots, which Cuthlain had dismissed with such amusement, were nowhere to be found. Not that Geoffrey would have bothered to put them back on. The boy found that his attitude was slowly changing along with his body. He truly was enjoying the contact his bigger feet made with the earth mother. Earth mother? Did he think that, when he knew he shouldn't believe in any other spiritual beings other than God, Jesus, the angels and saints?
But somehow all that rhetoric of the Catholic priests was seeming tiresome to him this morning; he was sure the God of his church had not rewarded him with this newly muscular body, and he certainly would not have made his clothes disappear. Although there did seem one item laid beside the cloak; at first Geoffrey thought it was his trousers, but on closer inspection he found it was another loincloth, perhaps briefer than the kilt worn by Cuthlain, with soft bear's fur on the lining. Geoffrey shrugged. He now believed that a warrior-in-training needed nothing more than this one garment on a warm spring day. Indeed, the warm, dewy air of the forest felt satisfying against his bare flesh. He carefully tied on the loincloth, then tied his longer hair into a thick ponytail, grabbing a few leaves off the neighboring trees and tying those in as well. On a whim, he crushed a few of his breakfast berries in his hands and smeared the red juices onto his face, across his chest and around his flashing blue eyes. He was sure he now looked nearly as savage as his teacher.
Cuthlain had finished braiding his hair and donned his own loincloth, sighing in appreciation at how wild and virile little Geoffrey now looked. Geoffrey even had lost his Christian cross, but its loss had gone unnoticed by the changed youth. Cuthlain smiled at him. "Young warrior-to-be, our training must begin now. You are indeed bigger and stronger but nowhere near where you should stand as a protector of your people. Here." He picked up his own broadsword, nearly twice the length of Geoffrey's own and of a primitive design, arabesques done in gold along its thick hilt. "I am sure last night you would not even have been able to hold this. Try it now."
Geoffrey accepted the challenge and took the sword in his hands, holding it out at an angle before him as his knightly instructors had taught. Still, after only a few moments his muscular arms began to tremble, and he was forced to drop the heavy weapon.
Cuthlain laughed jovially. He went to pick up Geoffrey's sword, only to find that it, too, had changed, not as large as the pagan's but certainly bigger by half than what the small lad had carried before. Cuthlain handed him the sword, the sun glinting off the blade. The hilt felt perfect in Geoffrey's larger hands, and the boy swung it about, slicing through the air easily, his tattooed biceps bulging as he grunted.
They spent that morning training at swordplay, Geoffrey getting used to fighting in bare feet, finding that he seemed to maneuver easier, his feet dancing lightly now as he twirled about the grass, no longer hindered by heavy boots. By midmorning, sweat was pouring down their bare chests, but the training would not ease. Next, Geoffrey joined his master and lover in a run through the woods, Cuthlain teaching the boy how to leap into trees and climb up the trunks like a cat, his tough feet pulling him up easily, the powerful calves flexing. Both teens had a playful spirit all through the remainder of the training, as they set upon each other in games of tag, rolling among the leaves in wrestling, snatching kisses from each other whenever they could. This was life as it should be lived, Geoffrey now realized, more play than work, enjoying the bodies given them by the gods, allowing the spirits to do the necessary work of chiseling these warriors into the best and noblest of men, true protectors of all who were too weak to defend themselves.
And sooner than he would have liked, Geoffrey was to be tested, for as they took a break from their exertions to make love by a forest brook, both boys pressing their still damp bodies next to each other as they kissed heatedly, they heard the shouts and screams of a younger boy, and the rough voices of several men grunting like bears. Cuthlain jumped to his bare feet, grabbing his sword with lightning-swift reflexes, running toward the source of the trouble. Geoffrey followed close behind, his lither body quickly catching up to his mentor.
"Help! By God, help me!" shrieked a boy in rags as several bearded men on steeds ran him down near the edge of the wood, much closer to civilization than the pre-transformed Geoffrey would have liked to have tread with the results of his Satanic magic. The boy tripped and fell to the ground, while the laughing men pounced upon him and dragged him off the road toward the woods. Suddenly, a giant of a man, nearly naked and painted in black stripes, jumped out of the trees and set upon the smaller ravagers, his sword hacking into one and nearly beheading him. "Demon!" cried one of the terrified attackers, and he turned to run, but now Geoffrey pounced forward to block him, holding his sword at the coward's throat.
Cuthlain approached, holding his own sword at the man's throat and motioning that his protŽgŽ should go check upon the crying boy. The boy backed away, terrified as well by the sight of his naked saviors. "Get away! Get away, fiends!" the boy shrieked, but Geoffrey bent down and soothed the boy, telling him, "I am Geoffrey DeBeauville, a squire among the knights of Baron Osric. No one will harm you nowÉ"
But this caused the boy, nearly as pretty as Geoffrey with wild blonde mane and deer-like brown eyes, but not yet on the verge of manhood, to panic further: "The Baron! No, these men of the Baron would take me away from my home to serve him! Please, no!"
Geoffrey, bewildered, held the boy close to him and communicated better through tender touch that he was not to be harmed. After a few moments, the boy calmed, but his tears still flowed freely. Geoffrey, still bewildered, barked at the man held at swordpoint: "Is what this boy says true? You come from the castle to accost innocent villagers?"
"It was on orders!" the sniveling man whined. "We are knights bound to serve the Baron. The boy's family refused to pay the tithes, and so we are to bring him the boy for payment."
"What?" cried Geoffrey, bounding to his bare feet, his chest heaving with rage. "I am Geoffrey DeBeauville, a knight in training! You speak lies! A knight is committed to virtue, to the protection of all those too weak to defend themselvesÉ"
But despite his trembling, the man laughed at the naivete. "DeBeauville! You are not he. That lad is a good Christian; you are some forest heathen, naked and painted. I thought your like had been wiped from these parts ages ago. We should have you beheaded up at the castle."
Infuriated, Geoffrey balled his fists, thrusting out his bare chest, smeared in berry juices, so that he appeared coated in blood. "And just what did the Baron intend with this boy?" He remembered what he had just seen, the men accosting the boy and pulling down his pantaloons, which the terrified lad promptly had pulled up again upon rescue.
"Why, for his bum boy, I reckon, whatever he likes. I'm no one to question our lord!"
Geoffrey felt as if the world itself had stopped, all he believed in destroyed. All he had now were his anger and rageful sense of justice, and he glanced fierily at Cuthlain, who awaited the signal. Although he could not understand the dialect, Cuthlain could tell from observation the gist of the situation.
"Yes, you are right that DeBeauville was a good Christian boy," growled the newly minted savage. "I am not the Christian he wasÉ I am still a better one than you, sire, but I will not turn the other cheek!" He barked an order in Latin, and the tall savage sliced his broadsword through the air in less than a second, slashing the brigand-knight's throat. The dead man fell into the grass.
The boy had stopped crying, now understanding these supposed demons had defended him. Geoffrey picked him up gently and told him, "Go back to your home now. No one will harm you or your kin from now on. We are the protectors of the forest and all the denizens hereabouts. Spread word of us."
The boy nodded vigorously and thanked his saviors, then ran back down the road.
Sighing out of disillusionment, Geoffrey stared at the dead man on the ground for a few moments, one of the men the na•ve boy of last night would have called his brother-in-arms once he took his vows. Now, that life seemed to have turned into so much smoke. The tall pagan warrior put a large, comforting hand on his shoulder. "You could not show mercy to such a man. They would have ravished the boy. He is the one we are sworn to protect."
"These men came from Osric, the lord I swore my life to," Geoffrey explained. "No longer can I return. I am responsible for killing a fellow Christian."
Cuthlain shook his head slowly. "This man was not a ChristianÉnot as the missionaries explained. If this be what you worship, it is no longer worthy of you."
Geoffrey knew the savage spoke rightly, and he again marveled at how false the priest of the village had spoken of the devil pagans of ages past. Cuthlain may not turn the other cheek, he may not claim Christ as his one and only Lord, but he showed more care for Geoffrey's people than either Osric or the men of the church, and he would kill only to protect those people. It was a crushing blow, but Geoffrey knew his life as a Christian knight was over before it had begun, and he belonged solely to Cuthlain now.
The two warriors departed the scene before other knights could discover the crime, vanishing into the woods, running on well-trained bare feet over the dewy earth until they were again deep in the woods. Moments later, they came upon the ruined burial ground. It seemed a fitting metaphor for the death of Geoffrey's future. Cuthlain now stared at his tomb flanked by the roaring dragons. He gazed upon contours gone unnoticed in the darkness of the last evening.
"I must have been a great warrior, to have been buried with such splendor," Cuthlain mused.
"You were more than warrior, you were chieftain, a terror to other tribes, and your legend survived you four-hundred years," explained the formerly Christian lad.
"Truly?" gasped the teenage warrior. "And yet I did not live past youth?"
"Yet you live again, and this time you will live to grow old, with me at your side," promised Geoffrey, hopefully. He knew even these sodomite pagans eventually were expected to marry a woman, as Cuthlain in his first life had, but he still held hope that somehow they could be together.
The taller youth caressed Geoffrey's painted face lovingly, stroking the longer hair in its ponytail. "It will be thus, young comrade. The gods of earth and sky speak to me, as they spoke to me in dream last night, telling me we are a soul pair. My soul does not deny it."
Geoffrey felt choked up in happiness to hear this, and the swelling feeling within him, an emotion surging throughout his body, again caused further change to trigger. He felt his body stretching even further, his muscles solidifying, thickening, his face squaring ever so slightly. His feet stretched, now almost the size of Cuthlain's, and further geometric tattoos trailed down the sides of his chiseled torso. Cuthlain gasped to see the changes manifest so fast, the hair of his protŽgŽ now hanging nearly half-way down his more muscular back. Geoffrey still did not match Cuthlain in size, but he now resembled any competent warrior of his faction of the Cimbrii. The blue eyes burned with savage fire. Cuthlain's green eyes glittered as he smiled his wolfish grin.
"Indeed, brother, you are learning fast," Cuthlain complimented him. "Soon we will be equals. But the spirits also told me in dream of what our new mission should beÉ"
"Mission?" queried Geoffrey hopefully. "But I no longer can be a knight of the realm. We will be hunted unless we find escape."
Cuthlain did not seem worried. He gathered tinder near his tomb and began piling it as he explained: "We are to aid another of our line. And by doing so he will help another one who shall save our people and many more. That is the duty of a warrior, to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
None of what Cuthlain said made sense, but Geoffrey, ever-trusting of his mentor and lover, watched him rub the tinder vigorously until it ignited.
"The spirits told me this man of our blood lives a thousand years hence, and, by ritual such as what brought me here, we are to travel to that age and save his spirit in the same manner I saved your own."
"This is truly possible?" gasped young Geoffrey. "How are we to accomplish this?"
"Our soul union makes it possible," Cuthlain stated, as he took the tip of his sword and slashed at his palm. Geoffrey looked worried, but the wound was minor, and the resurrected warrior fed the blood into the flames. "And now yoursÉ" Cuthlain rose to his feet, still intimidating in a way, though Geoffrey now stood perhaps no more than two inches shorter. The boy stood forward and nicked his own palm, cutting a gash large enough that a few drops could run down his matured hand and into the flames, joining his lover's vital essence.
The flame sizzled, glowing red. And although Cuthlain could not have explained it with his limited vocabulary, a portal was opened in this sacred space of the ancients. A vast darkness loomed between the wooden dragons, where before had stood the barrow. Cuthlain and Geoffrey looked upon the vast nothingness with a sparkle in their light eyes, and then the tall warrior held their bloodied hands and guided his soulmate out of their primitive age and into a strange new worldÉ
One could say that Josh Connor was a lost soul. Basically a stoner hippie, he had had the fortune Ð or misfortune in several ways Ð of coming into a large inheritance by his twenty-first birthday. The means had been tragic, for Josh's parents, hippies as well, though not as aimless as their deviant son, had used the money they in turn had inherited from an industrial legacy to help fight climate change on some Pacific island. Unfortunately, a volcanic eruption on that island had taken their lives while Josh was still in high school, and money that would otherwise have gone to a variety of do-gooder causes had instead wound up in the hands of a dude whose only concerns were getting high, surfing, skateboarding, and playing video games.
Josh knew he would have an easy life, and he was grateful for it. The untouched millions meant that he never would have to work a day in his life, and Josh preferred a simple, solitary life. He was by no means the type of dude who liked to blow money partying in Vegas or whatnot. He bought himself a small apartment on the beach, made sure he had the raddest gaming system around, kept his bong packed with the finest weed, and he was happy. Plus a diet that consisted of mainly microwavable dinners, snack foods and Mountain Dew was fairly cheap. There still would be plenty of money left at the end of his life to give to charity, so why worry about a thing?
And so most days drifted by in the same aimless manner: Get out of bed whenever he liked, stretch his naked, lithe, lankily muscled six-foot frame, toss the wavy wealth of bright blonde mid-back length stoner hair out of his face; take a few hits until he felt chill, to be repeated throughout the day; put on some boardshorts and go surfing if the waves looked good, a little casual skating if not; spend the rest of the day snacking and gaming in the living room or in bed; jack it to some of the gay mags he kept by his bed, usually falling asleep after; repeatÉ.
This pattern could have been repeated endlessly, forever, and, sadly, young Josh would drift on unaware that a spirit of greatness lay dormant within him, the legacy of generations of warriors of the ancient past who had served their people so well. Josh had no reason to serve anyone except himself, but that was about to changeÉ
Today had started same as all the others, the lazy surfer lifting his naked form from bed, turning on some classic rock while he casually did his morning hygiene routine, brushing out his long, thick hair for a while until he was satisfied it was settled perfectly around his beardless face; he only needed to shave once a week to keep himself babyfaced. He had the same aggressively cute features as many of his ancestors, with full red lips, pert nose, smooth cheeks and wide blue eyes under thick, dark brows, though those eyes often were a bit bloodshot from the weed.
He was thin from not eating very much Ð he ingested mostly weed and whatever munchies kept the hunger at bay Ð but he was far from unattractive. Surfing and skating kept him toned, and only a small roll of babyfat on his tummy still failed to cover his boyish six-pack under tight, flat pecs with small, brown nipples. Long legs with only a short coating of blonde fuzz on the shins and the big feet that tended to run in his family completed the picture and made surfing and skating fairly easy for him. He loved going barefoot everywhere he went, which really wasn't anywhere except the beach and a local convenience store, and hating fucking shoes meant he didn't even own a pair. A ratty pair of old flip-flops from high school lay in a corner in case he needed them, and they had gone untouched for weeks. A few pairs of boxers, boardshorts and tank tops also lay scattered around the bed; these were the only clothes Josh owned and proved to be more than he usually needed.
He glanced out the window and saw in an instant the surf was flat. Shrugging, he decided he was feeling too lazy to even go for a skate, so he fired up the bong and slipped on some low-hanging boxers as he headed to the living room. Time for a few hours of Call of Duty on the 80" wall TV he was proud to own. He would have just stayed naked the whole time, but sometimes his butt just stuck to the couch leather, so the loose boxers would have to do. He stretched out those long legs, his size 12 feet hanging off the couch arm and tapping out some reggae tune humming within his head. The weed was just starting to hit and Josh was flying high now, feeling stoked about just about everything. Another full day of gaming, Man, life was so awesome!
He was so fixated in his stoner state on the game on screen it took him quite a while to register that he was not alone in his room. Standing off in one corner were what looked like two extremely hot warriors, maybe from one of his video games, and Josh was sure he was just tripping mightily from the high-grade weed. But, fuck, these guys seemed so real and were just about as naked as Josh was, and they were staring at him with fiercely fixed expressions, eyes glowing through what seemed to be war paint. Wait, was this real?
Suddenly, the taller one, whose head seemed only inches from the ceiling, thumped his broad, bare chest and intoned, "I hight Cuthlain of the Cimbrii, protector of the weak, and you, young comrade, are of my blood!"
Josh just continued to stare through bloodshot eyes, but his heart was starting to thump with anxiety. "Fuuuuck," he groaned huskily, thinking this was an unwelcome turn to his lazy day, and he was only moments away from full-blown panicÉ