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The centaurs in the mountains are a proud people, and few who cross the borders of their lands live to tell the tale. It has been this way for centuries, or so the stories say, so Shiro wonders just how much of a fool he is for wandering those same mountains now in search of the one thing that might be able to save him.
It isn’t as if he didn’t seek other solutions. He’s been everywhere, tried everything – at least, that’s what it feels like. He’s weary of trying, truth be told. When he began this search, he was a young man, full of stubborn hope and righteous belief that some divine power would guide him to the right answer, to salvation.
But he’s been through hell and back since then. He isn’t old – at least, that’s what his mother always insisted, despite the silver streak running through the black – but he feels like he ages another year every time he arrives at another dead end, another mage who “did all they could” or another miracle cure that turns out to be just another old wives’ tale.
Shiro’s convinced there’s no salvation for him, so he might as well try this last, incredibly stupid thing. Centaurs don’t tolerate humans, much less help them, and Shiro can hardly blame them for that. If they turn him into a pincushion for arrows before he even finds what he’s looking for, he won’t blame them for that, either.
But he really hopes he finds what he’s looking for. He’s not naive enough to think that a gut feeling means much of anything, but he’d be lying if he said that he expected to return from this final quest for a cure. If he wasn’t ready to die here, then he wouldn’t be here. Maybe the centaurs will understand that. One of the few things known about them is that they value bravery. Shiro isn’t sure if they’ll deem him brave or stupid.
He pauses beside a great, gnarled oak tree, peering at the sigil carved deep into the bark. No turning back now. It’s an angular shape that Shiro recognizes from his research as the centaurs’ name for themselves — a word that sounds something like Galra, though no human mouth can replicate it exactly.
The centaurs are fond of pictograms, intricate sigils instead of letters and words, their meanings nuanced down to width of the strokes and the shade of ink they appear in. Everything about them seems alien, truthfully. Shiro swallows, tightening his grip on his sheathed sword. He hopes he won’t have to use it, because though he’s gained a reputation as a fine warrior, centaur warriors are far fiercer and dangerous adversaries — creatures with the intelligence of humans, the strength of horses, and a love for war all their own.
Shiro didn’t bring his horse, partly because he feared it might be seen as offensive, but mostly because sitting in the saddle makes his spine buckle and his muscles protest after barely an hour. It’s worse than it’s ever been.
Shiro steels himself again and crosses the official border into no man’s land. For awhile, nothing seems out of the ordinary. The birds sing, the tree branches sway gently in the breeze, the darkening sky casts the forest into blue gloom. By the time the moonlight filters in through the leaves, Shiro has half-convinced himself that the rumors of centaur ferocity were unfounded.
Then he sees the skeleton.
It’s a human skull – at least, that’s what he thinks at first – strung up on a roughly-hewn cross of branches tied together with twine. But the skull leads down to a yellowed ribcage...and then another ribcage, larger, connected to the same spine, with a single equine leg sticking out at an odd angle from the cross, the fine bones bound together with twine like the branches. On its ivory hoof is a red sigil. Shiro can’t read it, but he can guess at its meaning: stay the fuck out.
He stares at it for a good, long second. Then his chest twinges, a telltale sign of an impending fit. Shiro grits his jaw and keeps walking. He came here for a reason, and he may be a stubborn idiot, but at least he isn’t a coward.
The trees seem less familiar, suddenly, and there’s a chill bite to the breeze. Shiro pulls his coat closer and glances about for any hint, another sigil perhaps, or even a road – do centaurs use roads? Maybe not. There aren’t any signs of habitation, either, no dwellings crude or otherwise, not even any arrows embedded in trees or the earth. He’s grateful for the lack of arrows, but it doesn’t make his search any easier…
Shiro’s thoughts grind to a halt and he drops into an instinctive crouch as his vision narrows to a flicker of movement up ahead, in the middle of a cheerfully bubbling brook. He stares. There’s no other possible reaction to the sight of the centaur standing knee-deep in the water – are those their knees? Ankles? Shiro’s head hurts – the equine half of their body a startling, bright red roan, pelt fading into tanned skin and the arch of a leanly muscled back and rolling shoulders.
The centaur appears to be washing the mud and dust off their legs, idly kicking up their hooves to splash the water up where it slicks down over their chest, some droplets landing upon dark hair which tumbles to their shoulders and curls at the nape of their neck. They’re young, Shiro thinks – he would guess mid-twenties if they were human. Then they turn, revealing a sharp, beautiful profile, dark-lashed eyes and parted lips, the illusion of innocent beauty marred by the slashed scar across the right side of their jaw, ending just below their right eye.
Something glints in the sunlight at the centaur’s throat – a necklace, some kind of ribbon choker, simple and black with a round silver pendant covering the hollow between the centaur’s collarbones. It’s etched with yet another sigil he cannot read, and though there’s a chance it’s enchanted, it might also just be jewelry.
Shiro weighs his odds. The centaur’s satchel, and with it their bow and arrows, lays several meters away. If he’s quick, he can catch the centaur at an advantage. Stupid? Definitely. But he has no other choice. If he’s to find the mysterious healer they call Keith of Marmora, he’s going to have to speak to some of the locals.
Shiro steps out from the underbrush and the centaur whirls towards him with a cry of surprise, rearing and kicking out with those hooves that suddenly look much sharper. Shiro holds up his hands, inwardly swearing. “Wait,” he says, “not here to hurt you.”
The centaur’s eyes narrow and dart towards his bow. “You do not belong here.” His voice is low and warning, accented in a way that rasps up the edges of his words, belying how unused his tongue is to speaking them. Shiro is surprised he knows Common, and hopes this is a good omen.
“I know,” Shiro agrees, and the centaur’s eyes narrow further, “but I need help.”
The centaur snorts in derision. “Galra do not help humans. You should leave. While you’re still able.”
“I will,” Shiro promises, aiming for placatory, “but is there any way you can tell me where I might find Keith of Marmora?” Abruptly, the centaur’s demeanor changes, eyes widening as he prances a nervous half-step backwards. Shiro clears his throat. “I have heard he is a healer, and –”
“Not for humans,” the centaur snaps, clearly agitated again. “Do you not have healers of your own?”
Shiro sighs. “We do, but all have failed to help me. This is my last chance. Please, just tell me where I can find him and I’ll be on my way –”
He’s cut off by the thunder of hoofbeats, far too close for comfort. The next moment, an arrow whistles through the air and thuds into the earth a foot from the centaur’s front hooves, followed by another which grazes his shoulder in a spray of red. He hisses in frustration and pain and leaps away and out of the brook, snatching up his satchel and slinging it over his shoulder. “Run, human,” he says. “As fast as your two legs can carry you.”
“I’m done with running,” Shiro says, and draws his sword. The centaur shies away, looking at it and him in disbelief. “Go, I’ll hold them off.”
“They will kill you, stupid human!” the centaur exclaims, but another shower of arrows whizzes through the air, narrowly missing the two of them, and he snaps out what sounds like a curse before turning tail and galloping off into the trees, just as three much larger centaurs trot into the clearing, weapons drawn and cruel smiles wide.
“What have we here?” the largest of them drawls in that same rasping accent, hefting an axe from her back, thick arms flexing with corded muscle. Her coat is a dappled gray, and both her equine body and humanoid torso are heavily scarred. She and the other two are wearing simple crossed tunics across their chests, clearly made for flexibility and ease of movement, not for decency. They advance upon Shiro with weapons raised.
The large gray has short, bright hair, blue and magenta, and a large scar over her right eye to add to the rest of the collection, but despite her fierce appearance she doesn’t appear to be their leader. Nor is the smallest, a bright, lanky chestnut with long, violently red hair in a long, swaying braid. No, the one Shiro fears the most is the blue roan in the middle, her short choppy hair framing a face twisted in harsh disapproval. She’s the one who gives the orders. She’s also the one with a long, curving sword.
“You’re trespassing,” she says. “Do you have a deathwish?”
“I need to find Keith of Marmora,” Shiro retorts, grip on his sword tightening.
The trio exchange dark looks. The chestnut laughs, tossing her hair and drawing her bow. “Figures that little freak would be popular with the humans. Too bad we’re going to gut you first. We can bring your legs to him afterwards, if you like.”
The gray laughs with her, but the roan doesn’t laugh at all. “The Galra you were speaking with before he fled is Keith of Marmora,” she says. “It seems he does not wish to help you, therefore you have no reason to be here.”
Shiro’s breath catches. “Wait – that was him? But you – shot at him…”
The gray snorts. “He is an outcast, a traitor to the emperor like the rest of the Marmora, and practices strange magic. Of course we shot at him.”
The roan sighs. “Prepare to die, human. Run if you must, but it will be a short chase.”
Shiro glares at them. “I will not run –”
The chestnut looses her arrow, and it finds its mark in Shiro’s shoulder, sending him stumbling backwards. The roan and gray raise their sword and axe, and it takes all Shiro’s strength to keep his sword raised to block their blows, his knees trembling as he sinks into a defensive crouch, just before two hooves ram into his ribs. He falls into the brook, coughing from the water and the pain, and the roan rears, about to come down hard on his chest. Shiro rolls out of the way just in time, and as her hooves strike the earth an inch from his ear, a sudden shroud of mist descends upon the clearing.
The trio swears and the ground shakes with their hoofbeats as several arrows cut through the opaque, unnatural fog in quick succession, sending the centaurs into a panicked canter to escape the deadly clearing. Shiro lies still, heart pounding and shoulder soaked in blood, and has just convinced himself he can stand when agony lances through his spine, his numb legs temporarily paralyzed, his fingers twitching with the pain, teeth clenched and his gasping scream escaping from between them. A shadow falls over him, and Shiro curls in on himself, ashamed that this is how he will die – struck powerless by his ailment, never cured, trampled by angry centaurs –
“Get up. Get up, damn you, please don’t be dead, you stupid human – what were you thinking –” Strong arms wrap around his middle and Shiro groans as his bruised ribs protest, but the person ignores him and heaves him up and over something broad and warm – Shiro’s eyes blink open in confusion.
“You’re Keith of Marmora,” he mumbles in near delirium against the red roan pelt. “You’re the one I was searching for…the one who can save me...”
“Don’t fall off,” Keith retorts, and breaks into a gallop before the mist clears. Shiro clings for dear life, but eventually his fingers grow as numb as his legs, and the world fades to black the moment before he loses his grip.
*
Against all odds, Shiro does not wake battered, bloodied, and half-dead. He wakes in a soft cot, shirtless, the arrow gone and the wound cleaned and packed with some kind of moss, with loose bandages over it. Shiro frowns, trying to sit up and prodding experimentally at it, and gets a sharp, “Don’t touch that,” in reply from across the room.
He jolts, turning to peer at the centaur, who is standing over a bubbling cauldron and stirring it slowly. Whatever’s in it smells delicious. Keith scowls at him through the rising steam. “Thank you for saving my life,” Shiro offers uncertainly.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Keith retorts. “I had little to do with it. The arrow wound was the least of your problems – you were seizing by the time I got you here. What illness is it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Shiro swallows. “Oh,” he whispers, hope draining out of him. “You haven’t?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t do anything to help,” Keith adds, and furrows his brow. “If I decide to help. I haven’t decided, yet.”
Shiro regards him, trying not to stare at his four legs and flicking tail, and utterly failing. “The, uh, the other Galra said you were a traitor who practices strange magic, like the other Marmora. Are they –”
“I live alone,” Keith retorts, gesturing to the circular room. It’s small but tidy, some kind of round hunt with the cookfire and a chimney in the center, and some shelves and cabinets made of clay and wood, packed with clay and glass jars. The cot Shiro lays in appears to be the only bed, until he notices the shallow indent in the earth on the opposite side of the hut, lined with flattened, dry reeds woven into a kind of mat, interwoven with feathers and cattail fluff.
Shiro looks back at Keith in confusion. “I thought centaurs lived in large family clans?”
Keith gives him a cold look. “I did,” he says, and adds with a bit less vitriol, “the other Marmora visit when they require my help. As do other centaurs desperate enough to do so. Though I have never had a human patient.” He sets down the ladle and folds his arms. “You didn’t answer my question. What ails you?”
Shiro leans back against the wall with effort. “No one seems to know,” he admits quietly, “but whatever it is, it will kill me.” He gives Keith a wry smile. “That’s the only consensus I’ve been able to get from the human healers I’ve visited. And I’ve visited all of them.”
Keith tilts his head, cautiously curious. “What are your symptoms? When did this begin?”
“I think I was born with it,” Shiro sighs, “but the symptoms have worsened with age. When I was about twenty, the worst of it hit – I’d had back pains and aches in my limbs for years, but none so bad as then. And then the fits started – I would lose control, wake dizzy and with a terrible headache. Anyone who witnessed it said I was unresponsive and jerking about.” He shudders.
“Seizures,” Keith mutters. “Have you experienced any amnesia?”
Shiro nods slowly. “Some. A few of the healers warned it would get worse. That I would forget more. One said I would forget everything.”
Keith sighs. “What will you do if I don’t help you?”
Shiro chuckles. “Probably try to find those charming Galra ladies for a round two.”
Keith frowns at him. “Do not antagonize Lotor’s generals.”
“Isn’t that what you were doing, taking a bath in their territory?” Shiro counters.
Keith huffs, turning away with a stomp. “It should be my territory,” he mutters. “I found the skeleton. Even if it’s not doing its job.” He eyes Shiro.
“Oh,” Shiro says, “the skeleton was a nice touch. But truthfully, even if there had been a hundred skeletons, I still would have tried to find you.” Keith shakes his head and Shiro tests the boundaries again. “So, why are you alone, and without your own territory?”
Keith ignores him and clops over to the cabinets, taking out two pottery bowls and ladling them full of stew. He brings one over to Shiro, carefully kneeling on his front legs to hand over the hot bowl. It’s a practiced, fascinating movement – it seems like it should be awkward, but Keith kneels and rises smoothly without a single wobble. Oops, Shiro is staring again, and the centaur is glowering. “Before you ask, it’s rabbit,” Keith snaps. “We don’t eat humans.”
“I never believed those rumors,” Shiro assures him, and takes a hesitant sip. The stew is rich and seasoned to perfection. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s delicious.”
Keith grunts. “You may rest here for the night. I must go out to gather some herbs when the moon is risen, and though I doubt you’ll get far with that injury, don’t even think of stealing anything while I’m away.”
Shiro sets down his bowl. “You aren’t going to help me.”
Keith looks away, his shoulders slumping. “It’s complicated,” he says. “The rift between our peoples is great. You should know that. And I doubt I can heal you, even if I wished to. You would be better off living the rest of your days among your own kind, in peace, not here with a stranger. I will carry you to the border tomorrow morning.”
Shiro shakes his head. “My own kind? My family is long-dead, and my reputation as a soldier is not one easily escaped.”
Keith blanches. “A soldier? Then you served the king – the human king?”
Shit. Shiro struggles to redeem himself. “It is not a time I look back on fondly –”
But Keith isn’t convinced. He shakes his head firmly. “I cannot help you. I saw what the humans did in the Second War. Perhaps this ailment is your reckoning for those crimes.”
“The Galra acted with just as much cruelty,” Shiro retorts, foul memories bubbling up in the back of his skull like the hot stew in the pot. “Moreso, even – they provoked the war, not us!”
Keith bares his teeth. “Lies,” he snaps, and Shiro flinches at the hard stomp that follows. “Every yearling knows it was the humans who attacked first at our southernmost fort, and killed any innocents who stood in their way!”
“We only attacked the fort because the Galra raided an entire village and killed nearly all the townspeople!” Shiro argues. Keith flinches, his front hoof raised in uncertainty. Shiro forces himself to calm down. “I’m not here to fight,” he mutters. “If you won’t help me, then so be it. I appreciate you tending to my wound, anyway.”
Keith inclines his head warily, and turns to the door. “I don’t care who started that war,” he says over his shoulder. “But it killed my father.”
Shiro meets his gaze steadily. “It killed both my parents,” he says. “And they weren’t soldiers.”
Keith’s mouth tightens, and he turns away. “Rest,” he says, and leaves Shiro in the healer’s hut, the fire crackling in the silence that follows.
*
Shiro awakes with a start to the ground shaking. He lifts his head drowsily, peering through the darkness – the fire is down to glowing embers which provide little illumination, so it takes him a while to see that the door is hanging off its hinges, and something big is standing on the threshold.
Shiro stills, his fingers inching towards his sword in its sheath, resting atop his folded clothing beside him. Keith hasn’t returned, and this thing surely isn’t him. Its breath is loud and labored, and when it takes a step forward, the entire hut shakes. It’s giant, and judging by the silhouette it’s a centaur, but something is very wrong with it.
There’s a red glow in the hut, and its source is not the embers, but the strange centaur’s throat. It’s a sigil, Shiro realizes, but it’s warped in a way none of the others have been, the lines shaky and uneven as if drawn while drunk, tapering and spiraling off into glowing red veins that branch out over the centaur’s neck and chest like a poison. It paws at the ground, snorting and snarling. Shiro grabs his sword and rolls out of the cot just as the centaur charges.
Shiro shouts, his unsteady footing barely managing to carry him out of harm’s way when the centaur barrels into the opposite wall, sending pots and jars smashing to the ground. It lets out a terrifying bray, a war cry – Shiro’s heard it before – but it’s as wrong as the sigil, tinged with pain and fury. The centaur rears, hooves brushing the ceiling as it comes down hard in front of Shiro and pulls something from its back – a massive greataxe which clangs against Shiro’s raised sword, the impact ricocheting up his arms and down his spine, tearing at the arrow wound in his shoulder. Shiro grits his teeth and holds fast.
What is this thing? Up close, it’s definitely a centaur, but the distinction between humanoid and equine is blurred – its torso is nearly as hairy as the rest of it, save for its bald head. Its face is twisted in rage, sharpened and blackened teeth gnashing, eyes glowing a wild, jaundiced yellow in the faded firelight. It – he, Shiro thinks – doesn’t respond to his demands or pleas to know what it wants. Shiro thinks he knows what it wants already. Death. Destruction.
The axe slides across Shiro’s blade with a vicious screech, and Shiro moves in to land a blow, his sword sinking into the centaur’s belly and slashing it open. It howls, lunges, and Shiro’s vision whites out. At first, the pain doesn’t register, but when it does, it comes in an explosion of awful, burning, tearing sensation in his right arm as the centaur’s axe cleaves it from his body.
Someone is screaming, and screaming, and screaming, and Shiro thinks it must be him, but he can’t feel his own breath, his own fear and pain detached by necessity as he watches his own arm fall limp and severed among the smashed pottery and scattered herbs. His entire right side is wet and hot and cold – he’s bleeding, he must be, but he can’t feel it. Shiro falls to his knees, staring at his sword, still clutched in his right fist. He can’t feel it. Why can’t he feel it?
The centaur staggers, and dimly, Shiro thinks he will be crushed, but instead it topples sideways in slow motion, guts spilling out of the slit his sword made in its belly, the viscera putting out the fire for good and filling the hut with noxious-smelling smoke. Shiro struggles to keep his eyes open, his left hand twitching and fumbling to touch his right side, to feel what’s missing.
“No!” The ground shakes again with hoofbeats, and Shiro raises his head, staring through the smoke at Keith, standing in the doorway, who looks from him to the fallen centaur and back again in horror. “You’re alive?” Keith whispers wretchedly.
Shiro tries to point to the dead centaur, but instead his shoulder screams in agony and he falls forward, landing in his own blood, choking and gasping as he finally understands what has happened. Keith lets out a soft, awful wail and hurries to him, kneeling to lift Shiro out of the mess, cradling his head against his forelegs and staring down at him with wide, shining eyes. “I have you,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Stay with me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Shiro reaches up to touch the gleaming pendant at his throat, all at once struck with the fear that if he rips it away, it will reveal the same warped red sigil on Keith’s skin, but his fingers never make contact, because they are gone.
*
The next several weeks are torture, slipping in and out of burning pain that wakes him from uneasy sleep and vivid nightmares of fire and battle. Consciousness is no better – Shiro is always nauseous, always feverish, always coughing or cursing or on the verge of crying from the pain. He only finds relief when Keith gives him tea. Whatever is in it plunges him into a hazy numbness, somewhere between sleeping and waking, and eventually he drifts fully into slumber, only to wake again, and repeat the whole awful cycle. Many times, Shiro thinks he would like to die. It would be easier – peaceful, even, after this hell.
But something stops him. That something, he thinks, is Keith. He is always there when Shiro awakes – the one time he wasn’t was the only time Shiro remembers actually crying, sobbing from the terror of being alone like this, of being left to die like this. But Keith doesn’t leave him. He always comes back, murmuring soft words and smoothing a warm cloth over Shiro’s brow, forcing him to eat little spoonfuls of soup and drink cups of water. He changes bandages, makes poultices, brews tea. Sometimes, he sings songs, and when Shiro can focus long enough to listen, he finds them beautiful, calming, anchoring.
When the torture ends, his fever breaks, and the pain doesn’t leave, but fades into a heavy pressure, and he no longer feels the urge to throw up as soon as he moves and opens his eyes. It’s a quiet but relieving epiphany, and he slowly turns his head on the pillow to gaze at Keith, who’s dozing in his reed-mat bed, four legs tucked under him and head lolling against the wall. He looks as exhausted as Shiro feels.
Shiro clears his throat, trying to regain his voice again, and Keith’s eyes flicker open, landing on Shiro with initial panic, then surprise. Keith stands hastily, his gait stiff and uncertain as he approaches. “You’re awake. Your eyes look...more clear.”
Shiro nods. “I think…” His voice croaks from disuse, and he clears his throat again. “I’m lucid, at least for now,” he murmurs. “How long has it been?”
Keith winces. “Two months,” he whispers, his expression distinctly guilty. “It’s been two months, and I don’t even know your name.”
Shiro blinks. “Ah. Huh.” He coughs. “Shiro. My name is Shiro.”
“Shiro,” Keith whispers. He lower his gaze. “I wish I had asked, before. If you died, I would not have known what to put on your grave.”
“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t need one,” Shiro replies, but the guilt in Keith’s eyes lingers dark and sad.
“Myzax nearly killed you,” Keith reproaches. “Many times, I thought you would not...but you survived.” He swallows, shuffling his hooves around on the packed earth. “Humans are stronger than I gave you credit for, it seems.”
Shiro looks down at his right shoulder. The stump is bandaged, though not so heavily now. “The arm was lost.”
“Yes.” Keith looks down. “It may have been possible to reattach it, to sew it back on, but you were in so much pain already, I…” He trails off. “I burned it. I kept your sword, though.” He nods to it, propped up not far from Shiro’s cot. “It is a fine blade. You felled Myzax...which, perhaps, was what he truly wanted.”
“Myzax was that mad centaur?” Shiro muses. “What was wrong with him? The sigil on his neck…” He trails off, gaze drifting to Keith’s pendant again as the memories return to him.
Keith sees him looking, and his posture grows even more uncomfortable and hesitant. “He was cursed, as I am,” Keith admits. “Myzax was what we call...the closest translation is ‘Chimeless.’ I, too, am Chimeless.”
“What is a Chime? That sigil?”
Keith doesn’t lift his pendant. “It’s not a sigil,” he says. “It’s a...a…” He struggles to find a word that fits, and finally settles on, “soulmark. Every Galra is born with one, and when we are of age, the mark Chimes. It glows in the presence of its match, and we are drawn to our match as if hearing a beautiful bell. That’s how it’s meant to happen, anyway. But I never had my Chiming. Neither did Myzax. We don’t have matches. We don’t have, as humans call it, a soulmate. And it drives many mad.”
Shiro laughs in shocked disbelief, shaking his head. “He was lovesick?”
Keith’s brow lowers. “He was lonely,” he retorts. “You were right – Galra are not meant to be alone. The bond is more than just love, it is – a deep connection that remains strong across our entire lives. Like family.” He frowns. “Humans would not understand. You do not have soulmates as we do, do you?”
“Some couples claim they are soulmates,” Shiro muses, “but we have no Chiming, if that’s what you mean. Just attraction, emotions. Nothing so magical as soulmarks.”
“Then how does anyone find who they were meant to be with?” Keith says mournfully. “It would be impossible.”
Shiro shrugs, his right shoulder twinging only a little. “Maybe. I haven’t found mine – though I doubt they exist. It seems cruel for someone who will die before thirty to have a soulmate, does it not?”
Keith is quiet. He walks across the hut and gathers up the teapot, some cups, and the tea leaves. As the tea boils over the fire, he speaks. “Myzax never should have found you. It was my fault, leaving you here alone. If you still want it, I swear to do all within my power to help you.” Keith glances at him, expression unreadable. “Although in all honesty, I do not think there is a cure.”
Shiro exhales. This doesn’t upset him as much as it might have when he first arrived here. He feels like he’s already stared death in the face once. He’d be impressed if he experienced anything worse than the last month. “Do you know what the illness is?”
Keith nods thoughtfully. “Possibly. While you were healing, I did some research. You lost enough blood, I doubted you would miss the little I took for samples and tests.”
Shiro waves his left hand. “Take all the blood you need. Find anything interesting?”
“It closely resembles something we call morboala, or the wasting sickness.” Keith sighs. “There’s no cure for it. Treatments, yes, such as this tea…” He pours Shiro a cup and hands it over. “But it is fatal, eventually.”
Shiro holds the tea in his remaining palm, savoring the heat on his skin. “That’s alright,” Shiro says, and Keith looks at him in surprise. Shiro smiles and blows on the hot tea, admiring the way the steam rises in the sunshine streaming through the window. Sometimes the little things are the best things in life. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay here. With you.” Keith blinks in surprise, his cheeks faintly pink. “Like I said, no family, and now with this injury…” Shiro sips his tea. “I’m not sure where else I would go. What I would do with the rest of my life.”
“What will you do here?” Keith asks curiously.
“Keep you company?” Shiro suggests. He means it half as a joke. The other half is dead serious. He doesn’t know Keith, but the centaur cared for him when he was helpless and on what would have been his deathbed for weeks, despite him being a stranger, a human, and a soldier to boot. He doesn’t know Keith, but he would like to know him. More than he’s wanted to know anyone in a long time, honestly.
Keith blinks. “Well, if that’s what you want,” he says, with a tone that suggests he doesn’t quite believe Shiro isn’t just trying to be polite. The centaur gives him a small smile. “If you feel well enough, I wouldn’t object to an assistant. Especially when winter comes, it gets busy here.”
“I feel well,” Shiro says, and to his own surprise, it’s the truth. He sits up fully and smiles back, lifting his tea in a toast. His right side still feels strange, a prickling phantom pain like pins and needles that will take some getting used to, but he hasn’t given up so far. He doesn’t really want to give up when giving up means giving up on Keith, too.
“Good,” Keith says, and leans down to clink his teacup against Shiro’s. “I can work with that.”
*
It’s clear that Keith is still guilty about Myzax, despite Shiro’s assurances that he couldn’t have known the rogue centaur would go rampaging that night. Keith seems guilty about a lot of things, including his status as Chimeless, which baffles Shiro.
“But you have no control over that,” Shiro points out as he focuses hard on cracking chestnuts with his left hand, tossing each one into their half-full basket for roasting later.
Keith shrugs, and stomps on several chestnuts, grunting happily when they crack open. His method is more efficient, though a bit messier. “Maybe. Maybe not. The soulmarks are magic manifested in us, and for the Chimeless...it’s said we have too much disorder in our magic to ever match with another’s. That’s what drives some to madness. That’s why I do this, use my magic to heal...when I can.”
“Hm. Channel it into something positive?”
“Exactly.” Keith cracks more chestnuts and Shiro leans down to toss them into the bowl so Keith doesn’t have to kneel all the way down. The centaur gives him a grateful look. “It’s the least I can do. Otherwise, I’m a danger to all of Galra. Lotor’s generals believe I’m a danger regardless; that’s why they check on me.” His brow furrows. “They’re eager to put me out of my misery.”
“They would do that?” Shiro demands. “Murder another centaur unprovoked, and a healer no less?”
“You’ve seen what I could become,” Keith retorts. “Of course I hope it doesn’t come to that, but I understand why they fear...me.” He sighs and cracks another batch of chestnuts.
“Well, I don’t,” Shiro says. “I think they’re superstitious fools.”
Keith snorts. “You are not afraid to speak your mind.”
“Nor are you.” Shiro eyes him. “I don’t see the sense in playing coy. You’ve already seen me at my worst.”
Keith sighs. “I have seen many at their worst. I judge no one for it. I just do what I can.”
“A noble centaur,” Shiro teases.
Keith tilts his head. “I have always thought the human word for us was a strange one. Why do you call us that?”
“I…” Shiro pauses to think. “It’s a sort of pun. There was a human tribe in ancient history, the Kentauros, I think? They were horsemen – experts at riding horses and fighting atop them.”
Keith considers this. “Do you see Galra as half beast, half man, then?”
“I…” Shiro flounders. “Um – are you not?”
Keith raises an eyebrow. “Humans are animals, are you not? We aren’t half-horse, half-human. We are our own people. Many of us do not even look like horses – our neighbors to the south are striped and spotted with coloration no horse could have, our neighbors to the east walk on much thinner legs with cloven hooves and tufted tails, and our neighbors to the north have thick pelts and stocky frames that might, to you, more closely resemble cattle. But we are about as closely related to those creatures as you humans are.”
“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s not that I consider you unequal to humans – just, er, different.”
“Mm,” Keith says, giving him a long look which makes Shiro shiver in a way that should probably be alarming, but isn’t, exactly. “Yes, we are very different. But I don’t think that has to be a bad thing.”
“No,” Shiro agrees, and cracks another chestnut with a satisfying snap. “No, not bad at all.”
*
Keith’s mother visits with Keith’s first patient since Shiro, and Shiro realizes exactly how wrong he was to assume the Galra were half-horse, because the lower half of her body is equine, but it is not a horse by any stretch of the word.
She’s purple, for one thing, with a dark dorsal stripe like her son which fades into lavender and a pale belly. Her tail is not long and flowing, but a more cervine tuft, and her legs are long, slender, ending in sharp dewclaws and cloven hooves. Her hair is dark purple with magenta undertones, like Zethrid, the scarred gray mare, with a short, ragged braid. Shiro would wonder how she and Keith were related if not for their faces, which almost mirror each other.
Her name is Krolia, and she arrives with another purplish centaur in tow, this one limping heavily, the left side of his body bloodied. Shiro doesn’t have to guess long at what caused the injury – Krolia has a dead black bear slung over her withers like it’s nothing. She rolls it off and lays it on Keith’s threshold with a grunt. “Payment,” she says. “And you will need a new cloak for the winter, son.”
Keith sighs. “Thank you, Mom.” He ushers the wounded centaur inside, who looks around Keith’s age, dark-haired and with a long, almost reptilian sort of tail, hooves cloven like Krolia’s and flanks striped white. He stares at Shiro openly, and Shiro pauses where he’s grinding herbs with the mortar and pestle – the newest tincture he and Keith are trying to control the seizures.
“Regris, do not stare,” Krolia says, following them in and inclining her head to Shiro. “This human is the one who did what scores of our own were too cowardly to do – killed Myzax. He has earned our respect. And he assists my son in his work. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shiro says. “It’s an honor to meet you.” He nods awkwardly to Regris, who is trying not to stare, but struggling. “And you.”
“We have met before,” Krolia replies, “but you were unwell. You look far more alive now. My son does good work. Can you give Regris something for the pain? He is a stubborn boy, like you. Says it doesn’t hurt, but I know the pain of bear claws.”
Regris winces and Keith nods. “Shiro, can you find the willow bark and ginger paste?” Shiro nods, rising to search through the shelves while Keith finds a bowl and some of his special ink, and begins drawing sigils along the rim. Shiro watches from the corner of his eye, fascinated as he always is with Keith’s more subtle magic.
The bowl begins to glow a soft green from deep within, and when Shiro hands him the willow bark and ginger paste, Keith thanks him before pouring both into the bowl’s glowing pool and mixing it with low, chanted words. Shiro doesn’t understand them, but they are filled with power, rising and falling with Keith’s lilting voice.
Keith goes about the ritual as if it is mundane, muttering to himself as he fetches the bandages and goes about spreading the healing poultice over the gauzy strips, binding them carefully around Regris’s body and over the worst of the wounds. Shiro puts the poppy tea on to boil – he knows Regris will likely appreciate it, and Keith smiles when he notices. They make a good team, Shiro thinks, then blushes, then wonders why the hell he’s blushing.
He knows damn well why, though. Krolia catches his eye as he pours the tea into cups, and Shiro’s ears burn. Of course he’s the idiot who’s endeared by a centaur. The pretty centaur who saved his life, to be exact.
Shiro splashes tea onto his hand as he brings the cup over, and when he hisses in pain, Keith’s head jerks up in concern. Krolia’s knowing gaze remains heavy on them when Keith exclaims, “Shiro, are you alright?”
“Yes,” Shiro says, hastily setting down the tea and returning to his spot at the table with the mortar and pestle before he makes a bigger fool of himself. “Just clumsy.”
“You are very graceful for only having two legs,” Krolia offers.
Keith looks at his mother askance, and Shiro chuckles. So does Regris, albeit nervously. “What?” Krolia says. “He is.”
Later, when Keith is skinning the bear and Shiro is slicing off fat to salt and store for the winter, Shiro says, “Your mother was here after I...after the attack?”
“Yes.” Keith tugs off the skin in its entirety and gives Shiro an apologetic look. “I was...panicking. I needed her help, or I was afraid I might accidentally make a mistake and hurt you further. Truly, she saved your life, not I.”
“She wasn’t the one who stayed at my bedside constantly,” Shiro counters. “But I thank her for her help, anyway. She seems like a good mother...she’s very proud of you.”
Keith sighs. “Yes. She accepted I was Chimeless around the same time my father died. She was not always so proud, but...people can change.”
“I can see why she’s proud,” Shiro murmurs. “You do very good work.”
Keith’s gaze lowers, his tail flicking in the nervous way it does when Shiro compliments him. “Thank you,” he whispers, and hurries to continue preparing the bearskin.
*
Keith makes them both cloaks for the winter, though splitting the bearskin means that only his torso is protected against the cold, as Shiro repeatedly points out. But Keith won’t be swayed, and presents Shiro the cloak with such pride that Shiro can hardly refuse. They are fine cloaks, and something warms in Shiro’s chest to know that they have a matching set, as silly as that is. Keith carved little ivory clasps for the cloaks, and sometimes at night, when Keith is curled up asleep on his mat, Shiro runs his fingers over the delicate carvings, swirls and ridges, smooth and cool under his touch.
The winter is cold and unforgiving, and as Keith predicted, they are flooded with patients. They fall into a rhythm. Shiro always makes sure there is enough poppy tea brewed at any given time, and they take turns going out to gather herbs, though few grow when the snow becomes so deep Shiro has to wade through it. At first, Keith was wary of letting Shiro walk around the forest alone, but Shiro has kept up with his sword skills, learning to wield it with his left hand out of sheer stubbornness. After Myzax, Keith doesn’t doubt he knows how to use it, so eventually, he doesn’t tense up when Shiro offers to search for herbs in his stead.
On slow days, they sometimes spar together, not with swords but with wooden poles. Shiro never fails to be impressed by how light Keith is on his feet – er, hooves – prancing about in an intricate battle-dance with every stroke of his weapon. Shiro manages to disarm him a few times, but not by going for his torso – he discovers the weak points are Keith’s legs and the center of his second chest, where skin meets pelt. Keith doesn’t expect his strike there and stumbles off-balance, giving Shiro the moment he needs to finish the job.
When they spar, Keith never goes easy on him, and Shiro is endlessly grateful for that. Some of Keith’s patients make comments about his missing limb or stare for too long, but Keith never tolerates any of it. He could easily ignore them, but instead he defends Shiro. Shiro isn’t sure why, and tells Keith again and again he has no obligation to do so, but Keith just looks at him and shakes his head and says, “They don’t know how hard you fought to stay here. I won’t have them discrediting that – or you.”
The warmth in Shiro’s chest burns when Keith says things like that.
Then there’s the night in late winter when, after weeks of brutal illnesses and injuries, and Shiro having several particularly bad fits in short succession which left him weak and dazed, Keith offers to show him “something special.”
Shiro blinks at him, finishing the rest of his tea and tilting his head. “My curiosity is piqued,” he says, “but it’s snowing hard, and I’ll be honest...I’m too tired to hike very far tonight. I’m sorry, Keith.”
Keith shakes his head. “That’s alright,” he says. “You don’t have to hike anywhere.” Then he does something he’s never done before, and pats his back, just behind the withers. “I can carry you. It’s not far.” At Shiro’s bewildered expression, he falters. “If...if you are uncomfortable with that, then –”
“No!” Shiro blurts, and Keith’s expression shifts into amusement. “It’s – that’s – I just, you would let me?”
“Of course, Shiro.” Keith’s voice is so soft.
That’s how Shiro ends up astride Keith’s back, realizing too late that this means he will have to cling to Keith’s torso as he canters through the snow. They both wear their cloaks, a small mercy, but as Shiro leans forward into him, he can feel the heat of Keith’s body, the softness of Keith’s hair against his cheek. Under him, the equine body moves with fluid grace, long loping strides carrying them effortlessly through the deep snowdrifts and up through the woods, over rocky hills and frozen dales, up and up until Keith stands on a high cliff and pants, “Look up.”
Shiro lifts his gaze from Keith’s cloak, and sees a sky alight with shifting, swirling color, long trails of vivid green and flashes of red and pink and gold and brilliant blue. It is as if a paintbrush was dragged across the stars, but the paint is a living thing, burning brighter than any fire but with a pure, smokeless light that casts over the white snow and distant stars soothing and cool and utterly unearthly.
Shiro’s jaw drops, and Keith chuckles knowingly at his stunned silence. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers. “What is it? How have I never seen it before?”
“I think it only appears far in the north, and only in wintertime,” Keith murmurs. “We call it zarevnica.”
Shiro weighs the word on his tongue. It’s a good word – one that sounds magical enough to suit this eerie, lovely sight. “What does that mean?”
“Something like ‘winter dawn,’” Keith replies. He sighs, a slight movement under Shiro. “So many times, I considered leaving this land, leaving the Galra, trying to find a life somewhere else, somehow. But I always came back for these. They bring me...peace, I think. Peace with my place in the world.”
Shiro hesitates, then squeezes Keith’s shoulder. The centaur jolts under his touch, and shivers between his thighs, but listens when Shiro says, “You’ve made your own place in this world. It’s a good place. You deserve a good place, Keith – and a good life.”
“So do you,” Keith whispers, and his voice is threaded with sadness which hangs between them for the rest of the night, on the long journey home. Shiro wants to promise they will have a good life, always, together. But Keith, for all his kindness, will carry on when Shiro is gone. Shiro hopes he will, anyway. He hopes, with every fiber of his being, that he isn’t as important to Keith as Keith is to him.
*
Months pass, and slowly the snow melts and the influx of patients lessens to a more manageable amount. On the sunnier days, Shiro starts work on an herb garden – Keith admitted he’d always wanted one but never had the time to make it happen, so when Shiro offers to make one, with a little stone wall and trellises and every other unnecessary but aesthetically pleasing feature he can imagine, Keith is shocked and delighted.
Building the garden also helps Shiro to regain his full range of movement, and the muscle mass he lost during recovery. He doesn’t know, truthfully, if his human physique does anything for Keith, but he swears he catches the centaur’s gaze lingering a few seconds too long on his bicep, or sweating chest, or increasingly chiseled abdomen. Just in case, Shiro keeps his shirt off as much as possible. It’s only fair – so does Keith.
It seems to be common to walk around more or less nude in centaur culture – any garments that are worn are strictly for practicality’s sake, like Keith’s winter cloak or the crossed fabric mares use to bind their breasts while running. Shiro isn’t sure where they stand on matters of sexuality and decency, but he makes some hesitant inferences.
He gets his answer to these burning questions on one very strange night in early spring, during which he awakes to a cacophony of sounds – howls, wails, shouts, bellows, and the occasional war-bray. But oddly, none of the other sounds of war are present, and none of the cries in the night sound particularly angry. He sits up, rubbing his eyes in confusion, and finds Keith already awake, pacing and sipping tea by candlelight. He pauses when he sees Shiro, and forces a smile. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
“Uh,” Shiro says. “No...that did.” He gestures vaguely, and Keith snorts. “What is happening?”
“I should have warned you,” Keith sighs. “It’s the Night of Chimes. When we…” He clears his throat. “When the Galra find their soulmate, and all the Chimes begin. It can last for a week or two, some years. It gets quieter as it goes on, don’t worry.”
Shiro opens his mouth, then closes it. “The Chiming,” he says, slowly, “are they…”
“Mating,” Keith huffs, “yes. You humans are very private about these things, aren’t you?”
Shiro stares at him, mind snagging on Keith saying mating, because what. “The Night of Chimes is an orgy?” he squeaks.
Keith wrinkles his nose. “What? I don’t know what that is. When each Galra finds their soulmate, they just do what comes naturally. It’s simple. They may mate several times throughout the night, then repeat on the following nights if they want to.”
“But – in front of everyone?” Shiro is trying to understand. Mostly, he’s failing.
Keith sets down his tea and folds his arms. “Think about it, Shiro,” he says patiently. “There’s not much point in hiding it. When we are aroused, our bodies are very honest and obvious about it.” He stamps his back hoof, and for a mortifying second, Shiro’s gaze darts to below Keith’s flank before resolutely looking away before he can actually see anything. Keith’s mouth twitches. “I wasn’t sure if the rumors of human shyness were true, but I honored them, Shiro – I was careful to keep you covered while you were healing, even though your body fascinates me.”
Shiro splutters, and Keith covers his mouth, glee draining from his face as he realizes what he’s said. “I mean,” Keith starts and stops. “It’s just different. I wondered how different. But I didn’t look –”
Between this and the constant backdrop of Galra sex noises, it’s too much. Shiro buries his head in his hand. “Oh, gods,” he groans, “please stop. I’m not awake enough to talk about this right now.”
“Sorry!” Keith exclaims, prancing away to settle back down on his mat. He peers at Shiro with an apologetic smile that cracks at the next gut-wrenching howl which Shiro can only assume is yet another successful Chiming. “Do you want earplugs?”
“Please,” Shiro says with feeling, though he knows he’s tired enough to fall asleep anyway – he’s more worried about what his dreams will hold if he falls asleep hearing that.
*
The Night of Chiming lasts seven nights before Shiro knows peace again, and Keith is endlessly apologetic about it, but he’s also...not, quite. Some of his apologies sound more like teasing. Flirting, even. They’re just little comments, more remarks about prude humans and the differences between them. Shiro must be projecting. Keith doesn’t think of him that way. Why would he? How could he?
Keith takes him to see the zarevnica one last time before they vanish for the year. The lights are less vivid, but Shiro finds them just as enchanting, and they sit on the clifftop together. Keith lets Shiro leans into his side, and laughs when Shiro runs his hand curiously down Keith’s back, but doesn’t stop him.
“Are Galra very tactile?” Shiro asks, looking up at him as Keith peers down, head tilted. Like this, Keith isn’t much taller than him, and their faces are quite close.
“Yes, you might say that,” Keith replies, eyeing Shiro’s hand on his withers. “Platonically and otherwise.” He frowns. “Humans are not so physically affectionate, correct?”
Shiro blinks, lifting his hand away and folding it in his lap. “It’s not that we aren’t affectionate, just...not with strangers, usually. And some people like touch more than others. Some don’t like it at all.”
“Oh.” Keith blinks at him. “And what kind of person are you?”
Shiro looks pointedly at where he’s snuggled against Keith’s side. “I don’t usually like it,” he admits. “But this is nice.”
“Oh,” Keith repeats, softer, pleased. “Good, then.” He pauses, lifting his hand. “May I touch your hair?”
Shiro laughs. “My hair? Why?”
“It looks soft,” Keith says, “and Galra often stroke each other’s hair. It is a calming gesture. Is it not for humans?” He lowers his hand, looking worried.
“No, no,” Shiro says hastily, “it’s alright, you can, if you want. I think it can be calming, if it’s someone you trust doing it.”
Keith’s fingers sink into his hair and Shiro barely stops himself from groaning and melting into the centaur’s side. Keith hums. “You trust me?”
“With my life,” Shiro whispers, eyes falling shut. Keith’s nails scratch lightly at his scalp and he shivers.
“Even if I am unable to save it?” Keith whispers back. They have tried as many solutions as Keith can find. None have worked, though Shiro swears some have slowed the illness’s progress. Either way, there’s no cure. Shiro’s made peace with that.
“You already have,” Shiro admits, and Keith makes a low sound, his hand falling from Shiro’s hair. Shiro opens his eyes. Keith is staring down at him, the distant green glow of the winter dawn reflected in his dark eyes.
“Shiro,” Keith murmurs. “I know you do not understand, but I would like to show you my soulmark.”
Shiro wets his suddenly very dry lips. Keith’s tone is serious, voice and hands trembling as he reaches for the choker he always wears. “Oh,” Shiro breathes, “I...alright?”
He watches attentively as Keith unlatches the choker and lifts it away, revealing the faint red glow of the sigil in the hollow of his throat. Shiro’s breath catches. Keith looks at him with palpable nervousness, his hand flitting to his neck as if trying to cover it again on instinct. Shiro leans closer, transfixed by it. The soulmark is a curling, whirling spiral, intricate and mesmerizing, and Shiro’s first, absurd thought is that it looks like a rose. A red rose.
He glances back up at Keith and smiles. “Thank you for showing me,” he says. “It’s beautiful, Keith.”
He doesn’t expect Keith’s face to crumple and his eyes to fill with tears, and Shiro flinches back, hand flailing at his side, unsure whether to touch and comfort or pull away. “I – are you alright? Did I say something wrong? Keith –”
“N-no,” Keith gasps, wiping furiously at his eyes as fat tears dribble down his face. “It’s just – my mark, me, it’s aberrant, wrong – no one has ever called it beautiful before.”
Shiro stares up at him, his heart full to bursting. “You’re beautiful,” he says fiercely, and Keith’s tears drip in silent disbelief for a long, aching moment before he makes a wounded sound and drags Shiro into a bruising kiss, his fingers sinking into Shiro’s hair again, drawing him closer.
Shiro gasps against his mouth but does not pull away, and as soon as he kisses back, Keith relaxes, slumping forward into the kiss, pulling Shiro into the curve of his body. Keith’s chest is warm and strong under Shiro’s hand, and he strokes at the skin with obsessive wonder, fingertips trailing down until his palm smooths over Keith’s warm pelt. It doesn’t repulse him; truthfully, it never has. Shiro shuffles closer, indulging himself in petting at Keith’s hair, fingers slipping through silky black strands. Keith moans low and wanting, teeth finding his lower lip, and Shiro opens to him, but Keith draws back, chest rising and falling in shallow heaves and pupils blown.
“Do you mean it?” Keith whispers. It is a plea, a frantic one. “Or am I just a curiosity to you?”
Shiro swallows, drowning in the gleam of his eyes. “What does it mean to show your soulmark to someone?”
Keith shudders, his grip on Shiro tightening. “It means they feel their Chime. It means they have found their mate.”
Shiro’s eyes widen. “Do...do you feel…?”
Keith exhales hard, and shakes his head, hair hanging into his face. “I am still Chimeless,” he says, “but you make me feel – why should we be alone, if we could be together?” He searches Shiro’s face. “Maybe I have no soulmate, but I have you – if you’ll have me.”
Shiro clings to him, nails digging into the hard muscle of Keith’s shoulder as Keith traces over the curves of his chest aimlessly, like he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. “I will,” Shiro breathes. “Keith, I – you could never be just a curiosity to me.” He curls his hand around the back of Keith’s neck, and the centaur’s breath shallows. “Though I am...curious.”
Keith groans, low and almost anguished, though his eyes shine with relief. “Come here, then,” he pleads, gathering Shiro up in his arms and rolling onto his side just enough for them to nestle together, to kiss and caress more fully. “Let me touch you. Please, please –”
“Yes,” Shiro breathes, lashes fluttering as Keith’s cool hands slip under his tunic, squeezing appreciatively at the muscle beneath. His breath catches on a moan when Keith finds his nipples, plucking at them and then stroking up to brush his thumbs between Shiro’s collarbones, where his soulmark would be.
It’s been so long since anyone touched him like this, but it’s more than that – no one has touched him like Keith does, greedy and relentless yet almost worshipful, his mouth hot and soft as he kisses Shiro’s neck, licks under his jaw and bites as Shiro arches in his grasp. Shiro paws at his chest with his hand, wishing more than he ever has that he had two. “Keith,” he whispers, nuzzling into his neck as Keith leans down to kiss his throat and unlace his tunic, “can I touch you –”
Keith makes a strangled noise, pulling away. “I –” He gulps. “I don’t wish to frighten you.”
Shiro blinks, uncomprehending, and Keith cups his face. “Humans...take things more slowly, do they not?” He leans in to kiss Shiro again, slow and lingering, without the urgency of before, and he lets Shiro wrap his arm around Keith’s slender waist, anchoring them together. “I want to do this right,” Keith whispers against the corner of his lips, and pulls back to smile shyly. “And truly, I could kiss you for hours.”
Shiro exhales, and smiles back. “Then kiss me,” he murmurs. “Wherever you like.”
Keith groans at him. “Slowly,” he grunts, and captures Shiro’s lips again.
*
They do take things slowly. Keith is fumbling and awkward at times, clearly afraid of scaring Shiro away, but Shiro is more intrigued than wary. There are moments when Keith hastily excuses himself after they kiss and touch for what feels like hours, and Shiro lets him have his privacy, but not without imagining what Keith might be doing, and relieving some of his own tension in the privacy of the hut.
A few times, he sneaks peeks between their bodies when they’re nestled as close to each other as possible, and sees a long heavy shadow between Keith’s back legs that makes him think, Ah.
It’s a hot summer day when Keith wakes Shiro with his mouth, blinking innocently up at Shiro from where he’s laying between Shiro’s spread legs, leaning on his forearms to mouth at Shiro through tenting fabric and chuckling when Shiro moans aloud, sleepy confusion shifting into want and disbelief as his mind puts two and two together.
“Good morning,” Keith says pleasantly, his lips shiny. “Can we try something new? I have been reading human stories. They say this is a good pastime for lovers.”
“Are we lovers?” Shiro gasps, staring at Keith’s hands, one inching down his pants and the other rubbing slowly at Shiro’s inner thighs, working its devious way upwards.
“I hope so,” Keith murmurs, “for there’s no other I want in my bed.” His gaze darts up. “That was also from the stories,” he admits.
Shiro bursts into laughter, and it’s easy for his hand to sink gently into Keith’s hair, for him to help Keith remove his pants fully, and for Keith to take Shiro into his mouth with a soft, wondering sound that reverberates through Shiro’s entire body.
“You’re beautiful,” Keith tells him afterwards, his arm and one of his front legs sprawled over Shiro’s chest in a way that makes Shiro feel so warm and secure. “I don’t know if I told you before, but I’ve always thought so.”
Shiro blushes. “I don’t know if anyone has ever told me that.”
“They should have,” Keith murmurs, pressing a kiss to his brow, “but part of me is glad only I get to see you in your full beauty now.”
Shiro nudges him slyly. “Oh? Which part of you?”
Keith snorts and butts his head against Shiro’s shoulder. “You’re awful.”
*
Despite his shyness, though, one night as they lie together in sleepy bliss after an evening of languid kisses and heavy petting, with Shiro curled around Keith’s back, his arm draped over the centaur’s middle, Keith whispers, “You can touch me, if you wish.”
Shiro pauses, sitting up to lean his cheek against Keith’s withers. “I’d touch you anywhere you let me, you know that. Where?”
Keith exhales, shaky, and takes Shiro’s wrist, guiding it downwards. Shiro can’t see from behind Keith, but he can feel the startling softness of his belly, then further, where the pelt gives way to warm, smooth skin, and something heavy and velvety. Keith whimpers when Shiro’s palm brushes it, and a groan rumbles deep in his body when Shiro touches it properly, stroking his hand over the growing sheath.
“Tell me how it feels when I touch you,” Shiro whispers, aware that he’s standing on the edge of a precipice here, but he’s eager rather than afraid to see what lies below.
Keith squirms, his hips shifting and legs kicking out in jerky, helpless movements. “I’ve never,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in Shiro’s pillow, “I’ve never had anyone touch me there. Don’t stop – please –”
“Shhh,” Shiro whispers, closing his eyes and squeezing, Keith’s body shuddering beside him as the girth in Shiro’s fist lengthens and swells and he understands why Keith was so hesitant. Shiro isn’t, though, and strokes him slow and tight, listening to Keith’s breathy sounds and low, bitten-off grunts. The centaur hides his face in his forearms, tilting his hips into Shiro’s grip until suddenly he tenses and whines out a warning and sticky heat covers Shiro’s hand, making his grip slippery. He doesn’t stop, and Keith moans, trembling and sweating and panting at even the slightest of touches. “I have you,” Shiro whispers, and kisses the place where skin meets pelt. “It’s alright. Let go, Keith.”
By the time he’s done, Keith lies limp and shocked, and Shiro lifts his hand away, sitting up to marvel at how messy his palm is, all the way up to his wrist and forearm. Keith yelps when he sees Shiro staring at the mess, and scrambles upright on shaky legs to toss a cloth at Shiro. Shiro snorts and wipes it off, then washes properly with the soap and water bucket when Keith continues to look at him askance.
“Not so strange,” Shiro assures him when they’ve settled down again, after everything is clean to Keith’s liking. “Very, uh, large, though –”
Keith covers his face with a squawk. “I know! It’s too much, I know –”
“Hmph.” Shiro wraps his arm around Keith’s waist again and squeezes. “No, you’re exactly enough, Keith, in every way.”
“Sap,” Keith whispers, but he’s smiling.
*
Of course, this domestic bliss has to be shattered sooner or later, and the shattering comes when Shiro has his worst fit yet. It’s been weeks since he even had pain, much less seized, but he falls in the garden and Keith finds him there, shaking and unresponsive, the flowerbed crushed under him.
Keith carries him inside, and Shiro wakes to his pale, drawn face. He takes Shiro’s hand in his own and squeezes, lifting it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Sorry,” Shiro croaks, “didn’t mean to worry you.”
Keith shakes his head. “Not your fault,” he whispers. “None of this is your fault.” He presses Shiro’s palm to his cheek and leans into it, looking down at Shiro with eyes full of apology. “I will find a way to fix this,” he says. “I swear it.”
“Just stay here with me,” Shiro murmurs, “that’s all I want.”
But when he wakes again, Keith is packing saddlebags and dressed for much colder weather. His mother is there, too, her expression solemn. “I won’t be gone too long,” Keith tells him, leaning down to kiss his brow. His mother watches, impassive, though her brow furrows when Shiro reaches out to Keith with a weak plea.
“Don’t go,” he begs, blinking past the fever to see Keith’s ashen face one last time, to memorize the curve of his lips and fall of his hair and bright spark of his eyes. “Keith…”
“I must,” Keith whispers back. “I can’t let you suffer like this, my love.”
And he goes.
*
Krolia stays with Shiro – Keith must have showed her how to treat his illness, because she knows what to do, and goes about her tasks quietly. When he is lucid enough, Shiro stares at the ceiling and rasps, “Where did he go?”
“To help you,” Krolia says, pouring the tea. When Shiro is silent, dissatisfied with this answer, she sighs and adds, “He has gone to an ancient place seeking answers – a library in the mountains, a reservoir of knowledge for our people. If there is a cure for your illness, he will find it there.”
Shiro blinks, confused. “Then why has he not gone sooner?”
Krolia eyes him. “It is a perilous journey,” she says flatly. “He may well die.”
Shiro makes a broken sound. “No,” he whispers, “no, not for me, he should not have gone –”
“My son does as he wishes,” Krolia sighs. “And what he wishes is to protect you.”
Shiro sleeps badly. He dreams of Keith tumbling from a mountain peak, screaming for someone who will never hear him as he plummets into the yawning abyss below, the winter dawn gleaming coldly above him in tongues of green fire.
*
The summer days shorten and the leaves have turned to scarlet and gold when Keith returns, bearing on his back a large, leatherbound book. He smiles when Shiro runs out to embrace him, but his smile is weary, not full of joy, but resignation.
Over tea, Shiro says, “You didn’t find a cure.”
Keith blows on his tea and sips it pensively. “There is no cure,” he says. “But there is a spell. One that can save those who are desperate, who have no other recourse.”
Shiro sets down his tea. “What is it?”
Keith meets his eyes. “A spell that would change your form,” he whispers. “It would turn you into a Galra – into a centaur.”
Shiro’s lips part. “Is such a thing possible? It would take away my illness?”
Keith nods. He doesn’t look happy, and Shiro doesn’t understand. “Yes. It would give you a full, healthy life, Shiro. Just not a human one.”
“Then let’s do it,” Shiro exclaims, clasping Keith’s hand. “We can do it, can’t we?”
“It is a complex spell, and the risks are great,” Keith says, not meeting his gaze, “but it was the only solution I could find. And even if it works, you…” He swallows, and when he looks up, his eyes are shiny. “You may have a soulmark,” he whispers. “And your mate will not be me.”
Shiro’s heart constricts. “What?” he demands. “Why – why couldn’t it be you?”
“I am Chimeless,” Keith reminds him quietly. “That is not a temporary state. You saw my mark. It’s red. It’s passed its time for Chiming. I am destined to be alone –”
“No,” Shiro snaps, squeezing Keith’s hand tight. “No, I reject that destiny.”
Keith’s lower lip trembles. “No one rejects their Chiming,” he whispers. “It will be the most wonderful thing you have ever experienced –”
“You are the most wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced,” Shiro tells him. “No mark will change that, Keith. I won’t let it.”
Keith looks at him, wary and unconvinced, but nods once. “I will begin preparations, then,” he says quietly, and turns away.
*
Shiro lays before the bonfire as Keith silently drags the blade over his thighs, his body bared to the air, sigils carved neatly into his flesh. It hurts – Keith offered him herbs for the pain, but Shiro wants to feel this, all of it. If the ritual fails, it will likely be an agonizing death. Keith is afraid – his hands tremble around the blade – but he keeps each stroke precise as he continues carving the sigils down both of Shiro’s legs, using his blood to draw more sigils until almost every inch of skin is covered in drying red.
Over the fire, Keith’s cauldron bubbles with the potion he must imbibe. It is a complex spell indeed, and Keith spent painstaking weeks preparing it. Shiro trusts him completely, and yet, cold fear lodges itself in his chest at the possibility that Keith’s anxiety is not unfounded – that Shiro will Chime for someone else. The very thought feels wrong. His being rebels against it. And yet...if Keith is right, he will not want to rebel. He will not want to Chime with Keith. Tears prick at his eyes, and Keith pauses, dark eyes locking onto Shiro’s.
“Do you need to stop?” Keith whispers, his blade dripping onto the earth. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” Shiro whispers back, and gives him a weak smile. “I’m ready, Keith.”
Keith nods slowly, and takes a deep breath. He goes to the cauldron, dipping a bowl into it and kneeling down so Shiro can drink it all. The liquid burns his mouth and throat, and tastes bitter and smoky, but he forces it down. It settles heavy in his belly, and he looks up at Keith, who stands and begins to chant, walking around the fire and Shiro in slow, measured circles as the rhythmic words fall from his tongue. They seem to spiral in circles of their own, around and around, burrowing into Shiro’s skull, under his skin, binding him until he realizes he cannot move.
Keith doesn’t stop, and the sparks fly and smoke billows as the chant increases in volume and intensity, each word punched out of Keith’s mouth, each syllable dripping with power and heat. Shiro arches as Keith pauses mid-circle, his spine buckling, crackling, changing. Shiro cries out, and Keith raises his voice above it, the words coming faster, faster, and with each word another bolt of pain ripples through Shiro as his legs jerk and his lower body burns and everything becomes fire and darkness and heat and Keith’s voice, wrapping around him into oblivion.
*
Shiro opens his eyes. His cheek is pressed to the mossy earth, and he feels...strange. Heavy. Blinking, he lifts his head and tries to sit up, but something weighs him down. Uncomprehending, Shiro looks down.
The spell worked. His legs are gone, replaced by a shining black pelt, equine body easily twice as large as Keith’s, with four powerful legs and feathered hooves which paw uncertainly at the earth as he struggles upright. His hooves find purchase and he heaves himself up, dizzy at the new height. This is the first thing he’s aware of.
The second thing he’s aware of is a high, lovely chime, rising up from his core, sending butterflies fluttering in his belly, tingling up and over his skin, and coalescing in the figure standing in front of him, jaw agape.
It’s Keith. Shiro’s heart sings, and the mark at his throat glows with a brilliance he can feel in his heart. It was always going to be Keith.
“Shiro,” Keith whispers, voice shaking with awe and disbelief. “You – do you hear that?”
Instead of answering, Shiro takes a steady step forward on his new legs and reaches out, gently unlatching Keith’s choker. The pendant falls away, and Keith’s soulmark burns at his throat, no longer red but a perfect, luminous gold.
“Shiro,” Keith gasps, and leaps forward, embracing him with a sob as they fall in a happy heap of limbs and love, surrounded by the sound of beautiful chiming bells.