Covenant
"Come now, little one. I'm sure it didn't hurt that much."
Zha'haabron curled around himself, arms tightly wrapped across his belly, trembling, trying not to cry. His sire hadn't added any painblocking drugs to the narcotic blend he'd used barely an hour ago. It did hurt, badly.
The stark realisation that this was what he was for, that this was what he could expect for the rest of his life, hurt even worse.
Dh'reen, the ko'ish'n allocated to look after him through this, his first hosting, rubbed gently at his back, her heart aching. So young, so small, so beautiful... Zha'geekaan had barely held himself in check until the child had reached minimal hosting maturity, then taken and broken him with unnecessary force the moment it was safe for him to do so. She sighed as a whimper broke through the hostling's determined silence, and pulled him into her embrace, rocking him gently as he gave way to his pain and misery, sobbing desperately against her shoulder.
... poor little zn'hre...
Dh'reen did not approve of the way the zn'hre were treated, in general. She most certainly didn't approve of the way Zha'geekaan treated his zn'hre. And she knew precisely how he behaved - the brood was old, and had been with the clan for long enough to have seen Zha'geekaan through four zn'hre mates. The last had been Zha'haabron's own host. As she rocked the distraught child the brood remembered his host's own first hosting...
Zha'fayren had been exceptional in every way. Stunningly beautiful, even for a zn'hre, graceful, gracious, fiery, accomplished... He'd composed the most exquisite poetry, the complex, elegant R'ren'nkh'ian formal script almost an artform in itself when written in his flowing hand. He'd loved beautiful things - the delicate sandsculptures that were the pride of the Tal'een clan, exquisitely-wrought jewellery from the tribes at the foot of the southern mountains, the finest, softest leathers brought in by the merchants from far out in the Zl'iit desert. His own rooms had been a breathtaking delight of subtle rich colour and texture, delicious perfume and softly musical air-chimes. Though he'd kill anyone who dared even breathe it in his presence, it was obvious to the entire enclave that Zha'geekaan was absolutely in awe of his latest zn'hre. Quite how he'd managed to sire something so perfect was beyond everyone's understanding, including his own. He'd even waited until Zha'fayren was several years into his hosting maturity before taking him the first time.
That mating had produced Zha'haabron and his siblings, though none of them really knew about each other - other than *echoes* they couldn't understand - since of course they'd been separated as soon as they had been removed from their host's body. Zha'geekaan had been disbelieving at first: zn'hre were rare enough at the best of times, only one in every thousand or so matings producing a single hostling of the type. Not to mention that only purely zn'hre matings had ever produced an all-zn'hre brood of hostlings. But to have three, from a mixed-type mating - and the host's first mating, at that! - was positively miraculous.
It would be a good selling point too...
When Zha'fayren had recovered from the surgery and found out what the chief had done, the zn'hre was furious. Coldly furious. Zha'geekaan had not enjoyed the interview.
"You sold them? You sold two of my hostlings? To whom?"
The big va'ha'da had been unable to meet the huge golden eyes, currently flashing with a terrifying anger.
"Bri'aan. And Dhr'ovaanon."
"You sold one to Dhr'ovaanon? That... that... insane... hri'vken? Why? What possessed you to do something so utterly stupid?"
"It bonds him to me." growled the chief. Zha'fayren hissed disgustedly.
"And you think he'll honour the bond? Tell me, exactly what do you use to think with? It certainly doesn't appear to be your pathetic excuse for a brain."
Zha'geekaan hit him, hard, across the face, snapping his head to one side. Zha'fayren slowly turned back to stare at the chief: Zha'geekaan flinched inwardly at the sight of the hand-shaped bruise already darkening the pale blue cheek.
"I will not forgive you for this."
"You think I need your forgiveness? That I care?" the va'ha'da blustered, feeling himself go cold inside. Zha'fayren gazed at him as though he'd suddenly turned into gich'klis droppings in the midst of a platter of food.
"You have made it clear that you do not. Be advised that neither do I."
And Zha'fayren closed himself off from his sire. He submitted to mating - he had no choice: the zn'hre had never had a choice - without protest, enduring the narcotics that left him numb, disorientated and harmless to his sire. But he closed his eyes while Zha'geekaan laboured over his fettered body, the chief achieving a joyless climax after much effort. He showed no interest in the hostlings he was forced to bear. He would not speak to the va'ha'da, or his guests, maintaining a silence redolent of a dignity quite beyond the understanding of most of them. And Zha'geekaan, caught between fury and despair, simply didn't know what to do.
So he resorted to his usual remedy: kept his sireling pumped full of drugs and raped him again and again, whether he was hosting or not, in his rooms, in public, in front of guests, before the whole court, trying to drown his misery and self-disgust in violence.
It had killed Zha'fayren. One particularly vicious assault had torn open the inner wall of his hosting chamber - he'd been carrying hostlings at the time, and had simply bled to death, internally, before anyone had realised there was something wrong.
Oh, Zha'fayren had known, of course. He'd called for Dh'reen once he was sure it was too late to do anything: the ko'ish'n had arrived to find the zn'hre shivering, almost white with shock, eyes slowly glazing. He'd grabbed the brood's arm, weakly.
"He... he'll take Zha'haabron... to replace me..."
Dh'reen had cradled the dying zn'hre closely, straining to hear the faint voice.
"Please... look after him... best you can... He's - special..."
"My Ssii'irin - I can't help! I'm just a brood..."
Slender fingers brushed weakly against the ko'ish'n's lips.
"I know..." the voice was no more than a breath of desert wind. "Please... try... let him know... there's more...to life..."
For long moments the brood held the beautiful, lifeless body close, tears streaming down her face - then laid it down on the bed and went to tell the chief what had happened. Wanting with all her soul to make him understand that it was his fault, but now duty-bound to stay alive to do what she could for the little prince.
Who would hit host-age in about half a year from now...
Zha'haabron's sobs had lessened, the little hostling slumped in her arms. She kissed the silky, fragrant, emerald hair and pulled herself a little more upright.
"I'm sorry, my Ssii'irin, but I need to check you over. Can you lie down for me?"
Brimming golden eyes gazed at her as the zn'hre lay down, very carefully, on his back. Dh'reen smiled encouragingly and patted his arm, then carefully eased his thighs apart.
"That's good, little one. I'll be as quick and as gentle as I can..."
He wasn't too badly torn, she discovered with relief - not to mention considerable surprise, since Zha'haabron resembled his host to a large degree and she'd expected Zha'geekaan to be particularly brutal.
Zha'haabron was shivering, golden eyes wide with fear and disbelief.
"Is... do I ... Is it true? That's... that's going to happen to me all the time?"
She pulled him back into a close embrace, stroking his hair.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. But yes, it is..."
He clutched her shoulders, weeping silently.
"I can't..."
She could only just make out the words. Swallowing hard, forcing back her own tears, she kissed the top of his head.
"Little one... You need to sleep. You'll heal while you sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up." Even as she said it she knew it was a lie. Zha'haabron's nails bit into her skin as he gripped her more tightly.
"Please don't leave me." It was a tear-choked whisper.
"I won't."
But he needed more than reassurance. She frowned - there was something odd about this. Much as she deplored the necessity, he'd been instructed in zn'hre duties and practices, he knew what to expect of his life - why was he reacting like this?
She shook her head - it wasn't important right now. What was important was soothing him. He really needed to rest, to heal, to try to come to terms with what had happened, what would continue to happen...
Frowning, she wondered what to do... Then she brightened as a thought occurred to her. It wasn't much to offer, under the circumstances, but the little prince had a lively imagination - it might distract him for long enough for him to fall asleep.
"Sweetheart, I'm going to tell you a story, a tale about the most famous zn'hre there ever was..."
It was a very old tale. No one quite knew where it had come from, or why the hero was a zn'hre, of all types - but the story had passed into legend, and the R'ren'nkh'ia-jin were somewhat superstitious about legends. No-one even dared to change the story's wording.
"Zha'zhasaan came out of the desert, glowing like the sun at sunrise - strong and beautiful as a fountain welling up from the sands. None of us knew where he'd come from, but he was desired, as no zn'hre had ever been desired before..."
And the mythical Zha'zhasaan's life had been far worse than any zn'hre had ever known. Dh'reen thought, dryly, that was probably to make the living less despairing of their fate. But Zha'haabron was watching her, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, his pain forgotten as he drank in the story.
"But at last he was free. And he gathered his people, and they set off through the wasteland, daring heat and cold, hunger and thirst, gich'klis and zchk'in in the deepmost desert..."
A sudden chill ran up her back. There was - something - in the little prince's face that sparked a strange, almost delicious sense of... unease, of all things, in her mind. Watching him, entranced, she gently traced his beautiful features with a fingertip.
"And there before them were the mountains, spine-backed and perilous in the setting sun..."
Zha'haabron gazed up at her, enthralled, dreams behind his golden eyes.
"And they live there to this day, in that jewelled city in the mountains, where waterfalls fill the air with sparkling gems, where tiny birds sing sweetly amongst the green green plants that bloom from rock itself under Zha'zhasaan's loving touch. The name of the city is peace and fulfilment, and all may find it - if they have the strength to persevere..."
As her low voice drifted into silence, the little prince stirred slightly in her arms.
"I have the strength."
She kissed his brow.
"I know, sweetheart." As she said it, she realised, to her startlement, that she believed it. She pulled back slightly to gaze at him, frowning. There was a determination in his face far beyond his years.
'Special', Zha'fayren had said. Yes, this little one was special...
She shook herself. He was also very young, hurting, exhausted, and hosting five new lives within his small body. Dreams could wait until tomorrow.
She lifted him easily and settled him into the bed, stroking the beautiful face.
"I'll be beside you, my Ssii'irin. I will waken if you need anything."
He gazed at her, his expression...half puzzled, half grateful.
"Thank you."
She smiled.
"It is and always will be my pleasure, little one."
He nodded, eyes finally drooping tiredly, and reached out one small, slender hand, clasping hers tightly.
"I'll remember you..."
As he drifted into sleep she inclined her head, frowning slightly. Suddenly that seemed like the most precious promise anyone could ever make.
She shook herself, smiled and set herself to watch over him...
© 2002 February 19th Joules Taylor
Note: for anyone who missed it or has forgotten, zn'hre are physically able to host at eight R'ren'nkh'ian years old, which is the equivalent of a little under ten Earth years. They don't actually reach maturity until they are about thirteen R'ren'nkh'ian years old: prior to that they are, essentially, children. Not that any of the other types care...
