The Rules of Attraction

Part 7

Disclaimer: Characters from "The Sentinel" series belong to Pet Fly. My imagination belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended; passion is its own reward. The origin story of the jaguar is a real South American folktale in the public domain.

WARNING: Attention! Serious Mojo Weirdness Ahead! Some people might find this installment rather kinky or upsetting. Characters you know and love may appear to be behaving in very uncharacteristic fashions. This is rated a big fat NC-17, and not just for sex!

Notes: 1) This story takes place at some undetermined time in the third season, after "Warriors" but before "Sentinel Too". It is part 7 of an ongoing work. 2) My apologies to any Quechua speakers for mangling such a beautifully expressive language. I'm trying my best. 3) Feedback feeds the Muse. 4) It's all Nikolaia's fault.

The Sentinel came to the hut at sundown, as bidden. He'd built the domed hut the day before with his own hands, out of bent branches thatched with broad leaves and bracken. Nine feet in diameter -- Sandburg had specified that: "Three threes, man, one of the primal numbers of the Universe." He'd directed Ellison to show up the next day at sundown, unclothed, unpainted, freshly bathed, and having fasted on water only for at least 12 hours. Then he left Ellison to it.

Last night he'd slept in the men's house, as Blair had insisted. That alone had filled Ellison with such profound foreboding that not eating had proved no problem at all.

Jim hadn't really seen Sandburg in almost two days. Not that Blair hadn't been around, but he'd been in almost constant consultation with the chief, the tribal elders and the other old people in the village. Jim had seen him, of course, in the village it was impossible not to see him, but he'd been busy listening intently to the old folks, asking questions, gesturing articulately as always, and Jim hadn't disturbed him. Hadn't even eavesdropped, no matter how much he'd been tempted. Had relied on the steady, calming presence of the second heartbeat in his chest to reassure him that all was well and to prevent his growing anxiety from reaching a level that would force him to seek Blair out and drag him away into the forest where his Guide would be his and his alone.

It wasn't even a sexual thing. Well, not only a sexual thing. What it felt like was a rubber band being stretched to its breaking point, or maybe like a vital part of him was suddenly missing, but being dangled just out of reach. Not being able to touch Blair, even casually, was giving Jim the dizzying feeling that there was a hole in the very air around him. A hole maybe two paces behind him and to the right. A bouncing, yakking, five-foot-seven-inch Sandburg-shaped hole.

And sleeping alone last night... well, shit. Sleeping without a warm Blair-weight settled against his chest, without Blair-breath teasing across his throat, without even the goddamn hair that somehow always found its way into Jim's mouth -- it was useless.

Intapu had propositioned him last night. Just, you know, a friendly buddy-fuck kinda thing, nothing serious. Ellison had almost decked him. Hadn't, of course -- he'd simply thanked him for the compliment and politely declined. But for a moment there... Almost.

So here he was -- naked, hungry, groggy from lack of sleep, feeling grumpy and weirdly incomplete. It was strange -- maybe he'd been among the Chopec long enough that their customs were rubbing off on him, but damn if he didn't feel more self-conscious about not being painted than he did about not being clothed. He glanced around briefly to where Qisa sat a few yards away, back to a tree. The hunter was relaxed, but armed to the teeth. He acknowledged Jim with a quick nod and a small smile, then looked away. No matter what would happen in the hut -- and god only knew what that would be, or maybe god and Sandburg -- Qisa would guard them from any outside threat.

The mat covering the entrance to the hut was pushed aside, and the shaman emerged, surrounded by a puff of pungent smoke escaping from within.

It was Blair, of course -- Jim knew that. But somehow it wasn't. The tattoo on his chest -- and yeah, it was Blair, there was the nipple ring with the wolf's tooth dangling from it -- had healed fully, and Jim could finally see that yes, it was beautiful: a strongly stylized wolf's paw and claws done in blue-black ink, overlaid with pale scars in the outline of a snarling panther head. His face was painted, as always, but it was more than that -- the shaman was naked, and almost every inch of visible skin had been covered with painted marks. Jim recognized some of the symbols as marks the hunters used: zig-zag lines representing wolf's teeth ran down his arms and legs, alternating with the undulating lines that meant python and rows of jaguar spots. His chest, stomach and groin were covered with a pattern of waves, spirals, chevrons and crosses that Jim didn't understand. His penis and scrotum had been stained with red ochre, the blood of the earth.

It was an unnerving sight, made more so by Jim's sudden, surprising conviction that it wasn't Blair. Which was ridiculous. Jim reached out with his senses for other signs of his Guide's presence. And found his answer: Blair didn't smell like Blair. Somehow he'd masked his personal scent and become overlaid with woodsmoke and aromatic herbs and decaying leaves. Blair smelled like the whole forest. It was as if he as a person wasn't there at all.

The shaman stood and let him look, scent, take in his centered, strangely forceful presence. Met Jim's eyes with his own, dazzling blue glittering from a frame of red lightning. Infinitely blue, vast, boundless as the ocean, like deep, deep water...

For a long, frozen moment Jim felt profoundly afraid. But the vital second heartbeat was still there, throbbing in his chest like a pulse emanating from the core of the earth. Like an anchor to the center of the universe -- and that center stood before him, radiating ancient power.

/Enqueri,/ the shaman said subvocally, /kusitampa kay hamunkichu?/ [Do you come here of your own free will?]

The shaman's words came to him soundlessly, spoken on the wind. And from some primal depths within him came the ritual response. "Ari, Pasukulay, kusitan qonqoriykimi." [Yes, my Guide, I submit to you willingly.]

The shaman shook his head. /Manan, Kamayuqy, yachaqtipaq n~awpakunaq qonqorinkichu./ [No, my Sentinel, you submit to the wisdom of the ancients.] He held aside the mat covering the entrance to the hut. /Yakumuy yuyayri./ [Enter and remember.]

Ellison ducked inside and immediately went into a coughing fit, overwhelmed by clouds of spicy smoke. Through his blinking, teary eyes he could see that the dusky interior of the hut was carpeted with mats and rugs surrounding a tripod and brazier over the center fire. Some of the smoke from whatever was burning in the brazier was escaping out the smoke hole in the roof and between the cracks in the thatching, but most of it was contained in the hut and overpowering his senses.

The roof of the hut was too low to let him stand. Squatting on the mat, Ellison cursed himself for not making it higher, way higher, high enough to let the smoke rise and let him breathe.

The shaman squatted across the fire from him. /Relax, Enqueri,/ he said in English, smiling slightly, not coughing at all. /Breathe deep. Let the smoke take you and pass through you./

Yeah, right.

The shaman started gesturing to embrace the hut, his painted arms dancing, broad and slow in the flickering firelight. /Kitikay, mana kiti,/ he said, /kutikay, mana kuti./ [This place is no place, this time is no time.] /Kaypin kancheq chawpi pachakuna, n~awpakunaq suchikaypin./ [Here we are between worlds, in the presence of the ancients.]

The arms lifted to the ceiling: /Patan n~oqancheqta./ [Above us.] Sank to the floor: /Uran n~oqancheqta./ [Below us.] Gestured in a circle encompassing himself and the Sentinel: /N'tinta n~oqancheqta./ [All through us.]

/Chawpinpi win~aykay./ [And in the eternal center.] A gesture toward the fire -- there was a sudden flash as sparks seemed to fly from the shaman's fingers and the fire flared briefly before settling back down.

It was a trick, of course, it had to be a trick. But the pungent smoke was difficult to see through, and making it practically impossible for Jim to filter scents or discern how the trick had been done. It was also making Jim feel lightheaded, and not just from oxygen deprivation -- there was something in that smoke, he was sure.

The shaman watched him with a tiny, sly smile. He picked up a small bowl of liquid, took a sip, and handed it across the fire to Ellison. Jim concentrated and sniffed it, and thought he could pick up something sweet, something smoky, and just the slightest hint of that strange composty stuff that had knocked Sandburg half out of his skull. He glanced across the fire; the shaman's glittering blue eyes narrowed, and he nodded authoritatively. Ellison sipped, and the shaman kept nodding until Ellison finished the entire cup and passed it back.

/Lie back, Enqueri. Relax. Don't worry,/ the shaman said in English, gesturing to where folded rugs had been prepared into a bed and a cushion for his head. So Jim lay down, sure, but as for not worrying -- forget that.

From where he lay, he could no longer see the shaman, but he could still hear his voice, silently wafted on the air. /Now relax, close your eyes, breathe deep. Listen to my voice, Enqueri, focus on my voice... only my voice... breathe in and out, nice and slow, and hear only my voice.../ The silent voice was slow, low and compelling, not unlike the tone Blair used to bring Jim out of a zone, but with one vital difference -- Blair wasn't touching him. Jim couldn't smell him. The only contact Jim had with his Guide was through that heartbeat, that potent voice, and he reached for it as for a lifeline.

It continued: /Breathe in, breathe out... so relaxing... like sinking into a bath, warm and deep, relaxing... so deep... breathe in, breathe out, going deeper... heavy, feel so heavy, so good... couldn't move if you tried... too good to move, too deep... try to lift your arm, Enqueri, you can't do it.../

Like being filled with warm water, around him, through him... so deep... he tried to lift his arm but the water was too heavy... too deep... so relaxed, so good...

/It's time to go back, Enqueri... you can go back now, you feel good and relaxed and it's easy to go back now... it's easy to remember now, when you wake up you'll remember whatever you want, you'll forget whatever you want, no pressure, no fear... but now you remember, it's easy to remember, there's no fear... you can speak to me, it's so easy to speak, there's no fear... say yes if you hear me, say yes if you understand me.../

Barely whispered, "yes..."

/Good, Enqueri... now tell me... how did you meet Incacha?/

Rolling his head on the folded rug, Jim exhaled a little moan, but whispered, "stopped me... from eating a bullet..."

The world had gone crazy, the world was on fire. The sunlight was like acid, his clothes were like sandpaper, the sounds of the jungle around him like a shrieking buzzsaw. He was lost in a fetid, stinking fog, the odor of decay and shit making it impossible to breathe without gagging, and his own breath roared in his ears like a waterfall. He couldn't walk, he couldn't stand, he couldn't lie down on ground that felt like boulders of jagged glass. He was dying, he was going crazy...

He had buried the burnt, mutilated bodies of his seven closest companions with nothing but his own hands and an entrenching tool.

The Huey was toast, the comm system a charred hunk of wires and metal. He'd barely gotten out before the ammo ignited and the whole fucking thing went up in an apocalyptic blast of flame. No weapons, no supplies, no radio, no maps, nothing but what he carried on his own back.

And the burnt, mutilated bodies of his seven closest companions, to be buried as best he could with nothing but his own hands and an entrenching tool.

Somewhere out there was a tribe of neolithic savages that had to be contacted and formed into a trained militia. He had his orders. The fact that he was alone now meant nothing. He would find them, organize them, take up a defensive position at the head of the Pass.

He possessed one standard issue M-16 assault rifle with a full magazine and four more clips on his rig. One standard issue M-9 sidearm with one full magazine and four more clips on his rig. One machete. Standard issue survival gear. Rations that would last him a week if he stretched them. His training and his wits.

And the burnt, mutilated bodies of his seven closest companions, to be buried as best he could with nothing but his own hands and an entrenching tool.

Lt. Adler had been their translator. He was the only one who'd had any more than the most rudimentary knowledge of the local dialect. Ellison made a mental note that on future missions, each and every man under his command would be drilled in basic dialect vocabulary. Not that that would help him now.

Five days after the crash -- five days of navigating by dead reckoning and glimpses of the sun through the canopy, five days of living on grubs and lizards to stretch both his rations and his ammo, five days of the shits from eating unfamiliar fruit, drinking unfamiliar water, had to stay hydrated even though he was out of iodine water-treatment tabs and couldn't boil water when he had to ration matches -- he was still unable to locate the natives. And the world had gone crazy.

Captain Ellison understood combat stress. The mind could play tricks on you when you were isolated like this, and the shock of losing his men... seven good men, the finest, lost uselessly, wastefully...

At this point in his career, Captain Ellison was not a naive man. He'd lost men before, and god knew he'd seen death. Caused plenty. Death was how he earned his wages, and not something to be whined about. But not like this, not this lousy fucking waste, not when he'd had the dubious luck to walk away from the crash without so much as a scratch, not when what remained of seven crushed faces silently screamed accusations, what was left of seven pairs of eyes clouded and burst like poached eggs. Small wonder the whole world had gone mad, and he with it. But that didn't make it any easier.

Couldn't walk, couldn't stand, couldn't lie down. Couldn't even open his eyes. Couldn't touch anything, could hardly breathe. Couldn't hunt. Couldn't find water. Couldn't even scream. Staggering blindly through the jungle, assaulted by the very air, until he finally collapsed on his back, trembling, weeping like a girl, caustic tears burning down his cheeks. A white-hot laser was drilling through his skull, and it was getting worse and worse, not better. He couldn't carry out his mission like this. He couldn't live like this. He was exposed and vulnerable to capture, unable to defend himself, in possession of priceless classified information. He knew his duty.

Fumbling at his belt, he found his sidearm. The rough diamond patterning of the grip rasped his hands, torturing every nerve. Clumsily, trembling, eyes still closed, he managed to chamber a round. The clack of the action snapping back blasted through his skull, almost causing him to drop the pistol. But Captain Ellison knew his duty. He clutched the gun in both shaking hands and put the barrel in his mouth.

Time to be careful. Aim too low, and he might live, but paralyzed from the neck down. Too high, and he might live, but as a mindless vegetable. Either meant a slow, horrid death from blood loss and infection and shock -- no better than he deserved for losing his men. But if he could go cleanly, he would. He cursed the fucking army for not issuing hollow-points that would blow his head clean off.

Even the taste of the gun in his mouth tortured him. He could taste the fucking metal, the oily residue of gun cleaner, the acrid tang of powder solvent, even infinitesimal traces of powder -- and absurdly, he was offended, he'd always thought he'd kept his weapons in pristine condition. The metal was cold against his teeth and tongue, oily and cold, acrid and cold, smoky, oily and cold, cold spreading through his body, cold, so cold, so cold...

... cold, something damp on his forehead, covering his eyes, dark and cool and soothing, quiet, the pain was gone, the hell was gone and it was quiet. Dead? Callused, gentle hands stroking his head -- hands!

Ellison snapped awake and into a sitting position, and met a smiling face. The hands came up, palms towards Ellison, patting the air, saying calm down, calm down. The face was mahogany brown, painted with a skull-shaped mask of red, pierced by shrewd coffee-brown eyes, framed by straight black hair strung with beads and red twine. It belonged to a wiry, muscular body dressed in a long woven loincloth.

The man smiled and tapped himself on the chest. "Incacha," he said, and pointed at Ellison.

Ellison nodded warily. "Ellison, James J. Captain, United States Army Airborne Rangers. OD8731."

The man cocked his head and smiled, "Elisu?"

Ellison nodded. "Ellison. Where's my pistol?"

Still smiling, the man shook his head.

Ellison tried him in Spanish: "Donde esta mi pistole?"

The man -- Incacha, Ellison reminded himself -- shook his head. Ellison cocked his fingers like a gun. "Bang, bang." He spread his arms and looked around: where?

Incacha's eyes narrowed. He imitated Ellison's gesture of the gun, and put the fingers of the barrel into his mouth. Then removed them and made a sharp chopping gesture, shaking his head. "Ama!"

Ellison sighed. Now that the hell was over and he was back in control of himself, such a thing was not even to be contemplated. He had his orders. He knew his duty. This Incacha would be his first contact in this area. He imitated Incacha's chopping gesture and shook his head. "No. Ama."

Incacha smiled and nodded. He reached behind him and brought forth Ellison's pistol, gingerly offering it in his palm, flat and sideways. It was still cocked, the safety off.

Shit, Ellison thought, the savage could have killed himself. He took the pistol, dropped out the magazine, and pumped the round from the chamber. It leapt out onto the ground, and Ellison picked it up, intending to thumb it back into the magazine. But he held it for a moment, pondering what he'd almost done, then slipped it into the pocket of his fatigues. That one was a good luck charm if ever there was one. He snapped the magazine back into place and holstered the pistol. He smiled and nodded, holding his palms up, making a little bow. "Thank you, Incacha."

Incacha nodded. "Yusulpayki," he said slowly and distinctly, gesturing to Ellison to repeat the word.

"Yusulpayki, Incacha," Ellison said, and was rewarded with the man's brilliant smile.

The shaman smiled gently. /Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship./

"no," Jim whispered, shifting restlessly on his pallet. "no... wouldn't let me contact the tribe, wouldn't let me leave..."

/Wouldn't let you?/

"no!" Tension rippled through the entranced body.

/Shhh, Enqueri, shhh... it's all right, relax... relax... no pain here, no fear... breathe in, breathe out.../ The shaman watched as Jim obeyed his suggestions, sighing, his body slowly slackening. /Tell me more, Enqueri./

"tried to leave..." Jim softly insisted. "foolish... savage didn't understand -- I didn't understand... the hell -- zones! all the time, no control... found me again, brought me back again, again, again..." An ugly frown came over his face. "so angry, so stubborn..."

/You were angry? Stubborn?/ asked the shaman, smiling, thinking, oh yeah, never had to deal with that before, have we?

"stupid, stubborn... took my weapons, my clothes -- hid them!" He started to thrash at the memory.

/Shhh, Enqueri, it's all right, just a memory.../ the shaman crooned as the Sentinel's body eased under his words, /it's okay to remember, easy to remember, easy to speak, it's safe here, there's no pain, no fear... tell me now, tell me how he kept you from leaving.../

Ellison came out of yet another eternity in the hell to find himself naked and hog-tied, back arched, wrists and ankles securely lashed behind him. He immediately started roaring and thrashing against his bonds. It felt like he was tied with some kind of rawhide or leather that had been soaked and shrunk as it dried to make it impossible to squirm loose. He'd been moved into some kind of domed hut made from bent branches and thatched with broad leaves and bracken.

Across the fire sat Incacha, who watched his struggles with gentle amusement. This had been the third time he'd found the soldier lost in the forest under the curse of the mysterious powers he'd refused to let himself understand. Incacha been reasonable before, but now he knew better.

"My fucking clothes!" the soldier bellowed. "My rifle, my pistol, you fucking bastard! What have you done with them?"

Incacha smiled and shook his head, shrugged to show he didn't understand. Started the lessons yet again.

He pointed to his eye. "N~awi." He held his hand like a visor over his eyes, mimed peering around. "Rikuy." He pointed at Ellison.

"Fuck you!" the soldier screamed.

Incacha shrugged again. Pointed to his eye, mimed peering around. "N~awi. Rikuy." He pointed again at Ellison.

This time the soldier just glared at him, growling under his breath.

Incacha shrugged again. Reached behind him and pulled out a roasted bird. Started eating.

It smelled good. Real good. Ellison could smell the fat, the crispy skin, the smoky flesh. He realized that he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten -- no way of telling how long he'd been lost in the hell. He was starving. Goddamn fucking savage hadn't fed him. "Give me some of that," he snarled.

Incacha looked up, smiling innocently, and shrugged to show he didn't understand. Started gnawing on a drumstick.

Ellison's cold blue eyes narrowed. Starving himself wouldn't get him anything, not if he was going to get out of here. "N~awi," he snapped.

Incacha looked up and smiled. Waited.

Ellison sighed. "N~awi. Rikuy," he spat.

Incacha nodded. Mimed eating some more. "Mikhuna," he said, and nodded to the soldier, waiting.

"Mikhuna," Ellison growled.

Incacha smiled and held the food behind his back, prompting, "Allichu..." like a mother asking for the Magic Word.

Staring daggers, Ellison grumbled, "Mikhuna... allichu."

With a brilliant smile, Incacha peeled some juicy meat from the bone and carefully offered it to the soldier from the palm of his hand. Ellison snapped it up in his teeth and bolted it down, hardly bothering to taste or chew. Growled for more. Incacha peeled off more meat and held it up, waiting.

Again, Ellison muttered, "Mikhuna, allichu."

Several times, Incacha fed him from the palm of his hand, insisting each time that Ellison ask for his food politely. When the food was gone, he met the soldier's gaze with raised eyebrows, prompting once again: and what do you say?

"Yusulpayki," mumbled Ellison. Incacha smiled and nodded, and stroked the soldier's head, neck and shoulder. Ellison thrashed and snarled at him, but Incacha kept petting him, and despite himself, Ellison soon began responding to the soothing caress. His struggles slowed to quiet shudders and his screaming protests gentled to subdued growls low in his throat. Under the tranquil spell of Incacha's compelling hands, Captain Ellison fell into his first decent sleep since the crash.

Sleep was good, he hadn't realized how exhausted he'd been, but if Ellison thought being fed from Incacha's hand was humiliating... well, hours later, squirming with discomfort, he learned the real meaning of humiliation when Incacha placed a bowl under him and waited patiently. Ellison held out as long as he could, then closed his eyes and, burning with mortification, let go. He kept his eyes closed as Incacha cleaned him fore and aft. When Incacha left the hut to empty and clean the bowl, he didn't even try to untie himself.

Days and nights in that hut -- how many, Ellison couldn't know. Days and nights spent begging for every scrap of food and drop of water. Memorizing and repeating Incacha's words, and not being allowed even to beg for food until he'd learned the lesson perfectly. Relying on Incacha to tend every function of his body. Sleeping and waking to the sound of that voice, the touch of those hands, and the scent of the man who controlled his entire universe.

Ellison found that somewhere in there he'd started listening for the voice, searching for the hands. They could calm the terrors that plagued him every night, bring him back from the hell that still claimed him unexpectedly, constantly. And Ellison found that even more calming than Incacha's voice and hands was Incacha's scent and the sound of the heartbeat he'd discovered he could hear in Incacha's chest; it was a constant solid presence that he could find and focus on even in the midst of the hell. The signpost that pointed the way home. Though just when the hut in the forest had become home, Ellison couldn't have said.

The hands stroked him to sleep every night, caressing his back and shoulders, arms and legs, head and neck and chest. Massaged the stiff, cramping limbs that Incacha refused to set free -- and somewhere in there Ellison realized that the caress was more important than freedom, that he'd stopped scheming for escape and wondered only when the hands would touch him again. Started thinking of ways to please Incacha enough so that he would touch him again. And rather than struggling and snarling against the hands, found himself nudging his head under them, squirming into the touch, purring. Losing himself in Incacha's hands, his scent, his voice, his heartbeat.

The night when the hands finally petted down the front of his body to caress his penis Ellison lost it completely. He'd left most rational thought behind long before, retaining just enough to learn Incacha's lessons and please his hands, but thirty years of socialization were hard to shake. For the first time in... how long?... he fought the touch, railed against it, screamed, "Ama! Allichu, ama!" But the more he struggled, the more the was brought into contact with the stroking hands. The touch was maddening, ceaseless, and soon Ellison found his body was betraying him, what he'd thought were struggles against the hands had become desperate thrusts toward them. His screams became sobs, he was still begging Incacha to stop, but Incacha's scent was all around him, his voice crooning sweet encouragement, and Ellison's traitorous body writhed into the touch, arched into the sure touch of the hands that had restrained him and comforted him, captured and caressed him, taken him, tamed him, the hands that had come to rule his entire existence. Sobbing, shuddering, fighting against his own mind, Ellison's body yielded to those hands and climaxed explosively, pulsing semen all over them.

As Ellison's sobs quieted to whimpers and his shudders settled into small trembles, the hands were brought to his face and Ellison obediently lapped his own semen from them, cleaning them, licking the palms and sucking the fingers, and the only even remotely rational thought in the soldier's head was the hope that his captor was pleased with him.

Holy shit, thought the shaman, mind boggling. He'd heard of this -- every student of anthropology, sociology or psychology knew about Stockholm Syndrome, a kind of brainwashing not uncommon in hostage situations where the prisoner becomes so dependent on his captors that he grows to love them.

The shaman didn't know what to think. It was coercive. It was wrong. But on the other hand, he recognized that it had been the only way for Incacha to get Jim to a point where the soldier would even accept his help. Ellison had gone into the jungle a coldly pragmatic killer; isolation, grief and the shock of his reawakening senses had turned him into a cornered animal. Incacha had had to break the soldier down completely in order to help him. And he'd done it easily, without any training in modern psychological technique.

Shit, thought the shaman -- and I thought I'd had to do it the hard way!

When Incacha released Ellison's legs, the tiny liberty terrified the soldier. He hoped he hadn't done anything wrong, and was relieved when his hands were retied behind his back. After massaging and stretching his legs, Incacha led him stumbling from the hut for the first time in ... how long?

Instantly, Ellison was hit by an incinerating blast of sunlight. He screamed and his knees buckled; he fell to the ground and tried to curl himself into a ball, tried to hide himself from the acid sun.

The hands touched him and he curled into them and buried his head in them. He searched frantically for the vital heartbeat and found it, calm and steady. Found the voice, sweet as cool water. "Samay, salqamichiy... sakumay...," it sang, low and compelling, to the rhythm of the stroking hands and beating heart. "Intillan, manan atikunchu k'iriynki." [Rest, my wildcat... relax... It's only the sun, it can't hurt you.]

"Rup'an!" [It burns!]

"Saqenkillaqa," the voice softly insisted. [Only if you let it.]

Ellison butted his head into the petting hands and whimpered.

"Shhh, salqamichiy," Incacha smiled, "qharikuna kanchis, ninata ruanchis, payta ruaranchis, qa?" [Shhh, my wildcat, we are men, we build the fire, we can put it out, right?]

"Allichu!" the soldier sobbed.

"Simiway uyariy, salqamichiy... Uru ninata churay..." [Listen to my voice, my wildcat... Put water on the flame...]

Gently the voice continued, instructing the soldier to imagine the flame growing smaller and smaller until it was merely a warm glow. A tiny flame that he could make grow bigger and smaller at will. He could control the flame, Incacha insisted. And Ellison knew that he would do anything to please Incacha. Slowly, under the guidance of that voice and those hands, Ellison found that he could do it -- that as the flame in his mind grew smaller, the burning against his skin and eyes was eased until Ellison was lying in the warmth of a glowing, friendly sun and his sobs were of pure relief.

"Yusulpayki, yusulpayki," he gasped, and wiped the tears from his eyes. With his own hands. His eyes snapped open and he held his weakly trembling hands before him as if he had never seen them before. He looked up and was met by Incacha's warm smile, as warm as the sun above, and gently reached out to touch his face.

Incacha took his hand. "Yachachisqayki, salqamichiy. Amaut'a sutiwanki." [I will teach you, my wildcat. Call me Teacher.]

The soldier pulled the hands to his face and kissed them. "Amaut'ay," he pledged. [My Teacher.]

His Teacher nodded and added, "Enqueri sutikunkiri." [And you will be called Enqueri.]

"Ari, Amaut'ay," said the soldier. "Enquerimi sutiy." [Yes, my Teacher. I am Enqueri.]

His Teacher grinned. "Salqamichiyrin kankipuni." [But you will always be my wildcat.]

/Teacher?/ asked the shaman. /Not Guide?/

"no..." the Sentinel whispered in a low moan. "another... he said there would be another..." he shifted on the pallet, "born for me, he said... he said... when I returned... to the city of falling water... I would be Guided by the Laughing Wolf..."

Laughing Wolf. In Quechua, that would be Asikatuq. The shaman's tribal name.

Oh. Wow.

Once Incacha had shown him how to subdue his rioting senses by controlling the flame in his mind, the real lessons could begin. Now Enqueri ran on four legs as often as on two. He could find water by scent alone. He could hear termites chewing through a fallen log. He could locate, stalk and take down any animal Incacha chose, using hands and wits to snare small, quick birds, or fangs and claws to fell aggressive boars and shy forest deer, returning to lay his prey proudly at his Teacher's feet. If Enqueri behaved himself, Incacha would stroke him to climax. If he was very good, he would be allowed to take his Teacher in his mouth. He learned quickly and well.

In Incacha's world, reality was what one made of it. He had been trained by a shaman who could become a hawk whenever he chose. So it was easy for him to recognize and hone his student's gifts. If Enqueri saw himself wearing fangs and fur, then whether he actually did so on this most boring plane of existence made no difference at all. When Incacha followed his student on the hunt, he could plainly see the flicking tail, the twitching ears, the whiskers and silent footfalls of the great black cat. What someone from a different culture might have seen when watching the same thing was unknowable, because no one else was there to see.

Incacha removed the deer's liver from the roasting spit and settled back down on the log he was using for a seat. Slicing off a small chunk of meat, he offered it to Enqueri sitting beside him on the ground, who delicately ate it from his hand and licked his fingers clean, then wiped his own bloody mouth on the back of his wrist.

"You like running on four legs, don't you, my kitten?" Incacha said fondly.

"Hunting is good," replied Enqueri, laying his head on his Teacher's knee and blinking dreamily at the fire.

Incacha scratched him behind the ear. "And you are a strong hunter, but I think you should remember that your stomach is a man's no matter what shape you take. From now on, wait until your meat is cooked before you eat it."

Enqueri shrugged and wrinkled his nose. "I smelled men in the forest today. I will bring you their livers, and we will eat them cooked." He turned and nuzzled his head into his Teacher's thigh. "May I please suck you now?"

"No," Incacha smiled. "Those men are of our tribe and not your proper prey. I think it's time for you to meet them, since you're starting to remember that you're a hunter of men. But even a hunter of men does not feed on men, salqamichiy."

"Then I won't," Enqueri shrugged again. It made no difference to him, but he would do as his Teacher wished.

"Spoken like a true jaguar," chuckled the shaman. "When the ancient spirits made men, they called the animals together to find out whether the new beings would be considered prey. One after the other, the animals told the spirits that men had no claws, no armor, and would make easy quarry. So from one animal, they removed the fangs, squashed the legs and stretched out its nose until it was unable to kill men, and that animal became the anteater. From another animal, they removed both fangs and claws, and made it timid enough to run from men instead of chase them. That animal became the deer. Finally, the only animal left saw what had become of the others, and told the ancients, 'I would never prey on men.' So the spirits believed him, and let him keep his fangs and claws. That animal became the jaguar, which kept its devious nature as well as its taste for human flesh, and still attacks men to this day." He tugged sharply on Enqueri's ear. "Don't let me find that you've lied to me, wildcat."

"Never, Amaut'ay."

"Good. Now you may do as you asked, if you still wish."

Enqueri quickly scrambled between Incacha's legs and reached beneath the folded layers of his Teacher's loincloth. He found the long, relatively slender length to be still dormant, and took it into his mouth, suckling with happy little purrs until it awakened and swelled to stiffness. He drew back and ran his tongue under the delicate foreskin covering the head, nipping the folded flesh gently and smiling to hear his Teacher catch his breath, then sucking the shaft back deep into his mouth, stretching back the foreskin and letting the swallowing motions of his throat massage the sensitive crown. As Incacha stroked him behind his ears, Enqeri unconsciously clasped his hands behind his back, using only his eager mouth and throat to suck and pull. Sometimes he missed the time when his Teacher had kept him tied up and cared for him so completely, even though he knew his liberty was a sign of his Teacher's trust. Giving up the use of his hands this way let him feel his Teacher's power even as Incacha let him feel his pleasure with gentle thrusts into the back of his throat. It was good, better than the hunt, better than warm fire or cool water, even better than the nights when his Teacher brought him to climax with his hands and let him fall asleep beside him.

Thinking of those strong hands, he growled softly, letting the low rumbles stimulate his Teacher further. He drew back and lightly ran his teeth up the shaft, then let the stiffness fall from his lips so he could rub it against his face and lick along its length, filling himself with the heady aroma of musk. He moved so he could straddle one of Incacha's legs, tentatively rubbing his own erection against his Teacher's warm, lightly-haired skin, and Incacha encouraged him by stretching his leg under him, giving him better contact. Enqueri humped the offered leg happily as he slurped and sucked, only mildly concerned with his own stimulation; he'd been well-trained to come when his Teacher climaxed and mostly used the added motion as a way to push the hard length deeper into his throat. He was more aware of how Incacha's fingers teased his ears and neck; feeding the flame in his mind, he let the affectionate tickling rouse him to more aggressive motion until he was rocking vigorously against the body that thrust into his mouth.

Now he wanted his hands back so he could brace himself against his Teacher's hip and control the pumping, spit-glazed shaft in his mouth, but the moment he moved his hands Incacha caught them and held them fast. Enqueri struggled against the welcome restraint just enough to assure himself that his Teacher would not release him. It was good, it was incredibly arousing; he moaned with the effort it took to keep himself from coming and backed off from contact with Incacha's leg. If he came before Incacha was finished with him his Teacher would be displeased, and it might be days before he let Enqueri do this again. But Incacha refused to let him go, driving into his mouth harder with every stroke, and Enqueri's struggles soon took on a more realistic tenor as he fought to breathe, to control his desperate arousal and spiking tactile sense. Suddenly Incacha arched sharply from his seat and with a drawn-out groan released into his student's waiting mouth. One taste of his Teacher's rich semen splashing onto his tongue had Enqueri humping and grinding, splattering his own orgasm all over Incacha's leg.

After sparing only a few moments to catch his breath, Enqueri slid down to clean his semen from his Teacher's leg with his tongue, then slid down further to curl up at his feet. But he looked up when a smiling Incacha tapped him on the nose with his big toe, and got up when Incacha motioned for him to rise. This was far too sunny a spot to sleep in, so he followed his Teacher to a shady spot under a spreading tree where they could doze through the heat of the afternoon.

Enqueri dreamed he was running on four legs through the forest in the company of a wolf with strange blue eyes. The wolf was young and wiry, small for his kind, but the eyes were ages old. He romped in circles around Enqueri, teasing him and daring him to chase, running out his tongue in a wolf-smile that hinted of some grand cosmic joke that Enqueri couldn't begin to understand. He could only follow.

The scent of the wolf seized Enqueri like nothing he'd ever experienced. Like everything he'd ever wanted. Though he'd never scented anything like it before, he recognized it immediately. This was the one his Teacher had told him about, the one born to run at his side, to be his mate and his friend and his Guide. He bounded off after it, taking up the challenge, and they ran together through the forest of his dreams.

The wolf's energy was exasperating. Why wouldn't it stop, just for a moment, so they could take each other's scent and learn each other's bodies? Enqueri was sure the wolf recognized him just as he'd known it, and he was starting to get angry at his companion's teasing games. With a grumpy snarl, he sprang at the wolf and landed on its back the same way he'd taken down many a deer, trapping it between his heavy paws and closing his jaws around its neck. The blue-eyed wolf rolled beneath him, whining, falling on its side to reveal its throat and belly in a show of submission and trying to lick his face. His eyes were still friendly, though wary. But Enqueri's aggression wasn't meant as a threat, merely a necessary show of dominance before mating. The wolf's games were a waste of time; if they were meant to be together then they should be together without all this dancing around. Arousal and joyous anticipation pushed his penis from its furry sheath. He pinned the wolf down and prepared to mount.

The wolf was having none of it. It twisted under him and squirmed from his grasp, rolling to its feet, snapping lightly at his face and wheeling to face him. Not angry, but no longer submissive either. It was still young, barely old enough to mate, reluctant to lie down for a male it didn't know and not one of its own kind at that. It was willing to run with Enqueri and learn to know him better, but for now wanted only to play. They faced each other for a long moment, muscles tense, tails flicking, sniffing out each other's intentions. Then Enqueri snorted and flopped over on his side, yawning ostentatiously before casually starting to groom himself. He was willing to wait -- as long as his companion understood that he was waiting and that their entwined fate was a foregone conclusion. Slowly the wolf crept up to him, back arched and head down. Then suddenly, it darted in to run its tongue in a long slurping lick up Enqueri's face before leaping back with a yip that could only be taken as a laugh. It whirled away to scamper off into the shadowy forest of dreams.

Enqueri awoke glossy with sweat. He was aroused again, burdened with a heavy, angry erection that he knew no amount of his Teacher's petting would be able to relieve. Something in him was waking up, and it could never be satisfied by the mere meek acceptance of a caress.

His Teacher had rolled away from him in his sleep. Enqueri sniffed his body stealthily, exploring where his scent was strongest at the armpits and groin. He was larger and stronger than his Teacher and it would be possible to pin him down and take him before he could fight back... but he would be very angry. For the moment, recent training overcame driving instinct, and Enqueri backed away from Incacha's sleeping form. But driving instinct must still be served, so Enqueri dropped to four legs and stalked off through the trees in search of something he couldn't name.

Slowly over the past days, Incacha had led his student closer to the village of men so he could begin to accustom himself to their proximity. Now the wind brought Enqueri a catalog of scent and sound that was filled with the clumsiness of everyday human presence. Their middens stank and so did their bodies; they moved through the jungle like boulders crashing heedlessly downhill. Only their hands and wits kept them from being as helpless as guinea pigs. Enqueri praised his jaguar ancestor for being foresighted enough to lie to the ancients. Easy quarry indeed. Too bad he'd promised his Teacher not to eat them.

However, in the current circumstances, there were other uses he might have for them.

Enqueri sorted through the muddle of scents until he found one with a fresh, appealing savor. He crept carefully through the brush until he was within range, then scrambled up into a tree where the shadowy foliage would obscure his dark body and he could watch undisturbed.

It was a small female who'd wandered off from the herd to pick greens and grubs -- the greedy little thing popped the juicy larvae into her mouth, evidently not wanting to share her catch. She was old enough to mate by maybe a couple of years, with smooth, sloping hips and high breasts capped by brown nipples as large as nuts. Enqueri could tell from her body that she'd yet to bear young, but the coppery tang she gave off said she was fertile and ripe. He dropped from the tree on top of her.

The girl screamed and struggled as he pinned her down, kicking and flailing at the huge black beast that assailed her. Enqueri clamped down on her throat, careful not to break skin, and batted her scratching hands away with amused satisfaction. It was good that she did this; she was vigorous and naturally she was testing him -- she would only want to mate with a male virile enough to ensure healthy young and strong enough to protect her. But as she continued to pummel at him he decided that he needed hands to subdue her properly, and allowed himself to take human form. The girl's shrieks increased hysterically and her body gave off a sudden flush of terror as the panther on top of her flickered into the shape of a man. She screeched herself hoarse and fought as hard as she could, resisting the magic as much as the physical assault.

"Not eating you," Enqueri grunted roughly, his hands snapping out to grab her wrists and slam them down onto the forest floor, but she didn't understand. He shifted himself into position, ready to enter. Her body arching and bucking beneath him simply aroused him further; he could imagine what those squirming hips would feel like when he managed to sheath himself within her. Once she accepted him, she would make a fine mate.

Incacha had awoken at the first scream, and finding his student missing, knew something must be horribly wrong. He raced off through the underbrush in the direction of the shouting, and came across the girl struggling under Enqueri's growling human form. He grabbed the first weapon available to him -- a stout tree limb -- and struck his student with all his strength. Enqueri screeched and rolled off the girl, throwing up his hands to defend himself as his Teacher beat him again and again.

The girl rolled up into a ball, shrieking and sobbing inconsolably, as Enqueri skittered away to place his back to a tree, hissing and spitting under Incacha's furious attack. He didn't try to fight back and couldn't understand why his Teacher was angry -- he hadn't been trying to eat the girl, hadn't even hurt her. He hadn't tried to take his Teacher. The girl was unharmed and wasn't anyone else's mate. He didn't understand!

Villagers came running, drawn by the uproar, to discover the distraught girl weeping on the ground, and their shaman brandishing a cudgel over the bellowing naked body of a madman. Incacha instantly found himself having to defend his student from summary execution. The girl's mother had gathered her into her arms and was wailing as if for the dead; her father and her betrothed screamed for immediate vengeance. The chief and elders were trying to settle everyone down and demanding that Incacha justify his actions. The shaman had been away from his tribe for almost two months, returning to the village only briefly and giving only the sketchiest of reasons for his prolonged absence. It was assumed that the tribe's shaman had some purpose in being away so long, but now he'd better start explaining himself -- and it had better be good.

But before anything else, the beast had to be restrained. Incacha tore down a thick vine and bound Enqueri's hands, tossing the loose end of the improvised rope over a high tree branch and tying it out of Enqueri's reach, so that he was standing beneath the tree on his tiptoes with his arms pulled high over his head.

Then, choosing his words carefully, Incacha tried to tell his tribe exactly what it was he'd found in the forest and exactly how his discovery could help the Chopec people. This was something he'd only heard about before in the tales of the oldest shamen -- a warrior with eyes like an eagle, ears like a bat and a nose like a fox. A Sentinel destined to protect the people, no matter how it might seem at the moment. This Sentinel in particular had come from far away to guard them from the upheaval that had come to terrorize the jungle in recent years -- the dangerous men who brought guns and explosions and tried to drag the Chopec into devastating wars that didn't concern them, conflicts between unknown tribes from far beyond the mountains. This warrior had come from halfway around the world to protect them, but was at the mercy of his own chaotic powers. Incacha had tried to help him. Tried to bind him to the Chopec and teach him the ways of the forest, so that when Incacha introduced him to the tribe, he would love them like family and be driven to protect them, not just exploit them as so many other foreigners sought to do.

Incacha admitted that he'd made a dreadful mistake in underestimating the animal spirit that lived within his student. But the girl hadn't been physically harmed, just horribly frightened, and her honor was still intact. Restitution could be made. The beast could be controlled. He would bring the Sentinel to the village where he could learn again how to live as a man, where he could learn to protect the Chopec, and where he could hope to begin to make it up to little Riri's family by hunting for them for many months to come.

Incacha vowed to take full responsibility for Enqueri's future behavior and to guarantee that he would remain harmless. The shaman had never heard of terms like "post-hypnotic suggestion" or "psychological conditioning," but he had much knowledge of spells and rituals, and he promised his people he would do everything in his power to make sure such a terrible thing never happened again.

That night Incacha led the docile, still-bound Sentinel into his shelter on the outskirts of the village, hung him on tiptoe from the support beams and beat him severely with thorny branches, raising scores of welts from his shoulderblades to the backs of his knees that would make it impossible for him to hunt for days. Then, using a vial of nut oil to grease his penis, he drove himself violently into his student's rear, beginning the harsh process of re-education. There would be no more women for Enqueri. He would take no men either. He would have to learn that his body was entirely under his Teacher's control and that the only way he would ever find release was at his Teacher's command. That was the only way Incacha could think of to restrain the beast.

The shaman was silent, lips pressed together, eyes shut tightly. He opened his eyes; reflected in the flickering firelight, they shone with unshed tears.

In the days that followed, Enqueri learned once more what it meant to live as a man. It meant wearing clothes; Incacha taught him how to tie a loincloth around his waist and painted his eyes with a black mask and red stripes along his cheekbones. It meant walking on two legs, eating his meat cooked, working at shelter repairs and odd jobs for Riri's family until he was healed enough to hunt. She was still frightened of him, that was only natural; it helped that tribal customs minimized contact between them. Her betrothed, though, Mitaqu, was in Enqueri's face almost every moment of every day -- not saying anything, not doing anything, just there, just daring him to... well, to do anything that would give Mitaqu the least bit of excuse to gut him like a pig.

Enqueri kept his head down. He worked, he replied politely when spoken to and kept quiet otherwise, he ate his meat cooked and followed Incacha's orders. He had come to realize the enormity of what he'd tried to do, though with a kind of roundabout logic that might not have been exactly the way the villagers thought about the incident. As Enqueri saw it, Riri belonged to someone else -- he just hadn't known about it at the time. He had no business taking someone else's mate, and the tribe wouldn't have allowed him to challenge Mitaqu for her. Men had rules about such things. Not that he wanted to anyway. He also belonged to someone else.

When Incacha brought his student into his hammock at night, he assured him that he wasn't angry, he was more upset at himself for not teaching him to behave properly. He entered Enqueri gently, with tender care, and taught him to enjoy being taken. He showed him how the flame in his mind could be fed until Enqueri was engulfed in the sensation of his Teacher's body -- the smallest drop of sweat falling from Incacha's brow exploded onto Enqueri's skin in a burst of sizzling warmth and heady scent, while the actual penetration became an ever-expanding wave of incomparable, indescribable sensuality. He would float, lost and entranced in his Teacher's gift of pure pleasure, head thrown back and throat open in a wanton, ceaseless animal moan, hearing only his Teacher's low chant of words he would never remember in the light of day, but which were trapping and binding his mind in sweet fetters stronger than steel.

In the light of day, Enqueri lived as a man. But at night, under the spell of Incacha's voice and hands and driving cock, the beast would beg for his Teacher's favor. A single word made him as hard as stone; another, and he would shudder into orgasm without so much as a touch. He learned to rub fragrant oil over Incacha's erection, to prepare and open his own entrance, then present his rear to be filled. There was not a thing on earth he wanted more.

But in the light of day he lived as a man. As the days passed and he proved himself harmless, the villagers' acceptance of him grew. He was allowed to join hunting parties, and the hunters quickly realized the Sentinel's value -- no bird or animal could escape his detection, and his aim with dart or arrow was without peer. Incacha would accompany them, keeping the Sentinel focused and making sure that he remained on two legs. Together, they kept the village well fed, and brought back the beautiful blue and red feathers and brilliant beetles that Riri loved so much. Slowly, he was allowed to take part in the daily life of the village, to join the hunters in the men's house if he wished, to participate in celebrations. Slowly, Enqueri gained the tribe's trust, then its respect.

Then there was a day when Incacha brought out a large, bulky bundle and placed it at his student's feet. He watched as his Sentinel unwrapped it to find a set of camouflage fatigues, a pair of dogtags, an ALICE rig and a pair of firearms.

Ellison picked up the rifle. Someone had kept it well-greased and protected from the humidity of the jungle. Releasing the magazine with a quick snap, he nimbly popped the receiver pin and pulled the charging handle, opened the port and disassembled the receiver to inspect the back end of the barrel so he could determine whether any rust or debris had found its way inside --

and dropped the whole thing from hands that were suddenly shaking uncontrollably, his mind reeling with vertigo. Finally looking up into Incacha's concerned, attentive face, he brought his heaving lungs under control and croaked, "How long?"

"Four months," the shaman answered quietly.

"Four months," Ellison repeated in an awestruck whisper. He shook his head as if he could clear cobwebs from it, then said more steadily, reminding himself, "I have orders. A mission."

"Yes," said Incacha. "Your mission is a good one, and it will protect our tribe. We will help you."

"Protect the tribe," Ellison muttered, and nodded decisively. "You won't be sorry," he said roughly.

"I know," Incacha assured him. "You're a good man, Enqueri, and we all care for you very much. I care for you very much."

Ellison shook his head again and again. "I -- you... after everything I've... Thank you, Incacha," he insisted, as if Incacha were protesting otherwise. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much --" he shook his head again. "I -- I'm sorry. So sorry. You won't be sorry," he repeated.

Incacha smiled gently. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Enqueri. Take your clothes."

"No. I can't. I won't. You've done so much. It would be like -- Please." He looked at the shaman, his eyes asking something he couldn't bring himself to say.

"Of course, Enqueri," said Incacha reassuringly. "You're one of us now. I think I will talk to the chief. It's time you were made a member of the tribe." He picked up the set of dogtags. "But why don't you wear your charms?" He put them around Ellison's neck. "You're a son of two worlds now. It would be right."

Ellison clutched the dulled metal tags around his neck, but said nothing.

"We'll talk to the chief," Incacha said again. "You'll explain your mission, what needs to be done. The men will help you."

Ellison looked down at the tags and quietly asked, "Will you help me?"

"I will always help you, my wildcat," smiled Incacha.

"You loved him very much, didn't you," the shaman said huskily, forgetting to subvocalize, fighting back tears.

"yes... no --Blair!" moaned the entranced Sentinel.

The shaman shook his head. "Shhh, Enqueri, it's all right. You can love more than one person in your life. It's good to love."

"Blair!"

"Blair will be here soon," whispered the shaman. "I promise." He wiped his eyes and caught his breath. "You have to tell me how it was when you came back to the States." Breathing deeply to regain his composure, he began again the low hypnotic chant, as much for his own benefit as for his Sentinel's. "No pain, no fear... it's safe here, Enqueri, and you can remember..."

"they came for me..." Jim whispered wonderingly. "Incacha said they would, but I never thought they would..."

Many months passed, and the jungle was home. Enqueri led the Chopec hunters in posting sentries and patrols through the Pass, and for well over a year not a soul who intruded on their land came out alive. He was adopted into the tribe and attended the wedding of Riri and Mitaqu, who in their happiness were able to forgive him for something he'd done when not in his right mind, after all. He and Incacha kept watch over the borders of the Chopec territory, ranging far through the forest on patrol and on the hunt. Their time together let them spend hours talking about the different worlds they came from, what they wanted from the future, and every silly small thing in between. At long last they could become true friends, and at night lie together like lovers and equals.

There were no women for Enqueri; nor did he take Incacha or any other man. The thought never even entered his mind. He never ran on four legs again.

Riri gave birth to a son, a healthy boy who was born tangled up in his cord, so they called him Kipu after the knotted cords their ancestors had once used to keep stories. And mere weeks after that, Incacha once again brought out the bundle containing Captain Ellison's uniform and told him it was time to put it on. The soldiers from the north were coming, and it was time for Enqueri to go home.

Ellison, dressed in the now unfamiliar, uncomfortable clothing, hugged his Teacher tightly and whispered in his ear, "Love you. Don't forget me."

Incacha held him and smiled his eternal noble smile. "You are my brother and my son," he said. "I will never forget you. We will meet again, Enqueri -- I too will meet my destiny in your city of falling waters."

He ran his hand over his student's forehead, closing his eyes. "But for a time, you must forget, my kitten," he whispered. "Just for a time. The world of the north does not understand our ways, and that is where you must live. Your powers must go to sleep, just for a time. But when they wake again, you will meet your Laughing Wolf."

So Captain Ellison went on patrol, where he and his hunters found and surrounded a platoon of Rangers exhuming the bodies that Ellison had buried so long before, with nothing but his own hands and an entrenching tool. And finding them, Ellison greeted them with the first English words he'd spoken in almost two years: "Captain James Ellison. Third Airborne Rangers. OD8731. Are you my relief?"

The shaman thought for a moment. "When you returned to the States," he said slowly, "there were women, right?"

"...yes..."

"What was that like?"

"...like...?" Obviously not understanding the question.

"Were you able to have sex with women?" asked the shaman gently. "Was there pleasure?"

A flash of discomfort skittered across Jim's face. "it was... what to do... had to do... men do..."

"It was expected," prompted the shaman.

"yes..."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"was... motions... just motions..." He shifted restlessly.

"And Carolyn?"

"... just motions..." Jim whispered again. "...sorry, Carolyn, sorry..."

"Shhh, Enqueri, it's all right... Was this, with the women, any different from how it had been before you lived in the jungle?"

"... can't ... don't remember... senses, no feeling... gone -- freak!" he moaned, tossing.

"It's okay, shhhh, okay, no pain here, safe here, you're a good man, Enqueri, a fine man..." the shaman chanted softly, reassuringly, until Jim settled again. Then he thought for another moment before continuing. "What about men? When you came back to Cascade, were there men?"

"Blair..." groaned Jim.

"Blair will be here soon," smiled the shaman. "Before Blair, were there men?"

"...vice..."

The shaman nodded. "When you became a police officer, you worked Vice. You were with men?"

A flicker of fear and shame. "men... don't... rules..."

"Don't worry, Enqueri, don't be afraid, no fear here, no rules here, you can tell me..."

"... so lonely... so dark... men -- in the dark... yes..."

Softly, "Was there pleasure?"

"oh, yes..." the Sentinel moaned.

"Did you take the men?"

"No!"

"Shhh, all right, it's all right..." crooned the shaman, almost absently. He was thinking hard. In a very real way, the truly difficult part was just starting now. Listening to Jim recount his experiences had been bad. Making Jim go through them again with the help of the drugged tea and smoke -- and going there with him -- had been sheer hell. But all that had just been about finding out how his past had shaped him. Figuring out how to free him, on the other hand -- that was going to be the hard part.

Well, one thing he knew had to happen. The shaman reached for the vial of oil hidden in the shadows of the hut, coated his fingers with it, and started working the slickness into his ass. Not exactly romantic, he thought wryly, but this wasn't about romance. Plenty of time for romance later. This is what they'd have to go through to in order to get to romance. No rest for the weird.

Wiping his hand off on his thigh, he took a deep breath and softly said, "Tell me about Blair."

"Blair..."

"Blair," smiled the shaman. "Tell me about meeting Blair, Enqueri."

"Blair..." Jim moaned. "everything... everything -- like everything I ever wanted, everything I dreamed..."

"This was when you first met him? In the hospital?"

Jim wrinkled his nose. "hospital stank..." he whispered. "couldn't smell Blair... beautiful Blair..."

"But you went to his office, and then...?"

"ohhhhh..." Jim groaned. "Smelled so good... everything I've ever wanted... eyes like deep water..."

"You wanted him then?" the shaman asked.

"knew him then," Jim hissed, body tensing. "knew him, wanted him, there, that moment! so scared -- angry -- didn't he know?"

"He knew," said the shaman quietly. "He was scared of you, scared that you didn't know." He moved around to Jim's side of the fire, and lay beside him, careful not to touch.

"Blair..." Jim moaned.

"Blair loves -- I love you very, very much," the shaman whispered into his Sentinel's ear. "More than anything, more than life. Always have, always will. Promise."

"Blair," Jim whispered, and his eyes started leaking tears.

"I'm here, Jim," Blair whispered back, and touched his arm. Jim leapt like he'd been shocked. Blair kept stroking his arm, whispering, "Shhh, shhh, I'm here..." until he settled back down and relaxed. "Jim," he continued in a quiet, compelling voice, "you have to listen to me, just for a few more moments. Can you hear me?"

"Oh, yes..." he moaned.

"Then listen to my voice, and know -- know -- that what I'm telling you is true. There are no more rules, Jim. No more rules, no more blocks, no more prohibitions." His hand moved to stroke Jim's chest. "They're gone," he crooned, "like they never existed. Gone, all gone. You don't have to worry, you can never hurt me."

"Already hurt you," Jim protested softly, letting the tears fall. "You wanted... anything for you, anything... couldn't stop -- the beast..."

"The beast is just you," Blair replied huskily. "Part of you. I love you. Love the beast. Beautiful, black, strong, so alive, so beautiful..." He realized he was crying too, and didn't care. "Don't you love me, Jim? Doesn't the beast love me? The beautiful cat, doesn't he love me?"

"Oh god, yes!"

"The beautiful cat would never hurt me, would he?"

"Never!" Jim growled. "Love you, protect you forever..."

"That's right, Jim," Blair said soothingly. "Now listen to me carefully. A rule is nothing, just a line in the sand, and once the line is crossed it can be swept away like it never existed." He paused, then continued, "I want you to picture that line in the sand, Jim. Picture it in your mind like it's right there in front of you. Can you see it?"

"...yes..."

"Good. I'm going to count to three, and when I get to three you're going to sweep away that line in the sand and it will be gone -- poof! Gone. Never existed, never come back. Do you understand? Can you do that?"

"...yes..."

"Okay, then." He paused. "One. Two." Deep breath. "Three. Gone. Is it gone?"

"Yes," said Jim clearly, decisively.

Blair sighed, "Thank all the gods. Now come make love to me. On two legs, on four legs, I want you so much." He rolled over, spooning up against Jim and rubbing his ass against Jim's hip, whispering back over his shoulder, "Please come take me, my love."

With a strangled cry Jim was upon him, rolling him onto his stomach, crushing him into the ground. Blair closed his eyes and let rich, cloudy-soft fur rub over his back. He concentrated on the feeling and tried to strengthen it. This was no time to be squeamish. This was not about romance, or his own culturally determined knee-jerk responses. This was about ancient magic, and deeply rooted primal forces. In many, many cultures for thousands of years, this would be considered a perfectly appropriate coupling of shaman and spirit. No, more than appropriate -- divine, inspired, something fervently to be desired. Embracing the beast. He felt the heavy weight of a paw pinning him down and threw back his head, offering his throat to the gleaming fangs. As the wet points closed on his neck he shuddered and pushed his ass up against the hot sinewy pelt that lay over him. /Yes, yes, want it, want this, this, want it all, yes,/ he chanted in his throat, because the panther's jaws were tight around him and he couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to.

And then the beast mounted him with a brutal shove and he found he could scream after all -- a choking, garbled wail that became desperate with burning pain as the cat's barbed shaft drew out and slammed back in to the root. He forced himself to form the scream into words -- "Yes! God, please, yes!" -- determined that no reaction of his would be anything less than totally accepting of the beast, that the body above him, the body of his beloved Sentinel in whatever form he chose to take, would find him willing and eager and open. The cat snarled into his neck as it drove into him deeply with no concern for pleasure or love, just ten years of fettered desire and millennia of primeval instinct having its way with the flesh. This was not about romance, Blair reminded himself through gritted teeth and squeezed-shut eyes; it was what they had to go through to get to romance -- but then the pumping shaft rammed against his prostate and he didn't give a good goddamn anymore about love or romance or anything on earth but the blessed, rock-hard length of it in him, shoved in him, fucking and fucking in animal lust, and he was an animal too -- less than an animal, a ravenous hole, screaming and howling, no more words, no more thought, just more and hard and fuckmefuckmefuckme, wanting nothing more in life than to be seized and plundered and possessed completely by the ferocious beast that had taken him as its mate -- and coming helplessly, blissfully, as the cat above him threw back its head and screeched its own completion into the gray dawn.

He opened his eyes and peeked back over his shoulder to see Jim staring down at him in worship and wonder.

"Sorcerer," Jim whispered.

"Warrior," Blair smiled.

"My Guide, beautiful Guide..."

"My Sentinel." Blair rolled on his back beneath him and took him gently into his arms. "My beautiful, beautiful wildcat."

Jim shuddered, and Blair hugged him tighter. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say --"

"No!" Jim murmured huskily into the sweaty hair sticking to Blair's neck. "Want you to... been so long..." He sighed and settled his weight on top of him, melting into him and letting the hot tears fall.

Blair rocked him and stroked his head and back, whispering, "Dearest kitten, beautiful fierce wildcat, my love..." until Jim was quiet again. Then drew Jim's head back and stroked his face for long moments before taking his mouth in a tender kiss. "Come on," he smiled. "It's time to watch the sun rise."

As they ducked out of the hut into the growing light of dawn, Blair turned to wave at Qisa, who acknowledged them with a wave of his own before getting up and leaving.

Jim yawned, stretched out his back and arms, and asked his shaman wonderingly, "How the hell did you know how to do all that?"

"Magic," Blair shrugged, pulling his hair back from his sweaty neck and doing a little stretching of his own.

Jim snorted. "Right. Like that little pyrotechnic trick you pulled. Where the hell did that come from?"

Blair laughed. "Oh, come on, Mr. Covert Ops. A few ground-up blue-tip match heads, a little sawdust, some boy-scout ingenuity. Don't tell me you were taken in by that, Jimbo!"

"Don't call me that," Jim growled, mock-threatening.

Blair skipped backwards and chanted, "Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo!"

"I'll kick your ass!" Jim warned.

"You'll fuck my ass!" Blair taunted, thrusting his pelvis.

"You better believe it," said Jim, trying to grab him, but Blair danced out of range, stuck out his tongue and sang out, "Gotta catch me first!" He wheeled around, laughing, and sprinted off in the direction of the river.

A brilliant, unreserved smile lit up Jim's face and he took up the challenge, chasing after his mate, his friend, his Guide, following his Laughing Wolf as they ran together through the sun-dappled forest of his dreams.

----------------to be concluded-----------------------