08/03/2008 21:01:00

Jus Sanguinis

Chapter One: First Howl

Blood - flowing, gushing, hot and crimson. It resides in all of us, in every living, breathing entity that makes its residence on this slowly turning planet. When we're cut, it drips out slowly and steadily. Our creator - divine, alien, benevolent, or spark of mad science - even endowed us with the wondrous ability to stop the bleeding from a cut or any wound related via platelets that clot our blood. However, something deeper, something bigger, something far more vicious - our creator was at a loss when this obstacle stumbled into view.

So we simply bleed out and die.

But that was when we were animals. We're smarter now, more capable of saving our own hides. But the blood is always there, always capable of rendering us as lifeless as we'd be if we were still barbarians with no tools. We're born and raised by the blood and we eventually die by it, with it, filled with it or empty of it.

Jus Sanguinis - Rule of Blood.

Someone was experiencing this merciless rule, soon to be lost to the world with no resources in which to stem the flow of his life-blood. His mane of shaggy, chocolate-brown hair was wet and matted, plastered to his forehead and face from both precipitation and perspiration. His fever was spiked, one of his body's natural defenses against the infection and bacteria that crept into his system through the open gash in his side. In a vein effort to stifle his loss, his hand was clutched tightly over the wound, holding a bit of clothe in place as a sort of bandage. Teal-colored eyes opened slightly against the fatigue to eye the reddened fabric and the stains on his fingers. It wasn't working, but it was only his first resource. The poor soul needed a tourniquet, stitches, or something further to stop the blood-loss.

With an irritable grunt, he willed his hands to move, straightening the clothe into a long strip, which he then proceeded to wrap about his torso. He was thin enough, made up of long, lean muscles instead of soft, fatty flesh like others of his type he'd seen. His white shirt, dirtied before with wear and tear, was now stained brightly with the substance his body was expelling. He prayed the make-shift bandage would suffice until he could find better resources. Taking one last, steadying breath, the wounded stranger pushed himself to his feet, using the grimy alley wall behind him as his support system. He worked his navy-blue jacket on and zipped it up, hiding his injury and the brilliant scarlet that announced it.

He'd walk it off for as long as he could until he got some help.

The people about him walked as if something in their own little worlds held them completely occupied. Their eyes were straight forward, their noses not held out sniffing the air or crinkled in disgust at the stench in the atmosphere that our injured favorite could so clearly smell. The frigid air around them was thick with the pungent smell of blood, garbage, and leaky gasoline from the ruined automobiles on the road sides. Every breath he took stung his nose and made his lungs ache. He couldn't understand how the people around him could not smell it. If they could smell it, he couldn't understand why they weren't retching in disgust as he felt like doing.

His vision blurred for an instant, the street before him spinning. He stumbled and caught himself, one hand reaching out to steady himself against a nearby wall. His behavior warranted strange looks from passer-by, but he didn't stop to return the favor. So he kept on walking, kept on pacing himself through that miasma of stench and bodies. Dogs, oddly enough, held a strong dislike for him. Most animals did, for that matter. As he walked by a plump woman with a Pomeranian on a leash, the small dog seemed to explode with loud yaps, its entire body quivering with fear and anxiety as it backed closer to its master.

In order to avoid another disturbed look, he kept on until he could go no further. He stumbled into a tavern that was scarcely occupied. There were two men at the bar, hunched over dirty-looking mugs of beer, their wrinkled, sun-ripened faces set in a determined frown. Out of the nine wooden tables that were spaced about the rest of the tavern, only one was occupied. A mocha-skinned man with cropped, silvery hair was seated at the table near the very back, the one furthest away from anyone else. The expression on his face was not visible through the shade of the dark corner. Not wishing to gain the eyes of either of the patrons, the injured male seated himself near a window.

The seat felt like sweet release to his achy body and stiff joints. He felt eighty years older than he actually was. As soon as he was settled, a tired-looking waitress approached him. "What'll it be?" she asked, every word sending a gale of cigarette and alcohol-tainted breath in his direction.

Trying not to make a face, he said simply, "If you don't mind, I'd just like a glass of water." His voice sounded strained and the woman eyed him oddly. Was he that obvious? He twisted his lips in what he hoped was a smile. It seemed good enough because the waitress merely shrugged and turned her back on him, shuffling back to retrieve his paltry order. When she placed the glass of water unceremoniously on the table and left, he heaved a shuddering sigh of relief. Making a motion to take the glass of water in his hand, he hesitated. The water smelled too much like iron. It probably tasted horrible and he had no way of finding out exactly what was in it. Not affording to be picky, he shrugged and took a few sips - swallows - gulps of water.

He'd downed the entire glass before he knew it. Must've been thirsty.

The taste of the water, laced with iron and something fetid like bad tap, stayed on his tongue, coated his lips. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed the glass away. He wondered what illness he'd get from drinking it and if he'd have been better off just ordering a mug of beer.

"You'll want to get something to eat."

The voice came from behind and took our injured stranger by surprise. He made a sudden jump as he half-turned about to face this new persona - only half-turned because the pain in his side quickly reminded him why he shouldn't be making sudden movements. Adjusting himself so that he was comfortable (and didn't look as if he were scared shitless), he replied, "Excuse me?"

It was the silver-haired man from the back of the tavern. Now that he was closer, our character was able to discern his features. He was a young man with a broad-shouldered build with long, lanky limbs. The way he carried himself reminded the male of posture (when he wasn't injured) - aloof yet perfectly able to react on a dime. The other's eyes were a striking shade of golden, holding a feral quality the male had never seen in another person. His denim jacket was worn and adorned with various patches advertising different bands, organizations, or random phrases the injured male knew nothing about.

He smirked. "You should get something to eat - it'll help you heal faster." Without so much as another word, he moved to seat himself in the chair right across from him. There was a pause as the other looked across the table, almost as if waiting for the injured male to say something. But he didn't know what to say. It was the longest, most awkward moment of his life and all he could do was twiddle his thumbs in anxiety. "Well?" said the other.

"...Well what?" The male raised a brow in question.

The other made a gesture to the bar and the tired waitress behind it. "Aren't you going to order? No? Fine - I'll do it. You'll have pancakes, right? They make good pancakes." He whistled and the waitress looked up. When she arrived, the silver-haired male offered a wink and said, "My friend here would like some of Al's good pancakes - lots of syrup. And a refill on the water."

The injured male made to protest on the water, but the waitress smiled, lips stretching and pulling away from her yellowed teeth, and said, "Sure thing, sweetheart." She turned and the "sweetheart" male turned back and folded his hands in front of him on the table top. "Don't worry about the water," he said. "It may not taste good, but it'll sure put some hair on your chest... What's the matter with you? Cat got your tongue? I've never met a wolf who didn't like to howl."

Frowning, the male tried to contemplate what the other had just said. "Wolf?" he said. "You don't even know me and already I've got a nickname? Who are you, anyway?"

The other looked incredulously at the male. He was half-way between a laugh and a question, but he settled for the question. "You're kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding?... Looks like you're not." And he was right - the male offered nothing but a serious look that held no jest. The other sighed and scratched at his head, brows climbing up his forehead in disbelief... of something. "Well, this is a first." He paused and looked over, then extended a hand and shook his without even waiting for it to be offered. "My name is Koga," he said, still shaking his hand despite the male's attempt to remove it. "And you are?"

Suffice it to say the male was hesitant to reveal this information, but he had a feeling that this Koga was not going to let up. "Jin," he supplied simply without any of the introduction of the other. Koga still wasn't letting go of his hand. He and Jin just looked each other in he eye, hands shaking, waiting for the waitress to set down the plate of pancakes in front of Jin. When she was gone, Jin finally said, "Am I going to get my hand back, or you planning on taking it like you took that seat?"

Koga laughed, a bark of a sound, and released Jin's hand. Pushing the plate closer to Jin, he said, "Eat - trust me, it'll help. Don't rush, but don't take forever - we've gotta take care of that bleeding before you're drained of blood. None of these humans can smell it, but every hound like the two of us can tell you're weak from a mile away. They don't have to look at that pale face of yours."

Jin's fork cut into the pancakes and shoveled them into his mouth, eyes never leaving Koga - he didn't quite trust him, especially when he kept calling him a "wolf" or a "hound" or something else canine. And what was all this about "these humans?" The pancake was heavy and gritty, nothing at all like the fluffy confections Jin had tasted in his past. But, in no mood to protest, and realizing just how famished he was, he continued to scarf down the generously provided meal until nothing but crumbs and dregs of sticky syrup were left on the plate. Again he drank the unappealing, slightly tepid water in order to wash down the food that seemed to stick to the lining of his throat. Jin trained his eyes on the glass, on the beads of water dripping down the outside of the cup. He wasn't sure what the next move was going to be. Was Koga going to make him pay the tab? Jin didn't ask for the meal, and water was free.

Without warning, Koga was on his feet, the scraping of the chair against the floor the alert for Jin to look up. His arm was seized as Koga pulled him from the chair and onto his feet. Normally when Jin put up a struggle, he won - he was usually stronger than those around him. But Koga seemed to be just as strong, if not stronger, than Jin. (He merely attributed this to his current physical state.) The grip the taller man had on Jin's arm was tight, like a vice. There would've been pain if Jin hadn't denied himself it. "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Jin began, but Koga manipulated his body until Jin was standing in front of him, arm pinioned behind his back.

"Don't fight - you'll only hurt yourself more," Koga said, all signs of the smile or laughter out of his face and voice. Evidently he walked out of paying a bill at that tavern a lot, because no one accosted him when he walked out the door with a hostage. He walked with Jin close enough in front and beside him that it looked as if the two were merely walking beside each other - not that the poor Jin was taken against his will. They walked this way for what seemed to Jin a long time. During this time, he took the chance to learn as much as he could from Koga and about him without having to ask him a thing.

He smelled like an animal - canine. But not like a tame dog. His musk was that of the outdoors, of activity and wild strength and ability. His walk was a gentle lope, but the strength in his hand never faltered on Jin's arm. The blood wasn't stopping, and it seemed to be greatly affecting Jin's vision and mobility. Several times he stumbled and swayed. Each time he faltered, Koga held him steady with that one strong hand, pulling him back when Jin's slouched frame threatened to lurch forward.

The scenery began to change. There were less and less people and fewer homes and buildings kept in good condition. The narrow roads and paths were lined with run-down or abandoned buildings and warehouses. Stray dogs and cats snuck away in alleys at their approach. He wasn't sure where this man was taking him and he wasn't liking it.

"Enough already," he barked, tearing himself rudely from Koga's grip. The effort jerked his arm painfully and he stumbled against a wall, clutching his shoulder and slumped from the pain in his abdomen. He struggled to regain his breath, brow knitted together in the effort to stay conscious. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Koga paused and the look on his face almost made Jin panic. He then smiled, however, and moved to sit on a stack of wooden crates across from Jin. "Just thought I'd get you out of the public eye - you need to recover and you can't do much of it in that form. So..." he gestured towards Jin expectantly.

Jin couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What the hell are you talking about?" he snapped, sliding down to the ground. "What form? I only have one - what do you think I am?"

"Christ, don't you know anything?!" snapped Koga, hands on his knees as he leaned forward. "What do I have to do to convince you? You're not a human - you're a wolf." Jin shook his head in disbelief, muttering something about Koga being crazed. "Crazed?" replied the other. "Look, Jin - how many times have you noticed you're not like everyone else? Haven't you ever noticed that you were stronger than anyone else? Faster? That your senses were fifty-times better than anyone around you? I'm not sure how you managed to stay in human form for so long without having any knowledge of your wolf skin."

"Easy," said Jin. "Because I'm - not - a - wolf! How many times do I have to tell you?"

Koga's jaw was clenched, brows furrowed and eyes stern. He got up and approached Jin, who cringed slightly as he got closer. The wolf-lover grabbed him by the front of the jacket and pulled him roughly to his feet, face close. His golden eyes were so intense, so.. inhuman. Heart thumping madly, Jin became unsteady, the things before him spinning. "Listen," Koga said, never lessening his gaze. His face looked as if it shifted. "Can you hear it?" Those hues - bright gold set in black-lined, narrow eyes. "Hear the howl." His teeth - did he have fangs? A snout? "Hear it! Answer it!" Things started to grow dark and Koga's face vanished between stages of darkness. "You have to answer the call." During the darkness, a silvery-grey wolf was staring him down, the sound of a strangled howl in Jin's ears. Was it his? "Your life depends on it."

Too much blood was lost and Jin soon lost consciousness.