Chapter Six: Blood Brothers?

A tinkle of chimes rang the hour, briefly drawing Wordy's head up from his self-appointed task. With a tiny mental shrug, the constable went back to Spike's phone, his fingers nudging the list of languages down before he selected the next one.

Spike sat next to his bed, playing Cat's Cradle with a length of string he'd found in one of the drawers. The bomb tech looked up, inspecting the phone his partner held out before shaking his head. Although he'd dropped his string the first couple of times, once it became clear Wordy's idea would take awhile – if it even worked – he'd settled into his makeshift play.

Sighing, Wordy pulled the phone back and navigated back to the language list while trying not to think about Spike's breakdown. Or what they would do if there wasn't a solution to the language problem. He didn't trust their host and hand signals could only do so much, but…

The constable surveyed the rest of the list, mentally wincing. Only five languages left to try. And if none of them worked? What then? He pushed the debate away, a corner of his tongue poking out as he selected the next language. They'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

Twenty minutes later, Wordy set the phone back to English, set it down on Spike's side of the dresser, and walked over to the bookcase, doing his best to hide how upset he was. At the bookcase, he turned just enough to watch as Spike kept his eyes down and on the string, just as upset and frustrated as his friend, if not more so. It wasn't Wordy looking at the loss of his job and life…it was an English-challenged Spike.

Little wonder then, that his buddy had broken down, though the brunet would take that incident to his grave. No one needed to know, of that the big man was determined. Shifting back to the bookcase, Wordy started scanning the titles, searching for something useful – or maybe just interesting.

One book stood out, not because it was interesting, but because he couldn't read the title. Tugging the tome free, Wordy frowned thoughtfully at it, then turned his attention to the highest shelf, eyes narrowing as he hunted for more titles he couldn't read. Most of the titles were in English, but a narrow book on the top shelf, three mid-sized tomes on the middle shelf, and two thick binders on the bottom shelf were incomprehensible.

The constable set his first find down to tug the binders free, then worked his way up again, pulling out the other books and stacking them together. He hefted the stack over to his bed, then offered the top one to Spike. The bomb tech tilted his head, curiosity shining, then let his string slip off his fingers to take the offering. He turned the book, studying it before opening up to the first page. Then he froze, his head jerking up in shock.

"You can read it?" Wordy asked hopefully before wincing. Spike's expression turned perplexed, so the brunet sighed and reached forward, running one finger over the top line. He pulled back, his hands moving in an 'ears in?' question.

Spike beamed, catching on at once, and nodded. His eyes went wide as Wordy nudged the rest of the stack towards him. Putting down the first book, the bomb tech swiftly went through the rest of the books, flipping them open to inspect the writing within. To the big constable's gratified surprise, his partner worked through the whole stack, his smile growing bigger with each tome. When he was done, the books had all migrated to Spike's bed and the bomb tech gave him a thumbs up.

"Wow," Wordsworth whispered. He hadn't expected all of them to work out. Encouraged, he headed back to the bookcase to find some reading material for himself.

Scéaþ's enthusiasm dimmed at the old style language in the books, but the only other things to do were brooding and Cat's Cradle, so he drew in a deep breath and began foraging through the books, searching for anything of interest. Three pages in, he perked up again – these were spellbooks.

The 'þees' and 'þous' (2) hardly phased him as he wandered through pages of spells, from common fire and herb preservation spells, to the more exotic magical shields, intended to guard against dragonfire. The first tome finished with several pages of spells meant for defeating – or controlling – magical creatures. It might have been fascinating, but Scéaþ was reasonably sure most of the creatures discussed no longer existed.

Sighing, Scéaþ put the book aside, wishing he could ask Þegen's niece and nephew about the spells. Eyeing the remaining stack, he shrugged and plucked the next off the top, a thin book with the intriguing title of 'Þe Olde Rituals' (3). Inside, the spellbook began with a ritual designed to create an afanc (4); Scéaþ shuddered at the description of the creature's…traits. Unnerved, but undaunted, Scéaþ soldiered on, wincing at ritual after ritual meant to twist magic, manipulate souls, and create creatures that should never see the light of day.

At the very end of the book, the last ritual caught his eye. Compared to the other rituals, it seemed…tame. Innocent. Just two sorcerers pooling their magic. Frowning, Scéaþ re-read the description, wondering why it intrigued him so much. After all, it wasn't like he had any magic he could share with anyone. Although, if he could share languages with Wyrdig… He jerked to a halt in the middle of putting the book down.

Share languages? Talk to his teammate again? He read the ritual for a third time, a new fire lighting in his blood. Simple enough. One knife, used to cut both participants' palms. Press the cuts together and recite the ritual words. Done.

Excitement bubbled and Scéaþ bounced up, hurrying over to where Wyrdig was searching through the bookcase again for a new book to read. He tugged on his partner's shoulder and thrust the book at him.

"We can talk again!" he cried. "And it looks really simple, too!"

"Whoa, easy, Spike," Wyrdig protested, taking the book and scanning the page. "I can't read any of this."

Scéaþ wilted at Wyrdig's clear bemusement. Casting about for a way to explain, he seized Wyrdig's free hand and traced a line on the palm before tracing another line on his own palm and pressing the hands together. Hopeful, he glanced up at his friend, but Wyrdig continued to stare at him, utterly lost.

Then Wyrdig cocked his head to the side and thrust the book back at Scéaþ; Scéaþ took the book, discouragement budding; but Wyrdig strode back to their beds and tugged the nightstand's drawer open, revealing ordinary paper and pens.

"Here, Spike, draw it," Wyrdig urged, pulling out a page and a pen.

The bomb tech took the paper – though he couldn't understand his partner's sentence, he didn't need to either. The solution was obvious. Quickly he sketched two stick figures pushing their 'hands' together with a scrawl over their heads to indicate words. Frowning, Scéaþ added a second, 'close up' type picture of a knife and pointed between the knife and his palm.

Wyrdig leaned over the picture, expression thoughtful as he inspected it. Then he pulled out another piece of paper and sketched his own picture. He divided the paper up into two sections. In the first, he drew a knife cutting into a palm and put an 'x2' next to the drawing; in the second, he mimicked Scéaþ's first drawing, with the stick figures and a speech bubble above their heads.

"Like that?"

Scéaþ took the second drawing, puzzling over it a moment before nodding.

Wyrdig leaned back on his heels, then shrugged. "Sure, why not."

The bomb tech cocked his head, but perked up when Wyrdig nudged the book still in his hands and nodded firmly. Turning back to the ritual, Scéaþ carefully read the words aloud, making Wyrdig repeat them several times. His friend stumbled over them badly, but got closer with each repetition.

Satisfied, Scéaþ hunted around for a knife, then flushed when Wyrdig held his up, one eyebrow cocked sardonically. Drawing in a deep breath, the brunet cut both their palms; the blood stung as they pressed their palms together.

As with the practice runs, Wyrdig stumbled over the first word, but then, like magic, he – they – spoke smoothly, intonation letter perfect. "Brōþra nú, wé ġedǣlaþ úrera glēawnessa. (5)"

A single drop of blood fell from between their palms to the ground and Scéaþ's eyes widened as he felt something take hold, deep inside; Wyrdig's face twisted as if he could feel the same.

"Spike, can you understand me?" Wyrdig blinked in surprise at the words coming out of his own mouth, jerking back, but Scéaþ felt his grin split his face.

"I understand you, Wyrdig."

Wyrdig frowned, carefully mouthing something to himself, then glanced up. "Spike, can you still understand me?"

Scéaþ's shoulders slumped and he shook his head in disappointment.

"Hey, easy there, Spike, at least we're getting somewhere. We don't need a translator anymore."

That was true; Scéaþ brightened and grinned back at his partner. No more hand signals or hoping their host would translate for them.

Wyrdig fidgeted, wary and uncomfortable. "Spike, what'd he tell you earlier?"

The grin dropped away. "He…he said that wizard used the Old Religion," Scéaþ whispered, hugging himself. "There's no counter curse."

Gesturing to the book Scéaþ had found, Wyrdig drawled wryly, "Maybe he just didn't look hard enough."

Scéaþ laughed, both at the joke and in sheer relief. Finally, he could talk to his own teammate. Even if he still couldn't use his own phone.

With their communication issues partially solved, the pair returned to their reading, hunting through the spellbooks for something that might allow Scéaþ to regain his original language. Wyrdig stuck with the other books, rightly pointing out that there were fewer books in Scéaþ's language and the bomb tech couldn't read 'Englisc' any way.

"The Old Religion trumps Latin," Scéaþ grumbled.

"You never know, Spike, Latin might just surprise us one day," Wyrdig countered cheerfully, flipping through another book. Sighing, he put it back, shaking his head at Scéaþ's curious glance. "Divination."

Ugh. Making a face, Scéaþ returned to his own book with a huff at Wyrdig's stubbornness. Of all the times for Wyrdig to dig his heels in… The bomb tech was sure the solution was somewhere in his small stack of books, making his frustration at Wyrdig surge higher and higher the longer his teammate wasted time with the Englisc books. The clock chimed the half-hour, but neither man looked up; a comfortable silence descended, broken only by the flipping of pages.

Thump.

Scéaþ's head sprang up and he froze; Wyrdig was on his hands and knees, pale and sweating. The bomb tech dropped his book and hustled to his friend. "Spike," Wyrdig managed, his voice trembling, "I don't feel so good…"

With hardly a second to spare, the lean constable managed to get a plastic bucket from the room's tiny attached bathroom thrust under his friend's chin.

Ten minutes later, the vomiting stopped, but Scéaþ hardly cared; Wyrdig, partway through losing his breakfast, lunch, and dinner, had descended into delirium. Moaning, the brunet thrashed on the floor, oblivious to Scéaþ's attempts to get him up on the closest bed. Abruptly, he curled up, clutching his midsection; for an instant, blue light played across his skin, but it was thin…stretched.

Just as abruptly, Wyrdig's back arched; Scéaþ dodged his teammate's flailing boots, eyes wide as the other man gasped for air, eyes rolling as the bluish hue around him intensified, then faded.

Realization broke through; the ritual. He was sharing Wyrdig's magic – but he had none of his own. Which meant the only magic to be shared had been Wyrdig's. What had he been thinking to risk his friend's vulnerable, crippled Squib-sized magical core? How could he have been so selfish?

"Come on, Wyrdig, don't die on me," Scéaþ begged, scooting close to his partner again, heedless of the risk to his limbs. It would serve him right for endangering his teammate…again. "Stay with me."

Shouts brought the constable's head snapping around. Familiar yells, even if the words were gibberish. "Guys?"

Wyrdig moaned and Scéaþ dragged his teammate away from the doorway, wincing when his partner mindlessly kicked out at the bed post; there was a dull crack from Wyrdig's shin.

Team One surged in the door, weapons up and yelling orders; Scéaþ could've cried with relief. Help. Their team had found them.

"Spike?" Léw. "You okay?"

Before Scéaþ could even cock his head in confusion, Wyrdig thrashed again, reminding him of the greater problem. Eyes widening in horror, Scéaþ babbled, "We did a ritual so we could talk and it worked, but now it's hurting Wyrdig!"

An instant later, he cringed, realizing none of his team could understand him. The only one who could was out cold on the floor…

"Spike." He looked up as Þegen knelt next to them, one hand dropping to Wyrdig's arm. "It's gonna be okay."

Scéaþ's jaw dropped open.

His was not the only one.

[2] We might say 'thees' and 'thous', but Scéaþ is currently using the 'þ' or thorn.

[3] 'Þ' is an uppercase thorn, so the title, in English is: The Olde Rituals. Although some might actually say 'Ye Olde Rituals'.

[4] An afanc is a creature created by the Old Religion with the elements of water and earth. They can poison a city's water supply, inflicting their victims with a plague that kills within a day, leaving the victims with pasty white skin and blue veins in the process. Afancs can only be killed by magic that mixes the elements of air and fire.

[5] Old English for 'Brothers now, we share our skills/abilities.' Website used is oldenglishtranslator which is a co (period) uk site

Author note: Another week, another batch of notes. While I appreciate all the time to work on notes/writing, my coding skills are getting rustier and rustier and there seems to be no end in sight. Plus, I'm now very solidly on the project, which means I really can't leave the project without leaving the company (I think). And leaving the company's not an option until summer. *sigh*