AUTHOR'S NOTE:Please be advised that this chapter contains sexually explicit situations.

Tjat'le was beside himself. Some of the best of his Hunters were nothing more than playthings to the Bathyrian, and now the 'winner' was in the medical facility, having his wounds treated. The infirmary was no field hospital, so none of that barbarous gel sealant would be used, but he would still take some time to recover. Tjat'le paced back down to the other end of the hall, where Noskor sat. The rookie Council member was quiet and motionless, the direct opposite of Tjat'le's anxious pacing. "What the hell happened out there?" It was the fifth time he'd asked the question, and for the fifth time, Noskor answered, "I cannot say, Liege. We must wait for Escthta to tell us."

The door slid open, and the medic stepped out, drying his hands. "Getting him back up out of that pit was almost too little, too late. Did you know how thin the air was?" He shook his head disapprovingly. "It's a miracle he survived at all, much less with his injuries." Tjat'le opened his tusks and then thought better of it.
"Will he survive?" asked Noskor.The medic nodded, his hands folded across his chest. "He'll survive," he answered curtly. Tjat'le drew himself up into a posture that was meant to command. "We must see him, immediately."
The medic gave him a hard look. "He's feverish from the poison. It's better that he rests." Tjat'le snarled at the medic, who grounded his feet and began to prepare for an assault.
Noskor stepped in. "If you please, doctor, it's imperative that we see him immediately, fever or no fever. I promise you that we will not distress him."
The medic eased up out of his combative stance, and scowled. "You may see him, but only for a moment. After that, you leave and don't come back."
Noskor waved, as if the conditions were nothing, but it was more to disrupt the strong odor of musk that had begun to fill the air. "Of course. His health is our primary concern." The medic nodded and moved aside, scowling at Tjat'le as he went inside.

Tjat'le and Noskor stepped into the room. Escthta's tall frame filled even the oversize medical bed, and his head and leg were still bandaged with the wads of cloth the field medics had used in the arena. "Escthta, I offer you congratulations on your victory." He held out his hand palm down to show his respect. Escthta's eyes were swollen and red, but he turned to look at Tjat'le. "It was no victory. It was a... truce."
Tjat'le's eager expression evaporated. "Truce?"
Escthta shrugged and winced as the motion moved his head bandages. "We called a truce. He didn't want to hurt any more, and I didn't want to hurt anymore."
Noskor and Tjat'le exchanged glances before the Head of the Council continued. "You injured him so much by yourself?"
Escthta blearily shook his head, again wincing, as though he hadn't remembered that the motion would cause him pain. "No. But he was hurting from his wounds with the other Hunters. He said he didn't have the strength to fight."
Noskor's eyes, blind and seeing, became dangerous slits and his voice was soft. "He... said?"
Escthta grunted, having remembered not to move this time. "He was very clear."
"You spoke with him?"
Escthta was quiet and not even a polite cough from Noskor could bring him back to his senses. Escthta's eyes had drifted off to some unmarked point on the wall and he was still focusing on it when he spoke. "Liege, would you honor the request of a warrior?"
Tjat'le grunted. "I would consider it."
"Kill him. Drain his tank and let him die." The request seemed to take strength from him, and Escthta sank back further into the soft bed, his eyes fluttering closed. Tjat'le stared at Escthta. Noskor smiled gently and cocked his head at his young apprentice.
"Naturally, anything so utterly wretched would wish to die. We shall honor his request." He turned and silenced the beginning of Tjat'le's protests with a look that was pure murder. "Come, Liege. We must make arrangements for our guest."

Tjat'le whirled on the younger Councilman as soon as the doors were closed. "Are you mad? We don't owe that little shit anything. That thing is staying right where it is and no one is killing it or I'll have his head." Noskor's face was irritatingly unchanged, and the cloudy eye made Tjat'le shiver inwardly. "I'm afraid, Liege, that it is out of our hands," he said coolly. Noskor walked down the hall and turned the corner, leaving Tjat'le speechless with anger.

xXx

Escthta closed his swollen eyes as the door slid shut. He was aware of the heated exchange outside his room, but paid it no mind; it was nothing compared to the fire burning through his body. He cracked an eye, looking down at his leg, bandaged as it was, with small spots of green where he could not stop bleeding. He noted this with some dry amusement. He could feel the individual edges of each puncture wound, each frustratingly irritated by the cloth bandage; his head pounded while his arms shook with fever.

The medic appeared out of thin air and was examining the wounds on his leg; he took the maddening bandage off, and Escthta sighed in relief. The medic examined the ichor that was flowing from the ragged holes and began to click softly. The flesh was putrefying and if the leg was going to be saved, he was going to have to work fast. He turned to Escthta and threaded him up with a sedative. Within moments, the line in his arm had Escthta sleeping soundly. The procedure was quick; the medic cored out the dead and dying muscle, emptying out the infection and sterilizing the rest with an alcohol. His work was excellent, born of years undoing the field medicine that Hunters performed- in each of those cases, he had to core out the cement which had stopped the bleeding and had only mild regenerative effects and replace it with gel that would heal into flesh. He clicked softly as he worked, plugging the gaping holes in Escthta's leg with muscle replacement gel. The sheets turned greenish-yellow with skin and pus; the medic covered it as he cauterized the holes shut. He huffled softly and then moved up to look at Escthta's eyes. He opened each one, shining a light in it, and seemed satisfied with the dilation. He dialed down the sedative and re-bandaged the leg, taking care not to wrap it too tightly. There was little he could do for the head wounds except make sure that fluid pressure on the brain didn't build up.

Escthta drifted between nightmares and reality for days, his fever high. The dreams were disturbing, dark and full of voices and places he couldn't explain. Prominent in all of them was a large black shadow with grasping arms that reached out to strangle him. When the cold tentacles wrapped around him, he screamed. Yet, in the heart of that darkness, there was calm. Though his heart could not slow from fear, his brain was taking it in and processing it in a coolly logical way. Though he felt short of breath, his brain told him he was not exhausted and that the air would come. Though he was burning with fever, his brain was not boiling itself dry. It was a collection of contradictions, and that was half of what was making him mad. His pairings of extremes had just reached the critical point when they vanished; there was only stillness, only calm. The silence in his head was deafening.

Loud and resonant, a single voice pierced the quiet. Escthta could hear it and understand it, though it spoke nothing he knew. It was deep and thrumming, the sound of the machinery of the universe moving along its track. Escthta was cold and naked in the vast eye of Creation with nothing but his ears to guide him. He heard the stars carrying on their ageless conversations and the planets indulging in their youthful banter. Small and barely audible, he heard the cries of thousands of races -there! The clicks and trills of yautja, the hissing screams of kainde amedha, the strange languages of the humans, the deep Bathyrian, all of them were here. Others he could not place, though their voices, the roars, the cries, the howls all rose together, a cacophonous choir from the stars and they were all singing just for him.

The medic watched his patient's breathing slow as they heaped the ice on him, and he kept a close watch on his vitals. The heartbeat was fluttery, erratic, and there was talk he'd be lost, that the venom had been fatal. But the fever evaporated one night, and the next morning, Escthta's eyes were open and he was alert enough to feed himself. The medical establishment doesn't ask for explanations of such phenomena; little did they know that the Bathyrian's second strike had saved Escthta's life.

The muscle replacement gel had already healed by the time Escthta was able to use his legs. The drainage tube and bandages were removed from his head, revealing his matching teardrop-shaped collections of pinprick scars. He reached down and touched his calf, discerning narrowly defined circles under the scars where nerve signals were no longer available. He excused himself from the medical wing, and the medic nodded as he left; the sick wing was only for those who could not walk; once they were mobile, they were expected to take care of themselves.

xXx

By Escthta's reckoning, he'd been out of action for almost two weeks. The fortnight's stay in the hospital had left him itchy and feeling utterly filthy. The sponge-offs he'd gotten from the medics hadn't completely rid him of that awful smell in the cesspool. Repulsed at his own scent, he caught a car outside the infirmary and directed the computer to the public baths. His skin felt like it was fairly crawling with parasites, and he shuddered, barely able to stomach the idea of being in his own skin.

The public bathhouse was a sprawling complex near the northern edge of the City, built around a series of natural springs. Untold numbers of slaves were employed in keeping the baths incredibly clean and ridding the Hunters of parasites. Though their skin was relatively smooth, it was very sensitive. Yautja were vulnerable to mites that burrowed into their skin and inflamed the area around them into dark green lesions. Hunters dehydrated very easily and their skin suffered, flaking and itching when the air was too dry. The baths seemed nearly deserted; it seemed that the Council was holding hearings on the criminals, the Bad Blood. Most yautja enjoyed the hearings, since many of their comrades were murdered by Bad Bloods and the feeling of vindication was a rare and priceless emotion.

He had no problems finding the bathmaster, who arranged for his services; a full grooming including the re-braiding of his hair and a de-lousing. He scrubbed himself hard in the showers, and cringed when his fingertips passed over the raised bumps where mites were sure to be buried, sucking away his blood. When he was clean, a slave led him to a private room, where two groomers waited. One held a metal comb, and Escthta could see the length of his nails, cut into long needles; the longer the nails used in the braid, the finer the braid. He stood, naked, and suffered through the braiding process. He kept an eye on the ranking rings- he had known of some braiders that stole them. The braider was quick, and though it was as painful as always, the whole ordeal was over in just an hour. His new dreadlocks were tight, smooth and the rank rings were put back in place perfectly. The braider left before Escthta could thank him. Only as the mite-remover was pulling mites out of his back did he realize that the braider, a slave, would never expect to be thanked. They were stripped of personal privileges in slavery, as well as names. The nameless groomer finished, giving Escthta a bath pass, a curt nod and removing the dish filled with small insects to the waste disposal.

Escthta fastened a loincloth, the only attire required, around his hips and lazily strolled to the main baths for a soak in the mineral baths. The bath pass told the attendant he was insect-free and he was allowed in and pointed to the medicated baths to heal his lesions. A yell caught his attention. "Escthta!" He looked toward the source and found Cthinde waving him over to his bath. Rithc'te had already joined him, and he looked much improved from his battle with the Queen. Escthta stepped gingerly into the steaming water, but soon sank into the water easily, accepting the sting of the minerals in his wounds as a necessary evil.

"Those mites are a pain, aren't they?" Cthinde looked at the dark green speckles on Escthta's back. "They got under my harness." Cthinde turned, showing the shadow of mite lesions in the shape of his harness on his back and side. Escthta leaned back against the stone walls, looking across the bath at Rithc'te. "I see you're healing nicely." Rithc'te grunted, and didn't open his eyes or move. Escthta looked at Cthinde and then back at Rithc'te. He sighed and then closed his eyes. "So, what happened while I was out?" He was eager to get back up to speed; missing half the Council disappointed him greatly. He looked forward to all the information from all over the galaxy, and having missed half of it brought his spirits down.
"Well, they're keeping the naming of Leaders for last, as usual. There are 3 Leaderships available for this Council." Cthinde grinned widely at Escthta."Of course, you're a candidate. You got the Guard's skull, after all. Trophies during a Queen's capture are difficult to get. You scored big." Escthta closed his eyes, leaving Cthinde speechless."How did you know?"
Escthta shrugged, rolling his shoulders in the hot water. "I just do."Rithc'te's mandibles twitched softly, and the fleshy folds inside his mouth hummed softly. The snoozing yautja was oblivious. Cthinde rolled his eyes. "He's been doing that all day. I'd rather bathe with a rhynth. Might be more talkative."
Escthta chuckled. "You just can't stand the quiet, can you, Cthinde?"
Cthinde looked affronted. "I just can't stand yautja that sleep all day. It's disgusting." Escthta didn't respond. Cthinde leaned back and tucked his arms behind his head. "I'll tell you one thing, though. Those females get better every year." With his arms out of the water, Escthta could see the scratches and abrasions that were the hallmarks of mating. Cthinde had an unusual amount of them and Escthta could not quash his morbid curiosity. "How many times?" Cthinde howled with satisfaction. "Five!"
Escthta winced in sympathetic pain. "Five in two weeks is a bit much. I'm surprised you can stand."
Cthinde looked nonchalant, rubbing his most recent set of wounds on his chest. "And no broken bones, either." Escthta's mandibles clattered. "What, did you get all virgins?" Cthinde laughed loud, throwing back his head. "And they're ruined for life, Escthta, ruined!" Escthta shook his head, sighing and settling his head back down on the edge of the bath. Cthinde's eyes slid over to his friend, and he played his trump card. "But no one's had your female yet. Unless she's been engaged today." Escthta opened one eye, looking at Cthinde. "My female?"
"The giant you were eyeing at the Opening Ceremonies. I think she's been holding back."
"Oh." He'd forgotten about her- all his dreams had been dark and violent lately, and he had very few pleasurable thoughts apart from the welcoming blankness of wakefulness. He suddenly remembered her in a rush, and he opened his tusks to scent the air in spite of himself. Cthinde cackled. "You do remember her." Escthta breathed in slowly, clearing his head of the desire. He closed his eyes and was lulled to sleep by the sounds of the bath: the softly lapping water, the sizzle of hot rocks in the baths. It soothed him, and for the first time in several days, he felt completely at peace.

xXx

When he awoke, Cthinde and Rithc'te were both gone. He stretched in the water and rubbed his shoulders, feeling the lesions from his mites almost completely healed; without the parasites there to irritate the skin, it took care of itself rather quickly. The bath had quieted down and he stood in the water, pulling his dreadlocks back behind him. He climbed up out of the bath and began ambling slowly toward the exit, feeling utterly content. He slowly became aware that he was not alone in the baths. He stopped in his tracks, his claws dripping water on the stone floors. He turned his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder, and then turned around to face his opponent.

The enormous female stood in front of him, unmasked, and wearing the simple wrap of the bathhouse. It barely fit her huge frame, leaving little coverage for her breasts and the dusky skin of her thighs. Escthta opened his mandibles and scented the air, and was almost overcome with her fragrance. It curled up into his brain and wrapped tight around his pleasure centers, and his body responded. He sucked in more of the air, trying to scent her readiness. She was close. Very close. But it wasn't the scent that told him this. He somehow knew her mind, and he could feel her heartbeat quickening its pace as if it were his own.

"Da-kvar'di," he said, knowing it was her name, but unable to tell how he knew. Her trill, the small muted call of pleasure was music to his ears. It was delicate and feminine, and so attractive in a female of such size and power. His body responded strongly again, urging him to tackle her to the ground. He breathed out slowly, and he began to slide into a battle stance. To his delight, she crouched in a hiju as well, and the wrap, already strained, came unclipped. It fell to the ground, leaving Escthta breathless with her beauty.

Her muscles were held high, in taut relief, and they twitched involuntarily in preparation for his attack. Her breasts were the small, Spartan mounds he'd come to adore. Their flattened shape spoke of her readiness to breed; it meant she had no other sucklings to demand her attention. Her mottled thighs were equally firm, and that patch of darkened skin between them invited his gaze. Escthta's eyes traveled down her length and he at last found the reason for her name, "hunting knife". Her spurs were large and, it appeared, sharpened. He could imagine why; no male would be able to resist her.

Finally, he too, was unable to resist- he threw back his head and made the mating call, the deep, coughing bellow of a male who has found an available female. She roared back at him, accepting his challenge, and they sprang toward each other, each hot with the desire for battle- and each other.

The sounds of exertion filled the large bath chambers, the grunts and roars echoing off the stones. Slaves stopped on their way through and watched the lovers fight, wistful at their carefree courtship. Da-kvar'di was terrible and exquisite; they struggled together, their arms locked, each straining against the other's strength. Escthta stepped aside, flipping her over his head, and turning to try and pin her to the ground. But her form was perfect- she landed in a crouch and sprang forward as he turned. The impact knocked the wind from him, and he winced as she kicked on top of him, her spur leaving a line of green down his thigh. "Careful, now," he admonished, "Wouldn't want to hurt anything." Da-kvar'di's tusks widened in excitement and Escthta took the opportunity to slide his hand up her side gently, his claws plucking her nerves and leaving them singing with sensation. She growled softly, and he took advantage of her distraction to crack his skull against hers. She cried out and he pushed her off of him, taking deep breaths and preparing for his next assault.

Da-kvar'di snarled, blinking as she shook off his last attack. She stepped close, trying short, sharp blows. Escthta matched each one, parrying some and blocking others. The occasional blow snuck through, and he winced as she hit him in the chest. It might be a cracked rib or just a deep bruise, but either way, he'd be feeling it for days. She turned, bringing her leg up in a high-split and dropping her spurred heel on Escthta's shoulder like an axe. The spur punched deep into his muscle and Escthta bellowed in agony. Da-kvar'di's face looked unbearably smug, and she jerked her heel into his muscle. He yelped as the spine grazed bone, but saw his chance. Gripping her leg, he pushed it up. Her balance failed, and she fell backwards. Escthta pulled aside his loincloth and moved up inside her before she could defend herself. She yowled in disappointment, but having lost the fight, curled her legs around his waist and pulled him closer. Escthta's body was on fire, and surrounded by her, his lungs filled with her scent, it was only a few moments before he lost control. The most beautiful face he'd ever seen hissed and she separated from him, crouching and growling low in her throat. Escthta sat in a half-crouch, exhausted and bleeding. Da-kvar'di's aggression decayed into a gentle regard as the estrus lifted, and Escthta's child began to grow. She lay on her side, and Escthta's breathing quickened again to see her long, muscular body stretched out on stone. He sat some meters away, his lust sated, but his body broken. It definitely was a cracked rib; he'd probably spend another week in the infirmary.

Da-kvar'di's trill brought his mind off of his pain. "How did you know my name?" Her voice was a dark, rich alto, slightly husky after their mating. Escthta clicked softly at her. "I can tell many things, it seems," he replied. Although the information being suddenly available confused him, the possession of it felt good. He loved having this knowledge and however it was coming to him, he didn't want it to stop. He dared not name his ability, for fear it would be lost.

Da-kvar'di stretched and rose to one knee, making ready to leave. Escthta grimaced; he needed to get to the infirmary and have his chest bound. "Wait," he grunted as she turned to go. She stopped, lingering until he drew up even with her. He looked up at her, knowing that the afterglow was going to quickly turn into annoyance, and his minutes with her were limited. Her eyes were a languid green, soft with emotion. "The midwife will be waiting for me," she offered, beginning to walk away. It was a valid excuse, but Escthta was not satisfied. He caught her hand and received an angry cuff on the side of his head. He growled softly at her. "Why would a creature like you want me? You could have had anyone you wanted." Da-kvar'di was thoughtful, and when she spoke, it was a quiet tone which Escthta had not heard out of any female. "The Bathyrian spared your life. Any warrior that creature could not kill is a sire I want for my child."