**********

2.

**********

 

"Baby, do you have the matches?" Asked Margaret.

 

Tom nodded. "I have them right here."

 

Chelsea yawned.

 

It was dark when he got home from Chingford. Margaret was there before he was (her offices were in Merton and she didn't finish work until 5:30pm most days) but neither of them gave him shit for it. Today wasn't the day. Instead Tom just told him to take off his shoes (encrusted with mud after traipsing around a forest half the afternoon) put his clothes in the wash then come downstairs for tea. Chelsea went to his bedroom. The window was open for some reason. It was cold though so he shut it. After checking his e-mails and blog he undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his trousers, caught a quick shower then changed into some khaki shorts and a Fallout 4 t-shirt. And now that he was home he pulled the braid out of his hair and let it loose. Chelsea loved letting his hair down. It was really curly and hard to manage (and he found himself biting it when he was nervous) but he liked the way his hair looked when he left it loose. On his Note 4 he had 90+ selfies of him just combing it in front of the bathroom mirror. After changing he went downstairs to a macaroni and cheese meal with Tom and Margaret.

 

The candle lighting wasn't until later on that evening.

 

About 9pm (when all the soaps were done and all the washing was in the dryer) Chelsea, Tom and Margaret went out into the back garden. Since his mother was a bit of green thumb the garden was trim and well-tended, the wooden fences hemmed up by ceramic pots of freesia and dandelions. All Chelsea and Nancy's old play sets (the push chair, the paddling pool, etc.) were locked inside the shed. And in the middle of the garden they had a picnic table shielded over by a yellow and white striped parasol. Chelsea took a seat on it whilst Tom fetched the matches and Margaret brought out a thick lavender candle on top of a circular silver tray. They lit the candle together then took each other's hands.

 

"Dear God," Margaret whispered. "Please watch over our dear Nancy. Keep her in your thoughts as we keep her in our prayers. She was a light to us and always will be. Bless her and keep giving us the strength to go on until the day we finally get to see her again. Amen."

 

Tom went next.

 

"I miss you, Nancy. So much. So terribly. I miss the way you put smiles on everyone's faces, especially mine! I miss hearing you laugh. I miss watching you eat. I miss my beautiful little girl. Understand that wherever you are we're always with you. And you're always with us."

 

And then it was Chelsea's turn.

 

But he didn't want to say anything. He wasn't religious (like Margaret) or spiritual (like Tom). Being in a writer he wasn't in any way inarticulate, he just didn't have anything to say. Both his parents glared at him. Margaret especially. With each second, she looked more and more annoyed by his silence. Her grip tightened around his as if to say; say something. But what could he say knowing what he knew in his heart to be true?

 

The boy couldn't look them in the eyes. They must have thought he was just being cold. Margaret certainly thought that. And on today of all days. But it wasn't like that. And he certainly didn't care less than they did. They may have lost a daughter but they still had a son and they still had each other. Once Nancy was gone Chelsea had no one. The closest person in the world to him was lost and no one could fill that void. No one had any right to.

He didn't want to hurt them. The candle lighting was important to them and Chelsea respected that – but he was sick of lying for their sake when his heart was screaming to him that Nancy was still alive out there.

 

"I can't," said Chelsea.

 

Margaret scoffed. "What do you mean you can't-"

 

"That's enough," said Tom. "Chelsea, if this is too much for you, you don't have to."

 

"Tom! For God's sake, all he has to do is say a few words, he's done it before!"

 

"Yes but you don't have to pressure him into it."

 

"I'm not, I'm-"

 

"May I be excused?" Chelsea interjected. "Please?"

 

Margaret released his hand. Tom glared at her. Chelsea didn't care. He knew why she was mad. From her perspective maybe she had every right to be. But she let him go. Chelsea he went back inside and up the stairs to his bedroom but before he even closed the door the argument kicked off. "You're too lenient with him, Thomas! That's why he keeps acting this way! You're encouraging him!" His Dad shot back, "It's better than bullying him into being something he's not! Maybe he'd open up to us more if you stopped suffocating the bloody boy!"

 

Chelsea threw himself onto his bed, popped two co-codamol, plugged his Sennheisers into his Note 4 and turned up the volume as high as it would go then put on Track 04 – A World of Madness. Fuck this shit, he thought ruefully. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit!

 

**********

 

It was on that night (May 9^th 2016) that it first made contact with Chelsea Rice.

 

**********

 

It was 12:07am.

 

An hour earlier Tom and Margaret had stopped arguing. From then they washed the dishes, emptied the dryer and shut off the lights (all in silence). Half an hour later they went to bed with a slammed door. Chelsea was only partially aware this as he buried himself in anything his room had to offer. He played Arkham Knight for a bit, then Dark Souls 3 (before hitting a bit of an impasse with the Dancer of the Boreal Valley and rage quitting) then watched some Wolf Hall. None of it had blocked out Tom and Margaret's bickering. So he went back to music (donning his headphones and cranking up the volume on The Dismemberment Plan) and resumed his work on the Seventeen Man-Brides of Agaroth.

 

The boy-exile, he wrote, called for his caravan to make camp at the first sight of the moon and forged a laager inside the nearest copse. The thicket walls provided firewood and good cover for his men to watch for intruders and (as game was unusually bountiful here) before long they had some skinned hares roasting over a cooking fire. All ate heartily. Yet he warned his spearmen to remain watchful. The road from Nok to Berumbaal was a long and dangerous one, much as his uncle servant had warned him.

 

"I suggest not following the Black Road," the Black Road being the region's main thoroughfare. "We should make our way through the bog lands. A longer journey to be sure but far safer."

 

The prince concurred. With the King's fall and the subsequent dissolution of the Nokian army, the roads had become feeding grounds for bandits and slavers. Without their goods they had nothing to offer Agaroth. The boy heard tell that the sorcerer once turned down an offer of marriage from the nephew of the God Emperor of the East because his dowry of eighteen silverback war horses was `palpably insufficient'. Would the offer of a kingdom be enough to woo Agaroth?

 

The boy-exile slept unwell wondering.

 

The following morning his caravan broke camp and made for the bog lands of Tur. They left the forest and took a dirt path by the lowlands that stretched clear of the Black Road by six miles. And with their horses so well rested the excursion was over by the high sun. But their great progress was hampered when they came across a checkpoint.

 

Not so much a checkpoint actually, more a sweeping 15-foot-high log-and-rope bulwark stretching from one end of the forest to the other. Crossbowmen stood guard by makeshift crenels. There were 20-foot-high watchtowers every 50 yards but only one gate. At the rampart above it sat a fat man in a half helm, muddy steel greaves and a black tabard. He scratched his beard nonchalantly.

 

"Who goes there?" Yelled the fat man's man-at-arms. "I say who goes there?"

 

The boy-exile and his uncle servant rode at the head of their caravan. Both were moved to speak on the other's behalf but only one had the authority to do so, the boy. "I am Aleithor Kortayne, foreign vassal of the burgher's guild at the Salt Sea Ports," Such a smoothly cut lie. "I have come to strike trade with a Tilesian silk merchant in Berumbaal some four moons hence... if I will be so allowed. Might I ask to whom I speak?"

 

The man-at-arms gestured to the fat man. "You have the honour of addressing Lord Gharlin! Toll keeper of the eastern barricade and liege lord of the Bog of Tur!"

 

`A puffed ex-soldier', thought the boy-exile. Who else but an up-jumped baseborn would be so proud as to declare himself lord of a bog? No doubt he was someone's captain during the King's Fall, someone promised a title for helping stab his father in the back. Men like this were the downfall of Nok. "Lord Gharlin does me a great honour in receiving me."

 

Gharlin whispered something into his man-at-arms' ear. He shouted back, "Lord Gharlin declares that he has not yet received you and bids you state your business!"

 

`I have already stated it,' thought the prince, contemptuously. "The Black Road is too dangerous for traders. We request passage through the eastern barricade so that we may conduct our affairs in peace. We are more than willing to pay the toll."

 

Gharlin leered at the boy. Rather than speak through his aide (as he had done thus far) he dragged his fat shanks off his stool and stood upright, scratching at his peppercorn beard with a grin-full of yellowing giblet teeth. "What have you to pay?"

 

There was a pouch on his uncle servant's belt that he opened for the toll keeper to look.

 

"100 golds," said the boy-exile. "May we pass?"

 

Gharlin grin deepened. "Aye. But you will pay first. You and you alone, `Aleithor Kortayne'."

 

Angered by the very thought, his uncle servant reached for his scimitar and his guards took up their spears -- in turn the crossbowmen at the bulwark took position at their crenels. Gharlin did not flinch. He may have been witless human swine but he had the advantage and he knew it. They could only pass on his terms. So the fallen prince raised a hand and his guards stood down. Gharlin did the same and his soldiers stepped away from the crenels. The boy then took the gold pouch from his uncle servant and nodded "yes" to the toll keeper's demands.

 

"OPEN THE GATES!" Yelled the man-at-arms.

 

Gharlin descended the rampart's steps as the bulwark's internal mechanisms whirled together in cacophonous harmony to open its thick arched doors. The boy-exile gave his uncle servant a reassuring paean, "I will be fine," and coaxed his gelding inward.

 

Beyond the wall the eastern barricade was mistakable for a war-time fortification. Between the first and secondary walls was an 80-foot-wide tract full of barracks, armouries, kilns, wells, tents, cooking spits and latrines. There were perhaps as many as fifty men in this area alone and they were not lightly equipped either. All wore boiled leather armour and broadswords as well as cowhide cloaks to shield them from the weather. Not even in his father's day was a checkpoint so well manned.

 

The boy-exile dismounted and asked one of the soldiers to take his horse. Then Gharlin appeared.

 

"Come with me," he said grinning.

 

His quarters were a log cabin built against the southern side of the barricade. It was decorated with rams' skulls, elk horns and buckskins. There were no tables or chairs but a cowhide rug and a straw pallet with goat's wool pillows astride a well stoked hearth. There was an ewer of wine and two goblets atop a ledge.

 

Gharlin closed the door behind them.

 

"If I may be so bold," the boy-exile forced himself to be mannerly to this scoundrel, "You desire an extra fee, correct?"

 

"Correct."

 

So typical. Skim an extra 40 or 50 golds out of the traders and neither his men nor his master need know about it. Luckily the boy escaped Nok before the traitors broke open the treasury. He took a second pouch of gold out his robes and tossed both at the toll keeper's feet. "That's 200 in total. More than a fair price for our passage."

 

Gharlin grinned and disregarded the coin as though it were a fallen crust of bread. Instead he went over to the ledge and nonchalantly poured himself a goblet of wine. "I ain't so sure that's a fair price," declared the fat soldier. "I've had Salt Sea merchants pay me far more than a few hundred golds, boy. I dare say you've got more in that caravan of yours. Do you not?"

 

`Wretched bastard,' thought the prince. "What do you want?"

 

Gharlin's smile darkened. He sloshed the wine about his cup a moment, eying the boy over from foot to toe, then swallowed it down in one gulp and wiped his beard clean. He took slow clunking steps forward until the gap between the two of them was as thin as a blade. The boy did not back away. He thought Gharlin meant to intimidate him. `I am crown prince of Nok,' he thought. `I shall not be bullied by some baseborn lout with a false lordship! I am-'

 

"Take off your robes," ordered Gharlin.

 

The boy paused. "I-I beg your pardon?"

 

"You think your birth's beyond my ken? You call yourself a Salt Sea Trader with a fucking Nokian accent? You ain't going to Berumbaal for trade, boy, you fancy yourself Agaroth's next whore."

 

He underestimated this man! The boy-exile stepped back, his lie exposed, his uncle servant and his guards nowhere close enough to help. "You can't do this..."

 

Gharlin eyed the boy's supple neck. "Care to wager?"

 

"I am going to be the seventeenth bride of Agaroth," he said.

 

"Not tonight you're not," The toll keeper's slap came so suddenly it knocked the boy off his feet. The boy-exile cried out and fell backwards into Gharlin's bedding, his cheek flushing red instantaneously. "Now take off your robes."

 

"Agaroth won't stand for-"

 

"You ain't even won his favour yet. Reckon you'd ever win it if I made my men slaughter your guards, steal your goods and send you packing? A pauper without a dowry?"

 

There was no reasoning with him. He knew without knowing that this bastard had done this before. Screaming, the boy leapt to his feet for the door but before he even had four steps to the ground, Gharlin's massive arm reached around and snatched his own, hurling him like a doll back down onto the bedding. He cried out in some vain hope that his uncle servant might hear him until Gharlin pushed two of his massive fingers into the boy's mouth. The fat soldier climbed on top of him and licked at his face. It was no use resisting him. Though fat and jowly, battle-hardened muscled sat beneath Gharlin's flesh. Soldiers did not become lords without some degree of strength or martial skill.

 

"Please!" whimpered the boy in muffled tones, "Please Lord Gharlin...!"

 

He grinned. "Oh, don't fret none. You can keep your maidenhead. I ain't so unchivalrous as all that. Your mouth will do. Now. Take. Off. Your Robes."

 

Chelsea wasn't sure where to go with the boy-exile's current predicament. Having him `soiled' before Agaroth got a taste felt counter-intuitive. Maybe he could devise a quick escape for the boy? Perhaps the war horns would suddenly sound and some organized bandits with falchions and climbing hooks would attack the checkpoint from the south – and give the prince's caravan an opportunity to escape? It made sense. Bandit raids justified the wall's being so heavily manned (especially during such social upheaval as the King's Fall). Why not?

 

Chelsea yawned.

 

He had school tomorrow and he was satisfied with what he'd written. Maybe it was better to sleep now and update the chapter tomorrow? That sounded like a plan. Chelsea stretched out his arms, saved the chapter, then shut down his PC. Once again his window was open without him even being aware of it. Chelsea shut it then drew the curtains and walked over to his bathroom. He shivered (the chequered tiles were chilly on his bare feet). The metal hoops around the rung screeched as he pulled open his shower curtains and twisted the red dial. A patter of hot water gushed down. Chelsea left it to run as he got his clothes off. He crossed his thin arms over his stomach and pulled his Fallout 4 t-shirt over his head then unbuttoned his khaki shorts and stepped out of them (one leg after the other). Then he hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic of his navy blue boxers, pulled them off, and snuck softly inside the shower compartment. There was some Palmolive and blackberry-scented Original Source on the shelf inside. He mixed the two together to soap himself up with, running the lather up and down his arms, neck, chest, stomach, bum, penis and legs. Afterwards he scrubbed at himself with a soaking sponge. Fifteen minutes later Chelsea came out refreshed as hell to towel himself off in the mirror.

 

He glared at his reflection.

 

Chelsea was never really happy with his body. He had dark smatters of freckles all over his chest, nose and forearms (which he didn't hate) but because his skin was so pale and milky, they stood out too much -- especially on his chest. That skin was largely hairless aside from the light brown fuzz along his legs and the ginger-brown tuffs of pubic hair around his cock. His feet were too thin and long (his toes may as well have been French fries topped with marmite) and there was an ironing board where his arse should have been. A guy online once told him that that was good for sex – that it was easier for a cock to go deep inside a flat arse – but it wasn't very pretty to look at. He wasn't gaining any muscle anywhere. His eyes were green but they were such a dark green that they may as well have been black and his lips weren't kissable – they were colour of turkey flesh and far too thin.

 

The only thing he REALLY liked about his body was his hair.

 

It was huge and puffy and curly, the sort that more ought to be growing out of a mixed race girl's scalp than a white lad's. He'd been growing it out for a while now and loved how it looked no matter what he did with it. It looked cute if ponytailed and beautiful when left loose. It looked sexy when it was wet, sticking to his skin in treacly black tresses. Chelsea loved his hair. The only thing that mattered was keeping it long.

 

A slightly younger, much dumber version of Chelsea Rice once took pictures of himself (naked like this) and posted them on Tumblr. `Taffy Trap' he called himself. Sometimes he spent hours finding the right angles for some coquettish pose to post and comment, "Just a quick pic for ya". Was it worth it? For 500+ likes, 40+ "you're so stunning, Taffy" comments and 20+ private messages along the lines of "I wanna fuck your fucking brains out, you sexy slut", it was at the time. It only stopped being worth it when some weirdo hacked his e-mails and threatened to come to his house.

 

Still. Feeling wanted was nice.

 

Chelsea thought about Jonno for a moment. His cock wobbled, threatening to get stiff. But he only blushed and ignored the temptation to touch himself, more out of defiance than willpower. That walking arsehole wasn't worth one fucking drop of spilt cum. No. Chelsea cleared his mind with a deep breath then went back into his room, opened up his drawers, slipped on a fresh pair of pants as well as the bottoms and top of some red PJs. He shut off the light and crawled beneath his bed covers. A few minutes later he drifted off.

 

So he didn't notice the chill that crept through the air.

 

A sliver of ice it was like, moving through the room despite the locked doors and windows, passing over Chelsea's half-slumbering body. If he were awake, he might have felt the goose bumps prickling across his skin or the hair up his legs standing on end, one after the other, like little soldiers saluting a corporal. But he slept on in some captivating dream involving Jonno and himself on a sandy beach doing things to each other his girlfriend would never condone. He was so deeply lost in that dream that he didn't notice his blanket turning itself upright from one of its corners and slowly hoisting itself into the air until it threw it itself off the bed.

 

Chelsea felt the loss in a chill and turned over.

 

But he was still lost in his dreams. A cool touch only made him sigh.

 

If he were awake, he might think someone's fingers had just tenderly caressed his cheek.

 

If he were awake, he might have noticed those same `fingers' take his maroon-coloured pyjama bottoms by their ankles and carefully pull them down his legs. He might have noticed the same being done with his pants. He might have noticed the sensation of a `mouth' closing around his penis and sucking it.

 

Chelsea moaned in his sleep.

 

Absently. Unaware. His mind did not realize what was being done to his body because what was being done to his body was too similar to what was occurring in his dreams. But dreams could not stop his body from reacting without permission to the unbridled pleasure it was being subjected to. Chelsea's toes curled, his back arched and little sighs of pleasure escaped his lips. In the waking world he would have cried out in bliss. In his dreams he was ravaged by Jonno. But the pleasure... it was no dream. And `It'...

 

...It was not Jonno.

 

**********

 

"Fuck you, Jonno," that was what Chelsea whispered to himself when he woke up the next morning and saw the state the lower half of his body was in... i.e. covered in cum. It crusted over during the night and it was everywhere. All over his cock and balls and his peachy fuzz pubes, all down the sides of his legs, all over the bottom half of his pyjama tops, all over his bedding in wet patches. His pyjama bottoms were down his ankles and his duvet was hanging off the back of his desk chair. Chelsea barely remembered half of his dream but it must have been a banger for him to do this to himself in his sleep. And so much cum! You'd think he hadn't touched himself in a week (which wouldn't be true: just two days ago he'd fapped to an MKV of Rocco Steele pumping Aaron Aurora cock-first into a leather sofa).

 

Fuck you Jonno, he thought again. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! Embarrassed (and half-worried Tom or Margaret might walk in on him like this) Chelsea lumbered out of bed into the bathroom to clean himself up.

 

After showering and dressing, packing his textbooks and pencil case, Chelsea went down to a breakfast plate of scrambled eggs, streaky bacon, half an orange and a bistro glass full of Nescafe gold blend. Tom sat with a plate of his own but his mother was nowhere to be seen.

 

"Before you ask, your mother's gone to work early," Tom said. "Did we keep you up?"

 

"No," said Chelsea.

 

"Good. Listen, your Grandma called this morning. She wants us to go see her up in Nottingham this week. Your mother doesn't particularly want to go but the company will do her good and we both agreed that you're old enough and mature enough to be here on your own."

 

They're leaving me alone for the weekend? "O-okay."

 

If he had friends it would have been the perfect opportunity for a house party. But Tom and Margaret knew better – Chelsea wouldn't spend his weekends any differently than he already did – except maybe ordering an extra takeaway or two.

 

"Eat up. I'm making a move after this."

 

The boy nodded. "Okay."

 

"I left your packet lunch in the fridge so don't forget to take it," Tom's tone was short. He wasn't the type to blame his kids for his arguments (and Chelsea knew better to blame himself for what went on between Tom and Margaret) but he was what they were arguing about. But what was he supposed to do? Lie to them and pretend Nancy was dead? Again? Why did he have to feel guilty about not wanting to lie? Why did-

 

"By the way there was a package for you yesterday," Tom said. He handed Chelsea a small, rectangular parcel in wrapped in tape and string -- which was odd because he wasn't expecting anything from Amazon or eBay or the like.

 

When nothing was left of his plate but ketchup smears, Tom dropped it into the sink then grabbed his coat and car keys from the corridor. He gave his son some simple instructions (do the dishes, turn off the heating, and lock the door) then left for work. Chelsea was immediately curious about the parcel. What was it? The second Tom was gone he climbed onto the sofa and unpackaged it. It was a book.

 

A burnt book.

 

The cover and binding were charred black, some of its pages were so singed they crumpled to ash the instant he turned one. There was no title and the pages were so blackened he couldn't make out any of the writing. There were some odd symbols that were just about legible though – pentagrams and some chicken scratch attempt at... algorithms maybe? But that was all.

 

What the hell? The boy thought. Why would someone send me a burnt book? Seemed like the sort of dumb joke Jonno would make – but what was the punchline supposed to be? Either way Chelsea was about ready to toss it – until something fell out from inside the cover. Chelsea took it up. It was a piece of paper with two addresses handwritten on either side, but when Chelsea Googled both on his Note 4...

 

Is someone fucking with me? He thought. Because the first was to an address that did not exist anywhere online and the second was to a bloody CEX! Did his prankster try to leave him an invitation and get confused? The boy sighed. He just didn't get people sometimes. Why would someone go to so much trouble just to send him nonsense? Whose idea of fun was this?

 

Maybe he would find out.

 

**********

·      Thanks for reading! Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome, feel free to e-mail me at stephenwormwood@yahoo.com.

·      Please see my other stories on Nifty, Wulf's Blut and The Dying Cinders (gay/sf-fantasy).