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Sand in the Observatory is available on Amazon (paperback) and Kindle (digital file).
This is my second novel, but my first gay (not lesbian) one, and it’s self-published because I’m small and selfish (not so good with editting to other company's specifics). It’s an usual sort of book, with a slow but hopefully rewarding pace. It’s about three men trapped on a deserted island, two opposing soldiers and one mute, and sex and growing feelings ensue. Short chapters; 63k; light bedtime reading. Though it always feels consensual in every sense but the spoken word, a mute character with a language barrier requires me to say: Trigger Warning for technical dubious consent. SpesAbrin was a wonderful beta to me, and hopefully her advice and help shows. ♥
Below is a short preview. You can ask me any questions or comments on my blog, yeaka.tumblr.com. Bonus content can be found here. Thank you to everyone who’s ever been nice about any of my stories. :)
Warnings + tags (for full book): Technical dubious consent, anal sex, oral sex, soldiers, threesomes.
Chapter 1 (preview)
The air’s full of salt and lightening, and the wind whips Dov’s hair into his eyes. He can’t hear what his captain’s shouting over the roar of the waves, can’t hear the deckhand’s cries over the thunder; he can’t even hear the soldier beside him over the boom of the cannons. One minute he’s trying to load and the next he’s just trying to stand.
Then a great wave tips the whole ship aside, and men are stumbling to the floorboards all around him. He sees it but has no time to react. He loses balance with his hand on the mast and hits the deck with blinding force, the ice-cold water just barely padding his head from cracking open. It’s all too quick and unrelenting to even swear. A cannonball flies overhead and the lightning lights it up, loud enough to deafen him, drowning out his spluttering and gasps. His lungs are burning.
He tries to stand, but the water slips him down to the side of the ship, and he’s rushed helplessly along, twisting onto his back. He barely manages to grab the splitting railing, clutching to it for dear life, and it’s just enough to keep him from tumbling into the depths below. A soldier beside him isn’t so lucky and topples over the planks, plunging down into the ocean with a piercing, swallowed-up shriek. Dov screams and shoots his hand out on instinct, but it’s a useless effort; the man’s dead. Everyone and everything around him is howling, and it’s a struggle just to breathe, worse to get back to his feet. But he’s a soldier, and he has to. This is all he has.
There isn’t any thought to the enemy anymore. Barely any thought at all. It’s sheer survival. They’re all soaked through and shaking with cold and adrenaline and seeping pain from being thrown about and bashed into wood. The storm’s too monstrous, and it’ll have their boat in pieces if luck isn’t with them. Ropes are flying past him, and a group of men are scrambling to tie up the mast of a falling sail.
Dov takes a step towards them, but the water gets him again—another wave over the side—and this time it’s too much. It catches him like a hurricane, consuming his scream, sweeps him right over the edge of the ship, tosses him wildly right over everything. He shuts his mouth against the onslaught, but the pressure squeezes at his head and blinds him, twisting him inhumanly. The impact feels like concrete.
It’s chaos. He has no concept of where he is in the water and which way is up; the currents carry him beyond recognition. When the lightning cracks, it makes everything glow.
He has to make it to the surface. He knows that. Has to breathe. His limbs are aching from the strain of fighting a natural horror, and his chest is struggling to pump life into him, his lungs collapsing. His head is pounding, and it’s all murky.
There’s a moment where he tries. Twists around and lets the water carry him up. Then a current turns him upside down and a plank of wood torn from one of the ships whips into him. Everything loses focus, going grey, then black.
When he comes back in, he’s still underwater. The storm’s still going. Nothing’s changed. Something’s tugging at him, pulling him, and he doesn’t have any power to stop it. Something thin around his waist, something small against his body. Dragging him. His eyes sting. His ears are ready to burst. His lips part and water rushes in—he might be drowning.
There are strange shapes all around him. Suspended bits of boats and some larger, moving things—giant fish? Monsters. He irrationally wonders if a shark has gotten him, and he’s too delirious to realize he’s being eaten. There’s so much pain that he’s gone numb. But he thinks there are fingers tugging at his clothes, and sharks don’t have fingers. His dark hair is swishing all around him, bubbles rushing up. He can’t hear anything but the dull, pounding rhythm in his head.
His head’s above the water. Suddenly and inexplicably. He gasps for breath on instinct, throat filling and spluttering up saltwater, his hair slicked down around his face, his clothes clinging to his body. His shoes are weighing him down. His whole uniform is. The waves are wild, and the next minute they’ve enveloped him again, but he’s being tugged through it, steadily along. Whatever’s got him isn’t letting up. He tries to keep his mouth and his nose in the air, but the wind and the ocean don’t make it easy. The sky is breaking up and horrible.
Dov’s dragged until his feet are scraping rock, until he’s limp against tide-beaten stone, pulled through uneven water. He feels like a lifeless corpse being escorted to his grave. His legs aren’t working, and his brain doesn’t seem able to send the correct signals. It feels like it’s been an eternity. He can barely see anything; his vision comes and goes.
He’s in between consciousness and utter nothingness. He’s going to die. He loses track of everything, comes back in again.
Something hovers above him. It’s pale and light, leaning over, brushing his bangs off his forehead and holding his chest. He’s lying in the warm, damp sand. Dov has no clarity. His body stings like ice, and even when he tries to force himself to concentrate, the best he can get is hazy yellow hair and glowing, bright eyes. It sounds sweet—maybe his ears have given out.
Then he loses; the darkness wins.
Chapter 2 (preview)
Coming back to consciousness is a tedious process. His eyelids are inordinately heavy, and his limbs don’t seem to want to move. He’s sore in too many places to count, and he feels numb in his extremities.
At first, Dov’s sure he’s dead. There’s a foggy memory of the battle, both against the enemy and the storm. He fell into the ocean, and it swallowed him. He still feels damp around the edges, his pants clinging to his skin a little too much and his shirt... his shirt’s open. There’s something tight around his chest—bandages? The texture feels new.
Dov wills his eyes open, slowly, unsure of what he’ll find. Maybe the fires of hell. He certainly hasn’t earned a place in heaven. Instead, he finds himself looking up at a dark green canopy. Leaves?
Dov tries to sit up and immediately regrets it. He only gets a dozen centimeters or so before he collapses back down, breathing heavier than he should be. Definitely alive, at least. He shifts his sore neck around to look at his surroundings—strange tree trunks and large, woven-together leaves. He seems to be in some sort of makeshift hut, and the floor below him is an oddly comfortable bed of leaves. He doesn’t recognize any of the foliage; but then, plants have never been his concern.
His first thought is panic, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. His head lolls back again, and he takes a minute to breathe.
He’s definitely not on the ship anymore. It must be ruined. It was half ruined already when he was thrown from it. He knew he had little hope—they all did. He must’ve washed ashore. He doesn’t know how that’s possible. Others must’ve survived—someone saved him—but this isn’t like anything he recognizes. Not the bandages, the hut. No, they must be dead. He grits his teeth and tells himself they were soldiers, all set to die anyway. He didn’t know anyone well. So where did this come from? Suspicion washes into him, tinged with the uneasiness of the unknown. He’s not afraid, exactly. He’s braver than that, but... he’s definitely lost.
He needs more information. He sets back to looking around. There is no wall at his feet. It opens up into the general forest, comprised of tropical-looking plants and trees, so thick that he can’t see the floor beneath. The darkness swallows the further recesses, and he can just barely see a patch of stars through the treetops. No lights or fires. Dov tries again to get a better look, because he isn’t one to accept helplessness so easily.
He stops halfway up on his elbows to take a breather. Then he grits his teeth and forces himself up the rest of the way; he needs to know where he is and what’s going on. What happened in the battle. If either side survived; if he needs to find others or hunt others. Climbing to his feet is a tiresome affair. It hurts, but he pushes. The roof stops just short of his head. He leans one hand against a tree trunk for support, clutching a sudden stitch in his side. His knees feel weak, but he’s not about to let a little discomfort hold him back.
His first step out, his foot finds dirt through the bushes. He notices belatedly that he’s barefoot, and he twists back around to spot his boots in the back of the hut. They look too sodden to bother with. The rest of his uniform is still mostly intact, other than his shirt being open and the strange bandages. It doesn't seem like the sort of medical supplies Gaia uses, and that makes him nervous.
Wherever he is, it isn’t cold. The air is thick and warm, and a few exotic scents reach him when he strains. The only sounds are the faint chirping of crickets and the stray call of a far-off bird. Nothing he recognizes. The next step makes him double over against another tree.
Before he can try a third, something slips through the leaves to his right—Dov whirls around and reaches instinctively for his hip, but his sword isn’t there. His own movements make him stumble, and the figure darts for him in a flash, catching him before he topples over.
Dov tries to pull back, but he doesn’t have the strength. He’s lightly held up and supported, full of care.
It’s a man. A small, thinner, shorter man who looks a few years younger than Dov. Almost a boy, or maybe that’s just the softness. His blond hair catches in the starlight, and his blue eyes are wide and curious. His skin is pale, features gentle, and he’s only wearing a loose set of plain white, wrapped pants. They don’t look normal. For either side.
Tense, (and better safe than sorry) Dov pushes the man away, succeeding this time. The man stumbles back a step or two, and Dov, sorting through all the questions in his head, decides the most important is: “Who are you?” His voice comes out raspy and strained.
The man tilts his head but doesn’t answer. He makes another move forward, as though to help Dov up, but Dov shoots out the hand he isn’t using to hold his stomach. The man pauses where he is, standing gracefully and not even a bit defensively, let alone offensively.
Peculiar; Dov’s as braced as he can be in this state for an attack. Dov tries a second time, “Who are you?” Then, “What side do you fight for?”
The man can’t be Terran. If he were, he wouldn’t be bandaging Dov up. That’s assuming, though, that this man is the owner of the hut and the things around his chest are bandages. The man looks too young to be a soldier, anyway. Unless Terra’s getting desperate. But Dov doesn’t like to take chances. He’s on edge while he waits for answers that don’t seem to be coming.
“What’s your name?” The man doesn’t answer. “Is that your shelter?” Dov gestures vaguely behind himself. The man points at the hut, then at himself.
A mute, perhaps. Either that or someone maddeningly opposed to speech. Or perhaps someone who doesn’t speak Pangaean. Just to be sure, Dov asks, “Do you come from Gaia or Terra?” But the man has no reaction to either word. He has no reaction to anything. He stands where he is, blinking cutely at Dov, pure and open and nowhere near what Dov’s used to.
Just Dov’s luck. He tries to school his frown into check, pulling back his frustrated scowl. He wants to think it’s just his luck to get stuck with a mute, but then, his luck can’t be that bad, or he’d be dead. It seems unlikely anyone else survived, now. There’re no other huts in sight. And he’s sure plenty of others went overboard. Damn.
That means that everyone he knew is probably dead. He knew that, but seeing that his saviour’s not Gaian and there’s no one else around is still a hit. He leans further back against the tree. Shit. He didn’t even know all of them, barely a handful. All the soldiers he worked with. They all formed bonds, but he.... He didn’t really have any friends, didn’t get along, never really was one for people, but... it’s still a big hit. He tells himself again that that’s what happens in wars and tries to steel over. It doesn’t matter. That probably means the Terran ship’s gone, too. So now he’s just got to... find some way to report back to the next assignment... or survive, mostly.
He lifts a hand to his forehead. His head’s swimming.
He doesn’t know how to get back, because he doesn’t know where he is. The battle wasn’t anywhere near any known land. He looks at the blond again and shakes his head.
He needs answers. But that means this man will have to open up and opt out of silence. Dov repeats, “What’s your name?” But this time he points to the man while he says it. Then he puts his hand on his chest, enunciating clearly, “Corporal Dov Tlon.”
The man mouths something short, but no sound comes out.
Dov repeats, “Dov,” and the man mouths it again. Dov holds out his hand, gesturing towards the man’s chest.
Pausing, as though in discovery, the man turns around and points at the sky, up between the trees. Dov squints at them. That isn’t very helpful. He’s staring at the stars for several seconds before he realizes that he recognizes them, if vaguely. He peers forward, squinting to be sure. He’s never been good with stars, but he’s fairly certain he’s seen that constellation before. At least he’s still on Pangaea, even if he can’t figure anything more specific out.
So, the stars? Dov snorts to himself. Can’t be right. He says aloud, “Cassiopeia.”
The man smiles and points at himself. Dov repeats, “Cassiopeia.” It earns him a cute nod and a warm smile. Well, that’s something.
That’ll have to do. Unless Dov wants to treat this stranger like a dog and randomly come up with a name to assign him, that is. Even if he is acting like little more than a dog, cuddling up to a wounded soldier with no eye for the danger. It’s lucky Cassiopeia didn’t find a Terran soldier instead.
Cassiopeia. It’s probably better than anything Dov would’ve come up with, anyway. He opens his mouth to ask if he can say, ‘Cass’ instead, but another sudden stab of pain sends him almost to the ground. The man—Cassiopeia—darts forward and catches him just in time, supporting his weight. He tries to shove Cassiopeia away—he doesn’t need help—but his body’s not fully cooperating.
Holding him carefully, Cassiopeia helps him straighten up to his feet. He’s wrapped in soft arms and begrudgingly walked back to the hut, where he’s gently pushed back down. Cassiopeia draws a pile of leaves from the corner, bunching them up and tenderly placing them under Dov’s head like a pillow. Dov grunts, “Thank you,” because he isn’t a complete ingrate. At least he’s found a helpful mute.
Cassiopeia smiles down at him and brushes his dark bangs aside. The name fits well; even in the shadows of the hideaway, the smaller man stands out like a beacon of light. His pale skin almost seems to shine against the darkness, like some fallen, humanoid star, and there’s something soothing in his presence. A more serene individual than what Dov’s used to, anyway. Cassiopeia puts his hand lightly on Dov’s chest before straightening back up to his feet, and Dov tries to just accept the contact.
When Cassiopeia tries to leave again, Dov grabs for his hand, missing in a hazy state. Dov wasn’t done, needs more answers, used to want to be alone, but not like this, not in all mysteries in the middle of nowhere when he’s weak and anything could be out there. Cassiopeia smiles soothingly at him but still moves.
Cassiopeia walks back out of the hut, ducking around the corner in the direction he first came from. Dov’s forced to lie where he is, too in pain to bother getting up again. He tells himself that at least it seems safe, but that’s a small comfort. Or at least, the bandages must indicate good intentions. Now that he’s waiting here, he puts his chin on his chest to get a better look at them, trying to figure out what material they’re made out of, wanting some clue, anything. Naturally, he gets nothing.
Cassiopeia reappears a few moments later, carrying a small, wooden bowl. It’s carved very primitively, not smooth or even. Cassiopeia sits down next to Dov’s shoulder and carefully moves the bandages aside, unwrapping the top layer to loosen it first. Then he scoops a green sort of paste out of the bowl, leaning over to spread it across Dov’s chest.
Dov isn’t one to be inherently scared of the unknown, but this gives cause. He is, after all, one to be wary. It could be poison. But the paste feels surprisingly cool and relaxing. It doesn’t hurt at all. That doesn’t negate poison, but at least if he does die from it, it’ll be peacefully. Dov wonders vaguely if he should chase Cassiopeia off just in case, but he ultimately decides he’s too weary to fuss. He lifts his hand back to his head. What a nightmare.
Cassiopeia’s soft hands sooth over his skin, warm and comforting even through the headache. They trace over all his muscles, his chest and his six-pack, dipping down the curve of his stomach. When Cassiopeia’s fingers stray too low down his abdomen, fingertips nudging the hem of his pants, Dov sits up on his elbow and swats them away, cheeks a little red automatically. He’s got enough problems without that in the mix. Cassiopeia hesitates before returning, this time to a higher area. Clearly, it’s just healing.
Which makes Dov feel stupid. Ugh, he’s a mess. He tries to will his temperature back down; there isn’t any need to be embarrassed either way. He’s just shirtless and cautious. It isn’t like he’s never been shirtless in front of another man before. He’s got a good body, anyway. His eyes dart sideways before he can stop them; so much for that.
Cassiopeia’s shirtless, too, even though he isn’t half so toned. He’s thin and lithe, and as he leans over to smear more paste into Dov’s side, his pants slide a few centimeters down his hip.
Dov looks away again, staring up at the ceiling. He almost died, all his crewmates are dead, he’s stuck with an unhelpful, helpless saviour, and his moronic head still wants to notice how attractive that saviour is.
It’s hard not to notice, though, with gentle hands caressing his chest, rolling cream around his nipples and brushing the tails of his shirt aside. In some ways, it’s almost like a massage. With all the stress to his body and mind, he could use that. Cassiopeia’s blond bangs tumble into his blue eyes as he works, and his halcyon aura ebbs the physical tension, at least, out of Dov’s muscles, one by one. Dov finds his eyelids heavy again before he’s ready for it; he has too many unanswered questions to fall asleep so soon.
But his body doesn’t seem to care about that. He loses consciousness a dozen minutes later, listening to the quiet sounds of a distant bird.
Chapter 3 (preview)
It’s still dark when Dov’s eyes open again. He’s alone in the hut—he rolls around to be sure—it’s just him, his boots, and the empty wooden bowl beside him. The bandages have been replaced, and a few stray beads of sweat have welled up on his chest from the muggy air. The paste that was rubbed on him, assuming he didn’t dream it all, is gone. It doesn’t hurt as much. He isn’t hungry or, surprisingly, even thirsty. His head’s even clearer. He feels as though he doesn’t have injuries for the bandages to cover, but he doesn’t want to peel them off and check, just in case.
“Cass?” Because it’s easier than the full thing.
No answer.
Dov climbs to his bare feet slowly, trying not to disrupt the woven leaf floor too much. He’s quiet out of habit, and his ears are wide open as he cautiously steps out from under the canopy. Maybe now he can actually get a look around, find out if this is some sort of Terran encampment or not, as unlikely as he knows that is. He needs to make sense of it somehow.
His sword isn’t anywhere around. He’s sure it was on his hip on the boat, but who knows what the water did with it. Being fairly certain that he didn’t dream it, Dov’s instinct is to call for the man who tended to him. Obviously, that ointment worked. But Dov’s resolutely quiet; it’s never good to give away one’s position in unknown territory. He still doesn’t recognize a single bush or tree, but there’s no definite proof that this isn’t somewhere on Terra.
Only one way to find out, though. Dov isn’t the sort to just lie around and wait for things, especially with how unlikely answers are to come; Cass seemed not to have any. Dov takes a few careful steps, peering through the trees on either side, trying to figure out where to go. The green is too dense to see very far, and the darkness isn’t helping.
Before taking off, Dov finds a particularly large tree with rod-straight limbs. He snaps off a sizeable branch and tears off the leaves. Not a sword by any means, but it’ll have to do. There’s no telling what sort of wildlife is around. He’s yet to meet an animal he couldn’t take down, but there’s no sense walking around unarmed.
Picking a direction is mostly guesswork. He generally has a good internal compass, and he goes with his gut. It veers him off to the left, and he climbs vigilantly around the trees, keeping track of the way lest he need to find the hut again. There’s no telling if he’ll actually find anything, but Cass had to come from somewhere, and Dov can find his own answers.
After a few minutes, it becomes obvious that he’s not as miraculously cured as he’d hoped. His bones are still weary, but he still presses on, ignoring the various aches and pains that slowly creep back up beneath his skin. He’s a soldier, and he doesn’t let inconveniences slow him down.
He’s walking for a good several dozen minutes before he actually hears anything other than the occasional chirping bug or calling bird. It’s so dull at first that he picks up speed to double check, but it’s a very familiar rhythm. A few more minutes and he’s sure of it—it’s water.
The ocean. It’s the most likely thing, anyway. He can’t be that far from it. He’s almost sprinting before he can stop himself, but he has to slow down again too soon—it’s too hot to run and his knees are too weak. Then the trees start to thin, the pale moonlight overhead growing stronger and stronger. He sees the water before he’s hit the edge of the forest, and he breaks out into a run again. The pebbles and dirt and patches of worn grass slip into sand, warm and smooth. It’s the sort of beach he’s never actually been to, only seen in pictures. Pristine and spotless. The sand’s almost white and impossibly soft. Dov slows down again by necessity; his lungs can’t keep up with his excitement. The water isn’t that far off. It’s only the smallest of hills down to it, and as he goes, he peers across either side.
On his right, the beach curves off a few kilometers down around rocky cliffs. On his left, it just keeps going. There are a few large rocks sticking out of the water here and there, but mostly, the whole thing is perfectly picturesque. The water is gently lapping at the sand, looking deceptively peaceful, as though it wasn’t a turbulent nightmare the last time Dov saw it. How long was he out for?
Only, now that he’s found it, he isn’t precisely sure what to do with it. He’s not sure what he expected. There isn’t a sign of ships anywhere, not even a stray board. And it’s not exactly prime conditions to go searching. The water’s clear enough to not be black under the nighttime sky, but it’s hardly glass, either. Dov finds himself walking towards it, anyway, if only to get his feet wet as a comfort.
He’s a meter away when he stops dead, head snapping around. A burst of light is in his peripherals, back near the trees, flying through the air.
He drops his stick in surprise. There’s definitely a light. It’s disembodied at eye level, like nothing Dov’s ever seen before. There doesn’t seem to be anything generating it—it’s like a stray fallen star the size of a human skull, whizzing along the beach, unattached to anything. The closer it gets the further its light reaches, until Dov’s almost blinded and has to shield his eyes, squinting. His feet are frozen, unsure of what to do. Before he can decide, it jerks to the side, darting between the trees. Dov watches it go with a slack jaw, reeling.
Intrigued doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Dov’s taken off before he can think twice. He races through the sand and practically leaps over the ferns in his way, weaving through foliage again. He’s lost sight of the ball itself, but the residual light pours through the trees like a flare, and Dov keeps on its heels without a second thought for his battered body.
It’s flying too fast. Dov does his best to keep up, heartbeat pounding in his ears and lungs working overtime, arms frantically throwing branches and leaves aside. The open tails of his shirt whip around him, and the soles of his feet are getting torn up, but he keeps going. This is the discovery of a lifetime, whatever it is, and at the very least Dov wants to know, and he’s drawn to the fading light before him instinctively.
He almost curses aloud when the final bits of illumination slip out of his grasp, but he’s too busy panting to form the words properly. His feet slow to a stop—there isn’t any path to follow, and without a guide, there’s no point. He’s left staring blindly around at the forest. Now he doesn’t know where the light is, or the beach, or the hut. The adrenaline’s racing too hard for his heart to sink.
Dov reaches for a tree to rest on, leaning against it. As his heavy breathing calms down, the regular sounds of the forest roll back in. He realizes a few seconds later there’s something that wasn’t around before.
A sort of faint, dull humming. Like music in the distance, single-instrument and foreign. Dov tries not to breathe, head turning slowly, trying to figure out what direction it’s coming from. Figuring it out is imprecise at best, but he chooses what he thinks is his best bet and starts walking, quiet and with ready ears.
A few times he has to try another way. But it steadily grows louder, until Dov isn’t quiet to hear the noise so much as not to startle the maker. As he gets closer, he thinks it might actually be humming. It doesn’t quite sound human, but it’s not like any instrument he’s ever heard, either. When the trees thin out, Dov moves even slower. The light’s back, but smaller, several faint, floating balls of them, sprinkled in front of the trees, flickering like firelight. It’s soon apparent they’re in some sort of clearing. He creeps behind a tree as he approaches it, crouching low to hide in the plants. He’s careful not to crack a single branch as he peeks around it, breath immediately caught in his throat.
A man is sitting on the ground in the middle of a crop of fresh grass, legs crossed. The rest of the forest is still dark, but the man’s profile is lit up by the hovering, tiny stars. His soft, blond hair is almost glowing, pale, bare chest just as iridescent. His eyes are closed, but Dov already knows they’re blue. His pink lips are parted slightly, and he’s humming.
Cass can’t be Terran. He can’t be Gaian, either. Dov’s never heard either countryman ever make any noise half as beautiful, and he finds himself holding his breath again, eager to catch every note. Cass’ lashes flutter against his cheeks, lips moving slightly to form the strange sounds. The melody is captivating, the tone mesmerizing. Dov is leaning forward subconsciously, drawn to it, until his own cheek is brushing the tree he’s using to hide.
The song trickles slowly from alluring to haunting, and Cass draws his hands forward, fingers spreading, palms hovering over the grass. Dov tenses as the lights break their orbit, shrinking and lowering, creeping toward Cass’ hands faster than the rhythm of his voice. The lights push right through his skin, down over the back of his hands and out the other side, padding his palms. When he lowers them, it almost looks as if he’s pushing the light into the earth.
Cass’ eyes open slightly, just slivers, and the shimmering glow of the ground reflects off his pale irises. His voice slowly dwindles, until he’s practically whispering, and he closes his mouth. Then he lifts his hands little bit by little bit, taking not the light with him, but something dark and broad.
Cass’ hands climb higher and higher, and the light flickers and fades until there’s nothing left, until there’s just the regular stars again, highlighting enough. With the newfound darkness, it’s hard to determine exactly what’s happening, but as the thing below Cass’ palms reaches knee height, Dov realizes what it is.
His mouth falls open. It’s a seedling—a sprout—the infant form of a tree, climbing right out of the dirt and grass. Cass is growing it right out, with what can only be described as magic.
Dov doesn’t believe in magic. But that doesn’t help him at all, staring faerie lights and inhuman voices in the face. Trees don’t simply grow like that, and soon its stem is high enough, branches reaching far enough, to tap Cass’ shoulder. Cass silently gets to his feet, taking the tree with him. It rises and rises, base growing thicker and roots spreading out. The crackling sounds of stretching bark and shifting dirt rivals the music. It’s glowing through a few cracks. Dov can’t help but wonder if he’s still dreaming. Cass is still humming, albeit quietly, and it’s soothing; it could be a lullaby.
With a sharp intake of breath, Dov shifts his weight. His heel lands on a twig beneath the ferns at the base of his hiding place, and Dov winces as the sound cuts through the air like a knife.
Then he freezes, shoulders hunched and blood like ice. Everything in the forest has suddenly turned to him. Branches are shooting to point at him in every direction, leaves are going rigid, aimed at him, ferns straight up and bushes tilted forward, trees leaning in. Cass’ head’s snapped around, eyes wide, humming cut dead off. The tree he’s raised starts slowly sinking back into the ground, and some of the plants farther from Dov appear to be vibrating, like they’re straining to reach him.
This is the new most paralyzing moment of Dov’s life. A few minutes ago, the lights would’ve sufficed. It’s nothing compared to an entire forest alive and at him. Magic indeed. This place is... something else entirely. For a few horrible seconds, Dov doesn’t move a muscle, not even to breathe.
Then he climbs, slow as clouds, to his feet, hands rising through the air. He’s surrendering. He’s been caught red handed, and he does feel like he’s intruded on something special, something private, something no man is meant to see. He takes one step out from behind the tree, and Cass blinks, tilting his head.
Throat dry, Dov whispers, “Ah... sorry.” For interrupting or... whatever the forest’s mad at him for. It’s a humbling experience. The tree’s stopped shrinking about halfway back down, much smaller than it had been but much larger than it started. Its roots are shimmering. Cass smiles and walks towards Dov, stopping just short and holding out his hand.
Dov takes it with minimal hesitation. He couldn’t even say why; his body just moves.
Movement draws his attention back around, to where the plants are slowly sinking back to normal, falling into place, like they belong. It looks like a real forest again in no time, inanimate and peaceful. It’s such a bizarre concept that a forest could be anything else, and Dov has to wonder if, perhaps, he imagined it all.
Cass tugs on his hand. Dov’s lead over to the new tree and made to stand in front of it, awkward and out of place. Dov watches Cass’ face as his eyes fall closed, lips parting to hum. The melodic sound fills the air again: a lilting, exotic buzz. It’s even more entrancing this up close, and it’s hard for Dov to tear his eyes away, even when the tree perks back up.
Cass’ hand is small and soft inside Dov’s, fingers delicate and palm warm. Dov squeezes Cass’ hand lightly in surprise as the tree grows at an alarming rate, reaching out and sprouting leaves. Cass’ hands are still.
The lights along the roots shimmer up and down the trunk as the tree grows, and soon its branches are past Cass’ head, then past Dov’s. It still goes, higher and higher, until it’s matching the surrounding forest, towering tall overhead. The bark thickens and twists, casting gnarled shadows over its own light.
Dov’s never seen anything more enchanting in his whole life, and he doesn’t think he ever will.
Sand in the Observatory is available on Amazon (paperback) and Kindle (digital file).
This is my second novel, but my first gay (not lesbian) one, and it’s self-published because I’m small and selfish (not so good with editting to other company's specifics). It’s an usual sort of book, with a slow but hopefully rewarding pace. It’s about three men trapped on a deserted island, two opposing soldiers and one mute, and sex and growing feelings ensue. Short chapters; 63k; light bedtime reading. Though it always feels consensual in every sense but the spoken word, a mute character with a language barrier requires me to say: Trigger Warning for technical dubious consent. SpesAbrin was a wonderful beta to me, and hopefully her advice and help shows. ♥
Below is a short preview. You can ask me any questions or comments on my blog, yeaka.tumblr.com. Bonus content can be found here. Thank you to everyone who’s ever been nice about any of my stories. :)
Warnings + tags (for full book): Technical dubious consent, anal sex, oral sex, soldiers, threesomes.
Chapter 1 (preview)
The air’s full of salt and lightening, and the wind whips Dov’s hair into his eyes. He can’t hear what his captain’s shouting over the roar of the waves, can’t hear the deckhand’s cries over the thunder; he can’t even hear the soldier beside him over the boom of the cannons. One minute he’s trying to load and the next he’s just trying to stand.
Then a great wave tips the whole ship aside, and men are stumbling to the floorboards all around him. He sees it but has no time to react. He loses balance with his hand on the mast and hits the deck with blinding force, the ice-cold water just barely padding his head from cracking open. It’s all too quick and unrelenting to even swear. A cannonball flies overhead and the lightning lights it up, loud enough to deafen him, drowning out his spluttering and gasps. His lungs are burning.
He tries to stand, but the water slips him down to the side of the ship, and he’s rushed helplessly along, twisting onto his back. He barely manages to grab the splitting railing, clutching to it for dear life, and it’s just enough to keep him from tumbling into the depths below. A soldier beside him isn’t so lucky and topples over the planks, plunging down into the ocean with a piercing, swallowed-up shriek. Dov screams and shoots his hand out on instinct, but it’s a useless effort; the man’s dead. Everyone and everything around him is howling, and it’s a struggle just to breathe, worse to get back to his feet. But he’s a soldier, and he has to. This is all he has.
There isn’t any thought to the enemy anymore. Barely any thought at all. It’s sheer survival. They’re all soaked through and shaking with cold and adrenaline and seeping pain from being thrown about and bashed into wood. The storm’s too monstrous, and it’ll have their boat in pieces if luck isn’t with them. Ropes are flying past him, and a group of men are scrambling to tie up the mast of a falling sail.
Dov takes a step towards them, but the water gets him again—another wave over the side—and this time it’s too much. It catches him like a hurricane, consuming his scream, sweeps him right over the edge of the ship, tosses him wildly right over everything. He shuts his mouth against the onslaught, but the pressure squeezes at his head and blinds him, twisting him inhumanly. The impact feels like concrete.
It’s chaos. He has no concept of where he is in the water and which way is up; the currents carry him beyond recognition. When the lightning cracks, it makes everything glow.
He has to make it to the surface. He knows that. Has to breathe. His limbs are aching from the strain of fighting a natural horror, and his chest is struggling to pump life into him, his lungs collapsing. His head is pounding, and it’s all murky.
There’s a moment where he tries. Twists around and lets the water carry him up. Then a current turns him upside down and a plank of wood torn from one of the ships whips into him. Everything loses focus, going grey, then black.
When he comes back in, he’s still underwater. The storm’s still going. Nothing’s changed. Something’s tugging at him, pulling him, and he doesn’t have any power to stop it. Something thin around his waist, something small against his body. Dragging him. His eyes sting. His ears are ready to burst. His lips part and water rushes in—he might be drowning.
There are strange shapes all around him. Suspended bits of boats and some larger, moving things—giant fish? Monsters. He irrationally wonders if a shark has gotten him, and he’s too delirious to realize he’s being eaten. There’s so much pain that he’s gone numb. But he thinks there are fingers tugging at his clothes, and sharks don’t have fingers. His dark hair is swishing all around him, bubbles rushing up. He can’t hear anything but the dull, pounding rhythm in his head.
His head’s above the water. Suddenly and inexplicably. He gasps for breath on instinct, throat filling and spluttering up saltwater, his hair slicked down around his face, his clothes clinging to his body. His shoes are weighing him down. His whole uniform is. The waves are wild, and the next minute they’ve enveloped him again, but he’s being tugged through it, steadily along. Whatever’s got him isn’t letting up. He tries to keep his mouth and his nose in the air, but the wind and the ocean don’t make it easy. The sky is breaking up and horrible.
Dov’s dragged until his feet are scraping rock, until he’s limp against tide-beaten stone, pulled through uneven water. He feels like a lifeless corpse being escorted to his grave. His legs aren’t working, and his brain doesn’t seem able to send the correct signals. It feels like it’s been an eternity. He can barely see anything; his vision comes and goes.
He’s in between consciousness and utter nothingness. He’s going to die. He loses track of everything, comes back in again.
Something hovers above him. It’s pale and light, leaning over, brushing his bangs off his forehead and holding his chest. He’s lying in the warm, damp sand. Dov has no clarity. His body stings like ice, and even when he tries to force himself to concentrate, the best he can get is hazy yellow hair and glowing, bright eyes. It sounds sweet—maybe his ears have given out.
Then he loses; the darkness wins.
Chapter 2 (preview)
Coming back to consciousness is a tedious process. His eyelids are inordinately heavy, and his limbs don’t seem to want to move. He’s sore in too many places to count, and he feels numb in his extremities.
At first, Dov’s sure he’s dead. There’s a foggy memory of the battle, both against the enemy and the storm. He fell into the ocean, and it swallowed him. He still feels damp around the edges, his pants clinging to his skin a little too much and his shirt... his shirt’s open. There’s something tight around his chest—bandages? The texture feels new.
Dov wills his eyes open, slowly, unsure of what he’ll find. Maybe the fires of hell. He certainly hasn’t earned a place in heaven. Instead, he finds himself looking up at a dark green canopy. Leaves?
Dov tries to sit up and immediately regrets it. He only gets a dozen centimeters or so before he collapses back down, breathing heavier than he should be. Definitely alive, at least. He shifts his sore neck around to look at his surroundings—strange tree trunks and large, woven-together leaves. He seems to be in some sort of makeshift hut, and the floor below him is an oddly comfortable bed of leaves. He doesn’t recognize any of the foliage; but then, plants have never been his concern.
His first thought is panic, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. His head lolls back again, and he takes a minute to breathe.
He’s definitely not on the ship anymore. It must be ruined. It was half ruined already when he was thrown from it. He knew he had little hope—they all did. He must’ve washed ashore. He doesn’t know how that’s possible. Others must’ve survived—someone saved him—but this isn’t like anything he recognizes. Not the bandages, the hut. No, they must be dead. He grits his teeth and tells himself they were soldiers, all set to die anyway. He didn’t know anyone well. So where did this come from? Suspicion washes into him, tinged with the uneasiness of the unknown. He’s not afraid, exactly. He’s braver than that, but... he’s definitely lost.
He needs more information. He sets back to looking around. There is no wall at his feet. It opens up into the general forest, comprised of tropical-looking plants and trees, so thick that he can’t see the floor beneath. The darkness swallows the further recesses, and he can just barely see a patch of stars through the treetops. No lights or fires. Dov tries again to get a better look, because he isn’t one to accept helplessness so easily.
He stops halfway up on his elbows to take a breather. Then he grits his teeth and forces himself up the rest of the way; he needs to know where he is and what’s going on. What happened in the battle. If either side survived; if he needs to find others or hunt others. Climbing to his feet is a tiresome affair. It hurts, but he pushes. The roof stops just short of his head. He leans one hand against a tree trunk for support, clutching a sudden stitch in his side. His knees feel weak, but he’s not about to let a little discomfort hold him back.
His first step out, his foot finds dirt through the bushes. He notices belatedly that he’s barefoot, and he twists back around to spot his boots in the back of the hut. They look too sodden to bother with. The rest of his uniform is still mostly intact, other than his shirt being open and the strange bandages. It doesn't seem like the sort of medical supplies Gaia uses, and that makes him nervous.
Wherever he is, it isn’t cold. The air is thick and warm, and a few exotic scents reach him when he strains. The only sounds are the faint chirping of crickets and the stray call of a far-off bird. Nothing he recognizes. The next step makes him double over against another tree.
Before he can try a third, something slips through the leaves to his right—Dov whirls around and reaches instinctively for his hip, but his sword isn’t there. His own movements make him stumble, and the figure darts for him in a flash, catching him before he topples over.
Dov tries to pull back, but he doesn’t have the strength. He’s lightly held up and supported, full of care.
It’s a man. A small, thinner, shorter man who looks a few years younger than Dov. Almost a boy, or maybe that’s just the softness. His blond hair catches in the starlight, and his blue eyes are wide and curious. His skin is pale, features gentle, and he’s only wearing a loose set of plain white, wrapped pants. They don’t look normal. For either side.
Tense, (and better safe than sorry) Dov pushes the man away, succeeding this time. The man stumbles back a step or two, and Dov, sorting through all the questions in his head, decides the most important is: “Who are you?” His voice comes out raspy and strained.
The man tilts his head but doesn’t answer. He makes another move forward, as though to help Dov up, but Dov shoots out the hand he isn’t using to hold his stomach. The man pauses where he is, standing gracefully and not even a bit defensively, let alone offensively.
Peculiar; Dov’s as braced as he can be in this state for an attack. Dov tries a second time, “Who are you?” Then, “What side do you fight for?”
The man can’t be Terran. If he were, he wouldn’t be bandaging Dov up. That’s assuming, though, that this man is the owner of the hut and the things around his chest are bandages. The man looks too young to be a soldier, anyway. Unless Terra’s getting desperate. But Dov doesn’t like to take chances. He’s on edge while he waits for answers that don’t seem to be coming.
“What’s your name?” The man doesn’t answer. “Is that your shelter?” Dov gestures vaguely behind himself. The man points at the hut, then at himself.
A mute, perhaps. Either that or someone maddeningly opposed to speech. Or perhaps someone who doesn’t speak Pangaean. Just to be sure, Dov asks, “Do you come from Gaia or Terra?” But the man has no reaction to either word. He has no reaction to anything. He stands where he is, blinking cutely at Dov, pure and open and nowhere near what Dov’s used to.
Just Dov’s luck. He tries to school his frown into check, pulling back his frustrated scowl. He wants to think it’s just his luck to get stuck with a mute, but then, his luck can’t be that bad, or he’d be dead. It seems unlikely anyone else survived, now. There’re no other huts in sight. And he’s sure plenty of others went overboard. Damn.
That means that everyone he knew is probably dead. He knew that, but seeing that his saviour’s not Gaian and there’s no one else around is still a hit. He leans further back against the tree. Shit. He didn’t even know all of them, barely a handful. All the soldiers he worked with. They all formed bonds, but he.... He didn’t really have any friends, didn’t get along, never really was one for people, but... it’s still a big hit. He tells himself again that that’s what happens in wars and tries to steel over. It doesn’t matter. That probably means the Terran ship’s gone, too. So now he’s just got to... find some way to report back to the next assignment... or survive, mostly.
He lifts a hand to his forehead. His head’s swimming.
He doesn’t know how to get back, because he doesn’t know where he is. The battle wasn’t anywhere near any known land. He looks at the blond again and shakes his head.
He needs answers. But that means this man will have to open up and opt out of silence. Dov repeats, “What’s your name?” But this time he points to the man while he says it. Then he puts his hand on his chest, enunciating clearly, “Corporal Dov Tlon.”
The man mouths something short, but no sound comes out.
Dov repeats, “Dov,” and the man mouths it again. Dov holds out his hand, gesturing towards the man’s chest.
Pausing, as though in discovery, the man turns around and points at the sky, up between the trees. Dov squints at them. That isn’t very helpful. He’s staring at the stars for several seconds before he realizes that he recognizes them, if vaguely. He peers forward, squinting to be sure. He’s never been good with stars, but he’s fairly certain he’s seen that constellation before. At least he’s still on Pangaea, even if he can’t figure anything more specific out.
So, the stars? Dov snorts to himself. Can’t be right. He says aloud, “Cassiopeia.”
The man smiles and points at himself. Dov repeats, “Cassiopeia.” It earns him a cute nod and a warm smile. Well, that’s something.
That’ll have to do. Unless Dov wants to treat this stranger like a dog and randomly come up with a name to assign him, that is. Even if he is acting like little more than a dog, cuddling up to a wounded soldier with no eye for the danger. It’s lucky Cassiopeia didn’t find a Terran soldier instead.
Cassiopeia. It’s probably better than anything Dov would’ve come up with, anyway. He opens his mouth to ask if he can say, ‘Cass’ instead, but another sudden stab of pain sends him almost to the ground. The man—Cassiopeia—darts forward and catches him just in time, supporting his weight. He tries to shove Cassiopeia away—he doesn’t need help—but his body’s not fully cooperating.
Holding him carefully, Cassiopeia helps him straighten up to his feet. He’s wrapped in soft arms and begrudgingly walked back to the hut, where he’s gently pushed back down. Cassiopeia draws a pile of leaves from the corner, bunching them up and tenderly placing them under Dov’s head like a pillow. Dov grunts, “Thank you,” because he isn’t a complete ingrate. At least he’s found a helpful mute.
Cassiopeia smiles down at him and brushes his dark bangs aside. The name fits well; even in the shadows of the hideaway, the smaller man stands out like a beacon of light. His pale skin almost seems to shine against the darkness, like some fallen, humanoid star, and there’s something soothing in his presence. A more serene individual than what Dov’s used to, anyway. Cassiopeia puts his hand lightly on Dov’s chest before straightening back up to his feet, and Dov tries to just accept the contact.
When Cassiopeia tries to leave again, Dov grabs for his hand, missing in a hazy state. Dov wasn’t done, needs more answers, used to want to be alone, but not like this, not in all mysteries in the middle of nowhere when he’s weak and anything could be out there. Cassiopeia smiles soothingly at him but still moves.
Cassiopeia walks back out of the hut, ducking around the corner in the direction he first came from. Dov’s forced to lie where he is, too in pain to bother getting up again. He tells himself that at least it seems safe, but that’s a small comfort. Or at least, the bandages must indicate good intentions. Now that he’s waiting here, he puts his chin on his chest to get a better look at them, trying to figure out what material they’re made out of, wanting some clue, anything. Naturally, he gets nothing.
Cassiopeia reappears a few moments later, carrying a small, wooden bowl. It’s carved very primitively, not smooth or even. Cassiopeia sits down next to Dov’s shoulder and carefully moves the bandages aside, unwrapping the top layer to loosen it first. Then he scoops a green sort of paste out of the bowl, leaning over to spread it across Dov’s chest.
Dov isn’t one to be inherently scared of the unknown, but this gives cause. He is, after all, one to be wary. It could be poison. But the paste feels surprisingly cool and relaxing. It doesn’t hurt at all. That doesn’t negate poison, but at least if he does die from it, it’ll be peacefully. Dov wonders vaguely if he should chase Cassiopeia off just in case, but he ultimately decides he’s too weary to fuss. He lifts his hand back to his head. What a nightmare.
Cassiopeia’s soft hands sooth over his skin, warm and comforting even through the headache. They trace over all his muscles, his chest and his six-pack, dipping down the curve of his stomach. When Cassiopeia’s fingers stray too low down his abdomen, fingertips nudging the hem of his pants, Dov sits up on his elbow and swats them away, cheeks a little red automatically. He’s got enough problems without that in the mix. Cassiopeia hesitates before returning, this time to a higher area. Clearly, it’s just healing.
Which makes Dov feel stupid. Ugh, he’s a mess. He tries to will his temperature back down; there isn’t any need to be embarrassed either way. He’s just shirtless and cautious. It isn’t like he’s never been shirtless in front of another man before. He’s got a good body, anyway. His eyes dart sideways before he can stop them; so much for that.
Cassiopeia’s shirtless, too, even though he isn’t half so toned. He’s thin and lithe, and as he leans over to smear more paste into Dov’s side, his pants slide a few centimeters down his hip.
Dov looks away again, staring up at the ceiling. He almost died, all his crewmates are dead, he’s stuck with an unhelpful, helpless saviour, and his moronic head still wants to notice how attractive that saviour is.
It’s hard not to notice, though, with gentle hands caressing his chest, rolling cream around his nipples and brushing the tails of his shirt aside. In some ways, it’s almost like a massage. With all the stress to his body and mind, he could use that. Cassiopeia’s blond bangs tumble into his blue eyes as he works, and his halcyon aura ebbs the physical tension, at least, out of Dov’s muscles, one by one. Dov finds his eyelids heavy again before he’s ready for it; he has too many unanswered questions to fall asleep so soon.
But his body doesn’t seem to care about that. He loses consciousness a dozen minutes later, listening to the quiet sounds of a distant bird.
Chapter 3 (preview)
It’s still dark when Dov’s eyes open again. He’s alone in the hut—he rolls around to be sure—it’s just him, his boots, and the empty wooden bowl beside him. The bandages have been replaced, and a few stray beads of sweat have welled up on his chest from the muggy air. The paste that was rubbed on him, assuming he didn’t dream it all, is gone. It doesn’t hurt as much. He isn’t hungry or, surprisingly, even thirsty. His head’s even clearer. He feels as though he doesn’t have injuries for the bandages to cover, but he doesn’t want to peel them off and check, just in case.
“Cass?” Because it’s easier than the full thing.
No answer.
Dov climbs to his bare feet slowly, trying not to disrupt the woven leaf floor too much. He’s quiet out of habit, and his ears are wide open as he cautiously steps out from under the canopy. Maybe now he can actually get a look around, find out if this is some sort of Terran encampment or not, as unlikely as he knows that is. He needs to make sense of it somehow.
His sword isn’t anywhere around. He’s sure it was on his hip on the boat, but who knows what the water did with it. Being fairly certain that he didn’t dream it, Dov’s instinct is to call for the man who tended to him. Obviously, that ointment worked. But Dov’s resolutely quiet; it’s never good to give away one’s position in unknown territory. He still doesn’t recognize a single bush or tree, but there’s no definite proof that this isn’t somewhere on Terra.
Only one way to find out, though. Dov isn’t the sort to just lie around and wait for things, especially with how unlikely answers are to come; Cass seemed not to have any. Dov takes a few careful steps, peering through the trees on either side, trying to figure out where to go. The green is too dense to see very far, and the darkness isn’t helping.
Before taking off, Dov finds a particularly large tree with rod-straight limbs. He snaps off a sizeable branch and tears off the leaves. Not a sword by any means, but it’ll have to do. There’s no telling what sort of wildlife is around. He’s yet to meet an animal he couldn’t take down, but there’s no sense walking around unarmed.
Picking a direction is mostly guesswork. He generally has a good internal compass, and he goes with his gut. It veers him off to the left, and he climbs vigilantly around the trees, keeping track of the way lest he need to find the hut again. There’s no telling if he’ll actually find anything, but Cass had to come from somewhere, and Dov can find his own answers.
After a few minutes, it becomes obvious that he’s not as miraculously cured as he’d hoped. His bones are still weary, but he still presses on, ignoring the various aches and pains that slowly creep back up beneath his skin. He’s a soldier, and he doesn’t let inconveniences slow him down.
He’s walking for a good several dozen minutes before he actually hears anything other than the occasional chirping bug or calling bird. It’s so dull at first that he picks up speed to double check, but it’s a very familiar rhythm. A few more minutes and he’s sure of it—it’s water.
The ocean. It’s the most likely thing, anyway. He can’t be that far from it. He’s almost sprinting before he can stop himself, but he has to slow down again too soon—it’s too hot to run and his knees are too weak. Then the trees start to thin, the pale moonlight overhead growing stronger and stronger. He sees the water before he’s hit the edge of the forest, and he breaks out into a run again. The pebbles and dirt and patches of worn grass slip into sand, warm and smooth. It’s the sort of beach he’s never actually been to, only seen in pictures. Pristine and spotless. The sand’s almost white and impossibly soft. Dov slows down again by necessity; his lungs can’t keep up with his excitement. The water isn’t that far off. It’s only the smallest of hills down to it, and as he goes, he peers across either side.
On his right, the beach curves off a few kilometers down around rocky cliffs. On his left, it just keeps going. There are a few large rocks sticking out of the water here and there, but mostly, the whole thing is perfectly picturesque. The water is gently lapping at the sand, looking deceptively peaceful, as though it wasn’t a turbulent nightmare the last time Dov saw it. How long was he out for?
Only, now that he’s found it, he isn’t precisely sure what to do with it. He’s not sure what he expected. There isn’t a sign of ships anywhere, not even a stray board. And it’s not exactly prime conditions to go searching. The water’s clear enough to not be black under the nighttime sky, but it’s hardly glass, either. Dov finds himself walking towards it, anyway, if only to get his feet wet as a comfort.
He’s a meter away when he stops dead, head snapping around. A burst of light is in his peripherals, back near the trees, flying through the air.
He drops his stick in surprise. There’s definitely a light. It’s disembodied at eye level, like nothing Dov’s ever seen before. There doesn’t seem to be anything generating it—it’s like a stray fallen star the size of a human skull, whizzing along the beach, unattached to anything. The closer it gets the further its light reaches, until Dov’s almost blinded and has to shield his eyes, squinting. His feet are frozen, unsure of what to do. Before he can decide, it jerks to the side, darting between the trees. Dov watches it go with a slack jaw, reeling.
Intrigued doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Dov’s taken off before he can think twice. He races through the sand and practically leaps over the ferns in his way, weaving through foliage again. He’s lost sight of the ball itself, but the residual light pours through the trees like a flare, and Dov keeps on its heels without a second thought for his battered body.
It’s flying too fast. Dov does his best to keep up, heartbeat pounding in his ears and lungs working overtime, arms frantically throwing branches and leaves aside. The open tails of his shirt whip around him, and the soles of his feet are getting torn up, but he keeps going. This is the discovery of a lifetime, whatever it is, and at the very least Dov wants to know, and he’s drawn to the fading light before him instinctively.
He almost curses aloud when the final bits of illumination slip out of his grasp, but he’s too busy panting to form the words properly. His feet slow to a stop—there isn’t any path to follow, and without a guide, there’s no point. He’s left staring blindly around at the forest. Now he doesn’t know where the light is, or the beach, or the hut. The adrenaline’s racing too hard for his heart to sink.
Dov reaches for a tree to rest on, leaning against it. As his heavy breathing calms down, the regular sounds of the forest roll back in. He realizes a few seconds later there’s something that wasn’t around before.
A sort of faint, dull humming. Like music in the distance, single-instrument and foreign. Dov tries not to breathe, head turning slowly, trying to figure out what direction it’s coming from. Figuring it out is imprecise at best, but he chooses what he thinks is his best bet and starts walking, quiet and with ready ears.
A few times he has to try another way. But it steadily grows louder, until Dov isn’t quiet to hear the noise so much as not to startle the maker. As he gets closer, he thinks it might actually be humming. It doesn’t quite sound human, but it’s not like any instrument he’s ever heard, either. When the trees thin out, Dov moves even slower. The light’s back, but smaller, several faint, floating balls of them, sprinkled in front of the trees, flickering like firelight. It’s soon apparent they’re in some sort of clearing. He creeps behind a tree as he approaches it, crouching low to hide in the plants. He’s careful not to crack a single branch as he peeks around it, breath immediately caught in his throat.
A man is sitting on the ground in the middle of a crop of fresh grass, legs crossed. The rest of the forest is still dark, but the man’s profile is lit up by the hovering, tiny stars. His soft, blond hair is almost glowing, pale, bare chest just as iridescent. His eyes are closed, but Dov already knows they’re blue. His pink lips are parted slightly, and he’s humming.
Cass can’t be Terran. He can’t be Gaian, either. Dov’s never heard either countryman ever make any noise half as beautiful, and he finds himself holding his breath again, eager to catch every note. Cass’ lashes flutter against his cheeks, lips moving slightly to form the strange sounds. The melody is captivating, the tone mesmerizing. Dov is leaning forward subconsciously, drawn to it, until his own cheek is brushing the tree he’s using to hide.
The song trickles slowly from alluring to haunting, and Cass draws his hands forward, fingers spreading, palms hovering over the grass. Dov tenses as the lights break their orbit, shrinking and lowering, creeping toward Cass’ hands faster than the rhythm of his voice. The lights push right through his skin, down over the back of his hands and out the other side, padding his palms. When he lowers them, it almost looks as if he’s pushing the light into the earth.
Cass’ eyes open slightly, just slivers, and the shimmering glow of the ground reflects off his pale irises. His voice slowly dwindles, until he’s practically whispering, and he closes his mouth. Then he lifts his hands little bit by little bit, taking not the light with him, but something dark and broad.
Cass’ hands climb higher and higher, and the light flickers and fades until there’s nothing left, until there’s just the regular stars again, highlighting enough. With the newfound darkness, it’s hard to determine exactly what’s happening, but as the thing below Cass’ palms reaches knee height, Dov realizes what it is.
His mouth falls open. It’s a seedling—a sprout—the infant form of a tree, climbing right out of the dirt and grass. Cass is growing it right out, with what can only be described as magic.
Dov doesn’t believe in magic. But that doesn’t help him at all, staring faerie lights and inhuman voices in the face. Trees don’t simply grow like that, and soon its stem is high enough, branches reaching far enough, to tap Cass’ shoulder. Cass silently gets to his feet, taking the tree with him. It rises and rises, base growing thicker and roots spreading out. The crackling sounds of stretching bark and shifting dirt rivals the music. It’s glowing through a few cracks. Dov can’t help but wonder if he’s still dreaming. Cass is still humming, albeit quietly, and it’s soothing; it could be a lullaby.
With a sharp intake of breath, Dov shifts his weight. His heel lands on a twig beneath the ferns at the base of his hiding place, and Dov winces as the sound cuts through the air like a knife.
Then he freezes, shoulders hunched and blood like ice. Everything in the forest has suddenly turned to him. Branches are shooting to point at him in every direction, leaves are going rigid, aimed at him, ferns straight up and bushes tilted forward, trees leaning in. Cass’ head’s snapped around, eyes wide, humming cut dead off. The tree he’s raised starts slowly sinking back into the ground, and some of the plants farther from Dov appear to be vibrating, like they’re straining to reach him.
This is the new most paralyzing moment of Dov’s life. A few minutes ago, the lights would’ve sufficed. It’s nothing compared to an entire forest alive and at him. Magic indeed. This place is... something else entirely. For a few horrible seconds, Dov doesn’t move a muscle, not even to breathe.
Then he climbs, slow as clouds, to his feet, hands rising through the air. He’s surrendering. He’s been caught red handed, and he does feel like he’s intruded on something special, something private, something no man is meant to see. He takes one step out from behind the tree, and Cass blinks, tilting his head.
Throat dry, Dov whispers, “Ah... sorry.” For interrupting or... whatever the forest’s mad at him for. It’s a humbling experience. The tree’s stopped shrinking about halfway back down, much smaller than it had been but much larger than it started. Its roots are shimmering. Cass smiles and walks towards Dov, stopping just short and holding out his hand.
Dov takes it with minimal hesitation. He couldn’t even say why; his body just moves.
Movement draws his attention back around, to where the plants are slowly sinking back to normal, falling into place, like they belong. It looks like a real forest again in no time, inanimate and peaceful. It’s such a bizarre concept that a forest could be anything else, and Dov has to wonder if, perhaps, he imagined it all.
Cass tugs on his hand. Dov’s lead over to the new tree and made to stand in front of it, awkward and out of place. Dov watches Cass’ face as his eyes fall closed, lips parting to hum. The melodic sound fills the air again: a lilting, exotic buzz. It’s even more entrancing this up close, and it’s hard for Dov to tear his eyes away, even when the tree perks back up.
Cass’ hand is small and soft inside Dov’s, fingers delicate and palm warm. Dov squeezes Cass’ hand lightly in surprise as the tree grows at an alarming rate, reaching out and sprouting leaves. Cass’ hands are still.
The lights along the roots shimmer up and down the trunk as the tree grows, and soon its branches are past Cass’ head, then past Dov’s. It still goes, higher and higher, until it’s matching the surrounding forest, towering tall overhead. The bark thickens and twists, casting gnarled shadows over its own light.
Dov’s never seen anything more enchanting in his whole life, and he doesn’t think he ever will.