Denala grasped onto her long, flowing robes and hurried down the hall; her soft soled shoes making barely a sound on the polished stone temple floor.
She had heard the loud crash of the temple doors fly open. This only ever meant one thing; someone needed help.
She turned the corner and her eyes widened as she saw two men carrying who she assumed was a comrade. Quickly, she pulled her hair back and tied it onto a loose ponytail and let it fall behind her back.
There was blood, and it didn't look good. She could sense from afar he was still breathing, and she closed her eyes as she felt his pulse beat in her mind. As she attuned herself to him, she gave the men a simple command, "Place him on the table."
Pursing her lips, she bowed her head and made her way over to the table. The man's clothing was torn and bloodied. "What did this?" she asked, though she knew the answer.
"It was a wyvern, ma'am," stuttered one of the injured man's comrades. "Lady Serah, I mean," he muttered, correcting himself. "We couldn't get to him quick enough."
She knew exactly what this meant. This was not uncommon for these areas. The wyverns were a fierce, carnivorous species that stalked the woods. They appeared as a beautiful woman, with the looks and determination to seduce. Where Denala was from, they were called Syrens, but to these people, they were just another breed of wyvern.
When they eyed a target, they would appear helpless and wanting, luring unsuspecting men. When they had them in their grasp, in the heat of the moment they would change and feed on their victim, often with claws and teeth tearing at the flesh.
Denala sensed the man's pulse start to slow, and she quickly grabbed a ceremonial looking knife from the deep pocket of her white robe and began to cut his clothes away. She had to see all of the wounds to begin.
"Go," she ordered the men. She didn't need to hear any more of the story, nor did she need the distraction. A break in concentration could hurt them both.
Once left alone, she disrobed. The white delicate material bunched at her feet as she stepped out of them. She glanced to the ceiling, calculating how much time she had until the moon would pass by.
She climbed onto the table, straddling the now naked wounded man. She cringed slightly as her pale, bare skin made contact with cold stone of the table. Kneeling above him, she placed the knife between her teeth and let her hair fall from its binding. Her long ebony hair spilled forward, draping over her shoulders and over her bare breasts as she looked down at the man. Denala closed her eyes and began to silently recite the words of healing. It was a foreign language that only the Serah knew, and could ever comprehend. The human tongue cannot form most words that the Serah use in their ceremonies. Serah were destined for many different paths. Some, like Denala, were meant to save and preserve all life. Some were meant to take it, and they were good at it. After all, the proof of it was resting underneath her in the form of the almost mortally injured man.
All Serah were born the same; unusually beautiful, skilled in many forms of combat, healing and magic. They were peaceful beings, who lived among the humans and other creatures in peace. Syrens are made. Man made, most of the time. The thought of it disgusted Denala. Serah were pure beings, untainted by man and their pettiness. It was when that was taken away from them, that they became Syrens. Vengeful, violent and beautiful creatures who thrived on man and any other creature that crossed their path that was not a Serah.
It was time.
Denala held her palms face up towards the sky and tilted her head back. With her eyes closed, she chanted softly, her voice carrying far, though she spoke quietly. Warmth filled her, and when she felt the heat course through her body she turned her palms down and placed them above the man's chest.
Within a few moments, she sensed his pulse quicken, responding quickly to the moon. Satisfied, she took the knife she still had held between her teeth and drew a line across her palm with the impossibly sharp blade. She drew a quick breath in, this part never became easier. Blood quickly pooled in her palm and she placed her hands together and began the incantation.
Denala's pulse quickened and beat in rhythm with his. They were connected. She placed her palms down on his chest and closed her eyes. She gritted her teeth now, as she felt the pain he felt. Behind her closed eyes, her gray eyes would have glowed as she connected soul with the sky, and body with the injured man.
Under her, the man stirred. Life was flowing back into him, given back to him by the moon, through Denala's body as the conduit. Strands of her hair turned silver as she felt life flow and drain into him. He moved again, groaning.
Denala opened her eyes as she continued the hymn, her lips moving quickly as she recited the words passed down to her. He was going to make it, she knew. It was at a cost, but it was her duty.
He continued to stir under her, as she felt him continue to heal. He writhed under her, making her very conscious of the contact their exposed flesh was making. There was no stopping, the consequences to both could be dire if she severed the connection now. She was the conduit, not the capsule for such power.
She felt a hand grip onto her leg. He was starting to awaken. His grip was strong, his large hand resting near her bent knee. Though still somewhat unconscious, he moved his hand up her smooth leg to her hip.
"No.." Denala thought to herself as she continued. Fear gathered in her mind as she thought that maybe he didn't remember what had happened. It was almost done. His wounds had closed, and she waited for him to finish internally heal and for his heart to stop beating in rhythm of hers.
Denala's eyes fluttered closed as his other hand slid up her other leg and rested on her hip. The contact was intimate, elevated by their direct connection.
She felt him grow hard under her between her thighs, and she moved to lift herself up out of reach. His grip tightened on her hips, causing her to wince. She felt herself grow wet from arousal, feeling helpless as the incantation continued to flow from her lips.
He rocked his hips up, his now erect cock slipping between her slick lips. The urge to give herself to him completely was strong, the connection causing their contact to intensify. She knew he wasn't aware yet, and she was so close to finishing. Her breathing quickened, causing his to match it.
He continued to move under her, his thick cock moving back and forth between the silky smooth lips, brushing against her sensitive clit. She trembled as she prayed to Mother to finish healing him.
He pressed harder up against her, his movements quickening. He was greedily thrusting his cock between her lips. A tear ran down her cheek as she was flooded with mixed emotions; fear, arousal, curiosity, terror. She knew what she would become if he did not wake soon. It was how most of her sisters had turned. The process of healing was intimate, every part of your being connects to the person you are saving.
