Metamorphoses

XVIII

The day dawned with a strange stillness over the Nursery Planet. The high winds of the last few days had ceased. Herds that had foraged restlessly in the warm meadows now stood alert, noses raised, as if sensing the coming of something vast and ancient. In the Marble Glade, Sylvie’s court ladies gathered under the rising sun, tension winding among them.

Word had come: Empress Brunhild was expected, ruler of all equines, the oldest of her race. Heralds moved among the mares confirming it—Brunhild the Great, immortal queen of the Pegasid line, mare of legend, ruler of the Nine Herds and overlord of the Centaurids, would make her state visit not as a wanderer or matron, but as sovereign of the Equine Imperium. She came, the court whispered, to speak of succession, and perhaps of Sylvie's fate.

The queen’s advisers clustered in Sylvie’s palace chamber of stone and flowering vines. Each was heavy with concern, each perhaps sought a different outcome.

‘She comes not for courtesies,’ muttered old one-eyed Hyrastus forbiddingly, the oldest mare on the Nursery Planet. ‘She comes to bind or break.’

‘You must speak to the One,’ said Dame Hala the Wise, her flanks tattooed with elder script. ‘He alone transcends myth. He alone can overawe her. And rumour has it he judged you worthy to mate with, in human guise.’

Sylvie narrowed her eyes. ‘Should he appear as a boy?’

‘No,’ Hala said firmly. ‘As a being of air and fire. As an equine.’

‘And not just any equine,’ added Hyrastus. ‘A white pegasus, radiant, impossibly bright. Let his power speak from he flash of hooves and wings.’

Sylvie found Maxim in the orchard shadows, where he had taken to perching up on branches and brooding in human form, unusually solemn and silent for the vivacious youth he usually was.

She approached him carefully, and bowed, for Sylvie had finally realised the true measure of the boy’s power and grandeur. ‘They want you as you once were, and to come to our council as the One. But more. As something new, and terrible.’

Maxxie looked up. ‘And what do you want?’

‘I want,’ she said quietly, ‘to keep my foals free and for them to have their rights.’

He stood, dropped to the ground, drew a breath, and the orchard dimmed as if time paused. With no incantation, no ceremony, he shed his form and rose into the air.

Where once stood a boy, now towered a creature of ancient awe—a white pegasus of enormous stature, wings like stormclouds, mane like wind-tossed fire. His hooves struck sparks on stone. Even the air bowed to him.

Sylvie trembled—not in fear, but in recognition. He was more than a stallion, more than a human. He was divine judgement in muscle and thunder.

‘I’ll stand with you,’ he said, his voice resounding not from his muzzle but in the air itself. ‘If you mean to lead them well.’

***

The court assembled in an amphitheatre of stone and air, the sky itself its canopy. Oakheart and Fleetfoot stood beside their mother, youthful but fine-limbed, their manes braided in silver.

Then came the wind. A column of light broke from the heavens, and through it descended Empress Brunhild. She did not fly or walk. She floated. The hooves of her stallion guards, princes all, never touched the ground. Her wings beat in silence and she hovered effortlessly. Her eyes were as fathomless as oceans. Upon her brow gleamed the imperial diadem of Herdmother, a gift of the people of the Dead, its emeralds pulsing as if echoing the pattern of her thought. The court dropped in homage. Sylvie knelt, but dared to raise her head.

Brunhild spoke, not to her but to all her assembled people, pegasids and centaurids. Her voice, deep and clear, echoed across hills and lakes.

‘Let it be known. The time of my rule is not endless. A new dance will one day begin, and I am now older by far than any of our people have been. So to ensure stability I will name to you Fleetfoot, daughter of Queen Sylvie, to be Empress of All Equines when the new measure begins.’

Gasps rippled like wind through reeds. ‘I name Oakheart, son of Sylvie and Whiteblaze, to be heir to the Centaurid throne. He shall follow his father as King of that people, but as vassal to the Equine Imperium, not sovereign.’ Whiteblaze stirred but said nothing. His nod was slow, regal, resigned.

Then came a flare of more wings. The crowd turned as Maxim descended to take station at Brunhild’s side, a vision of purity and terrifying grace in stallion form.

‘I confirm this pact between the great empress and her people,’ he said in a great voice. ‘Let it stand until the stars fall.’

Fleetfoot and Oakheart stepped forward, and at Maxim’s command, their bodies shimmered. Where once had stood a filly and a colt now stood two human adolescents—slim, brown and beautiful, still wild-eyed but draped now in robes of white and gold.

Brunhild smiled for the first time. ‘Come, my blood foals,’ she said. ‘Climb on my back.’

They obeyed, Fleetfoot sitting in front, and Oakheart behind. The Empress spread her wings and bore them aloft. The sky received them in a blue blaze of light.

As they soared as high as eagles Brunhild’s voice drifted down to those below:

‘With the aid of the One and of our ancient and faithful adviser Lord Wollherz, you will go now to your new realm, the first of our race to return to the Earth which bore us. There you will raise a new province of the Equine Empire in the heart of the Elphberg Oecumene. My glorious young imperials, there you will find friends and allies and help prepare a new future for our equine people’

And then they were specks against the sun, soon gone.

***

Queen Sylvie, human again, clinging to her king’s powerful arms, stared longingly at the empty sky of the Nursery Planet. Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘They’re still small. They need their mother, but now they have to go among strangers and build a kingdom.’

Maxim Elphberg appeared at their side, along with the mysterious Wollherz of the Dead, both manifesting as handsome teenage boys, with golden hair, and it seemed Wollherz did so in imitation of the Elphberg, in homage perhaps.

King Whiteblaze held his queen close and murmured something in her ear, and then turned to the pair. ‘Like it or not, you two, I’m their father, and I will be going to Earth to see if my foals are safe.’

Maxxie grinned his grin. ‘Part of the plan, Whiteblaze. No problem. ‘ He paused. ‘Well, a bit of a problem. You’ve never had any experience of Earth, or Rothenia, though you speak perfect Rothenian for all that. Also the name of Whiteblaze is not going to pass muster for any human identity you assume. So we need to have a proper chat before you join the Centaurid advance party on Earth. And I have to get back to school.’

Wollherz had his own reassurance to offer to Sylvie. ‘Your majesty, your children will be enrolled in a human school for a period of acclimatisation. Though a mere few calendar years old, the Centaurid foal matures far faster than a human child, and they will pass easily for human adolescent teenagers in physical terms. We have selected a foster home for them in the city of Strelsau with the aid of the Seraph Mendamero, the great angel of deliverance, who also lives in that great city in human form. Your children will take their human identity with a suitable and indeed suitably aristocratic background for a Centaurid princess and prince. I suggest you, King Whiteblaze, take the name of Count Felip Bree von Tarlenheim, an imaginary member of a minor branch of a great Rothenian family, which in my days as a human long ago I served, and which has long proven faithful to our purposes.

***

Jules Kral contemplated his return to Strelzen International School with very little enthusiasm. His old activities had been curbed, and his father was no longer duped by his eldest son’s pretence of worldly innocence. His online activities were monitored and his friendships circumscribed. The result was that the baroque sexuality his illegal activity had fostered on the AllmyFans site could no longer be indulged, and he missed it. That twat Johan Toblescu, once such a fan of his little bum, had no interest in him. The other fifteen year olds in his year group, boys and girls, avoided him like a leper. Jules Kral had a reputation.

Willem Kral dropped his children at the SIS main entrance and lingered, apparently to chat to friends and clients, but that did not fool Jules. He was being watched. He hovered pointlessly in the outer yard for a while at his year group entrance, but then was glad he did. A new pair had apparently entered his year group. This was not unusual in SIS, as the corporations and numerous organisations of Strelzen annually sucked in thousands of immigrants and their kids from all over Europe.

But this new pair were striking to say the least; a boy and girl, twins obviously. They were dressed identically, which in the circumstances was weird. The boy as much as the girl was in an expensive knee-length white and gold-figured dress. Neither twin appeared to wear anything else, legs and feet were bare, that and very tanned. The boy’s face was powerfully masculine but handsome with it, despite incorporating a rather long nose. His hair was a radiant oriole of golden ringlets. Jules idly wondered whether they belonged to some unusual religious sect.

His father recognised the elderly couple escorting the new pair, and after a while so did Jules. They were the Martinovics, the grandparents of Willem Martinovic-Wyzhinski, that great disappointment in his life. Jules sidled up behind his father as he engaged with the elderly pair.

‘Herr Martinovic, so these are the two your daughter mentioned you’re hosting in Strelzen?’

‘Yes, Willem. These are Fenice and Oskar Bree von Tarlenheim, who’ll be in Strelzen for a year while their father is on a strategic military mission in Rum partnering with our Krista.’

Jules’s dad gave his usual forthright handshake to the twins, and got a blazingly beautiful grin from the boy, with whom he exchanged a few pleasant remarks, which included no observation about the boy’s eccentric attire. And then Herr Kral recalled Jules’s existence, and pulled him to his side.

‘Osku, this is my son Jules. He’s in your year. He can be nice when it suits him. Son, why don’t you take Osku and his sister into Reception where no doubt the clerks will have some details about their class assignment?’

The Bree twins were indeed expected and Oskar was in fact to be placed in Jules’s own subject group, the tech stream of Year 11. Jules’s home group teacher passed the male twin on to Jules to usher around the school, with a noticeable reluctance that irritated Jules. Jules in the meantime was finding Oskar increasingly fascinating and his curiosity about this barefoot hippy teen growing. It triggered questions, which the old Jules would have thought uncool.

‘So where did you and your sister live before you were sent here? You have a Rothenian accent, and an upper class one at that, all formal and almost like in an historical novel.’

‘Do I?’ said Oskar, ‘that’s interesting. But Rothenian is all my people ever speak’

‘Not English?’

Oskar shrugged. ‘It’s never been needed, and there’s no one to teach us, though my mama was in fact born English. I understand from mama that it was an important commercial language, and she made an effort with me and my sister when we were foals to instil the basics.’

Jules approved. ‘You’re in 11/Tech, you’ll need it. Er … foals?’ The last query brought no response.

They walked the corridors together. Oskar moved like someone born in open country — smooth, barefoot, confident. His tunic shifted lightly around his hips, revealing tanned thighs and the low slope of his back. He wore it like skin. Jules tried not to stare. He failed.

At the far end of the admin wing, they passed a water fountain. Oskar stopped. ‘May I?’

Jules shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s public, guy’

Oskar crouched, lowering himself in a single, elegant motion. And the tunic rose. Jules stopped breathing. There it was, hanging free. The dark flat tip of something colossal — far too long, not human. He was looking at the foreskin, smooth and full, looking dark and oiled. The organ partially glimpsed against Oskar’s inner thigh had a languid authority that defied biology. It was like a sculpted thing, or a creature asleep.

Jules turned sharply to the lockers and bit his tongue. His whole face was burning. His cock was stiff in his trousers, responding not just to the sight, but something more elemental. ‘You don’t wear underwear?’ he asked, voice strangled.

Oskar straightened, and the Thing vanished upwards. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve never needed it.’

Jules turned slowly to face him. Oskar stood calmly, robe fallen back into place — but the outline of the Thing was visible beneath it, now Jules knew where to look. The boy didn’t bother to hide it.

‘You’re not embarrassed?’

Oskar tilted his head, unsmiling but definitely amused. ‘Should I be?’

Jules couldn’t think of a single reply.

***

That night, Jules lay naked on his stomach in bed, damp with sweat, phone face-down on the pillow. He hadn’t opened any of the usual apps. No Telegram burner. No backup folders. Porn seemed… irrelevant. He’d been hard half the evening. It kept replaying—Oskar crouched at the fountain, his tunic rising like a curtain, and that thing swinging free like it ruled the air around it. It wasn’t pornographic. It was… mythic. The shape, the sheen, the impossible weight of it. Not just large, but sculpturally perfect—yet not quite human. The ridges. The length. The way it lay against his thigh like a resting animal. Jules had seen hundreds of dicks in his short, unwholesome online life. But never one that quieted him.

His hand drifted down, then stopped. He didn’t want to cheaply get off to the memory. He wanted to understand it. Or him. Or whatever Oskar was. He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. His own cock ached uselessly beneath him. He hated this. He missed being in control.

***

The next day brought PE, and Jules arrived early, prowling the changing room like a cat in heat. He took the corner locker—deliberately choosing the one next to the open slot assigned to Oskar. The room slowly filled. Laughter, teasing, boys slamming metal doors. Then silence. Oskar walked in.

This time he wore a short cream-coloured tunic, knotted at the shoulder like a short toga and barely reaching mid-thigh. His skin glowed with that golden-brown smoothness that seemed untouched by razors or blemish. Still barefoot. Still serene. He peeled the tunic off with casual ease and stepped out of it. He stood naked in the middle of the room.

For a while, no one spoke. All stared. It hung unashamed, its owner perfectly unembarrassed at possessing something that mythic and intimidating. Jules’s pulse hammered in his throat. The organ swung between Oskar’s thighs like it belonged to a different physiology. The foreskin was long, mobile, almost prehensile, and the shaft beneath it thick and gently ridged—not veiny but subtly textured, like leather or fine hide. It hung in a slow, natural curve, and as Oskar moved, it shifted—graceful, unhurried, utterly unashamed. It didn’t look obscene, it looked sacred.

‘Holy fuck,’ murmured Stefan Mannstejne, the previous holder of the title, ‘Year 11’s Biggest Dong’. And suddenly Jules registered something very odd. It was as if a pheromone had flooded the air of the changing room. The boys shed and stacked their clothes as usual but gathered naked around Oskar, awed. One or two tentatively reached out to touch his cock, not in any sexual way, but as if to do homage to its power. ‘Fuck,’ thought Jules, ‘we’re like herd stallions meeting our new prime, acknowledging his power and dominance.’

Oskar met his gaze. Not coldly—almost gently. ‘You’re looking again,’ he said, voice low. Jules swallowed. ‘You… You don’t care.’

‘Should I?’

‘It’s a fucking school,’ Jules hissed. ‘You’re just leting it hang out, like that?’

Oskar tilted his head, golden curls falling across his brow. ‘I was born like this. Why pretend otherwise?’

‘It’s—’ Jules faltered. ‘It’s fucking huge.’

‘That’s not a problem where I come from.’

Jules stared at the floor. ‘Where do you come from?’

Oskar didn’t answer. He passed naked ino the gym, the other boys naked around him, some of them still aroused. The PE master seemed not to notice. After a vigorous volleyball tournament, they returned to the changing rooms. Oskar stepped lightly into the shower area, steam rising around his bare shoulders, his cock swaying as he walked, heavy and slow. Jules gripped the locker edge until his knuckles ached. He wasn’t aroused anymore. He was undone. And he knew—deep down, as much as every other boy who stood wondering at this potent newcomer—he wasn’t going to be the one who came out of this in control.

Then Oskar turned, caught him looking, and smiled. ‘You’re still staring, Julius’ he said.

Jules looked away. ‘So?’

‘You keep staring. But you’re not smiling.’

Jules clenched his jaw. ‘What the fuck are you?’

Oskar’s smile deepened, eyes soft. ‘What’s wrong, Jules? I was told you liked looking at well-endowed boys.’

Jules stiffened. The showers hissed behind them. Steam clung to the tiled walls, swirling in lazy spirals. Most of the boys had dressed and gone, drifting out in nervous twos and threes, muttering behind cupped hands, casting glances they hoped wouldn’t be returned.

Only Jules remained. He sat on the bench in a towel, still damp, hair sticking to his forehead. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t moved.

Oskar stood at his locker, naked, completely unhurried as he toweled his golden limbs. The heavy organ between his thighs swayed with each motion—still only half-risen, but somehow watching him. ‘You stayed,’ Oskar said, without turning.

Jules didn’t reply.

Oskar looked over his shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he added, ‘what you’re feeling.’

‘What am I feeling?’ Jules rasped.

‘You know.’

Jules looked down at his lap. He was hard again. He didn’t remember getting there. ‘It’s not right.’

‘No,’ Oskar agreed softly. ‘But it is real.’ He stepped closer, feet silent on the wet tiles. The air seemed thicker near him—warmer, rich with something Jules couldn’t name. A scent, maybe. Not musk exactly. Not sweat. It was deeper. Like the promise of rain. Like heat on stone.

‘You smell different,’ Jules muttered.

‘I do.’

‘Like...’ He trailed off. The words didn’t exist.

Oskar sat beside him, still naked, unashamed. ‘It’s even stronger when I’m aroused,’ he said. ‘The scent. It’s not intentional.’

‘You do it on purpose.’

‘No. But I know what it does.’

Jules swallowed. ‘It makes people want to—’

‘Submit,’ Oskar finished. ‘Yes. Though not females.’ The word rang in Jules’s chest like a struck bell. ‘It’s how my kind express dominance,’ Oskar went on. ‘We don’t fight. We imbue. Our scent triggers feelings—desire, awe, hunger. Even shame.’

‘You do this to everyone?’

‘No,’ said Oskar. ‘Only those who feel the need to be ruled.’

That landed like a slap. Jules stood abruptly. ‘I don’t need to be ruled.’

Oskar looked up at him with that maddening calm. ‘Then why are you still here and still hard?’ Jules turned away, trembling. ‘You want to give homage,’ Oskar said gently. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s ancient. You feel it in your spine. In your knees.’

Jules leaned against the lockers, fighting to breathe. ‘You’re not normal.’

‘No, not in your way.’ Oskar agreed. ‘But then neither are you.’

Silence stretched between them. The shower hissed. Somewhere, a locker door clanged shut in another room.

Then Oskar said, more softly, ‘You could kneel, Jules.’ Jules didn’t move ‘No one would see,’ Oskar added. ‘No one would know. But I would.’

Jules closed his eyes. His body surged with heat and dread and unbearable hunger. He didn’t kneel. Not yet. But he didn’t walk away either.

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