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There was nothing wrong with progress, in Hardin's mind. Progress was all well and good. It had gotten to the point, however, that he was getting quite impatient for results.
He slept beside Sydney most nights; nearly the only times that he did not were when it was necessary to do otherwise - when Sydney was taking care of something elsewhere, when he himself kept watch. After initially balking at the idea, Hardin had even consented to sleeping in Sydney's blankets when they were in the midst of their brethren, though he knew what it would imply.
Implications were all there were, however, for Hardin could not bring himself to do much else besides sleeping with Sydney, even when they made their bed far from the others.
Some nights, he knew well what was on Sydney's mind from the sway in his walk after he informed Hardin that he was excusing himself for the night. Some nights he knew nothing until Sydney was rolling atop him - or he atop Sydney, spurred on by a kiss that had grown deeper than he expected. Some nights it was he who felt the need so strongly, not having lain with anyone at all for years, and Sydney was willing to point out the desire that overwhelmed his thoughts, and that he would be happy to indulge it. It mattered not - each time, they could get only so far before Hardin lost his nerve, stammering and retreating, only to berate himself furiously as he paced elsewhere and tried to force himself to make up his mind.
Despite all of Sydney's teasing and mocking in other areas, in this he said nothing to belittle Hardin, though he must have been at least as frustrated as Hardin was. It made Hardin that much more ashamed, for Sydney deserved better than this. Sydney could have acquired far better treatment than this, as well, at the hands of others among the brethren, but he chose not to.
Knowing this was what drove Hardin to try harder, and bit by bit, it had been working. He no longer flinched when he felt Sydney rubbing against him, hot and hard, and the shame of having another atop him had shifted somewhat to be more exciting than detrimental to his state of mind, for it was Sydney atop him, perhaps straddling his hips, perhaps kneeling over him to trace a trail with his tongue down his chest and over his stomach...
Hardin shook his head slightly, trying to clear it, but not too much. He'd been watching Sydney all evening, since the brethren had found an appropriate place among the trees to set up camp for the night. Watching Sydney had seemingly had the desired effect, for he could not stop thinking about what could happen that night - if he did not lose his nerve.
At the very least, he was determined that tonight he would manage to get to the point where they were completely bare, from the waist down. That was the point at which he had last lost his nerve - when he felt bladed fingers at his hip, unfastening his trousers, and had suddenly gone self-conscious.
He felt self-conscious even thinking about it, truthfully, but his determination allowed him to get to his feet regardless, gather up the bedroll he had carried on their behalf, and start for the trees beyond the edge of their small encampment, where he might find a place that would provide adequate privacy. Sydney was still speaking with some of their recent converts, but Hardin knew that Sydney would know where he was going and why. He would catch up when he was ready, and until then Hardin would try to ensure that he was.
While unrolling the blankets, Hardin let his mind drift to the memories of past attempts at the same - hands of cold metal carefully pushing his shoulders to the ground, fair hair falling over Sydney's eyes, the way Sydney shrugged sinuously out of his cloak, the feel of sharp teeth grazing his earlobe, lips and tongue against the front of his trousers, thin legs wrapped around his fully clothed waist. How much better would that feel when they wore nothing?
As he'd expected, the sound of footsteps approaching was not long in coming, and while his physical eyes remained on the blankets he was adjusting, the Sight showed him Sydney, standing by in what starlight managed to pass through the treetops, smirking slightly. "I cannot imagine," said the mage, in a teasing voice that stopped just short of sultry, "what your intentions might be."
"Then it is fortunate for us both," Hardin replied as he stood, somewhat gruff and not certain whether he was teasing in return or being perfectly earnest, "that you never need 'imagine' my intentions."
"And yet, knowing this," Sydney stated, "you still cannot make the first move in flesh as you do in spirit."
...He was right. Hardin's head was still downward, his mind occupied by willing himself to do something to that end - or at the very least denying the urge to escape, which had dwindled tremendously over the past weeks, but had never entirely vanished. "I apologize," he muttered. "I..."
He was not sure what he was about to say, and he never decided. Taking advantage of his lesser height, Sydney moved in closer, ducked beneath Hardin's bent head, and simply turned his face up to meet Hardin's lips.
Grateful for the understanding, this indulgence of his unmerited anxieties, Hardin's answering kiss was fervent, and his arms wrapped around Sydney's back without hesitation. Already his blood seemed to rush in anticipation, humming in his ears, and he imagined he could feel something crackling between them like lightning even before the soft intrusion of Sydney's tongue against and then between his teeth.
Sydney was not wasting time either, and soon was tugging Hardin down to the blankets. His patience normally seemed immeasurable, but Hardin had been suspecting that it wore thin after so many failures. Not to worry. This time he would overcome, and his unspoken vow showed in the kiss when it was renewed, and the firmness of his hands upon Sydney's waist as Sydney came to rest atop him, his hips pressing down on Hardin's.
Hardin had been considering the mechanics of what they would do for some time, and such thoughts returned now, naturally - who would enter whom? Though it made him uncomfortable, he had decided that it was likely best left to Sydney, who had more experience in such matters. That decision had been what caused him to call a halt to things more than once, but he thought about it fiercely now, a frontal assault on his fears. His knees drawn up on either side of Sydney's waist, his hands clenched against the tattooed skin of Sydney's back, and there was a breathless sound from Sydney's throat as his kiss grew fierce also. It was overwhelming, being held to the ground in this way, and Hardin remembered successfully this time - overwhelming did not always have to mean dangerous. If he could let himself be overwhelmed...
He moaned aloud, letting his arms wrap around Sydney, trying to draw them closer together still. That breath was countered by a soft chuckle, and then he felt Sydney's claws at his throat. Not in a threatening way, of course - Sydney was unlacing his shirt, meticulously working the strange blades of his fingers. "I've waited long for this, Hardin."
"As have I," Hardin admitted. Sydney wore no shirt, and so his hands were kept busy exploring the smooth skin and tight muscle of Sydney's back, the ridges of his spine, traced down to where Hardin's finger was stopped by an expanse of leather. He found himself disappointed by that, though not surprised - and he had to get his shirt off now anyway.
More surprising was Sydney rolling to his side, pinning one of Hardin's knees; the suggestion was obvious, and Hardin obliged, rolling to the top so he could kneel as he removed the shirt. Sydney was grinning up at him - from where he lay between Hardin's legs - and his hair had fallen out of place in the most enthralling way. "Tonight?" he inquired.
Hardin nodded. "Tonight." In fact, he reached down and unfastened his own trousers; it would be much easier for him to do it with his own fingers than for Sydney to do it with his claws.
He lay on the bottom again after a moment, pulling his knees together so that he might get the trousers off, and suddenly it was Sydney straddling him. It did not help him undress, but there was nothing but Sydney's leggings, one thin layer of leather, between them now, and Sydney leaned forward...
Every motion brought more discomfort, brought the promise of more pleasure. Hardin focused on the latter, and rather than shying away, deliberately worked his hands between them and went for the cords on Sydney's leggings. That brought an approving murmur, particularly when Hardin purposely groped at Sydney, trying to ensure that he was ready for this. The leather continued to seem a frustration rather than a shield, which implied that he was.
The cords came undone with a minimum of fumbling, for Hardin's fingers were skilled. Pushing the leather aside, he let his left hand slip down the front, and felt heat and coarse hair. His deep breath was as much to collect his nerve as it was excitement, but Sydney shifted to the side, one knee pressing up between Hardin's thighs, and Hardin moved to get the leggings off, for he was finished with mere progress. His thumbs hooked beneath the leather, and his fingers brushed over Sydney's back on their way down, smooth and warm and soft, down to the small of his back, the slight curve just below, around and down, the backs of Sydney's thighs...
...That was not skin. The feel of metal caught him off-guard - was Sydney armored beneath his leggings? Not heavily, for his legs were as slender as ever a moment before, but...
Hardin's hands stroked back upwards, but out of shock this time rather than a need for touch. Plate metal, yes - and there was a raised rim before he found skin again, and a finger slipped between...
Instinct caused Hardin to sit up with a start, thrusting Sydney off from him with all his strength and knocking him back. "Gods...!" Hardin whispered, terrified as he stared at what he'd just discovered.
Sydney had caught himself before he'd fallen in earnest, but he remained leaning awkwardly on one arm, half on his back, half sitting. Above the partially lowered leggings, metal reflected what light it scavenged from the stars above - and much too little of it for there to have possibly been flesh beneath.
Though the darkness and the now somewhat mussed hair hid much, Hardin could feel Sydney's gaze upon him, and he was frozen, unable to do anything but stare back in horror. Gods - the arms were more than enough! To think that he... He could not keep back the revulsion in his heart at the realization. How much of him is even human? How much of him is Sydney? If he's only... and the rest...! He might as well be one of those monsters he summons - an empty suit of armor...
Sydney's head turned away with a jerk, so abrupt that Hardin flinched and braced himself. Sydney made no move towards him, however, for which Hardin was grateful. Instead, the prophet rose to his feet, and ignoring the man who cowered away from him, tugged his leggings back into place and began to stalk away in a rush.
Once, Hardin would have followed at once, recognizing that Sydney was clearly angry. Given this revelation, though, and what it implied... Hardin did not find himself overly eager to try to soothe the anger, or even place himself near it. He remained where he was, wide-eyed, and tried to calm his breathing. At least the discovery had done away with his desire - he was grateful that he did not have to deal with that as well.
After a short time during which he collected and reclothed himself, he was clear-headed enough to ask himself the logical question: What now? If Sydney was in truth no more than a head and a body, and all his limbs some sort of mechanism moved by the Dark - then what was he to do?
He'd been thinking, not so long ago, of how it felt to have Sydney's legs wrapped around him, to feel one of them shove between his own - his hands over the hard, slender hips and thighs. It had been more than pleasing when he'd thought that they were actually flesh and blood like his own, though much thinner. Now that he knew, however, the thought made him shudder. He'd as soon have made love to one of those summoned creatures. What did this mean for himself and Sydney, if the thought repulsed him?
He was frightened, he had to admit. But then, the arms had been intimidating from the first, and he'd been able to overcome it. Not entirely, it would seem, or he would have been thinking of head, torso, and arms as Sydney now, with only the legs being... something else.
Then again, Hardin reminded himself sternly, even if he had been whole, every limb being his own flesh, that would not be what made Sydney Sydney. His flesh was only the body, immortal though it may now be - Sydney was the soul that inhabited it. ...Sydney himself, the part of him that truly was Sydney, might be every bit as hurt and insulted as anyone else might have been by the rejection of the physical form he took, Hardin realized. He had seemed angry, but perhaps that was only Hardin expecting him to be angry - and Sydney did have a tendency to turn hurt into anger.
But then, he recoiled again. What was Sydney?
Surely if it were the Dark possessing his limbs, Hardin told himself, as was the case with the Dullahan and Crusaders he had seen walk before them, Sydney would not have been capable of moving so naturally. There was no discord in his movements; he moved fluidly, with certainty and purpose. He was more coordinated than many men of flesh, given the way he had danced at their ritual. He was a singular being. Surely... it must be Sydney himself who possessed his body, just as Hardin possessed his own.
Or was Sydney altogether, flesh and metal alike, a creature of the Dark?
The argument was absurd. Rationally, he knew better than that - he was acquainted with the Dark, and with Sydney, and they were far from one and the same. He had seen Sydney as strong and cruel, but also as weak or compassionate, as complex and prone to fits and moods and mortal desires as any other. Still Hardin could not stop his fearful thoughts from coming. He was an ordinary man, he had lived an ordinary life, until recently. He was still unaccustomed to such things as he had seen - the dead walking, sorcery that could burn a man where he stood, or send him to another place. Even the abilities he now possessed were still strange and unnatural. How much more a man such as Sydney?
He called upon one of those abilities now, however, for his heart was torn; Sydney was... what he was, and though now frightening, he had always been frightening. Hardin had also come to know him as fascinating. Though frightening, Sydney had been patient, he had suffered Hardin's fears and indecision long; more than long enough.
The Sight came to Hardin easily, and he caught a glimpse of a figure slumped in the darkness at the foot of a tree - but for only a moment, before the head lifted from the metal arms just a bit. Hardin was used to the rushing sensation that accompanied his returning to his body, but this time it was like a wave crashing over him with such force it left him reeling as if he'd been struck. Reaching out to steady himself with one hand, Hardin frowned; he'd had no idea Sydney could do that. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised.
Well, then - if he couldn't use the Sight to find Sydney's exact location, he could still track. Not so well at night as during the daylight hours, but scrying helped him to see his surroundings in the darkness, and Sydney had taken no pains to hide the bent grass and snapped twigs of his passing. That and the way he'd been curled into himself at the foot of the tree left Hardin all the more certain that his reaction had left Sydney upset. In fact, a branch that crossed his path at what would have been face-height for Sydney was found torn to shreds.
By the time he reached the trail's end, Sydney was curled into himself no longer, leaning instead against the tree's thick trunk with arms crossed over his chest, just watching Hardin's approach. Likewise, Hardin was no longer hidden inside his fears and misgivings. For once, he knew exactly what he was going to say to Sydney, and he halted a few paces away. "I apologize, Sydney."
Sydney's head bowed slightly; Hardin could not see his expression in the darkness, but his voice sounded bitter. "I had forgotten - unlike the others in our company, you do not consider me a miracle, but only a man."
Hardin shook his head. "On the contrary... I had forgotten that the man is a miracle."
There was a small scoffing noise. Hardin waited for more biting words, but none came. "'The body is but a vessel for the soul' - is that not what you taught me?" he continued.
"You might have listened more soundly."
This was true, and Hardin took a step closer, bowing his own head. "...Forgive me. In the ways of the Dark, I am yet a student."
Again Sydney said nothing, whether to accept or mock. Hardin was getting the impression that his reaction had hurt Sydney even more deeply than he might have expected. All the more evidence that Sydney was, in spite of it all, still a man. "Come back to our blankets," he suggested cautiously, and not a little nervously, after some thought. "We had intentions for the night."
"You cannot follow through now," came the response, sounding weary. "Have you forgotten that I can sense the revulsion in your heart at these limbs of mine?"
"Then you will sense my acclimation to them," Hardin said firmly. "Your arms alone once were unnerving, but I have touched them now many a time. This too I will learn to accept." He paused, reluctant to speak of such things aloud, but... "...There were other parts of your body which made me uncomfortable as well," he muttered, "though still your own."
The sniff he heard might have been a laugh. It was as close as he was likely to get to a receptive answer, or so Hardin believed, and so he stepped forward again, steeling his mind as he reached out a hand to place it on Sydney's side. Though he found himself imagining the eerie motions and clanking metal of empty armor, he slid the hand down to Sydney's hip and there halted, feeling a sharpness that he'd always mistaken for bone beneath thin flesh. Still this was Sydney, he reminded himself.
Sydney remained perfectly still against the tree. "This is not necessary."
"If I am to conquer this, it is." The other hand steadied himself on the tree as the first slid down further, leather over metal now more easily identifiable. He shuddered, but did not remove his hand. It could reach no further down without him kneeling, and instead he drew his fingers across to the inner thigh, sliding them slowly back up, as he would have with a lover. As he would have done with Sydney.
There was a faint sigh from Sydney's turned head, and Hardin wondered. "...Do you... feel?"
A pause. "I sense," Sydney murmured, "but I do not feel. Not as you do."
Hardin could not help but pity him, though he knew it was as likely to offend Sydney as his discomfort with his limbs. As distraction, his fingers wandered up further, finding softness between the hardness of his thighs. It occurred to him that once he had considered this territory far more frightening than Sydney's thighs, and now it felt like a relief.
Sydney trembled slightly - perhaps it was another silent laugh? - and then he was leaning into Hardin, his arm too smooth against the bare skin at his waist; Hardin had not thought to put his shirt back on. His head was against Hardin's shoulder, and Hardin turned his attention away from Sydney's legs for a moment, raising his arms to put them around Sydney and simply hold him. This, at the least, was perfectly comfortable.
"What caused this?" he inquired quietly, once he had savored the silence for long enough.
"My limbs were offered to the gods, when I was very young."
Hardin had heard tales of barbaric sacrificial rituals among sorcerors, but Sydney had told him that Müllenkamp had no such traditions. Perhaps it was only that they no longer practiced them under his leadership. "By whom?"
"I gave my consent." His voice was somewhat muffled by their position, but faintly defiant. "I have never regretted it."
Liar, Hardin thought, but he said nothing aloud. If Sydney had ever longed for the touch of human hands, of course he would not admit it, but it would explain much.
Though Hardin could not quite think of the metal limbs as a part of Sydney just yet, there was still enough flesh for him to touch, and so he touched. Not provocatively, as he only brushed his fingers along those places that were normally exposed - but he could guess now at the significance of touching to Sydney, and perhaps that made it as intimate a touch as he could have offered any lover.
But Sydney was not that. Yet.