Chapter 7 – Reclamation

	It’s hard to put into words how much I’ve lost.  I’ve even lost my ability to feel bad for myself, because I’ve learned about so many other horrible things that happen in the world, in many cases to the people I know.  I’m not even sure if it’s right to be angry or upset about the injustices I’ve suffered, when I compare them in my mind to. . . say. . . being sold into slavery as a child.  Or having my genitals mutilated.  Or even being brainwashed by a warmongering religious order.
	Most of the time, I just don’t know how to feel.  Ahsan tells me that my feelings are valid simply because they are my feelings, and nothing can be wrong with that.  But I can’t always see things the way he does.  Understanding seems to come so much more easily to him.  
	It’s not that he doesn’t suffer, or that he doesn’t face confusion about his own emotions.  I’ve seen him torture himself over what happened to Lochan, watched his uncertainty about Anala evolve.  But he always seems to find his way through the forest faster than I do, and just. . . comes to an understanding with himself, somehow.
	And he’s not afraid to talk about it.  That’s the part that really baffles me.  He shows me how he feels, unashamedly.  He shows the whole world.  He may not speak on every detail of his past, but he isn’t afraid to be the person it made him.  Not even when that person is an explosion of withheld rage.
	Whereas it took me months to even tell him what happened between my wife and I.  And I still haven’t been able to tell him exactly how I feel for him.
	Maybe the reason I don’t know how to feel about the things happening in my life right now, why I lack the conviction my comrades have, and why I can’t seem to express myself freely, are all one in the same problem.  I’m afraid to admit my feelings, because they aren’t. . . the feelings a man should have. They’re weak.
	I’m confused about my feelings for Ahsan, and a man should be certain, and in control of his relationships, with women or otherwise.  The husband is meant to lead, not play the role of the fickle courtesan.
	I don’t have the conviction someone like Anala or Raja has for our fight for freedom, because. . . I don’t like fighting.  It’s become a necessity and I’ve gotten better at it, and I thought that meant it was going to get easier.  But it hasn’t.  I still dream about the blood, the smell of viscera, the cries of the dying and wonder about the lives we’ve ended.
	And I can’t express myself because I’m afraid if I do, everyone will know I’m not the strong man I pretend to be.  Just because I’ve gotten through everything that’s happened to me throughout my life doesn’t mean I’ve gotten over it.  Living with the things I’ve done is hard, and the pain is slow to fade.
	You can pretend to be someone for a very long time before life tests you, really tests you, and you learn who you really are.  These past few years have taught me a lot about myself, and I’m afraid to let my friends see the weak man I truly am.
	Even Ahsan.

	We only barely escape the inferno in the Contract Manager’s office, but it’s the best distraction for an escape one could ask for.  We flee the compound lost amongst the throngs of onlookers and fleeing traders, and we don’t stop running until we’re blocks away, and only then because Raja literally collapses in a cramped alleyway between two buildings.
	Anala and I help the now nearly delirious cat to his feet and hurry him as well as we can the final few blocks towards the abandoned house. . . or rather the wreckage of one. . . where we left our camels and what remained of our supplies.
	“He can’t leave the city,” I insist between gasping breaths, looking to the slumped cheetah worriedly.  “We can’t just go back out into the desert.  He needs a physician.”
	Anala is quiet for a few moments, her eyes moving upwards towards the stars, as if she’s asking for help.  I’m short on patience, but she speaks up before I can.
	“I know a place,” she says, suddenly.  “They have an herbal healer, and they’ll hide us for the right price.”
	“We’re nearly out of coin,” I remind her.
	She grins suddenly, showing a fang.  “Are we?”
	“Nnnhhhhh,” Raja groans, his blue eyes flicking open to slits for a moment or two before he slumps again.
	“Fine,” I say quickly.  “We’re putting our faith in you, Anala.”
	All I can hope as we head back out onto the streets is that she’s not taking us to some kind of temple.  Her Order might take her back in, and that’s a big ‘might’ at this point I’d say, but they probably won’t have much pity for people like us.
	We walk the streets at a much less suspicious pace now, just a weary group of travelers.  Raja could pass for a drunk, but to be honest, not many people are out at this hour in this area of the city and those that are don’t seem concerned with us.
	That changes. . . at least the part about there not being many people out. . . once we start heading into the district Anala’s leading us towards.
	“This is. . .” I begin.
	“The Red Lantern district,” Ahsan murmurs, glancing dubiously back at Anala.  “Why are you taking us here?”
	“Like I said, I know a place we can shelter,” she says.  “A place where they don’t ask questions.”
	Lavanya curls her lip as we begin to pass the curtained houses, many just now lighting their lanterns and opening up for the night.  “For the record, I am opposed to this,” she says, as if it needed saying.
	“I. . . would tend to agree,” I say to Lavanya.  “But we can’t really afford to be choosy right now, and if Anala knows a place we can take Raja, I’m willing to be open-minded.”
	I see more than a few servants walking the streets here, almost all of them women.  Some of them absurdly young, but still wearing red in their sarees, suggesting they’re for sale.  A pair of two young fennecs who barely have breasts wave their fans at me, and I force myself to look away lest I get angry.
	“We not good enough for you, jackal?”  They call after me, or at least one of them does.  
	The second joins in, “Take your friend home, he’s crocked!”
	“Make sure no one sees his shoulder,” Lavanya reminds me, and I nod, keeping the cheetah between Anala and I.
	We finally reach what must be the place, because Anala slows and stops near an old weathered door, painted with foreign patterns.  Or lettering?  I’m not sure.  She heads up to it and knocks several times, then we wait for what feels like an eternity.
	At last, something unlocks on the other side of the heavy wooden door.  My eyes travel up the short, squat building.  It barely looks occupied, save that I can tell a few of the windows must have lanterns inside, behind heavy, obscuring curtains.  It’s one of the older structures, with a roof that’s been repaired many times by many different hands, judging by the mismatched clay shingles.  It looks like it was painted at one point, but it’s original color is impossible to make out.
	A large, meaty paw wraps around the edge of the door and pushes it open a few inches.  A thick muzzle reveals itself, dark brown and grey along its jawline, and definitely canine.
	A wolf, I realize.  A northern wolf.  You don’t see many in Mataa, we have wolves but not nearly so large or dark-furred.  
	“No more Sura business,” an impossibly deep, guttural voice growls out.  “The word’s out on your jobs.  Clifton’s men never made it back.  None of ‘em.”
	“We don’t work for the Sura,” Anala assures him.  
	He gives her a long look, his yellow eyes catching the lantern light from outside.  “No,” he says, with that northern accent the Dog Lords all have.  “I remember you.  You work for them.  You came here when they were hiring Clifton’s boys.”
	“Past tense,” Anala says, and digs beneath her cloak for a moment, before producing something I’ve never seen on her before.  A small box.  It’s only a few inches deep, perhaps once a cigar box.  She cracks it open and even I catch the glint of the gold inside.  
	That seems to peak the wolf’s interest.  He runs a thick, calloused paw over his lower jaw, considering.  “You in trouble?”  He asks.
	Anala shuts the box, and simply stares at him silently.
	“. . . right,” he mutters after a while, then steps back and opens the door fully.  “Well no making trouble here.  You know the rules.”
	“We just need rooms for the night, and your healer,” she says, stepping through.  I follow out of necessity, since she’s helping me carry Raja, and the others eventually follow.
	As Anala and the big wolf talk business, I take a moment to look around the strange place we’ve entered, keeping Raja with me.  I’m more than strong enough to support the cat alone, even as tired as I am.  And he isn’t dead on his feet exactly. . . he’s still mostly managing to stand under his own power.  
The ground floor is essentially one large room, with a bar and a few tables, most of which are currently occupied.  The place’s furnishings and decoration are nothing extraordinary, but what does stand out are the people.
	This place is full of foreigners.  Most of them are canine, but there’s also a tiger whose fur is thick enough that I know he’s from the north country, a table of dark-furred foxes wearing exotic leathers that certainly weren’t made locally, and a few creatures I can’t even identify.  The bartender is a spotted creature that I’d say upon first glance was some kind of cat, but her muzzle is wrong.  Long and pointed.
	There’s also a small collection of different women around the room who look by their garb to. . . well. . . belong in this district.  Except none of them are collared, and most of them look like foreigners, too.  They’re sitting amongst the men, one of them carrying a tray of drinks, and one of them is playing a foreign instrument in the corner of the room.  A string instrument made from dark wood, with a sweet sort of sound to it.
	Most of the people here are from the north, I realize.  A lot of them are dogs, not unlike. . . .
	It falls into place all at once.  These people knew Anala, Anala knew about this place, and the wolf kept talking about some group of men from here who never came back from a job.
	As luck would have it, she completes her business with the wolf at that point, handing over a fistful of those gold coins, and makes her way towards us, counting the rest remaining in the small box.
	“Anala,” I whisper fiercely.  “Is this where those bounty hunters came from?  The ones Sachsen hired to come after us at the oasis?”
	“It is indeed,” she answers without missing a beat.
	“Are you insane?!”
	One of the women catches my slightly raised voice and turns from where she’s sitting in the tiger’s lap to stare at us.  Soon the whole table of men is staring at us, and Anala glares at me.
	“We’ll talk about it upstairs.  Come.”  She turns and starts heading towards an alcove in the back of the bar area, which seems to lead to a staircase.  
	I look to my companions uncertainly.  But at this point we’re attracting more attention by stalling, so we all eventually follow her.

	“Because it might be more worth it to them to kill us or turn us in than it is to take what coin we give them!”  Ahsan manages to put my concerns more eloquently than I could have.
	“This place has a reputation to uphold,” Anala sighs.  “Sigfried doesn’t allow any kind of violence in his establishment.  It can’t be a safe house if it isn’t safe.”
	“The Sura knew to come here to hire bounty hunters!”  I point out, not yelling but whispering vehemently.  “It isn’t safe if they know this place exists.”
	“First of all, they’ll be sorting out the damage done to the compound and the chaos we caused all night,” she mutters.  “Secondly, they won’t think to look for us here.  Very few of the Sura in this city have connections to places like this.  Sachsen knew of it. . . and he’ll be dealing with his own problems for some time to come.  They’re not going to let him continue the hunt for us.”
	“How is it the Sura have allowed a place like this to exist at all?”  Ahsan wonders aloud.
	“The Dog Lords love to send their worst into our lands,” Anala replies.  “They send entire legions of prisoners here sometimes.  A lot of places sprung up to cater to them after the war.  Most of the men here are bounty hunters or smugglers, just looking for a place that speaks their language and employs women that remind them of home.  It’s just an establishment like any other.”  
	“It’s an establishment full of men who hunt people like us for a living,” Lavanya says quietly, her first time speaking up in the conversation.
	“Not here,” Anala stresses again.  “None of these men are currently employed by the Sura, Sigfried made that clear.  There’s an understanding in places like these-“
	There’s a knock at the door, and we all fall silent.  A long pause, and then another knock.
	“That’s the healer,” Anala says, standing to get the door.  The man she eventually lets in is a rat, carrying a satchel over his shoulder and many smaller pouches slung around his belt.  He’s dressed like a tradesman or a traveler, his fur is dark and well-kept, but it’s hard to tell what origin he might have.  Most rats look the same to non-rats.
	He steps inside, whiskers twitching.  “Herbalist, actually,” he clarifies.  “Very sorry, I. . . could hear you through the door.”  His gaze moves down to Raja, who we’ve laid out on the only bed in this room.  And it is a bed.  Like, a raised, feather-stuffed mattress.  I’d seen one or two in my life, but I’d never thought I’d have the chance to sleep in one.  Apparently the northerners prefer them, so all the rooms here have them.
	“Ah, a simple through and through,” the rat says, moving towards the bed and unshouldering his pack.  “This should be easy enough.  Please keep in mind again. . . I am not actually a physician.  But this, I believe I can handle.”
	Raja is still vaguely awake, which is a good sign.  He mostly seems exhausted from the pain and blood loss.  The rat begins by taking out a long, unusual blade that doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.  By the look of it, it’s meant to attach to a polearm or something of the like, but it’s missing a shaft.
	“I have to remove the arrowhead,” he explains.  “Would one of you hold the bolt from the other end so we can keep the movement inside to a minimum while I saw it off?”
	Raja groans in anticipation, and I wince right along with him.
	“I’m probably the strongest,” Anala says, heading over there to help the rat.  She settles down beside him and takes a hold of the bolt from the long end, and he begins to work, sawing with the blade as carefully and with as minimal movement as possible.  I’m sure Raja still feels every tiny movement, all the same.
	The room’s fallen silent while the rat works, and the quirky creature seems to feel it acutely.  “Pretend I’m not here,” he assures us.  “I’ve no love lost for the Clans, I assure you.  You’re in no danger from me.”
	“You overheard quite a bit out there in the hallway, didn’t you?”  Lavanya murmurs knowingly.
	“I’ll admit some curiosity,” the rat chuckles.  “You aren’t the usual sorts that walk through that door.  When Sigfried said you had some work for me, I was intrigued.  And. . . well. . . .”
	We all wait for him to finish.
	“Well most of us can put two and two together,” he says, as there’s finally a snap and the arrowhead comes off.  Raja gives a long, ragged sigh.  “The Sura Compound was raided,” he says as he deposits the arrowhead on the bedside table, “and here you are, a Sura Guard and several. . . unattached servants bearing their clan symbol.”
	“The word’s already out on the raid?”  Raja asks, his voice hoarse and strained, but it’s the first real words we’ve gotten out of him in a while, and it makes me feel a lot better to hear him speak again.
	“Oh, most definitely,” the rat’s muzzle twitches up into a smile.  “You can see the smoke from everywhere in the city, and they’re calling on all of their reserve guards.  A lot of servants escaped into the city after the fire, or so I heard.  The place is an absolute mess.  So unfortunate for them.”
	Raja gives a rasping chuckle.  “Good.  Fuck. . . them.”
	His quiet joy doesn’t last long.  A moment later he cries out in pain, as the rat pulls the bolt free from the meat of his shoulder, in one deft tug.
	“Very sorry,” the rat’s apology sounds earnest.  “I thought it might be best if I did not warn you, and if you were in good spirits when I did it.”
	“Alcohol,” Raja grits out between his teeth.
	“Yeah, let me get him something,” Lavanya says with a sigh, standing.  “I don’t know what foreigners drink, but. . . they serve some stronger stuff down there, right?”
	“Ask for what the tiger’s drinking,” the rat wrinkles his nose.  “Kadrush Vodka.  Absolutely the worst drink on earth.”
	“Sounds like it’ll do the trick,” Lavanya says as she heads out.
	The rat starts pulling a few things out of his pouches, including a small mortar and pestle, and some clean cloth that’s likely to wrap the wound.  “If you all need help escaping the city,” he says as he begins to lay his things out, “come to me tomorrow morning.  Sigfried’s a reliable old salt, but past those doors, he doesn’t care what happens to anyone.  But I’d be happy to help you.  I have a lot of connections along the trade roads.  Regardless which direction you’re planning to go, I’m sure I can get you in with a discreet caravan.”
	“Why?”  I ask uncertainly.
	“The Sura have many enemies amongst my kind,” the rat replies.  “And I believe in karma.”  

	Nearly an hour later, Raja is resting in an alcoholic stupor, and his wound is stitched.  It doesn’t look half bad. The rat kept stressing that he wasn’t a Physician, likely so he wouldn’t be held accountable if something went wrong, but he did a real decent job.  He even mixed something into Raja’s drink that he assured us would help him sleep and keep his pain down.  Anala paid him with one of those gold coins, and he bit it, then smiled and wished us well.
	“We might need to consider his offer,” Lavanya says, sounding tired.  She’s leaning against the wall near Raja’s bed, looking down at him.  “We can’t stay here for long.  As soon as Raja’s fit to travel, we need to get out of here.  ‘Safehouse’ or no, eventually someone’s gonna talk.”
	“Do you trust him?” I ask her, earnestly wanting her opinion.  Lavanya has a good sense for people.
	“I do,” she says without much hesitation.  “Rats are a favorite target for the Sura and . . . most Clans, honestly.  Nearly half of all indentured women I saw in my time working the brothel were rodents.  They have big families and they almost always fall somewhere near the bottom in caste, so the contract recruiters go after their children a lot.  When you can’t feed your family, giving them to someone who promises they won’t starve seems a better option.”
	“Your point?”  I sigh, not wanting any more reasons to be angry tonight.
	“A rat who’d work for the people that prey on his own kind would have to be pretty cold.  If he’s trying to set us up with the Clan, he’s a hell of a bastard,” she states.  “And I don’t think he’s that.  He took a lot of time stitching Raja’s wound, and he could’ve done it quick.  He didn’t have to mix that tonic for him, either.”
	“Alright, granted,” I agree, shrugging.  “So you think we should ask for his help getting out of the city?”
	“Rats usually know the ins and outs of a city,” Lavanya nods.  “I don’t think he’s bullshitting us.  And it’s not like we’ve got many other options right now.”
	“Let’s sleep on it,” Anala says, running a paw down her muzzle.  Even she looks worn out at this point, her eyes bloodshot and even more red than usual.  She stands stiffly.
	“I got us three rooms,” she says, looking to Lavanya.  “Care to share?”
	“I’ll stay with him,” the lioness says softly, looking down at the sleeping cheetah.
	Anala gives her an odd look, then sniffs.  “Suit yourself.”
	“Someone should,” Lavanya says, glaring back at her.  “In case he has trouble in the night.  He’s hurt.”
	“Just make sure he doesn’t strain himself,” the Priestess mutters, as she heads towards the door.  “He already slowed down our escape from the compound, we don’t need him dragging his feet while we escape the city.”
	“That was uncalled for!”  Lavanya speaks up from behind her.  Anala turns to regard her, and the lioness stares her down, unflinchingly.  “Look, this whole thing today. . . was your plan,” she says, defiantly.  “We went along with it and I don’t regret that we did it, even if we didn’t exactly get what we went in there for.  But it’s starting to feel like we’re doing this for completely different reasons, and I can’t speak for you, but. . . we want to survive.  We’re not looking for some glorious battle to die in.  We aren’t warriors.  We’re people who are fighting because we have to fight, and we’re doing a pretty damned good job considering our skill sets until now were. . . picking flowers and fucking people.”
	I’m stunned silent.  Lavanya isn’t what I’d call quiet, but she almost never says more than a few sentences at a time, whatever is strictly necessary to say and no more.  This is more like an eruption.
	“Raja is the only one that got badly hurt in there today,” she says, looking down at the sleeping cat.  “And he never complained.  He stuck it out and made it all the way here, because he believes in what we’re doing.  Because he and I,” she looks to me, “and Kadar and Ahsan- we’re all still slaves, so long as we’ve got these collars on our necks.  We want freedom, and more than that, we want to live long enough to enjoy our freedom if we’re ever able to claim it.  You keep calling this a ‘war’, but I think the meaning behind it all is lost on you.”
	She looks back down at Raja, and finally sits on the edge of the bed.  “Taking care of each other,” she says quietly.  “That’s what we’re supposed to be doing.  You’re all my Pride, now.  Which means we shouldn’t mock each other,” she looks to the Priestess at that, “especially not for getting hurt.  And we should all have the same goals and purpose.”
	On that, she looks at me.  And I feel a stab of guilt, because I know what she’s referring to.  I hadn’t told anyone but Ahsan about wanting to raid the Contract Office for my family’s information.  I’d waited until the last minute, and then sprung it on them in the middle of an escape.  While one of us had been wounded. . . .
	“And we should be open with one another,” she continues, her tone becoming less accusatory.  “Make sure we’re all of one mind when we go into something as dangerous as what we did today.  If we’re going to keep fighting for this,” she tugs at her collar, “let’s all fight for the same reason.  Our enemies are organized.  We need to be, too.”
	There is a long silence following her final statement, and I’m half afraid the two women are going to fight.  And that’s a particularly terrifying thought, because I know just how unbalanced that fight would be.
	“I should not have mocked him for his injury,” Anala says at last, surprising me not just because of her words, but because of how earnestly apologetic they sound.  She doesn’t even look angry.  “He fought well.  You all did.  Especially given your lack of training,” she seems ready to end there, but then amends, “which is not your fault.”
	She looks to me.  “Considering your lack of experience and proper martial instruction, you’ve all actually quite impressed me.  Especially you, jackal.”
	“Kadar,” I say with a sigh.  “Lavanya’s right.  Let’s stop referring to one another as strangers, and start acting more like our lives depend on one another.  Because they do.  We should all really talk tomorrow.  There’s a few things I’ve been wanting to get off my chest.”
	“Yes,” Anala says, nodding.  “Agreed.”
	It had never occurred to me that the Priestess . . . that Anala . . . might have been keeping some things to herself, too.  But she’s still a thinking, feeling person, despite often being a terrifying, intimidating one.  So I suppose there could be just as much struggle happening in her mind as in mine.
	The big hyena moves past me, putting a paw briefly on my shoulder as she heads out.  “Rest,” she says, then over her shoulder to Lavanya, “all of you.  I will see you in the morning.”
	She glances back at me, “Goodnight. . . Kadar.  Lavanya.”
	Ahsan left some time ago when the rat began stitching Raja up.  He’s seen a lot of bloodshed and carnage in our travels, but apparently watching someone get stitches was just not something he was comfortable with.  He’d gone to get us dinner and get our room ready.  That’d been nearly an hour ago.
	I head out after saying goodnight to Lavanya as well, and head down the hallway.  The rooms have marks on them that probably indicate numbers, but they’re not even in the right language, even if I could read Huudari.  Ahsan said ours was the last room on the left, though.
	I knock on the door before I try to open it, in case I’m wrong.  After a moment, I hear a muffled voice inside tell me to come in.  His, for sure.
	When I step inside, I’m met with a wholly unexpected sight, and my breath leaves my lungs.  Ahsan is seated near the window, a bowl of sandalwood-scented water beside him.  It looks like he must have washed up. . . some time ago, judging by the fact that his fur is dry.  And for some reason, he’s donned the stolen jewelry he was wearing earlier, and nothing else, and is reclining there like he’s been waiting for me.
	“Ahsan,” I stammer, then laugh nervously.  “What. . . ?”
	“You don’t like?”  He looks down at himself, tucking his ears back and managing to look so demure, it’s almost painful to keep my gaze on him.  He runs a palm down his thigh, the bangles on his wrist slipping down his arm with the motion.  I can’t help but follow the path of his claws with my eyes.  “I haven’t gotten to dress up for someone I really wanted to for a long time.”
	“You look beautiful,” I assure him quietly.  “It just. . . isn’t necessary.  You always look beautiful.  You don’t need to doll up like that for me.”
	“I wanted to,” he smiles up at me.
	“You could at least have waited for me on the bed,” I sigh, gesturing to it.  “How often do we have one of those?”
	“I tried to at first,” he admits, standing up.  “I was going to be all draped out, waiting for you like a painting.”
I laugh again at that, not even sure what he means, but it sounds like far too much trouble.
“But it just felt odd,” he sighs.  “It’s so soft.  I’ve gotten so used to sleeping on the ground.”
	I head over to it, dropping my pack on the floor as I cross the room and unshouldering my cloak, draping it over a chair near a very simple desk in the corner across from the bed.  That’s about it for furniture in here, but it’s still more than we ever had in my hut growing up.  Really, this is the nicest room I’ve ever stayed in.  In my entire life.
	I remove my blood-spattered shirt and pants, and ball them up on the desk, resolved to never wear them again.  They belonged to the dholes and they never quite fit me right, anyway.  And that much blood will not come out.
	I’m more comfortable in my loin cloth, to be honest.  At night we have blankets while we’re in the desert, and I’m sure I’ll be going back to wearing my stolen armor after this, anyway.
	Slowly, not sure if I’m doing it correctly, I sit down on the edge of the bed.  It sinks beneath me, feeling far too unstable to support my weight at first.  But then I’m sitting, and I don’t seem to be falling through or falling off.
	“It’s. . . not bad,” I say, looking to him and extending a hand.  “Come here.”
	He smiles and moves towards me, his jewelry catching in the lantern light as he moves.  Some of it is even draped around his waist, long golden chains with tinkling thin coins dangling off them.  The way they fall around his hips as he moves draws my gaze down to his sheath, which he hasn’t bothered to cover in any way.  The smallest bit of his dark tip is always a little visible, when he’s nude.  Or maybe it’s just that whenever he’s nude around me, he’s a bit aroused.  I can’t be sure.
	He moves towards me, and I make room for him beside me, but before I can stop him or even respond in any way, he moves over my lap instead, straddling me.  He loops his arms around my neck and seems to get comfortable there, smiling down at me.
	“Ah. . .” I’m not sure if I was trying to say his name, or if it was just my breath leaving me.  I stare up at him for a few more moments of silence, uncertain what to do.  It’s not that I’m at a loss what to do with my lover at this point when he’s in a mood, but . . . there’s something wholly different about the way he’s approaching me and acting tonight.
	He runs his palms over my shoulders, rubbing my aching muscles and slowly pressing our bodies together, causing a chain of sensations that further leave me mute.
	“I got us dinner,” he says quietly, “but . . . while I was down there, I talked to one of the girls that works here, and I got us something else, too.”
	I quirk an eyebrow, giving him a hazy look.  “Tea?”
	He laughs at that, sounding almost lyrical.  Then he gives me mysterious, sly look, and shakes his head.  “No.  Not tea.”
	His palms come up to cup and stroke my cheeks, brushing back the ruff of fur that runs down into the scruff of my neck.  His touch is incredibly light, but intentional.  He seems to know exactly where to put his hands, and how. 
	He spends a long time just running his hands over my neck, back and chest, and eventually all I can do is let my eyes slip closed and enjoy it, because I honestly feel incapable of doing much else.  My worries fade away into the recesses of my mind, and my body begins to uncoil.  Honestly, I’m not even sure how long I’ve been this tense, but it’s becoming clear to me all at once just how much I’ve needed to relax.
	I’ve begun to stir in my sheath, his body creating a delicate friction between us as his motions press us back and forth together.  I can feel that he’s gotten hard too, and soon our tips are both pressing against one another.  It’s a familiar course from here on out, and I’m more than happy to let things go on as they have many times before.
	But at some point, his palm moves down my chest, and I’m completely unprepared when what had been gentle touching becomes a shove, and I find myself flat on my back on the feather mattress.  Blinking, I look up at the hyena, who by now is leaning over me, palms spread flat on the bed on either side of me.
	“Ahsan. . . .” I finally manage to say his whole name, but little else.
	“I’ve never really had a chance to give you the kind of night I. . . I gave so many of those other men I didn’t even want to be with,” he says softly.  “Let me?”
	I want to tell him he doesn’t have to.  I want to feel strange, even wrong about it.  He learned all of those skills for the worst reasons, and was used and abused for them for so long.
	But that isn’t his fault.  And I know he wants to be with me.  I want to be with him.  So maybe it’s alright?  Maybe I just want it to be alright.  I don’t know that it matters, so long as he’s happy, and I’m happy.
	Either way, he seems intent on moving ahead with his plans.  He kisses me once softly before burying his muzzle in my chest fur, a favorite of his.  He does it often when we sleep together at night, and he frequently wakes with his nose buried against me in the morning.  He says he likes that I’m the first thing he smells when he wakes.
	His muzzle moves down from there, and my abdominal muscles clench as his nose trails down the scruff of fur beneath my navel.  I soon know his intended destination.  It feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve had his mouth around me.
	I’m more than halfway out of my sheath by the time he makes it there, and he takes a long while just to brush his muzzle back and forth over my length, teasing it.  His eyes are half-lidded and he looks blissful, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
	“I love your cock, Kadar,” he admits lewdly, oddly sounding almost guilty about it.  In my haze, I can’t imagine why.  All I can think is that it really doesn’t need to be said.  I mean it’s pretty obvious, given how much affection he’s lavishing it with.  Clearly, he likes it.  
He mouths and sups softly at my tip for a while, and all I can do is groan in response.  His muzzle is hot and feels incredible as it envelops my whole length, dragging more of it from my sheath.  Before long I’m fully hard, and not like I am normally with him.  This is a more desperate kind of want.  He is absolutely driving me mad tonight.
	The want settles deep into my gut, and as I watch his muzzle rise and fall, swallowing me nearly to my still restrained knot with every motion, I remember what I used to think sex would be like, before I’d been married.  And this was it.  This is how it was always supposed to feel.
	He pulls up, his tongue lathing gently over my tip once more, and looks up at me with those dark, sometimes brown, sometimes rusty garnet eyes.  
	I’m not sure when he began directing this, but I find it feels incredibly natural to let him.  I’ve always preferred he lead when it comes to physical intimacy.  Not only is he simply more knowledgeable (especially concerning things between two men) but surrendering to my partner doesn’t bring up all those feelings of guilt that I associate with my marriage bed.  I like not having to be in control, and knowing that no matter what happens between us, he clearly wanted it to.
	So when he rolls to his back and pulls me over him, I oblige eagerly.  Then he sinks down my body underneath me, and goes right back to sucking on me, this time beneath me.  I’m not sure exactly what the difference is, but any time he’s got his mouth around me, I’m happy.
	I stay on my hands and knees and just enjoy his ministrations, eventually letting my elbows sink into the bed.  I’m so overwhelmed by it all, I nearly miss when he reaches for the windowsill, and reaches for something I hadn’t taken much stock in before.  A very small clay cup.
	I can’t imagine why, but my first thought is that it is, in fact, tea.  I’m not sure what else could be in a cup so small.  But he doesn’t even move the cup from the sill, just dabs his fingers into it and goes right back to what he was doing.
	I’m momentarily lost, and my curiosity is at last beginning to overwhelm my desire.  I’m about to ask him what it was when I feel his hands moving up between my legs, one of them cupping and rubbing my balls, the other moving . . . further up.
	It becomes clear all at once.  Thankfully before he slides his first finger up beneath my tail, or that would have been a shock.  I’m caught in a moment of indecision as he circles my opening with the slickened tip of one finger.  He’s giving me time to tell him to stop, I realize.  I’d never exactly said one way or another whether or not I wanted to try this, but I hadn’t given him an outright no.
	The one time in my life I did this, it was against my will, and it was an absolutely horrible experience.  For the most part I’ve tried to put it from my mind.  Oddly, despite having happened more recently, it bothers me less than the memories of my wife.  Perhaps because it was one time, not years wasted on the same mistake.  Perhaps because that bastard got what he deserved in the end, so justice was done and I had more closure than I ever had with my wife.
	Maybe I just feel worse when I do harm to others than I do having harm done to me.  Who can say.
	Either way, this isn’t the same.  It’s gentle, it’s only going to happen if I allow it, and most importantly, it’s Ahsan.  
	I try to spread my legs a bit, to let him know I’m fine with it.  I’m honestly not certain how well I’m going to enjoy it if at all, but I’m willing to indulge my partner.  Presumably, he knows how this is meant to be done, so I trust him.
	The first finger is an adjustment, but not much of one.  It’s an odd feeling, but again, nothing like being violated.  It’s just strange.
	By the second, it begins to make sense.  I always figured there had to be a reason men did this willingly, and there’s a turning point where it goes from strange to fulfilling, creating a sensation I hadn’t known I wanted.  I’d had moments with Ahsan where I’d felt I wanted more from him than mere hands or muzzles could give, and I’d been expecting for a long time now that there was something I was meant to be getting from sex that I never was.  I hate to say there’s a void in me that’s been yearning to be filled, but . . . well.
	He slowly moves his fingers in and out of me, taking his time and seeming very deliberate with his motions.  I take to it quickly after he’s added the second finger, the pressure inside me building steadily as he feels me out.  Before long I can’t help but rock into his motions.
	And he’s still got his muzzle on me.  I’ll admit, that’s probably easing my acceptance of this a whole lot.  Which I suppose was the point of this position.  The dual sensations go awfully well together, like they’re meant to be connected.
	I hear the sound of his muzzle popping off of my cock, and I can’t see him beneath me, but I can feel his breath against me as he whispers, “You like it?”
	“Starting to,” I admit, thrashing my tail a little as his fingers sink in to the knuckle.  He’s still going very slow, and I’ve begun to want a little more out of it now that I’ve adjusted.  Faster or . . . deeper.
	It’s odd.  I feel like I’m learning what sex feels like, all over again.  And the fact is, if I hadn’t met Ahsan, I probably never would have realized this was something I wanted, let alone how well I’d take to it.  The idea of being with a man had never occurred to me before, save as something to avoid from guards or other men in the labor houses.
	“Do you want to . . . .” Ahsan trails off quietly from beneath me.
	I consider it all once more, but not for very long.  My body is aching for more, and right now the physical need is overwhelming my far more complex emotional feelings about the mess in my past.  I let the physical needs win out, glad for the surrender.
	“Yes,” I say in one breath.  “I want to try.”
	He slips out from under me, and when I begin to move to my side, he puts a hand on my hip to still me.  “Just stay as you are,” he tells me quietly.  “So long as you’re comfortable.”
	“I don’t think I’ve ever been this comfortable,” I admit with a languid stretch, letting my head fall down between my elbows on the bed to rest.  I keep my hips up for now, not really sure what I’m supposed to do, but he said stay as I was, so. 
	I hear him removing a few of his chains, specifically the ones around his waist, and he dabs for more. . . a lot more. . . of that stuff in the small cup.  I have no idea what it is but it smells like coconut, which is pretty expensive this far from the coast.  That thought makes me feel more than a little amused when I realize where it’s going.
	Amused is alright, I decide.  It feels better to be awkward about all of this than to be guilt-stricken and sad.
	I feel the need to look back, or really up at this point, over my shoulder to see him before we follow through with this.  He’s looking right back at me when I do, like he was waiting to make eye contact with me.  He’s giving me a soft smile, his paws running gently over my hips and rear, one palm dragging slowly up the length of my tail, even.  He just seems to want to touch all of me.
	“This isn’t how I imagined things between you and I,” I admit breathlessly.  “But it feels right.  Doesn’t it?”
	“I think so,” he responds softly.  “It’s what you want, right?”
	“Is it what you want?”  I answer with a question.
	I feel the warm tip of him up against my entrance.  It feels slick, and most importantly, hard.  At the same time, his paw comes to cup and stroke me between my legs.  It’s as much answer as either of us need.
	He pushes into me slowly, and it feels so much bigger than his fingers, despite knowing his cock’s actually got a lot less girth than mine.  He’s longer and thinner, and the length becomes obvious as he slowly, slowly sinks in.	
	“Unhhh. . . .” I try to muffle my groan by pushing my muzzle into the sheets, but I can’t cover it entirely.  It’s not that I mind him hearing me, I just don’t want him to stop until he’s all the way in.
	He doesn’t, thankfully.  He seems to know I need time to adjust once he’s in though, and he stays sunk to the root for a while after first pushing in.  I try moving my knees farther apart, and for some reason that does seem to help.  It’s an intense feeling though, being this full.
	I can feel his fingers kneading my rear, his palms running from there to my lower back, and over my hips.  He isn’t making much noise save his breathing, which has turned labored.
	And we’re not even moving yet.
	He changes that soon.  The feel of him slipping back, sliding slowly out of me, is both a relief and a frustration, which he alleviates a moment later by sliding back in.  And as he begins to move, he runs a paw around my hip to fondle me between my legs again, the labor-roughened pawpads wrapping around my now heavily hanging length and stroking as well as he can from his angle.  Really, just the fact that he’s touching me is enough, my body is alight with new sensations and I’m afraid I might come too fast at this point if he were to really stroke me.
	I’m a little shocked by the sounds he starts to pull out of me, guttural groans and open-mouthed gasps.  I dig my teeth into the sheets and grip at whatever I can to try to stabilize me.  He’s still thrusting slow, I’m the one that can’t seem to stay still.
	He moves both hands to grip my hips, still keeping that steady, deliberate pace, but now he’s readjusted himself, and with a low ‘hmmm’, he begins to thrust into me a little harder.  The first time he pushes up into me after he readjusts us, I cry out.  There was something he was tickling at before, teasing me with this occasional jolt of pleasure.  Now it’s like every thrust is finding it, and it swiftly becomes overwhelming.
	My paw moves to my length almost without my willing it.  I just can’t help it anymore.  I need the contact more than anything.  His pace against me is unrelenting, but still measured, never frantic or too hard.  He takes me like a craftsman, knowing somehow what I need even when I don’t.
	And soon, what I need is more of him, faster. . . so that’s what he gives me.  I come plummeting off the edge with a helpless moan, stroking myself unashamedly through the whole of it, and making a mess of our bed.  He doesn’t stop even once I’m spent, but I don’t mind.  My knot hasn’t gone down yet, and everything still feels amazing.
	I know the telltale signs that the hyena’s going to come, and when I begin to hear them, I’m glad for one thing- that he doesn’t have a knot.  But perhaps out of concern for how I’d feel about it, and seeing as we never exactly hashed out the details, he pulls out right before he’s about to spill, doing so mostly on my lower back.
	I stiffly lift myself up enough at that point that I can roll to the side of where I made a mess on the sheets, and come to rest on my back, my head spinning.  I’m joined not long after by a very satisfied hyena, who drapes himself partially over me, nuzzling into my neck.
	I lie there for a while and stroke his mane, not really knowing what to say.  What am I supposed to say, exactly?  Thanking him seems odd, the act was mutual and that’s, (finally) what I loved so much about it.  Now also feels like the wrong time to tell him I love him, else he get the wrong idea what I love him for.  Or maybe that’s just another excuse I’ve concocted so I don’t have to say it.
	I don’t know.  My mind is muddy and I’m too happy for self-analysis right now.
	Thankfully, Ahsan always knows exactly what to say in moments like this.
	“I am so glad we finally got around to this,” he says, letting out a long, relieved breath.  “I was honestly afraid we’d die before we got the chance.”