The Roadside Copse #1

Sup, /tg/.

 

Contained in the following Pastebins are the combined logs of the grand, overarching story I did with my first partner on F-List. It is the better part of five months' collaborative work: 298,290 words written between September 7th, 2013 and January 9th, 2014; the majority being written between September 7th and October 22nd. Converted to 10pt Times New Roman and placed on pages with universal 1” margins, this equals roughly 316 pages. And, for Valentines' Day, I'm sharing it with everybody in our ERP Generals. Before I throw up some disclaimers, however, I'd like to say a few words (“a few words” - anybody already familiar with me will be snorting derisively at that) regarding the entire thing.

 

### FOR THOSE UNINTERESTED IN LONG, MEANDERING AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND INTROSPECTION, YOU MAY SKIP THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPHS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. ###

 

Like many others, I first entered the ERP Generals on /tg/ with a kind of morbid curiosity: “What the hell is this doing on /tg/?” and other such confused, dismissive thoughts. I was not exactly a stranger to the idea of ERP, but it was something I hadn't done for years; I was out-of-practice and skeptical of this “F-List” thing being pushed in the threads. Still, I wasn't entirely without interest, and when, one day, an Anon posted a link to a Brienne of Tarth knockoff profile named “Lirael Envoi” wondering why they weren't getting any love, my resistance was broken. This, I finally decided, was something I wanted to get into. It took me several days of screwing up my courage before I finally broke down, threw together Baby's First F-List Profile for Redouane – a character concept that had long been batted around in the back of my head – and sent off a tentative note expressing my interest (and just how nervously enthusiastic I was about the entire thing). Looking back at it all, it was an incredibly sloppy affair; that opening note was replete with self-depreciation mixed with a faint whiff of desperation, and the initial build of my profile was truly a substandard mess.

 

Still, the person behind Lirael replied. They were passingly interested, they admitted, and would like to talk to me so we could get a sense for how well we got along. In retrospect, a perfectly normal response to somebody interested in doing a scene, and certainly in no way indicative of what was to come. I was an unknown quantity, and they were taking a chance on me.

 

Luckily for both of us, she did.

 

Our initial conversations were, if I may say so, enormously promising. The two of us hit it off immediately, talking for hours on end about our various interests. We laughed over the incredibly formal preambles of the aristocratic English letters she had studied for some of her research, and discussed what it was about various RPG rulesets that we liked. A first session was energetically scheduled for the next day – first Lirael was busy with somebody else, then it was too late for her to start anything – and I went through the rest of the day looking towards our appointment with a mix of enthusiasm and apprehension. I was rusty, after all; it had been years since I had last worked my typefucking craft. Would I be any good? We had great personal chemistry, but how would that translate into the ERPing? Once again, I found myself screwing up my courage, buckling down, and waiting to see what would come.

 

The first several sessions ended up being half-day affairs: no matter how much we threw at each other, there was always room for more, always *need* for more. We stopped only when one or both of us were so exhausted that we couldn't continue, and each day was looked forward to more than the last. When we weren't knee-deep in smut, we bantered between each other; discussing the little oddities and quirks of our daily lives. Work was slow for me; Liri's health kept her from being particularly outgoing. I found myself enjoying the idle conversation nearly as much as the ERP, and somewhere along the line, I ended up being utterly smitten by her. She was honest and engaging, open and sincere, with just enough sauciness to make her utterly irresistible: the kind of woman that a man could devote himself utterly to.

 

Despite this, Lirael insisted that I was unusually talented at this brand of prose, and that I had an obligation to 'spread the love around,' so to say. And so she helped me polish my style; aided me in cleaning up my profile to something that would be more amenable to a broader audience. When scheduling issues – or her health – kept us from doing scenes together, we'd tease one another with (appropriately redacted) tales of our latest adventures with other partners. And when the stars aligned again, we'd plunge right back into our particular brand of depravity, spinning out our initial quick sketch scenario of “foreign diplomat is assigned knight as bodyguard while travelling; they end up screwing” into something far, far grander. Cultural nuances were considered; overarching plots were hammered out. And amidst it all, we kept up our other conversations, growing ever closer.

 

Those of you out there with more jaundiced eyes are probably wincing at this, and are probably thinking that there is only one way this could end. And indeed, you would be correct. 7500km is a huge distance between two people, and no matter the charms of text, there are a great many needful things that it cannot provide. As Liri's physical well-being continued to take a turn for the worse (and the side-effects of her medication grew ever more detrimental), we spent less time lewding and more time talking. I encouraged her to act on her interest on a man she had met during one of her hospital stays, and eventually the two were dating. It made Lirael happy, and that, in turn, pleased me, because more than anything else, I believed – and still believe – that she deserved more happiness in her life. That was late October.

 

Imagine my delighted surprise, then, when Liri proposed to her recently-acquired boyfriend on New Years' Eve. She had already been contemplating a retirement from ERPing for the better part of December; her relationship with this man had been growing increasingly serious, and for entirely understandable reasons, that made going online and typefucking with people from the other side of the planet an increasingly difficult act to morally reconcile. And who was I to argue with that? I'd expected such a thing ever since the first date went well. Still, the sudden engagement proved particularly surprising for me, and our final scene – simple closure, free of any undue sexual content – came a week and a half later.

 

Two days later, Lirael left on vacation with her fiance, retiring from ERP – and my life – forevermore. And as much as I miss her at times, I truly hope that her circumstances are blissful. She was the best partner I could have ever wished for, and she fully warrants all the joy she can get her dainty little hands on. In her wake, she left our logs – all near-300k words of them – and, well, me. I have met no shortage of absolutely fantastic people from these ERP Generals of ours; in fact, I have yet to meet a single person from the “/tg/ enclave” (as I have taken to calling our merry little band on F-List) that I have not enjoyed spending time with. I have been enormously blessed with fantastic partners who have brought me no end of happiness and satisfaction. I wouldn't trade any of them for the world.

 

And I owe it all to her.

 

Without her good-natured guidance, her happy encouragement, her coaxing touch and genuine enthusiasm for the hours and days we spent with one another, I doubt I would have ever bothered contacting all these other fine, upstanding fa/tg/uys and ca/tg/irls that I can now share my days with. I never would have had the confidence, yes, but more importantly, I never would have realized how absolutely satisfying ERP can be. I don't know if I'm a good partner or not, but I am the partner that Lirael Envoi made, and for that, I owe her a debt I can never entirely repay.

 

To those neophytes to the ERP scene out there who may be reading this, let this tale be a reminder: you have to take the plunge before good things can come your way. Out there, somewhere, there's a perfect partner for you who will lead you along true and righteous paths. Maybe you will get lucky like I did, and find stunning success on your first swing. Maybe you will have to work for it a bit. Either way, screw up your courage, roll the dice, and take your chances. Wonderful things await for those who dare!

 

### LONG, MEANDERING AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND INTROSPECTION IS AT AN END. THOSE WHO WERE SKIPPING OVER MAY NOW RESUME PAYING ATTENTION. ###

 

Right, back to the tale itself.

 

As stated above, what follows is a massive affair weighing in at several oversized novels' worth of words, compiled and lightly edited for typo correction & general readability by me. I'm sure I've managed to miss some things along the way; it's been a considerable undertaking. Due to the fact that these are, ultimately, ERP logs that have simply had the various system messages stripped from them, the quality of verbiage is hardly the best – there's more repetitiveness in the response formatting than ideal, and no shortage of purple prose for individuals to suffer through. Speaking on my own behalf, I wince slightly when I read some of my earlier work and compare it to how far I have come in the intervening months. There are also plot arcs that lead nowhere, loose threads left untied, Chekhov's Guns that are never fired; given more time and a perfect world, more of these things may have been resolved or rationalized away. There are more than a few awkward scene cuts and transitions, including at least one stemming from a portion of the relevant logs being lost. In short, there's no shortage of flaws in our entire tale, and if it was ever to be passed off as something of 'real literary merit,' it needs far more extensive editing than I have subjected it to here.

 

All that said, it is the tale that Liri and I wrote together, and I want to present it precisely as such. It is a tale of two people with too much time on their hands, yes, but more than that, I present it now as a love song to /tg/ and our ERP Generals: a way of giving back to you all for bringing us together, for being such wonderful people, and for being such a source of quiet contentedness in my daily life. I hope that at least a few of you find at least a fraction of the enjoyment in reading all this as I did hashing it out with Liri in the first place.

 

You are all fantastic, and I am so lucky to have met some of you. In the weeks and months – maybe even years? – to come, I hope to meet even more of you. You are jewels amidst the dross that is F-List, and generally awesome people to spend time with besides. Thank you for helping make all this possible, and I hope all of you have plans to spend this Valentines' Day with those you love.

 

...Or those you love to lewd with. Hey, next best thing, right?

 

All my awkward love,

Redouane

 

~~~

 

Now, without further ado...

 

THE ROADSIDE COPSE: THE LEWD ROMANCE OF A KNIGHT AND AN EMISSARY, PART ONE

 

PART TWO: http://pastebin.com/CPzP441X

PART THREE: http://pastebin.com/hR1WZMa7

PART FOUR: http://pastebin.com/7JT7sE1V

PART FIVE: http://pastebin.com/S6qwE6Cf

PART SIX: http://pastebin.com/5Kxxcw8L

 

~~~

 

Redouane looks upward at the squarely-set palisade and heavily-garrisoned gate of the border checkpoint ahead of him, and exhales slightly as he does so. It had been several days of travel, but the real journey was just to begin: crossing the border from his home Empire to the new and novel land of their hitherto-enemies. Right, papers, papers...fumbling in one of his saddlebags, he pulls out several scrolls, and eases his horse forward to the entryway. Behind him ride several horsemen resplendent in heavy, head-to-toe mail; their faces obscured by their armoured veils. They keep perfect order despite their emissary's seeming disorganization, and come to a stop several meters outside of the palisade. Redouane alone rides up to the gate and raises one of the scrolls with him. “I am here as an official emissary and messenger of the Empire! As guaranteed under the rights and patents of the laws of nations, I request access to carry out my duties!”

 

Lirael steps out of the gate with her hand held in greeting. She's wearing an arming jacket of black fabric, and a sturdy pair of riding leggings. She's wearing a sword on her hip, the leather on the handle worn smooth, showing its use. She's leading a horse with the other hand, a dark brown colt. "Hail!" she called back, "Welcome to the Kingdom of Estillia, emissary. I'm the escort you requested." she said, her voice low but feminine. Her face was rather plain; stern looking mouth and a nose that had clearly been broken before. The only sign of anything not bizarrely masculine was her big blue eyes, which looked him up and down, then scanned across to his escort, eyebrows furrowing. Her hair was blonde and ragged, cut short enough to fit below a helmet. "I hope you understand that they're not coming with you." she said, her voice more wary than before.

 

Redouane tilts his head slightly, his intricately-braided hair of jet black spilling to the side as he does. His own blue eyes sweep over her in return, then a smile crosses his pretty, faintly-androgynous features. He nudges his steed forward toward his escort, holding out the scroll in his hand to her. Despite the pleasant expression on his face, he reaches up with his other hand to pull at the stiff collar of his long, robe-like white tunic replete with rich gold and red embroidery. “I do understand, my good escort, that their journey ends here. I have full faith in your talents and in the courteous treatment of the Kingdom of Estillia. Contained within the scroll are my credentials, in case you wish to confirm them.”

 

She nodded to him firmly, and opened the scroll. She made him wait for five whole minutes as she read the complicated document from top to bottom twice, and even checked the seal on it to check its authenticity. Finally, she nodded to him again and handed it back. "Everything appears to be in order. I formally welcome you to the Kingdom of Estallia, Emissary Redouane Nicetas Isidorus. Come in peace and depart in peace. Fail not in this charge at your peril." she finished with the ancient words used by the Knights of Peace to accompany any vow. "Open the gate!" she yelled, turning her head to call to the guards. Slowly, the full gate creaked its way open, showing the well paved stone road, the King's Road, into Estallia.

 

Redouane sighs in visible relief as the gate creaks open, as he was starting to fidget somewhat uncomfortably as the minutes dragged on. He takes the scroll back and rolls it up, stuffing it quite absently in the nearest available saddlebag. That done, he reaches out and grasps one of her hands, shaking it firmly as the smile inches back onto his face. “Yes yes, Ambassador Redouane Nicetas Isidorus, Mandator of the Imperial Basilikon, third son of the noble patrician house of Isidorus, thirty-seventh in line to the Amethyst Throne, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Please, just call me Red. It's a pleasure to meet you, milady...?”

 

She shook his hand back, firmly, before pulling away and mounting her horse quickly. She checked a few things in her saddlebags before she replied, absentmindedly "Lirael." before going back to checking her pack. At least one large bag clanked and clinked like it had armour in it. She didn't seem particularly impressed with his titles, or even give an indication that she understood them. She did look up at him once she was sure her gear was prepared and said, "Your Estallian is good. Very good." she sounded a little impressed. The tongue was a musical, lyrical thing rarely spoken outside of Estallia, except by poets and singers, and she seemed impressed that he held a decent command of it despite being an Imperial.

 

“Why thank you, milady Lirael. It is one of the reasons I was chosen for this endeavour. My father thought it fit that a man should know the tongues of his enemies, so that they could not scheme in secret against him. Ah, but that's all to be water under the bridge now, isn't it? A splendid future of peace and prosperity waits ahead of us!” Redouane snorts softly at his own words, appreciating full well the ridiculousness behind them. Still, he nodded over at her, and began moving forward through the gate, seemingly eager to cross over to Estallian territory.

 

She looked at him, staring for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Water under the bridge." she murmured, her voice flat, giving the lie to the belief that she agreed with him. Still, she turned her horse and rode beside him, heading down the King's Road level with him, one hand resting on her sword pommel unconsciously, the other on her horses reins. "So, where are we headed? I was told to escort you at your leisure." she asked, her voice still showing exactly how much she was going to enjoy that.

 

Redouane waits until they are at least several minutes' away from the border crossing, then slumps back slightly in his saddle, mumbling something in Imperial that comes across as an expression of relief. He briskly dismounts his horse and begins digging around in yet another saddlebag, this one considerably larger than the others. He pulls out a bundle of folded fabric, which he lays across his saddle. “Redouane: Ah, just one moment, if you would...I need to get out of this *ridiculous* getup.” Redouane swiftly unties several bands along the side of his heavy decorative tunic, then bends forward, sliding the entire thing off his head. Utterly unabashed by the fact that he is now bare-chested to the world, all slender limbs and taut, well-defined musculature, he unfolds the other fabric he had dug out of his bags, and begins pulling it on.

 

“I...rrrgh...hate those court tunics they make us wear...ah, there. No matter how many petty enchantments they put on them to keep them cool in the warmest weather, they always feel so stuffy. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, travel. I was hoping you could give me some insight there, as I am not familiar with the roads. Naturally, we need to arrive at Estallia, ideally within the fortnight.”

 

"What are you?" she began, then turned her horse around, flushing as he pulled out more clothes. "By the gods, what are you doing?" she asked, her back turned, tone exasperated, horse toeing the ground worriedly, feeling its riders discontent. "Ah." she murmured. "My fault." without explaining, she moved swiftly on, "If we head down the King's road, the journey should be swift enough. A week at most. We could get there faster if we ride hard and change horses, slower if we dawdle." she said, her voice layered with a hint of...embarrassment?

 

Redouane finishes packing away his formal garb, now clad in a white tunic of far lighter and more open construction, its neck slash worn untied and free. He rolls back and forth on the heels of his boots, leather riding breeches hitherto concealed by his prior attire scrunching as he does. He then remounts his steed, looking considerably more at ease. “Mm, well, if I am to be accompanied by such a charming personage as yourself, and seeing as this IS my first time in your fair kingdom, I would not be adverse to...how do you put it in Estallian? 'See the sights?' Within reason, of course.”

 

"Can I turn around yet?" she asks, her voice wry, "Or are you still stripping in the middle the road." she finished, her voice firm. After a long sigh, she continued, "There's plenty to see down the King's Road. I am of course...at your service." she finished sourly, sighing again.

 

“Quite done; fear not!” Redouane laughs easily, pulling his horse up beside hers. He glances over at her, then shakes his head slightly and begins speaking. “You can relax a bit, you know. I'm fully aware that this arrangement is an insult to both your dignity and my personage as a representative of the Empire. I don't hold it against you.”

 

She turned around slowly, coming level with him again. "Well, at least those clothes are more suited for travelling. And less Imperial. Well, less ambassadory. I fear many of my countrymen may not be as...hopeful for the future. Nor as easily forgiving." she muttered. Then when she heard him, she stopped dead, pulling her horse to a sudden halt. "My lord. This arrangement isn't an insult to my dignity. The King himself requested a suitable bodyguard from the Knights of Peace and I was chosen. It is an honour. Any insult you feel from your choice of escort, whatever it might be, is a matter for yourself and the King. Though it'd be interested to know what it was.”

 

Redouane stops his horse as well, his lips curling in a somewhat resigned smile. “Please, milady, you may cease the facade. I am quite glad that the Kingdom feels confident enough in the safety of its roads that they feel comfortable with assigning an...escort...to accompany an Imperial emissary within their borders rather than a formal guard. I see full well the insult intended by saying that a representative of the Empire has more need of a bed partner than true security while travelling, and I know you are not to blame for such an arrangement. And no doubt you were chosen for this task because there were thoughts that I would reject you, thus trampling upon your dignity as a woman. But I will do no such thing, milady Lirael. Assigned to me in ill faith or not, I shall respect the facade of the gesture, and you at least need suffer no undue indignity from this.” Redouane nods quietly, seemingly quite pleased with himself.

 

Lirael stops and stares at him for a full minute. Sixty silent seconds of utter staring, her expression completely blank. Then she calmly lead her horse up to his and lent over, speaking in a low, urgent, angry voice. "Imply that I'm here to warm your bed again, and ambassador or not, I will..." she broke off, growling at him, like, actually growling, before saying, "I swear to the gods, are all Imperials like this? I'm a knight! A knight of Peace, a Queller, a specially trained, specially chosen warrior designed to protect important people and KILL. FUCKING. MAGES. Do you know how many Imperial Wizards I've killed?" she asked, her voice rising in volume. Then she reached around her neck and thrust out her hand, a slender silver chain bearing six black obsidian crystals, the type worn by Imperial Battle mages. She just held them out, dangling on a chain, and said absolutely nothing.

 

Red blinks, then blinks again, then opens his mouth slightly. Nothing comes out beyond a faint croaking noise, which he swiftly muffles with his own hand. He glances to her rather grim trophy, then to her impressively stoic expression. He pales slightly, although it is somewhat difficult to tell considering his naturally light complexion. The hand over his mouth slides up to his face, and he leans forward into it, groaning quietly. "I...I appear to have...oh, Divine Father." He pulls himself upward again, putting on his own poker face, and then reaches forward to clasp her hands in his own. "Milady. I have most woefully misinterpreted your intentions and the good faith of all Estallia. I see now that I was interpreting these circumstances in the worst of all possible ways, and insinuated base motives where none existed. You must forgive me for my gross oversight. You must, otherwise I shall never forgive myself." His grip on her hands tightens slightly as he says this, his entire body leaning forward towards her.

 

She paused and slowly withdrew the tokens, looping them back around her neck, out of sight. Then she took a deep breath, sighed and said. "I...apologise for my behaviour, my Lord. I am your escort, and it is not my duty to question your decisions or actions. Please accept my apology. There was no harm done, I am sure." she muttered, genuinely apologetic. "We are friends now, our two nations, and if we can't get along, then this peace treaty is not going to last. For all my words about this peace, I have no wish to go back to war." she finished, her face flushed with the remnants of her anger and a growing sense of embarrassment. "Let us start afresh, I think...”

 

He smiles brightly at her conclusion, still leaning close. His eyes are locked squarely on hers, warm with approval and what could be construed as genuine happiness. "Excellent words, milady. I agree wholly. I should like nothing better than to put my galling lack of tact behind us so that we may move forward in a true spirit of camraderie. Come, let us shake on it; a vow between dignitaries." He withdraws his grasp from her, and then once again presents an open hand to her.

 

She sighed again and shook his hand, her fingers very warm, but fingertips calloused with overuse. Then she took her horse by the reins again. "We'll need to reach an inn by dark, so we had best keep a good pace. Come, my Lord, we must ride, or else we'll be caught in the open and forced to ride all night. That, I assure you, you will not enjoy." she said, spurring her mount onward into a fast trot.

 

He responds firmly to her handshake, his own slender fingers surprisingly strong and, while not calloused like hers, lacking the utter softness of hands unused to labour. He nods at her proposal, pushing his horse apace. "Indeed, I should not. It's been several years since I last had to do that, and those were most certainly not better times."

 

Red rides alongside her in relative silence for several minutes, focusing on keeping the pace. Finally he interrupts the pounding of hooves and clattering of accoutrements with his own voice. "If we're going to be travelling together, it would not hurt for us to learn a little regarding one another, would it not? As I said before, I was born a patrician of House Isidorus, which is related to the Imperial dignity by distant marriage relation. I grew up in the countryside near the Thalian border, where the wineries are plentiful and the fruit rich. Third son and only one not of my father's lawfully-wedded wife; I'm apparently a bastard of some Thalian petty noble that my father saw fit to acknowledge as his legitimate blood. Hence the name. It is, as you may have guessed...not particularly Imperial."

 

She rode along with him for a while, waiting for him to break the silence. She could tell he'd break the ice sooner or later, any ambassador worth his salt would. So when he spoke, she wasn't surprised by his line of questioning, though she raised her eyebrow, looking at him as he explained his origins. They were much less...grand than she'd anticipated, though she'd already noticed the differences in the way he acted from the other few diplomats or Empire representatives she'd seen. Originally, she'd put it down to them being at war, but perhaps there was more to it than that. She considered her reply for a minute before asking, "If I may be so bold, my Lord, why were you chosen as an Emissary? You don't seem...umm" she paused, aware that she was drawing close to a breach of courtesy, "You don't seem like the other ambassadors I've met before."

 

He chuckles softly, grinning. "Ah, well, that's a more complicated question than you are aware, I think. Tell me, have you heard of the formalism surrounding the Amethyst Throne? Everything in the Imperial Household is governed by the most intricate rules of conduct. Degrees by which one is to bow depending on the relative standing between parties; phrases to be used on given occasions. Even the exact coloration of footwear is carefully governed. Blue velvet for Mandators such as myself, except on Ascension Week, where it is to be red instead." The grin cracks into a conspiratorial smile. "Absolutely maddening. While I never...officially...broke the proper conduct, there were many occasions when I skirted dangerously near the edge of acceptability. It was considered ideal if I could be removed from the Household, at least for a time. I, for one, suspect that the message I am carrying is of little import - 'To my dear brother by grace of the Divine Father, King of Estallia, who I claim as of my own blood, I hope this message finds you in the most esteemed of health, so on, so forth...'"

 

She stared at him, listening intently to his story until she suddenly blurted, "A-are you telling me, that you're here because you're an embarrassment!?" she asked, her voice incredulous. "That even during the peace proposals, the Empire is still doing this ludicrous formality and..." she broke off, reddening suddenly. "I'm sorry, my lord. It was not my place to question. That's twice now I have been less than a good escort." She turned away from his slightly, clearly uncomfortable with her mistake, trotting in silence for a few moments, her hang hanging down, clearly internally berating herself for her stupidity and lack of tact.

 

Red throws his head back and laughs loudly, taking several long moments to quell the aftershocks of his mirth. "Oh, milady, you do yourself no credit. Oh, all the respectable bearded men with their robes of spun gold and ever-scheming minds are handling the main...ah, how would I translate this Thalian idiom? 'Cut and thrust?' of the negotiations, and I assure you, the Estallian delegation is almost assuredly 'beating their heads against the door', as we would say, over how structured they insist everything must be. Lesser emissaries such as myself simply carry messages back and forth to maintain the veneer of open communications and civil dialogue. And even if I am something of an embarrassment to the Amethyst Throne, my dear Lirael, you have to understand: I am still an Imperial, and of patrician blood at that. No matter how flippant my disregard for the proper conducts and dignities, this still puts me infinitely ahead of any lesser man in terms of civilization and cultivation." His shoulders still shaking slightly at his amusement, he shakes his head. "So goes the argument, anyway. Please do not think poorly of yourself. A question is more interesting than silence, and shame a mark of dignity. So our philosophers in their dusty tomes tell us."

 

She flushed a deeper red at his response, murmuring something apologetic quietly. Then she sighed and looked up at him. "I'm sorry. Until last year, I was still fighting you Imperials, and it's not so easy for us to get over. A lot of the soldiers think we should still be fighting you." she ran a hand through her hair and gave him a quick glance, "And on some days. Not many, but a few...I'm not so sure that they're wrong." she admitted, her voice pitched only for him to hear her, even though the road was empty as far as the eye could see, afternoon sunlight dappling through the trees. "I lost friends fighting you, and though I don't blame the Imperials, they were just doing their jobs, I still can't let that go. Not easily, I fear." she shook her head, then brightened her tone, not overly convincing. "In any case, you should know what you can of your escort. I'll answer any questions that I can, within the bounds of personal secrecy and...official secrecy, of course."

 

He nods, then reaches out (and up!) across the gap between them to gently ruffle her hair, despite the half-foot difference in their full statures. "I'm sorry, but you're hopelessly charming when you blush like that. I can't resist." A gentle smile crosses his face, then he withdraws that galling breach of etiquette. "You sound like a good and faithful soldier, milady, and that is something that Imperial and Estallian alike can respect. There are many, especially those worthy old families whose estates choke the banks of the Pontine Strait, who feel similarly to your peers. But the serf-holdings on the borders have thoughts of their own on the matter, and, well, I'm sure you know as well as I do where the argent mines are." He clicks his tongue. "Ah, but enough of dreary old affairs of state. I must confess, women taking up steel is exceptionally uncommon in the Empire, and usually only associated with...specific...tastes. I am curious as to how this became your profession."

 

She groaned and lent forwards, headbutting her horses neck softly, making him whinny in annoyance. "You did not just ruffle my hair. I told you what I was not. And ruffling my hair is not what one does to a knightly escort." she muttered, half muffled. Then she straightened up and sighed. "Just...don't. Anyway." she coughed and cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable, her cheek tinged with pink. "I was chosen at the age of 12 to enter the Quellers. I was the fourth daughter of a common family who had seven children, three boys and four girls. So I was the youngest. Another mouth to feed and no food to feed her with. Truth be told I was always fighting and scrapping with them, and winning. I was tall, even then, so when the Quellers arrived looking for recruits, I was eager to join them, and my parents had no problems with it."

 

Red brings a hand to his mouth at her response to his hair-ruffling, obviously trying very hard to stifle another round of amusement. "As I said, miss, I could not resist. But I shall try." A sly smirk flits across his lips. "No guarantees." Finally regaining his full composure, he nods. "The Quellers have a rather...fearsome reputation in the Empire, as you may imagine. Tales of infernal pacts and demonic rituals; violations of every sort against the laws of men, nature, and the Divine alike. We hear tales of children stolen in the night and families held at spear-point to surrender their sons. Compared with that, it's...a bit odd to hear of a young girl volunteering for the task."

 

"We hear the same of Imperial Battlemages, but we both know that they're selected via talented men and women taking exams and rigorous training. The reality is almost always more mundane than the fantasy. I'll admit though, that the ritual that makes a Queller is not...a nice thing. It's traditionally done at fourteen years of age. I can't tell you it, obviously. But we're...made to see magic. Like your Battlemages manifest their talent, seeing things that aren't there, that other people cannot see. Except their brains are different, they have adapted to see such things. We haven't. A Queller is no different than any other man or woman until that ritual. Then we are...forced to see eternity. I should not say forced; the ritual is voluntary, but what I mean is..." she sighed, shaking her head, trying to put it into words, "It is like forcing eyes into a blind man, who has never seen the world, and throwing him into a magnificent garden in a blazing hot, bright summer sun. Only every third plant is a nightmare. Only one in three survive the ritual. Only one in four survive the training."

 

"That does sound disarmingly like our...'Battlemages', you call them? We call them 'Truthweavers'. Quellers are, accordingly, 'Truthbreakers'; half-made apostates who violate everything that is holy. They tell us that the ebb and flow of magic is manifest Truth, the proof of Divinity in the world, and that to touch it - let alone craft and shape it - is the highest calling imaginable amongst all men. They, too, speak in terms of seeing the impossible glory of existence, and how incomparable it is to any other experience. Not so much the talk of nightmarish weeds, however." He bobs his head slightly, cracking a grin. "Although I suppose it makes sense for much of Truth to be terrifying to behold. I...imagine it must be difficult at times."

 

She shuddered gently, but then raised her head proudly. "They fear us. They don't say it, but Mages fear Quellers like ordinary men fear Mages. Those who never faced us before, fresh in the teachings of your Divinity react badly when they see a heretic tear apart subtle sorcery with their bare hands. Or cut apart a lightning bolt with a blade. Or stride through magical fire without mark. They do have one thing right though; magic is natural, it ebbs and flows, like another sea, and is truly natural. Though I do not think it is a divine power. What your mages do is bring forth that magic sea and shape it with their will. All we do is use our will to return it to the tides. We're not so utterly different, to be honest."

 

"Well, I'll leave that one to the theologians and arcanademics. All I've seen was ranks of Quellers walking through walls of fire at the Ottano Pass, and that seemed terribly infernal at the time, I must confess." A slight shiver runs through his frame, discernable to a keen eye. "Had enough of playing soldier after that one. Finished my service as Tribune, and that was that."

 

She raised an eyebrow, staring at him. "Ottano Pass? Truly?" she asked him, her voice questioning. "Did you see a banner there, at the front? A hand holding a sword cutting apart a lightning bolt?" her voice curious, failing to hide her astonishment that he'd seen any kind of war, yet also curious with some other meaning.

 

He shakes his head slightly. "No, I was serving as one of the military tribunes there - adjutants and adjuncts, relaying orders back and forth from the Strategos to the tagmatarches. Every man who wishes to undertake a political life in the Empire must, at the very least, serve as such for a year. Most of the time I was nowhere near the front. I just happened to be relaying instructions to one of the vanguard tagmata - blue banner with a single silver scale on it if I remember correctly - when I saw the Quellers push forward. I passed on the orders - which were promptly ignored, considering the circumstances - and returned to the Strategon to give an update."

 

"I meant among the ranks of the Quellers. We have a few different banners, one for each chapter house. Did you see it?" she asked, her voice curious, not meaning to press. "I remember the silver scale among the enemy ranks there, certainly." she said, inadvertently revealing the reason she was so curious.

 

"I do not recall offhand, no. I was...rather keen to continue my other duties, if my meaning may be made clear." He smiles, a bit thinly. "Soldiering was never to my tastes and I had no desire to be caught in the middle of a bloodbath between the vanguard and what were, by all accounts, hellformed monstrosities sent to punish us for our sins."

 

She laughed then, quietly. "I was the banner bearer that day. They called it a great victory, aye, but there was neither song nor feast that night." she sighed and looked down at her horse. "Nor any night since." She was silent for a long while, the warm afternoon sun and bright day in contrast to the gloomyness of her face. "I am glad...that you were not a soldier." she murmured. "I would not wish it upon anyone."

 

"Except yourself, apparently." He tilts his head, a somewhat inscrutable expression on his face. Then he chuckles softly. "Oh, listen to how very gloomy we are. Terrible topic, war. Glad it's over, even if it's just for now. Tell me, have you ever tried any wine from the Thalmarch? It's considered the best and the worst in the Empire. Best because it is the sweetest; worst because it is devilishly strong and has to be watered down something fierce for anything other than a trueborn lush to deem it fit for drink. They like to soak sugared dates in it to restore the sweetness after it is cut."

 

She shot him a grateful look, clearly happier to be discussing something else. "I don't get chance to drink much at all. I'm supposed to be sober most of the time. Quellers can be a drunken lot on occasion though. It helps the vision." she shrugged, reaching into her saddlebags and withdrawing a wineskin. She took a swig and extended her arm, offering it to him. "It's a fine arbor red, from western Estallia. Deep and fruity. I won it in a game of cards with the garrison while I was waiting for you."

 

He nods graciously and takes the proferred wineskin, bringing it up to his mouth almost gingerly. He knocks back a quick mouthful, then, swallowing it quickly, coughs and sputters slightly, covering his mouth with his forearm. "Ugh, I...forgot you Estallians drink your wine unadulterated. I fear its charms are lost on me, milady." He hands the skin back, looking slightly sheepish. "Shouldn't be surprised to here that dice and drink are common vices on both sides of the border, though."

 

She laughed and shot him a teasing look before taking the wine back and taking a heavy swig. "I don't dice, my lord. You know that Quellers unnerve people when their control slips? It's really easy to win card games if your opponent is busy feeling like he needs to run out the door." she laughed again, a little bitter this time. "Ahh well, the wine is charming enough for me at least."

 

He smiles slightly. "Well, I suppose I shall have to get used to it. I imagine I shall be subject to all manner of horrified looks - or perhaps vindictive knives - if I go ordering my wine in your fine Kingdom cut half with water. And ah yes, the old 'you should let me win lest I tear your arms off and beat you to death with them' routine. The Household Skanric Guard pull the same thing all the time, what with their smouldering eyes. The rakes in the capital have a saying - "never drink with a veteran, never gamble with the Skanroi, and never lay with a Court Eunuch." Of course, people have an unfortunate tendency to disregard little pieces of wisdom like these, and much misery is born forthwith."

 

"It's the same wherever you go, we have a variety of similar phrases depending on where you go. Some are more wise than others." she laughed quietly, and spurred her horse onward. "Ambassador..." she asked, her voice careful, "I don't mean to cause offense, but I must ask. Do you see your family? Quellers are told that they can visit if they are ever deployed nearby, but many of the older members advise against it."

 

"No offense at all, my good lady. I see some of my family on a fairly regular basis. My eldest brother, for one. Ah, bullheaded Helias Frontinus, apple of my father's eye and heir apparent to the household patriarchy. He serves as a Spatharios in the Imperial Household, one of the many interlocking bodyguard corps protecting the Amethyst Throne. Ambitious; everybody thinks he'll go far. Talk is he'll make Consul within fiveyear, provided he does not cross the wrong interests. It's been several years since I was back to the family estate, though." He looks over at her, his starkly-blue eyes bright with curiosity. "Why do you ask?"

 

"Seeing how the other side lives I suppose." she said, too quickly for it to be true, whatever else she was, she was a bad liar. "We should reach the inn in about an hour, my Lord." she said as they passed a milestone on the road. "There we can rest for the night and find hot food and drink. I've been there before, it's a good place."

 

He cocks an eyebrow, reaching up to brush some ebony locks out of his eyes. "You're a terrible liar, Lirael." However, he does not press. "As I said, I am the third son; the second-eldest took up the vestments and serves the will of the Divine Father. Or the High Patriarch of the moment; I can never tell those two wills apart. I have one younger brother, Paulus Placidus, and I am not ashamed to call him a conniving little viper who will go far in the Imperial Household. He is a tenyear younger than me and utterly...'chomping at the bit', we would say, for his opportunity to serve on the Tribunal. The perils of being the youngest, I suppose - you always feel like you have to excel your elders. As I am one of the middle sons, I have little use for ambition." He chuckles softly, letting his gaze linger on her before he looks forward at the road. "I shall take your word on the inn; I look forward to it. I have been riding since dawn, and genuine food other than march-rations sounds like an excellent prospect."

 

She flushed at his remark, but whether it was with embarrassment or anger, he couldn't say. She listened closely enough to his descriptions though, nodding with genuine interest. "It's a good enough place as lo..." she trailed off. "Hmm." she murmured, suddenly going silent. "Hold here." she raised a hand and dismounted, her entire manner changing. She slunk forward towards a turn in the road, creeping silently up a small hillock to peer over the top. Then she slid back down and started rummaging in her horses saddlebags for something.

 

Red is quick to pick up on the change in her carriage, and, nodding sharply, bunches up his steed's reins in his left hand, the right dropping to a two-foot-long scabbard attached to his saddle. His eyes narrow. "What is it?"

 

"Three men bearing arms, but no badges or banners." she shot over her shoulder, pulling a full breastplate and most of a suit of armour out of her saddlebag. "Help me with this." she said, her voice suddenly firm and commanding, "I take it you know how? And can you fight...or at least stay back and defend yourself?" she asked, her voice tense.

 

He dismounts lightly, unhitching the scabbard as he goes and quickly attaching it to his belt. He heads over to her, looking hard at the armour. He speaks in hushed but unharried tones. "It's quite a bit dissimilar to the mail and scale coats I am used to, but I should be able to figure it out. I...can handle myself, fear not. Full panoply?"

 

"Yeah, help me with the buckles. Once I'm in armour, we'll win." she said confidently, throwing a coat of mail over her head and wriggling into her breastplate. "Do the legs for me?" she asked, tensely. "They're the hardest part." she muttered, while attaching the arms and gauntlets. She made sure her sword belt, along with the long dirk was positioned correctly while she did so, her motions brisk and professional.

 

Red nods and picks up one of the greaves, inspecting it quickly. Strapping here, buckles there, seems to wrap around like so... "Alright, stand up straight." He kneels beside her, adjusting the plating carefully before shifting around behind her somewhat to loop and tighten the fittings. Any brushes of his hands against her legs are worked through quickly and briskly as he hastens to help her with the donning of her harness. "Okay, that's one."

 

"Now the other, quickly, they're not far off!" she said, her voice tense and worried, "Damn it Imperial, I don't care where you have to touch as long as it gets done!" she muttered to him, tightening her gauntlets and fixing the shoulder guards in place with quick, practised motions. Then she drew half the sword and checked she had space to draw it and that it would not stick in the scabbard. She also drew the dirk and checked the point and the blade, before sliding it back into its sheath, nodding in satisfaction.

 

He snaps off a half-laugh, and, with a quick "careful what you ask for," he gives her a brisk smack on the rear. Without skipping a beat, he moves onto fitting the second greave, the process going quite a bit faster than the first now that he has some familiarity with it. He checks his work, giving the strapping some quick tugs, then stands up and rests his hand on the hilt of his own short sword. "You can lynch me afterward for my impropriety."

 

She shot him a look that could have skewered him to the ground where he knelt, but instead of doing so, checked the bindings, nodded, and strode forward just as the three men turned the corner. They were ragged looking, in odds and ends, even their weapons; one carried a spear, the other a sword, the last a woodsman's axe of some kind. The sword was clearly a Estallian soldier's sword, and the man wielding it just as obviously not a soldier. Her eyes narrowed, she stood between him and her escort, hand on her sword. "Stand aside." she said, her voice cold, calm but loud enough to be heard, not even introducing herself.

 

He shifts his stance slightly behind her, moving so that his left side faces forward and that he can readily reach his blade. Hell and damnation, all the whores in the Capitol for a shield right now, but...he does no more and simply narrows his eyes, taking his cues from his escort.

 

The men called out, "Hand over the Imperial. And his money. Actually fuck that, we'll take him. And your precious cunt too." he snarled, and the men advanced on them. Lirael looked over her shoulder and nodded to him. "Stay back." she said calmly, drawing her sword and a dirk and facing them without fear, leveling her sword at the man with the sword. "One." she said. Then her sword pointed to the axeman. "Two." she proclaimed. Finally her sword drifted to point at the spearman. "Three." she finished. Then she brought the sword up in a salute and took up a fighting stance. "Come at me." she told them, voice low and angry.

 

Red draws his own steel, a relatively short, straight-edged stabbing blade in true Imperial fashion. However, he lets it fall to his side - very well then, she can have her fun. In fact, he cannot help but muster an amused smirk at her utter confidence in the matter. "Alright. Let's see the mettle of an Estallian bodyguard, then."

 

She stood there as they rushed her. The first swing of her sword cut four foot from the spear, and the spearmans left arm to the wrist. She fought silently, except for her breathing, blonde hair spinning as she turned to nearly diagonally bisect the swordsman with one huge blow, the sword barely stopping through the thin rags he wore, turning his chest into a welter of blood. In the same motion she spun to hook her sword under the blade of the axe heading for her back and tugged it bodily out of his hands, sending it spinning. The axeman turned to go for it, but found six inches of dirk in his throat instead, his life's blood pouring over the hilt. She left it in him and turned to the screaming spearman, staring at the stump of his left arm. She kicked him in the face, making him fall then calmly stepped over and thrust her sword down with both hands into his chest, ending him. Then she stepped back and tugged it free, calmly waling to retrieve the dirk. The entire fight took less than ten seconds.

 

As a bystander to the entire affair, he cannot help but be impressed by the briskness and simple, brutal efficiency of the entire affair. He expresses no outward surprise; just a simple clicking of his tongue before he re-sheathes his sword. He walks over to her, looking at the three fresh corpses. "No wonder Quellers are used to scare small children to bed."

 

“Hmph." she grunted, walking back to the horses and knelt before him, her weapons sheathed. "My lord, I beg your apology. I've probably not given you the best impression of our nation so far."

 

He reaches out to rest his hand on top of her head. "Wherever one goes, there are three certainties: the sky, the earth, and bandits on the roads." That hand moves down to her cheek, which he cups lightly and pats while smiling down at her (perhaps one of the only occasions he will have to do so). "Shall I say you did a splendid job at defending my person and my honour, o champion of mine? You have nothing to be ashamed of, and much to take pride in."

 

She blushed prettily enough under the dappled sunlight, her face suddenly looking a lot younger, a lot more carefree in that pose. Then she rose and nodded to him. "Thank you, my Lord." she muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the praise, moving to mount her horse again. "If we ride at a canter we could be at the inn within about ten or fifteen minutes. I think that would be best."

 

He returns to his own horse, unfixing his sword and reattaching it to his saddle in the process. He rolls his neck, then steps up into the stirrup and slings himself over. "That sounds like a splendid idea. On the way, you can determine an appropriate chastisement for my ongoing indignities." He has a playful curl to the corner of his mouth, surprisingly cheerful for a man who just saw three other people killed in the pace of a few heartbeats. "I did, after all, promise that you could lynch me afterward."

 

"That wouldn't be politic, my lord." she murmured wryly, "Else you'd already be spinning." she muttered quietly. Then she spurred her mount onward, heading for the inn at a faster pace than before, clearly just as happy as him to get away from the gruesome scene of the three dead men, blood already cooling in the road.

 

"Ah yes, I suppose if anything happened to me, it would be on your head, would it not? I must apologize for promising you something that you could not possibly indulge in." He rides on alongside her, quite unflapped by the entire affair.

"Indeed," says she.

 

***

 

The inn was a wide, tall building, much larger than a normal inn. It had previously been some minor noble's manse when his debts forced him to turn it into an inn. The sign hanging outside proclaimed it 'The Noble's Humbling' and showed a man in finery holding a platter of food and ale, a harried expression on his face. It was constructed of some buttery smooth stone and stood three stories high, with a large entrance hall in the middle, a huge bar to the left, a small smoking room to the right, and at least a hundred rooms upstairs.

 

"I can think of at least a few nobles who could use such a humbling," Red mumbled under his breath as he set foot inside. A scrutinizing glance was cast hither and yon, to and fro, until finally he nodded and looked back at his compatriot. "I must agree that it seems quite adequate to our needs. A good choice, milady."

 

"The only choice, really." she shrugged. "It's so big, there's not another inn for miles around. It served as a garrison in the past. And does still." she pointed to a dozen fine horses in the stables, marks declaring them light cavalry of the Estallian Army. “So it's normally safe. God knows what the bandits were doing so close, the idiots." she shook her head, clearly troubled by it. "Well, there'll be food and drink inside. I presume you have money?"

 

"Of course. Some Estallian coinage, even. The very least I can do for your continued services is cover our costs." He glances over at the horses, pursing his lips slightly in thought. "They'd have to be rather desperate to attempt something so close to an outpost like this, but they did not seem that bedraggled. Well, there's no accounting for idiocy, I suppose."

 

"I thought they were ragged enough. In any case, I can cover my own expenses." she said gruffly, but not unkindly, her attitude still somewhat reserved, a little awkward. "We can talk about this over dinner." she said. Then she put a hand to her mouth, like she wished she could unsay it. The implications lay a little awkwardly across the conversation for several moments.

 

Glancing at her somewhat sideways, that damnable amused curl of his mouth makes itself present once again. "Why indeed, m'lady. We shall discuss this over dinner, just as you say," says he, pouncing ruthlessly on her moment of imprecision. He moves his eyes back forward, searching for the innkeep, but he leans sideways towards her, his head tapping against her shoulder as he stage-whispers just loudly enough for her to hear. "Your modesty in speech is splendid to behold, milady Lirael. I imagine I could never tire of it." He pulls his head back, and resumes his visual sweep for the publican.

 

Quietly she swore as they entered the manse, Lirael guiding him to the bar, where a tall, leanly attractive man in a noble's garb was pouring drinks and serving food, assisted by a pair of women. "Ahhhh Lirael and...an imperial ambassador! How interesting!" he murmured to them, careful not to announce Red's identity to the room at large. "I am Cyrus Meriadoc the thirteenth to bear the name, Lord of the Manse." he gave them an overblown bow. "Can I get you anything, my friends?"

 

"Is it really that obvious?", he quietly says in response. "No matter. Bread and stew for me, would you kindly? And some wine. Just a little bit. And as for my most faithful companion here..."

 

Lirael cut in, "You know what I want, boy. And he'll have the same." she announced in a surprisingly low, husky voice. It sounded more like she intended to drag them both into a back room. However the effect was clearly meant to be comedic, and Cyrus laughed and nodded. "Indeed. And a room...?" he finished, eyebrow raised, looking Red up and down appraisingly.

 

He glances up at her somewhat askance as she breaks out that lusty tone, seemingly caught genuinely off-guard. Reaching up to rub his temples softly, he shakes his head. Well, I suppose turnabout is fair play and all that, is it not? "Yes, there will be need of a room, thank you."

 

Cyrus' eyes widened and he raised an eyebrow further. Lirael's face went pale and she raised a hand "Wait..." Cyrus cut her off, "Not to worry, I can provide!" he laughed, speaking loudly over her as she tried to say something. "Not at all, ma'am, a room coming right up!" "No, Cyrus, I want-" "yes, milady, our finest room for you." Lirael turned and swore violently, her face completely red with embarrassment. "Oh gods. Alright, follow me." she muttered to him, taking a key from a laughing Cyrus.

 

"I get the distinct impression that I am somehow party to a joke, and the punchline is yet to come," muses Redouane.

 

She shot him a look that told him it was entirely correct, and that it was not going to be so funny when it happened, though she didn't seem worried or concerned, not professionally. She led him up two flights of stairs to the top floor and across a luxuriously carpeted hallway to a large double door. "Here's the room." she said, her voice tight, holding out the key to him.

 

He takes the key from her hand and, shrugging slightly with the resignation of a man who expects the worst, turns to the ridiculously over-done doors, inserts the key, turns it, and pushes them open.

 

The room is a horrific mass of red velvet, satin and stupid pointless cushions. It's clearly a wedding night room. Its furnishings are not quite as red as Lirael's face though. There is a stupidly large bed, presumably for the open minded relationship, or perhaps a particularly brave bigamist. There are throw rugs and cushions everywhere, and the bed even has rose petals on it. Lirael stands at the threshold, face red, shoulder stiff, swearing vengeance.

 

Red stops right at the threshold, freezing for a moment. His eyes take in the gaudy horror before him, and then...bringing a hand to his mouth, he begins laughing very hard indeed, his entire body quivering violently. Soon he gives up the pretense of hiding what he is doing and his hands go to his chest, slapping as the hysterics continue. Soon after he is doubled over, using one hand to hold himself upright as his amusement simply will not cease! After what seems like an eternity, he inhales deeply and, snorts of amusement still escaping his throat, pulls himself back upright. "It...it's the tackiest, most tasteless boudoir I have ever seen! This puts the Capitoline brothels to shame!"

 

Lirael stood with her arms folded, a badly suppressed smile on her face. "You said 'room'. After you called me your 'companion'. Oh he knew it didn't mean that, but he would never pass up a chance to stick me and a man in a gods damned stupidly tacky red satin nightmare!" she half yelled, her voice now slightly more angry than amused. "Gods damn it." she muttered. "He of all people should know..." she trailed off, her voice bitter. "Well, at least its roomy, she announced to no one in particular. "And there are places to sleep that won't involve warming your bed."

 

He turns to her, his face no less flushed than her own - although more from the blood-rush of laughter than any semblance of shame. His mouth is still wracked with mirth, and there even seem to be tears in the corners of his eyes. "Oh come now, the bed seems perfectly spacious. There'll surely be plenty of room for both of us, and it simply would not do for you to be sleeping on the floor when there appears to be an overly-excellent bed available."

 

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "If I so much as feel..." she broke off and sighed. "Very well. At the risk of making an already awkward situation worse, help me out of this armour?" she asked, her cheeks pink, her gaze struggling to keep on him. She was reminded of the soft swat to her backside from before that she certainly hadn't forgotten.

 

Collecting himself, he smiles warmly, then pops up on his tip-toes to whisper in her ear. Even with the height difference, the warmth of his breath tickles her earlobe. "Would it really be so unpleasant?" he exhales to her, before dipping back down, that fond look still on his face. "But very well, milady, I shall, once again, serve as your squire."

 

She slapped him. Though with an armoured gauntlet on, 'slap' is not really the word he was thinking of. 'Smite' perhaps. Then he realised he was lying on the floor, with little memory of the intervening fall. Lirael was kneeling by his side, a look of utter humiliation and mortified shock on her face. "My lord, I'm so sorry, I did't mean to..." she trailed off, unable to explain, her eyes filling with bitter tears.

 

He lets out a soft "ghhh", groggily lolling his head. He reaches up to rub his struck cheek, wincing as his fingers come in contact with the area struck. Hell of a swing, that's for sure. "No, I'm...quite sure you meant that." He pulls himself into a sitting position, opening and closing his jaw, as if to test its continued functionality.

 

She shut her mouth then, and just let her head fall forwards. After a few seconds, tears began to fall onto that terrible carpet, her shoulders shaking. She made no sound though, just like she had made no sound in the brief battle. She was lost to the world then, just kneeling there and cursing herself quietly.

 

He shifts around, facing her squarely. "Lirael," he speaks with a quiet firmness. Judging by the tenderness of his cheek, that one's going to bruise quite prettily - but he's probably lucky that his jaw is still intact. "Lirael."

 

She sobbed then, once, her voice thin and trembling, "W-what?" she whispered, barely able to speak, certainly not able to look at him.

 

He reaches out one hand and softly - yet firmly - grasps her chin, nudging her face upward towards his. "Look at me, Lirael."

 

She did, though every muscle in her body was tense, as if she was considering fleeing the room. As if there was anywhere she could go.

 

He smiles at her gently as she meets his gaze, even as the onset of bruising from her strike is beginning to mar his pretty little features. There is no malice in those blue eyes of his as he reaches up with his other hand and, very lightly, starts brushing away her tears with a thumb. His hands are warm to the touch. Then Red continues speaking, his voice low in an attempt to be soothing. "You did that because you thought I was treating you like just another conquest, didn't you?"

 

"N-not that..." she murmured, though that was a lie, it was not the only reason. "H-how dare you t-treat me like this, Imperial." she spat the word, her voice bitter and fresh tears came to her eyes in a rush. "Y-you people killed thousands...killed my f-friends. Y-you..." she sobbed and blinked, and this time her eyes were filled with hatred, not for him specifically, but still..."You k-killed him. You...you bastards."

 

His head sags slightly as a bitter expression crosses his face - as if he was swallowing salt by the fistful, but struggling not to show it. He removes his hand from her chin and brings it to behind her head, gently stroking the apex of her neck and her short-cut blonde hair. The other hand continues trying to deal with the tears, although at this point it seems slightly overwhelmed in its task. He makes a soft "shhhhing" noise, putting his forehead to hers. "I...think I understand now. How- how long ago was it?"

 

She sighed and shook very gently, a bizarre contrast to her still armoured form. "O-Ottano." she muttered. "It..was at Ottano." she admitted, her voice very thin, so much less strong and confident than it had been previously, a shadow of its former self. Dimly she realised that her gauntleted hands had torn up a handful of carpet each in her rage, and she cursed herself internally for her loss of control. Then she slowly looked up at him and met his eyes again, and this time there was only the smoldering embers of hatred there, drowning under a wave of sorrow.

 

His own eyes close and he nods softly, his forehead rubbing against hers as he does. "Nobody here in this room right now is to blame. Especially not you. It's not your fault."

 

"B-but.." she murmured, her voice breaking, "I loved him. And he died. He died so you could waltz in here, past our borders and mock me, and call me a bedwarmer. And I..." she broke off, her face flushed and blotchy, tears slowing down, resting her forehead against his unconsciously, her whole body feeling exhausted with her sorrow.

 

He strokes her hair again, "shhhh"ing once more, before moving that hand around to start unbuckling some of her armour. "This...must be difficult for you. And I have not helped. But I...find you interesting, Lirael. You are resolute and daring and so very, very unsure of yourself underneath it all, and...I'm sorry, I can't help but find it fascinating. I spoke in grave error when we first met, and no matter how much I apologize, it will not take the sting of those words back. But for what little it may be worth...I truly am sorry that I slandered you so. I can't apologize on the behalf of my people or my Empire, but *I* apologize to you for what I have done."

 

She groaned softly, wrapping one armoured arm around him gently and pulling him close, burying her face into his neck. "N-no..." she said, and he must have thought she was denying his words, or agreeing with him, but then she continued; "N-no, you don't understand. I..." she took a deep breath. "I like you too. And that kills me. Y-you're my enemy. You were there, and he died and I loved him and I never said it, and now I can't...and now I look at you and I shouldn't feel this and I do and..." she broke off for a sob, breathing heavily, the entire speech coming out in a near babbling rush.

 

He inhales softly but audibly at her desperate words, quiet for a moment as he simply pulls awkwardly at buckles and straps with one hand. His other hand simply brushes across her cheek softly, warmly. After a seeming eternity packed into seconds, he exhales again, and nuzzles her ear gently. "Lirael."

 

"W-what?" she quavered, her voice trembling, her tears turning his neck damp, her arm still clumsily held around him, the upper armour on it all that was left thanks to his ministrations.

 

He tries to get even those spaulders off, admittedly meeting limited success due to their mutual positioning. After a while he gives up, simply wrapping his arms around her. He gives her a soft squeeze, sighing as he does. "It's okay."

 

She sighed and murmured, "N-no it's not. But...thank you." Then she rose to her feet and offered him a hand. "T-thank you."

 

He takes her hand and rises with her help, then, reaching up to wrap his hands around her neck, he pulls her down towards him. Pushing himself upward as he does, he brushes his lips against hers quickly and with surprising tenderness, a soft sigh escaping from him as he does. It lasts but a moment. He keeps his arms around her neck, looking up at her with surprising resolution. "You're the only person who can forgive yourself, Lirael. And I think...I think you've beaten yourself up for long enough."

 

She flushed bright red when their lips met and shied away, though her lips were warm and very soft, and for a moment, despite the armour, she nearly melted into his embrace. It didn't take a genius to realise that she wanted to, but she still stepped back and looked at him, a little sadly. "Maybe... but it's not that easy." she sighed, and started unbuckling her armour. "I need food. And drink. And a bath." she murmured, tugging her mail and breastplate to the floor with a clanking thump, undoing her leg armour and stripping it off as well.

 

"It never is," he whispers more to himself than anybody else. "But I think that goes for both of us." Suddenly he stops in his tracks, then makes an amused sound. "Whatever are the staff going to think when they see all this?", he says while gingerly tapping his cheek.

 

"They know me here. They'll know exactly what happened. It'll be this that confuses them." she gestures to her tear-blotched face. While she busied herself piling armour and straightening her clothing after the travel, food and drink arrived in the form of some kind of roast bird and an assortment of potatoes, vegetables and strong wine. She warned him courteously enough before he drank it though, risking a repeat of the earlier debacle.

 

"Another stellar example of Imperial barbarism, eh? 'Oh, look at that damn fool from the south, thinking more with his loins than his wits. Got naught but half of what he deserved, too!' I can practically hear the chatter now." He matches her wry smile with one of his own, and began apportioning their food between the two of them while she sorted her gear. He pours but a titsch of wine for himself and quaffs it carefully, as if he was handling strong poison. "I...think I could get used to this."

 

"You should, it's practically all we drink." she called from across the room. When she sat down, she was wearing her sturdy pair of riding leggings and...a thin undertunic that came down only far enough that her navel was still exposed. Compared to everything else, it was surprisingly...thin. And short. It certainly wasn't supposed to be seductive, just practical. After all, who eats dinner in an arming jacket? But it was still an interesting sight. She calmly started eating though, and drinking wine in quantities that he suspected might cause himself blindness.

 

He certainly does not overlook the rather compelling sight of her slightly-revealed midriff, but at least makes the effort to conceal his sideway glances amidst the tipping of cups and the eating of food. "I really don't know how you do it. The wine, that is. If I was caught even touching this stuff back home without a pitcher of water within arm's reach, I'd be declared the most dissolute sot in all the Theme."

 

"Well then they can't handle their wine." she nodded sagely, knocking back a goblet full of it with ease, the motion providing both ample time for staring and the upward stretch the ideal thing to stare at. She sighed in contentment and nibbled at some vegetables, her cheeks pink. No matter what she claimed their tolerances were, it was still clearly affecting her.

 

"That may be so," he declared while carefully working at another sip of the precarious stuff. "Water's the great passion in the major cities. Patrician houses praise each other on the quality and freshness of the water they pipe from the aqueducts. Some even run it through charcoals, claiming it somehow improves the taste. Wine is for celebration, and outside of the ranks, other excesses are much preferred at those." He begins biting into some of the roast bird, hmming softly as he does. "Like food."

 

"Well..." she yawned suddenly, then decided the drink more wine, "Water is fairly rare here. Clean water at least. We have a few rivers, but generally we sail on them, not drink them." she gulped wine again, then missed her plate when she went to pick up a leg of the bird they were eating. "Whoops." she murmured. "That's not a good sign.”

 

He laughs throatily at her missed grab, then, shrugging slightly, he throws back the rest of his cup. He coughs as he does, but soon has himself under control - even if there is a hint of colour on those pale cheeks of his. "That's no good, milady. It clearly will not do." He shuffles beside her, reaching out to her plate and lifting up the offending avian limb to her. "Once again, I find myself your squire!"

 

She flushed a little darker, but it was probably the wine, as she lent forwards and nibbled at the leg, letting him feed her, while somewhere in the back of her mind, part of her was yelling that she knew exactly where this was going and that she didn't approve. "T-thank you, my lord." she giggled. Actually giggled, a little low pitched, a little husky, but definitely a giggle.

 

The sound of her giggle - so atypical, so out of what he had come to expect out of this woman over the course of this mad day - stirs something deep inside Red, and he cannot help but gulp discreetly. He decides to help this along by pouring half-cups of wine for both himself and his compatriot, finding the prospect of more of this fiendish stuff far superior to the sudden dryness in his mouth. "Anything for my...my faithful guardian." He smiles a touch unsteadily.

 

She grins and does a little mock bow, then yawns again, taking another sip of wine. "I think that...that I am..." she pauses and finished her drink. "Drunk. Yep. I think I'm drunk."

 

"I...I fear I must agree, milady Liri." He doesn't look so great himself; his experimentation in attempting to warm himself up to this damnable unwatered wine by degrees has clearly fallen by the wayside somewhere along the line. He nibbles pensively on a piece of carrot. "Conduct utterly becoming...individuals of our stations."

 

"I thought ambassadors got drunk all the time!" she said, her voice accusatory. "With all those wines and nibbles and things.." she slurred, pouring herself another drink sloppily.

 

"Never in public, m-my dear Liri. Liri. Liri. I do like the sound of that, I think." He hmms, then looks over at her attempt at pouring another drink. "Oh no no no no, you'll spill it everywhere. Come on, give me that." He reaches out first to stop the flow of the wine, and then to take the cup away from her. "You'll spill it eeeeverywhere."

 

"I won't spill it!" she argued, "Give it backkkkkk Red!" she whined, shortening his name like he had hers, reaching for the cup and knocking them both to the ground, narrowly avoiding sending the entire table over. "Gimme my wine back, you...youu.....winestealer!"

 

He laughs shamelessly, his eyes alight with intoxicated whimsy. He tries to hold the cup away from her, even as they are increasingly entangled on the ground. "Y-you're spilling it right now!" And then he begins mumbling in Imperial, the pronunciation terribly slurred even to her ears, in between his amusement. "Hold on hold on hold on, I've got a reaaaaally good idea. Really really good. Just one moment."

 

She lay there and waiting, too drunk to realise the compromising position they were in. "Oooooooooookay." she whispered, drawing the word out sarcastically. "You have alllll the best ideas."

 

"I DO!", he exclaims, practically throwing the cup up as in a toast. "One of our great...oh, how do you even say it in this monkey language...thinky...guys...once stated...h-how'd it go? 'Drunk men always tell the truth!' And I'm saying it's a good idea. And I'm drunk. So it HAS to be a good idea." He nods vigorously, then brings the cup down to his mouth and knocks the entire thing back in one go.

 

"Youuuuuuuu bastard!" she exclaimed, clambering onto him as he drank her wine, cursing him in Estallian. "Give it back!" she yelled, then she did something no one expected, not even herself. She kissed him, tasting the wine on his lips, her kiss fierce and fever hot, lips very soft against his, but confident and hungry too. She broke it after a second and stared down at him in triumph, her cheeks pink, her breathing heavy. "Got it." she grinned down at him.

 

"You..." He blinks up at her in confusion, his lips still parted from the sudden assault. He swallows heavily. And then a genuinely vexed look crosses his face - perhaps the first she has seen him make. His brows furrow sharply, and those icy blue eyes of his smoulder. "You you you you you...you STOLE MY IDEA!"

 

"Ha!" she exclaimed at him, then she paused and cocked her head. "Wait, you wanted to kiss me?" she asked, her voice confused, but tinged with a little embarrassment, her cheeks turning a little darker as she realised she was sat astride him, her hands on his chest, their hips together.

 

He sits upright underneath her, seemingly oblivious to the deeply compromising position they are in. He still looks furious, and he whips his head back and forth in denial, those intricate locks of his flying every which way. "Nooooo no no no no...wanted to give you the wine." Then, out of nowhere, his hands snap up to grab the back of her hair, and he pulls her in against him as he locks their lips together. It has very little in common with his earlier almost-chaste kiss - this time the Imperial's mouth is fierce and unrelenting, clashing against her as if it were a battle. Pushing hard against her as if to break through, he growls in his throat as he uses his tongue to forcefully drive into her mouth, seeking only to entwine in a fierce dance.

 

"Mphhh!" she said into his mouth, before she softened and just gave in, kissing him back like her life depended on it, her soft lips pliant against his, her warm tongue flicking against his, her body pressed tightly against his. She cupped his jaw with one hand, stroking it softly and helping control the kiss, while the other ran down his chest over his shirt. Eventually she pulled away, only to get dragged into another half dozen little kisses, nibbling his bottom lip as she did so, until she finally broke free, both of his embrace and her own drunkenness. "I...Red, we can't..." she murmured, her voice slurred and sorrowful.

 

"That...that was for... being a *bad* girl who stole my idea. Knights shouldn't steal," he murmurs as he begins nibbling down the side of her neck. His breath is hot as his teeth nip along her carotid, and his hands have moved down from behind her head to her shoulders, grasping them tightly. If he hears her complaints, he seems to give them no heed.

 

"Ooohhh" she sighed happily as he nibbled at her neck, melting against him before catching herself and leaning back, scowling at him drunkenly, her face a mass of conflicting emotions. "D-don't makes me hit you again, Red.." she slurred, her tone warning.

 

Flicking his tongue against the hollow of her throat, he finally pulls back his head, almost seeming to be exasperated at the interruption to his most sacred task. He shifts around underneath her somewhat, then slides his hands down from her shoulders along her arms and, finally, to her wrists. He grasps them firmly - a laughable gesture compared to her own capabilities, but in his current state, he seems to neither realize nor care. "Got your hands. Now you can't hit me. Only can kiss," he murrs as he dips back in: this time to bite playfully at an exposed ear.

 

Lirael pulls her hands away from him and dragged him to his feet and pushed him firmly towards the bed. "Go. To. Sleep." she said firmly, slowly, making sure her voice was clear. "I'll...think about it." she murmured, loud enough for him to hear. "Don't make me spank you." she giggled, somewhat spoiling the effect of her stern lecture to him.

 

He grabs her wrists again as she pushes him along, but rather than pull them both down to the ground, he - with surprising agility for an exceptionally drunk man - bounces forward, practically sprawling into her. His laugh is almost more of a slur at this point, but he still wraps his hands around her. "S-s-sounds like an invitation to me," he grins with half-lidded eyes. He puts his arms around her again, taking advantage of the awkward position, and runs them down her back to her rear. He shamelessly gropes away for long moments, before delivering a full-palmed smack. "Could spank you back. Bad Liri. Stealin' ideas and drinkin' all th-the wine."

 

She flushed bright red and pushed him away, but not before letting out a very un-stern gasp as he spanked her. "Bed. Now." she ordered, pointing at it, wobbling on her feet. Then she went and extinguished the lights. Finally, she crawled into the bed with nothing but that short undertunic and some light underwear, fully prepared to be defending herself all night. "Gods save me from drunken ambassadors." she muttered, staggering into the bed and curling up on one side of it.

 

The "drunken ambassador" seems to have passed out terribly quick-like upon hitting the bed, despite being more-or-less fully dressed. The worst indignity he inflicts upon Liri in such a state is him rolling onto his side and curling up against her back, breathing peacefully against the nape of her neck as he does so.

 

***

 

In the morning, when he woke, the now 'Hungover ambassador' found himself in bed...wearing only his underwear. A pitcher of water was sat on the end table in front of him, a cup already full and waiting. Something soft and warm and pliant was pressed against his back. It was breathing softly, and he could feel the brush of fabric and bare skin, warm and tender against his.

 

His first noise upon awakening: a groan. His first motion: reaching for his temples and squeezing ferociously. And then he looks down at himself. And then at the water. And then down to her. Despite the hammering in his head and the feeling that the slightest upset of his internal equilibrium will send him spinning down into an eternity of retching, he collapses backward into the bed with the best fascimile of a smile he can muster. Turning onto his side slightly - and very carefully - he looks at the "soft warm pliance" that was pressed against his back.

 

Lirael was lying next to him, the covers pulled back slightly to show her scantily clad form, her light tunic pulled up to expose a swathe of her stomach, the fabric just covering her breasts, which were not large, but perfectly proportionate to her height, while her stomach was toned and flat, marred only by a pretty horrible scar across her right hip, skin twisted and puckered from a blow that must have been truly horrendous at the time. But below all that, she wore only a set of linen underwear. Her legs were tangled in his and her arm was looped companionably around him. As he moved she made a murmur of sleepy discontent, but did not stir.

 

He lets out a soft sound that may convey happiness - it's hard to tell in between the faint groan that followed - and very gently strokes the arm wrapped around him. Utterly regardless of the scar, he grits back another growl this time, but this one is of frustration rather than dismay: the sudden (and ferocious) stirring in his loins is just about the last thing he wants to deal with in this state.

 

Lirael Envoi murmurs sleepily and plants a soft kiss on his shoulder. She's still asleep, her breathing deep and slow and steady, murmuring something inaudible in her sleep, sighing softly as he caressed her arm.

 

He focuses on his breathing, inhaling and then exhaling in turn, slowly, slowly, *carefully*, every twitch of muscle and movement of the lungs done with the utmost attempt at discipline. His mouth feels terribly dry - parched as if he had been wandering for decades in the desert - but he dares not move. This right here - the warmth of her presence, her soft murmurings, the gentleness of her face as she is free from doubts and worries - is, he believes, a little slice of perfection. And he does not want to interrupt it all, no matter how much he wants the water, and no matter how much he just wants to run his hands and mouth and tongue and teeth over every inch of that taut, battle-honed body beside him before he strips off the few scraps of fabric between them and - and BREATHE.

 

She murmurs again, still not waking, her tall form draped around his from behind, their legs tangled together. She plants another sleepy kiss on his shoulder and murmurs something in Estallian, something in Old Estallian, sounding lyrical and beautiful and completely unknown to him. She adjusts her arm, pressing it to his chest and snuggling against him without waking, without a care in the world. It then occurs to him that he can't remember getting undressed. Or if anything happened.

 

No, indeed, he cannot remember getting undressed. Nor does he...ah, well, he remembers *that*. And...*that*. But nothing beyond that. Otherwise he'd...feel it on him, and he most certainly does not. He may be quietly praying for death right now and his stomach may be doing all sorts of interesting geometries all thanks to that accursed devil-wine, but one thing that Red had in his favour was this: he was remarkably good at remembering the night before. And when he thinks back on it, he does not know whether to smile or groan. Instead he does neither, focusing on the much more pressing task of trying to deny the amazing feeling of those legs curled around his and just what it would feel like to have them around his waist, strong as steel, her voice in his ears as he - BREATHE, Patriarch curse you, BREATHE. He brings a hand over to gently stroke her hair instead, hoping that will take his thoughts off...other things.

 

That wakes her, but slowly. She moans a 'mphphh' complaint into his shoulder, her big blue eyes opening sleepily, before fluttering a few times, focusing on him. Then, sadly the moment ends and she tenses up suddenly, as she does her own recall of the night before, finding a rather important gap that she was pretty sure was sleep. She hoped. Then she sighed and butted her head softly against his shoulder and murmured sleepily. "G'mornin'."

 

He tenses up himself as he sees the first signs of wakefulness in her, but relaxes as she sees her acceptance - be it grim or otherwise - of the situation. Thus resolved, he sees no reason to cease his affectionate toustling of her hair. "Good...nngh...morning. How are you feeling?"

 

"Like I'd better still be a virgin or you're a dead man." she muttered into his shoulder. Then she flushed bright red and said. "Oh god, I didn't just say that." he could tell she'd blushed by the way her cheek burned resting against his shoulder. She panicked for a moment, then just gave up and snuggled against him, getting herself comfortable, their legs still twined, her arm still around him, her hand still on his chest.

 

"Please don't make me laugh in this state." He still chuckles quietly, making a very obvious effort to control himself lest overexertion be perilous. He curls a bit of her hair around one of his fingers, then runs his hand down her face, seeking to trace her lips lightly with a fingertip. "Other than feeling like an entire bandon of Imperial Kataphraktoi spent the night trampling over me, I could get used to waking up like this."

 

She sighed softly, contentedly. "For once, an Imperial Ambassador was a complete gentleman." she giggled again, unaware she was doing it. "I'm still a little buzzed." she admitted, "It's why I'm not hung over." she smiled and kissed his fingers when they brushed over her lips. "Turn around if you want to kiss me." she said after a minute, her voice husky and nervous, but willing. She planted a kiss of her own on his shoulder and nibbled at it softly. "But have a drink first. It'll stop your headache. And your breath." she giggled.

 

"Yes, I most certainly would not wish to subject you to the indignity of last night's wine-breath." He pulls himself up once again and, with great regret, shuffles away from her slightly in order to reach the water. He takes up the cup and knocks it back desperately, a borderline-rapturous sigh escaping him as he does. He quickly pours himself another, subjecting it the same fate as the first, before he draws a third cup and brings it with him, sidling back up into her comforting embrace. He murrs softly at the warmth of her body against him. "Come on, a bit for you as well. Like last night, but better."

 

She grins at him, her cheeks pink, and drains the cup, tossing it aside. Then she lent in and kissed him, her mouth pliant and soft and eager against his, their lips cold from the ice water, but their tongue much warmer as they met, hers only gently testing and teasing against his, her motions inexperienced and clumsy, but eager and willing too. She drew him to her, looping an arm around his shoulder, the other resting on his hip as she kissed him, her barely covered breasts pressing against his bare chest.

 

Pleasantly surprised by her enthusiasm, he responds in kind, the throbbing in his head rapidly overwhelmed by the sound of his own heart beating. He languidly caresses her lips with his own, taking all the time in the world as he playfully outmaneuvers her tongue so that he can run his own along the contours of her mouth, tracing out every curve and dip in those soft, sweet wonders. No matter how much their tongues brush against each other as he explores those oh-so-kissable-lips, he never quite lets himself be ensnared by her: so close, yet so far. He cuddles up into her embrace, one hand of his stroking her cheek while the other's fingertips brush hauntingly down her explosed flank. "Mmmh..."

 

Slowly she pulled away from him, not rejecting him, just finished the kiss naturally and panting softly, her cheeks very pink, her eyes big, blue and nervous. She smiled at him and pressed a very quick kiss to his lips and then snuggled herself against him, murmuring, "Don't rush things. Just...let me take my time. I never...anything'd." she finished lamely, chuckling as she heard herself.

 

"Saying things like that, Liri, is not going to help me 'not rush things'." He makes a pleased-sounding noise in his throat, and rests his chin atop her head as she curls up to him. He snuggles up against her in turn, his hands lazily tracing patterns across her exposed skin.

 

"Well I think I have a right to be mad at you. You stole my first kiss yesterday." she murmured sleepily, kissing his shoulder softly, her hands exploring his side and back and chest while they cuddled, her body very warm and her skin was soft, but toned, lean and muscled underneath.

 

"And that's why you stole my brilliant idea afterward?" A soft laugh, followed by a happy "mmh" as she runs her hands over him. He is surprisingly firm to the touch for a man of his size, especially considering the surprising femininity of his face (other than that angry welt on half of it, courtesy of her gauntlet the night before) - the musculature is well-defined and taut, drawn hard across his otherwise-slight frame. "And it wasn't all bad, now was it?" He gently squeezes her from time to time, enjoying that mix of soft and supple beneath his hands.

 

"That was the jug of fine arbor wine's fault." she muttered, kissing his shoulder and collarbone a few times. "And it was a good idea." she laughed, pressing herself to him, molding her form to his, before yawning sleepily. "So...wanna sleep this hangover off?" she asked, her voice sounding drained but content. "You did say you wanted to dawdle." she whispered, moving up to kiss him on the lips again softly. "In fact, I believe you claimed you wanted to see the sights." she said with a wry smile. "I'd have slapped you sooner if I'd realised you meant me."

 

"I'd just as soon never move out of this bed again, could I get away with it." He takes her bottom lip between his teeth and nips softly, then gently nudges her head aside so he can pepper her neck with soft licks and even softer kisses. "And these sights before me here, my dear Liri, are well worth however many slaps I might have had to endure."

 

She just flushed prettily and made a number of cute inarticulate noises as he kissed her neck. "H-hey. Enough of that. Sleep." she took a deep breath and murmured sleepily, her voice quietly hopeful but tinged with worry and sorrow. "Maybe this evening we can...maybe I can...get over it." she sighed and nuzzled against him. "If we go slowly. I don't hate you, Red. Not really. It just hurts, right here." she took his hand and placed it between her breasts, over her heart. "But it hurts less the more time I spend with you." she flushed as she whispered the last sentence, her cheeks going red again.

 

He pulls his mouth away from her neck and, sliding downward slightly, pulls his hand away from her chest so that he can dip in for a light brush of the lips against that same spot. He shuffles back up again, stroking one of those blazing cheeks of hers. "This is perfect, Liri. So let's get our sleep and we'll deal with the rest as it comes, mm?" Another feathery liplock later, he closes his eyes and settles back down into the pillow.

 

***

 

For the second time today, Red finds himself waking up to an exceptionally pleasant situation - comfortable bed, decent sheets. This time, there's no heaven-storming headache. Oh, yes, and there's still a lovely, fascinating, and absolutely engaging woman beside him. Making a soft murmur as he reaches up with one hand to wipe the sleep from his eyes, he takes a moment to shift his position over slightly so that he can lightly kiss one of her exposed shoulderblades. He contemplates getting up to pull back the curtains and ascertain what time it is, but...you know what? This is much more pleasant. He turns towards her, carefully wrapping an arm around her midsection and settling down in beside her.

 

Lirael Envoi murmurs sleepily and clutches at his arm, pulling it tight around her. She blinks once or twice and shivered delightfully at his kiss, her soft pale skin breaking out into goosebumps. She too thought about getting up, but there was only a wan light trickling through a gap in the curtains; the light of early evening. Given that it was too late to travel, she decided to stay where she was. At least, that was the excuse she told herself. In reality, she couldn't rise even if she'd wanted to, so captivated was she by the feeling of another body pressed against her back, arm held protectively around her. She shivered again and pressed her head back, nuzzling against him. "Evening..." she murmured, unsure whether it was a greeting or a statement of fact.

 

Making a pleased rumble in his throat, Red pulls his arm a bit tighter around her, finding a deep satisfaction in the sensation of her back's contours against him. "Mmmh, is that what time of day it is? What a shame; I guess we won't be able to resume travelling. I guess we'll just have to stay like this for a while longer." He hardly sounds disappointed by this development, and soon decides to entertain himself by nibbling away at the junction of her neck and shoulders.

 

"Such -ah! Such a shame..." she whispered, breaking off as he nibbled at her neck with a little coo of pleasure that did not seem possible to come from the stern, strong knight of yesterday. She took the arm that was around her and lifted it, contenting herself with kissing his hand, up and down each finger, brushing her lips across it slowly. Her bottom wiggled enticingly against his hips when he nibbled at her shoulder, and her breathing was a little deeper, a little more strained as he did so, her body waking from slumber in more ways than one under his touch.

 

He groans softly against her neck, responding to both her lips and her devilish wiggling against his rapidly-awakening loins. This time, he makes no pretenses of trying to simply will it away through breathing exercises - he presses harder against her, sliding up against her somewhat as he shifts up in order to trail a pattern of little nips, bites, and tongue-flicks up the curvature of her neck. "Mmmh...you're...pretty sensitive in all sorts of un-knightly places, my dear Liri. Throat, neck, shoulders...I wonder where else? Ah, and of course, *ears*." That one he punctuates with a quick suckle to the nearest available earlobe.

 

Shyly she whispered, "I was as ignorant as you...d-do.." she paused and marshaled her courage, "Do..you mean to find out?" she whispered, her voice very soft, and filled with a new tone, one of equal parts nervousness and excitement. Then she melted in his arms, as he kissed, nipped and bit over her neck, her bottom still wiggling against the firmness at his hips, the discovery making her face hot, but she didn't stop. And she let out the most beautiful soft, low moan when he sucked on the lobe of her ear, the moan barely coming from her lips at all, a ghost of a moan at best, but it was like silver in the air, that noise. Completely unlike her but somehow utterly right, and it must have interested him by the feeling of him pressed against her rear.

 

Oh, how he *purrs* at that splendid moan echoing through the air, the most beautiful sound he can ever recall hearing. If she thought there was firmness against her before, it is absolutely nothing compared to what follows in the moments after, his blatant arousal imposing itself undeniably against her backside. Beyond that, he does not move for long moments, his mouth staying just a hair's breadth apart from her ear, and he growls throatily into it. "If it means more noises like that...I don't think you could stop me if you tried, my sweet Liri." His lips wrap around her lobe again and give another soft suck, but this time he punctuates it with a bold application of his teeth, incisors pinching down like an infinitely sweeter piercing-punch.

 

She gave him what he wanted, another moan coming unbidden to her lips, this one a little louder, and breathy. She lay there panting, her face warm, cheeks pink, her skin cold in the evening air, but warm where his mouth had passed, and tinged with little red marks from the caresses of her teeth. She shivered in his arms again and wiggled her hips against him, marveling at how the hardness felt pressed against her thin leggings. "Oooooh..." she sighed when he released her ear finally, after what seemed like hours. She tilted her head up and to the side, begging a kiss from him, pressing her lips to his urgently; her motions still clumsy but now more confident as she moved against him.

 

He is more than happy to comply with this demand of hers, his mouth overlapping hers with smouldering intensity. Here too, he sucks and bites and licks and simply caresses with his own skin, cruelly attacking her lips from all directions and with all manner of approaches, as if teasing out which combination of actions can coax the sweetest gasps, moans, and murrs from her. But then he sets that aside and focuses on the seductive simplicity of lips on lips, tongue against tongue, hot breath intermingling together. He never takes his eyes off her for a moment.

 

Her own eyes are big and blue and filled with excitement and a little nervousness, but they close as her lips meet his, enjoying the kiss with her other senses, enjoying the feel of his soft lips against hers, the heat of his tongue. She reveled in the softly masculine smell of him so new to her senses. She shivered at the lewd sounds their lips made against each other, and most of all, the reason she kissed back, was the taste of him; she was drunk on that taste, masculine and slightly scented with some kind of mint that Imperial's often chewed. His mouth was fresh and clean and his kisses tasted sweet against her own lips, til she forgot who she was, and where they were, until her universe shrunk down to their bodies pressed together and the liquid fire that had snaked its way into her stomach.

 

"Mmmh...one of my favourite things about...being in this bed here with you..." He speaks now in between short but intense liplocks, each word a diver's gasp before he plunges back into the most splendid waters imaginable. "...is that I don't have...ahhmm, nnh!...to stand on my toes...to kiss you like this." It would be no understatement to say that he simply could not get enough of her lips. One of the first things he had thought about this quiet, stern woman was how very kissable they looked, despite the coldness of her glare and ironclad dignity of her posture; as each moment continues, he realizes that such an initial impression was only scratching the barest surface. One of his hands intertwines in her hair, pulling her all the closer into their hungry kissing, and the other moves down to firmly grasp her upturned hip, fingers pressing hard against her incomparable soft suppleness.

 

The skin under his hand was smooth and very soft, the scar sat on the opposite hip. She flushed prettily when he told her that, and managed just enough sense to murmur back, "One of?" she shot him a quick smile before pressing her lips to his again. Then she grew frustrated at the positioning and rolled herself over clumsily, putting them face to face. "My neck was getting tired." she muttered, wrapping her arms around him, under his shoulders and pulling herself to him, pressing her face to his neck to nibble and kiss at the skin she found there. She was not so much taller than him, the armour making her seem bigger before, and her horse, a proper beast bred for battle doing the same. She had maybe four inches on him at most, and the way she held herself in his arms did much to remove that. Her shyness and inexperience making him feel taller, stronger and most confident as she quivered in his arms as their hips met, one of her legs looping comfortably around him without thinking, until she hissing into his neck at the feeling of him pressing against her, separated only by their leggings.

 

"Liri..." growls the Imperial, his swollen desire jutting imperiously against the apex of her thighs. In that precise moment, he has never hated anything so much as those thin layers of fabric separating them. His hips buck like an unruly horse, rubbing hard against her, and even as he pulls her head up towards him so he can continue their salacious lip-locking, his other hand finds itself rubbing across her stomach, his fingers fluttering right along the waistline of her under-garments.

 

She whimpered into his mouth and held him tight, clearly nervous as his fingers tracing patterns across her toned stomach, where the coil of fire grew and smoldered. She broke the kiss long enough to plant some of her kisses along his jaw, whispering, "Red...b-be gentle." she murmured, before kissing his ear and neck slowly, softly, making soft little coos and moans as he inspired some delicious frictions between their hips.

 

He looks down at her with a wanton gleam in his eyes, and he coaxes a long, slow kiss out of her mouth, never once closing his eyes the entire time. He visibly swallows. "You...have no idea how difficult what you ask is." He collapses against her, going in for another bite along her neck - that one'll leave marks in the morning - before he whispers breathily to her. "How hard I want to *fuck* you. Just break you under me until all you can do is moan...and you want me...to be gentle...?" He half-chuckles, half-groans.

 

She flushed again and melted under his possessive bite, letting out a little whimpering moan against him, muffled against his shoulder. But she still whispered back to him, "I don't know...if I can...do that." she murmured, her voice tinged with a kind of weary sorrow, like someone testing an old wound and finding it still raw and painful to the touch. "But I...I want you." she finished, her hand straying to his hip, caressing the skin she found there, her voice very soft, as if worried about disappointing him.

 

Her nervous voice seems to cool his temper slightly, and he pauses over her, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his breathing. He shakes his head slightly and looks down at her again, as if with new eyes. A soft smile, rather than a hungry one, creeps across his face, and he quickly gives her exposed throat a soft flick from his tongue. "Liri. This...isn't something that can be taken back afterward. No matter what follows...this'll always be."

 

"Then I'd best be sure..." she murmured, and turned to rest her head against his chest. "Queller's are taught to judge men. I think that you are a good man. Once I would have added 'for an Imperial'." she sighed, sadly. "But no longer. I do want you. Even if we don't..." she flushed, unable to say the word he'd used to provocatively before, "I know that there are things we can do..." she whispered, her voice low and nervous, but underneath that nervousness was a fiery hunger, and her hips felt warm and inviting nestled against her member. "I've read romances, I know...enough." she admitted, her face couldn't get any redder at the admission though. "So like any good soldier, I'll do a reconnaissance..." she giggled softly, moving back up to plant a quick kiss on his lips. "If that's enough to...sate you." she murmured, her voice husky and aroused, suddenly teasing, like she had to the innkeeper, only this time in earnest.

 

"I could have a hundred years of everything about you, and...I still don't think I would be sated." The sound of her giggle sends a shock down his spine, and he fights down the urge to simply drive forward into her, everything else be damned, with all the force his lithe form can muster. "...Especially when you speak like that. Very well, let me help you with your "reconnaisance"..." He 'mmhs' softly, then his hand on her stomach reaches over to hers. He grasps her hand firmly, intertwining fingers. Then slowly he begins moving their interlocked hand together, bringing it to a stop against the straining tent in his underclothes. His palm presses against the back of her hand, nudging it forward gently but insistently. "Feel that?" Even through the linens it is surprisingly hot to the touch.

 

"Mhmmm...it's warm." she grinned, her voice wondering and excited. Without guidance she ran her fingers up and down it, not at the same time, but individually, tracing her fingertips over the straining bulge like she was trying to memorize it's shape. "Does it not hurt, being so...hard?" she asked, her voice curious, her cheeks flushed pink in the soft fading light. While she asked that, her fingers kept moving steadily and her lips were pressed to his bare chest, kissing it softly.

 

He laughs breathlessly, even these exploratory touches from her fingertips threatening to overcome all his senses. "It does, but...not in the way you think it may." He leans in to kiss her forehead, his own hand now disengaging from hers and seeing instead to rub and tease her wrist and forearm. "It's all your fault, you know. That I am like this." He shudders softly, rolling his hips into her hand. It is difficult to discern accurately through the fabric, but it would seem that he has nothing to be ashamed of in regards to size or scope. It does not appear to be as overwhelming or threatening as the overwrought implements of her most salacious "romances", but, certainly, he can hold his own. "Imagine it...mmh...imagine it inside you."

 

"I..I hardly think it'd fit!" she whispered urgently, her voice excited. Her fingers hooked themselves into his leggings clumsily and she tugged at them, not pulling them down, she couldn't do that in this position. She was just making her intentions clear regarding what she believed his state of undress should be. She shivered when he told her to imagine. Clearly she had a pretty good imagination as her eyes closed and a pleased, hungry expression crossed her face. When her eyes opened again, her voice was a little more confident, muttering, "I want..to see it. To see you..."

 

He leans to steal her breath with another smouldering kiss, keeping their mouths pinned together until it feels like his lungs are about to burst from the strain. By the time he pulls away, it feels as if his tongue has flicked, curled, and dragged along every inch insider her mouth, and still he yearns for more. But he smiles indulgently and, grabbing her by the hips, rolls onto his back. He tries to pull her along with him, but it is unlikely that he will meet with much success without her collaboration in the matter. His braids spillout messily across the pillow; his chest rises and falls as he swallows in more air. And then he looks straight at her, eyes predatory. "You may."

 

She consented to lay beside him, propped up by one arm, staring down at him, panting softly from the exertion of that fever hot kiss. Then, slowly, she undressed him. She took her time, kissing him chest and shoulders, brushing her lips across a nipple, down his abdomen, admiring his wiry physique. Finally she broke off her kisses at his navel, and very slowly, she tugged and slid his leggings and underwear down, pulling them off of him, down his thighs, knees, ankles, and away. Then she lay back beside him, staring at his nakedness, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glittering with arousal. Clearly she approved, though her hand hovered on his hip, a few inches from his manhood, and she looked up at him, smiling.

 

 "And having surveyed the scene, what are your thoughts?" His voice is as teasing as her kisses and fingers, and he reaches out to that messy blonde hair of hers. He runs his fingers through it fondly, curling some around his digits. He reclines quite languidly in place, thoroughly unashamed of his completely exposed - and thoroughly aroused - state. Slim hips lead down into the long lines of his legs, their athleticism more at home on an acrobat than a dissolute son of nobility. His length juts proudly out from a close-cropped sea of black hair, as thick around as a stout halberd-haft and as long as one of the hand-length knives popular with the peasantry. The tip seems to glisten faintly in the candlelight.

 

"I..." she broke off, unable to speak. "You're...beautiful." she murmured, not even talking to him, just saying it to herself, as if she wasn't sure what she was seeing. Then her hand moved, slowly creeping over his hip to slide lightly around the base of his manhood, grasping it with a little squeeze. Then she slowly slid her closed fist up and down, all the way to the tip and all the way back down, her grip light, clumsy, but eager. She was speechless, marveling at how hard it was, yet the skin so soft, like velvet and iron, she thought, as she stroked him gently, and tonight it's mine. The thought made her shiver and her thighs rubbed together as she considered his size and how it might feel.

 

He twitches palpably in her hand, mmhing at her touch. However warm his arousal felt through the linens, it was a pale echo of its exposed heat: almost as if holding onto it for too long could burn. He shifts slightly in his repose, head arcing backward as he stretches himself out. "Yes, that's how you hold it...like your sword. Firm enough to not lose grip, yet loose enough to shift...nnh...as needed." He then glances over at her, noticing the quivering of her thighs, and he involuntarily licks his lips.

 

"Does it feel good?" she breathed into his ear, her voice half sultry tease, and half nervous question, while her fingers stroked up and down him with more confidence, adjusting herself to his instructions, squeezing him firmly but not too hard, making the motions of her hand and wrist and fingers all the sweeter as she toyed with his member, a thumb sliding up and around the head, smearing the stickiness from it over the rest of his shaft, making it easier for her to stroke him faster.

 

A long sigh escapes his mouth, and, half-lidded, he smiles at her. "Mmh. Yesssss." If it was at all possible, he seems to swell in her grip even more; one could even swear that his heartbeat, hard and steady, could be felt in the hot, pliant hardness of that cock. It twitches again, more violently than before, as she begins applying her thumb to his glans, and the liquid from his tip seems to flow all the more willingly. Now, a groan. "Mmmh. Liri, my Liri...what...are you thinking of while you feel me in your hands?"

 

"That you're the most beautiful man I've ever seen." she whispered, her voice low and hungry. "And that I want to see you finish...want to 'make' you finish." she murmured, her stroking no longer so teasing, now more urgent, especially with the stickiness of his liquid smeared over her palm; her stroking now was an imitation of a lewder act, her closed fist forming a slick tunnel for his hips to thrust into as she brought her hand up and down, placing little kisses along his jaw eagerly, her breathing heavy, her bright blue eyes fixed on that throbbing member.

 

He groans now, bucking up into her war-trained fist, so rough and yet, right now, he cannot think of anything softer or more welcoming. He jerks her head back roughly now, his fist gnarled up in her hair, as he descends upon her mouth as a devourer, wanting more of everything - more of her mouth, more of her lips, more of her taste, more of her fingers around his straining length, more of *her*. His other hand runs down her throat, his fingers pressing firmly against the hollow, as he all-but-scratches along her collarbone. When he speaks, it carries an unmistakable quivering. "Keep this up, and..."

 

"Yeah?" she breathed, panting hard from the hungry kiss, shaking with excitement, staring at his weeping member and her fist, rhythmically pumping up and down. "Do it. Please~" she whimpered, her thighs rubbing together urgently, her motions quick, eager and desperate. She was alive then, her smile wide and lusty, clearly overwhelming with confidence and happiness that she could please him, that it was her responsible for the throbbing in his member, for the hungriness of his kisses and the husky growl in his voice.

 

He cannot deny - her hand wrapped around his cock, slick with its own anticipation, feels amazing. Every subtle flex of her fingers enflames the swollen flesh yet further, and each time her pumping reaches its apex, he feels as if all the pressure in his body is condensed right in the wanton need of his glans. But it is her sheer wantonness - her voice, her eyes, her sheer desire and appetite for *more* - that finally pushes him well past his own limits. He all-but-bites her cheek, moaning low against her, as the bucking of his hips becomes full-blown thrusting, and then - and then he falls back from her, thick whiteness bursting forth from his length, more spurting forth in fountain arcs with each uncontrolled spasm of his hips. Even as he sprawls out against the bed once more, his seed still dribbles out, coating her hand and forearm with a pale glaze. Panting. Panting. He can't think of anything else. Panting. Twitching. Panting.

 

She squealed in excitement when his climax came, still stroking him, not pulling away as his seed splattered against her arm and over his stomach and coated her hand. She just stroked him, hard and fast, slowing as he squirmed to make slow, hard strokes, teasing the last of his release from him while she bit his ear and moaned, "Oh god, that's so..." she breathed, unable to finish, her eyes glittering with lust, her grin wide and feline. Slowly she stopped stroking him, running her fingertips over his twitching member, smearing more of his seed over it tenderly, giggling as he twitched and writhed beneath her touch.

 

Her continued ministrations eke more inarticulate noises out of his open mouth, the moans petering out into soft whimpers as she squeezes the last of his orgasm out of him. Any inclination towards softening that he may feel seems to be thoroughly banished by her fingertips and, more importantly, her apparent fascination with what her hands had wrought. Red feels as though he needs all the air in the room to fill his lungs, but finally he sucks in enough to express something more than inchoate delight. "Look at the mess you made..."

 

"It's your mess." she giggled, leaning in to kiss him softly, along his jaw and once on his lips. "There's a towel by your feet." she pointed, her tone wry. "And water and wine on the table. You sound like you need a drink." she smiled at him like the cat that ate the canary, clearly overjoyed to have 'made a mess'. For herself, she lay back and examined her sticky hand and arm, grinning faintly.

 

He glances down at the towel and then back at her, sharing in her wry smile. He presses up beside her for a moment, running his tongue along the helix of the nearest ear, then murmurs softly. His next words may be quiet, but they are full of wickedness and mirth, a siren song down dark paths. "But it's much more fun if *you* clean it up. Go on. Taste it."

 

Her eyes widened, and she looked at his askance. "But there's so much of it!" she exclaimed, blushing. Then she raised an eyebrow and slowly bought her hand to her face, and her quick pink tongue flicked out, lapping at the milky stains on her fingers. She licked her lips and then cleaned the rest of her hand and arm slowly, letting him watch while she did it, her cheeks flushed bright red, her thighs rubbing together, her skin feeling too hot, clothes too small. He tasted salty and sweet and masculine; not unpleasant, but she doubted she could clean him. "It's an...interesting taste." she murmured, grinning at him. "I'm not cleaning you up, Red." she teased. But she did lean in and slowly, lovingly, teasingly press her lips to the tip of his member, her tongue lapping out to clean the head of his cock. Then she sat back up and grinned at him. "Romance novels are instructive though."

 

Oh, yes. Any thoughts that he would be unable to continue after so explosive a release are thoroughly banished with the sight before him, the pinkness of her tongue contrasted with the glaze of his essence upon her hands. When she refuses to go further, he begins to snap off what is no doubt another snarky comment, only for his breath to catch in his throat at the feel of her lips on the oversensitive velvet of his glans. "A-ahhhh," he manages to get out amidst the tidal wave of sensations crashing down against him from the flicks of her tongue. Utterly flatfooted, he simply pants for a few moments after she withdraws. Opening his eyes once more, he glances back to her. "If this is any indication, they're more like pillow-books...mmmh." An involuntary shiver, then he rolls himself atop her, his hands on her shoulders. He dips down to kiss her lips, faintly tasting himself upon her. He grins, almost predatorial. "Did your 'romance novels' ever tell you that the best way to wake up Imperial diplomats is by drinking down every last drop of their seed? Something to keep in mind for the future."

 

"Did anyone tell you that the best way to wake a Queller is with a cuddle and soft kisses?" she asked, her voice equally teasing. "Maybe some day on our travel I might take this 'romance novel's' advice." she grinned teasingly, "But not until we're on the road again. It'll taste all the sweeter if you never know when it will come." she murmured, her eyes smoldering, and she licked her lips, eyes fixed on his. Then her expression softened and she kissed him again, enjoying the feeling of him pressed to her, but she still grabbed a pillow and wiped away the seed on his stomach. "Did I do well?" she asked, her voice tinged with her earlier worry. "I've never done any of this..."

 

"Hmm, a Queller's way of waking up sounds splendid as well." He shares in her kiss, taking this one slowly and tenderly, coaxing her tongue into his mouth so he can gently suckle it. A smile as he lets go of her lips, and then he dips down to gently bite her jugular, first in the hollow and then faintly scraping his teeth against her underlying collarbone. "Fishing for compliments already, Liri? Shall I tell you of how exquisite your deft fingers felt as they wrapped around my cock? Of how I felt as if my senses left me with my cum as you squeezed it out, one pump at a time? Is that what you want to hear?” He chuckles softly against her, and one hand begins toying with her shift.

 

She flushed and wriggled under him playfully as he toyed with the soft, thin tunic she wore, her breathing fast and heavy as he lay atop her. She knew that he was going to spend some time getting revenge for her previous actions, and truth be told she was looking forward to it, the fire in her belly threatening to consume her, and a dull ache had settled between her thighs. She raised her arms for him, looking deep into his eyes, and whispered, "Y-yes."

 

"What a lewd knight you are." He mms approvingly at her ready compliance, wriggling his way down her powerful body. He begins rolling up her tunic, an inch at a time, but that alone would be too simple - oh no. As the tunic retreats, his mouth rapidly fills in; every patch of her taut tummy exposed the the sultry, heat-laden air of their bed is subjected to a barrage of tongue-flicks and firm bites. The progress of her shift is agonizingly slow, and, judging by the thoroughness by which Red is lavishing Liri's midsection with attention, he would have it no other way. He pauses for a moment, bringing one hand down a half-exposed side, then slips it behind her and gives her rear a firm squeeze through the cloth before subjecting it to a little half-smack with his fingertips. "Is such indecency to be punished, or to be praised? And would such *be* punishment or praise? You did respond most interestingly to it last night..."

 

"Ahhhh!" she squirmed and cried as he kissed up and down her toned stomach, arching her back for him as lewdly as he said whenever his teeth nipped at her feverishly hot skin. "As your escort, my conduct is free for you to praise or punish as you wish~" she murmured, her voice coy and excited as she wriggled beneath his ministrations, gasping when he gropes at her pert bottom. "Nnnph." she whimpered as he swatted at it, eagerly squirming under his grasp, enjoying the tone of his voice and the control he was exerting, making her cheeks hot and her body hotter.

 

"Hmm, yes, the good lady Lirael does seem to have a most sensitive backside indeed." He runs that hand over her still-clad bottom, less time more of a slow knead than a rakish grope, truly taking his time to get a sense of what he is working with here. He pauses in rolling up her tunic for a moment, using that hand to grasp the other side of her hip, and he quickly pulls her slightly up off the bed - so that his devilish little hand on her rear can give her a firmer strike, slightly cupping his fingers. Just as he strikes, he subjects her upper ribcage to a particular acute nip. "I wonder to just what degree...?"

 

She wriggled as he ran his hands over her, her tunic pulled up to just below her breasts, leaving her muscled torso open to his mouth and hands. She panted as he teased her, arching her back as he tugged her off the beg, only to let out a long low moan as he slapped her bottom, biting her lip to try and stifle herself, flushing bright red. "O-oh god..." she murmured, clearly surprised by how aroused the slap had made her.

 

"So how often do your touch yourself to the thought of a strong hand beating all the disappointments out of your aching, upturned ass?", he teasingly murrs to her amidst a particularly long lick to the bottom swelling of her left breast. He grasps her rear with both hands, his fingertips straining against it, as he pulls her hips up again. This time he uses the opportunity to get his knees underneath her lower back, propping her lower half up off the bed just enough that he can have continued ease of access. He promptly puts that ease of access to good use by pulling down her underclothes - but just from behind, leaving her front mostly-intact. For the moment. He runs his hand over the last spot he struck, almost massaging it with the heel of his palm. "And be honest. You're a terrible liar, and I'll stop if you try." He seems to be getting into this.

 

"N-never!" she whimpered, clearly surprised by the turn of events, and just as clearly enjoying it. She was telling the truth, he could tell, after all she was a terribly liar. But that also meant that he got to corrupt her some more. She wriggled in his grasp, whimpering when he ran his tongue over the underside of her breast, moaning when he groped and squeezed her bottom. "N-not until now anyway." she amended, turning her face away in sheer embarrassment. The stern tone seemed to be doing wonders; she was suddenly docile, obedient and incredibly turned on, if the way she was grinding her thighs together was any suggestion.

 

"Oh? I don't see you touching yourself right now, and yet you just clearly said "n-not until right now." How am I to reconcile these two statements, milady Lirael? One is clearly untrue." He makes a stern "hmph" noise as he pulls himself back upward somewhat, his hands moving from her oh-so-sensitive behind to instead grasp her by the hips. He still rubs at her hip-bones in a taunting way, and from time to time he leans forward to her, his mouth aiming for more of her half-exposed breasts - and then he stops, leaving only the feel of his warm breath tickling across.

 

"O-oh gods. Are you going to make me...?" she asked, her voice trembling with excitement and nervousness, whimpering and wriggling in equal measure as he breathed hotly across her breasts. She shied away though when his hand brushed one of her hips, where the twisted scar was, pushing his hand further down to the base of her hip, away from it, her eyes lowered. She showed no lessening of her enthusiasm though, cursing and arching her back prettily as he teased her.

 

He clears his throat, not resisting her readjustment of his grip. His eyes narrow, coupled with an almost-taunting smile upturning his lips. " 'As your escort, my conduct is free for you to praise or punish as you wish.' Did you not just say that mere minutes ago?" He faintly drums his fingers against her hipbones, his knees lightly nudging her upward.

 

Her blush bright as ever as he explained, his tone teasing and commanding, she whimpered and glanced up at him for a trembling moment before she looked down again and murmured, "Yes my lord." the slowly, she slid one hand down her toned stomach and down into her bunched up leggings and underclothes, fingers hidden from his sight, but her wrist moving. She flushed and bit her lip as she saw how intently he was watching, and a soft moan came from her mouth, different from the others. This moan was soft, sweet and incredibly seductive, not meant to tease him, it was forced from her lips by her slick fingers no doubt already rubbing between her thighs.

 

For a moment - for just the slightest glint of a moment - he wonders if he has pushed this woman, hitherto a blushing virgin, too far, too quickly. The powerful wave of lust at the sights and sounds before him quickly obliterates any such timid-minded thoughts, however. Applauding her resolution, he grasps both halves of her backside and gives her a powerful squeeze, pulling apart and pushing together as he does. His wildly erect length juts up against her half-clothed crotch, fully able to feel the heat radiating from her loins right now. He pulls himself up a little straighter, trying to cut a more imposing presence. "And? Is it the thought of my hand on your wanton, depraved ass that spurs you on now? Or perhaps you imagine that it is my hard cock instead of your fingers in your needy little cunt right now; that I would deign to grace you with such? Or is it something else entirely? Answer me truthfully."

 

She was lost in her pleasure, her flower wetter than she'd ever felt before, she shame at touching herself in front of him burning her cheeks, but it made the stroking of her fingers all the sweeter. She could feel his rock hard member pressing against her too, and that made her touch faster for him, giving him a show of how fast and lewdly her hips and wrist was moving. She hung on his every word, licking her lips as her mouth went dry, his lewd, commanding tone making her whimper in utter submission. Truthfully she whispered quietly, "Y-your hand. I...I liked it when you slapped my ass." she admitted, her cheeks utterly burning with the humiliation. She was sure that a knight shouldn't be doing this, be saying this, but if she wasn't, then why was this submission to him so sweet, and why did her humiliation make her wetter?

 

"'I liked it when you slapped my ass. My Lord.'. 'Would it please you to do it again? My Lord.' Show proper respect for your betters, you bitch-in-heat." His voice is icy cold as he utters these words, shocking even himself with the forcefulness he now expresses himself with. To further show his displeasure with her 'lack of compliance,' he grabs her hand and wrenches it away from her soaking crotch roughly, using his other hand to swat her chasteningly across the back of that juices-dripping, heat-drenched extremity. He then uses that same hand, just fresh from replacing a stern instructor's stick, to wrench her leggings and underclothes down to her knees, leaving her quite exposed to the open air - and his stern, judgemental eyes.

 

She whimpered, unsure if she'd made a mistake, opening up to him like this, but she detected a bit of a teasing smile threatening to break free under his stern expression, and she was oh so wet between her thighs. She whimpered as he forced her to stop touching herself, and whimpered louder when she was stripped, her legs open and either side of his hips, leaving her open to his judgement. Her legs were toned and muscled all over, lean and pale skin. Between her thighs was her pretty pink flower, slick folds and a little bud at the top, under a thin patch of blonde hair. She flushed and looked to one side, utterly humiliated by his teasing and harsh tone and actions. Then she remembered and managed to say, "I l-liked it when you slapped my ass, my Lord." she groaned in humiliation, "Would it p-please you to do it again, my Lord?" she asked, her voice trembling.

 

Groaning himself at the sight - and scent - of her pretty little unsullied maidenhood coupled with the mad depravity of the entire situation. He lets that teasing smile break through, his eyes softening just for a moment to remind her that it is not cruelty that enflames his actions here. And then he is all imperious patrician again, the very living symbol of snobby, high-handed Imperial haughtiness, as he brings his hand he kept at her back around from behind her. With a gentleness utterly at odds with his prior words, he drags his fingers up along her sweetness-slicked folds, using two fingers to part them lightly as he does so. So light, so wispy - like a feather, they come to her swollen bud, encircling it with lazy motions. He lightly grazes the back of a fingernail over it, then, entirely out of nowhere, he snaps his hand back and, like a whip, brings it down on her loins, his fingertips taking the most from his short movement arc and making a loud slapping noise against her clit. Letting go of her other hand, he grabs her hips and forcefully rolls her over, pressing her down on her knees and exposing her upturned backside to the world. He pushes himself up and forward as he does so, his straining length raking against her crotch, until his length rests atop her backside. He raises up a hand and brings it down against one of the cheeks of her luscious-looking bottom, harder than any one yet as his hand stays utterly flat. The force of the blow rings out through the room.

 

She got redder, if that were possible, and a whimper of 'Oh gods..." came from her lips when he parted her. She trembled, as she was inspected and teased like a piece of meat, and the first touches of his fingers against her flower were utter torture and perfectly wonderful, making her squirm, right until his hand came down and slapped her clit, hard. She squealed and arched her back, wailing, tears coming to her eyes in stinging pain, but then a deep ache settled between her thighs, and she knew that his hand had just come away wetter than before. She whimpered and wondered what kind of a woman she was, what kind of a knight, to be so wanton as to be aroused by him hitting her, controlling her, mocking her. She didn't have an answer, but his treatment of her was so delicious to her body that she didn't care. When he threw her onto her bellt and ground his member against her bottom she groaned and pushed her hips back, presenting her round pert bottom for his attention, which he duly deigned to give her with a heavy smack. She squealed for him, half in pleasure half in pain. And as he wondered if he was pushing her too far, a quavering voice mumbled, "Thank you...would it please you to do it again, My lord?" just as she'd been instructed.

 

"It would." As if passing judgement in a high court, Red utters those words, then, bringing back his left hand, he subjects her alluring ass to yet another strike. Unlike the previous ones which came down more from above (or below, as the case may be), this one is straight on, his hand cupped slightly to match the curvature of her derriere. Right in the wake of it - and the ear-ringing "smack" of hand meeting flesh - he reaches down and rubs against the exact same area he struck, really working his hands into it. He mmhs appreciatively, evil thoughts percolating in the back of his head. "Lirael. Tell me what a knight is doing with such a slutty little ass, so desperate for her lordship's stern justice?"

 

"Mpppph!" she moaned into the sheets, her hips bucking as he spanked her again, leaving a firm red handprint in the tender flesh of her perfect rear. "T-thank you, would it please you to do it again my Lord?" she asked, her voice heavy with lust and pain. When he asked her, she considered for a moment and replied, "I I don't know, my Lord....I never felt like this before!" she begged. Where her legs were parted slightly he could see stains on the bedsheets, a darker spot against the crimson, where her juices had trickled down and soaked in. Likewise, her thighs were messy and sticky with them.

 

 "Oh?" He contents himself momentarily with simply running his hands over that increasingly-red behind of hers, squeezing and pinching and stroking the resolutely-exposed behind. He uses the opportunity to adjust his position slightly, sliding his scalding-hot length between the crevasse of her two cheeks. He does an almost exploratory slow pump of his hips, pushing his arousal along (and against) the rarely-exposed flesh. And then another smack, full-palmed against her quivering body, which quickly follows through into a one-two blow as he reverses his blow and, even harder than the first, delivers a backhand blow on the same area, really arcing his fingers into it. "This whorish little pain-slut of a knight beneath me, her cunt so wet that I bet any servants kneeling outside the door could smell it, is trying to tell me that she's never used her ass in an attempt to seek her desperate, bitch-in-heat release? I have a hard time believing that."

 

She whimpered, all that would come out of her mouth under his ministrations, her bottom turning red under his touch. She gasped when she felt his member press between her cheeks, feeling it press against her sticky flower, the sensation making her eyes shut in pleasure and a slow, pleased moan coming from her mouth. They turned to squeals and wiggling as he really lay into her with his hand, leaving big red marks and what would probably be bruises later. She squealed and kicked her feet and gripped the sheets with both hands, but her flower was a blazing heat against him and she arched her back for more, presenting her bottom to him again. Internally she asked herself why she was doing it, receiving the reply that it felt really really good. And besides, she'd always been a good knight. She meant to do her duty. And if her duty felt this good, then she'd do it gladly. When he taunted her like that, she shuddered out a weak reply, voice hoarse from squealing and crying out, "N-no, never! I didn't know it could feel so goooood." she moaned, half in pleasure half in pain, flushing and rocking her hips against him when he called her a 'whorish little pain-slut of a knight', his Imperial accent adding a new layer of humiliation to the mocking.

 

" 'Didn't know it could feel so good', MY. LORD." Practically snarling out those last two words, he delivers two more backhand strikes to her increasingly-battered rear, hard enough to almost certainly leave bruising the next day - and, possibly, several after. Stiff bone of back of hand; knuckle and whip-snap of finger right at the end; one would almost think that he has experience in battering cowering servants. He is practically trembling after those strikes, his entire frame quivering with something between barely-controlled rage and equally unmitigated *lust*, and he least of all could tell anybody where one ended and the next began. Pulling back from her oh so slightly, he drags - nails out - one hand down from her rear and around to her front, where he plunges two fingers deep into her utterly-drenched crotch. A few pumps; he twists his fingers about, as if to scrape all the wetness out of her. It's a hopeless endeavour, but he soon brings his hand back out and around.

 

The other, unsullied hand rests on each side of the crack between her cheeks, and, without missing a beat, he pries them apart, exposing her tightest, knotted hole to him. He uses his fingers to smear her own fluids across it, then even pushes one inside, well-lubricated by her own wetness. "I think," he growls, "what you really need is for this needy, greedy ass of yours...to be fucked hard. The hand of the Lord's justice has obviously not righted its ways. Don't you agree, Lirael? Isn't what this begging bitch of an ass really craves...my hard cock, hilt-deep?" Withdrawing a finger from the hole in question, he gives her another sharp shock of a slap, less drawn-out but more pointed for its brevity.

 

She writhed under him in a haze of pleasure and pain, one becoming the other as she gasped and moaned lewdly for him, crying out, "Didn't know it could feel so good my lord!" as he commanded, squealing at the strikes to her rear, whimpering and wiggling her hips, tears staining the sheets as she lay there, accepting his punishment. She nearly came when he thrust two fingers inside of her, biting her lip hard enough to taste blood in her mouth, her mind disappearing in a deep well of pleasure and lust. She screamed when he violated her ass, lubricated as his finger was, making her squeal and tighten around it, her body shaking. "I-I need to be fucked hard!" she cried out, wiggling her hips, "P-please my lord! Please fuck me!" she said, her use of that word a sign of her complete surrender to him, hands fisting the sheets either side of her body, legs shaking.

 

With an inarticulate sound somewhere between a laugh of exultation and a lusty growl, he gives her another fierce smack, then reaches back to grip the base of his manhood. He lines it up with her most depraved of holes, brushing it against the puckered flesh...and promptly twitches as he hears the sound of shattering crockery behind him. His erection still pressing hard against her, he half-turns, only to see one of the housekeepers holding a platter up over their mouth, eyes wide with shock. Broken glass and pottery adorns the floor around her feet, and she seems to be trembling violently. She looks away desperately as Red turns towards her, and he snarls in frustration. "We're a bit busy now; thank you!" The maid seems to melt away under his glare, and promptly scurries out of the half-open doors, slamming it loudly behind her. He sighs, and turns back to Liri, his body pressed up against hers, the decisive moment at hand. "Now, as for you..."

 

Lirael stared at him, then at the doorway. Then at him again. "......" she just stared, her face turning red. "N-nooooot really in the mood so much now." she whispered, releasing the sheets in her fists and rolling over onto her side, looking at him coyly. "And you....you're wild." she said, her voice hoarse from her exertions. "When did you get so depraved...my lord." she added, her tone teasing and confident, but still adding the formality, this time with a new, dirtier edge to it. She knew that from now on, anytime she had to use it regarding him, she'd struggle to think of anything but his hand smacking against her ass and his stern, sexual voice reminding her to call him it. She shivered and then her stomach suddenly rumbled. She headbutted the bed in embarrassment.

 

He looks down at her, his eyes blinking in momentary incomprehension. He hears her words, but, somehow, they do not quite process. He looks down at himself, swollen as a soldier in a brothel after double pay, and then at her, her face turned away. At her ass, bright red from his abuse. At her thighs and then down at the sheets, still drenched with her arousal. And then his head tilts back, looking up open-eyed at the roof. He reaches up and covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms downward and letting out a loud groan as he does so. "Emperor's blood, what in the hells was that?"

 

"You..." she raised a hand in front of her and ticked off her fingers. "Took certain liberties with my person." she raised a finger, "Turned my ass red." she raised another, "Forced me to call you my lord." and another, "Called me a whorish little pain-slut of a knight," she grinned that time, her cheeks pink, showing a certain level of appreciation for that moniker, while raising another finger. "Called me a begging bitch in heat while you thrust two fingers into me..." she said slowly, her voice sultry, raising a fourth finger, "And then you nearly violated and buggered me in front of a serving girl." she raised the last finger, a scowl on her face. And then she used the now open hand to slap him lightly in the face. "Don't do that last one again." she warned, struggling to hold back a smile.

 

He grasps the wrist of her hand after she smacks him - thankfully on the side she DIDN'T strike him the night before - and kisses her palm, looking an absolutely incomprehensible dichotomy between terribly pleased with himself and utterly aghast. "I...I most certainly did do all those things to you, Liri. I, um, I most...certainly did. And I promise not to *nearly* violate and bugger you in the future. I also promise not to do it in front of a serving girl." A slight rakish upturn of the lips, but his entire body language still exudes mortification.

 

She stared at him a long while, her cheeks reddening. Then she murmured, "It was not...entirely without its appeal." she flushed bright red and stood up, reaching for her clothes, her tone brightening, changing the subject. "Soooooooo...dinner?" she asked, her eyes merry.

 

***

 

After helping Liri clean herself up, Red seems - if at all possible - even more keen to wipe himself down, change into a fresh pair of clothing, and get out of their horribly garish love-nest of a room. For whatever mad reason, he has opted for a set of ridiculously opulent set of red silks: loose-fitting and wispy, fluttering and fanning with every quick movement of his. It may be that he thinks the brilliant crimson of his outfit will hide the faint blush that, quite persistently, remains on his face. If there was any ever doubt about his Imperial background, this outfit has well and truly done away with it; the style is definitely that of the (in)famous soirees of Imperial high society. He heads downstairs just ahead of her, quietly humming a tune to himself as he goes.

 

Lirael raised an eyebrow at the opulent robes, dressing herself in a light doublet and leggings from among her bag, the leggings a dark grey and the doublet a soft blue. She ran some water through her hair and over her face and hands. Then she spoiled the relaxed image by buckling on her sword belt and dirk. "Well that's going to give the game away. Mind you, there weren't that many people downstairs, and most will have retired by now." she nodded and looked him up and down appraisingly. "You look...." she smiled, "Ridiculous." and let out a soft musical laugh. "But you'll do." she grinned and led the way downstairs, on her stairs her hips swaying just a little more than strictly necessary.

 

"Well, milady Lirael," - as they approach the common room, he slips back into some old semblance of their formality prior to the events of the last twenty-four hours - "I figure I may as well take this one opportunity to truly showcase the Empire; be a good representative of high Imperial culture and all that. And it seems that everybody we run into had no trouble discerning my descent in the first place. Is it the hair?" Curiously, he twirls one of his braids around a finger. Although she can't see it as she takes the lead from him, he is trying very, very hard to not let his attention be distracted by the seductive sashay of her hips. He's not being very successful, but he certainly is trying - his eyes keep flitting between each strut and shift of her hindquarters, until so very recently exposed and prostrated before him, the feel of that perfectly intoxicating combination of softness and firm muscle underneath his hands, their redness with each strike, of his finger slipp- Oh look, this spot on the wall is exceptionally fascinating! Look at the rich character of the wood.

 

She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to place a hand on his chest, stopping him from tripping. "Watch your step." she grinned, fully aware what he was choosing to watch instead. Her cheeks were pink and she took a deep breath. "Well then. This ought to be interesting." she sighed and strode into the common room, which was dimly lit with candles, not shadowy, just a little dim. Almost romantic really, she mused idly. There were maybe a dozen men and women in the room, three or four tables occupied. She guided him to one near the wall in the corner and sat down, wincing visibly and rising a little, then forcing herself to sit down, hissing in pain. She shot him an exasperated look as the waitress came to take her order, turning bright red and studying that fine rich character of the wooden table as she realised it was the same woman who had found them in medias res.

 

Red looks genuinely sheepish in response to her dagger-sharp glare, making a soft "ah-heh" noise under her breath at her very visible discomfort as she seats herself. He takes the chair immediately adjacent to hers, rather than what may be the more expected (and perhaps more appropriate) opposite. As the waitress arrives, he looks up at her and smiles cheerfully. "Ah, hello once more! Fancy seeing you again so soon." He leans toward the waitress a bit, and his voice dips to a conspiratorial whisper. "Miss, far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but may I suggest you knock before entering an occupied room in the future? If there's no response, don't enter." Pulling himself back, still all smiles, he holds up up two fingers. "Two cups of your best wine; one for me and one for my *companion.*" Yes, he really does emphasize that word. "And only one for her, no matter how much she asks for more, thank you."

 

Lirael bangs her head softly against the table. A muffled voice comes from the woodwork. "Best wine. Two cups. Leave the damn bottle." she groans, wiggling her hips uncomfortably on the bench, which seems to be made of some kind of iron bar, rather than the nice soft wood it appears to be made of. When the waitress leaves, she looks up at him, her face bright red, cheeks flushed. "D-don't you ever do that again, oh gods, you're gonna be like this all night, aren't you?" she asked, practically rhetorically. "And even if I am technically your *companion*" she puts exactly the same emphasis on the word, "The way you say it should be against some sort of obscenity law." she mutters

 

He tilts his head slightly, his earlier unease rapidly giving way to a far more natural impish disposition. "Are there obscenity laws like that in Estallia? I've heard of injunctions against using the names of religious figures in vain, or slandering the monarchy, but never against calling anybody a...*companion*. It's a perfectly legitimate word. Or am I misinterpreting it? In modern Imperial, it'd be 'hetaera'. Would you prefer that? I would hate to violate the laws of the Kingdom while acting as a dignitary within its borders." With each word, the rakish little smile on his face grows just a bit bigger, and he reaches out to rest a hand atop hers gently. "Truly though, I'm not letting you have that entire bottle. Even if I have to wrest it away from you, and you remember what happened last time we had to do that, don't you?"

 

She flushes again and frowns at him, smothering a smile. "I know exactly what that word means, Ambassador, and it does not describe me!" she replies to him, in surprisingly good Imperial. Then she lowers her voice. "And since your choice of nocturnal activities could get you thrown out and me imprisoned, yes I think you'd hate to violate the laws of the Kingdom of Estallia." she murmured, her voice hot with a trace of anger and worry at his flippant remarks. Slowly though, her face softens and she lets out a quavering little laugh, "And I'm going to need at least half of that damn bottle, if you keep making jokes like this." she smiled at him, giving his fingers a squeeze, surprised how happy the little gesture of his touch on hers made her.

 

He laughs softly, squeezing her hand right back. "Ah, you know how the word translates, but judging by your response, you do not understand just what it...signifies? Is that how you would put it?" He leans over towards her a bit and whispers in her ear. "I'll explain it later, once we return to our room." He shows genuine surprise at the following statement, however; his brow furrows slightly. His voice remains quiet enough that it probably - probably - cannot be overheard by any bystanders. "Truly? Jailed and disbarred? How barbaric. Sodomy laws only apply between men in the Empire, and are only rarely enforced. Otherwise half the bloody Imperial Household would be in fetters."

 

She slaps his hand lightly and frowns at him, "I know exactly what that word means. And not..That." she blushed prettily, "I'm forbidden from...pretty much everything we did since we kissed." she whispers, "I could be imprisoned just for that. Fraternising with a dignitary of another nation is strictly forbidden, to prevent spying. And if they think that I've done that..." she broke her sentence off and sat back, clearly troubled, her face slipping back into the mask of formality when they first met. Then slowly she lifted her hand and drew her thumb across her neck, shuddering lightly.

 

"Well, simple solution to that. I'll just have to smuggle you back across the Imperial border. Other than some raised eyebrows by the Capitoline wags at me carrying on some of my father's 'distasteful predilections', nobody would bat an eye at an Imperial patrician bringing claiming skilled help for his household." His thumb gently rubs her palm as he says this; an easy, pleasant smile adorns his face. Once again he leans in to speak, his voice gently teasing. "But if you truly are so worried, then we can certainly end this...misadventure...now. You remain intact, and tomorrow we can once again resume 'milady' this and 'my lord' that." Oh yes, he's *entirely* aware of what he's saying there, and his voice drops just a bit more, now more a rumble in his throat. "None ever need know that this splendid Queller is a...how did I put it? 'Wanton little pain-slut of a knight.' It would be quite simple to simply put an end to it here. If that is what you wanted. Milady."

 

She flushed bright red from the tips of her ears to her toes, if her reaction was anything to go by. She met his eyes for a dangerous second, then dropped her gaze, staring at their entwined fingers. "I...I cannot go with you, I swore an oath. Maybe someday I will tell you of it." she whispered, "And...I am very fond..." her voice broke and her eyes went misty, "Fond." she said more firmly, "Of you. And this...misadventure." she smiled at him, and wiggled in her seat. "My lord..." she murmured, her voice low and husky, like it was back in their room during that heated moment. "I just...we cannot be caught. If they think you...corrupted me in order to use me as a spy, they could kill..." she broke off, unable to say anymore. "I could not stand that...my lord."

 

"Well, if I have to claim the absolute protection of the Imperial High Embassy, I can think of few better reasons." Seemingly quite oblivious to all her hesitations, Red dips in to very, very quickly brush his lips against her neck. He pulls back almost as fast as he dived in, making it seem to all the world more like an affected flick of the hair than any symbol of affection. As he withdraws, he murrs huskily to her. "And good. I am...rather fond...of our current mutual arrangements as well." He sits up straight again, putting on a veener of all propriety and dignity. "You shall have to tell me more of this oath in the future, milady. I am so very fond of learning new things about you, since you are my most devoted escort on this journey. Ah look, the wine." He nods approvingly as the waitress sets the bottle and two cups down on the table, showing no regard whatsoever of the fact that she seems no less flustered at being in their presence than Liri of his words. He reaches out and pours out the two cups; half for him, full for her. "Well then, tell me of this vintage."

 

"I've really no idea what it it..." she murmured, clearly affected by the simple brush of his lips on her. She trembled slightly before coughing and taking a healthy sip of it. "Mmm....Rhovanon pale gold." she murmured, going pink. "Cyrus, you bastard." she muttered, shooting a look over to the innkeep who was behind the bar. He raised his hands in a gesture of peace, laughing loud enough for Red to hear, before coming over with a notebook to take an order for their food. She looked up at him and growled, "Thanks for the room, Cyrus." He imitated being struck a mortal blow and laughed, then sketched a small bow. "Queller. Ambassador. Enjoy the wine. Can I ask what you might...desire...in the way of food?" he added quickly to the end, his grin wide and teasing. "We have beef, pork, lamb, chicken, roast fowl and all manner of spices. It's slow at the moment, so I can prepare something specially if that's your wish. I'd be happy to demonstrate my skills for a dignitary." he said courteously, grinning at Lirael as he did so.

 

"Well, so far, I must say that you show a most uncanny talent at divining the true requirements of your guests, even when they themselves may not express them." Oh yes, Red knows this manner of man far, far too well. "I entrust myself once again to your foresight! Something...something distinctly Estallian would be good. If I am to be enjoying the local culture," his gaze flicks playfully to Liri as he says this, "then it will not do for me to be indulging in anything nostalgic." He takes up the wine and sips at it very demurely, nodding slightly. "Hm. Less tart than most Imperial vintages; not so prone to the cloying sweetnesses of the preferred casks. Different. Different, but...not unwelcome."

 

"Two...ummm...let's see. Pinchitos." she said, the word unfamiliar to him. Cyrus nodded and gracefully slipped away. Once he was gone, she grinned and the pink tinge in her cheeks returned. She wrapped her fingers around his hand and squeezed. "Rhovanon wines like this one are traditionally shared between....ummm, illicit lovers." she admitted, flushed a deeper pink. "They were in a famous play about a hundred years ago, and the reputation stuck. Just don't go swearing any vows over it or I'll knock you unconscious to save you." she grinned, making a reference that escaped him, though her smile was wide and genuine, suggesting she wasn't making fun of him, at least.

 

He chuckles softly as he grips her hand more tightly, replying to her squeeze in reply. "How appropriate, then. But I shall take your advice; it is, perhaps, still a bit too soon to be speaking of vows." Oh yes, that slight crook of his mouth and half-winking of his eye is absolutely fiendish in its implications. "You shall have to explain your genuine intentions behind that statement of yours at some point, milady. There is still much about you to discover, faithful Lirael, and I shall not be satisfied until I have unravelled them all." With his free hand, he takes another slow sip of the wine. "I do think that I am rather fond of this wine. Shall I ponder whether it is in spite of the implications, or because of them?"

 

She grinned back at him, and murmured, explaining, "Like your story...umm...Pyramus and Thisbe. Ours is a play about two lovers, Adrianna and Estevan." her voice lowers into the murmur of someone recalling something they once read a long time ago, "Forbidden by their parents and laws to marry, Adrianna being a Knight and Estevan a merchant's son, a dueling bravo. They swear a marriage oath over a cup of this wine, in the fashion of the old gods, long before Estallia was a true kingdom. Eventually they are discovered and fight their way free, but are cornered on the rooftop where they first met. They bar the door and reaffirm their marriage vows over a poisoned cup of the same wine, and vow to be married in the outlands, the....cielo...ummm after-life?" she finishes, her voice stumbling as she tries to find a translation for the idea. "The soldiers break through the door to discover them dead in each others arms, and the Captain who drove them there kills himself from grief, for he too loved a woman who was lost from him, and he drinks the bitter dregs of the poisoned cup, in penance and so he might be with her." she finishes, her voice very soft.

 

He raises his eyebrows slightly, glancing down askance at the wine-cup touching his lips. "What a terribly dreary affair. Star-cross'd lovers this; ill-fated romances that. There was a period when such grimness was all the rage on the Capitoline stages, with the choirs serving as little more than wailing women. Ugh. Couldn't walk the Via Victrix or the Agonistes without hearing all that keening and lamentation. Everybody wore blacks and greys. Always. Always! Even the women veiled their faces. Glad that fashion passed. Bawdy comedies are currently in-season. The Emperor even issued a decree banning the production of the old tragic romances - as you say, like Pyramus and Thisbe - for a period of threeyear. Felt it was bad for public morale."

 

She gave him a small smile and took a long swig. "Adrianna and Estevan isn't just a tragedy, it's...glorious. There's sword fighting and speeches and dancing." she grinned, "I've seen it a dozen times, from the smallest production to some in the larger towns. One day I might even get to see it in the Grand Theatre in Estallia." she giggled, "And maybe a golden goose will fall from the sky." she smiled, a little sadly. "But it's very dramatic, and there's not so much weeping til the end. Estallian theatre is very...interactive. People laugh at the jokes and curse the Captain when he comes, and everyone shares a toast to the lover's health during the marriage scene. That and both of the main characters are swordsmen....and swordswoman. And Adrianna is the real fighter of the two. She is always played by an actual knight, it's one of the rules. Otherwise it's bad luck. And before you ask, once, in a small village, for they wanted a performance and I wanted food." she blushed and drained her cup, flushing.

 

"Luckiest Estevan there ever was." He smiles, letting go of her hand so that he may pat her fondly on the cheek. "Very much a different kind of theatre to what I'm used to. Well, let me clarify. There is Theatre, High Theatre, the truly dignified stuff. Those they perform in the grand odeons, voices ringing out into the air. Very formal. Rules for everything, from composition to presentation to how the audience conducts itself. In a word, very Imperial." A soft chuckle from his pouty lips, lightly stained with the wine. "I am told that the 'shows' of the peasantry and serfholds are, oh, how do the moralists put it? 'Utterly reckless affairs, debauched and dissolute, disrespecting all the proper laws of dramatic unities and conducted by characters of truly ill repute.' So probably not too different from what you are familiar with, judging by the usual hysterics of those beak-nosed old men with their beady little eyes and hatred for everything approaching human joy."

 

She laughs, long and loud, trying to stifle it with her hand, her laugh musical and happier than he's seen before. "Well..." she grins, her cheeks flushed with pleasure and probably the affects of the wine as she pours another cup. "We would know about utterly reckless affairs...not to mention debauchery." she muttered, her tone teasing and quiet. Then she sits back as their food arrives, long skewers of different meats and vegetables, spiced and appealing, the scent coming from them practically mouth watering. She smiles at him and slips her hand from his as the waitress arrives, coughing and looking away, for all her jokes, she's still unable to even look at that woman after what she saw.

 

He grins at her quiet utterance. "Well, you, milady...you've still a fair bit to learn." A lean-in, a stage whisper. Yes, even as the waitress arrives. "I shall do my utmost to be an accomodating teacher." Oh, there's no way the waitress did *not* hear that. Red makes a pleasant humming sound, and reaches out to snatch up one of the skewers. He twirls it about in his hand a bit, inquisitively. "Hmm. Are these...souvlakia?" He brings it near to him, sniffing discretely. "...Spiced? Hmm." Shrugging his shoulders, he goes in for an experimental bite, and, judging by the nodding of his head, he seems content with the results.

 

"Similar." she mutters, her face red as the waitress walks away quickly. "I...am going to kill you." she murmurs, taking a bite of one of the skewers, eating quietly. Then she grins and an evil light goes into her eyes. Slowly she raises one of the skewers and slips it into her mouth in a distinctly non-edible manner, sucking back off of it with a piece of meat. Then she leans down to slowly lick a drop of grease from the skewer, her eyes directly on his. Then she sat back calmly, waiting to see if he would choke on his food or not, her smile teasing as she chewed and swallowed, letting out a soft "Mmmm..." that seemed a little too enthusiastic.

 

He settles right down into a teasing little smile of his own, keeping a very keen indeed gaze on her flirtations. Settling right into that 'accomodating teacher' mode he promised, he proceeds to comment with an even, incisive tone. "Promising technique indeed, with particularly praiseworthy tongue-work. Stay away from the chewing. Good use of the throat. I look forward to seeing the fruits of your practice when time comes for your practical examination." He looks back at his own skewer and, a smirk crossing his face, he leans in to very lightly nibble at one edge of a meat cube, then the other. He draws his mouth back slightly and flicks his tongue against it, dragging out the motion as it reaches the top of that poor, unsuspecting cut of meat. And then another nip, right in there at the top.

 

She blushes as he critiques her teasing, her cheeks flushing prettily. She blushed deeper at his own teasing, then her gaze flickered demurely down, and she whispered, in a sweet, sensual whisper, "As my lord wishes." The rest of the meal is quickly devoured, her hunger overcoming her desire to leap across the table and... she blushes again and curses whatever made him kiss her. And whatever made her love it. She was so aroused she could hardly think, her thighs pressed together sneakily, squirming from the bruises on her bottom making the rubbing of her thighs more interesting. She drank another goblet of wine before she finished, and her breathing was a little quicker, and her cheeks flushed with what was almost certainly a degree of drunkenness, just not as bad as their last night.

 

"Mm, that's no more wine for you." He moves the now-empty cup away from her, tsking lightly in a tone more playful than chiding. "It would not do for my escort's...senses...to be dulled by wine." He bites into the last cut on his skewer, pulling it off the wooden implement in a single long motion, before he rolls it into his mouth - holding it between his teeth for just a moment, very visibly flicking it from behind with the tip of his tongue - and chews it with absolutely agonizing slowness. He looks straight at her the entire time, pure wickedness lurking in those seas of bright blue. "Well then. Shall we retire for the night, milady?"

 

Her blush is a fierce thing, the combination of alcohol and embarrassment turning her cheeks bright red. "As my Lord wishes." she says, standing up carefully, seemingly no less able for the strong wine. "I'm drinking so that I might survive more of your...violent urges." she winks at him, one hand rubbing her bottom subtly. Then she gestures with her hands, "Would my lord like to lead the way, or would he rather stare at my arse some more?" she adds in a dirty whisper, before grinning and setting off towards the stairs, muttering, "As if I didn't know the answer."

 

"Since milady so generously offers, I believe I shall." He follows close behind her, reaching down and giving her a playful cuff right on one of that hard-abused bottom when he is sure nobody is looking.

 

She yelps quietly and wiggles her way up the stairs, her wide grin unseen, but she follows his command with a "As my lord wishes." and leads him back up to their chambers, a knot of worry and excitement and arousal growing in her belly.

 

Red follows a half-step behind her, watching her wiggling as she ascends the stairs. Although his expression is a mixture of impassive and faintly amused, he finds himself very glad indeed that he chose to wear his silks for this: their loose, willowy fit was truly heaven-sent right now. Otherwise he never would have been able to make it from the table to the stairwell without every single resident of the common room seeing the bulge in his underclothes. Oh, how he has to fight down the urge to shove her to the ground the minute they walk through that door and continue as if they had never been interrupted by one thoroughly-scandalized housekeeper...rrrgh. As they reach their room, he steps up beside her and, leaning in, brushes his lips over her nearest ear. "I'm full aware that your wriggling down there was from more than soreness, Liri. Tell me what dirty little thoughts have been on your mind. And be truthful, lest I am forced to chastise you."

 

As she reaches their rooms, she lets him in, then shuts the door firmly. Then she walks across, picks up an oaken chair and slams it under the door handle, wedging it shut, shooting him a small, nervous smile. But then he presses up behind her, and she goes utterly silent as she feels his arousal pressing to her bottom. As he whispers she listens carefully, trembling, then takes a deep breath and whispers, "I...I was thinking of how good it felt when you...you put your fingers...in me." she murmurs, blushing. "In..my...flower." she whimpered. "And how good you felt pressed to me like this...and how much I enjoyed your hand smacking against my bottom...my lord." she finished, her voice quiet and embarrassed and excited in equal measure.

 

He moves around to face her, and then, grabbing the hair at the back of her head very harshly, he jerks her down so that their mouths can meet in a smouldering, hungry kiss. He all-but-bites at her too-appealing lips in between the frantic tongue-locks and chest-born groans, leaving yet more marks of his advance on her body. After something approaching a half-minute of this, he lets go of her, panting heavily. "You...you are a miracle, Liri. Every single thing I want to do to you...and I feel like I could be endlessly distracted by even more options. You are a canvas. Of infinite appetite." His hands go to her doublet, undoing the buttons with such fervor that Liri is quite certain that she will need a tailor's attentions before it can be worn again. "I called you my hetaera downstairs. You remember?"

 

She moans into his mouth, soft little pleas for more attention, more tongue, more of his wonderfully soft, smoldering lips on hers, more of everything, until at least they pull away. Her lips feel swollen and her jaw deliciously sore. She pants softly, letting him strip the doublet from her. Underneath she has nothing, and her breasts sit pertly on her chest, small pink nipples already hard with arousal. She can do nothing but blush and nod and hear him compliment her, while he stares at the ruin of her doublet and her bare chest, which she doesn't try to hide, hands on his hips, lightly stroking. "I remember, my lord..." she says obediently.

 

"Mm, good." He leans in and draws his tongue along her collarbone. Meanwhile his hands trace up her taut stomach, fingertips splayed out, until he cups her breasts from beneath. He gives them a gentle, exploratory squeeze, and mumbles to himself in Imperial - she's fairly certain it's something to the rough effect of 'I can't believe I've ignored these so far'. "And what did you think when I called you that word? Did you think I was referring to you as my whore? That I was perhaps implying that your purpose is to slake the needs of my cock in your every hole, whenever I may so demand?" Oh yes, out comes that stern, steely tone that she was all too familiar with mere hours ago - all aristocratic auctoritas, the forceful voice of a man born into power and never having known anything but.

 

"I thought you were referring to me as an amusement. My lord." she murmured, gasping when he took her breasts in his hands. They were full and plump, seeming small against her frame, but on a shorter woman they would have been quite large, and each breast just slightly overflowed his grasping hands. Her nipples were hard little nubs against his palms, and she trembled as he touched her, yearning for him. "A hetaera might not just be a whore, she might dance and sing and talk, but in the end she is still an amusement for rich and powerful men." she murmured defiantly, "And I...ah- I will not be that." she growled back at him, flushed deeply at his words but still standing tall and proud.

 

He smiles, some genuine approval breaking through his facade of cold imperium. "Your understanding is, to be expected, half-formed. Let me clarify." He massages her left breast with the heel of his palm, his fingers sinking in and flexing against the soft, luscious flesh. His right, in contrast, ceases its exploratory groping so that he may cup the mammary more securly. The intentions are shortly made clear as he flicks his right thumb over the stiff little nipple, and he punctuates the gesture with a bite to the nearest patch of exposed breast. He mmhs against her, pressing his hips against her. And then he draws his mouth back to continue speaking. "A hetaera is a woman of many talents, yes. But she is not simply a prostitute, which a man uses to fuck as his urges drive him. Oh, certainly, a man will still avail himself of his hetaera." The thumb presses against her nipple as he traces around it, pushing down all the while. "Given the opportunity, he will spill his seed into her - and onto her - as much as he can. But it's not because she's his belonging, nor is it because she is his amusement." He looks up at her now, his eyes surprisingly gentle. "He does it because a hetaera is an object of absolute passion. A man yearns for his hetaera. He BURNS for her. Oh yes, it's lust, but it's *more* than just lust. He wants her not because of how welcoming her cunt may be, or how talented her tongue is. He wants her because she is *her*, because she is more than just a set of holes, and it is that need that drives men to their extremes of devotion." He releases her right breast and reaches around behind; giving her ass a forceful groping. "Do you understand now?"

 

She blushes and trembles violently in his arms, clearly unused to such teasing, his fingers over and around her breasts making her shiver and squirm, rubbing her hips against his. She slips her hands around to loop at the small of his back, leaning back herself to display her body to him, letting the doublet drop to the floor, the arching of her back presenting an erotic little image for him, breasts thrust out for him to play with as he wishes, her eyes half lidded in sensual pleasure as he does. She listens intently, licking her lips, he notes, when he mentions spilling his seed, the idea of coupling with him and seeing him climax again clearly interesting to her. When he finishes his explanation she sighs and murmurs, "Yes my lord. If it please you, I could be your Hetaera. And your knight as well." she says softly, as if afraid he might deny her.

 

"A hetaera. *Is.* Desire." He strains up to pull her into another kiss, this one much sloppier than most of theirs to date. He lavishes her mouth with attention, sucking on her lips and her tongue, all-but-moaning against her. She thinks he may say something like 'my desire' in the midst of it all, but...well, it's difficult to tell, between the tongues and the lips and the little 'mmf'ing noises. He rakes his right hand up her back and around to her front, scraping with his nails as he goes, so that he may once more attack her breast - this time going right in for the pinch, lightly twisting the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

 

She gasps and arches even more for him, head hanging back in a little gasping, quivering moan of desire as he pinches at her. Apparently she's not just sensitive on her ass, though she certainly cried out more when he played with that. She whimpered prettily enough when his fingers twisted at her nipple though, gasping some soft, lyrical curse in Estallian and grinding her hips lewdly to his, panting hard as he held her. "O-oh gods." was all that she could manage to whimper through the pleasure and pain. "H-harder." she begged, before adding a second later, "my lord, please!"

 

He grinds his hips right back, straining hardness - so exposed to her mere hours before - entangled amongst slick silks, rubbing ferociously against her leggings. He makes an inquisitive sound, a little "hmmm?" of curiosity, as he once again takes that jutting little nipple in between his fingers. He pulls it back sharply this time, tugging at it, before giving it a harder twist - this time, he puts a quick flick of the wrist into it, being more than a mere twiddling of the fingers. He nods, as if confirming his suspicions. A teasing smile creases his features. "'Whorish little pain-slut of a knight', indeed."

 

She squeals for him, only confirming his teasing statement, and wriggles in his grasp, not trying to get away so much as just overcome with shuddering desire and a wave of pleasure and pain that washed through every inch of her body, making her toes curl. She panted lewdly and moved her arms to lay around his shoulders, holding herself up on him, leaning back. "O-oh gods...that was..." she panted between breaths. "Wow..."

 

He leans in to trace his tongue up her chest, sliding it between her breasts up to the hollow of her throat. After her violent spasm he continues playing with the nipple, nowhere near as forcefully, but still enough to maintain stimulation - it is little half-tweaks and thumb-brushes, firmly and consistently maintaining pressure and sensation. His other hand goes around to the small of her back, rubbing there. "Did you just..."

 

"N-nearly." she whimpered, her breathing heavy and ragged, her fingers brushing through his hair, across his scalp, "Gods help me, nearly..." she gasped as he brushed over her nipple again, tweaking it. "S-someone didn't get her release earlier..." she whimpered, "My lord." she shot him a half teasing, half mock-accusatory glance. Then she kissed him quickly, hungrily, only pulling away when she had to breathe, nearly drawing blood from her hungry nibbling at his lower lip, leaving it tingling and very slightly swollen.

 

He gives as good as he gets in that last frantic liplock, countering her ferocious assault on his lower lip with an equally uninhibited barrage of tooth-work on her upper. He uses his hand on her lower back to press her in against him, then he twists their bodies around, in the general direction of the bed. He nudges her forward, as much with the hardness in his crotch as any other motion of her body. Finally free of that unusually bruising kiss, he swats her across the breasts, one then the other; a firm clap of the outstretched fingers followed by a quick back-swing of his fingertips over the extended little buds. "I am well aware of that, and, I assure you Liri, I consider it a grave oversight." He moves his hand around from her back to her hip, and, followed with a a quick half-smack against her behind, he speaks again. "Sit on the edge of the bed. Leggings off. Show me just how close you are."

 

She grins, backing awkwardly towards the bed, little half steps as he pushes her back, plenty of grinding going on between them as he manhandles her onto the bed. She squeals and goes up onto her toes when he slaps her breasts, making her shudder and gasp harder, and swiftly obeys him, lying back, propped up on one arm. She pauses a moment, takes a deep breath and wiggles her leggings down. That's the moment when he realises he stepped over her underwear to get her to the bed; she's not wearing it, and hasn't been wearing it for some time. Ever since they left the room last in fact. She flushes as his eyes catch the underwear on the floor, and as her leggings peel down to reveal her nakedness, thin blonde hair above her extremely wet flower, her thighs sticky with her juices. She flushes and puts her legs together for a moment, then sighs in obedience and spreads them for him, murmuring "Yes my lord." in a seductive little breathy sigh.

 

"My, my. A knight going forth without her underclothes, drenching her leggings with her own base needs. Utterly shameless. Whatever would people think?" He steps in toward her, putting a hand on one knee. He leans in slightly to kiss it, and, following that, ducks around to lightly pepper the back of her knee with little bites. He murrs, giving her thigh just above the knee a soft kiss, and then another, and another, each one inching up her smooth inner legs just that little bit more. He murmurs against her leg, just loud enough to be heard. "But my, Liri, you have learned your place well. How shall I reward you, hmm? What would a wanton harlot of a woman, her greedy cunt as overflowing as her ass is crisscrossed by the imprint of my hand, consider a desirable boon in acknowledgement of her fidelity?"

 

She's blushing so much that she struggles to speak, her breath and voice stolen away by those soft little kisses up her thigh, her skin hot to the touch, one hand propping herself up, the other stroking through his hair firmly. "W-whatever my lord sees fit. But p-please let me finish. I need release!" she begs desperately, her voice urgent and soft, her flower indeed overflowing, incredibly wet. Clearly she's been in torment for some time. Her self control must be excellent.

 

"In good time, Liri. All in good time." Quite possibly the cruelest words he has yet uttered. Seemingly obvious to the death sentence he has just proclaimed - but who are we kidding; he knows full well what he has done - it's as hellish to her as it is to him, as he yet again finds himself fighting down the urge to cast aside everything he is doing, mount her, and no, no no no, that comes LATER. Not now. She's not the only one with some measure of self-discipline. He props her leg up a bit more, teasing his way down her hamstring with playful nips of teeth and long, lavishing tongue-strokes. His other hand goes to the other, sadly-neglected leg, and he begins rubbing his way down its thigh, palm outstretched and thumb rubbing broadly.

 

She groaned partly in pleasure, mostly in disappointment, squirming on the bed desperately, whimpering under the terrible lavishing torment of his tongue and hands. She shivered, her legs breaking out in goose bumps. "As...as my lord wills." she murmurs, adding, "You want me. You must have a iron will not to be inside me by now..." she teases, noticing the bulge in his silk robes. She giggles and moans as he rubs up her thigh, the motion easing the tension from their days of riding, making her sigh and lay back, whimpering. "That feels...amazing." she murmurs happily.

 

"Yes, I want you very, very much." He bites midway down her thigh, really putting the incisors into it. A soft growl, and he takes his hand from the knee of her leg he is currently treating like a piece of poultry. It moves down to the outside of that same thigh and he gives it a smack. He quite roughly licks the wake of his bite, lavishing particular attention on the teeth-marks. "You have no idea how badly I want to bury this stiff cock of mine in you; of how I want to hear you scream around me as I fill you with every - drop - of - cum - I can muster." Another bite, even harder than before, even further down. The heat from her 'flower' can be felt radiating onto his cheek from here. He notes a faint coppery tang on his tongue, and realizes he has drawn blood. Releasing the teeth, he subjects her broken skin to the most thorough of lickings, lapping up the faint trickle of blood time and time again. "And then I want to do it again. And again. And again. In your cunt. In your mouth. In that needy little ass of yours, just like you were about to get. In your hands. Between your breasts. Your thights. On every inch of your perfect, war-forged body. More. All of it. Every single inch." It's a good thing she can't see the desperate straining in her loins now, as he has crouched down between her legs, his mouth still working down the inside of her thigh...

 

She wriggled for him obligingly, gasping and whimpering as he bit roughly at her thighs, the sharp pain of his teeth contrasting with the warm, soft caresses of his tongue, making her roll her head back and forth in pleasure and pain in equal measure. When he bites hard enough to break the skin, she squeals for him, hand fisting in his hair, as she gasped out, "My lord!" slumping back to the bed, after her back arched in a bow, her body trembling, overwhelmed by his torment. "I want you to..." she whimpered breathily, "I want you to make me yours. Your Hetaera. Please...end this torment, I beg you, I can't take much m-more!" she begged, her voice soft and filled with lust, "I need you...need your touch, need your kisses, need you to please me, to hurt me...I'm drowning..." she whimpers, the words not translating well to his ears. She seems to be murmuring something about the way her body is reacting to him.

 

If she's drowning, he's dying of thirst - no matter how much he swallows his own saliva, he feels desperately parched, his mouth dessicated. Funny how she seems to keep making him feel like that...drawing his mouth back, gritting his teeth, he takes his hand off her other thigh and smacks it hard against the current object of his attentions, just like he has subjected so many other parts of her to his stinging strikes. "Enough," he growls over the grinding of his molars. "This...this is the judgement of your Lord, and absolute!" He draws his hand back from her leg and backhands it down onto her exposed, over-wet loins, the smacking half-deadened from her wetness, and without pausing he brings his hand up again, bringing it around, clapping it down over her folds in sharp rebuke, feeling the folds part beneath the force of the impact. And again he raises his hand, and again, and again, a kind of haze boiling inside his brain, broken fragments of Imperial spilling out of his mouth that he doesn't even recognize with his own ears. Again. Again. Right on that clit of hers. Again. AGAIN. He grasps that swelling at the apex of her 'flower', twisting at it and pulling sharply back, only letting go when its excessive wetness causes it to slip from his hands. And - again. Down comes the palm, the fingers; locked rigid, it is as straight and stern as the flat of any blade. AGAIN.

 

Somewhere around the fourth or fifth strike, she came, screaming loud enough that the damned serving girl could probably hear her anyway. It was nearly deafening, lungs trained to call orders in battle are capable of sounding mighty loud when they want to, and right now, she had no control over it, screaming and writhing and arching her body of the bed, back bent in a complete bow for him, Estallian curses and words of affection babbled through her lips as she lost control. "My lord!" was in there, as was copious thanks. His hearing was not the greatest after that scream, but he could swear he heard 'te amo, the Estallian for that most deep of declarations as she shuddered and soaked his hand as he struck her over and over. When he was finished, so was she, her body trembling, legs limp, body slumped to the bed, panting deep and hard as if she'd run a mile or two at a dead sprint. Her breasts, stomach, legs were all dripping gently with a sheen of sweat, and the bright red marks were beginning to show up on her thighs, especially around the tiny puncture marks where he's bitten hard enough to break the skin. She managed to choke out a plea to the gods in the aftermath of her release, and a murmured "W-wow..." then she was silent, except for her heavy breathing, feathered with little pleased sounds.

 

His entire body is quivering now; when he pulls up his hand to look at it, he sees it shivering violently. Is it his own raging need? The aftershocks of that furious outbreak; the slackening of adrenaline that comes after every desperate exertion? He does not know. He still feels as if in a daze, lost within a cloud of his own overheated thoughts, and stretches out his tongue to lick her wetness off of his palm. A soft . Yes. This. Just so. Delicious. And he feels some of that haze part; he is aware of his own desperate panting. And of hers. He looks down at her, outstretched and perhaps even more out of it than he is; he fights down the urge to cross himself in thanks for the visage before him. "Beautiful," escapes his mouth. In his half-deafened state, he can hear two things: the roaring of his own blood and the sound of her voice. Another lick of his palm, and he lets out a long sigh. He reaches out with just that same stained hand to stroke her face, and then he lightly taps her lips with two fingers. "Clean them. Clean it up," he half-gasps out, his voice oddly exhausted and yet no less ardent for it.

 

Almost sleepily, she obeys, as if she was in a dream, slipping the fingers into her mouth, suckling on them suggestively, and inside the hot cavern of her mouth he can feel her tongue squirming over his fingers, lapping them clean with quick, desperate motions. He couldn't tell if she was blushing or not, so red was her face from the effort of her exertions, but she sucked and cleaned his fingers like her life depended on it, pausing only to murmur "Yes, my lord..." as she did so. Slowly, she pulled back, leaving them licked clean of her juices, lips sealing around him and drawing back with a lewd popping sound. She stared at him, blinking her eyes, trying to clear her thoughts, but all she could feel was the throbbing ache between her legs and the wonderful hurts around her thighs.

 

"What is it about you that just makes me lose control like this...?" he mumbles, half-rhetorically, as he leans in to kiss the supple expanse of her midriff, flicking his tongue against her belly-button. He tastes the sweat of her exertions on him, and mms quietly. A soft bite, and then another lick. He kisses right above her blonde patch, letting out a soft sigh against her. If she can feel the warmth of his breath over her own heat, he does not know. His hand, fresh from her thorough cleaning, feels a delirious combination of numb and all-too-sensitive, as if the riot of sensations from each lick of her tongue and suckle of her lips caused others to shut down entirely. He simply brings it back to her face, to her cheek; a soft stroke, warm and disarmingly tender. Especially considering the violence of its motions mere moments before.

 

"Mmmmh...I don't know, my lord." she murmurs demurely, utterly submissive now after that intense climax, loving the tender strokes across her cheeks while she panted, letting out a soft moan as he breathed out, his breath hitting her sensitive skin, making her squirm softly beneath him. She started to get herself under control, breathing slowing, getting shallower, shaking her head as if to clear it of the haze of lust that had so recently consumed her. Then she whispered, "W-what about you, my lord?" she propped herself up to stare down at him, taking a deep breath as she saw how swollen he was beneath the silks.

 

“I...am nowhere near done." He looks at her, his eyes meeting hers straight-on; his own face is flushed and his much-vaunted braids stick slightly to his face and head. His body still bobs back and forth slightly, his breathing unduly heavy. Despite all this, his gaze is steady, amused, and, most of all, still hungry. He lightly kisses his way down through that patch of soft fur on her crotch, his smooth-shaven chin brushing lightly against the freshly-overstimulated nub of her clit as he does so. He shifts his position around, squaring his kneeling relative to her, and then rubs his thumb over her lips before somewhat-reluctantly bringing his hand back down to himself. "Nowhere near done at all," he breathes against her wetness.

 

"Ahhhh!" she exclaims, whimpering and squirming, clearly very sensitive after her climax. She wriggles and whimpers, "I could perform that...practical test, if my lord wishes..." she murmurs, her voice teasing, sitting up, one leg held loosely over his shoulder, the other spread open for him. She pants and runs her fingers through his hair, caressing him, shuddering pleasantly every time he brushed against her clit, and even when his hot breath hit it, making her coo and whimper for him.

 

"Divine damn you, woman." He musters a growl, feeling his own hardness practically buck in his pants at the suggestion. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales hard - quite conveniently, right onto her folds. "I'm trying to work here, and you...you....rrrrrgh." As if to beat down his own frustration through the application of 'work', he brings a hand up in between her legs, tracing fingertips wispily over the contours of one fold, and then another. Even red and swollen like it is - indeed, perhaps even BECAUSE it is red and swollen like it is - he cannot help but find it absolutely gorgeous, and a tiny part of him almost laments the prospect of defiling it at some point. Almost laments. A tiny part of him. It is soon quelled. Gently, gently move those fingers now, feeling out ridges and dips, never quite slipping into her, and always staying just oh so *slightly* away from her clit.

 

"Would it not please you, my lord?" she asks, her voice low and teasing, "Would it not make you scream for me, would you not care to release into my mouth and feel me drink every last drop of you?" she suggests, boldly, his obvious arousal and this being their third little...misadventure making her more confident, especially after she learnt what he wanted, and to her delight found that she wanted it just as much. She licked her lips for him and crossed her arms over her chest, whimpering as he traced his fingers over her, trying to ignore it, focusing on teasing him. "Must I beg, my lord? I will, if you so command it~" she whispered, "I'm...very willing~" she drew the word out, "to do whatever is required of me, as your hetaera." she chuckled, her voice deep and husky with arousal, pausing only to whimper and squirm when he teased her aching flower, feeling herself stir again already.

 

The growl peters out into a groan, and he decides to distract himself from the enormously tempting propositions coming out of those so very, very soft lips, absolutely perfect for what she suggests, articulated by that so-sweet tongue, begging him to let her taste his - no, no, nononono, no no NO - by replacing the feather-light motions of his fingers with the firmer, smoother motions of his tongue. Gently around the clitoral hood, the outside of the folds, just oh-so-lightly tracing out the edges, never in, never directly touching her most sensitive places, just...tasting. Her taste floods his mouth, overwhelming his senses; he feels almost giddy as he inhales deeply. And yet...DAMN that woman, her offering still worming through the basest part of his brain. He mumbles against her, each movement of his lips felt against her own 'flower'. "Don't...don't say another word. Not one more."

 

"Make me." she shuddered under his tongue, gasping out a soft little moan, "I'd suggest the easiest way would be sliding your cock into my mou-" she started to whisper, her voice teasing and dripping with promise.

 

"You little bitch," he snarls against her. Something inside him breaks - again - and all his self-acclaimed 'iron discipline' crumbles into so much dust. Starting to his feet, practically casting her down onto her back as the rapid rise of his shoulders bucks off her leg, he jerks down his silken garmets and associated undergarments just enough to expose his thick, needy erection, darkened from all the blood swelling up within it. He leans forward over her and grabs her hair roughly with one hand, snaring it by the roots between his clenched fingers, and forcefully drags her head up until his cock, in all of its' over-turgid, twitching glory, is directly at face level with her. "Is this what you want, you filthy cock-lusting tramp? Well, here you go; it's all yours." The disdain dripping from his voice as he says this is perhaps even more directed at himself than it is at her, but no matter how ashamed of his own failing he is, he cannot deny the distinct appeal of this...

 

She looks up at him with all his fury and lust and harsh words, and merely smiles and winks, WINKS at him, murmuring, "Why thank you my lord." Then she softly, slowly began to kiss the swollen, needy head of his cock at first lightly, then with more force, until she slowly slid the head of him into her hot, wet mouth, kissing his member lewdly, like she was kissing him, her tongue writhing over the exposed flesh, over his sensitive head, around the flair that separated head from shaft. She had no experience with this it was clear, but she kept her teeth well away, and her mouth was soft, wet and wonderfully warm around him, and her clumsy motion was mitigated by the way she adapted her technique at kissing to this more lewd act. The long, hard shaft she wrapped her hand around instead, stroking him slowly like she had before. A moments glance downwards showed that the slick feeling around his shaft was her- she had slid her hand between her legs, gathering the juices there to smear and slicken his shaft, letting her stroke him more easily. She kept her eyes, big and intensely blue on his the entire time, never breaking eye contact as she serviced him.

 

Any roiling fury he may have felt at her grave disobedience rapidly melts away as the first kiss is laid upon his glans, and when she finally wraps her lips around the entire thing, he lets out a long moan, louder and more raspy than any she has heard from him. His grip on her hair immediately relaxes, and he cannot help but replace jarring tugs with a gentle rubbing, her hair soft beneath his fingertips. The awareness of her lubrication - and her unbroken blue gaze, so steady and impossibly seductive, coaxes a violent twitch of his length in her hand and mouth. "Mmmmoh...ooh...oh Liri..."

 

She made a pleased sound around his member, glad that he'd finally given in and even more pleased that she seemed not to suck at it...metaphorically speaking. She slid him a little deeper, the use of her mouth giving her a new appreciation for his size, his taste and his shape. She certainly wondered about certain passages in a few romance novels describing this act, and now considered them wildly optimistic- this was not going to go much further, and she had about only half of his heated length in her mouth. Though he seemed to be enjoying that, as she stroked her tongue along the underside of his member, tracing the veins that stood out there, tickling against the rim where head met shaft, and enjoying his groans. She kept up her stroking, marveling as she did so that the skin could be so smooth and delicious, but at the same time, she could feel the hard strength of it beneath the skin, making her shiver. She abandoned her attempt to replicate what she'd read, and pulled back a little to swirl her tongue around his head, tasting the first drop of masculine, tangy scent against her tongue, making her shiver in pleasure.

 

He visibly shudders at the feel of her pleased murr around him, his upper body crunching over slightly. Each new effort of her lips and tongue draws out more sounds from him: a throaty  as she traces the patterns of his veins, or a sharp intake of breath - with attendant twitching of his entire length as his midsection sucks in sharply - when she explores the ridge of his glans. He feels so very, very warm to the touch; palpably warm even in the impossibly slick, sweet furnace of her mouth. He struggles to brace his knees, resisting the urge to simply collapse under the sensations, and his efforts are not helped in the slightest when he feels her lap against his tip in her quest for pre-come. There are so many things he wants to say - instructions to give, harsh demands to issue, promises of further pleasure and pain to be delivered, gentle praise for the delights - but all he can eke out is another long, low groan.

 

She moans around his cock, her eyes fixed on his as she began to bob her head, suckling at him gently, her motions of hand and mouth in time, sliding down over his head and shaft at the same time her slick, deft fingers stroked every inch she couldn't tease with her mouth. Soon she sped up, her motions more urgent, tonguing at his glans, at his shaft, sucking harder, turning her hot, wet mouth into a little vacuum, desperately sucking at him. Her hand stroked faster, her grip firmer. She moved her other hand to gently cup and squeeze at his balls, her motions light and delicate but firm enough to get a response. All in all, she lavished attention on the act, gaining the same trance like concentration that she'd showed in battle, but to a much different purpose. She seemed driven onwards by the noises he made, each groan and grunt making her move faster, her motions sweeter, urging her on.

 

His eyes scrunch shut from the riot of sensation running up and down his tender, trembling length. His mouth is hanging slightly open, and his chest rises and falls deeply with each desperate intake and exhalation of breath. When he opens his eyes again, all he can see is *her* - her blue eyes, her blonde hair, her...perfect lips wrapped hard around him, coaxing him on, demanding more. More and more fluid spills forth from his tip as she picks up the pace, and as she sucks particularly hard, it's almost as if he is swelling yet more within her mouth. His balls are heavy and firm, nearly as warm in her hand as his shaft, and his entire hips buck violently with her first squeeze - violently enough that his glans scrapes against the rear roof of her soft palate, drawing out yet another "nnnngh!" from him. His hand on her head alternates from stroking her cheek, tracing along her jaw, lightly holding it open as she sucks, slipping behind and nudging her to try taking a yet more in...it's as if the hand is acting on each rampant desire flitting through his brain as it comes, and, paralyzed by its own indecision, it finally settles for rubbing and petting her hair, his hand occasionally scrunching up in in response to a particular suckle or trick of the tongue.

 

She gags, very slightly at his thrust, then furrows her brow in annoyance, and concentrates. In a moment she has the extra inch he demands within her mouth's soft caress, her tongue stroking up and down his shaft, swirling around the head firmly on each motion backwards, molding itself to his underside when she slides down, bobbing her head to take him deeper into her mouth. She struggles to go any deeper, bottoming out at around two thirds of his length, enough space to fit her hand around the base of his cock and squeeze teasingly while she sucks at him, her motions fast and urgent, her eager tongue lapping up every drop he spills from his slit as soon as it appears, flicking her tongue over it and making little pleased sounds of enjoyment. Her position like this is utterly submissive, and that is what makes her moan around his length, the way he sits astride her, making her lift her head to suck at him, the way he's only just resisting thrusting and using her mouth, that...gorgeous expression of pleasure on his face, the expression that tells her that it won't be long before he releases. She memorises that face, committing it to memory, knowing that the next time she touches herself it will be foremost among her fantasies. Her skin feels hot to the touch, and she can tell the sheets beneath her hips are stained with sweat and her own juices. She's enjoying this too much, she thinks, such a lewd act, and all for him, yet it brings me more satisfaction that I thought possible. So she moved faster and more urgently still, forcing him towards his climax without mercy.

 

It was a losing war from the beginning. Teased and taunted into this against his better judgement, lured into giving her exactly what she wanted - there was no way he could hold out for long. Then came the sheer ferocity and enthusiasm of her assault and, truly, even any hopes of staging a valiant rear-guard action against this pleasure, drawing this out long enough that he could consider it "a decent acquitting", were nothing more than the vain dreams of a man lost far, far beyond his depth. Every little bit of his cock that she slides further into his mouth seems to multiply the violent sensations rocking him a hundred-fold, and then - oh Patriarch, and then the *moans*, shivering out from the wanton core of her being through his length and right through him, piercing him to his very heart and soul. Her tongue, so fervent and slick and seemingly everywhere against him with every second that passes; her mouth, wet heat and mind-destroying suction, curled around him; the teasing promise of her throat, just oh so slightly beyond his reach; her hands, rubbing and squeezing fiercely against her. The smell of her, sweet and needy, heavy in the air. And those slurps coming out from her with each bob of her head. Those blue eyes of hers, locked right on his. Her. Her. Her. It's all her, everything is her, his entire existence has boiled down to her and, once again, he simply cannot resist *her*.

 

 Every inch of him clenches hard - jaw ground shut, eyes snapped close, musculature seizing up taut, fists bundling up in her hair; even his cock seems to draw back inside her mouth. He jerks her mouth forcefully towards him, more reflex than anything else, and then he thrusts forward so hard with his hips that you can hear the smack of his loins against her face. And then, a sharp exhalation hissing out from between his teeth, he erupts. She can *feel* the spasming of his hardness, and then - fluid, fluid, just gushing out, spurting out violently, his hips bucking with each pump. His balls tangibly swell and then deflate underneath her touch, and still more spills forth, twitching violently against her lips and tongue.

 

She whimpers, then gags as he thrusts himself forward. As his orgasm comes, she felt him pierce her throat like a battering ram, the first gush of his release heading straight down her tight throat. She gagged on him until he slid back slightly, and her tongue lapped at his glans, begging and receiving the rest of his pent up load, pump after pump of it splattering onto her tongue, filling her mouth with sticky, tangy and slightly salty release. Quickly she realises that it is not stopping, and shuts her eyes in concentration, then gulping, forcing herself to swallow. It was not unpleasant to do so, just difficult after the abuse of her mouth and jaw and throat and tongue. She forced her mouth to respond and it did, swallowing down every frantic pump and splatter of his release, her hand stroking him in time to the tensing of his body, her other hand cupping and squeezing his balls firmly, making him give her everything he had. He did, with gusto, and it seemed from her position to go on forever.

 

Finally though, the last drops of him spilled onto her tongue and were quickly swallowed. Slowly, she slid down as far as she could, then pulled back up, writhing her tongue around him, cleaning every inch of his release from his sticky cock, until he was completely clean. She ended the motion with a soft kiss to the tip of his twitching member, and pulled back to give him a brilliant smile, followed by opening her mouth wide and sticking her tongue out in a 'Look Look! I did it!' gesture, all demure submissiveness and willing obedience, showing him her completely clean pink tongue and empty mouth for his inspection.

 

At some point during his violent climax his eyes snapped open again and simply locked on her. He doesn't quite remember, since to him it feels like he has suddenly come to out of the most amazing dream imaginable only to, all-too-vividly, behold the object of amazing dream...swallowing down the last few spasms of his orgasm, the thick stickiness of the initial bursts long having petered out into thin milkiness, spurting desperately in their death-throes. He cannot help but watch, as if in slow motion, as she swallows those last few dregs down, and then proceeds to go in yet again - this time to clean him off. The sensations from this final mop-up are almost agonizing, but it is the sweetest agony he can imagine and, truly, all he can do in response is let out an inchoate moan. When she so proudly demonstrates her absolute completion of this task, he simply stares, reaching out to gently brush the inside of her cheek with a thumb. And then he simply collapses atop her, a puppet whose strings have been cut; sliding down alongside her, he stops only to grab the back of her head and drive that still-open mouth against his own, his tongue sliding in effortlessly. Long and hard he kisses her like that, sucking and slurping at her mouth; finally, his own mouth still hanging open, he drags his tongue out and flops onto his back beside her. "L-Liri," he weakly pants out. "Liri."

 

When all is done, she lay down next to him, curling her arms around his neck and shoulders, letting him kiss her. When they broke off, she stroked his hair, nuzzling into his neck and grinning with pride at the affect that she'd had on him. She'd treasure that moaning, squirming release of his forever. Softly, she murmured to him, "Did I please, my lord?" teasingly, already knowing the answer, but obediently asking him anyway. She shivered at how much she enjoyed acting like this, and silently thanked the gods for introducing them to her, and for letting her meet him. She sighed softly and planted a kiss against his shoulder, utterly content.

 

His head rolls - well, more lolls, really - towards her, his eyes half-lidded and seemingly unable to completely focus. From head to toe; he is still trembling slightly; his hair is matted and sticks closely to his brow and his cheeks. His length is flopped out unceremoniously against his stomach, half-soft. He sighs blissfully, then reaches up to play with her hair lightly. "Y-you shouldn't...shouldn't tilt for compliments like that, Liri. It's vanity, and...hahhhhhh...unbecoming of a knight." A slight smile. "Even a knight...even a knight as shamelessly wanton as you. Even a knight as *perfect* as you." He all-but-sighs "perfect", his eyes dipping down a bit more. "If you persist...I shall have to chastise you accordingly." A pause. "A bit later. Not right now. Just...not right now. Emperor's blood, Liri. That was...I...I can't even think of the word for it. Just...hahhhhhh."

 

She grins at him and plants a soft kiss on his lips. "Shut up and sleep, oh Imperial Master. I shall be here when you wake...my lord." she murmurs, throwing some sheets over them both, kissing him again softly, pulling him close and snuggling up against him naked form with her own. "Chastise me on the morrow, if you so wish." she giggles, placing a soft bite on his shoulder.

 

He smiles at her kisses, and curls into her, running a hand over her supple flank. "You...mmmh...misinterpret. Just give me ten...or fifteen...and...mmmh." He sighs again, nuzzling her hair. "You're so warm, Liri." His eyes dip down, a bit further. "Let's...never leave this bedroom again." And then he slips off to sleep altogether, his hand on her hip and a smile on his face.

 

She grins down at him and kisses his hair softly. "It's worth considering, that is..." she murmurs, and slips slowly off to sleep herself, stroking his hair and holding him to her.

 

***

 

The next morning he wakes up and stretches, feeling absolutely amazing. For the life of him, he absolutely cannot remember having a better night's sleep in all his days. Rolling his neck, he beams a smile...and then just sort of pauses, realizing that he doesn't feel a particular warmth next to him. He doesn't want to admit to himself just how very hollow that makes him feel as he looks around the room, trying to spot the reason for his most excellent sleep (and subsequent disquiet). "Liri?", he quietly calls out. "Liri?"

 

The room is empty of Lirael, her clothes are missing, so is her bag. For a surprisingly painful moment, it looks like she was never here. But he can still smell her, on his skin, and the bed is still warm, where she lay.

 

"Right, she's just probably out for the moment," he mumbles to himself as he stares up at the roof. No, he most certainly does not want to come to terms with that cold feeling of utter dread that crept up his spine when he realized that not just she, but her belongings as well, were all absent. He does not want to deal with it, nor the feelings that it hints at. "Just...out for the moment." It sounds dead even to his own ears; a bad excuse. He shoves himself out of bed and starts throwing on last night's clothes, his mind swirling with thoughts he does not want to contend with. Soon he is shoving his way out the door.

 

The door hits Lirael lightly against the foot as he leaves the room. Her bag is lying ransacked a few feet away. Her dirk lies just out of her hand, not out of reach, but dropped there. She is lying down, sprawled out in the corridor, dressed in her riding clothes; they had planned to depart today, a voice in the back of his head said, quietly, while the rest of him reacted, she must have been going to see to the horses, it continued, as if in a dream. A cup, like the ones last night, lay by her face. A few sticky drops of wine were sinking into the wooden beams. Her face was drawn and pale, and her eyes were closed. She was not breathing, he realised then. She was not breathing, and she was pale. Dimly the logical, calculating part of him smelled the air as he knelt, and said grimly at the sweet, honeyed smell; 'Rhavannon Pale Gold.'

 

Something in all this drives him beyond shock; beyond the desire to scream, to cry, to slam his fist in the wall. The cold rationality of his upbringing and education kicks in, all logic. Pale. Not breathing. He kneels down, checking her pulse quickly; he feels out her temperature, checking her complexion. Going through the motions. He looks over at the cup, sniffs the smell in the air. Yes, he remembers that tale. Illicit lovers; poison. But they both drank the wine, so why not him? Was it just her cup? Cyrus, that little bastard. No, no, more important concerns. Check the pulse. The cheeks, her forehead. Confirm that she is not breathing. Lean in, listen for a heartbeat. Is he too late? He refuses to admit that he could 'be too late'. Gears spinning in his head, the world seems to flit by in monochrome.

 

She's still warm, there's that at least. Her pulse is there, weak as a kitten, a faint throbbing buzz, but just there, faintly. Her complexion is pale, so pale she looks like a corpse already. The bag draws his attention for a moment; nothing in it but food, a waterskin that has burst against one wall...like it was thrown. The poisoner must have been angry. Did he think she was carrying my bag? It had been turned inside out and the papers she had in it were crumpled up by it. Turning back to her, he finds her heartbeat, as feeble as her pulse, and irregular, thready. In the back of his mind, suspects keep flashing up; a servant would be most likely, someone unseen, unheard, a gift for the happy couple he thought angrily, Cyrus? Cyrus didn't seem like a poisoner. If he was jealous he'd have upstaged him or... his mind kept pursuing three or four chains of logic at once.

 

Still a pulse; still a heartbeat. The bag ransacked. Servant? Somebody else? Assailant? Can't write off Cyrus; can't write off ANYONE. But first things first. He reaches up to his hair, his intricate braids, and begins undoing one. He slides the silver band entwined in it off, brings it to his eye level; confirms it is the one he thinks. Yes, right there, that filigree work reminiscent of a Capitoline aqueduct. He slides his finger around the underside of the band, finds the catch; he pushes it to the side and then down. Off pops a panel from the band and, within, a small glass ampoule. Without hesitating he shakes it out into his hand, picks up the bead, holds it up to his mouth, and cracks it open, pouring the miniscule liquid contained within into his mouth. Clamping his mouth shut and suppressing his urge to swallow, he reaches out to wrench Liri's mouth open - no time to be gentle - and puts his own mouth over hers, spitting out the contents of that capsule into her mouth. He pulls back and snaps her jaw back shut, then begins rubbing both sides of her throats. That one may not cure it, but it should certainly slow it down - anything that little alchemist's trick *doesn't* slow probably won't be slowed, period. He does not want to think about that possibility.

 

She didn't move, but when he checked her pulse again, it throbbed under his fingers once, then again, stiffening slightly, firming up into a vague approximation of an actual heartbeat. She was still not breathing though, and her lips on his were cold and lifeless. Then he noticed the veins under his fingers, the ones in her neck, were turning black, like someone was flowing ink through her veins in place of blood. That sparked a memory, somewhere deep in his mind, some long remembered lesson on the various poisons common in different nations. This...this was one of their favourites. Estallians rarely used poison, they claimed, but they did, and when they did, it was this one. Gods damn it what was it called?

 

He snatches up the cup and sniffs the rim, focusing beyond the rich boquet of the wine...just the tiniest of licks, like the poison-tastings his father used to make him suffer through. He hated how he would spend days retching after those, but right now, it may be the only thing between him and...and...no. No no no no. Black veins. Fast-acting; had to be within the last few minutes. Slowed but not stopped by the antitoxin. Estallian. Damnable Estallian poison, almost never happens, practically a side-mention in amongst the entire Imperial apothecary's cabinet, considered too ham-fisted for any decent Imperial court poisoning...nightfire. That was it. Blossoms only at night; "fire" for how quickly it spread. Relative of the broad-leafed Emperor's Apology. Right right right. He bolts back into the room; grabs a cup and a half-finished bottle of wine. Out to the hallway again. Off comes the left earring, and that, too, is popped open with a quick shuffle of the clasps. He pours out the reddish powder into the cup, then quickly follows with a pull of wine. The acidity of the wine, combined with the aspis root, should be an adequate approximation...he forces her mouth open and slowly pours the mixture into her mouth, his other hand rubbing her throat to induce swallowing.

 

She doesn't react like a maiden in one of those romance books she's so fond of; after sixty frantic seconds which go by like sixty years, she turns to her side and throws up black tar over his knees. Charming. She retches and splutters and most wonderful of all; breathes. Big, deep, full breaths, choking with sobs and shudders and retching, but breathing all the same. She gasps a few times and looks up at him, her eyes blurry and blue, but red around the outside as she coughs and shudders in pain; nightfire was quick but the 'fire' was not just for how it spread, he suddenly remembered. It burnt like fire too, quickly burning through lungs and veins and nerves, killing you in agony. The Estallians used it as a revenge against Imperials accused of warcrimes during a scandal last year- when the Imperial government refused to hand them over during the peace talks, they were found dead of nightfire poisoning, an end that well befit them, the Estallians claimed, while utterly denying having been involved. Nonetheless, she was getting her breathing under control; now it was raspy and urgent, but no longer so wracked with sobs or coughing, and the retching had stopped. He'd never smelled nightfire induced vomit before, and hoped he never would again. These clothes will have to be burnt.

 

He rolls her onto her stomach, away from the puddles of vomit, and rubs her back firmly. "Get it all out. Don't leave anything in there. Come on, come on." A broad smile of relief crosses his face as he pours another cup of wine, then pulls her somewhat upright, propped up against the wall. He holds the cup to her lips, gently nudging them apart. "Come on, drink this. It's going to taste terrible, but you need to. A little alcohol activates the nightfire, but too much upsets it. Considered perfect for Imperial nobility, considering they usually drink their wine watered-down. Shhhhhh, it's going to be okay. Come on, come on." Still he rubs her back, feeling utter relief wash over him despite the continued severity of the situation.

 

By the end of it, she drank two more cups of wine, and vomited once more, before collapsing back in a sweating, panting mess against the wall, her face pale, even her cheeks, so often red. But she gave him the weakest of smiles, and croaked out. "I...seem to have failed you...m'lord." she lay back and shut her eyes, and it was clear from the look of sorrow on her face, that she thought she was dying. "Redouane..." she croaked, "Te amo! Te amo m s que el aire. Te amo m s que la tierra y el cielo y la luz solar!" she croaked out, forcing the words from her throat, coughing a glob of blood. "I'm so sorry...so sorry." she spat again, tears falling from her eyes. It was heart rending. Even more so considering she was going to be fine. He cursed himself internally, she had no knowledge of poisons, and she could hardly understand him after such a horrendous shock.

 

He shakes his head. "Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. Just relax." He reaches up to wipe away her tears, and he pulls her along the wall again, away from the vomit and hacked-up blood. He kneels in front of her, looking her straight in the eyes. "Liri. Lirael. Just focus on me right now, alright? You're going to be fine. If it's anything like I think, you probably feel like every single nerve in your body was just crucified with red-hot irons, but you're going. To be. Fine. Come on, more wine." He just holds the bottle up to her at this point, although there's probably not more than a few mouthfuls left in the bottle. He smiles slightly, attempting some levity. "Probably the only occasion I am going to be telling you to drink *more*. It'll help water down the last of the nightfire. Shhhhh, don't worry about that right now, Liri. Just drink the wine. You're going to be fine."

 

"It hurts..." she moaned weakly, drinking as he instructed her, face gaining a little colour as she did so, and her coughing up blood stopped. Eventually, she collapsed, the last of the wine dribbling from the corner of her mouth, the container dropping to the floor. She took deep, slow breaths, her pulse strong and even under his fingers. "G-gods..." she murmured, "H-hurts. W-would have hurt you. T-two..." she coughed once, "T-two cups..." she finished grimly.

 

He pulls one of her arms across his shoulders and then wraps one of his own arms around her midsection, and then slowly pulls her up - with some difficulty, considering that the slackness in her body is making much of her dead weight. "I'll get you back into the room and then you can tell me all about it. Right, work with me here. Up, up. I know it hurts, but I know you of all people can work through that." A slight chuckle, as out-of-place as the allusion, considering the circumstances. "Any numbness of extremities? Fingers, toes? Try wiggling all of them."

 

She did as he said, struggling to rise, one arm slung loosely about his shoulders. She was about fifty percent dead weight, better than he'd expected, and when she wiggled her fingers and toes and reported them all in working order, he could breathe a sigh of release. She collapsed onto the bed, tugging her clothes off as she went, throwing the disgusting wrecks aside and dropping to the bed in her undertunic and underwear, groaning in pain as she lay on her side. Then she turned to him and he saw that she had her dirk clutched in one fist. "L-lock the door. Wedge it shut...t-tried to kill you." she murmured, her voice low and angry and hoarse.

 

He does as she says, closing the door, throwing shut the latches, and finally wedging a chair under the knob. He detours over to draw a pitcher of water and collect a small cloth, then returns to the bed and her side. He dampens the towel and begins wiping her forehead down of the cold, sticky sweat that had gathered on it. "Don't push yourself. You're going to feel weak as a whelp for a few hours; maybe a day or two. That's as much due to the aspis root as it is the nightfire, but...I think we can both agree that alive and hobbled is better than dead and buried?" He pulls up a stool to beside the bed and settles down on it, smiling at her. "Tell me what you can. What happened?"

 

"S-servant. D-din't reconise him." she mumbled, her voice barely audible. "W-wine. Gift from Cyrus he said. T-two cups..." she murmured, her voice growing stronger, until she tried to sit up, hoarsely growling, dagger in hand, "T-two! Cups!" she growled, "M-meant for you! Kill him. I'll kill him, I swear it. Lo matar, deja los dioses son testigos de este juramento!" she roared, swearing what sounded like a bloody oath of vengeance against the poisoner until weakness made her fall back to the bed. "I n-nearly didn't drink it. W-was gonna do it together, like he said. But I just woke up...was thirsty. Took a sip, saw his face go pale. Then it burned." she stops talking in coherent sentences then, just repeated that phrase, "It burned." like a mantra, her voice half crazed with fear and remembered agony.

 

Laying the towel down on her brow, he gently places his finger over her still-pale lips, making a gentle "shhhh" sound. "Yes, it'll do that. But you're going to be fine once you recover. I was worried that there may have been some permanent damage to your nerves and meridians, but seeing as you can still feel your hands, we don't need to worry. Focus on me, Liri. Focus on my voice. You're safe from the burning. Come on. Just focus on my voice." He rings out the towel and re-dampens it, beginning to apply the cool, refreshing water to her still-blazing skin. "The servant...what did he look like? Do you remember, Liri?"

 

"D-dark hair...green eyes. Little s-stupid beard." she muttered bitterly, clearly weak as a kitten. "W-when it burned..." she shuddered and paused for a long moment, mastering herself, "W-when I fell, he grabbed my bag and w-went through it. then I heard him swearing and throwing stuff. Then someone called up and he ran away..." she murmured quietly. "He s-said, he said...what did he say..." she raised her right hand to him, trembling softly, and waved it about, begging for his hand. "He said...Damn you, this wasn't belonging to him." she murmurs, in terrible Imperial, mimicking the dialect she heard, the distinctive sound of it familiar to him immediately. "B-but his Estallian was good..." she finished, panting softly.

 

He clasps her outstretched hand between his, entwining their fingers. Divine Father, but did her hand still feel cold. Swallowing slightly to stave off the thoughts such a realization stirred in the back of his head, he smiled down at her, then nodded slightly. "Dark hair, green eyes. Stupid beard," he repeats with a faint smile. "Spoke Imperial? Just like that? All soft and sibilant; no hard velar stop? You're sure, Liri?"

 

"Y-yeah...like that." she smiled up at him, and then frowned at him. "Hold my hand, you jerk!" she told him, swaying her hand back and forth in his.

 

Every last drop of colour leaves his face, and even those red, pouty lips of his suddenly seem ashen. He squeezes her hand a bit harder. "L...Liri. Liri." He squeezes her hand again. "You feel that, right Liri?"

 

"Feel what?" she murmured sleepily, then she blinked and looked down from his face to her hand, "Why are you so pale....you're holding my hand." she said, her voice suddenly flat, and very small. "Y-you're holding my hand." she shook her head and stared at it. "C-can't feel that." her voice rose in pitch a little, with an edge of panic on it. "Can't feel my hand..." she repeated, panic now spreading through her voice. "W-what does that mean?" she looked back up at him, and her face was a picture of crumbling hope.

 

"Liri. Calm down. Calm. Down." He seems to be saying it as much to himself as to her. Still squeezing her hand desperately, he closes his eyes, and inhales sharply. His face is still colourless, but his eyes are hard; something inside him has switched. "Gwannon leaf. Natron. One handful chalk, ground fine. Three dashes gold dissolved in aqua regia. Vervain. St. Kospis' Root. Mix in paste, apply to affected area. Gwannon leaf, natron, one handful chalk...Liri. Listen to me, Liri. Tell me when you feel anything." He rapidly taps his way up the arm of her afflicted hand, and then goes over to the other; first a squeeze of her digits, and then the same taps. Down to her feet - rub the toes, squeeze softly, tap up the arch of the foot and then the shin and beyond. His mouth is constantly moving as he does this, muttering to himself under his breath. "...vervain, St. Kospis' Root..."

 

"C-can feel my wrist and a bit of my palm, t-the bridge." she murmured, breathing hard, trying to keep herself from panicking. "F-feet and legs are fine." she said, her voice clearer. "C-can feel most of my left hand too. Fingertips feel a little numb, b-but it might just be the aftereffects." she guessed, then she started repeating the formula he was saying, whispering it under her breath, clearly something he was trying to remember, so she tried to help him out, committing it to memory. It helped to sooth the panic in her chest too, giving her a task to concentrate on instead of the growing fear in her chest. Poison was a foe she did not know how to fight, and one against which she felt utterly helpless. Lirael was not a woman used to ever feeling helpless.

 

He looks visibly relieved at her responses, although his eyes are still as sharp as any steel. "It's minor. I should be able to do something about. If I can get the right materials." He reaches up to rub his forehead, racking his brain. He only carried a few 'essentials' on his person - antitoxins for the most common poisons; a handful of his own 'options'. As much as he may have wished it more than anything else in the world right then, he was not a walking apothecarion. "This is what I'm going to do Liri. Are you listening? I am going to find gwannon leaf, natron, one handful chalk ground fine, three dashes gold dissolved in aqua regia, vervain, and St. Kospis' root. I am going to mix it into a paste, and I am going to apply it to the affected areas. Then I am going to find the man that did this. I am going to kill him. Then I am going to petition the Emperor to burn the city of Symprotevusa to the ground and put every last resident in it to the sword. Repeat all that back to me, Liri."

 

"G-gonna get gwannon leaf, natron, fine ground chalk handful, three dashes of gold in aqua regia, vervain and St Kospis root." she repeated slowly, her voice slurred with exhaustion. "Then mix it up and paste it on stuff." she murmured, "And then kill someone and burn things...sounds good." she sighed and rolled onto her side, whimpering. "Tired..." she whispered.

 

He reaches out to stroke her head softly, letting out a soft sigh. "It's okay, Liri. You did well. You understand? You did well. You didn't do anything wrong. So shhh, sleep right now. I may not be back when you wake up, okay? Please don't worry if I'm not." He smiles down at her, tracing her cheekbones with the tip of his thumb.

 

"Mmmkay..." she murmured sleepily, turning her face to kiss his fingertips softly, "Te amo." she whispered, and like that, she was asleep, even beginning to snore softly, her breathing steadying out into the relaxed, deep breaths of dreamless sleep, her body relaxing, the panic and pain from her face melting away into something beautiful and innocent, despite her plain-ish face.

 

***

 

As the day's light starts bleeding towards sunset, he quietly nudges the door to the room open again, glancing around as he does. Slung over his shoulder is a satchel, and on his belt, his short-bladed sword. "Liri, you awake?", he asks quietly, slipping into the room and closing it behind him. "I'm back."

 

A knife clatters into the floor near his feet hilt first and skitters into the corner. Sleepily a voice calls out, "Sorry! I thought y-you were bad people!" cries a rather drunken sounding Lirael. "H-hey Red!" she mumbles, staggering off the bed to embrace him firmly, nuzzling into him like a cat greeting its owner. "Missed you." she whispered sleepily. It was around then that he realised she was completely naked. "Did you get...natron leaf, st gwannon's root, three dashes of chalk dissolved in gold and a handful of aqua regia?" she asked, her voice slightly slurred.

 

He chuckles softly, kissing her right over the heart. "Somebody's been having fun while I was out. Perhaps maybe more than she should have been, you naughty girl." He can't repress the urge to reach around and give her a light, playful smack on her rear. "Go sit down on the bed and I'll tell you what I did while I was out, shall I?" He nudges her towards the bed, then slips out of her embrace and heads towards one of the side-tables, replete with a small selection of bowls and cups. "I hope when Cyrus checked up on you, you weren't in this state."

 

"Cyrus checked up on me?" she asked, eyebrow raised, but she obediently went and sat down on the bed. As she turned, he saw his handywork of the last few days; her thighs were littered with bite marks and her inner thighs and flower were red with where he'd slapped. Her bottom though, was a patchwork of red marks and some deep red bruises. There were even a few marks from his fingernails down her back. She didn't seem to care though. She sat primly on the bed, kicking her feet and smiling at him girlishly. "So...what did you do? Where did you go?" she asked, trying to rest her head on her hands. She missed, her right hand going sideways and missing her face. "F-fuck." she cursed, surprisingly. "It's getting worse."

 

"I told him to, yes. Apparently he tried to stop our little poisoner as he bolted from this place as fast as he could. Got a nice blow to the head to show for it, too. Between you punching me, him getting struck down by your assailant, and you...well, the aftermath of our little antics looking less like love-bites and more like a man half-battered to death on the battlefield, we're a merry little band of walking wounded. He was quite indignant when I told him about what happened to you. To put it mildly." He sets down the satchel on the side table, hearing it thunk heavily as it does. "But he was able to point me in the direction that our good friend rode off. Rode him down." Undoing his belt, he slides the scabbard off of it. "Killed him." He drops the sword on the table. It, too, thuds against the surface heavily. He flips open the satchel, and begins pulling things out of it, one at a time.

 

"If this works, by the way, you owe most of it to Cyrus. He had the gwannon root and the natron on hand, in fact. Household remedy and baker's good, respectively. Then he pointed me in the direction of a healer a few hours' ride away, and she had the aqua regia and vervain. Couldn't find the St. Kospis' root, but this tutsan leaf should be an acceptable alternative. Surprisingly plentiful on the hillsides." He pulls a small bundle of waxy green leaves and bright yellow flowers out of the pack at last, setting them down beside all the other items he had listed off. "Sent a message off to the Imperial Household formally petitioning for the burning of Symprotevusa and the summary execution of its every inhabitant. I doubt I will get that one, but at least I tried." He glances back at her as he collects a bowl. "I know it's difficult, but try not to use that hand for the moment. Is it just the right hand? Is the left hand fine? Your feet still alright?"

 

She listened intently to him, head cocked and then nodded. "My feet are fine. My left hand is okay...Well..." she held it up and showed him the rough bandage on two fingers, "I checked my injuries, turns out I cracked my ring finger when I fell. Must have landed on it wrong. But it's tied up and I can certainly bloody feel that." she winced, then waved her right hand at him, "I can't feel this. At all." she frowned, her face going drawn and sad, "And there's not much feeling in the pulse point either, she murmured quietly and sank a nail into her wrist, without reaction. "See?" she sighed. "Why are you petitioning to burn this place?" she asked, her tone curious. She just nodded when he told her that the man was dead. "And...thank you. For that." she nodded to the sword sitting on the table. "Tell me he wasn't your first." she murmured, eyes pleading.

 

"No, not the first time. He had hobbled his horse in his speed to escape; hadn't noticed that one of the horseshoes was loose." He puts the gwannon, tutsan, and vervain leaves into a bowl, followed by the natron powder. He uncorks a small flask of distinctly orange fluid and pours it in, then walks over the abandoned knife that had bounced into a corner after being dropped. He picks it up and returns to his mixture bowl, using its pommel as an impromptu pestle as he begins grinding the entire mixture together. Even from the bed, it smells...sharp and earthy and not-entirely-pleasant. "Stabbed him from behind while he was trying to get off the road. He was dead by the time I could dismount, which is more than he deserves. As for the city, my dear Liri, that accent you recollected to me - all soft and snakelike - is the distinctive mark of the city of Symprotevusa. They consider it a sign of their polish and refinement: 'There are no sharp edges in Symprotevusa, not even in their speech." The rest of us just say "There's nothing hard in Symprotevusa.'”

 

She nodded and lay there unhappily, sighing and murmuring, "I'm not sure if I'm happy or not that he wasn't the first man you've killed." she said, her voice low and sad. "But he needed to die." she said flatly, "And you did the right thing. But I think burning the city is just a little over the top, cielito." she murmured, with an edge of bone weary humour. "Is that going to fix my hand?" she asked tiredly.

 

He exhales softly, his shoulders sagging slightly as he continues grinding away. "It...should. If we're lucky, the nerves should re-knit within several days. If...we're not so lucky..." He puts the knife down and turns back to Liri. His voice is tired, a little defeated. "If we're not so lucky...you may never get full sensation back. It could be anywhere from mostly-normal with the occasional numbness, to only partial feeling. Depends on how badly your meridians were burnt out. So we've just got to hope that we're lucky. I...I'm sorry Liri, but it's the best I can do." He turns back to his impromptu mortar, the sound of thick sloshing the only sound coming from his area of the room.

 

She crumpled then. She put on a brave little smile and nodded at him, but he could see it in her eyes. Hope fled and she accepted the loss then and there, convinced that she'd never feel it again and that her career as a swordsman was over. Then she sighed and ran her left hand through her hair. "Hopeful, huh." she said, her voice bitter with regret. "I'll take what I can get, I suppose." she murmured, cursing softly.

 

"Considering the timeframe, the odds for at least a majority recovery are above-average, at least. Come on, no giving up just yet. The brave swordmaiden I am hopelessly ensorcelled by does not give up so easily." He looks back over his shoulder, smiling softly. "How else are you going to touch and stroke me otherwise? Have a little faith. I'm rather fond of your right hand, and I'm not going to let it go without a fight." He rummages through some of his bags and pulls out one of his linen shirts. Using the knife, he cuts it into strips, which he then takes back over to the mixture. He uses the dagger's edge to scrape the rather pungent-smelling paste onto the white cloth, and then he sets it down. He drapes the thus-treated bandages over his forearm, then picks up the bowl and walks towards the bed. "Alright Liri, come on. Give me that hand of yours. Arm out."

 

She obeyed as best she could, holding the arm out in front of her. Then she put her finger at her elbow and slid it forward, nail digging in. She stopped six inches below her hand. "Here. I can't feel here." she murmured, and he was why she was concerned; that was a third of her forearm and the entire hand. "I'm fond of you too. Not to mention ensorcelled." she whispered, blushing at the compliment. "Fine. I will be brave then, for you, cielito." she murmured, that odd lilting old Estallian word tagged on again. It sounded suspiciously like a pet-name.

 

He begins daubing the paste onto her forearm and wrist, starting at the point of her nail. It is a rather ugly shade of brown; the consistency, thick and viscous. The few bits he accidentally rubs above her numbness cause her skin to tingle and faintly itch. He then wraps several bandages around the forearm, covering the areas thus anointed. He then moves on to her hand, her lovely hand. He smiles slightly as he rubs the substance into her palm and between her fingers; he lingers slightly as he slides it up her fingers. He thinks back on all the happiness that her right hand has brought him in their brief time together, and leans in to kiss one yet-unsmeared fingertip. When he has finally covered her entire hand and all her fingers, he begins bandaging that up as well; he binds the fingers tight together, setting them straight before he cinches them in. He smiles up at her a bit. "It's like any other broken thing - if you can straighten it first, it's more likely to heal well." After around twenty minutes of this, he is finally done covering her hand in the bandages, which have rapidly taken on a muddied tone from the paste. "I know the smell is bad, and it's going to be awkward for a few days. But please bear with it, Liri," he sighs while rubbing his forehead with the back of a hand. "Now let me go get this stuff off my hands...eugh."

 

She nodded, waiting patiently while he bound up her hand, humming something lyrical and Estallian, occasionally half singing a few snatches of song. She was bored for a while, given that having your arm bound up is not much fun, and even less fun when you couldn't tell if they were doing it except if you looked. When he lent in to look at the bandage, making sure it was straight, she lent in and intercepted him with a long, lingering kiss, nibbling at his lip. She tasted of wine and her usual delicious taste, and she only let him continue bandaging her arm after a dozen little kisses. "Well, it'll either heal or it won't. If...if it doesn't..." she began, then she paused for a long time, and he thought she might have dozed off, but eventually she murmured, "If I lose the use of this hand, I quit. I swear if it doesn't heal at all, you can damn well take me as your Hetaera and bring me home with you until you're sick of me." she smiled weakly at him. "And if it does heal, I will remain here, for now, and be your faithful companion, my lord."

 

"I've more than half a mind to take you with me even if it does heal, you know. Stop making the better offer for the worse development." His smile is a little subdued, but playful. Then he leans in to return her earlier barrage of kisses, snatching a handful of little nips and nibbles from her lips. He nods slightly down at her arm. "If it starts itching, I'm sure you can figure out that that's a good sign. Now come on, let me go wash my hands. It makes them feel like they're buzzing. I'll come back and kiss you as much as you want once I'm done."

 

Lirael kissed him sleepily and let him go, murmuring, "Wanna go with you, but I made...oath.." she whispered, yawning. "I'll look out for..itching.." she murmured. By the time he returned, she was asleep, candlelight gleaming off her naked body, facing away from him. Her skin was golden in the warm soft light that filled the room, and it flickered off her bruises and scratches that decorated every lean curve of her toned form. She hadn't even had time to grab any blankets, she'd just sunk into the exhausted sleep of the very weak and weary. She shivered slightly and nuzzled into the pillow, murmuring a sleepy complaint in Estallian, and began to snore softly.

 

He shakes his head slightly, a soft smile flickering across his face as he looks down at her. Then his eyes close and his expression fades to dull, leaden slackness. He is worried for her. He feels it in the pit of his gut, writhing and thrashing like a lethal poison all his own. He is so worried for her that he doesn't even know how to express it - no, he thinks, he shouldn't express it at all, even if he knew how to. For all his teasing words to her - to all the truth behind them - he still refuses to stare the simple, underlying conclusion they all point towards right in the face. The fact that all this happened to her because of *him* makes him clench his fists so tight that he is clawing furrows in the flesh of his own palms, but the pain serves as a cynosure for his thoughts. He breathes deeply, opening his eyes again. She's going to be fine. This is going to be fine. They are going to be fine. He pulls off his clothing, one piece at a time, and then pulls the sheets over her before sliding into bed beside her. He curls up against her back and tightly wraps an arm around her. Even if it wakes her up now, he wants to make sure that she won't be gone when he comes to in the morning. Some indeterminate point later, his mind awhirl with worries, he slips into a fitful, restless fugue.

 

There is no worry on her face as he slips into the bed beside her; her face is slack and peaceful in dreamless slumber, her cheeks slightly pink, her body curled around her bandaged arm. Her breathing is slow and steady and she makes a soft little contented noise in her throat as he slides in beside her, and her left arm cuddles his as it slips around her, forcing him to snuggle up against her. It seems she has no intention of being gone when he wakes up either. Then she goes back to snoring softly, mumbling something sleepily and drifting off.