Heirot

Tenara watched him pace, and while he did her eyes grew heavier, as if he were a pendulum lulling her to sleep. Her kingly father called them power naps—quiet literally. Whenever he used his magic a great deal, he needed sleep to recharge himself, and it seemed that she was similar. She would feel better when she'd slept. They both would. They could figure it out in morning, couldn't they?

"Sleep," Tenara murmured as she sank down into the bed, resting her head. "We should get some sleep." She almost fell asleep, but noticing there was nowhere for him to rest, she took the pillow next to hers and wedged it at her back and patted the blank space on the other side. "Come. Sleep. Please."

He paused mid-pace and frowned at the place she'd prepared for him. It was a strange relief to be trusted so readily after the chaos of the rest of that day, but he couldn't imagine sleeping. "Tenara... perhaps we should figure out what results when we are separated. It could..." He broke off, feeling strangely compelled to lie beside despite his concerns. Something seemed off about that, but after such a bizarre day, there could hardly be any such thing as a normal reaction anyway.

His voice was heavy and garbled in her ears. "Just sleep," she said, exhaustion edging her voice with irritation. She wanted so badly to sleep, and then, a second later, she did. She didn't think about the fact their cottage had no door, that monster or man could walk inside. Tenara only wanted the heaviness of slumber, and it stole her away with ease.

The cottage was very still and quiet with the girl suddenly asleep. Havitharon walked to the bed and lay on top of the sheets beside her, and only then did his restlessness ebb, as if a tilted painting had been put right. He looked out at the open door, thinking about how he should stay up to guard it. He thought about how he should research what was happening to him, and how it would affect the girl. He thought about the scratchy ache of his wet clothes against his angry skin.

He thought, and thought, until the thoughts turned to dreams.

As his consciousness left him, his form vanished into a flurry of sparks. The sword lay in his place on the blankets, unsheathed and utterly still. The night and day spent bathed in rain and blood had left a thin grime of oxidation along the metal blade, almost too small to see. Tiny scratches and scuffs showed the wear from Tenara's long duel with Sinead's swordmaster. It was a good blade, and had not dented easily, but it was nonetheless in want of a good buffing.

Tenara was too tired to dream, so she slept deeply and soundly and was pulled awake by the light pouring through the open door and windows. She groaned at it, slowly rising and peering around the unfamiliar room until her gaze swept the bed and...

Gone.

Havitharon was gone. Lying on the bed was the sword, but he... was gone. She rose from the bed and went to the porch, peeking outside. Sunlight bathed the overgrown vegetable garden and the fruit trees lining the side of it, the unkept grass, and broken chicken coup. "Havitharon?"

Birds chirped, but there was no sign of him. She called his name louder, and, still, he didn't reply.

Tenara went back into the house and to the sword, lifting it up and admiring the blade before her gaze scanned the cottage and doorway. The fog of sleep began to clear and she understood. He wasn’t gone. He was just a sword again. A very dirty sword.

She placed the sword on the kitchen table and went to the half-barrel used to hold water pumped from a well. She took a rag draped over the edge and pumped water onto it, returning to the sword and pulling it into her lap. It would be easier to clean the weapon when he wasn't staring at her. There was something odd about scrubbing the sword and knowing it was essentially giving Havitharon a wipe-down. She almost snorted.

I hope you slept well last night, she said to the sword, scrubbing the mud and grime from the blade until the spot she worked on began to shine. It took several minutes, and she was thorough with it. It was the least she could do. He had saved her, even though he didn't like her and didn't trust her and didn't know her—not really. Perhaps she should change that. Our situations—where we come from—are so different and, yet, we’re likely more similar than we realized. You are a rarity on your world, and I’m the first female heir born to my father’s kingdom in four-thousand years… She scrubbed hard where the blade met the hilt. Lots of females want you to put a baby in them and lots of males would love to put one in me… It sounded stupid, but it was true, because monarchies were idiotic and simple.

She turned her attention to the crevices around the jewels and ornamental designs on the hilt, picking at it to dislodge the particles of grit.Tenara lost track of time while cleaning the blade, thinking of the day before and Rami and what might have driven him to do what he did. Ultimately, she already knew. She just didn't want to admit it. She needed too, though. She needed to say it, to acknowledge it and move on so it wasn't a cloud in her mind blotting out everything else. So she could forget him… as best she could.

Five years ago, my friend Amor dragged me to the Indigo House because they were throwing a lavish Morro Day party—a masquerade. She thought it would be easier for me to hide who I was. I met Rami at the party. He was handsome, a little older than me, and we danced for hours before he led me up to his room. Tenara set the sword down and went to the pantry, taking olive oil from a decanter and pouring it onto the rag. She was certain it was not the correct oil, but it was a lightweight one. It would do. She went back to the blade, dragged it into her lap, and began to oil the steel and hilt to protect against rust. She continued her story. I’d never been with a man before. I had been… flirtatious. I had kissed them… but no one ever went further than touching me—too afraid that either my kingly father would behead them or my vampiric father would eat them. I have three—fathers that is—but that’s a story for another day. Anyway, when he knocked my wig off while removing my mask, and realized who I was, I expected him to send the Princess of Hajara back to the palace where she belonged. He didn’t. She swallowed, glancing away from the sword as if she were avoiding his gaze. The next morning, as I was sneaking out to go back home before anyone noticed, he told me to not see any other men from the Indigo House. He said none of them would understand my delicate situation. They would either try to put a child in me or… sell me to someone who would—a noble or king somewhere who wanted to force their way on Hajara’s throne someday. I thought he was protecting me. I found it endearing. Now, I understand what it was. Rami believed what most people foolishly believe—that if they can just get a child in me, my parents will be forced to accept the black stain. That my fathers wouldn’t kill or turn away the unworthy man the princess chose if she was ruined with an illegitimate child—not that my parents would, but they are, I guess, terrifying. It makes so much sense now—why he didn’t want me to visit other men in the House. I guess he tired of waiting on me to make a mistake… or thought I was barren. He must have sold me to Arken thinking their prince wanted me for the same thing, and that he would be long gone by the time they realized he’d sold them a barren womb.

She paused her polishing, tracing the edge of the blade with her finger. I did make a mistake, though. A year or so after we met, I thought I was pregnant. I ended it with a tea… She thought of Elias, and the same tea he’d given her to wash away the consequences of her captivity. I never told him, and the mistake never happened again. He was a whore by trade, but we were lovers. We went on dates. We wrote letters back and forth and he gave me poetry. Songs. I wanted to tell my parents about him, and he didn't. I wanted him to leave the Indigo House, and he didn't. I wanted him, and he wanted... I thought he loved me, in his way. I thought, maybe, I might have loved him. Neither one of us ever said it. Now, the thought is like ash in my mouth, and when I think of him, I do not feel sadness or the loss of love. My heart doesn’t feel broken. I don’t mourn his absence. All I feel is rage. Rage at having been foolish enough to care for him at all… to trust that fully.

Then it dawned on her, as clear and bright as the risen sun outside, why Havitharon might never trust her. She didn't blame him. Didn't mind. She would be kind to him, and treat him well, even if he never did.

All clean, she said, tracing a feather light touch back and forth over the steel. Now, would you like to be sword or a man?

Was it a dream? Or some kind of illusion?

The voice reached him in the silent space where he'd been waiting... or sleeping. Or dying. She told him her terrible story, with all its pain and loss, so gently. It was hard to separate the awfulness of her words from the soft, soothing pressure that filled him as she spoke. He found himself remembering a long-lost version of himself, sitting completely naked and unguarded in the bath. His child's mind sought no defense for his nakedness, gave no heed to what would happen when he left the bath chamber. Just the comfort of the bath and his nursemaid running a washcloth up and down his arms and back. Completely vulnerable. Completely dependent. It was his only clear memory of Safety.

Why this memory, all while listening to such a terrible story? Perhaps he was dead.

"All clean, spoke the woman washing him. "Now, would you like to be sword or man?"

The sword...

It was ending. The dream was crumbling. He tried to lean into the washcloth, to be one with the bath. He didn't want his rage or confusion back. He rolled the words over in his mouth for what felt like minutes, gradually feeling more and more alert. He was still barely aware of his surroundings as the owner of that voice came back to him. He thought, *Tenara?*

Tenara frowned at the sword. He sounded strained. Confused. He would feel better when he was humanoid, when he had eyes and could see.

Hold tight, she said, and took the sword to the bed. She thought about going outside, away from the home in case anything went wrong, but she just cleaned him and wanted the sword far away from mud. She could do this. She could maintain control.

She wouldn’t think of the man who’s bones she’d crumpled like paper in Sinead’s castle. She wouldn’t think of Rami. She would think of other things. She would maintain control.

Tenara crawled onto the bed and sat cross-legged over the quilt, draping the sword across the soft fabric in front of her. She stared at it, trying to understand how she could call her magic without blood, and decided she would practice that later. For now, she would make Havitharon whole again.

Tenara reached out and drew her hand across the sharp edge, instantly feeling pain and power, and with power came pleasure. She wished she knew why magic, when she sought it, when her emotions were in control, felt like a pleasant fire burning in her soul rather than the painful, uncomfortable pressure that came with fear and rage.

She focused on Havitharon, on thinking of him, because as long as she focused on him—on making him whole—she wouldn’t lose control.

The blue flame licked over her skin, and power swelled inside of her. Focus. Focus… The power was a caress, light and pleasant and alluring. The more she focused on bring him from the blade, the stronger the caress grew, until heat flushed Tenara’s cheeks and longing curled low in her belly.

“Come,” she murmured to the sword, eyes closing. “Come out.” Her mind wanted to wander. The pleasure coursing through her, the desire burning in her center, was drawn to the need to think of hands on her flesh, of lips on her skin. She didn’t want to think of Rami, so she thought of a faceless being. Of silver skin and midnight blue hair.

Tenara willed Havitharon into the world, desire burning like two red coals in her eyes, the color of want on her cheeks.

A field of sparks scattered in the air in front of her. A tall male form materialized on the sheets. His warm, muscled stomach appeared beneath her bleeding hand where the sword had been. As soon as his flesh was solid, it sprang to life as he sucked in a gasp. Havitharon's eyes were a bright, intense yellow as he opened them, and they were heavy with sensation. His body, just below her hand, proclaimed very clearly how much it felt the effects of the spell. A low sound escaped his throat before he could stop it. He took another shuddering breath and swallowed hard.

Tenara’s gaze settled on where her hand smoothed along the hard muscled plain of his stomach, then trailed to the part betraying him, telling her that he felt at least some measure of her power’s pleasurable caress. A soft, fluttering breath escaped her, and her fingers brushed lightly against his skin, aching to touch more of him.

She didn’t need the power now that he was whole, but she clung to it, to that connection with him, to the need of him. She was overcome with the desire to have him and taste him and teach him that one could have pleasure for pleasure’s sake. And, maybe, part of it was a selfish desire to burn out the memory of Rami with silver hands and silver lance. Her gaze was trapped on him, on her hand on him—near that part of him—and she was filled with awareness of how much more petite she was compared to him. She whimpered at the thought. Maybe it was just desire, then. Straight, crushing, burning, consuming desire.

Tenara took a breath and drew her hand, trembling, away. If she didn’t pull back, she’d fall forward, she’d climb onto him. He probably wouldn’t want that. He probably didn’t want this—her magic pouring into him, filling him with a want he hated.

“I… I’ll give you some privacy,” she said, her throat tight as she shifted to slip off the bed and head toward the door.

Havitharon shuddered and licked his lips. Even the slight brush of her fingers against his skin made his hard length twitch obscenely in the air. "Don't need... privacy. Maybe some clothes," he half-panted, rolling onto his side to preserve at least some of his dignity. The smooth sheets were like feather-light hands caressing him. He huffed out a curse that didn't quite translate through their enchantment.

It took effort for Tenara to slip away from him, even the curse from his lips felt like a lure back. She went to the closet and rummaged through it, trying to drown out the overwhelming need to touch and be touched clinging to her like the lingering sting of a burn.

She drew trousers and a shirt from the closet, having serious doubts whether they would fit. She turned back for the bed, placing them near his hands. “I’m decent at sewing. If they don’t fit, I could make something with the curtains…” Tenara’s hand lingered on the clothes. Her jaw tightened. “I… If you need…” She shook her head, clamping her mouth shut before she offered to help him with his, er, predicament. He’d probably wish to handle that on his own. “I’ll wait outside.”

Havi stared at her hand. He wanted terribly to reach for it and stop her. He touched the clothing instead. "I feel... very strange," he said, pleasure still leaking into the edges of his midnight voice. "Am I drugged?" He asked in a tone that spoke from personal experience. "I know enough to tell when my sensations aren't real."

He looked up at her with several types of need plain on his face. "I thought I was dying. There was pain throughout my body, but it is gone. I wish to...try to trust you. I will not jump to conclusions. Help me understand what you just did to me. Please."

Tenara’s face paled and she shrank back. That had been given to him? And her magic felt like that? She suddenly felt no better than those awful women from his world.

“I’m sorry, I… don’t know,” she said, trying very hard not to be drawn to the hunger in his eyes. It sounded like a lie. An excuse. How could she not know? She reached out and grabbed his hand, afraid he’d get angry at her answer. “I’m telling the truth. I cleaned the sword, and then I… willed you back to me—here. Willed you back here. It’s maddening, but I don’t know a lot about how my magic works. It was locked away for most of my life because it was dangerous and deadly and relatively uncontrollable. The sorcerer that brought you here unknowingly freed it, and the sword seems to help keep it in check.” She thought of Rami and how she’d nearly leveled half of Sinead’s city. “For the most part.”

She slowly drew her hand away from his. “If it helps… I feel the same. What you’re feeling now, it is happening to me as well. For most of my life, my magic has felt painful, like a pressure threatening to shatter me apart. But now, when I have the smallest amount of control, it is bliss. Pleasure… Rapture.” Her fingers curled in the clothes, a hair’s breadth from his hand. “I’ll be more careful with it, with you, but I don’t know if I can control what it… does to us. Maybe with practice.” Her cheeks darkened. Lots of practice meant lots of feeling this overwhelming need to jump him. Gods help her.

"Practice..."

He glanced around the room as she spoke and tried to take it all in. He wasn't in the same place he'd fallen asleep. He'd been stripped. It was bright out. He'd lost time.

His skin no longer burned. In fact, he felt the best he had in weeks.

She'd 'cleaned' him?

And this excitement... She felt it as well?

He finally took in the flush of her cheeks. Even the skin of her hand so close to his seemed to radiate heat. "I am a sword now... It was the blade that you cleaned to heal me. Correct?"

His stomach twisted. He'd suspected it for a while, but saying it out loud made it real.

Tenara nodded. “I woke, and you were the sword. It was very dirty, and since you can’t touch it to clean it, I cleaned it for you.”

She could tell he was feeling uncomfortable. She drew back from him, rubbing her hand up and down her arm. He was still naked. The thundering desire, though, was beginning to dissipate. She wasn’t certain if it was because she’d stopped using her magic or because he seemed so bothered by their reactions to it.