Lovers and Beloveds

by MeiLin Miranda

  "You are," nodded Teacher.

  Knowing the woodsman was his many times great-grandfather cut blessedly into the story's erotic effect, but as his arousal subsided, Warin's guilt nagged at him the more. "Warin was a good man, wasn't he?" said Temmin uneasily.

  "What do you think, given what you know so far?"

  "I know from the official histories that he was considered a fair and just ruler and the people loved him, but the histories say that about all the kings," said Temmin. "He didn't do much to extend the kingdom, and some historians fault him for this, though I think gaining Litta for his son without a drop of blood was a fair bit of statecraft. Ehm, strengthened trade relations with Corland, back when it was still independent--same with Alzeh. Defended Litta against the Northern Tribes, even before unification--oh, and he brought Litta into the Kingdom by marrying the...only daughter...of Fredrik the Last of Litta. Ah."

  "Ah."

  "Well! There's a happy ending on the way, at least!"

  "Marriage is not always a happy ending. Your parents did not choose one another. Has it been a happy ending for them?"

  "I hadn't really thought about their marriage," Temmin said, taken aback. "Why would I? They're my parents!"

  "Your father lived here, and your mother lived with you and your sisters more than a thousand miles away, and you had not thought about it."

  Temmin shrugged, disturbed. "That's how things were."

  "It remains to be seen in the story whether there is a happy ending, even allowing that there are such things," Teacher continued. "The difference between fairy tales, as I hear you've described this, and reality, is this: In reality, there are no endings. Life goes on. When we return to Harla, life goes on without us. Fate can place such obstacles before a man that you would never believe he could have a happy life, no matter what he did. But even if fate is very cruel to him, a wise man can still live a good life, perhaps even a happy life. Tell me: were Warin's actions in this part of the story those of a good man?"

  "He took in a stranger. That's a good thing. But then, taking in a beautiful, naked girl isn't that much of a sacrifice."

  "What about giving in to his lust?"

  "You can hardly blame him, she was willing as far as he knew."

  "He suspected something."

  "But she said yes! How is a man supposed to know a woman means no when she says yes!"

  "You seem rather touchy on the subject."

  "Listen," said Temmin, "if you're trying to make a point, just make it, all right? Then I'll parrot it back and we can both go to lunch." Teacher stared into his face. Temmin wondered if his own misreading of a girl showed; he blushed and looked away. "Just let me go to lunch," he said. "I'll come back and you can tell me more about Warin the Wise, though apparently this was before he gained the honorific."

  Teacher swallowed a laugh, and Temmin retreated down the stairs to the dining room, grinning.

  Temmin returned on surer footing; he'd half-buried the story with most of a cold chicken and a glass of newly vinted flosseling, still sweet but crisp. For him, a full stomach meant better emotional control. Sitting back down at the library table to wait for Teacher, his gaze fell upon the old red book, and the story emerged from under his lunch, back to the forefront of his mind.

  Whatever spell the book wove made the story real. Everything Warin felt, he felt: the deep loneliness and need; the rough, lumpy ticking; Emmae's fevered kisses, her shining hair, her heartbeat pulsing against his length deep inside her. Strange to still be a virgin after experiencing all that. Warin's memories drew him toward the book; he wanted to see Emmae again, perhaps to touch her with Warin's hands. When Teacher returned, Temmin already had the book open and ready. Teacher resumed the story, and Temmin let himself fall into it.

  * * * * *

  The next day, Emmae kept her distance. When Warin served out fried salt pork and ash cakes, she wouldn't take the bowl from his hand; she made him set it on the hearthstones beside her little stool. He flushed and turned away. "Do you wish to leave now?" he said to the wall.

  "Do you wish me to leave now?" she said.

  He glanced down at her from where he sat in the room's only chair, her face so downturned he could only see the tip of her nose. If only she spoke Tremontine--how could he tell her all his regret, all his real remorse, if he had to say it in a language better suited for philosophers, Eddinites and Sisters than lovers? Lovers--he had been alone far too long, if he already thought of her as his lover.

  He faced the fire's warmth. "No, I wish you not to leave. But I swear on whatever God you choose, or all of them, that I will touch you not again."

  She raised her head, eyes cautious. "And how shall I repay you, if not in that way?"

  "A whore you are not," he said, his own vehemence surprising him. "Never. Never will I let that happen! You will help me in my work. I will teach you to speak Tremontine, and to earn your keep with honor." She nodded her agreement and gave him a tentative smile, and the chill around his heart began to lift.

  They soon found she could do nothing. She didn't even know how to sweep, raising enough dust to make them both cough. He discovered her short temper and pride when she threw the broom against the wall in frustration. "This one is too tall for you," he said, easing her humiliation. "I will make you your own." Two nights later, he gave her a broom, its top carved into a little rabbit. She accepted it with dignity, said, "Now that I have a proper broom, I am sure I shall sweep properly."

  When they turned to cooking, he discovered her stubbornness. She refused to listen to him, and burned herself on the crane holding the pot over the fire. He dragged her sobbing down the path to thrust her arm into the icy stream. He examined it and hissed. "It will not scar, but it will hurt for a while. You will listen to me now, headstrong girl, will you not?"

  They hurried through the cold to the warm cottage; Warin dressed her arm with honey and wrapped it in scraps of linen. Emmae's tears redoubled. "You are so kind to me! Why? What kind of woman must I be, to be found naked in a forest?" she cried, still in Old Sairish.

  "There's no need for me to be unkind," he answered in Tremontine. "And as for not knowing your past--take it as a gift. Whatever you were, it doesn't matter now."

  "I understand your words now, but I can answer not."

  "You will, soon." For she was not only proud, stubborn and hot-tempered, she was smart; she made rapid progress in Tremontine, and he began to pick out more words in Leutish himself.

  Emmae had one talent: she could sew. Warin took a length of linen and one of wool from his cupboard, and clothes for them both soon filled her workbasket. She no longer sat by the hearth in the old smock, but in a gray wool dress, little sparrows embroidered in plain red thread round its neck, and was as pleased as any princess clothed in silk.

  The spoke turned, and the snow fell. Warin set out his traplines; pelts made up most of his trade with the outside world, and often he ate what he caught. One afternoon, he led Emmae to a freshly killed brace of rabbits, hanging headless by their hind legs from a low branch. "Must I?" she said, her Tremontine now good enough to speak as well as understand.

  "Do you want to eat?" he answered. "Watch." She winced but didn't turn away. He began on the nearest rabbit, deftly flaying the skin from its body.

  She watched him work. "You're so quiet," she said.

  He finished skinning, turned the pelt flesh-side out, and threw it into a nearby bucket of water. "This will make you a pair of mittens. Do a good job on the next one, and you'll have trim for a hood." He cut into the body. "Here. The liver. If you ever see spots, throw the whole carcass away. The meat's bad. No spots on this one," he said, holding it out. "It's good. Good eating, too." He worked in silence, then said, "This always reminds me of soldiering."

  "You were a soldier?"

  "Of sorts, when I was young. See here?" He aimed his knife between the rabbit's ribs. "Thrust here at a man--instant kill. Were we on the ground--" he drew along the inside of the rabbit's thi
gh-- "I'd cut here. The blood just falls out. A quick, merciful death." He pulled the rabbit's innards out, and threw them onto the frozen ground. "I hated being a soldier."

  She studied his bitter face, then said, "Is that why you came to the woods?"

  "No." He wiped his knife in the snow and handed her the knife, hilt-first. Emmae fought down her nausea, and set about flaying the second rabbit.

  The snow deepened, and still Warin kept his promise: he didn't touch her. He slept on the floor in his bedroll, and she slept in the narrow bed, alone. Even so, he could not help wanting her. Many nights, she'd wake from an erotic dream to realize it belonged to him, confused to sense his desire so acutely.

  As the days passed, Warin's ache became hers, and she wavered in her determination to stay away from him. Her eyes lingered over his angular form, skin still tanned from the summer sun, his brown eyes softening whenever they met hers. She remembered his strong, work-hardened hands sliding over her body, coaxing, then demanding. She would wonder how those hands would feel around her waist, lifting her skirts, holding her down on the bed--how those long, rough fingers would feel against the soft skin of her breasts, or the inside of her thighs. A strand of his dark hair would fall across his face, and she would stop herself from tucking it behind his ear. His kindness, his patience, and his forbearance loosened the fear that had seized her the first night; she looked upon him, not with worry, but with tenderness, and more than tenderness.

  For his part, Warin rejoiced to have Emmae near, though it caused him pain; he had been alone far too long, and she was far too beautiful. More than that, he admired her bravery. Once she realized that stubbornness and pride would teach her nothing, she faced her situation with intelligence, and without self-pity. She worked as hard at learning to clean pelts as she did at learning Tremontine, with a tenacity he would never have expected from the presumed daughter of a wealthy merchant. He loved watching her mend stockings or hem a shirt before the fire in the evenings, concentrating until the pink tip of her tongue peeked out. When she caught him gazing down at her, she'd smile up from the low stool, and his heart would swell with a love he knew he had no right to feel.

  In this way, Winter's Beginning passed, and most of Winter's End, until one night not long before Pagg's Day. Warin's restlessness kept Emmae from sleep; he fairly shone in the dark with desire. Perhaps if he thought she slept he would finally doze off. She kept herself still, and made her breathing even, but still his thoughts caressed her, urgent and ghostly. His want swirled and pulsed through her, running in her veins, pounding in her heart, threatening to drown her.

  "Emmae?" whispered Warin. "Are you asleep?" No answer. He groaned, almost inaudible, and his bedclothes rustled. She opened a slitted eye to see him silhouetted against the fire's coals; she could just make out his hand, moving down the length of his cock. His mouth formed her name. She opened both eyes and watched the banded muscles of his narrow hips flex, remembering their feel under her own hands. She sat up to watch him, moving silently, not wanting to startle him. She'd never seen or even heard him pleasure himself before, in all the weeks she'd lived there. His head lolled back, eyes shut tight. He stole a look in her direction, and froze, open-mouthed, to see her watching him. "Gods, I--"

  "Don't stop," she said, her accent drawing out the words. Warin stared, stunned. "Go on," she urged. "I want to watch. You're thinking of me, yes?"

  "I never stop thinking of you," he said hoarsely.

  "I know. Don't look away." Their eyes locked, and he slowly pushed up into his hand. His breath grew ragged, and so did hers; it rose up into her head, threatening to carry her off. She finally stood up, stripped off her chemise, and sat down again, naked. "Come to bed."

  He groaned. "Emmae, you don't have to--"

  "I want to, I've wanted to," she answered. He joined her on the bed, sitting apart from her until she leaned into him, nuzzling his neck. His long hair was loose, and he smelled of clean dirt and leather. He pulled away, gazed down her body and then into her face; hope, hesitancy and desire shone in his eyes. She kissed him, unrestrained at last.

  Kisses and kisses, weeks of wanting ending in an impatient sweetness. He traced his fingers down her arms, her back; any touch would have left her lightheaded, but together they sent her into a near-trance. Warin searched her face with bright, anxious eyes. "It's been so hard not to touch you--"

  "Then touch me," she whimpered. "Please, please touch me." The dark red of his desire blossomed inside her, crowding out anything else that might have been in her mind. She took his hand and brought it to her breast, and he pushed her down onto the bed, just as she'd imagined, his hard body pressing her into the ticking. He kissed her over and over before he moved to her nipples, taking them one by one into his mouth; each suckle sent ripples through her, pooling between her legs. Her helpless pleasure magnified as his pleasure increased, and she clung to him.

  He returned to her mouth; his hand slid down between her legs, the palm rough against the skin of her thighs as he pushed them apart. Warin slid a finger just past the swollen lips and into her wetness. He broke their deep kiss, gazing down on her, fierce and intent, almost smiling; another finger joined the first, slipping further inside her with no resistance, curving up with a gentle thrust, in and out as she moved with him. How had she denied herself this? She guided his hand with the movement of her hips, turning herself this way and that, showing him what she liked as his fingers ran over her slick inner lips, darting inside, brushing across the nub atop her opening--

  The fingers withdrew; Emmae moaned in disappointment. She opened her eyes and watched him creep down her body, kissing and biting under her breasts, down her sides, across her belly, pushing her legs further apart. He brushed his hair over one shoulder, and then to her astonishment, he licked her. He ran his tongue over and over her thickened lips, circling closer, until he flicked the tip of his tongue over her clitoris. She brought her hands to his head and let out a short, surprised cry; he chuckled against her, and did it again, and again. He slid his fingers back inside her, concentrating all his attention on the little nub, sucking it in gentle rhythm to his fingers until she couldn't breathe. She heard her own voice give out an endless cry as she shook and bucked against his mouth.

  Warin slid back up her body, and sank himself into her. His heavy hair fell around them, curtaining off the world outside the bed. Emmae could smell and taste herself on his mouth and in his beard. Each slow thrust left her open-mouthed and dazed, until her head rolled to one side. The fire on the hearth had awakened, bright and hot. How odd, she thought. Warin's pace quickened; she brought her eyes back to his face, the fire forgotten. He hooked an arm under her knee and pulled her leg up high over his shoulder, moving in earnest now, his face contorting. No gentleness now for either of them, only need suppressed, and need released. Emmae dug her fingers into him as he swelled inside her. With each thrust her mouth opened, and her sight grew unfocused until she couldn’t see at all. Sight was unnecessary; she felt as one with Warin and somehow with the world. The ripples began again, spreading deep inside her and forcing her head back in a long, sighing scream. She contracted around him; he plunged deep, to the one place inside her he had not reached, knocking her back against the bedframe. He gave a growling shout, and came in shuddering spurts inside her. She released her hold on him, her strength gone, and lay shaking beneath him, both of them gasping for breath.

  In time, Warin kissed her, voluptuous, satisfied, drowsy. "I love you," he said.

  To her own surprise, she answered, "I love you," but it came out in Leutish. It seemed he understood, though, and she kissed him in return. Little shudders shook them both; he stayed inside her until they fell asleep, tangled together.

  Warin and Emmae made love and slept for three days, rising only when they had to, until they left the bed, dazed and happy. Emmae put wash water on to heat; Warin set to building a bigger bed.

  The wheel turned to Spring's Beginning. The shed filled with pelts, and the
cupboard emptied, until there was nothing for it but a trip to the village: "We're out of supplies, love," said Warin. "And no, you can't come with me."

  "Why not?" said Emmae. "Oh, please! I want to see what a village is like. I don't remember going to one."

  "I can't trade and take care of you at the same time," he said. "In fact, I'm going to leave you for one night on your own to see how you do before I leave for an entire week."

  "You have so little confidence in me, and here I have every confidence in you," she laughed, and kissed him.

  Warin left the cottage, took up his axe, and split logs for the fire; he could have split them all with a simple spell, but chose to do it by hand. As he worked, he considered the problem of Emmae. He imagined what might happen the first time they walked into a Paggday market; any man would see her beauty at once, and the enchantment might lead to the Gods knew what. Thunk, thunk, went the axe, splinters flying. The split wood under the eaves grew to be enough for three days. Still he chopped. With spring's arrival, it was time to look for the Traveler Queen. Perhaps he could persuade her to lift the spell. Why would the old woman do such a thing?

  Warin left for a day and a night soon after to finish his last gatherings; rare mushrooms and mosses sometimes brought more in trade than even his beautiful pelts. Emmae decided it was better to be busy than sulky, and the day was bright, if cold. She took the bedding outside to air, draping the featherbed and ticking on low, bare branches in the sun. She finished the sweeping and cleaning, and turned to the cupboard for a full accounting of their supplies.

  Out went the last of the wheatmeal, too lousy with worms to finish. If she washed off the wispy remains the meal moth cocoons left behind, they could still eat the oat groats. No oil remained, nor butter, nor dried fruit--barely enough of anything to scratch up a few more dinners, but she would manage. She'd learned to manage well, and looked proudly round the clean cottage. She set some oats on the hearth to soak and turned back to the cupboard.