by L. A. Zoe
How could he find another such woman?
It seemed miracle enough he already met and loved two.
SeeJai wanted to carve faces on the trees, and paint them red. Or at least paint the red features on the trunks, but Rhinegold told her the city park service would not appreciate that.
So, who was actually out of touch with reality?
As he trudged along, wishing he could throw the crutches away, Rhinegold couldn’t help but remember when he brought Helena to the weirwoods to play her violin.
Somehow, just her very presence called up a violent maelstrom of wind and cold and snow—a small but powerful localized blizzard. When she visited him that last evening, and he mentioned that, she claimed it never happened. She never went to Riverside Park with him, she said. How could she have forgotten?
Maybe he was crazy?
As they approached the grove of oak trees he called his weirwoods, the snow darkened. Rhinegold assumed a thick cloud covered the sun.
Wind whipped frozen crystals of snow, burning his red cheeks. An animal howled. It seemed too loud for the distance, too hungry, too … wild to be a mere dog. He felt as though he were traveling into a raw near-Arctic wilderness, like the taiga, the boreal forest lands of Canada and Siberia.
The darkness thickened beyond a shadow cast by any cloud. Rhinegold raised his head. A few stars twinkled in twilight gray sky.
Not seeming to notice anything odd, SeeJai kept a steady pace toward the small grove.
When they reached it, the darkness of night surrounded them. Above, stars blazed in glorious splendor. The full moon overhead lit the grove with a glow of silver.
The oaks appeared bigger, older. Branches reached higher, spreading farther around. Trunks of white bark now much larger.
And carved with faces, smiling and frowning. Red with blood-sap.
Their boots made squelching noises as they stepped over the brown leaves covering the muddy ground.
SeeJai, still not commenting on the change from day to night, set the CD player on a low branch, and hit the button to play Empyrium’s The Franconian Woods in Winter’s Silence. The slow, majestic melancholy music wrapped itself around them.
A ring of mushrooms surrounded the grove. Within it, hovered spirits.
That’s what they had to be. Vague, wispy unformed clouds of mist. Not ghosts or any recognizable shape, just … presences.
The cold chill rising up his spine came not from the outside, but from somewhere deep inside Rhinegold, the headwaters of dreams.
He had to be dreaming the suit of gold-plated armor he wore, except for the helmet he carried under one arm.
Yet the thick woolen underclothes scratched and itched. And the heavy iron weighed him down.
SeeJai wore a long, violet satin gown. With wispy cloths of lavender. And a gold, bejeweled crown on top of her head. She smelled of floral perfume.
Her elfin face glowed with an inner light illuminating her smile.
Behind and to each side of her, lurked faint images of many other women. Keara first, but also Helena, the Snow Queen, the White Witch of Narnia, Queen Cersei and Sansa of House Stark, Galadriel, Lirazel, Freyja and the Valkyries, and thousands more.
Still holding his helmet, he knelt before her and bowed his head.
Did SeeJai realize she held a real knight’s sword? Straight, double-edge blade. Single-handed cruciform hilt. Forged steel sharp enough to slice off a man’s head.
Beyond the ring of mushrooms and swirling spirits—only darkness.
Riverside Park, Cromwell, and winter itself—in another dimension.
In Rhinegold’s brain, a hyperawareness surged. Every nerve in his body formed an antenna receiving ethereal signals from some alternate astral dimension.
Or Realm of Faery.
Or, Heaven itself?
His left and right arms both felt strong enough to toss around boulders. No wound remained on the side of his chest. No layers of bandages. Only unbroken skin remained.
An electrical charge, like waves of static electricity, crazy as that seemed, flickered through the air, tingling and sharpening Rhinegold’s skin.
Using both hands, SeeJai lifted the sword high, then slowly brought it down, blade flat. She tapped his right shoulder, then his left, and raised it again.
“I hereby dub thee Sir Rhinegold, the Golden Knight. Defender of the Realm and Protector of myself, Queen SeeJai, and Master of my Heart.”
A tiny part of Rhinegold’s mind insisted he and SeeJai stood in Riverside Park in the morning, and this was all a game she was acting out to trick him.
Another—much bigger—part of Rhinegold, his soul, felt exalted. Could not doubt.
“I swear my allegiance to you, my queen,” Rhinegold said in a strong, forthright voice.
That meant everything. He needed her love. If that meant giving up his independence—and it did—so be it. He was no longer a rogue samurai or hedge knight, righting random wrongs. Defending random victims against random enemies. His strength and fighting ability—his sword—now served this queen, and no other.
“Then arise,” SeeJai said.
She handed him the sword, which he returned to the sheath hanging on his right side.
SeeJai lifted her face with eyes half-closed.
Rhinegold took the hint, and kissed her while savagely pulling her close to him.
Her lips tasted of a lingering heavenly sweetness. They trembled, and her hungry tongue entered him.
The music ended, and the CD player turned off with a loud plastic click.
Her soft satin gown met his hard steel, and then he could barely feel her body within her layers of sweatshirts and sweaters below a winter parka.
They stood beneath the bare oaks, bright sun flashing off the icy black tree trunks. The accumulated snow and ice so high it reached nearly to the first level of branches. SeeJai stood high enough to reach up and grab the branches, Rhinegold so high he had to be careful they didn’t knock him in the face.
SeeJai and Rhinegold’s leather gloved hands joined.
“Let me tell Father by myself,” he said. “We could drive downtown to his office right now.”
She smiled, smirked. “Why don’t you wait until he gets home tonight?” She arm circled his waist. “If you’re still feeling strong when we get back … we’ve got something else to catch up on.”
He laughed, and slapped the side of his chest. Just a loud thunking sound.
She gasped, and that made Rhinegold laugh more loudly. He punched the location of his upper right arm wound, then lifted his left arm coat and sweatshirt sleeves to show off the mottled gray scar tissue below the still-bloody bandages.
“I’m plenty strong enough,” Rhinegold said. “Why don’t we go to City Hall instead? See if the good Reverend Ewing is busy?”
SeeJai nuzzled his neck. “I want you so much, Rhinegold. And I want the world to see us together. My mother. I bet your father’ll want to invite a million people, and that’s okay, I want to tell the whole world.”
Rhinegold carried the crutches on his shoulder. “This afternoon is just for you and me, got that?”
She squeezed his arm. “Now I’m your queen and you’re my knight, and neither one of us is too crazy.”
“Just crazy enough.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Queen SeeJai
Back in his family castle, without uttering one fantastic word, Rhinegold made me his queen.
And, crazy me, I understood everything.
Once out of the rough edges of the city of Cromwell, he stopped at a Steak ’n Shake, and we ordered chili and hot chocolate.
A kind of weird electro-magnetic energy buzzed between us. Nervous about the trip to the park, neither of us ate much that morning, and, we knew, once back in the bedroom, we were going to burn up thousands of calories fucking each other’s brains out. So, without discussing it, we agreed we could to chow down and fill up.
Finally, we again felt relaxed each other, like before the bath salts lun
atic cut his arm open and we moved into his father’s house. We joked and laughed. We discussed whether we should get married quickly, before becoming busy with college classes and part-time jobs, or wait a year or two.
We had to get out of his father’s house. Should we try to get some student housing close to the University of Kiowa campus right away? Or wait until the end of May or early June when lots of students would move out?
I had to get back to work at the Sunshine Garden, and it seemed crazy for Rhinegold to drive me to and from there from all the way out in far West County.
He wanted a job. Could he work as a security guard while going to school?
Would Keara and Helena accept us? If not, did we care? Sybille would go along with whatever Rhinegold’s father declared—at least publicly. And what venom she spewed privately was Mr. Cunningham’s problem.
What should I major in? Rhinegold already knew he was going into business. He didn’t know what kind yet, but he would start learning about it.
No pressure. We had the rest of our lives together.
Already, what happened in the park receded in my mind, like a glowing dream I woke up knowing I had, but unable to remember any details.
We walked over the deep, packed snow toward the weirwoods grove of oak trees. Yeah, I remembered that.
Then it grew darker. Was that my memory or my eyes?
Then the snow wasn’t there, only trees with faces looking at us.
And I wore a queen’s dress and crown, and, just like I planned, used the toy sword to “knight” Rhinegold, only it wasn’t a rubber, but heavy steel I could barely hold even with two hands.
And next we approached the car in the parking lot, laughing, full of happy energy, and somehow I knew everything was all right.
Rhinegold loved me, and I loved him.
And that love bound us together through thick and thin, almost as though we went through a wedding ceremony.
I was his queen, and so owed him my full royal protection.
And he was my knight, and so owed me his full allegiance and loyalty.
In practical terms, we each had to do what we had to do to live our lives as they were meant to be lived—together.
Rhinegold played the full CD by Empyrium, followed by Rhapsody of Fire’s Power of the Dragonflame. Wild stuff I would never have found on my own.
The weather remained sunny with clear skies but still bone marrow chilling cold. No surprise there.
The highway was clear and dry, but the snow piles scraped to each side by the snow plows rose high enough to block my view of the white fields beyond.
Back at his father’s house, we removed the snowshoes from the trunk, knocked off the snow, then hung them from hooks in the garage.
In the bedroom, the medicinal smell of the antibiotic salve tingled my nose, reminding me Rhinegold left the house four hours ago that morning with one serious, open knife cut with staples struggling to hold together ripped skin he kept tearing open, and two semiserious, open gunshot wounds.
I jumped, nearly knocking him over with a big kiss. “Let me see.”
Still radiating cold air, his winter parka already hung on a hook to the side. He pulled up two sweatshirts and threw them onto a chair, leaving a gray cotton, short-sleeved t-shirt.
The bandages remained on his lower left arm. The yellow-green salve stained mottled gray and white, ugly but healed, scar tissue.
“People are always going to think I tried to kill myself,” Rhinegold said.
I just stared. I ripped the bandaging off. The adhesive tape took some of his hairs with it, so he winced, but said nothing.
“How is this possible?” I said, more to myself than to him.
On his upper right arm, same thing. Bandages over a healed wound. Only the trace of a scar.
I raised the t-shirt. More taped bandages over nothing. I pressed his ribs, but he just stared impassively back at me. No soreness there.
“Your doctor’s going to put you into the medical journals,” I said.
Rhinegold put the glass bottle of salve into the bathroom medicine cabinet, but swept all the plastic bottles of painkillers and antibiotics into the waste basket.
He opened the vent, allowing hot air from the basement furnace to blow in, whirring past the grate.
Then put his arms around me. “No fair,” he said. “You’ve already got me naked above the waist, and you’re still dressed to discover the South Pole.”
We kissed again, and this time I realized how smooth his lips were. No rough, chapped surfaces.
Only soft, sensual wet passion.
Our tongues licked each other as his hands groped for my zipper.
“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said as he helped me out of the thick, heavy coat. “Make sure you use a wooden hangar, and keep it away from Matilda’s cheap jacket that sheds fake mink fur. And I shall expect you to clean out the engine oil spots and brush off my dandruff while I’m taking tea with Mrs. Hamilton, of the Back Tree Hamiltons, of course.”
Rhinegold enclosed my upper ear with his teeth, and lightly ground his jaws. “How about instead I cram my tool into your every body orifice?”
“Would Mrs. Hamilton approve?”
“She gets hers every morning.”
Seeing him naked above the waist reminded me how hot my Rhinegold truly was. Holy Shit, how could I have forgotten?
I forgot my worry about his knife wound, how pale he looked from loss of blood. And I left behind my exasperation and frustration from taking me into the park late that night, out of his unique insanity, now cured.
I vanquished my fears and insecurities from Rhinegold refusing to listen to reason and organize his life.
I saw only a tall man with wide shoulders and a narrow waist.
Thick, rippling muscles. Shoulders to wrists. Chest pecs that drove me so wild, I—pressed my mouth to one of his nipples, and sucked like a baby. I held the sides of his abdomen, feeling the muscles flex below my palms. My tongue licked, getting a rise out of the tip. I pressed harder, grinding my smooth tongue against the small, rough areole.
He pressed me against him, moaning. I clutched the thick pelt of reddish blond chest hair.
Beside him, I felt so small—yet safe and treasured. I wanted to devour him. I wanted to lose myself in him.
Such a handsome face. Smooth, soft features, but blue eyes burning bright. Strong and confident. Not a male model, metrosexual’s face, but one appealing to something deep inside me.
On the skin on his skull on each side of the middle Mohawk strip, fuzzy blonde hairs grew. I would shave them when we finished, before he talked to his father.
He placed his hands under my sweatshirts and sweater, and jerked them up over my head, leaving me in just the small bra I wore, though plenty of people would say I didn’t need one.
We kissed again, and I rubbed my chest against him as hard as I could, though mostly my bra scraped his eight-pack abs instead of his pecs, due to my height.
I pushed harder, delighting in the feel of his strength. The force of his leg muscles resisting me, rooting his feet on the floor. So solid, so steady, like a boulder, a cliff. I could push forever and never knock him over, so my energy doubled and, groaning, I tried to build my passion to a peak just by bringing my body close to his.
A quick flick of his fingers, and my bra hung loose. I let it fall as I resumed licking and caressing his chest, his lines of stomach muscles leading down to …
And his thick fingertips touched my breasts like a delicate china figurine. Sensual as velvet. My nipples rising, sending flames through every nerve in my body, centering on my groin.
And I couldn’t wait. Not another minute, not another second.
Maybe it was the overpowering smell of pheromones from his armpits, like essence of pack leader he-wolf combined with gorilla masculinity.
Maybe it was just the starvation of not having sex for several weeks.
The pent-up passion of weeks of uncertainty and insecurity, even dri
ving me to try to sell myself.
This man risked his life to save me, and I wanted to thank him.
Not the only way I knew how, but the best way.
I didn’t want slow, slow-building, sensual foreplay sex.
I wanted that huge cylinder of rock inside me. Now!
Helplessly, hopelessly, in raging lust that drove out every other feeling and thought.
I couldn’t stop moaning. “Rhinegold. Take me, take me—please oh God.”
I fumbled with his belt buckle. His hands pushed mine away, and I let him because he could do it himself more quickly. I unfastened my belt buckle, pulled down the zipper, hands to the sides, and wiggled jeans and panties to the floor.
I grabbed his pants and jerked down.
Then fell back onto the bed, lying back, spreading my legs, widening my knees.
“Rhinegold!”
He let his pants and boxer shorts drop, then dropped to the bed, and crawled to my feet.
I forgot how huge and glorious his manhood looked, gorged with rivers of blood, swollen, gaping, a friendly serpent sticking out of the dark-red bush of Rhinegold’s pubic hairs.
I wanted to squeeze it. I wanted to lick and suck it. But mostly I wanted it deep inside me.
His shoulders pushed my legs forward. My back rolled into a deep curve and my hips rose in agonized passionate hunger.
I’d forgotten how big Rhinegold was, how small I was in comparison, like a deflated balloon.
I gasped just from the feel of his head probing the entrance to my vagina.
My stomach twisted, and my throat gagged, but I couldn’t stop.
For a moment, fear made me twist back, but then I remembered this wasn’t our first time. I didn’t even feel afraid the first time, maybe just out of ignorance. I took his penis fully inside me. Was it now bigger?
It felt much larger—both wider and longer—as though the same miracle that cured his wounds resized his equipment, and now instead of XXX Large his tool was size King Kong.
I was wet, burning—and as Rhinegold entered me, I felt a dull, deep throb. Something relaxed, stretched, and opened, and, relieved, my vagina exuded so much lubrication it ran down my inner thighs, drenching the sheets.
