“What? Where—”
“You are in a bush, Your Majesty,” he provided helpfully, extending his hand to her and helping her rise from the green leaves. She had barely straightened her regal shoulders when a horn sounded, startling them both into a crouch.
“Her Majesty the Queen is alive!” announced an errant guard through an amplifying device, bent on scaring Scorch half to death.
Queen Bellamy returned to standing with Scorch at her side, however hesitantly, and a moment later they were being swarmed by dozens of bronze guards. Scorch squeezed through, fighting his way around a fresh gathering of confused townsfolk and those who had fled the palace, until he reached his small group of companions. They lingered in silence beneath the charred tree while the Queen was fussed over and prodded at. For Scorch, it was an anticlimactic end to saving the Queen’s life. In the history books, guardians were praised with cheers and adorned with medals when they completed a guardianship for high-ranking citizens. In reality, Scorch and the others waited around for twenty minutes, the drying mud itchy on their skin, before the Queen finally broke away from her adoring subjects and came to speak with her defenders.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she began.
“You know exactly how you can thank us,” Vivid replied. He cast her a bored glance. “Scorch already told you.”
The Queen nodded seriously. “I have not forgotten.” She looked Scorch in the eyes. “I will not forget.”
“If you’re passing out thanks,” Audrey said, scratching a layer of mud off her hand, “a bath and a bed wouldn’t be refused.”
“And some medical supplies, Your Majesty,” Felix added. His arm was wrapped around Merric’s waist, and Merric was leaning on him, unable to put weight on one of his legs.
“Please, ride with my procession to my secondary residence in the country. I have more I would like to discuss, and there are plenty of baths and beds for everyone.” Scorch could already hear the clopping of horse hooves on cobblestone, and when he turned, a slew of royal carriages were lining up beyond the palace walls.
A cold, sick sensation tingled up Scorch’s spine in the seconds before he walked for the carriages, because he thought now is the last time I will see him. Their task accomplished, Vivid would disappear, any obligation he felt toward Scorch thoroughly obliged, and Scorch would never see him again. That’s what he thought. That’s what stuck his feet to the ground when Felix, Merric, and Audrey began limping toward the carriages. If Vivid had not given him a push, Scorch might have lingered in suspension forever.
“Scorch,” Vivid said impatiently. Scorch blinked at him, admiring the sleek line of his filthy neck as he jerked his head toward the carriages. “Walking is something you might consider.”
The moment of separation was being forced upon him before he was ready. He was still trying to think of a fitting farewell when Vivid grabbed his arm and began leading him toward the carriages.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you concussed?” Vivid asked, taking Scorch’s hand at the open door of a carriage and helping him step in.
Scorch’s eyes watered and he touched the gash over his brow. He would have a new scar there. “Possibly concussed,” he admitted. They were not the final words he would have chosen, if given the time. Vivid’s eyebrows stitched together, and then, with a huff, he pulled himself into the carriage and plopped himself down right beside Scorch.
Scorch froze. He waited for Vivid to call him an idiot, dash out of the carriage, and disappear into the sunset—the sun was setting, and it would have been an enviably dramatic exit—but all Vivid did was scratch at his head and scowl when flakes fell to the carriage floor. Someone coughed and Scorch belatedly noticed the three other passengers sharing the carriage. Audrey was sitting by one window, her single eye fluctuating between studying Scorch and studying Vivid. Merric sat by the other window, his handsome face pinched with discomfort as he prodded his injured leg. Felix sat between them, looking happy and banged up.
Vivid shifted around, and Scorch watched as he tried to make himself comfortable on the plush carriage seat, or maybe he was just trying to rub as much dirt into the Queen’s velvet cushions as possible. He was like the fat grey cat at the Guild, making biscuits and walking in circles until she finally settled down for a snooze. Vivid didn’t snooze, but neither was he leaving the carriage, so Scorch allowed himself to relax, at least a little.
The horses trotted them through the streets of the Royal Quarter. The city was in uproar. Scorch heard the people shouting, demanding to know what all the noise had been about, whether it was true the palace had been destroyed, who the attackers were. It instilled in him a hearty gladness he wasn’t the Queen, though the circlet crown was lovely.
The shouting and commotion ended when the Queen’s procession exited the city and human voices made way for the silence of a chilly evening. Inside their carriage, it grew dark, and Scorch enjoyed the freeness of not being seen. He admired the silhouette of Vivid’s face against the window, outlined by soft moonlight, the slope of his nose and curl of his lashes. Scorch did his best to commit the moment to memory. Surely, once they reached their destination, Vivid would leave.
But he didn’t. They rolled up to the Queen’s secondary residence an hour later, and all Vivid did was leap from the carriage and offer his hand to help Scorch down, as well as the others. Scorch kept an eye devoted to him as they made their way inside, determined to catch him fleeing, but Vivid didn’t flee. He looked worn out, exhausted, and a little sad. Perhaps, he was waiting until morning to sneak away. He would be able to make it further from Scorch after a good night’s sleep.
The Queen bid them farewell for the moment and had one of her servants show them to their rooms. Scorch and the others were led to a hallway on the third floor. The servant bustled about anxiously, opening five different doors and proclaiming a hot bath had been prepared for each of them, wine set out, and a plate of food provided. Scorch thanked him and he scuttled off, probably with more work to do than was comprehendible, having to prepare so many rooms for so many unexpected visitors. Everyone displaced by the palace’s demise was there.
Merric smiled at Scorch and hobbled for one of the rooms. Unsurprisingly, Felix ignored his own offered room and slipped into Merric’s instead. Audrey murmured something in Vivid’s ear before vanishing into her own room. That left Scorch and Vivid alone, standing awkwardly in the hallway.
“Don’t drink the wine,” Vivid warned him. “Or eat the food.”
Scorch nodded. “I won’t.”
Vivid’s look was severe. “I’m serious.”
“I can resist a few bread rolls, you know.” Vivid arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “I can.” His stomach rumbled and he wondered if there were bread rolls. Vivid moved toward one of the empty rooms and Scorch did the same, but he stopped at the doorframe. “In case there are honey cakes in there,” he told Vivid, “it was nice. Knowing you.”
Vivid’s glare sharpened past its usual intensity, and then he stepped inside his room and shut the door.
A Conclusion
25
It took multiple baths to get Scorch clean. There was mud in unspeakable crevices, and the gash over his eye began bleeding again at one point, resulting in a literal bloodbath. The poor servants kept a steady stream of hot water coming to his room, and by the end of it, after he’d slipped into the soft trousers and billowy shirt left out for him, it felt like they’d been to war together, the servants and himself. One servant seemed particularly pleased to have aided Scorch’s valiant quest for cleanliness, offering to soap him up at one point. Scorch politely refused. He hovered again by Scorch’s door, hips jutted to the side, head tilted in invitation. Scorch refused him again, a little less politely the second time, and then he fell face-first onto the gigantic bed.
When there was a knock on his door a few minutes later, he groaned into one of a thousand pillows. He tried to ignore it, but the knocks continued until he was forced from softness. He dr
agged himself bonelessly to the door and threw it open. A servant stared up at him, looking as exhausted as he felt.
“The Queen wishes to see you,” she informed him. “Follow me?”
Scorch sighed and stepped into the slippers the Queen had provided. “Lead the way.”
It was a surprisingly short trip to the Queen’s room, as she was only one floor above him, and the servant knocked a single time before Bellamy herself opened the door.
“Please, come in,” she said.
Scorch entered, declining the glass of wine she offered. He scanned the room and multiple things took him by surprise. For one, it was a bedchamber, and Scorch had been expecting a room with a desk and chairs and no sleeping surfaces. Also, there were no guards or servants present. Scorch and the Queen were entirely alone, and the Queen was wearing pajamas.
“Good evening, Your Majesty.”
“You may call me Bellamy,” she said. “Those to whom I owe my life may call me Bellamy.”
“Well, you can call me Scorch.”
“Scorch. A prophetic name?”
“A nickname.” He was unsure of what to do with his hands so he clasped them behind his back.
“And your real name?”
“Not nearly as prophetic.”
She smiled at him. “I have something for you.” She turned to rummage through a brassy chest that lay beside a half-empty glass of wine. Scorch soaked in the oddity of the moment. When she turned back to him, she held a thick scroll.
“I didn’t get you anything,” he said lamely as she handed it over. He unfurled the paper until a spidery cursive revealed unexpected lettering.
“The Royal Ordinances Concerning Elementals,” Bellamy told him. “They are all there. Official permission for every act of abhorrence inflicted on them.” She cleared her throat. “On us, rather.”
“And what,” Scorch said, eyeing the scroll, “do you want me to do with this?”
“Burn it.” There was no doubt in her eyes and no hesitation in Scorch’s heart. He let the fire uncoil from deep inside, until a tiny flame sparked from his finger. They watched the scroll burn together, Scorch collecting the ashes in his hands.
“It’s done.” She directed him to dump the ashes in the fireplace, and when his hands were empty, she filled them again with a fat coin purse. “For your help,” she said. “And your discretion, I hope.”
She led him to the door.
“I won’t tell anyone who you are,” he promised. “But you should consider what might happen if Viridor knew you were an elemental, as well as their Queen.”
“It could be bad,” Bellamy said softly.
“But it could be worth it, too.” He left her to mull it over.
****
It was such a late hour, not even servants were skulking about the halls anymore. Scorch navigated down the stairs, only getting lost once, and then he worried he’d fallen asleep somewhere between his room and the Queen’s, because the sight in front of his door was surely a dream. It had to be a dream.
Vivid was sitting on the floor with his back against Scorch’s door and his head down, his knees tucked into his chest. Instead of wearing clothes provided by the Queen, like Scorch, he had already laundered his own leather gear.
“Vivid?” Scorch asked, afraid to approach. He stood at the end of the hallway, like roots still had hold of his ankles.
At the sound of his voice, Vivid looked up. “You’re not in your room,” he accused.
“The Queen wanted to see me,” he explained. “Did you,” he cocked his head, “want to see me?”
“No,” Vivid blustered, rising to his feet. He ran a hand across the clean, short shear of his hair. Scorch could see where he’d missed a spot in the bath, a little smudge on the right angle of his jaw.
“Oh. Right.”
“Or, yes,” Vivid said. He knocked his knuckles on the door. “I thought you were in there. Ignoring me.”
Scorch felt his ears go pink. “I—I was not in there.”
“That has been established.” Vivid remained a grouchy barrier between Scorch and the door, and Scorch didn’t understand why. He decided to take a few steps forward to see what Vivid would do. He did nothing but watch with a carefully constructed expression of indifference.
“Why were you—I mean, I’m here now,” Scorch said. “If you still want to—” And that’s when it hit him, why Vivid was there. The icy dread was back with a vengeance, prickling the back of his neck and sloshing around in his stomach, making him feel sick. Vivid was leaving. This was his farewell. “You didn’t have to say goodbye. I would have understood.”
Vivid made a weird noise, a sort of growly whimper, and the anger-fueled crease between his eyes pinched tighter as his scowl intensified.
“But I’m glad you’re here, because I wanted you to know that I’m sorry,” Scorch continued, trying not to let Vivid’s impressive glare dissuade him. “I was too forward in my pursuit of you. It made you uncomfortable. It was a mistake on my part, and I—” Scorch stopped talking, because Vivid had taken hold of his shoulders and pushed him into the door, effectively knocking the words from his mouth.
“I’m not good at this,” Vivid said.
Scorch laughed nervously. “At slamming me into walls? I think you’re great at it.”
“At this,” Vivid repeated. “Talking about—” He looked physically pained, and for a long time couldn’t finish his sentence, like it was taking away years from his life to even form the thought. “Talking about . . . what I want,” he finally choked out, his eyes never wavering from Scorch’s, even though his nostrils flared in annoyance and his cheeks filled with a comely shade of pink.
Scorch was breathless, mindless, Vivid pressing him further against the door and making the nerves in his stomach spike. He didn’t even notice the doorknob poking him in the back, but he would find a bruise there later. “I know you’re bad at it,” he said, looking down at Vivid and the way he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t mind. I just,” he dug around in his head for his perfect answer, and he didn’t need to dig deep, because it was already at the surface, waiting to be plucked. “I want to know what you want so I can give it to you. It doesn’t matter what it is. A goodbye or,” he hoped with all his heart, “not a goodbye.”
Vivid gravitated closer and the fingers digging into Scorch’s shoulders became caresses, up and down his arms. Vehemently, Vivid said, “I want to stay with you.”
“Oh. Really? Not a goodbye, then?”
Vivid leaned forward, resting his forehead against Scorch’s chest. He breathed in deep as his hands smoothed around Scorch’s waist. “Not a goodbye.”
Scorch held Vivid for a handful of heartbeats, trying not to fly apart at the seams. His hands were hot where they lay against the cool skin of Vivid’s neck, and his pulse was quick. If he wasn’t pressed against a door, his knees would buckle and he would be a heap of overwhelming bliss on the floor. As it was, Vivid was holding him steady, and when Scorch exhaled a shuddery breath, he lifted his head, stood on his tiptoes, and kissed him.
Vivid’s mouth was perfect, and so was the way he deftly slipped his hand behind Scorch’s back and opened the door. They stumbled into the room, kicking the door shut behind them, and then it was Scorch’s turn to press Vivid against a hard surface. He picked him up and pinned him against the floral-print wallpaper, Vivid wrapping his legs around his waist. It was the first time they’d kissed inside and the first time no one was expecting them back soon with firewood, so Scorch kissed him as slowly and thoroughly as he wanted.
When his hips thrust forward of their own volition, Vivid broke their kiss to throw his head back with an encouraging moan. They moved against each other, Vivid panting into Scorch’s neck, while Scorch gripped his backside with insatiable hands. When Vivid snaked a hand between them and palmed his increasingly tight trousers, Scorch nearly dropped him.
“I don’t have the mental capacity for touching you and standing up at the same
time,” he gasped.
Vivid slid to his feet. “Go lay down,” he ordered, shoving Scorch toward the bed. Scorch did as he was told and lay back on the mattress like it was his deathbed. Vivid was going to kill him. He was finally going to kill him, and he was starting by taking off his clothes.
Scorch got up on his elbows to watch him remove his cuirass. The room was muted and torch lit, but he could still see Vivid’s scars streaking silver across his body. Before, in Etheridge’s tent, Vivid’s exposure had been a guilty attraction, but now, safe in their room, his armor removed of his own free will, Scorch could appreciate him the way he was meant to be appreciated. He was sleek sinew and supple lines, and Scorch wanted to put his mouth on every inch of him, silver and white.
He could tell Vivid was self-conscious, even in the soft light, but apparently the desire to remove his clothes was stronger than the urge to retreat, because he let his thumbs hitch beneath the waistline of his trousers as he walked up to the bed. Scorch opened his legs to let him stand between them, his eyes fastened to the dark trail of hair leading down from Vivid’s bellybutton.
Then Vivid stopped.
“Is something wrong?” Scorch asked, arousal making his voice thick.
“Yes,” Vivid said, removing his thumbs from his trousers. He gave Scorch a dark look and put his hands on his hips. “I’m doing all the work. Take these off for me.”
Scorch couldn’t fathom how he was still breathing, but he also didn’t hesitate to sit up on the bed and get his hands around Vivid’s waist, and that brought his mouth irresistibly close to smooth planes of stomach. He glanced up at Vivid and licked a cautious stripe over his skin. Vivid made a pleased sound, so he continued to kiss a downward trail while his hands found their way to the front of Vivid’s trousers. There was a pesky, lace-up front that he struggled with for a moment, but then the laces fell open and he pushed his hands down Vivid’s hips. The feeling of warm skin and no underclothes made him smile. He paused to look up at Vivid.
The Sun Guardian Page 39
