by Aldrea Alien
Dylan leant over the windowsill, trying to follow the hound’s descent along the rooftop, failing as the dark clothes began to blend with the shadows. The warmth that’d previously infused his body vanished. Even without the possibility of people wanting to kill him, he was in no mood to be alone.
He straightened, trying in vain to rub the chill from his arms. If he wasn’t to leave here, then perhaps sleep would be a good option. He hadn’t lain on anything higher than the ground since… The tower. And the gods knew not much sleeping had gone on there.
His gaze fell on the bed with its dishevelled blankets. It didn’t look as inviting without the elf’s presence to warm him. Perhaps he should wait for Tracker’s return before settling in for the night. He’ll be quick. An hour, maybe? Sleep could be postponed until then.
He dragged the stool over to the window and sat. Pillowing his head on his arms, he stared out at the sky. He’d not stargazed since the times he and Nestria would sneak to the tower’s highest window. Strange how what had once been a thrilling hobby of mapping constellations and tracking the stars’ subtle rotation now seemed so peaceful.
Of course, that’d been some decades back, before they learnt what else could be done with the night. He’d vague memories of wild dreams, fantasies borne from a thirst for adventure. And his first kiss.
He couldn’t recall the last time he looked up and truly saw the night sky.
Thousands of stars dotted the heavens, a great glittering arc of dust. The moon would rise in time, then this sight would become obscured by its fullness. His gaze slid to the horizon, muddied by the rooftops, darker shapes against an indigo backdrop. People moved in the houses beneath, their passage around the buildings tracked by candlelight, the fitful sputtering of flames mirrored in the twinkling heavens.
The night air was crisp and carried the foreign sounds of the city. Dogs barked at whatever disturbed them. There was the occasional clatter of a cart creeping down the cluttered street. Closer still came the laughter and chatter of the people below.
Dylan watched as the multitude of lit windows slowly went dark. His eyes were half closed by the time the moon breached the horizon. It hovered there, seeming to balance on the tip of the mountain range bordering the elven-claimed lands of Heimat, reflected in the hints of river peeking through the rooftops.
His eyelids grew heavier. Each blink took longer and longer to complete.
And still no sign of the hound.
Thoughts of what he’d heard in the tavern surfaced. That cook had been murdered, he was certain of it. Perhaps those same people had come upon Tracker. What was he to do if something had gone wrong? Anything could happen. To an ordinary man, the elf was…
Well, a lot more skilled than the average city thug, if he was to be honest.
He’ll be fine. If there was any reason Tracker hadn’t returned, trouble wasn’t the cause of it. Unless the elf was the cause. Yawning, Dylan rubbed at an eye.
His lids slid closed.
The presence of another drew his eyes open just enough to see. Having his view full of someone’s face widened them further and also pulled a yell from his throat. He jerked away from the sight, jumping to his feet. The stool wobbled under him, tripping him up and dumping him onto the floor. All in a matter of seconds.
The hound lay half-draped out the windowsill, laughing.
“It’s not funny!” Dylan moaned as he rubbed his tenderised backside. “First you tell me that there are people who might want me dead, then you leave, only to scare me half to death when you come back. And I—” He clicked his mouth shut, but the words continued on in his head. I was worried. What had taken the man so long?
“And you fell asleep.” The elf smirked. “Were we waiting up for me?”
“I… Yes? Sort of?” He absently kneaded the side of his neck. Sleeping hunched over like that had stiffened his muscles. “Did you find out what you wanted?”
Tracker frowned. “No.” He secured the window, then started undressing. “Every city and town has a hound or two stationed there. I went to check on our lodgings here and it is… not what I had imagined.”
Other hounds. Tracker had left his side to speak with the other hounds. “In a bad way, I take it?”
“Well, it is not unheard of for there to be no one. I can imagine that, if news of the tower’s fate has spread, it will be of great concern to those higher up. They would have sent those closest to search the surrounding lands. If anyone did escape, then Whitemeadow is the place they are most likely to wind up.”
“What did you need from them?”
“Answers,” Tracker mumbled. The elf had stilled, his eyes distant. It was there for a moment, then he shook himself and with his hands firmly planted on his hips, looked Dylan up and down. “You are not sharing a bed with me dressed like that. Off with it.”
Dylan swiftly obeyed, pulling off the undertunic.
Giving a wistful sigh, Tracker took up his hand. “Come.” He led Dylan to the bedside, blowing out the sputtering candle. “I think sleep is very much on the agenda.”
Dylan slipped beneath the covers, wriggling closer to the wall to give the elf some room. His heart beat faster at the brush of the hound’s warm skin. “Just sleep?” He’d not spent more than a few moments of rest at the man’s side without something else on offer.
Tracker chuckled, snuggling against him so that their bodies shook with his amusement. “So insatiable.” A long finger slid up Dylan’s neck to trace the outer curve of his ear. “As much as I would love to see if you could repeat your little tricks, duty sadly calls for us to depart for Wintervale as early as we are able. And we will need a full night’s rest to do so.”
He wrapped an arm around the man’s waist, pulling their hips together. “Are you sure I couldn’t tempt you?”
“Not tonight.” Those long fingers slid from Dylan’s ear to his mouth. “Sleep.” Tracker pressed himself against Dylan’s side until he was flush from top to toe. The hound nuzzled into Dylan’s shoulder using his upper arm as a pillow, seemingly unaware of how the earrings pricked his skin.
Spoilsport. He lay in the darkness, listening as Tracker’s breathing grew shallow. A tiny purr vibrated through the room, continuing even as the hound drifted off. Dylan closed his eyes, lulled by the gentle vibrations and the elf’s warmth.
This he could definitely get used to.
Dylan awoke to find his limbs still entwined with the elf’s. Tracker’s heat was a welcome presence against the room’s gnawing chill. He recalled waking to the sound of rain pattering against the window sometime during the night. A little craning of his neck showed naught but a few puffs of grey cloud against the murky blue of dawn.
Tracker slept on, oblivious to the new day. He snored, much to Dylan’s amusement. Not occasionally like Authril, but with every breath. A sort of low sawing sound that was almost, but not quite, a purr.
He carefully disentangled himself from Tracker’s grasp to shuffle back across the mattress until his spine touched the wall. He’d only ever slept with the man once before. That had been back at the tower. Since then…
Well, they’d have sex and he might even doze off for a few moments afterwards, content and warm in Tracker’s arms. But he would always find himself returning to Authril’s side before morning.
Lying here now, he wasn’t sure why.
Settled into his new spot, he couldn’t help but run his gaze over the hound whilst Tracker slept. He’d never noticed the faint wrinkles that had etched themselves into the man’s face, soft lines across his forehead and between his brows. There was also a hint of them collecting at the outer corners of his eyes.
Such marks of age were never as noticeable on elves as they were on humans. It wasn’t as if they lived any longer than dwarves or humans, they just seemed to carry their years better than either.
Tracker’s nose twitched. A springy coil of russet hair, having worked its way free of his braid during the night, dangled across his face and threatened
to wake him.
Dylan tucked the lock behind one of the hound’s ears, taking great pains not to further disturb the man. His fingers itched to trace the slightly curved angles of those ears, to play with the earrings and hear Tracker’s slow purrs turn heavy with unfettered desire.
Alas, no matter how light his touch, that act would certainly wake the man. They might have to abandon this warm cocoon of a bed soon, but he’d prefer not to just yet.
Tracker stretched, arching in such a way that pressed his whole body against Dylan’s. A hand slid up Dylan’s chest, slipping into his hair. The man’s russet brows lowered into a puzzled frown. His eyes opened to reveal their gorgeous colour. They flicked over him, seemingly surprised to find him lying there.
Dylan grinned. The hound had been awake well before him the last time they’d shared a bed. Had he reacted the same then? “Morning, sleepy.”
Tracker grimaced, rolling his head as far from Dylan’s as he could manage without rolling over. “That is quite the breath you have.”
He laughed. “Yours isn’t any better.”
Giving a mortified gasp, one that Dylan rather doubted was real, the hound whipped his head back around. “What a despicable lie from such a gorgeous mouth. My breath is as fresh as a flower.”
“Sure,” Dylan quipped. “Like one of those in the jungles of Obuzan that attracts flies.”
“Such slander,” Tracker whispered. He ran a hand down Dylan’s chest, gently as if the man expected Dylan to vanish at the slightest of touches. “Has anyone told you that you are quite an angelic sight in the morning?”
“Not lately.” Or ever. Until Authril, he’d never woken up beside those he’d lain with.
The hound’s brows furrowed. “Did last night happen the way I remember?”
Dylan’s grin returned, along with a flush of pride seeping into his cheeks at the raw memory of Tracker wobbling his way across the room. “That depends entirely on what you recall.”
Tracker wriggled closer. “You…” He kissed along Dylan’s throat, the tip of his nose brushing Dylan’s chin as the hound worked his way up. Their lips skimmed against each other for the space of a few quickening heartbeats before Tracker drew back. He traced where his lips had fallen. “It would seem you are in need of a shave.”
Grunting, Dylan ran his hand over his jaw. Tiny hairs scraped his fingertips. He’d not bothered with shaving yesterday morning and this was his price. He clambered over the hound, ignoring the man’s muffled protests, and gathered up his clothes.
Dressed, he rifled through his pack, unearthing his shaving equipment. He needed light and a place to rest his mirror. His gaze fell on the little table. Perfect.
Tracker sat up as Dylan dragged the table to the window. His brows lowered in bewilderment and Dylan could sense a question brewing in the man’s mind, but the hound remained silent.
Dylan set about his routine, filling the small bowl from his pack with a little ice before melting it. A faint whisper of bedding coming from behind him suggested Tracker had finally vacated the bed. The more familiar rustle of clothing told him the man was getting dressed. It seemed quite early in the morning, perhaps they could manage the luxury of buying breakfast rather than cooking it for once.
Feeling watched, he tilted his mirror slightly until it caught the hound’s reflection. Sure enough, Tracker was still staring at him, almost curious as Dylan stropped the razor. “Is something wrong?”
Tracker shook his head. “Not at all, I just… Well, I am not usually one to pay much attention to your personal grooming habits whilst in camp. But I cannot readily recall ever seeing anyone shave.” He rubbed a hand over his hairless chin. “We elves have a marked lack of hair to be rid of. In the region of the lower face, at least.”
“I know, we had elven men in the tower, too.” Men like Sulin and Henrie, although he supposed the latter would’ve still had a hard time growing a beard had he been human.
Dylan put the razor to one side and lathered his face. His hands shook as he readjusted the little mirror. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the razor once again. The shaking ebbed as he made the first stroke.
“Is it not unnerving holding such a sharp object to your face?” Tracker asked.
“Not anymore.” He cleaned the blade, wiping the foam on the cloth and continued. He’d fond memories of Tricia teaching him once puberty struck. Slow, even strokes. Even now, almost two decades later, her voice echoed in his head. Soft and soothing. “Do none of the human hounds shave? Or at least trim?”
“They certainly do, on both counts.” Tracker leant against the wall next to the window. “But I have only witnessed the aftermath. They prefer to keep us segregated. Men from women, elven from human. Curiosity leads to familiarity, which leads to closeness. Or so they say.”
They remained in silence as Dylan continued shaving without the usual camp rush. He’d almost forgotten how relaxing it could be. Stroke, wipe, stroke, wipe, then re-lather and start over. Each move done leisurely by necessity. It was almost trance-like.
At last, he patted the excess foam from his face and stood. “Better?”
Tracker reached up to kiss him. He nuzzled the smooth patch on Dylan’s throat, his lips not quite touching any higher. “It would be better if you were a little lower.”
“Kissing me is not a requirement, you know.” He placed his hands on the man’s hips, steadying them. Tracker was standing as tall as he could and yet he couldn’t reach. He smiled, recalling all the times he’d been hauled down to the hound’s greedy mouth.
“Why are you grinning like that?” Tracker demanded, the frustration already in his voice gaining a hard edge. “What is it?”
“I just realised that, even if you stand on your toes, you still need me to lower my head to kiss me.” It was an act he was so used to doing with most of his elven partners that it hadn’t occurred to him the man was no different.
The hound drew back, thumping down an inch as his bootheels returned to the floor. “This surprises you? Elves are not exactly known for their height.”
He knew that, had become very well acquainted with such a fact years ago. It didn’t help that he was on the taller side of average for a human. “It’s still cute.”
Those honey-coloured eyes narrowed. “Cute?” Tracker echoed. “I heard that right, yes?”
Dylan nodded, his heart skipping several beats as he caught the quirk of Tracker’s lips. The way the left corner of the man’s mouth curled slightly more than the right suggested mischief.
Sure enough, the hound clamped his hands onto Dylan’s shoulders and, in one deft move, hoisted himself up Dylan’s body.
Dylan staggered back until his shoulders collided with the wall. The man wasn’t overly heavy when lying on top of him, but in his arms, the hound was a lead weight.
Tracker wrapped his legs around Dylan’s waist, pulling them tight. “You were saying?” he breathed into Dylan’s ear.
“You cheat,” he puffed.
“To get what I want? I most certainly do.” Tracker nuzzled Dylan’s neck, leaving tiny kisses along his jaw line that set up a flutter in his gut and made his legs shake.
“Track?” he breathed. His arms trembled with the effort of keeping the man from slipping to the floorboards and possibly taking Dylan along with him. If the hound didn’t get down soon, they were both going to wind up collapsing.
The man’s satisfied little hum heated Dylan’s skin. “To answer your question, this is much better.”
Dylan tipped his head back. Maybe he should just let go and risk being dragged to the floor by the elf’s descent. “We should meet up with the others.” They had disappeared from the tavern before their companions could meet up with them. If they remained here much longer, the women might come to the conclusion that something was wrong.
“Or we could linger.” The fluttering touch of Tracker’s lips descended Dylan’s throat.
He groaned. It was tempting, especially with the way the man ground again
st his stomach. “Y-you said we should leave for—” He gasped as the hound’s fingers dug into his back. “Wintervale! You said we should reach there as swiftly as we can.”
“Yes,” Tracker mumbled against Dylan’s collarbone. “I had also hoped we would be able to take a boat to the capital. Sadly, this option is not doable.”
Dylan recalled the rumours floating about the tavern. “The king took most of the cargo ships.” That was why an abundance of crates and barrels were stacked along the streets. The only way to move them was by wagon.
Sighing, Tracker unwound his legs and dropped to the floor. “Which I find most suspicious.” Those long fingers seemed to move absently as Tracker smoothed the rumples in Dylan’s robe. “Why did he need so many? What is he planning?”
Dylan weathered the hound’s fussing. “About that Talfaltaner we caught.” At the time, he hadn’t cared why they were so far inland, only that they’d slaughtered his people. “Do you think he— That they were meant to be reinforcements against Udynea?” Ones who, once they realised how close they were to those they saw as demons, decided to take a detour to purge the kingdom. “Could the king have commandeered the boats to transport them?”
Tracker gave a small, considering hum. “It is altogether possible. I doubt the Talfaltaners want a horde of spellsters on their doorstep, but they are seafaring people. They have ships that far surpass our own. Unless…” He frowned, staring at Dylan’s chest as if nothing stood in the man’s line of sight.
Dylan shuffled to one side and gathered up his shaving gear whilst Tracker continued to stare at nothing. Had the hound learnt something new last night? “Do you think they invaded purely to attack the tower?”
The hound jumped, snapping out of whatever thought he’d locked himself into. “That is looking more like a possibility. They were involved, that much is certain. It is also possible the king knows about the attack and is using the cargo ships to retaliate.”
“A move like that wouldn’t work, though. Would it?” The island of Talfaltan was roughly half the size of Demarn, but the people living there were reputedly fierce and a lot of the population spent their lives at sea. The king would have a difficult time mounting a successful invasion. “And we’re already at war with Udynea.” Surely the king couldn’t be foolish enough to start another war when they weren’t exactly winning the one they were in, could he?
