by Mike Truk
“Evening, my lord,” came Zarja’s teasing whisper.
Hugh rose up on his elbows and stared as the lisica crawled into the tent on all fours, little more than a shadowed shape, moving up over his body to press her snub nose against his cheek, the brush of her luxurious mane of golden hair cascading down the side of his face.
He couldn’t breathe. Such was her presence that he felt at once stifled and aroused beyond measure; she was the enemy, she was of the kind he had sworn to hunt with his brothers and sisters in the Lost Reavers, yet she was also Elena, and her presence here, her sheer physicality, was near overwhelming.
Oneirothélisi, he thought to himself. The magic of the fae. Lesser than that of the Thavma, but powerful, riotous, delirious when compared to the careful formulations of the disciplus. Is she using it on me right now?
“A long day,” she whispered, breath warm and moist in his ear, nose tracing its inner curves. “So much intensity. So much anger, so much pain.”
“Zarja -”
“Mmm, you going to tell me to get out?” She pretended mock hurt, drawing back but a fraction of an inch. He could hear the whisk whisk of her tail against the tent canvas. “Want me to sleep curled up just outside, like a true serving girl?”
“Just - wait.” He took her by her shoulders and pulled her down beside him. She was all soft curves, but mercifully compliant; she slid down so that her head was propped up on one hand, the other tracing curls across his stomach.
“Seeing you carry that tree today… it all made sense. This body of yours. How… impossibly developed it is, for a human. Of course, I’d seen you leave the Rusałka many times before to go for a run, or swim, but never had I appreciated the full extent of your body’s needs. Not till last night, of course…”
“Wait.” He sat up, head brushing across the roof of the tent. “Just - wait.” He pinched the brow of his nose. Her scent was everywhere. Intoxicating. Yet he forced himself to focus. “For how long are you going to keep up this masquerade? Fool Morwyn and Anastasia?”
“How long?” She sounded surprised. “For as long as I can, I suppose. I’m quite good as long as I don’t overdo it. Or let myself slip. Like tonight by the fire. But it was so delicious to listen to Anastasia offer her opinions, her learned thoughts on the subject of magic…”
“And when they find out?”
“Then the usual will take place. Shouting, weapons drawn, accusations, things set on fire, and my running off into the woods as humans turn out in large groups to hunt me down with hounds and horns.” The amusement was growing thin in her voice. “Unless, of course, you can sway them to accept me.”
“Don’t you think lying to them - and the longer you do it - will make it that much harder to have them accept you?”
“What are you suggesting, Hugh? That I emerge from your tent tomorrow in my natural form and ask them if a lisica can serve them pancakes?”
“No, of course not. Just that a relationship based on lies will never grow.”
“Because you’re being so honest with everyone yourself.”
“That… that is nobody’s business.”
“And perhaps neither is my true nature. I’ve chosen to reveal it to you. I won’t stop you from speaking out, but I haven’t survived these past two centuries by blurting out my true identity at every opportunity I get.”
“Two centuries?”
“Two… long… lonesome… centuries…” She finger-walked her hand up his thigh toward his privates, but he caught her in his own.
“You were alive during the founding of the empire?”
“Mendev?” She pulled her hand free. “So you can do math. Yes. Though I was very young. The wars humanity waged against my cousins and I had not yet begun in earnest then. So word only reached us in our havens years after the fact. Accompanied, of course, by fire and hounds and horns and blades…”
“How long does your kind live?”
She sat up then, tail curling around her shins. “I don’t know. My kind has almost universally suffered violent deaths these past two centuries. There are few of us left. None of us believe we’ll have the luxury of growing old.”
Ah. Hugh frowned. The death of her ‘kind’ had been his sole goal as a Lost Reaver. To sit here now, talking like this, as if she were a human lover, to - Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose again.
“It’s not easy for either of us,” whispered Zarja, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “For long years I harbored a terrible hatred for all humanity. There was a time when I lived to hurt your people. And hurt them I did. Countless small wounds against the body of your empire, which lumbered on, oblivious, not caring for what little atrocities I committed. Until I reached a point where I had to decide: escalate my acts to the point of drawing fatal attention, to die as so many of my kind had before me, in grand, futile gestures - or to start searching for a path that led to forgiveness.”
“You’ve forgiven the empire? For what it’s done?”
“No, I never found that path.” She sounded amused. “But what I did find was greater compassion. Age has bestowed upon me a view point I simply couldn’t adopt before; you might call it fatalism. I’ve come to accept that the rise of humanity and all its progress was inevitable, much like the calving of an iceberg or the cyclical burning of a forest. A natural disaster. And in time, much like from a cindered forest floor, new growth may emerge, and the forest will be healthier for the purge.”
“You think of us as a forest fire?” Hugh struggled to understand the scope of such a point of view. “That in - what - a few centuries we’ll disappear?”
“Perhaps. What my kind has learned is that nobody is as good at killing humans as other humans. It’s possible you’ll develop magics or weapons that will allow you to destroy each other. In fact, many of my people fervently await that day. When it happens, we shall steal forth from the dark corners in which we’ve hidden ourselves and reclaim the land that you stole from us.”
Hugh didn’t know what to say. He sat there, arms wrapped around his knees, staring out into the darkness, picturing the vastness of Mendev, its steppes and frozen tundra’s up north, the rich, rolling farmlands of the south, the endless forests that banded its endless expanse, the impenetrable mountain ranges - a land so vast that its disparate peoples often only had the name of the empire itself in common.
“You must love the development of new magic theories, then,” he said at last. “Like this master of Anastasia, refining and empowering their chirography.”
Zarja sighed and lay back down. “Chirography.”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s largely what’s allowed us to push your kind back.”
“Yes, yes. But the way your discipluses use magic… it’s so rigid, so constrained by terror, so limited, so lacking in creativity. Imagine, if you will, a youth intent on becoming a soldier. Yet so terrified is he of cutting himself that he insists on only practicing with a wooden blade, on wearing a helmet that literally blinds him, armor that prevents him from moving, and trains only against a practice dummy. Pitiful. Pathetic.”
“And yet those pathetic warriors have thrown down the greatest of your bastions.” Hugh immediately regretted his words.
But Zarja didn’t seem to mind. “Yes, as I said. It’s the sheer weight of numbers. For every sublime dreamer of óneirothélisi on our side, there are a thousand chirographers on yours. Believe me, Hugh, being defeated by your kind has felt like being defeated by an army of screaming toddlers. Humiliating.”
“The Lost Reavers were no toddlers.”
Zarja considered these words, tail slowly whisking up, down and the side of the tent. “No. They weren’t. And neither are you. I’m not saying every human is so inept. Just the vast multitude.”
Hugh snorted and lay back down, cushioning his head on his arm. “I can’t argue with that.”
“Though… our companions. Morwyn and Anastasia. They are impressive, in their own ways. For humans.”
He looked over at he
r. Could barely make out her large triangular ears in silhouette against the tent fabric. “Oh?”
“Yes. Morwyn… there’s more to her than meets the eye, obviously. Yet I get no scent of magic, óneirothélisi or chirography or the more chaotic, dangerous paths that your western cousins use.”
“Western cousins?”
She waved a hand airily. “Those of you who live on the far side of the Great Scar.”
“Great Scar? You mean the Burning Wastes?” asked Hugh. “Like Port Gloom, or Olandipolis.”
“Yes. Morwyn… there is something else going on there. I must admit I am terribly fascinated. She’s strikingly beautiful, for a human. One might almost believe she has a trace of elven blood in her.”
“Yeah,” said Hugh, looking back up into the darkness. “She’s… not bad looking.”
Zarja laughed softly. “And Anastasia is quite fetching in her own way. Her stern composure. Her severe self-control. Her terribly high regard for herself. What I wouldn’t give to see her face as she touches herself, all vulnerable and raw, desperate and yearning, her voice crying out in need…”
Hugh shifted his weight on his bedroll. “The uh, yeah. Probably… I mean -”
Zarja placed her hand between his legs, found his stiffening cock. Gave it a gentle squeeze. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“Of course I’ve thought about it,” said Hugh, meaning to remove her hand but pausing as she began to massage his shaft up and down. “She’s… she’s a beautiful woman…”
“How would you take her? Would you bend her over, fuck her from behind?” Her hand was slow and patient on him, gently tugging. “Would you take her hard, seeking to shatter her, or slow, so as to make her beg?”
Hugh shifted again. “I…”
“And Morwyn?” Zarja’s voice was husky, her breath in his ear, breasts pressed against his arm. “Have you thought of her?”
Hugh laughed. “Morwyn? I mean - there was a time, but now? Might as well sleep with a naked blade.”
“I don’t believe you. You’ve thought about her. How could you not? What a body she must have under that armor. Such physical perfection. Toned and pale, small, high breasts… I wonder, what would it take to make her admit her desire for you?”
“Admit her desire?”
“Of course. You think she’d be this upset if she simply despised you?”
Zarja’s words were like a jolt of lightning through his body. He felt his cock jerk in her hand as the possibility became real. “You think…?”
Again, her husky laugh. “Oh Hugh. I’ve observed you humans for centuries. I don’t think, I know. But as is, she won’t even admit it to herself. But there must be a way to lower those walls, make it so that she begs for your cock, for you to slide it inside her. Have her lie down before you, part those thighs as she holds your gaze, finger herself as she waits for your cock, whimpering in her need…”
It was almost too much. The very image was a torment to him, a revelation. Hugh bit his lower lip as Zarja began to work his cock faster. Shimmied her body down and brought her lips to the head of his prick.
“Who are you imagining right now? Licking your cock like this?” She lapped him from the base of his shaft to the head, still slowly working him with her hand. “Taking you in her mouth? Anastasia, her mature self-possession broken, her eyes wild with lust, or Morwyn, tormented by her own need, unable to stop, wanting to punish you even as she can’t wait to take all of you inside her…”
Zarja took his cock in her mouth just then, pushed down, taking all of him, and the riot of images in Hugh’s mind proved too much. His hips lifted off the sleeping pallet as he saw Morwyn’s naked body, saw it flicker and be replaced by Anastasia’s long, athletic frame, back to Morwyn, dark blue eyes looking up at him from his cock, then Zarja herself, her honey-colored eyes, her golden mane of hair that was brushing across his stomach and thighs, her heart-shaped face in all its feminine perfection.
He came explosively, biting back his grunt, aware of the other two women lying in their tents just a dozen yards away, and clamped both hands onto the back of Zarja’s head, thrusting as deep as he could as he ejaculated right into her throat.
She swallowed, the constrictions sublime, took all of him without a sound, not fighting him, allowing him to fill her throat completely, her face pressed hard into his pubic hair, and only when he sank back down with a low moan did she pull free, completely unfazed.
“Mmm,” he heard her murmur, followed by the slow, lascivious sound of her licking her lips. “Looks like you wouldn’t be averse to their attentions.”
Hugh draped his forearm over his eyes. He’d never come inside a woman while thinking of another. Or two others. Or - but warmth was radiating through him from his core, deep waves of satisfaction. Zarja bent down to lick at his cock a few more times, as if cleaning it, and crawled back up to press her lips to his ear.
“My turn,” she whispered, and parted her legs, settling down upon his thigh so that her wet pussy ground against his muscle. And there she slowly rocked, her whole body tight against his own, holding onto him as if he were a rock and she about to be torn away by terrible waves.
Angling her hips, grinding back and forth, with every greater urgency, breath quickening, one leg rising up so that she opened a little further against him, rubbing harder, harder, her nails digging into him until - with a gasp - she froze, her whole body trembling, and then shook, chin pressing down hard into his shoulder, only to rub frantically a few times more before letting out a contented sigh and subsiding against him.
“You have the best fucking thighs,” she whispered, nuzzling into his neck, one of her fox ears brushing against his cheek. “And are so… so delightfully innocent for all your experience. There’s so much for you to learn, Hugh. Mmm.”
She nuzzled him again, curled a little bit tighter against his side, and with remarkable speed, fell asleep.
Hugh lay there, eyes wide, feeling her juices run down the sides of his leg, her body warm and soft and voluptuous against him. When was the last time he’d slept with someone by his side? Years. All the women he’d fucked had always left right after, taking their gold with them.
Hugh moved his arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer. His thoughts were whirling. Too much had happened in that one conversation for him to process. The way she’d talked to him as she’d licked his cock… that Morwyn desired him…? That she wasn’t ensorcelled, but that her martial power came from something or somewhere else…? That chiromancy was child’s play compared to her kind’s óneirothélisi, which in turn was supposed to be just a pale shadow of the Thavma’s magothélisi… it was all too much.
In the end, Hugh focused on the warmth that suffused him, and the strange comfort he derived from Zarja’s closeness. If she’d been awake he could have gone again - and no doubt again and again - but instead, he felt an unusual sense of peace with her by his side. He didn’t want to figure out why. Didn’t want to analyze this strange sense of contentment. So instead, for the first time in years, he decided to risk the nightmares and fall asleep without exhausting or drinking himself to the point of delirium first, and closed his eyes.
Chapter Six
Zarja was gone when he awoke; Hugh rolled out the tent to find Elena cooking breakfast, Anastasia enjoying a steaming drink from a tin cup in the sunlight, but no sight of Morwyn.
“She’s ‘round the other side of the copse,” said Elena, smiling as she sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on the apron she’d tucked around her waist. “I believe she’s training with her blade.”
“Thanks,” said Hugh. Was Zarja hinting at something? On impulse he took up his own scabbarded one and walked off around the trees, nodding to Anastasia who raised two fingers in a minimalist salute.
Just an hour past dawn. No nightmares. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so long or so deeply. Consequently, he was brimming with energy. It was all he could do to stop himself from breaking
into a run. The dawn light was clear; the knee-high grass damp with dew; a gentle wind stirred the canopy of the copse, and in every direction stretched farmland, the furrowed fields already being worked by distant specks of people.
He heard grunts. Rounded the last trees and saw Morwyn. She was clad only in a sleeveless tunic, leggings, and boots; her ebon hair was bound back, or had been; numerous long locks now framed her face which gleamed with sweat.
She was practicing her forms, though Hugh had never seen anything like it. This was more a dance than a training drill. As she came into view she was spinning around, bending as if to the emperor and twirling her blade across the small of her back, passing it from one hand to the other and then bringing it scything up as she straightened, the blow severing a dozen stalks of grass which fell soundlessly as she turned, blade rising to come to a complete stop, point aimed directly at his chest.
Her chest rose and fell. Tendrils of black hair were caught in her sweat around her neck, across her brow. Mouth closed, nostrils flaring as she glared at him. And yes. He saw it now. The faintest hint to her features, something he’d never pinned down before, a hint of the elven in her eyes, in the near alien harshness of her cheekbones, her impossible beauty.
“What do you want?” she said, blade unwavering.
He lifted his sword, pulled the scabbard clear and tossed it away.
She lowered herself into a crouch, blade held in both hands.
Hugh set to circling her, not raising his weapon yet, moving through the long grass, watching her shoulders, her hips. She rippled her fingers across the hilt of her sword, knuckles whitening, and turned with him.
Bird song. A high, distant trill. The whisper of grass against his knees. The ground soft, no doubt once tilled and now left fallow.
