by West, Shay
“Let's hurry. Whatever is cooking in the kitchen smells divine.” Keera said.
“I'm right behind you.” Gwen grabbed the white pelt Feeror had made for her. She'd barely seen the big man since he had given her the gift. If she tried to speak to him, he rushed off as though on some important errand.
“That was hard for him.”
Gwen turned as Moylir approached and wiped the tears from her cheeks, still caressing the luxuriously soft pelt. “Why is it hard to give someone a gift?”
Moylir barked a laugh. “On my world, little one, a gift such as that is significant. It means that the one doing the giving is showing an interest in becoming a mate.”
“My…mate?” Gwen said breathlessly.
“You call them husbands on this world.” Moylir seemed confused by Gwen's response. “Surely you know of mates?”
“Of course I do. It's just that…well, I had always thought--—”
“What is wrong with Feeror? He is strong, and will give you many fine sons that will be equally strong. Does his shape not please you? I have seen you look at him. Perhaps I do not understand the expressions of this world,” Moylir said.
Gwen groaned. The last thing she wanted was to discuss Feeror's shape. She was well aware of how perfect his form was, how his long hair stuck to his skin when he worked up a sweat, the way his brown eyes smoldered when she caught him looking at her. Dear Spirits! She scolded herself for acting the fool. I must be misunderstanding his glances. How can he possibly be looking at me that way?
Gwen had dreamed of the day when Jon Stone would look on her with his eyes full of love. He had been her dream for as long as she could remember. It seemed wrong to push his memory aside and fill her thoughts with Feeror, as if she was betraying him somehow. She shook her head. Jon was never hers and never would be. Something had changed inside her. She couldn't quite put a finger on when exactly it had happened, but she wasn't sure she loved Jon anymore.
Could I be in love with Feeror? Gwen forced herself to remember their first encounter on Astra, where his look of disgust and his cruel words had pushed her to the brink. She had nearly killed him that day.
But somehow, over the course of their journey together, he had come to look on her differently. And Gwen had found her feelings toward him changing as well. She didn't want to allow herself to believe that he could possibly want her in the way that men wanted women.
“How should I have responded to his gift?”
“By giving him something in return.”
“Are you certain he meant what you think by giving me the wolf cape? Maybe he was just being nice.”
“Men of my world don't do things to be ‘nice’. They do things to survive and to ensure that our race survives. That is all. You are strong. Maybe not physically, but you have that invisible power that can kill. To men of my world, strength is everything. This is the feature they look for in a mate. It is an honor to have the interest of a man like Feeror,” Moylir stated firmly.
Gwen could do nothing but nod and follow the Volgon woman to the common room. The men were already seated. They had pushed several tables together along the longest wall. Several barmaids brought plates loaded with steaming beef and gravy, potatoes, and assorted vegetables. The girls stood with their hands on their hips staring at the men as they tore off huge chunks of bread and began sopping up gravy and stuffing their faces.
“Honestly! You'd think they hadn't eaten for a week!” Keera snorted.
“They did have to eat your cooking the past three nights…” Gwen let the sentence trail off.
Keera whirled to face her friend. “There is nothing wrong with my cooking! I mean, really! It was hot and fresh and there was plenty of it. I don't remember anyone else offering to cook.”
Gwen laughed. “I was teasing, silly. They are simply boys in men's clothing. They can't help but act like uncouth louts when it comes to eating.”
“Well, at the rate they are going they will eat it all, and we will be left hunting for scraps.” Keera stomped to the table and took a seat; soon she was shoveling her meal into her mouth as quickly as the men had moments before.
The barmaids kept the food and the ale coming. The group ate their fill and continued to eat until they were certain they were going to burst. The common room was filled with groaning and contented sighs.
“I wish that old man was here. A smoke would hit the spot,” Brad said. He leaned back in his chair, hands on his distended belly.
“If it's pipeweed you are lookin’ for, I can help with that.” The innkeeper waddled off to the kitchen and returned in short order with a couple of old pipes and a large bag of pipeweed. He stood and waited for Brad to light up, eager to see the man's reaction to the generous gift. Forka took the other pipe and soon the men were blowing smoke rings that filled the large room.
“I'm sorry we don't have entertainment for you. The lute player got drunk and stabbed someone the other day.” The innkeeper mopped his large brow. “Unfortunately, the man he stabbed had older brothers who didn't take too kindly to their youngest sibling getting killed.” The man gazed out the window in mock tragedy. “Now he plays his music for the Spirits.”
Jon stood slowly. “I have been known to tell a tall tale. Mind if I entertain your patrons?”
The innkeeper hesitated. “I appreciate your offer lad, but you see, times have been hard and, well—”
Jon held up his hands. “I wouldn't dream of charging a fee.”
The innkeep brightened noticeably. “In that case, the stage is yours.”
Jon walked up the single short step leading to the crude wooden stage near the main door of the inn. The common room was full and the patrons were beginning to become more boisterous with each tankard of ale they drank.
“Ah! What a pretty lad! And without even an instrument. What sort of trick had ol’ Mutton got up his sleeve?” A haggard looking man shot a look at the innkeeper. “What happened to Myron the Bard?”
“You know I hate that nickname, Scraggs. As for Myron, he got himself good and dead. Not my fault at all. This good lad offered some entertainment free of charge. Now you just sit back and keep yer mouth shut!” The rotund innkeep mopped his ever-sweating forehead and disappeared behind the bar.
“So long as he doesn't sing.” Scraggs turned to face the stage, muttering under his breath.
Jon took a deep breath and began his tale. He wove insubtle hints of magic as he spoke, drawing the listeners along with the heroes of the story as they fought a monstrous enemy, lost friends and comrades in the battle, and celebrated their victory.
The patrons cheered when the enemy was slain and mourned when the heroes fell. When Jon finished the tale, everyone in the room stood and demanded more.
The Chosen and the remaining two Guardians stood transfixed, clapping wildly along with everyone else. The Astrans had heard Jon tell stories before, but none like this.
“Hearing him talk about what we have done, it sounds so much more exciting than it was when we were actually doing it,” Keera whispered.
“I imagine that all heroes feel that way after hearing someone else speak of their deeds. At the time, the person doing the fighting isn't doing so because they wish to be immortalized in a story. They do what they do because they have to,” Sloan said. He was impressed with the lad's ability to tell a good tale.
“And he didn't even seem to be using magic. It was just him.” For a moment, Gwen forgot about the moody man Jon had become. He was once again the charming boy she had fallen in love with so many years ago. She felt sad, wishing they could all go back to the time before prophecy, and danger, and death.
“Why the sad face, little one?”
Gwen looked up at Feeror, overjoyed that he was speaking to her. She gave the big man a small smile. “Just remembering a boy I once knew.”
She was grateful that Feeror didn't push her. That was one of the things she loved about him. He simply let things be as they were and did not pry.
Even that fleeting moment of seeing Jon as he used to be didn't quell her feelings for the Volgon warrior standing at her side. He had given her what no one else had, what Jon never could: the feeling of being loved and accepted as a women, of being seen as desirable despite her handicap. She gently fingered the white wolf pelt cape that draped her shoulders.
“How far is it to this place where the Mekans are attacking?” Feeror asked.
“At least another week's journey. We will have to find a guide to lead us over the Mishrae Hills. Without a guide, we could become lost and perish in the mountains or the desert itself.”
“If what the Masters showed us is true, I doubt we will be needing a guide,” Feeror said.
Gwen didn't want to believe him but she knew his words to be true. Those on the Eastern continent had to know of the attack by now. Word would soon reach this continent.
“We can kill them, little one. As soon as the telepaths reach this world, we will kill the machines just like we killed them on my world,” Feeror said, jaw clenched in resolution.
“And then both our worlds will be safe.”
Feeror looked down at Gwen. “Yes, little one, they will both be safe.”
Gwen tried to read the flash of emotions that played across his face, changing so fast that she couldn't figure out what one meant before it was replaced by another.
Feeror turned and walked out of the inn, pushing the door so violently that Gwen was surprised he hadn't ripped it from its supports.
Gwen sighed, tears threatening to fall. She pursed her lips, clenched her fists, and followed the man out the door. She meant to make the big oaf talk to her.
“I think perhaps you should not follow so quickly,” Moylir said, putting her hand on Gwen, forcing the girl to stop.
“I must make him talk to me. I need to know why he looks at me with longing in his eyes and yet can act like he still loathes me.”
“You are forcing him to rethink our way of life. Everything in us says that weakness is not to be tolerated. And yet, here you are, physically weaker than the rest of us, but with strength that cannot be denied. It is this strength that he is attracted to. He will need time to overcome the revulsion of your physical deformity.”
There's that word again! Gwen bit her lip, fighting the urge to run after Feeror, to demand that he speak with her. What if he can't get over my physical form? She wasn't sure she could stand much more of this emotional turmoil. “But you said that he gave me the pelt because he wants to be my mate.”
“That is true, but he is a man and must wrestle with the inner voice that tells him your mating cannot come to be. He will come around. Be patient.” Moylir smiled.
Gwen sighed as she turned back to watch Jon, never noticing when Robert quietly stood and exited the inn.
* * *
“May I join you?”
Feeror glanced up at Robert. “As you wish.”
“I sense that you are troubled. Perhaps I can be of service.”
“I do not think you can help me.”
Robert waited patiently. The big man was bursting at the seams. It was only a matter of time before he would have to speak his thoughts or be crushed beneath the weight. A slight breeze made him shiver slightly. I should have brought my cloak.
“Why do your worlds have to be so complicated?” Feeror stood and paced in front of the wooden log he had been sitting on a moment ago.
“Are you saying yours is not?”
“It is different. I am not sure I can explain.” Feeror shook his head. “My people survived because of our ability to make tough decisions. Your worlds have yet to face something as devastating as what my world faced. The core of who we are is built on strength. And yet I find that I want to be with one who is weak.”
Robert nodded. “You speak of little Gwen. I have come to understand your people in the short time that we have traveled and fought together. The things you have had to do are abhorrent to most of us, but it is not right for us to judge that which we have not lived through.
“My people are taught that God makes us all for a purpose and that we are all special, unique, and worthy of life. You say your people value strength. I say that strength can come in many forms.
“Gwen has shown tremendous fortitude. She has fought with bravery, embraced your ways, and has endured your obvious distaste.” Robert laid his hand on Feeror's shoulder. “Gwen deserves better than to be treated like something inferior. She is a special woman.”
“I worry about what my comrades will think.” Feeror looked at Robert like a man drowning in his own emotions.
Robert sighed. “Only you can decide if having a future with Gwen is worth the respect of your fellow Volgons. I think that most of the group would be happy for the two of you to make a future together.”
Feeror nodded, his face showing signs of hope. “What you say is true. But where will we live? It won't be easy for her to live on my world.”
“The Volgons seemed to tolerate her while we were there. And you can always live here, on her world,” Robert whispered. “Finding a person to share your life with is no small thing, Feeror. Do not let her get away.”
* * *
It took quite some time spent stumbling about in the dark before a kind goodwife finally pointed her in the direction Feeror had gone. The woman gave her a knowing wink before going back inside her house. Gwen found herself blushing as she said her thanks.
“Beautiful night for a walk,” Robert said.
Gwen sighed. “Is it also a beautiful night for fool's errands?”
Robert knelt down and took the tiny girl by the shoulders. “Love is never a fool's errand, child.” He gave her a comforting squeeze.
Gwen grinned ruefully. “Is it that obvious?”
“To everyone in the group.” Robert winked at the girl and bade her goodnight.
Gwen found Feeror sitting on a log, idly picking apart a piece of bark and tossing bits of it in front of him. Her heart fluttered as she watched him for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. Gwen's heart ached when she imagined the worst possible scenario: Feeror was unable to overcome his feelings about her physical deformity, and she died alone and miserable. Tears stung her eyes, and she brushed them away, tired of how easily they fell when she was forced to deal with the big oaf. Gwen shook her head, steeled her resolve, and marched toward him. He did not look up as she approached.
“Why do you insist on running away from me every time you are about to say something important?” Gwen folded her arms across her chest, her voice shaking with tense emotion.
Feeror pulled at the bark more furiously. “This body, this mind…it is confusing. It is giving me signals, and I don't know what they mean.”
Gwen looked at the man like he was crazy. “What signals? What are you talking about?”
“On my world, things are simpler. If a man wants to take a mate, he picks out the female, gives her a gift, and she either gives him a gift in return if she wishes to become his mate, or gives nothing, indicating her displeasure with the thought of mating with him.”
Gwen was thankful the dark hid her flushed cheeks.
“Moylir tells me that you desire me. And yet you have not given a gift in return.” Feeror's muscles bunched under his tunic.
Gwen's heart filled with love to see this great big man, so unsure of himself, and yet finally opening up to her. She hesitated before answering, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “It is a little different here. The giving of gifts does not constitute a desire to mate, although people who like each other will often give trinkets or flowers…” She trailed off at his look of utter confusion.
“When two people decide they like each other, they spend time courting, and then the man asks the girl's father for permission to marry his daughter. Then a Mystic performs the marriage ceremony….” She rubbed her eyes as Feeror looked more confused than ever. “It's more complicated on this world.”
Feeror rolled his eyes and threw the bare piece of wood as far
as he could. “That much I figured out.”
Gwen still stood facing him. She took a deep breath and forced herself to ask the question that burned inside her, even if it meant he did not tell her what she wanted to hear. “Feeror, when you speak of gifts and mating,” she stammered and tried to keep her voice steady. “Well, are you saying you want to be, well…mated to me?” Gwen tried to force her heart to slow, but to no avail.
The big Volgon wrung his hands. “Yes. Although I do not know how things work on your world, I think we should be mated. I am strong and can give you fine sons, can teach them to fight and build things. Your power will make our children even stronger.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Have I said something wrong?”
“Is there nothing else you like about me other than my power?” Gwen felt worse now than she had that day when she'd realized that Jon would never love her. Tears burned her eyes and a lump was building in her throat.
“What else is there? Don't your kind pick mates based on desirable traits?” The man looked truly confused.
“Desirable traits? Desirable….” The sob escaped before she could stop it. The knife twisted in her heart, and her stomach fell to her feet.
Before she could turn and go, Feeror grabbed her tiny hands and enveloped them in his. “This body is making me want to do the strangest things. I do not understand what is happening to me. Is it like this all the time for your kind?”
“Like what?” Gwen hardly dared to breathe. His touch was like an electric shock bolting through her whole body.
“This desire to touch. And there are other things too, but I do not know their meaning, I only know the words. What does it mean to kiss?”
Gwen couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. “How can you know what kissing is and not know what it is?”
Feeror frowned. “Your friend did that magic thing that made us able to understand the language. But this kissing is something we don't do, so I have nothing to compare it to. Any more than you understood the concept of computers and plasma rifles.”
