Late-February – 3,390 BC
Earth: Crash site
Ninsianna
Ninsianna stared at the long, lean legs protruding from beneath the pair of silvery beasts that powered Mikhail's sky canoe. Engines he called these devices. Each was larger than the largest auroch, with sharp spearheads and thick hollow reeds connecting every aspect of his ship as though they were enormous twin spiders sharing a single web.
“Céilí mór!!!” he cursed. Something rang as it hit the floor. “Ninsianna, d'fhéadfá a fháil dom le do thoil go bhfuil eochair?”
“Here … anseo,” she handed him the grasping tool he called ‘wrench.' He'd repeated the phrase ‘le do thoil’ enough times to understand it meant ‘please give me.' The strange tool, in fact, just about everything in his sky canoe, had no correlation in her language. She simply paid attention and learned whatever she could.
Muscular thighs flexed beneath taut woven clothing as he shifted position to move deeper beneath the engines. His undershirt had ridden up, giving her a pleasant view of his belly button. She knew she should ask him questions about how the magic he was trying to fix actually worked, but right now she was having too much fun watching taut abdominal muscles ripple beneath his skin.
“Ninsianna, d'fhéadfaí tú a lámh le do thoil dom scriúire?”
“Anseo." She grabbed the small spear-like object called ‘screwdriver.' His wings were splayed beneath him on the floor like a brown feathered cape. She crawled over them on hands and knees, trying to feel where feathers ended and flesh began so she didn't kneel on living tissue.
“Thank … you." He regarded her with that cool, expressionless mask he always wore as he took the ‘screwdriver’ from her hands. The moment stretched out before he shifted his gaze back to manipulate the little spear into the ‘engine.'
“You're welcome,” she said concisely in her own language. She carefully backed out, careful not to bang her head. They both froze as she placed one hand down upon the spot where his bare abdomen disappeared into his pants, dangerously close to where his manhood pressed through the fitted garments. His warmth radiated up through her fingers as she registered his abdominal muscles harden at the unexpected contact.
“Oh … excuse me!"
She jerked away her hand a full moment after she should have removed it. Why did embarrassing moments such as this always stretch out in time? She scurried the rest of the way out from beneath the engines, ripping out a few dark feathers in the process. She stared with dismay at the evidence in her hand.
“Oh … sorry!" She dusted stray pin feathers off of her shawl.
“Okay,” he reassured her. “Ní raibh sé gortaithe … no hurt."
Oh, thank the goddess he was too engrossed to see her face turn flaming red! Focus … on anything … but … him…
Magic! She needed to learn how his magic worked, or at least how it should work so she would understand once it started working again. She deliberately turned her attention to something other than the very appealing lower half of his body. She'd always hated the long lists of medicinal herbs Mama made her memorize, but that was why she was here, wasn't it? She-who-is wanted her to learn this magic he called technology. She decided to memorize the layout of his engine room.
She stared at systems and implements she did not understand, not even after she'd asked and Mikhail had tried to explain it to her. Oh, well. Just because she didn't understand what she was looking at didn't mean she couldn't create an image of it in her mind's eye. She focused on each item, determined at the very least to memorize its shape.
“Céilí mór!!!” Mikhail cursed as he slid out from beneath the engine and gave it an icy stare. Wiping black tar off his hands with a cloth, he exclaimed, “níl a fhios agam cad é an diabhal cearr leis an rud damanta! Don't … know … why … broken!"
Mikhail's feathers rustled with frustration. That her usually unflappable friend was visibly frustrated meant whatever had him perplexed would cause any normal man to break out in a fit of temper. She didn't know anything about fixing engine oars that made sky canoes travel across the stars, but she could relate to the frustration of not being able to fix something that you needed to have work. She wanted the engines to work every bit as much as he did so he could take her to see the stars, but she didn't think he would appreciate hearing how his broken engines must be the goddess' will. Instead, she slid her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest to let him know she sympathized with his frustration. She was frustrated, too!
“Ninsianna,” he tilted up her chin. “Tú ag dul a fháil ramhar inneall ar fud an tosach do ghúna."
Smears of a black, tar-like substance striped his hands, face, and chest. She moved her face against his chest and sniffed. It smelled like the black, sticky bitumen their allies in Arrapha traded as a waterproofing for canoes. It appeared that river canoes and sky canoes had something in common.
"Bitumen?" She tried to read the emotion which darted across his beautiful, chiseled features as she playfully gave the substance another sniff. Taking the cloth he'd just used to clean his hands, he dabbed at a spot on her cheek.
“See … now … dirty,” he admonished her.
Her heart did an interesting little flip-flop as she stared up into his clear, blue eyes. Time stretched out for an eternity even though she knew it was only a few heartbeats.
She knew the only reason he didn't pull away from her embrace was because he didn't know what to do with her, not because he found her desirable. He allowed her to take the lead and studied her every move as he adjusted to human culture. If she were to stand on her head and insist it was an important part of human communication, he would probably mimic her. No … that wasn't very nice. She-who-is had asked her to help him, not take out her frustration at his total lack of interest by making him act foolish. She must not abuse his trust.
She took the rag and stood on tip-toe to wipe a large streak that went from his chin to his ear.
“Yes … dirty…” she wiped the spot clean before stepping back and handing him the rag. “Good … now… let’s eat?”
At the mention of food, Mikhail followed her out of the sky canoe like an enormous winged dog. Yes, she thought. They were becoming very good friends.
Chapter 32
Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One Page 36
