Taken to Lemora

by Elizabeth Stephens

  I had expected them to stare at me given that I have never seen any creature that looks like me before, but what I didn’t expect in a million years? They’re staring at Raingar equally. It’s like…they’ve never seen him before either. Isn’t he clan chief of this territory?

  “What? What are you thinking? Why are you looking at me like that? Is it my pants?”

  I glance down, suddenly flustered as I’m pulled from my thoughts by this strange pronouncement. “Your…pants?” The female is always articulate…

  “Don’t look at them!” He jumps — jumps! — an entire foot into the air! It’s…absurd and I start to snort-giggle and I struggle to control it. I use a different tactic taught to me by Igmora and try to mask the snorts as coughs.

  “I don’t — ” cough, cough “ — understand, my lord.”

  “Your…your…WHAT!” He shouts so loudly, it’s my turn to jump.

  We stand facing one another in the vaulted doorway while Rekkaru and Lemoran and the occasional Asgid — creatures about my size with charcoal skin that’s just as dark but a little grayer than mine, and effervescent eyes that sparkle like stars in their square faces — trickle past.

  I try not to let my confusion show and smooth my expression into something amenable. “I’m sorry. I believe we may be crossing yeeyar frequencies, here.” I laugh. Laughter makes the male feel calm. It makes you seem more accessible. You must always be easy to access for the male.

  “You asked me originally what I was thinking. If I am interpreting your second question correctly, I was not thinking about your pants. I was thinking of the rich diversity of Lemora and how proud you must be of your keep, even if it is unfortunately full on busy solars such as these,” I fudge. It’s the best I can come up with and the most subtle way of hinting that I don’t agree with his assessment of his hall. Because it is great.

  I wonder fleetingly if he doesn’t see it, or if he’s simply pretending not to. There’s something about him that screams goodness, to me. Or maybe I’m just tainted by our first meeting when I gave him every opportunity to push me away and he did the opposite by protecting me and keeping me close. Safe. Warm.

  “Pagh,” he says noncommittally.

  He shifts his weight between his feet, scratches his leg, scratches his cheek. He looks in and out of the hall and anywhere but at me. It gives me time to look at him — really look — at his face.

  His lips are full and a paler brown than the rest of his skin. His nostrils are wide. His skin is rough all over, truly like the surface of a rock, choppily carved, but the contrast against his eyes…it throws me for a loop every time.

  His eyes are rings of striated color. They’re stunning and beautiful and so expressive. He doesn’t have eyebrow hairs but his brows protrude and cast shadows onto his rough cheeks. I fight the urge to lift onto my tip toes and brush my fingers over his face and instead concentrate on the horns protruding from above his ears.

  Huge, magnificent things, they circle down, low enough to breach his eyeline before tipping back up a foot above his head where they stand as sharp as spears, ready to stab into low-hanging clouds. They make his giganticness seem even more giant.

  Each horn is as thick as my upper arm. They’re dark grey, almost black, except for a small patch on the right one that appears lighter than the rest. I wonder if his horns pain him — he sure acts like they do. Maybe the color flaking is a sign that they molt or shed?

  “You…” He clears his throat. “You’re sure you like the pants?” He holds the sides out away from his thighs and I’m surprised, given the size of his thighs, that his pants are so large.

  But I’m not going to tell him that! I snort, cough to cover it, and then blurt, “You are a very striking male…”

  “Pagh!” He shouts, body jolting with the sound. “I know what I look like. I was asking you about the pants. Do you like them?”

  “Nob!” I squeak. “Nob, I…” I gasp, and then realizing that I’ve just insulted this male, I snort nervously.

  The sound seems to please him though, because his lips jerk up into a smile.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  His smile falls just as quickly as it surfaced and I wonder what I’ve done to ruin it. I’m starting to wonder if everything that Igmora taught me wasn’t just a little bit…wrong.

  “Nob. Say what you mean. I know you meant it.” He crosses his arms over his chest and manages to look oddly more comfortable. “Could you fix them?”

  “Your pants? Yeffa, of course.”

  One of his brows lifts and his eyes narrow, but I have no idea why he’d be skeptical. It’s the female’s job.

  Isn’t it?

  I shake my head, trying to seem certain and less confused by this interaction — and all of our interactions. “Nob, I do mean it. I would be happy to help you tailor your garments. I tailored this dress this past lunar. Providing you with a garment more suited to your shape would be my pleasure.”

  And it would. Sewing is one of the few skills that Igmora insisted I perfect that I actually enjoyed. “I’ve been sewing since before I can remember. Since I was a kit,” I offer, though I don’t know why. He doesn’t care about my childhood…

  “You like to stitch?”

  I nod.

  He relaxes further. “Igmora let you?”

  “She insisted, actually. She was the one who taught me herself. I always actually liked those moments. I felt like I got to actually see her a little bit. Most of the time, she was just…she is just…cold.”

  He nods and frowns, but I don’t get the sense he’s displeased with me. So then, why am I so nervous? I lick my lips and shuffle uncomfortably. He licks his lips. He has such full lips. I wonder if they’re as tough as the rest of him or if they’re able to be gentle. I think they are. I think he is.

  I feel myself heat and quietly clear my throat.

  “Did she treat you…okay? As a kit, I mean?”

  My fists clench automatically. I struggle to hold his gaze and find myself looking out of the wide open doorway — and then through the open doorways of the outer walls of his fort — at the mossy hills that spread out into the distance and the roads that wind across them.

  “There were some good times.” There were three. “Like when Igmora bought me my first stitching device.”

  “What kind?”

  “Wh…what?”

  “What kind of device? Was it a machine or a wand?”

  “Oh. It was a wand.”

  “Can I get one for you? Would that please you?” His voice is tinged with just a hint of desperation.

  It makes me smile. It also makes my heart beat faster and my insides scrunch up together tight. It’s the female’s job to please the male. That’s what Igmora always said. But right now, if I’m not totally delusional, it seems like this male is trying to please me.

  “Yeffa. It would please me immensely. I can do double the work in half the time. I’d have probably gotten more sleep last lunar, too.” I snort when I laugh and his eyes go wide.

  I wonder if I’ve said something wrong, but the corner of his mouth twitches and his bulky arms squeeze even tighter over his massive chest.

  “GORMAN!” He roars over his shoulder. “Can you get Essmira one of those Asgid stitching gadgets?”

  My face burns. I reach out and place my hand on his arm. “You don’t have to ask him to do that for me.”

  He stares down at the contact of my skin on his and I wonder if he can feel it. The tingling… There’s a tingling in my skin that’s entirely alien to me.

  Maybe it’s because his skin is so rough and I’ve just caught the vivid hallucination of all that rough skin pressing down on me. Maybe it’s because that tingling has reached my lower belly. Maybe it’s because of his kindness. Maybe it’s just the cool, damp Lemoran breeze.

  And maybe it’s because the idea of having a male looking to please me is new and exciting, but whatever it is, I feel zapped by it and I wonder if he’s stunn
ed equally.

  “I…” His throat works and his right hand floats halfway to his horns before jerking to a stop and folding back against his chest.

  His left arm — the one I’m touching — doesn’t move at all. It’s eerily still. And then, dazedly, he whispers, “You can have anything you want. Anything that’s mine to give.”

  “Do you need it now, Essmira, or shall I have it delivered to Merquin?”

  “Oh. I don’t want to bother one of your couriers,” I say, quickly turning to face Gorman, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere. His eyes are bright and curious and I feel my face heat even more when he not-so-surreptitiously glances between Raingar and I and my hand and his arm. “I can carry it.”

  “We have shipments to deliver to Merquin’s keep, anyway, and the wand takes up a negligible amount of space on the pad pad carts. It would be no trouble at all.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case, that would be overly kind of you. Thank you.”

  “Not a problem.” He offers me a smile and a little bow, but doesn’t move away immediately. Instead, he makes a little note in his book and then shuts it with a loud snap. “What will you be making first, Essmira?”

  “Some pants for Raingar,” I reply and Gorman belts out a laugh. He laughs so hard that tears come to his onyx eyes. He wipes them away with the sleeve of his robe — an extremely fine creation, but not wholly suited to his species’ frame, I think, dreaming up possibilities for Hypha creations while simultaneously trying to cage my own responding snort-laugh.

  “Is it something I said?” I ask Raingar with a smile. I bite my bottom lip.

  “Don’t answer that,” Raingar barks to Gorman, who promptly ignores him and says, “Apparently, his visit to Quadrant One turned him into quite the connoisseur of style.” Gorman laughs at his own joke before shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve had so much fun in my life…”

  “Pagh!” Raingar grabs my arm a little roughly and wheels me outside into the fresh, misty air. “Buggar off, you bastard!” He shouts over his shoulder.

  Gorman answers by saying, “It’s been a pleasure, Essmira.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine!” I wave awkwardly over my shoulder and let Raingar steer us out of the busy courtyard, out of the forward gates, and onto a crowded street. Most beings here are riding pad pads, but Raingar insists on walking.

  “Um…where are we going?” I say when we’ve been standing in the center of the crowded path in and out of his keep for some time — long enough for a half dozen creatures to attempt to speak to him and, surprisingly, me.

  “Uhmmmmmmmm.” He stammers wildly, hands reaching for his horns absently. I’m more convinced now than ever that they’re hurting him, and I fight the urge to ask him if I can help him in some way. I know that Lemoran horns are sensitive, but I worry that if I offer, he’ll view me exclusively as a pleasurer. Wait. Aren’t I? Given my confusing and often conflicting treatment so far, I’m no longer sure.

  “Is there somewhere I might source some fabric for your pants? I was thinking I might tailor your existing trousers, but I can also make you a new pair, too.”

  “You mean…the market?” I don’t know why he’s looking at me as if I’ve just asked him for one of his vital organs, but I nod.

  “Yeffa. The market. Is there one in your territory?”

  “Is there…is there! Is there one in my territory? Pagh!” He throws both hands in the air and stomps further down the path, seemingly without caring whether or not I follow.

  I bite back a smile as I jog to catch up and, even though the air is wet with drizzle and sunlight, I snort and don’t bother putting up my hood.

  The walk to the market is winding and long. I’m realizing quickly that Lemora is a very spread out planet, yet…you’re never alone. There are beings, the occasional outpost, pub, restaurant, dwelling or storefront, all along the winding paths and at every single location, every being within or simply on the path waves at Raingar as we pass. They don’t even seem to mind that he only ever offers them grunts, at best and, at worst, curses in return.

  The pad pads some beings ride are magnificent beasts. Huge and shaggy, they have long, tan and white fur that tracks dirt and dust. They have four legs and a split tail with three furry ends that they occasionally use to swat at, catch and devour large insects that buzz past them, or simply swat at each other or their riders. They’re always making wild sounds that I like to think is laughter. They seem so happy. It’s infectious.

  Their mouths are wide on the front of their gigantic heads, smiles stretching all the way back to their tiny, horned ears. Their teeth are blocky and oddly charming. Their dark noses are soft and fuzzy to the touch and their eyes are small and dark. They are, in a word, the opposite of Lemoran — soft everywhere the average Lemoran is not.

  But happy.

  Everything here is. And maybe even the grumpy Lemoran beside me who I can see staring at me out of the corner of my eye when he thinks I cannot.

  I look up at him and he quickly turns forward. I smile, the tingling getting stronger in my belly, affecting the tops of my thighs, making them itch. I recognize the symptom for what it is — my body’s growing need. I only hope that he can’t scent arousal like some other species can. How embarrassing…

  “Do you…dislike pad pads, my lord?” I ask as we round another bend.

  The path disappears over the hill behind us, taking the last sight of Raingar’s keep with it, while in front of us, a cluster of boulders parts to reveal Raingar’s village below. It’s beautiful.

  Small houses and stores come together in the center of a shallow valley. Moss, rather than grass, covers the dark soil everywhere else. Against the horizon, a single enormous star glows.

  Large though it is, the heat it emits isn’t so violent. With the cool winds and gentle, intermittent rainfall, I still require a cloak. Raingar seems immune to it.

  “Dislike? I hate them! Do you not see their faces? They’re always smiling about something, like they’ve got the secrets of the universe hidden underneath all that fur. Fur! How ridiculous for this climate.”

  I smirk. Smirk! Ladies don’t smirk. Or do they? I can’t seem to recall Igmora’s wisdom on the subject so, I decide then to define my own. Smirking is okay.

  “Do they not originate on this planet?”

  He scowls. “Of course they do.”

  I tamp the urge to snort again by biting the inside of my cheek. “So you don’t like them because they have fur?”

  “I don’t like them because I don’t like them.” I think that’s all he’s going to say until he offers. “They smile too much.”

  I can’t help it. I belt out a laugh. It goes far, far beyond a snort and it honestly surprises me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a sound. At least, never from my own mouth.

  I’m still walking when I realize Raingar isn’t. I turn, ready to apologize for whatever I’ve done to offend him, but the expression on his face wipes away that urge cleanly. He looks totally stunned. I glance back behind me. Perhaps…the sight of the village.

  “It is beautiful,” I tell him. “You must be very proud.”

  He licks his lips. “Very proud. Extremely proud. Proud. Pride. Pride?” He shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Certainly not your pants.” Oh my stars! Did I just say that!

  Raingar’s brows rise and he blinks suddenly, in rapid succession. His chest inflates and I don’t fail to notice the tightening of his heavily defined abdomen. And then laughter explodes out of him. He releases a flurry of laughter so loud that it startles the pad pad trotting towards us and the Asgid riding it.

  The rider is smiling though, and the pad pad is obviously smiling, too. What’s funny is that I’m used to males looking at me, but this rider isn’t. I like that. It feels…liberating, not to be seen.

  Instead, he’s smiling fondly at Raingar and I suck in a breath, feeling almost giddy. They love him, it occurs to me. The surliest brute in the cosmos, and t
hey love him for it.

  The rider’s laughter dwindles and the pad pad huffs out a happy breath before plodding contentedly past us. I scamper out of its path, but the movement sends me crashing into Raingar directly.

  “Off. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  I reach instinctively to straighten his shirt, but he isn’t wearing one. I end up pawing his pectorals instead. When I should pull back, I linger. His skin is so rough, it feels like textured fabric, courser than untreated cotton but still much softer than untreated wool. He freezes underneath my touch and I still. The urge to touch him more grows stronger, more intense.

  He reaches his hand towards my face and touches one of my black, springy curls. “I think Merquin may be right,” he says distractedly before shuddering suddenly and withdrawing from me. My palms feel cold in the absence of his heat, even though I burn with embarrassment at having touched him — a stranger, ostensibly — so freely.

  “In my limited experience, she often is,” I tease for the second time. Ohr! What is wrong with me? “Sorry, I…”

  “Oghh, don’t you dare tell her I’m agreeing with you, but you’re right. She is always right and you need to listen to her.”

  Horror that I’ve missed some important directive crushes me. “I’m so sorry, I…”

  “That!” He shouts. “There! You did it again.”

  “What?”

  “Apologized! I hate it! Stop it!”

  “Oh…” I don’t know what to think. “Um…” I go to apologize, then quickly amend, “Of course, my lord.”

  “Lord! I don’t like that either,” he glowers.

  I smirk. “Raingar.”

  “Good. Now this, Essmira, is the village.”

  He points out different buildings, different stores. Within them, I’ve spotted six different species so far and none seem to be treated any better or worse than the rest, though I have noticed that Lemoran make up the bulk of the leadership.

  The healer of his village is an exception to that, however — the male is an Asgid. We stop there to give Raingar time to speak to him about some form of honey that he’s acquired. He’s asking about quantities and stores and other items he might need in the future and the male is very respectful to Raingar, despite all his curses and grumbles.