Out of order, but...
Jan. 26th, 2006 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI like to read pretties when I've had a lousy day. So if you don't mind that I'm temporarily skipping Aik, read on.
Witcher
“Witcher,” Shahjahan cupped Witcher’s face in one hand, leaning down to take a kiss from pale pink lips, which tasted of honey and almonds, a hint of lemon.
“Shah…” Witcher opened to the kiss, his immediate compliance as stunning the thousandth time as it had been the first. That a man who could have been all but a king himself should bend so easily never failed to steal his breath. “What’s wrong?”
Shah sat back reluctantly, but did not make any attempt to eat the late snack that had been brought. “The visit tomorrow.”
Witcher tilted his head. “You fear something will go awry? Betrayal?” A pause, and Shah didn’t flinch from the sky-blue eyes that studied him so intently. “Their effect upon me?”
“Hardly the last,” Shah said, waving it away like he would command his table be cleared. “So far as that goes, I fear only that they will upset you.” He hesitated; only a heartbeat of time, but a hesitation all the same. “Your place is with me. I do not doubt you will remain there.”
“Yes, you do,” Witcher said with a faint smile. He reached up and tugged Shah down on top of him, burying them amongst a wealth of pillows. “For naught. I belong right here, and I don’t care who of my former countrymen try to tell me otherwise.”
Shah kissed him hard, deep, tongue tasting honey and almonds, lemon and the flavor that was unique to Witcher. And he was always so hot, such a contrast to the pale skin and hair that looked as though they should be cool to the touch. “Are you really mine?”
For reply, Witcher simply continued to kiss him, fingers running through his short, thick hair. “You doubt it?”
“Doubt I can truly be so fortunate.”
At that Witcher did laugh. “Majesty, your fortune is what you are bold enough to take.”
Shah smiled into their kiss, then shifted them on the pillows, holding Witcher’s wrists in one hand , thrusting a thigh between his legs. “Then I will take you.”
“You already have me.”
“Yes,” Shah kissed him again, this time softly, slowly. This time there was no hesitation when he spoke. “I do.” With a last lick, he abandoned Witcher’s lips to explore his throat, feeling the sighs and moans as more of that pale skin was bared for his attention. His hands set to the task of unfastening the skirt and pants that, though they looked so good on his men, were ever irksome in removing. Far too much fabric; if he were not so greedy, he would simply have them walk around nude.
Witcher laughed, the sound ragged and breathless. “You don’t have time for this.”
Shah responded with a laugh of his own. “If I waited until I had time, I would never get to do it.” He leaned up to give Witcher another kiss. “You are beautiful, Witcher.”
“Men are not beautiful,” Witcher replied, amusement in his eyes.
“No?” Shah asked. “And yet, when you look like that,” he watched as Witcher writhed beneath his touch, gasping his name. “You are very beautiful indeed.”
Witcher groaned, and tilted his head up, begging for another kiss. Shah obliged, and let Witcher tug his hands free, relishing the touches as Witcher opened his robes to map his skin.
Witcher closed his eyes and willed his head to stop aching. But still the light persisted in making his head throb, pain digging deep enough that he wanted to scream or cry.
He could do neither.
The soldiers finally let him go, and Witcher felt the world tilt unsteadily. He opened his eyes, immediately regretting it, but forced himself not to fall over. Lord above, he was so tired. The pounding headache did not help either – suddenly being a prisoner did not seem so bad. Surely whatever torture they had in mind was better than this.
And anything had to be better than another battlefield, another day, hour, minute of seeing men die, hearing them scream, having to write home who had died. He was tired. If he was going to die here, a prisoner of war, he would thank God for finally being merciful.
Witcher closed his eyes again, holding perfectly still until his head settled a bit.
Voices began to penetrate; the strange, rolling dialect of the desert nations he had been made to study diligently once it was decided he would be a commander. Reluctantly Witcher opened his eyes again.
He should be ashamed, really, that he and his men had been captured. An error he should not have made. But he was so tired…
Witcher looked up to regard the man who would be deciding his fate – the King Shahjahan about whom he had heard much, most of it distorted, twisted information that tended him toward believing the exact opposite.
His head still throbbed, but suddenly it seemed a distant, tolerable pain. Shahjahan was…what he had expected but not. There was a sternness, a confidence there that Witcher had long associated with royalty, nobility. But there was something else too in his demeanor, which he could not identify. Dark eyes locked with his, and the pain in his head faded from notice a bit more.
Witcher broke contact first, and wished he knew why those eyes were so disconcerting. Perhaps because there was no smugness, no satisfaction in them. His own liege would have been gloating over such a capture as much as possible. But this king looked only like he wished the whole affair over.
He switched his gaze to the men lined up on either side of the low throne, each one sitting motionless on thick cushions. They were all dressed alike, in long, black skirts. Bare-chested. Fine chests, Witcher could not help but note. Each man was far too easy to stare at – and good excuses not to go back to the king.
The hair alone on the one nearest the throne on the right was reason enough to gawk, and Witcher hoped that was not what he was doing. It was loosely bound, pooling like dark silk on the floor beside and behind him. If it were acceptable to call men beautiful, this man would be that.
On the left hand side was a man a trifle rough around the edges – at least compared to the first. Short, tousled hair and a bold gaze. There was an energy about him, even as still as he sat, that spoke of a harder life. Possibly low-born, but if his upbringing bothered him, it did not show in his mien.
Beside him was a man who had a stillness the first two lacked. A calm that spoke of discipline. Like the man next to him, he had a strong build, muscles shaped by rigorous exercise. His hair was shoulder-length, pulled neatly back.
“Do you speak our language, western soldier? A commander, yes?”
Witcher turned his attention back to the king. “Yes,” he said slowly, the foreign language coming somewhat stiff to his tongue. He’d not had reason to use it for a while. “I am a Commander.”
“What is your name?”
“Witcher Fitzroy.”
The king arched an eyebrow, amusement making his lips twitch. “Witcher? As in one who does witch work?”
Witcher thought he saw the rough-looking man start to laugh. “Aye,” he said reluctantly, and hoped the issue would not be pressed. But they always asked.
“Why would someone name you this?”
“I sincerely doubt the story is one which would interest you.”
“Indulge me, prisoner.”
Well, that said all that needed to be stead. Lord above, he felt tired. “My mother was rumored to be a witch. Before she died – in childbirth – she named me Witcher to thumb her nose at everyone.”
“How interesting,” the king said. He motioned, the gesture almost lazy, and the soldiers and guards in the room vanished.
Witcher frowned, sensing something strange. “Where are my men?”
“They are being held in our cells. But do not worry, for now they are being well-treated.” The king made a vague motion in the air, as if trying to order something else away. “I have no interest in dragging out this absurd war. You are my prisoner in hopes that I can end matters, not prolong them.”
His men were all right. Witcher allowed himself to relax a bit – then wondered why he was so willing to trust the king’s words. His head was not so strained as that. Though the throbbing was worsening, becoming harder to ignore even with the distractions before him. The need to close his eyes again was strong, but Witcher could not permit himself even that small relief. Not when he was so vulnerable.
His wrists were beginning to chafe against the rope binding them, but Witcher barely noticed anything past his aching head.
He realized the king was speaking again. “What?”
Another arched brow; Witcher could see he had surprised the king. “I said would you like to see them for yourself?”
Witcher shook his head, then immediately regretted. “No,” he managed. “I will trust your words for now.”
“Are you all right?”
How strange – it almost looked as though the king actually cared. “I’m fine,” Witcher managed. “What do you need from me? I cannot imagine I am here simply to converse.”
“I wanted to know who precisely I hold captive, that I might send accurate information to your king. Given your location, I doubt anyone knows that you have been captured.”
“Probably not. And if you tell them you have Witcher, he will respond quickly enough.” Witcher almost laughed, imagining the looks on the faces of the king and ministers when they realized their favorite tool was out of their grasp.
The king smiled, pleased, and relaxed in his seat. “So I have succeeded in capturing someone quite valuable.”
“Valuable? I would not say that,” Witcher said. “Merely quite useful.”
“A good soldier?”
“Yes, until today. And more besides.”
“More?”
Witcher grinned, a bitter twist to it. “Yes, but that is nothing that relates to you.” He would say no more about it. Already he was saying too much – but he could not bring himself to care. If this was the route he must travel to get out of this war, even if he already knew there was another one waiting for him, he would do it. At least his men could go home.
He could not bite back a gasp as fresh pain lanced through his head. His hands twitched, wanting to make an attempt to soothe away the crippling pain. Witcher could not help closing his eyes, knowing that if he didn’t, his late lunch would wind up all over the rug.
“Have you been injured?” The king’s voice, so strangely kind, slipped past the pain.
Witcher bit back another gasp of pain. “No. I’ll be fine.” He hoped. It was rare it was ever this bad; he wondered if he’d even be able to move now.
“Something is wrong.” He said something else, but Witcher could not understand what. The light, why couldn’t it just go away? He wanted to cry, and didn’t that just make everything worse? Someone moved past him, softness brushing his arm, the smell of nutmeg, cinnamon.
Then his wrists were free, and his hands were cradling his head before he could make them hold still. How quickly he’d succumbed to weakness – but after everything else, the fighting and the capture, knowing he had failed and endangered his men, coping with one of his crippling headaches was too much.
His hands were pulled away by much warmer ones, and even through the pain Witcher was fascinated by how dark the skin was against his own, which even by his country’s standards was startlingly pale. He looked up into the face of the king.
“Your head?”
Witcher was again struck by how kind the man sounded; a trait he could associate with a king. It was…tempting, somehow. Though he couldn’t say what he was being tempted to do. But the word seemed the right one. “Yes. I am sorry.”
“Do not be; my mother had a concubine who suffered the same.”
Witcher tried to nod, but opted to hold as still as possible. Then he was being led away, and gave up trying to maintain any sort of control. He just couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.
Concubines seldom attended any court function but the nightly dinners, when everyone was expected to relax; let food and wine and music ease away the strains of the day. Shah, though, was fond of having them present at certain times or places, for support or to make a statement ¬– authority, wealth, ability. A weak King would not be able to control the men this one had claimed for his harem.
Witcher wanted to shake his head in amusement. Once he had thought the idea of a harem something his tutor had made up. A grand joke on an ignorant, pale-skinned soldier. Quite disconcerting to realize the joke wasn’t.
He sat to the left of the throne, Aik beside him. On the right side sat Nanda and Bey. With the arrival of the foreign officials – he called them foreign! – Shah must look his strongest. And even if the exact nature of the harem would not be immediately obvious to most of the foreigners, they would remember it and learn the significance later. Meanwhile, all of Shah’s people would understand what was not being said – they had a strong King.
Even after three years with Shah and the others, he still felt naked at times – especially in a crowded room of fully clothed people. More than two decades in a multitude of modest layers made it difficult to get used to being always bare-chested, especially ever since he’d allowed Beynum to persuade him toward the gold hoops in his nipples. Even now he twitched to hide them.
But Shah wanted them on display, so on display he would be. Anything Shah asked, he would do.
And though he had expected it, had braced himself for it, still it came as something of a shock to see men he had once known come walking through the door. But he immediately disliked their arrogance, walking in as though they had every right to be there. It was by Shah’s good grace they were permitted anywhere near the palace.
If Shah could hear his thoughts, he’d realize there was no reason for concern. Witcher had ceased to think of himself as anything but finally home from the moment he’d decided to stay.
So the looks that should have unsettled him – shock turned to disbelief and in the faces of those who understood what he was, disgust and even contempt – only amused him. But in their defense, he supposed, it must be quite a shock to see him as he was now. His light blonde hair had once been trimmed to military shortness; still short, there was still enough length that the fine strands held a soft wave. The gold at his chest was matched by gold in his ears, a slender gold chain around his neck.
It wasn’t hard to anticipate the conversations they would try to have with him later. He couldn’t wait to see their reaction when one of them tried to touch him.
He didn’t have to look to know that Shah was still nervous beneath the calm he seemed to wear so easily. Perhaps after this, the King would finally be convinced that his former home held no appeal. Especially not now.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Brandon attempt to catch his gaze, and he knew Samuel would be studiously ignoring him – for now. The rest of them he didn’t recognize, which was a relief. The two he did know would be more than enough to deal with.
The greetings and platitudes went on for some time, and Witcher knew the guests must have been confused when the four men closest to the throne were not so much as mentioned. It was so hard not to smirk or smile, as the trio of dignitaries sent to begin negotiations attempted to launch right into things. Shah was direct when he wanted to be – in politics he seldom tended that way.
At last the welcoming court was adjourned. As one the four concubines rose, and Witcher held out his hand for Shah to take, escorting his King from the room while the other three followed close beside and behind. He could feel two pairs of eyes on him, and ignored them.
“Are you feeling better?”
Witcher looked up, snapped out of his thoughts by a warm voice. “What? Oh. Yes.” He looked away, those eyes – dark brown he could see now – far too intense for his liking. “Thank you. I am sorry to have behaved so poorly. Prisoner or no, a man should not collapse because of a headache.”
“Nonsense,” the king said peaceably. “May I sit?”
“Of course.” Witcher hid his confusion – when did a king ever need to ask if he could sit on a bench in a garden in his castle? A strange garden, more stone and water than plants. But in this place, so dry and hot, a water fountain of such size was clearly more impressive than an excess of plants. He tried not to fidget as the king sat down beside him; suddenly things felt much warmer than they had a moment ago.
He did not need this. Wasn’t his life miserable enough without letting dangerous thoughts and wants surface? Because he could only deceive himself for so long about the effect those eyes and that lithe body had. Witcher cast his eyes out, searching for anything other than the king to stare at.
They landed on a man of average height, bare-chested, legs encased in black pants, overlaid by a long, black skirt slit on both sides. Gold bands hung at his wrists, another at his neck. And that long, long hair. One of the men from a few days before – he had barely been out of his room since his humiliating collapse. But in those days, he had finally figured out who those three men had been.
He remembered his tutor, a humorless man who had not been pleased to be teaching his language to a ‘heathen’ telling him a great deal about the culture. One of those lessons had involved the royal family, who were the only ones permitted to keep multiple lovers – concubines. Always of the same gender – princes and kings kept male, queens and princesses females – and the current king apparently kept a less than orthodox harem.
So those three men had been this man’s harem. Lovers. Three of them. Male. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It was wrong. Wrong to even think about anything like that.
Not that it had ever stopped him. But this entire place was forcing his deepest thoughts far too close to the surface. And this was his sworn enemy!
Well, this was who he’d been told was his sworn enemy. But when had his comrades ever cared for him when his head ached badly enough he saw stars? And here the king had seemed concerned. Which made no sense.
The entire situation made his head ache in a brand new way. “Did you require something, Majesty? Am I trespassing? Not supposed to be out?”
“You are fine.” The king smiled. “Please make yourself at home. Your king is quite stubborn; I think the arguing will continue for quite some time. I realize as a captive you can only ever feel so comfortable, but I wish you no ill. It would please me if you considered yourself more of a guest than a hostage.”
Witcher dared a look and found it hard to look away. “I would like that.” He motioned at the garden, the palace. “You’ve a beautiful home, and war is not something for which I hold personal grudges. I wish I was here under happier circumstances.” He sighed. “I have not seen my men.”
“We are keeping a closer watch on them for now. A few have proven…uncooperative. Forgive me.”
“Forgive me, Majesty. My men should better be able to behave. If they cannot, they’ve only themselves to blame. If you will permit me, I will have a word with them later.”
The king nodded. “Of course.” He held out a hand to the long-haired man standing nearby, drawing him forward. “Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?” He laughed. “My council will not be pleased to see me entertaining a captive like a special guest. Still, I would enjoy a fresh face.” He held out a hand and drew forward the long-haired man. “And I bet I could persuade Nandakumar here to play for us. Yes, Nanda?”
“Of course, my King.” The faintest of smile’s curved the quiet man’s lips. If Witcher had not been watching him, painfully curious, he would have missed it. And there was obvious fondness in his eyes, something Witcher would not have expected of a man in such a position. But then again, what did he really know about it?
“So will you join me? If your head is not troubling you?”
Humiliated, Witcher looked away. “It should be fine – I am rested, and things are…calmer. Again I apologize for being so weak.”
“Hardly weak,” The king said, and a hand rested comfortingly on his shoulder, before sliding slowly away as the king stood up. “As I said, my mother had a concubine who suffered them. There was many a day she could not move from her bed. I will see you at dinner.” Then the king and his quiet, handsome shadow were gone.
The sound of water splashing in the fountain was soothing, but the garden was still far too quiet – there was too much room for thinking, and Witcher was not feeling strong enough to see where those thoughts might lead. Because invariably they would only end unhappily, and he was heartily sick of his life always taking that path.
Better to help speed the negotiations and let himself be thrown into the coastal war that was starting in the north, than linger here and think too long on dark brown eyes and a warm, kind voice.
Clearly that last headache had destroyed what little sense he’d managed to cling to. Witcher sighed and left the garden to seek out his men. His frustrations would serve well to give them a sorely needed dressing down.
“Witcher? Is it really you?”
Stepping only just through the doorway, into the small garden allotted to guests, Witcher folded his arms across his chest and regarded the man he’d once considered a comrade, if not exactly a friend. “Brandon,” he said slowly. “You seem to be doing well.” The words he had once considered native now felt strange on his tongue. Funny the difference three years of happiness could have on a man. “You tread dangerous waters by daring to request to see me like this. I would advise you not to do it again.”
Brandon ignored him. “We heard you had decided to stay here…I didn’t know it was because you’d decided to become a…a…” He looked torn between horror and disgust.
Witcher held up a hand to forestall him, switching back to the language he now considered his. “Watch what you say. The wrong words will be taken as insult, and to insult me is to insult my King.”
Brandon narrowed his eyes; Witcher thought the expression comical. “He is not your King. Or didn’t you notice you’re a bit of the wrong color.”
“Choose your words more carefully,” Witcher said, his voice full of the steel that had made him a good commander. “Or you will find yourself going home with nothing gained but my King’s displeasure.”
Shaking his head in frustration, Brandon stepped forward and stretched out a hand to grip Witcher’s arm – only to find his own roughly grabbed as a guard hauled him back. “What the devil! Let me go this instant! Witcher!”
The guard let Brandon go, none too gently. “Touching the King’s men is forbidden.”
“What!” Brandon glared at Witcher. “What the devil is he yowling about?”
Witcher laughed. “I am the exclusive property of his Majesty King Shahjahan – none may touch me without his permission. Say what you came to say, Brandon, and then leave me in peace.”
“You even speak like they do – what happened to you? Why this? You could have been a prince!” Brandon looked at him, confuses and angry. “Why did you abandon us?”
“Because I found happiness.” Witcher stood up and strode past his former comrade, who still glared. He looked at the guard. “I am returning to my room. Please inform my King of this discussion.”
“Yes, Lord Witcher.” The guard bowed, and blocked the door once Witcher had passed.
Witcher did not relax until he had returned to his room, then released a long, slow sigh.
“Oh, the witch looks a little tense after his chat.” Bey asked from the table where he and Aik were enjoying a late breakfast. Always the three of them rose early to spar, and unless he had court – like today – Nanda usually joined them for breakfast afterwards when he finally dragged himself from bed.
“Quiet unless you want me to hex you,” Witcher said with a laugh. Crossing the room he took his seat between the other two.
Bey chuckled and pressed a bit of honey and nut pastry to Witcher’s lips, the treat one of his favorites. A hand strayed down Witcher’s chest, flicking the gold hoops that Witcher wished he could blame on the wine he’d had the night he’d agreed to them. He choked on the sweet and tried to glare.
But even if he could manage it, a glare had never been enough to dissuade Bey.
“Would you look at those eyes, Aik? I think he’s casting a spell.”
“Hmm, better break it,” Aik advised calmly, nibbling at a piece of bright orange fruit.
Bey grinned. “And what, wise monk, is the recommended method for spell-breaking?”
Aik tapped his chin, and he furrowed his brow as if thinking hard. “A kiss would probably break his concentration. Then you just have to keep him busy until he forgets what spell he was trying to cast.”
“The only spell I’m going to cast is my fist upside—“ Witcher’s protest was cut off as Bey kissed him soundly, quite neatly succeeding, if not in breaking his concentration, then making him forget what they’d been discussing.
He should be used to it; this wicked excess. But he thought even five, ten or more years from now he would still feel like a schoolboy about to be caught doing things he shouldn’t. But that didn’t stop him from burying one hand in Beynum’s hair, taking the hungry kiss and returning it full measure. Nor did he pull away from the warm hands that roamed his back, circled around his chest to tug at the small gold rings, though it made him jerk. “Didn’t you two get enough exercise sparring this morning?”
“Since when does Aik ever have enough?” Beynum laughed and leaned past Witcher to take Aik’s waiting mouth. “Hmm, my decadent monk? Have you had enough?”
Aik looked thoughtful. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been trained to have a fairly high threshold.”
“Some monk,” Witcher muttered. “And you’re lucky Nanda’s already awake and gone.”
Bey tsked softly. “Ten minutes with a pale-skin and you’re already turning stuffy.”
“Don’t you mean stiff?” Aik asked blandly.
“Hopefully not because of the pale-skin.”
Witcher glared, trying not to laugh. “So what, I’m not a pale skin? Then what am I?”
“Our after-breakfast snack,” Bey answered, and didn’t give Witcher a chance to argue.
“So negotiations have not gone as you had hoped they would?”
Shahjahan shrugged, and though he maintained a casual air, Witcher thought he looked disappointed. “Your King is admirably stubborn, I will give him that.” A ghost of a smug smile. “Though he did not get all that he wanted.”
Witcher could not help a soft chuckle. “It is disloyal of me to say so, but I am glad you won some concessions. I’m sorry I did not prove more useful a captive.”
“On the contrary,” Shahjahan gave him a pensive look. “It is your presence alone that secured me what I did. Well, your presence and your advice. You are wasted on the battlefield.”
Another laugh, but it was more bitter than amused. “The man who denied being my sire hoped paying for a commission would see the end of me. When he died a few years after I left, the king would have recalled me but I proved to be all too good at war.” Witcher looked out the window beyond Shahjahan. “After I tidy up things along the coast, he’ll probably drag me home to finally marry his youngest daughter.”
“Oh?” Shahjahan said softly, and for a moment Witcher thought he looked upset. “Through all this, I gathered you were important but I never caught an inkling that you were royalty. Clearly I underestimated your king, if he was so sly as to keep that from me.” He frowned briefly, clearly annoyed with himself.
“Merely a bastard child who refused to stay out of the way. The King wants nothing more than to secure a son that proved far more useful than the father.” Witcher tried to smile, but it failed miserably. He definitely did not feel like smiling. With negotiations concluded, he would be returning…to where he had to go. Certainly not home.
No, home felt more like it should have bright sun, endless dunes in the distance, splashes of rich green in unexpected places. Dark brown eyes and a voice that could be unexpectedly kind.
He really was a fool. His life wasn’t hard enough, he had to cause himself more pain? Witcher wished his headache that first day had proven fatal. Death was infinitely preferable to having to leave in a matter of days, and he had no one but himself to blame for putting himself in such an awful situation.
Why couldn’t Shahjahan have proven to be some cruel, despicable heathen?
Shahjahan’s soft chuckle interrupted his gloomy thoughts. “You do not want to marry a fine princess and enjoy the favor of your king? I know plenty of men who would gladly risk their lives for such an honor.”
“Yes,” Witcher replied. “And most of them are now dead. If they had ever asked, I would have gladly traded places with them.”
He received another pensive look; this one so long that Witcher wondered if perhaps he’d opened his mouth enough for one night. “All is arranged for you and your men to leave the day after tomorrow. You will be escorted to the border, with compensation for being held hostage for so long.”
“Two months is hardly ‘so long’, Majesty.” Witcher’s lips twisted in an unhappy smile. “To be honest, it’s been the best two months I can remember ever having. If you ever have need of a hostage, I am more than willing.”
Shahjahan was silent, fingers drumming silently on his chair in what Witcher had come to realize was his nervous habit when he thought especially hard on something. Usually Shahjahan held still, or contrived to look especially casual. “But would you really be willing to stay?”
“Majesty?” Witcher thought he must have heard wrong.
“Not as a guest,” Shahjahan said slowly. “Nor as a soldier. Nothing like that.” He finally looked up, face carefully void of expression but his eyes intense. “I would like you to stay as one of mine.” He stood up. “But I know how such things trouble people from your world. Think about it.” And he left quietly.
Leaving Witcher gaping after him. Had he meant? There was no way. Why would he? He couldn’t.
It just wasn’t possible.
“Are sex slaves allowed to wander the halls unattended?”
Witcher stopped a few feet away from Samuel, keeping his face expressionless. From the corner of his eye he could see a guard move forward, displeased by Samuel’s words. A flick of Witcher’s fingers stopped him, and he motioned the guard to remain where he was until otherwise ordered.
Then turned back to Samuel. “I would appreciate it if you were more polite.”
“What game are you playing, Witcher? Is this something you’ve arranged with our king?”
“Shahjahan is my King,” Witcher replied. “No other.”
“Stop being so formal!” Samuel closed the space between them, but kept his arms at his sides. “We were friends, you and I. What game is this you’re playing? You can tell me!”
Witcher backed away. “There is no game. I am a member of my King’s harem. And you are breaking protocol by talking to me without his leave.”
Samuel’s lip curled in disgust. “You really are one of his little whores, aren’t you?”
“Watch your words,” Witcher warned. “It’s a crime to disrespect anything that belongs to the King.”
“Even his bed toys?”
“Yes.” Witcher again motioned for the furious guard to remain at his post, though he could see his orders would not be obeyed for much longer if Samuel kept pushing it. “What do you want? Be brief.”
“I want to know why you’ve chosen this over us.”
Witcher laughed coldly. “You mean over you? Who always pretended and lied?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I suppose not.”
Samuel’s stony expression cracked for a moment, but recovered almost immediately. “Why this? You could have had everything.”
“Everything I want is here. I’m not going to waste my time trying to explain it to you.”
“God damn you, Witcher! You could have married Britney. We could have been—everything would have been safe then.”
Witcher let his contempt show, relishing the way Samuel recoiled. “I would have loved you in the sunlight, Samuel. No matter what anyone said – if you had been willing to stand with me. You wouldn’t. That was your choice. Now I’ve made mine. Go back to hiding in the dark and leave me be. Marry Britney yourself.” He turned to the guard who waited patiently. “Report this conversation to the King, if you please. I would also prefer that this man not be permitted near me.”
“Yes, Lord Witcher.”
“Thank you.” Witcher walked away.
Witcher laughed as he watched his men as they jostled and joked, relieved to be going home at last. He wondered how far out of proportion the stories would get, when they related the ordeal of their capture. It was almost a shame he would not get to hear them.
He waited as his Captain broke away from the group and approached him.
“You’re staying here, aren’t you, Commander?” Knowing eyes flicked toward the sword and belt Witcher held in one hand. “Why?”
“I have my reasons,” Witcher said, and handed the sword over. “Keep it, if you like. Else give it to whomever thinks they should have it. Tell the king…” Witcher grinned suddenly, briefly. “I guess you can tell him I’m sorry.”
“Even though you’re not? You’ll be missed, Commander. I wish I knew what to say to change your mind…but then again I don’t know that I’d have the heart to say it.”
“Do me a favor when you get back,” Witcher said. “And get out of the army. Find a better place to be.”
“Is that an order, Commander?”
Witcher nodded. “My last.”
“Yes, Commander.” The Captain saluted smartly, replacing his own belt and sword with Witcher’s, then turned and began ordering the men into line, ignoring or quashing the questions that sprang up. As they finished assembling, Shahjahan’s men appeared to join them, readying to escort them to the appointed meeting place.
Witcher knew without turning around that Shahjahan had arrived as well. He clasped arms with his Captain, and said farewell in the language he was slowly ceasing to regard as his own. Ignored the looks the others sent his way.
Gradually the courtyard emptied, and Witcher finally turned around.
“You could have been much,” Shahjahan said quietly.
“I could have been a prince, and so favored I would have been all but a king,” Witcher said with a tired smile. “I’ve been labeled a hero and given suitable reward more times than I can count. Princess Britney is said to be one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom.” Witcher shrugged, and started to speak again, but said nothing.
Shahjahan drew closer, moving slowly as he cupped Witcher’s face in one hand.
“This is wrong where I come from,” Witcher said unsteadily.
“Good,” Shahjahan said with a smile. “Because if it wasn’t, I suspect you would not be mine for the taking.”
And even though he expected to wake up, or for someone to shout, to be dragged away and beaten or killed, Witcher opened to the kiss, and returned it, and enjoyed the arms around him and the sunlight beating down on them.
“The guards have been reporting some interesting conversations to me,” Shah said, lips curving in amusement. “I admit to not liking this Samuel much.”
Witcher laughed, the sound echoing down the hallway as they traveled to their own rooms after seeing the Queen to her own. “Samuel had his good points once, as I recall. He was worth knowing, and calling friend, back when we first met.” Witcher shrugged. “He’s become what I probably would have, if I had not opted to come and play in the sands.”
Shah lightly squeezed the hand twined with his own. “It always amused me, at the time, that it was the councilors who first pressed upon me the idea of taking prisoners and holding them for ransom.” He laughed. “They still are irate that I wound up with another concubine at the end of it.” A soft smile. “Though until the last, I did not think you would choose to stay. I could not think of a reason that you would want to.”
“Hmm…life married to a shrewish princess, life devoted to a wonderful King…” Witcher stopped them, dropping their clasped hands to wrap his arms around Shah’s waist. “Do you still doubt me, Shah? I’ve been yours almost since we met, and other than being completely overwhelmed those first few months, I’ve never been anything but happy.”
Fingers tangled in his hair as Shah gently held his head, and Witcher surrendered to the kiss, ever willing to give whatever his King wanted. “I don’t doubt you, my beautiful witch,” Shah said at last. “But you were the only one I ever truly feared would say no.”
Witcher shook his head, the movement awkward as Shah still held it. “You should know by now that there isn’t much I say no to.” He rolled his eyes. “Even Bey had his way.”
Shah threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, I suppose he did.” He dropped his hands from Witcher’s head to explore elsewhere, brushing over the gold gleaming at his chest. “They suit you.”
Witcher laughed. “You suit me, my King.” A grin. “And—“ The rustle of fabric, the sound of boots scuffing stone turned his head, and Witcher frowned to see Samuel and another foreign dignitary. Then he almost smirked, realizing that the two had not wanted anyone to see them together.
Freeing one hand from Shah’s waist, Witcher used it to pull Shah’s head down and took a kiss, letting Shah control it, more than willing to be led, and didn’t break it until the need to breathe was impossible to ignore. When he looked back down the hallway, it was empty.
“Perhaps we should retire?” Shah asked, amused but pleased.
“As my King wishes,” Witcher replied, letting him go. They continued on toward their rooms, hands clasped.
And now I go to scrounge dinner, then to work on the newsletter fairytale (though, at this rate, it's gonna be too long. At least twenty pages, and I don't think Skylark wants to be shelling out that much paper), with which I'm fast falling in love. As cheezy and over the top as it is. I care not. Everyone likes their fairytales erotic and/or dark. I always liked the sweet ones best. Call me raised on Disney. Heh.
Maybe a shower first, to revive me a bit. *yaaaaaawn* And I splurged on a new brand of tea. Numi, it's called. A variety pack. Mom, they have something called 'gunpowder green tea' - is it the stuff you mentioned to me before or was that something else?
Shower. Food & Tea. Write. Course by then it'll be bedtime...
Also:Songs for Sip
Witcher
“Witcher,” Shahjahan cupped Witcher’s face in one hand, leaning down to take a kiss from pale pink lips, which tasted of honey and almonds, a hint of lemon.
“Shah…” Witcher opened to the kiss, his immediate compliance as stunning the thousandth time as it had been the first. That a man who could have been all but a king himself should bend so easily never failed to steal his breath. “What’s wrong?”
Shah sat back reluctantly, but did not make any attempt to eat the late snack that had been brought. “The visit tomorrow.”
Witcher tilted his head. “You fear something will go awry? Betrayal?” A pause, and Shah didn’t flinch from the sky-blue eyes that studied him so intently. “Their effect upon me?”
“Hardly the last,” Shah said, waving it away like he would command his table be cleared. “So far as that goes, I fear only that they will upset you.” He hesitated; only a heartbeat of time, but a hesitation all the same. “Your place is with me. I do not doubt you will remain there.”
“Yes, you do,” Witcher said with a faint smile. He reached up and tugged Shah down on top of him, burying them amongst a wealth of pillows. “For naught. I belong right here, and I don’t care who of my former countrymen try to tell me otherwise.”
Shah kissed him hard, deep, tongue tasting honey and almonds, lemon and the flavor that was unique to Witcher. And he was always so hot, such a contrast to the pale skin and hair that looked as though they should be cool to the touch. “Are you really mine?”
For reply, Witcher simply continued to kiss him, fingers running through his short, thick hair. “You doubt it?”
“Doubt I can truly be so fortunate.”
At that Witcher did laugh. “Majesty, your fortune is what you are bold enough to take.”
Shah smiled into their kiss, then shifted them on the pillows, holding Witcher’s wrists in one hand , thrusting a thigh between his legs. “Then I will take you.”
“You already have me.”
“Yes,” Shah kissed him again, this time softly, slowly. This time there was no hesitation when he spoke. “I do.” With a last lick, he abandoned Witcher’s lips to explore his throat, feeling the sighs and moans as more of that pale skin was bared for his attention. His hands set to the task of unfastening the skirt and pants that, though they looked so good on his men, were ever irksome in removing. Far too much fabric; if he were not so greedy, he would simply have them walk around nude.
Witcher laughed, the sound ragged and breathless. “You don’t have time for this.”
Shah responded with a laugh of his own. “If I waited until I had time, I would never get to do it.” He leaned up to give Witcher another kiss. “You are beautiful, Witcher.”
“Men are not beautiful,” Witcher replied, amusement in his eyes.
“No?” Shah asked. “And yet, when you look like that,” he watched as Witcher writhed beneath his touch, gasping his name. “You are very beautiful indeed.”
Witcher groaned, and tilted his head up, begging for another kiss. Shah obliged, and let Witcher tug his hands free, relishing the touches as Witcher opened his robes to map his skin.
Witcher closed his eyes and willed his head to stop aching. But still the light persisted in making his head throb, pain digging deep enough that he wanted to scream or cry.
He could do neither.
The soldiers finally let him go, and Witcher felt the world tilt unsteadily. He opened his eyes, immediately regretting it, but forced himself not to fall over. Lord above, he was so tired. The pounding headache did not help either – suddenly being a prisoner did not seem so bad. Surely whatever torture they had in mind was better than this.
And anything had to be better than another battlefield, another day, hour, minute of seeing men die, hearing them scream, having to write home who had died. He was tired. If he was going to die here, a prisoner of war, he would thank God for finally being merciful.
Witcher closed his eyes again, holding perfectly still until his head settled a bit.
Voices began to penetrate; the strange, rolling dialect of the desert nations he had been made to study diligently once it was decided he would be a commander. Reluctantly Witcher opened his eyes again.
He should be ashamed, really, that he and his men had been captured. An error he should not have made. But he was so tired…
Witcher looked up to regard the man who would be deciding his fate – the King Shahjahan about whom he had heard much, most of it distorted, twisted information that tended him toward believing the exact opposite.
His head still throbbed, but suddenly it seemed a distant, tolerable pain. Shahjahan was…what he had expected but not. There was a sternness, a confidence there that Witcher had long associated with royalty, nobility. But there was something else too in his demeanor, which he could not identify. Dark eyes locked with his, and the pain in his head faded from notice a bit more.
Witcher broke contact first, and wished he knew why those eyes were so disconcerting. Perhaps because there was no smugness, no satisfaction in them. His own liege would have been gloating over such a capture as much as possible. But this king looked only like he wished the whole affair over.
He switched his gaze to the men lined up on either side of the low throne, each one sitting motionless on thick cushions. They were all dressed alike, in long, black skirts. Bare-chested. Fine chests, Witcher could not help but note. Each man was far too easy to stare at – and good excuses not to go back to the king.
The hair alone on the one nearest the throne on the right was reason enough to gawk, and Witcher hoped that was not what he was doing. It was loosely bound, pooling like dark silk on the floor beside and behind him. If it were acceptable to call men beautiful, this man would be that.
On the left hand side was a man a trifle rough around the edges – at least compared to the first. Short, tousled hair and a bold gaze. There was an energy about him, even as still as he sat, that spoke of a harder life. Possibly low-born, but if his upbringing bothered him, it did not show in his mien.
Beside him was a man who had a stillness the first two lacked. A calm that spoke of discipline. Like the man next to him, he had a strong build, muscles shaped by rigorous exercise. His hair was shoulder-length, pulled neatly back.
“Do you speak our language, western soldier? A commander, yes?”
Witcher turned his attention back to the king. “Yes,” he said slowly, the foreign language coming somewhat stiff to his tongue. He’d not had reason to use it for a while. “I am a Commander.”
“What is your name?”
“Witcher Fitzroy.”
The king arched an eyebrow, amusement making his lips twitch. “Witcher? As in one who does witch work?”
Witcher thought he saw the rough-looking man start to laugh. “Aye,” he said reluctantly, and hoped the issue would not be pressed. But they always asked.
“Why would someone name you this?”
“I sincerely doubt the story is one which would interest you.”
“Indulge me, prisoner.”
Well, that said all that needed to be stead. Lord above, he felt tired. “My mother was rumored to be a witch. Before she died – in childbirth – she named me Witcher to thumb her nose at everyone.”
“How interesting,” the king said. He motioned, the gesture almost lazy, and the soldiers and guards in the room vanished.
Witcher frowned, sensing something strange. “Where are my men?”
“They are being held in our cells. But do not worry, for now they are being well-treated.” The king made a vague motion in the air, as if trying to order something else away. “I have no interest in dragging out this absurd war. You are my prisoner in hopes that I can end matters, not prolong them.”
His men were all right. Witcher allowed himself to relax a bit – then wondered why he was so willing to trust the king’s words. His head was not so strained as that. Though the throbbing was worsening, becoming harder to ignore even with the distractions before him. The need to close his eyes again was strong, but Witcher could not permit himself even that small relief. Not when he was so vulnerable.
His wrists were beginning to chafe against the rope binding them, but Witcher barely noticed anything past his aching head.
He realized the king was speaking again. “What?”
Another arched brow; Witcher could see he had surprised the king. “I said would you like to see them for yourself?”
Witcher shook his head, then immediately regretted. “No,” he managed. “I will trust your words for now.”
“Are you all right?”
How strange – it almost looked as though the king actually cared. “I’m fine,” Witcher managed. “What do you need from me? I cannot imagine I am here simply to converse.”
“I wanted to know who precisely I hold captive, that I might send accurate information to your king. Given your location, I doubt anyone knows that you have been captured.”
“Probably not. And if you tell them you have Witcher, he will respond quickly enough.” Witcher almost laughed, imagining the looks on the faces of the king and ministers when they realized their favorite tool was out of their grasp.
The king smiled, pleased, and relaxed in his seat. “So I have succeeded in capturing someone quite valuable.”
“Valuable? I would not say that,” Witcher said. “Merely quite useful.”
“A good soldier?”
“Yes, until today. And more besides.”
“More?”
Witcher grinned, a bitter twist to it. “Yes, but that is nothing that relates to you.” He would say no more about it. Already he was saying too much – but he could not bring himself to care. If this was the route he must travel to get out of this war, even if he already knew there was another one waiting for him, he would do it. At least his men could go home.
He could not bite back a gasp as fresh pain lanced through his head. His hands twitched, wanting to make an attempt to soothe away the crippling pain. Witcher could not help closing his eyes, knowing that if he didn’t, his late lunch would wind up all over the rug.
“Have you been injured?” The king’s voice, so strangely kind, slipped past the pain.
Witcher bit back another gasp of pain. “No. I’ll be fine.” He hoped. It was rare it was ever this bad; he wondered if he’d even be able to move now.
“Something is wrong.” He said something else, but Witcher could not understand what. The light, why couldn’t it just go away? He wanted to cry, and didn’t that just make everything worse? Someone moved past him, softness brushing his arm, the smell of nutmeg, cinnamon.
Then his wrists were free, and his hands were cradling his head before he could make them hold still. How quickly he’d succumbed to weakness – but after everything else, the fighting and the capture, knowing he had failed and endangered his men, coping with one of his crippling headaches was too much.
His hands were pulled away by much warmer ones, and even through the pain Witcher was fascinated by how dark the skin was against his own, which even by his country’s standards was startlingly pale. He looked up into the face of the king.
“Your head?”
Witcher was again struck by how kind the man sounded; a trait he could associate with a king. It was…tempting, somehow. Though he couldn’t say what he was being tempted to do. But the word seemed the right one. “Yes. I am sorry.”
“Do not be; my mother had a concubine who suffered the same.”
Witcher tried to nod, but opted to hold as still as possible. Then he was being led away, and gave up trying to maintain any sort of control. He just couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.
Concubines seldom attended any court function but the nightly dinners, when everyone was expected to relax; let food and wine and music ease away the strains of the day. Shah, though, was fond of having them present at certain times or places, for support or to make a statement ¬– authority, wealth, ability. A weak King would not be able to control the men this one had claimed for his harem.
Witcher wanted to shake his head in amusement. Once he had thought the idea of a harem something his tutor had made up. A grand joke on an ignorant, pale-skinned soldier. Quite disconcerting to realize the joke wasn’t.
He sat to the left of the throne, Aik beside him. On the right side sat Nanda and Bey. With the arrival of the foreign officials – he called them foreign! – Shah must look his strongest. And even if the exact nature of the harem would not be immediately obvious to most of the foreigners, they would remember it and learn the significance later. Meanwhile, all of Shah’s people would understand what was not being said – they had a strong King.
Even after three years with Shah and the others, he still felt naked at times – especially in a crowded room of fully clothed people. More than two decades in a multitude of modest layers made it difficult to get used to being always bare-chested, especially ever since he’d allowed Beynum to persuade him toward the gold hoops in his nipples. Even now he twitched to hide them.
But Shah wanted them on display, so on display he would be. Anything Shah asked, he would do.
And though he had expected it, had braced himself for it, still it came as something of a shock to see men he had once known come walking through the door. But he immediately disliked their arrogance, walking in as though they had every right to be there. It was by Shah’s good grace they were permitted anywhere near the palace.
If Shah could hear his thoughts, he’d realize there was no reason for concern. Witcher had ceased to think of himself as anything but finally home from the moment he’d decided to stay.
So the looks that should have unsettled him – shock turned to disbelief and in the faces of those who understood what he was, disgust and even contempt – only amused him. But in their defense, he supposed, it must be quite a shock to see him as he was now. His light blonde hair had once been trimmed to military shortness; still short, there was still enough length that the fine strands held a soft wave. The gold at his chest was matched by gold in his ears, a slender gold chain around his neck.
It wasn’t hard to anticipate the conversations they would try to have with him later. He couldn’t wait to see their reaction when one of them tried to touch him.
He didn’t have to look to know that Shah was still nervous beneath the calm he seemed to wear so easily. Perhaps after this, the King would finally be convinced that his former home held no appeal. Especially not now.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Brandon attempt to catch his gaze, and he knew Samuel would be studiously ignoring him – for now. The rest of them he didn’t recognize, which was a relief. The two he did know would be more than enough to deal with.
The greetings and platitudes went on for some time, and Witcher knew the guests must have been confused when the four men closest to the throne were not so much as mentioned. It was so hard not to smirk or smile, as the trio of dignitaries sent to begin negotiations attempted to launch right into things. Shah was direct when he wanted to be – in politics he seldom tended that way.
At last the welcoming court was adjourned. As one the four concubines rose, and Witcher held out his hand for Shah to take, escorting his King from the room while the other three followed close beside and behind. He could feel two pairs of eyes on him, and ignored them.
“Are you feeling better?”
Witcher looked up, snapped out of his thoughts by a warm voice. “What? Oh. Yes.” He looked away, those eyes – dark brown he could see now – far too intense for his liking. “Thank you. I am sorry to have behaved so poorly. Prisoner or no, a man should not collapse because of a headache.”
“Nonsense,” the king said peaceably. “May I sit?”
“Of course.” Witcher hid his confusion – when did a king ever need to ask if he could sit on a bench in a garden in his castle? A strange garden, more stone and water than plants. But in this place, so dry and hot, a water fountain of such size was clearly more impressive than an excess of plants. He tried not to fidget as the king sat down beside him; suddenly things felt much warmer than they had a moment ago.
He did not need this. Wasn’t his life miserable enough without letting dangerous thoughts and wants surface? Because he could only deceive himself for so long about the effect those eyes and that lithe body had. Witcher cast his eyes out, searching for anything other than the king to stare at.
They landed on a man of average height, bare-chested, legs encased in black pants, overlaid by a long, black skirt slit on both sides. Gold bands hung at his wrists, another at his neck. And that long, long hair. One of the men from a few days before – he had barely been out of his room since his humiliating collapse. But in those days, he had finally figured out who those three men had been.
He remembered his tutor, a humorless man who had not been pleased to be teaching his language to a ‘heathen’ telling him a great deal about the culture. One of those lessons had involved the royal family, who were the only ones permitted to keep multiple lovers – concubines. Always of the same gender – princes and kings kept male, queens and princesses females – and the current king apparently kept a less than orthodox harem.
So those three men had been this man’s harem. Lovers. Three of them. Male. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It was wrong. Wrong to even think about anything like that.
Not that it had ever stopped him. But this entire place was forcing his deepest thoughts far too close to the surface. And this was his sworn enemy!
Well, this was who he’d been told was his sworn enemy. But when had his comrades ever cared for him when his head ached badly enough he saw stars? And here the king had seemed concerned. Which made no sense.
The entire situation made his head ache in a brand new way. “Did you require something, Majesty? Am I trespassing? Not supposed to be out?”
“You are fine.” The king smiled. “Please make yourself at home. Your king is quite stubborn; I think the arguing will continue for quite some time. I realize as a captive you can only ever feel so comfortable, but I wish you no ill. It would please me if you considered yourself more of a guest than a hostage.”
Witcher dared a look and found it hard to look away. “I would like that.” He motioned at the garden, the palace. “You’ve a beautiful home, and war is not something for which I hold personal grudges. I wish I was here under happier circumstances.” He sighed. “I have not seen my men.”
“We are keeping a closer watch on them for now. A few have proven…uncooperative. Forgive me.”
“Forgive me, Majesty. My men should better be able to behave. If they cannot, they’ve only themselves to blame. If you will permit me, I will have a word with them later.”
The king nodded. “Of course.” He held out a hand to the long-haired man standing nearby, drawing him forward. “Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?” He laughed. “My council will not be pleased to see me entertaining a captive like a special guest. Still, I would enjoy a fresh face.” He held out a hand and drew forward the long-haired man. “And I bet I could persuade Nandakumar here to play for us. Yes, Nanda?”
“Of course, my King.” The faintest of smile’s curved the quiet man’s lips. If Witcher had not been watching him, painfully curious, he would have missed it. And there was obvious fondness in his eyes, something Witcher would not have expected of a man in such a position. But then again, what did he really know about it?
“So will you join me? If your head is not troubling you?”
Humiliated, Witcher looked away. “It should be fine – I am rested, and things are…calmer. Again I apologize for being so weak.”
“Hardly weak,” The king said, and a hand rested comfortingly on his shoulder, before sliding slowly away as the king stood up. “As I said, my mother had a concubine who suffered them. There was many a day she could not move from her bed. I will see you at dinner.” Then the king and his quiet, handsome shadow were gone.
The sound of water splashing in the fountain was soothing, but the garden was still far too quiet – there was too much room for thinking, and Witcher was not feeling strong enough to see where those thoughts might lead. Because invariably they would only end unhappily, and he was heartily sick of his life always taking that path.
Better to help speed the negotiations and let himself be thrown into the coastal war that was starting in the north, than linger here and think too long on dark brown eyes and a warm, kind voice.
Clearly that last headache had destroyed what little sense he’d managed to cling to. Witcher sighed and left the garden to seek out his men. His frustrations would serve well to give them a sorely needed dressing down.
“Witcher? Is it really you?”
Stepping only just through the doorway, into the small garden allotted to guests, Witcher folded his arms across his chest and regarded the man he’d once considered a comrade, if not exactly a friend. “Brandon,” he said slowly. “You seem to be doing well.” The words he had once considered native now felt strange on his tongue. Funny the difference three years of happiness could have on a man. “You tread dangerous waters by daring to request to see me like this. I would advise you not to do it again.”
Brandon ignored him. “We heard you had decided to stay here…I didn’t know it was because you’d decided to become a…a…” He looked torn between horror and disgust.
Witcher held up a hand to forestall him, switching back to the language he now considered his. “Watch what you say. The wrong words will be taken as insult, and to insult me is to insult my King.”
Brandon narrowed his eyes; Witcher thought the expression comical. “He is not your King. Or didn’t you notice you’re a bit of the wrong color.”
“Choose your words more carefully,” Witcher said, his voice full of the steel that had made him a good commander. “Or you will find yourself going home with nothing gained but my King’s displeasure.”
Shaking his head in frustration, Brandon stepped forward and stretched out a hand to grip Witcher’s arm – only to find his own roughly grabbed as a guard hauled him back. “What the devil! Let me go this instant! Witcher!”
The guard let Brandon go, none too gently. “Touching the King’s men is forbidden.”
“What!” Brandon glared at Witcher. “What the devil is he yowling about?”
Witcher laughed. “I am the exclusive property of his Majesty King Shahjahan – none may touch me without his permission. Say what you came to say, Brandon, and then leave me in peace.”
“You even speak like they do – what happened to you? Why this? You could have been a prince!” Brandon looked at him, confuses and angry. “Why did you abandon us?”
“Because I found happiness.” Witcher stood up and strode past his former comrade, who still glared. He looked at the guard. “I am returning to my room. Please inform my King of this discussion.”
“Yes, Lord Witcher.” The guard bowed, and blocked the door once Witcher had passed.
Witcher did not relax until he had returned to his room, then released a long, slow sigh.
“Oh, the witch looks a little tense after his chat.” Bey asked from the table where he and Aik were enjoying a late breakfast. Always the three of them rose early to spar, and unless he had court – like today – Nanda usually joined them for breakfast afterwards when he finally dragged himself from bed.
“Quiet unless you want me to hex you,” Witcher said with a laugh. Crossing the room he took his seat between the other two.
Bey chuckled and pressed a bit of honey and nut pastry to Witcher’s lips, the treat one of his favorites. A hand strayed down Witcher’s chest, flicking the gold hoops that Witcher wished he could blame on the wine he’d had the night he’d agreed to them. He choked on the sweet and tried to glare.
But even if he could manage it, a glare had never been enough to dissuade Bey.
“Would you look at those eyes, Aik? I think he’s casting a spell.”
“Hmm, better break it,” Aik advised calmly, nibbling at a piece of bright orange fruit.
Bey grinned. “And what, wise monk, is the recommended method for spell-breaking?”
Aik tapped his chin, and he furrowed his brow as if thinking hard. “A kiss would probably break his concentration. Then you just have to keep him busy until he forgets what spell he was trying to cast.”
“The only spell I’m going to cast is my fist upside—“ Witcher’s protest was cut off as Bey kissed him soundly, quite neatly succeeding, if not in breaking his concentration, then making him forget what they’d been discussing.
He should be used to it; this wicked excess. But he thought even five, ten or more years from now he would still feel like a schoolboy about to be caught doing things he shouldn’t. But that didn’t stop him from burying one hand in Beynum’s hair, taking the hungry kiss and returning it full measure. Nor did he pull away from the warm hands that roamed his back, circled around his chest to tug at the small gold rings, though it made him jerk. “Didn’t you two get enough exercise sparring this morning?”
“Since when does Aik ever have enough?” Beynum laughed and leaned past Witcher to take Aik’s waiting mouth. “Hmm, my decadent monk? Have you had enough?”
Aik looked thoughtful. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been trained to have a fairly high threshold.”
“Some monk,” Witcher muttered. “And you’re lucky Nanda’s already awake and gone.”
Bey tsked softly. “Ten minutes with a pale-skin and you’re already turning stuffy.”
“Don’t you mean stiff?” Aik asked blandly.
“Hopefully not because of the pale-skin.”
Witcher glared, trying not to laugh. “So what, I’m not a pale skin? Then what am I?”
“Our after-breakfast snack,” Bey answered, and didn’t give Witcher a chance to argue.
“So negotiations have not gone as you had hoped they would?”
Shahjahan shrugged, and though he maintained a casual air, Witcher thought he looked disappointed. “Your King is admirably stubborn, I will give him that.” A ghost of a smug smile. “Though he did not get all that he wanted.”
Witcher could not help a soft chuckle. “It is disloyal of me to say so, but I am glad you won some concessions. I’m sorry I did not prove more useful a captive.”
“On the contrary,” Shahjahan gave him a pensive look. “It is your presence alone that secured me what I did. Well, your presence and your advice. You are wasted on the battlefield.”
Another laugh, but it was more bitter than amused. “The man who denied being my sire hoped paying for a commission would see the end of me. When he died a few years after I left, the king would have recalled me but I proved to be all too good at war.” Witcher looked out the window beyond Shahjahan. “After I tidy up things along the coast, he’ll probably drag me home to finally marry his youngest daughter.”
“Oh?” Shahjahan said softly, and for a moment Witcher thought he looked upset. “Through all this, I gathered you were important but I never caught an inkling that you were royalty. Clearly I underestimated your king, if he was so sly as to keep that from me.” He frowned briefly, clearly annoyed with himself.
“Merely a bastard child who refused to stay out of the way. The King wants nothing more than to secure a son that proved far more useful than the father.” Witcher tried to smile, but it failed miserably. He definitely did not feel like smiling. With negotiations concluded, he would be returning…to where he had to go. Certainly not home.
No, home felt more like it should have bright sun, endless dunes in the distance, splashes of rich green in unexpected places. Dark brown eyes and a voice that could be unexpectedly kind.
He really was a fool. His life wasn’t hard enough, he had to cause himself more pain? Witcher wished his headache that first day had proven fatal. Death was infinitely preferable to having to leave in a matter of days, and he had no one but himself to blame for putting himself in such an awful situation.
Why couldn’t Shahjahan have proven to be some cruel, despicable heathen?
Shahjahan’s soft chuckle interrupted his gloomy thoughts. “You do not want to marry a fine princess and enjoy the favor of your king? I know plenty of men who would gladly risk their lives for such an honor.”
“Yes,” Witcher replied. “And most of them are now dead. If they had ever asked, I would have gladly traded places with them.”
He received another pensive look; this one so long that Witcher wondered if perhaps he’d opened his mouth enough for one night. “All is arranged for you and your men to leave the day after tomorrow. You will be escorted to the border, with compensation for being held hostage for so long.”
“Two months is hardly ‘so long’, Majesty.” Witcher’s lips twisted in an unhappy smile. “To be honest, it’s been the best two months I can remember ever having. If you ever have need of a hostage, I am more than willing.”
Shahjahan was silent, fingers drumming silently on his chair in what Witcher had come to realize was his nervous habit when he thought especially hard on something. Usually Shahjahan held still, or contrived to look especially casual. “But would you really be willing to stay?”
“Majesty?” Witcher thought he must have heard wrong.
“Not as a guest,” Shahjahan said slowly. “Nor as a soldier. Nothing like that.” He finally looked up, face carefully void of expression but his eyes intense. “I would like you to stay as one of mine.” He stood up. “But I know how such things trouble people from your world. Think about it.” And he left quietly.
Leaving Witcher gaping after him. Had he meant? There was no way. Why would he? He couldn’t.
It just wasn’t possible.
“Are sex slaves allowed to wander the halls unattended?”
Witcher stopped a few feet away from Samuel, keeping his face expressionless. From the corner of his eye he could see a guard move forward, displeased by Samuel’s words. A flick of Witcher’s fingers stopped him, and he motioned the guard to remain where he was until otherwise ordered.
Then turned back to Samuel. “I would appreciate it if you were more polite.”
“What game are you playing, Witcher? Is this something you’ve arranged with our king?”
“Shahjahan is my King,” Witcher replied. “No other.”
“Stop being so formal!” Samuel closed the space between them, but kept his arms at his sides. “We were friends, you and I. What game is this you’re playing? You can tell me!”
Witcher backed away. “There is no game. I am a member of my King’s harem. And you are breaking protocol by talking to me without his leave.”
Samuel’s lip curled in disgust. “You really are one of his little whores, aren’t you?”
“Watch your words,” Witcher warned. “It’s a crime to disrespect anything that belongs to the King.”
“Even his bed toys?”
“Yes.” Witcher again motioned for the furious guard to remain at his post, though he could see his orders would not be obeyed for much longer if Samuel kept pushing it. “What do you want? Be brief.”
“I want to know why you’ve chosen this over us.”
Witcher laughed coldly. “You mean over you? Who always pretended and lied?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I suppose not.”
Samuel’s stony expression cracked for a moment, but recovered almost immediately. “Why this? You could have had everything.”
“Everything I want is here. I’m not going to waste my time trying to explain it to you.”
“God damn you, Witcher! You could have married Britney. We could have been—everything would have been safe then.”
Witcher let his contempt show, relishing the way Samuel recoiled. “I would have loved you in the sunlight, Samuel. No matter what anyone said – if you had been willing to stand with me. You wouldn’t. That was your choice. Now I’ve made mine. Go back to hiding in the dark and leave me be. Marry Britney yourself.” He turned to the guard who waited patiently. “Report this conversation to the King, if you please. I would also prefer that this man not be permitted near me.”
“Yes, Lord Witcher.”
“Thank you.” Witcher walked away.
Witcher laughed as he watched his men as they jostled and joked, relieved to be going home at last. He wondered how far out of proportion the stories would get, when they related the ordeal of their capture. It was almost a shame he would not get to hear them.
He waited as his Captain broke away from the group and approached him.
“You’re staying here, aren’t you, Commander?” Knowing eyes flicked toward the sword and belt Witcher held in one hand. “Why?”
“I have my reasons,” Witcher said, and handed the sword over. “Keep it, if you like. Else give it to whomever thinks they should have it. Tell the king…” Witcher grinned suddenly, briefly. “I guess you can tell him I’m sorry.”
“Even though you’re not? You’ll be missed, Commander. I wish I knew what to say to change your mind…but then again I don’t know that I’d have the heart to say it.”
“Do me a favor when you get back,” Witcher said. “And get out of the army. Find a better place to be.”
“Is that an order, Commander?”
Witcher nodded. “My last.”
“Yes, Commander.” The Captain saluted smartly, replacing his own belt and sword with Witcher’s, then turned and began ordering the men into line, ignoring or quashing the questions that sprang up. As they finished assembling, Shahjahan’s men appeared to join them, readying to escort them to the appointed meeting place.
Witcher knew without turning around that Shahjahan had arrived as well. He clasped arms with his Captain, and said farewell in the language he was slowly ceasing to regard as his own. Ignored the looks the others sent his way.
Gradually the courtyard emptied, and Witcher finally turned around.
“You could have been much,” Shahjahan said quietly.
“I could have been a prince, and so favored I would have been all but a king,” Witcher said with a tired smile. “I’ve been labeled a hero and given suitable reward more times than I can count. Princess Britney is said to be one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom.” Witcher shrugged, and started to speak again, but said nothing.
Shahjahan drew closer, moving slowly as he cupped Witcher’s face in one hand.
“This is wrong where I come from,” Witcher said unsteadily.
“Good,” Shahjahan said with a smile. “Because if it wasn’t, I suspect you would not be mine for the taking.”
And even though he expected to wake up, or for someone to shout, to be dragged away and beaten or killed, Witcher opened to the kiss, and returned it, and enjoyed the arms around him and the sunlight beating down on them.
“The guards have been reporting some interesting conversations to me,” Shah said, lips curving in amusement. “I admit to not liking this Samuel much.”
Witcher laughed, the sound echoing down the hallway as they traveled to their own rooms after seeing the Queen to her own. “Samuel had his good points once, as I recall. He was worth knowing, and calling friend, back when we first met.” Witcher shrugged. “He’s become what I probably would have, if I had not opted to come and play in the sands.”
Shah lightly squeezed the hand twined with his own. “It always amused me, at the time, that it was the councilors who first pressed upon me the idea of taking prisoners and holding them for ransom.” He laughed. “They still are irate that I wound up with another concubine at the end of it.” A soft smile. “Though until the last, I did not think you would choose to stay. I could not think of a reason that you would want to.”
“Hmm…life married to a shrewish princess, life devoted to a wonderful King…” Witcher stopped them, dropping their clasped hands to wrap his arms around Shah’s waist. “Do you still doubt me, Shah? I’ve been yours almost since we met, and other than being completely overwhelmed those first few months, I’ve never been anything but happy.”
Fingers tangled in his hair as Shah gently held his head, and Witcher surrendered to the kiss, ever willing to give whatever his King wanted. “I don’t doubt you, my beautiful witch,” Shah said at last. “But you were the only one I ever truly feared would say no.”
Witcher shook his head, the movement awkward as Shah still held it. “You should know by now that there isn’t much I say no to.” He rolled his eyes. “Even Bey had his way.”
Shah threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, I suppose he did.” He dropped his hands from Witcher’s head to explore elsewhere, brushing over the gold gleaming at his chest. “They suit you.”
Witcher laughed. “You suit me, my King.” A grin. “And—“ The rustle of fabric, the sound of boots scuffing stone turned his head, and Witcher frowned to see Samuel and another foreign dignitary. Then he almost smirked, realizing that the two had not wanted anyone to see them together.
Freeing one hand from Shah’s waist, Witcher used it to pull Shah’s head down and took a kiss, letting Shah control it, more than willing to be led, and didn’t break it until the need to breathe was impossible to ignore. When he looked back down the hallway, it was empty.
“Perhaps we should retire?” Shah asked, amused but pleased.
“As my King wishes,” Witcher replied, letting him go. They continued on toward their rooms, hands clasped.
Witcher - End
And now I go to scrounge dinner, then to work on the newsletter fairytale (though, at this rate, it's gonna be too long. At least twenty pages, and I don't think Skylark wants to be shelling out that much paper), with which I'm fast falling in love. As cheezy and over the top as it is. I care not. Everyone likes their fairytales erotic and/or dark. I always liked the sweet ones best. Call me raised on Disney. Heh.
Maybe a shower first, to revive me a bit. *yaaaaaawn* And I splurged on a new brand of tea. Numi, it's called. A variety pack. Mom, they have something called 'gunpowder green tea' - is it the stuff you mentioned to me before or was that something else?
Shower. Food & Tea. Write. Course by then it'll be bedtime...
Also:Songs for Sip
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Date: 2006-01-27 12:49 am (UTC)Yeah... I was thinking about finishing up With This Ring for it, but it's already at 22 pages, and it's not close to finished. So alas, I'm still pondering what to do for it.
Also, I really do so like Witcher's story. He's cool. ^_^
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Date: 2006-01-27 12:59 am (UTC)On another note, *beats you with teddy bear* YOU SKIPPED AIK, DAMN YOU! *shakes fist*
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Date: 2006-01-27 01:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 01:09 am (UTC)(*pleads the fifth*)
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Date: 2006-01-27 04:13 am (UTC)Just noticed that. I really have nothing of consequence to say here. Though, I would have called anyway.
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Date: 2006-01-27 01:27 am (UTC)Heh. I try. That observation crossed my mind and made me snicker.
GIVE CRAZY.
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Date: 2006-01-27 01:39 am (UTC)CRAZY is not being writen right now in favor of omfg!WALL.
Maybe soon. xD;
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Date: 2006-01-27 01:02 am (UTC)I can't wait to see the rest of Aik's though. XD
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Date: 2006-01-27 01:26 am (UTC)Heh. I'm surrounded by people with migraine problems, and am heartily glad I don't suffer them.
I'm vastly amused everyoen is so captivated by the monk.
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Date: 2006-01-27 01:30 am (UTC)horny ex-piratesthe already corrupt. People want to know how it was done.no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 02:01 am (UTC)Numi! That's the brand of tea at my work... we have Gunpowder Green Tea, Orange Spice Pekoe, Earl Grey... and a whole bunch of others.
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Date: 2006-01-27 02:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 01:56 pm (UTC)I'd planned on going, but if I'm still feeling this shitty probably. Since I do't know about you, but I prefer I not bet here to cough and sneeze all over the food. But thank you ^_^ I really was looking forward to it.
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Date: 2006-01-27 02:17 am (UTC)Hmm...I like Witcher. He's not as artistically beautiful as Nanda, nor as suavely handsome as Bey, nor as masterfully intriguing as Aik, but I like him, in some odd way. He has a sort of charm and shyness to him that is cute and draws me in.
I have one request for this series. I'd like to see more of Shah. We get a lot of descriptions from the harem, I know, but he's never really completely been fleshed out. I don't know if that's intentional or not, but he seems like a really cool character, as as, in effect, the focal point of this entire series, I'd personally like to see more of him. Of course, it is your story.
“I would have loved you in the sunlight, Samuel."
~~~~~>
Enjoyed the arms around him and the sunlight beating down on them.
I love the comparison between those two lines, it fits perfectly.
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Date: 2006-01-27 02:26 am (UTC)Couldn't everyone chip in a few spare bucks so that Skylark can get her pretty papers and you can write your epic fable *g* and everybody can be happy and live happily ever after? ^.^
... >.> No, I am not high on DayQuil, why do you ask...? O:)
*off to read the actual story now* ^^
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Date: 2006-01-27 02:29 am (UTC)Shah, though, was fond of having them present at certain times or places, for support or to make a statement ¬– authority, wealth, ability.
Was the "¬" on accident? *grins*
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Date: 2006-01-27 02:32 am (UTC)Okay, that's really annoying me. It's not like that in my document - it only does it when I c/p into LJ. ARGH.
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Date: 2006-01-27 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 02:49 am (UTC)*_________*
Endless love for you. Words do not exist.
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Date: 2006-01-27 04:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 04:17 am (UTC)Seriously, pretty paper is my guilty pleasure. If you don't help me indulge in it, who will? ;________; Never underestimate my willingness to shell out money for pretty paper. ;3 It makes me happy. ^__^
2) OH MY GOD I LOVE WITCHER! Can I have his babies, please? *puppy eyes* Seriously, I love, love, love how he got his name. I love that he started out as a prisoner (and as an aside, I adore your soldiers-who-don't-want-to-be-soliders type characters. *hearts madly*). And the poor guy with the migraines, he totally had my sympathy. ;_; I love, love, loved Shah's kind of quiet surprise in Witcher staying too. I like the way you have him in a lot of points, kind of reflecting on it all and trying to figure out how he got so damned lucky. ;3 SQUEEE!! *tackle glomps* Have I mentioned yet how much I love this universe? *fangirls*
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Date: 2006-01-27 04:29 am (UTC)I love this! *wibbling*
You have such a 'voice', for lack of a better word.
*sighs, in awe*
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Date: 2006-01-27 04:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 05:21 pm (UTC)The vulnerablity of Shah that is hinted at in this one is endearing. I wonder if he said anything out loud to the others before asking Witcher? As he didn't think it possible, I could see him keeping it to himself... not that they wouldn't have been able to tell. But it is different, in any case, than his outright asking for Nanda's opinion on Bey, or the part that I think Nanda and Bey will prove to have had in Aik's seduction. Shah unsure of himself is very, very cute.
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Date: 2006-01-29 05:18 pm (UTC)I have to admit, I really thought that I wasn't going to like this particular set... and damnit, I'm freakin' hooked.
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Date: 2006-08-25 05:55 am (UTC)