22. Draknir

Ienter the dimly lit chamber, the walls echoing with the silence of a freshly sealed secret. The priest stands before me, his fingers wrapped around the vial I"ve just handed him. It"s a vile duty, this proof of consummated love demanded by tradition and my relentless family.

"Is this truly necessary, Draknir?" His voice is a whisper, almost lost amid the creaks of the wooden floor beneath our feet.

"More than you know," I reply, my jaw set. "Without this, they will never cease their hounding."

Gods know I do not need any incessant hounding. Especially not with the newness that is developing between Kathleen and me. After our night together, I'm looking forward to some down time with her.

I have a month of leave from work for our honeymoon, and I intend to make the very most of it pampering Kathleen the way she deserves. The marriage contract of my supposed nobility is not a thought in my mind when I think of what I have created for myself in its avoidance. The memory of the intimacy we shared is seared in my mind, a constant reminder of the way she makes me feel.

The scent of incense lingers in the air, mingling with the distant dampness of earth that always seems to pervade these stone confines. I can feel the weight of a letter to my father in my pocket, its edges pressing into my thigh—a missive filled with words that are both a shield and a sword.

"Must we degrade love to such... transactions?" The priest"s question hangs between us, but I have no answer for him—only the action I must take.

"Take it to the capital," I instruct, my tone brooking no argument. "Ensure it reaches my family"s hands."

He nods, solemn and resigned, tucking the vial away with a care that borders on reverence. He understands the stakes, the precarious game played for acceptance and peace.

"Your family will be satisfied," he assures me, but the comfort of his words feels hollow. Satisfaction, at what cost?

My mind wanders, pondering if they will honor my marriage to Kathleen. Will they still come for me? Or have I truly ridden myself of the nagging reminder of my father"s transgressions that led my life to its current position?

As the priest turns to leave, my gaze drifts to the window where moonlight filters through, casting elongated shadows across the room. There"s a bitterness creeping up my throat, a taste like iron and regret. Kathleen doesn"t deserve this scrutiny, this invasion of our private moments turned spectacle for prying eyes.

I make my way home. Home. To her, where I am finding solace in her company. These feelings are so strange to me, Uncharted, but not entirely unwanted. My mind whirls with newness. I find myself content in the way my heart and body have begun to long for the touches of her soft skin.

"Is it done?" Kathleen asks as I walk through the door. She is sitting at the table, a cup of steaming tea in her hand, worry etched into her smooth features.

"Yes." I close the distance between us to grasp her face. I press a gentle testing kiss to her forehead before withdrawing as the contact sends a buzz down to my groin.

She looks up at me, her eyes searching for something to anchor her to her reality.

"What do we do now?" she asks shyly.

"I could teach you the dark elf language," I say offhand. I"m not sure what I am supposed to do with a mate past the ceremony and consummation.

"I would love that." Her eyes flicker with excitement.

I open an ancient tome that I've enjoyed over the years. Now, it sprawls open before Kathleen, its pages a maze of dark elf script that she traces with eager fingertips. She's ensnared by the challenge, her lips moving silently as she deciphers each glyph.

"Draknir?" Her voice is a thread of curiosity in the dimly lit chamber we"ve claimed for ourselves. "What"s this word here?" She points, and I lean in, the scent of her—the earthy aroma of human life—fills my senses.

"Val"shar," I reply, my tone clipped. "It means "endurance"."

"Appropriate," she muses with a smile that doesn"t quite reach her eyes. The irony isn't lost on me—the word mirrors my own existence, a testament to surviving against relentless tides of prejudice and conflict.

"Very," I acknowledge, my gaze lingering on her face, absorbing the subtle expressions that dance across her features.

"Draknir," she chides, catching me staring, "you"re supposed to be helping, not just watching."

"Am I now?" My retort is more gruff than intended, a defense mechanism against the softening of my edges. "I find your determination... intriguing."

"Is that so? Or are you simply bored without your sword in hand?"

"Perhaps a bit of both," I admit, the words coming out sharper than they feel. But there"s truth in them—I am a soldier, born and bred for combat, not idle repose.

"Then let me make it interesting." Kathleen challenges me, her eyes sparkling with defiance. "Teach me something only a warrior would know."

"Like what?" I scoff, the notion absurd. "How to wield a blade? You"re more likely to cut yourself."

"Maybe," she fires back, undeterred. "But I"m not afraid to learn."

"Bravery or foolishness?" I quip, but there"s no heat behind it. We spar with words, a duel of wits rather than steel.

"Both," she says with a smirk. "Isn"t that what being a soldier is about?"

"Careful, Kathleen," I warn, though the corners of my mouth betray me, turning upward ever so slightly. "You might start to sound like one of us."

"Would that be so terrible?" she asks, and for a moment the question hangs between us, heavy as a warhammer.

"Perhaps not," I concede, my defenses crumbling like the walls of an ancient fortress long-sieged. The realization strikes—a month away from duty, a respite from the blood and battle cries, and here I am, still fighting. Only this time, it"s not against an enemy—it"s against the unexpected joy found in simple moments like these, teaching her, watching her.

"Good," Kathleen beams, returning her attention to the book. "Now, what"s this symbol?"

"Hope," I answer, and the word feels foreign on my tongue, though not unwelcome. "In our language, it"s "Tal"ren"."

"Hope," she repeats, savoring the syllables. "I like that."

"Me too," I confess, and in that admission, I find a shard of peace amidst the turmoil of duty and longing, a fleeting truce in a lifelong war.

During our honeymoon period, Kathleen also tends to her grandmother.

"Let me help you," I say, sliding my hands around her grandmother"s frail body.

"It"s really okay," she protests with a smile.

"I just want to help you," I smile back, taking in her delicate form. She"s not weak by any means, I just feel compelled to do things for her to lessen her load.

We spend our days calmly enjoying the harmony that has been building between us. The days are not devoid of embrace. I find myself looking for excuses to touch her; sometimes it's to brush a stray hair from her face, other times, it's a guiding hand on her lower back. At night I explore every contour of her supple form.

As we delve deeper into the ancient dark elf language together, I can"t help but marvel at Kathleen. She may be human, but she's unyielding. Her brow furrows with concentration as she studies the intricate symbols, a soft hum escaping her lips each time she pronounces unfamiliar words. Occasionally, she"ll pause to ask me questions, and I find myself savoring these moments like rare nectar. Our voices flow together, our minds entwined in a dance only the two of us understand.

After lunch, when we finish studying, we head over to take care of her grandmother. Kathleen takes her hand gently. Her skin is like worn parchment, creased with age and wisdom. With meticulous care, we help bathe her and open her windows facing the garden where the sunlight is warm on our skin. The scent of lavender fills the air as the breeze rolls in.

I enjoy the solace of night the most. We sleep together, spending each night exploring each other"s bodies. A feeling has begun to hang over me, the overwhelming sensations of which threaten to explode from my chest in words I don't know how to conjure.

As the night falls softly around us, Kathleen tucked neatly into the crook my arm, our skin glistens with a sheen of sweat from the passionate lovemaking that"s left my body craving hers. I feel a pang of longing deep within my chest. I know I should say something about my feelings, but the words won"t come out; they"re lost in a sea of need and desire that seems to overtake me every time she"s near.

I rationalize that it"s okay if I don"t speak up just yet, we are bound together forever, surely it"s okay if I hold off for a bit.

One morning, two weeks later, changes everything. My butler comes rushing into my study with wide eyes and a trembling voice. "The patient, she has awoken," he exclaims breathlessly. I nod curtly and rush past him towards Kathleen"s grandmother"s chambers.

As I round the corner, I can hear muffled sounds coming from inside. The conversation sounds tense, and there is a commotion rumbling from behind the closed door. I quickly rush over and push it open.