28. Twenty-Five

We camped in the ruins of the Godsfel that night and celebrated. Firelight licked across ancient broken columns. Ash and sparks rose high in the dark while drums beat. Drink flowed freely as my men embraced Niro's, laughing, drinking, dancing.

Even the slaves were given a few barrels of ale once the work was done. I sent Elindir with it once a healer had mended the bones in his arm, and he was hailed a hero, both among his people and mine. Men all around the campfire recounted the tale of how the human slave had sought out Heskir and they fought.

"He was like a demon," said one elf, animatedly waving his arms so that his drink sloshed everywhere. "Heskir's magic could get no hold."

"I saw him with the shield," said another. "There was madness in his eyes, like one of the berserkirs from the Yeutlands. It was as if Grymfir himself had come down to guide his hand."

"They say he killed ten," came the story, and an hour later it was twenty. By the end of the night, they would be saying he turned into a giant and fought the whole army by himself.

The truth was likely much less impressive, but I made no effort to correct anyone. The louder and greater the praises for him, the better.

When Elindir returned from delivering the ale and meat to the slave camp, his cheeks were flushed and his gait slightly unsteady. He'd stayed to drink with them, and somewhere along the way, gained several strands of feather necklaces. There were white flowers in his hair, which was mussed. His eyes found mine without fear, and there was something especially mischievous there.

Elindir took a step as if to come toward me, but he was quickly swept away by a group of Niro's men and dragged off to get more to drink.

"An interesting creature, your slave," said Niro, coming to sit beside me at the fire. "It sounds as if he did quite well on the field today."

I turned my attention to the fire. "Every battle has its heroes."

"Few would have given a slave a sword. Fewer still would have sent him straight into Heskir's path."

An ember rose, dancing far from the others. "You're mistaken, Niro. I sent him nowhere. He found Heskir on his own."

"You afford him much leeway." Niro sounded concerned.

I turned my head. "You object?"

Niro sighed and stretched his long legs toward the fire. "It's not my place to question the will of a king."

"Then question me as a friend."

He was quiet for a time before saying anything more. "Tarathiel succeeded at winning his siege not because of his army, or his tactics. For twenty days, his army squatted in the city, unable to make their way inside where Queen Siryama Starfall had barricaded herself. They were starving, morale broken. There were rumblings every day of defectors, and fewer men at roll every morning. All it took to change their fortune was one man, one open door. A door your father opened with whispered promises in the dead of night sprawled on silk sheets."

My jaw clenched, unclenched. "That is the story some tell."

"It is the truth. His lover opened that door, thinking he would rule at your father's side. Instead, he was cast aside, paraded through the city as a traitor and hanged. I was a boy then, but what struck me most, what haunts me still, is how he pleaded his love for Tarathiel all the way to the noose." Niro turned his face forward, taking in the fire. "I hope you will be kinder to the man who opens the door for you."

"You're mistaken," I said coldly, impersonally. "I haven't taken him to my bed, and even if I had, he's a slave."

Niro's gaze fixed on a point across the fire. I followed it to where Katyr reclined on a fallen marble column, his head tipped back in laughter, long, delicate neck exposed, golden taps gleaming in the low light.

"We always want what we cannot have the most," Niro said quietly before he drained his cup and stood. "Excuse me. I'm getting too old for these merriments late into the night."

He dismissed himself from the revelry, going to his tent alone.

The rhythm of music picked up, drums and bells summoning men to dance. Elindir was among them, tugged into the line by the men he'd been drinking with. It was clear he didn't know the steps, but he laughed silently and did his best.

The music evolved, and more joined in, people forgetting their inhibitions. Elindir flung off his tunic to dance shirtless with the others. Hands started finding their way to places they wouldn't be otherwise, sliding over the sweat damp planes of his stomach, grasping his shoulders, his hips. A body pressed in from behind and Elindir turned, the mischief now gone from his eyes. In its place was the hunger all men knew after battle, the hunger for life found in a lover's embrace. Elindir's finger traced along some soldier's jaw with an inviting smile.

My teeth clicked together, and I looked away. Tonight, he was a hero, and a hero should get a hero's reward. Not some drunken soldier's fumbling and groping behind the goat pen. He'd regret it in the morning. I pictured him, pale faced, staggering into the tent at dawn, his jaw clenched, eyes downcast, knowing he never would have done it had he been sober.

Before I could stop myself, I was on my feet, long strides taking me over to the throng of dancers.

The soldier making advances saw me first and made a quick retreat, stepping back with his head bowed. "C-c-commander. I was…We were…"

"Go find another bed partner, Ingvid," I said.

Ingvid nodded and promptly scurried off to do just that.

Elindir gave me a sour look, telling me without words how irritated he was that I was spoiling his fun.

"You'll thank me in the morning." I closed my hand around his and took a step away from the crowd.

He pulled back.

I turned around and found the drink had filled him with even more defiance. "I'll carry you if I have to."

Until that moment, I hadn't known it was possible to scoff in silence, but he managed it. Elindir untangled his fingers from mine and tried to walk away. He didn't make it far before I wrapped an arm around his waist and lifted him easily. The human struggled as I hefted him over my shoulder and the men around us laughed, some of them lifting their cups and shouting lewd encouragement.

I ignored them all, and his struggling, carrying him straight to the tent. I threw back the flap and stepped in. It was dark and cold because we'd all been out celebrating. Elindir had neglected to light the lamps. The surly bastard struggled against my hold all the way to the bed, where I flung him down, intending to reprimand him for his behavior, but hesitated when I saw him.

When he came to me, he was small, underfed, his skin naked and hairless like a boy. His steady diet and all the work had filled him out more in the chest and arms. Denied the touch of a razor, dark hair had sprouted on his chest, and in a thin line down the center of his stomach. Sweat sheened, his chest rose and fell in a quiet pant. Even in the dark, the flush on his cheeks was evident, especially against the dark hold of his collar. He lay in my bed, feet planted, knees up, legs parted, looking like a blushing virgin bride waiting for her husband on her wedding night. Realization dawned that I had carried him in there like one too, claimed him from some other would-be suitor.

Why had I done such a thing?

Elindir's stare fixed on my mouth. A soft, pink tongue slid across his bottom lip, wetting it. His body said he wanted me. If he could speak, what would those lips say?

The drums outside, distant now, picked up speed.

He pushed up on his elbows, rising halfway. He found the first tie on my tunic near the shoulder and pulled.

I caught his fingers before they could move to the next one. "You don't want this."

Glaring at me, he yanked his hand away and made quick work of the next tie as if to say, "I do."

"You're drunk," I said, but there was no firmness in it. No real protest. Men fucked when they were drunk all the time. Why couldn't we?

Deft fingers curled around the fabric of my tunic, making a fist. He pulled me down the same way I'd pulled on his leash the first night, unrelenting. Powerful. Hot, panting breaths mingled in the narrow space between us, his face so close, I could count the shades of brown in his eyes. There were twelve. No, thirteen.

When the kiss happened, I expected teeth. I expected the rough sandpaper scrape of his skin over mine, clawing, biting need and a scramble for dominance. His kiss was none of those things. Elindir's lips were soft and playful, ghosting over mine once before teeth caught my bottom lip and pulled gently. He let me go, and I stayed frozen, unsure. No one had ever kissed me like that, like it was he who owned me and not the other way around. Like he could've had me anytime he wanted with a glance and a gesture.

It wasn't a kiss so much as it was a tease. A brag, even. He knew I wanted him and was daring me to take what I wanted.

With the pleased smile of a cat, he stretched out languidly on my bed. He looked at me, a whole new fire in his eyes, as he traced fingers slowly over the planes of his stomach, and then the outline of his hard cock. One eyebrow arched, and he asked without words, Well? Are we going to fuck or what?

I seized his hand roughly and pinned it over his head. The soundless gasp made my body throb to have him, to be inside him, to take advantage. Instead, I leaned over him, giving him all my weight. "When I fuck you, it won't be some drunken tumble that you can forget. It won't be something I wake up to regret, either."

There was that fire I knew so well. His jaw clenched, and he turned his face away, color rising again to his cheeks.

I pushed away, climbing off the bed while he remained. I went outside where the air was cool and less stifling, closed my eyes, and tried to remember how to breathe. All I could think of was the ghost of a kiss against my lips, the surrender of strong limbs, the warmth of a body I'd denied myself so long, it was driving me mad with need.

I let a breath out into the night and pressed my palms into my eyes.

Elindir didn't kiss like a slave. He didn't kiss like a man. Elindir's kiss was an elegant gold chain wrapping tight around my throat. It was a boot in my lower back, teeth against my ear, a knife in the dark. That man would make me a slave to his pleasure in my own bed and, gods help me, I wanted to let him.

The one thing that could destroy all my careful planning was sleeping happily in my bed, secure in the knowledge that I would protect him because I craved him. Because I needed him. He was my greatest asset, and my most glaring weakness. My father knew well how to strike at weaknesses.

After Rünhyll, I should have known better than to be so undone by a kiss.