by A. J. Demas
Damiskos spun, lunged under Sesna’s upraised sword arm, and stabbed him in the gut. Jerking his sword free as the man stumbled back, he reached for Varazda, hauling him up by the arm from where he was stooping to retrieve his dropped blade, and ran for the door of his room.
They made it through the door, which Damiskos bolted quickly behind them, across the room, and up onto the bed. The only sounds that followed them were confused shouts and groans from the atrium, no running feet.
Varazda’s hands were shaking so badly that it took him two tries to get his swords stowed back in his sash. Damiskos, having sheathed his own sword, grasped the windowsill and pulled himself up and out, then turned and reached back to help Varazda. He could no doubt have made it without help, but he didn’t refuse it.
Only after he had pulled Varazda up did Damiskos notice that he had landed on his saddlebags, lying on the roof tiles where he had left them earlier. He slung them over a shoulder, and he and Varazda clattered across the roof to drop down into the little yard beside the kitchen. From here, it was just a matter of vaulting a low wall, and they were in the kitchen garden.
Damiskos was still riding the flood of exhilaration that followed a fight—his first real combat in years—but Varazda had stopped on the far side of the wall and simply folded at the knees, hitting the ground in a barely-controlled fall, and leaned forward to be sick between the rosemary bushes.
Damiskos got awkwardly down onto the ground beside him. He rummaged in his saddlebags for the half-full flask of the soldiers’ drink of water and vinegar that he knew was in there. The sort of bracing words that he might have said to a new recruit after his first engagement almost came out of his mouth. Before they could, it occurred to him that this was not Varazda’s first taste of battle. He must have been taken prisoner as a child in one of the complex clan wars of the Deshan Coast. This wasn’t about the shock of the unfamiliar, but about memories of the past. Damiskos offered the flask and said nothing.
CHAPTER XIX
VARAZDA TOOK A few swallows from the flask and passed it back without comment. He levered himself up to his feet.
“We’d better press on,” he said tonelessly.
“Yes.”
They picked their way to the bottom of the garden. The clouds were over the moon again, and they both trod on onions and nearly tripped. They got over the wall and back into the vineyard.
Damiskos paused, holding up a hand for Varazda to wait. He listened, straining for any sounds of pursuit. There was nothing.
“I don’t think they’re following us,” he said finally. “But let’s lie low in the vineyard for a little so that if they do come after us, we won’t be out in the open. And we can take a rest. Let’s get down a few terraces, find a hidden corner, and just sit.”
He rather expected Varazda to protest, and wasn’t going to press the matter if he did. It wasn’t as if he thought either of them would have trouble making it back to the camp on the beach; it was all downhill, and he himself was feeling rather energetic. It was just that in Varazda’s position—and he’d been in Varazda’s position—he would have appreciated a little time to collect himself before seeing other people.
Varazda blew out a breath. “That’s a good idea.”
They descended four stone stairways and made their way to the far end of the terrace, where the vines ended and the gravelly soil was overgrown with grass and overhung by branches from the encroaching trees, making a sheltered nook. They waited warily in the shadows, still listening for signs of pursuit, but the vineyard was quiet around them.
“I think we’re safe,” said Damiskos.
He dumped his saddlebags on the ground and sat, leaning back against them and stretching out his lame leg, the other knee bent. He thought about taking off his boots, but there was still the possibility of pursuit from the villa.
Varazda drew the swords out of his sash and set them aside to drop down cross-legged on the grass. He did take off his shoes. He was looking a little steadier, but not his usual self yet. He unwound his sash and bundled it up, knotting it around the scrolls and the shell portrait of his daughter. He looked up at Damiskos, whose gaze he had been quietly avoiding.
“How are you doing?” Damiskos asked.
“Oh. Uh.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ll be all right, I think. Thank you for … ” He made a vague gesture. “Everything.”
“Of course. Would you like … ” He didn’t know how to make the offer, didn’t even know exactly what he was offering. He held out a hand.
Varazda looked at him for a moment, then seemed to make up his own mind about what the offer meant. He nodded.
He moved to sit in front of Damiskos, leaning back against him. Damiskos wrapped his arms around him, and Varazda sank back into his embrace, his body loosening, relaxing.
“Oh, Dami. Thank you.”
Damiskos kissed into the soft, tangled waves of Varazda’s hair and tightened his hold. “No trouble at all.”
They sat like that for a long while. The clouds slid away from the moon again, silvering the vines with their heavy bunches of grapes. A pleasant breeze moved across the terrace. Still there were no sounds from the villa. Varazda’s body was a warm weight against Damiskos’s chest, one wrist lying across Damiskos’s thigh, wholly at ease now. Damiskos could feel him breathing, softly and evenly, and wondered whether he was asleep.
“Do you mind if I call you Dami?”
Apparently he wasn’t asleep.
“You can call me anything you like. First Spear, Dami, whatever.”
Varazda laughed slightly. He did sound a little sleepy. “I don’t have any nicknames myself—just so you know.”
“Yes, you do. I heard the girls down on the beach calling you Phari.”
“Oh, well. They just made that up. Nobody calls me that at home. Anyway, I like that you can pronounce my real name.”
“Me too.”
They sat still a moment longer.
“This is … this is nice,” said Varazda finally. He sounded … Damiskos couldn’t quite place it at first. A little embarrassed? “I feel much better. Actually, I feel a little … ”
He shifted in Damiskos’s arms, arching his back slightly, his hand trailing featherlight over Damiskos’s thigh.
Oh.
“That’s normal, actually,” Damiskos said softly, lips brushing over Varazda’s hair. “You get a sort of rush in battle, and then when it’s over—if you’re not completely exhausted—it’s got to go somewhere.”
“And that’s where it goes?”
“Often.”
“Mm. I don’t think it’s that at all. I think it’s just you.”
Damiskos laughed. “Sure.”
He was hard as a rock himself—had been since before he invited Varazda into his arms—but he hadn’t expected any relief. Truthfully, he wasn’t even bothered by that. It was all about what Varazda wanted in that moment. But if what Varazda wanted was … well.
He gathered up the hem of Varazda’s shirt in one hand, pulling it up, and with the other stroked firmly over Varazda’s flat, tight stomach, letting his fingertips dip down under the upper edge of Varazda’s trousers.
Varazda gave a sobbing gasp, a beautiful sound that shot through Damiskos like a pang of hunger. One lovely hennaed hand curled in Damiskos’s hair, the other clutched at his thigh. Damiskos went on stroking, slow and warm and simple, pushing his fingers a little further under the fabric of Varazda’s trousers, until they brushed the curls of hair that went straight across, like a woman’s.
He wanted to find every place where Varazda liked to be touched. He had always imagined himself a reasonably good lover, patient and attentive when he needed to be. He wanted to be better than he had ever been before, to find things to do to Varazda that Varazda hadn’t even known he wanted.
He slid his left hand over Varazda’s belly, lifting his right hand away to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. This left him free to explore the smooth planes of Varazda�
�s chest, silver-white in the moonlight. He let his hands roam above and below, over slim pectoral muscles and tight nipples, up over Varazda’s white, exposed throat, down to trace the subtle V that delineated his abdomen. And here, improbably, was that calm joy that Damiskos had felt eluding him earlier: sinking into this moment, giving pleasure like a gift.
Varazda was much quieter than the first time, almost withdrawn in his pleasure, eyes closed, biting his lower lip. But the soft sounds he did make were enough to convince Damiskos that he was enjoying everything so far.
“Will you sit up for me so I can take your shirt off?” Damiskos whispered presently. “If you’d like that, I mean.”
Varazda rolled forward pliantly, sweeping his hair out of the way. Damiskos peeled his shirt back over marble-white shoulders and down lithe, lightly muscled arms, exposing the beautifully tapering lines of his back. He ran his fingers gently in under Varazda’s hair, lifting it, and kissed the back of his neck lightly. That won him a shiver, so he carried on, skimming his lips over Varazda’s shoulder, the curve of his ear, darting out his tongue. That made Varazda giggle, so he did it again.
With another lover, Damiskos might have offered compliments at this point—he was not poetic, but he could articulate some simple praise of a beautiful body. But he didn’t think Varazda wanted compliments, or words at all, really.
He pulled Varazda back to lie against him as before. He slipped his hand all the way down into the front of Varazda’s trousers, where he found Varazda already hard, his hips thrusting up in a little wriggle to rub his cock against Damiskos’s palm.
There was a special pleasure in touching under clothing—Damiskos had learned that in Zash, where everyone wore so much more clothing—so he took his time again, teasing Varazda with light touches, fingers stroking the crease between thigh and crotch, lips soft on the side of his neck.
“Aren’t you … ” Apparently Varazda couldn’t stand it any longer. “If you want to … ”
“I’m fine,” said Damiskos truthfully. “What do you want?”
Varazda rested his hand on Damiskos’s through the fabric of his trousers, stilling his fingers on a silky thigh. He was leaning back against Damiskos’s shoulder again. He seemed to give the question some thought.
“I’d like to feel you naked against me,” he said finally. He pressed his face into Damiskos’s neck, and Damiskos could feel the blush warming his cheeks.
“I’d like that too.”
Varazda unfastened his trousers and shimmied neatly out of them. He twisted around to unbuckle Damiskos’s belt.
Damiskos wished he had taken his boots off after all. Even with Varazda helping, it was a much more awkward and less alluring process getting him out of his clothes than it had been for Varazda to get out of his.
Varazda didn’t seem to mind. He settled in Damiskos’s arms again, rubbing his cheek a little tentatively against the hair on Damiskos’s chest. Damiskos stroked the curve of his hip, circling his thumb around the soft hollow created by the muscles of his flank. Varazda’s fingers moved over the inside of Damiskos’s thigh.
“You probably need … ” Varazda began, trailing a finger lightly up the hot length of Damiskos’s cock.
Damiskos couldn’t help catching his breath sharply, but he whispered back, “I don’t need anything that doesn’t make you happy.”
Varazda didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and somehow Damiskos liked that, liked that he didn’t resort to an easy answer—“I’m sure I’d like anything you’d like,” or “It would make me happy to make you happy”—when it wouldn’t have been true.
“Here, I’ve an idea,” Damiskos said. “I like this a lot, and you might too.”
He wrapped his arms around Varazda, gently gathering him up and moving him down to lie on his side, still with Damiskos at his back. Then Damiskos reached around into his saddlebag for the oil that he used on his sword belt and his horse’s harness. He poured a little into his palm.
“Tell me if you don’t like it, all right?”
“Mm,” said Varazda noncommittally. He lay with his head pillowed on his arm, trustingly not watching what Damiskos was doing.
Damiskos parted Varazda’s white thighs and rubbed his oiled hand between them, anointing the soft skin above and below, his touch intimate and careful. He could feel Varazda tense, but without pulling away or making a sound. He carefully avoided letting his fingers touch the firm curve of Varazda’s ass. Withdrawing his hand, he lay down again on his side, bringing their bodies together, holding Varazda for a long, comfortable moment before he rubbed the tip of his cock against the slicked crease between Varazda’s legs.
Pleasure flooded him like strong drink, fiery and sweet; he felt drunk, dazed with it. He felt as if his body would fly apart, disintegrate, unless he clasped Varazda tighter.
Varazda reached around to spread his fingers on Damiskos’s hip, pulling him in closer, and Damiskos sank into silky heat, pressing deeper, his body flexing against the warm alabaster of Varazda’s. Belatedly, he remembered to put his hand down to envelope Varazda’s cock in his slick palm. Varazda cried out, pushing back and moving against him in tight undulations, the muscles of his thighs gripping Damiskos’s cock and grinding it against the sensitive skin of the place where Varazda’s legs met. Damiskos buried his face in the side of Varazda’s neck and groaned.
He felt fused with Varazda, twined like the strands of steel in a sword-blade. They moved together, slow and hot, held in a kind of tension for as long as they could manage, luxuriating in the simplicity and the aching insufficiency of their union. At last Damiskos came in a long moment like a shower of sparks. Varazda’s body arched and tensed against his as he came too.
They lay panting, loosely clasped together, for a languid minute before rolling apart. Varazda turned his head to look at Damiskos. His face was flushed.
“Do you really like that?” he asked. “That type of … whatever you call that.”
“Love it. Why?”
Varazda thought for a moment. “It’s so easy. Not painful. Doesn’t taste bad.”
“It’s also easier on my leg, to lie side-by-side like that.”
“I guess it would be.”
Varazda was silent for another moment, looking up at the sky, then he pushed up onto one elbow, looking down at Damiskos. His hair fell down to caress Damiskos’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry—” he began gently.
“That you’re not being more romantic?” Damiskos finished for him. Keep it light, he reminded himself. “I had noticed that.”
Varazda’s face stilled briefly, then he smiled. “It was utterly lovely, Dami. It almost … ” He ran a hand down over his own thigh. “Almost made me feel like a woman.”
“Is that good?” From Varazda’s expression, it looked like it was.
“Sometimes. Yes.”
“Interesting.”
Damiskos reached up and brushed his fingertips over the gold flower stud, the woman’s decoration that Varazda always wore. Varazda kissed softly into his palm.
“Is it odd?” Varazda asked.
“What? That you wear that? No! It suits you. That and the henna, and the way you braid your hair sometimes—it’s subtle, I don’t know how to describe it.”
Varazda had settled beside him, head propped on one hand, the other one spread on Damiskos’s chest. “It’s a way of making myself feel whole. Balanced. In a way it fills up the space of the manhood I’ll never have.”
“Oh, I see,” said Damiskos, enlightened. “You don’t want to be neither, so you’re both.”
Varazda smiled. “Something like that. I can pass myself off as an actual woman, too, when I want to—but that’s different. That’s dressing up. It’s fun, but I don’t do it often.”
“I’d like to see that. I can’t quite picture it.”
Varazda looked amused.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “I think this masculine-feminine thing isn’t just because I’m a eunuch.
I think I would have been like this—sort of wanting to be both—even if I’d grown up as a whole man. But I might not have known what to do with it.”
Damiskos touched the soft curtain of Varazda’s hair, trying to think of something light and easy to say in response to that. Because it suddenly made all his longing for an impossible future return in full force. This beautiful person, who dwelt so gracefully in the space between man and woman, who had never been made love to properly and yet was everything Damiskos desired—he wanted to have him, to keep him, to belong to him.
“I see,” he said. “Or wait, no—this is where you say, ‘Do you really?’ and I swear at you.”
“We can skip that, if you want.” Varazda looked down at Damiskos for a moment. “Dami, you’re a serious man. I know that. You don’t have to joke when you don’t feel like it.”
That undid Damiskos completely. He put a hand over his eyes, trying to swallow all the things he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. He drew the hand away again.
“What am I going to do when you go back to Boukos and leave me?” The words could have been light, almost joking, but they were not; his voice shook as he spoke, and he knew he sounded anguished.
Varazda went very still, but this time it was not, Damiskos could tell, because he was offended.
“I’ve never had a love affair,” Varazda said finally. “Not even close. I’d never had sex for pleasure before the other night, with you. I … I’m completely at sea here.”
Damiskos didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe some part of him had harboured a hope that if he told Varazda how he felt, Varazda would respond that he felt exactly the same, that Damiskos had unlocked some secret place in his heart and they would somehow be together forever. Or at least, failing that, Varazda would laugh and tell him not to dream, because Varazda had the courage to face reality, the courage Damiskos lacked.
Instead Varazda had just responded honestly. He wasn’t in love with Damiskos; he didn’t know how to be, didn’t know what to do with the fact that Damiskos was in love with him.