by Maisey Yates
“Lazarus.”
And then he was kissing her. And it was fierce and hard, and everything that was always between them. But there was a desperation now, a lack of control that superseded even what had occurred between them last night. Because this wasn’t the snapping of self-control at the end of a seduction. It wasn’t that build of desire. This was an explosion. He was angry. And he was seeking. Taking the kiss deeper and deeper, as if he could find the answers he was looking for at her very center. As if he could taste her deep enough, hold her hard enough and find what he was after.
“I want to...” But he couldn’t finish the sentence. His eyes were wild, and full of black fire, and they searched hers, and she knew that she did not have the answers.
“I am no more civilized human than you.”
“More fool me,” he ground out. “Because I created you. In the same fashion that I was created. And it is broken. I was here deceiving my brother, with the full intent of killing him by my own hand if I had to. I would’ve taken his bride. I do not know compassion. I do not know mercy.”
“We are showing it,” she whispered. “You do know it. You rescued me from the alley...”
“With blood.”
“Sometimes blood is needed. I don’t know, Lazarus, maybe some people come together in glitter and fairy tales, and you and I are deadly vows and sword fights. Maybe that isn’t wrong. Maybe it just is.”
“Show me,” he said.
His mouth was on hers again, his kisses punishing, bruising. And she gave back everything she got, trying to find the more that he was looking for, trying to call it out from inside of herself and give it to him, because he needed it so desperately, and she did not want to deny him anything she had in her that might be good. Anything that she had that he might need.
You love him.
She did. But what would he understand of those words?
He saw love between Alex and Tinley, and he could not understand it. What would the words mean if he could not understand the feeling?
“It is not fair what happened to you,” she whispered against his mouth. “You were turned into a weapon, not treated as a boy.”
He growled, pushing her down to the earth, his large body over the top of hers. “No talking,” he said. “Show me. Show me with your body. Show me how to feel.”
And that she knew she could do. That she understood. Because she had never been emotionless, however much she wanted to be. Because she had always been with him out of more than loyalty. Because she had always been with him out of love.
“Yes, my Lord.”
And of her own free will she stripped the clothes from her body, bare to the soft earth, bare to him. And he stripped off his own clothing, kissing her hard and long before lifting her buttocks up off the ground and pulling her onto his body, impaling her in one swift stroke. He gripped her hips hard, guiding the movements, putting one thumb roughly between her legs and rolling it over the source of her pleasure as he continued to move her body up and down. And she let him. Let him find the rhythm that would quiet the demons in his soul. Because what he didn’t realize was she didn’t have to do anything. She felt. She loved him. And that was it. It made no sense. And he was right. They were two people twisted by their upbringings. And then shaped imperfectly into something that could survive.
But no one had modeled these things, these feelings for them. No one had shown them what it meant to love and be loved. And yet, she felt that way. And somehow knew that there was nothing deeper or more true than what she felt for him. Because if it wasn’t love, if it wasn’t the deepest, purest of loves, how could she want him in this way. Inside of her. Astride him, or him over her. How could she wish to swear her entire life to him. Possibly commit herself to an existence where she did not ever see the outside world.
You’ve seen the outside world.
And you’ve told him.
It was true. Lazarus was the first truly honorable man she had ever known. And she might’ve disagreed with what he was planning on doing, but she had never questioned his motivations. He was not selfish. And he was good. When given the chance to make a better choice, he was doing so. Even though it tore him to pieces. And she didn’t quite know why, but she sensed that there were reasons deeper than the political.
Lazarus had never craved power. What he craved was honor and righteousness. He was a leader, through and through. And all he ever wanted to do was the right thing by his people. But there was something raw here. Something raw and wounded. And it was more than simply being raised in a Spartan environment.
Because he’s afraid that no one loved him. He’s afraid he doesn’t know love because he’s never had it.
And that was when she found her courage. That was when she whispered against his mouth, “I love you.”
And he growled, pushing her down into the earth, his thrusts becoming hard and wild. And she lost her thoughts. Lost her sense of anything but this war between them. For it was always a war. A battle for pleasure. But a battle for more than that. For connection.
And perhaps that was what they were always engaged in. Whether it was a sword fight or sex. A deep need to be as close to each other as possible. To be with someone who understood. Who else understood but him? Really. And who else could understand him but her?
They had been taken from the life they had known and brought into the wood. They had lived lives where they had felt a lack of love. They had lost people who had cared for them.
And all of these things might’ve happened at different times, but they knew each other’s feelings. Real and true.
And he might not realize that, but it was so.
“I love you,” she whispered again, and then the desire inside of her boiled to overflowing. She gasped, pleasure rolling over her in a wave, and then he shuddered in her arms, kissing her as he found his own release. As he spilled himself inside of her.
And then he reached into their supplies and unrolled a large sheepskin blanket, folding it over the top of them and laying them by the fire. He said nothing. And when she awoke, the dawn was gray, and he was standing with all of their things prepared, her clothing folded next to the blanket. “We must be going,” he said.
He said nothing more about what had occurred last night. And when they arrived at the village there at the center of the forest, all multilevel houses built into the sides of the hills, she waited for the lift of homecoming to bolster her spirits. But it didn’t. Because there was a heaviness to Lazarus, and she could feel it echoing inside of him. And she did not think that she could feel any sort of real happiness so long as he felt this deep and terrible weight.
It was as if his own heart had been placed inside of her chest. And she could feel everything he did keenly.
“It will be well,” she said.
“You don’t know that,” he said.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t. But I know you needed to hear it.” And that, she decided, would be her lesson for the day in feelings.
That sometimes you just said the thing to soothe the person you cared for because they already knew the truth, and that gesture was more important in that moment than truth could ever be.
“I’m sure the people will hear whatever you have to say.”
People came out of their houses and made their way toward the main fire pit, which was roaring, early morning breakfast prepared for those who wished to eat all together. Many people ate their family meals privately, but there was always a meal prepared at the fire for anyone who might be without. For anyone who might be alone.
But they knew that Lazarus was back. They knew their King was back. And so they all came.
“I have been with my brother,” he said. “King Alexius of Liri. We have decided on peace.”
There was a ripple in the crowd. “Bloodshed will only bring more bloodshed. I do not want to lose
any people here. Any more than my brother wants to lose his. We will be planning a way for us to have our independence. A way for me to rule alongside him. A way that will open up opportunities for everyone here, while preserving our way of life. It is about choice. Everyone here should have it.”
And very much to the surprise of Lazarus and Agnes, the response was not angry. There were questions, many of them, and they passed all three meals there by the fire, talking about what would be. And when the light began to fade, people still stayed. And talked.
“I went with a single purpose. But I realized, I did not see things fully. It was only when I met my brother that I was able to see. These ideas are new, I know. But I believe new is the only way forward. No matter how much wisdom I could see in the old way...it will only take us back. I don’t want anyone here to lose a son or daughter,” Lazarus said. “A wife, a husband. A brother. That is why peace is the best path. But we shouldn’t have to hide anymore. And he has promised me that isn’t the case.”
“It’s so different from the way that Agamemnon spoke,” one of the women said. “It is foreign, this thing you propose.”
“Peace and mercy? I know. But I wonder if it might be the only way. The only real path. To life. It will not right every wrong. But I wonder if sometimes... If sometimes there is no avenging wrongs too deeply wrought. Because what will it gain us? We will lose. In the end. We will all lose something. And for what? To satisfy a grudge that is not even ours? I will not scar us in that way.”
“And if he’s lying?”
“He isn’t. I’m confident in that. But you have my word that my role will always be to represent our best interests.”
“But you’re one of them,” a man said.
“I’m not,” Lazarus said. “I am, and always will be, the King of the Dark Wood. This is my home. This is where I was raised. This is where I was given shelter and safety.”
“A man cannot serve two masters,” someone else shouted from the back.
“And I do not,” he said. “I serve you. Trust me as you always have.”
And all the while, Agnes stood by his side, her hand on her sword. For in the end, her loyalty was to him. And if there was a battle, she would fight for him.
In the end, they voted, they agreed. They agreed that this was the path. At least to try. And Lazarus swore to take a small band of men to the palace to be part of the discussion process.
To be part of this new world. They spoke of all the technology in education that would be open to them if they chose to take it. They spoke of opportunities. For them, for their children. Of choice.
And when they were exhausted, they went back to the palace. Lazarus’s palace. The glittering, black castle deep in the rocks of the largest mountain at the back of the forest.
Spiraling turrets merged with the mountainside, all onyx and obsidian. The door was inset with gems, also made of rock, and it opened upon Lazarus’s approach. The integration of technology into the wood had begun to happen before Agnes had arrived, and she was not shocked by it now. But she remembered being in awe of it at first.
Automatic doors and fingerprint sensors seemed more like magic here in this place that lacked so many of the markings of time.
It retained its medieval air while possessing a shocking amount of creature comforts within its glittering black depths.
Agnes had always found it to be home. And she did not wait to be invited. Rather instead she followed him to his chamber.
“That went well,” she said.
“Yes.” There was a large tub at the back of the room, black and iron. The water came straight from the heart of the mountain spring and was heated quickly by a sophisticated system. Lazarus turned it on, and began to take his clothes off. And Agnes began to slip off her own. Without waiting to be invited. He cast a glance at her, his gaze hooded. “Would you join me?”
“I was not going to wait to be asked.”
“My appreciation for you not attempting to bring a dagger into the bathtub.”
“Don’t give me a reason to use it and I don’t feel the need to be armed.”
When the tub was full, he shut the water off, stepping into it, and she followed suit, letting the hot water roll up over her skin. She pressed herself against his large body, her back against his bare chest, her bottom nestled firmly against his manhood. And they were quiet, there, in that moment. His hands comforting on her body, the warm water creating a cocoon around them. She rested her head against him. This was the first time they had been here. In this place where they had lived together for many years, not like this at all, in this changed state.
“What bothers you so much?” she asked.
He kissed her temple, and she shivered. “You, at the moment. I should like to be inside of you.”
“I would like that,” she said. “But that isn’t what I meant.”
“I know,” he said. “I made my family into an enemy, Agnes, because I could not have them. Because it was easier than grief. My mother is dead. My father is dead. My youngest brother is dead. All that I will have, ever...is Alexius. And it was easier to tell myself that there could be no reconciliation. But they were... That they were everything Agamemnon said they were. Because I cannot have those years back. I cannot become the man that I would’ve been. I cannot... My mother used to read to me. She loved me. I know she did. I remember feeling secure. I remember feeling... Happy. I can remember playing ball with Alexius and it was fun. And when he and I rode horses yesterday, I felt that again. That’s real. It has been so many long years since I felt anything like it. I was never a child here. A grim sense of duty is all I have known. And I forgot what it was to be part of the family. Having to try to remember now and realizing that those parts of myself have grown dark and weak from disuse is... I am alone,” he said.
She understood. It was what he’d been chasing last night. That connection. That sense of being part of something and someone. She did understand. She understood it deeply. Because she felt the same way.
She had been with Lazarus for years, but felt like she was always holding pieces of herself back. She lived with her father, and had felt utterly outside of herself the entire time.
“Remember what I said to you about choices my father would make? About how I felt that if we were doing the same thing he would do, taking the easy way, it couldn’t be right?”
“I do. It was a stinging rebuke, Agnes.”
“Being who you are is not easy. Having the bravery to face these complicated things... It is not. Not in the least. This is honesty. And it forces you to be true to pieces of yourself you would rather not. I know. I understand. But isn’t this better? I think this is where you might find the connection you seek.”
“It hurts,” he said. “Like reopening a wound to clean it.”
And she did not find the analogy off-putting, because she herself was a warrior, and she understood those terms. “I know,” she said. And in this moment, she felt like she might be his teacher. Much in the same way he had been hers. It made her want to laugh, but there was nothing funny about this moment. It was heavy. She felt that same heaviness that had descended upon them the moment they had come into the forest. That heaviness he was carrying with him.
“I can share your burden,” she said. “I’m here. You’re not alone, and neither am I. The truth is, neither of us have been, not these last eight years—it’s just that you and I are so used to being an island we didn’t realize when we were not.”
“Do you really love me?”
He asked that question in the same tone of voice as he had said everything else during this conversation, but there was an edge to it. Just underneath the surface.
“Yes,” she said. “With my heart. My body. My life. I love you.”
“But you cannot mean it. Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am...”
And he couldn’t finish that sentence either.
“I spent a great deal of time in my own thoughts, Lazarus. Trust that I know them now. That is the benefit of this kind of lonely life.”
“And yet I feel as if I know nothing.”
“Good for you,” she said. “You’re otherwise always so certain. Perhaps a bit of uncertainty will do you well.” Then he lifted her up from the tub, kissing her, but different than he had done by the fire. This was gentle.
This was something she didn’t know. A tender touch, his rough palms skimming her bare skin as he brought her down onto the bed. Both of them were still wet, but she didn’t mind, and he didn’t seem to either. His kisses were sweet, but not in the way they had been that night he had been attempting a seduction. This was an attempt at nothing. It simply was.
And she knew they were both mindless. Desperate with need for each other. Desperate for things that only the other could provide.
He kissed every inch of her skin, and she felt right, incandescent with her need for him. Then he positioned himself over her, entered her slowly. This coupling didn’t have the wildness of last night, didn’t have the violence of their first time. Didn’t have the calculation of their first kisses. This was simply Lazarus and Agnes. As they were, as they might’ve been. As everything. And in that moment, she had to wonder if each sharp and broken rock on the paths that they had walked had been left there for this specific purpose.
And she felt nearly ashamed. To think that perhaps his fate had never been what he had imagined, and that her fate had never been simply to swear loyalty to him. But that their fate was now. In this slow, deep build of intimacy that was teaching her things with each and every stroke of his hardness inside of her. It was more than pleasure. More than simple connection. This wasn’t the blind fumbling of two people simply in the throes of lust. They touched here at their souls. This was stripping layers off them both. Layers of protectiveness. Layers of damage done by the world. Done by the people who were supposed to care for them. Or in Lazarus’s case, by the loss of the people who had loved him very much.