by Blake, Laila
“I have spent weeks not seeing the real you, Moira.”
“The me of today?” she asked quietly, her brows drawing together in a subtle expression of pain.
“Yes,” Owain admitted. “And the you at the full moon.”
“What about the me of tomorrow?”
“The you of tomorrow is your face of duty, Moira. Not many have the privilege of living their life as their own self.” His voice was darker than before and ever so carefully, she dislodged one finger from the neckline of his breastplate and ran it over the little hollow in his neck underneath his Adam’s apple.
“Like you?”
“Like me.”
Moira could feel his neck and chest expand and contract with each breath under her fingers. This one was harder and longer until he gave her a small smile. Their eyes were locked; it was almost completely dark in the dark corner in which they stood, but what little light there was it seemed enough to make their eyes glint enough to focus on.
Finally, he lifted his fingers to her lips, brushed them over the bottom one and sighed.
“I should take you back to your chambers … ” he stopped her when opened her lips to speak, gently patting them with his index finger. “I know. You asked for something. And then we spoke instead. Are you still of the same mind?”
Moira nodded, almost eagerly. Owain smiled. Maybe, just maybe, he could kiss her until the morning dawned, could forget that after dawn, there was a new day in which he and her would act as if all of this had been nothing but a dream.
Chapter Eleven
It was dark in Moira’s room.
To the far side, a few last embers were glowing dimly in the fireplace, not quite bright enough to add much light to the room. Most of that was still supplied by the moon, hardly enough to make out the edges of the furniture now that it wasn’t directly shining into her window.
Moira shivered, wrapped her arms around herself and listened to the gurgling sound her stomach made. A whole night without food; she was thirsty more than anything but the water that was standing in a jug by her bed would wash away the taste of Owain’s lips and his tongue. She only had to close her eyes now and there it was … his smell and the way his lips had felt pressed onto hers. Hunger didn’t quite matter enough to risk chasing that clear and ardent memory away.
She picked up a woolen blanket, threw it over her shoulders and then walked over to the little fireplace. She put a piece of wood on the dying embers, then another, smaller one. Her dress spread in an uneven circle around her when she knelt down to warm her hands. She felt the familiar and quite pleasant sting of heat in her eyes. There was that smell, too, and Moira had always liked it; spicy and strong, the crackle of fire, its color and its all-consuming hunger.
It had almost burned down before she had entered the room, starved for fuel and dying away, but already little flames were licking at the wood, spluttering and then exalting in strength when they came across a small tree sap deposit. The flames were leaving their black marks already, eating their way into the wooden meal.
Moira had her arms wrapped around herself, thumbs thoughtlessly brushing the fabric of her dress over her skin as she did so. Watching the flames, she wondered where Owain was. In his room, she assumed, but there was no reliable way of knowing. For a while, she entertained herself imagining he was right outside, his eyes closed, listening to her breathing. She could have walked back to the door and sat against it, dreaming that he was on the other side and they might close their eyes and share a dream. Everything seemed possible to her sleep-deprived and utterly focused mind. Owain. More likely, though, he was indeed in his room. She doubted that he was sleeping already; maybe he was there, feeding his own fire or sitting on his own bed. Was he thinking about her?
Moira shivered and pressed her hands harder into her warm armpits, her teeth into her lip. They were thoughts that had no meaning and led nowhere, she knew that, but that wasn’t enough to stop entertaining them. Instead, she spun them further. He would leave one day — maybe sooner than she thought, just to keep them both safe. And then the castle would feel empty and cold and he wouldn’t be there anymore, always two steps behind her. The idea gave her a sudden stabbing feeling in her gut, but the near flames left her eyes without any upwelling tears.
The mere idea of talking to him now was difficult, much less giving him orders. He had invoked the Moira of tomorrow, but how could he determine the future? Hadn’t he spoken of the Moira of yesterday or a week ago? How could the Moira of tomorrow not look upon his face and blush with the thoughts and feelings it stirred with her? How would she be able to treat him like before?
She found herself bringing one warmed hand to her cheek, subconsciously mimicking his touch and tilting her head back as she closed her eyes. An audible exhale followed and she opened her lips just as though he was there, waiting to kiss her again. His thumb had brushed over her cheekbone and as she mimicked the motion, her breaths grew shallow and audible.
Your freckles are like constellations.
The words echoed in her mind, over and over. Then her fingers touched her lips. He was not there, of course, but the warmth of the fire could almost substitute for the warmth of his body, her hand for his hand, her memory for his lips. It wasn’t much, it was hardly anything compared to that moment on the battlements, but it was more than she’d ever had before that. It had to mean something. And just thinking of him made her remember that feeling, the pulling in her stomach. It was there, that her free hand was inevitably drawn while the other still rested on her own cheek, thumb brushing carefully over her bottom lip. It was just Moira and the crackling fire, a woman and that heat in front of her and she gasped when she felt the tingling between her legs again, too. Almost like when he was there and the enchantment of his fingers had travelled all through her body.
It was a spur of the moment idea when she fisted her long skirt and pulled it up until she could reach beneath it. Her fingers skimmed the long stockings and then the soft white flesh of her thighs. She had touched herself there before, of course; when she washed herself mostly, but this was different. This time, it made her breath shorter and heavier the closer she got to the point where her legs met, the closer she got to her flower, the hidden place he didn’t even have to get close to in order to touch in his ghostly way.
She would have done better to stop but at that point, she could feel the warmth of the fire on her thighs and Owain was so bright and strong in her mind that she couldn’t simply get up and let it be. They were together in her mind and all she wanted to do was press her hand against her tingling sex, just to make it stop for a little moment — make it stop aching, stop pulling at every fiber of her soul.
She gasped when her fingers all but stirred the fine wiry red hair that curled around her mound but then bravely, pressed her flat palm over her slit, moaned and pressed harder.
It was just a part of her body, nothing more, nothing less, but it suddenly made her heart beat hard and fast, made her breath come in short, loud gasps and here were other sounds as well, whines and mewling sounds — like a wounded animal.
Her fingers were all but moving on their own accord now; the part of her brain that was scared, embarrassed and knew this was wrong, was suppressed and locked away for the moment. Her fingers parted her labia, opened her flower. Moira gulped a little at the warm slippery wetness she found there, but after the first sense of surprise, it felt unexpected and good. Like cream or soap, smoothing any contact of skin.
She was lost when she found the little nub at the top of her slit, swollen and pulsing a little. Touching it, caused a moan to escape her lips and then she couldn’t stop touching. Rubbing, exploring.
“Owain … ” she whispered and bit down so hard on her bottom lip it hurt and any other sounds were muffled and nasal then. It took her a few attempts to figure out what made her feel not only good — but
better and better — but finally, she was rubbing just above the hood of the little nub, moaning with her head fallen back, her eyes closed. She could almost physically feel the ascent, like a hill where you could see the peak, knowing you were approaching something big and wonderful and she rubbed harder as if her hands were driven by the relentless desire to find out what it was.
She exploded in a suppressed scream, stuffing her free hand into her mouth to muffle the sound. Truthfully, though, her head was swimming dizzily with release and joy and something inside of her was pulsing, contracting hard and fast.
It was only a few moments before the shame entered her mind again, a few glorious moments of freedom. But then she scrambled up from the floor, her dress as sooty as her knees. She washed her hands in the bowl of cold water by the window and then curled up in her bed, pressing her eyes shut and trying to stop thinking of Owain and what her hand had done to herself while she was thinking of his face. His face, however, was as unshakable as her hair or her nose, rooted deeply in her mind.
• • •
Owain shuddered. Moira had quieted down but his groin hadn’t yet stopped aching for those tiny little sounds, the squeaky moans, the hard breaths. It was the first time in the castle that the singular focus of his senses on one target had felt intrusive; had felt self-serving. But she had moaned out his name and even if the illusion lasted only a few heartbeats, he could pretend that she knew he was listening in his room, that she was doing it for him, or the both of them.
He closed his eyes and lay back against the pillow. His hand was still curled heavily around his shaft but it was still hard, still pressing and aching for more. Owain was under no illusions that this particular pull wasn’t one he could fulfill by himself, not if he tried all night. Neither, however, could he let go. The pressure of his hand, strong and warm, was needed somehow as though without it, he wouldn’t be able to stand it one more second, would jump up and run up the stairs and kick her door in. Her room would smell like arousal and nerves and sadness and he would kiss her and chase the sadness smell away.
• • •
In a different part of the fief, another woman sat wide-awake in her room. Her room, too, smelled of the way of the flesh and the woman was naked and alone, the door locked twice after her noble visitor had left to ride back up to the castle.
Devali was standing by a bowl of water slowly and meticulously sponging her legs, her thighs and the vee of her legs, still a little swollen with the added blood flow. She was distracted though, looking out of the window over the quiet street. Rochmond was called a town but Devali thought this a rather generous description. To her, it seemed like little more than a collection of houses with a rather lively weekly livestock and vegetable market. The harbor held some interesting sights; but as the vessels only ever came from the same place and only ever went back there, the illustrious and worldly flair she associated with harbors this large was quite dull and lifeless.
There was a sense of irony in the knowledge that after all her travels and all her searches she had ended up here, not far at all from where she started out. How sad and drab the human world was, really. Even back in Lauryl, she had thought so — even with their jewels and their fine silks and their endless prattling about horses and hunts and wars. Here, however, she really did suffer quite intense pangs of homesickness.
Devali was brushing her sponge up between her breasts, squeezing to let some water run down in that attractive line to her belly button and between her legs and smiled. Small pleasures.
The room was clean but she made sure to make her bed and dry herself before she pulled out a leather satchel and sat down in the center. On her knees and the tips of her toes touching under her bare bottom, she pulled out three broad stemmed candles and set them up in a triangle in front of her; one at each side of her knees and one straight in front of her. She lit them each and breathed in their smell, harsh and burned for a moment before the wax took over and they exuded a calming atmosphere.
Next, she pulled out a shiny silver ring. It was a little larger than the diameter of her hand when she fanned all her fingers out, but it didn’t quite fit over her head. Only her mistress knew that trick, the sleight of hand that had never failed to initiate a night of debauchery together. She missed Niamh, missed her so much it hurt; and not just because next to her, the human world paled to even duller dimensions. Devali missed her because she loved her, because sleeping with arrogant little lordlings to squeeze them for information was interesting for a while but really didn’t hold the same fascination or amusement for longer than a week or two.
Next, she pulled out a soft fleece and started to polish the ring inch by inch, gently brushing and brushing the silver. It was ritual as much as anything, calming her breaths, taking her mind to a receptive place where all she saw was shiny silver and soft hands. Eventually, she had reached a state in which she was almost asleep except without losing her consciousness. She lifted one heavy arm in front of her and with a practiced little movement of the hand, brought the silver ring into a fast rotation around its axis right in the center of the three candles.
Each and every time, this trick made her want to rub her eyes. The silver sparkled and glittered here and there, reflecting the candles for moments until it sped on to the next and the next. It rotated faster and faster and yet remained perfectly in place for another long moment until it finally lifted up from the ground and came to hover at the height of Devali’s face. The rotation was so fast now, that it didn’t appear to be a ring anymore at all. It was a sphere, twinkling in the relative darkness of the room and it was just another heartbeat of intense concentration until the sphere started to relay an image.
“There you are, little one,” Niamh said quietly, looking at her Halla with a benevolent smile.
Devali’s face broke into a smile but she held the concentration necessary to keep herself in the almost dream-like state that allowed the transmission. Still, she felt a tingle in her wrists and around her neck and down between her legs.
“You have news for me?” Niamh asked patiently, letting her young charge gather her thoughts. She knew the method of communication was difficult for Hallas, especially young ones like her very own. A Halla soaked magic up like a sponge over time, and Devali was still so very human; enchantingly, innocently human.
“I’m still in Rochmond,” she said quietly and then stopped, her eyes full of longing for home. “Fairester is getting more desperate for the marriage and as far as I can tell is beginning to consider magical help. Iris … I haven’t seen her, she doesn’t seem to leave the castle.”
Niamh nodded, but in the end raised her brows, “That is all?” she asked with a certain note in her voice that caused Devali physical pain in her chest.
“I think I’m being followed … ” she said quickly, trying to assuage the burning sensation of causing Niamh to feel disappointed.
“Fae or human?”
“I don’t know … I … it’s so much harder to tell here … ” She looked down but that made her a little dizzy when she tried to maintain the rotation of the ring without actually looking at it. “And I haven’t seen them; I just … it’s a feeling.”
“Try and find out, little one.” Niamh answered, sounding more encouraging. “You know that experienced Fae can coat their glow but I trained you well … remember.”
Devali nodded against the obstruction in her throat.
“Find out if someone is following you and if you can’t make any other headway, try and get closer to Iris and get information that way. I hate the idea of keeping you out there for no reason … but if Iris is up to something, it might be a lead.”
Devali nodded and her eyes grew wider, younger when she tugged her chin down.
“I miss you … ”
“I know. I miss you, too, little one. But you are doing an important thing for me remember?” Niamh
kissed the tips of her fingers and then turned her hand around, her palm and kissed fingers facing Devali. “You can find her for me. I know you can. You know how.”
Again, the young woman nodded. She exhaled a deep sigh, blinked and kissed her own fingers in response.
“Reach me when you know something, I have faith in you.”
Chapter Twelve
Lord Rochmond’s day had been a long one. Between the young peasants, disagreeing about their father’s land and the way their inheritance should be split and Deagan Fairester’s continuing attempts to woo and convince him when he should have been wooing his daughter, he was growing weary of company. Was this how his daughter felt every day? Weary of company? He would never truly know of course, however hard he tried to be there for her, to understand her, to not increase her suffering. He knew she was trying, and her behavior seemed to have improved since the arrival of the Blaidyn. Maybe she was ready, maybe she was finally growing into the woman who could make the kind of decisions she would have to make if she was to become a lord’s wife instead of just one’s daughter.
Not for the first time, he heard the familiar squeaky little melody of her lyre through the closed door when he passed by her room on the way to his chambers. She had talented little fingers, that’s what all her tutors always said; an accomplished young woman he should be proud of. She played an instrument, she sang, she painted reasonably well and she could dance if she had to. Of course she lagged behind terribly in conversational skills and interest in her own appearance as his wife never tired of reporting, but all in all, Lord Rochmond thought had more than enough reason to be proud of his girl. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.
He leaned against the wall of the hallway for a while, listening to her play a haunting and romantic melody. A few years ago, she would have offered to play it for him but he knew that the necessary marriage, her deteriorating health and all the responsibilities placed upon her had been wearing away the relationship.