by Leith Briar
He glances down at me and now those eyes sparkle, and I have to look away because I’m scared that if I look too long, I may lose myself inside them.
He nods his head, motioning for us to return to our seats. Once there, he remains standing, so I do too, and then he uses his free hand to raise a horn of something, and says “Slainte.”
The whole room — including the natives opposite us — repeats the chant. I stay silent, not knowing what I’m supposed to do.
They all drink, but I have nothing. No cup or horn.
I look awkwardly at Loche, but Colm is already signalling one of the Balachs over. “Bainne,” he says.
A few moments later the man returns with a goblet of white liquid. I sniff it and conclude it’s the same liquid they gave us in the wagon, the one that tastes like orange and bitter chocolate.
We both take our seats and before long, dishes and platters fill the table in front of us and the feasting begins.
It all looks somewhat similar to Earth food — in that I can tell what it’s supposed to be. But it’s different in some way. The chicken which sits in front of me is three times as large as any I’ve ever seen back home.
“Cearc,” Colm says, pointing at the chicken. He must have seen me looking at it.
“Cearc,” I repeat.
He nods twice and uses his free hand to cut a large chunk off before putting it on my plate.
Beside it, there is a fluffy substance that is like mashed potato, except it’s green.
“Potato?”
He nods. “Buntata.”
Hmm. It’s really not so vastly different from English. Maybe if I concentrate, I can decipher what it is they’re saying when they think I can’t understand them.
He makes his way down the table, pointing at things and telling me his words for them. “Muc.”
That one is easy, it’s a pig. Like a pig in muck.
“Aran,” he says, pointing at the bread.
Okay, so that one makes absolutely no sense.
He continues on, adding more and more to my plate as he teaches me the words.
All the while I’m wondering A- how I’m supposed to cut it up without both my hands and B- if I’ll even be able to eat it if I do manage to cut it.
Seriously, my stomach is doing somersaults.
He keeps looking at me with those bright silver eyes and it feels like he can see straight into my soul. That — added to the task I know lies ahead of me tonight — is making me feel all sorts of uneasy.
He passes me a fork which I take with my free hand, and then he picks up a knife. Pushing the plate so it now sits between us rather than in front of me, he nods at me.
I guess we’re doing this together then.
Of all the moments in my life up until this point, I think this may go down as one of the most awkward. More than when I got knocked out with a basketball in the gym-hall at school. More than having to piss in a field on an alien planet.
I’m having to feed him.
And I do feed him, because every time he nods at me to take it for myself, I refuse. It’s just too awkward.
I had porridge this morning with Loche while we were getting ready. Who knows if there will be any more soup tonight, but a night without dinner is a chance I’m willing to take.
When the meal is done, they clear away the plates. A man comes out to the centre of the floor, and I honestly can’t tell if he is a Bhiast or a Balach. He would be incredibly tall for a human male, but he looks small compared to the giants on this planet. He is not bulky either, more lean and muscular, almost like a swimmer. He has long white silver hair and does not wear a kilt like the others, but leather breeches and a tight jacket made of similar materials.
He is handsome and carries himself in a way that is almost feminine. Eccentric would be the best way to describe it. He speaks in his language, and people laugh. I guess he is some sort of jester? Loche, again, doesn’t bother to translate for me… but even though I can’t understand the jokes, I am content enough with just watching him. He is mesmerising.
He finishes and returns to his seat, and I guess this is the usual time at a wedding when the music would start, and people would take to the dance-floor.
Since there are no women here, that doesn’t happen.
But there is fighting. Lots and lots of fighting. It feels like it will never end, and even though I can understand this a whole lot better than I did the jester, I wish we could go back to that. Colm seems to find this more amusing, but every time someone gets carried off with a bloody nose my stomach feels a little heavier.
I know it’s coming.
They closed the shutters a long time ago, and they lit the fires. The temperature has gradually shifted and now that it’s nighttime, it’s grown much colder. A big bed covered in fur which seems to heat all by itself sounds appealing, but the thought of it makes me shiver.
I feel Colm move beside me, and then the thick fur that was draped over his shoulders gets hung around mine. I fight the urge to ogle his naked chest now staring me in the face and instead focus on the table in front of me.
The fur smells like him and it’s intoxicating. The smell of wood and fire-smoke. Beside me, he stands up and tilts his head to the side, as if he’s cracking his neck. He says some words I can’t understand and the whole room looks at me.
“What’s he saying?” I whisper to Loche.
He glances up at Colm who nods briefly at him, before turning back to me. “He is saying since this is the first marriage, we will do things differently.”
“Differently?” I can’t hide the hope that’s taking root in my tone. Does he mean we don’t have to do what should be expected of a couple on a wedding night?
Loche listens some more while Colm keeps speaking and then explains it for me. “It is customary that both your hands should be tied together for the mating. Colm does not want that, but says it will be so going forward. Also, it is supposed to be witnessed.”
“Witnessed?”
What the fuck!
“Do not fash lass, he says he does not want that either.”
I take a breath of relief. I think if anything could have made the prospect of consummating this marriage worse, it would be doing it tied up and whilst being watched by complete strangers.
“Why doesn’t he want it?” I ask Loche. I’m curious to know the reason. Perhaps it’s merely a personal choice, but I remain hopeful that he’s seen sense and taken pity on me.
Loche shrugs. “That is for him to explain to you.”
And that’s the last thing Loche says before the priest guy comes over to detach us. Once we’re separated, Colm nods for me to stand, which I do, and then he bends down and scoops me up in his arms.
We’re already leaving the room before I can process what is happening.
My mind is spinning as quickly as my heart is racing. This is it. And I can’t even try to reason with him, because he doesn’t understand me.
We arrive in his bedroom and the fire is already lit. The room is warm, the shutters closed, and there’s a glass jug of deep red liquid sat on the table in the corner.
Colm sets me down in the middle of the room and walks towards the table, pouring a large drink into a goblet and offering it to me.
I assume it is wine, and I’m no longer to be treated like a child and given milk.
I approach him as if he were a tiger, carefully and slowly — half of it from nerves and the other half due to this dress and the lack of movement it affords me.
“Thank you.”
He watches me drink. The liquid is nice, very like wine but without the dryness, it tastes like sugar and summer berries.
“Can you understand anything at all?”
Colm looks at me blankly and I take another gulp of the wine.
I look from the bangle on my arm to the cuff on his own. “Why?”
He takes a step towards me and removes his furs from around my shoulders, his muscles flexing as he does it. His closeness
has my heart beating faster, the urge to run kicking in and I wonder if it will always be this way. Will I always be so scared of him? He’s not going to get any smaller, or any less fierce looking, but maybe I’ll become accustomed to it.
Maybe I’ll become numb.
“Leabaidh.”
I remember that word from last night. Bed? I think?
Slowly, as if testing his patience, I shake my head. Surely, there is some part of him that understands this is wrong. Why else would he make the priest remove those ties, and rule that no one should be here to witness it?
He smirks at me and puts his hands on my shoulders, pushing me back one small step at a time.
I should fight right now. I should be kicking and screaming, and going for the dagger, just like I had intended. But his eyes are boring into me, the smell of him is wrapped around me and all I can do is let him walk me back to the foot of his bed.
Once there, he takes a hold of my hands and raises them above my head, causing the fabric of my dress to pull against the strain and threaten to slip out from the corset.
Now, I struggle.
I don’t want to be exposed to him, especially not with these ridiculous rings around my nipples.
But my strength is no match for his, and soon enough I look up to see the bangles on my arms being attached to a little hook on the bedpost.
Stretched out like the string of a bow, he takes a step back and eyes me all over. My breath is quick from the little struggle I gave him, and I’m trying to settle it to stop my chest from heaving.
Please, please tell me this is not how they fuck on this planet.
He extends his arm, and with a quick slip of a finger, the fabric that was precariously covering me slips out of the bodice and falls to the side, leaving me completely bare chested.
I find a spot on the wall behind him and stare at it while I try to stop my cheeks from burning up.
He gives a low, appreciative hum in his throat and I glance over at him. He’s standing a few steps back, fingers grazing the stubble on his cheek, his eyes fixed on me. It’s such a powerful stare, I swear I can feel it touching me.
Now freed, the little chains that hang from the rings around my nipples move with every sharp breath I take, and I become acutely aware of the pressure there. It’s a sensation overload — and it’s overwhelming.
And I’m disgusted with myself because I should be angry. I should be fighting. And instead I can feel my own arousal getting warmer between my legs with every passing second. The longer he stares, the worse it gets.
I find myself wanting to say something. Do something. Anything to stop this insanity. But I’m frozen. All I can do is breathe in and out.
In and out.
Colm takes a step closer, and I hold my breath waiting for the touch that doesn’t come.
“Look at me,” he says.
My head whips around.
He speaks?
But before I can ask him, he places one large pointer finger over my lips, and then closes the distance between us.
My face is met with his chest, and every bit of the air I’m breathing now belongs to him. It’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever felt before, and I’m dizzy enough that I’m convinced it must be the wine.
It must have been stronger than it tasted.
“This,” he reaches his free hand between us and cups my breast firmly, making the thin chains pull against my nipples and sending little jolts of pain filled pleasure to the space between my legs. “This is for your speech in the hall. You think we treat women like slaves?”
When I don’t answer he gives a gentle tug on the chain, causing my knees to weaken and a gasp of air to expel from my mouth.
“You speak my language? Why did you lie?”
He takes a small step back and removes his hand, putting some much needed space between us.
“I did not lie. You asked me if I spoke English. I said I did not like it, not that I could not speak it.”
“Why are you doing this?”
His scarred eyebrow perks and he rubs the stubble on his chin again for a moment before he replies. “I would have thought that was obvious. How many women do you see around here?”
“This isn’t right,” I tell him.
“Correct. It is not right. Do you think I want to tie my wife up and fuck her into submission?”
I swallow. “I couldn’t say — I know nothing about you.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a silence while we both regard each other. He no longer eyes my nakedness and instead focuses only on my eyes, and my face. I do the same to him, as if we’re both searching for answers.
“What will you do now?”
“What must be done.”
I squeeze my eyes closed as the words settle in. “Can you at least let me down?”
“Have you learned the difference between a slave and a wife?”
A slave gets the bedpost while a wife gets the bed?
Lucky wife.
But I don’t say that, of course, and instead I nod.
“I remain unconvinced,” he says.
I glare at him, which is met with a smirk.
He seems to hesitate but then does finally come over, unhooking the bangles from the post.
I don’t know what to do, but it looks like there isn’t very much I can do. I try to steel my nerves and tuck the fabric back into my dress as he guides me around to the side of the bed.
Inside I am torn in half. One half of me is frozen in fear and doing nothing more than letting him walk me towards the bed. The other half feels like I’m on drugs. It’s making my heart beat in my ears and my muscles spasm with the urge to run.
Are you really going to let him do this to you?
It feels like if I do… then I’ve just opened up a door that can never be closed again.
But I feel like nothing I do will help. I could run but he would surely just catch me. I could fight and throw my fists at him, maybe I’d land a couple. But all that would do is likely get him angry.
Perhaps I could… stall him. Talk to him. Try to get him to see me as a person.
“Will it hurt?”
I know... probably a stupid question. It was the first thing that popped into my head and I guess it serves two purposes. The first is to keep him talking, and the second is that I’m genuinely interested. I’ve never done this before.
I’ve heard the first time always hurts, and I can’t imagine doing it with a giant will somehow make it any less painful. I guess I’m looking for some reassurance that he’ll be gentle. That he’ll go easy on me.
I get none of that.
Instead his face has turned hard again, and he looks like he’s carved in stone. I take a step back, retreating, but there is barely anywhere to go.
This was the exact opposite of what I wanted to happen.
“Colm?”
“I do not know.”
Chapter 9
Colm
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
I swallow. This was exactly the reason why I did not want to have any conversations with her before it was done.
Too many questions, and too many opportunities for her to garner my sympathy. This would all have been so much easier if I had just dropped her to the ground as soon as the door was closed and taken her by force.
Well, easier for me. For her, perhaps not.
But I could not help myself. After her little speech downstairs, she had to be taught a lesson. I had to make her see that she can choose to be the slave she apparently thinks she is, or she can choose to be my wife.
And now she is looking at me like she is choosing neither.
She wants to know if I will hurt her. I do not believe in lying — much preferring to keep my silence rather than speak falsely. I especially do not think lies should float between a man and his wife.
But how can I tell her that truthfully, I do not know? I can not promise her anything.
“I do not know be
cause I have never done it before.”
Her eyebrows rise, a surprised expression growing on her face. She takes a moment and then appears to steady herself.
“Don’t you want the first time to be... not like this?”
I want it to be over with as quickly as possible, before I risk getting attached to the little thing standing in front of me. “What is so wrong with this?”
“I don’t want it.”
I sigh. I could smell the depth of her arousal a few short minutes ago. I guess her body wants what her mind does not. If anything, her not wanting it should make it easier. It would be even harder to keep control if she was writhing in pleasure and moaning my name.
But I cannot fucking tell her that, can I?
“There is no choice. Not for either of us. Now lie down.”
Her throat moves as she swallows, and her eyes start to flit around the room. She looks like she is about to run, and I cannot let that happen. I can not let myself get angry or even annoyed with her. I must stay as calm as possible.
I take a step towards her and she takes one final step back, closing the distance between her and the bed.
“Don’t,” she says. “Please. Just give me time. A day — two days. That’s all I’m asking.”
I look down at her. She looks so small and weak below me, her eyes now wet with tears and her pretty lips trembling as she pants.
What good could come from prolonging this? She will not change the way she feels in a day or two, but there is a chance I might.
Already, I am wondering if what they did to me really destroyed everything human. I have never felt remorse for anything I have done. The creatures I have slaughtered, the lands we have conquered in the Plaigh’s name. Remorse is a human concept, a thing for people who rely on listening to their conscience. I did not think I had one, but then again, I have never had a woman either. At least not in the years I have been what I now am.
Could it be this little slip of a lass has some power over me that makes remorse possible?
The Plaigh told us of the risks — hence why it had to be her. I should be feeling nothing right now, and yet the way she is looking at me, so clearly scared, makes me want to take that away. I want to protect her from her fears, not be the bearer of them.