The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana

by E Cantu Alegre

  Lanico’s angular jaw clenched a moment, feathering his muscles. But then again, that was a hundred years ago . . . No. There’s Marin. I’ve only just now found him. She stayed grounded and quickly pushed any thoughts of romance away.

  Treva then noticed the tooth necklace pulsing at the base of his neck. “That necklace. That . . .” Treva rushed over to kneel at his side, taking the tooth in her hand to study it closely. “This—this necklace was mine. Where did—?” She looked up to meet his eyes. His face. His lips, too near. Dangerously near.

  A moment passed and her heart pounded.

  He leaned in and kissed the scar on her soft, petal lips. Gently. She felt her warm breath escaping her. A kiss.

  The kiss.

  A kiss imagined for a century was now a reality.

  Odan on High. She pulled back, slightly. Her hand, growing hot, still rested on his chest, holding the tooth. She felt the pulsing of his heartbeat between the two firm planes of muscle there. She looked into his eyes, making a careful, stealthy move towards him to return the kiss. It was an impassioned kiss, filled with love, with maturity, after years of sorrow and loneliness. A kiss that had long taunted both of them in their dreams.

  ✽✽✽

  Lanico felt desire blazing from within himself and leaned forward, grabbing around her back to pull her in closer and hold her tight against him, until she was straddling him. This inexplicable feeling—he wanted more of it. The closeness. Oneness. Pressed against her, he could feel her ribs through her thin tunic. He remembered, in disappointment, that she hadn’t eaten her fill in years. The armor and oversized tunic—they had made her seem fuller than she actually was.

  Lanico held her tight, moving his grasp lower, squeezing her firmly. She gasped.

  Her injury.

  He pulled away, breathing, “I’m so sorry, Tre . . . I forgot—"

  “No, it’s all right,” she breathed a whisper, still staring into his eyes. The lure of them.

  Once again, remembering himself and his sense of duty, and never breaking his gaze, he slowly peeled back from her, embarrassed and sorry. He didn’t know what had come over him. Why would he have given in like this? But she only leaned in further.

  His keen ears detected faint conversation outside.

  With the inferno roaring inside him, he made the difficult decision to pull away from her. He remembered where they were and felt obligated to make sure Marin and Anah did not see them this way.

  “Treva,” he whispered, as she followed his slight movement backward, landing her kisses on his neck—, which he loved—oh fires, but, “Tre . . . Marin,” he whispered.

  Treva stopped her flurry of kisses along his jawline and opened her eyes to gaze up at his. She slowly pushed off his warm chest, returning to kneel at his side on the floor.

  They could not have Marin, or Anah, catching them like this.

  Lanico, while working himself back into his shirt and tunic, explained, “I need to make sure he comes in . . .” He made a small, impish smile at Treva. “It’s getting late.”

  Treva shot a roguish smile at him before he pushed his head through the tunic and lifted himself out of the creaky chair. It was quite difficult to leave in that moment. However difficult, he stood and walked briskly to the door. “Marin! Anah! It’s time to come in!” he shouted to the moonlit silhouettes just beyond.

  In a quick response, the two young WynSprigns climbed off the large river boulder to leave the dancing river fireflies. Their glowing eyes were visible approaching the house and bouncing with their quick strides, Marin’s eyes purple and Anah’s green.

  “There!” a graveled voice suddenly belted from the blackness.

  Both Anah and Marin froze in alarm.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A touch beyond healing

  “There’s the WynSprign slave!” the voice boomed.

  Glowing eyes flashed side to side in panic, Marin and Anah desperate to find the source of the voice.

  “I see em” another voice shouted from a different direction in the dark.

  Lanico, wasting no time, grabbed the Reluctant Leader from beside the door, the hilt of the sword reverberating against his palm. He tore from the house, and his glaring blue eyes searching for the kill. Treva rushed behind with a long sword she’d found lying near where Lanico’s had been. It was not her preferred weapon, but . . . she ran, following Lanico.

  Unarmed, Marin and Anah were frozen, Marin’s eyes darting up to the trees where Anah could not go as easily as he. He’d stay with her.

  Without a sound, Lanico rushed at the closest of the two-towering moonlit Mysra who were coming in fast toward the young WynSprigns from either side. The Mysra each wielded a large knife and wafted the scent of the brassy trillium they had just ingested – a scent he detected instantly.

  Treva yelled as she thrust her sword from behind at one of the Mysra in a sneak attack. She sent the blade swiftly through the middle of the attacker’s back until the sharp tip jutted from his chest. He looked down at the blade and rolled his eyes, collapsing to his knees with a muffled thud, falling forward. Treva landed her foot on the Mysra’s back and, with effort, pulled the long sword free. She winced as the effort pulled at the wound in her side as well.

  It was not a Knight’s way to kill from behind, but in that instant protecting the young WynSprigns called for an urgency beyond decorum. Treva wiped her blade on the lifeless body, keeping a watchful eye on Lanico as he dealt with the other Mysra guard.

  The Mysra had not expected to encounter trained Odana Knights this evening and the remaining one was ill equipped to handle Lanico. His expression made clear that he was a poor fighter getting by merely on bulk and strength. Lanico paced toward him, holding a confident but fiery blue glare. It had been a long while since he had taken a Mysra down. And this one, Lanico scowled, this one was trying to catch the two for a most repulsive reason, slavery. In rarity, Lanico decided he would enjoy ending him.

  The Mysra tried to face his opponent as Lanico slashed a torrent of swipes toward him, the warrior dodging and swinging from Lanico’s unyielding blade. He proved nimble, avoiding a direct hit from the onslaught of flashing metal streaks. Lanico did not pursue this useless game of chase and paced back, creating distance between himself and the Mysra. He decided to try something different. He held the Reluctant Leader by the grip, as if it were a dagger, lifting it into the air and launching the sword forward, arcing it downward like lightning towards the Mysra. A flash. It landed with a smooth thrust, entering through the lower neck and exiting mid-back, the blade buried so deeply into the hulking Mysra that only the sparkling hilt could be seen.

  The Mysra’s last steamy breath rose from his mouth where he lay in the grass. He loosed a gaping grumble, his eyes staring sightless into the still night.

  Marin broke the moment of cold silence and sprinted to them. “Lanico, Mother! Are you all right?” He pulled back his hair, “That was outstanding! Absolutely amazing!”

  Anah appeared next to him, her emerald eyes wide and wild, like her hair.

  Lanico panted a little. “Yes . . . Yes, Marin . . . We’re fine.” Lanico looked back over at Treva, who was also panting, holding onto her sword. Both of them smiled wolfishly, intoxicated with the fight and the dew tea.

  “These were the two Mysra guards we saw earlier today,” said Treva, “the ones that were chasing us.” Treva’s once-neat and obedient green hair was now even wilder than Anah’s. Messed with sections snaking down her shoulders and back.

  Lanico thought it strange, but the mess of her hair excited him. He exhaled, shook his head, and fought to regain focus on the matters at hand. “Well, our chances of being found are now back to being very low, since this is a remote area of the Odana woodlands.” He grimaced and twisted to release the tight muscles on his sides. “This is a lesson learned—you’re to carry weapons when outdoors,” he said to the young ones. “Understood?” They nodded. “It was actually easy. Too easy. Those Mysra guards had n
ot been prepared to encounter a Knighted Second Lieutenant and her General. We should consider ourselves most fortunate.”

  Lanico reached down to pull his sword from the dead Mysra. It came out bloodied, with a wisp of steam. The night air outside had quickly grown cool. He wiped his blade on the Mysra’s still body. “We’ll have to drag them out further into the woods to bury them,” Lanico sighed. He glanced at the fear-weary group—"But we’ll worry about that later.” He paused, “C’mon—you two need to bed now. There’s been enough adventure for one evening.” His outstreached arms corralled them.

  After briefly scenting the air, Lanico entered the house last, and then looked out cautiously over the land. There was no movement, for the two Mysra were dead. He felt it safe and leaned the Reluctant Leader next to the pile of miscellaneous weapons inside, near the secured door, then proceeded further into his mother’s home. He stood outside the sitting room, the perfect spot to watch the young ones down the length of the passage.

  Marin and Anah met in the small hall that separated their rooms, near the bathing room. So much adventure and energy to end the evening—the air was charged with excitement and a newfound passion. They stood facing one another in the hallway.

  “Well . . . uh, g’night, Anah,” Marin said awkwardly, attempting to make eye contact with her. He looked down at his oversized hands.

  Anah smiled. “I’m sorry about your cheek, again.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. It doesn’t bother me.” He smiled, too, and the puffy, purple cheek lifted to crinkle his eye with the smile.

  Anah lunged forward to plant a small kiss on his bruise, then stepped away and slowly backed up into the women’s shared room. Before closing the door, she peeked out at him and smiled with green, sparkling eyes.

  Marin held his cheek, in a daze, staring at the now-closed door.

  Lanico, watching, cleared his throat to break Marin from the trance.

  Marin, surprised, blinked and stiffened, then turned quickly to march into the room he shared with the other males and promptly closed the door behind himself.

  Lanico returned to Treva in the siting room, on the chair that had held him a short while ago. She made a small smile, a worried one. “Tre”—he knelt at her side, taking her former place on the floor while she sat. “What’s wrong?” He looked intently at her, trying to read her expression.

  She looked at the floor, clenching the armrests. “What if more find us? What about the other slaves?” An overwhelming reality that had intruded on their pleasant escape. Meeting his stare, she asked in panic, “Lan, what are we going to do?”

  Lanico focused on her word—we. It lingered in him. Then he regained focus. “Tre . . . we can’t worry about that now. Only one thing at a time.” He gently placed his hand over hers, trembling on her lap. The surprise visit from the Mysra, had left her shaken, even after her instinctive heroics.

  “I cannot—I will not be a slave again,” she whispered, fighting back tears. “I—I cannot . . . and Marin”—she breathed sharply and growled—"I’d die before that would happen.” She winced and Lanico knew Greta’s pain-numbing concoction was wearing off.

  Lanico’s eyes slightly widened. He sensed the pain here, even now, with danger past and the two of them together. Calm, he leaned in slowly and kissed the softness of her cheek. Warm tears trailed down to splash on the rise of her tunic-covered breasts. He knelt upright in front of her and gently pulled her forward out of the chair, to the floor with him. Her body was light, too light.

  He enfolded her with his arms and they lowered to lie side by side. He held her tight. She was in a safe haven, in his strong arms.

  His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Tre, we’ve found each other, again. I’ll never let you go—not again, not ever.” He cradled her head in the crook of his shoulder and neck. “It was a mistake I made, letting you go. I knew it, the instant I uttered those words to you all those years ago.” He sighed, stroking her hair, “Those words, they’ve betrayed me every single day since.” He wanted to tell her everything: how he still held deep passion and love for her even while she had been married to Izra. How he had thought of her and dreamt of her every night. How he had fantasized that the baby growing in her womb all those years ago had been planted by himself.

  He didn’t. That would have been too much.

  He paused, feeling her relax, and settle onto him. The timbre of his voice started again, “You’ll never be a slave again. That I promise you.” He was confident in this. She had suffered far too long. Returning to captivity—it was not in the realm of possibility for him.

  Treva squeezed his forearm in response.

  There was something more troubling him.

  He slowly ran his hand down the length of her side, over her injury. He gently pulled at her tunic, bringing it up to reveal her perfectly smooth stomach, side, and then, her lower ribs. There. There it was. The glaring scar that plagued her. Deep and concave, just under her rib. An archer’s mark. He exhaled through the shudder he barely contained.

  Still assessing the injury, his eyes widened in shock, his face twisting, as he understood the severity of her pain. He spotted, almost touching the arrow wound, a thick scar that clawed around her side, leading to her back. A whip’s mark! He turned her a little, lifting the tunic further, edging toward her back. His stomach dropped. There are more?

  Sensing his shock, she grabbed his wrist to prevent him from pulling the tunic further up. She met his wild gaze—there was anger there now, flashing. Though his insides reeled in burning rage, in disgust, he gave a slight, forced smile as if to say he hadn’t planned to look further. He needed her to trust him.

  She loosened her grip on his wrist. He felt intensity growing with her every breath. She was nervous.

  “Tre,” he whispered, with a soft gaze into her eyes, at the traces of rage concealed there, knowing her. “I need you to trust me.”

  She paused and considered for a moment, searching his face but then softening under his stare.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He spoke calmly. “I just want”—he paused knowing her stoicism to be as firm as his own— “I just want to help you.”

  At his gentle assurance, she bit her lip and nodded through welling tears. “All right,” she said under her ragged breath. “You are my General as well as my Prince.”

  He sat up further, gently releasing her to lie alone on the floor on her back, the tunic still pulled up above her leggings. Her skin, so bare. It was much for her to expose to him, but then again he had seen more of her before, long ago. His silver hair draped and dragged down her exposed skin as he held her gaze in his. He moved his face down lower, hovering only just above her center. He moved to her bare side and kissed the concave scar gently. His lips only barely brushed the surface of her skin. Healing her; it was the paramount of importance to him. Never before had he felt so desperate to fix this and for her. Knowing, understanding that she had been in pain all these years graded against his spirit as the clawing of nails to a tree. He’d heal her with the full, absolute extent of himself. With everything he had.

  She tightened at the thought of dreaded pain. Tears slid from her dimly glowing eyes, but his Fray kiss sent a glowing warmth to her wound, a warmth that ran deep.

  The warmth melted her from within, he could see as her muscles relaxed under his care.

  With awareness and focus on the ceiling above, she willed herself to breath slow, and evenly.

  The pink warmth was visible, illuminating deeply through her flesh and all the way to the center of her waist where the old arrowhead had once stopped. A bright luminescent pink emanated from within her and outlined a network of healthy connected veins and capillaries. Thankfully, she didn’t dare cast a glance down in those moments.

  He held this healing kiss for a moment, allowing the healing power time to seep. He then placed his hand firmly over her side, pressing it hard as if to set the healing. The pink glow slowly diminished under his hold.

&nbs
p; Treva gasped softly as the pain and warmth quickly reduced. He kept his eyes fixed on hers.

  Once finished, he moved slowly up toward her face again, covering her small body with his. She blinked and nervously fumbled to feel the new smoothness of her exposed side.

  “No pain! Lan-!” she asked in bewildered surprise, “did you just”—her hands were still searching, grabbing— “did you just heal me?” Her glowing eyes shone even brighter, wider.

  He grinned at her in a silent answer, causing his teeth and gum-line to glint in the sparse light. His hidden Fray gift was now exposed.

  Treva sighed slightly. He saw in her eyes what he felt as well—thankfulness, restoration. She was healed from her wretched curse and would have the ease of full mobility again. The physical pain was gone, and in silence the pain of the battle that had taken Izra, had been alleviated.

  Treva held Lanico close to her. “Thank you,” she barely managed, fighting a bursting sob.

  He grinned at her happiness but in a flash grew serious once more. “Now your back.” He demanded sitting up again.

  She inhaled sharply and he knew—the Soldier, the Knight within her, was embarrassed at the signs of her slavery. She felt herself relinquish and nodded. It had to be done.

  She rolled carefully to her stomach and he pulled the tunic up. The diagonal slashes, thick and grooved, ran up her back in many lines that showed it was the same whip master for each stripe. The same distance. The same force. Many times.

  The more he lifted the tunic, the further up the slashes trailed. Two touched under her shoulder. One, the highest, curved over her right deltoid. Smooth, perfect skin still hidden in between the trails, a reminder of what once was.

  His fists coiled. His chest quivered and he breathed deeply. He put into use all his years of royal court experience and summoned feigned, unnatural calm that fought against his feelings, curbing the desire to upset a nearby table. Inside, he fought the urge to scream. Instead, a shuddered breath was all he allowed himself.