“Let me see you move your legs,” said Ceralt from behind me, leaving off the rubbing. My legs now tingled hotly, yet I knew their control was again mine. Long hind had I knelt upon the lenga pelt, yet not so long that recovery would be as long or longer. I rolled to my side and drew my legs up, reaching down to knead the back of my left thigh. Ceralt’s eyes were upon me, yet his gaze had found the spear scar upon my thigh, and his hand reached out to touch it gently, a strange tightening of his lips in evidence at sight of the ridged pinkish flesh against the darker skin of me. His fingers barely touched the scar then pulled away, and his eyes rose from my thigh to my face.
“Never again shall such a thing happen,” said he, the soft menace fully within his voice and eyes. “Above all things, heed me in this, Jalav, for if ever I find a weapon within reach of your hand, your punishment will be feyd in the doing. See if you are able to stand.”
He rose from his crouch to await my efforts, and I, with very little difficulty, also gained my feet. I wished to remind him that the wounds had come about by cause of the absence of weapons in my hand, not their presence, yet the glint in his eyes dissuaded the attempt. He wished naught of the truth, this male who looked down upon me narrow-eyed, issuing his commands as suited him, and would not hear it being spoken. I stretched myself as I stood before him, keeping the truth in my own heart, and he in his blindness seemed satisfied.
“Now that you are restored,” said he, reaching about himself to pull his leather chest covering over his head and from his arms, “you may see to repairing the damage you have done. Fetch the jar, and salve these scratches you put upon me.”
He indicated the pot of pink liquid as he tossed his leather covering aside, therefore I bent to retrieve the pot, then turned to inspect him. The tracks of clawing were deep and inflamed upon his chest and arms, also showing signs, here and there, of having bled. I glanced at his face as he stood waiting, and saw no sign of anger at my having marked him so. Indeed, he seemed serene and complacent, as though such markings were acceptable to him. Confusion, my constant companion, stirred within me, yet I quieted it with a surmise. Perhaps, to the male, the clawings were a symbol of his victory, no more than a small cost for having had his way with me. I now stood before him, having been commanded to tend to his needs, and such victory must be sweet indeed. Midanna warriors tended their own wounds when possible, or were aided by other warriors when such aid was needed. Never would a sthuvad be allowed to perform such a function, for even with males who chose to remain with Midanna after the time of their sthuvad use, the thought of vengeance for their initial capture might come. Ceralt feared no such vengeance, and my lips tightened in fury at the thought. He possessed my word to chain me to him, and knew me helpless before the male strength of him. So close was the dagger at his silvered belt, so close and tempting, yet I had been forbidden the welcome presence of its hilt within my grasp, forbidden its very nearness to me. Angrily, I reached two fingers within the pot I held, coming away with a thick coating of the liquid, yet my wrist was suddenly grasped by his hand before I might touch him.
“Gently,” he cautioned, an amusement now clear in his eyes. “I wish the scratches salved, not savaged. Let us see how near you may come to a woman’s touch.”
He released my wrist and watched closely as I spread the liquid upon the first of the clawings of his chest. It lay among the dark hairs which covered him, much like a sednet in grass, and as I spread the liquid about, I became aware of the rise and fall of the chest I tended. The wounds lay before my eyes, for Ceralt stood a full head taller than I, and I felt that he now looked down upon me rather than the doings of my fingers. I renewed the liquid and moved to another of the wounds, recalling this chest before me, and how often I had pressed my face to it, lost in the pleasures of Ceralt’s manhood. My hand trembled in the spreading, and I quickly turned to the markings of his arms, yet the Mida-forsaken remembrances would not give me peace. How often had those well-thewed arms been about me, holding me for his lips and caresses? How often had I clung to them in the throes of his body’s delights? Even through the liquid, I was able to feel the warmth and strength of his flesh, and I squeezed my thighs together to halt the flow of the moisture which ran from me, mute evidence of the male’s near presence, helpless response to the thought of him. Quickly, I finished the task he had given me, placing the pot once more upon the floor, yet when I stood straight again, I found I was not done with him. His arms went about me, pulling me to the chest I had tended, and then his lips were upon mine, taking the kiss he sought, and more as well. His silvered belt pressed into my body as his hands moved about my bare back, beneath my hair, stroking my skin and bringing forth a moan from my throat. Again was I slave to his demands, held in his arms and to his lips as though the thing were proper, as though his body had the right to own mine so. I shivered in my need and pressed against his hardness, and his lips left mine so that he might laugh.
“Is there aught you desire, varaina?” he asked, laughter in his eyes. I knew he mocked me in my weakness, yet I was unable to free myself of his chains. A warrior often has deep needs, and never before had I been so powerless to satisfy them. The strength of his arms about me, the warmth of his body—I was unable to keep the words from stumbling from me.
“Use me, Ceralt,” I whispered, my eyes begging the laughter in his. My body, uncontrollable, forced itself against his manhood, demanding release, piteously pleading for it. His arms tightened about me, holding me still against him, his amusement increasing.
“Think you I have naught to do this fey than put you to your back?” he chuckled, his hand moving to my bottom to halt the swaying of my hips. “It is nearly the time for one’s mid-fey meal, and we have not even shared falum as yet. We must now see you clad, varaina, so you may follow me to my halyar. Should your conduct of the fey please me, I shall use you for further pleasure in the darkness. Fetch your garment, Jalav, and do not speak again.”
I had been about to plead with him, debasing myself as he had previously demanded, yet his command cut short the flow of words. He released me and turned away, dismissing his own need, and I crouched where I stood, hugging my knees against the pulsing flames within me. My cheek felt the bones within my knee, my feet felt the wood of the floor beneath me, my crumbled pride felt the agony and humiliation of having been denied after lowering myself to begging. That he would do me so, I, once a war leader of the Hosta of the Midanna! Now that he had possession of me, soon there would be naught left save an endless shame, one never to be cleansed. My eyes closed tight, I moved my face against my knees, unexpectedly feeling the touch of the silver ring of a blood warrior, that which was matched upon the other side by the second silver ring of a war leader. A great fury rose up in me, fury at all things which now surrounded me, fury at that which had once meant so much to me. I put my hands to the rings, intending to tear them from my ears, and again Ceralt’s hands closed about my wrists.