Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

9.2

He woke up on a wide bed under a brocade canopy embroidered with the 'Northern lights' pattern. The room was decorated richly, but without personal touch. Seemed no one in particular had been using it. No windows, only a fireplace and a solid door with a tiny stained-glass window. Another door, hidden behind a curtain, most likely led to the bathroom.

Beside him Kintaro was sleeping naked, having thrown off their coverlet of white bear fur. It was safe to assume his beast had been fed and was able to gather enough strength for the metamorphosis. Ithildin wanted to touch him, put his arms around him, but there was another hunger in him, stronger. Lielle was somewhere in this tower. At least some traces of him, some belongings. Or at least the cunning sorceress he could finally meet face to face.

Ithildin got down from the bed and checked the door. Locked, as expected. The door opened inwards, so it was impossible to break it from inside. As far as he could see through the tiny window, there was an empty windowless corridor behind it. Must be the basement or lower level of the tower. He looked inside the fireplace. The chimney was barred. Naturally. They were in a prison, however luxurious.

Before returning to the bed, Ithildin dropped off the close-fitting silk pants − their only piece of clothing, supplied, no doubt, out of respect for his elven modesty. As if it would have survived all those years with Lielle and Taro. He boldly grabbed Kintaro's dick which immediately came to life under his fingers, and announced with staggering bluntness, "I haven't had sex for fifty seven days in a row!" He knew he was mimicking Chevalier Ahayrre, his playful tone of voice and his lewd gestures.

"I haven't even jerked off," Kintaro echoed, his voice hoarse with sleep. "You can't do it with paws."

He made the elf straddle his chest and put his big mouth on him. Ithildin was able to endure only a few moments of sweet torture. He wanted no long foreplay. The elf moved down, straddled the nomad's hips and took his firm flesh inside him, not bothering with lube. At this moment he welcomed pain, it was the best reminder they were still alive. His body craved to feel, love, enjoy life. Ithildin leaned over Kintaro's chest like it was a stallion's neck and rode him so hard, they both were left breathless. Fifty seven days without sex was too damn long. Ithildin certainly was the only elf in history with such a thought crossing his mind.

"He is looking at us. From the door window," he whispered into Kintaro's ear. "That Arislani with plaited hair who had found us."

"Let him look and envy," the chief grinned.

The man was apparently waiting until they were decent, but no such luck. So he had to come in anyway, kicking the door open with his foot, because his hands were full. His lips were pressed together into a thin line, and he was frowning fiercely. He muttered pretty distinctly, "Disgusting. Could have covered yourselves at least."

But his fleeting glance didn't escape the elf's attention. There was too much lust in that gaze for a pious Arislani native.

A hypocrite, like all of them. A week tops, and my barbarian would have got into his pants, Ithildin thought and was surprised by his own thoughts. 'My barbarian', the idea of it!

The Arislani placed the tray loaded with food on the low table and threw the heap of clothes he was carrying over his shoulder, on the bed.

"Stop making out, get dressed!" he said impatiently. "My lady is waiting for you. Don't you dare play heroes and try to run around the corridors. I'll escort you myself and even won't put you into irons."

He spoke the Common Tongue fluently, but his accent was so strong it grated on the ears. It looked deliberate, as if the man hated the foreign language he had to speak, as well as those he had to talk to. By his build and his clothes he was a servant, not a guard; he didn't have any weapons, except for a short Arislani dagger at his belt. Although he was way too rude for a servant. He must have been someone important in Dame Tallian's household, a butler perhaps, and was now humiliated by having to be a simple valet, for some prisoners, not guests, who were sodomites to boot! That would make a man angry. But Ithildin remembered his eyes wet with tears. The Arislani's rudeness could have been a mask hiding his true feelings.

From the heap of clothes Kintaro dug out loose pants made of black satin, very similar to what he had been wearing in Iskenderun, and put them on. Lielle liked those pants on him very much, Ithildin remembered, and his heart was gripped with longing again, more strongly than before. If Alva was there, why hadn't he come to meet them?

Meanwhile the servant poured out wine into glasses, and the bottle clinked against the brims, as if his hands were shaking. Was he afraid of them suddenly? In the snowstorm he wasn't afraid to come close to the beast. They were weak then and no danger to anyone. But now even the reserved elf was battling his desire to blindly rush outside the room, yelling for Lielle at the top of his lungs.

"Guys, don't you worry none," the servant said quite friendly. "Your redhead is here. Sound as a bell."

Yeah, their faces must have looked like an open book to the Arislani. They relaxed a bit, got dressed and ate with sudden ravenous appetite. The servant sat on the bed, dangling his legs, and watched them. He had closed the door, but hadn't locked it, and it was somehow reassuring. Maybe they weren't prisoners after all. Maybe Dame Tallian just didn't want them wandering about her domain unattended.

The servant was neither young nor old − a man whose face bore no clear indication of age, as was the way of anyone dealing with magical forces. He was neither pretty nor handsome, but possessed the kind of good looks which is granted by confidence and inner strength. He had a trained body and seemed an able fighter; probably an able lover too. Suddenly Ithildin felt he liked the Arislani without any particular reason. That man, one of the few inside the black tower, bore no ill will towards them.

"Name's Khatt-al-Haydé," the servant informed them out of the blue. Obviously, it wasn't his forte − keeping quiet for a long time. "It means 'heart of a desert'. You can call me Khattal. I am from Banu Keelab tribe, have you heard of it?"

Kintaro's scanty Arislanian vocabulary was enough for translation. "The Sons of bi... err, dogs, right?" He grinned from ear to ear, making clear his slip of tongue was intentional. He always liked to take an arrogant fellow down a peg or two, and the Arislani was so arrogant, Kintaro's fists were itching to give him a good thrashing. Or, maybe, some other organ was itching too.

Khattal wasn't embarrassed in the slightest.

"We are the Prophet's dogs," he parried with dignity.

"You are Dame Tallian's dog," the nomad muttered.

"Asking for a fight, chief?" Khattal was visibly pleased that he could so easily provoke the nomad. By calling Kintaro 'chief' he gave away he knew much about them. Back then, in the snowstorm, he called Ithildin 'elf', even before he saw his face and ears.

The elf stepped on Kintaro's foot, as if accidentally, and said, trying to calm everyone down, "Please, excuse my friend, Khattal. We both are nervous ("Nervous my ass!" Kintaro grumbled). Thank you for saving us. My name is..."

Khattal unceremoniously cut him short, "I know who you are." Apparently, he preferred being uncivil. "My lady has been waiting a long time for you. And she is starting to lose patience of which she had very little to begin with, so would you be so kind as to move you butts and follow me?"

So they did, without a word, although Kintaro gritted his teeth, and his eyes flashed fire.