Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

4.8.

Another week passed. Kintaro kept going back to the touchy subject relentlessly. Alva joked, kept quiet, stoppered Kintaro's mouth with a kiss, and used every ruse to avoid giving a straight answer. Ithildin stayed out of it, preferring to watch from the sidelines. What else was there? They had to sort it out by themselves. He would just accept the outcome.

After Kintaro had exhausted his eloquence (which had never been his strong suit anyway), he decided to try another approach. He looked to the elf.

"I want to talk to you."

"What do we have to talk about?"

They were barely whispering, not to wake sleeping Alva. Chevalier Ahayrre was sleeping a lot the last few days, probably because his captors had used to drug him heavily.

"Him, for example," Kintaro pointed at Alva. "I'll wait by the well."

He stepped out, not waiting to be answered. Ithildin dithered for a bit, then pulled on his pants and reluctantly followed.

Ithildin did not like leaving the tent. It was a different campground (Essanti moved twice a year), but what did it matter. The same firepits, same tents, same well on the outskirts of the camp, enclosed by the same stones and lid against the dust. They were the same all over the steppe and kept the water cool and sweet, reminding Ithildin of the springs in Greyna Thialle. Many of these wells have been dug hundreds of years ago, but still had not run dry.

Everything about the camp was the same as well. The Essanti warriors sat and lay on animal skins around the fires, grilled meat, sharpened swords, mended harness, laughed, horsed around, combed one another's hair, had sex in their tents with open flaps. Only one thing differed from last year's camp. Nobody was chained at the white post.

This post called out to the elf. As if bewitched, he had to stop by it while he skirted the camp trying to avoid the barbarians. He touched the rough surface. The chain and collar were gone, and so was the mat splattered by the excesses of the warriors' pastime. The paint had peeled, the iron ring that used to hold the chain had rusted.

Ithildin could not tell if it was the same post or a different one. He never examined it closely, nor the ring and chain, once he had checked their strength and made sure there was no escaping them. And then – one glance of the red-haired stranger, a few words from his lips, his passion-filled touch – and the locks opened, the chains were severed, the iron collar taken off, and now he walked free even among these savages, and none could touch him against his will. Not even Kintaro.

Someone called after him in the guttural accents of the steppes. Ithildin faced a young Essanti warrior who ogled him, smiling lewdly. He repeated something close to "wanna get it on" and tried to grab the elf. Ithildin backed away, morose, and turned to leave. That's when a hot hand grabbed his behind.

The next moment, Ithildin punched the man in the face. The barbarian dodged, so the elf's fist only grazed his jaw. The Essanti's smile widened, eyes glistened hungrily at the challenge, and he leapt at the elf, tripped him, and both rolled on the ground.

Ithildin was not very skilled in a hand-to-hand, but his strength and agility were a match for the Essanti's. His adversary, though, was not interested in combat; he had something else in mind. Every chance he got, he fondled the elf or even tried to kiss him. Ignoring these touches, Ithildin twisted the man's hand and hurled him off. There were cheers from the crowd that had instantly gathered round. The fallen fighter did not get up. Instead, he lolled on the ground and spread his knees – salacious as ever.

Kintaro's voice sounded in his ear, making Ithildin jerk.

"Want him, doll-face? He'll let you take him."

"No," said heavily-breathing Ithildin and made himself turn away from the adversary.

"Let's get you washed up, or you'll terrify the redhead."

It was only now that Ithildin felt a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

He followed the chief, eyes cast down. He was baffled: why did he get into that fight so readily, especially when the warrior was not even threatening him? And why would he, who used to be a slave and anyone's plaything, feel so affronted by a come-on? Maybe this warrior has even had him before.

Of course the elf remembered everyone who had lain with him, but everything about them – their faces, smell, sexual preferences – was so alike, they were indistinguishable.