Page 47 of Heart of Winter
Oliver said, “How many pools are there?”
“I’ve never counted,” Magnus said. “Plenty. Some are nice and big – you can conduct meetings in them. But there’s smaller ones, too; nice and cozy, fit for a little privacy.”
Oliver chose not to respond to the look that accompanied that tidbit of information.
“This is – incredible, really.”
“And it’ll do you a world of good, too. Have a nice soak, and see if you don’t feel better after.”
Magnus had evening guard shift tonight, so he headed off with a soap recommendation, and left Oliver to it.
He stood a long moment in the dressing room, once he was alone, thinking that he ought to go and find Tessa, that he ought to inquire after Rune’s health. That soaking in a hot spring wasn’t furthering his cause at all: he was here to broker a marriage and an alliance, not to steep in lavender oil for his own enjoyment.
But he felt wretched at this point, and one whiff of the un-stoppered lavender decided him. He would take five minutes. Ten, maybe, to let the hot water ease the ache from his joints, and chase the chill from his skin.
He undressed in a hurry, fingers fumbling, keenly aware of the sleek, slender, pale lines of his body, and how they were nothing like those of the hardened warriors that filled this place. He gathered towel, soap, oil, and went to find a pool. He chose a small one, tucked around a stalagmite, one that offered a bit of shelter and privacy. Then he climbed in.
The water washeavenly. The first touch enveloped him like silk, and he slid right down, until his head rested against the rock edge of the pool, with a deep groan. “Oh,gods.” The heat of it pressed the cold back; he could feel all of his muscles unclench, and only realized then how very tense they’d been all day, since waking. Steam rose up all around him, kissing his face, obscuring his vision.
“Ten minutes,” he told himself, and let his eyes slip shut.
~*~
He drifted. The heat dragged him under, and though he would rouse himself, eyes cracking open now and then, he fell into a sort of trance in which he could no longer tell if he was asleep or awake, only that he was comfortable, so, so comfortable.
He dreamed. Dreams in which fantasy intruded – the sorts of fantasies that he wouldn’t allow himself when he was awake. The dangerous sort that set aside propriety, and cultural expectation. The sort that ignored a person’s bad qualities, the impossibility of such things, and left him a purely physical being, with purely physical desires.
He dreamed of winding dark, silver-shot hair round his fingers; of the rough scrape of a beard at his throat. The press of a solid, warm chest against his own, and big holds squeezing at his waist. Blue eyes – he’d never seen such eyes. They haunted him.
“Mr. Meacham.”
He frowned, because he didn’t want to beMr. Meachamin this dream, the dream of skin-on-skin and warm furs underneath and hot breath in his ear.Ollie. He wanted the king of Aeretoll to call him Ollie in his low, rich voice when he was–
“Oliver.”
That was better.
“Oliver.” A hand touched his face; cupped his cheek. A large hand, one rough with calluses across the palm, but the touch itself gentle. He felt something cool and smooth – metal, the bands of heavy rings. “Can you hear me? How long have you been here?”
He knew that voice – only now it was sharp with worry, rather than warm and rumbly with desire.
Oliver realized that his eyes were shut, and he cracked them open, slowly, painfully, to find a hazy face floating above his: sharp-featured, and bearded, and framed by the dark, silver-shot hair that he’d dreamed of tanging his hands in. He could see the vivid blue of the king’s eyes, but his vision was too blurred to make out the expression in them.
It’s not fair how beautiful you are, he thought.
But when he opened his mouth, he croaked, “Hot.” Because he was – he was boiling.
Erik’s broad hand shifted to his forehead, then his throat. “Yes, you are,” he muttered. “You’re blazing with fever. Hey – hey, don’t fall asleep. Stay awake, stay with me.”
But Oliver’s eyes were too heavy to keep open. “I would.” He was aware of his mouth moving, but had no control over it. “I would stay with you…if you asked me to…If you wanted me. I have…I have nothing. And you make meache.”
Above him, there was a sharp breath. Then: “Holygods.”
Oliver heard shouts, and the stamp of feet.
And then he heard nothing else. The fever claimed him fully.
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