Page 84 of Tristan
I remember someone saying that to me a long time ago or at least what seems like a long time ago. He kisses me again and wipes the sweat through my short dark hair. When he unshackles me, I can barely stand; my limbs have turned to jelly, and he has to scoop me up after retrieving the pale blue blanket and wraps it loosely around me. I hiss when his arms make contact with my heated skin. I wrap my arms around his neck.
He carries me the short distance to his chambers and places me down on his bed like I’m made of glass. He’s gone for a moment and when he returns, he has hot, wet towels he uses to wipe my face clean.
“I’m going to roll you over, Tristan. I’m going to apply some salve to your back, it will help the skin heal smooth.”
I cry out as he moves me of course, but the smooth salve feels aslovely as I remember. He’s used it on me before. I opt to remain on my stomach even after he’s finished.
“You feel better now, don’t you? You needed that.”
I sigh into my pillow. “I do feel better. Thank you, Bayaden.” I hate that I do; I hate that I, a grown man, would need such a thing—but the Gods curse me, I do.
“It wasn’t just for your benefit, I promise you. Get up now. We’re going to practice.”
Something soft lands on me, my beige pants. I flinch. “You can’t be serious? I won’t be able to move.”
“That’s your problem—you shouldn’t have defied me. The salve should have eased your pain considerably,” he says.
I test the skin by moving. The pants slip off my back and onto the mattress and he’s right, it has helped, but I can still feel every mark. I won’t admit that to him.
“Bayaden,” I whine. All I’ve wanted this whole morning is sleep; I should’ve quit while I was ahead.
“Would you like my help?”
I answer by getting up gingerly and slip on the loose pair of pants. The weather is warm here and I suspect we are in the south. It’d been getting colder while we were on the ship and that was months ago, the weather in Mortouge should be cold now. Diekin told me it’s their winter. But here, it’s summer—I don’t know if they get a true winter. Bayaden says that it’s summer all the time in Aldrien.
Bayaden wears little; a wide belt, with the emblem of his family crest as big as his abdomen and a baldric strap that runs diagonally across his chest so his sword can rest on his back. He’ll wear shoulder armor on one side, his right, that I will help him put on once we arrive at the fields, and wide bands of armor around his wrists. Bayaden has a tattoo like Corrik’s on his face, but whereas Corrik’s is over his forehead and down his nose, Bayaden’s is over his right eye and lights up in yellow tones rather than ultra-violet. He’s very beautiful; though that’s no surprise, is it? All the Elves are sublime creatures. Where Bayaden is impressive is in the training fields. I’ve watched him moveon the field and command his army so pristine, so flawless. Bayaden moves like a panther but strikes like a dagger; he’s quite the sight to watch and sometimes he succeeds in mesmerizing me. When I’m on the field, I strive to be like him; to learn from him.
I know dressed as I am, Bayaden’s men will see what he’s done to me. I don’t care much. It’s a common thing in Aldrien and Diekin told me it’s equally common in Mortouge. There is little place for embarrassment and it’s better I learn to accept this. I’ve learned that marks are only placed upon those who are meaningful in Aldrien; it’s a big deal that I—a lowly human—receive any markings at all. It’s going to cause quite the stir at practice today when they see how many new ones I have from their Warlord. I smile. I recall the only other time Bayaden marked me where others could see. He chained me to the wall in his bedchamber for almost two days after that and made me apply the magic salve until all the marks not covered by my pants healed. When I finally deciphered the meaning of marks to Elves, I decided that Bayaden must’ve lost himself in a fit of lust that night and was embarrassed to have marked me in such a meaningful way. Of course, he wouldn’t want anyone seeing the marks and getting the wrong idea—that maybe he cared about his human pet. But now, he doesn’t seem to care and shows meandhis marks off proudly.
We trek the long distance from the palace to the large fields where the barracks are. Sometimes we sleep and eat in the barracks if Bayaden has to be up early—something I’m used to from living with my fathers. Life in Aldrien is quite like Markaytia.
As soon as we approach Bayaden’s warriors, I find out how right I am about the throbbing welts on my back. After I’ve helped Bayaden with his armor and have adorned my own, I’m sent to work with my sword. We’ve been split off into groups.
“Hello again, human,” Siagin says, smirking at me, speaking in Elvish. He doesn’t like me, but that’s okay, I don’t like him either. Without giving me the chance to draw my sword, he grabs my arm and twists it behind my back. I scream; can’t help it. My back is onfire and it’s not hard for him to take me to the ground and to my knees.
“That’s good. You need to learn to always kneel before your betters. If you were mine, you would be on your knees all the time—what’s this?” He ghosts his hand along the marks he sees on my back, and I picture the surprise on his face. “Oi! Luthern, look at this?”
A large, copper-skinned, blond Elf comes over to inspect me while I try not to show them how much pain I’m in.
“What’s the matter, Siagin? Jealous?” I say in perfect Elvish, with as much venom as I can. He releases me, pushing me toward the ground.
“What sorcery is this? How did you fool our Warlord into giving you marks like that?”
“Believe me, I didn’t ask for them.” I glare at him from my knees knowing better than to get up. In the past, I was defiant, but it only ever served to get me a beating that wouldn’t be as fulfilling as the one I just received from Bayaden. I don’t want or need another black eye.
“You most certainly did,” says a voice from behind. Bayaden. “What is the meaning of this, Tristan?”
“We know he’s tricked you, Warlord. You would never honor a human with such marks,” Siagin answers for me.
Bayaden studies his two warriors then turns to me still on the ground. He doesn’t answer them and that says it all. “Stand up, Tristan.”
I do at his command.
“Come with me.” I follow behind him like his lost duckling and don’t like it. I told him not to save me from his men. I glare at his back.
“Stop, pouting,” he says. I swear he’s got eyes in the back of his head. “I wasn’t saving you. I merely have something else I’d rather you learn.”
I don’t believe him and when I see where he’s taking me, my dragon blood boils. We head away from where his warriors practice with swords and toward where his warriors practice archery.
