Page 45 of A Brat's Tale
“Great Warlord, eh?”
“Oh yes, I can’t stress the ‘great’ enough.” I laugh. “The human is also more beautiful than any other he’s seen, more than any Elf too.” His face gets soft. “But none of that’s why he’s enchanted. It’s just a thing that is. I find I wait until he breathes before I take my next breath, I live to see his next smile, selfishly hoping I’m the cause of it, and when I kiss him the world falls away and life feels easy if only for that brief moment.”
He presses his lips to mine. The memory fades. Summer’s gone and our laughter is trapped in the wind.
Chapter 11
It takes weeks to reach Mortouge, but when we finally lay eyes on her, I am impressed. The cool landscape isn’t as foreboding as I thought it would be. If ice can be described as friendly then that’s what I’d call it—friendly. It invites me in and even the snow crunching under my boots is a welcome sensation. Unlike the thicker, wider buildings in other places within the Realm, the buildings here, in King’s Keep are thin and tall. Almost everything sparkles ice-blue and is accented in white.
Even the Elves are dressed in warm, white accents despite their midriffs showing. The Mortougian Elves seem to have built-in fireplaces for the cold. I, on the other hand, do not and am grateful for the warm white fur coat and reinforced leather boots Corrik bought for me along the way. I pull the fur around me tighter.
“What do you think, my husband?” he says.
“I think that she is beautiful, but Corrik, is it always like this?”
“No. We have seasons, but it’s never as warm as Markaytia. Not to worry, when you are Elf, you’ll be much warmer. For now, we’ll make sure there’s plenty of wood on the fire for you.”
“Thank the Gods for fireplaces.”
We enter the gates to the palace and my breath hitches again. Somelevels of the palace stretch further than I can see into the sky, with others lower to the ground and decorated with intricate patterns indicative of Elvish style. The entire structure spirals in a cochlear fashion upward, the towers spreading further apart and the backmost ones reaching furthest into the sky.
We’re brought straight to the king and queen, who are sat down to dinner. The queen is up, rushing to me, taking me in her arms, squeezing me. She speaks Markaytian. “Oh, Kathir. We were worried we’d never see you again.”
Even the king has to have his turn with me. “Son. I can’t believe we allowed this to happen. I hope someday you can forgive us. You’re all right?”
“There’s nothing to forgive sire and yes, I’m all right.”
“Then please, sit. Dine with us. Let’s get reacquainted.”
Alrik and Diekin ask to be excused. “I’ll see you around, young Warlord,” Diekin says before he leaves. Alrik says nothing. Corrik leads me to where I’ll be sitting for meals at his side and we have a nice dinner. My stomach is happy to have something aside from the road fair.
Corrik is still uneasy around me. He’s thinking about something, and of course, my mind runs wild with what. There wasn’t a lot of time or privacy on the road for many intimate conversations and even when we had the time, Corrik was awkward and distant. In part, Corrik maintained a constant state of vigilance, which meant he was immovable—it was a dangerous journey. As much as Corrik wanted to get me home, we sometimes had to take a longer way so we could avoid being seen. He didn’t trust that there weren’t Rogue Elves out looking for me (they aren’t supposed to be able to get into the seven realms, but they are). However, I knew they wouldn’t be.
My insistence that no one was looking for me, and the subsequent tantrum I threw because no one would listen to me, resulted in my first spanking from Corrik since returning to him. Corrik didn’t need any prodding to administer the same, believe me, but Alrik didn’t care. He said if Corrik didn’t spank me, he would. I kept quiet for therest of the trip and suffered Corrik’s anxiety. I supposed he was entitled to them after looking for me a year.
But I thought once we were here, his anxieties would fade. No such luck.
When the meal is finished, Corrik asks for us to be excused, like we are one person and I should be used to it, it’s not like Bayaden ever asked my opinion on anything, but I was his slave. I’m supposed to be Corrik’s husband, not a wallflower.
It’s only the first night I’m back though. It might take some time, me being here, uh, home I guess, for Corrik to feel comfortable. I can give him that time. I let Corrik lead me up to the rooms that will be ours. “I will have the palace tailor pay you a visit tomorrow. He’ll make you all new clothes. We’ll also need to get you started in Elven policy, history, and politics.”
I stare at him, trying to figure him out. Something’s off. “Corrik, I just got here. Don’t you think, maybe I could have some time to adjust?”
I don’t know what I expected, but anger wasn’t it. Corrik rounds on me, his teeth bared. “I thought you were a warrior? All you do is boast about that and your bravery and your experience and now you want time to adjust?”
He’s breathing hard and all my Warlord bravery’s left me. “I … I’m sorry, Corrik. Yeah, you’re right. It’s probably best I get started on all that right away.”
He balls his fists. “Get ready for bed.” He points to the wash-up room and I head in there trying to process what’s going on. He seems to want me to start my life here yesterday. Is that what this is about? Some kind of urgency to have me be part of Mortouge? Maybe he just needs some assurance.
I walk out, expecting him to have undressed or something. No, we haven’t been together as a couple in a long time, but we are a couple and Elves don’t care about naked. Even I don’t care about naked so much anymore, but he hasn’t moved. He’s outside the door, leaning against it.
Oh.
Oh, I see.
He’s standing vigil. Not letting me out of his sight. Uh-oh. This can only spell trouble for me. Corrik was already overprotective. He knows I’ve figured him out. “Before you say a word, don’t. I’m not in the mood. You’re just going to have to deal with how I am now.”
There is a lot I want to say, hearing him use the phrase, “you’re just going to have to deal with how I am now” is worrisome, but I remember what Papa always said about leaving Father alone till morning whenever we’d have an argument. “A tired Arcade is an unreasonable Arcade, Tristan. You’ll have better luck in the morning.”
