Page 138 of Last of His Blood
He felt her go. Felt the clutch of her body straining with his, sweat-slicked skin and so hot, so close, melding him and her and the earth and the air together at once. His hips plunged on as he gathered her up, holding her to him to shut out everything else. A thousand distractions clawing for his attention, aches and pains and itches and discomfort and that creeping knowledge of the dawn, but he pushed them all away. Behind his closed eyelids was something wide and dark and waiting, opening for him.
He fell into it.
Wordless noises punched from his chest. The climax burst through him, from him, flowing into her. He was spending himself like rain. Everything he had, everything he was, all of his love. His stubbornness. The powerful pounding of his heart and the huge breaths that filled his mighty lungs, all his strength and will and the relentless force of his life.
All of it. All for her. All for his land. He had come so far, he had fought so hard to live, he had brought so much death, and now his reward was to make life.
He was taken in, and accepted.
Far away, he heard the blast of a hunting horn. The last star had vanished from the sky.
“No…stay,” he said fuzzily as he felt Ophele move under him. He felt very peculiar. He barely knew where he was, the words tumbling from his lips, disjointed and senseless. “Wife. Give it…time to root…”
And then he slumped forward, lost in the peace of the quiet earth.
***
Really, she ought to have known he would do this as thoroughly as he did everything else.
“Remin?”
Gently, she nudged him, turning his head to look at his face. His eyes were closed, long black lashes smudging his cheeks. Sprawled on top of her, he was limp and exceedingly heavy, and even though the feel of him inside her was uncomfortable and a spiky rock was jabbing her directly in the backside, Ophele exhaled and gave up. She guessed he had a right to be a bit tired, after that.
Lying on the cold, muddy ground, she was very much awake, which meant thinking. Justenin had a deeply unsentimental view of the Empire’s holidays and festivals, and though Ophele had not dared to ask him directly about this one, she could just imagine what he would say. A pagan relic, when everyone knew there was no magic in the Empire, and impractical and dangerous besides.Andit was mortifying; how was she ever going to walk back into town and face everyone, when they all knew what she and Remin hadjustbeen doing?
But Remin had delivered a surprisingly profound answer when she asked why they must do this: it was important because peoplebelievedit was important. And wasn’t that a sort of magic in itself? A self-fulfilling prophecy.Beliefwas a curious thing, and her limited study of magic had made her quite sure that she didn’t know enough to have an opinion.
It was some time before Remin finally stirred, a ripple of alertness through his body, and she smiled as his lips nuzzled her throat in a sleepy inhalation.
“We are not doing it again,” she informed him, as his black eyes slitted open.
“Not here, anyway,” he agreed, rumbling with amusement. Brushing a thumb over her cheek, he kissed her and sat up, wincing as he extracted his body from hers. “Did I hurt you?”
“I’m all right. I want a bath,” she said with feeling, trying to sit up without touching anything.
“No, stay still,” Remin objected, and it wasn’t until he had dressed her, picked her up, and was halfway back to town that it dawned on her why he was keeping her more or less horizontal.
“You know you’ll have to put me down when we get back,” she said, laughing and crimson to her hair. Stars, he was the most determined man alive. But she saw the smile crease his cheek and wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, feeling that she could face even the mob at the North Gate so long as Remin was beside her.
It was embarrassing. It couldn’t be anything else, dozens of people staring at her when she was wearing a wettish, muddy linen dress with the sticky feeling of Remin between her legs. This seemed one of the more unlikely ways to look after their people.
But the people themselves appreciated it. She could hear them cheering when Remin finally set her down, their hands raised in greeting and in blessing. The farmers were clustered to the front of the crowd, the Conbour clan as well as all the folk from Remin’s villages, who would join them in the plowing as soon as the ground was dry enough.
This was even harder for Remin. The last part of the ritual was the sharing of the blessing, and while he wasn’t easy to embarrass, he intensely disliked letting other people touch him. Half of Tresingale was reaching for him, hands out and sleeves rolled up, and Remin’s knights were watching like hawks.
Remin squeezed Ophele’s hand and held out his arms, rigidly enduring as the men approached to lay their hands on him, firmly enough to carry away a bit of dirt and mud. Thevirtue of the earth thus passed from person to person, blessing the work of the year, and they rubbed their hands together as they walked away, lifting their hands to their faces in the gestures of revelation. Miche and Juste hovered at Remin’s side, watching this most dangerous portion of the ritual.
Bonfires blazed, heating the cobblestones, and Leonin and Davi took their places behind Ophele as Mionet appeared with her cloak and shoes.
“Oh, thank you,” Ophele said, grimacing as she wiggled her dirty toes against the silk lining. “No, I’m warm enough,” she added quickly, waving away her cloak. No point in ruining it.
“I will have it if you change your mind,” Mionet replied, bundling it under one arm and extending her other hand. “Blessings, Your Grace.”
“Blessings on you,” Ophele replied, surprised and pleased. She would have expected Mionet to disdain so earthy a blessing.
“Blessings, my lady!” piped Elodie’s voice, and Ophele turned to find her loyal pagegirl obediently waiting to be invited over, though a few bounces on her heels betrayed her excitement.
“I shall give you a good one,” Ophele replied happily, holding out her arms in invitation and transferring a mighty benediction as Elodie flung her arms around her waist. The girl hardly needed help to grow; Elodie already bid fair to outstrip Ophele herself. “Will you be helping with the gardens?”
