Prologue #2
Inside I’m relieved. If Arcade still thinks it best, then I’m glad even if I don’t quite believe it. I know a father is supposed to behave selflessly as regards his son, but I don’t think I could keep myself away from Tristan, even for his own sake. I relax as much as I can; my arse hurts.
“Next on the docket—let this be said once and for all; I hope our son will be exactly like you. He could be so lucky.”
“How can you say that? That would mean he would need—”
“—someone like me?”
Oh. Oh, right. I nod.
I know Tristan doesn’t see it now, and he won’t until he’s older, but he could be so lucky to find a man just like his father.
That being said, the boy is six. Arcade could let up on him some.
It’ll be a few more years before he begins training for the position of Warlord.
Sure, we bring him to the field and show him some sword stuff, but he’s too young to practice with the big kids.
Though Tristan seems to have a way of making it onto the battlefield with them and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was fighting with us sooner rather than later.
“I have some things to say about you and our son,” I say.
“Then let’s have it.” He looks amused, not angry like I think he should be.
“I don’t like the way you speak to him, and while we’re at it…” I pause to seethe for a moment.
“Yeeeeees?” He’s smiling now, as if he thinks I’m cute.
“You punish him too harshly for trivial things. You berated him the other day for just spilling milk,” I continue.
“Ahhh. These would be the other matters, the ones I suspected were upsetting you.”
“Well. Explain yourself,” I demand.
“Mind yourself, Eagar,” he says. There’s discussion and then there’s belligerence. “Tristan is the most agile six-year-old I have ever encountered. Would you agree?”
“Yes, but accidents happen to the best of us.”
“Have you ever seen me spill a thing?”
“No.” It’s true. The man is infallible.
“That boy has more physical skill than I’ve ever seen in anyone his age—including me. That spill was no accident. I would think you would at least recognize that by now.”
Icy tingles spread over me. “So, you already know to what extent Tristan is like me?”
“I know, and I act accordingly. Until he marries and finds a partner of his own, I provide a source of grounding or he’ll get out of sorts. My role is to be that solid form he can depend on. In fact, I shall only approve of such a partner for him.”
“How could you know? Why haven’t you brought this up with me?”
“I know the same way you do—I recognize it because I possess the same threads even if they are a different color; there’s no sign in particular.
I was thinking of a way to bring it up that wouldn’t upset you.
Though if I’d known how much it was already upsetting you, I would have ripped the bandages off and spoke with you sooner.
I should have known you’d recognize it as soon as I did. ”
“You’re not mad about it? You don’t blame me?”
“I love you. Everything about you—especially the part of you that makes you need me as you do. It’s special, Eagar. I’ve already said it, but if you need to hear it again, I’ll say it as many times as is necessary: No, I don’t blame you. You’ll be helpful counsel for Tristan someday.”
“It’s dysfunctional.”
“I know you won’t believe this now, but I’ll say it anyway: Needing what you need is not dysfunctional, love.
But that is something you’ll have to process yourself and it’s not likely to resolve within you today.
Think about this: Who would there be for me, controlling bastard that I am, if I didn’t have you just as you are, to complement me? ”
“I’m lucky to have you understand my condition, you mean.”
“No. I mean exactly what I say—we balance each other—if you are dysfunctional then I am dysfunctional, and I can’t care two ways past Sunday.”
I laugh. I love his confidence. “But our son, he can’t know. Maybe there’s still hope for him—we can change him, make him be more like you.”
His eyes frown sadly, not for our son but because he wishes I would understand what he’s trying to explain. “It’s his nature, Eagar. We can’t change him anymore than you could stop a crow flying. Besides, you want our son to be a smarmy, possessive arse?”
“I want him to be strong and in charge of his own life.”
“You are both of those things.”
That’s true. But, “What grown man needs to be spanked?”
His eyes fill with mirth. “You. There’s not much more to it than that.”
“People would judge me if they knew.” Except for maybe Olivia, Tristan’s mother. She knows, but she reserves judgement and is accepting. Other Markaytians are not as accepting of kinds of relationships they do not understand.
“If they judge us, they judge us. People judge people for all sorts of things. There’s no way around that.”
I nod. “And what of our son? If he’s like me, will you go easier on him?”
“I will do no such thing. Aside from the fact that I am a harsh person, if Tristan wants to be Warlord he might as well get used to it. I’m bound to get a whole lot harsher.”
I nod. I know to expect that by now. I look down at my tunic and play with its edges, wondering if I’m forgiven, but too embarrassed to ask. “Come here, Eagar,” Arcade says, standing and opening his arms for me.
My heart lifts and I have to say, this is probably the best part about spanking—the after spanking cuddle. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Arcade.”
Arcade moves my hair from my face and wipes the tears with his thumb. He’s smiling. “Sorry? You know how much I love spanking your naughty bottom. I do want your obedience, but maintaining you is no chore.”
I squeeze him tightly, grinning into his shoulder. He makes no apology for who he is and if Tristan has to be submissive like I am, then I shall endeavor to make sure his self-confidence is like his father’s.
TRISTAN’S MUSINGS
To be fair, I have always been a brat.
Growing up, Lucca and I were usually in some kind of trouble. I remember the blond-haired hellion running down the hall like fire was chasing him, nearly barreling into me. It turned out “fire” was the pastry chef. “Tristan, run!”
Note, I had nothing to do with this venture, and yet I was a willing accomplice. If he was in trouble, so was I.
As he approached, I could see the two small pies he carried; I matched Lucca’s pace and ran with him.
“Wait till I get my hands on the pair of you! Royalty or no, you won’t steal my pies!”
But we were younger and faster than the old pastry chef; it didn’t take much to outrun him. A few sharp turns and we lost him in the maze of halls, but we did need a secluded place to eat the stolen pies without someone else catching us. “Tristan, this way,” Lucca said.
We continued to run, veering left and right, until we reached the back of the palace where there was a secret door, unguarded, we could slip out of, undetected.
We carried onto the stables, knowing where to go like we had one mind and soon, we were lying against a large hog, buried in thick mud, bellies full of fresh blueberry pie.
“How did you manage that, Lucca?” I asked him.
“How do I manage anything? I’m clever as sin.”
Of course. I rolled my eyes at my arrogant cousin. Lucca’s father had made many attempts to temper Lucca’s conceited demeanor over the years, but the task proved hopeless. “Whatever. I’m glad you did. The pies were delicious,” I said.
“My pleasure—what you want to do now?”
“We should probably go clean ourselves up before—"
“Tristan. Arcade. Kanes!” Papa’s deep voice was followed by an equally angry, but more feminine, “Luccalthizan Amarail Kanes!” from Lucca’s mother, my aunt.
“—before we’re caught.” Only we were already caught.
Upon reflection, I sometimes wonder if we wanted to be caught; as I’m learning, it’s in a brat’s nature to brat. We can’t ask for spankings, won’t, we need to be chased and we need to be made to go over a knee. I didn’t understand this about myself at the time, but I do now.
We froze. “Do you think they’ve seen us, yet? We could make a run for it,” Lucca whispered to me.
“Yes, we’ve seen you, and we can hear you as well. Don’t even think about moving,” Papa said as he came around the corner. I knew better than to disobey a direct order like that; I remained where I was with Lucca against the hog, in the squishy mud.
“You sir are a mudball,” Papa said when he finally got a good look at me and he was not pleased.
The queen was behind Papa, looking every bit as stunned.
She ordered Lucca to her side, but I wasn’t getting that courtesy.
Papa walked over and lifted me, unconcerned about the sticky mud, or my six-year-old pride.
Papa was a warrior, Father’s Second. When he wasn’t looking after me, he was on the field, ergo the mud covering one muddy little boy didn’t bother him like it had the queen.
“Let me down Papa. I’m too big to be carried.
” I squirmed and pushed at him, but Papa was stronger and paid me no mind, even going as far as to smack my little bum as he began walking away with me.
I looked back to see Lucca, who didn’t have it much better—the queen had grabbed him by the hand and was now dragging him up to the palace—as Papa carted me off to the barracks.
I had chambers in the palace, which is where Mother lived, but I also spent a great deal of my time in the large barracks, and so was given a room there as well. Papa and Father preferred to stay there, and I preferred to stay with them.
Father and Papa had a fine set of rooms in the barracks since Father was both Warlord and brother to the king.
Normally, I loved being in the barracks; Mother often complained I spent all my time down there and not enough with her, but that day, I was panicking a little.
Going down to the barracks increased the chances of having to tell Father of my transgression.