Chapter 6
Without the speed of an Elf, there’s a new meaning to pushing myself. The massive war Elf shows no mercy. His muscles contract and extend with power as his sword slams down like a hammer to a nail, that nail being me.
When I said without mercy, I might be exaggerating some.
Bayaden has to hold back fighting at full capacity, else he will kill me.
My cocky attitude over being able to best even a powerful Elf has been disproven many times over since I’ve been in Aldrien—a humbling experience to say the least. I pant as I heave my sword toward him, each move takes great effort.
The sword alone is heavy, and it took months just for me to be able to lift it fast enough to make efficient moves.
I spent a long-time doing drills Bayaden set for me.
The other warriors would make fun of me, but I didn’t care. Much. More often, I used the anger to fuel me, practicing as many hours as Bayaden would allow.
Sweat pours off me, sliding down my skin, mixing with blood from minor cuts and scrapes I’ve earned practicing with Baya this afternoon. He’s got a few too, but they’re not from me, mere collateral as a result of our quick movements, brushing up against trees and anything else in the way.
Bayaden is a formidable fighter. There are times I pause to marvel at him, and it gets me into trouble, paying more attention to his beautiful style rather than fighting, which takes all my concentration if I am to stand any chance.
His style is unique—large, lethal movements that shouldn’t work, but because he’s so precise, they do.
Dammit. Bayaden slams against my neck with a blow that would have been fatal, sending my head clean off my body. His face is close to mine, a sword piercing my neck. “You were admiring me again.”
I smile. “A bit.”
“Five lashes for that.”
“Oh c’mon. Can you blame me?” His lips are close.
We have to be somewhat careful on the field.
Of course, Bayaden’s allowed to do whatever he wants to me and everyone would welcome the Warlord showing his manservant his place as he fucked him up against a tree, but there’s a difference between that and tenderness.
“You won’t get better if I don’t punish you. Now c’mon, up against that tree, accept your lashes like a warrior.”
Bayaden punishing me, however, is good for business. His warriors approve of seeing Bayaden take his belt to me. “All right, all right. Worth it.”
He’s as precise with his belt as he is with his sword and I feel the imprint of each hit against my back, hissing with each, sharp thwack.
When I’ve taken my five, he spins me, pressing me against the tree, alighting the stripes there with new pain, but I don’t care, his lips are on me and I sink into that.
I always let him lead and if he’s going to kiss me like this, I assume he’s caught us a moment with no one watching.
When we break apart, Bayaden’s got a smug smile on his face, his eyes glittering with mirth.
“Do you find me that magnificent when I’m striving to kill you? ”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late, it’s already gone to both of them.”
I roll my eyes. “That it for today then?” I kind of hope so. I’m knackered.
“That’s it for this. Come. We’re going for a ride. I promised you frogs.”
We’re high up. From this vantage point we can see all of Aldrien and the way Bayaden looks over his homelands reminds me of the way I used to do the same in Markaytia. There are times Bayaden and I are like oil and water and other times I think we are the same. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Because I wanted peace.”
I laugh. “With me? You know I’m not a peaceful companion.”
He’s lying on the grass and I move across him thinking I’m going to go off and explore, but I’m wrong. He grabs my ankle and my feet slip out from under me. Suddenly, I’m in the giant Warlord’s arms, trapped. “I know how to tame you. If I want you quiet, I’ll just stuff your mouth with my cock.”
He smiles down at me and he’s beautiful.
He leans into kiss me and it’s not long before I’m kissing him back with ravenous desire.
I can’t get enough of Bayaden. I love how large he is, I love that I can hang off of him, I love the feeling of safety he gives me.
I’m the sort who can take care of myself, but there are things I have trouble handling inside and over time I’ve come to realize he eases that.
Like Corrik did.
The thought doesn’t haunt me as much as it used to, as much as it should.
Elves are more open about such things than Markaytians are.
It’s not uncommon to see a brat running from his Top through the sandstone hallways and many times, that brat is me.
Bayaden can never officially be my Top, but he is a Master of sorts and we ended up falling into a natural brat-Top rhythm.
I’ve asked him questions about it, I’ve asked others questions, and they were more than willing to share like Diekin was.
It’s a spectrum, with many designations and various subsets and levels within those designations.
I take pride in being a brat, especially when I’ve made some brat friends.
Tom isn’t brat, though. He’s got an inner submissive like Corrik was trying to train me to be.
Tom and I relate, because we have many of the same qualities and inner wiring, but we differ in the way we need dealing with.
Submissives need stricter guides and boundaries than us brats.
They’re also more likely to please and be good boys and girls.
Brats, we’re a strange dichotomy. We need guides and boundaries too, but we also need room to run.
And when we need the boundaries, we need ultra-firm ones, maybe even more so than a submissive, but as for the rest of the time, we need to be able to play and tease.
“You need enough rope to hang yourself,” as Bayaden often says, which I fought him on until it happened too many times and I was forced to consider it.
I was also forced to think back to being a kid and how Father handled me. He tended to lean more toward firm and was less likely to let my brat run free. But I think it was because he wasn’t used to handling a brat.
When Bayaden releases me, he runs a hand through my hair, which is still short.
I’m not permitted long hair, to remind me that I’m a slave of Aldrien and no longer Markaytian or Mortougian royalty.
Oddly, I don’t care much about the no longer being royalty thing, other than the conveniences it afforded me, which I admit, were nice, but now I feel like I don’t belong to anyone, but myself.
Well, and Bayaden I suppose. But that I’m all right with.
I know it’s odd that here I am a slave, finally feeling like I’m myself for the first time, but I do. I’m nobody, I have no larger obligations—Bayaden’s boot closet notwithstanding—and after my duties for Bayaden, all I have to do is what I love—work hard at training practice.
I can be a Warlord, even though I have no army. Deglan’s right, Warlord is who I am. I live and breathe those morals; I live to serve in that way. Recently, Deglan invited me to show my skill with a bow to the youngling Elves picking up their bows for the first time. My own mini-army.
“I know you’re not smiling about me stuffing my cock in your mouth, what are you thinking about?”
“The kids. I love teaching them.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You know, you do have warriors to train, you’re not going to have them trained properly if you’re watching me all day. Wasn’t I punished earlier for swooning over you while training?”
He whacks my arse, which is now covered by the pants he had made for me. They match the tunic of my homeland, Markaytia. “You are an insufferable brat. I am Elf, I can do both at the same time. You cannot.” Right. Elves. “You are good with them. I think you could teach my warriors a thing or two.”
That is a high compliment from the resident Warlord. “Be still my heart. Did you just offer me a compliment?” It’s one thing for him to say I’m good with the younglings, and something else entirely to say he’d trust me with his warriors. He nods. “You’d have a full-fledged mutiny on your hands.”
Bayaden has grown fond of me, but the other warriors have not. “I could get them to obey me, but I cannot change their feelings and as you know, I need their hearts as well. A warrior cannot fight for an Elf he doesn’t believe in.”
“I know and I’m not offended, Bayaden. I don’t care what they think of me.”
He rolls on his back, so I am above him now and stares up at me. “You don’t. I admire that. That’s what will make you a good Warlord someday.”
Wait a minute. “Bayaden, what are you … You know I’m never going to be a Warlord. Are you taunting me?” Because that’s too far and we don’t typically go that far anymore.
His eyes fill with tears. “No.” He takes my hand. “It was all fun and games when we were just fucking, but Tristan, I love you, which means I cannot in good conscience keep you. I am a man of honor, what honor would I have if I didn’t treat the one I love with respect?”
“Bayaden, what are you doing? Whatever it is, stop it.” Because I’m going to start crying and it won’t be just any kind of crying, but the kind that will break me apart. I know he’s trying to do a good thing, but the fragile walls I’ve built can’t handle the truth.
He takes my hand. “I can’t keep you forever, but it’s not time for you to go yet. Until that time.”
He pounces on me and my new pants are quickly on the forest floor, his cock inside me. Bayaden thrusts into me over and over, the sounds of skin slapping together echo off the cliffside and toward Aldrien.
His tears drip softly to my chest.
Whatever happened on the clifftop, we’re back to our version of normal by the time we return to the palace. I complained on the way back that we couldn’t bring even one frog to which Baya replied, “If I find you’ve brought one, just one frog home, I will tan that pretty backside of yours good.”