Chapter 6 #3
Ikeep close as I’ve been instructed. There is protocol in situations like this.
I am the servant and I’m to stick by my master.
I may only refer to him as Master, which Bayaden enjoys far more than he should in my opinion.
I get to sit beside him though, and not on the floor as some humans are made to.
Apparently, being the Warlord’s manservant does afford me some status if Bayaden should decide I’ve earned it.
But also, it’s not really Baya’s thing. He likes some bedroom play, but for every day, he enjoys our brat-Top dynamic over a more submissive one.
Tom kneels at King Caer Gai’s feet, his perfect kneeling posture a thing to behold and admire from afar—people can look, but they can’t touch.
As usual, he’s to keep his focus on the king and he does it well.
Tom adores the king, which is the only reason I hesitate regarding the king at all.
I don’t know what the king’s up to, but it’s something nefarious.
Tom’s faith in him has me wondering if the king’s not simply in over his head.
I’m in a new environment and I can’t help what’s been trained in me since birth by both my parents.
I survey my surroundings and look for oddities, familiarities and odd familiarities.
The first thing I notice is an Elf in a hooded robe on the other side of the room.
He stands out because he’s trying to blend in, and he does blend in for everyone, but not for someone like me.
To me he’s a sore thumb, sticking out, throbbing red.
People don’t notice him, because he’s older, and he’s attempting to come across as frail, but he isn’t frail.
Under those robes, he’s quite large, you can tell by a person’s neck and jawline.
Plus, he looks like someone I know well.
“Which family member of yours is he, Master?” I whisper.
I’m not supposed to speak unless spoken to, which is why Bayaden gives me a glare to defeat all glares and I have the wisdom to cow.
I can’t help myself though, this is yet another reason I was not cut out to be a manservant. “You look like him.”
“You will meet him soon enough, little human.”
Little human. He can’t be that mad at me.
I almost reach out to touch him, but I remember just in time.
Bayaden and I have lived on top of each other this past year.
We’re used to touching each other in some way, whether that be on the field, passing by, in the bedroom, or while eating, which he often does with me in his lap these days.
I am the spoiled pet who gets to lie about on the furniture.
It’s natural for us to be within close proximity, a hand resting on my thigh, him tugging me around by the waistband of my pants, one of us dropping a kiss to the lips or some place on the other’s body.
I often grip onto his long hair for comfort, or just so he knows I’m there.
I soothe the restless Warlord and he brings me contentment.
When dinner is over, people mingle except for Bayaden to his father’s dismay. Bayaden’s the kind who sits and waits for you to approach him. He really is the most anti-social person I’ve ever met.
Unless you’re talking war, weapons, or strategy, he has no interest in you.
“Get up and talk to someone,” King Caer Gai hisses at him in Elvish. “Else why did you bother to attend?”
“Was there an option not to attend?” Bayaden says, also in Elvish.
His father gives him the same look I’ve seen on Bayaden many times, and it usually means, “Tristan, you’re walking on thin ice,” which are of course my words, I doubt Bayaden’s ever seen ice, but either way it means that Bayaden had better get up and mingle. He stands and signals for me to come.
Aldrien has been banished from the Elven realm indefinitely.
The king hosts these dinners to form alliances with other races.
Even alone as it is from the seven Elven realms, Aldrien is still powerful and holds sway due to their connection to magic that comes from the ether.
Of course, they still want what they can’t have which is to reunite with the Elven realm, and if they can’t have that, then it must be destroyed.
“Tristan, this is my uncle Taj,” he says in Elvish since he can’t be seen talking to his manservant in Markaytian. Baya and I move back and forth between Elvish and Markaytian. No real rhyme or reason as to why we speak which language when.
I think that may be the one thing I’m grateful to Andothair for, the Elvish lessons.
After a year of lessons and immersing myself in Elven culture, I can speak Elvish fluently, even if it doesn’t sound as nice as when Baya speaks it.
“Pleased to meet you, Tristan,” he says.
I like his eyes; they remind me of Bayaden.
“Uncle Taj comes and goes,” Bayaden explains, his Elvish accent strong. “He lives alone and travels a lot.”
I feel it in the air: something’s going on, I don’t know what, but this meeting with his uncle is meaningful.
I’m used to speaking Elvish to Bayaden, and others on the field, because Bayaden makes me, but I still get nervous breaking it out for others.
I know my accent isn’t amazing; it’s embarrassing, but I give it a shot anyway.
“Nice to meet you, sir.” I bow my head rather than extending my hand in greeting, I’m still a lowly servant, I’m not to be so familiar.
“I’m sure we’ll get to know each other well enough soon.”
My head snaps to Bayaden. Because what the fuck does that mean? My dragon blood rages.
Bayaden’s as gruff as he always is. “We’ll speak to you later, Uncle.” He ushers me away. “Don’t say a word, Human.”
His tone says cross him and get spanked right here, so I keep quiet, but I’m fuming.
He’s got something planned for me and he did it in secret because he knew I wouldn’t agree to it.
But surprises aren’t done happening. The king is back, and he’s brought with him the king from Dominithia and his son.
The Dominithia are a race of green people.
They look Markaytian, but with pastel green skin.
After formalities, the Elven king introduces the prince.
“Bayaden, this is Prince Sancytha, I told you about him.”
Bayaden hardens. “You have, Father.” He grunts a hello to the prince who does not look like he wants to meet Bayaden at all.
The Elven king forces a conversation in what I assume is Dominithia, a language I know nothing of, in which Bayaden is his taciturn-self and the Dominithiaian prince looks like he wants to vomit things his skin color.
He is a handsome prince, with gorgeous dark hair (I always notice hair) but he’s the kind who will break like the glass meant for these kinds of fancy parties.
He’s not meant for war. I don’t know what they speak of, but I can tell Bayaden is not a fan of whatever’s being said.
Bayaden’s Dominithia is as polished as the prince and the Dominithiaian king’s and I can’t help but admire how smart he is.
I pick up on the feel of the conversation, which is uneasy all around.
Eventually, it ends and Bayaden stalks off. I have to quicken my pace to catch up to him. “What was that all about?” I hiss at him.
“Be quiet,” he snaps looking around. Right, I’m not good at following the rules.
At long last, the night ends. Bayaden is furious and I’m annoyed.
I know Bayaden has no obligation to me, but I’ve gotten used to him telling me things that have to do with me.
When we get back to his chambers, I round on him as he’s shutting the door, ready to tell him all about what I think of him and whatever the hell tonight was, but when he faces me, his eyes are wet.
Crying, but also hard, vulnerable, and filled with need.
Crying has got to be the worst thing I’ll ever see Bayaden do.
It’s at least ten times worse seeing the great Warlord cry than any other person I’ve met because it’s more heartbreaking for some unnamable reason.
We come together in a kiss and he lifts me so I can grip around his wide torso with my strong legs.
We’re both wild with passion, quickly divesting ourselves of the fancy clothes we spent an eternity dolling ourselves up in and it’s not long before we’re dirty again, with blood and sweat and come.
We fuck several times and we mark each other and when we’re ready to rest on his bed in the moonlight, we’re stained in each other’s fluids and scent.
“Did you manage to find clothes today, little human?”
“Is my name Tristan Arcade Kanes?” I remember briefly that legally, I’m not Tristan. I’m Kathir Tahsen Cyredanthem, but I don’t feel like Prince Kathir. I’m not even sure I’m a Kanes anymore. I’m just Tristan and that’s fine with me.
“Of course, you did. All right, it is time for sleep, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
I move to roll off his bed and go to mine, but he doesn’t let me leave, slinging his large arm over me, trapping me beside him. “I don’t think so, you stay here. I might need you again in the night.”
But he doesn’t and we both sleep soundly next to each other not talking about the things that happened at dinner.