Chapter 11 #4
I can’t help it, I shiver. Corrik still gives me that feeling.
The magical one. I am addicted to it. “Spank me or don’t, I do not care.
This has become a marriage of duty for me, nothing more.
I will continue to obey you and fulfill my duty to Markaytia by acting as a loyal servant to Mortouge, but that’s it. ”
He slams his hand on the table, the glasses jump. “Part of your duty is as my husband and all that entails. I could make you, you know. It would be my right.”
I do know. That reality gives out my bravado. “Will you?”
“No. Never. My point is that I do treat you with respect.”
“Gee, thanks for asking my consent, Corrik.”
He is losing his patience. “I know this is hurting you and I’m sorry for that. It’s meant to keep you safe.”
“No Corrik. This is for you. Don’t pretend it’s anything other than what it is. I am perfectly fine with taking my chances out there, it’s you that isn’t.”
“My family agrees, Tristan. I am not the only one concerned for your welfare. My parents were beside themselves. They agreed this was the safest route until you become Elf.”
“I grow weary of this conversation, Corrik. I will never agree with you, so long as I live. May I be excused? I’m very busy. Social calendar is booked.”
He stands and places his cloth napkin on the table. “You’re excused.” He walks out after that without another word, and once again the door is locked tight. I hear every bolt as it is secured into place.
I feel more alone.
Corrik doesn’t return for days and when he does, he’s politely cold. “I came to tell you that your parents arrive tomorrow.”
He looks terrible; I take a bit of pity on him and answer in Elvish, doing my best to display a Mortougian accent.
“Thank you, husband,” I say. Having had a few days to think by myself, I realized I should be showing at least the minimum respect required.
He is still my husband, even if I’m enraged.
He smiles. He still answers in Markaytian. “See? I knew my husband was smart. You’re learning quickly. We’ll be making the journey to Drakora in no time.” We stand, with only two feet between us, but so much keeping us apart. “I shall go now, Tristan. I know you do not want me here.”
I pull my robes around me. I haven’t stopped being angry at him, but the time alone has been good for my head. I nod. “Corrik?”
“Yes, Tristan?”
“Would you allow Diekin to visit?” I haven’t been allowed visitors yet, and I don’t know why. Though truthfully, I wasn’t ready to see anyone, anyway.
He beams. It’s something I want that he can give me. “Yes. I have figured out a system for that. I can allow one visitor per day, other than me. I don’t want the guards getting used to too many visitors.”
It’s hard not to roll my eyes, but I’m actively trying not to argue again, so I nod. Besides, my complaints get me nowhere and I’m far too excited to see Diekin. Corrik turns to leave. “Cor, wait.”
“Yes?”
“Come to bed tonight?”
He’s not as excited about it as much as I thought he would be. “I will do my best Tristan, but I’ve been working ‘round the clock. I may have to sleep in the barracks again.”
I know at that moment he won’t be here tonight.
I try not to let my disappointment show and I feel stupid for asking.
I spend time after he’s gone sitting at my window, a place I’ve taken to, a place I try not to let Corrik see me sitting at, or I’m sure he’ll flip out.
I spend time looking out at Mortouge, studying the stones on the side of the building, which sticks out in odd increments, making a shape I cannot decipher from this angle.
I am high up, but thankfully I wasn’t put in one of the taller towers and truly, I could find a way down from here.
My mind can’t help thinking in that way.
It was what Lucca and I used to do often.
Late in the afternoon, Diekin enters like the ray of sunshine he is.
We rode home together, but it’s now the absence of his bouncy spirit, while I was gone, strikes me.
His hair is shorter than mine, it stops at just past his shoulders, allowing the front to wave up and over to the right.
He has a new tattoo over his shoulder I didn’t notice before with his shoulder armor in the way.
He’s in nothing but a white, male shift dress with no sleeves, that hangs between his inner thighs, the sides open showing off his tree-trunk legs.
It’s cinched at the torso with the only bit of armor he’s got on—a wide band of Elven steel.
“Warlord, it is good to see you.” I haven’t bothered to change; I don’t bother to close my robe. Diekin appreciates my finer features. “Perhaps Corrik will allow you and I to play at some point. Ditira is a bit possessive, but she might make an exception for you.”
He waggles his ears with his eyebrows, and I blush hotly and it’s nice to know there are still some Markaytian sensibilities in me. I close up my robe and he smirks. “It is good to see you Diekin.”
I lose my false confidence and burst into tears.
Diekin gathers me in his arms. “I’m sorry, Tristan.
I am the weaker mate and therefore do not get a vote in this, but I don’t agree.
I love Corrik and he’s usually level-headed, but with you, he loses all reason.
Ditira was the only one who tried to talk Corrik out of this insane plan.
Unfortunately, Alrik was not only in agreement, but he also talked Corrik further into it.
He does not want to waste his time going after you again and as the crown prince, he views it as his duty to ensure you are kept safe to honor the treaty. Corrik remains in conflict.”
“Corrik is in conflict? No. He’s all for this plan. Meanwhile, he galivants and sleeps in the barracks.” I would love to sleep in the barracks.
Diekin’s brow squeezes together, his ears turn down. “Corrik in the barracks? Tristan, no. He has been outside your door, unless he absolutely needs to leave for a royal duty.”
“Outside my door?”
“Yes. He slept on the floor one night, but Alrik quickly caught word of his behavior and put an end to that. He sleeps in the guest room, next door.”
“But, why did he refuse me earlier?”
“Things with Corrik are bad. His parents weren’t happy with him when they learned of his relations with the Rogue Elf Prince, and he’s still trying to make it back into Alrik’s good graces.
Plus, he’s torn up about you. He knows what this is doing to you, but he doesn’t see another way.
You have every right not to feel sorry for him given your predicament, but he is struggling too.
It’s getting harder for him to face you. ”
“I have little mercy for him at the moment,” I say, but the part where he’s been sitting outside my door, day after day, going as far as to sleep out there gets to me.
I had pictured him off doing things, like living his best life and having fun which I am forbidden from doing.
I’d even take mucking out Bayaden’s stables over this.
“I know, it’s a bad situation. I see both sides, even if I disagree with one side. Corrik is more worried than I’ve ever seen him, this shook him. It can only speak to how much he cares for you. I do realize this is little solace for having to remain confined.”
Wow, even Diekin is struggling. “Come, let me show you around my confines. I have to say, if I am to be locked in a tower, it’s not too shabby,” I tell him in Elvish, unfortunately, most of what I say is still with a lot of Aldrien accent.
Diekin doesn’t care. “Lead the way, Warlord.”
Diekin and I have a good time and I feel better having spent time with someone I’m not mad at. But too soon, he has to leave. “I will come back as often as Corrik will allow,” he tells me.
I feel so good after the visit, I do something I haven’t dared. I remove my robes and put on a single pair of pants, ones that were given to me by Bayaden, ones I’m surprised Corrik hasn’t taken away yet, and head into the room that is meant for me to practice with my sword.
I have glanced at the room from afar, but I haven’t been in here.
It’s a room without furniture, to leave room for footwork and flipping about the room.
The floor is made of stone, placed at unequal levels, I imagine, to provide unequal terrain for training purposes.
Against the far wall, my sword stands lonely in its baldric.
I walk over to it, pick it up and unsheathe it.
I can read the inscription now. I smile.
“He who wields this sword wields the fire of Dragons.”
The king knows me.
I spend the next several hours practicing. I practice some of what my fathers taught me, with some of what I learned from Bayaden, and invent new moves from the combination of styles. Sword fighting is my art, it’s how I create, how I feel the world.
The sun goes down, and I’m still swinging, dodging, slicing.
Sweat pours off me and I relish in the feel of my hair whipping around me once again.
I notice when I have a spectator. He strides into the room and pulls out his sword.
“You are quite beautiful when you have a sword in your hand. Let’s see what you’ve got,” Corrik says.
My eyes gleam at the chance and I can’t believe this is my husband saying this, but he is, and it gives me hope.
Corrik is beautiful with a sword too, and I get distracted wanting to watch him, my cock hardens as the sweat begins to pour off him, along with one of my favorite scents, the scent of a fight.
I can tell he’s going easy on me, but it’s still too much and when my knees hit the ground, it once again drives home the point that I am no match for an Elf.
I hear the ring of steel as Corrik slides his sword home.
“When you are Elf, I think you might best me. You’re the finest I’ve seen. ”
I beam, feeling so good, it gives me a high, my muscles are tired and aching in the best way. “You’re not worried I’m going to run myself through?”