Chapter Fourteen #2
on,” Zaria said, giving a splash with her hand. “It’ll be fun. Promise.”
Fun, he
thought.
What
would I know about fun?
“It
ain’t that hard, love.”
“No,
no, please, no, I—” He gestured to a broken section of the stone wall. “I
noticed some, uh, lichen growing on the rocks. It’s a species with very fibrous
shoots. We could make a fire of it.”
She
looked at him over the water, her mohawk trailing over an eye.
“I’ll
go do that,” he said, wading away.
He
exited the pool, shivering and naked. He collected her dagger, went over to the
small cave-in, used the blade to scrape off as much lichen as he could, and
brought the ball of leafy fungi over to their packs. After using some scattered
rocks to build a base, he lit the lichen with a small casting of flame. The
fire took hold, spreading along the mycelia. Bulbs popped and cracked.
Behind
him, Zaria continued to swim around the pool, performing lazy, wandering
strokes. From the edge, Isaac washed his filthy robes as much as he could. He
laid them out by the fire to dry. He sat down on the craggy floor and stared
into the flames, still shivering with cold.
The
longer he stared into the fire, the more frustrated he felt.
He
hated the fear inside him, whenever he approached the
water. As a boy, after his training and studies, he had frequently walked to
the edge of the river by his tower. Every time, he had promised himself that he
would take the plunge. He would jump into the water, past the point where his
feet touched the bottom, and he would teach himself to swim. But every time the
water rose to his chest, he would stare into the dark, murky currents, and the
fear would overcome him, which included not only the fear of death, but the
fear that his uncle would spot him shirking his duties. Every time, he had
cowered away.
He
still couldn’t do it. He was still afraid.
He had
faced dragons, pirates, and the army of a necromancer, but this one basic task
still eluded him. Others knew how to swim. They did not consider it something
to fear. The sound of Zaria splashing behind him only made his fists clench
tighter.
Why
couldn’t he do this?
Why was
it so daunting in his mind?
Would
he feel this fear when doing any other basic task? Would he be afraid to order
a drink at a tavern? Would he be afraid to ride a horse?
Would
he ever be able to live a normal life?
A gush
of water came behind him. Zaria had climbed out of the pool, water streaming
down her spotted fur. She sauntered over to a stone bench next to the fire and
squatted down at the edge, holding her hands to the flames.
“Toss
me some rations, would you, love?”
He reached
over to his pack and flung a few cuts of salt meat her way. He began to pound
his fist into a brick of hardtack. For a time, the only sounds in the bathhouse
were the crackling flames and their own labored chewing.
Isaac
kept stealing glances at her.
They
were both naked. Of course, they had to be. Their clothes were filthy and wet.
They had just taken a bath. Both of them needed to rest and recuperate.
Their
state of undress should not be odd to him.
And,
yet, he was afraid again. He felt vulnerable, exposed. He kept glancing in
Zaria’s direction, but, in truth, he was terrified to meet her gaze. She had
been right—they’d already had sex. They had fucked. It had been an
enlightening experience, but still one that was ultimately common. What had
happened was natural, in a way.
So,
then, why was he so nervous? What cause did he have to feel this way? Why was
his heart pounding so—
“You
got a serious look about you,” Zaria said.
He
glanced at her, briefly. “I’m fine.”
“Thinking
of your father?”
He
blinked, caught off guard. “No.”
“No?”
“Not at
all, actually.”
She
ripped off a hunk of meat with her teeth. The sound made Isaac flinch. “Why
not? We’re close now. Gotta be. Might be time to rehearse a speech.”
“I’ve .
. . never actually thought about what I’ll do when I reach him.”
That
wasn’t quite true. He had thought of it, occasionally. Mostly, the thoughts had
made him afraid, and he had never figured out why.
He was
getting angry at himself.
“The
focus was always the journey,” he said. “The dangers I’d face. How much harder
I had to train to face them. It just never seemed . . . appropriate to
fantasize, overmuch.”
“I
expect you’d also dread the idea of him turning out worse than your uncle.”
He
didn’t answer.
“Well,”
she said, scooting forward on the bench, “after being imprisoned so long, I’d
guess he’s thought much about it, to say the least. Probably cry his eyes out
at the sight of you.”
Isaac
tossed another wad of lichen into the fire. “He feels like a stranger to me.
You know, he’s just . . . an idea. I’ve never seen his face. I’ve never heard
his voice. All I know about him is what others have told me. He feels as real
to me as all the figures of history.”
Something
occurred to him.
“I’ve
really just been thinking,” he said, “about all the things I’ll do after I
rescue him, all the places I want to travel, and . . . he’s not in any of them.
I’ve never included him in my fantasies. I . . . I don’t want to. I don’t
really want him to be in my life.”
The
fire gave a sharp crack.
“I
mean,” Isaac said, speaking quickly, “of course, I would be happy to speak with
him, before then. I’m sure he could tell me of my mother. I wouldn’t . . .
disregard who he represents. That would be cruel.”
“Don’t
gotta explain yourself to me, love. I’ve been there.” She crossed her legs, her
eyes bright with fire. “You never met the man. You’ve lived all your life
without him. To say the least, your experience with mentors also weren’t the
best. I wouldn’t harm yourself for feelin’ as you do. In fact, if I was you,
I’d flip them both the finger and head out the door.”
He did
not answer.
“All
the same,” she said. “You’ll get to know your father. Once you talk, you might
find a difference, in how you feel. Maybe things’ll
change.”
He broke
off more chunks of hardtack, just to do something. “What about you?”
“What
about me?”
“We’re
close to the treasure, as well. Does that make you happy?”
“Some,
I suppose. Can’t say the idea of being rich don’t tickle me a bit, but. . . .”
She shrugged, ripping through another hunk of meat. “Not thinking about it
neither, actually. More happy that my old crew aren’t
hanging above me, like a specter. You should’ve seen the way they fled from
us.” She laughed. “Never seen Soren turn craven like that. Think
I’d give all the gold in the world just to see the back of her ears flop away
again.”
“Some
of us should’ve been running with her.”
“Oh,
don’t you start that shite again. I saved your life, young sir. I am
indispensable to your need. Just say the word, in fact, and I’ll happily accept
some land, as due payment.”
He
rolled his eyes.
A
silence fell.
“Well,”
she said. “Thank you for helping me, in any case.”
“Sure,”
he said, still gazing into the fire.
“Isaac.”
He
looked over to her. She was sitting up straight, her rear on the bench, her
hands on her knees, her elbows pushing her breasts together, her wet fur
hanging like blades of grass across her body.
“Thanks
for helping me,” she said. “I know you went out your way to do so.”
He
shrugged, with what he hoped was nonchalance. “I was just doing my duty.
Someone had to stop her from tossing bombs. I mean, think of the archaeology.
All the history we lost.”
“Weren’t
nothing else to it, was there?”
“Not
particularly.”
“You
don’t care that it did me a good turn?”
“I
would never aid the cutthroat who took me hostage.”
She
broke into a sly grin, her teeth catching the firelight. “Oh, aye. Course not. Just spill your want
inside her.”
He
tucked his legs against himself, suddenly aware of his nakedness.
She
stood up from the bench. “Xotra’s spewin’ cunt, would
you stop bein’ so sullen, already? We’re close now. We fought our way through
more shite than anyone could’ve expected us to. We’re alive. Fuck
me, we should be celebrating.”
“We
still have to kill the necromancer,” Isaac said. “And even she seems afraid of
the puppeteer. That means we should be afraid of them, too.”
“Shut
your mouth.”
“What?”
“What
do you mean, what?”
“I
mean—what?”
“Isaac!”
He
flinched.
“Gods
above,” Zaria said. “You’re even bringin’ me down,
and I’ve gotta temperament like farts in a tub.”
“Well .
. . sorry.”
“What
do I gotta do to cheer you up, Isaac? Just tell me.”
He
looked over to her, ready to say something.
The
words stopped in his throat.
She was
standing next to the fire, and the shadows of the flames danced across her
body. The light illuminated the curve of her breasts, the fur of her neck, the
taut muscle of her abdomen, the trail of spots on her hips and thighs. Between
her legs, cast in deep shadow, he could faintly see the folds of her sex. It
was a thin hint of pink. It sent his mind racing.
Like a
flood, he remembered the chapel.
Heat.
Wetness. Pressure.
Sliding.
Pounding.
Exploding—
“Have I
caught your attention, squire?”
He
almost looked away, wanting to change the subject, wanting to let the shame win
because it would be familiar and safe and easy. But, in that moment, something
stopped him. He kept his gaze centered on her breasts.
Certainty
pierced through the fear.
“Yes,”
Isaac said. “It has.”
She
hummed from her throat. “Truly, now? Feel free to be specific.”
The way
her fur had been soft and warm in his face. The way her flesh had bounced
against him. The hard muscle, the soft fat, the tightness, the weight, the
curves.
The
heat.
The
smell.
The
sounds.
“I
don’t know where to begin,” he said.
She
cocked her hip, shadows rolling across her chest. “Am I making you lose your
words, Isaac?”
He
exhaled. “Yes.”
“Have
you been thinking about me since the chapel?”
He was
on his feet. “Yes.”
“Do you
wanna fuck me?”
He