Chapter 17
There was no explanation needed—everyone in the village knew by sight and mood that something had changed for Balar. Something had happened. Something bad.
Of course, Balar wouldn’t have explained it even if they’d asked. Other than his brothers, he hadn’t told anyone of Imogen yet, so no explanation was required, really, but many started to suspect that a woman was what drew their mayor away so often.
So when he had all the time in the world for the village over the next two days, others took note. A few approached him, asking or teasing over his sudden presence, but one good look at him sent them scurrying away.
Even his brothers gave him a wide berth. They didn’t know details, although they could guess, he supposed. Hadn’t they said all along that Imogen was prickly? That she seemed eager to be rid of him?
Balar huffed as he drove the blade of his shovel into the damp ground. She isn’t rid of me, he grumbled. She just…wanted to be away from him for a while.
The truth stung no matter how he worded it.
What was worse was the memory of Imogen pushing away from him, crowding herself into a corner to get that distance. It wasn’t just his pride but his very soul that screamed in agony to think that he’d frightened his own kigara. That she’d not only turn away from him but shudder when he came near.
Balar wouldn’t soon forget the sight. It was burned into his memory, a wound that would scar on the very face of his soul.
He held onto the small consolatory hope that she hadn’t banished him forever. A few days, that was all. He hadn’t wanted to concede days, but if he’d heeded the advice of others, waited out the storm, those days would be done by now and he wouldn’t be temporarily banished.
From his place in the new latrine pits, which he’d decided to dig himself for something to do with his hands that worked him to bitter exhaustion, he understood now that he’d pushed too hard.
His blood had run hot, his hopes had run high.
He knew better, knew from every experience he’d had so far with Imogen that he couldn’t push her.
She was strong and capable but also achingly shy. Hadn’t she told him multiple times that she had no experience with matters of the heart? He’d taken it as a challenge, a call to arms.
He should’ve heeded it as the warning it truly was.
Imogen needed his patience and understanding, not his ardor. Not yet, anyway.
She’d hidden herself away from the world in that cottage.
A few weeks of his attention and two kisses wouldn’t be enough to conquer her reservations.
He knew all this, had seen the fruits of his patience blooming—over the past week or so, she’d begun speaking more easily not just with him but his brothers, too.
She hardly ever tugged at her hair to hide her birthmark anymore.
He very well might have undermined all of it with his selfishness.
He’d known better, even in that moment, had told himself to hold on, to wait as she told him to, but her scent and softness overwhelmed him.
He was the first to know just how soft the prickly Imogen truly was—and he’d be the only one, if he had his way.
Even thinking on it now almost made him dizzy.
One little taste wasn’t enough. Waiting all these weeks had rendered him a desperate male, and he couldn’t help succumbing to temptation. He didn’t know many males who wouldn’t.
Maybe Soren.
Balar squinted over his shoulder at his brother. Soren was the only one who’d braved approaching him, staying by his side as a quiet albeit supportive presence. Even if Balar sometimes wished to be alone with his masochistic thoughts.
Muddied up to his knees, Soren spent the day digging alongside him. Balar couldn’t decide if it was all in selfless support or if Soren also meant to keep an eye on him and intercept him from doing anything too stupid.
Honestly, perhaps that was for the best. It was a constant battle not to throw himself into the sky and let the wind take him to his kigara. He would throw himself at her feet, beg for her forgiveness, swear anything she asked, if she would only smile at him again.
His turuk rumbled unhappily inside him. It didn’t like all the pricks to their pride, but Balar wasn’t above doing anything if it meant having Imogen.
Others might not understand it, but so what.
Balar enjoyed her prickliness. It made her smiles and laughter all the sweeter.
He admired her strength, her good heart, and her deep convictions.
She would’ve made a fine erēz, ruling her pride fiercely and fairly.
And he, as her baraz, would stand beside her proudly, even smugly.
All who would see her would be in awe; and look upon me with burning jealousy.
For even if they lived in the savannahs, Balar wouldn’t be sharing.
Imogen’s smiles and laughter were for him. He didn’t care if she ignored or renounced the rest of the world—so long as she would have him. They had their animals and their complicated dice game and a deep love for each other. What else could they need?
Balar grunted as he heaved dirt over his shoulder. He was getting ahead of himself again. He was no closer to being taken into her heart, let alone her home and bed. One night of his company, a few moments of his tongue and hands, were enough to get him banished.
Another wet clump of dirt went sailing over his shoulder somewhere—he didn’t care where. It was a latrine pit, it didn’t have to be pretty.
Of course, when he dug Imogen a new garden, he would make it pretty.
And neat. He knew she preferred the orderly over the aesthetic, but he was determined to give her both.
She deserved nice things, soft things, beautiful things.
Gifts, favors, attentions, she deserved them all, things that showed her just how much she was adored and valued.
This was the second day of his banishment; she hadn’t said exactly how many in total he had to stay away. He figured anything more than three would surely be cruel, and while she could be tetchy, Imogen wasn’t cruel.
It gave him time to wing down to Granach tomorrow, then.
To find something for her. Surely he improved his chances if he came bearing a gift.
A fine wool blanket, perhaps? One large enough to wrap both of them up in for long, cozy nights in front of the fire.
Perhaps a new nightgown? One trimmed in pretty lace that was almost transparent, that he’d enjoy peeling away from her soft skin.
Or even perhaps a bottle of sweet wine for them to enjoy together?
He could just imagine her giggling laughter after a cup or two.
Perhaps all of it. Why not hedge his bets.
Balar drove his shovel into the ground and leaned against it, frowning hard at the dirt.
Was this a good plan? He’d have thought so a few days ago, but everything was different now.
He knew his Imogen’s affections weren’t something he could buy—would that he could—but surely she deserved gifts?
Courting included gifts, and he’d been lacking in preparing any.
“I can hear you scheming,” said Soren from the other side of the pit. Looking up, he pinned Balar with an assessing squint. “Whatever it is, don’t.”
“You don’t know anything,” Balar grumbled.
“I know it’s a bad idea, whatever it is.” Pulling his feet out of the mud, Soren managed to get close enough to clap Balar’s shoulder. “Give her the time she asked for, seska.”
Balar narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t explained what’d happened in so many words. But then, could he truly be surprised? No one in this world knew him better than Soren.
I want Imogen to know me as well. And I want to know her.
He wanted that something fierce.
But…showing up with armfuls of gifts…
Too much!
That’s what she’d said as she pushed him away. Too much. It wasn’t nearly enough for Balar, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Imogen had told him what she needed, even in halting words. Time.
The very thing Balar had the most trouble giving.
Huffing and grumbling, Balar shook out his mane.
“You’re insufferable when you’re right,” he groused.
Soren grinned, a rare sight. “I’m sure it’s painful for you, seska. But you only have to bear it a little longer. And just think, your kigara likely longs for you, too.”
Balar grunted. “Now that is an audacious hope.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ve seen how she looks at you, Balar. She’s guarded with everyone, but with you…” Soren shrugged. “She likes you.”
A reluctant smile twitched at his lips. That was heartening to hear. Perhaps not all hope was lost, then.
Soren clapped Balar’s shoulder again. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
He certainly hoped so. Would that this was just a little added drama in the story they’d tell their many cubs years from now, about their courting days.
“Thank you, seska. You give me hope.”
Soren nodded before struggling back over to where he’d been working. Balar’s attention followed him.
Soren really was the good sort. Although he’d never expressed a desire for one, Balar hoped it was Soren who found his kigara next.
“She has a sister, you know,” said Balar.
Soren snorted. “A married sister.”
Balar frowned. He didn’t remember Imogen saying that. Kud, had Soren paid more attention to the things Imogen said than he had? Balar could admit, when she talked, he sometimes got lost in the tantalizing curve and movement of her pretty lips.
Ibás, he was a stupid male.
I’ll do better, kigara, he vowed. You’ll have nothing but my patience until you ask for more.
Resuming his digging, Balar decided he’d give his Imogen two more days. And maybe one gift. Maybe two? No, one. One for now.
Two days, sah-zenda, then you’re mine again.