Chapter 9 Shadows Between Us #2
Marreck laughed, booming enough to turn a few heads. “She must be fierce, to chain the Hound of Blackholt. Tell me her name, at least. I’ll drink to her.”
Clyde shook his head, tucking the letter into his cloak. “Not for your tongue.”
Marreck groaned in mock offence, throwing his hands wide. “Ah, you wound me. Fine, keep your secrets. But if she writes you again, you read it aloud—I’ll be the judge of her worth.”
Clyde gave him a flat look. “You’d blush through your beard.”
That earned another roar of laughter. “Hells, now I believe it. She must be wicked.”
When Marreck wandered off, still chuckling, Clyde let the mask slip. His hand brushed the pocket where Aerion’s words lay hidden. Wicked, yes. Vain. Vicious. Infuriating.
And yet—his.
For a moment, Clyde forgot the blood, forgot the beasts, forgot the taste of fear in the back of his throat.
Aerion had written. And that was enough.
It was hours later when he finally had the strength of mind to write back.
A wind cut low through the trees, carrying with it the sharp, metallic tang of blood that no snow could quite cover.
Men huddled around dying fires, their laughter brittle, too loud, too brief. Horses stamped in the slush, restless.
Clyde sat on a crate outside his tent, quill in hand, parchment balanced against his knee. His gloves lay discarded, fingers numb from cold and stiff from old cuts, but still he wrote.
Ink blotted too thick at first. His hand shook. He pressed harder until the lines steadied, until the act of writing felt like a kind of control.
He thought of the truth—of the beasts they’d faced, of men torn apart, of the dread that gnawed at his gut when he closed his eyes.
He thought of how the war had only begun and already felt lost. He thought of Aerion, alone in Valemont, and how the thought of that bright, poisonous voice silenced forever was worse than any battlefield.
But he did not write that.
Instead:
My lord,
We march steadily. The weather grows colder, but the men hold their ground. Spirits rise when the fires burn high, and I see steel in their eyes that makes me believe we can outlast the winter.
We pass through forests where the birches stand white and unyielding. At dusk, their trunks catch the light and look like lines of silver pikes, all in formation. I thought you’d like that. Order out of chaos. A parade of trees for no one but us.
I am well. I keep my blade sharp, my men sharper. If the Eastern Reaches mean to test us, they will find we do not bend easily.
Something true, as you asked: the stars look brighter here, though the nights are darker. Perhaps because there are fewer lamps to fight them. I thought of you when I saw them. They reminded me of your halls—all glitter, all fire, and yet a cold between that burns worse than frost.
I’ll write again when the chance allows.
—C
Clyde stared at the letter long after the ink dried.
It was a lie, mostly. He had softened the edges, hidden the despair, scrubbed clean the blood that still clung to his nails. He’d written for Aerion’s sake, not his own. A shield in words, as much as his sword was in battle.
But the last line, about the stars, slipped out before he could stop it. Too much truth. Too close to what he couldn’t say aloud.
He folded the parchment carefully, sealed it with wax, and took it to the courier with a warning sharp enough to cut.
Then he returned to his tent, lay down with his sword at his side, and closed his eyes to the sound of the wind clawing at the canvas.
The letter reached Aerion three weeks late, stained with mud at the corners and creased as if it had been folded too many times in too many hands. He shut himself in his chambers the moment the courier placed it in his palm. No servants. No chamberlain. No interruptions.
The fire burned high in the hearth, throwing gold across marble and velvet, but Aerion barely felt it. He broke the seal with his thumb, unfolded the page, and read.
The stars look brighter here, though the nights are darker. Perhaps because there are fewer lamps to fight them. I thought of you when I saw them.
He read the words twice, his lips parting as if they’d cut him. Then a third time, slow, deliberate, the ache in his chest swelling with each pass. His hand trembled. He pressed the parchment to his mouth and cursed under his breath.
The keep was warm. The wine sweet. The silks soft.
And none of it mattered.
Not without Clyde.
He flung himself onto his chaise, half-buried in cushions, staring at the painted ceiling. The words ran through him like poison, making him restless, unsteady. He wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh. He wanted Clyde back where he belonged—silent, infuriating, close enough to touch.
Instead, he reached for parchment.
His hand hovered a long time over the page. When he began to write, the ink came fast, sharp strokes cutting into the white.
You’re infuriating. And I read that twice. Three times, if you must know. I’d blame boredom, but that would be a lie.
I wore red at court yesterday. You’d hate the cut.
Too much collarbone. Every lord stared like I’d grown wings.
I imagined it was you instead. It didn’t help.
In fact, it made it worse. You’ve ruined my fun.
Do you know that? The chase used to thrill me.
Now every smile feels hollow, every touch an insult to the one I want.
The court whispers that I should be choosing a bride.
They prattle about alliances, heirs, stability.
As if I am some broodmare to be led into a pen.
I laugh at them, of course. I tell them I will wed only if the stars fall from the sky and the rivers run with gold.
But at night, when their voices are gone, I wonder if you’d laugh too or if you’d tell me I was a coward for hiding behind my sharp tongue.
Do you dream of me, Silent Hound? You must, to write of warmth in a place like that.
Tell me the truth. Tell me more. Because I can’t stop thinking of you.
It’s infuriating. I catch myself listening for your silence in the halls, expecting to turn and find you there.
I pace at night like some restless animal, and all I hear is your voice—too few words, too heavy, lodged like a stone in my ribs.
What else do you dream of? Do the stars look like my jewels to you, or my eyes? When the fire burns low, do you imagine me beside you? Or do you try not to?
Write again. I command it. If the ink freezes, carve it into bark. If your hand shakes, bleed it onto the page. But answer me.
—A
He stared at the page afterwards, jaw tight, chest rising and falling too quickly. Too little, too much, all at once. He wanted to burn it, as he had others. But this time, he didn’t.
He sealed it with wax, pressed his signet deep, and gave it to Heston.
When the door closed, Aerion sagged against the chaise, head tilted back, eyes burning with something he refused to name.
It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. To be tethered by ink and parchment, to let a soldier’s words undo him more thoroughly than any blade.
And yet, when he lay down that night, Clyde’s letter stayed beneath his pillow.
As if the knight’s eyes might follow him into sleep.
The letter had taken a month to reach him.
By then, the edges were frayed, the parchment softened by too many hands, the wax cracked and barely clinging.
The faint trace of Aerion’s perfume—sweet, sharp, decadent—was nearly gone.
Clyde held it to his face anyway, breathing deep, searching for what lingered.
He waited until nightfall to read it.
The camp had gone quiet, fires low, men lost to dreams or drunk on them. His tent glowed dim with a single lantern, smoke and frost thick in the air. He sat on his cot, sword balanced across his knees, and unfolded the page.
Aerion’s voice leapt up from the ink with every line. Sharp, mocking, too much collarbone, not enough shame. But beneath it, threaded through every word, was longing so raw it bled through like spilled wine.
Clyde read it once. Then again.
By the third time, his hands shook.
He pressed the parchment to his mouth, against his cheek, down the length of his throat. He lay back on the cot, the letter held above him and closed his eyes. Aerion’s words slid through him like heat, like hunger, and he let them strip him of control.
His free hand went to his cock, already hard, straining against his breeches from the first reading. He tugged the laces loose with rough fingers, breath coming harsh, and wrapped his fist around himself.
The first stroke wrenched a groan from his chest—raw, low, too loud in the stillness. He bit down on his lip, then shoved his arm between his mouth and the crook of his elbow, muffling the sounds before they could carry through the camp.
He worked himself with merciless efficiency, palm dragging over the swollen head, the slick slide of precum easing his grip. His hips bucked into his hand, rough, needy, every movement sharper as Aerion’s words replayed in his head.
You’d hate the cut. Too much collarbone. Every lord stared. I imagined they were you. It didn’t help.
Clyde gritted his teeth and stroked harder, faster, imagining Aerion in that damned robe, smirking at him from across the hall, vibrant blue eyes daring him to look away.
He pictured Aerion’s lips, mocking, wrapped around him instead of his own hand, that sharp tongue dragging over his cock, those venomous words turned to whimpers.
His breath broke. His fist tightened, rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled low and unbearable. He ground his teeth, arm pressed so hard against his mouth he tasted blood.
When release came, it tore through him brutal and unstoppable.
His whole body shuddered, hips jerking up off the cot, seed spilling hot over his stomach and chest. He bit down hard to stifle the cry, strangled it into the fabric of his sleeve, but the violence of it still wracked him, left him trembling.
The letter was still clutched in his hand, crumpled, damp now with sweat where his fist had clenched it tight. He pressed it against his chest, holding it there like it was Aerion himself, like he could keep him in his arms through ink and paper alone.
The silence after was worse.
He had thought it would ease him, burn the ache from his blood, quiet the drumbeat of want. Instead, it left him emptier, hollowed out, body shaking as his throat closed around something too sharp to breathe.
Tears stung his eyes, spilled hot down his temples into his hair. Harsh, soundless sobs tore through his chest until his ribs ached with the effort.
For Aerion’s voice. For his absence. For the agony of wanting what he had sworn he could never take.
He did not write back. Not that night, nor the next.
Better silence than truth too heavy to send across the miles.
So, he folded the letter with care despite the wrinkles, tucked it beneath his pillow, and lay back on the cot, eyes burning, heart raw.
And he dreamed—dreamed of sapphire eyes, a venomous smile, and a hand that had somehow become his only salvation.