The Letter
ARDOR’S BODY HAD always been forbidden, a thing shrouded in secrets.
He knew a great deal about Flower anatomy, more than any human doctor in fact, but understanding how the gestational womb expanded to accommodate the protective egg sac, and why the flower’s petals withdrew inward to block the entrance to the birthing canal and shelter and protect the developing zygote, did little to dispel the mystery.
Jain reassured him often. Flowers were designed to birth children quickly and efficiently.
Many a human woman envied the speed with which the gestational womb opened and delivered its prize.
Still, Ardor was uneasy. Between the baby in his belly, and the acolyte, champion, and spy constantly hovering on all sides, Ardor had never had so many people so close. He’d also never felt lonelier. Fortunately, Sindar’s letters kept him sane.
His mate was now his friend. A dear one, whose support was quickly becoming indispensable. Ardor knew it was unwise to get so close to the impostor king, but the more Sindar poured his heart out on the page, the more Ardor was drawn to him.
For all his flaws, Sindar was a sincerely sweet man. His letters were professional, but this did nothing to hide his adoration. He was still infatuated with his Flower, and these days, his Flower did not mind so much.
Ardor smiled to himself as he reread their most recent correspondence, but his warmth faded when Raven Hara silently glided into the room. A chill still ran through him whenever the spy came near, though she’d done nothing to warrant it. It was as though his body knew something he did not.
Hara casually parted the curtains, glancing outside. “Another love letter arrived,” she said.
“Is that what you’ve been telling my mother?”
“I told her you were in control of the situation, and I have faith in you.” She held out the envelope. It wasn’t sealed or stamped, which was unusual.
“Did you read it?” Ardor asked.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” she said, and she vanished into her apartment. Leya watched her go, wary as ever. His loyal acolyte did not know what to make of this “Champion” or their cryptic exchanges, and was increasingly quiet in recent days.
Ardor opened the letter, pausing when he felt standard stock beneath his fingertips.
The ivory bond paper Sindar normally used for his letters was so creamy to the touch it was almost like a caress.
Normal paper was practically coarse by comparison.
He unfolded the letter and hesitated again as Pavarian words jumped up at him.
It took a moment to make sense of the scrawl of words. It was a conjugation table.
A pleasant heat rose on his face once more. Sindar was learning Pavarian!
I kneel, I knelt, I kneeled, I will kneel…
Ardor looked over the table, smiling. What a wonderful surprise!
But why had Sindar sent his language practice?
He flipped the page over and found a letter on the other side.
Normally, Sindar’s handwriting was careful, with dots of ink where he’d rested his pen.
This letter was written more quickly, but the easy, sloped letters were appealing in their own right, especially since they were in Ardor’s native tongue.
Beloved,
I want to kneel before you. I want to go on knees and serve. I want to kiss you feet. I want to kiss you knee.
Ardor’s smiled broadened at his consort’s efforts, but quickly faltered when he read the next line:
I ache to kiss you cock.
Heat flooded Ardor’s face in a rush, and he hastily folded the letter.
Leya, in her innocence, asked, “Eminence, is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine,” Ardor said briskly, as the warmth moved steadily downward.
Now that he was in the second phase of pregnancy, his libido was in overdrive.
He’d been chaste his whole life, forbidden even from touching himself until he was married.
Now an unfamiliar part of him stirred awake every morning, hungry and impatient, demanding attention.
He didn’t quite know what to do with it, and not just because he was inexperienced.
I ache to kiss your cock.
Once he’d conjured a picture of Sindar on his knees doing just that, he couldn’t unsee it.
To his surprise, he didn’t want to unsee it.
Sindar’s romanticism was getting to him.
That was a problem. They couldn’t get romantically involved for many reasons, not least of which because there would be no hiding his ugly body.
Ardor realized something was very wrong with his flower even before the doctor removed the stitches.
It was the only time he’d ever seen Jain near tears.
He knew the binding made his flower different, but he only had diagrams in books to compare himself to, and he reflexively avoided looking at his own body.
It wasn’t until his wedding night, when he weathered Xandar’s open revulsion and anger, that he understood he wasn’t merely “different.”
Ardor was a freak. There was no getting around it.
His flower was mutilated, twisted into something perverse and ugly, and it would never heal.
He’d grown fond of Sindar’s doe eyes, and the sweet softness in that besotted gaze, and he couldn’t bear to see revulsion take its place. If Sindar ever saw his body…
Well, that would solve the problem, wouldn’t it? Sindar would no longer romanticize their relationship. Their courtship would become professional, and Sindar would never cross that boundary again.
Suddenly, Raven Hara was at his side, startling him out of his thoughts. Before Ardor could say a word, someone banged loudly on the door.
Leya answered. “Did you get a letter this morning?” the messenger asked Leya plaintively. He was panting, his brown face flushed.
“Yes,” Leya said, puzzled. “What’s wrong?”
“Please tell me he didn’t open it,” the messenger whispered. He peered around Leya, saw the letter in Ardor’s hand, and groaned, “Oh, sweet angels, I’m done for.” He sank to the floor, pressing his nose to the ground. “I need this job so badly,” he moaned. “He’ll kill me.”
“What are you babbling about?” Leya asked impatiently. “Talk sense.”
“That’s the wrong letter! It was never supposed to be delivered,” his voice was muffled and resigned.
“I need it back. Right now. Can you get it for me? Please, please…” He kept his face pressed to the floor.
The messengers were shy about gazing upon the Flower’s divine visage, even when they were delivering good news.
Leya cleared her throat. “Eminence?”
Ardor found himself strangely reluctant to part with the naughty letter. Despite all his uncertainties, he wanted to read it again. With some effort, he handed the paper to Raven Hara, who slipped it back into the envelope.
“Thank you,” the messenger whispered to the floor. To Leya, he said, “Tell me he didn’t read it.” His voice was so desperate that Ardor took pity on him. Evidently, the man’s life was on the line.
“You arrived just in time,” he assured the man.
“Thank the Goddess. Eminence, thank you!” the messenger bowed twice, keeping his eyes respectfully averted, and hurried away.
“What in the heavens?” Leya asked, poking her head out to watch him retreat.
Well, that explained the conjugation table as well as the enthusiasm. There was no telling when Sindar had written that letter. He probably wrote it when he was still besotted.
But even as Ardor tried to rationalize away his consort’s written desires, the fact remained: Sindar was learning Pavarian.
None of the Ksyanians ever spoke to him in his native tongue.
Xandar allegedly knew Pavarian, but had gone out of his way not to use it, and Ardor was never sure if it was out of spite or lack of fluency.
Clearly, his consort meant to surprise him.
Ardor excused himself and retreated to the privacy of his chambers.
There he gazed steadfastly at the floor-length mirror.
He always had difficulty with self-assessment.
His father crafted him to be exotic and alluring, and by all outward appearances, he’d succeeded.
Ardor was tall, broad-shouldered, and well-endowed, and his bearer’s skill in that regard was undeniable.
But as he came of age, he was uncomfortably aware of his father’s fixation on the one part of him that was not perfect.
Even from the beginning, Ardor’s flower was apparently different. The seam was not as smooth and short as his father would have liked. He’d overheard his parents talking about it once. The Archon was unconcerned, but his father was certain the difference was related to some defect.
Sadly, he was right.
Flowers were supposed to bloom for their consorts, but nearly always required chemical intervention. They privately took medicine to ensure their flowers would obediently open during the marriage ceremony. Most Flowers couldn’t bloom early, so Ardor was never instructed to avoid such a thing.
Ardor’s first bloom had been his last. He was bathing with a handsome young acolyte he’d grown deeply fond of, one of only two people permitted to touch him.
The water was warm, and they were laughing softly over some joke, and when the acolyte ran a soft sponge of rosewater over Ardor’s chest, grazing his nipple, the warmth sank deep, and the sacred place between his legs shuddered and opened.
The petals unfurled, dewy and eager, and the acolyte dropped the sponge, his laughter choked off.
He understood what was happening even better than Ardor, for he was an anointed servant of the goddess and had been diligently trained in such matters.
The acolyte surely knew that opening bloom meant his end, but he didn’t shy away.
He gazed at the body of the divine vessel, transfixed, eyes wide in awe.
If he could speak, he surely would have said, “Beloved.”