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Chapter 4
Cean watched with intense appreciation at the quintessence of beauty that stood before him, bared to the darkened skin of the Sade. Madalin's eyes beckoned to him, his lips smiling but not moving to utter a single syllable. He turned his back to the soldier, who was still in full battle rattle, and walked to the edge of the pool and daintily slipped into the warm, bubbling water. He couldn't help but moan as the soothing heat captured him.
Sergeant Moyo had followed the bronze beauty through the woods to the Saderian palace. Yes, even in the forest there was a castle, a castle made of trees. There were no visible doors, but if you knew where to look... Cean followed Madalin through the trunk and up twisting stairs of roots; by past experience he could now easily avoid getting ensnared in loose twigs and weak branches. In the center of this citadel was an open space where the moons shone brightly overhead. Here the mystical moonglow flowers grew wild, so there was no need of light. A thousand fairies danced over the pond, naturally heated, where Cean now found himself. And while he had watched in genuine interest as Madalin had let his slim garments fall to the grassy floor of the haven, felt a genuine arousal at the man's purring tone, he could not help but think of Kalan.
Kalan...
Damn that boy! Moyo thought irritatedly. This isn't the time for me to be getting sentimental. He knew he'd angered Kalan by leaving him out of the treaty talks, if that's what this could be called. Well, dammit, this was man's business, and Kalan was making it painfully evident that he was still a child, though Cean was more than willing to chase the boy out of him. Kalan was no comparison to the beauty of the Sade, but no mortal ever could be. He had some sort of lure, however, and Cean wanted him--perhaps more, he thought, than he'd ever wanted anyone else. If he could be left alone with him, for just a while... After all, last night, hadn't he...? Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. Either way, it seemed that the young corporal was ready for a little experience, and Cean could give him one he'd never forget.
"Cean... Are you coming in, or are you just going to watch me all night?" The elegant man in the pool called. "Then again, as I recall, you do like to watch..." For emphasis, Madalin began to rub at his chest, a thumb slowly circling a nipple.
Damn that kid, the sergeant wanted to say. And damn Madalin. The twins were so beautiful...and they knew it, too. They could get off by looking at themselves as easily as anything else.
This time was a bit different. Usually they conducted these..."business" meetings with Niall as well. Why had Madalin not stopped to retrieve his brother from the revelry?
Cean shrugged off his uniform quickly, lightly stepping across the ground to climb into the shimmering pool.
Madalin purred at the very sight of the beautiful mortal, but he was disappointed that Moyo seemed to be hurrying. He hadn't stood to bask, to show off his own beautiful body. He wasn't playing the way they usually played. I suppose neither am I, the prince thought. He still felt a bit guilty by not inviting Niall along on this excursion, but he had serious matters to discuss with Moyo...eventually. Niall had no mind for politics. He was all about the sex. And while Madalin could have easily invited him along, as was their usual custom, someone would have to keep an eye on that brat of Cean's. That--that--ruihdanistusa. It had to be all of them, or else the twins would have to be divided. They could not let a foreigner run free in their city. Despite all his overdone hospitality towards the Mahazni soldiers, he knew Cean was no fool. It was the reason why they'd been such close enemies for such a long time. They didn't trust each other, but they liked each other, and because of this, there was great respect in their relationship. Besides, there were innumerous benefits to liaisons such as theirs.
Speaking of which...
"Turn around, darling," Madalin said huskily. "I know the usual custom, but...I've altered the rules, just a bit."
Cean knew what was coming. The "usual custom" always began with a bath first. Normally, Cean and his accompanying soldier (once he'd actually been accompanied by two subordinates; now that had been an experience!) would wash Madalin and Niall, as they were considered royalty. Then Madalin and Niall would wash their guests, but mostly maintained eye contact with eachother. That's just how the Sade are, though. Vain. And they've got obvious good reason.
This time was different. Not only were they alone, but Madalin was insisting on reversing the custom so that he would first bathe Cean. The sergeant wasn't particularly worried. If Madalin had wanted to kill him, if he'd had a reason to, he would have done it by now. Besides, they hadn't even begun to talk over the incident. If the twins hadn't had some plan for peace--or war--there would have been no point in coming to Saderia in the first place.
Cean turned his back to Madalin, leaning until he was lying against the other man's chest. He brought his hands down under the water and began to knead into the thighs wrapped around him. Madalin's thin arms encircled him, holding him tightly as he suckled the soldier's throat. "Is something wrong?" he murmured through his wet kisses.
"Nnn...no," Cean managed to groan.
"You're not in some kind of...hurry...are you?" Madalin asked, trying unsuccessfully not to sound offended or suspicious.
Again Moyo tried to force thoughts of the boy out of his mind, to concentrate on his present lover. "Not at all," he said smoothly, sounding as confident and cocky as ever.
“Oh? Then maybe it was my imagination that told me you were rushing. Or maybe you’re just getting old.”
“I’m more than a century younger than you.” Cean let his hands move until they were touching Madalin's delicate skin. “I’m still as excitable as ever.”
"Ahhh," Madalin cooed. "That's good to...hear," he said eagerly, taking a nip at Cean's ear, "because I'm not letting you go until sunrise."
Gods...how will I ever...? "And...the treaty talks...?"
"You don't want to leave us so soon, do you? They can wait."
But that was just it. There was no "us." There was only Madalin. Something was wrong... "Wait for what? Niall?"
Madalin stopped playing immediately. He knew he'd been caught in his own game. He hadn't wanted to arouse suspicion, but it was far too late for that. Now he had only to act the innocent, and to go on with these...treaty talks, and soon.
"Is it such a crime to want you all to myself for a little while?" Madalin's tone was completely altered; no longer the sexy masquerade but a man lowering himself and asking for a favor.
The Madalin that Cean knew never talked this way. The Madalin Cean knew would never bring himself down from his high horse and beg. What had changed? What was different?
Cean turned to face the man. Madalin was looking down at the water, his face almost expressionless...almost sad. Cean had never seen such a look. In an instant, without a moment spared to think, he captured Madalin's hands in his, and held them to his chest. "Madalin, my sweet!" He kissed Madalin's slender fingers fervently, emotion overcoming him.
The Sade looked down at the passionate human with a smirk. He would have Cean all to himself, and he would have him all night. Soldier Kalan be damned, and take Niall with him.
He was surprised at the rough voice coming from somewhere just behind him. "They're going to fuck, if it wasn't obvious."
Kalan spun around, looking up sharply. It was Niall.
Kalan was shocked. He'd never heard such language come from a lady's mouth, then had to remind himself what Niall really was. Still, it was difficult to convince his own mind. "...Surely...they aren't going to..." Kalan let out a nervous laugh. "They--the peace treaty--"
"Fuck treaties, and fuck peace." Niall turned to look at him, his eyes ablaze. "Aren't you angry?"
"...Are you? If you don't want anyone...touching...Madalin, why don't you stop him?"
Niall laughed ruefully. "Madalin knows what he's doing. This cannot be stopped. It just goes on...and on."
Kalan wasn't sure what to say, but he wanted to know what was going on. At last he asked, "You mean...every time Sergeant Moyo comes to Saderia, he and Madalin...?"
"And myself," Niall added in his strange accent. "But this time...they've left me out of it." His eyes were pure fire, his face darkened with a new expression. It wasn't becoming.
Kalan really didn't know what to say then. Was he supposed to console the twin? For being left out of an orgy? How does one go about making apologies for such a thing?
"You should be angry, too, if you had any wits about you," Niall snorted. "I love Madalin, and you love--"
"Don't misunderstand," Kalan interrupted quickly.
"I'm not, I'm sure." Niall ran a slick tongue over his beautiful, thin lips. "Do you find me desirable, Kalan?"
"I assure you, sir, I am not--"
"So you say. But our kind can always tell. We know better."
Our...kind...?
Niall turned to watch his brother and the sergeant round the corner, disappearing around a group of thick trees. "Don't worry. He feels the same." He looked up to the third moon, his eyes watering. "What is Madalin thinking...?" The anger was gone, leaving behind only a pain and sadness so terrible it was frightening. "Why is he...shutting me out?" he cried at the sky. As a single tear rolled down his flawless face, Niall let out a low cry.
Kalan didn't know what to do or say. His first reaction, call it human compassion, was to lay a comforting hand on Niall's bared shoulder. That had been a mistake. The feel of Sade skin was different than anything he'd ever touched before. It was heat, it was fire, and it was soft and smooth. Kalan gasped.
Niall lowered his gaze from the heavens, and turned his head to look at the boy. Cean's friend was quite attractive, as far as mortals went. His hair was so dark it was nearly black, pulled back into a neat, short ponytail at the back of his head. His skin was pale porcelain, his eyes jade beauty. His body was slender, muscled. It was no wonder Cean found him so lovely, but then why not take him and be done with it? Why spare him, torture him, lead him on, when it could give him release from this ignorant boyhood? Why throw him to Niall like leftovers to a dog, and steal Madalin away? My Madalin...
Kalan was staring at him with wide eyes, unable to take his hand away.
Niall turned his body ever so slowly, now facing Kalan. He raised a hand, letting his fingertips brush gently across Kalan's mouth. The boy's lips parted, and Niall licked his lips again, seeing the desire suddenly burning in the Kalan's eyes. He leaned in.
At the last moment, before he lost everything, Kalan turned his head. Niall's nose landed on his cheek.
Niall gave a soft laugh of amused surprise. "You don't want me." It wasn't a question.
"...You are..." -what's the word?- "...beautiful..." Kalan had to admit. "But--"
"But not Cean," Niall finished coolly. He pushed away. "You're much stronger than I thought you'd be. I didn't expect you to be so brave so early in the game... But that's all right," he purred. His tone and accent made every word like a song. Kalan had to fight to keep from being drawn into those eyes again. "I like a challenge."
Kalan struggled to keep his wits. "W-what do you mean...? You knew I was coming? How...?" The conflict raging between their eyes was growing stronger, and Kalan felt himself slipping. "What...what are you?" he breathed, weakening.
Niall's eyes were glittering. "You know what I am, boy. We will meet again. Of that you can be sure." He shoved Kalan suddenly, and the boy stumbled backwards, out of the spell, but he didn't fall. Again, Niall was surprised. This time, he was much less pleased. "But don't you ever set foot inside my city again as a ruihdanistusa, child. The day you do is the day I swallow you whole within the WRATH. Do you understand me?"
Kalan was sure he didn't know what a ruined-anis-whatsis was, sure he'd never heard the word "wrath" spoken with such fury, and never been so terrified in his life. He had no idea what the hell kind of curse the she-man was hissing at him, but something in him understood the implications all too clearly. He felt the most intense and unusual thing then in that moment...that bizarre turning point. It was as though he was someone, or something, else, and looking down at himself standing face-to-face with a monster. Niall was no longer some beautiful, ethereal being from the netherworld, but a hideous, grotesque beast with no face, and no name. He saw a vision of a falling sword, swaying like a pendulum, telling him to choose. He felt that he, the spirit he now was, had no choice but that he, the physical human he was watching so closely, was the one that had to decide for both of them. He prayed that the boy would make the right choice this time. This wasn't the first time, he felt, he'd been here, in this exact situation, in this exact moment. Would fate allow the mistake to be repeated, yet again? Or would he choose another destiny?
"You shouldn't drink so, my lord," Ogashka said. "You never drink like this, Atishko. You'll be ill."
The king jumped up from his seat at the table. "Do NOT presume to tell me what to do!" Atishko screamed furiously, flinging his arms with every word to knock away anything standing on the table. He shoved his chair over and turned his back as it clattered to the floor, stalking angrily across the room.
"...Yes, milord," Ogashka said softly.
I must try to be more patient...I should give him some space...
I must try to be more patient...I should close this gap between us...
Atishko heard Ogashka's voice in the stranger's soft words. He broke down sobbing, falling to the floor on his knees before the hearth.
Ogashka stood quickly from the table, but before rushing to his king, he nodded his head at the guards, telling them to leave. A simple wave of the magician's hand secured the bolts, then Ogashka knelt slowly down before the fallen king. "Atishko..."
"...Ogashka...?" He could hear her voice...but where was she?
The man slipped his slender arms around the crying man on the floor. "I'm here, my king."
"Ogashka..." Atishko kept his eyes closed, the lids squeezed as tightly as possible. He turned around, slowly facing the other person, willing nothing but Ogashka's sweet memory fill his head as he leaned forward.
Ogashka's eyes widened in surprise. He wants me to kiss him, he realized. There was nothing he wanted more than to fix whatever Atishko felt was broken, and have things the way they were...before. He muffled a cry that threatened to escape, and instead leaned forward slowly with the king's head between his hands, and pressed his lips to Atishko's.
Atishko sobbed against Ogashka's mouth. "You're here, aren't you?" he wept. "Is it you?"
"Yes," came a gentle reply. "It is me."
And their lips met again passionately, the way they always had. They shared a deep, familiar kiss. There was nothing different about it, with their eyes closed. It felt the same, even if it looked different on the outside.
"Ogashka..."
"...Atishko..."
"Ogashka... Make love to me..." The king's voice was breathy, needy. He fumbled, eyes still screwed shut, to undo his belt.
Ogashka bit his lip as he tried to pull Atishko's hands back around his waist again. "Hold me..."
"Ogashka...I want you..."
Ogashka didn't know how to fight him off gently. He wanted to patch things up, but not in such a rush, and if Atishko opened his eyes... Sight be damned, he'd know in another moment that something wasn’t right. His reaction would most likely not be favorable.
"A-Atishko--"
"Ogashka..." The man had already freed himself, was pressing the other's body down against the stone of the floor. He moved his hips slowly, deeply against the body beneath him.
Tonight Ogashka wore a thick, black robe, having hoped to spare his former lover from any pain. That was his only saving device at this moment, or else Atishko would have been repulsed. Another moment of this, though, Ogashka thought, and nothing will be able to hide it... "Atishko, please...!"
It was too late. The king found the slit in the sorcerer's robe, ran his hand along a smooth, bare thigh. He reached behind, grasping onto Ogashka's cheek as he continued to grind against him. He kissed Ogashka's slender throat fervently, moaning low in the back of his throat.
Ogashka no longer had the desire to stop the wandering hand, or anything else for that matter. It was much more difficult to control a man's body than a woman's, he was forced to recall. He should have been more careful. This had no choice but to end in disaster.
Of course it would.
With his free hand, he held the woman's arms above her head. Atishko ran a sweaty palm back towards the inside of Ogashka's thigh. He moved his fingers to touch, but met with something unusual in what should have been familiar territory. His fingers grasped a hardness beneath the robes, something foreign on this body that was so warm and familiar. Atishko's eyes shot open, and for a moment his gaze was one of total confusion. There were Ogashk'a lovely eyes, looking back at him. Her look was a bit lustful, but he had known her to be a demanding lover at times. Then what...?
Recent memories came back to shatter his senses, and he thrust Ogashka away roughly.
Ogashka looked up at Atishko, his expression one of hurt, and of unfulfilled desire.
Atishko spat at the ground, thinking of his lips against those of another man's, and he wiped his tainted hand roughly against his pant leg. He stood up, still looking at the sorcerer with complete revolt.
"...Don't..." Ogashka whispered, a tear running down his face. "Please...Atishko... Don't hate me this way... Can't you see? Don't you know who I am?"
It was a man speaking to him, a stranger. A prisoner pleading for a pardon. A dying man on a battlefield.
The only man dying in this room is me, Atishko thought. Then he fell to his knees and vomited.
After the ritual bath, the two men had talked idly over events of the past month, the beginning of the skirmishes between the Sade mages and the Hakaleshvarian warriors. Neither one had given away a bit of information that wasn’t already known to the other, and both had climbed out of the pool more than a little agitated, their other excursions in the water excepted. Then they’d gone back inside the palace, to Madalin’s room--the room he usually shared with Niall.
Madalin clicked off the lamp beside his bed, and then laid down on his stomach, giving Cean an eyeful of the lean, youthful body beneath him. It was all he needed to shove thoughts of the boy out of his mind, at least for the moment.
Niall walked back to his own room, only called his own because he needed somewhere to put his own belongings, as he slept every night and all day with Madalin. His tears had run out by the time he got there. That may sound cruel, but in truth, a Sade never cries. This was a first, and a last, for the prince. He knew then what he must do, and exactly how the thing must be accomplished. It was too late for regrets, far too late for apologies. He was going to die at dawn.
"You're angry." Not a question.
No reply.
"Why? It's just business." Moyo started to undress, peeling the now-sweaty uniform from his body.
"You call that 'business'?" Kalan scoffed. He was angry, and not for the reason he pretended. Sure, he was miffed that he'd been left out of the diplomatic discussions, his point for coming on this trip in the first place, but it was more than that. It was a foreign jealousy, something he couldn't--didn't want to identify.
“What do you call it?" Moyo retorted, then added, "You have no idea what it's called, because you've never let anyone touch you." He instantly regretted his harsh words. It was like he'd admitted his guilty act and his attraction to Kalan all in the same breath. It couldn't be helped now; he wanted the boy, and now he'd said as much.
Kalan glared at him, sitting up in the bed. "If you think you're such an expert," he said between gritted teeth, "why don't you show me what you mean." He wasn't asking. He was making a demand of his own.
Moyo looked the boy up and down. Kalan was flushed in the face, the sheet had slipped down to his waist. His chest was bare, and Moyo was willing to bet the rest of him was, too. And, gods, he would have liked to have found out! But Sade semen is like poison, like a brutal alcohol--sweet for the moment, with dangerous lasting effects. Moyo was tired, and he didn't feel well. And damn Kalan for choosing a time like this to ask for what Moyo would have been glad to share, had he been in better spirits. The "treaty" talks had not gone well, but exactly as expected. Moyo was sad his false friendship with the Sade twins would have to end soon.
"I'm going to sleep," the sergeant said shortly. He threw his clothes--yes, all of them--unceremoniously to the ground, and crawled beneath the top blanket of their tree-bed.
"You...bastard," Kalan muttered. Then he let out a sob.
“That’s not the first time I’ve been called that on this eve.” Moyo took his pillow and threw it at Kalan, whom he'd purposely distanced himself from. "Go to sleep," he growled. "You're drunk."
"I didn't have a drop!" Kalan cried. "Why won't you--? Why would you only take Madalin? Do you hate me that much?"
Moyo turned over to look at the sobbing boy. "What the hell's gotten into you?" he said angrily. "Do you have something against sleep?" He turned to face the opposite, bark-covered wall. "And there's nothing special about Madalin," he murmured after some time, not even sure Kalan was still awake to hear him. "I don't hate anything about you, Kalan. I told you it was just business."
It was Niall's fault, really. Together they'd watched as "Cean darling" and Madalin disappeared from the festive sniffed again in the darkness at the memory of their unusual conversation. Had Niall been trying to trick him? No one else here had a problem with two males being together like...like men and women were supposed to be together. Why then was Moyo now pushing him away? Kalan had fallen into Niall's wise eyes, had seen the truth there and believed. Was Moyo calling him a liar? Didn't he know, if he was of their kind? Couldn't he tell?
Moving carefully, trying not to stir the sleeping sergeant, Kalan moved as close as possible to the other man's body. He let himself get closer to the warmth he found there, until his forehead was against Moyo's back. He could smell the sweat, and it made him hot. It also made him very upset in ways he couldn't explain. He willed himself to block out the thoughts that came unbidden, and tried only to think of sleep.
The technique worked, but not for long. Four hours later, Sergeant Moyo awakened the sleeping corporal and told him to get dressed. It was bright in the afternoon when they staggered out of the tree-room and left Saderia. No one tried to stop them.