Dayn armallah

5. Evening In The Village

I fed more wood to the fire and nodded to myself when the flames quickly caught on dry bark and began to rise higher. It wouldn't take long before the fire would be hot enough to start cooking in earnest, and I inched the first cauldron closer to the glowing heat. Soon the water inside it began to stir and tiny bubbles emerged on the bottom. I wiped sweat from my face – it was certainly warm enough here, standing so close to the flames – then sat down and began to slice the ingredients at hand into smaller pieces so that they would cook more quickly. I stretched my legs in front of me and lost myself to the pleasantly repetitive task. I couldn’t help smiling. The peace of late afternoon around me felt almost too good.

Once an outlying village of my own people, a few days’ journey from the City, this place had now been my home for a full week. The houses could have been in better repair, and the ground tended to get very muddy whenever there was the slightest rain, but to me it seemed like paradise. On one side of the village there was a deep well that could be used when the nearby brook was frozen, on the other side a sizeable stretch of farming land, and the whole was surrounded by a quickly thickening wall of trees under which our meager livestock grazed in their little enclosures. The small houses were huddled together in a rather tight group, animal sheds leaning confidently against their log walls. My gaze caressed the weather-beaten wood, the moss growing on overhanging eaves, the little patches of grass that were here and there obstinately pushing out of well-trodden ground. No smooth stone walls or paved streets here – but it was the company that made all the difference.

Although some of the original villagers still lived here, most of us were refugees who, one way or another, had managed to flee the destruction on that last day of Dayn Armallah. There was quite a number of former priestesses, most of them still young, a couple already in their forties or even fifties. And, breathtakingly, there were the three generations of High Priests: the old King, already around sixty, his son prince Merilion who would have been next to assume that title, and young Alaish, Merilion’s firstborn child and the only one of his offspring who had been saved. I had understood that there had been quite a few of them; after all, as the eldest Prince one of his duties, if one could call it that, had been to get priestesses pregnant. From what I had deduced from unspoken words, there had certainly been more than one child born from these expected unions. But only one of them had survived, the boy who right now flashed past me, though not too quickly to stop for a split second and give me and my assorted foodstuffs an appreciative grin. I tried to scowl at him and shook my knife in warning.

"You should be more careful, young Master, it won’t do running like that around people who are handling sharp things! Not to mention that you might have spilled all these things on the ground…"

But he was already gone, shouting "Sorry!" over his shoulder. I chuckled to myself. The boy was so sunny, so happy in this simple, rustic existence. In spite of the luxurious and no doubt pampered first years of his life, and all the horrors he had subsequently been forced to witness, he radiated life. He was not one to brood – no doubt that had much to do with his age, but it also reflected his character. Such energy he had, from dawn till dusk making himself busy all around the place, learning things, snooping here, helping there. He participated in gardening, dug into the moist ground with obvious relish, knew as well as anybody how to clean fish, and was a strong hand in skinning and gutting small game. He was not shy to get his hands (or the rest of himself) dirty in work. And he positively worshipped the very ground his father walked on. I was sure that Alaish had had more than just a little to do with dragging the prince back to life after the carnage, his obvious concern for the quiet man a constant reminder of what they had experienced together.

Once again my thoughts had revolved back to the prince, but I shrugged slightly to myself and decided to do nothing about it. After all, he was the one who had rescued me, brought me here, and even taken me to live in his house. It felt so strange in a way, sleeping under the same roof with the man who had been the topic of many disturbing dreams back in the Temple. But he was different, only the looks – minus the addition of a beard – reminding me of the past. Once again I tried to figure out how much of a difference there was between the First Prince of Dayn Armallah and the quiet man I now knew. I had only seen him twice in my entire life in the City. Now I had known him for eight days. That meant I really had a lot of material to work on, oh certainly… But there was nothing wrong with guessing. And I simply could not forget the darkness that I had seen dwelling in his eyes even during the ceremonies.

I peered into the gradually darkening shadows around me. No sign of prince Merilion yet. I plopped the chopped vegetables and meat into the pot and stirred it absently, all the while watching the women gather on the little clearing between a few houses. Of course I knew what they were up to: it was soon time for the evening prayers. Even without the statue of the Goddess, they continued to carry out the ceremonies with unfailing accuracy, as best they could. They began to hum a chant and one of those cherished treasures, a thin stick of incense, was carefully ignited. Soon its achingly delicate smell wafted to my nostrils in the light breeze, mixing with the scent of cooking food.

The whole scene was surreal. Back in the City, those prayers had been conducted strictly inside the Temple, out of the eyes of anybody but those actually living there, those who had dedicated their lives to the Holy Mother. Now I, an ordinary boy turned apprentice Scribe, was witnessing it in a humble village surrounded by trees. The priestesses’ voices swirled around me as they sang the prayer quietly and reverently, and I remembered occasionally catching a faint echo of the same song from behind the walls that had separated the Scribes’ quarters and the Temple proper. The women’s flowing dresses swayed, their arms moved in unison, nobody made the slightest mistake. I noticed that my hand that stirred the simmering pot had actually fallen to the rhythm of the chant. I even tried to hum the same tune under my breath.

Alaish had stopped to watch the ceremony, arms crossed on his chest and nose haughtily upturned. But even though his expression was one of slight disdain, those glimmering eyes and gently parted lips betrayed his fascination with it all. Every now and then his arms twitched, as if he were trying to tell himself to stop staring and just walk away, that all this was below him. Yet he stayed put where he was, leaning against the corner of a house, watching the graceful dance-like performance in front of him with distant, dreamy eyes, lost in a memory.

Suddenly Alaish started and slipped a little deeper into the shadow of the house. After a few moments I understood why: the prince had returned, and coming as he was from the horse shelters he would naturally walk straight into the small group of worshippers. His scowl was dark as thundercloud as he walked around them with a purposeful stride, not giving a single glance to either side, and headed towards the fire burning in front of me. I smiled to him, desperately wanting to distract him from his moodiness, and his expression did indeed relax a little.

"Tired, my Lord?" I lifted the small cauldron away from the fire, grabbed a bowl, grimaced to myself as a puff of hot steam stung my arm.

He grunted and sat down on the log serving as a bench. "Yes. Is that water hot?"

"Hot enough. Just let me, my Lord, I’ll make you water for washing. Here, eat first. You must be hungry, too."

He accepted the bowl and began to cautiously slurp the hot stew, blowing on each spoonful, obviously ravenous. I scooped some for myself and set it aside to cool while I prepared enough warm water for the prince, so that he could wash off the grime and sweat of another day’s rambling in the forest. When the bowl was empty, he sighed deep and slowly stripped naked to the waist.

I picked up my bowl and sat down to eat, all the while stealing furtive glances at his lean upper body and marveling at the way his muscles rippled under smooth skin. How could anyone who had lived all his life, save the past two years, in the opulence of the Temple, not knowing a moment of bodily work, look like that? Then he reached out to take a washing rag from a bucket beside me and my breath hitched. For the first time in the few days I had spent here, I saw his bare arms in daylight – especially the right one. Even more specifically, the scar on it.

I stared at the angry red burn that wound several times around his forearm from elbow to wrist and ended in a roundish mark on the back of the hand. My trembling hand rose before I could stop it, hovered for a while above the arm that had seemingly frozen into a statue along with the man it belonged to, and then my fingers gingerly touched a particularly nasty-looking stripe just above the wrist. I lifted my eyes to look into his face and saw him stare blindly at the arm for a moment. Then he snatched the rag into his hand, dipped it into the bucket and began to rub himself with it. I stood beside him, unsure of what to do.

"You have been burned, my Lord." I spoke quietly, not knowing how he would react. He shot a sideways glance at me, upset but not looking angry, so I ventured further: "Does it still hurt?"

"Sometimes." He rubbed the arm and grimaced. "It’s sensitive to heat – will probably always be."

He studied the scar, stretched his arm, flexed his fingers, turned it so that I could see the underside as well.

"I will forever carry the Sun Snake on my arm. But it’s a small price for Alaish."

For a frozen moment I saw again the enormous, heavy, golden snake bracelet that had adorned his arm, the exact shape of that twining mark branded on his skin. By the Goddess, having that thing burned to his flesh so as to leave scars like that… I shuddered thoroughly, then felt positively stupid standing there like that and watching the prince wash himself. Not knowing what else to do, I took the rag from his hand and tentatively began to wash his back. To my surprise he did not push me away but instead pulled his long hair over one shoulder and tilted his head so as to keep it out of the way. Closer up, I noticed a number of smaller burn scars on his shoulders, back and upper arms, probably from flying embers that had rained upon him as he was trying to rescue his son. The prince pressed into the touch nearly purring, and emboldened I scrubbed harder. He closed his eyes and almost smiled.

"May I – may I comb your hair, my Lord? Or would you wish me to wash it?" My breathless plea was rewarded by a thrilling sound: a quiet chuckle. Fury seemed to seep out of him and be replaced by mere genuine weariness. The prince sighed.

"So you would indeed be my servant, Tarisha?"

"Oh, I would, my Lord!" I exclaimed eagerly, immediately fearing that I had been too forward.

He was silent for a good while. Shadows deepened around us, they stretched long fingers closer and closer to us, and a hush fell over the village like a soft cloth. The prince sat still, elbows leaning on knees, shoulders slightly hunched, head bowed. Listening to my touch as I slowly explored his torso with the wet rag. His eyes were closed, face blank, mouth relaxed. He was beautiful.

"My Lord," I said, reluctant to disturb him. The lids quivered but didn’t open, then he stood up and almost absent-mindedly loosened the leather strings that tightened his trousers around that narrow waist. My hands did not tremble as I helped him pull the clothes down. He stepped out of them and simply waited. Once more I dipped the cloth into the bucket and wrung it a little before continuing. Hips, stomach, buttocks. Then back to the front and his semi-hard sex. Down his thighs, knees, legs. The prince stood still in front of me, eyes closed, enjoying. I glanced up to slack face and smiled at the rapt expression.

"You’ll get cold, my Lord, standing outside wet and naked," I ventured to break the spell. "And you ought to go to bed. You’re tired."

He smiled and finally looked at me.

"So I am. But Tarisha, if you would indeed be my servant, would you also sleep with me?"

I nodded and bent to gather his discarded clothes from the log bench, then put them back down and pushed a lid on the cauldron. Alaish would probably come to eat soon, if he hadn't sat down by the fire in front of some other house, knowing that he'd never be refused anywhere. The prince wrapped a soft, well-worn towel around his loins and disappeared into the cabin. I hesitated for a moment before following him – all right, I had been sleeping there so far, as he had brought me to stay and heal in his own house. However, I had all the time assumed this was only a temporary arrangement, whereas now I had a definite feeling that this was turning into something more. But on the other hand, why should I worry about that? I'd been sleeping there and would simply continue to do so, and who’d care if the reason for it had changed somewhere along the way? No one, except me.

So I plunged into the darkness inside and crouched to wait until my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Oh yes – to my right was the small rack for clothes. I arranged them there, not really needing to see anything as my hands on the materials told me everything I needed for the task. The stove to my left loomed pitch black in the near-darkness and deftly I went around it, towards the prince’s bed. My own was waiting closer to the door, but I ignored it. I could make out his shape, and from the rustling of the rush mattress and thick blankets I knew he was settling down.

"Come on, Tarisha. Here, next to me."

I followed the voice and my instinct to the bed. A strong hand gently took my arm and guided me to kneel on it. He was so close I could feel the warmth of his body, smell the still moist skin. He touched my shoulder and tugged at the tunic.

"Off. You don’t need this now."

I smiled and nodded even though I knew he couldn’t see it, pulled my clothes off and crept under the blanket that he lifted for me, not really feeling the need to protest but doing it anyway.

"I haven’t bathed today, my Lord."

"Oh bother, Tarisha. You haven’t been crawling in the mire, like I have." His bearded chin nudged my arm as I felt my way into the bed, unsure of how close he would allow me, and one arm wound around my waist to pull me down. "You feel clean and sweet. Come closer."

As I eased myself there next to him, our bodies touching all the way from shoulder to leg, I slowly let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. The prince turned to his side, his arm snaked to rest on my stomach and his forehead pressed on my temple so that his breath fanned smoothly on my ear. I shivered, overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment, listening to the whisper of exhaled air on my skin, aroused just enough to feel marvelously good and yet too sleepy to even think of whether or not I'd dare to touch myself.

"Thank you, Tarisha," the prince murmured just audibly. The arm across my body tightened a little before relaxing again. "Sleep... and don’t dream."

"I won’t, my Lord," I sighed, knowing that I wouldn’t dream tonight and wishing the same blessing on him.