Ekleipsis

By Tiamat

Alva Ahayrre is a Creedan nobleman and a courtier, a beautiful and frivolous redhead, who is sent on an important mission to the Wild Steppe. He meets a barbarian chief Kintaro – strong, dusky, assertive warrior who is interested in him very much. But Alva himself is more interested in a captive elf who has been given to him as a gift. Alva has mixed feelings about both those gorgeous men – a wild barbarian and a refined elf. He doesn't know that soon his love life will become very complicated...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tiamat
• Release date: Dec 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463068977

Tiamat

Tiamat is a well-known Russian author of original m/m romance and Tolkien slash fanfiction. She is a native Russian speaker, lives in Moscow, Russia, loves to travel and to write, read and watch everything about hot gay men (and occasional women) in a fantasy setting.

Book preview

Tiamat

EKLEIPSIS

Alva Ahayrre is a Creedan nobleman and a courtier, a beautiful and frivolous redhead, who is sent on an important mission to the Wild Steppe. He meets a barbarian chief Kintaro – strong, dusky, assertive warrior who is interested in him very much. But Alva himself is more interested in a captive elf which he has been given as a gift. Alva has mixed feelings about both those gorgeous men – a wild barbarian and a refined elf. He doesn't know that soon his love life will become very complicated...

Ekleipsis, by Tiamat

ISBN: 9780463068977

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2019 Tiamat

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means — by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise — without prior written permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design © 2019 Tiamat

Cover art source: shutterstock.com

Book 1 of the Ekleipsis series

Also by Tiamat in English:

ROYAL BLOOD (Book 0.5 of the Ekleipsis series)

GATES TO GLORY (Book 1 of the Ashurran series)

NECKLACE (Book 1.5 of the Ashurran series)

MY ANGEL OF THE DAWN

https://www.wattpad.com/user/tiamat-press

http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiamat_Corruptor_of_Elves

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15371253.Tiamat

Chapter 1

Proud men hasten not. We shall have a big hunt, games, dances and a feast to honor you as befits an envoy of the great King of the North. Let us talk business after the feast, noble Alva Ahayrre.

Alva nodded and tried to hide his disappointment. He was at the Essanti camp as the ambassador of the king, Daronghi Dancennou. He wanted the nomads’ help in fighting the Enqins, who recently were raiding Creede’s southern borders. Two weeks of the journey to the steppes had been dull, and now Alva itched to start negotiations. Unfortunately, Kintaro, the Essanti chieftain, seemed to want the exact opposite. Alva did not like this at all. No doubt Kintaro suspected why the envoy of the great King of the North had come. Bet he was just stalling before he refused outright. Or maybe he was working out how to make the refusal polite. Comes out to the same thing in the end.

For the next two weeks, Chevalier Ahayrre barely left the saddle. The nomads clearly expected him to participate in everything. Alva took part in the Essanti’s big hunt. They rushed all over the steppe on their huge mounts, and Alva’s Verlown thoroughbred could barely keep up. They slaughtered bison and deer by the hundreds. They camped at nightfall, gorged on roasted meat, sang and danced in the firelight, staged races and swordfights, wrestled, and fell asleep right on the grass without even bothering to set up the tent.

By the end of the second week, Alva could barely stay on his feet. He still jumped into every fight, however; he felt his northerner’s pride demanded it. He was a decent swordsman and the uncouth nomads had cheered him on. He rode well too; it was not said for nothing in the capital that Chevalier Ahayrre had been born in the saddle. Still, Alva hardly liked the brutish pursuits. He thought himself a poet and a diplomat more than a warrior, so he heaved a sigh of relief when the Essanti finally returned to their camp. There, slaves and servants had already prepared for the feast.

At the feast, Alva sat on Kintaro’s right. This was a very good sign, as only a choice few ever got the honour. Alva’s wine was poured by a good-looking dark-eyed slave youth, stark naked, and Alva wondered lazily whether he might get over his aversion to inept lovemaking and filthy habits of the steppe-dwellers, at least for tonight. With a sigh, he decided that he could not. Chevalier Ahayrre fancied the kind of delicacy and charm that was clearly beyond the nomads. The very first Essanti warrior who had crawled into his tent at night, began by yanking off his pants and setting his greedy mouth on Alva, like a starving man gulping down a piece of bread. Alva was polite, but firm. He kicked the visitor out. All the others, who, in the Essanti tradition, offered themselves to the chieftain’s guest, met with the same fate. Though, come to think of it, some had been beddable enough.

Alva looked reflectively at the crowd partying by the fires. They were certainly a handsome race. Tall, slender, copper-skinned; high cheekbones, narrow faces and slanted eyes, long black hair worn loose or braided. Many youths wore nothing but loincloths, showing off their strong muscled bodies without an ounce of fat, hardened by the harsh life out here. If only they washed at least once a month and were a little less vulgar. Then Alva might not say no to a roll on the grass. He was only twenty seven, famous for being sexually voracious and did not discriminate between men and women. In fact, that is precisely why he had been sent to the nomads whose ways were well known.

Too bad the Trianess court was into modesty and fidelity for the past few years. The glamorous Chevalier Ahayrre was even finding himself with a dearth of partners, not something he had experienced since the age of fifteen. So at first he was only too happy to go on this mission. But why, oh, why, had no-one warned him about the stinking pelts, the greasy hands wiped without the help of napkins (not that there were any napkins) or the hideous smell of fermented mare’s milk the nomads drank by the pitcher and called kumiss. The Essanti also seemed completely unfamiliar with the concept of using water to wash.

At first, Alva wondered how they managed to hunt. The way they stank, all the animals would run away from them. But over the past few weeks Alva witnessed the process in every gory detail: before the hunt, the Essanti would strip and smear themselves with mud, head to toe. Yuck! Alva shuddered, remembering the vile sight. Not surprising that none of the handsome filthy youths had stirred him.

He caught himself staring, sighed and looked away from Kintaro. The Essanti chief resembled a young god. At least, he was built like one. He was younger than Alva, but had been already chosen chief on account of his valour. Alva Ahayrre had never seen Kintaro in battle, but seeing him hunt and fight the others was enough to know that he was an unrivalled rider and swordsman.

The Essanti prized fighting skills and physical perfection above everything else. This made sense, as it was the chieftain who led the army into the battle and fought at its forefront. Alva wondered if Kintaro might be interested in something more intimate, and if that was why he delayed the negotiations. Maybe here it was customary to carry out diplomatic missions in bed. Fine, thought Alva, he would get over his fastidiousness for the sake of his country’s glory and Kintaro’s looks. He could always close his eyes, spread his legs and think of Creede. Being pissed drunk would help too.

Not that Kintaro made any overtures, even if he occasionally cast sultry glances at Alva. Even now, when the Chevalier raised his head, he was caught by the Chief’s insistent gaze.

Are you enjoying the feast, valiant Alva Ahayrre? he asked. The question was coupled with a lewd once-over.

The feast is splendid, valiant Kintaro, answered Alva ceremoniously. He noted that he had been promoted from noble to valiant, also a good sign. He must have acquitted himself well during the hunt and the fighting trials.

Kintaro nodded at the cup-bearing slave. Do you like him? You can take him into your tent.

Thank you, but I am not in the mood.

Perhaps it is women you prefer. I can order one or two fetched for you.

Alva pictured their women and felt sick. I thank you for the generous offer, but must decline as well. I am not in the mood for women today either.

Kintaro’s face remained impassive, and Alva could not tell how his obstinacy was received. The Chief had gone on staring at Alva for a bit, then shrugged and turned away.

Alva went back to contemplating the feast. Wine, kumiss and hooch flowed freely; bison carcasses roasted over the fire were gradually getting stripped to the bone. In places, half-naked warriors were kissing and groping. Alva suspected that the feast would soon turn into an orgy. He sincerely hoped to slip away before the party was in full swing, otherwise he would not be safe from the drunken lust. He might have diplomatic immunity, but it would hardly extend this far. He might also have a layer or two of magical protection, but it would generally work against an attack on his life, not his virtue.

Thank heaven Essanti did not rape. A woman or a slave would be considered nothing more than an object, so they would be used, not raped. A warrior of equal prowess, on the other hand, had to agree to lovemaking explicitly. Just as well, or Alva’s hoity-toity ways would have gotten him into trouble long ago. He could handle a street-fight, and was a match for any five thugs in one go. But the rabble-rousers he’d toss aside like trash did not even compare to the war-hardened Essanti. With a slight shudder Alva realized that he would be powerless before Kintaro’s steely strength.

The nomads had to find the North’s ambassador very attractive. Alva was delicate, slim, with small hands and feet and sun-kissed skin. His green eyes were clear emeralds, and wild flame-colored curls fell over his shoulders. Of course, he was no longer the fifteen-year old boy who once bewitched the Trianess court, but he still liked what he saw in the mirror. His numerous lovers were still generous with compliments.

Alva was getting fed up. Mainly, he was tired of exercising self-restraint in the midst of this free-for-all. The bronzed bodies looked surprisingly attractive in the flickering firelight. Alva was far enough away, and neither stench nor filth bothered him. The lengthy abstinence of the two-week journey and the following two weeks of camp life was getting to Alva. He was desperate now to wrap up the negotiations and return to Trianess. He did not have a lover at the moment, but Chevalier Amargo Aguirre was ardently courting him. Alva knew that the handsome fortyish courtier would quickly persuade him to surrender.

Thinking hard of cold showers, Alva glanced vaguely at the men around him and sipped his wine. Later, much later, he often went back to this moment, when a sea of tanned bodies writhed before him and he had no premonition of what would happen next, when the crowd parted to reveal a figure crouched by one of the tents.

Later, much later, he wondered what had caught his attention. Was it the glowing white skin, with its shades of silver and mother-of-pearl that gleamed even through the dirt? This slave, curled up by the post, had his arms wrapped around him, as if cold, even though one of the big fires gave off enough heat to make the nomads glisten with sweat. His head drooped; his long hair obscured his face. The dust and mud hid their colour, but Alva guessed it to be blond. He did not see clearly, but assumed that the slave wore a collar and chain that attached him to the post.

Alva craved to see his face, hardly knowing why. Without further thinking, he pointed the slave out to Kintaro. Valiant chief, who is this man, and why is he in chains? asked Alva.

A prisoner, said Kintaro carelessly. He called over one of his men, and nodded to fetch the slave. We caught him on the Teraisa Plain by the Great Forest. He is one of the Ancient Race.

An elf? You have caught an elf? cried Alva, shocked.

There were five of them, and each killed five of ours before dying. This one we caught alive. He is brave and he fought well. Now my warriors can enjoy his lovely body.

Alva was appalled. If he fought as bravely as you say, you could have spared him the degradation. You should have killed him right away, if only out of respect for his courage.

Kintaro looked surprised. On the contrary, we had honoured him. To become a slave is nobler than tending cattle like women or dying prisoner after the battle. We believe that when you share a bed with a warrior, you share in his skill and prowess as well. This slave will not go ignored.

Alva could not stop looking, as the elf was dragged through the crowd towards him. Head bowed and swaying slightly, the elf followed the nomad listlessly, hands still wrapped around his chest, as if trying to hide from the leers. He was completely naked, and Alva felt a pang when he noticed how the elf was starved and gaunt, his body scratched and bruised. If the Essanti were so brutish even with those they wanted to seduce, they must have been unimaginably worse to a slave.

The prisoner was thrown down before him. Alva, without a second’s hesitation, reached out and lifted the captive’s chin to look into his face.

He often went back to this moment as well. He even tried to put his first impression into verse, but always finished by tearing up the sheet. It came out trite and bland, Alva’s celebrated poetic gift failing him. He was looking upon beauty incarnate. The face of the captive elf, however gaunt and void of lively hues, was of stunning perfection. Alva hardly dared to think how the elf would look on a good day, joyful and happy (assuming the elves knew how to be joyful and happy). God Almighty, his face and his whole body seemed to give off a silvery light in the descending darkness!

Alva was mesmerized and could not stop staring at the long beautiful eyes fringed by heavy gleaming eyelashes, at the lovely bow of lips the pink of hyacinth petals; the lips that had been bruised, but had remained irresistible. These lips were made for kisses, thought Alva. The elf’s skin was pale and delicate; it showed recently healed scars. Alva felt a stab of pity. Pity and anger. He knew that he could not allow himself to be prejudiced. The Essanti’s customs were what they were, and their cruelty did not discriminate. As for the elves, they had cut down whole nations in their time, and they were no friends to humans. But, a poet and an artist, Alva was still furious. How could anyone tarnish this perfect form that had met with nothing but adoration before the ill-fated brush with the nomads?

He lifted the elf’s face still higher, to look into his eyes. They were... like molten silver. They also looked empty and deadened now, but Alva would swear these eyes could be luminous like the stars at night. But who would ever see these starry eyes, except the gods of the Underworld, where the elf was likely heading in the next few months. His lifeless gaze and blank face unmistakably showed that he gave up on life and it was now draining away.

What is your name? asked Alva softly.

Elf was silent as if not hearing. His eyelashes never stirred. Kintaro answered in his place. He does not speak the Common tongue. If we had not heard him call to his friends during the battle, we would have thought him mute. He never answers.

Wonder why, thought Alva bitterly. Out loud his said, with only a mild interest in his voice, I would not have thought the Essanti made a custom of tormenting their prisoners.

The chieftain shrugged and spoke matter-of-factly, A slave’s mettle must be broken. When we captured him, we set up a challenge: whoever got him to cry first, got to have him. My warriors know how to inflict pain, but the elf did not make a sound, so we gave it up. He cried only once, when a man took him for the first time.

Alva felt ill. He imagined only too easily how it went and what an immortal must have felt when he was ground into dirt and raped, as if the capture and the tortures were not enough. If you added to that the how the Ancient Race thought sodomy a deadly sin, the elf’s horror and revulsion were beyond imagining.

Alva prayed that his face expressed only curiosity when he turned to Kintaro and said, Noble chief, your slave will not survive this treatment for long. Perhaps you would agree to sell him to me? When I take my new servant to the capital, everyone will be impressed with the might and good fortune of the Essanti who have managed to capture an elf.

Kintaro smiled pleasantly. It seemed the suggestion had flattered him. He is yours then, I give him to you. Just as Alva was going to sigh with relief, the chieftain added, But I do have one condition. Show me and my people that you value our gift. Make this captive yours, right here, right now.

Alva gaped. Did I understand you correctly? You want me to take him right here, in front of everyone?

Kintaro nodded, fixing Alva with his stare. Alva did not like this look at all — it was filled with distrust. This is an Essanti custom. You shared our food and shelter, so you have to share in our pleasure. Everyone should know joy at this feast.

But of course, thought Alva, what else to expect. Their idea of fun is watching young men fight and then copulate.

He tried to dissuade the chief. Look, noble Kintaro, it is not our custom to make love in public. I do value your gift and my gratitude is immense. Let me go to my tent to enjoy my new slave.

Kintaro’s iron fingers clutched at Alva’s shoulder. The chief brought him close and hissed into his ear. You listen to me, northerner. I know that you are good in battle, and are worthy to speak for your King. But many warriors you have turned down doubt that you are man enough. I will not deal with a eunuch. Prove your manhood.

Alva instantly felt a hot rush of blood to his cheeks. So they were testing him these two weeks! And now he had to show them that he was a stud. He knew that Kintaro intended neither to insult nor to humiliate him: he genuinely wanted to know that Alva was unblemished in every way, or to deal with him would bring bad luck. But Alva had not expected things to get this far. This was no longer about saving the lovely creature, his mission’s success was at stake. Was Creede worth the villainy? There was no other word for what he was being asked to do. Raping the wounded tormented elf in plain sight of the obscenely drunk crowd!

He looked again at the captive’s expressionless face. The elf had blocked out the outside world. He was barely conscious of what was happening to him. Perhaps what he had been through drove him mad. He had been ravaged hundreds of times, so one more nameless rapist would mean nothing to him! He was on an inexorable path to death, and who could save him but Alva? After all, thought Alva, it’s not as if he was being asked to do something unnatural. He had made love in front of others before (though not quite as many others). And, suddenly, filled with overwhelming shame, Alva realized that he wanted this silver elf, like he had never wanted anyone before.

At Kintaro’s sign, someone yanked the prisoner’s collar and made him go on his hands and knees. As soon as Alva looked at the slim hips and small milky-white buttocks, he was hard — all too apparent in the tight-fitting pants. Alva saw Kintaro stare at his crotch and grin. With grim determination, Alva Ahayrre began to strip.

He remembered the rest in bits and pieces. The Essanti roared when he dropped the last piece of clothing and rose in the firelight. He knew what they were seeing. Everybody who saw him naked compared him, with a surprising lack of originality, to a golden statue. This was Alva’s last coherent thought. Then he was past caring; he saw nothing but the helpless body of his unasked-for victim, as if everything else had disappeared.

Alva turned the elf over on his back, and bent over him, intoxicated by the smell of his skin, miraculously free of the stench of the Essanti camp. Surrendering to temptation, he kissed the irresistible inflamed lips, as gently and tenderly as he could, careful not to hurt. Perhaps he was wrong, but the elf’s mouth seemed to move slightly in response, and something akin to curiosity flickered in his dull eyes. Though this must have been just an illusion, the very thought excited Alva, and he took the elf using his own spit as a lubricant. He made every effort to keep himself in check, he did his best to be slow and gentle, as if taking a young boy, a virgin, oh, god, he does look like a boy, eighteen at most, he could be any age, a thousand even... But the sound Alva heard — a slight moan escaping the bloodless hyacinth petals of his lips — was definitely not an illusion. He must have hurt him somehow. But the elf had not cried under torture, why was Alva making him cry out?

He could no longer think about anything, as the sweeping wave of desire dragged him towards the finish. He came, clutching at the elf and kissing him deliriously, as if they had just made love. In a few moments, the world resumed, and Alva felt a strong hand lifting him to his feet.

Take the prisoner to the tent of our esteemed guest. None but him is to touch the elf henceforth, ordered Kintaro. Then the chief grabbed Alva and kissed him.

Unsurprised, Alva realized that Kintaro had already dropped his clothes and had a full hard-on. Alva was dizzy and swaying drunkenly, but wine had nothing to do with it. He was still aroused, and his lips returned Kintaro’s demanding kiss on their own, while his arms twined around the chief’s neck.

Kintaro laughed. I should still ask you, northerner, as our customs demand. Will you be mine tonight?

Haven’t got much choice, have I? said Alva hoarsely, wrapping himself around the bronzed warrior. He could no longer stand on his own.

Quivering with anticipation, he let himself be thrown on the pelts and gave himself over to Kintaro’s brutish caress. He whimpered shamelessly, like the cheapest of whores. In a few minutes, the chief flattened Alva with his heavy body, and took him brazenly, making Alva shudder from pleasure spiced with pain. The part of Alva that remained sober told him that wine and the pretty elf had done it — Alva was mad with lust and would be easy prey. If anyone wanted him after the Essanti chief, Alva would be powerless to refuse.

Kintaro, however, had no plans to share. Turned out the first bout was just a prelude. Then he took Alva to his tent. Evidently, Kintaro was indefatigable. In between caresses, when his brain turned briefly back on, Alva wondered if Kintaro had been made chief for that very reason, and nearly burst into hysterical laughter.

He let Kintaro do what he wanted to him, hoping to find oblivion in the relentless flood of the barbarian’s passion. The elf’s face stood before his inner gaze, he remembered kissing the elf, touching him, feeling the quiver of the silver body as he penetrated its tight cool depths. Alva could not shake off the obsession, even as the Essanti’s mouth and strong hands besieged him, hurting and leaving love bites and bruises. Liquid fire flowed through his veins and his loins burned with the insatiable desire that he was powerless to stem. It could only be dulled somewhat, when the wild nomad ripped into him, growling, nails raking Alva’s shoulders, and the tsunami of his orgasm shook Alva’s entire body, temporarily clouding his senses still filled with the memory of the prisoner elf.

* * *

It was nearly morning when the Essanti had finally let go of Alva, and only after he was utterly exhausted. He fell asleep, still holding his lover possessively. Alva crawled out of Kintaro’s embrace and staggered out of the tent. Every bit that could hurt in a human body hurt.

The sun was rising. The fires have blown out; light smoke hung over the coals. The horses, gently whinnying, grazed among the tents. Alva had no idea where his clothes went and was not going to look for them. The way to his tent was paved with naked bodies locked in embrace, and he had to step over them. He reached his tent and entered.

The elf was sitting by the back wall, with his chin on his knees. He must have been dozing, but, as Alva approached, lifted his head to look. The first rays of the sun shone through the opened flap of the tent and lit up the elf’s face. It was as beautiful as Alva had remembered it, and just as impassive. Only the elf’s gaze seemed to grow timid for a moment, as if the elf had suddenly realized that he was entirely at his new master’s mercy.

Alva stepped forward. Whether it was something in Alva’s eyes, or the sight of his manhood, still at half-mast, but the elf lowered his eyes, and flushed the barest of pinks. Then, with a soft sigh, he moved over, turned his back to Alva, and lay down on the pelts, his head buried in his hands and his legs spread apart. The sight of the elf, resigned and submissive, filled Alva with an overwhelming desire, even though he had never longed to dominate anyone before. He realized that soon his dark side would take over, unleashing the base instinct to attack, ravage, sate the lust. Alva bit down on his lip, hard, until he drew blood, and the pain sobered him. He turned and rushed back out of the tent.

He only got as far as the well on the outskirts of the camp. A heavy stone lid sealed the well from dust. Alva moved it aside with difficulty, and poured bucketfuls of freezing water over himself until he fairly shivered, lust forgotten.

He came back with a full pitcher, took the elf by the hand, and brought him out of the tent. He gestured at the elf to clean his face and wipe off the dirt with a wet towel. The elf was clearly uncomfortable under Alva’s gaze, but at the moment Alva felt only boundless pity. In the growing light, Alva could clearly see the marks of the nomads’ brutality on the elf’s marble body, and felt tears welling up. He was ashamed of his recent desires, of what he did to the elf, ashamed of himself and of humanity in general. Pity that the memory of humiliation cannot be wiped as readily as the dirt. Inside the tent, Alva sat down the prisoner before him and rubbed a healing balm into his cuts and wounds. The elf’s face remained the usual frozen mask, but his tense body visibly relaxed. He seemed to understand that a new ordeal might be at least delayed.

Chevalier Ahayrre tried to remember at least a few words in the Ancient tongue, but was stymied. He longed to tell the elf that he had nothing to fear from Alva, that he was safe from now on. Alva hoped that the elf would realize it eventually on his own, if he was still capable of understanding reality and had not chosen to dwell entirely in the realm of illusions.

Alva chose a simple tunic and pants of his for the prisoner and gestured for him to dress. The elf obeyed. Alva finally covered himself too, pulled out a comb, and brushed out his tangled red hair. Damn right they were tangled. Kintaro had had fun twirling Alva’s hair all night long. Alva winced, feeling a bite on his neck. The Essanti were not famed for their temperament for nothing.

The elf glanced at Alva from underneath his long eyelashes. Alva saw that look, and held out the comb. The elf took it carefully, as if seeing one for the first time, and fingered it awkwardly. Then he tried to grip it, just as awkwardly, making Alva laugh and take the comb away. Alva remembered tales of the streams in the Great Wood; swimming where, it was said, de-tangled the hair and even wove it into braids or complicated hairdos. Either there was some truth to this story, or the Ancient Race used something other than a comb.

Alva got behind the elf and began to pull the comb through the thick strands of his long hair. He carefully held the strands at the root, and tried not to yank. Then he attempted to rub the dust off one lock and was rewarded with seeing the true color shine through — it was pearly silver, the color of moonlight. He also saw the famed pointy elven ears, concealed by tangled hair before. They seemed oddly touching.

Alva drew the comb through the elf’s hair so delicately, it was almost a caress. It was easy to forget oneself, absorbed in this peaceful task, and imagine that it was a morning after a night of love... Chevalier Ahayrre sighed. An elf loving a human? Hell would freeze over sooner. The Ancients hated people too much, and with good reason, Alva had to admit, especially in this particular case. Stopping this depressing line of thought with an effort, he put aside the comb and gazed approvingly at his handiwork. Now then, you look almost like a human being, said Alva and laughed realizing how stupid he must have sounded.

He left the tent again, and came back from scavenging by the fires, with a few feast leftovers and some drinking water. The elf turned away from the charred meat at first, but, when Chevalier Ahayrre fell on the meat hungrily, joined him. The elf ate slowly and daintily. He looked like a prince, and belonged right at the royal court. Alva could not help admiring him.

After the meal, thinking that he had amply demonstrated his good intentions, Alva decided to make friends. In the cross-cultural way of linguistically challenged, he pointed a finger at himself and proclaimed, Alva Ahayrre. He then pointed at the captive and raised his eyebrows in question. The elf merely lowered his eyelids and turned away. That was also a cross-cultural expression, that lacked only a contemptuous mien to spell, to the dejected Alva, a Go to hell, pal.

The noise of the waking camp was already coming from the outside. Alva thought he would at least look for the clothing he had cast off yesterday and maybe retrieve his belt that he had grown used to. He also felt strangely hurt that the elf refused to even say his name.

Well, what did you expect? That he'd be all over you, especially after yesterday? Alva asked himself, bitterly. Perhaps introducing themselves to humans was taboo for the elves. Could be lots of reasons. None of which helped deal with the bitterness he felt.

As Alva scrabbled about for his belt, where he had sat (and, frankly, lain) with the chieftain the night before, Kintaro, buck naked, crawled out of his tent on all fours. He rose, stretched and went behind the tent to relieve himself. Then Kintaro returned and guzzled whatever wine remained in the pitcher. He looked fit and well-rested, with no signs of fatigue or hang-over; particularly impressive given how much he had drunk, how little he had slept, and how creative he had been in his other activities.

Good morning, noble Essanti chief, grumbled Alva. He went on digging through the pelts that covered the mound around the fire. Maybe today we can finally get to talking about my mission.

Not wasting any words, Kintaro threw Alva over his shoulder and carried him towards the tent. Alva was too stunned to object; Bloody hell was all he could manage. There was no mistaking the chief's intentions: you could hang a saddle on his hard-on.

When the Essanti put him down on the floor and began to kiss, unbuttoning Alva's clothes, Chevalier Ahayrre protested angrily. Dodging the greedy lips and hands, Alva hissed: Now, you listen to me, chief. I have had enough. Very amusing, and all, but you promised to get down to business after the feast. I demand that you hear my King's offer, and give me your response as quickly as possible.

Kintaro let him go and sat back on his heels. He was smiling and his teeth gleamed in the gloom of the tent.

I know why you came, he said, condescendingly. Your King is smart, he wants others to fight his battles. Tell him that the Essanti will march with him on the Enqins. We’ll take the spoils, and will let your King's generosity determine what else we get. He laughed unexpectedly and put a hand against Alva's cheek. I doubt he'd be generous enough to hand you over to me. I might agree to serve him forever, if I could have you.

Ahayrre lowered his eyes and remained silent, not knowing how to react. Tell me, do you have a lover? asked the Essanti, with guileless curiosity.

Alva sighed, and answered honestly, No. Not for a long time.

Have you had lots of lovers?

The young courtier did not know whether to laugh or take offence at the questioning. I never bothered to count. Lots, probably, Alva smiled and shrugged.

Was I better than them, or worse? Kintaro’s worrying was almost childish.

Alva laughed out loud and said, You are the stud to end all studs, Essanti chief. Never met anyone like you.

Did you like it, last night?

Yes, (Alva was utterly sincere.)

Do you want me? Want me to take you and have my way with you again? Kintaro's gaze became heavy, weighed with the primitive and undisguised desire, and Alva felt naked.

To Alva, the Essanti chief embodied the abandoned sexuality, heady and overpowering, and a strange magnetism Alva was powerless to resist. He was warm and close, unlike the aloof Ancient who would not even say his name. Kintaro openly lusted after his guest, and Alva had to admit he was flattered. He