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L'Academie's library is warm, cozy, and bathed in gentle, golden light. Something about the place just puts you at ease, as if the world outside had ceased to exist, or at least had had its horizons pushed back to a polite distance. Terran probably loves here, you think idly. You can just see him curling up in the corner, hair falling over his eyes as he gazes lovingly down at some fat tome spread wide over his knees.
The image makes the corners of your eyes crinkle. Maybe, once he's done haggling with the headmaster over his latest mini medal haul, you'll drag him in here. You could tell him you saw spotted a book of forging recipes among the shelves. That might work.
Unlike Terran, books don't do much for you. You know your letters, of course; most Vikings do. Any sailor worth his salt needs to be able to read nautical chart, not mention ship manifests, bills of lading, and so on. But outside the practical uses, you've never had much use for reading; and more than that, you've never had the luxury of time, neither when you were a foundling breaking your back from sun-up to sun-down, nor when you were on your own, pinching pennies to survive.
Still, you're not opposed to the idea of books. Especially if they help you put a smile on Terran's lips.
You wander the stacks aimlessly, not looking for anything in particular but skimming your fingers along the books all the same, like a tern fishing for its supper. Spine after spine slides under your skin in a soothing rhythm, while your breath slows to match. It occurs to you, as it occasionally does whenever you are left on your own for too long, that you are so tired you could fall asleep on your feet.
Then your fingers alight on a slim volume, sandwiched between two thick, dust-covered tomes. Unlike its neighbors, this book is comparatively humble: just a few sheets of vellum bound with what might be cooking twine.
You slide it from the shelf. You're not sure why. Maybe it's the old treasure hunter in you, stirring in his sleep, roused by the siren call of hidden and forgotten things.
You flip it open. It is a book, sort of. There are lots of pictures, which appear to be hand-drawn, and text bubbles scrawled along every available white space and margin. Maybe one of the students here made it? And actually, some of the pictures are really good.
You turn the page.
Suddenly the library becomes as hot as the belly of Mt. Huji.
These aren't just any old pictures. They're pictures of – men. In … positions.
Romantic positions.
You slam the book shut, then also your eyes for good measure. But still you can see the images dancing behind your eyelids, pictures of a spiky-haired man wearing nothing but a simple strand of beads, gasping as if in pain as another lad with a birthmark on one hand grabs him by the hips and…
Nope.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
This isn't real. This can't be real. Jade must have accidentally used one of Rab's special medicinal herbs when cooking breakfast, and now you're hallucinating—dreaming—of wild, impossible things. Yes. That's the only explanation that makes sense.
In fact, you tell yourself, the moment that you open your eyes, you'll see that you're holding a normal book, a boring book, a book about subsistence farming or 16th century trade relationships, a book without any pictures of naked men in it whatsoever.
Steeling yourself, you open your eyes.
No good. You're still holding a book of porn.
Your breath rushes out of you. You're not some babe in the woods, of course. You grew up among Vikings, for fuck's sake; and after that, you slummed it in Downtown Heliodor for years. You know damn well what a dirty magazine looks like.
It's just—you've just never been in one before.
The likeness really is quite astonishing, you think as you tentatively open the book again. Whoever drew this took great care to replicate the precise fall of your bangs, the musculature of your shoulders, the curve of your chin. They even seemed to notice that the beads you wear are different shapes and sizes, recreating the uneven shapes of the necklace whose parts had taken Mia months to scavenge. (The artist appears to have taken more liberties with Terran, however, giving him more height and girth than you know to be accurate, as well as several battle scars that match no weapon or animal maw you're familiar with.)
Your pulse taps out a staccato rhythm against your throat. Are those tears in his—your—eyes?
That doesn't make any sense. Why would you be crying?
Unless…
It doesn't hurt, does it?
No—wait. Is it… supposed to hurt?
You gulp. You figure that can't be right, that it can't actually hurt, because men wouldn't keep on doing it if it did. It's probably supposed to feel good. Right? At least, that's what you hope. Desperately so.
But what if—
"E-Excuse me," comes a small voice.
You yelp, leaping backwards until you stumble into the stack behind you. It wobbles threateningly, but thankfully continues to stand.
Before you is a girl probably about Terran's age and coloring. The school uniform clings to her in odd places in what you recognize as the tell-tale sign of a recent growth spurt. Her sleek hair falls in a middle part down to her chin, and she has what appear to be ink stains on her beet-red cheek.
"S'not yours," she mumbles.
"Oh. Oh! Yeah, I know that." You slam the book shut and try not to shove it at her. "Here. I, uh. I didn't read it."
She lurches backward and holds up her palms, as if you had drawn your daggers and demanded she surrender over her family's jewels.
"No! Just—just put it back." Nodding at the shelf behind you, she determinedly avoids your gaze. Thank Yggdrasil for small mercies. You aren't sure you'd be able to remain standing if she dared lift her eyes to yours right now.
"Okay." You do as she says, though it takes you a few tries before you succeed. You run a shaking hand through your hair and tug at the strands until your scalp stings. "Okay. Well, bye…"
"Wait," she says in a strangled voice. Her shoulders heave with every breath. "You're, uh, Terran's friend, right? The boy student?"
Should you lie? Will there be more pictures of you and Terran—together—if you tell the truth? "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, um. No reason. I've just seen you around. You and him. Together. I mean, not together-together. Unless you are. Um. You know what I mean?"
You frown. "Not really."
Finally, she lifts her chin, her ocean-blue eyes shining like stars. "Are you, you know? Together?"
"What?"
"N-no, it's okay! Really! I'm not judging—" she says at the same time you choke out, "We are just friends."
She stops. One eyebrow lifts, and she looks like she might argue with you when—
"There you are." Startled nearly out of your boots, you turn. It's Terran. He has the whole crew in tow, each of whom is regarding you with varying levels of curiosity: Rab's eyebrow is cocked, Serena is grinning, while Veronica, for her part, looks downright offended. Terran gestures for you to join them. "We've been looking all over for you. You ready to go?"
"Oh, thank Yggdrasil." The words tumble from your lips in an avalanche of relief. "Yes, let's get the hell out of here."
The corner of Terran's mouth tugs upward.
"You know, had I known you were going to look for books, I would've come here first. I've been meaning to look up more forging recipes anyway. Oh!" Terran seems to notice, for the first time, the girl standing before you. He looks her up and down, eyes narrowing. "Who's your friend?"
"Oh, uh—"
"Miriam, sir." She holds out her hand, any trace of her earlier embarrassment gone, as if it had never been at all. Indeed, she looks rather excited to be face-to-face with Terran, and a thousand possibilities of inappropriate questions she might ask him stampede through your mind at once.
Terran takes her palm in his and gives it a brief, polite shake. "Terran. And there's no need to 'sir' me; I think we're probably the same age." His gaze bounces the length of the distance between you and Miriam, as if taking a measurement, then his mouth presses into a thin line. "Nice to meet you," he adds, as an afterthought.
"Same," offers Miriam.
"How do you two know each other?"
"We don't," you say before Miriam can open her mouth. "Come on, man. Let's go."
"Sure." Terran surprises you by slinging an arm around your shoulders. He tugs you close, until you're flush against his ribs and his cheek disappears somewhere into your hair. "Well, Miriam," he says casually, and you feel his voice more than hear it, the vibration of it shooting like electricity down your spine, "Sorry we have to dash. See you next time."
Sweet, merciful Yggdrasil. Your neck is burning. Your dick could probably cut glass. And you can't stop yourself from leaning into Terran, just a little, and slipping one sweaty hand around his waist.
Before you, Miriam reddens again, but you're more interested in the way that Terran's muscles bunch under your touch. Fuck, he's warm. How is he always so warm? One of these days, Terran will burn you to a crisp.
"O-oh. Y-y-es," says Miriam. "Of course. Nice to meet you, Terran."
You keep your arm around him as you leave the library, but the instant the door slides closed behind you, you let him go and sag against the wall for support.
"Whew." You wipe your brow with the back of your forearm. "Thanks for the assist, man."
He still looks a little perturbed. "Don't mention it. What was that about, anyway?"
Chuckling shakily, you shrug.
"She cornered me. She spotted me alone and I—uh—" You notice Veronica, Sylvando and Jade eyeing you, doing that listening-without-appearing-to thing as you speak, so you straighten your back and bite back the apology you were about to offer Terran. The less ammo you give them right now, the better. "Well," you say the first lie that comes to mind, "I think she was gonna confess."
Jade gives an unladylike snort.
"Of course she was, darling,” snickers Sylv from behind one upturned hand.
"Riiiight." Veronica giggles. "I'm sure any second there, she was going to just fall to her knees in abject worship.”
"Shuddup." You push off the wall and stalk toward the front door, with Terran at your heels.
"Aww, Erik. Stay. Please," Jade calls after you. "Do tell us more about how devastatingly attractive you are to the opposite sex."
Terran casts a savage glance behind him, silencing everybody, then kicks open the front door with his boot. Good ol' Terran. He's always got your back.
Once you're outside, you're almost to the school gates before Terran says anything at all. "Sorry our friends are jerks."
"Nothing new."
A long pause. Above, birds squawk in the rustling trees. "She was pretty."
You shrug. "Yeah, I guess. If that's your sort of thing."
He frowns. "How do you know her?"
You cast a furtive glance behind you, only to see the rest of your party lagging behind, engaged in deep discussion. You have the nagging suspicion that they are talking about you. For a not-so-brief moment, you consider lobbing the apples in your pack at their heads. "Who?"
"Miriam." At your puzzled look, he prompts, "The girl from the library?"
"Oh. I don't, really. Never met her before today."
"Sure seems like she knew you, though."
"Yeah." You rack your brain about the best way to give him just enough information so that he'll let this drop, without actually divulging any of the mortifying events that had actually occurred. "I guess I, uh, made an impression."
He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "Clearly. If she's already in love with you."
"Yeah. Um. About that." You chuckle half-heartedly and are about to confess your lie, but then something in the steely set of Terran's jaw stops you. He almost looks—angry. And it's… sort of turning you on.
A lot, actually.
Sweet Yggdrasil, you're such a fucking disaster sometimes.
"Terran, look man, I wasn't—" You aren't sure how you're going to end that sentence, and you never find out, because you're interrupted by a shout from the garden path behind you.
"Wait up!" You turn just in time to see the rest of your companions parting to make way for Miriam, who is trotting up the garden toward you. When she reaches you, the apples of her cheeks are flushed, though from exertion or something else, you couldn't say. "Sorry, sir. Can I—um—Can I speak with Erik? Alone?"
Your heart hammers against your throat. You turn toward Terran, but his eyes are trained on a nearby bed of daffodils. Helplessly, you swallow your panic.
"Make it quick," you say. You walk her over to the statue, well out of everyone else's earshot. Terran is still glaring at those flowers like he might set them on fire with thought alone. "What is it?"
"Look." She inhales sharply. "I know you saw it."
"I already said—"
She holds up her hand. "Whatever. Just… please… don't tell the headmaster. If he finds out that I'm the one drawing them, he'll make me scrub the kitchens for a whole month."
"You drew that?"
"Well, yeah." She lifts an eyebrow at him. "Who else did you think did it?"
"I didn't—That is—" You make a noise of animal frustration. "Fine. I won't tell anybody about—your—your pictures. Okay? Is that all you wanted?"
Breathing an audible sigh of relief, Miriam nods and turns to go. But your mind continues to churn.
"Wait a minute—'them'?" She flinches. You narrow your eyes. "Meaning, there's more?"
"Um…" She looks away, and you grab her by shoulder until she wrests her gaze back from the ground and up to you. "Yes?"
"How many?"
"Well—"
"How. Many?"
She winces. "…Eleven, maybe?"
"Eleven!?"
"It's, um, a series."
"You drew a—" You shoot a furtive look to the others, only to see Terran watching you intently. The flowers haven't started smoking, maybe, but your skin sure feels hot. So you drop your grip on Miriam's arm and lower your voice to a hiss. "You drew eleven whole books about me getting fucked by my friend?"
"It was for practice! I needed to improve my dynamic poses. And you're sort of my muse." She lifts her gaze defiantly. "Also, friends, actually."
"What."
"Fucked by your friends. That tall jester over there makes an appearance in Book 4."
You scrub a hand over your face. You thought this could not possibly get any worse. And then it did. "I am nobody's muse."
"Well, I disagree. For starters, you're very pretty," she begins.
"I am not pretty!" You realize you're shouting again, and so you lean in close. "I am not pretty. I am very dangerous! See these daggers? I could slit your throat right here and now if I wanted to."
She smirks at you. "So do it then."
"Don't fucking tempt me." You wag your finger at her. "Look, just—don't draw me again, you hear? Ever." She opens her mouth to protest, but you don't let her get a word in. "If I ever find another book in which me, my friends, or anybody in Erdrea that I have ever met makes a starring appearance, I'm going to tear that library apart with my teeth, then I'll drag you before the headmaster and make you tell him why. Do you hear me?"
Pouting, she crosses her arms. "Fine."
You furrow your brow. "Say you heard me."
"Yes, I heard you." She rolls her eyes.
"Good. You and I," you gesture between you, "we never had this conversation. We don't know each other. And I don't ever want to see or speak to you again, got it?"
"Whatever."
You regard her for a long moment, and something in the defiant jut of her chin reminds you so much of Mia that your anger melts away. Mostly.
"But, um," you rub the back of your neck, "you're, uh, not bad at this, you know. You should keep practicing. Not on me. But. Like. On other stuff. Medals, or some shit."
"But medals are boring. They're just circles." She clenches her fingers, grabbing at the air. "I want to draw passion. Romance. I want to draw life."
"Life, huh." You chuckle. "What does a kid like you know about life, anyway?"
She gives you a sardonic smile. "More than you, apparently."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, at least I'm not a virgin." She cocks her head at you as if regarding a particularly adorable puppy. "Have you guys actually even kissed, or what?"
Your smile falls away, and she actually flinches back from you.
"This ends now," you grit out, with one last shake of your finger. "Never. Again."
Then without another word, you leave her and walk, not run, back to Terran's side.
**
An hour or so later you make it back to the northern Champs-Sauvage campsite, where a still-slightly glowering Terran arranges the night's forging materials and finds himself short a couple bulbs of moonwort.
"You know, honey," offers Sylvando in a tone too casual to be unintentional, "I think I saw a sale on those in Gondolia."
"But Sylvando, you can buy moonwort anywhere," Serena points out.
"Sure, darling, but Gondolia also has lots of other lovely treasures, doesn't it? Last time we were there, I saw the most precious little figurines of birds and bees." He winks stealthily at Veronica, who winks back. "Say, Serena darling, aren't you almost out of nougat?"
Serena's eyes grow wide.
"Dear me, I do believe you're right." She takes Terran's sleeve with something close to panic in her eye. "Terran, I must insist we visit Gondolia at once!"
"I could use a new pair of claws," muses Jade. "And maybe some salves."
"And I need, uh, a new pair of shoes," adds Veronica.
Sylvando looks up at the pinkening sky. "Gosh. We had better get going before all the stalls close for the night."
"Och, ye go on ahead." Rab stretches out a crick in his back. "I think I'll stay here and rest me auld bones a while."
"How 'bout you, Erik? You want in?" asks Terran.
You're about to answer him when Veronica waves her hand as if batting away a fly. "No way. Erik hates Gondolia."
"What? I don't hate Gondolia," you lie.
"Please, ever since Jasper hogtied you to that pole—"
"Wait. Jasper? As in, Sir Jasper?" Jade's eyes light up. "He did what to Erik now?"
"It's quite the harrowing tale," says Serena. "You see, Erik had thrown himself in front of—"
"You know what?" You cut her off before she can get started in earnest. "You're right. I do hate Gondolia. I think I'll stay here."
"Of course, honey. Nobody would dare force you to come," says Sylv so slyly that you realize this is in fact what he'd wanted all along. To what purpose, though, you've no idea. You can only hope Terran comes back in one piece.
"Yeah," Veronica grins like the drakee that caught the slime, "maybe we should leave Erik here so he can write love letters to his new girlfriend."
Serena claps her hands in delight. "Oh, so she did confess after all? How wonderful! She was rather pretty."
Behind Serena's back, Jade and Sylvando trade knowing looks, as a muscle in Terran's jaw pops. You're about to say something cutting when Terran stands.
"Everybody," he barks, holding out his arms, "Let's go. Now."
Tittering, the girls plus Sylvando all grab onto Terran's duster, and he casts the Zoom spell. There's a flash of light, then they're gone.
Then it's just you and Rab.
"I, uh, guess I'll start a fire," you offer, as the sky above you gently melts to shades of rose and gold.
Rab nods gratefully. He settles himself down to mediate, while in silence, you build a fire and prepare dinner. It's stew tonight, bits and bobs of whatever vegetables and mutton you have left in your pack. It's not Jade's cooking, maybe, but it fills the belly well enough; and besides, cooking gives you something to focus on that isn't the memory of your own face, twisted in a scream; or the sight of thick, strong fingers digging into your bared ass.
Sex isn't supposed to hurt. You're sure of this. And what does a girl, especially a girl living at an all-girl's school in the middle of nowhere, know about men fucking other men anyway?
Yet there's a voice in the back of your mind that you just can't silence. A voice that whispers: What if you're wrong?
Once, when you were a kid, you were taking some crates down to the hold of a ship, and you heard what sounded like a scuffle inside. You opened the door to see two men. But they weren't scuffling. Not exactly.
You don't remember your parents' names or faces, and you've forgotten Mia's favorite sea shanty, but you remember clear as day the curve of hips and buttocks as one slammed against the other, and the long line of one of the men's throats as he moaned, and moaned, and moaned. Sweet Yggdrasil, you'd give anything to wipe that memory clean.
Sometimes you still think of it when you touch yourself.
It can't hurt. It didn't hurt for them… Did it?
Is that what love between two men is supposed to be?
When you hold out a steaming bowl of stew for Rab, he startles.
"You okay?"
He nods. "Aye, aye. Just havin' a think. Thank ye for the grub."
You wave your spoon at him and tuck in.
Rab is more deliberate with his grub, letting the liquid slip off the spoon for a while. "How old are ye, laddie?"
"Dunno," you say around chunks of potato. "Old enough, I guess."
"Mebbe." He pushes some carrots around, then lets his spoon settle on the rim. "Can I ask ye somethin'?"
Your brows knit. Rab has never once asked you a question that didn't pertain to some clear and dire threat at hand, nor has he ever asked you the sort of question of which he'd need to first obtain your consent. Every last one of your thieving instincts is screaming at you right now to flee into the woods.
Then you chide yourself. This is Rab. Rab. He's a harmless old dote. How on earth could this go south?
"Sure," you take a bite of stew, "Hit me."
"You ever been with a lass?"
You nearly spit your spoonful across the fire. "Excuse me?"
Rab's eyes narrow shrewdly. "I'll take that as a no, then."
Wiping your chin, you glare at him across the fire. "Not sure what business this is of yours."
"No business, really. Just an idle thought."
"Well, stop thinking about it. Right now."
"Laddie, I've been around a long time. I've seen a lot. I know a lot. If ye ever had any questions about anythin'—"
"Stop right there." You cannot possibly imagine anybody you would be less interested in discussing this with than Terran's horny old grandad. "Get this through your mustache. I will never have any questions for you. About that. Ever."
Rab lifts his hands to the heavens in a saintly gesture that is completely at odds with the man sitting before you now. "Fine. Suit yerself. What does an ol' man like me know about the birds and the bees, anyhow? Except that, by my count, I'm the only one in our plucky lot of heroes who's actually made a bairn."
"I'm not interested in making any bairns," you snap.
"All the more reason for ye to ask someone who knows plenty about how not to make one, as well." He crosses his arms. "There's a lot more to makin' love than just spreadin' yer oats about willy-nilly, ye know."
Not for the first time in the last thirty seconds, you pray for Erdwin's Lantern to plunge from the sky and crush you, giving you the blessing of a swift, merciful death. "Please stop talking about your oats. Please. I beg of you."
"For starters," he continues as if you hadn't spoken at all, "I know ye ain't supposed to yell and paw at the lasses, no matter how bonny they are."
You give him a hard look. "So you're spying on me now?"
"Erik, laddie," he gives you a look so patient that you fingers twitch toward your daggers, "Everybody in Erdrea could hear ye goin' on earlier."
"But she—she—" You break off into a frustrated sigh, and scowl down at your stew. You've quite lost your appetite. "Nevermind."
Rab waits, but when it's clear you have no intention of speaking again, or perhaps ever, he sets his bowl of stew down by his feet. "Look, if ye dinnae wanna talk about it, that's alright. But ye oughta at least study up. Here, this'll get ye set right round."
Rab rummages around in his back pocket before retrieving an old pamphlet that's dog-eared and creased. He holds it out to you.
"Oh no." You wave your hands frantically. "No, no, no. I'm not taking any of your porn, old man."
"This isn't pornography," he gasps, insulted.
You shoot him a narrow look.
"It is erotica, laddie, and of the highest caliber, make no mistake about that." He holds it out to you with the gravity of a king bestowing a sword to his favorite knight. "Trust me. Take it."
With a steadying inhale, you obey, mostly because you can't bear to see him cradling the magazine like a precious child any longer. Pinching it between your forefinger and your thumb, you hold the thing at arm's length, like a particularly rancid sock. You've no idea where all those creases came from, or those stains. You don't want to know. "Thanks, uh, I guess."
Rab looks up at you expectantly. "What're ye waiting for? Go on. Open it."
You lick your lips. You can't say no, not now. There's no way out of this that you can see. No way that doesn't end with Rab face-down in a ditch and you fleeing toward the hills, never to be seen again.
Reluctantly, you open his gift.
It's pretty tame, as far as these things go. Or so you assume. Mostly it's just a lot of pictures of girls without their clothes on.
Rab leans toward you, awaiting your response.
"That's, uh," you search for something to say, "an awful lot of breasts."
"Ho ho! Indeed there is!" He beams. "A man of discerning taste, I see."
Dutifully, you flip a few more pages. "I guess I didn't realize they came in—" You hold the magazine up, and a centerfold three pages long unfurls, "—so many shapes?"
"Aye, laddie, there's more variety in the world than apples in an apple cart. Or," Rab leans over your shoulder and examines the picture you hold before you, "watermelons."
Rab sits back, pleased with himself. You wish you felt anywhere near so pleased, instead of vaguely seasick.
Terran had a girlfriend, once. So, does that mean that this is what Terran likes? Is this what he wants? Apples? Melons? How could you possibly give him this? How could you possibly ever compete with…with…fruit?
"Now, now. Don't fret, laddie. It's just a picture. They don't come like that in real life, ye know. Not usually, anyway." Rab smiles, the picture of beneficent grace. "Study up, and once yer familiar with the pieces, then ye can worry about how to put them all together."
"Oh." This is more fruit than you'd ever wanted to see in your entire lifetime. You'll probably never eat citrus again. You'd rather die of scurvy.
"But remember," Rab nods sagely, "there's things ye can learn from books, and things ye can only learn by puttin' the book down, and living a little."
"Rab, I, uh—"
You plan to tell him, really. To stop this farce before it goes any further. But in the firelight, Rab just looks so damn chuffed, like he's—proud of you.
A tangle between your ribs unknots. No one has ever looked at you like that. Not the Chief, not the priest back in Sniflheim, not even Sylvando. No one.
You don't remember your father. He's just a big hole in your heart and in your head, one that hurts too much to think about. But you've seen the way other fathers look at their children, and you've seen the way that Rab looks at Jade, and there's enough of a hint of both in Rab's smile right now to make your heart and your mind ache in ways you didn't know they still could.
Maybe that's why your curiosity overrules your defenses, and before you can stop yourself, you take a deep breath and let the words tumble from your mouth. "It's… not supposed to hurt, is it?"
Oh fucking hell. You can't believe you've asked this. You are going to die. You are actually going to die. Terran is going to come back from his wild night in Gondolia with a sackful of moonwort and boxes of weird little bee statuettes, only to find his best friend in a pine coffin, slain by an excess of embarrassment.
Rab's smile ebbs away.
"Dear me, laddie." The concern in his voice is unmistakable. "What sort of trash have you been reading? Of course it isn't meant to hurt. If yer hurtin' her, ye need to slow it down. A lot."
"Um." You don't know how to correct him about this, or if you even should. "Okay."
"Just relax. Ye'll do alright, so long as ye take yer time about it. Let 'er open up a little. Remember, laddie: It's supposed to be fun."
"Fun. Got it." You want to die. You want to launch yourself into the sun. You want to go back in time to prevent yourself from ever being born. And yet—you suppose—you also desperately want—need—to know. To be reassured. "And… uh… that goes for, um, me, too?"
He gives you a perplexed look.
"The hurting, I mean."
Rab crosses his arms and lets out his breath in a long, slow exhale. You've just about decided to hurl yourself into the fire when he speaks at last.
"Laddie, it isn't supposed to hurt anybody. If it's hurtin', yer doin' something very wrong." He considers the fire for a long moment. "If yer findin' that ye, er, aren't gettin' where ye'd like to get, then what ye oughta do is just give 'er a little—" he mimes squeezing his hands, "—and a little—" he waggles his fingers in a circular motion you can't begin to decipher, "—until she relaxes a bit." He gets a wicked gleam in his eye. "An' remember, a wee bit of spit works miracles. Ye can never get the ol' zing stick wet enough."
Instinctively you recoil. That is, until you recall, unbidden, an obscene joke that the Chief once made, one you haven't thought about in years, the punchline of which went something like: "Step 1, spit. Step 2," a thrusting motion with his hips.
But that doesn't make any sense either.
Fucking hell. This is a disaster. You never should have opened your stupid mouth.
"Och, buck up. I didn't mean to scare ye, laddie."
"I'm not scared," you lie. In truth, you haven't felt this terrified since Dundrasil, when a beguiled Terran was crawling toward you, begging, demanding that you suck his cock. Like that was something you even knew how to do. "There's – just a lot I don't know, I guess."
He smiles that fatherly smile at you again, and even now, it's incomprehensible what the sight does to you. It's Rab, gross old Rab—and yet, still a small, secret part of you unfolds like a map.
"It'll turn out alright, I promise," he offers. "Ye'll meet the right lass, an' the two of ye can take all the time ye need to sort yerselves out."
"I wish that were true," you mumble.
Rab tilts his head at you, and it's so much like Terran that you feel like you can almost imagine the young boy Rab must have been, eons ago. "What's this now?"
"It's just—well." You grab a stick and poke at the fire. "We don't have all the time in the world, do we? We've got a world to save, a Lord of Shadows to stop. And who knows if we'll all make it back in one piece."
"I see!" His mustache trembles as he breaks into a wide grin. "So ye're plannin' the ol', 'it could be our last night on Erdrea' trick? Ho ho," he slaps you on the shoulder, "Erik, ye dog."
"No—that's—I mean." Your blush threatens to ignite the threadbare wool of your tunic.
"Well, if that's yer plan, then ye oughta hit yer books as much as ye can," he nods to the magazine still in your hands, "An' just remember what yer auld pal Rab taught ye."
He waggles his fingers—you really wish he'd stop doing that—and you turn and slide the magazine into your pack so you don't have to watch him making those obscene gestures with—oh, wait, that's what he's doing with his hands.
You groan. Poor Rab. He really is clueless. You really should come clean, before he marries you off to one of the Beaty Queens.
And besides, you think with something approaching affection, he's Terran's grandpa, isn't he? He'd probably, you don't know, want you to ask his blessing first, or something.
"Rab," you begin, "It's not that I don't appreciate the, uh, pep talk. I do."
He grins at you knowingly. "Yes?"
"It's just—I—you see, I don't really—it's that—me and Terr—"
On the other side of camp, a bright light flashes, and from the shadows materialize Terran, Sylvando, the twins and Jade. Veronica looks a little woozy on her feet, while Jade and Serena are laughing about something or another.
"Darlings!" Sylvando swans over to the two of you, putting one hand on your and Rab's shoulders, as the others file past into the tent. "How we've missed you!"
For his part, Terran smiles at you shyly, as if he can barely bring himself to meet your eyes. It's hard to tell in the dark, but his cheeks look pink. At once, you're struck with how goddamn beautiful he is. Sure, he's always beautiful. But something about him tonight—or maybe it's something about you—makes you just want to drop to your knees before him. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," you say, voice as rough as sandpaper.
"Were we interrupting something?"
"Not at all!" Rab's eyes crinkle into half-moons. "Erik an' I were just havin' a wee chat."
"A chat that's over now," you say pointedly. You notice that, in one hand, Terran is holding a small, tinted vial, the kind that usually contain scented oils. You swear you've seen vials like that before—maybe at Ruby's? "What you got there?"
"Oh!" Terran's face turns crimson. He slips the vial into the pouch at his hip. "'S nothing. Hey, is that stew? Mmm. Smells great. Can I have some? I'm starving."
"Yeah." Your neck feels hot. There's something different about Terran, something you can't quite place; like maybe, in the few hours since you saw him last, he did some learning of his own. Briefly you wonder if Terran had a conversation anything like the one you just did. You hope not, for his sake. "There's plenty. Eat up."
"Oh," he says huskily, holding your gaze with his own, "I will."
Your mouth goes dry.
Was that—did he just—
Behind him, Sylvando and Veronica give each other a thumbs-up sign, and the tiny motion breaks you from your thoughts. You shake your head to dispel them. That's what spending too much time with Rab will do to you: It makes you you start imagining things again.
Terran startles as well, as if remembering where he was. "Here, give me a second to put my stuff down, then I'll come back out and get some grub."
"Sure thing."
Terran claps your shoulder, and you try not to become an absolute disaster when he smiles at you and does that head-tilt thing that makes your heart flop against your ribs like a landed fish. You succeed, mostly. Still, you can't bring yourself to tear your eyes from his, nor he from yours, not even when he runs into the tent pole, face-first.
Red-cheeked, he stumbles back and disappears into the tent. Your gaze lingers on the canvas flap, well after he's gone.
Maybe, you think, if it was with Terran, it wouldn't hurt. You'd take it slow; you'd do it right. You wouldn't want pain ever to be part of whatever wonderful things you two might one day share.
"Crivens," you hear Rab mutter to himself. "Robert, ye daft old fool."
You turn to see Rab shaking his head, the firelight carving inscrutable shadows across his face.
Exhaling, you will the semi in your breeches to settle and ask, "What's up now, old man?"
"Nothing." Rab walks over and deliberately removes the magazine from your pack. "Well, then. If ye won't be needin' this, mebbe I'll just take it back for safe-keeping, eh? There's a good lad."
He pats your knee awkwardly, with something almost like fondness in his eyes, then retreats back to his log by the campfire. You think he might be smiling, but it's hard to tell under all that mustache. Then he opens his well-loved digest, chuckles softly to himself, and begins to read.
**
The next time you visit L'Academie, you make your excuses and sneak off to the library. It takes you a good twenty minutes to work up the courage to check the bookshelf once more.
This time, the book Miriam has hidden is of a tall, broad-shouldered knight ejaculating loudly and in great quantities over what appears to be his queen regent. Sighing in what you assume is relief, you flip through the book with no particular interest, before returning it to the shelf and moving on.