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The day was warm and clear, so Nerevar insisted that Voryn join him outside in the courtyard gardens, at least for a while. There was nothing demanding their attention for several hours and Voryn could have stayed in bed and slipped back into the lazy, too-warm sleep of a summer’s morning, but Nerevar was bright and bursting with energy, and would not allow it.
“Come, Voryn, there’ll be time to lie in bed later,” he said, moving to pull the blankets from the bed and the mer still in it.
“No!” Voryn gripped the blankets tight. “You are cruel, my lord! I’m coming! Give me one more minute.”
At the sight of real desperation in Voryn’s face, Nerevar relented, laughing as he buckled the straps of the leather cuirass he liked to wear when sparring. He would never have guessed that someone as driven and fastidious as Voryn could also be so fond of lying around in bed, but then again Voryn did say he did his best thinking there.
“I’ll make it up to you later on. Now come, I know you want to watch me practise with Vehk.”
It was true, and Voryn blushed to be so exposed. Feeling keenly the heat of Nerevar’s gaze on him, he slipped from the bed and dressed, a light tunic and leggings all he would need on such a warm day. Thankful that he had remembered to bring a brush with him, he ran it quickly through his hair and twisted it into a bun. Behind him, Nerevar drew close, his chest warm against Voryn’s back, and with gentle fingers stroked the wispy hairs at the nape of his neck, right up to the tender spot behind his left ear.
“You must let me brush it for you, tonight.”
Voryn could not help but shiver with delight, both at the suggestion and at the promise of another night with Nerevar. Feeling bold, he reached back with one arm and wrapped it around Nerevar’s waist, pulling him closer.
“That would please me very much, my lord,” he replied, sighing as Nerevar pressed a kiss to the top of his shoulder.
Nerevar was effusive in his compliments and made sure that Voryn knew he found him beautiful, but Voryn struggled still to voice his own adoration for Nerevar. He had always been driven by introspection, not sharing, and wondered if it might cheapen them, perhaps, to attempt to put his thoughts into words, or if Nerevar might laugh at the strength of his feelings. Everything was so new that he felt scraped raw by it, and sometimes had to close his eyes and go into himself, at least until Nerevar kissed his eyelids tenderly and drew him out again.
Side by side, they stepped out of the palace and into the brightness of the day. This was the section of the gardens adjoining the royal suites, and so used most often as a refuge from the court by the members of the First Council. Sotha Sil preferred the quietude of his library and workshop to the gardens, but Almalexia was there already, walking about the flower beds arm-in-arm with one of her attendants. As they talked, rapidly and gesturing with their free hands, Voryn could see that the queen had a freshly picked flower, a blood-red camellia, tucked behind one ear.
Near the fountain, Vivec and Nerevar sparred, alternating between laughter and fierce concentration as they parried and thrust, sweating in the hot sun of late morning. Voryn spread Nerevar’s discarded overshirt over the grass to ward off ants and settled down with his notebook. He may not yet have found himself capable of telling Nerevar directly how he felt for him, but in his private writing he was able to unpick those threads within himself and weave them into something that might be worthy of sharing.
One day, war and tragedy would surely come again; this was Resdayn, after all, and the vipers were not only in the nest but all around them, too. One day even these lofty towers would be razed. Maybe, if the gods were supremely merciful, they would live to old age, and Voryn would have the privilege of seeing his brow fill with wrinkles… but he dared not presume. He felt overwhelmed by the need to remember it all, to make note of every look and every word, every caress between them; to immortalise the way Nerevar looked just now, with broad hands gripping the hilt of his sparring blade and hair damp with sweat, all gold and shining in the sun. Or the way he looked over at Voryn with a raised eyebrow and a sardonic smile when Vivec landed a particularly crafty blow, as if to ask, did you see? The sweetest moments he didn’t yet dare to put in writing, but only kept them in his mind, and went often to admire them as if they were works of art in a museum. If he could only capture every moment, he would guard them jealously, and that which he cherished would be never cut from memory.
The sound of laughter made him glance up to see Almalexia and her attendant walking toward him, looking like two butterflies in their light silk dresses. They sat down nearby and took out a bundled scarf, within which was an assortment of fruit that smelled so fresh it had probably been picked from the palace orchards that very day.
“Hello, Voryn,” said the queen, gold bracelets clinking together as she unwrapped the scarf. “You’re looking awfully serious. Would you like some grapes?”
She snapped off a branch for Voryn before returning to her conversation, head tilted toward her companion as they whispered, and Voryn, turning the bunch of grapes over in his hands, felt like laughing out loud, but instead he plucked a grape and put it in his mouth. He bit down, the juice flowed, and his mouth flooded with sweetness.