Interlude - 4. Chapter 4

I laughed as the water hit my face. He was usually so serious. But he was in a playful mood now—and that made me happy to my very soul. Of course, much of his mood probably had to do with the fact that it was such an unbearably hot day. Well, that in itself would hardly cause mirth and merriment! But we had come across a stream with a deep hole…

Actually I had found the hole accidentally. He had thrown back his head and nearly roared with laughter as I had waded innocently into the stream, certain of the best place to cross—and had promptly disappeared under the water, fully clothed and carrying my mandolin upon my shoulder. He had offered his hand to me, to help me back to shore—for he knew I was a poor swimmer, having been bred and born in the mountains where lakes were scarce and streams were shallow. But a devil prompted me and I took his hand—and pulled him in with me.

We had both scrambled to dry ground and had lain there laughing at each other’s bedraggled appearance. And the thought had been simultaneous. Why waste a nice cold stream? After all, the sun was high and hot and we had been walking for days. We took our clothes off and laid them on the nearby bushes to dry. I lingered a bit, pretending to fuss over my mandolin, but I was really watching him as he walked into the stream. The scars on his back were like white lines against his tanned skin. I winced as I saw them—as I always did. That anyone could hurt him, that anyone could deliberately cause him pain… I felt my throat tightening at the thought. But his life had not been easy. Not that mine had been filled with bread and honey either! But no one had ever beaten me. Well, not with anything but a fist—and they had all been fair fights, most of which I had started. But he had been beaten regularly, “kept in his place” as they had said. He had told me about it shortly after we had first met.

**

I had just been thrown out of the local inn for fighting (I did that a lot, bad temper). And I mean literally thrown out! I landed right at his feet. He caught my mandolin as the landlord threw it at my head. I was glad he had caught it. It was an expensive one. I had spent almost all of the money my father had given me on that mandolin. It was finely crafted and turned even my poor playing into music that could soothe the most savage breast or delight the most dismal soul. I would never have been able to replace it.

He had given me his hand to help me rise (I wasn’t at my steadiest at that moment) and I had nearly pulled him down on top of me for his efforts. “Careful!” he had cautioned with a laugh, “It would be a shame to have me toppling down on top of you! Especially since I would most likely land upon this beautiful instrument and crush it to bits! Then where would you be?”

I laughed. “I would be cast adrift upon the world without a penny to my name and with no means to earn another. I would be utterly undone!” Drunk I might be, but my tongue was still glib, still smooth. It was, after all, how I made my way in the world.

I stood up and smiled hazily at him. I swayed slightly, my feet unsteady from drink. Then I noticed his eyes. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. Theywere a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. And I caught my breath. They were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen in all my life. But that wasn’t what caught my breath. It was that I knew those eyes. I had seen them before, though I could not for the life of me recall where. But I couldn’t look away, so strong was the pull, so overwhelming was the sense of familiarity. I just stood there and stared.

He raised one dark brow at me, questioning. I noticed my hand was still in his. I had not let go when I stood, and neither had he. “If you keep looking into my eyes like that, I’m going to think you want to kiss me.” His voice was teasing, a slow, amused smile spreading across his lips.

And as I slipped into a drunken stupor, I heard myself reply, “I do.”

**

When I awoke, my head hurt. I opened my eyes and was grateful for the darkness that surrounded me. I raised my head to look around, and groaned as things started spinning around me.

“Lie back down before you wretch all over my bed.” The voice was deep, soft and was accompanied by a hand on my chest, pushing me backwards. I did not argue. A damp cloth was placed upon my forehead by a very gentle hand and I heard myself sigh as the coolness began to soothe my throbbing head.

I raised my hand to my face, to touch my eye. It felt swollen shut—which was probably contributing to the pain in my head. I vaguely remembered the fight that had gotten me the swollen eye. My memory of getting thrown out of the inn was a little clearer, but not much. I looked up at him. He was looking down at me, a concerned but slightly amused expression on his face. I glanced quickly around, trying to determine exactly where I was. I was in his bed, according to him. But where was his bed? But it was dark and my eyes were not the best right now. I gave up trying to figure it out.

“Where am I?” I asked wearily, closing my eyes again. I really wanted to sleep and I wondered why I had even woken up.

“You are in my bed.” The tone of his voice as he answered was gently teasing, and familiar.

I frowned. “I assumed as much when you suggested that I not wretch all over it.” The pounding in my head lent annoyance to my voice. “Where is your bed?”

He chuckled slightly, but replaced the cloth over my forehead with a fresh, cool one. “My bed is in my wagon.”

Wagon? Only wagons I had ever seen that people actually slept in were in Gypsy caravans. I opened my eyes to stare up at him. “You a Gypsy? Can’t be. Gypsies don’t have green eyes.” My words sounded foolish, even to me.

He laughed heartily. “So I have been told all my life! But we are Romany, not Gypsy—that, too, I have been told all my life.” He opened the door to a small cabinet built onto the wall of the wagon. He withdrew a jar containing something that looked like white powder. He opened it spooned some of it into a glass. He added some water from a pitcher—the same water that undoubtedly cooled the cloth that soothed my head. He stirred the powder into the water. I watched it swirl around, realizing that I was thirsty as hell.

He held the glass out to me. “Drink this and you will feel much better.”

I eyed the glass suspiciously. “What is in it?”

He smirked. “Poison.”

I grinned and took the glass. “Good! I feel like I should be poisoned right about now!” I raised the glass to my lips, sniffing slightly. It smelled sweet. I shrugged and downed the liquid in one gulp. I gagged a little. It did not TASTE as sweet as it smelled! “What the hell was that?”

He laughed a little. “Just some herbs. Secret Romany recipe. If I tell you, I will have to cut out your tongue.”

I grimaced, but then grinned. “I would miss my tongue.” My tongue was instrumental in how I made my living. My mandolin and my voice. Without them, I would be reduced to abject servitude. Well, not quite, perhaps. My father was not precisely poor. Not that he had any great fondness for me, but he would hardly let me starve. But I would have to return to him then. And that was NOT something I was ever going to do.

He smiled slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. “I’m sure others would miss it also.”

The light from the lantern cast soft shadows on his face. I found myself watching the flickering light dance across his face, watching it illuminate his eyes. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. I was caught by them… caught by a sense of familiarity that was vague, almost unformed.

“How is your head?” he all but whispered the words. He lifted the cloth from my forehead and gently rubbed his fingers along the curve of my left brow. Odd that he knew exactly where it had hurt the most. Although my left eye being swollen shut might have given him a clue.

I considered his question for a moment. I touched my eye again. My eye hurt, felt sore to the touch. I moved my head. It didn’t throb and the room did not spin. “It is better,” I answered, a note of surprise in my voice.

He nodded and smiled again, that slow smile. I reached up to touch his lips. It was an instinctive gesture. I didn’t plan it, didn’t think about it. It just seemed…right. He covered my hand in his. His hand felt warm and I could feel the heat from him traveling through my hand, up my arm and through my entire body.

“My name is Anton, by the way.” His eyes had not left my face. Now they looked into mine. He ran his hand slowly over my forearm, his thumb and fingers caressing my skin gently. I could hear a strange combination of wisdom and wonder in his voice as he continued. “The Romany have many beliefs you English would not understand. They are part of us, taught to us from birth, imbedded in our souls even before then. One thing we believe is that our souls are not new, that they have lived many lives before us and will live many lives after us—until the final day when the god of all things calls us home.“ His voice was deep, melodious—and I noticed that he spoke with a slightly different accent. No, it was more of a difference in intonation, really, than pronunciation. His words rose and fell at slightly different points than I was used to hearing. It was almost melodic—and it captured me, held me, played to my natural musical ear.

“Sometimes two souls become so connected in one life, that they seek each other in other lives. They wander through their existence searching, longing for the one they need.” He shook his head, and I could see sadness in his eyes. “Sometimes this is a tragic thing, because sometimes they do not find each other and spend and entire lifetime aching for their other half. I have known people who have so ached—right unto the moment of their death. For them, death is welcome.”

His hand still caressed my arm, but he reached up with his other hand and traced the curve of my cheek with one finger, brushed my lips lightly. “But sometimes this is a wondrous thing, because sometimes one soul finds the other.” His smile changed, seemed almost rueful. “I do not begin to understand why it is that some find each other and others do not. This is known only by the god of all things. And I also do not understand why a soul chooses a particular body to be born into. But I accept that all things are with purpose.” He paused and just stared into my eyes for what seemed an eternity.

I felt as though his eyes were searching my soul, seeking every detail of my soul’s existence, past and present. A chill swept through me as his words took on meaning, as they played underneath that vague tug of familiarity I had first sensed in the yard of the inn.

“What is your name?” His whisper was so soft I barely heard it.

“Devin.” I matched his whisper.

“Devin, your soul is the one mine seeks. I do not know how I know this, but I know it more surely than I know anything. I felt it when our eyes first met. I felt it when I heard your voice. I knew it for certain when your hand touched mine.”

I stared at him. My lips parted to speak, but I had no breath to force the words from my throat. I sensed the truth in his words. I had felt it when I had first looked into his eyes. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. And every time I looked into them I felt a pull, a reaching…

And as his lips touched mine, I knew his words to be true.

**

I noticed the scars on his back when he rose to dress the following morning. They were white against the tan of his skin. I winced as I saw them. I must have made some sound also, because he turned to look at me, one eyebrow raised in question. He must have read the question in my eyes, for he returned to his bed and sat on the edge, his back slightly to me. I reached up and ran a finger along one of the scars.

“Who did this to you?”

His eyes hardened briefly. “The husband of my mother.”

“Why?” I traced each scar, from each beginning to each ending. There were more than I cared to count, so I did not count them.

“Because the husband of my mother is not my father. I am not his son and I needed to know my place.” He smiled, and it was a bitter smile. “You noticed yourself that my eyes are notRomany. The caravan of my mother’s family passed through the grounds of a nobleman. His son found my mother’s beauty irresistible. A gypsy girl is nothing. What can she say to a nobleman’s son? Of course, he found her irresistible for a short time only. She was heavy with shame when she was wed to her husband.” He paused and I could see memories walking across his face, flickering in his eyes.

“It would not do for me to think myself better than the rest of our family because my father had been a son of a nobleman. And he reminded me of this often. My eyes were a constant reminder that non-Romany blood flowed in my veins. If I met his gaze, he would beat me. He would curse my soul and thrash me with the whip he used on his horses.”

He took a deep breath, and his soft lips drew a hard line. “As soon as I was able to make my own way, I left them. He tried to stop me, tried to make me too weak from being beaten to be able to go.” He stiffened and a look of pride and determination made him seem to fill the wagon with his presence. “But I was a man, and he could no longer make me a boy. I took this wagon, the wagon of the husband of my mother, and I left him lying on the ground. This time it was he who was too weak from being beaten to rise.”

**

I smiled at the memories of our early days together. He had never lain with a man before that first night with me. Yet our bodies had joined as perfectly and as easily as if they had been crafted as a pair. We fell together naturally in other things as well. He was a storyteller, weaving worlds of wonder with his words. I was a singer of ballads and teller of epic tales. Sometimes I would play softly while he captivated the village children with his tales of foreign lands and magical creatures. I would listen to him as I played and I often found myself losing myself in the melody of his voice. But if I missed a note or two while so transfixed, not one would notice—for they were also held captive by his presence.

We enjoyed several years of bounty. We had enough food in our bellies, enough wine and ale to satisfy our thirst, enough coin of the realm to purchase comforts at the inns along our traveled road. And most of all, we had each other. Two souls that had found each other out of all the immense number of people on this world. I would sometimes wake up early in the morning just to watch him as he slept, just so I could see his eyes the first moment he opened them to the world.

But lately things had not been so bountiful. It seemed that the people in the small villages had no use for travelers. While we were not precisely driven away, we were eyed askance. The larger towns had always afforded us a ready source of income. There was usually something going on, and crowds gathered readily for traveling entertainment. But there was a sense of unease in the streets and no matter where we stopped, only a few people at most gathered to listen—and they seemed to be looking over their shoulders all the time. Even the inns did not seem to want our patronage. While they did not turn away our coin, they made it clear we should move on as quickly as possible. But that was not a problem long, for our coin became scarce and we soon ceased to squander the few coins we had on creature comforts.

Over the past month, things had taken a real turn for the worse. With our bellies sometimes going empty for a day, maybe two, we had finally sold the horse and wagon for enough coin to feed ourselves for the summer. Hopefully, our fortunes would improve before winter and we would be able to replace our transportation and our shelter. But Anton never complained about our circumstances—and neither did I. We had each other, after all. And as he often joked, if we starved, we starved together.

**

“Are you going to stare at me all day?” His tone was amused. “Or come play with me?” There was a hint of a proposition in that last bit. Again he splashed me.

I gave myself a mental shake as the water hit my face and smiled broadly at him. “I COULD stare at you all day… but it would be much more fun to play with you.” I swam over to him and made as if to kiss him—then pushed him under the water. He retaliated by grabbing my ankles and pulling me under with him. When we came to the surface, his lips were on mine.

I wound my arms around his neck, partly to keep my head above water—he could reach the bottom and still be above water, I could not. I parted my lips slightly, and he slipped his tongue between them. Our tongues touched and I as I tasted the sweetness of him I was amazed anew at how such a small thing as a kiss could be so overwhelming. It had never been so with anyone else. Yet when his lips touched mine, as soon as the taste of him was on my tongue, I could no longer see anything, hear anything, smell anything, taste anything, feel anything, sense anything but him. He absorbed me completely with just a kiss.

Yet it was more than a kiss that I wanted. I wrapped my legs around him, rubbing my self suggestively against him. He chuckled against my lips and I could feel it vibrate through his body. His arms tightened around me and he carried me to the shore. The water lightened me, but his life had made him strong. He could pick me up easily—and had done so on more than one occasion when I had drank too deeply. And there had been other occasions as well… such as this one.

He made a pretense at dropping me as we reached the shore, but easily caught me and hoisted me up over his shoulder. I laughed. “Anton! One of these days you are going to really drop me!” It was a little trick of his he liked to do—to remind me how big and strong he was, most likely.

He slapped me on my behind. “The day I can no longer throw you over my shoulder will be the day I die!” He turned his head and kissed my bottom—his lips hot against my skin. I smiled as I felt the heat from his lips spread through my body. Truly amazing what one kiss from him could do…

He set me down on the soft grass and sat down, pulling me down beside him. He ran a finger along the curve of my cheek. “Devin, do you know how much I love you?”

I looked up at him—it seemed that I was always looking up at him. The sun was high in the sky and made the beads of water on his skin glisten like jewels. I looked into his eyes. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to tell him that no matter how much he loved me, it could not possibly be as much as I loved him. I wanted to tell him that nothing in my life before him had any meaning, that he filled my senses with the slightest touch of his hands, of his lips. I wanted to tell him that I would never want to live one day without him. But I had no breath; his eyes took that away from me. I could only nod my head stupidly.

But he understood. I knew he had read everything in my heart, everything in my soul as his eyes had looked into mine. He always did.

The smell of the clover in the grass tickled my nose as he gently entered me. I arched my back slightly, instinctively pushing back against him, trying to force him deeper inside me. “Easy, Devin” he whispered as he leaned down to kiss the back of my neck. “I want to take my time. Don’t rush things.”

His breath was hot against my skin, which was still cool from the stream—and the contrast sent a chill through my body. My response to him was a moan that came from deep inside my body. He was always so gentle, sometimes too gentle. I wanted him to be rougher sometimes, to take what was his to take. But I tried to still myself, to keep my body from tensing on him, to keep myself from trying to force him to an urgency he did not want. I wanted more than anything to please him—my own pleasure was secondary.

He pushed himself deeper into me, slowly filling me with his hardness. I felt my body tensing despite my best efforts. It wasn’t the tension of pain, though his size made pain an unavoidable partner with pleasure. It was the tension of anticipation, of trying to hold my own desires in check so that he could pleasure himself as slowly as it pleased him.

He groaned as I tightened around him. “Devin, you will make me come before I have satisfied you.”

Satisfied me? Didn’t he realize after all this time that he satisfied me with his touch alone? That a brush of his lips against mine sated my hunger as thoroughly as a Hunter’s Moon feast?

I did my best to explain this to him—my words coming out in a combination of gasps and groans—as he slowly pulled himself almost completely from me and then pushed himself back inside me. His thrusts were long, even strokes, slow but firm. But as his pace quickened and his stokes shortened all attempts at rational speech ended. My fingers tore chunks of grass from the earth as he thrust harder into me. I heard my voice—it had to be my voice, though I had no sense of speaking—calling out his name, begging him to thrust harder. And for the first time since we had been together, he did as I begged. He pushed himself into me with such force I saw stars behind my eyes. My entire body throbbed in response. I could feel my muscles tightening against the onslaught of his flesh, could feel my body shaking—as much from pleasure as pain. I felt him shudder within me as he reached his climax.

He slowly let his body rest on mine. As always, he didn’t press his full weight upon me, but made sure our bodies touched as completely as possible. It was his way of completing the connection between us, his way of acknowledging that we were well and truly one heart, one body, one soul. He kissed the back of my neck lightly. I could feel his breath slowing, calming. But mine was anything but calm. My body was trembling from head to toe. I tried to slow my breathing, to still my body. I did not want him to notice this state in me. I did not want him to think he had not satisfied me.

But Anton seldom missed any signals my body sent. He slid off of me and turned me to face him. He smiled into my eyes and pressed his lips to mine. I moaned and slid my tongue into his mouth. I meant to rub my tongue sensually against his, meant to massage it slowly, to savor the feel of him, the taste of him. But my desire for him was NOT sated. I thrust my tongue hard against his, my fingers wrapping around strands of his hair, holding his mouth tightly against mine. My breath was not slowing, it was quickening. I felt his hand run slowly down my side, felt its heat against my hip. I gasped against his lips as he took my swollen flesh in his hand and massaged it gently.

I felt his lips smile against mine. He pulled away from my kiss, slowly, his lips brushing lightly against mine in a sweet, lingering caress. Then he looked into my eyes. I caught my breath—because no matter how many times his eyes met mine, no matter how many times I gazed into those beautiful eyes, I could not help but feel swept away by them, drawn into them as if they were the one thing in my life that could save me from being lost forever.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he placed a finger over my lips. “As much as I live for every word form your lips, my Devin…” he began, his voice barely more than a whisper, “it is not your words I want now.”

I made a small, whimpering sound as he pulled away from me, removed his warmth from me. He stretched, reaching his arms above his head, extending his legs fully. It was as if every muscle in his body flexed. I was transfixed by that sight. Even as lean as we both had become, he was beautiful to the eyes. Then he laid down on the grass, on his stomach, and stretched again. His shoulders seemed to grow broader than possible as he folded his arms in front of him and rested his head upon them. He smiled slowly as he looked up at me from under his long, dark lashes and raised one dark brow. “Do you know what I want, Devin?” he asked softly.

My heart heaved in my chest. I exhaled a breath so hot and sharp that I thought it would cut my very throat. I reached out my hand to touch him. It was shaking badly!

He laughed gently and unfolded one of his arms and reached out to rub my throbbing flesh. I twitched from his touch—it felt so hot against my skin. “Devin…” he said in a coaxing tone. He slid a little closer to me, pressing his thigh against mine.

I ran my hand down over his buttocks—and he pushed himself against my hand as he pulled me gently, urging me to him. I groaned and he parted his thighs, offering me a clear, unmistakable invitation. It was one he had not offered before—not in the three years since I had first fallen at his feet. I moved between his legs, his hand still wrapped around my flesh. I leaned forward and he pressed me against him. He released me and folded his arm back under his head and sighed. As he sighed, he raised himself slightly and rubbed himself against me. “Devin…” the coaxing tone had turned to a soft plea.

My hands shook as I positioned myself to enter him. I had never done this with him. I wanted him so badly every muscle in my body ached for him. But I didn’t want to hurt him. Again, he read my mind.

He reached his hand back again, this time rubbing my bottom firmly, pulling me closer against him. “Now, Devin…please…”

There was not a force on earth or in the heavens that could make me refuse him now. And he knew that of me—knew I could refuse him nothing.

I pushed myself gently into him, slowly, only a very little. I felt his body tense and his hand left me, to grab at the same grass I had torn from the earth moments ago. I pulled slightly from him, and teased him a bit, using just the tip of my swollen erection. He tensed around me at first—and I fought the urge to come right then. Then with a deep breath, he folded his arm back under his head and I felt his body relax. I moved slowly inside him, and I could feel his body fighting the urge to tense. But his self-control was far greater than mine. He kept himself relaxed as I buried my full length in him.

I paused, taking several deep breaths, trying very hard to control the shudder that threatened to ripple through my body too soon. But I wanted him so very much. I pulled back slowly, feeling the moist heat of him massaging me. I pushed back into him and he moaned deeply, pushing himself back against me, urging me deeper inside him.

Any semblance of self-control I possessed left me at that moment. I took him hard, as hard as I wanted him to take me. I held nothing back, my thrusts were hard and deep and my pace urgent, hungry. I moaned his name, moaned my love for him with every thrust. I wanted to make myself part of him. I felt overwhelmed by the feeling of being inside of him—almost as overwhelmed as I felt when he was inside of me.

A feeling of complete and utter satisfaction swept over me as I released inside of him. A shudder of heat rippled slowly through every muscle, every nerve of my body. I collapsed on top of him, my body shaking, my breath coming in short gasps. I felt a burning at the back of my eyes and was surprised to feel tears slipping down my cheeks and on to his skin. I moved off him and turned away. I didn’t want him to see those tears.

But, of course, he could always sense my every emotion. He put his arms around me and turned me back to him. Without saying a word, he wiped the tears from my cheeks with his fingers and kissed where they had been. He tightened his arms around me and held me, held me so close that it felt as though our bodies were one.

“I love you, Anton.” I whispered the words against his chest. “I don’t want to live one single day without you.

“I will be with you until eternity ends, my Devin. Even death will not part us.” He spoke so softly I barely heard him, but as I fell asleep in his arms, the sun still high in the sky, I felt those words wrap around me, hold me safe. And I knew them to be true.

**

We had plenty of coin in our pockets now. But summer was nearly over and soon the nights would be cold. We both felt the press of winter, felt its cold breath on the back of our necks as we walked along the road. The road was showing signs of heavy travel, deep ruts lined both sides and the dirt was packed hard. I smiled and put my arm around Anton’s waist. “Looks like a town coming. The road is too well traveled for a simple village.” My voice held enthusiasm.

A town was always a welcome sight. There was always something going on in a town, a lot of people about. And people would always gather around us and listen to me play and sing and to Anton tell stories. And if the last few towns had been less welcoming than usual, that couldn’t last forever. This town would be profitable. We would earn enough here to buy another wagon and a horse or ox to pull it. And so I told Anton, my voice warming to the prospect.

He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close to him, planting a quick, light kiss on top of my head. “Devin, you are always so optimistic.” He smiled down at me. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

I grinned at him, then tried to turn it into a frown—but my lips nearly split from the effort. “No, you haven’t. If you keep forgetting like that I will have to find someone who will not neglect me so.”

He smirked at me. “Go ahead. Find someone who will put up with you! And you better be sure he is strong enough to haul that sweet little bottom of yours out of trouble when you get too deep in your cups! You are not all THAT light, you know! Like lifting a small horse over my shoulder.”

I gave up on the frown. “And you just LOVE my little cheeks so close to your lips!” I was rewarded with a sound slap on my little cheeks.

It was good to laugh. There hadn’t been much to laugh about lately. But things were bound to turn around. They always did.

**

Anton stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing.

“What is it, Anton?” I followed his gaze, but I didn’t need to see what he was looking at. My nose wrinkled. “Smells like something burning.”

Anton nodded and started walking again, but more slowly. His brow was furrowed now, and his lips tight.

I placed a hand on his arm. “What is wrong, Anton?”

He covered my hand with his. “It is death, Devin. I smell death.”

All I could smell was smoke. But I had come to accept that Anton’s senses were sharper than mine. I stopped. “Should we turn around? We have enough coin to keep us fed for some time, Anton.”

He shook his head, as if to shake something from it. Then he looked down at me and smiled. “No, my Devin. I think we should go on. I am being fanciful. Doubtless I am hungry!” He laughed. “Perhaps there is a good inn ahead where we can spend some of that coin on a good hearty meal, enough ale for both of us to drink ourselves senseless and a nice bed for the night.” He raised one brow and grinned. “It has been a long time since I have had you in a bed, my Devin.”

I returned his grin. “That would be a change.” I stretched up and kissed him. “Something soft for my knees…” I shot him a look from under my eyelashes. He laughed.

“Devin, you keep looking at me like that and your knees are going to get very bruised very quickly!” He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him. We continued down the road. I put my arm around his waist, wanting the warmth and security of his him. I was uneasy. And I could feel that he was also. But neither of us would admit that to the other.

As the day went on, the smell of burning grew stronger, as did our sense of unease. I clung closely to Anton. He slowed his long-legged pace to match mine, to let me stay close to him. But by now, even I could smell something wrong in the acrid smoke. There was a sickening sweetness underneath it.

We saw the first of the dead animals just before nightfall. It was a horse. It was barely off the road, as if it had been hastily shoved out of the way. That was odd in itself. Horse carcasses would usually fetch a decent price. Not many could afford to just leave the carcass by the side of the road. The stench was unimaginable, though, and we hurried by.

The other animals we saw weren’t as noteworthy—mostly rabbits and an occasional cat or dog—but it was the sheer number of them that caused notice. And the fact that their carcasses were untouched by scavengers was also odd. A sense of strong foreboding started to take hold of me. From time to time I would glance up at Anton, and I could see he felt it too.

Still, our hearts lightened when we caught our first sight of the inn. We had both been walking for so long and the road we had followed had been dusty and we were thirsty. We had passed several streams along the way and a couple of wells, but with all the dead animals about neither of us had wanted to venture a drink from them. An inn promised food, drink and a bed—all of which would be welcome indeed.

As we drew closer, things started to appear out of place. There was a large bonfire off to the side of the inn, unwontedly close to the stables. And again, that acrid smoke was tainted with an undertone of sickening sweetness. My grip on Anton tightened involuntarily. He smiled down at me, but I could see the concern in his eyes.

As we entered the yard, we stopped. My empty stomach almost wretched. I could see the bonfire clearly now. And I could see legs sticking up, burning, some little more than charred bones, but some clearly identifiable as having belonged to a horse, or a cow—I could discern several of each. As we stood there a young lad wearing a handkerchief over his face threw what looked to be a cat onto the fire. It crackled and burned as it hit the flames. I turned from Anton and heaved the meager contents of my stomach onto the ground.

Anton was instantly by my side, his hand on my back as I wretched uncontrollably. He helped me to my feet once I had done. Neither of us spoke as we entered the inn. Something was very wrong.

The landlord looked at us askance, staying well back from us. When Anton asked for a room for the night, instead of immediately taking the coin proffered, he scrutinized us carefully, his eyes traveling over the length of both of us. I felt myself getting annoyed at the intensity of his gaze. I must have tensed, must have given evidence of my thoughts because Anton laid a hand on my shoulder.

“I suppose yer can ‘ave the one at the top o’ the stairs” he said grudgingly. He gestured for Anton to put the coin on the table. He didn’t reach for it until Anton had withdrawn his hand.

“We’ve been traveling long, might we get some good strong drink and a warm meal?” Anton’s voice was polite, but the landlord reacted as if he had demanded the contents of his purse.

“There’s naught but some stew from las’ meal. If yer wan’ I’ll bring it up t’ yer. The public room’s closed—not that yer would wan’ t’ be mixin’ wi’ others jus now.” He looked over his shoulder, as if fearing something behind him. He clearly meant something, but I had no idea what. I opened my mouth to ask him, but Anton’s grip on my shoulder tightened.

“That would be much appreciated, thank you.” He gave me a gentle push toward the stairs.

Once in the room, I turned to him. “Well that was odd!” I exclaimed. “Seemed as though he didn’t really want our patronage. Did you see how he looked at both of us? As though we might have something foul and suspect growing somewhere on our person! And why is the public room closed? And why WOULDN’T we want to be mixing with others? It’s how we live, for God’s sake! I—“ Anton silenced my mouth with a soft kiss. I sighed against his lips and dropped my things to the floor, my arms slipping around his neck.

When we broke to catch our breath, Anton smiled at me, shaking his head. “You know, my Devin, that is sometimes the ONLY way to silence you.” He ran his finger along the line of my cheek. I covered his hand in mine and smiled into his eyes. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. I never ceased to be amazed at his eyes. I reached up and brushed my fingers over the corners of his eyes. They had the power to grasp my heart and pull it from my chest. As if reading my mind, he rested his hand on my chest, just over my heart. He took my hand that still held his and placed it over his heart. No words were needed.

The landlord soon arrived with a tray with two good-sized bowls of steaming stew, a couple of crusts of bread—and two wonderfully large tankards of ale. He left them on the small table and hurried from the room. I stared after him. “Odd fellow, that one.” I commented, shaking my head. Anton nodded over the top of his tanker of ale. I laughed. “Don’t be drinking it down in one swallow—I’ll not share mine with you!” I saw him raise his brow and I laughed because I knew he knew I would share ANYTHING with him.

The stew was actually very tasty, though the bread was a bit stale. Still, it was a good hearty meal and it felt good to eat our fill. Our tankards empty, our bellies full, we sat down on the bed. It was most likely NOT the most comfortable bed in the inn—but it felt like heaven to us. And despite my joking about having something soft beneath my knees, we were both content to merely lie in each others arms for the night. Anton drifted off to sleep first—he always did. His arms were wrapped around me and I pushed myself back against him, fitting my body to his as closely as possible. I kissed his arm lightly and sighed as I followed him to sleep.

**

We were both startled awake by the sound of a woman shrieking. “Bubo! God save us!” She shrieked it over and over until the words became clear even to our sleep-clouded ears.

“Mother of God!” the words seemed torn from Anton’s lips and they shocked me—both because I had never heard such fear in his voice, and because I had never heard him utter an oath. I looked at him. In the light of early dawn, I could see his face was pale, as if all the blood had drained away from it.

I put one hand on his shoulder, the other on his thigh. “What is it, Anton? What is wrong?”

He looked at me and his eyes held fear he did not try to disguise. “The woman… she said ‘bubo.’” I looked at him in confusion. He looked down at my hand on his thigh and he placed his hand over mine. He rubbed his fingers over mine. I could see they were shaking. I waited for him to continue. I could see him gathering his thoughts.

“My people tell of such a thing.” When he spoke his voice was unsteady, his tone hushed. “A bubo” he said the word in almost a whisper, “is a foul swelling on the body.” He touched briefly the area high inside his thigh, then under his arm. “It is filled with the pus of evil and even lancing does not bring relief from its poison.” He shook his head. “And once it appears, death soon follows.” He looked into my eyes and I could see the depth of his fear. And I felt a chill pass through me. I had never seen such fear in his eyes. Anton feared nothing—neither man nor beast.

“And it is not an easy death, my Devin. My grandfather spoke of the bubos erupting, spewing their foulness, spreading a blackness over the skin. And then there is a great coughing of blood.” He crossed himself, something I had NEVER seen him do. “It is said that once a bubo has appeared in a village, a plague will spread—the village is damned by the god of all things. All will die.”

I could feel my body shaking, could feel his fear spreading to me. I put my arms around him and pressed my face against his neck. His arms went around me and held me more tightly than they had ever done.

“It’s all right, Anton,” I whispered against his skin. “I won’t let it hurt you.” My words sounded ridiculous even to me. I knew nothing about this sickness he spoke of. But I could see the fear in him and knew it must be a terrible thing to affect him so. I just wanted to reassure him that everything would be all right, that nothing would happen to him.

“I promise, Anton. I will keep it from you.” I had no idea how I would do that, but I could not keep the promise from my lips.

His arms tightened around me. “My Devin,” he whispered against my hair, “That is a promise you cannot keep. Only the god of all things can promise that—and he makes no such promises.”

We sat there in silence, listening to the shrieking of the woman and the sounds of panic that spread through the inn. The dead animals on the road, the bonfire in the yard, the landlord’s unwonted scrutiny—all signs we had not read, had not known to read.

**

We left the inn in silence. There was panic all around us, people grabbing their belongings and fleeing. One woman—we assumed it was the one who had been shrieking, was weeping alone in the yard. Beside her, lay a man—not much different in age from either of us. We could see the mottling of his skin even from a distance, could see a trickle of blood and spittle at the corner of his mouth. Anton crossed himself again as we turned away.

Her pleas for help went unheeded. I looked back at her and paused. How was it that no one would help her? Anton took my arm and led me away. “There is nothing that can be done for her or the poor soul upon the ground. Only the god of all things can help them, my Devin.”

It was with heavy hearts and heavier steps that we left the yard of the inn and headed back down the road in the direction from which we had come. There was no point in going on to the town. The woman and the man had worn the clothes of town dwellers. It was like as not they had come fleeing the plague that had caught them in the yard of the inn.

As we walked, I glanced up at Anton and caught him looking at me with such sadness in his eyes that my breath caught in my throat. I could see his thoughts in his eyes. It was not for himself he feared. No, Anton feared nothing for himself. But I knew there was ONE thing he feared: losing me. And that fear was in his eyes now. A chill passed through me as I found the same fear, as I faced my own fear of losing him.

**

It was little more than a full day later that I noticed a change in Anton’s steps. I noticed he had slowed, and that his long stride—a stride I often struggled to match—had shortened. I suggested we stop and rest as we came to a small stream running beside the road. He looked at me gratefully as we set our packs down. He sat on the grass by the stream and leaned back, his eyes closing. I noticed his face was flushed. I laid my hand upon his forehead and found it burning. I said nothing but went to the stream and wet a cloth. I returned to him and gently laid it over his forehead.

He smiled. “I remember, my Devin, when I first laid a cool cloth over your forehead. It was in my wagon, the first night—when we found each other.” He laid back on the grass and sighed. “That is a night I will remember to the end of this life and into the next. I never expected to find you, my Devin. I thought I would be one of those who would search forever for their missing half.”

He opened his eyes and reached up and touched my cheek. “Then you looked into my eyes and I saw my soul looking back at me.”

He coughed suddenly and I felt a chill pass though me. I removed the cloth from his forehead. It was hot, burning. I went to the stream and rinsed it in the cool water. He was sitting up when I returned, watching me. I met his eyes and the chill passed through me again. His eyes were so beautiful. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. And they were looking at me so hungrily that I nearly fell to my knees. It was as if he were trying to absorb me through those eyes, to drink me in, to pull me into him completely. I couldn’t look away from that gaze. I didn’t want to look away. I wanted to let myself slip into those eyes, wanted my soul to slip into his soul.

He broke the gaze finally, turning his head away and rising slowly to his feet. I could see pain in his face as he rose. I reached out to him. He pushed my hand away. “No, my Devin.” He smiled sadly at me. “You mustn’t touch me, mustn’t be close to me now. I am feverish and,” he touched the area high on the inside of his thigh—an area I had caressed with my lips many times, “I have a bubo.”

I took a step toward him and opened my mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. “No, my Devin. For once you must listen to me.” He smiled and I could see the love in his smile. “You are always so headstrong, my Devin. No way is the right one but yours.” He paused and his smile faded. “But I am right in this, though you will not see it. You must leave me, my Devin. I will die soon. There is nothing you can do for me, though I know you would give me the last drop of your life. But you must leave. If you stay with me, you will also die. If you leave me, you may die also, but there is a chance you will not.”

I stood for a moment. I considered the truth of his words. It had been scarcely a day since we had left the inn. The plague illness had followed him, had caught him quickly. I could see that death was stalking him. But surely if the plague had followed him, it had followed me as well. I felt fine now, but surely I would soon feel its cold fingers on my skin. But it did not matter. Even if God himself told me that if by leaving him now, I would be spared, I would not go.

And I saw by the expression in Anton’s eyes—those lovely eyes that held my own soul—that he knew I would not leave him. He sighed. “Devin…”

I smiled at him and closed the small distance between us. I slipped my arms around his waist and laid my head against his shoulder. “Anton, as if there is anything on this earth or in Heaven or Hell that could make me leave you.”

He ran his hand over my hair and kissed the top of my head. “I know.” He laughed slightly, his laugh turning into a ragged cough. But still he held me close, still his hand stroked my hair. “I hope that when our souls meet again mine will find yours much more reasonable. You have been quite a trial to me this time around, you know.”

I laughed, but I felt hot tears stinging the back of my eyes. “And I hope yours will not be so foolish as to think for one moment that I could EVER leave you. Not even death will take me from you, Anton.”

**

For two days now his body had been racked with fever. There had been no opportunity to seek substantial shelter—and even had we found it, it was not likely it would have been offered to us, not with Anton clearly infected with the plague sickness. We had found what shelter we could under a small group of trees, not too far from the stream. The cool water from the stream was the only thing that eased his suffering at all.

He had a swelling under his arm now, as well. Against his protests, I had removed his pants to ease the pain from the first bubo. I had hoped that if it burst it might ease his suffering, that once the pus had evacuated itself from his body he might recover. But even that had not eased his fever. If anything, it had increased. He was coughing blood now, his breaths becoming more ragged with each cough.

I removed the now hot cloth from his head and rose slowly to wet it once more in the cool waters of the stream. He moaned and I could hear his teeth chattering as the fever that heated his skin pulled the warmth from his blood. I returned to him and laid the cloth over his forehead. I had covered him with the two blankets we owned, plus all our spare clothing. I removed my shirt and covered him with that as well.

I brushed his damp hair from his forehead. I let my fingers play with it, let the dark strands slip slowly through my fingers. It was so soft. I ran the fingers of my other hand over his lips. Lips that could rouse me to passion with the barest touch and could sate my hunger as completely as a Hunter’s Moon feast. He opened his eyes and looked at me. He had done this frequently since the fever had taken hold, but always his eyes were vague, unfocused—and I knew he did not truly see me. But this time was different. I could see recognition in his eyes, knew he saw me.

I smiled at him. His lips twitched into a matching smile. He raised a hand to my face and ran his finger along the curve of my cheek. Tears sprang to my eyes at the familiar gesture. I fought them back, not wanting him to see them. His brows knit. “My Devin… I do not want to leave you alone. I—“ he broke off, a fit of coughing taking his breath.

I laid my hand upon his forehead and waited for the coughing to subside. He fought his breath, fought to gain it back—and I could see that he would not fight much longer. I wiped the blood and spittle from his mouth and gently kissed his lips. “Don’t worry, Anton, my love. I won’t be long behind you.” His eyes met mine and I saw in them comprehension and a strange relief—as if the thought of my dying were less troubling than the though of my being alone without him. I smiled because for once it seemed we were in complete agreement on what was best for me.

He sighed and closed his eyes. It was almost as if he had forced one last moment of comprehension from his tortured body and feverish mind—just so that he could be sure I would be all right.

I pulled back the blankets and clothing that covered him—sure now that he would not need their warm much longer. I lay down beside him. I opened his shirt and rested my head upon his chest. “I love you, Anton.” I whispered the words against his skin. “I don’t want to live one single day without you.” I knew I would, though, but not much more than that. The swellings under my arm were growing and fever was already taking hold of my body.

I felt his arms go around me, his hold weak but still firm. He drew a deep breath “I will be with you until eternity ends, my Devin. Even death will not part us.” He spoke so softly I barely heard him, but as I felt his breathing slow, felt his soul slipping from his body, I felt those words wrap around me, hold me safe. And I knew them to be true.


I felt a great sense of peace fill me as I drifted towards consciousness. I felt as if I were held within arms so strong and safe that nothing could ever harm me. As I opened my eyes, as the sunlight of the morning reached out to me, I heard a voice whispering, a voice so soft I could barely hear it. “I will be with you until eternity ends…”