Beneath dark waters, p.25
Beneath Dark Waters, page 25
The horse swished his tail and tossed his head irritably. The closer they came to open space, the more impatient the horse became. A sour taste filled Torin’s mouth as he realised the horse might not be as dependable as he’d first thought.
“Not yet,” Torin mumbled, patting the horse’s neck. “Wait until we’re out of the city.”
They crossed a stone bridge, swans and ducks bobbing on the crystal-clear waters below, unperturbed by the fisherman casting their lines or eagerly reeling in their catches along the bank. The cobbled bridge gave way to a dirt road, scanty cottages and old farms dotting the green, hilly landscape. The horse jerked his head, eager to run.
It didn’t take long for foot-travellers to vanish, leaving Torin the full stretch of dirt road to himself and his horse. Excitement threaded through Torin like lightning woven beneath his skin. Torin nudged his horse in the flanks with his heels.
“Okay, boy. To Wildemaw!”
21
WHORES ROW, WILDEMAW, ALBION
STORM MONTH, 1516 ES
THERE SHE WAS. With nothing more than a faded sage slip of old silk clinging to her curves and dainty embroidered slippers on her feet, Celia was leaning against the wall of the brothel, her arms folded over her chest. Her waist-length brown hair was tousled and scruffy, fixed out of her face with a silver hair pin, lengths cascading down in gentle whirls either side of her lovely face. A thin line of kohl was smudged at the root of her eyelashes, which she’d darkened to make them seem longer and thicker, and she’d reddened her cheeks and lips with rouge.
Lit gold and amber by the morning light, she was effortlessly radiant, as exquisite as a forest nymph. As he admired his beloved, an indescribable warmth bloomed in Torin’s chest, flooding his veins. The sight of Celia set his heart racing! Even after all these years they’d been together, returning to Celia after time apart was like falling in love at first sight. He cleared his throat and straightened his clothes, struck by a momentary panic. Despite the fragrance he had applied that morning, Torin knew he reeked of sweat, horses, and the long dirt road he’d ridden all day.
What should’ve been a ten-day ride had taken Torin more than two weeks because of the inclement weather. It felt like a lifetime since he galloped out of Whiterock, reluctantly retreating to the shelter of ratty inns and decrepit lodges to wait out thunderstorms and the relentless deluge of rain that poured so heavily, it hammered the dirt roads to mud and flooded riverbanks.
Celia was speaking to two other women, one of whom was sipping from a steaming hot mug. The bitter stench of the drink drifted to Torin’s nostrils, the oily, camphoric smell making his nose wrinkle. It was unmistakeably tansy tea, a brew to induce a woman’s menses and prevent pregnancy. Selfishly, Torin hoped that Celia hadn’t consumed the drink that morning, wanting to enjoy her wholly and completely after so long apart.
Torin slid off his black gelding, gripping the leather reins tightly. The women noticed him, turning to him. Celia gasped, a beaming, open-mouthed grin spreading across her face. Her lovely brown eyes shone like amber in the morning light, crinkling in the corners with happiness. Her reaction intensified Torin’s racing heartbeat, a crimson blush blooming on his cheeks. Torin wasn’t a religious man, but if he was, he’d thank all the gods in the heavens for granting him the love of such a beautiful woman.
“Hello, stranger, long time no see.” Celia beamed.
A rush of yearning, relief, and joy crashed over Torin, freezing his tongue. All of the witty and charming things he’d thought to say to Celia vanished from his mind the moment he saw her, replaced by an overwhelming happiness swelling in his chest, and a knot of emotion in his throat. Even after all these years, he was a stuttering, love-struck fool in her presence.
Laughing, Celia ran to Torin, pouncing on him like a feral cat. He caught her, squeezing her tight, her softness and warmth engulfing his senses, breathing in her sweet scent. Celia circled her arms around his neck, her feet dangling as he lifted her, the horse’s reins tangled around one of his arms. The jaeger curled a hand around the back of her neck, the other beneath her round bottom, pinning her against him.
Their lips collided, fevered and yearning, punctuated by desperate gasps and aching sighs. Torin savoured the sweetness of Celia’s mouth, the smooth satin of her skin, the dizzying blend of her creamy vanilla-scented perfume and honey and goatmilk soap – every sensation intoxicating and wild.
Celia melted against Torin, gliding her hands over his broad shoulders and chest, tangling her fingers in his hair. Soft moans rolled in her throat, making the hairs on Torin’s body stand on end, heat stirring in his core. The jaeger was consumed by her smallest motions, every shudder and twitch, every sharp gasp and breathy exhale. Need coursed through his veins, and he was suddenly very aware of the thinness of her silk dress.
Torin nipped Celia’s bottom lip. She gasped, a husky laugh slipping from her lips that curled into a smile against his. He squeezed her tighter, struggling to resist the urge to tear her clothes from her body there and then.
“There are some perfectly good rooms inside, you two!”
“Madam will be furious if you perform out here for free!”
The tittering and whooping of Celia’s associates snapped them out of their daze. As if he was joining in with the harpies, the horse stamped his hooves and snorted beside Torin, nudging the jaeger with his snout.
“Welcome back,” Celia murmured, her gaze flickering between Torin’s sapphire eyes and his yearning lips. “I’m glad you didn’t get eaten by a beastie while you were gone.”
“I missed you,” Torin’s words deep, rich, and husky, resonating through Celia.
“I missed you, too.” She purred.
Torin’s soul soared. He regretted ever leaving her but delighted in hearing those words.
“I’m sure you’ve probably forgotten what my room looks like by now. Why don’t we go inside, and I’ll show it to you?”
Eagerly accepting her tantalising offer, Torin set Celia down. The sudden rush of emptiness in his arms was so awful, he almost scooped Celia up again. After so long without her touch, her smell, her taste, Torin wanted to hold Celia tight and never let her go.
“And who is this?” Celia admired Torin’s horse as they meandered towards the stable behind the brothel.
“He doesn’t have a name yet.” Torin patted the horse’s thick neck. “I’ve been trying to thick of one. He’s a sturdy beast, as strong as an ox and fast as lightning.”
“You should call him Harald!” Celia exclaimed, brightly.
“Harald?” Torin wrinkled his nose.
“Do you have a better name?” Celia cocked a brow at the jaeger.
“What about Shadow-Rider? Or Thunder? Star-Blazer or Tooth-Gnasher?” Torin paused thoughtfully. “Maybe Dragon-Heart?”
“Tooth-Gnasher? Really?”
“He should have a mighty name, he will be riding into battle, after all.”
“And Harald isn’t mighty? Compared to Tooth-Gnasher?” Celia scoffed. “If you like that name, you may as well call him Nibbles. Look at him, he’s handsome and powerful and deserves a name equally as strong and gorgeous as him.”
“And you think the name Harald is strong and gorgeous?”
“Yes, I do.” Celia replied, stoutly. “Or you can call him Nibbles or Gnasher or one of those other names.”
“You suggested Nibbles, not me.”
“Nibbles is better than Gnasher.”
“Tooth-Gnasher – look, never mind, I’ll think of a name another time.”
Celia turned to the horse, who nuzzled her gently, and pressed a kiss between his nostrils. “Look after him, Harald. If he fights as well as he picks names, he’s going to need all the help you can give him.”
“His name isn’t Harald!”
“Do you want to come to my bed or stand out here bickering over Harald’s name?”
“I’d prefer to go to your bed.” The jaeger admitted.
“Then stable Harald and meet me upstairs.” Celia giggled, turning her back on Torin, she slipped through the doorway to the brothel, following her tittering cohorts inside.
“His name isn’t Harald!” Torin called after her.
“Don’t listen to him, Harald!” She called back, letting the door slam behind her.
Torin stared at the door incredulously. While he and Celia were separated, he’d almost died, suffered innumerable wounds – and all the while, Torin yearned for Celia dreadfully. When he was slaying grotesqueries, he didn’t fear for his life, he feared not seeing Celia again. She was Torin’s motivation to survive and succeed – yet not two minutes in her company and they were bickering over the name of a horse.
It’s good to be back. Torin grinned to himself.
Torin led his horse to the stables behind the brothel. A stable hand took the reins and led the horse to an empty stall filled with clean straw. While the stable hand fetched a scoop of grain for the horse, Torin patted the animal’s withers as he chewed on fresh hay, his ebony fur glimmering in the dim light streaming in from the archway leading to a paddock behind the stables.
“Your name isn’t Harald.” Torin told the gelding firmly.
The horse snorted indignantly in return.
*
MADAM RUSHED TO Torin the moment he stepped through the door, her layers of satins and silks rustling with every step. Her white hair was twisted and pinned to her head, decorated with ostrich feathers that bobbed and fluttered as she moved. Torin politely kissed Madam’s cheek and answered all her questions, assuring the old woman he had missed her too, knowing she too was lying when she claimed she missed him. Despite her friendliness, there was something about Madam that unnerved Torin, a darkness that swirled in her watery hazel eyes, a severity that lingered just below the surface of her hospitable façade, much like the brothel itself.
Upon first entering, the brothel seemed warm and cosy, urging patrons to relax and indulge in all the delicacies and wonders the brothel had to offer. Looking closer, the truth became visible, cracks splintering the fantasy. Far from sumptuous, there were knicks in the aged furniture, the rich brocade curtains and fabrics were aged, stained, and frayed, there were dents in the plaster that had been painted over after bottles and glasses had been hurled at the walls by irate patrons. Worst yet was the way the seductive smiles dropped so quickly from the workers’ faces the moment their backs were turned to their clients. In these brief moments, their masks dropped, revealing their exhaustion as they bore the fate designated to them.
A sick knot twisted in his gut. This was all Celia had ever known, but Torin refused to let her stay here for the rest of her life. What was the point of slaying grotesqueries to save people if he couldn’t save the one person he loved the most?
At last, Torin managed to escape Madam’s clutches. He climbed the creaky stairs and along the corridor to Celia’s room, smirking at the fleshy thumps and muffled moans of lovemaking, and the thuds of furniture striking walls with every thrust sounding behind some of the doors.
Torin entered Celia’s room, noticing the door to her washroom standing ajar. Celia was nowhere to be seen, but a servant was busy tucking in the corners of Celia’s blanket under her mattress. Torin peeled off his boots, arranging them neatly beside the door before stepping further into the room.
As one of the most popular and longest residing worker in the Velvet Pearl, Celia had earned herself the biggest room in the brothel (of course, Madam, had an entire annex attached to the brothel, said to be particularly luxurious, but none of the brothel staff were allowed to enter it). Celia’s room was divided into a bed chamber, sitting room, and vanity area, as well as her own private washroom. Almost every wall was filled with shabby mismatched shelves crammed with books, pretty ornaments and tiny chests of jewellery that Torin had gifted her over the years.
“Good afternoon,” Torin smiled as the girl scurried past him, her arms filled with the old sheets.
The servant squeaked something inaudible before scampering away. Chuckling, Torin closed the door and locked it the moment she left. Nothing changed. His gruff voice, rugged appearance – or perhaps even the intense stench of horse and travelling – always scared the servant girls.
The jaeger sniffed his shoulders, wincing at the stench. Yes, it must’ve been the smell clinging to his clothes that frightened the poor young thing. Torin stripped off to his trousers. Stepping into the washroom, Torin discovered Celia perched in the window with her nose in a dogeared book, a large tub filled with hot water and scented herbs in the middle of the room.
“You always have a bath ready for me when I get here.” Torin noted appreciatively, gazing at the bath as he unbuckled his belt.
“It’s not hard to know when to prepare it – I can smell you from three towns over.” Celia winked, watching Torin peel the rest of his dirty clothes off from over the edge of her book.
Torin flushed, knowing he couldn’t argue.
The room smelled dizzyingly sweet, and hot steam filled the air, drifting in thick plumes from the bathtub, curling the edges of the page Celia was reading. Torin dropped his clothes in a pile beside the door and climbed into the bath, sinking into the boiling waters, his golden skin turning red from the heat.
Celia watched her lover climb into the bath. Torin cut a fine figure, striking and wonderfully tall, he was thin yet powerful. She admired the bulging muscles of Torin’s arms, the broadness of his shoulders that tapered to his defined, narrow waist. Her honey-brown eyes slid over his tight abdominal muscles, high hips and the long, uninterrupted curve of his hipbones to his strong, thick thighs. Everything about Torin was long and strong, but there was a softness to him. His sharp bone structure and nose were contrasted by the softness of his cheeks and full lips. Scars sliced through the tattoos etched across his body as far as the eye could see.
As Torin climbed into the tub, Celia noticed two new tattoos, one on each of his legs. She set her book down on the windowsill and slid off.
Torin’s left leg was covered in Hebiwan tattoos. Almost all of his skin had been tattooed now, and soon enough he’d have the blank space between the images filled with swirling black clouds. His latest addition to his Hebiwan collection was an aged stone lantern shrouded by brambles and vines.
Torin’s right leg consisted of traditional Jordic pieces framed with traditional knotwork, spirals, and interlacing patterns. The latest tattoo was on the front of his thigh, a kraken with its arms wrapped around a longship, dragging it beneath angry roiling waves with the serpentine island of Hebiwa in the background.
Torin’s limbs were almost completely covered now, as were his upper body and back. He only had his stomach and throat to go before he would be tattooed entirely from neck to ankle.
“I like your new tattoos.” Celia smiled, pausing for a moment before adding, brightly, “I’m going to get a tattoo one day.”
“Madam won’t allow that.”
“When I leave, she won’t be able to tell me a damn thing.”
Torin beamed at Celia’s fervour, his heart swelling to know that Celia, too, dreamed of a life beyond the brothel’s walls – a life where she could do what she wanted with her body without fear of Madam’s wrath or losing her livelihood. Albion did not look kindly on those with tattoos and though some patrons might continue to bed her, she would not be able to charge half as much as she currently did if her body was marred by ink.
“When the time comes, I can introduce you to some great tattooists. We can go to Hebiwa, Vastrune – anywhere in Bodan you want to go, I’ll take you everywhere!”
A stream of silky laughter tumbled from Celia’s lovely mouth. She moved to kneel behind Torin and took the chunk of soap from the basket beside the tub. She lathered it through the lengths of his thick, wet, raven-black hair before dipping a small jug into the bath beside him and filling it with the warm, sweet-scented water. She poured it over his hair, rinsing out the suds.
Celia left Torin’s side for just a moment to retrieve a bottle of oil across the room. She poured just a touch on the palm of her hand and ran it through his tresses, a rich black river spread over his shoulders, rippling down his back in a lustrous spill.
“When you’re my wife, will you still wash my hair?” Torin murmured, his scalp tingling as she massaged it.
“Not at all, we wouldn’t have the time.”
“Why not?”
“We’d be too tired after working and taking care of children all day long.” Celia winked.
“I’ll wash your hair every night no matter how hard the day or how many children we have running around!” Torin vowed.
“I’ll hold you to that!” Celia giggled.
“Give the word and I’ll quit being a jaeger. We’ll get married tomorrow and we can start having children.”
“Alright, that’s enough daydreaming,” Celia playfully laid the wet washrag over Torin’s face.
“I arrive, we bathe and play, then I leave.” Torin grumbled, tugging the washrag away.
“And what’s wrong with that? You always come back, and I’m always here for you when you do. This situation suits us, no?”
“It might suit you well enough, but I want more.” Torin sulked.
Wordlessly, Celia rose to her feet. She stroked the thin sleeves from her shoulders, making her silk gown slip down her curves and pool at her feet, revealing herself to him. Torin gulped, saliva pooling in his mouth. Celia bit her lip, grinning, amused and pleased by his reaction. Her nakedness snapped the jaeger out of his tantrum immediately.
“How many years have we been lovers?”
“Far too many.” Celia replied as she stepped into the bathtub.
“They’ve been enjoyable, haven’t they?” Torin pressed, eagerly watching Celia, a coy grin lifting one corner of his mouth.
