Bow Before the Elf Queen

Following Thane out the door and over the unkempt path, Layala felt the growing heaviness between them. “Thane,” she started but he kept walking without acknowledgment. Quickening her pace, she caught up to his side and tugged on his sleeve. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry?” he stared ahead.

“I don’t know—you seem different.” They walked alone along a muddy path just outside of the city wall.

“I have a lot on my mind, Layala,” he finally said. “Things that have nothing to do with you.”

“Right.” They walked on for several minutes in silence. But she knew it wasn’t simply the funerals and the battles and partial loss of the city. He markedly changed after she brought up breaking their bond. “The gnome was funny, don’t you think? A grumpy little thing. The bottle of wine was bigger than he was.”

A small smile tugged. Seeing progress she continued, “He had quite an impressive beard. I bet you couldn’t grow one like that. Not that I’d want you to. I like seeing that fine jawline of yours.” He still fought his smile. “It looks like we’ll have to capture Mathekis or go into the Void, to find out how to destroy it, which is terrible. The rotten boggs will certainly ruin my boots.”

“Yes, I’m sure your boots are your biggest concern. Not that you wouldn’t come out alive.”

“Oh, I’ll survive it. But I might break a nail.”

“Heaven forbid that happens.”

Layala smiled. “I’m starving.”

“I know. I heard your stomach growling. It’s like a small beast is trapped in there.”

“That’s a little exaggerated.”

“Is it?” She lightly shoved him, and he laughed. “Was that a fly landing on me? I almost couldn’t feel it.” Biting down, she pushed him again and his shoulder bumped into the wall. “You’re strong for a female.”

“I dare you to find out how strong,” she said with the intent to rile him up the way he always did when she wasn’t speaking to him.

Something primal flashed in his eyes and he advanced on her, unlatching the sword belt over his chest. Layala tensed when he set his swords on the ground and started undoing his weapons belt at his hip. “What are you doing?”

“Let’s see those fighting skills of yours. No weapons, no punches, no magic, takedown moves only.”

Layala’s fingers shook slightly as she unlatched her own weapons and set them in the grass. Sparring would require them to become very close. She was good with hand-to-hand combat but she was much more comfortable with her sword and dagger.

“First you tried to kill me in my bed. Successfully stabbed me. Then you threw a fork at my face at dinner.” He stepped so close that she had to look up to see his face. “You slap me and push me whenever you feel like it. Behavior I would never tolerate from anyone else.”

Her cheeks warmed. “And what? Now you want to punish me?”

“No,” he answered. “I’m going to show you why they call me the Warrior King. I don’t think you have any idea. After this we’ll spar with weapons.”

“We have sparred. We’re pretty evenly matched.”

“If the night you tried to kill me is any indication, you have things to learn. You need to be the best, not adequate. There have been too many times where you’ve been in danger, and I wasn’t there.”

More intrigued than she should be, Layala stepped back and readied herself, arms squared before her, knees bent. She did this all the time back at Briar Hollow, but never with a partner so intense or attractive. It’s just sparring practice. You’ve done this a thousand times.

He stood stark straight, waiting. She rolled her eyes and kicked at his ankle. He sidestepped, and faster than she thought possible, he had the crook of his elbow tight around her neck and his other arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms down. Angry with herself for getting caught so fast, she struggled to break free, but he only gripped her tighter.

“I could snap your neck as easily as I can take a breath. Your arrogance will get you killed,” he said in her ear. “And therefore, get me killed.”

An involuntary shiver wracked her body. “Get off.”

“Escape.”

She growled as he clinched a little tighter making her lightheaded. “I can’t.”

“What was that?”

“I can’t.”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew.” He released her, but his hand trailed along her back as he stepped away.

A string of expletives ripped through her mind. “You’re such—”

“A bastard? You’re getting predictable.”

She stepped away and readied herself. “Want to compare magic?”

“I don’t want us to die so no,” he said with a serpentine smirk. “Again.”

Clenching her fists, she took a steadying breath. “You come at me this time.”

He tilted his head and in a flash, grabbed her arm and jerked her forward. She shoved her foot at his gut, but he moved to the side, and it grazed off his torso. She swung under his arm breaking his hold with a twist and kicked his knee from behind. It buckled but he didn’t go down. Jumping onto his back, she latched on, wrapping her legs around his hard torso. But before she could secure a neck hold, he tossed her over his head. When she hit the ground the air whooshed from her lungs. Before she could suck in a breath, he straddled her, pressing his weight into her thighs and hips, and hovered a knife above her throat.

“Hmm this reminds me of something. Does it you?”

“Pig,” she breathed. Unlike the last time he’d pinned her like this, hatred and disgust didn’t course through her. Something much different warmed her skin now. An unbidden thought of pushing that damn knife aside and dragging his lips down to hers heated her cheeks. “You said no weapons.”

“Just teaching you to be prepared.” He lifted the knife away, stabbing it into the ground beside them, but was still poised above her, still very much on her.

Her chest heaved up and down. She couldn’t pull her gaze from his bright green eyes. Like he held her under a deliciously sinful spell. All her resistance to him and his charming mouth and otherworldly beauty over the weeks was flickering like a dying flame, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it. “I don’t need you to teach me anything,” she said.

“You look good lying on your back under me, Laya.”

She ground her teeth. “You really are a pig, you know that?”

He let out a midnight chuckle.

“Do you talk to all your sparring partners this way?” she asked.

“Only you.”

“Time for swords, and I swear if you make one joke about your sword, I’ll cut it off.”

He laughed again and Maker, she liked that sound. He finally rose off of her and held out his hand. She grasped it and he tugged her to her feet. “You haven’t had enough?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started.” Scooping up her sword, she spat in the grass and narrowed her eyes at him.

“You certainly are the epitome of a lady.” She flipped him her middle finger and he chuckled, bending down to gather his sword. “I’ll even use one sword this time so you can’t call me a cheater.”

He swung at her first. She blocked and quickly sidestepped, evading another blow. Whoosh, his sword cracked against hers and she nearly lost her grip. She parried, slicing at his leg; he blocked, slammed his boot down on her blade, sticking the point in the dirt and quickly brought the tip of his sword to her chest.

“You’re not bad, dearest. But I am that good.”

“And you say I’m arrogant. Your head is getting so big it won’t be able to fit in your tent.” Maker above, she didn’t want to admit it, but he was that good. They went at it again. Layala swung with more force and their blades clashed loudly, until he grazed her with an elbow and she fell back, landing halfway on her hip and wrist. The tang of blood filled her mouth as he squatted in front of her. No one had taken her down as easily or quickly since she was a novice.

“I didn’t mean to do that…” he frowned and held his hand out to her. He wasn’t even breathing heavily.

“Again,” she said, spitting blood.

“Layala, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Worry about yourself,” she said. “And don’t take it easy on me.”

He sighed and stood. They fought over and over until it was twilight and even their elf eyes had trouble seeing clearly. She had yet to win a bout. He got the better of her thirteen times. Thirteen. She was knocked down, smacked with the flat of his blade, kicked, and the calluses on her hand tore open. Each loss stung more than the last, and each made her respect for him grow.

“You’re good. Better than most.”

“Thanks,” she breathed, now laying flat on her back, hardly able to move. Her body ached, her hands stung, as did her pride.

“Are you done?”

“Until tomorrow,” she wheezed. He got her good once in the ribs and they must be bruised. She sliced open his forearm and slammed the hilt of her sword into his eyebrow where a small cut leaked blood, so he wasn’t completely unscathed. At least she had that.

Before she even knew what he was doing, he tucked an arm behind her knees and the other around her back and lifted her. “Your will is impressive. Your skills are excellent and will only get better. Sometimes it takes training with one better than you to improve.”

She didn’t protest as he carried her toward the camp. Resting her exhausted head against his shoulder she murmured, “I’ll beat you someday.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Her chest warmed at his response. “And thank you.”

“For?”

“For treating me like an equal.” She didn’t want to be treated like a delicate flower or she would never improve.

When they arrived back at camp, he set her down in front of her tent’s entrance. The small fires all around provided enough light she could see his face clearly. He looked torn and uncertain about something. She wanted to ask but sudden music playing from fiddlers and tambourines close by took the moment away.

“Make sure Tifapine puts healing balm on your hand and wraps it.”

“I will.” She inspected the slice on his arm she’d given him. It looked as if it was almost healed already. “I guess I didn’t cut you as deep as I thought.”

He winked. “I heal quickly. Goodnight, Laya.”

“Laya?” That was the second time he’d called her that.

With a dangerous smile and a caress of her cheek, his voice dropped low, “Would you prefer, Temptress? Goddess? My muse…”

Why did each of those words sound so good on his lips? Her spine tingled. “Laya. Laya works. Sleep well, High King.” She couldn’t pull her stare from his. Why did everything in her want to ask him to come into her tent? To talk, to enjoy the warmth of his body next to her because she couldn’t want more. She shouldn’t want anything from him. He lingered for a moment and then turned and disappeared into the darkness of his abode.

Every night for a week they trained together. Bumps and bruises became frequent but there was something about pinning each other to the ground that was more sensual than aggressive, and she’d never felt that with anyone else. The pure will to beat her opponent like usual wasn’t there. She wanted to improve her skills and she did but with Thane it was much more playful and intense. A blade against her throat never felt so… intriguing.

And each night when he left her outside her tent with a long look, and her mate mark pulsing and a line that seemed to tug her toward him growing stronger, the urge to ask him to stay intensified, but she always turned away without an invitation.

On this night, she lay in her bedroll, staring up at the tent’s canvas. Her body ached from working during the day to help the people of Doonafell and the training in the evenings took its toll. But her pulse pounded for no apparent reason. She hadn’t been able to fall asleep for hours, like an electric current ran through her veins. Piper was fast asleep, completely covered in her blanket and Tif was snoring, again. Layala got up, feeling a strong sense of urgency. Slipping her pants and boots on, she peeked out the tent flap. A few soldiers patrolled the area, but it was quiet.

What was this anxiety creeping up in her? Was something out there? Her mate line tugged harder than ever, enough to force her feet to follow it to Thane’s tent. She stood outside for a moment, contemplating what she would ever say if she went inside. But that urgency and anxiety intensified and with a deep breath, Layala stepped inside.

Thane sat in his wooden armchair, bent over with his face in his hands. A single candle burned on the side table. He was shirtless with a sheen of sweat covering his skin despite the cool night. His breathing was labored and if she didn’t know better, she would say he was… crying.

“Thane?”

His head snapped up and his jaw muscles tightened as their eyes met. He wasn’t crying but the harsh planes of his face like ice on a cold wintry night spoke of despair. She took a step closer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

They were quiet for a moment. She took another step. Thane stared at his hands while Layala watched his face closely.

“My father,” he swallowed hard.

Layala’s heart started to race.

“I dreamed about the day I killed my father, and I can’t sleep now.” He swiped his hand across his sweaty brow. “The way he looked at me as the pale ones surrounded him… The realization of the betrayal–” he let out a long breath. “And then the dream shifted, and I was my father and the pale ones were tearing at my flesh, taking bites out of my body, pulling out my insides. How could I have done that to him?” Thane’s hands shook. “Even he didn’t deserve that. I know he had to die but I should have killed him swiftly, by my own hand. He was my father and I fed him to monsters.”

Layala’s chest ached and tears welled in her eyes feeling his emotions of regret and sorrow. Not for Tenebris’s death, but for the pain this caused Thane. Her quick steps ate up the remaining distance from him. “Oh, Thane.” She bent over and cupped the side of his face, beautiful even in the storms of regret. She knew it hurt him, but he’d never been this vulnerable and open before. He’d never let her feel how much. And she’d been too much of a coward to ask. “I’m sure it was swift.”

 He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her on his lap and against him as if she might disappear if he didn’t. With her cheek pressed against his, she embraced him, rubbing the soft skin of his back gently. They held each other like that for a while. She didn’t know how long, but she listened to the steady pull of his lungs, and the chirping crickets outside. That sharp pain dulled to an ache then warmth and ease like when the sun crested at the first sign of a new day. As if their bodies so close could heal the hurt. When he finally let her go, he took her hand and walked her back to her tent. Morning twilight colored the sky and birds sang happily. He leaned down and kissed her cheek with such tenderness. That playfulness he usually exuded wasn’t there, and he didn’t smile, but he squeezed her hand gently.

“I have some things to do,” he said, his voice more gruff than usual. “I’ll find you later.” He turned to leave.

She grabbed his arm. “I’m here when you need me.”

“Thank you.”