Gift of the Ys

This work is a product of the author's imagination, places, events and people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you like it! If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then email me at: jae.monroe@yahoo.com

Acknowledgement: Thanks to Richard for editing this.

The Gift of Ys

By

Jae Monroe

Chapter 10

Isidore was dressed in his thickest velvet camic and sturdiest trousers. Truly cumbersome travel attire, though the Sherim-Ranians would label all his clothes thus. This place was not right for him. He had come to realise that last night. Kerim had not returned to his chambers, perhaps out of consideration for him or perhaps because he had got too sotted to climb the stairs (Isidore was inclined to believe the latter) but he had been left in that large bed all alone and had got not a wink of sleep. Distress at his task on the morrow had kept him well awake into the night and, after tossing and turning for hour after hour over the prospect, what he must do had come to him.

Early into the morning hours, Isidore had made his escape. It was not so hard to leave the castle. He had simply dressed in a thick cloak and, after sneaking some distance from the Svarya's chambers so that none who passed him in the castle would know that was his origin, he had scurried through the halls beneath the notice of the few Dajani who passed him, thinking he was merely some Dara heading to, or returning from, an assignation. He had been accosted once, but upon telling the Daja that it was to Lord Kylar that he was heading, had been let go without the Daja catching sight of his face.

Once outside the castle walls, he had discarded the cloak since the heat of even the wee hours of the morning meant he would not need it. Now it was his mission to get himself a mount. He was, at present, wondering just how he might achieve it, standing by the stables, when he heard the unmistakable sounds of congress taking place in one of the stalls. If it was the horse-master then he was in the best of luck. So he pressed himself up against the wall, looking for a crack in the wood through which he could see who was involved in the relations. Sucking in a silent breath, he found one, and he had to hope that there was some light source in the stables to illuminate what went on inside. There wasn't; but the windows near the roof were letting in enough of the pre-dawn light so that he could very easily see who was engaged in the congress. And he only just managed to suppress his gasp as this was revealed to him.

Inside the stall, it was most definitely the horse-master, a big burly Daja in his forties and covered in thick black hair, who was rutting against his somewhat smaller companion. But not so much smaller. If Isidore was not mistaken, and he knew that he was not, the one getting fucked was Gomar il Barin; that sour and unpleasant diplomat to whom he had had the misfortune to be exposed on his journey to this place. Hah! Isidore had suspected. But of course it was not mentioned that Gomar il Barin was Tanja-born. He often wondered what happened to the Tanjani who became Dajani; if they had urges to go back to their Daran heritage. Obviously they did, which would explain why Gomar il Barin had despised all Darani; he was jealous of that which they had. Though it didn't explain why he had hated Sheq-Kis-Ra where there was no shame for Dajani who wished to be penetrated.

Isidore stepped back from the stable wall, recalling why he was there. The unexpected discovery had thrown everything temporarily from his mind, but now he realised it was to his very good fortune. Not only was congress keeping the horse-master occupied, but the nature of the congress was such that the one being fucked would most certainly prefer that he walk out with every horse in the stable than that he inform the castle of what he had seen.

The back door of the stable was locked from the inside, which made getting in without walking past the rutting horse-master and envoy rather difficult. Isidore examined all around, looking for a place where he could sneak in. The windows were too high and narrow so that, if he did manage to slither through the small gap, he would likely fall on to the floor with an audible thud and alert the clandestine lovers to his presence. Then he spotted his point of entry.

Additions to the stables tended to be built simply so that they could be collapsed if necessary, or moved around and reconstructed. The walls, therefore, simply went to the ground, but were not embedded in any foundation. What lay under them was the sandy sort of soil that prevailed in Sherim-Ra. This eroded from rain outside and the washing out of the stalls from inside, so it was not too hard to locate a stall that had a gap large enough for Isidore to crawl through on his belly and, thus, enter the stables in silence. The only danger was if the horse inside the stall got spooked and kicked or trampled him, or simply vocalised its fear and alerted the horse-master that there was an intruder. If the former happened, he was done for; if it was the latter there was hope, at least, that he would simply get delivered back to the castle and none would speak of his attempt to escape.

Horses slept standing up and so, if he was quiet as he entered and avoided knocking into the horse's legs, he would have hope of keeping his presence concealed. Getting down on his knees, he widened the gap between the ground and the wall of the stable by scraping some of the dirt away with his hands. Then, sucking in his breath, he pushed his way in, keeping his head facing forward so that he could see where he was going as he half pushed-half pulled himself through the gap. And, for all his concern at the stall occupant's potential distress at his entry, it was somewhat of a disappointment to find that there was none as he had crawled into an empty stall.

Silently opening the half-door, he crept through it still hearing the muted sounds of rutting, which were comforting as they significantly lessened his potential for discovery. The end stall contained a horse and so he quietly made his way past the others. They really did look odd standing in slumber. He had to suppress an inappropriate chuckle when he recalled how his brother and his friends, for a lark in their younger days, used to sneak into the paddocks at night and tip over the cows that likewise stood while they slept. He'd never really thought about it when he'd lived in Sheq-Kis-Ra, but Dajani were really very stupid, no matter where they came from. Of course, he was not nearly so stupid since he had merely watched his brother's antics, though he had just about died laughing at the time.

At the last stall, he rubbed the horse's neck to awaken him. He was glad to see that it was gelding, which would make him more docile and, hopefully, less prone to sounding out his botheration at being woken up during the night. Riding bareback was one of the least pleasant ways to travel, but he didn't have the luxury of tackling up the horse in the wee hours of the morning as he made his escape. Fortunately, there was a bridle of sorts that the horses wore when they were not wearing one attached to reins. This enabled them to be led about with a rope and so this, along with the rope Isidore appropriated from the hook hanging by the stall, would do for reins, enabling him to direct the horse at least.

He planned to go through the forest that lined the eastern side of the Svarya's castle and then seek refuge in one of the villages on the other side. Recognition was, of course, a risk. But if he went to the furthest village, and took lodgings in the meanest of conditions, it was likely that the villagers would only have heard of him and not seen him. Whether this was likely to work he did not know. Even now, as he led the horse from the stable and the lovers at the other end still oblivious to his activities, he felt his step falter with his uncertainty about what was to come.

But he would not let it stop him, he needed to get out of there. He had been given one day to reconcile himself to serving in the bed, and it simply was not enough. No; it determined that he had to leave; he had no choice. Kerim had as much said that he would force him if he resisted, and to do so would condemn them both. So, if Isidore was unable to reconcile himself to sharing the carnal acts in the space of a day, then they would both go to the Punisher. So, really, he was doing this for both of them.

Also, Isidore thought as he lead his horse away from the stables (so that to all he would look like a mere stable-boy about his duties though, up close, his clothing would be a dead-giveaway, for no stable-boy would wear such costly velvet), Kerim needed to realise that Isidore would not just roll over when he played the barbarian. He couldn't simply order Isidore about without consequences. His only form of resistance was escape, and so he was taking it. His long term plan was to get himself to the Temple of Lodur. Once there, he would be safe from the Svarya because, and this was a source of much amusement to Isidore, there he and Kerim would be equals. True equals.

Kerim, as Svarya, was ordained by Lodur. Isidore, as a member of the House of Jornn, was, according to legend, greatest grandchild of Jornn, mortal son of Lodur. Legends held that Lodur had many sons by Aaniya, who were gods like their all-father, and five mortal sons. And the Great Houses of Pasia were derived from these five mortal sons. These sons were Kol, Garr, Azerim, Aeze and Jornn, with all but Kol and Jornn having been snuffed out.

And so, in the Temple of Lodur, Kerim would have no power over him, and Isidore could claim sanctuary there until such time as he could bring himself to serve the man sexually. That would be his bargaining chip and he wondered how useful it would really be. He hoped that Kerim would see reason; that Isidore was not merely serving himself and that he was willing to serve the Svarya in bed, but he needed time to come to terms with it. That was a reasonable request, was it not? He thought, as he led the docile horse in the direction of the woods, that merely requesting a little time was not beyond reason. Kerim wouldn't start a war over that, no matter that he was the very image of Vemiyar da Jaal. Of course, when he finally got to the Temple of Lodur, much time would have elapsed already, at least a few weeks. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it, he decided.

In all, he felt quite proud of himself, and ignored the niggling voice that told him the whole plan was flawed. What else had he at his disposal? These were desperate times, and so his measures were likewise. He had debated seeking sanctuary in the Temple of Ys, but to do so would be to put the Ysian priests in jeopardy, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. The only priests with the power to resist the Svarya were those of Lodur, and so that was where he would ultimately go. Perhaps, even, they could talk some sense into their secular brother, though Isidore thought that was about as likely as his catching a deer for his dinner.

A whinny from his horse drew him from his thoughts and he looked about nervously, trying to appear calm as a stable-boy might in the face of his horse's sudden noise, but he failed dismally as he saw the two Dajani approach. They were wearing rough work-clothes and, with their equally rough appearances, looked most menacing as they approached him. Without thinking, he mounted his horse, desperation giving him the extra lift he needed to make it atop the gelding. Continued fear made him oblivious to just how hard a bare-backed horse was as he spurred him to a fierce gallop, flying past the two Dajani and missing their stunned expressions.

Be damned, his escape was now no longer a secret, and he could only hope that, by the rough look of the two men, they were not acquainted with goings on within the castle and that, hopefully, his cover was not blown. His horse galloped towards the woods, somewhat slower than what Isidore was used to. He had not missed that the gelding was older when he'd chosen him. Still, it was a horribly jarring experience without the benefit of a saddle, and he gritted his teeth against it, holding on tight to both the reins and the horse's midsection. Preoccupied as he was in keeping himself from tumbling off the horse, he almost missed the blur that streaked across his path, but his horse didn't.

The gelding came to a skittering, shying halt that threw Isidore against its neck but, fortunately, was not so sudden as to launch him from the gelding's bare back. As it was, he clung tight to the horse's mane as well as its reins, catching his breath. When he looked up, he didn't know whether to sigh in relief that it was not Kerim or curse all the more that it was Jalen.

The Daja gave him such a look of knowing condescension that Isidore almost wished it had been the Svarya who had caught him in mid-flight from the castle.

"I suppose I should not ask what you are doing here this time of the morn, since 'tis patently obvious," Jalen said.

Isidore debated lying and saying he merely wanted a ride by himself, but no one, just for the joy of riding solo, would choose to do so on a barebacked horse, so he merely said, "I suppose you were spying on me?"

Jalen had been doing nothing of the sort; he had, in fact, been riding off his hangover from the previous night since there was no medicine like fresh morning air, but he told Isidore: "It seems you must be put under surveillance, since you cannot be trusted when left to your own devices."

"So that was your job this morn?" Isidore asked, and then he made a sound of disgust. "I would think he should at least let you heal from receiving his latest beating ere he sends you back to the job that earned it."

Jalen sucked in his breath. This Dara was too much, too smart-mouthed, too prone to lip. He sidled his horse up to Isidore's, grabbing the makeshift reins that Isidore had affixed to the gelding and yanking them out of Isidore's hands. Then, reaching across, he scooped Isidore off his perch and placed him on the saddle before him. He kept one arm around the boy and secured his arms to his sides as he snapped the reins of his own horse, directing him back towards the stables while ignoring Isidore's muttered protests.

"Are you going to tell him straight away?" Isidore asked Jalen, after he had delivered the stolen horse back to its stables and as they were riding back in the direction of the castle.

"Aye, I shall," Jalen said. "I have warned you that he does not like secrets."

Isidore said nothing for a few moments, watching the cold grey castle walls rear up as they crested the hill and it came into sight; a stark and unyielding portent of what he was to face when Kerim was apprised of his attempted escape.

"What do you think he'll do?" The question had been playing on his mind so that he could not help but vocalise it.

"You will find out soon enough," Jalen said. "Though you should have thought about that before you embarked on such a ridiculous escape attempt."

A rock and a hard place, Isidore thought. He had escaped so that he could avoid being forced and, though he had not intended to be caught, the consequences of such could not be much direr.

"He didn't come back to his chambers last night," Isidore informed Jalen as he was pulled along with a large hand wrapped around his upper arm.

"I know where he is," Jalen said curtly, dragging Isidore into the meal hall.

Isidore had never been in the meal hall before dawn, when most rose to go about their day, but now he got somewhat of a surprise. Many Dajani slept in there, too sotted from the previous day to go to their chambers, or preferred to be there, he supposed. And up by the Svarya's table lay the Svarya, on one of the hard benches that sat behind it. He was stretched out, with one leg up on the bench, bent at the knee, and the other likewise bent at the knee, the foot flat on the floor. One arm was hanging down on off the bench, which was really too narrow to contain him. The veins in his hand were standing out. The other arm was bent, with the forearm across his eyes as he slept. His large chest was rising and falling rhythmically.

Isidore was wondering how Jalen was going to rouse the unconscious Svarya, when Jalen said his name. It was not loud, but Kerim jerked awake, sitting upright and then cursing violently and wincing as the morning reminded him of what he'd accomplished the previous evening. He pressed the heel of his palm against his head and swore a number of times before looking up at Jalen, and then frowning to see that Isidore was standing beside him.

"What is it?" he asked, the pain dissipating from his features to be replaced with a wary look.

"I found him making his way towards the woods."

Isidore closed his eyes as Jalen said this, so he missed the change in Kerim's features, from hung-over irritability to utter fury.

"Tell me he jests, Dara," Kerim growled, downing the jug of water that a serving boy had brought in response to Jalen's surreptitious order. When Isidore opened his eyes, it was to look into hard black ones that no longer held a trace of discomfort and were now glittering menacingly.

"I wish he did," Isidore said softly.

The sound that Kerim made was one of pure anger, and he launched himself off the wooden bench towards Isidore with such fury that Jalen instinctively stepped in front of the boy.

Kerim stopped up short, standing inches from his friend with a surprised frown. "Do you move aside, Jalen," he ordered.

Jalen exhaled, stepping aside, but he gripped Kerim's upper arm. "Get yourself fed, yes?" he suggested, ignoring Kerim's pointed look at the hand which remained on his bicep. "These things are best dealt with when the belly is not gnawing at you."

Kerim looked at the offending hand until Jalen dropped it, then he made a disgusted sound. "Ah, if I did not need to piss. Aye, we will all eat ere he answers for his latest bout of stupidity. Send for some food," he instructed curtly as he walked away tugging at the ties on his trousers.

Satisfied with that, Jalen sent a servant off for some food. Then he and Isidore sat, not at the Svarya's table, but at one of the tables before it. Isidore was placed on the bench on the opposite side from Jalen, so that he had to endure the Daja's disapproving stare which was delivered in heavy silence.

Ale had been delivered by the time Kerim returned and this he drank deeply. Isidore remembered his brother saying that often the best cure for the pain of last night's imbibing was more of the same the next morning. After those occasions when Isidore had drunk too much, hair of the dog that had bitten him was the last thing he had wanted to face. Kerim was obviously of his brother's school of thought, though, for he belched appreciatively after downing the ale and his eyes, when he turned them to Isidore, seemed to have calmed somewhat.

"Smart of you," he said, looking up and down Isidore's slight form which was warmly clad, evidence of his attempt at escaping, "to keep yourself half-starved looking. I cannot feel right adding to the starvation; else you would not be breaking your fast along with us."

"My lord is kind," Isidore murmured.

"Oh," Kerim said, when the food was delivered to the three of them, "I would reserve judgment on that, if I was you, little one."

Isidore stiffened, a tremolo of fear going right down and burying itself like a knife in his gut, making him too ill to contemplate the food before him.

"What is wrong?" Kerim asked knowingly, rolling up a slice of meat and stuffing it in his mouth. His appetite was quite the opposite of Isidore's.

Isidore lifted a slice of meat, steeling himself to consume it, despite that his stomach churned with so much fear he doubted there was any room in it for food.

"If you don't feed yourself, I will feed you," Kerim said, irritable at the display. "So best you get eating."

"I am not hungry, my lord," he said, after forcing himself to swallow a few bites of breakfast, which only made him feel more uncomfortable when the food mingled with the terror in his gut.

"Why is that?" Kerim asked, downing a second jug of cold water which had never tasted as good as it did that morning. "You cannot be afraid of what is to come," he stated with a look of mock conviction, "else you would have thought of that ere you did what you did. But thinking, that's not your strong point, is it? Mouthing off, on the other hand, you are ever ready to do."

Isidore looked up, his dread evaporating with that smug assertion. "I do think, my lord," he said furiously. "And if you do not know this by now, then 'tis your mental capacity we should all be questioning."

Kerim grinned, while Isidore cursed himself inwardly for rising so readily to the bait.

"Such impertinence," the Svarya mused. "You will never give an inch, will you?"

"Will you, my lord?" Isidore asked coldly.

"Give an inch?" Kerim questioned, smiling as he went back to his breakfast. "I would give you many inches, did you but ask for them. But, I rather think that was what you were trying to avoid in running away."

Isidore flushed, looking down at his plate.

"But now I am beginning to revise my opinion," Kerim said thoughtfully as he finished his plate, "of your desire for that, or the rest of me. After all, I have told you more than once that your impertinence will earn you naught but my tongue down your throat. Yet you continue to be impertinent and you have told me, on innumerable occasions that you are excessively clever, and I am not inclined to disagree too greatly. Therefore, I must surmise that your continued impertinence can only mean that you want my kisses, is that not so, Isidore?"

Isidore continued to look at the corner of the table, where the wood had been dented for some reason, probably from having the table upended during one of the meal hall brawls that he had yet to witness here. He could not answer that question, for he was not prone to lies, and to say the answer was unequivocally yes or no would be a lie.

"Well, fortunately for you," Kerim said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "ere this day is out, you shall have all my kisses and every one of my inches as was promised to you yester eve." He rose from the table and came to stand before Isidore who continued to stare at the mussed wood of the table corner.

Isidore stared at the hand that was held before him a number of moments before he became conscious enough to take it. Large, warm, and roughened from the sword hilt, the hand enveloped his own and he was being led up to the Svarya's chambers. For all his amused banter at the table, Isidore was surprised that Kerim said nothing the entire way up to the chambers. And, of course, Isidore was not inclined to risk the man taking offence at his own utterances, so the silence hung between them as they walked along the stone passages.

By the time they got there, Isidore was well and truly relieved of any hope he might of felt upon seeing the Svarya's light-hearted reaction to his escape. The hand had progressively tightened its grip on his own so that it was numb when they finally got inside the chamber door and, after he was swung inside it, he began to sense that Kerim was not ready to just brush this episode off.

"Escape?!" the Svarya demanded. "Is that what you will do now? You will run away from me and hide in the woods where there are not one, but two wolf-packs that have hunted out just about all the game there and would be only too happy for some utterly stupid boy to come wandering into their midst, alone and unprotected."

Isidore gulped. He had not thought of wolves. He was about to say something in his defense when Kerim gave him such a glare that he shut his mouth.

"Why?" the Svarya asked.

"I..." Isidore coughed, his voice had gone breathy from fear. "I didn't want to be forced."

"If you didn't want to be forced then you should have come willingly," Kerim growled. "And I agreed to give you time to visit the temples, or whatever was required, to appease your delicate sensibilities. But you didn't even wait to make use of my generous offer. Instead my reasonableness towards you was responded to with nothing but petulance and defiance. So I am done being reasonable."

Kerim slammed the door to the chamber shut, locking it and placing the key atop the door-frame so that it was well and truly beyond Isidore's reach. Isidore's heart was beating wildly as he watched this display. He stood there, unable to move and, even if he could, having nowhere to run. But he was done running; the Daja's continued overbearing actions had grown beyond his tolerance.

"Take off your clothes," Kerim ordered, and when he did not obey immediately, he was rewarded with a bellowed "now!"

"No," Isidore answered, but it came out as a whisper, so he cleared his throat and repeated aloud, "No."

Were he not in such a state of angst, he would have taken supreme pleasure in the look of complete astonishment on Kerim's face.

"Think you 'twas a suggestion I gave you?" the Svarya said, advancing on him.

Isidore stood his ground. Having nothing to lose at this point gave him a reckless sense of bravery. "What will you do, Kerim-ya?" he asked, tipping his head up to regard the man who had come to stand not a foot from him. "Will you force me?" He folded his arms across his chest. "Go ahead, I am waiting."

Isidore's was amazed how he was able to keep the furious beating of his heart out of his voice, but it remained cool and calm. It was only the desperate nature of his situation that enabled him to remain so detached. After all, what he feared most was to come by order or by force; therefore he may as well have the worst and rightly hate the man for it.

The Svarya looked down at the boy's face, stony and unflinching, even as he loomed over him. Damn him for forcing his hand, Kerim thought, as he saw he was not about to intimidate Isidore into submission. The tactic that had rarely failed in his life before was failing him dismally now. In fact, it seemed, the more he bullied Isidore the harder Isidore's temperament got. Ah, Gods, he had gone about this all wrong, especially as he had no intention of forcing Isidore. It was not his way to force anyone. If it were, he would have had far more arse than ever he had got when in training or marching the borders.

Kerim sighed in disgust. "I will not force you," he admitted, cursing the boy for calling his bluff; that was never how he had wanted Isidore. But he was just angry enough to do what he did next.

"Then what are you doing?" Isidore demanded as he was shoved on the bed.

"You were given an order," Kerim told him, his voice cold. "I am seeing that you obey it."

When he was thoroughly divested of his clothes, he was left alone in the room. Kerim unlocked the door and stormed out of it, slamming it behind him. But, at least Isidore was no longer locked in and he could put on fresh clothes. He didn't though. Instead he lay back and let the hot tears spill from his eyes, blurring the view of that awful battle-scene on the ceiling. He hated those demonstrations of power; he truly hated them! Why, he wondered, was it always one step forward and ten steps back with Kerim? They could never agree. They could never stop fighting and bickering, and yet the Svarya wouldn't send him back to Sheq-Kis-Ra. Instead he kept him here so they could ever be a source of torment to each other.

Kerim was thinking the same as he sat in the parlour, not ready to face the castle as yet. Gods what was wrong with him? Could he never get it right? Why had he stripped Isidore naked? To punish him for disobeying an order, that was why. Then why did it feel wrong? He could not answer that, but he felt a right prick at this time; and the more he thought on it, the more his shoulders slumped as he realised what he must do.

It had just been mistake after mistake with Isidore. He really did care for him but, because he was so incapable of showing it, the boy well and truly - and rightly - despised him. And so it was to be; there was only one way, therefore, that he could truly show Isidore how greatly he cared. Even though it would bring him naught more than a fleeting reflected joy in seeing pleasure in the Sheq-Kis-Ranian.

If ever he managed to raise a smile again, he would be surprised, Isidore thought as he sat on the bed. He contemplated getting into it, since he was damned tired after his sleepless night and morning on tenterhooks, but as he stared out the opened balcony doors, his eyes were drawn to the direction of Sheq-Kis-Ra. What used to be the source of his pride now made him feel ashamed, not to be of Sheq-Kis-Ra, but that it called him son. For he had shamed his home with his foolish actions. Now that there was no longer any Daja standing over him threateningly, he could admit how utterly foolish he had been to try to escape. If anything had happened to him; if he had lost his life, his father would have lost a son; his older brother a younger brother; his nation a Svaraya and Kerim would have been held responsible. Sheq-Kis-Ra could have been within its rights to declare war on Sherim-Ra for the insult, and then countless other lives would have been lost as a result. There would have been untold destruction because of it. He was a fool! A stupid fool not to realise that there might be wolves in the forest, and he would have been atop a tired old gelding that was hard-pressed to outrun anything. Gods help him; where had his sense gone to?

But desperation tended to inhibit rational thought, while fear oft precluded any consideration of the ramifications of one's actions. Isidore had had a lot of both as he had lain awake the previous night, contemplating his rape on the morrow. But it had not come and, if the man's words were to be believed, would not have. But he had not waited around to find this out.

Though he could wish to wallow abed all day, considering his actions, the reasons for them and whether or not he was justified in undertaking them, he realised that wallowing would avail him of nothing. He was too agitated to find any peace in sleep, so he climbed off the bed, walking to the chest of his clothing and selecting items to wear.

Once dressed and ready for the day, he opened the door from the bed chamber and was halted instantly when he saw Kerim sitting on the parlour couch. He looked as though he had been contemplating the very set of events that had been plaguing Isidore, but the Svarya jerked in the direction of the door when he heard it open.

Isidore opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted. Kerim got to his feet and held out his hand. "I have something for you," he said, and Isidore took his hand, after a moment's hesitation.

He was led from the parlour and down the hall until Kerim stopped by one door, opening it. Isidore's eyes widened as he was led inside, seeing it was a bed-chamber like the Svarya's, only smaller.

"'Tis yours," Kerim said, pushing Isidore inside so that he might survey it. The room looked fresh and clean, not dusty or disused, and Isidore wondered who had used it in the last year. A large bed sat against one wall, freshly made and covered in a heavy throw. There were several chests and a dressing table, but what Isidore noticed were the bookcases against the wall, empty, but definitely designed to take books. There were three couches at the far end of the room, beside the balcony, and covered in suns-light; a pleasant area to sit and read, especially in the afternoon when the suns'-light would stream in.

"Why are you giving it to me?" he asked after he had wandered about inside, absently running his fingers along the furniture.

"You need somewhere to call your own," Kerim said. "I had planned on giving it to you after you had grown accustomed to me, but that seems never to happen, so you may as well have it now. But that is not all, I have somewhat else to show you."

He reached out his hand and Isidore took it, then he was led from his chamber, noticing as he had passed the door that there was a key in the lock. Kerim would not have missed this either. So he was to be given the means to lock himself away from the Svarya if he wished? This definitely surprised him.

In silence, he was led out of the chambers and through the castle passages, trying to remember certain features as he passed them so he could remember where they were going. There seemed a certain gravity about the Svarya's demeanor, as though a weight had settled on his large shoulders and he felt its burden heavily.

When they had reached a set of passages that Isidore did not even vaguely recognise, Kerim stopped at one set of very large double doors, taking the key he had gripped in his other fist, and placed it in the lock. The double-doors swung open and then kept propped that way by large brass door-stops in the shape of lions that Kerim nudged before them with his boot. Isidore did not notice this, however, as he turned around and saw the rows and rows of books. Ancient books. He went up to one shelf, seeing that the script looked a little strange and he gasped to see it was a variant of Ancient Pasian, not so old as the old language, but older than any of the dialects that they had used for nigh to a century.

"No one uses this library so 'tis yours," Kerim informed him from the door and Isidore was surprised to hear the sadness in his tone. "You may call it your own for a twelve-month, after which time you will be returned to Sheq-Kis-Ra."

Then he turned and left, missing Isidore's stricken expression, the boy not knowing himself that he wore it.

He would be returning to Sheq-Kis-Ra. He had to stay in Sherim-Ra but one year, then he would be sent home. Those thoughts had gone around and around in his mind for over an hour as he sat in the chair behind the library desk, surrounded by books, but his mind was too clouded and agitated to even think of reading them.

It was over, he thought. The struggle with Kerim, the fight to maintain his personal space, and the battle against his body's responses, were all over. And it was well, he told himself, shaking away that strange feeling of loss that pricked at him. He could never have made a life here; Sherim-Ra was too backward, their beliefs too warped by the thinking of Kerim's grandfather.

And what of the strange attraction he continued to feel towards the Daja which, he was sure, was largely responsible for his current distress? It was well that they would never join again, he was sure, for no good had come of it the first time, so it was well that it was also the last.

And so he would leave Sherim-Ra, but a twelve-month to serve his time. Then he would be back in Sheq-Kis-Ra, back to his old life; back to the Enlightened One, only having to hear the reports of the way things were in Sherim-Ra at which he could cluck his tongue ruefully, wishing they were as enlightened as he. But how could he do so with any kind of conscience? Once home, in a little after a year's time, it would be with the knowledge that he had gone to Sherim-Ra and brought none of his own enlightenment. Merely, he had served his time and left. The word coward insinuated itself into his thoughts, and he bit his lip as his eyes misted over.

"Why are you crying?" a Daran servant entered the library with a pitcher of watered wine and a goblet for him.

Isidore started at the voice and turned in its direction, only then realising the truth of the boy's words when his vision was blurry. "'Tis the dust," he murmured, embarrassed.

The boy gave him a funny look, for there was no longer a speck of dust in that library, but he said nothing, having been trained to know better. "Is there aught else you require, highness?" the boy asked.

Isidore jerked at the title from his past. "Why do you call me that?" he asked curiously.

"'Tis who you are," the boy said, his voice shy but with an undeniable thread of conviction. "They might deny your heritage here, but we know of it. We heard of you in Sherim-Ra, even those in the provinces did hear of the Dara-Svaraya."

Isidore nodded, a little surprised, but he supposed the status accorded to him in Sheq-Kis-Ra would have been a source of some amusement for the Sherim-Ranians. He looked up after a moment when he perceived that the servant remained.

The boy looked unsure of himself, but before he could hasten away, he spat out what was itching for release on his tongue. "It did give us hope, highness, to know you were Sheq-Kis-Ran royalty," his voice went low, "and we need hope here," he said quietly but earnestly.

Isidore did not know what to say to that. He who had been relishing his return home had not even thought of what he might represent to the Darani here.

"Do you dislike the way of things here?" he asked curiously, for if he was to believe his attendants, Darani were generally content with the way of things.

The boy shook his head. "Things have got better since Svarya Kerim, at least for we Darani inside the castle walls, though what happens on the outside is still largely left up to the Clan."

"The Clan?" Isidore asked.

The boy was about to answer but at the sound of footsteps in the hall, he stopped, pouring the goblet of morning wine for Isidore then bowing before he darted out of the room, leaving Isidore to mull over his thoughts.

Since his arrival in the household of Kerim da Jaal, he had been kept away from the Darani, whether incidentally or by design he did not know. He had never known that he might be considered by them as anything more than an interloper or a somewhat pampered guest. Never had he thought that they might take solace in his existence for what it represented, that Daran royalty was not impossible.

Truly his presence here was a fortuitous opportunity, was he of a mind to take it. Yet he was not to stay here. He was not to bring about change, if that were even possible. Instead he was to retreat to the safety of Sheq-Kis-Ra where at least he would be free of the oppression, if none of the Sherim-Ran Darani had a hope of being so.

So...what if he was to stay here? He could ask Kerim... No, such was impossible; for to do so, even was it to effect change, would be to toy with a man to achieve his own ends. And the idea of toying with Kerim's emotions, even for so noble a cause as this, left a far fouler feeling in his chest. Oh, Gods, Isidore thought, leaning back in the large chair and staring at the ceiling rafters. Oh, Holy Gods, he did not need this. This was most inconvenient. But try as he might, he couldn't help that he felt something for Kerim, in spite of his overbearing Dajan manner. There was something there that made him feel more than just a moral obligation not to play with his emotions. There was something that made him feel positively ill at the prospect of hurting him.

Why couldn't he have been a dim-witted brute? Why couldn't he be the thoughtless and cruel bastard that Isidore had been fond of calling him when they so frequently butted heads? Instead, he had bested Isidore on more than one occasion when they had engaged wits, and, further to Isidore's consternation, he was caring, in his own way. Isidore looked around him at the evidence of the man's generosity. A room just for him. Kerim had said it and all it contained belonged to him for the twelvemonth he was to remain here. To any Sherim-Ranian's thinking, Kerim owed nothing to Isidore. And yet he gave, nonetheless, today's gifts not being the only times he had done so.

But he had given more than just physically: when they had come to the heart of the battle between them, the claiming of bed-rights, the warrior had backed down. Isidore knew enough of the warriors in his own home to know that this was not something they did very readily, for they were relentlessly defensive of their pride. He had noted more than once that they would go to the extent of sustaining serious injury, or likewise hurting another to maintain it. Yet Kerim had surrendered his pride in this, and Isidore could not figure why the Daja had done so.

Not only that, he had also given Isidore what he'd ultimately wanted: his return to Sheq-Kis-Ra. The one year he was to stay in Sherim-Ra was a grace period to all of them, for it would be the height of rudeness to send Isidore back after a month. Such would have suggested that Kerim had found him wanting, which would have shamed Isidore and insulted his family. Instead Kerim would have him remain, in his own chambers no less, to spare Isidore the insult of appearing to be spurned. So he had surrendered in this also. But why? Why had he given Isidore all that he thought the boy wanted, and then left him to himself?

"Oh, Isidore, you fool," he murmured to himself, and he could add stubborn, intractable, blind and incredibly stupid to that list.

Without stopping to let his overly cautious mind interfere in what he must do, he stood, walking to the door and pulling the key from it. His for a year, Kerim had said and there was but one thing Isidore could think of to do with it at this time.

It fell on Kerim's desk with a thunk; the Svarya looking up in surprise. Isidore had been apprised that he was attending matters at his desk in his great, cavernous office when he had gone to look for him, and he was utterly pleased that he was alone as he did so.

"Why?" Isidore asked, folding his arms across his chest and directing one of his severest looks on Kerim, for he wanted answers, direct and no nonsense answers. "Why the gifts? And why the return to Sheq-Kis-Ra?"

Kerim regarded him, wondering why Isidore was being so ungracious. "'Tis what you want, is it not?" he asked, his own expression stony. "Why do you care for the reasons?"

"Because I do not trust you," Isidore decided to goad the man. "Your tactics are so frequently underhanded; I cannot help but look the gift-horse in the mouth if it comes from you."

Kerim looked thoroughly affronted, and then his expression quickly turned to one of fury. "Nothing I have given you has been done with aught but your well-being in mind. Everything I have done for you has been done only to make you happy so you might accept this as your home. When I had to let go of even the hope of that happening, I gave so that I might see some trace of joy in you while you must remain here. But you mistrust even that. Am I truly such a villain to you?" he demanded, his black eyes showing altogether so much hurt that Isidore regretted engaging his emotion to elicit that confession.

"No," Isidore answered, "but your gifts are not welcome, if they come at the price of my quitting your presence." He grasped the large hand that was balled into a fist on the desk, and Kerim was surprised enough at the boy instigating a touch between them that, despite his fury, he didn't think to snatch it away. Isidore placed the library key in the Daja's grasp, folding his fingers back around it.

"What means this?" Kerim asked, looking from the key in his grasp to the boy.

"It means I refuse your gifts: the chamber, the library, my return to Sheq-Kis-Ra," Isidore said, keeping his voice steady, and then he forced himself to admit the truth. "I wouldst have you instead."

Kerim opened his mouth to berate Isidore for his lack of gratitude, and then he closed it as the last few words sank in.

"If you will still have me, of course," Isidore used the opportunity to continue, for his recent behavior made it by no means a foregone conclusion.

If he was not struggling to keep up with the Daja as he bounded through the castle halls, tugging Isidore behind him, he would have felt some embarrassment at their racing through the passages like children where naught would doubt the reason for their haste. As it was, a few startled servants backed out of the way and there were some knowing looks but he put them from his mind.

"You are sure of this, little one?" Kerim asked once they were in his bed-chamber, hefting him up into his arms so that he could look him directly in the eyes, his own black ones searching the midnight-blue ones for a trace of doubt.

"I am," Isidore said with a surprised smile. "And are you?" he asked cheekily.

Kerim grinned. "Can you not tell?" he asked, eliciting a giggle from Isidore, then he leaned in, his lips touching Isidore's but not close enough to form a kiss. "Do you still require lessons?" he asked against the full lips.

"I think I have the way of it," Isidore murmured, closing his eyes and then pressing his lips against those of the man, completing the kiss. He wrapped his arms around the thick neck, feeling Kerim's arms tighten around him, crushing him against his wide chest, but Isidore reveled in the tight embrace, as he did in the taste of the hot mouth. They communicated with lips and tongues, sometimes sucking and playing with each other, other times licking and exploring. They did not break the kiss as Isidore was laid on the bed on his back, Kerim coming to lie over him, their bodies now touching, fully clothed, their hands poring over each other while their tongues continued to duel.

Kerim pulled back, despite Isidore's trying to stop him. As he stood before the bed, Isidore leaned up on his elbow, watching him curiously. The Daja yanked the ties of his vest open quickly, so that one or two tore free, while Isidore watched avidly. Now that he could finally admit how much he desired the other man, he wanted to see him bared in his entirety. The vest was shrugged off and thrown aside, some distance away. One by one, the ties on his trousers were also undone and Isidore shifted slightly, feeling his hardness strain uncomfortably against the thick fabric of his trousers. He watched as the last of the ties were opened, the trousers hanging low on the man's narrow hips, and he felt the familiar trepidation of stepping beyond what was safe and under his control, of having his desires pervade his senses so that he was open and vulnerable to this man's every sensuous touch.

Then Kerim yanked down his trousers and Isidore's eyes widened. There before him stood the man's phallus and while he could say he knew it; he had lost his virginity to it; he had not actually seen it up close before, and right now it stood before him, in full arousal.

Without thinking, Isidore reached up and touched it, a sound of surprise passing his parted lips as it jumped in his grasp. His own did that sometimes when he felt a surge of additional excitement amid arousal, but this one's movements were heavier, the jump definitely batted the rod against his fingers which curled around the velvety skin of the shaft, sliding along its length while juicy precum gathered at the tip.

He looked up suddenly, his eyes meeting Kerim's which had gone smoky black with desire. Smiling slightly, he went back to the task at hand, raising his other hand and sliding it across the firm flesh of one powerful flank, caressing across the inner thigh which tensed at his touch, and then he was touching the loose skin of the large balls that hung beneath the rod he was caressing with the other hand.

This elicited a groan from their owner, and Kerim stepped forward, bringing one knee up on to the bed so that the rod was inches from Isidore's face. The most natural thing to do was to taste the rod, so this he did now, rolling back the foreskin to completely expose the moist, flared head, licking the tip and swirling his tongue across the sensitive glans, so that he could taste the sweet juices that coated it. Any nervousness he had felt, any trepidation, was entirely eradicated, possibly because now he was in control. Of course, thoughts of nerves or anything other than that which he was progressively burying in his throat were fast escaping him.

The taste was hot and heady; the musky scent filled his nostrils as he worked more of the shaft into his mouth, and it was as he was about to open the back of his throat, tilt his head up, and take the head deep into his throat that a fist in his hair stopped him. Kerim withdrew his rod from the boy's mouth and prised the small fingers off its base.

Isidore looked up in surprise which quickly turned to mortification. "Was I not doing it right?" he asked, his cheeks flaming.

"No," Kerim said with a grin, pushing Isidore back into the centre of the bed. "You were doing it too right, and I will spill ere I even get your pants off."

Then there was no more talking. His mouth was covered by that of the other man; hot and wet it pressed against his own, the tongue entering his mouth and possessing its every inch. It tasted so good; the way Kerim had always tasted. It was so right that before long Isidore forgot all else but the kiss which was accompanied by caresses of the man's hand on his body, slowly divesting him of each item of clothing until he was likewise bared.

When the fingers moved up to one of his nipples, pinching and flicking over the sensitive skin, he moaned, arching his back so that his hard cock rolled on his belly. For some time the fingers continued to torture the sensitised flesh, while Isidore's own fingers gripped and dug into the sinew of the man's shoulders, as the kiss grew more fervent. Then the fingers left his nipple, tracing slowly down his belly which quivered tautly in response to their path. Then they came across the hot, hard member that was trailing its slick moisture on his abdomen. Kerim slid his fingers over the throbbing member, stroking down the velvety skin, his finger tips going down to the sensitive sacs below it. He massaged there while his palm pressed the hardness against the boy's belly, creating a sheath and soon Isidore was responding to the stimulation on his balls and bucking his hips against the palm and feeling his own juices smear against his belly. Then his rod was gripped in a firm strong grasp which stroked up and down it, the fingertips occasionally brushing over the throbbing tip which made him squirm with desire.

When he was close to being finished, Kerim slipped his hand from the member; a dirty trick, but he played it nonetheless, sliding his hand back up the taut musculature of the boy's belly, over his chest and up to his face, stroking one thumb over the smooth cheek.

"Are you still sure? You want this?" he asked.

Isidore nodded.

Kerim shifted, reaching to the cabinet and casting Isidore a suspicious look. "You will not run away now, will you?"

Isidore flushed and shook his head.

Then he gasped as he was rolled on to his belly and felt the oils rubbed against his cleft. The finger stroked along the length of it, and Isidore jumped a little each time it passed over the sensitive skin of his love-hole.

"You still want this?" Kerim wanted to make sure Isidore agreed every step of the way, so he asked this as he slid his finger slowly up the love passage, feeling the ridges and finding the small raised part which delivered a man his pleasure when being fucked.

Isidore's affirmation was only a gasp as he felt that part inside himself being stroked. That was what it was, he thought, the part inside him that he had wondered about, which had given him such pleasure the first time. His hard rod throbbed against his belly as the gland was massaged, while he could do naught more than moan in response to the fingers, wanting more but having enough presence of mind not to beg for it to be given to him.

"Do you want more?" Kerim asked, coaxing a plea out of him yet.

"Mmm," Isidore murmured while the finger moved about in maddening strokes.

He heard a chuckle behind him, then the finger was withdrawn and he was shifted to his knees on the bed. Kerim pulled Isidore back until he was by the edge of the bed, and then stood on the rug-covered floor next to him, bending his knees slightly so that he could be at the right position for entering him.

He held off doing so immediately, however, preferring to take the throbbing, glistening head of his phallus and tease the sensitive flesh of the boy's love-hole which was clearly on view. Isidore let out a moan as he was teased, feeling the head rub over and over the budding flesh, bringing it back to sensitised awareness. He wanted it so much; he wanted the huge organ plunging deep into him; he wanted to feel it fill him to the hilt, and he wanted it to be buried far within him.

"Please." The word burst from his mouth as the man continued to lubricate him with his own juices, but going no further. Isidore groaned to feel the tip press against his tight flesh, so hot and blunt, not quite pressing through, suspended until the man put his own considerable weight behind it, which he would only do when he was sure that was what Isidore wanted.

"Please," Isidore gasped out again, feeling the head draw tight circles around his hole. "Please, do it now."

With a groan, Kerim positioned himself against the hole then leaned his weight behind it. Isidore gave a long, drawn-out moan as the flesh filled him, going deeper and deeper into him, stretching him wider and wider as it invaded with that same sting. Only it was less painful and lasted not so long as it had the first time; the muscles of his opening accommodated more quickly to the thickest part of the tool and that heavy, stuffed feeling as the rest of it lay inside him. Then it was drawn out and he felt every vein slide past his sensitised ring, before it slid back in, filling him up again.

He pressed his lips together to suppress the cries with every thrust as again and again that hot, hard meat was buried within him. He shivered as every nerve deep inside him fired pleasure in response to the rigid flesh that rubbed past it, causing his rod to twitch and throb with pleasure. He could not touch it; to do so would be to end it all too quickly. So he settled for clenching his muscles around the large invader, tightening his grip so that they had a better chance of coming together.

Kerim grunted as he felt the passage tighten around his cock, and shoved it in harder while he heard Isidore's muffled moans below him. Reaching down, he tugged the thick column of black hair back so that Isidore's head was drawn up, his mouth no longer able to remain clamped shut on his moans as he cried out in pleasure.

"That's better," Kerim told him, in a voice overlaid with pleasure. "I want to hear every sound."

"Aha," Isidore agreed abjectly and Kerim smiled, releasing his tight hold on the boy's hair, but keeping the silky braid in his palm as he thrust. The one time when Isidore was truly docile and agreeable was when he was being fucked, it would seem. And it was the one time when Kerim could get away with making a demand like that and not have a pair of sparkling midnight-blue eyes narrowed at him.

The sounds of Isidore's pleasure, the moans and gasps as he was fucked, and the occasional loud cries as he was rammed deeper, only served to bring Kerim's climax closer. He began to pound against the firm, supple flesh of the boy's buttocks, letting go of the boy's hair and grabbing both hips, ramming his cock deep inside him, into the warm slick sheath that gripped him so tightly. That grip clamped even tighter when Isidore eventually gave up and climaxed with a loud cry, clutching his manhood as it jerked, spilling several thick loads before him, releasing so much pent up lust. Eventually the feeling grew too great and Kerim also climaxed, shutting his eyes and pulling the boy against him as he drove his hips forward for several short, sharp thrusts, unleashing his hot thick cream into the warm cavern.

And then it was over and he was leaning over Isidore's back, his hands on either side of those of the boy on the bed as he breathed deeply, his lips pressed to the silky skin of Isidore's cheek.

"The next time, I'll last longer, I promise," Kerim told Isidore who was breathing deeply, sweaty from their fervent love-making the end of which had come quickly, as might be expected.

"Mmm," Isidore breathed, "so will I."

Afterwards, they lay together, Isidore's back against Kerim's chest, both of them cooled by the breeze that flowed in from the open balcony doors. Isidore felt one large hand slide down the smooth skin of his arm, tracing the form of its lithe musculature.

"Do you think we should have done this from the first?" Kerim asked.

"Fucked?" Isidore asked absently. He knew how he had been, screaming out as he climaxed so he did not resent the question; any clear-thinking man could have come up with it. "I think the time was right, for us both, on this occasion."

The hand slid across his hip and down his thigh, then back up to cup one firm buttock. "And are you upset that we have?" Kerim asked.

"That I came to it willingly must tell you that I am not," Isidore replied.

"You were not forced the last time, yet you were upset," Kerim reminded him.

"You will gloat now?" Isidore asked with a sigh, pushing the hand away.

Kerim ignored the boy's attempts to free himself from the embrace. "I am not gloating and neither am I looking for a fight; I merely wanted to check that, unlike last time, you were not harbouring some sense of upset at what has transpired."

Isidore relaxed. "Be assured I am not," he said.

"I am glad of it," Kerim said. "I would have left you alone, you know," he mused after a few moments.

"But I came to you," Isidore reminded him.

"No," Kerim said, taking Isidore's fine-boned hand in his own, "before that, when first you came here."

Isidore laughed. "You honestly expect me to believe that?" he asked.

"'Tis true. When I first saw you in the receiving room I cursed you several times under my breath for being so small yet so enticing, for I was certain that I would face untold tortures having you in my chambers while not being able to touch you. Then you opened your mouth, and any fear I had of your being weak and terrified disappeared and I knew I would have you. So if you had but held your tongue, 'twould have been as you wished: you would not have been touched and in due time, sent back to Sheq-Kis-Ra."

Isidore turned in his arms, looking up into the black eyes. "But that was not what I wanted; you know that now, though it took me nigh as long to figure it myself."

"For all your excessive cleverness," Kerim reminded him with a smile.

"Aye," Isidore said, wrapping his arms around the man's neck and burying his head against his chest, kissing the salty skin there.

"An agreement? I am surprised," Kerim said, running one hand down the smooth skin of Isidore's back, feeling the ridges of his lithe muscles. "'Tis always about arguing with you, Darima."

"I would more say 'tis about having the last word," Isidore said, leaning back and delivering the man a challenging look.

"Ah well," Kerim said, taking one small hand and twining their fingers together, "I can deal with your faults if you can deal with mine." He shifted slightly, and Isidore gasped when he felt the spongy phallus head press against that portal where it intended to go. "But now we have one thing we can agree on, do we not?"