A Gorean Storean Ch. 06

She has to take a shit, and she really wishes he would just go to sleep instead of sighing and rolling around like that and then exhaling seriously like a man about to undertake a tedious chore as he begins round two.

What a dick. She has to piss, too, and an itch has developed teasingly on her left thigh, but she can't do anything about it now. Why the fucker can't have the decency just to let it go after one is beyond her; but no, he has to double down.

She knows the second he sees her awake, he'll just want to fuck her. All he seems to care about is sex and fighting, and everything else is just a wearisome distraction as they make their way from town to camp to wilderness. It's not like he owes her dick for consideration- she'd probably be dead without him, and she knows it. It's not like he's getting anything but pussy out of this arrangement. Having her along makes every little thing he's trying to do that much harder, and she can see that in his strained air of self-restraint. It would be nice to get one night of sleep after riding so hard and long; her ass is starting to develop a worrying blister from pressing against the saddle, and if he doesn't even want to fuck her anymore she has no idea what she'll do. She'd like to go piss, but she can't risk waking him.

She lets her breath go slowly so he won't hear the change in her breathing as she rolls over. He might not even come over, but she'll feel his eyes on her anyway, and then she really won't be able to get back to sleep. She really needs more rest; it's hard to sleep in the long hours on her back, up there in the air, suspended between hard leather and empty air.

She wonders what he's thinking, behind that still face in the long hours flying from here to there. She doesn't think he'd appreciate it if she tried to make conversation. She almost wishes she could speak his language so that she could ask what was on his mind, but even if she had the words he'd probably just be annoyed if she said anything. She wonders, though, if his rush to skip the idle getting-to-know-you chit chat is doing their relationship any favors. He gets angry if she doesn't look like she's listening when he talks, but he has to know that she can't really understand a word he's saying. Just smile and nod, she thinks to herself. Oh Vol of Thentis- you're so strong and brave and handsome.

The first time she saw him kill a man she thought her heart would stop. Whatever they were fighting over, they seemed angrier than she's ever seen two people, although Vol of Thentis didn't seem like he even knew the other guy at first.

As he drew near, the man on the silver-grey Tarn began to call a merry greeting, but he stopped short and his hail died in his throat when he saw the girl.

After he laid eyes on her, he pulled his steed around with a jerk that almost cost him his seat, and his eyes narrowed as he and his steed recovered their balance. The pleasantry and banter that had been in his interrupted greeting had vanished as quickly as he had turned his leisurely flight into a rapid aboutface, and his voice was harsh and brusque, a painful jealous desire become sharp command: "Give her to me."

Vol of Thentis laughed in his face then, and the wind whipped his defiant words across the air to the other. "When I lie bleeding on the grass below, dead at your hand, you may ravish her across my corpse and use my hollow bones to beat her when she fails to please you. Until then, she is mine."

And Vol of Thentis has his bow unslung before the other can draw breath, his arrow singing a tense threatening song in the impossibly long moment between the second he draws back and the second he lets fly. His first shot grazes the man's hastily raised shield, but in the moment it took him to react Vol of Thentis has taken his bird higher, and while the other man struggles to lower his shield and gather up his reins, Vol of Thentis has snatched his spear in his right hand and tossed it casually to recatch it with a firmer grip.

Then comes the plunge. She shuts her eyes, but she can still feel the inevitable stomach dropping wrench as motion overtakes them with never a warning. Fast and swift and sure they fall, and when the two meet, the sensation of pressure as motion meets stillness is almost gentle. She opens her eyes in time to see the spear sink through leather and catch against the man's sternum for a moment before it enters his body, seeming almost reluctant to make the journey through heart and lung and spine before it emerges, glistening, from his back.