Yearning Man: Quest for the Consort

Darya's perch on the balcony would give the best view for the short race, whose finish line was right in line with the end of the south palace wing.

Alya sidled up to Darya as the runners gathered, playa visitors jostling for a good look. "There's the big fellow being attended to," nudged Alya, pointing to Rictov. Like all the other villars, he was barefoot, naked, and one of the palace attendants was attending to the state of his erection.

It was nearly stiff, pointing out in front of his torso, held in by his bone cock-ring that had drawn Alya's attention during the first practice race.

The girl, a small, round servant with able hands and saucy dark eyes, had coaxed his member into a fine stiffness. Other villars were already hard, beginning to gather at the starting line.

Darya nudged Alya. "The Fernwood fellow looks ready. See how steady his eyes are!"

Sirin's gaze was focused on the finish line down the playa, apparently unaware of all else around him. His staff was quite stiff, pointing skyward, balls drawn up.

"Those thighs," sighed Darya. "They ripple like a running brook." Sirin touched his toes, stretched each hamstring.

"Your hopes?" asked Alya. "You have any hopes for the race? It won't be Rictov. He's conquered through all the strength events but never came close to the other runners. It may not matter, his advantage is so great everywhere else."

Darya had hopes but did not reveal them. She tried to tell herself that all was out of her hands, that any one of the villars, as long as they were chosen fairly by the ministers, would be fine, acceptable. But the thought of Sirin and her together was appealing, he was so handsome and self-assured.

So she shook her head. "Whatever, whoever, fate decrees, is fine for me. Besides, there is one more challenge after even all this is done."

The villars had arranged themselves now on the starting line, toes up against the furrow inscribed in the playa dust, laid in a perfectly straight manner. A similarly straight line marked the finish, bracketed by two poles with crimson banners two hundred paces down the playa. Everything would happen so quickly.

Legs were tense, the stretching and preparations over, villars bent over, arms and legs set for a sudden launch.

Townspeople still jostled at the last minute, but had grown quiet with anticipation.

"Ready!" The starting official raised his right hand with the crimson flag.

The runners hunched for their last tensing, like an arrow just to be released from its string.

"Off!" The hand went down, the flag dropped, and eight strong vigorous men launched themselves down the stretch.

A tall lean villar had come off his start quickly, head up and long arms pumping, straining for an edge.

Rictov had been slow off the mark, Sirin on the outside edge only slightly behind the leader.

Darya and Alya were enchanted by the contracting movement of the eight rumps, arse cheeks clenching, squeezing and releasing with each forward thrust. Legs flew down the playa, kicking up dust as the noise from the crowd increased.

By the halfway mark, Sirin and Gar were dead even. Sirin keep his head level, eyes ahead. Darya noted that Gar gave a quick glance to gauge their respective position.

At the last stretch Sirin gave a burst to come in a half stride ahead of Gar.

The crowd erupted. The villars walked it off, bent over at the waist, most staffs, but not all, still stiff. A fine sight, these handsome men from throughout the land.

Sirin sought the hand of Rictov and Gar. "Good race," he said to each, "may the best villar proceed." Gar's handshake was warm and he met Sirin's gaze. "Best indeed," he said. "Best."

Rictov held Sirin's hand in an over-tight grip and his eyes flashed. "Everything is on the line. I won't have it any other way. We'll see, but I will prevail."

"We'll see indeed," responded Sirin.

They took water and walked slowly in clusters back to their quarters, nothing to do but prepare for the final day. The crowd dispersed, taking food and drink sustenance.

****

The playa attendees had been thrilled the whole week, finding favorites, cheering on men from their province. All awaited the final day, the wrestling. Three successive matches would reduce the eight to one overall winner.

The wrestling rules were ancient and simple. Both opponent's shoulder blades to the ground and the match was over, a fall, the most dominant way to finish. Two times taking the other to the ground or pushing the other wrestler out of the ring, was likewise a win.

Infractions were few. No blows or choking, or otherwise moves intended to deliberately hurt an opponent. The best matches were ones decided by a combination of skill, strategy and strength.

Large size favored the last approach of course, and when up against a heavier opponent, smaller wrestlers relied on speed, timing and leverage for downs, usually their best hope.

Neither Sirin nor Rictov had had much trouble with their first two opponents. Rictov had rushed his contender, upended him and held his shoulders to the ground in a matter of moments.

Sirin had not been dominant, but his quickness and timing had proved decisive in his first two matches.

Before the final, Gar sidled up to Sirin.

"I lost to him in the second round." He pointed to the big man. "Watch your left leg. If you keep it forward even slightly, he'll go for it. You'll have your face in the dirt in an instant. Once toppled you'll have your hands full staying off your back."

Sirin nodded while staring at Rictov, squatting and stretching, his shoulders broad and rounded.

Summoned to the ring, they each bowed to each other.

They circled each other. Rictov tried pulling Sirin's head and neck with his paws but Sirin ducked away, wary. Two feints to Rictov's ankle proved ineffective, which meant alternatives were needed.

Rictov made a furious rush and they engaged, managing to force Sirin out of the ring before the smaller man could circle out.

"One out!" shouted the keeper. He urged them back to the center.

Sirin snagged a leg but was unable to upend the bigger man, whose fierce resistance and mass put Sirin in a defensive pose he was forced to relinquish.

They circled warily, eyes of each intent.

Darya's eyes were wide as she watched with Alya from their balcony, riveted on the contest before them.

"He's quick," said Alya. "See how he stays just out of reach? But the big fellow knows his game."

Sirin was almost pushed out of the circle again, but was able to wheel his body back in bounds. He resisted the big man's hands, careful of the danger to his left leg, which he kept back.

But a sudden charge caught Sirin unprepared, there was neither time to turn nor enough strength to push back and his feet skidded on the dirt out of the marked ring.

Rictov's smile was tight as his arms relaxed. Both wrestlers returned to the ring center and each grasped the other's right hand.

"Victor!" said the official, raising Rictov's arm in the air. The crowd cheered, but Darya turned away from the window.

"It was close," Alya said. "The Fernwood man was quick, but no match for the other."

Darya nodded, but she found her thoughts still with Sirin. This had been the final of the week's events, and the ministers would adjourn immediately to render their decision on the overall winner. Inevitably the final event would be held in their minds as they deliberated. A last win is always the finest, she thought.

And Rictov might well become the best villar, set for the next challenge. Her shoulders shook in a quick and involuntary manner. Fate would come to her, regardless of her own thoughts, and that notion itself was troubling.

****

That night at dinner was fraught for Darya. She knew from a first look at her parent's faces that a verdict had been rendered.

"Well? Who is it? Please don't keep it from me."

Darya' tried to read her mother's expression but couldn't.

"Yes? Have the judges rendered an outcome?" She looked from one blank face to the other.

"The fast one from Fernwood? With the handsome, flashing speedy limbs?"

Her parents exchanged a glance.

"Rictov, the burly fellow from Salur. It was close, but everyone was impressed with his strength and focus. Assuming he passes the next test, he will be good for you."

Darya detected hesitation in her mother's words.

"Do you agree with the judges? I am not sure you do."

Aniz's eyes darted away momentarily.

Darya tried to keep her expression neutral.

"Tradition exists for a reason. We have acted this way for generations, and it has always worked well, and successfully. Succession is not a light matter, you know that well by now. Besides, there is still tomorrow night, which will confirm or not whether the choice is a good one." Aniz's words were tight and formal.

"And if not? What then?"

"That has never happened. Always the choice is right, and generations do not lie."

Darya inhaled.

"Rictov is indeed strong. And you could see determination on his face." Her parents gazed at her intently.

"Excellent," she continued. "The next phase has arrived, when it seemed a week ago that it wouldn't."

She raised her wineglass.

"To Rictov. To you, Mother. To the kingdom. May all go well."

****

The villars were told of the verdict after their dinner. Most took the news quietly, although one rose from his seat and stalked off. Sirin was not sure whether Rictov would preen, but he didn't. For Sirin himself it was a second major disappointment in less than ten days. He swallowed hard.

By the morning, two of the villars began to pack their few belongings, to return to their homes. All were welcome to stay, and most did, if nothing else hoping for some attention from their province's enthusiastic supporters. But loss was not handled by all equally. The next two days to the culmination would be one of revelry, and even some of the villars who had not distinguished themselves felt some relief, with a need to relax and indulge.

****

Waiting that evening for dusk, the crickets just beginning their thrum, Aniz tried to compose her thoughts. She had eaten lightly with respect to the moment at hand. She thought of her own mother, all that had happened over the years, the weight, and strength, of tradition. Now she was the final gatekeeper, for her daughter, for the kingdom.

The ultimate villar was of interest, on several levels. Strong. He had appeared confident, there was a fire in his eyes that told much. But that same fire did not indicate concern for others. His shoulders were always held stiffly, he seemed to detect a challenge from all corners. She hoped the ministers decision was the correct one.

"Your Highness?"

Aniz turned. There he was in the doorway, clad in a simple tunic, ushered in by a servant. The event was at hand, what she had anticipated for a year, nay, longer than that, back to when Darya had finished her eighteenth summer.

The fellow bowed stiffly, his legs tensed and he seemed not to know what to do with his arms, held tightly at his side.

Aniz advanced deliberately across the room, took his hand in hers. It was heavy but warm, only slightly damp with nerves.

"Rictov. Congratulations, your performance was as impressive as your strength. Do you like wine?" she asked. She felt him hesitate. "Or are you an ale man?"

He nodded at this. "Yes, ale, your Highness, I confess it so."

She was sure that he might have said yes to wine, just to please her, but the hesitation had been enough a clue.

She motioned to the servant, "both wine and ale please," who withdrew.

"Before we begin, I would like to hear a bit of your life. What brought you to this momentous event."

They sat together at the corner of her bed, while liquid refreshments were brought.

There would be ale on his breath, Aniz thought, not wine, the two did not always mix well, but she would rather his comfort and strength were nourished well first, far more important than anything else.

"You know my province well enough, I expect," Rictov began. "It is a hard land, stony and dry. Barley and rye do well, wheat not so much. I lost my father at a young age, my mother is still with us."

"Probably a little older than yourself." He glanced at the angular face of Aniz, her narrow shoulders.

He caught himself, wondering whether this was an appropriate comment.

She smiled. "What is your mother like?"

Rictov looked away for a moment.

"It was a hard life, near impossible, after my father was gone. She was stern, as she needed to be. I was the oldest of three, and she needed my help, which I willingly gave. But it does not do well to be raised in comfort for a difficult world."

"I have spent my whole life waiting for this chance," he hesitated. "I trust I will not disappoint."

"We shall see. Regardless, I respect your training, the time you have taken in preparation."

She looked carefully into his eyes. Edgy? Not wary at least. Expectant?

She reached into the midst of his tunic and rummaged. There was some stirring of life, a good omen.

"Stand please."

He rose carefully.

She unhitched the clasp holding the shoulder section of his tunic, and slid it off his shoulders and arms.

She examined him closely. Of course she had seen him naked before, noted the power of his haunches when running or wrestling, seen his staff wave from side to side in the short race, but never at close quarters.

"Please remove my own clothes."

This always was a test, for any man. How would he accomplish the task? It would indicate many things.

Rictov was slow and deliberate, not ungentle. Her crimson kirtle came off easily enough and he, in his turn, took a moment to run his eyes over her.

She shivered involuntarily. She was aware of desire in his eyes, traveling from her shoulders to her ankles, and back, then fastening at her confluence.

She reached for the kirfa, crimson yarn knotted into a fist-sized ball, and held it in her left hand. He would know what this was, and what it meant, if he had been trained at all competently. She stretched herself out on the bed, and beckoned him.

His staff had stiffened perceptibly in disrobing her, and hung heavy, slightly pushing forward in front of him.

He slid in next to her, gave her a tentative kiss. The breath was acceptable, although hardly arousing. He sensed this and withdrew, and began to kiss her shoulders, arms, fingers. He knew this much at least, probably imparted in his training.

Then down to her feet, toes, he even licked the soles of her feet, causing an abrupt laugh and an involuntary withdrawal. All good.

Up her legs, felt sweet on her inner thighs, then bypassing her valley and starting again, up high at her neck, down to nipples, cautiously taken between teeth, and traversing her navel, to finally her valley.

So far, so good. He nuzzled, his nose pushing her hairs about. She wondered if his mother's valley was also streaked with grey, what color it was, whether he even knew its condition. Didn't matter, fingers were now probing, mouth and tongue on inner thighs, the right sorts of things happening.

She looked over to see his staff now fully erect, bobbing as he moved. Lovely.

"I know you know them by heart, but I must remind you of the rules."

Ricktov moved his head in acknowledgment.

"Once in me, you must stay. Only if our pleasures come at the same time is there a culmination. Understood?"

"Understood, your Highness. That is why I am here."

"Good." She held his staff in a hand, heavy, excited, most alive.

He knelt in front of her and ruffled her entrance. Aniz tensed at the contact, then lay back.

As he played, and she felt her own excitement grow from the contact, heightened by the thought of this man's staff, so earthy and insistent in front of her, soon to enter her.

His beard tickled her thighs and she grew moist.

He stood, his staff pointing directly towards her. It bobbed, handsomely illuminated by the one taper lit to her side.

He shuffled forward, placed it at her entrance. So it was to be.

Entry was easy, he slid in quickly, almost too quickly. He was slow at first, then more vigorous. She closed her eyes.

He was rough, which she did not mind, but his hands felt too heavy on her hips. The tempo varied but she wished he was slower.

Thoughts and sensations crowded together. His staff felt good, the pleasure was escalating, her nipples were achingly sensitive.

But Rictov's movements lacked grace, his rhythm was off, ever so slightly, and she sensed he was wrapped up in his own drives.

The foreign hips gained in pressure and speed, his pelvis pushed more frantically into her. She was close, but it was not quite right.

A sudden tensing, a few short urgent pushes and she knew he had divested. Would Darya, younger and more excitable, have climaxed at this stage of arousal? Aniz shuddered, she herself had not, the kirfa still held tightly in her hand.

She opened her eyes to meet his.

He had noted that she had not dropped the kirfa. Immediately his body stiffened, even just after his own release. But there was no help for it. He had fallen short.

He frantically withdrew and began to finger her valley.

"No, that's enough." Aniz's voice was tight but clear. She urged him off and up.

He stood awkwardly at her side, and she rose as well.

She took his hands in hers. "You did your best, no one can deny that. No honor lost. Now please go."

He awkwardly grabbed his tunic, pulled it on in haste and left, eyes downcast.

Aniz's mind raced. Now what? There must be another course, somehow.

****

Early next morning Aniz relayed events to her husband.

"So what now?" she demanded.

Darya's father's eyes were wild and open, his eyebrows lifted.

Aniz was firm. "The second. The ministers must furnish a second. We cannot wait another year. The New Moon is almost here."

"Have them meet, immediately. I want a decision by noontime," she decided .

Her husband smiled. "You will not be stopped Aniz, I have always admired that in you."

"This may be remembered as the year of seconds." He laughed and waved a hand. "Perhaps fate sometimes favors the determined? We'll see."

****

Sirin was one of the few villars at the tent the next afternoon. Rictov had packed his belongings and departed at daybreak. Everyone assumed that meant he was taking up residence in the palace, in preparation for the morrow.

Shana approached him from across the playa, a startling event. Sirin had only met the provincial governor once, at the beginning of the Fernwood competition, and even then only superficially, by way of introduction.

"Sirin, a word." She gestured that they move to a quieter spot in the shade.

"I am glad you are still here." She took a deep breath.

"Rictov has failed. We would like you to take his place."

Sirin felt his knees weaken, but he stood tall.

"Yes, of course!" he stammered. "An honor, a complete surprise, I would like to thank..."

"No, no thanks needed." Shana was brusque. "Can you come to the palace entrance at dusk? Prepared?"

"Yes, of course. But wait one moment..."

He went to his bundle, removed a scrap of vellum and gave it to Shana. Would you be kind enough to pass this to her Highness? I had a message written down, just in case."

Shana gave him a searching look. "I will do so."

She took his hand.

"For Fernwood. For the kingdom."

Shana took the scrap to Aniz at the palace.

She handed the folded vellum over.

"From your villar. He asked me to deliver it to you. He looks well."

Aniz was taken aback. Shana stayed while she unfolded the packet. It was a short note.

Your Highness

My search has taken me from far