#RQC10

[payherprice]

10.

The mountains give way to craggy foothills, through which the road wends its restless way, discontented with straight lines. Eventually it brings us around a bend to get our first look at the Rehm ocean, glittering in the afternoon sun. Impossibly blue and so very welcoming, though the road seems in no hurry to get there. It does not love the waters as I do.

After the foothills we join the coast road, which we follow north towards Caer Vyr. The going is considerably flatter here, making for a more comfortable ride, and I let myself daydream the afternoon away. As we draw closer to the ocean my senses are filled with it. The sounds and smells fly to us on the wind and my spirit seems to follow them back along that same path, drawing me into the water to play there in my mind. 

It’s overcast and chilly when we stop to rest by a little inlet, even so Ketil and Sif agree to join me for a swim without too much convincing. I strip to my underthings, cross the pebbly shore, and wade into the dark waters. They trail after with somewhat less enthusiasm. 

The water is very cold, but I don’t care. I walk till it's too deep to walk and swim just a bit further. There I float, only my face above water, and close my eyes, feeling my body buoyed by the waves, their gentle insistence. I imagine floating like this forever, just drifting and dreaming. That would be the perfect life, wouldn't it? Weightless and free, desires ebbing and flowing with the tides.

My reveries are interrupted by the sound of Ketil and Sif. They are both swearing loudly as the frigid water grasps at their bellies. Seeing them brave the cold to join me, I feel like some beautiful thing, alluring and mysterious. They want to be warm and dry, but more than they want that, they want to be here with me. They swim out and we come together in the gentle waves and play like children, until our bodies are numb and the lethargy of a day spent in the wagon wears away.

Later, we sit by the fire, blankets draped over our shoulders. We giggle to ourselves through chattering teeth and the other caravanners look at us like we are mad. In truth I am barely aware of them. My attention, no matter which way I might try to shift it, seems to fall inexorably back to Sif. To the bare skin of her collar, the depression above the bone where rainwater would collect in a statue. I feel an intense longing to kiss that spot, but her hand is on Ketil’s upper arm and I do my best to banish the thought.

Sleep eludes me that night. I listen to the soft breathing of the others, arrayed around the embers of the fire, surrounding me, and I feel an odd loneliness. My fingers find the cool metal of the sword beside me and I draw it closer, entangling myself around it like a lover.  

“Are you there?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. There is no reply, but just holding it makes me feel a bit better. Better enough to sleep a little before morning comes, bringing with it the last leg of our journey.

The road follows the contours of the coastline only approximately, sometimes meandering farther inland and out of sight of the ocean, into the seemingly boundless moorland. Enormous cloud shadows drift lazily over the stark landscape, and in the distance we catch the occasional glimpse of a shepherd grazing his flock on the moors. Over time the terrain morphs into low, gradually rolling hills that slope downward to the ocean or leave short vertical cliffs, eroded by waves into curious contours. 

At long last we crest the brow of a hill, and there, arrayed before us, is the city. Myriad colorful buildings on a gentle slope, surrounded by a wall like a necklace, punctuated with guard towers like beads spaced along its length. With our destination finally in sight the sense of stalled time engendered by the day’s ride finally relents. 

I lean my head out the window, taking in the sight as more and more detail becomes apparent. To the west, the edge of the city is given over to the harbour, its many fingers splayed out, stretching into the bay, where ships of all sizes crowd around them. On the east side the city is dwarfed by the great aqueducts, there to sate its enormous thirst for freshwater. Each one is many times taller than the rest of the cityscape, and little clusters of buildings cling to their sides like mushrooms to the trunk of a tree.  

Caer Vyr is a convergence of power and influence. All trade routes touch it eventually. Like ley lines, they feed it. Like a heart it pumps the blood of empire. 

It is no stretch of the imagination to see it as she does. Even now I can spy the merchant ships in it's harbour. The line of wagons awaiting entry at its gates, and this caravan too, soon to join them.

The city walls loom over us as we near the main gate. The gatehouse is a massive edifice. Thirty feet wide, and at least twice as tall. As we pass beneath I can see two lines of spikes protruding from the stone high above, the bottom of a pair of iron gates. Relics of an era when wealthy cities would be besieged by empires that no longer exist, all but vestigial now.  

Emerging into the city we are confronted with a cacophony of sights and sounds and smells. Throngs of people move about their business, coming or going or giving their custom to the many shop fronts and open air stalls that line the road. It seems as if every sort of person imaginable is within immediate sight, from the humblest laborer, who may well have lived here their entire life, to wealthy merchants and traveling nobles in extravagant outfits from far away places.

The smells of fresh bread and roast meats drift over to us on the breeze from the varied food stalls. They mix with a sharp undertone, almost imperceptible. Dyeing vats I think, a neighborhood away or more, doing their part to supply the extravagant colors that fill my view.

The caravan sticks to the wider streets, full to bursting with people and carts, as it makes its way harbourside. The going is very slow, and there are long periods where the wagons don't move at all. Sif fidgets in her seat, growing increasingly impatient, until she seems to settle on a decision. 

“Come on, let's walk. I’ll show you to my favorite inn.” 

When we don't immediately object, she sticks her head out the window to inform the driver. We grab our things and hop down. I notice Ketil adjusting the strap at his shoulder and looking around anxiously at the crowds, perhaps wary of finding himself adrift in this confusion. Sif tips the driver and asks him to pass along our thanks to Ramzi. She leads us away from the crowds into the narrow side streets where we are quickly swallowed up by the city. 

Like shifting through time, the architecture around us varies widely by era, and in the deep corners of the city centuries old buildings sit, their columns cracked or toppled, but their windows alight with life.

Though they lack the chaos overflowing from the markets, the side streets are not truly quiet either. It's all still dense with the motions of people's lives. Washing gets hung on lines, forming makeshift banners across the residences. Dust is swept into the street to scatter. Snippets of conversation drift to us from open windows, laughter and shouting and tender words. 

We follow Sif through what feels like a maze of small streets and lanes. Her every step is sure, and we eventually come to a place where the street widens and splits to encircle a tiny city green, constituting a patch of grass and a single gnarled old tree, its trunk covered in moss. Opposite the green, on one side, is an inn, three storeys tall and more than a little eclectic. I’m immediately taken with it. The original building is old stonework, well maintained, but additional floors and wings have been added to it over the years, expanding it with brick and plaster and exposed beams into something strange and brimming with character.

Ivy creeps up the left side of the building to surround the windows, and spills onto the turquoise tiles of the roof. Tall trees crowd the building from behind, where there is evidently a large garden. High up, in an attic window, birds nest.

“It's a lovely old place, isn’t it? Like a secluded little oasis.” She does a twirl as she says it and makes her way to the entrance.

“It really is.” Ketil replies. There is a slight note of anxiety in his voice and then, speaking quietly so as not to have Sif hear. “This place is a bit nicer than I was expecting. I’m not sure we can afford it.”

I share the feeling, but try to allay his concerns. “Sif knows our circumstances. It will be ok.”

As it happens the price per night is quite modest, perhaps because the roads here are too narrow for the carriages of the wealthy, or perhaps because it is so far from the city center. Whichever it may be, I'm grateful at the prospect of a soft bed.

A porter leads us upstairs and down an irregularly winding corridor with odd alcoves and secluded window seats, organic and ungoverned like the building's exterior. 

The room itself is modest but very welcoming. A large picture window, framed by the ivy peaking around the edges, casts the golden evening light over everything. To one side is a fireplace flanked by overstuffed chairs, and across from it an enormous bed that could easily sleep four.

Ketil immediately goes for the bed, collapsing onto it with a sigh. I follow suit, clambering up to lie down beside him and letting myself relax into the mattress. After days of bedrolls and hard earth it's exquisite.

"This is nice, right?" I ask. 

"Yeah, it is." And then after a long pause. "Sif is nice."

"She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"I don’t think she brought us here just out of friendliness."

“What about you?”

“I’ll be ok.”

I realize I misunderstood his question, but the conversation is already moving on and I'm not sure I know the answer anyway. 

“Has the raven queen told you why we’re here yet?” He asks.

“No. She hasn't said much the last day or two.” I try not to let my unease show, but somehow it crawls its way up my throat anyway. "I try to talk to her, but she doesn't answer."

He takes my hand, his fingers slipping in-between mine. "I'm sure there is a good reason."

We meet up with Sif later that evening in the meal hall. A few other patrons dine nearby, conversing quietly amongst themselves. We find a table by the small windows that peer out from the ivy onto the road. A moment later a man brings us plates of food. Fresh bread, toasted and topped with crushed tomatoes and olive oil, and generous portions of roast fish. 

"Now you will learn why I really love this place." Sif says, before lifting one of the slices of bread, dripping with oil and tomato juice, to her mouth and taking a bite. She closes her eyes, and gives a pleased little shimmy, evidently satisfied.

The meal is wonderful and the company is better. We talk about the different places Sif wants to show us in the city, or the work we might find here, or nothing, which somehow is the richest topic. I watch as periodically Sif and Ketil will share a shy smile and a look. Sometimes Sif will catch my eye, noticing me watching, and hold my gaze for a moment, until I look away. 

Later, as we climb the stairs to the third floor and our waiting rooms, an awkward silence descends over us. The evening has slipped away and I feel a kind of heightening of the senses. Ketil and Sif walk side by side a few steps ahead of me, their flirting silenced, replaced by a palpable anticipation of the coming parting for the night. Sif’s door is first and we say our goodnights, and then we linger there at the threshold a moment or two longer than required. She stands just inside, a hand on the doorframe, posture relaxed. Ketil looks as if he wants to say something, but shyness or uncertainty stays his tongue. If I could give him the words I would, gladly, but I don’t have to.

“Would...you like to come in?” She asks. She tilts her head to the side, just slightly, as if to emphasize the invitation.

Ketil smiles shyly and takes a step forward, crossing that subtle distance separating ordinary with intimate. I am pleased for the two of them, and at the same time feel suddenly awkward, voyeuristic and superfluous. I make to leave, turning towards my own room down the hall but not a moment later I feel a gentle touch on my wrist. Looking back I find Sif’s eyes fixed on me, pinning me in place like a moth to a card. 

“Won’t you stay?” There is a pleading to her voice. The composure has fallen away to reveal the stormy surface to a deep sea of yearning. I know the feeling behind that look, the vulnerability of wanting something that is hard to ask for. She knew Ketil would be receptive, that was clear enough, but she wants us both. Somehow that clicks into place and I wonder at not knowing it sooner.

I let her draw me back in, and her face flushes with delight. She takes us each by the hand, her eagerness like a vibration in that touch, and leads us inside. 

The room is warmed and dimly lit by glowing embers in the fireplace. In that soft, orange light I watch as she kisses Ketil, tentative and probing, an explorer charting new territory. She breaks away from him and moves over to me, her hand finding my cheek. As she leans in her thumb gently brushes across my cheekbone. My lips meet hers, at once yielding and intent, and her fingers slide through my hair.

There is something almost ritualistic about how we proceed. He and I undress her together. From behind, his arms curl around her to undo the laces of her trousers, while I undo her shirt. She raises her arms and I lift it up and over. For a moment it covers her eyes like a veil, but her mouth is free, and I catch her in another kiss. When I pull away she moves with me, drawn like a lodestone, not wanting to disengage. 

He slips her trousers and underthings over her hips and lets them drop to the floor before caressing his way up her bare thighs. All that remains is her strophium, securely wound around her breasts. I untuck one end and she twirls obligingly, arms over her head, like a dancer. Each rotation her eyes return to mine, her fixed point. 

Sif and I are attentive and unhurried as we undress Ketil. With his shirt removed I admire his shoulders. I wrap an arm around him to caress his chest, while I kiss his neck. Sif, kneeling to free his feet from his crumpled clothes beneath, gives him a playful lick and I feel a shiver run through him, transmitted from her touch all the way to my lips on his skin. 

Then it's my turn. I see something mischievous in their eyes as their attention shifts my way. I think they like having me at their mercy and strangely that calms my trepidation. Ketil undoes my belt, letting the oversized tunic fall open, and Sif draws it back, off my shoulders and down. I feel her warm breath at my neck and the tips of her fingers skimming so lightly down my back. She turns me around and her hands find their way to my breasts making me quiver. I feel ketils mouth at my lower back, kissing lazily before stripping me of the last of my clothes.

Sensations blend and shift and chip away at my sense of time and place. We fall into the bed and languidly explore one another, finding many pleasures, familiar and not. Seeking our conclusions with no urgency, not at first. 

Even in the midst of our play there is a part of me that stays at a remove, studying Sif. The unburdened way she has about her in this space. The joy she takes in her body, and in ours, so unselfconscious. She is a seeker and sharer of pleasure. A hedonist. I admire her for it, and feel grateful that she should choose me to be one of her partners. 

Later, after the embers have ceased to glow and all is dark, I trace my fingertips along the crest of her pelvic bone, just above her thigh. What kind of marks do fingertips leave on skin? A hundred years of gentle touches would leave no scars, no roads on the body, but memories are a kind of mark too and they will suffice.

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC10 #magic