Far From Home One: The Warlord's Chosen-- A M/M Fantasy Romance

19- Sacred

*****I meant to wait until Monday to upload this, but I'm bored so.... enjoy :)****

AMER—

Three days we travelled across stretches of great grass plains, through thick forests, and over roaring rivers. When the first barbarian hunting party accosted us on the last legs of our second day, I was terrified. But once they saw who was travelling through their lands, we were met with hospitality and reverence. After that, there were many tribes that came out of seemingly nowhere, with nothing but dry grass all around us, to greet us and invite the Warlord to meals.

They showed respect and deference to the Warlord, but their attitudes towards me varied greatly. Most showed me an awed sort of reverence, calling me Warprize with gentle touches to my knees— I was usually still mounted when these tribal parties came to greet us. Their touches were often fleeting and done with a glance of trepidation at the Warlord.

The ones who stared me down with barely concealed contempt were fewer, but they raised the hairs on the back of my neck. To my intense gratitude, those were never allowed anywhere near me. They were held back by both Briggs and the Warlord, a few tense words were exchanged, and they left with a slight bow that seemed more meant to show disregard than respect.

I was told not to bother with them by many of the warriors around me, all seemingly trying to cheer me up, but the chill up my spine wouldn't go away.

We reached our destination by late afternoon on the third day of travel. I was grateful beyond belief, because I didn't know if my body could take anymore punishment. My thighs and buttocks were almost completely numb, and yet they also ached with an overwhelming fire. My skin was chapped and burned— I was not used to being in the blazing sun the way I had been, and no amount of oils and salves the Warlord insisted on rubbing on me— platonically, I might add— each night helped with the red, parched skin.

The place we stopped in would be called a hamlet by my people. In the middle of the great southern grasslands, there was a little oasis with a few trees, a lake, and a well nearby. Pitched and scattered around this were heavy fur tents, small wood cottages, and backed against a rock formation that hung heavy over the lake was a fairly small mansion— by the standards of an El'kahrian at least. As it was, it towered over the tents and tiny homes around it. It had maybe 20 rooms, a handful of bedrooms. I could see a garden on either side of the stone and mortar building, and a field of what could be wheat or barley growing steadily for acres off to either side.

Despite the sizes of the homes, and that it was the size of El'kahr's smallest towns, the hamlet was clean, well-kept, and the buildings and tents were of good quality. It was obvious that the people here wanted for nothing— especially as they began to pour out of their homes to greet their returning families. Their clothes were sturdy, well-made, stunning spun cloth and bright colors on the women, thin leathers on the men. And none looked starved, beaten down. These people ate well, had money to buy or make pretty things for their women. They lived well.

Another lie told to my people in a growing pile I was beginning to parse through. The people of Akar were supposed to be barbarians, living in squalor, without true civilization to govern them. War-hungry, vicious, and jealous of the wealth of El'kahr. These people, while living simpler than the nobles of El'kahr, looked wealthier, healthier, and happier than many of the people I knew in Veil.

Their children ran freely underfoot, — many barefoot and half-naked— along with half a dozen dogs, screaming and laughing playfully. The boys and girls alike were shirtless, some even pants-less, with only a small loincloth covering their groins.

With the size of the Warlord's troops, I knew this place could be home to only a few of the men, but as the people reached them, they greeted them like old friends, like family.