Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

7.8.

The days flew by like arrows, one undistinguishable from another, full of monotonous things to take care of. The passing of time could be noticed only by Lielle and Taro getting better day by day.

The highborn Chevalier Ahayrre out of sheer boredom went and helped the neighbours till their land. Of course he worked slowly and had to rest often, fighting fits of weakness, but it was better than to be confined in the house.

"They say you manage quite all right," Ithildin said. He had already picked up a few words in Jarsh language.

"I used to weed Mother's garden. Seems like a hundred years ago, though. My nanny scolded me; she thought I'd mar my hands forever."

He sounded so sad, Ithildin felt sick at heart. He took Alva's hands in his and kissed both palms covered with pink scars.

Alva sighed and looked away.

Ithildin understood that Chevalier Ahayrre couldn't help but mourn the damage dealt to his previously unblemished beauty. When he saw his face for the first time, he threw the mirror right out of the window and lay facing the wall without a word.

Ithildin hugged him and said, "Scars mean nothing to those in love."

"Of course, humans are ugly anyway compared to elves," the Chevalier said, caustic. "What's one more scar. Or ten more. All very fine for you, you have none yourself."

Envy in his words cut like a knife. The same envy Ithildin sometimes saw in Kintaro's eyes. As if they both accused him of getting off cheaply. Unlike them. Sometimes he wanted to scream, "What am I guilty of, being an elf, not a human? Your wounds are outside, and mine are inside. Yours heal, and mine don't!" But he stifled his pain and despair, because at least one of the three should keep his presence of mind.

Where love and passion had previously reigned, now silence and estrangement settled. Kintaro still tried telling jokes, but they were forced and almost always failed to make Alva smile. Anyway, they had to guess now if Alva was smiling, because he still covered his whole face with a cloth and refused to take it off.

And they had yet to have sex even once. Lielle stopped any attempts on anything more than a friendly embrace. Little by little he started to avoid being touched, especially by Kintaro. Ithildin saw how Alva looked at Kintaro sometimes, clutching his silver amulet tightly. There was no need to explain to the learned Chevalier Ahayrre what a person bitten by a shapeshifter might become. He could do the math himself.

Only in a fit of fever, shivering in cold sweat, Alva would forget his fears and cuddle up to his lovers, seeking body heat and protection.

Kintaro was recovering surprisingly quickly. Soon he could sit in his bed, then stand on his own two feet, and then he was able to walk, leaning on a crutch and dragging his bad leg. The broken bone in his right arm had knitted well, and he could use it already − what's left of it anyway. But the chief wasn't too happy to be back from the dead.

Once, when they were alone, he suddenly drew Ithildin close, kissed him roughly, almost rudely, as if claiming his prize. He grabbed the elf's hand and pulled it to where his mighty cock rested, like a sleeping beast, between his strong legs. It was a very weak attempt on the scorching-hot insatiable steppe passion Ithildin had grown used to. But the elf felt flushed, and his breath quickened. He let the chief kiss and grope him, and in return stroked him between the legs with the same rude, commanding desire.

Although, no usual effect ensued. Kintaro cursed and pushed the elf away with such force, the elf almost fell off the mattress.

Ithildin got to his feet and hissed, "Maniac! You've lost so much blood, there is nothing left to rush there! Can't you wait a week, at least?"

Kintaro quietly pulled the bedsheet over his face.

He never tried to do it again.

It seemed to Ithildin that they got more and more entangled in some disgusting, sticky cobweb. Trust, so hard-won, now was crumbling into dust. Lielle was as desperately ashamed of his scars, as Kintaro did of his weakness.

Ithildin had been twice to Fanneshtou, the Temple of All Gods, and in spite of mostly being confined to his room, he happened to see sick and crippled people. They could have still felt the joy of life, the joy of being alive, their sickness couldn't prevent them. But they just didn't want to.

It was not Alva's imaginary ugliness, not Kintaro's mutilated body that kept them apart. It was the lack of faith that they were still worthy of love. How could Ithildin explain what he felt in his bones! Lielle was as beautiful as ever, his gaze warmed the elf like sunshine; Kintaro was as strong and mighty as ever, and his longsword would be as terrible a weapon in his left hand, as it had been in his right. How could he explain it to them, if they didn't want to hear?