A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,93
had brought upon griffinback. The tent was wide, its walls woven of thick green cloth, and they had set a bed, a table topped with candles, and a tall bronze mirror within it.
Elethor stood before that mirror and gazed upon himself. It had been moons since he had looked at his reflection. Tonight he barely recognized himself. Two years ago, when Solina had invaded Requiem with her army of phoenixes, he would look into his mirror and see a thin, pale young man with soft cheeks—a boy who pined for his lost love, who shunned the court, who hid within his walls, sculpting his desire over and over. Today, Elethor did not find that boy staring back from the mirror. He was not yet thirty, but looked older; his beard had thickened, his body had grown gaunt and hard, and lines marred his brow. Instead of the soft woolen tunics of a prince, he wore the steel plates of a soldier. Mostly his eyes had changed; they were sunken, hard, and dead as the ruins of a fallen kingdom.
I look ten years older than I should, he thought. And I have the eyes of an old man.
Lyana came to stand by him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She was barely taller than that shoulder, and so thin, but her eyes stared into the mirror with all the strength and grief of an aging, hardened warrior. If he was a battered longsword forged in dragonfire, she was the blade of a knight, scarred with a thousand nicks but strong as the steel of ancient heroes.
She helped him unclasp his armor, piece by piece. She placed his pauldrons on the table, then his greaves and vambraces, and finally his breastplate. When he stood before her in his damp woolen tunic, she placed her hands on his shoulders. She stood on her toes, her eyes still haunted, and kissed his lips.
He began unclasping her armor, buckle by buckle. He moved slowly at first, placing every piece of steel aside. But soon his fingers grew rough, and she gasped as he pulled at the straps, tore her breastplate off, and tossed it aside with a clang. His chest was too tight. His heart pounded with too much pain. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, forcing the terror down, and tugged the lacings of her tunic. Fabric ripped in his fingers, and he let out a hiss that felt almost like a snarl, and tore at her clothes.
She winced and sucked in her breath. "El…"
He put one hand on the small of her back and pulled her against him. He tugged at her clothes almost violently until she stood naked, and his eyes stung, and his heart thrashed against his ribs, and his fingers trembled, and he kept seeing them—kept seeing the demons tear at the walls, pull brick from brick, slash his people apart until their blood gushed and their limbs fell.
"El, please," she whispered.
He realized that he was grabbing her so tightly his fingernails had cut her. He released her and took a shuddering breath. She stood before him, naked in the candlelight, her hair a pyre of flame. The scars of war covered her flesh, but she was beautiful to him. He sat on the bed, and she stood before him, and he reached up and touched her cheek with trembling fingers.
"Lyana," he whispered. "I…"
I'm afraid, he wanted to say. I can't stop seeing the blood. I want to roar in rage and fly to battle as a hero, but I can't stop my chest from hurting, or my stomach from feeling so cold and tight.
But he could say none of those things, and he knew she understood. He saw it in the softness that filled her eyes, and he felt it in her fingers as they touched his hair.
He pulled her onto the bed, and placed her on her back, and when he climbed atop her and loved her, he closed his eyes, and he could barely breathe. But he made love to her—no, not love, but something rougher this night, something that felt more like a battle, like a war against demons, and sweat drenched him, and he hurt her. Stars, he hurt her until she gasped and bit into the blanket and cried.
When it was over, and he lay beside her, he found that tears filled his own eyes, and he pulled her against him and held her so tight he nearly crushed her.