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"In My Lover's Arms "Written By: Jewel of Hell Disclaimer: Don't own nothin' but these words Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Yaoi, lemon, violence, slavery, language, war, torture, fear of the unknown, AU/Fantasy/Drama Pairings: 1x2, 3x4, other Summary: New part, new warnings, new dedications, new threats, new dangers. IF YOU HAVE NOT READ "In My Master's Arms", DO SO BEFORE READING THIS STORY! This one will not make much sense otherwise. Also, this one picks up pretty much exactly where its prequel leaves off, so I will NOT recap. I hate recap. Blegh.
"In My Lover's Arms " The Fall of a Kingdom Trowa quietly strolled through the streets of Dobraia's capital city, posture relaxed. Don't look at me, his body said. I'm no one. I'm uninteresting and boring and you have much more important things to do with your precious time than notice me. His cloak was a mottled gray, because black would draw attention. His clothes were simple linen, neither finespun nor cheaply made, and his boots were worn leather. He had a small scrip with a few coins, because it would be strange to see a traveler without any. The only weapons he carried were two plain steel daggers with hilts wrapped in rough leather. Average and utterly unmemorable. He ghosted through the marketplace crowds, bumping into no one and never making eye contact. Not looking at the ground as if he had something to hide. No one so much as glanced at him. The capital was bustling with activity. The difference, Trowa thought with a small tinge of sadness, between here and Cera was remarkable. Cera was dark and somber, just like the rest of Corai. Even the marketplaces were never noisy and crowded. Though there was some hope. It did seem things had gotten a bit less dreary in the last few weeks. Perhaps with Duo to temper the Black King's volatile nature, the kingdom would begin to thrive once again. He looked forward to that time with alacrity. In everything he'd ever read, Corai had once been a magnificent kingdom. One day soon it would be that way again. He had faith in his king and consort. It was too difficult to overhear any snatches of conversation out here in the noisy squares, so he took to a tavern. At this hour they were busy but not overwhelmed. As he strode into a place called The Thirsty Man's Well, his movements had every curious eye sliding over him as soon as they looked up. They went back to their conversations, satisfied no one interesting had entered into their space. Keeping his smile internal, Trowa glided to the bar. An extremely well-bosomed girl greeted him with a smile that looked more practiced than anything else. "Hi mister, what can I get ya?" "Have any local brews?" Trowa asked. She beamed. "Have we? Sure do, sugar. You prefer dark or light, and I'll pick." He smiled faintly. "Dark. Thank you." After a moment she plunked a frothy mug down in front of him. "So you a traveler, hm?" "Yes, for the moment." "Work?" "Mm. Merchant." "Ah, the exciting life of a merchant. Word of advice from a native?" "Wouldn't turn it down," Trowa replied, sipping the dark brew. "Go north, not south. There's all sorts of unrest the closer you get to our border with Corai." "Yes," Trowa murmured, nodding absently, "I had reason to notice. How are things?" "Oh," she said, wiping at the spotless counter, "probably every bit as bad as a person could imagine. I've not been down, mind, but there's been a flood of either refugees or deserters whichever direction you go. I heard the Black King is a demon with a powerful thrall, and he single-handedly conquered Dermaile." She shuddered. "Powerful wicked man, the Black King." After many years of carefully schooling his expressions, Trowa was in too great a control of his faculties to smile at her words. But it was near thing. "A demon? Do they exist?" Mildly disbelieving. She leaned toward him in a conspiratory fashion. "I didn't think so, but the things you hear about him . . . I just might. But you know, everyone in Dobraia has known it's only a matter of time before Corai's war spills up into our borders. Penniar crumbled without a fight, and we're next." "You really think it will be that easy?" he inquired politely, sipping more brew. It was bitter, whatever it was, but it had a crisp bite that made it more than palatable. "Oh yes," she said, leaning her ample bosom against her arms until she threatened to pop out of her blouse. "I heard the royal court is starting to put a lot of pressure on the king to surrender before the war reaches us, because everyone is too scared to fight the Black King and his thrall." Trowa found himself a bit distracted by her . . . mounds of flesh. Really, this was why he preferred the smooth, hard chest of his lover. Thinking of Quatre made his gut tighten unpleasantly. He'd been too long without the younger man's touch, and his body was letting him know it. He felt a completely unwanted stirring in his groin just picturing Quatre's face. Quatre's naked body. The way his skin glistened in candlelight when it was covered in gems of perspiration. The soft gasps that escaped his lips when Trowa teased him, and he did so love to tease . . . A soft snort made him look up. She winked. "Thinking of a special lady friend, hm?" He didn't blush. He was neither embarrassed nor chagrined. He just nodded. "Yes." "What's she look like, hm?" "Gold hair," Trowa replied a little dreamily. "It's short, but softer than silk. Eyes like a tropical sea on the warmest sunny day. Skin a warm creamy color, like butter. Thin. Not very curvy." He smiled up at her. "Unlike you." She sighed. "Ah, that does it for some men." She covered her cleavage, an oddly modest gesture. "More's the pity, eh? Well, you enjoy your drink. And remember, take your wares north. Lark would be best. Get out of Dobraia." He dropped a few silver pennies extra with a smile. "Keep the change." She beamed and trotted off. Closing his eyes, Trowa filtered out the other sounds of the tavern and listened only to the voices of others. He didn't listen to whole conversations, just focused in when he heard certain key words. ". . . bring war to Dobraia sooner or later . . ." ". . . wish the king wouldn't be such a coward and just invite the Black King to Doraska. Would save a lot of lives . . ." ". . . lay down arms and just give up without a fight. They're such cowards when it comes to the Black King . . ." ". . . heard if you say his name, you'll draw his gaze and he'll eat your heart while it still beats in your chest . . ." ". . . heard he's so powerful even the Tower doesn't have a color for him, and that there's no way even every sorcerer in the land could capture him and collar him now . . ." ". . . don't think the Tower could capture him. Even with a collar he'd probably just slip it and kill his master and then annihilate the whole Tower for daring to touch him . . ." ". . . can't believe he freed his Black sorcerer and is going to marry him. It's strange, but kinda romantic, you know . . . ?" Trowa smiled to himself. It was strange that even here in the capital there wasn't a whole lot of ill will toward his king. Everyone was too afraid and seemed to accept the Black King's power. Oh yes, I recommend a military strike. One that will minimalize casualty, but one that the Dobraians will never forget. It will send word farther up north and the other kingdoms will buckle as soon as he presses their borders. Perhaps it was time to put his own rumors into the mill. A dusty-looking smith came in, and Trowa smiled to himself. Perfect. The man didn't even look at Trowa as he sat down and ordered a mug of ale, but after he took a long draft he gave Trowa a sideways glance, saw the mug he was nursing and snorted. "Long day, stranger?" Trowa played the part and put on a careworn face. "Yes. I'm a long way from home, and I'm certain my wife is cursing my name." The man grunted laughter. "Sneak out on her, did you?" "No, but I've been gone much longer than I promised." "Womenfolk!" the man grumbled. "Don't understand that sometimes work must call us away if they want to keep bread on the table! You have a plump housewife, or one of them high-maintenance social girls?" Trowa smiled, knowing Quatre really would curse him if he could hear this. "The latter. She's small and slender and very beautiful, and she has this way of beguiling others with her smile." "Do I ever know the type! My old lady's a fine chunk of flesh, but her tongue's sharper than the steel I forge! Lands but that woman can curse!" Trowa chuckled. "Mine's got a silver tongue, wields it so craftily you never quite know if you've been insulted or not." "Ah, women," the smith sighed. "What would we do without them? Where you from, stranger? Let me buy you another drink." "Thank you," Trowa accepted. "I'm from Dobran." "Dobran! Cestera's sake, that's but a few leagues from Dermaile! How are things that close to the border? I hear it's a right mess." Trowa nodded, finishing his first drink and allowing the grinning barmaid to refill it. "It is. My wife thinks I'm just running away, but I'm a merchant and it's difficult to sell during war." "Tell me about it," the smith grumbled. He swigged some more of his ale. "Did you . . . were you ever near the battle?" Perfect cue if ever there was one. Trowa shuddered. "Yes, and I'd just as soon forget." The smith scooted a little closer. "Tell me about it." Eyes all intense. Trowa sipped some brew as if gathering himself for an unpleasant story. "The . . . his army fights like . . . like men possessed. They look like . . . beasts." The man shuddered. "And . . . him? Have you . . . ever seen him?" Trowa put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. "Yes," he almost whispered. "It was terrifying. I was a long way off, but I just know he saw me. Eyes like a . . . sell my soul to Gridanja if I be wrong, but I swear he isn't human. Some kind of . . . I dunno. Demon. Monster. Normal men don't have eyes like that." "Like what?" the smith breathed, leaning in closer. Trowa squeezed the bridge of his nose, allowing a tremor to run down his spine. "Like . . . like there's nothing peering out from behind them. Cold. Empty. Dead. He looked at me. And he smiled. Cestera's mercy but it was worse than that cold stare!" The smith looked like Trowa had poured icewater and acid down his trousers. He shook his head vehemently. "You need to go back to Dobran, friend," he said in a shaky voice, "and get your little lady and get out of there." Trowa folded his hands and rested his forehead against them. "But where in the world is safe from him? Where can I take her where he won't see?" The smith blanched the color of sour milk and swallowed noisily. "M-maybe you're right, at that," he said, and he finished his ale in one huge swallow. "Caris! Give me another ale, girl!" Trowa buried his smile in his brew. All too easy.
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