When once I had wiped the wetness from me I sat cross-legged before the fire, staring within its depths and thinking no thought beyond how lovely the colors of that fire were. Many plans would need to be made in the feyd to come, yet upon that moment was there the peace of no thought at all, a peace I was not often fortunate enough to find. I sat so for a number of reckid, and then did I hear the sound of a footfall at the opening to the other cavern. Likely had S’Heernoh found that the wood he had taken was insufficient for his needs, and he had come to fetch away more. I rose to my feet with a sigh and moved toward the pile of wood, thinking to aid him and thereby rid myself of the presence of another more quickly, yet when I glanced toward the opening I discovered the error I had made. The male who stood there was not S’Heernoh, nor was he seeking wood. The male who stood there was Mehrayn.
He who was called Sigurr’s Sword stood astare in the opening, his thumbs in his swordbelt, his red hair darkened with wet, his broad face surrounding the deep anger gleaming from the green of his eyes. So large and well-muscled was he, so tall did he stand, that a thing deep within me chilled to see him so. He stood no more than a moment staring upon me in silence, and then did he come forward, away from the opening and toward me. Again did the chill twist about inside me, for my sword lay a number of paces behind me, beside the fire. No time at all was there to turn and make for it, scarcely was there time to take my dagger from its leg bands and bring it up, the front of my hand against the leather of my life sign where it was wound about the hilt just below the guard. I stood in readiness as the anger in the eyes of the male increased, his glance going to the blade in my hand, his pace slackened not at all as he came toward me, heedless of my weapon. I slashed the blade toward him, meaning to catch him below the ribs and give him what my sword had given Chaldrin, yet did my blade meet naught save air, for the male twisted about with unexpected speed to avoid the stroke. A heartbeat and half breath later my arm and hand were in his grip, the arm held tight, Mehrayn’s back to me, the hand turned in some manner so that I was unable to struggle or free myself. One turn and the dagger was gone from lifeless fingers, one pull and I followed the weapon quickly to the rock of the floor. No sound save a pair or two of scuffling footsteps had been made in the dimness of torch and firelight, yet I lay upon the stone unable to move, unable to keep the dripping, red-haired, kneeling figure from capturing my left wrist as well and adding it to the right. With both wrists together was the irresistible pressure gone and I able to struggle again, against what fate I knew not, yet did I know I wished naught of it.
“You have now raised that weapon to me twice,” said Mehrayn, looking down upon me where I lay, his voice overly soft with the anger he felt. “In the first instance you received no punishment, yet this instance shall not be the same. Should you ever attempt such a thing again, you had best see that I am quickly slain; should I continue among the living, your regret will be very deep.”
My regret was already deep for I had not expected to see the foolish male again, nor had I thought he would be able to take my dagger with such ease. The hardness of the rock pressed into my back as I tried uselessly to free my wrists, faint sounds of storm-fury drifting through from the other cavern again touching and bringing forth memories of pain. The male meant to revenge himself upon me for the attack I had attempted—and likely the humiliation he had been given as well—and there was naught I might do to prevent it.
“For what reason do I hear no words from you?” Mehrayn demanded after a brief moment of silence, his anger continuing as it had been. “Are you no longer the chosen of all the gods there are, far above the doings and wishes of mere males? Will you not tell me of the terrible fate awaiting me should I dare to touch you in punishment? Speak to me, woman and warn me away as you have ever done!”
I moved my wrists in discomfort against his strengthening grip, making no attempt to meet the blaze in his eyes, or to speak the words he demanded. Well had I learned that Mida would not shield me from the pain given by males, therefore would all words be useless. Males are males, after all, and words may do naught against their intentions.
“Perhaps she merely awaits the harm you mean to bring her,” said the voice of S’Heernoh. Mehrayn’s head snapped up to send his anger toward the opening to the next cavern, a place I was unable to see from where I lay. “The humiliation she caused you justifies such a doing does it not, Prince? There are none about who would condemn you for seeking revenge, and none about capable of halting you. For what reason do you hesitate?”
“I do not hesitate,” growled Mehrayn, his eyes continuing angrily upon the male I was unable to see, his broad hands still clamped about my wrists. “There is no need for anyone to halt me, for I have no intentions of offering this wench harm. It is words I will have from her, and those right quickly.”
The anger-filled gaze returned once more to me, but I knew not what words he awaited, for I had none which he would heed.
“Do you seek to have her beg to be released?” came the voice of S’Heernoh again, puzzlement clear in the tone of it. “She may well hesitate to do such a thing, Prince, yet am I able to assure you that freedom would bring her deep gratitude, so deep that she will surely recall the doing in the most favorable of lights. Her gratitude will . . .”
“Gratitude!” interrupted Mehrayn with a snort of derision, halting the flow of smoothly spoken words from the other male. “This female is incapable of true gratitude, incapable of accepting a freely given gesture, incapable of believing that gesture performed without hidden motivations: And I do not await a begging of any sort from her. I know well enough she would sooner give up her life.”
His gaze continued to flame down toward me, his anger unabating, and when I again attempted to struggle free from his grip, he moved from his crouch to kneel above me, his knees straddling my body.
“Do you await words of apology, then?” asked S’Heernoh, his voice somewhat fainter than it had been. “The wench must truly be in discomfort to be held so, therefore perhaps you would consider . . . . ”
“I will consider naught save continuing her discomfort!” snapped Mehrayn. “My own discomfort has continued long enough and strongly enough, yet what consideration have I had from her? The words I await are ones of explanation, ones I shall have even should it be necessary to hold her here as I now do till Sigurr tires of our world and sends the flames of ending to destroy it! The longer I think upon the matter the higher my anger grows, therefore had her words best come quickly! For what reason do you insist so upon facing me, wench? For what reason does the need burn so within you?”
His anger approached nearer as he leaned down farther toward me, yet the greater confusion he also brought was a distraction from that anger. I moved my wrists against the strength of his grip, feeling the dampness of his flesh where it touched my body, unable to free my hair where most of it lay crushed beneath me.
“I have already spoken of what reasons I have which cause my wish to face the male Mehrayn,” I replied, sending my own gaze up toward him. “At this moment, the male does naught save add to them.”