The Lost Valor of Love

61 | I MUST PROTECT YOU FROM MYSELF

Summer. Reign of Ramesses II, Year 6

Istara woke, savoring the luxury of a bed after weeks spent sleeping on a pallet. She rubbed her palm against the crisp linen sheets, watching the painted hieroglyphs along the cornice waver, coming to life in the flickering light of the lamp's flame. From the river delta, the cry of a black-crowned heron pierced the deep quiet of the night. She listened to it, grateful. At least one familiar thing from her past remained in this strange, exotic, white and gold world.

Beside her, Sethi shifted in his sleep. She turned and gazed at his battle-hardened features, long memorized and locked within her heart during their stolen nights together over the last month. He stirred, and woke. His eyes met hers, dark, enigmatic. Despite the heat, she shivered.

He pulled her to him, his arms surrounding her, possessive, his kiss desperate, aching. She shared his anguish. This was their last night. Tomorrow, Ramesses would take her away from him, forever.

Sethi's kiss deepened, his passion burning hotter than the blistering desert heat of The Horus Way, ravishing her until her body throbbed with need. He grasped her buttocks, dragging her onto him, pressing her groin against his. She caught her breath. He was rock hard. Despite the heat, her nipples hardened. He caught her breast in his hand, his lips moving against her taut nipple through the thin material of her gown, tracing the outline of her breast's peak, slow, tantalizing. She moaned as rivers of pleasure washed over her, the scent of her sex rising up, betraying her need. During the long, chaste nights of the march, this was what she had longed for. To be alone and naked with him. To be taken by him, to feel him inside of her. To be his.

His mouth went to her neck, his teeth dragging against its hollow, hungry; his hands sliding up her back, tangling in her hair. Groaning, she moved against him, aroused by his member pressing against her. Her fingers went to his kilt, urgent, searching for its ties, tugging them apart. Pushing aside the material, she pulled on his loincloth, longing to touch him, to taste him. His member sprang free, straining, eager. He groaned. Tightening his hold on her, he rolled over, positioning himself on top of her, his member brushing against her.

She clung to him, willing him to go on, to finish what they had never before dared to start. He reached down, his hand catching at her gown, shoving it up to her waist. He sat up, kneeling between her legs, naked, poised to take her, the silver scars slicing across his muscled torso catching in the lamplight. His eyes raked over her, pausing on her secret place; slick, ready, waiting. With a quiet groan, he pulled her up to him, his mouth hovering over hers as he held her face in his hands, his eyes on hers, his filled with longing, desire, love. She whispered his name and he relented, kissing her, crushing her against him, his grip fierce. Caught in his hold, her crotch slid along the length of his member, sending a spasm of pleasure arcing through her. His member came to rest at her threshold; a subtle kiss, filled with promise. She held still. Waiting. Hoping. Aching. He cried out, anguished, and released her.

"We cannot," he panted, ragged, his voice betraying him, filled with yearning. "I must leave." He lowered her onto the bed, and reached for his belt, fastening it over his rumpled kilt, his movements jagged, rough.

"Please." She caught his forearm, her body crying out for him. "Stay."

His hands clenched into fists, his muscles flexing under her fingers. He stood, his eyes black, still burning with desire. She tightened her hold, a silent plea. He cut her a look, filled with warning, and eased back, her fingers slipping away. At the door, he paused, his gaze lingering on her, his hand tightening on the handle; his struggle to stay away from her, visceral.

"There is only so much a man can withstand," he said, low. "I know what more there can be--" his chest rose and fell, agitated, watching as she knelt on the bed, her gown slipping down, exposing her shoulder, the curve of her breast, "--the things I want to do with you, the pleasure I long to give you." His eyes hardened, his jaw clenched. "But I am your protector, and if it means I must protect you from myself, then by Horus, I will do so."

He hesitated. Istara waited, her heart crying out to him, pleading, willing him to return. He yanked on the door's handle and strode out into the torchlit corridor. The door slammed behind him, heavy, final. Emptiness surrounded her. Her heart pounded, erratic. She stared at the closed door. Come back. Please.

Her fingers brushed against his cushion. She pressed it against her face, surrounding herself with the lingering notes of his scent, rich tones of myrrh and cinnamon. Sethi. Clutching his cushion to her chest, she stared at the wavering flame of the lamp, numb. Never again would he lay beside her, cradling her body against his. Never again would he caress her face, his secret, private tenderness disguised by his brutality, strength, and power. Never again would she feel the touch of his lips against hers, his love for her searing into her soul, binding her to him beyond the boundaries of their lives. It couldn't be over. He knew her secrets. He knew Urhi-Teshub had broken her heart, had never known her, had almost killed her.

She huddled over the cushion, bereft. Once more, she was alone, a piece on a game board, waiting to be moved. She crept to the door and sank to her knees. Pressing her palm against the thick wood, she whispered a prayer, willing him to come back to her. A taut silence seeped from the corridor. She caught her breath. He was right there. She called his name, tentative, hopeful.

She heard him shift his weight. Silence fell in its wake, thick with resistance. She blinked, tears filling her eyes. He would not come back. It was over. She whispered his name, a farewell, before her grief overcame her, and she succumbed once more to the anguish of a broken heart.

❃

Sethi heard her call his name. He pressed his palm against the door, willing himself to stay away. Her weeping came to him now, soft and low, her suffering tangible.

He sank to his knees and leaned his forehead against the door, his chest constricting as he thought of Ramesses taking her, a bauble he would parade in front of Hatti's diplomats, then set aside in one of his harems when he moved on to his next interest. And on that day, when he condemned her to her sequestration, Sethi knew he would never see Istara again. He choked, the thought was unbearable.

A tear slid down his cheek. He touched it and stared at the glistening drop. Never in his life had he wept; not when he found his mother, lying in a pool of blood; not even when he believed Istara was dead, his shock numbing him beyond the walls of grief. More slipped free, silent. He let them fall.

It was a long while before Istara quieted. Her breathing slowed, then softened into the cadence of sleep. He closed his eyes and followed her. In the realm of dreams, he found her waiting for him in his tent, a smile on her lips. She came to him, her lips touching his. He took her to his pallet, her naked body soft and warm against his as he made love to her--she cried out, looking over his shoulder, her eyes wide and frightened. He turned. Ramesses stood over them, holding his khopesh high. Istara vanished. Ramesses's eyes glittered. The blade fell.

Sethi came awake with a start. Gray light filtered between the pillars of the corridor. He pushed away from Istara's door and climbed the villa's outer stairs to the roof. He faced the east and waited. Pink and orange light spread away from the horizon as Re-Atum's barque approached. Sethi watched, patient, as the golden disk made its stately ascent, grateful he had woken in time to relish its triumphant return from the Under Realm.

Movement at Istara's door drew his attention away from the eastern sky. Her door eased open, cautious. She looked down, then slipped back into her room. The door closed, slow, quiet, Istara's disappointment palpable. He closed his eyes, shutting out the warm light of a new day, reliving the memory of her stricken look as he left her. It seemed his prophetic dream of dying on a battlefield fighting his way to her was wrong after all.

Ramesses was going to kill him, and soon.