Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

Chapter 8

A stranger was looking at Alva from the mirror. The stranger had restless catlike eyes which no one, not even the most desperate flatterer, would compare with emeralds. They lacked the deep crystal-clear serenity of a precious gem. Bitterness hid in those eyes, like dregs at the bottom of a coffee cup. The stranger's lips were pursed in a sad manner, and there were small wrinkles hiding in the corners of his mouth. Obviously, the stranger didn't smile often enough lately, and his thoughts had been mostly unhappy. The stranger's hair, once the color of flames, now was the color of dull copper. Understandable, because the stranger dyed his hair, which was something Chevalier Ahayrre never did.

But the worst part was the scars which had furrowed his right cheek, his temple, his neck. Like sea waves, locked in ice – if it was even possible to imagine such a bitter frost that the sea would freeze over. Like the work of a drunken farmer which was let loose on a human face with his plough. The scars became invisible under the high collar of the stranger's shirt, but they didn't disappear; they ran all the way to his collarbone, almost to the shoulder. That stranger, he didn't wear earrings anymore − it wouldn't do accentuating his disfigured earlobe.

Maybe the scars were the reason, or the gloomy eyes, or the sunburned skin, but the stranger looked a good five years older than Alva.

The stranger was Alva himself.

Today Chevalier Alva Ahayrre had turned thirty.

In Creede everyone loved every occasion to celebrate, but there was no tradition of birthday parties. Only someone's coming of age was celebrated with great pomp and merriment, to let everyone know that the yesterday's boy or girl was an adult now, with the right to drink wine and have sex. Of course, there were many more rights, but fourteen-year-olds were most interested in those two. And often a newly-fledged citizen would drink themselves under the table when the festivities were still in full swing, or disappear locked in embrace with somebody, in clear pursuit of am empty bed which they could dive into and not leave for at least a week.

Alva smiled crookedly remembering how he had run away from his own coming-of-age party with Myrtle, slender grey-eyed brunette Myrtle who had turned fourteen a month earlier. How intoxicating was the smell of fresh grass which they crushed with their young bodies and their impatient lovemaking. She had been his first love, swift and bright like a shooting star. Three months of summer they spent together and parted ways, she went away and he stayed, and they exchanged letters at first and then simply stopped.

That was the day Leitis Lysander fell in love with him − a grown woman, lady of the neighbouring estate. He didn't call her Lei then. A few months later, when she confessed her love, he turned her down. A few years later he fell in love with her himself. He would love and respect her until he died.

Is it nostalgia for the bygone youthful years? Aren't you getting old, pal.

In Creede it's customary to celebrate historical dates, national holidays, personal achievements, even the most trifling ones, and other events which have been the results of your personal efforts. Not birthdays, though. Yet Alva's thirtieth birthday probably was worth celebrating. He had put much personal effort into staying alive till this day. Not he alone, of course. Involuntarily, Chevalier Ahayrre cast a sidelong glance through the half-opened door of the tiny bedroom and fro a while couldn't tear his eyes away.

They had fallen asleep in each other's arms, worn-out by their passion, covered with nothing except their long flowing hair. Thigh to thigh, chest to chest, the silver head comfortably resting on the wide muscular shoulder, the swarthy arm possessively encircling the slender waist.

He had rarely seen them sleeping before − simply because he was in the habit of sleeping longer hours. But since recently Alva had been suffering from insomnia. He had spent more than a few sleepless nights on a windowsill or in a chair, with a glass of wine, or a whole bottle sometimes, looking at the perfect lines of the nomad's dusky body and the elf's snow-white one. Now they often fell asleep intertwined, whatever the reason – the passionate sex or the narrow hotel beds...

In days of old, in that other life, when Chevalier Ahayrre was a carefree courtier, a connoisseur of art, he owned the biggest collection of erotic-themed paintings in Trianess. But the view he was admiring now surpassed even the most beautiful and refined canvas in his possession. What artist could have painted all of that? Silken hair, satin skin, beads of sweat, sable eyebrows, lacy eyelashes, teeth like pearls inside the half-opened shell of a mouth. Wet, glossy, tempting lips. Steady rhythm of breathing, like whisper of sea waves at night. Curves of the intertwined bodies, inhumanly beautiful.

They weren't human, Alva reminded himself bitterly. An elf and a shapeshifter: strong, fast, equally tireless in combat and sex. Perfect in every aspect, immortal, forever young and beautiful. And he was mortal. No longer young. And no longer beautiful.

How long ago had the look of his naked lovers started to bring forth not frivolous thoughts, but the pangs of regret, bitterness and heartache? How long ago had he stopped to be happy about Ithildin and Kintaro getting so close and started to feel like a third wheel? Alva let out a heavy sigh, threw a kerchief over the stranger's face in the mirror and buried his face in his folded arms.

How stupid it was to survive a shapeshifters' attack without a scratch, yet fall victim to fire! The scars from claws would have looked much nobler, Alva sometimes thought and then laughed at his own naiveté. Sometimes he contemplated making the panther Kintaro transformed into, bite him. But it would have been too drastic a remedy. Like a guillotine for a headache. What chance did he have of surviving the metamorphosis? It would be prudent to try medicine and magic first. But the thought of the metamorphosis had a strange, wicked pull, like the thought of the distant earth spreading below the parapet of a high tower.

Alva shuddered. Suicidal thoughts − that was all he needed! He dipped his fingers into the hand-basin standing by the mirror and pressed them to his burning forehead. He seemed to be running a fever again. Damn souvenir from the hot rainy Jinnjarat.

Under different circumstances he could have loved that magical ancient land. But not now, when his every memory of it was poisoned with pain. Before he had been able to easily forget anything unpleasant that happened to him. The torments of his unrequited love vanished like a dream, the charges of a crime punishable by death were dropped. He didn't forget the face of the eighteen-year-old steppe prince, the first person he had killed, but the memory had faded considerably. But whatever he tried he couldn't forget the bloody night in the jungle. The reminder was always here, he only had to look in the mirror. Why, the mirror wasn't even necessary. Alva had only to smile, to wink, and the side of his face tightened up uncomfortably.

Fire is a cruel lover. Its kiss leaves a mark that isn't easy to heal. Fire had marked Alva for life.