Into the Heart of the Storm [slash]

Part Two

 "What?" The general's usually cool face was a mask of disbelief. "Is that a joke?"

 Lorcan bit his lip. Damn!

 "No joke, Sire. You asked me what I wish for. I didn't mean to offend you."

 "But why on earth would you wish for something like this?" the general asked, still looking incredulous. "I could give you an estate on the northern hills or arrange a marriage with a noble's daughter for you. You could even have my stallion, the one you helped save, one of the finest horses of the royal stables!"

Lorcan shook his head. "I thank you for your generosity, Sire. But you can keep all those things. And even if you won't grant me my wish, I declare your dept repaid nevertheless. You owe me nothing, General."

There was a long silence, and Lorcan couldn't look the other man in the eye. He expected to be thrown out any moment, even discharged from the army altogether for such an outrageous demand. What had he been thinking?

"Fine," the general said finally, his face calm and emotionless again. "As I said, you have my word, so I will grant your wish although I cannot understand your reasons. Come to the opposite side of the tent after sunset. And remember: this might not be a military issue, but if you breathe a word to anyone about this, I'll have you punished for disrespect against your commanding officer. Is that understood?"

Lorcan bowed again. "Of course, Sire. Thank you," he managed to answer somehow.

General Whitestorm turned away from him. "You are dismissed."

The captain felt weak in the knees when he exited the tent, still awed at his own brazenness and, even more, at the general's compliance. But the matter of honor was a grave one, and even if no one would ever learn that General Whitestorm had taken back his word, he himself would have known it. Lorcan couldn't help but admire General Whitestorm even more for this, although he was starting to feel like he had blackmailed the man.

He returned to his tent and poured himself some wine to calm his nerves. It was very watered down, but it helped a bit.

Finally, Lorcan worked up the resolve to go back on his demand. He'd visit the general later, talk a bit, and then return to sleep alone in his own tent. After all, he hadn't specified the means of how they'd spend the night together, although the implication had been clear.

An hour before sunset, Lorcan took a bath in the nearby river, shaved properly and donned his most presentable civilian clothes: nice, brown pants and a green tunic with embroidered hems. He firmly reminded himself that he didn't want to impress anyone, just look proper for the visit to a prince.

According to several tavern wenches and boys in various towns, the captain was very good-looking: a tall, trained, albeit scarred body, witness to a soldier's life; a cleanly-cut, tanned face; dark-brown hair; and sharp green eyes. He was no match for General Whitestorm's aristocratic elegance, of course, but he was certainly not ugly.

Not that this would be of any concern today.

As soon as the sun had vanished behind the hills, Lorcan made his way through the camp. Most of the uninjured soldiers were sitting around the big fire to eat their meals, drink, and brag about their triumphs during the battle, so nobody noticed Lorcan at all.

There was no guard at the rear side of the big tent, and the captain pulled the flap aside while clearing his throat. "Good evening, Sire."

"Good evening, Captain." General Whitestorm put down a bottle of wine he had just opened. His private tent looked like any officer's, austere and simple with a bed, a writing desk, and an armor rack. There were no satiny cushions, carpets or comfortable chairs at all, as one might expect in the quarters of a noble.