The morning he knew he would arrive at Drol Kuggradh, Zorvut dreamt of Taegan.
His thoughts had often been on Taegan, of course, as he had had little else to think about in the two weeks he had been traveling, even more so since his conversation with Kyrenic. With such a grim purpose and no traveling companions other than his horse, what else could he have focused on? But he had not dreamt of his husband, not in the way he dreamt that morning, still so early the sun had not yet risen.
It had felt so real, like they were really back home in their room, their bed. As he woke he felt almost ashamed for having such a dream on a day like this—he had fallen asleep the night before thinking this could be the last time he laid down to sleep, that he very well might die before the next sunset, andthiswas on the forefront of his mind?
Though, he thought as he laid sleepily under the stars with his eyes half open and his erection straining against his loose sleeping clothes, if hewasgoing to die today, there was something to be said for being able to enjoy almost fucking his husband one last time. Gods, it had felt soreal, so familiar, down to the curves and angles of Taegan’s body, how impossibly tight and wet he was around him, the expressions on his face and the sounds that spilled from his lips. It was a shame he had woken too soon.
But it was a dream, Zorvut told himself with a sense of finality, and he squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in long, slow, even breaths until his cock lost interest and he started to doze off again. Already, though, his nerves were buzzing with anxious energy, and while he rested he did not fully fall back to sleep. Soon the rising sun on his eyelids told him it was time to get up and break camp.
The thought of food made him want to vomit, but he forced down a few mouthfuls of hard bread and water. He could not remember the last time he’d really felt hungry at all, but he would need more than just adrenaline if he had any hope of surviving the day.
The sun had been up for less than an hour when he had broken camp and set Graksh’t on the trail. His surroundings were beginning to look more and more familiar as he approached the parts of the orc territories where he had spent most of his life. It would be a few hours yet, but today was the day.
As he traveled, he tried to keep Taegan’s face in his mind’s eye, trying to replicate the elf’s smug grin when they sparred, the soft look of tenderness he had in his eyes when he read aloud for Zorvut in their private study, the way his eyebrows knit together when he was at the height of pleasure. That one was easier to remember. But in spite of his efforts, he kept thinking back to the last time he had seen Taegan in the flesh, his wide eyes full of fear as he had reached fruitlessly for Zorvut to protect him. It pained him nearly as much as it kept him moving. He wouldn’t fail again.
When Zorvut could first see the faint shape of Drol Kuggradh in the distance, its spiky guard towers spread out along the city gates rising above the sparse trees and rock formations on the horizon, he dismounted to cover himself and his horse with war paint before continuing any further. The symbols of battle adorned his shoulders in red, spreading down his chest, and his face was smeared with vertical lines coming from his eyes. His hair was too short to tie back, too long on the sides to paint his head, but he would have to make do with what he had. On Graksh’t, he painted symbols of luck and fortune, wards against harm, and the meaning of his name—a champion, a victor.
He knew he would be facing the warlord in just a few short hours, and either he would kill the man who had raised him to win back his husband, or he would die. A sense of dread filled him when he thought of either option.
Zorvut took a deep breath to try and center himself before climbing back atop his horse and making his way slowly toward the city gates. He would need to draw close enough that the elves behind him could see the city gates, but not so close that he would be spotted by guards and reveal his hand. So he moved slowly, watching the shape of the gates in the distance cautiously for the moment he could first start to discern any signs of life atop them. From this distance he still could only just make out the vague form of the towers rising above the skyline, but the trees were sparse and thin, without providing much cover. He could not draw too close.
He was still nearly a mile away from the gate when something snapped in the back of his head, a jolt of pain and fear—not his own, but Taegan’s.
“Taegan,” he gasped aloud, pulling back on the reins to stop Graksh’t from moving any further. He clamped a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that suddenly stung his eyes, but the relief he felt at the bond being reconnected was overwhelming. His husband was alive. He was hurt, he was afraid, but he was alive, and close enough that he could feel his presence.
Taegan must have felt it, too, because the fear that had trickled into his mind at first was quickly replaced with a crashing wave of relief that mirrored his own.
With every bit of focus he could muster, Zorvut directed his thoughts toward the bond.I’m coming. Trust me.
Taegan’s response was much more abstract, but a general sense of acknowledgement and acceptance came from the bond, still with the backdrop of overwhelming joy. Despite himself, Zorvut laughed aloud. Every moment of suffering he had endured up until this point was suddenly worth it. How had he survived this long without the bond? It was as if he had been holding his breath for three weeks and now, finally, was filling his lungs with precious, life-giving air. For something he had not known existed up until the moment they had been bonded, he could not imagine ever living without it again.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, trying to clear his head without much success. “Focus.”
Still light-headed, he nudged Graksh’t’s sides and set the horse trotting forward again. He still had at least a little further to go, a little longer to wait. He had to stay focused and sharp. A jagged seed of fear still gnawed at his belly, but for now it was far overshadowed with his relief, his love. For Taegan, he could do anything.
Finally he could start making out movement along the wall, patrols of orcs moving back and forth. He stopped where he was, and waited. Though he could not see the elves behind him, he knew that they would spot him long before he had any inkling of where they were, and would send him the signal once they were ready.
Part of it still did not feel real. Taegan was here, he could feel him once again through the bond, and he was about to parley with the warlord. What could he say to the orc that might convince him to change his mind, to pull his forces away from Aefraya and return to the terms of the peace treaty they had once agreed upon? Even with his newfound hope, he was not sure there was anything he could say to Hrul Bonebreaker that might change his mind. He had come prepared for war, and that was what he would most likely get.
He had been standing and waiting, watching, for close to half an hour when he finally heard the signal—three calls of the Aefrayan bluejay, with its distinctive lilting chirp that was never heard north of the border. The birdsong steeled his resolve, and with the knowledge that whatever elves remained would now be waiting on his signal, he kicked Graksh’t into a gallop toward the city gates.
They were open, though he was sure it was a taunt more than it was a welcome. He was spotted quickly, glancing up at the gates again to see orc eyes on him, pointing and gesturing, but none made a hostile move toward him. They were expecting him, just as he’d hoped, and he heard from the nearest guard tower the bellowing horn that must have been alerting the warlord of his arrival.
Zorvut breathed as slowly and evenly as he could manage atop his galloping horse, keeping his eyes trained on the trail ahead of him. It would do him no good to watch the guards watching him now.
He slowed to a quick trot as he approached the open gate, and slowed further as he could see a crowd gathered just beyond it, all looking toward him. The crowd had gathered in a semicircle just beyond the gate to the city, and in its center stood the man who had once been his father, the warlord.
Hrul was painted for war just as he was, his head shaved and painted with every symbol of war and battle and conquest that Zorvut could recognize and some he could not quite make out at this distance. His massive battle axe was strapped to his back, and a smug smirk was on his face as Zorvut approached, slowing Graksh’t to a cautious walk.
Zorvut’s eyes locked on Taegan and despair filled him for a brief moment—the elven prince seemed so small next to Hrul’s hulking presence. His hands were chained together and leashed to the warlord, his clothes were dirty and torn, and what looked to be fresh blood was smeared across his face and the upper half of his shirt. Even from this distance, his face looked gaunt and haggard. But his husband’s eyes were wide and gleaming as they saw each other, and Taegan smiled at him.
He managed a slight smile, too, before looking back to the warlord and pressing his lips into a hard line.
“I’ve arrived,” he said simply, calling out with as commanding a voice as he could muster. The crowd around them was completely silent.
“I welcome you, Zorvut,” the warlord answered in a mocking tone, opening his arms. “We’ve been expecting you. I appreciate your forethought in announcing your presence. If you had arrived unannounced, we wouldn’t have been able to set up this welcoming party for you.”
“I thought you might appreciate it,” Zorvut replied wryly, narrowing his eyes. “I have no desire to play games with you, Warlord, and you are still the man who raised me. I’ll ask you this once. Return my husband to me, and recommit yourself to the peace treaty you signed, and we can all move past this as allies.”
