AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Just as enticing was her skin. It was still unmistakably Ateran, but a cooler, luminous hue had replaced the golden undertones. It was a curious color, one he intended to parse out in the days to come. Preferably while she was naked and in his bed.
The thought drew his eyes downward to the generous swell of her breasts. Most elven women had high, taut breasts, their chests indistinguishable from that of a man’s until they disrobed. Isael had always considered the elegance of an elven woman’s naked body to be incomparable. The few times he’d seen a naked human or half-elf, he’d felt a visceral aversion to their asynchronicity. He could find no appeal in the way their skin hung loose in some places and bulged out in others.
Cera’s breasts made him salivate.
He didn’t understand it. They were masses that jutted out in front of her. Impractically and unnecessarily large. Had he seen them on another woman, he would have thought she looked like a cow.
But he’d seen them onher. When she’d been struggling for breath during the change, the first thing Isael had done was cut open the bust of her garment. Despite the chaos of the moment, he’d been taken aback by the force with which his eyes had been drawn to her chest.
Later, when she was stable, and they were alone in his room, he’d indulged in a perusal of her body. Once again, his attention had been absorbed by the sight of the swollen mounds and the pink crests of her large nipples.
The rest of her body was similarly plump. All the spaces where a woman’s skin should have been tight, hers was full of subtle deposits of fat. The effect was strangely enticing. He itched to pinch those places between his fingers, to tug at them, to grasp them, and to bite them.
Isael ran his tongue over the back of his teeth in an effort to assuage the sudden ache. He forced himself to look up at her face, though it did nothing to dampen the throbbing in his groin.
Taken as a whole, little had changed about her appearance from the night before, which was why his attraction to it made no sense. She hadn’t been unsightly. In fact, the portrait her father had sent had been a minor injustice. Although he’d felt no masculine urges toward her on sight, he hadn’t found her objectionable.
She’d been pleasant to look at.
Comely, even.
For a human.
The most noticeable difference was her ears. They didn’t have the long, arrow-like shape of a lowland elf’s, nor the slight, outward bow of the central landers. Hers were the understated ears of a highlander’s, small and flat like a human’s, though not because of any mixing of blood.
Lowland elves had always found Ishvalindic ears to be unnatural until they ventured into the towering peaks of the northern mountains. Il’hildral, the capital of Ishvalier, had been carved into the territory’s highest mountain. In the days it took lowlanders to scale the peaks, their long ears would burn and blister. It hadn’t been uncommon for them to arrive in the citadel with ears so badly frostbitten that they needed to be cut off.
But it was not only the Ishvalindic curve of her ears that made his chest warm as he looked at her. It was also their tips.
Most living elves believed that the faint hooks at the tips of Isael’s ears were the mark of an Ishvalindic elf, or perhaps of Isael’s familial bloodline, the Triandruir. With five centuries separating them from his people, they had no way of knowing that it had been a minor deformity unique to his mother, Yaela.
She had despised her ears, often bemoaning that she’d passed them on to Isael and his twin. Most of her stories of childhood had been tales of being teased for her ears, or having them flicked or yanked at by other children. Even in youth, Ishvalindic elves had been discerning and critical of those who stood out.
Isael had never disliked his ears. They were the same ears as the two people he loved most. There might have been a time or two that children had attempted to taunt him, but he could call no such memories to mind. From an early age, he’d made it clear to his peers that he wasn’t to be trifled with.
Cera had the ears of his mother, brother, and himself. It was impossible not to love them. Impossible not to look at her without feeling a sense of alignment and congruence. He could almost fancy that something connected him to her in a profound way. That if he cast out his mental rope, it might find purchase in the caverns of her mind, binding them on a level he hadn’t known in centuries.
He didn’t try. He wasn’t ready to be disappointed by her. Everything about her was perfect. More than perfect.
Satisfying.
“When will she be ready to…fulfill her purpose?”
Esodir’s question broke through the haze of Isael’s thoughts. He tore his gaze from Cera, only to find his nephew staring at her. Esodir’s lips were parted and color stained his cheeks as his eyes charted the same path that Isael’s had taken.
The muscles in Isael’s body stiffened, as Esodir continued, “Tonight would be too soon, no?” He tugged at his collar. “I should wait until she’s less… What, precisely, is wrong with her? Is she soft of mind?”
She was soft in many places, but sharp enough in her intellect. He understood why Esodir asked. Physical changes aside, Cera bore little resemblance to the prim and reserved young woman he’d met the night before. She was presently attacking the breakfast tray, eating with all the grace of a starved wolf.
Now and again, she seemed to notice her uncouthness, wiping marmalade from her mouth or remove her elbows from the table. Then something would distract her, a passing bug or a falling leaf. She’d stare at it intently before resuming her mindless consumption.
Isael switched to the Ishvalindic dialect as he responded. Cera had yet to acknowledge their conversation, but he doubted the Aterans had sent her to their lands without at least a passing knowledge of their language.
“Humans do not perceive the world as we do. Colors, tastes, and sounds, they’ll all be different for her now. I suspect she’ll need time to adjust.”
“That’s good. When you met her, what was she like?”
Esodir’s Ishvalindic was slow and halting, though still better than his father’s had been. He had an affinity for languages, though a streak of perfectionism kept him from mastering the more complex tongues.
