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Aimeric’s hands were fumbling at the lacing at Jord’s crotch. The entry to the tent was still open. It was too fast, too sudden, the feel of that single kiss still dizzily on Jord’s lips.
Jord put his hands on Aimeric’s and pulled back so that they were staring at each other, Aimeric confused and hot cheeked. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you—’
‘I do—I—if you’d have me, I’d invite you to my tent,’ Jord said, his voice roughened, uncertain even as he said it if this was something Aimeric expected or even wanted. ‘I’m not—a man worthy of your birth. I’ll not be what you’re used to. But I meant it when I said that I think well of you.’
Aimeric was staring at him. Jord felt so out of place, standing among the rich silks of
a Prince’s tent. Aimeric was an aristocrat; but there was a way in which he was also simply himself, the young man Jord admired for his stubborn work ethic, who was just as out of place, in his own way, as any of them.
‘Yes— yes all right, if you— yes.’ Aimeric stepped back, his breathing a little quickened, unsteady. He looked at the dark entryway of the tent, then back at Jord. ‘You go first. I’ll follow after. Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone see me. I’m discreet.’ He smiled.
Aimeric moved to wait in the tent by the map, while Jord took his first steps outside, where it was dark but lit with bright torches, lights that he would follow.
Out here, the camp was a collection of mismatched halves, mercenaries and Prince’s Guard, camped together, too small, he thought, to do much damage in a fight, but each tent housed a man ready to do what he could. It was an unlikely partnership, but hope sprang in what could be done together, and not alone. He felt the kiss on his lips again, its newness, its promise, and in that moment he was part of something, a beginning, the night like lights and the border, ahead of him.
