Wings (11 page)

knew there had never been an attack upon the royal personages within the capital city itself; if he

brought forth his dim concern, he would be surely ridiculed.

Scoffing at himself but keeping an eye on the man, he moved closer to Vanyae, fingers

moving to his belt, though there was no knife.

When the man lunged forward with incredible swiftness, Anyar felt that he himself moved

in slow motion, his little shell falling forgotten to the ground. Extending his wings, he pushed

Vanyae down harshly to the ground, even as he stepped over him to meet the attacker with bare

hands.

All he saw was a grimace of hatred upon distorted features, the flash of a blade…felt an

impact upon his chest, but his only thought was to protect…

He pushed into the attacker, meeting suddenly surprised brown eyes, Anyar's wings high

and aggressive as they curled in to buffet the man with angry force. They both staggered under

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the assault, and the attacker clung to Anyar, dragging him down as they both fell. Pain

blossomed in Anyar's shoulder, so that he drew a sharp breath, but he refused to release his

opponent as they rolled, dust flying up from the struggle.

He could hear shouts and screams, but his attention was all on his opponent, an opponent

who brought the knife to bear once more, arm raised, expression wild and mad.

Anyar's grip on the attacker's arms shook with strain as he fought to keep the knife from

his throat. Then the man arched, his mouth opening in a short, sharp cry before he slumped

forward onto Anyar's chest, a last breath sighing past his ear.

Then, and only then, did agony burst over Anyar's consciousness, and he moaned with it,

vision white at the edges.

Suddenly the body was gone, pulled from him fiercely, and Vanyae was at his side, face

pale, eyes frantic with worry. At first Anyar could not quite understand why, but then his master

touched his chest gently, and his fingers came away wet with blood.

He felt himself spinning, and Vanyae leaned closer, taking one of his hands and squeezing

to the point of pain.

“You will not leave me, Anyar. Do you hear me? You will
not
leave me!”

Anyar might have nodded, he did not truly know, but then he fell through darkness and

thoughts themselves ceased to be.

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61

Chapter Seven

He slowly roused to crushing pain. His mind cringed from full awakening, as though

realizing what lay in store. His thoughts were muddled and slow, and only his hearing seemed to

be working. His body would not move of its own accord, and each breath was purest agony, a

trial of endurance, enough that he prayed to stop entirely, anything rather than endure the pain

that made him want to scream.

There was no breath for screams, only for survival, and his eyes flew open then, panic

clouding his reason. He could not breathe; he could not…

Voices sounded near him, and gentle hands carefully raised him onto soft pillows, easing

his labored gasps somewhat.

He saw Vanyae's face above him and found himself clutching his master, soundlessly

begging for solace.

Vanyae's face held a haggard cast to it, but his eyes were soft and his tone as he spoke was

gentle with concern.

“Easy, Anyar, easy. You make it harder when you tense. Breathe, my little one. Breathe

shallowly. It will ease.”

He held a drink to Anyar's lips, and the younger man struggled to swallow past the pain

and panic. When he had finished, he sagged back to the pillows and closed his eyes as he felt

Vanyae's hand softly stroking his hair back.

Never had he felt such emotion from his master, and he basked in it, his panic fading at the

strong presence and soothing words. Whatever he had drunk gradually did its work, and the pain

eased a little, enough to be bearable.

Opening his eyes again, he met Vanyae's tired expression, wanting to know what had

happened. He dimly remembered the attack and his own part in it, but it seemed far away and

unreal, as though he had dreamed it all.

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His master seemed to understand his silent questions, and he smiled a little. “It is fine,

Anyar. I killed the attacker, thanks to you. I would not have seen him in time.” He leaned closer,

gave a kiss to Anyar's dry lips. “You saved me, little one. Why?”

Anyar stared at him for a moment, then flushed a little and turned his head away, unable to

answer. Why had he done such a thing? Out of self-preservation? If Vanyae had died, he would

have perhaps gained a brutal master… Yet that answer seemed wrong somehow, as though a

deeper reason lay just out of reach…

Vanyae brushed his cheek with such tenderness that Anyar could not help himself. He

leaned into the touch, needing that comfort.

His master carefully lay down on the bed with him, moving slowly, so as to not jar his

wounds. Anyar sighed, a soft sound of acceptance as his body finally relaxed. The medicines

were at work, it seemed, and Vanyae's presence and body heat finished the job.

He slipped into healing sleep, his thoughts veering away from why his master's mere

presence brought him such solace.

* * * * *

patience that was quite foreign to his nature, and the sheer inactivity he was forced to endure

drove him near-mad. Vanyae seemed to understand this, and he made sure to provide many

distractions. He would carry Anyar carefully outside when the weather permitted, placing him in

the shade or, on rainy days, choosing a sheltered area where they might watch the moisture run

from the trees and buildings.

Anyar treasured these moments, when Vanyae was kind, and gentle with that same

kindness, seeming to actually want to spend time with his little slave. They spoke of many things

and found a surprising array of topics that they were of similar minds on.

His master promised that when Anyar was better, he would take him to the stables to meet

all his horses, something Anyar was eagerly looking forward too. His love of horses was

obviously shared by the prince, and their conversations on the matter were intense and satisfying.

At these times they seemed less like Master and slave and more like…friends?

Anyar shied away from even the merest hint of such feelings. He was a slave, no more than

that, and to even think of something beyond that boundary could bring only sorrow.

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This was just a brief exception to the rules. Vanyae felt an obligation. That was surely why

he was acting so strangely, and when that faded, they would be back to the baseless existence

that Anyar had endured since his capture.

He hated the thought of that and tried desperately to enjoy each day to the fullest, holding

each experience and conversation close to him, encrypting them into memory for later times

when all was empty.

He found himself almost lonely when Vanyae could not be there and, worse yet, longing

for the prince's touch. What could possibly be wrong with him that he actually wanted what he

had always fought against?

Confusion ruled his thoughts; in no way could he begin to understand himself and the

wayward emotions that seemed to have taken control.

His turmoil deepened when he gained the courage to ask Vanyae about the details of the

attack. Small memories were returning to him, and he needed the truth of it, though some part of

him shrank from what would be revealed.

The attacker had been Melanian.

Anyar had killed one of his own people for the sake of a Nazarian, one who held him

against his will, enslaved him, held Commander Tanyan in surety against attack from Melan. In

all ways, he had done a great disservice to his people.

He had saved an enemy at the cost of one of his own.

The information gnawed at him, working on his conscience. He was a guard of Melan. Yet

what had he done to work against the Nazarians? Did he continue to fight, to find a way to free

himself and possibly Commander Tanyan? No, he had sunk into the trap that Vanyae had laid for

him, his mind overcome with what he had undergone.

But every time he thought of rebellion, thought of violence and escape, he would look into

those green eyes, and his determination would waver, his strength fail.

What great power did the prince wield that he could defeat Anyar without effort? It wore

the younger man out just thinking about it and perhaps hampered his recovery more than he

realized.

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Vanyae noticed his little slave's worried introspection, and he knew that there was great

guilt in the killing of his countryman. Despite all questioning, the young man had not answered

the question of why. Why save his enemy?

This greatly plagued Vanyae also. He would never forget lying on the ground, watching in

stunned horror as Anyar took the blows meant for him, never ceasing to put his body between the

attacker and his master. Why?

The prince would have liked to have said that his own behaviors toward his little slave

were of guilt and gratitude, but they seemed deeper than that, more complex.

He could not bear to let him out of his sight, and he had guards around him at all times

when he was forced to leave him. Those hours when he had thought that the young man would

die… He shuddered at the mere memory.

That sensation of helplessness and devastation he hoped never to experience again in his

lifetime.

Their time spent together seemed precious, something to be hoarded and prized. Never

could Vanyae remember wanting to be with someone so much, enjoying simple things. Their

quiet time together, often with Anyar on Vanyae's lap as they watched the rain or enjoyed the

warmth of the sun in the prince's private garden, was memorable. The conversations and, yes,

even arguments were something he looked forward to more than he should.

What was this pleased warmth in his being that only happened when he saw Anyar turn to

see him and smile?

It made no sense.

* * * * *

had no experience of. Melan was dry and hot. Such excessive rainfall was a wonder to him, a

blessing to one who saw so little water from the sky. He insisted on going outside into the garden

when it rained hardest, turning on the spot, wings spread, face tilted up, and eyes closed as he

enjoyed the wet bounty.

Vanyae would lean in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint smile on his face as he watched

the younger man's enjoyment. On this day, his interest found new focus as he watched Anyar's

clothing soak through, clinging faithfully to every line and curve as it did so.

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He licked his lips and found himself undressing, never taking his eyes from his quarry.

Anyar loved the feel of water over his body. What a wonderful place this was, to have such

luxury. Water was scarce and carefully used in his country, and one did not have showers, only

quick sit baths with an inch or so of water. This was sheerest heaven.

He turned to thank his master for letting him outside, but the words froze in his throat, and

he felt his pulse quicken at the sight before him.

Nude and wet, Vanyae came toward him with the tread of a predator and eyes that

mirrored that, dark with lust.

Anyar took a deep breath, unable to help admiring the prince. He was as beautiful as any

statue, broad shouldered, narrow hipped, skin pale as marble. His hair hung down his back,

wetting to a beautiful, rich gold, his wings gradually darkening with moisture. The water ran

down his form, lovingly caressing every inch of muscle and bone, and Anyar found himself

wanting to taste.

He took a step forward, looking into Vanyae's eyes for permission before sliding to his

knees and immediately reaching for that beautiful, big shaft. He licked at it for a moment, one

hand tightening around the prince's thigh as Vanyae jerked at the sensation, a low, growling

moan issuing from his lips. For once Anyar felt proud of his training as he licked and nibbled his

way up the hard flesh, felt it throb and jerk under his ministrations.

Eager for the sweetness within, he dipped his tongue into the slit and suckled there for a

moment, feeling his master tremble, his breath hard and erratic.

He let his lips encircle the head, tongue lapping the tender flesh, then suddenly swallowed

the length almost to its entirety.

Vanyae gave a sharp cry, his hips flexing involuntarily. That his little slave was doing this

willingly, even eagerly, was the most erotic thing he could imagine, and he had to fight against

coming right then and there. Not yet. There was so much more he wanted to do to the younger

man. Gently, so as to not hurt his healing injuries, but gods, he could wait no longer!