The Archer

Author’s note: This is a complete work, posted in 6 sections. It is a romance with strong flavors of reluctance and domination. It takes a minute to get hot, but when it gets there, it stays there. Thanks for reading.

When Aslin woke, the first sensation was the swollen tightness of her face. It felt as if her face had been stretched, and when she tried to open her eyes she couldn’t see clearly through one of them. The delicate muscles involved in the attempt to open her eyes set off a chain reaction. She felt a sharp stinging on her forehead and tried to close her mouth, but failed. Moving her lips made a groan leave her lungs, but it died before escaping. Only secondarily did she realize the tang of blood in her mouth, the smell of it all over face, like hot iron.

She struggled to think of where she was, her mind sluggish. Had she been asleep?

She moved to lift her head from where it was resting against her arm, and her neck cried out at the shift. She was sure it had been locked in place for some time. She swayed on her feet, marvelling at her ability to stand, before realizing that she was not standing, but rather hanging.

She was hanging by her arms, tied together above her head, the rope affixed to something above her she could not see. She had been hoisted so that her feet touched the ground, but only barely. Looking up, Aslin could see her arms, could see the black fabric of her uniform sleeves, but she could not feel them. They were at least attached to her body, she thought grimly. Her legs felt equally numb, just dead weight dragging her downwards. She felt another moan deep within her trying to rise, and this one managed to emerge, gurgling somewhat at the liquid in her mouth.

There was a bright light shining down on her, but with her one good eye she couldn’t make out much else, the room around her seeming large and dark. She heard nothing but the pounding of her own heartbeat, reassuring her. You’re alive. You’re alive.

Never had she ever felt so strange and disembodied. It took all of her capacity just to concentrate on what had happened, what she was doing in this terrible place. She remembered the dark sleeves of her uniform. That’s right, she had been scouting the keep with Riley. Their order had been simple enough. For the fifth night in a row they climbed, clipping onto the bolts they had left before, and hammering in more as they ascended in the dark. The cliff must be scalable if they were ever to aim for a surprise attack on the Almanian keep.

The work was exhausting and the going slow, but Riley was a good partner for it. The two of them had been chosen for the mission because of their diminutive size, but rather than gripe about it they found a kind of camaraderie in being the two smallest in the command, light, and quick on their feet. Riley was quiet, like herself, but they had formed a fast friendship in their nightly ascents, neither of them willing to say aloud that the task was more treacherous than anything either of them had ever attempted. So instead they joked, poking fun at the others in the squadron, making light of the perilous work it had fallen upon them to undertake.

As her mind painstakingly reviewed this memory she was interrupted by the screech of a heavy door, and the approach of two figures into the foreground of the hazy space. There was a kind of shuffling of other bodies in the room, and it dawned on Aslin that she had not been alone.

There was a string of incomprehensible spoken words and she frowned, confused, and momentarily felt a wash of true fear. Had she lost her mind?

Then the other man replied, and his words rang clear as an early morning bell in her consciousness.

“Is this the archer?”

The meaning reached her with some delay, her mind needing time to process. She sensed the speaker’s skepticism before understanding his words.

“Yes, my lord,” came the answer. “He was captured a few hours ago and brought here directly.” This voice was slightly higher pitched, but still masculine. Wheedling, she thought. An inferior.

“Heila, he is just a boy.” The deeper voice was soft and surprised. Aslin jolted as she realized why she was struggling to understand.

They were speaking in Almanian.

Her mind raced, surging forward in her frantic need to connect the pieces of her circumstances. She and Riley must have made it to the top. They must have been taken. She… she was a prisoner of war. The Almanians had captured her and brought her here to….

She thought again of her numb limbs, the blood drying sticky on her face.

They were going to torture her.

“Tell me again what happened,” the deep voice said as he moved closer to her.

“A juette went out, one that faced the cliffside. Then another, shards of glass all around. The ground team was deployed, and he was apprehended and brought here.” She didn’t know this word, juette. But she had shattered the lights and not Riley, that she knew. She had better aim than Riley any day.

“A lone archer on the cliffside?” The man’s voice again indicated that he doubted the other man’s information. The inferior wisely said nothing.

Their voices getting clearer, Aslin’s good eye struggled to open, trying to see how close the men were to her, and she was startled to see the blurred outline of a large man directly in front of her, with a smaller man beside him. They were dressed in Almanian uniform. Her heart gave a great thump.

“He’s so small,” the larger man observed, and some recessed corner of her preserved mind wanted to laugh.

“Perhaps the Tirians are conscripting children now,” the smaller man suggested. The larger man said nothing, bending over to peer into her face.

“Or perhaps they send their smallest men out as scouts,” the inferior added. This piqued the larger man’s curiosity, and he turned.

“Now why in all of godsland would they do that?” His voice revealed his frustration and annoyance at the smaller man.

“Surely they’re quicker, and more difficult to spot,” the wheedling man insisted.

He isn’t wrong, Aslin thought wryly, remembering Riley with a pang.

“Yes, liuta, a genius battle strategy,” came the larger man’s sardonic reply.

Aslin didn’t know this word either, liuta. But it didn’t seem to her to be the man’s name. The word felt like one she had heard only recently. Perhaps an indication of rank? The larger man began to circle her slowly without touching her, and Aslin’s fear returned swiftly, anticipating the blows she knew would fall.

As if on cue, the larger man asked the liuta, “You have been beating him?”

“No,” the small man replied immediately. “Your orders were clear, my lord. The wounds you see were part of his capture.”

Aslin remembered the burning slash of a knife across her skin, but where had it landed? Was she bleeding out onto the floor? There had been other blows, fists and feet, both in the scuffle of her capture and afterwards, but she said nothing. Her injuries felt like secondary memories at this point, all her conscious attention was riveted on the men in front of her and their intentions, but she knew she’d feel half-dead in the morning. That is, if she made it to morning.

“What were you doing on the ridge?” The larger man at her side asked in a booming voice, and she jumped at the sound of his slightly accented Tirian words. He spoke her language?

She said nothing, physically and mentally incapable of forming any kind of coherent reply.

“Did you think to disable us entirely by shooting out our lights?” he asked next, and his face seemed very close to hers. She opened her eye again to try and see him, her vision still swirling. All she could make out was olive skin and a dark mass of hair, two dark brows arched at her, a full mouth.

“Were you scouting, or was it some kind of diversion?”

Aslin struggled herself to remember the finer points of the plan. They had shot down the lights, yes, but had they even been told why? She was not often privy to strategy. Foot soldiers merely followed orders.

“The ground security found no one else. Nothing except for his bow and the climbing gear,” the smaller man added to the silence.

Aslin thought of Riley. Did the liuta mean the Almanians had found no one else besides the two of them, or just herself? A moment later she realized that their week spent installing bolts into the cliffside would be quickly undone. All for nothing.

The leader sighed with impatience, continuing to circle her slowly. “I am Ero,” he announced. “Captain of the third battalion. Tell me your name.”

She had been trained for this. She would tell them nothing until the answers were ripped from her involuntarily, a time she knew would come soon enough.

“Your name, boy,” he repeated impatiently. Aslin remained silent, trying to focus on locating his position behind her.

“I won’t ask again.” When again she said nothing, his reply was a low, threatening growl in her ear. She started with surprise, a small, fearful sound escaping her.

“You really are a youth, aren’t you,” he said mockingly. “Well, there’s one way to find out at least your battle history. Your markings will tell me your past honors, if you have any.” Aslin’s mind raced. She had no markings, of course she didn’t, she had only been conscripted for a few months and had seen no live action. But it wasn’t the shame of her inexperience that set her heart thumping wildly, it was the knowledge of what he meant to do.

“And if your back is as smooth as a baby’s, then I’ll know you’re as untried as I’d wager you are.”

Her attention was caught by a glinting blade hovering an inch from her swollen cheek before he slowly drew it up to slice through the fabric of her right sleeve.

Despair rushed through her like a flood and she squeezed her eyes tightly as she summoned the acuity to think of what to do. What was there to do?

The fabric of her top made a hideous rending sound as he alternatively cut and tore through it, first one sleeve, then the next, meeting both lines at the base of her neck. Her arms were utterly numb, and she felt nothing until his fingers grazed the skin of her shoulder blades as he grasped the fabric of her undershirt and binding and began to saw through it all. Aslin felt a rush of panic and squirmed away from him, knowing even as she did so that her struggle would bring her nowhere closer to freedom.

“Don’t move, the knife is sharp,” he murmured. Such a soft admonishment confused her. They meant to torture her, surely…

Her confusion fled, though, as she felt the tight binding around her chest give way as his knife sliced through it, the bandage shimmying down and catching in the falling fabric of her shirt. Fear rose like bile in her throat and she twisted away again despite his warning, feeling the knife knick her in the ribs.

“No!” she finally cried out, her voice a hoarse croak resounding in the large room. The man’s hand stilled at the sound of her voice, but it was too late.

The shreds of her shirt fell away with a soft rustle onto the floor, and Aslin hung suspended, her upper body naked in the chill air.

For a long moment there was silence in the room.

Aslin let out a low moan of shame and fear, wishing she were dead, bending her slack arms in a futile attempt to cover her nakedness.

“A woman?” came a whisper in Almanian, and she recognized it as the shocked question of the liuta.

“Heila,” came the low curse from the captain, and suddenly she saw him beside her, his face close and his breath hot on her face. Aslin cried out loudly in sheer terror, knowing what was to come now that they knew, but the man didn’t grab her. Instead he reached above her outstretched arms, sawing through the rope that bound her hands. She barely had a moment to understand what he was doing before she fell with a loud thud on the floor. Aslin let out a pained groan as her numb arms slid out underneath her and she fell face first onto what felt like concrete. Every muscle in her body screamed out in agony and she felt a new rush of blood in her mouth, choking her.

“Everyone out,” the captain ordered gruffly in Almanian.

“But, my lord…” the liuta protested.

“Out! Now, damn it!” he shouted fiercely, and there was a flurry of rapid movement.

Aslin felt a rising sob in her throat. For a brief moment she had thought she might be spared, but it was happening. A woman’s worst nightmare. She only knew there would be penetration and pain, so much pain. How much more could she bear?

She felt his hand on the bare skin of her back and shrieked, trying to shove herself backwards, away from him and towards the nearest wall, but her uncooperative limbs kept giving out. Tears swam in her eyes and she tried swiping at them, her forearm coming away half-red, half-black. Only then did she remember the paint on her face. She swiped again, clearing her vision and seeing her surroundings for the first time away from the glare of the overhead light.

It was some kind of underground room, chilly and damp and dimly lit. The room was empty save for a few chairs and tables, the large door left wide open in the men’s hasty exit. Her eyes darted up to the man, who was backlit now and imposing. He had both hands stretched out, his palms facing her. She blinked, confused at his posture.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a quiet voice, his words once more in accented Tirian. Disbelieving, she tried again to scoot closer to the wall, her hands and feet electrified with renewed blood flow, yet still refusing to find purchase to aid her.

“You’ll injure yourself,” he said softly, bending down to the floor a few feet away.

She hissed at him in reply, feeling like a savage, seeing the spray of blood from her mouth.

He recoiled, as if considering the very real possibility that she might attack him.

But her bravery fled when she remembered her breasts were exposed. She gave another despairing moan, pressing her breasts down onto the cold concrete floor to shield herself from his view.

He glanced at her body and nodded briskly, crawling to snatch the fabric of her shirt and toss it back at her. She scrambled for it, pressing the scraps against her chest. She wasn’t sure she could dress, or if what was left would even cover her.

He came no closer, sitting down abruptly on the floor still some distance away. He wouldn’t be able to reach her even if he lunged, she realized, and the edge of her panic subsided. He began to rub his face roughly in his hands, and she blinked, unsure of what was happening.

“What in all of godsland…” he whispered to himself.

Aslin panted, trying to catch her breath, shaking life back into her limbs and estimating how much longer till she’d be strong enough to make a dash for the open door. Longer than she’d have, she figured.

“Can you walk, do you think?” the man asked, and she looked back at him.

Without the paint in her eyes she could see him as more than the blurred torturer. He was younger than she had imagined based on his deep voice, with a swoop of jet black hair and thick eyebrows to match. His nose and jaw were sharp, his dark eyes hooded, but his mouth was full and soft, ruining the otherwise intimidating aura of his features. The rest of him might be a brutal warrior, but his mouth made him a handsome man.

As soon as the thought formed in her mind she wondered at it, and at herself.

He was waiting for her reply, she saw. In all honesty she wasn’t sure she could walk.

“I’m going to take you somewhere you can bathe and rest. Your wounds need to be looked at.”

“It’s a long walk,” he added. “I’ll need to blindfold you.”

Her eyes sharpened on his, and he shrugged. “You can’t know the layout of the hold.”

Her ego was gratified in this, at least. After everything, she was still a soldier, still a threat. The thought should have frightened her but instead it filled her with a strange, desperate pride. He stood, holding out a hand to help her up. God help her, she was not going to take any help from him.

Willing her arms to cooperate, she hauled herself up to her knees, scraping one leg and then the other up and using the wall to stand. The effort took nearly all her energy, and she knew already, without a doubt, that she would not be able to walk far. Before he could approach her, she wrapped the largest swath of black fabric around her chest, tying it tight. She ripped what was left in half, her numb fingertips making the task awkward, gingerly tying one strip around her own eyes, cinching it behind her head. Her swollen eye protested, as did the oozing gash on her forehead, but it couldn’t be helped. Thus blinded, she held the remaining piece out to him, expecting him to bind her hands once more.

But he simply pulled on it, tugging her wordlessly towards the exit. She shuffled forward, distrustful of her feet, feeling the weight of her boots dragging as she staggered.

He guided her through the door, and down a corridor. Then a flight of stairs that must have taken her a solid ten minutes. The fabric lead already abandoned, Aslin gripped the railing with both hands and hurled herself up step by painful step, sensing him hovering nearby. Even as the life eked back into her limbs she felt new pains, pains that she had apparently pushed aside before. The worst was her right bicep – she felt the flesh tearing further and further open with every pull of the muscles as she climbed. She bit down on her own tongue to stop herself from crying out at the agony of it.

“Let me carry you,” he said mildly.

In lieu of a reply she grunted, dragging herself up another stair. God, were there 100?

“Two more,” he said softly, and she paused, trying to discern the strange tone in his voice. When she had reached the top she bent over slightly, catching her breath and feeling a stitch at her side. A bruised rib, perhaps?

“Archer, take the distance we have travelled so far and multiply it by five. That is easily how far there is yet to go.”

She let out a soft groan, and felt herself being lifted gently up and hoisted over his shoulder. She struggled, humiliation washing over her.

“Stop it,” he said roughly, and strode forward.

Her head bobbed with his paces, and even blindfolded she could feel the distance growing. She would have fallen, she admitted, but she would have preferred to fall rather than be carried like a child. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been carried. At least he had her over his shoulder, the way a soldier would carry another soldier, and not cradled in his arms like a baby.

It was quiet, the air still and chilly, and she heard a few whispered voices as people noticed the captain with his strange cargo. She remembered only then that hundreds of people lived in the keep, women and children, entire families. She wondered how many hours had passed since the cliffside. Was it midnight, or dawn?

She had tried at first to keep track of his movements, to preserve some hope of retracing his steps, but it felt like a maze of turns and hallways and even more flights of stairs. Eventually she gave up trying to remember the pattern. Even if she did retrace the path, she’d end up back in that dungeon and not at any unguarded door.

He walked surely and without faltering, with some clear destination in mind, seemingly unaware of the additional heft on his shoulder. His pace slowed. When she heard him speak in Almanian, she knew he was speaking to someone else besides herself.

“Giro, bring me the key to this room. And a tray of food and water. And Silta, bring me Silta.”

“Yes, my lord,” a man’s voice said in quick response.

So many words she didn’t know, she thought tiredly. She thought her Almanian was better than that.

A door opened, and then another, and then she was being placed on her feet. She got her footing, raising her hands tentatively in preparation for whatever came next. She jumped at a new sound, before recognizing it as… running water?

“You can take off the blindfold,” the man’s voice said. He seemed to only address her in Tirian, and Aslin wanted to keep it that way. She pulled down the cloth, her eyes blinking at the flood of bright light. She was in a bathroom the size of the room she and her sister shared at home. Her mouth fell open at the sheer scale of the room and its sparkling cleanliness. It was all white with silver fixtures, and the man stood nearby, bent over a massive claw foot tub, with his hand under a running tap to test its temperature.

She took a step back. She would not bathe in front of him.

“Turn this when it’s full,” he said offhandedly, gesturing at the faucet. As if she didn’t know how a bath worked. He looked up at her and winced a little, and she wondered how ghastly she looked.

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, and when she didn’t, he moved to the doorway.

“Bathe,” he said firmly, pointing at the bathtub. Did he think all Tirians were cavemen?

“You need to be clean before your wounds can be treated. And don’t put those back on after, they’re filthy,” he added, gesturing at her clothes.

Instinctively she took another step back, bumping up against a low sink and clutching her makeshift wrap around her torso.

“I meant I would bring you something clean to wear,” he said, his voice awkward, and when she looked up he was gone, the door making a soft click as the latch closed.

Aslin took a few moments to breathe and steady herself before straightening and going over to the tub. The water in it was warm, she thought in amazement, already anticipating the pleasure after months of bathing in frigid river water. There were various bottles and soaps lined along the tiled wall within reach, and a stack of cream-colored towels in a neat tower nearby. She began undressing slowly, kicking off her boots and socks, and sliding her belt off. She waited another moment to see if anyone would enter unexpectedly before removing the rest of her clothing. He was right, she was filthy, covered in dirt and blood and paint.

As she waited for the tub to finish filling she turned with a degree of reluctance, searching for her face in a mirror. When she saw it, she was startled, despite having prepared herself for the worst.

Her body was stark white with splotches of red and purple from her bruises and cuts. The gash on her arm looked the worst, her entire side was covered in blood from it. But it was her face that looked ghoulish, half her night paint smeared off, black in stark contrast to her pale skin. Blood and dirt ran in dried rivulets down her face, and her lip was cut open, her eye swollen. Her hair was still bound back, and she wondered with faint humor if, when she released it from its ties, it would stay up nevertheless from dried sweat and blood.

She had never looked so awful, not in all her life, not even in rudimentary training when they all took a beating learning how to fight and wield weapons.

No wonder they had to see your breasts to know you were a woman, she thought with faint disgust.

She turned away from the horror of her own appearance, stopping the faucet and gingerly stepping into the hot bath. The water was another shock, but a blessed one, and her angry muscles relinquished their tension as she sat, then leaned back, then submerged herself entirely, feeling her open wounds smart at the water.

As she chose a scented bar of soap and began the arduous task of scrubbing clean, there was only one thought in her overtired mind.

What to do now?

***

Ero sat perched on the bedside, his hands running repeatedly up and down the long length of his thighs. “What in all of godsland…” he said again, for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Never in a million years did he imagine the Tirians had female soldiers. Gods, had he slain a woman on the battlefield? He shuddered. Surely that was a new development, a wicked, backwards development. Women were well and good, but to be on the frontlines? Ready to sacrifice their lives in war? The thought was preposterous and outraging. Every cell in his body was raised to protect women, to save them from all possible pain. The idea of giving one a bow and telling her to scale a cliffside on a suicide mission made him seethe.

He could faintly hear the sound of the Archer bathing, and it brought him back to the reality of what he had done. He had stripped her and exposed her in a room full of men. He had shamed her in the deepest way possible, and yet how was he to have known? This guilt radiating through him was ridiculous, it was not his fault she had trespassed and shot arrows at his keep.

But what to do now? The thought resounded, like a drumbeat in his mind.

He tried to think of what his father would do. His father might have killed her, in his younger years. She had seen his face, she knew his name, and now the danger was too great. Not just to himself, but to the lives of everyone in the keep. But Ero already knew he could never do that. He had harmed her already, and that was already too much.

His mind went back to that moment, when she had let out a cry of protest as he cut through her shirt, and the sound of that voice had made him freeze. Not a man’s voice, he had thought. Not even a boy’s.

And then the smooth skin of her back, pale and stark against the artificial light, the collective gasp in the room. He had been behind her, but he had seen the small of her waist, the rounded curve of her breast, and fury had ripped through him, at himself and at her and at this futile war.

His daze was interrupted by a knock, and the door opened to a male servant with a tray of food and behind him, Silta with her medical kit.

“Silta,” he breathed in relief, standing to greet her, and she laughed.

“Well, a good early morning to you too, my lord,” the older woman smiled, eyeing the breakfast tray. “Having breakfast in an empty guest room?” she queried, setting down her kit.

“There’s a woman in there…” Ero began with a deep breath, pointing at the bathroom. “A Tirian woman.”

The older woman frowned, her eyebrow raising as she looked at the bathroom door.

“She’s hurt… and she needs tending to.” Ero heard his own voice falter and clenched his fist.

“How did she come to be hurt?”

“She’s… she’s some kind of soldier,” Ero replied, the words sounding unbelievable even as he spoke them.

“Really?” the healer asked, both brows raised now in obvious interest.

“Will you give her this?” Ero asked, holding out a simple white linen night shift he had found whilst rummaging in the dresser drawers.

Silta took the shift, eyeing him strangely.

“And tell her that no harm will come to her,” he added, as an afterthought.

Silta nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting. “Her name, my lord?”

“I don’t know it,” he replied somewhat sheepishly to the healer he had known all his life, but the elder woman simply nodded, going for the bathroom door and knocking softly.

“She doesn’t understand Almanian,” he said, and Silta looked back over her shoulder, pursing her lips. He knew Silta’s Tirian to be rudimentary.

There was no answer at the door, but Silta opened it anyway and went in.

At first he could hear only the healer’s voice, but then, the voice of the Archer as well. It brought him a surprising sense of relief to hear her speaking, though he couldn’t make out the words. While he waited, Ero surveyed the room, locking the windows with the room key and searching for anything the woman might use as a weapon. His search resulted in a sharpened letter opener, a pair of sewing scissors, a glass bottle of perfume, and a handful of hairpins he thought could possibly pry the lock. Feeling incredibly foolish, he bundled the items in a bed sheet and laid it by the door to take as he left. The war on the verge of its end and here he was protecting himself against a woman who couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds.

“She needs stitches,” Silta’s voice rang out in Almanian and he turned, wincing.

“On her back?” he asked quickly, thinking of where his own knife had grazed her in her struggle.

Silta shook her head, frowning. “No, there’s nothing on her back. On her arm.” She gestured to her own arm to indicate the place. “Less than a dozen stitches I think. There’s a shallower cut on her forehead that bled a lot but won’t need stitches. Other than that, she’ll just be black and blue in places. No permanent damage.”

Ero let out a relieved sigh, realizing he had been holding his breath while Silta spoke.

Silta bent to pick up her kit. “I offered her a draught, since the stitching will be painful. But she won’t take it.”

“Tell her she must take it,” he said urgently, taking a step forward.

Silta paused, smirking. “I’ve been a healer for some fifty years, dear boy. Am I now to become an envoy instead?”

Ero didn’t know how to answer that.

“The woman says she won’t take it, and I won’t force her,” Silta said firmly. “No doubt she doesn’t want her mind clouded. I doubt you would accept a drug while in enemy hands.”

“Of course not,” Ero mumbled. He strangely disliked the idea that the Archer felt she was a captive, even though that is what she was.

“She’ll be fine,” the healer said, nonplussed, and returned to the bathroom.

He waited, expecting every moment to hear the Archer’s cry of pain, but it never came. Some time later, after Ero had finished pacing and had built up the fire, Silta emerged, leaving the door open behind her. She was speaking in stilted Tirian with her head craned back.

“The salve… it is for… for skin that is unbroken…” the healer struggled. “In the morning I will —“, but the healer stopped abruptly as she realized the Archer had not followed her out.

“Come out then,” Silta waved to her, with a note of motherly impatience.

The woman came out slowly, dressed in the shift Ero had found. Her arms were folded against her torso, and she darted glances around her, as if assessing the room and its exits. He was reminded again that she was no ordinary woman, but a soldier. When she realized he was still in the room, her scanning paused and her eyes locked on his.

His breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t been able to make out much of her features before, just her heart-shaped face and striking, pale blue eyes. But the woman before him, though battered, was undeniably beautiful. She was so young, alarmingly young, with alabaster skin and long hair that even wet from the bath he could tell was light-colored. Her features were delicate and feminine, and he could make out her petite body’s curves despite the loose shift. He wondered for a moment how any of them had ever thought she was a man, even for an instant.

“Eat,” Silta urged in Tirian, gesturing at the tray of food. Ero blinked, confused, before realizing the healer spoke to the Archer and not himself.

“I’ll return to check on her in the morning,” Silta said to him, now in her native tongue. After a moment’s pause, she spoke again. “And you will leave soon too, yes? And let this woman rest?” Silta’s pointed tone caught his attention and he felt himself reddening under the healer’s direct gaze.

“Yes,” he reassured both women, before remembering the Archer did not understand what they said.

The healer slipped away, leaving him face to face with the woman he had unwittingly stripped naked, who looked at him now with exhausted wariness.

“You should sleep, but will you eat first?” He had switched without realizing it to her mother tongue. He had never been more glad to have learned Tirian fluently as a young man.

She hesitated, and he could see her shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and he sensed her training in the gesture. She wanted to stay nimble. She wanted to run. Slowly he walked over to the tray, pulling another chair beside it and sitting down. He poured himself a glass of water and drank deeply, feeling his dry throat. By all the gods, what time was it, he wondered, feeling the long hours he had been awake. He picked up a fork and unceremoniously took a single, perfunctory bite of each dish, not bothering to make a plate, hardly tasting the eggs and bread and cured meat.

“Will you eat now?” he asked, gesturing to the empty seat.

She walked over, sitting stiffly in the chair. She picked up a plate and it clattered somewhat in her unsteady hands. She took a deep breath and made a plate of food.

“Water?” he offered, holding out a glass. Surely she must be thirsty.

She shook her head, wincing a little. “I… I drank already. From the sink.”

His heart thumped at the sound of her voice, but he schooled his face to a stoic expression.

Smart, he thought. She knew water from the plumbing would be safe. He suddenly wanted her to not be afraid anymore, not of him, not of what he would do.

“This is a guest room,” he said softly, after letting her take a few bites.

“Am I a guest, then?” she asked drily.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, and this earned her glance. “The situation certainly has changed. What I meant was that this room is not under surveillance. No one will disturb you tonight.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind his words. She looked then at the windows, out of which the faintest dawn light was visible. From it she would see the sun rising over the sea, he thought distractedly.

“A single key locks these windows,” he said, showing her the key in his hand. “It also locks the door, which I will lock as I leave.” He had meant it to reiterate to her the safety of the room, but he realized as he spoke how it would sound.

“You lock all your guests in?” Now her voice, though low, was dripping with derision.

He felt his own hackles raise in response. She was still a Tirian, still his enemy. “Those who I think are likely to hurl themselves from windows I do.”

She said nothing to this, eating halfheartedly, glancing at the door.

“Listen to me,” he urged her, and her eyes flew to his, suddenly wide. He was struck by their clear, aquamarine depths, even though one eye was badly bruised.

Staring at her, for a moment he forgot what he had wanted her to hear.

“You cannot try to escape. Believe me when I say that this hold is under closer watch than any place you have ever been before. You are an outsider, and the warriors here would not hesitate to neutralize any threat to the people under this roof.”

She blinked at his speech, fork paused midair. She set it, and her plate, down abruptly. “You think I want to kill innocent people?” she asked, her voice incredulous.

“I don’t know what you want. I don’t know who you are. You won’t even tell me your name.”

She was silent, glowering at him.

“Do you remember my name?” he asked softly.

“Ero, captain of the third battalion,” she replied drily without batting an eye.

He had to admit he was impressed. “And the healer, just now?”

“Silta,” she said, her tone gentler.

“How many flights of stairs to this room?”

“Six,” she answered swiftly.

“With a memory like that, you are a threat to this place.” His tone was soft, but he could tell his words caught her off guard, and her gaze fell to the floor.

“Rest now,” he said, still softly. “We can talk tomorrow.”

She said nothing, and he moved to the door. Picking up his awkward bundle, he turned back.

“What questions do you have for me?”

Again she seemed surprised, searching his face for manipulation. But when she found none, her curiosity won her over. “The man I was with, on the ridge. Does he live?”

So there had been another.

If she had been a man, he would be tempted to deceive her, gain some upper hand by convincing her that her companion was similarly trapped, bound, suffering. A punishment only she could end through her cooperation. But she was not a man, and he could not bring harm to her, not even through words, not if he could help it.

“We only found you. Your comrade must have escaped.”

A brief smile flashed on her face, followed swiftly by a grimace as the movement strained her injured lip. He could see her face light up as another question occurred to her. She was so expressive, he thought, fighting the urge to smile. She’d made a terrible spy.

“Do you have my bow?”

This time his smile could not be repressed. Perhaps she was a warrior after all.

***

Aslin struggled to wake from a deep and dreamless sleep, her body heavy and glued to the bed. When she opened her eyes and rolled onto one side, she groaned, feeling sore in every bone and muscle. She got out of bed with some difficulty, her mind sluggish with the vestiges of sleep. The bed had been so comfortable, the sheets soft and welcoming, and she had been so, so tired.

Daylight was pouring in through the window, and she walked over to it, her breath catching at the view. She was high up in the keep, the glittering sea stretched out in front of her. Her stomach clenched at the knowledge of exactly how far from home she was, and then it grumbled. She had a sneaking suspicion she had slept through till afternoon.

After fiddling with the window latch and assuring that it was, indeed, locked, she drank some water and combed her hair, applying the balm as Silta had instructed. She was careful to avoid her reflection in the mirror, sure the growing bruises had done her no favors. She then searched the room meticulously for… well, anything of note. She tried to look for weapons, something she could hide under the mattress, but came up surprisingly empty. In the end she had to be content with a round paperweight, clear glass with some kind of flower embedded inside. Seeing how obvious it looked under her pillow, she stored it instead on the floor under the bed frame. She doubted she’d be able to bludgeon her captor to death with it, but it’d be better than nothing if it came to that.

At the dresser, there was one thin drawer that was locked shut, but in the others she found dresses, all in pale tones of white and cream, lilac and rose. They seemed shapeless and sleeveless, similar in style to the nightgown, but when she slipped one on she saw that it was pleated, the fabric gathering at the shoulders and waist in a flattering way. Marvelling at the soft fabric, she noticed small details that were invisible at initial glance, sewn darts, and a hidden string inside the panels that she could tighten and tie to accentuate her waist. It did still feel remarkably like wearing a nightgown, but it was better than staying in a state of undress all day. She thought of the heavy, dark-colored gowns she wore growing up, with layer after layer adding bulk to the skirt, and a corset inhibiting her breath. It would have been stupid to wear a gown like this as she tended to sheep and fed chickens. She would have been dirty within an hour. And the layers helped stave off the chill of early morning chores, keeping her warm on the long trudges into the village to post a letter or pick up supplies from the dry goods store. But she supposed Almanian women in all their finery and ennui didn’t get dirty or post letters. She supposed they lazed around all day in their togas, admiring their own bodies and basking in the warmth of their tropical sun.

The Almanian women here, though, must at least wear cloaks over dresses like this when they go outside. The keep was on Tirian land, an embassy of sorts, and she smirked to think the foreign people still insisted on wearing thin, revealing clothes in the cold, continental weather.

But Aslin was somehow not cold at the moment. In fact, she was warmer than she should have been with just a dying fire and light through a window. She glanced around, feeling warmth even on the floor, on the walls. Was there heat internal to the keep? The thought was astounding.

A brisk knock rapped on the door, and suddenly a host of people entered. Aslin started, wildly alert, and flattened herself against a nearby wall, glancing at the spot where the paperweight lay on the floor.

The first two people she didn’t recognize, a man carrying another tray of food and replacing the one from before, and a young, demure woman with a basket, who immediately began making the bed. Aslin was suddenly grateful she had moved the paperweight. Right on their heels was Silta with her medical case, and Aslin smiled hesitantly.

“Good morning,” Silta said in her funny Tirian, returning her smile.

“This is Nestor, and this is Lorenna,” said Silta, gesturing to the two others. “While you stay… they help care for you.”

“Hello,” Aslin spoke tentatively in Almanian to the servants, and both of them paused, smiling at her attempt and nodding briefly before resuming their work. Aslin noted the purposeful vagueness of Silta’s phrasing. Did the healer know how long she would stay, or what would happen next?

“You know Almanian?” Silta asked, her eyes lingering suspiciously on Aslin.

“No,” Aslin said quickly, shaking her head and feeling the lie in the back of her throat. “Just hello, and goodbye,” she explained, and Silta nodded.

Aslin’s mind worked at the problem before her. Here were three people she could talk to, she could understand them as they chatted amongst themselves about the room, the work. She could make nice with the young and sweet Lorenna, ask her for information, for help even. One woman would surely help another woman escape from captivity, yes? It seemed as if Ero was the only person she had encountered who spoke fluent Tirian, and to limit all her communication to that one damned man, the one who had humiliated her, seemed like a bad move.

She asked herself what her commander would tell her to do. She could imagine his harsh voice even now. Don’t think of yourself, soldier, just your orders.

She knew she’d be more valuable as an asset if she returned with intelligence of the Almanian keep, of its doings, its layout, whatever war plans she happened to hear discussed around her. If she could just be patient, and learn everything she could by subterfuge, she could find a way to escape when she was confident of her bearings, and make it back to camp. If Ero or the other men tortured her for information, it would be better to tell her commander in person what they knew, rather than have him learn of her failure when the encampment was attacked.

Silta motioned for her to come to the bathroom, and there the healer checked on her injuries, occasionally clucking her tongue as if Aslin had been a rambunctious youth off on a misadventure. Silta changed the bandages on her forehead and arm, pointing at the stitches and nodding as if to say that it was healing well.

“You will take… for pain?” she asked, offering the draught once more.

“No, thank you,” Aslin smiled and nodded her thanks.

Silta shrugged and packed her things. “Careful with the arm,” she said, mimicking a limited range of motion. “Don’t carry. You could… you could rip it.”

Aslin nodded again. “Yes, I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“You’re looking better, Archer,” came a voice from the bathroom doorway and Aslin jumped so much that Ero took a step back from where he had been leaning casually, and Silta placed her hands on Aslin’s shoulders to steady her. Aslin felt her heart pounding at the idea that he could sneak up on her so easily.

“Go away,” Silta chastised him with a laugh, waving him away. She petted Aslin’s cheek in a motherly way as if to soothe her, but Aslin stood defensively. Silta led her out, and Aslin found the other servants had seemingly left, their duties complete. It was just Ero, tall and commanding in the center of the room, his eyes steady on her.

“The dress, it needs…” Silta said to Ero, trying to maintain Tirian even as her voice faded. Her fingers came up in a pinching motion, but Aslin didn’t understand. Certainly she did not need a smaller dress.

Ero went to the bureau, fishing inside his shirt as he walked. Aslin’s stomach did a somersault at the realization that he kept her freedom on a chain around his neck. He used the key to unlock the little drawer, revealing an array of small, delicate objects made of silver, gold, bronze, even ivory. They looked like brooches.

He glanced at Aslin, surveying her body, and then turned back to the drawer. Surely these brooches fastened with a long piece of metal she could use for stabbing in a tender place, like the throat or the eye. Knowing this must be the reason his hands hovered in hesitation. And yet, he ultimately selected two and picked them up, moving slowly closer to her. He seemed predatory and virile in a way she was unaccustomed to, even living amongst soldiers for so long. She swore she could feel the heat radiating off him as he approached her, and willed herself to stand her ground.

“Almanian garb suits you,” he said with a soft smile, and she glowered at him, sure he must be mocking her. But his eyes were strangely appreciative as they lingered on her body, and she felt herself blushing under his gaze. It had been a long time since she had been admired.

“Do you know what these are?” he asked, holding his palm open for her inspection.

She peered at the two identical bronze objects with delicate metalwork and miniature leaves. She could take out his eye with this easily, she thought offhandedly, but it was the beauty of the object that caught her attention more.

“Jewelry?” she guessed, off put by the nearness of him. Her nerves jolted at the idea that he might touch her.

“Of a sort,” he smiled. “They are clasps, for your dress.”

“My dress is secured just fine,” she protested, still looking at the clasps.

“They are decorative, but they carry great meaning. The shape and weave of the metal, it’s all symbolic. This pattern here,” he said gently, pointing to the intricate, maze-like sides of the clasp. “It is the keep’s. Figuratively, of course,” he added with a brief laugh, as if to dissuade her from thinking the pattern represented the actual layout.

Why was he telling her this? Aslin wondered, feeling her heart pound as he carefully affixed first one clasp and then the other to the gathered fabric of her shoulders, his fingers soft and warm against her skin. She could smell him, the scent faintly of cedar and spice. Was it a soap, or had he been outside? She glanced nervously around for Silta, but the woman had vanished.

Was it her imagination, or did his hands linger?

He didn’t seem on the verge of raping her, Aslin thought, confused. As his hand lifted off, she shivered. Not from fear, but from something else, some sister to fear she had never felt before. He took a noticeable step back before turning.

“Some air?” he asked, his voice sounding strained.

She said nothing, and he used the same key at his neck to open the double windows wide, letting a nice sea breeze into the room. She watched as the gauzy fabric of the curtains blew out gracefully, trying to discern what was happening to her body. Was there something in the food after all, to make her so distracted? She even felt overly hot. Eventually, he sat once more as he had done before, at the tray of food.

Did he mean to eat every meal with her? The thought was accompanied by a flash of annoyance.

He began making them two plates, piling hers with more food than she’d ever be capable of eating. “You’ve slept all day,” he noted without judgment. “You must have needed it. Do you feel any better than yesterday?”

“I feel like I’ve been run over by a carriage. Twice,” she muttered.

He chuckled softly, and she was almost angry at how irrationally pleased she felt to have made him laugh.

“Will you tell me your name? Or shall I keep calling you ‘Archer’?” he asked mildly, beginning to eat.

She said nothing, eating and finding the food surprisingly delicious. Some kind of unleavened bread and lentil stew with tender pork, well seasoned. Food in the barracks seemed like slop compared to this.

“To be honest I’m not sure what to do with you. Perhaps knowing who you are would make the right path clearer to me.”

Her mouth full, for a moment she was too surprised to swallow. He seemed to speak exactly what he was thinking. How unnerving.

“Just return me to my post,” she suggested, taking another bite, and hoping her voice sounded as mild as his.

He shook his head with regret. “I’m not sure that is the right thing to do. For one thing, you’ve seen the hold, and several officers, including myself.”

“Is your identity a secret, then?” she teased, but his brow knit. Aslin gulped.

“Moreover,” he added, ignoring her question, “I think it insane that Tirian women are fighting on the frontlines. If I return you, won’t they just put you right back in harm’s way?”

She took a deep breath and decided to give him this, in the hopes that he might yet return her. Perhaps home, if not to her post.

“Women… aren’t.”

“Women aren’t what?”

“Tirian women aren’t fighting at the frontlines.”

The two dark wings of his expressive brows furrowed yet further as he waited for her to clarify.

“They don’t know that I’m a woman.”

He scoffed lightly, as if she was making a joke, but when he saw her sober face, the laugh faded.

“Impossible,” he declared, confused. “How could they not know?”

“I tie my hair back, as many men do. You already know I bind my chest.”

A swift flush swept across his face and he looked away from her, his jaw clenching. She felt her heart thudding, but went on. “We’re often wearing training armor or covered in dirt, anyways. I don’t attract much attention.”

She thought he might scoff again at this, but he shook his head vehemently, and she saw his hands fist at his thighs. “No. They would know.”

“I beg to differ,” she replied casually, trying not to smile at his obvious discomfiture. “I’ve seen some things I doubt soldiers would readily show a woman.”

“Is your entire squadron blind and deaf then?” he demanded.

She shrugged. “I had my conscription papers. No one questioned it.”

“Your conscription papers?”

“Well, they were my brother’s,” she admitted.

His jaw fell slightly open, stunned. She liked looking at him this way, off his game. His face seemed open, vulnerable even. Her eyes took in the warm honey hue of his skin, his sharp cheekbones, his long eyelashes. Shock looked good on him, she thought humorously. It was a while till he gathered his wits, and she waited, picking up her plate to finish the last of her lunch. She felt full, but it was delectable.

“Why… why would you do that?”

“My brother is only fourteen. But he was conscripted nonetheless, simply to serve as cannon fodder. I knew he would never come home.”

“So you… went in his stead?”

She shrugged again. “It hasn’t been that bad.”

His jaw fell again, and this time she could not fully repress the smile she had been holding back.

At the sight of her smile his eyes widened and he stood abruptly, striding to the open window. “How long have you maintained this ruse?”

“Nearly three months now.”

He shook his head more violently now, beginning to pace. Her humor was fading as his ire clearly rose. She tensed, remembering the sharp pin of the clasps, the heft of the paperweight.

“I don’t believe you,” he said finally, turning to her and gripping the back of the chair he had been sitting in. “This is some kind of trick.”

She laughed unexpectedly, and his eyes darted over her face in utter bewilderment.

“Why are you laughing?” he barked.

“The look on your face,” she smiled, pointing at his expression. “It’s close to what I imagine my father’s must have been the morning he woke to find me gone.”

He exhaled sharply, turning back to the open window with a huff and bracing himself against its frame, breathing deeply.

“Aslin,” she said softly, and his head whipped to face her.

“My name is Aslin.”

***

Infuriating woman. Infuriating, idiotic, ridiculous woman. She was foolhardy, and naive, and impossible, and… and incredible. Incredibly brave and selfless. Idiotically selfless. And beautiful, to make matters worse. Infuriatingly beautiful.

Aslin.

The image of her drifted to Ero’s weary mind as he tossed in bed, as it had done a hundred times already that night.

He almost wished he was less attracted to her. If she were homely, perhaps he would be able to think clearly around her, would see what to do with some semblance of sense. But no, she had to be lovely, with her hair of spun gold and those eyes like bright sea glass. When she smiled she looked mischievous, like a nymph. Her body was lithe and supple, and the sight of her in the dress of his people had made his cock jolt with desire. His damn manhood had been plaguing him all day, and was now refusing him a night’s sleep. He gripped himself in his hand to alleviate some of the pressure but it just brought the sound of her laughter, the glimmer in her eyes when she teased him, and he groaned with frustration.

He couldn’t have her, he absolutely couldn’t. She was a Tirian and a captive under his watch. It would be a flagrant abuse of power, tantamount to rape. He wouldn’t touch her again, even if he had to speak to her through a closed door and keep her locked in that room for a month.

Neither could he return her to her post. If he did, maintaining the ridiculous charade that she was a man, she’d be put back in service forthwith. That he absolutely would not allow.

But if he returned her, exposing her as a woman? Then what? Would she be charged with treason? He knew the penalty for treason was death. Or would she be spared, and sent home in shame, her family stripped of any land and wealth they owned? She’d suffer for it for the rest of her life, all the way down to her marriage prospects.

Why in all of godsland was he lying here thinking of Aslin’s marriage prospects?

Aslin.

He groaned again, turning onto his side and punching a pillow, willing his lesser parts to quiet.

Aslin.

The way her body had tensed when he fastened the clasps, his fingertips tracing just the faintest line of her shoulder.

Aslin.

Entirely separate from his rational mind, his hand, still gripped around his cock, began to move.

***

Days went by, with more of the same. He would dine with Aslin, not every meal, but at least once a day, finding himself slipping away from his duties to eat with her when he didn’t need to. He told himself he did this because she conversed with no one but himself and must be starved for company, not because he was growing addicted to the sight and smell and sound of her, addicted to watching the movements of her hands and mouth, to wondering what she might say next.

Once, he had turned the key to her door to greet her in the mid-afternoon only to find her sleeping on her side, long waves of hair spread around her. She lay on only half of the bed, the other half looking very empty. He had stood there at the doorway for more than a minute, watching her chest rise and fall with her slow breaths, looking at the way the late sunbeams cast shadows on her form. It had taken an alarming degree of self-control to make him leave.

Aslin’s wounds healed, the bruise on her eye turning greenish and then yellow as it faded. Silta left off the bandage on her forehead, then her arm, though he almost wished she hadn’t. The sight of the ugly black stitches on her pale, slender arm had made him sick, he, who had tested his stomach with the blood and gore of fatal combat.

They fell into a kind of routine. He would come in with Silta in the morning and choose Aslin’s clasps, leaving her with something to do, a book in Tirian from his small collection, a piece of embroidery, watercolors and paper. He’d eat dinner with her most days, and they’d talk, or play a board game, or read aloud. He’d excuse himself early, always wanting to be gone before she felt tired of his presence. Unless the weather was poor he opened the window as he entered, and locked it as he left.

So much he had come to savor of his days with her. He’d had to teach her the board games, as they were Almanian, but she’d gotten too good too quickly at several of them and had beaten him more than once. She had a competitive streak, and would smile fiercely when she saw her victory at hand.

He enjoyed listening to her read aloud, and could sense by the level of her enthusiasm her preferred genres and styles. She hadn’t seemed to know what to do with either the embroidery or the watercolors, though she played with both. But she had devoured the books. With little else to do, she had read one twice already, a book by a long-dead philosopher on war strategy. It was what they mostly talked of in the evenings, the morality of the various scenarios outlined in the text. She was intellectual and curious, and could hold her own in a conversation of ethics. He found even his fluent Tirian tested at the depths of her musings. It was this way that he learned how she thought of the world and of the men who fought in war.

But it was the brief moments in the mornings, when he chose her clasps, that twisted something deep and primal within him. Never had he chosen a woman’s clasps for her. It was an intimate act only a husband would do for a wife, but Aslin didn’t know this. When Silta had mentioned it offhandedly the first day, he had caught the look of surprise on the healer’s face when she saw him move to select the bronze pair that would complement her cream-colored dress. Silta’s eyes had widened, but she had said nothing to him then, nor any day after. And Aslin didn’t seem fazed by it, clearly unaware of the connotation that it held for him.

Almanian girls wore the clasps of their family’s line, and when they married they didn’t wear metal rings on their fingers like the Tirians, their clasps proclaimed their marriage. The giving and wearing of clasps was a form of possession, a bond so deep it could be worn on one’s person. A wife went out in the world bearing the symbols of her husband’s lineage, symbols of his choosing. Of course, none of the clasps in her room were of his lineage, but the mere act of opening the drawer, replacing those from the day before in their velvet-lined places, then looking at her, and comparing the size, shape, and designs of the various clasps before him in selecting those she would wear today, a man could get addicted to that feeling. It filled him with a savage kind of desire to possess her utterly, as she stood docile, accepting his fixing of the clasps on her shoulders. The fact that Silta and the servants saw his chosen clasps on her daily only made his lust soar higher. Aslin didn’t know it, but every day she wore him as a wife would.

Ero didn’t question her for intelligence on the Tirian battle strategy or the movement of her squadron, and she didn’t proffer any. If he was honest, he barely cared. Closer guard of the precipice had turned up no further attempts to infiltrate the hold. In fact, the nearest encampment was falling back. Likely they had heard what Ero had heard: that the war was coming to an end. The mad Tirian king had finally relented, permitting his son to meet with the Almanians to sign a deal, one in which the insatiable Tirian desire for mineral deposits and iron ore could be at least partially satisfied, while the Almanian need for freer sea passage and trade was honored. A year’s worth of war and countless lives lost, all for a treaty that could have been signed before the first sword was forged. Pointless.