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Syvonna, 3016 C.A.
With the constant couplings they engaged in, it was bound to happen. Whether it was Qristan forgetting to consume mirash or Zykriel letting his lust get the better of him and not waiting long enough for the suppressant to take effect, the consequence was the same. One torrid evening, Qristan felt the heat in his womb flare up and stay on, fading away only come morning.
He was with child. Or rather children.
After a month, Zykriel reached out to his unborn son to see if he could already recognize his sire and was shocked to sense two minds responding to his mental touch. The family physician later confirmed that they were indeed following in Desriq and Ildris’s footsteps.
With the prospect of twins on the way and the likelihood of Qristan’s girth increasing more swiftly than the norm, Zykriel insisted that they wed at the onset of summer before he began to show. He went one step further which reduced the Herun and Heris to stunned silence and drove Qristan to near tears of disbelief.
“Would you consider soul-binding to me, Qris?” he softly asked.
So ecstatic was Qristan that Zykriel desired for them to unite in eternal wedlock that he secluded the two of them for the rest of the day to demonstrate the depth of his gratitude. Thereafter, everyone avoided being anywhere near Zykriel’s suite lest they overheard sounds guaranteed to turn anyone’s face crimson with embarrassment.
“You really must get your libido under control, Zyk-min,” Ildris scolded him as the planning for their nuptials got underway. “Remember, there’s one tradition you must uphold as heir. Given your non-stop rutting, it’s going to be a very difficult one to uphold!”
It had once been tradition in all Vihandra that a betrothed pair even if they’d been previously intimate with each other, were to cease copulation the week before their wedding. Even handfasted couples were subject to it if they wished to hallow their union in church. Time had since eroded most nations’ adherence to the custom but there were still places where it continued to be observed. Unfortunately, Losshen was one of them.
“It’s ridiculous,” Zykriel pointed out. “Not to mention illogical. Wherefore our keeping chaste when Qristan is set to whelp in four months time?”
Ildris glared at him. “That’s beside the point,” he sternly said. “Our people faithfully observe it. What will they say if they discover their future Herun isn’t willing to follow a custom they hold dear?”
Zykriel sighed and grudgingly acquiesced. And so the week before their nuptials, Qristan moved out of his suite and back into the willow room. Zykriel rued his decision back in the day to quarter his mate in the guest chamber farthest from his own.
On the eve of their binding, the two met in the gaming room. Because it was still daytime and the chamber was hardly private, Ildris allowed them this small indulgence. He’d seen how much they yearned for each others’ company and thought an innocent game of strategy would do no harm.
Neither Zykriel nor Qristan saw it as an indulgence however.
“How am I supposed to focus on this when all I can think of is bending you over the table?” Zykriel groused. He plunked a piece on the board at random then scowled when Qristan promptly captured it. “Are you actually thinking about the game?”
Qristan snorted. “Of course not.” He idly pushed a piece forward with a finger. “I’m as frustrated as you are. Of all the traditions your people chose to keep, they had to pick this one.”
Zykriel sat back in disgruntlement. “Don’t remind me. It’s all I can do not to pounce on you this instant.”
“If you truly want me so much, you could stuff tradition and have your way with me.”
“And have Ama scold my ear off? It’s really that I fear. I don’t care what the people will say about me. But he can go on forever once he’s got started and—sweet Veres almighty!”
Zykriel stared down at his crotch where Qristan’s foot nestled against the bulge had induced it to grow and harden quite rapidly. He looked up at his mate and saw the twinkle in his eyes. In an instant he was transported to the evening in Elana when a comely Deir he’d then known as Ris signaled his interest in exactly the same way.
“What are you doing?” he said a tad breathlessly.
Qristan chortled. “I want to see how long it will take before you give in to your baser urges.” Whereupon he gently rubbed his foot against Zykriel’s crotch.
Zykriel groaned. “If someone sees us...”
“Do you really care?”
“Aren’t you the one who didn’t want to feed others’ lurid imaginings?”
“I wasn’t in the mood to provide prurient entertainment then.”
“And you are now?”
“Nay, I’m just too desperate to care. Deity’s blood, I don’t think I’ll last until tomorrow. Please, ariad, I need you now.”
With that, Zykriel threw caution to the four winds. He stood up, stalked to Qristan’s side of the table, hauled him to his feet, and all but soldered their lips together. Qristan happily returned his embrace and moaned into his mouth.
They managed to stumble their way to the nearby couch and collapsed on it, their mouths still clinging even as their hands undid shirts and breeches. Zykriel flopped Qristan on his back, and, with little warning, dislodged his shaft from the confines of his drawers and bent to ply tongue, lips and mouth on the rigid column. Qristan let out a strangled groan, his hips rearing upward to push more of his shaft into the moist warmth that enveloped it.
Zykriel did not pleasure him at a leisurely pace but treated him to a swift assault that had Qristan spending very quickly. Now painfully aroused as well, he nonetheless tenderly kissed his way up his mate’s body, pausing to pay particular attention to the slightly raised horizontal line that ran under Qristan’s navel, a shade darker than his skin.
The birthing seam appeared around the fourth or fifth week of the six-month Deiran period of gestation. Starting out faint in color, it darkened over the next five months. The seam gradually thinned as the time of birthing drew near when it naturally split open to permit the babe to emerge. It was a painful process but healing and recovery were swift, a necessary aspect of birthing in a warrior race. The seam closed completely within the day, the resulting scar tender for only a fortnight or so and fading away to a barely distinct shadow with the passage of time.
When their lips met once more, Qristan sweetly parted his in blatant invitation and they were soon engaged in another bout of molten kisses and burning caresses. They hungrily sucked at whatever flesh they could reach. Their binding attire would hide the bruises adequately or so they hoped.
At last, Zykriel broke away and sat back on the couch. He yanked down his drawers allowing his straining shaft to spring free.
“Ride me,” he roughly said.
Qristan hastened to comply. With almost indecent speed, he shed his breeches and drawers in one motion and straddled Zykriel’s lap. They had no oil and Zykriel did not wish to rely on the scant semen emerging from their lengths. So he took the time to kiss his mate insensible while he readied him for genital intercourse. Qristan moaned as his body turned and his sheath started to exude lubrication.
As soon as Zykriel knew him slick and open enough, he lowered him onto his shaft, hissing as he was gloved in snug, moise warmth. Qristan started to ride the hard flesh, repeatedly sliding down to take it deep into his sheath.
For several minutes, all that could be heard was the symphony of their ragged gasps and drawn out moans. Zykriel sensed the lowering of Qristan’s shields. It was his mate’s wont since their reconciliation. His way of atoning for the times he’d kept Zykriel in the dark. Now he allowed him full access to his thoughts whenever they coupled that Zykriel might always know how much he was loved.
He laid a hand on Qristan’s abdomen. The thought of their sons berthed within served to harden his shaft even further and intensified the need to be completely sheathed. He held Qristan by the hips and drove up into him. Qristan cried out at the added stimulation. His shaft rose high between them, bouncing against his belly. Whereupon Zykriel wrapped his fingers around the proud length and stroked it in time with his every thrust.
Release came upon them almost simultaneously. Sobbing against Zykriel’s mouth, Qristan curled his arms around his shoulders and clung to him. Zykriel returned the embrace and gently smoothed his tousled hair. He smiled at the sound of a contented sigh.
The crash and clang of breakage snapped them out of their copulatory dazes. They jerked their gazes to the door where two servants stood frozen in place, eyes wide and mouths agape. About their feet were two silver trays, a pair of pewter cups now dented, a cracked pitcher, shattered serving plates, scattered pastries, pieces of fruit and a spreading puddle of milk tea.
After a moment’s stunned silence, the servants babbled largely incoherent apologies, bent and hurriedly shoved whatever they could onto the trays, then straightened only to collide with each other in their haste to leave the chamber. After another slew of apologies, they managed to stumble out the door only to bump into someone outside. From the sound of muffled oaths, Zykriel recognized just whom the servants had run into. And from the blubbered explanations, realized that someone would soon enter the room.
While Qristan quickly lifted himself off his lap, Zykriel grabbed the throw rug and tossed it over his mate’s crotch. Thank Veres a turned Deir did not ejaculate leaving no mess to clean up. He’d barely yanked up his own breeches and tucked his shaft into his drawers when the door opened once more. In strode Ildris with Gilmael right behind him.
The Heris took in their state of dishabille and scowled frightfully. Gilmael on the other hand covered his mouth to conceal his mirth. Zykriel glanced at Qristan, sighed and rose to his feet. He glared at his twin who strove not to snicker out loud and draw their father’s ire to himself instead.
––––––––
They bound to each other in the church in Syvonna. And this time around, all of House Essendri were present, even surly Uncle Imcael. He was far from pleased when he learned Qristan was no longer a Viarl or in the Shidara line of succession. But given the reaffirmation of the treaty between Ylandre and the Nazcan Hegemony, he could hardly criticize the proceedings. In any case, his disapproval was of little consequence when Zykriel was surrounded by beloved kin and one only slightly annoying brother-by-law.
Lioval alone of the Shidaras attended his brother’s nuptials. The Prime had thought it unnecessary to grace what he deemed a mere renewal of his son’s marriage vows. Never mind that it was not just a fane union but a soul espousal. Eulan ignored the distinction.
It was indicative of Qristan’s evolved opinion of his sire that he did not mind what was tantamount to a snub. Diarmin on the other hand was not invited which came as no surprise to anyone.
The wedding feast took place at Calanthe House in the main reception hall. As in Medav, the tables bore an abundance of food while ale and wine flowed nigh endlessly. Minstrels coaxed guests to dance to the joyous strains of flute, harpsichord and gittern while bards dedicated poems to the newlyweds. A number of odes were more salty than romantic much to the disapproval of the more reserved and the delight of the less sedate.
Lioval was one of the latter. Zykriel shook his head when he spotted the Medavian noble flirting outrageously with a trio of enthralled Lossheni youths. He looked at Qristan who was watching him with a rueful smile. They conversed mind to mind, a gift much strengthened between two soul-mated Deira.
He’ll never change, will he?
He’ll have to when he finally has a family of his own. I doubt he’ll want his sons to follow his example and gain reputations for intemperance as well.
Is that what it’s called now? Zykriel glanced back. Methinks we should rein him in before he draws the ire of yon younglings’ parents.
Qristan sighed and turned his gaze on his brother. Zykriel sensed the mental summons that winged its way to Lioval.
He was seen to pout before he bowed slightly to his admirers and took his leave of them. He sauntered over to Zykriel and Qristan, lazily saluting Imcael along the way.
“Your uncle’s sour countenance would curdle milk,” he pronounced as he slid onto the bench across from them.
Zykriel had to smile in agreement. “It’s just as well we didn’t invite Diarmin. I warrant he’d have kept you on a short leash lest you bring disgrace upon your family name.”
Lioval scoffed. “As if he hasn’t brought enough shame on us already.”
“How so?”
“Even had you invited him, Diarmin wouldn’t have come.”
“Why? Is he still that angry with us?” Qristan asked with a sniff.
He did not care about his brother’s opinion, but he was indignant that Diarmin should hold a grudge when it was he who’d used them so callously.
Lioval snickered. “Oh, he’s furious without a doubt. But that isn’t the reason he’s keeping to himself nowadays.” He leaned forward and in a low voice said, “He’s recovering from a bout of blight.”
Zykriel nearly spit out his mouthful of wine. He swallowed the wine and gasped out, “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s due to his penchant for, shall we say, rougher bedplay.”
“What does his liking for inflicting pain and humiliation on his partners have to do with contracting blight?”
“Everything. To start with, the hethare don’t engage in such practices. At least, not if they’re on the receiving end.”
“But of course. Their safety comes first.”
“Exactly. Therefore he’s never been able to avail of their services no matter how much he offers in recompense. And I don’t know how finicky the sporting houses in Ylandre are about allowing their prostitutes to subject themselves to the whip and such, but back home, it’s forbidden. So it turns out he’d been frequenting the seedier brothels since the procurers don’t care about their whores’ well-being.”
Zykriel guffawed while Qristan sat back to gape at his brother. “He caught blight from a trull? Sweet Veres, I hope he had the good sense to conceal his identity.”
“Oh, he was sensible enough. But he still took an unjustifiable risk fucking the most unsanitary bawds in Medav.”
“You said he’s recovering.”
“Would that the consequences of his imprudence ended there.”
“What do you mean?”
“He contracted a severe strain. Guess what the healer said after he examined him.”
Zykriel sucked in his breath. “He’s been rendered infertile?”
Lioval nodded. He glanced at Qristan with a wide smile. “Our brother is caught in a trap of his own making,” he said with too much glee for one whose sibling had been dealt a most devastating hand. A moment later, the reason became apparent. “And because you were so kind as to take yourself out of the succession, it’s my children who’ll inherit Diarmin’s titles and holdings. I may never rule Medav, but my eldest son will!”
Zykriel huffed in amusement. Small wonder Lioval was pleased. For so long, the youngest Shidara son had endured the doubts and rumors about his parentage, the uncertainty exacerbated by his sire’s lesser affection and concern for him. Now not only would it fall to him to ensure the continuation of the Shidara line and their rule of Medav, his progeny would inherit everything since Qristan had surrendered his title and shire.
“Oh, and on the off chance all those rumors are true and I’m not Aba’s son after all?” Lioval shrugged and smirked. “You should have seen his face when he realized Diarmin may be the last Shidara of his blood to bear the title of Herun.”
“Of his blood?”
Qristan explained, “Ama hailed from a cadet line of House Shidara. They never forgave Aba for exiling him. If Val is indeed the son of Ama’s lover, they’ll take great pleasure in the knowledge it will be their branch that will perpetuate Shidara rule of Medav.” He chuckled. “I don’t care to be in either Aba or Diarmin’s boots now.”
Lioval’s smile faded somewhat and for the first time he displayed some concern. “And you don’t mind that Medav will be ruled eventually by a nephew of uncertain heritage?”
“Why should I mind?” Qristan clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “He’ll still be my nephew and Ama’s grandson. I’ve never cared who your sire really is. What’s ever mattered to me is that you’re Jaren Shidara’s son too.”
Lioval visibly relaxed. “I plan to bring Ama back to Elana and inter him in the family vault as is my right as sire of Diarmin’s heir. It’s only meet that Ama be restored to a place of honor, don’t you think? After all, there’s no uncertainty about the descent of Medav’s future Herune from him. Unlike Aba, the poor dear.”
The brothers grinned at each other affectionately. Zykriel smiled at the sight. Qristan had not lost all his family when he chose his Ylandrin mate over them.