A Warrior's Right

Things between Alren, Marcyn, and Dallion went on the same for the following weeks.

Alren would return each evening with a new wound to dress. Marcyn and Dallion would bath him. They would eat supper. Alren would give Marcyn a particular look that set her blood boiling. He took liberties with her, but she panicked when it was her turn to reciprocate. Panicked and clammed up and could not find the charity to do for him what he did for her. So, he turned to Dallion for those urges. They knew each other very well in that way and Alren would settle his risen blood with Dallion in some manner or another.

Marcyn could not refrain from listening and watching each time. Always in the glow of the pleasure Alren provided for her with hands and tongue.

Only

hands and tongue. She would have her own desires tempered for just long enough to watch Alren walk from their bed to wherever Dallion was. As he enjoyed the

campboy

a wildfire of desire would explode in her. She slept fitfully imagining herself bent over a table or on her knees before Alren.

She just could not bring herself to actually offer it.

What if she could not provide the same release Dallion could? What if he did hurt her accidentally? What if she hated every second of it and could never look at her husband that same way again? Anxiety about the entire, inevitable ordeal had its way with her more than her husband did in the weeks following that first release.

It was nearly a month after she arrived at the camp when she awoke later than usual. Alren was already out of bed and dressed. He and Dallion sat before the fire eating breakfast and talking in hushed voices so not to wake her. Marcyn rubbed her eyes. There was mid-morning light streaming through the slit in their tent flap and yet neither man was in a rush to ready Alren for battle.

Dallion noticed her sitting up first and gave a small nod. Alren looked over his shoulder at her. She rushed to put on her shift. Though both men had seen her thoroughly she still could not release herself from the shackles of modesty.

"How did you sleep?" Alren asked.

"They haven't blown the horn?" she asked from the bed.

Alren huffed and turned back to his breakfast, clearly nettled about something.

"A messenger from the Garen arrived early this morning," Dallion said, naming their enemy. "Fighting will cease for a few days so the men can have talks."

Marcyn perked up at that, "Talks. That sounds like a good step." She came over and took a seat between them, warming her hands over the fire.

The men looked grim though. "I think it is some kind of trickery," Alren said, setting his bowl of mushy oats in his lap. "I am some other men are refusing to join."

"Wouldn't you like your voice heard?" Marcyn said, surprising even herself. She had no real opinions on the matter. Politics were never really a topic of their education at the temple. She knew their men fought for a holy purpose, but she also knew sometimes the term "holy purpose" could be used flexibly. The war bands that ravaged the countryside she was born in had the "holy purpose" of securing all the farmland around a very fertile river. For the gods, of course.

"I will use silence to make my voice heard. Our presence will be conspicuously missing."

Dallion appeared to disagree as well but seemed more interested in his own oats then making any sort of argument.

"So, you don't have to fight for a few days?"

Alren nodded, "The talks will start tomorrow. Today we will have war games, but I will be safe until the fighting resumes" he said, putting his hand atop her own. She hadn't told him aloud that she worried over him, but he could tell easily that she did.

"If the fighting resumes," she suggested helpfully. He turned his head, so they were face to face. That sort of look always gripped her. His eyes boring into hers. There was amusement on his face though, his eyes half rolling and the corners of his mouth flicking up.

"You are the wife of a warrior, Marcyn," he said as though she could possibly forget, "my fighting always resumes."

She knew her eyes must have done something to please him that moment because she saw a flash of that animalistic intent. She saw that look always in flashes when he helped himself to her each night and made her body sing for him. That look that frightened and excited and confused her. She wished she knew what she'd done with her eyes to earn that look so she could do it all the time. After a month she decided she liked the animal.

"Can we watch the wargames?" she asked Dallion.

"If you want to," he answered, not masking his disinterest.

"I do," she said. Something about the idea of observing Alren training for battle did intrigue her. Though she could not exactly say why. She didn't like violence, even practice violence or at least she didn't think she did.

"And another thing, the General's wife has invited me to join her for supper and prayer sometime. It sounds like she holds a bit of a court now and again."

The two men exchanged a look. Marcyn

hated

when they exchanged looks like that. Entire conversations passed between those looks that she had no way of deciphering. She glanced between them, hoping to intercept the

look.

"Something the matter?" she asked, not holding back a slight snip in her voice. There was another look.

"Has she-?" Alren began.

"No," Dallion answered without needing to hear the rest. Marcyn was ready to dump porridge in both of their laps.

"Have I what?" she ground out.

"The General's wife is a Lady," Alren said as if that was any sort of answer.

"She is very fascinating," Dallion said and Marcyn could almost taste the bitterness in his tone on her own tongue.

"So I should not go?"

"No, you must go," Alren said, taking a very large bite of breakfast if only so he didn't have to say more.

"You cannot deny her invitation," Dallion said firmly, "but just be prepare for a level of pomp. And perhaps some-" he took in a breath through his nose, searching desperately for the right thing to say when it very clear there was no 'right' thing. "Interrogation."

***

After breakfast they bundled up and prepared for the war games. It was the perfect time for a pause in the fighting as a cold snap settled in around them. Dallion even put on a few extra layers. Marcyn couldn't help giggling when she saw him wrapping a scarf around his head.

"What?" he asked, his voice muffled by the knit fabric over his mouth.

"I don't think I have ever seen you this dressed."

Even when they wandered the camp he usually wore only the lightest layers.

"I know. I look so much better naked," he tossed a scarf at her, and she began to wrap her own head, careful to keep a few strands of hair visible. Vanity had recently appeared in her where it had never been before. She'd always been able to recognize beauty around her, in her sisters at the temple, in Alren and Dallion, but she'd only very recently begun to see it in herself. She noticed it as well in the other wives, and couldn't help but compare herself to them, especially the Sow girls who had been selected only for their beauty. When Dallion noticed her eying the rosy pigments some of the women used to add life to their pallid winter faces he'd found some for her and helped apply it to her face. Alren watched the two of them as Dallion taped some of the rouge on Marcyn's lips. He huffed and Dallion cut him a sidelong glance.

"What? Did you want some?"

Alren said nothing, but still glowered.

"You should be pleased," Dallion said, "she's becoming a wife."

"You don't like it?" Marcyn asked. After being so snippy over breakfast she was trying not to sound irritated, but she was. She liked the rouge. It soothed her rash of vanity like a balm.

"No!" He said quickly and she was surprised to see him flustered at her offense. "You look...nice."

"Then stop scowling at her," Dallion chastised before Marcyn could say the same.

"I'm not scowling," he said with a scowl. Marcyn returned the look. Alren grumbled that he would wait for them outside while Dallion finished with her face.

They met him outside and made their way to the makeshift arena in the middle of camp where the war games would be held. It was an emptied horse corral, shoveled out with some benches set up around the parameter. It was decorated with various colorful banners, and a small dais was set up for the general and his wife. Marcyn was amused to see such pomp in the severe place she'd come to call home. The idea of the rough men merrily setting up such a droll little stage for their war games brought a smile to her face.

"You must sit where I can see you," Alren said as he led them to the arena.

"We will," she promised.

"Stay together," he told Dallion, who bowed his head in promise. The two of them took a place in the center of one of the benches, up close to the fence. Around them the benches filled with women and children. Marcyn noticed something she hadn't picked up on while just wandering the camp with Dallion. No one else around them seemed to fit the same mold as him. The only other men were the injured and a few who were always left to keep watch over the camp, but Dallion was never armed like those men. Alren had made his position as "

campboy

" seem so commonplace. Some of the women were giving him a sour look.

Some of the women were giving her a sour look too, she realized. She looked ahead of her at the first game. They were setting up targets, and a line of long and broad armed men were taking their positions across the field, though Alren was not among them. Ever perceptive, Dallion could sense Marcyn's sudden change in mood.

"Most all of them were Sow girls," he said softly enough so only she could hear him. She shifted uncomfortably. The first line of archers took their places and drew back their bowstrings, awaiting a signal.

"So?" Certainly, they all couldn't be. They'd taken Priestesses this last selection. Most of them went West to the other front where Alren and she came to the North, but surely she wasn't the first Priestess to ever make her home there.

"Well, it sounds like all you kittens did not exactly play nice. Even if you were from the same litter, as it were." An old man shouted, and arrows flew, thumping into targets one after another like a distant, offbeat drum.

The crowd began to clap and cheer. Under the sound Marcyn scoffed at Dallion. "I never spoke to any of the Sow girls." They were kept in a separate wing of the temple, while the Priestesses lived in their tower. Dallion rose a brow.

"Perhaps that is a part of the problem," he said, clicking his tongue.

"Well, what is your excuse?" She did a quick glance around, "The looks you are getting are not any kinder."

"I am a dying breed I'm afraid," he said, smiling at any of the women giving him an ugly look. "It used to be the men did not bring their wives to the warfront and my position was more commonplace." He wasn't looking at her and she was getting the sense there was something else he wasn't saying. The next line of archers took up their places.

"So, what changed?" she pressed. Dallion just shrugged.

"I told you Alren does not like to share. It is just the same with women, some are fine to share," he nudged her shoulder with his own, "others are not."

Marcyn wondered how she felt about sharing sometimes. Really it felt more like Dallion was sharing her husband with her, and that during the day Alren was sharing her with Dallion. She didn't feel like she was sharing anything.

The games continued. A few rounds of men knocking each other about on horseback, throwing huge stones, and foot racing. Alren did not appear for any of them and Marcyn began to wonder if he was participating in the games at all. All the men were divided by scraps of cloth adorning them somewhere, whether tied round their heads, in their belts, or wrapped around their wrists and ankles. A half of the men competing wore blue and the other yellow. They were the Garen army colors, Marcyn realized with a turn of her stomach. No doubt repurposed from the clothes and banners of their dead enemies.

The final game of the afternoon was a sparring match. Twenty giants lines up, going one against one and eliminating men as it went on. Finally, Alren appeared. He was only in partial armor, a blue band wrapped around his wrist.

When it was his turn to fight Marcyn found herself balling her fists and holding her breath. Each man was allowed a weapon and though they were roughing each other up rather brutally, no killing blows were allowed. Even knowing this Marcyn still felt her heart leaping.

To her pleasure his first opponent was none other than the rat faced Resh. He swung a morning star and was surprisingly deft with it. Though Resh managed to graze him a few times, Alren was faster than he looked. He did land a blow against his armored shoulder that must have rattled his teeth though. Marcyn grabbed Dallion's hand in fear, and he smiled, but squeezed it comfortingly. Alren carried a battle ax and blocked a few blows with the flat side of it, the metal ringing clearly over the yard. Resh reared his arm back and swung the morning-star in a downward arc toward Alren's chest. Rather than blocking it he swung his ax in turn, the sharp end catching the chain of the morning star and sinking both weapons into the mud. Resh dove for his own, but Alren left the ax and instead lunged for Resh, landing a few swift blows to his face. The first was enough to send Resh to his knees, and the next few were merely for good measure.

The match was called and a few other men all but dragged Resh from the field, blood pouring from his shattered rat nose. Alren looked out to the crowd of onlookers, standing a little straighter as he found Marcyn and Dallion watching.

The next two took the arena, pairing off and fighting. It went on that, eliminating the losers from each match. Alren went back in a few times as his side was thinned out, but he held his own. He sent two men to the ground by taking the broadside of his ax to their helmets, ringing them like a bell. He was sure to find Marcyn and Dallion in the crowd each time, and Marcyn kept her full attention on the field so not to miss his glances for which Dallion was sure to tease her.

When it came to the final match up Alren was all that remained from the blue competitors, facing the final of the yellows. He was bloodied, but not slumped and she could see even from far away he still had strength to spare. Marcyn thought she almost recognized this last man standing against Alren, though she could not place how. His half-helm covered enough of his face she couldn't make out his features and went between whether she really knew him or not. Beside her, Dallion yawned.

"It is his final match," she chastised, nudging him in the arm. He shrugged.

"Hardly compares to the real thing."

She made a face at him. "How would you know?"

He gave her a simpering smile but said nothing. She pinched him on the arm, and he continued to ignore her. She just huffed and returned her attention to the corral. The new man held a sword and for her own nerves Marcyn wished Alren would pick up one as well, but he stayed with his ax.

The man was fast and brutal. There were rules against killing blows, but whoever this man was seemed inclined to ignore them. He swung his sword viciously, aiming for Alren's neck, his head, and his belly. He managed to evade most of the blows, though he earned a deep gash to his bicep, or what should have been, but there was no mark or even slice in his clothing. She balked and Dallion laughed at her.

"The weapons are dulled," he told her, "Remember, it's just games."

She breathed a sigh of relief, but her nerves continued to jump each time the sword came to close to Alren's face. Dallion seemed more entertained by her reactions than the actual sparring.

Metal clanged as, rather than evading one of the man's attacks, Alren met the sword with the curve of his ax. He twisted it, trying to wrench the sword from the man's hand. Metal screeched as he danced back and pulled the blade free. The dance continued. Marcyn couldn't help but gasp as Alren lunged forward at the same moment his opponent swept out a leg. He tumbled into the mud, and she was sure he was had, but as the man raised his sword Alren leapt to his feet and met the blade with his own.

Marcyn racked her mind, trying and failing to place the man again and again. Each time she came close to an answer, something else in their battle drew her attention. Just as she was about to recollect where she knew him from her warrior landed a mighty blow to the center of the stranger's unarmored chest and sent him sprawling. He descended upon him, pinning him into the muck and holding the ax to his face as though he'd cleave it in two.

Alren was declared the winner. He held up the arm where he had collected the yellow pieces of cloth from all the men he'd defeated. His opponent was amicable, handing off the final yellow scrap as he rose to his feet. The rest of the men in in blue were declared champions, half of the crowd rising to cheer them. Marcyn stood as well, nudging Dallion to do the same which he did reluctantly Alren had removed his helmet, despite being covered in mud and no doubt chilled to the bone, he did look pleased at his inconsequential victory as did the other men even those whose team had lost. A bloodless victory, it seemed, was more a cause to celebrate than any hard-fought slaughter.

The men came out from the corral to meet with their women and families. One wife danced away from her husband who was also covered in muck as he tried to get to her.

"You must have taken a blow to the head if you think you are stepping foot in my tent like that," she chastised. The other men followed suit, covered in mud, and chasing down their women. It seemed to be another part of the game. The women evaded them at every turn, always dancing just out of reach of their husbands. Marcyn watched in confusion.

"Go on," Dallion said. Alren was heading for them, a clear inch of mud on his back. He looked mischievous, his typically stoic disposition nowhere to be seen in light of his victory. One woman grabbed her by the arm, pulling her along.

"Come! Before he catches you!"

Marcyn searched the crowd for the final yellow man who'd fallen to Alren, but she saw no sign of him in the fray. She gave up her trying to remember her and ran off with the rest of the wives.

They wound through the muddy roads of camp and toward one of the wells. It quickly became clear what was happening when she saw the first woman pull up a bucket. She sloshed it around and then, just when her husband was upon her, splashed it onto him. He howled as the cold water soaked him and loosened the top layer of muck on his body. The next woman had already dropped the bucket and pulled it back up, splashing her husband as he approached. Both men were soaked, but they rushed their wives none the less. The first woman squealed as he caught her, lifting her up in his muddy, freezing arms and kissing her. She kicked her legs in protest but did not prevent the kiss and in fact wrapped her arms around his mucky, freezing neck. The next couple did just the same. Each wife splashed her husband and passed the bucket along.

When it was Marcyn's turn Alren stopped dead, staring her down.

"I cannot believe it," he said, grinning. His teeth were so white against the grime covering him. "You

are

becoming a wife."

"Do not come any closer," she warned him, giving the bucket a menacing slosh. He chuckled and stepped closer. She stepped back. Again and again, he came near and she back until she was pressed against the well. His eyes were alight, amused, and intrigued. He opened his mouth as though to call her bluff, but he didn't have the chance before she doused him with the frigid water. He sputtered and wiped the muck and water from his face.