Hello everyone, so this has the first erotic scene I've ever written. I hope it flows well. Since I'm new to this feedback would be appreciated. Thank you.
Chapter 2
Arathorn sat on a stool in the center of his room, his chest bare and shoulders hunched. A single lantern burned on the table next to him that cast a dim yet warm glow. A small woman worked silently, tending to the myriads of wounds he had sustained in the last battle.
Her touch was soft, almost hesitant, almost as if she feared hurting him further. He was certain he had never laid eyes on this woman before. He had been patched up countless times, and someone like her would have been hard to forget.
"Get on with it," he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a growl. "I don't have all night." The words came out harsher than he intended.
The woman flinched slightly at his tone, though her hands never faltered. Her honey-blonde hair caught the lantern's glow as she dipped the cloth into the increasingly dirty water. Arathorn caught himself wondering what she smelled like; women always seemed to carry a pleasant scent. She wrung out the cloth before pressing it gently against a particularly deep cut, the one that had caused him so much pain. "Almost finished, m'lord," she said softly but steadily, as she began to wrap a white cloth around his torso.
He glanced down at her, the lanternlight reflected in her wide, doe-like eyes. Every flicker of uncertainty passed over her delicate features, making her seem fragile, so fragile that a strong breeze might knock her over. The contrast between them was very stark. Arathorn was a mountain forged in battle, and she was so small and frail.
Arathorn began to feel bitter toward the woman.
What would she know of standing on the precipice of death, staring into the abyss, only to claw back against all odds?
For the first time that he could ever remember, Arathorn felt so very mortal. The strength that had once been unshakable now felt like he could lose it at any second. He'd never doubted himself before, never questioned whether he would see another dawn. There was no room for doubt in battle, doubt got people killed. But Azura's shadow loomed over him now, and the certainty of the coming fight left bad feeling in his very soul.
"You're done," he snapped, rising abruptly. The movement was sharper than he intended making the woman flinch again. Her wide eyes darting to his face. "Leave." Arathorn said.
She her fingers fumbling as she gathered her supplies. "If there's anything else you--"
"I said leave," he barked, his voice slicing through her words like a blade. She ducked her head quickly, the woman whispered and apology as she hurried from the room. The soft click of it closing behind her echoed in the oppressive silence.
Arathorn sighed, dragging a hand over his face. He hadn't meant to be so abrasive, but his mind was occupied with so many things. He had thought he wanted to be alone, but now that he was, the quite threatened to suffocate him.
Exhaling slowly, he looked at his armor that lay in the corner. It looked so well used, like him is was bloodied and riddled with cuts and gashes. It was a reflection of himself. Without it, he felt bare, it was as much his skin, as his skin was.
Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and for a moment, he considered calling her back. Though he couldn't say why. It wasn't for comfort, and he certainly wasn't in the mood for companionship. But the silence--the oppressive emptiness--felt like a heavier burden to bear than the woman's trembling hands.
No. He couldn't afford such indulgences. Not now. Azura's voice echoed in his mind, her words a poisonous promise laced with venom. Like any battle, there were only two outcomes: he would beat her. Or more realistically she would kill him. He didn't want to die, but if there was even the slightest chance that he could change the course of the war, he had to take it.
Closing his eyes, Arathorn forced himself to breathe through the exhaustion clawing at him and the searing ache in his side. He had faced death too many times to falter now. He would face it once more.
Rising from the stool, his restless energy battled with his fatigue. The stone floor was cold beneath his bare feet as he walked to the window. Pulling back the heavy satin curtain he gazed down at the village below. Oil lamps lined the streets their meager glow barely able to pierce the darkness.
It was deceptively peaceful. The kind of peace that lulled men into forgetting about the world beyond the walls. But Arathorn knew all too well how close hell was to their doorsteps. The darkness had been creeping up on them for years. It was the same darkness he'd spent his entire life fighting, and despite every battle won, it was inching ever closer.
His eyes flickered upwards, to the distant lights of that castle high on its hill: Castle Steelblade stood watch over the village that clung to its hillside. It was where his brother Orin ruled, a year his senior yet always seeming so much older and far wiser. Arathorn remembered little else but looking up to him.
Arathorn's jaw clenched. He had thought to go to Orin, to tell him of Azura and the test she had laid before him. But the thought was discarded as it had come. His brother was a king, bound by duty and the weight of the crown. Orin would try to stop him, insist on finding another way, argue that the risk was too great.
And Arathorn would do his brother's will, unquestioning. But this battle wasn't Orin's to bear--it was his alone.
He leaned a forearm against the cold stone of the window frame, looking out at the dark town, maybe for the last time. Somewhere over the mountains, Azura was waiting. Just the mention of her name caused a shiver to run across his skin, though he would never admit that aloud. She was unlike any enemy he had ever faced, and he knew that shecommanded powers beyond comprehension and cunning that could twist the fabric of reality.
The warmth of his slow exhalation fogged against the cold glass as Arathorn let his breath out. A moment longer, he stood there, watching the faint pinpricks of light scattered across the village below.
After a while, he stepped back and let the curtain fall once more over the window, the room plunged anew into close-wrapped quiet. The stillness was disturbed only by the faint crackle of the fire. He stripped off what was left of his clothes and lay down on the bed with a sigh, weary. The mattress was hard, and the blanket course against his skin, but he hardly felt it. He had grown accustomed to sleep being a reluctant visitor, stolen in fits and starts between battles and wakeful nights.
As he closed his eyes, the faces of the fallen rose unbidden in his mind: friends, comrades, strangers whose names he'd never learned. Above them all, Azura's shadow loomed, dark and unrelenting.
He rolled onto his side. The coming fight weighed heavily upon him, but he granted himself this one fugitive moment of rest. The battle would be upon him soon enough.
***************
Morning came much too soon. Arathorn opened his eyes to the gray light that seeped through the heavy curtains. His body ached, not only from the strain, but also from the keen reminder of his own frailty. The knowledge only fed his anger at himself. Despite hours of lying in bed, sleep had mostly eluded him.
With a groan, he sat up. Arathorn scrubbed his hands over his face, and the rough stubble on his jaw scratched his palms. Whether he had slept at all, it had done little good. His muscles felt taut as bowstrings, his thoughts a storm inside his head and fixed on what was to come.
Slowly he got up and went to the washbasin in the corner of the room. Cold water slapped his system, racing goosebumps across his skin. He dried his face with a threadbare cloth and found himself staring at a reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the basin. The man that stared back seemed so old, so worn. Lines creased his face, not from scars but from battles fought not with weapons but with time. His eyes, those gray steel things, still flashed with purpose-but it was veiled by memory of things no man should bear.
Arathorn dressed in an orderly fashion, pulling on his travel gear, cloth tunic with a leather vest, a cloak, and boots that had borne him for leagues upon leagues. He tied on his sword belt, the familiar heft of the weapon provided a faint measure of reassurance. His armor, molded to his form after years of being his second skin, waited for its next battle in the corner of the room. He was no longer a young man though, and the thought of wearing it for the entire journey felt more like a hindrance than a necessity. A younger Arathorn would have scoffed at such caution.
With a slight grunt, he hefted the armor and carried it down to the stable. The cold morning air bit at his skin as he stepped outside into the still almost reverently quiet village. Inside the stable, the scent of hay and horses filled the air, earthy and grounding. His stallion, Tempest, snorted softly in recognition; his dark eyes followed Arathorn's approach.
"Morning, boy," Arathorn murmured, laying the armor down beside the saddle. He ran a hand along Tempest's sleek neck, the horse's strength and steadiness anchoring him in the moment.
With practiced efficiency, Arathorn hefted the saddle onto the back of Tempest, then lifted his armor on to the steed's rump, soft clank of steal filled the cool stillness of the stables.
Content with his preparations, he strapped the pack beside the armor and double-checked everything. His sword was always by his side, his companion to which he would never be separated, not even for a moment.
Mounting Tempest, Arathorn took one last glance around the stable, then out toward the quiet streets of the village. With a kick he urged the horse forward, the sound of hooves striking cobblestone broke the stillness of the early morning.
As they left the village behind, the path ahead stretched long and uncertain, winding through forests and hills that would lead him to Azura's territory. Arathorn didn't look back; worried that he may lose his resolve.
The journey toward Azura's domain strangely familiar, like he had traveled it many times before. With every step Tempest took toward it was almost like he was reliving a memory, but he knew that he had never been on this road before. And no matter how hard he tried, Arathorn could not shake the images that Azura had given him, the vivid, almost surreal beauty of the valley, the village nestled in its cradle, and the mansion near the mountains.
