"Cyrilla, have you seen a place this beautiful?"
Krond stood on the piled rocks that made up the west bank of the Sapphire River, gazing up at the Northern Mountains. From here, high in the valley, the frigid mountains seemed all-encompassing, cold but quiet, safe. They had climbed as high as they could -- to the edges of the forest, where the river was still full of fish. Everything -- water, air, earth -- was chilled here, and Cyrilla wrapped herself in Krond's fur-lined cloak, hunched close to the small morning fire. She couldn't share his enthusiasm for the scenery.
"I haven't... not ever, Krond. I was in the Tower my whole..."
"Yes! Damn... I am sorry, my love. I was not thinking; I had the mountains in my head." Krond sighed, and his broad shoulders slumped. The chill wind blowing down the valley swept through his flowing hair, and his bare chest rippled as he pulled his net from the river, two large fish twitching in shock. His body seemed perfectly suited to this climate, the cold not bothering him in the slightest. He was happy here, in a place similar to his homeland, and his spirits were high.
"This river gives fish like a king gives coin!" Krond was smiling, his stern, strong face breaking with a boyish delight that warmed Cyrilla's heart, if not her fingers and toes. They had made camp here a fortnight ago, to wait for the mountain pass to thaw. A terrible storm had closed it unexpectedly, and now that they were here, there was no way to turn back without passing through lands controlled by Zarth.
The thought of descending the valley terrified Cyrilla; they had fought hard to escape the Riders, to throw them off their tails, and risking their paths crossing again seemed suicidal. They had waded through rivers, snuck past paddy farms and villages, and avoided the Kingsways as much as possible. It had been nearly two months since they had fled the castle of Zarth.
Two months since Cyrilla had last faced Bastigar, her former master, and escaped. Two months since the wizard had used his black magic to transform his slave boy Cyril into the raven-haired Cyrilla, his would-be assassin. It was long enough that Cyrilla felt comfortable with her body now, acquainted with its new shapes and surfaces. Now that they had stopped running, she had had time to think about her circumstances and the quick choices she had made in her rush for freedom.
Cyril's pitiful life in the Bloodbrick Tower had never given him much opportunity to be sexual, or to consider his desires in relation to other humans. He had felt desire, had pleasured his body, but it had always felt strange, and unfulfilling. His penis had been small, and would often barely stiffen before dribbling out its semen. Orgasm would bring a small measure of relief, but also an emptiness that left Cyril convinced that sex would never bring him happiness. He was trapped: trapped in the Tower, trapped in a body that could never give him what he needed.
The idea made Cyrilla laugh, but the fact was that when she had slid down onto Krond's pulsing erection for the first time, on the morning they ran, it had finally become clear to her what had always been missing. Their first coupling had opened a door in her mind to a pleasure and joy that cleared away the fog of confusion and self-doubt that Cyril had always suffered under. Cyril had never thought about penetrating a woman; even the act of masturbating had only been an awkward prerequisite for temporary relief. Being filled by Krond, made whole by his throbbing member and sharing an exquisite pleasure in his powerful arms -- that was different. That felt natural. The body she wore now felt right to Cyrilla, and she had quickly adapted to its use like a lost traveler returning home, their mind conjuring a map from nearly-buried memories. It was as if Bastigar's spell had inadvertently corrected an error made at Cyril's birth, and now, as Cyrilla, she was truly herself.
Not all of her problems were immediately solved, however. She had not told Krond about her life before the day they had met, and she was terrified of how he'd react if he knew the truth. And, of course, Bastigar's parting curse still echoed in her head.
They had raced out the Northern Gates of Zarth, and Krond had lowered the great iron portcullis, sabotaging the mechanism to prevent the castle guards' pursuit. Bastigar had called out to them from the other side of the barrier, enraged, and used Cyrilla's first name.
"Cyril, you pathetic worm! You think this is how you can be free? Never! No magic lasts forever! I lied to you! You'll be back; the magic will fade and you'll be back, you worthless slut!"
Cyrilla had glanced back, had seen his sweaty, angry face through the bars, and those words burned themselves into her mind: no magic lasts forever. When the old wizard had pulled and contorted Cyril's body into femininity, he had explained that another man's seed would make the transformation permanent. Cyrilla had certainly had her share of that particular elixir over the past weeks, but, if the original threat was a lie...
She shuddered. In the weeks of their escape, Cyrilla had alternated between fear of being caught by the Riders of Zarth, and fear of her body returning to its former state, and what that would mean for her and her relationship with Krond. She had scoured her body daily for signs of the magic's fading, grimacing at the slow regrowth of her leg and pubic hair, wondering if her breasts were smaller or her voice deeper than the day before, never quite sure if her body was "normal". She hadn't occupied it long enough to know what normal was. Her paranoia grew over the passage of days, the intervals between their brief but intense lovemaking.
When they fucked, Cyrilla would be reassured -- by his desire and his passion -- that she hadn't changed, was still the woman he had met in the castle. She would finish feeling sane again, stable in her sense of self. And she would swallow Krond's semen, every time, just to be sure. Perhaps it would bolster the effects of the original spell, and keep her this way, as if dosing herself with a tincture to keep away the chronic effects of some unfortunate disease. Krond certainly didn't complain, although he was sometimes confused by her urgent thirst for his seed. She claimed she simply enjoyed the taste and the act, which was true -- she loved it, in fact -- but hadn't yet explained her fear of losing her body itself.
She would have to tell him. At some point. Maybe soon, when they were truly safe.
"Beautiful Cyrilla, my queen, I give you breakfast!"
Krond's playful tone shook her from her thoughts, and brought her into the present. Krond had scaled the fish, gutted and roasted them beside the fire while she had been staring into the river's steady current, lost in dark thoughts. This morning's bounty was presented on a flat rock beside her: hot, steaming fish, a handful of berries they had foraged the day prior, and shoots from an evergreen tree that Krond insisted would keep them protected from illness. Not exactly a feast, but a far cry from the buckets of brown slop Cyril had doled out in the Tower, and Cyrilla could not deny that she felt stronger and more energetic than she ever had under Bastigar's oppressive control. Sleek muscles were making themselves known in Cyrilla's long, brown legs and arms, and her lungs no longer ached after their foraging treks. She felt alive, truly alive, for a myriad of reasons.
"It smells wonderful, Krond, thank you. Thank you, my knight," Cyrilla said with a wry smile, and snatched up a piece of fish into her mouth, and savoured it. Smoky and tender, as always. With cooking, as with love-making, Krond always paid close attention to what he was doing. Cyrilla sighed in pleasure, her insides warmed by the meal.
Krond poured a small handful of berries into his mouth, and chewed. He stared into the forest, thinking out loud, "We should go up the path again today. I saw peppergrass there, I think. You can eat the root; it is very good. We could also look for rabbit."
"Rabbit?"
"I will make a pot with the peppergrass root. Very good." Krond nodded to himself, still staring blankly into the forest, chewing his breakfast.
"This is something you eat in your homeland?"
Krond smiled, tilting his head in thought, "Yes, and no. It is food for the hunter tribes. In my tribe, some would call it food for animals. For the pigs."
"What is a pig?" Cyrilla asked, brows wrinkled.
Krond looked up, "You have no pigs down there? What a terrible place, Zarth."
Cyrilla simply nodded in agreement; it was beyond dispute.
A moment passed, before Cyrilla spoke, "Tell me of your land, Krond -- the place we're going. It's better?"
"Our people have strong spirits. Zarth may hold some power over us now, but it will not have us forever." He seemed so confident, as if this fact was self-evident. "We will keep our ways; and when we can, we will be free again."
"I believe you."
Krond touched his talisman, then waved his hand into the wind, as if scattering invisible seed. Cyrilla had seen him do this before.
"The land is bountiful, with much fruit and game. We will eat like the gods in the hills of my people. I promise you."
"It's not this cold, is it?" Cyrilla frowned.
"Oh, it is very cold," Krond laughed. "But only for winter. Winter, you will not love."
Cyrilla sulked, "No place should be this cold."
