She moaned with previously unknown pleasure, beneath the gray eyed man. He thrust into her with intent and passion. Her gaze never met his, instead her eyes rolled back, into the oblivion of sexual ecstasy.
“Jaren,” She cried his name as she reached for his face. He grabbed her hand away, pinning it behind her head as he dragged up her other arm. She cried out in lust as he pushed ever into to her. Deeper than she had ever known, with vigor and intensity all new to her.
He gasped as he reach conclusion, and they kissed. Tongues dancing together, he wrapped arm around her waist to draw her nearer. For a time, they lay there together, in the afterglow, the beautiful moment afterwards where there is no other world.
“I have to go,” he finally murmured as he stood. Piece by piece, he dressed himself. A mixture of cloth and armor was adorn, and he looked back at her before as he reached the door to leave.
“When will you be back?” She asked, an air of desire and fear mixing in her voice.
“That I don’t know.” He left the home and strode out onto the street. Two hooded soldiers awaited him, and fell into stride as he progressed away from the homestead. Their pace was steady, but not rushed.
“I think it’s time we left this town, Lord. The capital is expecting us.” Jaren paused as his companion spoke, and looked down into the bay. The port was teeming with ships and travellers, evidence of a flourishing community. The sun shone bright and warm, and on the wind were the sounds of merchants calling, children playing, and people laughing. Jaren continued to stare out, silently. His guardsmen shifted uncomfortably, awaiting their Knight Commander’s response.
“You’re right. We don’t belong here.” The three continued on their way toward the bay.
“Jaren!” a man’s voice sounded behind him. The knight and his companions turned, hands at their swords. In the street behind them stood a peasant man. He glared with bold defiance, despite the trembling of his limbs as he faced down the three warriors. He pointed at the gray eyed man as a crowd began to gather around them. “That’s my wife you took! My love! You had no right!”
Jaren turned and continued down the path away from the screaming man, and his companions followed. But as they walked a rock pounded against the back of Jaren’s shoulder. In a flash, his guardsmen turned, blades unsheathed.
“Hold,” the gray eyed man said, turning slowly to look back again at his attacker. The peasant man still stood where he had been. The swarm of onlookers grew ever larger, crowding the streets behind him.
Those piercing gray eyes narrowed, and Jaren tread back toward the man in the street. He halted a few paces away, and the two stood stood in silence. Jaren’s eyes took in everything, the man’s bloodshot eyes, the quivering of building rage in his shoulders, the large rock clutched in his hand.
“Do it,” Jaren commanded. The peasant man lunged forward, swinging the rock high, towards the head of the man he hated. Jaren caught the man’s wrist in his hand, and took the man’s throat with the other. The man struggled to break free, but the knight was stronger, and held him there as if without effort. Jaren held him there, looking at his face , until his captive surrendered and stopped struggling. Then, like a child bored with a toy, he pushed the man back into the dirt, turned, and began to walk back to his guardsmen.
Yet he was stopped in his tracks by the sound that erupted behind him, and he turned again to look upon the peasant. Lying in the dirt, the man’s body shook with loud, violent sobs. Sobs of pain, rage, grief. Of despair that no one else could know. But Jaren did know. The cries echoed in him, rang through his soul just as they had when they had come from him, a very long time ago.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll find you, one day! I’ll make this right!,” the man wiped dust and tears from his eyes as he screamed at the knight. Jaren’s face was blank, empty, as we walked back toward the man. He drew his sword, and the man scrambled to his feet. Jaren watched as the man tried to run, but the crowd blocked him, pushing hin once again into the dirt. They knew better than to anger noble lords. Better to let this man die now than have their homes torn apart in the pursuit.
“I will kill you. I will. I will...” The man whimpered repeatedly as he lay in the shadow of the armed knight. His eyes shut tight, he waited, cried, and continued to make the vow he could certainly never keep.
Jaren lifted his blade, and listened to the silence as he stood poised to strike. Then, the gasp of the crowd as he plunged it down. He turned once more, looking back to his stunned companions.
“Do it.” Barely a whisper.
“My Lord! No!” The warnings of his guards were unnecessary. He knew without seeing. The peasant man stood, pulled the sword from the dirt where Jaren had left it, and ran it through the gray eyed man’s back.
Jaren stared at the blade, erupted from his chest. With a cough of a laugh, he fell to his knees. He listened to the world he was leaving, the cackling of his killer, the clang of blades, the thud of a body hitting the ground behind him, all swirling with the screams of the crowd.
Blood seeped forth between his teeth, dribbling out of his smile and down his chin. His vision faded to darkness, and as the yelling of the masses broke his ears, he thought of another crowd, and the death before it. He imagined for his final moment he was dying before the same congregation.
