Author's Note - Not sure how ell this chapter turned out but oh well, I can't keep staring at it! The two main take aways from this is 1. the sexual tension is real and 2. Manbun Hector is a bit of a dick!
The palace stables loomed above me as I stood, paused at the entrance feeling so terribly small. Its imposing thatched roof and large wooden gables looked sinister in the morning half-light and I felt a strange knot tug in my stomach. The bolt was already unsecured and the door was slightly ajar. I gingerly placed my palm on it and noticed its polished smoothness; the wooden exterior had been carefully waxed many times over the years to protect the building from the elements. My determinedness won over my trepidation and I gave it a tiny push - it yielded just enough to let me enter without so much as a weary creak to announce me.
The smell hit me first – not because the building was unclean by any means but because just inside the entranceway there was parked a small cart, evenly loaded with fresh dung and soiled straw. A mucky pitchfork leant lazily against it, evidence that somebody had been busy that sleepy morning. I carefully slid myself around these obstacles; the last thing I wanted to do was upset horse droppings all over myself or knock someone's conscientious labours all over the floor. Safely out of accidents way, I began to take in my surroundings the best I could in the dim and dusty light. This place was quite cavernous. Large, symmetrical shuttered windows ran the length of the building and angular milky shafts of light spilled from them, causing translucent triangular bands on the floor. Under these windows, a breath-taking number of orderly compartments were arranged - pens for each precious horse, the very symbol of Troy. The beasts were expensive to buy, not to mention care for so this building was just another testament to the sheer wealth and power the crown of our city held.
I could hear some of the animals – restlessly moving in their respective pens, whinnying, snorting or chewing hay. Their sounds resonated in the vast space. The middle section of the stables was kept clear, a corridor of sorts for easy manoeuvrability of the animals. It was neatly paved with flagstones. As I admired their pleasing uniformity, I noticed that just under my feet, the floor was curiously a lot darker than the other slabs. I was not casting a shadow – they were in fact wet. That is when I realised that the pen to the right of me – one just next to the entrance - must have recently been thoroughly cleaned. I turned to inspect. On the wall there next to the pen, hanging from an old wrought iron hook, was a small and well-used leather bag together with a ratty old cloak. By contrast, a very fine and expensive looking saddle with other tack were stored neatly beside them. A knitted grey rag was laying over the gate to the pen itself as if it had just been tossed there without much of a care. I reached forward and picked it up. As both of my hands spread out the material before me, I could see it was not a rag but a man's vest. I returned it to where the owner had left it but folded it this time. Where was he? A pang of alert shuddered through my heart. It was incredibly dangerous for me to be alone with an unknown male and even though my position of Hetaerae protected me, I was not at that moment dressed as one.
The horse that lived there suddenly, curiously, lifted its head over the pen gate which startled me quite a bit - I almost stumbled backwards for a moment. The steed's large brown eyes, framed with beautiful long lashes, regarded me inquisitively. What a striking horse, I marvelled, almost pure white with silver-grey muzzle. Without too much of a thought, I reached forward to pet it. I stroked the muzzle soothingly, just as my father had taught me to do when I was a child.
A strange rhythmic 'shuff shuff' noise came from behind me and alarmed, I span to face it just in time to see a man climbing down a ladder - the unfamiliar sound had been his dirty sandals descending the wooden rungs. He carried a large net bag which was full of hay and strapped across his back. Before he reached the last four steps, he sprang himself down with impressive agility and landed neatly. I did not think it had been a show for my benefit, it appeared to be more like a force of habit.
The man stooped slightly as he turned, slinging his bag of hay onto the floor. As he straightened, I realised with frightening unease that he was very naked from the waist up.
Hector's tanned and broad chest had a sheen of sweat to it after his morning's toil. My eyes were drawn to his stomach, the dark hair tracing a rather inviting trail from his navel downward. A skirt, one that matched the vest slung onto the stable gate, barely clung to his angular hips. He was breathing rapidly, so very vital. I hoped it was too dim for him to see the flush on my cheeks - the crude and scruffy sight of him seemed altogether indecent to me. Hector paused there for a moment almost as if he wanted me drink in the sight of him in. He had an excellent physique and he knew it. He was making me uncomfortable and he knew it.
"She likes you". Hector said coolly as he started towards me, tucking the bag of hay easily under his right arm.
"I'm sorry – what?"
Hector hardly tried to suppress a smug little smile, my flustered reaction had clearly been what he had hoped for. He also did not seem at all surprised to see me. He must have witnessed my approach from the vantagepoint of the hayloft above.
He nodded to the horse behind me and curtly explained: "Whitefoot. My horse. She does not normally permit anyone else but me to touch her so she must like you".
A little more composed now, I politely stood to the side as Hector let himself into Whitefoot's pen and I watched the defined muscles in his bare back undulate whilst he hung the netted bag up so the horse could feed. Now Hector was closer, I could see a large and indistinct pink-silver scar on his shoulder and I remember thinking it must have been a nasty wound, once upon a time. I had the urge to trace its shape with my finger. The horse wasted no time in tucking into her breakfast and Hector proudly patted the horses flank as she gratefully ate.
Then it suddenly struck me: "You muck out your own stable?" I asked incredulously.
"The servants used to do it but they always failed to meet my standards" he shrugged: "It is just easier if I do it myself."
I noticed then how messy Hector's hair was. His mane of curls was usually groomed, fairly neat and clipped back at the nape with a gold fastener. On this morning, it looked very much like he had haphazardly scrunched it up and tied it into a loose bun himself with a leather thong. Unruly curls had escaped and tumbled across his forehead with wisps creeping down the back of his neck. He even had stray lengths of hay sticking out in some places. To say he was a much rawer version of the how I was accustomed to seeing him was an understatement.
As Whitefoot ate, Hector hauled the fine saddle from its place began to methodically ready his horse for a ride. He must have performed this tasks thousands of times and I admired his utter focus and dexterity as he performed this task. There was something quite captivating about witnessing Hector, Crown Prince of Troy, doing something so utterly beneath him.
"I always imagined you ride a stallion, not a mare." I remarked, trying to get Hector to open up to me – he seemed so purposely impenetrable.
"Stallions are best for battle" Hector told me with certainty "They have the bravery and endurance. But mares are easier to break, easier to handle. I've had enough kicks and bites from stallions over the years to attest to that". As he spoke, he never took his attentions away from saddling Whitefoot. I began to worry if I had unknowingly done something to upset him, he seemed somewhat dismissive of me.
Once he was done, Hector let himself out of the pen, reached into the leather bag and pulled out a drinking gourd. He gulped eagerly from it as his dark eyes considered me, looking at me as if I was nothing more than an object. He wordlessly offered the me the gourd but I politely declined.
"You are not wearing the red robe and all that other …" he waved his upturned palm about a little as if he was searching for the right word: "… effects they make you wear".
Judging by the way his eyes were undressing me, it most definitely did not displease him. I found that I was equally afraid and stirred that he would pounce on me like a feral animal. My breath hitched.
"It suits you to be like this". He added, cocking his head to the side with a dangerous edge to that deep voice. "It is more natural. Truer." And so much easier to disrobe me, I thought with a shiver.
The delicious promise of those wild, dark eyes fell completely flat when instead of acting on his baser needs, Hector plucked the grey vest from where I had folded it and quickly dressed his top half. I do not think he witnessed the frustration play momentarily across my face. What did I have to do short of dangling myself on a hook before him like a lowly worm meant for catching a fish?
He went back into the horse pen and started attaching the bridle to Whitefoot's head as if I was no longer present. Perhaps he hoped I would leave. I was confused and hurt by his taciturn behaviour. If he craved solitude, all he had to do was tell me.
"I am inconveniencing you, my Lord. You mean to go out for a ride.".
Hector's purposeful expression did not change as he looked to me. I was hoping he would smile, entreat me to just call him 'just Hector' as he usually would and then this mysterious cloud of uneasiness would be lifted like the mists that very morning. But it was not to be.
"Not at all. You have been a very welcome distraction." He replied flatly which made it sound very much like a lie.
Hector led Whitefoot from her pen. She stopped patiently there on the flagstones and Hector wordlessly handed me her reins so he could fasten that ratty cloak around his neck, sling the leather bag across his body and take the manure cart outside. I had not appreciated before what a large horse Whitefoot was but I supposed that she had to be, seeing that Hector was so tall. He was being too trusting of me with his prized pet because if the powerful beast decided to bolt, she would have dragged me along behind her with ease. Thinking about it, Hector's faith was not on my head but in Whitefoot - she was passive and obedient to her master.
"Lead her out" Hector called to me from beyond the entrance. I did not care at all for his commanding air or his lack of gratitude.
My mouth flattened grimly as I led the horse to him. I wondered darkly if he meant to break and train me so I would be as passive and obedient. The morning was now brighter, warmer but it did not cheer my contemplations. It felt like the shadow deep inside me grew with the surge of light around me. Hector snatched the reins from me, climbing quickly and skilfully into the saddle. Now mounted high up with the sun behind him, He was just a proud, strongly outlined shadow before me. I was glad I could not see his face, that face I had already grown very fond of, because my fury may have softened otherwise - I somehow needed to be angry at him. Before I could say anything I might regret – or be punished for – I donned the hood of my cloak, nodded a curt goodbye and turned on my heels. I would be relieved to get back to the sanctuary of my quarters so I could lock myself away from the world and unleash the storm within me.
Hector had other plans. He rode Whitefoot forward a few paces to block my path.
"You're coming with me." I was more-or-less instructed.
