Chapter 10
"Hold Your Hand among the Flames"

The old stallion shook its heavy, grey and white-spotted head, tossed its mane, and neighed agitatedly through its shuddering nostrils. It had been trained to pull carts full of a farmer's harvest to market, not to carry a rouge prince and princess up the mountainside. Its hooves sunk into the soil still moist from weeks of rain, and one slipped, startling the horse who reared back, retreating, and screeched shrilly in protest.

"Easy!" Haemon called over its braying, compressed his legs around the animal's chest to still it, and gripped the reigns tightly. "Easy…"

The horse shook its head again, as if refusing to continue, and it took more than one forceful brunt of Haemon's heels in between its ribs to convince it otherwise.

"This is dangerous," Aurora grumbled discontentedly, and the brief scare was enough to make her hold tighter to Haemon's waist so that she mostly spoke against his shoulder, the rough fabric of his cloak scratching at her cheek. It was a welcome distraction from the narrow, muddy path they were taking through the forest and up the mountainside.

"You said," he corrected, slightly out of breath and voice crackling with aggravation, "that this is the swiftest path to reach Lovisa."

He guided the horse up a stiffer incline and leaned forward to balance atop the steed, which required bringing Aurora with him. In the few hours since he had stolen the horse—admittedly a first for the Prince who couldn't deny his feelings of guilt when he saw the aged, gaunt farmer tending to his drowned crops—it had become more than apparent that Aurora was not an accomplished rider. Already, he could hear the slight wheezing of her breath from weariness, and she had abandoned any pretenses of her stamina and gripped to him as her legs lost the strength to hold her steady amid the changes in terrain. He couldn't condemn her for her frailty, but it was costly as his body struggled harder to support them both and even out her weight when she teetered off balance more than once.

"And that no one dares travel it after summer because of the Fall rains," she countered in one sharp exhale, then sucking in another thick gulp of air. For hours now their joint frustrations had multiplied, goading each other, until the air was static around them with unspoken words and harsh thoughts.

Haemon noticed a flattening in the terrain ahead, and he didn't hesitate to coax the horse to a still and decide, "We'll rest here for a moment."

Her arms released him, making him aware of the slight dampening on his shirt where the heat had caught between her arms and his stomach and drawn a small pool of sweat. Somehow that aggravated him as well for the cool afternoon chilled his skin, and he slid from the horse with a growing frown and turned to help Aurora alight. Her palms were heavy on his shoulders as she eased her weight into his hands at her waist, and when her feet met the ground, the extent of her tired limbs overcame her. Her knee buckled without her consent and sent her toppling face first into Haemon's chest. She groaned faintly while she held onto his arms and felt him right her atop her feet, but she didn't have the chance to regain her composure before a cramp seized her thigh. Within seconds the muscle clutched to her bone, making it impossible to bend her leg, and she hissed in aggravation as this mortifying series of events unfolded and preyed upon her foul mood.

Haemon eased her onto the ground and squatted beside her, and without question, his rough hands took her thigh between them and began kneading his thumbs and fingers into the flesh. Her muted cry of pain was caught within a sharp inhale, and she tore at his hands to stop their brutal siege. He ignored her as if she were a insect nipping at his skin, and she swore he dug his thumbs in deeper, making her mouth fall open with a silent keen. Her other leg writhed on the ground, bending, flexing, twisting, and she gritted her teeth abruptly and leaned back on her palms where the dirt and small twigs dug into her skin. Her chin buried against her collarbones, making her glare through her eyelashes at him, though his attention was on his hands working their way along her thigh in a way that humiliated, infuriated, and roused her. The fabric pulled taut around her leg so that he could see his work, and as his fingers drew higher, circling to grip both her outer and inner thigh, she swallowed thickly in an attempt to dislodge her heart from its refuge in her throat. Its pace encouraged a fresh flush into her cheeks, and the pain throbbed in her leg, spreading up to her belly and sliding between her thighs, where she shamefully feared his touch might reach. Her hips sifted through the growing tension his hands were kindling, craving for something to soothe the tender pulsing, and her jaw released abruptly.

"Please," she whimpered in a stony voice. "Stop."

At last, he glimpsed at her, and her chagrin was made complete, for she knew she could not veil the smoldering in her eyes. She had spent hours pressed against his back with his cloak scratching at the gash in her dress where the skin was tender and vulnerable and feeling the flex of his muscles in his abdomen and legs holding them steady. She couldn't bear to feel his hands on her too -not there. Mercifully, he removed them. Her body sighed, her leg relaxed, and though the muscle still twitched and threatened to seize again, it was warm and shivering from his attention.

He rested his forearms on his knees and commented, "You're a poor rider."

Even if it were brash and tactless, she couldn't feel insulted considering its truth. "My father taught me when I was young," she confessed, "but I rarely have cause to ride and never for extended times."

"You need to train yourself to hold your own weight."

"I won't grow stronger in one day, Haemon," she said stiffly and curled her legs, bringing her heels toward her bottom and away from his hands, "and you insist on taking this trail."

"Our greatest enemy is time," the Prince explained and craned his neck back to look through the trees at the sun's position in the sky. "We've not made much progress."

"And you blame me," she snapped for her nerves had been spread thinly from lack of sleep and food. "What of the old horse you picked?"

Similarly, his gaze cut back to her, reflecting her anger with the slight simmering in his chestnut depths as if she were pinning his faults to his chest, and the look he bestowed her was enough to silence her errant tongue.

He straightened his legs so that he towered over her and blocked out the sun with his thick head of hair, and he abandoned her to tend to the horse.

Her eyes flattened where they gazed after him, and growling beneath her breath, she gathered herself and stood atop shaky legs. Her previously pained one was the weaker, and she was careful not to flex the muscle less it turn on her once more. She frowned deeply, thinking he was already forcing them to continue their journey, but rather, he tied the horse's reigns to a nearby tree and faced Aurora with unreadable resolve carving out his face.

"You can't ride… You can't fight…" He drew closer to her with each step magnifying her frustration and the bite of his words until he paused a few paces from her and wondered, "How do you expect to survive?"

A short, hot breath left her lips like steam blowing off her irritation, and his every word against her was a gust to feed the fire growing in her belly. "I don't know," she answered coldly and curled her hands to fists at her sides. When his expression made no change, she added, "Atlan taught me to protect myself."

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them as flashes of their ambush a day earlier passed through her mind's eye. She had not fought off her attackers as well as he might have, but she had saved him –killed a man before Haemon could be hurt.

Perhaps he didn't remember for he prompted, "Show me," and her shoulders dropped in exacerbation.

You know I cannot outmatch you! her mind snarled. Do you plan to humiliate me further?

As though he could read her thoughts, he answered, "I need to know that you can defend yourself if the time comes."

"I defended you," she pointed out, less arrogantly than as a ploy to deflect any grappling between them. He could overtake, defeat, and even kill her with barely an effort on his part, and even the thought of charging at him sent a cowardly tremor down her spine. She saw what he was capable of… It unearthed a cold terror to gnaw at her insides.

"That was luck. You caught him unaware." His tone distracted her from memories of that man's crushed face, and her features flickered with intrigue as they looked upon him. Was he commending her? "But you did not fair so well when you were attacked."

A bitter part of her thought to point out that she was caught unaware, but cooler heads prevailed and forced her gaze to fall to the ground.

"You can't surrender before we've begun," he said sharply, "and our time is limited."

She filled her lungs with the cool, crisp mountain air, feeling the pressure still her momentarily, but as her chest deflated, the troubled nerves crowded into the empty cavern. Likewise, the expectant pressure between them built with the sense that she would need to face him and assume this challenge, but she couldn't gather the courage.

"I'm afraid you'll hurt me."

Silence met her for he was taken off guard as if her words were a sharp dagger in his back, and he frowned until his brow ached with the strain. "I would not hurt you, Aurora."

"And yesterday…?" she prompted and finally dared to meet his gaze.

Her eyes were at once accusatory and fearful, digging the blade deeper between his shoulder blades until he grimaced and recalled how he had cornered her against the tree, his hand to her throat even as she begged him to stop…

"Since we've met," she charged onward, having said too much now to retreat, "you've pushed my limits as if you want me to fight you."

"I want you to stand up to me," he amended. "I won't hurt you. You can speak honestly with me—I won't punish you. I need a woman at my side, not a scared little girl."

"Is that what you think of me?... Have I not lost everything?" she asked, and her voice began to tremble with her hands as her mind unwound this thought.

"What have you lost?" he countered. "Your family is dead. You have no friends–"

"What do you know!" she spat, her face flush in sudden fury. His words bit her like venom, hammered beneath her thin skin to puncture her chest, and stung her eyes, and she was too exhausted to fight the rush of anger flaming through her. "You know nothing of what I've endured!"

"I know better than any!" he snapped. "I lost my family, my home, my future, and when I fell, there was no plush bed to catch me or flocks of servants to tend to me. I had to survive. I had to fight. You expect me to pity you? You expect me to carry you?"

His dark eyes pulsed from his glacial features, kicking her after his words had knocked her down, a potent punch in each, and she returned his look though she was crumbling where he stood tall. Always they stood at opposite ends of the spectrum, and she couldn't find a way to meet him. She didn't want to be weak. She didn't want to fail, but she was so exhausted. Years she had suffered in silence, and all she wanted was to scream. Her lips trembled, and the first hot sting of tear falling down her cheek filled her with shame. It betrayed her weakness, and she turned away to hide it.

"We've lingered too long," he called to her and untied the reigns from the tree. "We need to ride on and find a place to camp for the night."

She hastily wiped away the moist trail along with its twin on her other cheek and inhaled with the hope the cool air would calm her nerves, but it felt like her whole body was shivering and shaking. She was not a fighter, and even their brief, heated exchange of words had rattled her foundations. Realizing there would be no peace for her, no swift remedy to her ease nerves, she followed after him and only tried to keep her tears silent.

He mounted the horse and reached down to take her hand and help her, but when she placed her other palm on the horse's back behind him, he intervened, "No."

Initially, she retracted her hand, confused, but then she understood he meant for her to ride in front of him. The implication was a fresh scourge to her raw nerves. "I'm not a child," she countered in spite of her shimmering eyes.

"You haven't slept, you've barely eaten, and you're exhausted," he said flatly. "It's easier to hold you if you sit before me."

Yet again his words were lashes to her skin, but he was right. You can't ride… You can't fight… Face vacant in surrender, she allowed him to gather her onto the horse and felt him arrange her between his arms like iron bars locking her away. Her tears had dried up to her surprise, but even she couldn't feel triumphant in that respect since Haemon had already seen them stain her face. She tangled her fingers in the horse's mane with the willful intent to hold herself upright so that she would not place her weight on him. You can be strong, a kinder voice whispered to her, and she swallowed the lump in her throat and sat proudly before him. Even when the terrain grew unsteady, she preserved, spurned by her own vain stubbornness, but it could not support her drained body. The sleeplessness and physical demands of their journey weighed on her head and shoulders, causing her to sway as the ground grew uneven, and his arm swiftly caught her before she bent too far off balance. She rebounded as if his skin shocked her, bobbing into alignment once more, but within minutes, her shoulders were sagging and coaxing a steady curve into her spine as if she were doubling in on herself.

"You've made your point," he grumbled as his arm snaked around her waist and eased her weight back to him.

No! her mind snapped, and her grip remained tangled in the horse's mane, fighting poorly against his strength with a final, headstrong need to prove herself.

The path inclined, adding gravity's hand to draw her back, and the weight on her shoulders was more than her body could bear. All at once her grip surrendered, sending her bounding into his chest where his arm trapped her. For the effort it took to keep her body perfectly still and perfectly angled away from him, it was so much easier to relax against him and allow him to carry her. Her pride pulsed as an angry wound, drumming inside her like a battle march, but she was too tired to continue their campaign –not this day. Despite her annoyance, his hold was comfortable and warm, and with a heavier sigh, she capitulated more of her body into his care. He didn't bow the slightest under the pressure, only rearranging her more to the center of his chest, and then assumed the reigns with both hands. Her whole body was radiating sore, dull pains from her legs, to her stomach, to her arms, and reaching its apex in her head. She eased her eyes closed and uncovered some solace in their black depths where the light couldn't prey on her weary mind. Gingerly, she tilted her head, finding a more comfortable angle for her cheek upon his shoulder, and her nose unwittingly nuzzled against his neck. She felt the coarse grain of his beard on her forehead as though he were bowing his head to survey her, and his searing breath tumbled across her skin for a brief moment. The sensation left her as swiftly, and she couldn't decipher whether it was mercy or disappointment which kept him silent. Groaning softly beneath her breath, she was too exhausted to open her eyes and attempt to unravel this man. He was enigma to her: at times tolerant and clement and others harsh and unforgiving. She didn't care to gamble which side would meet her and sunk deeper into the oppression of darkness. It grew heavier behind her lids, something to hold her under, and she didn't fight its embrace, letting consciousness fade and sleep take her.

‡‡‡

Upon a heavy shroud of black, the stars glittered like lost jewels, and Artemis' pregnant moon bore its full light on Latium, calling dense breezes from the sea to sprint across the lands and rush to the capital. Fires shuddered, the fabric tangled in the trees and crackled in the wind, but even the goddess' mischievous attempts to disrupt their celebration could not distract the Albans who kindled and were consumed by the revelry. Numerous tables had been drawn into the town center upon which platters of roasted pork and lamb, fresh fruits, and more piled alongside never-ending pitchers of wine and tsipouro. The tables were dressed with their own intermittent boughs and candles, though no more light was needed given the roaring fire they had built in the center. The scent of ashes somehow made the smell of meats and fresh flowers the sweeter, and two rowdy, young Alban boys were charged with trimming the flame from growing too great. More appropriately, they distracted themselves with tossing various objects into the blazes to see how they shriveled, burst, or shrieked, and one father had to take them by the scruff of their necks and coarsely remind them of their purpose after they tossed the fat from a pig into the flames and nearly caught fire themselves.

The other Albans were gathered along the tables or even seated in the grass around the great fire, and some of the citizens shucked their usual duties as potters, farmers, or weavers and took up their instruments in song. They were graced with a middle-aged mason whose voice was a gift from Apollo himself, and he led the small ensemble into song after song, embellished with his own flourishes which reinvigorated the folk tunes and drew the Albans onto their feet to dance through the unpaved roads until they were dizzy and sweating. Their princess was among them and not to be outdone for Aeneas had taught her to dance while she was still a babe, and the pair were a sight to behold as they danced alongside the flames while their countrymen stamped out the tempo with their feet and clapped along. Aeneas took his daughter around the waist, hoisting her through the air, and she burst into a fit of laughter and twirled beneath his arm once he set her atop her toes again. She spun around him, pausing once she reached his other side, and looped her arm through his so that he could guide her farther on around the outskirts of the fire. The flames illuminated the Alban King's features, revealing the untamed grin directed at his daughter, and she as eagerly returned it, smiling so genuinely that her cheeks ached with the effort.

The music waned and assumed a steady beat as the tune shifted from one to another, and it was a wonder the player's fingers were not bleeding as he strummed the lyre endlessly.

Aeneas released Iliana with an exhausted sigh. "Let one of your brothers take over, or you'll need to throw me into the fire!"

"You can't stand aside at your own celebration," the young woman chided while still dancing to the beat around her father and clapping her hands as if to encourage him.

"I can do as I please," he corrected and placed a hand on her arm to keep her still for a moment like she were a feverish child who could not be calmed. "It's one of the benefits of being king."

"Very well," she muttered and pursed her lips in playful disapproval. "We'll enjoy the revelry for you!"

Her face was alight in a soft flush from the dancing and the amount of tsipouro and wine she had consumed, and it assigned a warmth to her chestnut eyes where the flames flickered in their depths. A crown of flowers had been weaved into her hair, imparting their pleasant scent like a perfume to the air about her, and she wore her favorite dark blue gown which gathered with beautiful, intricate lacing at her shoulders. The material was fitted seamlessly to follow the curve of each breast and beyond, where it reached her stomach and a sliver of bronze skin glistened in the fire's light, the shade revealing the depression between her breasts and delicate structure of her collarbones. A thin, almost invisible strand of gold hung from her neck, and at its lowest point, a small pendant of gold and turquoise dared nearly as far as the cut of her dress and glittered against her skin. It had been a present from her mother on a birthday long past, and she treasured it dearly, only wearing it on special occasions. Thin bangles crowned one slender wrist and made a pleasant succession of clinks when she danced, while her feet were bare for she enjoyed the cool feel of the grass beneath them. Though she celebrated alongside her people, she could seem no farther from them in appearance than now –like a true, albeit untamed, princess.

"Excuse me, My King," Eione chimed unexpectedly as her slender arm slid around Iliana's waist and spun them both rather recklessly toward the fire.

Iliana broke into laughter once more, having been taken off guard and off balance, and she tumbled into her sister-in-law who wrapped both arms around the young woman's waist to steady her and spun them once more.

"Enjoying yourself?" Eione prompted and grinned omnisciently while keeping a firm grip on the princess.

"It's the wine," she confessed with a somewhat flustered and contrite smile, knowing how out of character it was for her to indulge, but it had been a foolish oversight on her part. Preparing for tonight, she knew who would be among the Alban ranks, and the anxiety which wrought her at the thought of seeing him, so soon, after their last encounter… She had been too timid to visit him again before the celebration and could not guess at the completion of her father's blade. She worried Damian would be insulted, but could he not understand her apprehension? Her stomach was too knotted to desire food this night, and so she had busied herself at the table beside her kin by nursing cup after cup.

"I won't tell," Eione promised and winked confidentially before taking Iliana's hands and twirling her. The scenery swirled before her eyes, compounded with the rush of alcohol to her head, and abruptly a cold sweat broke across her brow and caused her to link her arms around Eione's waist.

"No more turning," she begged breathlessly.

"Why don't we rest and wait for a better song?" Eione suggested instead, and the princess nodded her assent. Gently Eione unwound Iliana's arms, looped each of theirs together, and guided her toward the main table where Aeneas was seated at the center and in deep discussion with one of his lieutenants, to Iliana's luck. She sat at the edge of the table, away from her father's probbing gaze, and felt immediately relieved to be off her feet and supported by the bench. The cool air rushed around her, pricking at her warm cheeks and flooding her lungs in a way that calmed her instantly. Her heart raced on, but the dizziness which made her head toss like a ship upon a turbulent sea was fading with every beat.

"I need to check on Chara. Will you fair without me?"

Iliana smiled humbly, embarrassed to be in this state but pleased to have someone as understanding as Eione to keep an eye on her. "Yes," she assured the older woman. "I only need to rest a moment."

Eione touched her shoulder before turning to tend to her infant daughter and leaving Iliana in peaceful stillness. She eased her elbows onto the table and cupped her chin in one palm, feeling how it supported the heaviness consuming her head and gave her even greater solace. She inhaled the crisp air into her lungs, sensing it almost crackle inside her, and the band ceased its playing and called all attentions to their ranks to understand why the music stopped.

"My friends!" the mason called out once, twice, three times, until he was satisfied that all were listening. "Still your feet a moment and open your ears. Our great King, who we all honor tonight, wishes to speak."

Appropriately, attentions turned to the Alban King who stood from his place at the table and smiled broadly. He took a beat to simply stand and gaze across the mass of people before he began, "My countrymen." He shook his head and amended, "My brothers and sisters… You humble me with your tribute and exhaust me with your energy." The crowd laughed subtly, and Aeneas grinned, his handsome face alight with fondness and pride. "No king has faced more love and constant devotion, and I am ever surprised by your tenacity and courage. Even with the threat of Umbria to tarnish your spirits, you've gathered before me and assembled a celebration. While you honor my life, I wish to defer to each of you for you are the blood and bones and hope upon which our city was built, and against all odds, we have prospered –because of you."

"My Lady," a raspy voice called from her side, and Iliana jerked to attention, snapping her head toward him and coming eye-to-eye with Damian who had knelt beside her while she was listening to her father. The King still spoke behind them, his rich baritone harkening in the background, but Iliana's focus was concentrated on the blacksmith, so near to her and calling a fresh blush into her cheeks. Naively, she had thought the wine would give her the courage to face him, but somehow it only magnified the sway he held over her. Her attention was enraptured in his face, finding his tanned skin clean of its usual ashes and beard freshly trimmed so that there was nothing to deter his features, and her attraction awoke as if from a slumber, sitting upright and drowsily mesmerized by its object.

"You did not come to collect it," he continued in the same measured tone, and she realized firstly that he was offering the blade wrapped in material and tied with twine to her and secondly that his dark eyes were closed to her. So she had insulted him.

Her heart was thundering in her chest, and she wished he could see within her mind to spare her the embarrassment and challenge of expressing the multitude of allure, lust, and fear his mere presence could unlock. Her tongue was tied, and so she took the present from him if only to make some advance in the silence. He began to stand, but she impulsively placed a hand on his forearm, causing him glance at her in shock. Realizing what she had done, in public, for any wandering eye to see, she quickly retracted her hand, but she had gained his attention.

"I want to speak with you –tonight," she said, and it shot from her lips like a confession, reinvigorating her flush.

A small V formed between his brows, and his gaze dared toward the crowd to be sure none were watching before he nodded curtly and rose to his feet. His movement was slow and reminded her of the wound at his side, and she frowned with concern though it went unnoticed as Damian joined the crowd.

"So let us drink to our triumphs," Aeneas finished while lifting his chalice into the air, "To Alba Longa!"

"To Alba Longa!" the crowd resounded in unity as if one force answering their King's call, and soon voices were stifled as cups emptied.

In the silence, Iliana saw the opportunity to present her gift and rose to her feet, nearly rolling her eyes in exasperation when she discovered her knees still weak in Damian's wake. He did not even touch you! Perhaps this was the effect of the wine… She gathered the blade in both hands, balancing it in her palms and edged around the table where she could approach her father.

The King was preoccupied looking out at his people who were joined in a burst of camaraderie from his speech and did not notice Iliana's presence until she called to him, "Father."

Aeneas turned promptly to face his daughter, and his blue eyes swept down to the package in her hands which she held out for him to take.

"A gift," she said and smiled widely for the look of genuine shock passing across Aeneas' face. "It is something that you've long needed –that Alba Longa has needed."

His surprise ebbed slightly, making room for the pleased smile growing on his face, and he glanced at his daughter while wondering, "What have you done?"

"Open it," she prompted with childish impatience, their locked regards kindling an electric excitement between them.

He chuckled lightly and took his seat while bidding her to sit as well.

Sighing as he found any reason to delay, Iliana nearly pounced into the vacant space beside him and drew even closer to look over his arm for she had not seen the blade and was as eager if not more so than her father. He unknotted the twine at the top of the package and carefully unwound it with a calmness not mutually felt by his daughter. She resisted the urge to reach past him and rip open the material herself and folded her hands in her lap to be sure they did not take action. At length, he tossed the thin twine aside and began unraveling the fabric.

"It is heavy…" he muttered, and Iliana bit her lip with pleasure and felt the delight bloom in her chest, aching to reach fruition. She glimpsed at her father and wondered if he were truly clueless as to what she had done or if he were only playing along for her benefit. Had he not memorized the weight and feel of a sword after years as a soldier? The last shroud of fabric remained, and he paused to look at his daughter, sharing with her a final, fateful glance before he threw back the material and gazed upon his gift.

Immediately Iliana pressed against her father's arm to see the blade clearly, and the breath was stolen from her lungs like the sharpness of the blade gleaming in the fire's light. The surface was smooth and undeterred by age and abrasions to tarnish its beauty, and its proportions were masterfully welded with perfect symmetry. Along the right portion of the blade ancient symbols were carved into the bronze, deeper closer to the center where the metal was thicker and expertly thinned as they drew near the edge.

Aeneas traced his finger along those engravings with a look of wonder, but Iliana encouraged him, "Turn it."

As if her tone held more promise, he swiftly flipped the blade and allowed them to the see the other side where another grouping of symbols, as exquisite as the first, followed the right edge like a twin of its former face.

"Aphrodite and Apollo," she whispered and looked at Aeneas, reveling more in the stunned admiration he wore than the blade itself.

"Patrons of Alba Longa," he understood and met her gaze, finding her hopeful and uncertain at his estimation. He smiled softly and commended, "Clever and beautiful."

The three words unlocked her full smile like a swell through her whole body, and she wondered, "Do you like it?"

In answer, he turned once more to the blade and twisted it in his grip, oscillating between each side and taking in the work from all angles. "Iliana… It is my favorite gift that I have ever received."

She saw the honesty reverberating in his blue eyes when they found her again, and her own pricked with unexpected emotion.

"How did you manage this?"

"I asked Damian to weld it," she confessed, and the admission returned her thoughts to the blacksmith who was as skilled a craftsman as Hephaestus in her eyes. "It was truly his creation. It is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," Aeneas agreed and shook his head in esteem. "I must thank him… But first, I'd like another dance with my plotting daughter."

"I thought you were tired," she teased and grinned.

"Oh," he said as he stood and offered Iliana his hand, "I think I've stood aside long enough."

The pair danced with renewed vigor, called upon by Aeneas' pleasure at his gift, and the same heady rush of blood, wine, and happiness consumed her, growing more tumultuous and reckless with every revolution Aeneas guided her through, turning her, lifting her up, and gamboling as the night wore on. Her eyes were nearly spinning within her head, and she felt less in possession of her body though she knew it was moving to the rhythm and executing every step. Yet her mind was unattached, retreating away for the time so that she did not think, only moved and laughed, and it was unadulterated joy spending such a selfless moment with her father like she were a child again. She was warm, breathless, sweating, and when she dared to glance unprovoked across her father's shoulder, black eyes trapped her immediately and sent her spiraling back into the confines of her head. She was dizzy and giddy from the sudden descent, and her mind sprinted to process the image, recognizing Damian standing at the edge and smiling as he watched her. The telltale blush stained her cheeks, and she smiled weakly at him and tried to maintain her show though she was the heavier footed and less graceful with her father now that she realized their audience. Aeneas only took a greater hold of her arm and guided her through the peaks and pits as he had when she was young.

Still, she was grateful as the song waned, and she could announce, "Now I must rest!"

"Perhaps I'm not so old," Aeneas challenged, and Iliana lifted her eyes toward the heavens emphatically.

"We'll see how long you last…"

She stepped away from him, but Aeneas called after her, "Iliana."

She turned to him expectantly, and he smiled.

"Thank you."

She mirrored his look, even somewhat humbled by his sincerity, and nodded before she excused herself. Rather than returning to the table where her brothers, Eione, and Sera were now speaking, she weaved through the crowd of Albans, scanning their ranks in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner for the blacksmith who could apparently appear and evaporate as he wished. Growing more frustrated by his absence and the drowsiness of wine tugging at her, she finally noticed someone standing apart from the rest beneath one of the trees they had adorned with fabrics and candles. By his silhouette carved against the darkness, she could recognize him. An odd magnetism took hold of her and drew her toward the figure, but as she approached, he turned from the tree and walked toward the forge. This unannounced change confused her, and she slowed her pace until he glanced across his shoulder as if to invite her to follow. The gravity of his brief gaze caught her in its net and towed her after him into the shadows where her eyes struggled to make sense of the darkness, and finally through the threshold.

The sounds of the celebration were a distant drumming from within these now familiar walls where the unattended fire threw soft, hazy light across the space. Her heart sounded too loud for the stillness, and she fretted that he could hear it as well while she searched to find him. Gradually, her sights adjusted, allowing her to make out the space, empty yet crowded with shadows cast by the various piles of weapons. She dared deeper into the confines, treading slowly to be sure she did not step on something with her bare feet, but the wine muddled her sights, stole her grace, and caused her foot to kick a bundle of axes which went tumbling toward her. She inhaled sharply, frozen and shocked, and a rough hand plucked her from the axes' path where they clattered noisily onto the floor. They might have buried into her legs or sliced her bare feet had she not been swept up against him instead, pulled off balance so that she clung to his waist and would not tumble to the floor alongside the weapons.

She dreaded the amount of wine she had consumed in that moment for the inelegance with which she handled herself and the way the alcohol magnified his touch. The clasp of his arm around her, the slight rough brush of calluses where his hand held to her elbow, and the dewiness of sweat on his palm set fire to her nerves, alighting her skin so that every hair stood to attention and yearned to feel the same hand caress it. Her face was buried in the front of his shirt, the pins in her hair digging painfully into her scalp from the pressure, but she held fast to him with her fingers tangled in the back of his shirt as her thoughts lethargically recounted what had happened. Yet his proximity was inducing something else to distract her... One indulgent inhale let her drink in his scent, the burn of ashes warmed by his own musk, and she was intoxicated by remembering and rediscovering him. Oh, she should not have drunk so much!

Swallowing down her chagrin as best she could, she dared to peek from his shirt, feeling her eyelashes untangle as they blinked and gazed up at him. She couldn't anticipate the stern expression awaiting her, and immediately her feet unraveled from beneath her so that she could stand tall and release her grip on him like an errant child scorned from one look.

The rush of embarrassment was a slap of cold water to her face, and she muttered, "I'm sorry," flushed, and hoped that he would not notice it. "I can barely see."

His arm remained fixed to her restraining her movement and bolstering her against him as if she might find a way to completely demolish the interior of his workspace if he allowed her the opportunity. Her heart drummed in her chest, a swifter tempo than any dance that evening, and she wished he would release her so that she could think clearly as though she needed to burst through the surface of his spell and catch a breath of air.

"How much have you drunk?" he questioned rhetorically and frowned in disapproval.

"I was nervous," she admitted as her own tongue turned against her, "to see you."

This garnered her half a sardonic smile, at once amused and aggravated. "Am I so terrifying?"

"It's not fear…" Shut up! Shut up! her mind screeched at her.

The same smile flickered and died before her eyes, making her nervous that she had displeased him, and he exhaled shortly which she felt more in the compression of chest than the wave of his breath on her face. So he cast a fresh whip to torture and subdue her.

"What is your game?" his already hoarse voice grumbled, and she blinked uncertainly.

"I don't understand."

"You don't come to me, then you wish to speak with me. You're drunk because you're nervous to see me, and yet you give me this look and tease me with…"

As he spoke, his voice grew fainter to an aggravated rumble in his throat, and his head barely needed to bow to draw his nose along the side of her own. The breath shuddered through her parted lips at the touch, the promise of his lips so near hers, and she was clay in his grip to be molded and twisted however he wished. Was he not the one teasing her? She didn't command an ounce of the sway he held over her, and when her neck craned back, it was obedient as if at his silent command. Her lashes were heavy, hanging languidly across her eyes where she could see only his mouth and the line of his jaw so close… The wine made her bolder, and she pressed her body more into his grip to guide him as one of his hands buried in her hair and swept back to cup the base of her neck. Briefly her eyes flickered to his own, gazing into the black depths like a reflection of her private desires, and she wet her lips intemperately and frowned with pent up frustration. How she relived that moment between them, tried to recapture the sensation that flooded her, longed to test it again, see if he could sweep her away. Her heart was shuddering in turmoil, but her mind was too dizzy and intoxicated to put up a fight. Impulsively, her arms held him tighter, drawing him near, and her lips rushed to seize him. The soft yield of his flesh against her unleashed a wash of triumph and unfulfilled need.

"I've wanted you for so long…" the hushed words tumbled from her mouth to his, such a deeply ingrained thought that she did not realize she confessed it aloud.

The combination of the wine and his presence were enough to drive her over the edge and send her into a freefall of raw emotion. His hand gripped tighter to her head, fingers knotting in her curls, and he tugged, forcing her neck to submit to his full siege where he devoured her, each kiss deepening, growing harder, taking more. She held to his back, digging her fingertips into the muscles to steady herself, and abruptly he hissed through his teeth. In a flash, her hands were torn from him where they had found the wound falling along his side and onto his back, and she was pinned against a wooden post holding up the ceiling, her wrists captured in his palms and forced above her. The wood scratched at her back when she struggled beneath the power of his attack, burning and aching and sore from lack of air. As swiftly, his lips released her, and she sucked in one gasp after another. His forehead pressed into her, yet angled away so that they both shared the same breath.

"You're drunk," he groaned in frustration, but she stretched to find him once more. Like his weakness, she drew him in, and he kissed her again, abandoning her wrists so that he could grasp her waist. Her palms found his shoulders and blindly rose to cradle his neck, curving her fingers into his curls damp with sweat. Their lips exchanged a mutual hunger and need, and every massage of his kiss kindled the growing fire in her gut. It was insatiable and all-consuming, and she yearned for him to quell it.

Yet he forced himself away again, looking at once wild and haggard and furious. His black gaze pinned her to the post even as he staggered back. "You don't fight fair, Princess." His shoulders rose and compressed with each exhausted breath.

"I don't want to fight," she said, looking as though she might follow after him.

"You don't know what you want, Iliana –least of all right now," he said sternly, once more assuming that disjunctive tone of disapproval. It made her feel similarly torn, not knowing is she pleased or insulted him, and she stood still, obedient, against the post while she looked to him with her eyes wide and pulsing. He shook his head as if to throw off a dangerous thought and decided, "You need to sit."

Her body shivered with renewed nerves and unsatisfied lust, but she peeled herself away and found the stool beside the table. He took the one across from her, poured a cup of water, and pushed it toward her.

"Drink it."

Her chestnut eyes simmered with annoyance, and she drew a timid sip. Her stomach turned immediately as if the water were an enemy substance charging it, and she grimaced with distaste.

"All of it."

"I don't want it," she snapped stiffly, unaccustomed to being commanded.

"You'll be sick tomorrow," he warned. "If you wish to leave, leave. Otherwise, drink."

She narrowed her eyes and realized he was mimicking her demanding tone two days earlier, and she could better understand how aggravated he had been now that she stood in his place. She reluctantly nursed the cup, forcing down one sip after another even as her stomach curled to fight it, because she would rather endure this than leave his side. She groaned beneath her breath once the cup was empty, frowning, and pushed it away from her.

"Good," he commended and offered a piece of bread. "Now eat."

"I'd prefer to sleep," she muttered for the seductive pull of sleep was tugging at her again, but she took the bread, tore it in her hands, and sniffed it with distaste. Nothing appealed to her… nothing but him.

The edges of his lips hiccupped in a smile. "I know."

She placed a small morsel of bread between her teeth and chewed, feeling that it was dry and tasteless in her mouth. Her nose wrinkled, and she flashed her untamed eyes at him for forcing this upon her.

Rather than looking put off, his smile flourished into a grin, and he even chuckled under his breath. "You shouldn't drink, Princess. You don't have the stomach for it."

She swallowed and pursed her lips. "Never again."

"Good…" He watched her attempt another similarly miniscule piece and commented, "Your brothers should keep a better watch on you."

"I don't need a chaperone."

His brow arched frankly, drawing her attention to their very situation, hidden away in his home where mere minutes ago they were lunging at each other.

The blood rose to her cheeks, and she shyly looked at the crusty bread in her hands. "You didn't send me away…"

"No, I didn't," he acknowledged, and she realized the smile had receded, bowing to another severe look. "But I won't touch you again… Not unless I speak to your father."

She sucked in a sharp breath, oblivious to the piece of bread still in her teeth, and it lodged in her throat and sent her into a fit of coughs while she clutched at her chest and tears sprung in her eyes. At last she could breathe again, though the uneven rhythm hardly gave her the space to consume each gasp of air before she exhaled it again. Her gaze spun to find him, and she discovered his elbow on the table, curled fist covering his mouth so that she couldn't tell from its shape if he were pleased or angry.

Her eyes blinked away the tears, the flush still pulsing in her cheeks, and she sputtered, "What?"

"We should speak about this when you're in a better mind for it," he decided, and Iliana's palms flattened on the table as she stared at him in utter shock.

"No. You can't say something like that and abandon it!"

His fist dropped as well, but she discovered behind it there lay nothing but a resolved expression that gave nothing away. As though explaining, he said, "You deserve more than a man who would prey on your innocence and inexperience and take you for his own."

"You haven't…" His brow knit, and she understood, You wanted to.

"I tried for more than a year to keep my distance," he revealed and looked momentarily disappointed with his failure, "but you made it impossible."

"Why? Why wouldn't you speak to me?" Months their silly, brief glances had sustained, confused, and aggravated her. It was so infinitesimal compared to what she felt now, here, beside him, and surely that must mean there was more waiting to be discovered. Certainly if he felt he should speak to Aeneas...

"Because you deserve more than me."

"A blacksmith?" she grasped, confused by his clipped responses.

"Among other things."

Her face screwed in a frown, and she charged, "My mother was the daughter of a poor fisherman before she was a princess and a queen. I don't care about your station. Haven't I proven that?"

His mouth tensed expectantly, but he dropped his head as if abandoning the thought and grumbled, "We'll discuss this another day."

"No."

"Yes," he said sternly, and his features were worn in the dim light as if exhausted of some nameless burden. "Now you need to return home and sleep."

"You're sending me away?"

"Don't let your pride blind you... I've told you my intentions."

An angry, childish, drunk piece of her wished to rush through the door and slam it behind her, but she was wise enough to know that course action would benefit neither of them. She didn't wish to play silly games anymore, and she wouldn't fall victim to her pride and run away when she so desperately wanted to stay and speak with him. She sat a beat longer, listened to the quiet crackle of the fire dying beside them, and worked through the tangle of emotions and thoughts colliding inside her. Her gaze had fallen to the tabletop where her palms still clasped the wood grain, and she answered a deeper desire than her immature vanity when she released one, reached across, and took his hand. It was strong and tough even relaxed in her grip and wrought with calluses along his palm from his tools, and she carefully drew it toward her where she bent and brushed her lips along the pale, thin scars crowning his knuckles. His palm unwound and smoothed across her cheek where the rough skin pricked at her flesh, and her grasp found its hold on his wrist, keeping his hand still, as she turned her face to place her lips in the center of his palm. His thumb brushed across her cheek, and she closed her eyes, feeling it pass along her lashes. A playful smile lifted her lips, and she caught the tip in the prison of her teeth, looking to him when the mask of his fingers curled away from her eyes.

His lips were parted, eyes hardened and enraptured, and steadily he growled, "You'd bring a man to his knees."

Her cheeks flamed, and her sights darted shyly to the table as she released his hand. "Not until he spoke to my father," she commented with more boldness than she could rightly stand behind.

All at once, his hand caught her chin, pulling her forward, but he halted before he could bend to kiss the wit from her lips, tense from the reminder of his promise. He exhaled hotly like a cornered animal, eyes blazing, and strong fingers holding her captive.

"You need to leave," he said, the low throaty tone a warning that sent a tremor shuddering down her spine to settle in her lap.

She was intimidated enough by that look and the promise his dark eyes bore to obey, but he held her longer, drawing his gaze across her rosy, swollen lips. Finally, he freed her and retreated into his seat, and she was gone with only the soft percussion as the door fell shut to keep him company after her.


Author's Note: Hey my loves! Sometimes your muse is a clingy girlfriend who just won't leave you alone until you call her back... That's my explanation for the swiftness with which I wrote this, and my utter lack of productivity on all other fronts (cringe). So, trouble in paradise? I'd like to reiterate something I've been hinting at, which might explain this last scene better. Iliana is a 19-year-old girl who has no experience with men under her belt, meaning she feels naughty about a kiss, and who still believes in the good of people. Conversely, Damian is Haemon's age, if not a little older (29-30+), who is tortured by how much he likes this young woman, aggravated with her inexperience, and charmed by her sincerity. After Girl in the War where Hector broke all the rules with Myrina, I'm sure you guys are like, 'It's just a kiss... like c'mon!' But I'm trying to be true to how an older man, who could be imprisoned or killed for sneaking around with Iliana and who looks at kissing as an appetizer before he hits the main course, would handle the situation. Hopefully you guys will think more of him for it rather than thinking he's a pussy and hating on me for not giving them some fun time haha

Thank you to Miss AmyLNelson for the super sweet review comme toujours! Agh I'm super happy that you're excited about both growing plot lines now! I'll admit, I'd sorta forgotten what I was going to do with Damian and Iliana because I was caught up with Haemon and Aurora, but this time they got the spotlight and the majority of the chapter :)) Hopefully this piqued your interest. I always have to wind up the tension so that things will explode, and I realize that the turn of events with Damian and Iliana was a bit unexpected but hopefully the above explanation helped :/ Let me know what you think, and I hope you liked it! :D xoxo