Rthan
The warriors who brought Rthan to Brena tied him to one of the four big wooden posts around the hearth in the middle of the hut. His new wife was not there. There was no fire, so as evening became night, he waited in the cold dark for Brena to return.
At last, she came in carrying a torch. She used it to start a fire in the hearth. She must have seen him right away, but she didn't speak or even look at him. Instead, she chose a few tubers and placed them near the fire, close to the hot stones. Then, finally, she turned to face him, hands on her hips. Her nose wrinkled, as if she didn't like having to keep him in her hut. He did smell wild. After a week in a bear pit, his chin was full of hair and dirt covered both his skin and his rags like one thick layer of filth.
Without a word, she pulled off the rags around his waist and left him naked. He met her eyes. He was pleased to see her blush.
But she found a way to get back at him. Still not speaking, she filled a bowl with soap and water. Then she picked up a scratchy ball of straw and began to scrub him with it. She didn't use a sponge. The rough cleaning didn't feel nice. After just a few strokes, his body betrayed him. He became aroused, even though her touch was harsh. If she had laughed, teased him, or even smiled, he might have joked back. But she did not. She only raised one eyebrow and kept scrubbing.
"I'll poke you, if that's what you want," he said, his voice sharp, breaking the silence. It was the only mask he had for his shame. "But I'm not your husband."
"You have it backwards," she said with no emotion. She moved behind him and began to scrub his back, so he couldn't see her—only feel her strong hands working his muscles. She was careful when she touched the lash marks on his skin. Her touch didn't hurt. Somehow, even with her roughness, she didn't make the wounds worse. Her hands comforted, but her words did not.
"You are my slave-husband by the law of light and shadow," she said. "But I don't owe you anything. Not my bed, not my body." She moved lower, scrubbing his backside. "Don't think this is closeness, Blue Waters. I would do the same thing for a boar if it had to sleep in my room."
Her words were hard, but the sound of her breath made him want her even more. She smelled good—musky, sweet, like a woman. He hadn't been with anyone for a long time. His body didn't care if she was the owner and not the captive now. It still wanted her, like before, when she had been the prisoner.
Stupid body.
"So I get to sleep inside?" he asked. He had thought she might make him sleep outside, maybe in a kraal. Or even a cage.
"That depends on you." She was done with the bath. She started going through her things. Then she pulled out a knife.
Maybe the kraal idea was too hopeful. Maybe she had something sharper in mind. Rthan watched the stone blade, not with fear, but with cold anger. She grabbed the braid at the back of his head and pulled it hard so his neck bent backward. His throat was bare. Each braid she held was one of her people he had killed. She pressed the stone knife to his neck and paused. He tensed.
"Do you want me to beg to be your husband just to stay alive?" he growled. "I might be your prisoner, but I'll never give my loyalty to your filthy tribe."
"You used a knife to court me, didn't you?" she said, pulling his hair tighter. "You wanted to take me as your slave-wife. Funny how you don't like it now that the roles are reversed."
"No wife is expected to forget her birth clan," he said. "But a true husband must be ready to fight his own family to protect his wife. I won't fight for a Yellow Bear against my own kin."
"I don't need a man to fight my battles," she said, cool and calm. Then she lifted the knife again—he flinched—but instead of cutting him, she rubbed soap on his jaw.
She began to shave him.
He blinked, confused. But she said nothing. Her movements were slow and careful. She scraped the knife along his cheeks, his chin, and his throat. Her touch was gentle, but the muscles in his back stayed tight. When she finished, she brushed her fingers over his skin to check that it was smooth. He was breathing hard. He could not meet her eyes.
"You have lice," she said. She put the shaving tools away and took out a comb. She undid his braids. Each time her fingers ran through his hair, he shivered. She used the comb to catch the lice and shook them into the soapy water to drown them.
"I haven't even made a dent in that haystack," she said sharply. "I'll have to comb it again later."
She washed her hands and cleaned up. Then she pulled something from deep inside one of her travel bags. It was a pair of fine legwals, neatly folded. She shook them out so he could see.
They were cut for a man, but they would be a little short on Rthan.
"These belonged to my husband," she said. "Before he was killed."
"You still carry your dead husband's clothes?" he asked. "How long ago did he die?"
She crossed her arms. Her lips were tight. "You have no good choices. This isn't some sweet love story full of moonlight and faery songs. You hate my people. You hate me. I know. You'd cut my throat if you could. But you also know that if you try, you'll be dead by morning. And don't pretend you're innocent in all this."
She took a deep breath.
"So. What now? If you give me your word you won't hurt me or my daughters, I'll untie you. You can dress yourself, eat by yourself, sleep on a mat. I'll treat you like a person. Still a slave, but not an animal. But if you won't give me your word, I'll leave you tied to a pole outside, naked, like a goat on feast day. Is that what you want? To be an animal, shown to everyone?"
Rthan felt his old rage burn hot again. That rage had lived in him since the day he found the bodies of his wife and children.
He told her, in two sharp words, what she could do with herself.
Then he added, "It doesn't matter if I escape or not. Do you really think this is over? Do you think my people won't come back? We've taken all your backstabbing for too long. The next wave will crush you."