Act 4.2 - Comfort

Tor’laen sat at the edge of Nalyra’s bed, staring out into the blue spirals of subspace. Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers over the sealant on his wounds, concealed beneath his uniform. His condition had improved far faster than he would have expected, thanks in part to whatever technology the Zakkili had aboard the Citadel, and just how hardy his people were in general. He wasn’t going to be able to sprint into combat for likely another span, but at least daily life was no longer painful.

His thoughts had begun to settle, as Tor’laen tried to bury his molten rage under logical assessment. It still infuriated him. All of his work, all of his sacrifices — the blood he had shed, the lives he had taken, even the language burned straight from his mind — all of it might be undone by this.

He ground his teeth at the thought. This did not feel like something that came from within Ydani society. Whoever had done this had researched his people properly. The most damning accusations possible, presented at seemingly the most delicate part of the process…the Ydani might destroy themselves over this. They might bury the peaceful future that so many had perished to buy for them.

And there was little he could do about it. He no longer spoke his own mother tongue. Many of his people likely thought him a traitor or worse. He would arrive back at his homeworld aboard a Zakkili ship, wearing the colors of a Crown Daughter. Perhaps, in a way, the flyers and posters were correct. Maybe he had sold out his people, had lost who he was.

Such were the thoughts swirling about his head when Nalyra returned to their cabin. As was usual lately, he felt her presence before she physically entered the room. Her thoughts did not rush toward him, instead winding cautiously over the Bridge, gently questing for his mind. He did nothing to encourage or discourage her, not even sure enough of his own mental state to reply.

The door to the cabin slid open, and Nalyra stepped inside. Tor’laen could hear her stop, could feel her gaze upon him. Something similar to concern drifted across their Bridge, and a small part of him shied away from it, not wanting to be pitied. Not that night.

This is Nalyra, he told himself sternly. She would not. She has your trust, and for good reason.

The Crown Daughter did not approach him, as he had expected, and instead he heard the sliding of the chair she kept at her desk, followed by the faint sound of the woman removing pins from her hair and returning them to one of the drawers.

Tor’laen sat motionless for a few marks, still staring out into the spirals of blue. He made little headway against the accusations that still buzzed through his mind. Part of him wanted to rage, to tear, to destroy something, anything — a small resurgence of the distant hot-blooded youth he had once been. Instead, he simply sat, fingernails nearly cutting into his palms as he clenched his fists.

There was a soft shuffling, and Nalyra was beside him, sitting on the bed as well. The Crown Daughter had changed into a nightgown, her hair completely down.

He hesitated, unsure if he should say something. If he had anything to say. So he remained silent.

Nalyra also seemed content to sit in silence, saying nothing, as their Bridge was almost completely still. And she waited.

Tor’laen was the one who broke first. Softly, he laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Nalyra took the gesture like a captain finally receiving permission to open fire.

She climbed into Tor’laen’s lap and grabbed his collar, pulling him downward, closer to her level, and kissed him fiercely. The Ydani’s body reacted before his mind had the chance, wrapping his arms around her.

The kiss was nothing like the small ones they had shared before. It was demanding, forceful, and yet somehow tender as well. He breathed in the familiar scent of her hair and skin. His fingers ran across the bare skin of her shoulders.

After another few breaths, she broke the kiss, drawing back slightly to look him directly in the eye.

“The Ydani who would judge you from these images — they do not know you.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “Maybe they respected you, or cheered you from afar. Maybe they despise you now. But they do not know the truth of the man called Tor’laen.” She reached up and stroked his cheek, her thumb finding the scar that ran over his ruined eye, where it showed beneath the edge of its covering. “But I do. I told you, husband, I will not allow you to diminish yourself. Not even in front of your own people.”

“I…I do not know if I can even call them my people any longer.” His gaze fell to the uniform he still wore, his meaning obvious.

“They owe you more than they could ever know.” A small bit of her imperious Crown Daughter voice crept back into her tone. “You fear you have lost the place where you belong, Tor’laen. That you have betrayed what you stood for. You have not. You have given all that you could. And regardless of how your people will come to see you, no matter what they accuse you of, blame you for…you will always have a place you belong. At my side. The Aegis will ever be your home.”

His arms tightened around her instinctively.

She pierced his worries so easily, so perfectly, that he had to feel around inside his head to make sure she wasn’t reading his thoughts. But there was no sign of her — not a single trace of her mind inside his. Nalyra was simply reading him the normal way, just by knowing him well.

The Ydani realized that she was still staying out of his head, that he still hadn’t given her permission. Almost sheepishly, he invited her in. She didn’t surge inside, instead gently flowing into him, her mental presence soft, tender.

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Nalyra pressed a delicate hand against his chest, and Tor’laen got the message. He eased himself back onto the mattress, carrying the Crown Daughter with him on his lap. He came to rest with his back against the numerous pillows at the head of the bed, his wife smirking at him from her place on his lap. Slowly, deliberately, she undid each clasp on the front of his uniform, moving downward. As she finished, Tor’laen wordlessly shrugged the jacket off, tossing the garment away. The thin shirt beneath followed a moment later, leaving his chest bare.

There was hunger in Nalyra’s eyes as her gaze swept over him. There was something different between them, something he hadn’t felt before that night. His wife’s breathing was steadily growing heavier, her face flushed. It stirred something within him as well. Something buried deep inside. Tor’laen drew her close, kissing her once more, running his fingers through her long, black hair.

Nalyra gave him a predatory grin, then pulled one of the blankets over the two of them, cocooning them in silken fabrics. There was a flurry of movement, and she pushed something into his hands. For a moment he fumbled with the flimsy object, before understanding flooded his mind and the blood rushed to his cheeks.

It was the Crown Daughter’s nightgown.

She pushed his arms out of her way, and embraced him. Tor’laen could feel his wife’s bare skin press against his chest, warm and impossibly soft, and a shudder of delight rolled up his spine. He gently rolled the blanket down, just enough to uncover her head, wanting to look her in the eyes. Nalyra’s gaze sparkled with mischief and joy, her mouth curled in a playful grin.

Some small part of Tor’laen was awash in doubt and confusion. His homeworld was on the brink of open war once more, and his actions might end up playing no small part in it. This night should be one of solitude and reflection, as the Citadel soared across the void to the worlds of his people. His former home. Was he truly going to prove the propaganda correct? Spend his time in luxury, basking in the softness and comfort of his wife?

The rest of him shouted the worries down. He needed this. This was his place, his future. His Crown Daughter. His wife. Nalyra.

He brought a hand up to cup her cheek, his palm broad enough to cradle nearly the whole side of her face. She shuddered, her playful smile faltering slightly at his tenderness, and she leaned into his caress.

“Tor,” she whispered his name into the dim light of the cabin, the word filled with emotions that the Ydani still didn’t have the ability to name. She was here. She was his. The confusing mess of thoughts in his mind abated.

The Bridge felt like it was vibrating between them, alive in a way Tor’laen had never felt before. Layered on top of the feeling of Nalyra pressed against him, it was almost too much for the Ydani to take. The Crown Daughter leaned forward, Tor’laen stiffening slightly as her lips found his neck. She kissed and nipped at the sensitive flesh, her movements carrying only a trace of awkwardness.

This was no practiced political theater, no familiar warship’s bridge. Only the two of them, looking to indulge in one another. To learn whatever secrets their uniforms and gowns usually concealed.

Nalyra nuzzled against his cheek, her breath hot against his skin.

“Do you believe the propaganda, Tor?” she whispered into his ear. “That my desires are some kind of trap? Some way to ensnare you to serve me and betray your people?”

“No,” he gasped, the word drawn from him like a blade from a wound. “I have not the words to describe what you mean to me, but-”

The Crown Daughter silenced her husband, bringing a delicate finger to his lips.

“We need no words, Tor.” She gazed up at him, her eyes full of unspoken promises that quickened his pulse. “You and I…we know the truth of each other, do we not?”

“Lyra…”

The Crown Daughter was being far more assertive than normal. Perhaps she was seeking to reassure him in the wake of the propaganda. Perhaps it didn’t matter. This was real. This was what was important.

“If solitude is truly what you desire tonight, say so, Tor. I will respect it,” Nalyra said softly, even as her hands roamed over his chest.

“No. Not tonight.” The words tumbled from Tor’laen, a sense of certainty creeping over him. “This…this is not theirs to label. Not theirs to classify. It belongs to no one but the two of us.”

“Precisely.” She grinned at him, and lifted her chin, a silent request for a kiss. Tor’laen obliged her, wrapping her in his embrace, their lips meeting once more. This one was slower, but no less urgent, as restlessness and need built steadily across their Bridge.

After what felt like marks, the pleasure abated, and Tor’laen sagged back into the cushions behind him, pulling his wife with him. Nalyra didn’t resist, simply huddling against his chest. They were both covered lightly with sweat, even in the coolness of the climate-controlled cabin.

They lay there for a long while, neither feeling it necessary to break the silence. Tor’laen’s member slipped out of her as he softened, and he could feel his own essence leaking onto his legs. A mess to be cleaned another time. Tenderly, he stroked his wife’s hair as her crownthreads seemed to relax as well, slowly lessening their grip on him. Their Bridge had quieted to a low murmur, their emotions swirling gently over it. He squeezed her a little closer, and she responded by tenderly kissing his chest.

Strange, intense emotions coursed through his head. Was this…love? He tried to keep the thought private, as he considered the notion. The concept of love existed among the Ydani, of course, but it was considered almost as outdated as belief in the First Light, at least for the general public. A relic of a kinder time. Nowadays, partnerships for his people were about compatibility and sustainability, not passion.

More recently, he had encountered the term and concept much more readily in the Zakkili novels he had read, oftentimes being a core motivation for a story or character.

There wasn’t enough data available. Nalyra was the most important thing in his life, next to the survival of his people. Perhaps that was enough. For now. He had, they had plenty of time to figure things out. He would see to it. His arms tightened protectively around his wife, his mind going back to Orphila and Kelran.

Nalyra’s breathing was slow and steady, and the fog coming over their Bridge told him that she had fallen asleep. Mindful of the cool temperatures, Tor’laen pulled a thick blanket over the pair, tucking it around their bodies.

He lay there in the stillness of their cabin, listening to the hum of the Aegis. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, memories of what he had seen in the command dais started encroaching on his thoughts once more.

Traitor to Ydan.

Betrayer of his people.

Pawn of the Zakkili.

Slave to lust.

He clenched his jaw at the last one. Closing his eye, he took a deep breath, then let his gaze slide down to the Crown Daughter, sleeping peacefully on his chest.

The words he said to her earlier echoed in his head. They did not know the truth of this. They did not get to choose what this was.

Slowly, Tor’laen drifted off to sleep as the blue reflections of subspace danced across the cabin, Nalyra held tightly in his embrace.

***