The Grey Ones
The Open Cage: II

THE VASAATH

In his dreams, she squirmed underneath him. Her soft, fair skin was glistening with small beads of sweat, her delightful breasts bounced in the rhythms of his thrusts, and her passage was smooth as it embraced his manhood tightly. She moaned, pleaded, sang, and wailed. She tasted like paradise, and he would never let her go.

When he woke up, his strained member was aching and wanting and he had nowhere to turn for privacy. The girl was sound asleep in his inner chamber and he was out on the rugs by the fire. The only place where he would find privacy and solace was in the privy, and he simply had to reconcile with the fact that he had to relieve himself like a regular kasaath.

It was beneath him to be so weak, to dream such inappropriate dreams about an honoured guest—but he knew he couldn’t control his mind in his sleep, and while relieving himself, the memories of his dreams were vivid; he even allowed himself to expand on them, just a little.

The thoughts lingered long after. When he had his breakfast together with Juniper, images from his dream haunted his mind. When the girl smiled at him, he had to restrain himself but couldn’t stop imagining her writhing beneath him. He wanted to feel her soft skin under his fingertips again. He wanted to touch her, to have her. She did come back to him—that had to mean something? Having her so close and yet so far away was torture, and discipline would be difficult but paramount.

There was, however, something inside him that was stronger than his desires, and that was anger; he felt insatiable anger towards whoever did such awful things to the woman in front of him. But he already knew who the culprit was—and that vain young lord would die at the hands of the Vasaath, if it was the last thing he did.

He was nevertheless surprised to feel hate so strongly when he rarely felt anything like that. Feelings, although necessary, were to be controlled. His hatred was not. His anger was not. His desire was not. The girl had him lose control, something that was rare for him, and what made him even angrier was seeing her so sad.

She said very little that day. He watched her closely, and she seemed sombre. She didn’t leave the tent for the whole day and whenever the Vasaath or anyone else entered, she stiffened. After dinner, when the two of them had settled down in silence—she by the table, and he on the rugs—the Vasaath intended to ask why she seemed to feel unsafe, but she beat him to it.

While sipping on a glass of wine, she asked, her eyes glittering in hesitation, “Has anyone come looking for me?”

The Vasaath knitted his brows. Of course, that was why she had been so worried.

He sighed. “They are not welcome here anymore. Keeping you from me had to be seen as a breach of the peace treaty. Any guards coming here do so at their own risk. You are perfectly safe here.” Their eyes locked, and he tried his best to hide his innermost wishes. The girl’s cheeks were flushed from the wine, and her eyes... in the back of his mind, he imagined them to be begging him to touch her, but he knew that was not the truth.

After a while, she looked away and lowered her head. “You must think I look hideous.”

The Vasaath frowned and snorted. “You must think I only see beauty as visual appeal.”

She shot her head back up. “No, I—”

“But if that is the case,” he continued and allowed himself to smile, just a little, “I find it very difficult to believe such a temporary thing as a bruise would affect a face as attractive as yours.”

The girl blushed violently, and the Vasaath felt very pleased with himself. There was a strange sense of reward in flatter he had not experienced before—then again, he had not indulged in flattery before. The effect it had on the girl satisfied him, and the most satisfying part was that he did not have to lie. She was indeed very attractive and if he wanted to rush the process of courting her, he had to make her aware of his interest.

“Do you truly find me beautiful?” Her voice was small, uncertain.

“I may not be of your kind,” said he, “but Iʼm not blind.”

“Now you flatter me, sir,” said she.

The Vasaath shrugged. “I do, but I am also stating facts.” He spied a smile on her lips, and his innards jolted. “Surely, you must have heard of your allure elsewhere.”

The smile faded. “What has been expected of me has always been beyond my capacity.” She sighed deeply. “Indeed, I have rarely been called hideous, or haggish—but people seldom call me beautiful. My station allows most people to be, well, disappointed.”

This surprised him greatly. Indeed, he wasn’t of her kind and their opinions and views on beauty differed quite drastically from the mainlanders’, but he wasn’t foolish. He understood and could even appreciate their focus on aesthetics and looks, but he did not quite understand their rules.

Logically, Juniper would be considered as very beautiful; her dark hair was a pleasing contrast to her pale skin, her silver eyes were enchanting, and her frame was feminine enough—as he knew the mainlanders liked it.

Deep in wonder, he stood to refill his glass of wine. Then he turned and asked, “Why?”

The girl seemed uncomfortable, but she humoured him. “Being the daughter of the Duke, I’m expected to reach a certain standard. My hair should be brighter, my face should be painted, my eyes should be blue or green, my waist should be smaller, and my—” Her face suddenly reddened. “My bosom should be fuller.” She sighed. “I’m simply not enough.”

The Vasaath listened carefully, but he did not understand. He knitted his brows and took a seat by the table. “So you live with impossible expectations just because of your station?”

The girl smiled sombrely. “No one wants their royal family to look like simple peasants.”

“Beauty then,” said the Vasaath, “isn’t only pure aesthetics to your kind, but aesthetics in relation to rank? A peasant girl with your looks would be considered a beauty, but you aren’t?”

She lowered her eyes.

The Vasaath gritted his teeth. “Such insolence would be unacceptable with the Kas. Beauty is beauty, no matter the station.”

“Then how do you define beauty?” She leaned her arm on the table and her hair slid down her shoulder.

The huff of air that travelled to the Vasaath’s nostrils forced him to steel himself.

“Strength of character,” said he, determined to make it through the conversation without having to distance himself from her, “conviction, and self-assertiveness are all traits of beauty to the Kas. We do value aesthetics as well—red and black are colours we prefer, and we value graceful and strong movements.”

She cocked her head. “Movements?”

The corners of his lips twisted. “Yes. Every soldier learns how to move correctly, and every movement has a purpose.”

Slowly, he extended his arm outwards in a straight line.

“The sword has to be an extension of the self, and thus the arm has to carry the heft of the weapon. Done correctly, the movement is beautiful. Everyone moves differently in their roles—a soldier moves in one way, a maasa in another; a baker’s movements when kneading the dough are beautiful when done correctly, as are the movements of a thatcher, or a carpenter.” He eyed her carefully while leaning in over the table. “So, you see, we don’t judge according to rank. A beautiful woman is beautiful no matter her station.”

The deep shade of red on the girl’s cheeks gave him an indescribable sense of satisfaction. Perhaps, he thought, it would go faster than he’d anticipated. He certainly hoped so—he knew not how much longer he could stand it.

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