The Musing of R. L. Frymire

DURING THE LONG walk through the growing settlement, no one stopped Aimor, but many stared, pointing. Whispering behind hands, or openly. For once, he was grateful for being the outcast, for he made it to his hut without incident. There, he set the small woman on a three-legged stool.

Then, he hesitated. Despite his father claim, she was not fine. Aimor had seen the flames licking at her bronze skin.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly. Stupidly. Both because he knew she couldn’t understand him, and because of course she was hurt.

The woman just stared at him, her gaze calm. Kind, even.

And Aimor stared back. It was the first time he had a real good look at her. She was young, close in age to him, he was certain.

Then she spoke. Her words were indecipherable, but her low, husky voice enveloped him, making him shiver. His reaction made his face hot, and he looked down quickly, and saw the burnt hem of her dress. He lurched forward, reaching for her. “Here, let me—”

She flinched, and Aimor clumsily tried to apologize, hands up, palms out. Not touching her. He pointed to her leg. Though he knew it was useless, he attempted to convey his intentions. Failing, he gave her a staying motion and hurriedly located their supply of bandages and salve, before returning to hold them out to her like an offering.

Understanding lit those bewitching amber eyes. Holding his gaze, she stood and grabbed the hem of her dress. Slowly, oh so slowly, she began lifting her dress. He couldn’t hold her gaze, but only because he couldn’t not look at her. Her attire was already shockingly short, and his mouth went dry with every new centimeter she revealed.

Heat climbed his throat to spread across his face, and even infused his ears, when the hem reached just below the apex of her thighs, but right before he could see anything, he wrenched his head to the side to give her privacy.

Why he bothered was beyond him.

She doesn’t seem to mind, his brain whispered temptation. Had his body not… reacted in the manner it was, he might have. Instead, he quickly turned his back on her, more embarrassed for his uncontrollable response than her astonishing unabashed behaviour.

A moment later, he felt a small finger tap his shoulder.

Keeping his body forward, he turned his head without really looking at her. “Hmm?”

She tapped him again.

Swallowing thickly and hoping she wouldn’t notice her effect on him, Aimor turned slowly, stiffly, almost forgetting the pain in his ankle. He tried to conceal the disappointment he felt to find her still dressed, but she’d kept the hem raised. The blood in his veins rushed south so quickly, he felt light headed.

A dainty finger pointed to her shapely thigh. His tongue was too thick in his mouth, otherwise he would have assured her that he was already looking where she pointed. He watched as her fingers grazed up high along her thigh, transfixed by the sensual gesture—before noticing her bronze, unblemished skin. Understanding dawned slowly.

When it did, Aimor went to kneel for a closer inspection, but halted the movement midmotion. What was he doing, he thought wildly? She was practically naked, and he was going to move his face closer? The movement was awkward, his ankle protesting, and he lost his balance and fell forward. Only small hands pushing against his chest, keeping him steady, kept him from disgracing himself by falling on top of her.

“Forgive me!” he stuttered, fidgeting.

She only smiled, and raised her dress a second time, showing him that he hadn’t seen incorrectly. She was unmarred by the flames.

Aimor breathed out a relieved sigh, and returned her smile. They shared… something. A moment. One of relief and thankfulness. Suddenly, he felt closer to a stranger than he had to anyone since his mother’s passing.

Then she surprised him by looking down and away. Crimson stained her cheeks as she released her dress, before smoothing the short fabric down. It took him a moment to realize that she was shy, which triggered his own shyness.

Blushing, feeling his heart pitter-pattering, he found himself unable to look away. With her arms wrapped around herself, he didn’t think she was aware how her crossed arms seemed to cradle her bosom, highlighting the ample curves by pushing them up. Like an offering. Twin indents pressed beneath the thin fabric, making him wonder what she looked like without—

A touch on his thigh.

Aimor jerked his chin down, and nearly groaned. Her hand was so small, the fingers long and supple. And she was touching his thigh. Then her hand moved, and he nearly groaned at the sensation, in disappointment. Her touch went down, not up. Then she pointed. He stared further down, and gasped.

His ankle was swollen, the fabric of his pant leg straining around it. Seeing the injury, he felt it, and nearly groaned for a completely different reason, but pride made him bite back on the sound of pain. When she grabbed the bandages from his lax hands, she knelt at his feet.

Suddenly, her face was all too close to a part of him that was all too happy at her nearness. Aimor tried to step away, to turn around and hide his desire, when she gently touched his ankle. He froze, his body on fire. Setting the medical supplies next to her knee, she delicately began pulling up his pant leg.

Once again, she came to his aid, first by pulling him from the fire meant for her, and now. Her kindness tightened his throat, his eyes burning. Until he remembered why his ankle was in its sorry state. That he’d ran. Abandoning his father and the others to an unknown fate.

He was unworthy of her gentle consideration.

Aimor limped back with a shake of his head. If his rejection stung, she gave no indication.

Somehow, he showed her how she could bath after giving her a full pitcher of water and a washcloth, before he went hunting through his mother’s hidden away things. Seeing them killed the fires of his ardor. By the time he set a simple and well-worn tunic and pants outside the room he’d given the unknown woman, his mind was empty of all lascivious imaginings.

Then he left her in peace. Not going far, he went to his tiny room and tended to his injury—alone.

Always, he was alone.

FOR THE NEXT week, Aimor was helplessly drawn to the silent beauty. The language barrier was a nuisance, but whenever he’d stumble through a greeting, she’d smile the sweetest of smiles.

Despite the disapproving looks and unfavorable gossip, the ‘wild’ woman stayed with him and his father. Since there was nowhere else for her to go, no one spoke against the living arrangements, but Aimor knew that would change sooner rather than later. An unmarried woman was fair game to the many wifeless men, and Aimor knew he had to propose first while he still had a chance, but how was he to convey his intentions to her when she wouldn’t understand a single word he said?

Apparently, Ernesh had no such problems, for when another week went by and Aimor continued to hesitate, his own father married her! Before the eyes of the whole community.

She wasn’t one of them, wasn’t Vostroyan, and she was strange, with stranger eyes. Their amber hue was… unusual. Unnatural, some whispered. Like him, she was an outcast. Many were wary of her—and unwillingly captivated. He’d heard the men grumble and the women complain.

She was too beautiful. Too… bewitching.

Fights had broken out because of her, even when she wasn’t around to cause the disturbance. But no one had demanded she leave, because she hadn’t done anything. Other than to look pretty. The men just came off as randy fools and the women as jealous shrews.

Despite everything, no one contested the union. Not one objection was raised, even though it was unlikely she understood what was going on around her. No one seemed to bat an eye that she hadn’t consented. Not really.

In the eyes of the community, she was now his father’s wife.

His step-mother.

Aimor shuddered in revulsion.

His father was much too old for such a young bride, Aimor thought sourly, but like him and everyone else, Ernesh seemed obsessed with the woman.

The day after the wedding, Ernesh’s new bride seemed to avoid her new husband. Aimor eyed his father, wondering if the brute of a man had forced himself on an unwilling bedpartner. He’d heard struggles during the night, but too fearful of his father’s anger, Aimor had done nothing. His inaction shamed him. It was long before sleep had claimed him, and he’d awoken tired, and to his father trying to name the wild woman, who avoided him like the plague.

“Linde? But that was mother’s name,” Aimor said angrily. “You can’t name her after the deceased, let alone after your first wife. Think of the woman’s feelings!”

Ernesh glared at him. “That woman is my wife, and I’ll call her whatever I damn well please!”

Somewhere deep inside him, Aimor found the resolution to stand firm against his father; though, a small part of him quailed in the face of Ernesh’s displeasure. “Why not Amiya?” He wouldn’t admit it, but he’d been thinking of naming her for weeks but hadn’t found the courage to actually do so.

His father shrugged. “Linde-Amiya it is, then.”

Aimor opened his mouth to argue, knowing his father would just shorten it to Linde, but Ernesh departed, and Aimor watched helplessly as his new step-mother escaped through the open door, as if fearful of the undercurrents between father and son.

Despite this woman now being his father’s wife, Aimor found it impossible to view her in a motherly light. Too often, he noticed the sway of her hips, the way her ample bosom gently bounced with her stride, and he took far too much pleasure in watching her bend over at some task. He took great pains to hide his infatuation.

The change in circumstances didn’t stop her from continuing to smile at him. Occasionally, he’d feel eyes on him and would look up to see her staring boldly at him.

Like today.

Later that night, he fantasized, telling himself that the look in her eyes was an invitation.

An invitation to what? he scolded himself the next morning, returning to work with a vengeance. It was his rotation to be amongst those to weed their crops that were beginning to flourish.

His thoughts descended further with the belief that she would never want the likes of him. The ‘man-child’ who ‘couldn’t grow a beard’ and the ‘sniveling welp who cried for his mother’, as the other Vostroyans thought of him.

Aimor rubbed his face, unsurprised, but no less upsetting, to feel less than half a dozen hairs. Then his lips pulled back in a sneer. He didn’t care what anyone thought—a lie. He was a man, and he was more than tempted to march back home, take Amiya into his arms, and prove it. Only the thought that he’d never done such a thing before, been intimate with a woman, kept him from acting on the terrible impulse.

What did he know of pleasing a woman?

Laughter penetrated his riotous thoughts, feminine and scornful. Not a true sound, but memories, of the Vostroya women laughing at him, always behind cupped hands. Whispering behind his back when he passed by, thinking he couldn’t hear their cruel and hurtful words.

Lately, the pain and humiliation at their mockery had begun to transform into fury. Until he thought of her. The anger churning in his gut, boiling in his chest, would evaporate at just the thought of Amiya.

Mother would like her, he thought sadly, but sorrow could not take hold of him when his heart fluttered at the mere thought of his step-mother.

Over the next two months, Aimor saw his father less and less, for the older man seemed always on edge, too easily moved to bursts of anger. Ernesh had never been the most patient of men, but his attitude of late was volatile. Aimor began staying away from home, returning after he knew his father had already gone to bed for the night. Then he’d raid the kitchen before hiding in his room.

One night, he heard shouting, followed by… animal sounds? Not knowing what else to do, Aimor tried to ignore the strange pounding, the grunts, and groans coming from their room; however, he was ashamed to admit that the feminine moans and meowls hardened his flesh inappropriately.

Come morning, his father stormed out of the hut without stopping to eat first meal, and Aimor saw the purple bruise on his step-mother’s chin.

“What did he do?!”

Foolish question.

Rushing to her side, Aimor wanted to hold her, to erase the vulnerable look in her wide eyes, while another part of him wanted to go after his father and beat him senseless for daring to raise a hand to such a small and lovely creature.

Soundlessly, she leaned into him, hiding her face against his thin chest.

His breath stuttered out of his lungs. Before he could react, she was gone, rushing out of the hut without a backwards glance. Aimor watched her go, feeling impotent rage towards his father, but what was he to do? No one would step between a husband and wife, let alone help this wild woman no one yet trusted.

That evening, while his father worked late, it was just him and Amiya, who was cooking at the firepit. Suddenly, she made a strangled sound. Aimor froze, staring at her slender back. After a few quiet moments, he thought he’d heard wrong, but then he heard it again, a strangled sob and that proud back curled in upon itself. Heart wrenching sobs filled the small hut, and Aimor reacted without thinking.

His own heart overflowing with emotion, he tentatively placed a hand on her back, feeling the delicate bones of her spine. He thought she’d flinch and run away. She always seemed so skittish. Instead, amber eyes turned to impale him with a direct stare he could not even begin to interpret. Large tears spilled down her cheeks, her lush lips quivering, before white teeth bit into her bottom lip to stop their trembling. But she couldn’t suppress her sounds of misery.

Somehow, she was in his arms.

Though he was lanky, this wild woman felt small huddled against him. Protective urges rose fierce and strong within him. Holding her tightly, he tried—and failed—to squash the possessive thought: Mine.

As if hearing his primal proclamation, Amiya leaned back. Their eyes locked; held. Who kissed whom first, Aimor had no notion. All he was aware of was that first, tentative softness, of her mouth against his own. His first kiss. With humiliating swiftness, his body responded. To keep Amiya from noticing, he leaned his hips back and away. However, his embarrassment wasn’t enough to compel him to completely pull away.

So, this is what it’s like, he thought, spellbound by the erotic play of mouth, tongue, and teeth.

His arms crushed her to his chest. He forgot everything. Her bruise. Her sadness. That she was his father’s wife.

He felt them. Her hands. Clawing at his back.

Not to get away, but to pull him closer. It incited his lusts to unimaginable heights. Suddenly, Aimor was sitting on the hard floor, and the enchanting creature was crawling into his lap. Then she was pushing against his chest, and Aimor fell back. She was surprisingly strong. In the back of his mind, he felt that he should be the one to do the mounting, but, oh, it was sweet when she rubbed against him. 

He felt her. Everywhere. Then she was kissing him again. Deeper. Ravenously. Fanning the flames of his desire. He could feel dual peaks as she rubbed her chest against his. Grabbing onto her hips, he realized just how tiny she was when his big hands nearly spanned the entirety of her waist.

She began moving. Up and down, swiveling her hips maddeningly. Even through the layers of their clothing, he felt her.

She appeared knowledgeable in the ways he was yet ignorant, and Aimor was powerless to stop the rising tide that exploded from him in a mind-numbing release she couldn’t fail to notice.

For long seconds, he stared up at the ceiling, chest heaving. Dazed. Spent. Before humiliation rose to choke him, the weight on his chest left him. A moment later, he heard his father growling at someone outside, and Aimor’s heart lurched. He barely made it to his room before his father stormed into the hut, demanding for his dinner.