Date: Wed, 8 Nov 2006 02:50:56 -0800 (PST)
From: Jae Monroe <jaexmonroe@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Gift of Ys Chapter 10

This work is a product of the author's imagination, places, events and
people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to
real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you
like it!  If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then
email me at: jae.monroe@yahoo.com

Acknowledgement: Thanks to Richard for editing this.


The Gift of Ys

By

Jae Monroe


Chapter 10

Isidore was dressed in his thickest velvet camic and sturdiest trousers.
Truly cumbersome travel attire, though the Sherim-Ranians would label all
his clothes thus.  This place was not right for him.  He had come to
realise that last night.  Kerim had not returned to his chambers, perhaps
out of consideration for him or perhaps because he had got too sotted to
climb the stairs (Isidore was inclined to believe the latter) but he had
been left in that large bed all alone and had got not a wink of sleep.
Distress at his task on the morrow had kept him well awake into the night
and, after tossing and turning for hour after hour over the prospect, what
he must do had come to him.

Early into the morning hours, Isidore had made his escape.  It was not so
hard to leave the castle.  He had simply dressed in a thick cloak and,
after sneaking some distance from the Svarya's chambers so that none who
passed him in the castle would know that was his origin, he had scurried
through the halls beneath the notice of the few Dajani who passed him,
thinking he was merely some Dara heading to, or returning from, an
assignation.  He had been accosted once, but upon telling the Daja that it
was to Lord Kylar that he was heading, had been let go without the Daja
catching sight of his face.

Once outside the castle walls, he had discarded the cloak since the heat of
even the wee hours of the morning meant he would not need it.  Now it was
his mission to get himself a mount.  He was, at present, wondering just how
he might achieve it, standing by the stables, when he heard the
unmistakable sounds of congress taking place in one of the stalls.  If it
was the horse-master then he was in the best of luck.  So he pressed
himself up against the wall, looking for a crack in the wood through which
he could see who was involved in the relations.  Sucking in a silent
breath, he found one, and he had to hope that there was some light source
in the stables to illuminate what went on inside.  There wasn't; but the
windows near the roof were letting in enough of the pre-dawn light so that
he could very easily see who was engaged in the congress.  And he only just
managed to suppress his gasp as this was revealed to him.

Inside the stall, it was most definitely the horse-master, a big burly Daja
in his forties and covered in thick black hair, who was rutting against his
somewhat smaller companion.  But not so much smaller.  If Isidore was not
mistaken, and he knew that he was not, the one getting fucked was Gomar il
Barin; that sour and unpleasant diplomat to whom he had had the misfortune
to be exposed on his journey to this place.  Hah!  Isidore had suspected.
But of course it was not mentioned that Gomar il Barin was Tanja-born.  He
often wondered what happened to the Tanjani who became Dajani; if they had
urges to go back to their Daran heritage.  Obviously they did, which would
explain why Gomar il Barin had despised all Darani; he was jealous of that
which they had.  Though it didn't explain why he had hated Sheq-Kis-Ra
where there was no shame for Dajani who wished to be penetrated.

Isidore stepped back from the stable wall, recalling why he was there.  The
unexpected discovery had thrown everything temporarily from his mind, but
now he realised it was to his very good fortune.  Not only was congress
keeping the horse-master occupied, but the nature of the congress was such
that the one being fucked would most certainly prefer that he walk out with
every horse in the stable than that he inform the castle of what he had
seen.

The back door of the stable was locked from the inside, which made getting
in without walking past the rutting horse-master and envoy rather
difficult.  Isidore examined all around, looking for a place where he could
sneak in.  The windows were too high and narrow so that, if he did manage
to slither through the small gap, he would likely fall on to the floor with
an audible thud and alert the clandestine lovers to his presence.  Then he
spotted his point of entry.

Additions to the stables tended to be built simply so that they could be
collapsed if necessary, or moved around and reconstructed.  The walls,
therefore, simply went to the ground, but were not embedded in any
foundation.  What lay under them was the sandy sort of soil that prevailed
in Sherim-Ra.  This eroded from rain outside and the washing out of the
stalls from inside, so it was not too hard to locate a stall that had a gap
large enough for Isidore to crawl through on his belly and, thus, enter the
stables in silence.  The only danger was if the horse inside the stall got
spooked and kicked or trampled him, or simply vocalised its fear and
alerted the horse-master that there was an intruder.  If the former
happened, he was done for; if it was the latter there was hope, at least,
that he would simply get delivered back to the castle and none would speak
of his attempt to escape.

Horses slept standing up and so, if he was quiet as he entered and avoided
knocking into the horse's legs, he would have hope of keeping his presence
concealed.  Getting down on his knees, he widened the gap between the
ground and the wall of the stable by scraping some of the dirt away with
his hands.  Then, sucking in his breath, he pushed his way in, keeping his
head facing forward so that he could see where he was going as he half
pushed-half pulled himself through the gap.  And, for all his concern at
the stall occupant's potential distress at his entry, it was somewhat of a
disappointment to find that there was none as he had crawled into an empty
stall.

Silently opening the half-door, he crept through it still hearing the muted
sounds of rutting, which were comforting as they significantly lessened his
potential for discovery.  The end stall contained a horse and so he quietly
made his way past the others.  They really did look odd standing in
slumber.  He had to suppress an inappropriate chuckle when he recalled how
his brother and his friends, for a lark in their younger days, used to
sneak into the paddocks at night and tip over the cows that likewise stood
while they slept.  He'd never really thought about it when he'd lived in
Sheq-Kis-Ra, but Dajani were really very stupid, no matter where they came
from.  Of course, he was not nearly so stupid since he had merely watched
his brother's antics, though he had just about died laughing at the time.

At the last stall, he rubbed the horse's neck to awaken him.  He was glad
to see that it was gelding, which would make him more docile and,
hopefully, less prone to sounding out his botheration at being woken up
during the night.  Riding bareback was one of the least pleasant ways to
travel, but he didn't have the luxury of tackling up the horse in the wee
hours of the morning as he made his escape.  Fortunately, there was a
bridle of sorts that the horses wore when they were not wearing one
attached to reins.  This enabled them to be led about with a rope and so
this, along with the rope Isidore appropriated from the hook hanging by the
stall, would do for reins, enabling him to direct the horse at least.

He planned to go through the forest that lined the eastern side of the
Svarya's castle and then seek refuge in one of the villages on the other
side.  Recognition was, of course, a risk.  But if he went to the furthest
village, and took lodgings in the meanest of conditions, it was likely that
the villagers would only have heard of him and not seen him.  Whether this
was likely to work he did not know.  Even now, as he led the horse from the
stable and the lovers at the other end still oblivious to his activities,
he felt his step falter with his uncertainty about what was to come.

But he would not let it stop him, he needed to get out of there.  He had
been given one day to reconcile himself to serving in the bed, and it
simply was not enough.  No; it determined that he had to leave; he had no
choice.  Kerim had as much said that he would force him if he resisted, and
to do so would condemn them both.  So, if Isidore was unable to reconcile
himself to sharing the carnal acts in the space of a day, then they would
both go to the Punisher.  So, really, he was doing this for both of them.

Also, Isidore thought as he lead his horse away from the stables (so that
to all he would look like a mere stable-boy about his duties though, up
close, his clothing would be a dead-giveaway, for no stable-boy would wear
such costly velvet), Kerim needed to realise that Isidore would not just
roll over when he played the barbarian.  He couldn't simply order Isidore
about without consequences.  His only form of resistance was escape, and so
he was taking it.  His long term plan was to get himself to the Temple of
Lodur.  Once there, he would be safe from the Svarya because, and this was
a source of much amusement to Isidore, there he and Kerim would be equals.
True equals.

Kerim, as Svarya, was ordained by Lodur.  Isidore, as a member of the House
of Jornn, was, according to legend, greatest grandchild of Jornn, mortal
son of Lodur.  Legends held that Lodur had many sons by Aaniya, who were
gods like their all-father, and five mortal sons.  And the Great Houses of
Pasia were derived from these five mortal sons.  These sons were Kol, Garr,
Azerim, Aeze and Jornn, with all but Kol and Jornn having been snuffed out.

And so, in the Temple of Lodur, Kerim would have no power over him, and
Isidore could claim sanctuary there until such time as he could bring
himself to serve the man sexually.  That would be his bargaining chip and
he wondered how useful it would really be.  He hoped that Kerim would see
reason; that Isidore was not merely serving himself and that he was willing
to serve the Svarya in bed, but he needed time to come to terms with it.
That was a reasonable request, was it not?  He thought, as he led the
docile horse in the direction of the woods, that merely requesting a little
time was not beyond reason.  Kerim wouldn't start a war over that, no
matter that he was the very image of Vemiyar da Jaal.  Of course, when he
finally got to the Temple of Lodur, much time would have elapsed already,
at least a few weeks.  But he would cross that bridge when he came to it,
he decided.

In all, he felt quite proud of himself, and ignored the niggling voice that
told him the whole plan was flawed.  What else had he at his disposal?
These were desperate times, and so his measures were likewise.  He had
debated seeking sanctuary in the Temple of Ys, but to do so would be to put
the Ysian priests in jeopardy, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
The only priests with the power to resist the Svarya were those of Lodur,
and so that was where he would ultimately go.  Perhaps, even, they could
talk some sense into their secular brother, though Isidore thought that was
about as likely as his catching a deer for his dinner.

A whinny from his horse drew him from his thoughts and he looked about
nervously, trying to appear calm as a stable-boy might in the face of his
horse's sudden noise, but he failed dismally as he saw the two Dajani
approach.  They were wearing rough work-clothes and, with their equally
rough appearances, looked most menacing as they approached him.  Without
thinking, he mounted his horse, desperation giving him the extra lift he
needed to make it atop the gelding.  Continued fear made him oblivious to
just how hard a bare-backed horse was as he spurred him to a fierce gallop,
flying past the two Dajani and missing their stunned expressions.

Be damned, his escape was now no longer a secret, and he could only hope
that, by the rough look of the two men, they were not acquainted with
goings on within the castle and that, hopefully, his cover was not blown.
His horse galloped towards the woods, somewhat slower than what Isidore was
used to.  He had not missed that the gelding was older when he'd chosen
him.  Still, it was a horribly jarring experience without the benefit of a
saddle, and he gritted his teeth against it, holding on tight to both the
reins and the horse's midsection.  Preoccupied as he was in keeping himself
from tumbling off the horse, he almost missed the blur that streaked across
his path, but his horse didn't.

The gelding came to a skittering, shying halt that threw Isidore against
its neck but, fortunately, was not so sudden as to launch him from the
gelding's bare back.  As it was, he clung tight to the horse's mane as well
as its reins, catching his breath.  When he looked up, he didn't know
whether to sigh in relief that it was not Kerim or curse all the more that
it was Jalen.

The Daja gave him such a look of knowing condescension that Isidore almost
wished it had been the Svarya who had caught him in mid-flight from the
castle.

"I suppose I should not ask what you are doing here this time of the morn,
since 'tis patently obvious," Jalen said.

Isidore debated lying and saying he merely wanted a ride by himself, but no
one, just for the joy of riding solo, would choose to do so on a barebacked
horse, so he merely said, "I suppose you were spying on me?"

Jalen had been doing nothing of the sort; he had, in fact, been riding off
his hangover from the previous night since there was no medicine like fresh
morning air, but he told Isidore: "It seems you must be put under
surveillance, since you cannot be trusted when left to your own devices."

"So that was your job this morn?" Isidore asked, and then he made a sound
of disgust.  "I would think he should at least let you heal from receiving
his latest beating ere he sends you back to the job that earned it."

Jalen sucked in his breath.  This Dara was too much, too smart-mouthed, too
prone to lip.  He sidled his horse up to Isidore's, grabbing the makeshift
reins that Isidore had affixed to the gelding and yanking them out of
Isidore's hands.  Then, reaching across, he scooped Isidore off his perch
and placed him on the saddle before him.  He kept one arm around the boy
and secured his arms to his sides as he snapped the reins of his own horse,
directing him back towards the stables while ignoring Isidore's muttered
protests.

"Are you going to tell him straight away?" Isidore asked Jalen, after he
had delivered the stolen horse back to its stables and as they were riding
back in the direction of the castle.

"Aye, I shall," Jalen said.  "I have warned you that he does not like
secrets."

Isidore said nothing for a few moments, watching the cold grey castle walls
rear up as they crested the hill and it came into sight; a stark and
unyielding portent of what he was to face when Kerim was apprised of his
attempted escape.

"What do you think he'll do?"  The question had been playing on his mind so
that he could not help but vocalise it.

"You will find out soon enough," Jalen said.  "Though you should have
thought about that before you embarked on such a ridiculous escape
attempt."

A rock and a hard place, Isidore thought.  He had escaped so that he could
avoid being forced and, though he had not intended to be caught, the
consequences of such could not be much direr.

"He didn't come back to his chambers last night," Isidore informed Jalen as
he was pulled along with a large hand wrapped around his upper arm.

"I know where he is," Jalen said curtly, dragging Isidore into the meal
hall.

Isidore had never been in the meal hall before dawn, when most rose to go
about their day, but now he got somewhat of a surprise.  Many Dajani slept
in there, too sotted from the previous day to go to their chambers, or
preferred to be there, he supposed.  And up by the Svarya's table lay the
Svarya, on one of the hard benches that sat behind it.  He was stretched
out, with one leg up on the bench, bent at the knee, and the other likewise
bent at the knee, the foot flat on the floor.  One arm was hanging down on
off the bench, which was really too narrow to contain him.  The veins in
his hand were standing out.  The other arm was bent, with the forearm
across his eyes as he slept.  His large chest was rising and falling
rhythmically.

Isidore was wondering how Jalen was going to rouse the unconscious Svarya,
when Jalen said his name.  It was not loud, but Kerim jerked awake, sitting
upright and then cursing violently and wincing as the morning reminded him
of what he'd accomplished the previous evening.  He pressed the heel of his
palm against his head and swore a number of times before looking up at
Jalen, and then frowning to see that Isidore was standing beside him.

"What is it?" he asked, the pain dissipating from his features to be
replaced with a wary look.

"I found him making his way towards the woods."

Isidore closed his eyes as Jalen said this, so he missed the change in
Kerim's features, from hung-over irritability to utter fury.

"Tell me he jests, Dara," Kerim growled, downing the jug of water that a
serving boy had brought in response to Jalen's surreptitious order.  When
Isidore opened his eyes, it was to look into hard black ones that no longer
held a trace of discomfort and were now glittering menacingly.

"I wish he did," Isidore said softly.

The sound that Kerim made was one of pure anger, and he launched himself
off the wooden bench towards Isidore with such fury that Jalen
instinctively stepped in front of the boy.

Kerim stopped up short, standing inches from his friend with a surprised
frown.  "Do you move aside, Jalen," he ordered.

Jalen exhaled, stepping aside, but he gripped Kerim's upper arm.  "Get
yourself fed, yes?" he suggested, ignoring Kerim's pointed look at the hand
which remained on his bicep.  "These things are best dealt with when the
belly is not gnawing at you."

Kerim looked at the offending hand until Jalen dropped it, then he made a
disgusted sound.  "Ah, if I did not need to piss.  Aye, we will all eat ere
he answers for his latest bout of stupidity.  Send for some food," he
instructed curtly as he walked away tugging at the ties on his trousers.

Satisfied with that, Jalen sent a servant off for some food.  Then he and
Isidore sat, not at the Svarya's table, but at one of the tables before it.
Isidore was placed on the bench on the opposite side from Jalen, so that he
had to endure the Daja's disapproving stare which was delivered in heavy
silence.

Ale had been delivered by the time Kerim returned and this he drank deeply.
Isidore remembered his brother saying that often the best cure for the pain
of last night's imbibing was more of the same the next morning.  After
those occasions when Isidore had drunk too much, hair of the dog that had
bitten him was the last thing he had wanted to face.  Kerim was obviously
of his brother's school of thought, though, for he belched appreciatively
after downing the ale and his eyes, when he turned them to Isidore, seemed
to have calmed somewhat.

"Smart of you," he said, looking up and down Isidore's slight form which
was warmly clad, evidence of his attempt at escaping, "to keep yourself
half-starved looking.  I cannot feel right adding to the starvation; else
you would not be breaking your fast along with us."

"My lord is kind," Isidore murmured.

"Oh," Kerim said, when the food was delivered to the three of them, "I
would reserve judgment on that, if I was you, little one."

Isidore stiffened, a tremolo of fear going right down and burying itself
like a knife in his gut, making him too ill to contemplate the food before
him.

"What is wrong?" Kerim asked knowingly, rolling up a slice of meat and
stuffing it in his mouth.  His appetite was quite the opposite of
Isidore's.

Isidore lifted a slice of meat, steeling himself to consume it, despite
that his stomach churned with so much fear he doubted there was any room in
it for food.

"If you don't feed yourself, I will feed you," Kerim said, irritable at the
display.  "So best you get eating."

"I am not hungry, my lord," he said, after forcing himself to swallow a few
bites of breakfast, which only made him feel more uncomfortable when the
food mingled with the terror in his gut.

"Why is that?" Kerim asked, downing a second jug of cold water which had
never tasted as good as it did that morning.  "You cannot be afraid of what
is to come," he stated with a look of mock conviction, "else you would have
thought of that ere you did what you did.  But thinking, that's not your
strong point, is it?  Mouthing off, on the other hand, you are ever ready
to do."

Isidore looked up, his dread evaporating with that smug assertion.  "I do
think, my lord," he said furiously.  "And if you do not know this by now,
then 'tis your mental capacity we should all be questioning."

Kerim grinned, while Isidore cursed himself inwardly for rising so readily
to the bait.

"Such impertinence," the Svarya mused.  "You will never give an inch, will
you?"

"Will you, my lord?" Isidore asked coldly.

"Give an inch?" Kerim questioned, smiling as he went back to his breakfast.
"I would give you many inches, did you but ask for them.  But, I rather
think that was what you were trying to avoid in running away."

Isidore flushed, looking down at his plate.

"But now I am beginning to revise my opinion," Kerim said thoughtfully as
he finished his plate, "of your desire for that, or the rest of me.  After
all, I have told you more than once that your impertinence will earn you
naught but my tongue down your throat.  Yet you continue to be impertinent
and you have told me, on innumerable occasions that you are excessively
clever, and I am not inclined to disagree too greatly.  Therefore, I must
surmise that your continued impertinence can only mean that you want my
kisses, is that not so, Isidore?"

Isidore continued to look at the corner of the table, where the wood had
been dented for some reason, probably from having the table upended during
one of the meal hall brawls that he had yet to witness here.  He could not
answer that question, for he was not prone to lies, and to say the answer
was unequivocally yes or no would be a lie.

"Well, fortunately for you," Kerim said, his voice dripping with sarcasm,
"ere this day is out, you shall have all my kisses and every one of my
inches as was promised to you yester eve."  He rose from the table and came
to stand before Isidore who continued to stare at the mussed wood of the
table corner.

Isidore stared at the hand that was held before him a number of moments
before he became conscious enough to take it.  Large, warm, and roughened
from the sword hilt, the hand enveloped his own and he was being led up to
the Svarya's chambers.  For all his amused banter at the table, Isidore was
surprised that Kerim said nothing the entire way up to the chambers.  And,
of course, Isidore was not inclined to risk the man taking offence at his
own utterances, so the silence hung between them as they walked along the
stone passages.

By the time they got there, Isidore was well and truly relieved of any hope
he might of felt upon seeing the Svarya's light-hearted reaction to his
escape.  The hand had progressively tightened its grip on his own so that
it was numb when they finally got inside the chamber door and, after he was
swung inside it, he began to sense that Kerim was not ready to just brush
this episode off.

"Escape?!" the Svarya demanded.  "Is that what you will do now?  You will
run away from me and hide in the woods where there are not one, but two
wolf-packs that have hunted out just about all the game there and would be
only too happy for some utterly stupid boy to come wandering into their
midst, alone and unprotected."

Isidore gulped.  He had not thought of wolves.  He was about to say
something in his defense when Kerim gave him such a glare that he shut his
mouth.

"Why?" the Svarya asked.

"I..."  Isidore coughed, his voice had gone breathy from fear.  "I didn't
want to be forced."

"If you didn't want to be forced then you should have come willingly,"
Kerim growled.  "And I agreed to give you time to visit the temples, or
whatever was required, to appease your delicate sensibilities.  But you
didn't even wait to make use of my generous offer.  Instead my
reasonableness towards you was responded to with nothing but petulance and
defiance.  So I am done being reasonable."

Kerim slammed the door to the chamber shut, locking it and placing the key
atop the door-frame so that it was well and truly beyond Isidore's reach.
Isidore's heart was beating wildly as he watched this display.  He stood
there, unable to move and, even if he could, having nowhere to run.  But he
was done running; the Daja's continued overbearing actions had grown beyond
his tolerance.

"Take off your clothes," Kerim ordered, and when he did not obey
immediately, he was rewarded with a bellowed "now!"

"No," Isidore answered, but it came out as a whisper, so he cleared his
throat and repeated aloud, "No."

Were he not in such a state of angst, he would have taken supreme pleasure
in the look of complete astonishment on Kerim's face.

"Think you 'twas a suggestion I gave you?" the Svarya said, advancing on
him.

Isidore stood his ground.  Having nothing to lose at this point gave him a
reckless sense of bravery.  "What will you do, Kerim-ya?" he asked, tipping
his head up to regard the man who had come to stand not a foot from him.
"Will you force me?"  He folded his arms across his chest.  "Go ahead, I am
waiting."

Isidore's was amazed how he was able to keep the furious beating of his
heart out of his voice, but it remained cool and calm.  It was only the
desperate nature of his situation that enabled him to remain so detached.
After all, what he feared most was to come by order or by force; therefore
he may as well have the worst and rightly hate the man for it.

The Svarya looked down at the boy's face, stony and unflinching, even as he
loomed over him.  Damn him for forcing his hand, Kerim thought, as he saw
he was not about to intimidate Isidore into submission.  The tactic that
had rarely failed in his life before was failing him dismally now.  In
fact, it seemed, the more he bullied Isidore the harder Isidore's
temperament got.  Ah, Gods, he had gone about this all wrong, especially as
he had no intention of forcing Isidore.  It was not his way to force
anyone.  If it were, he would have had far more arse than ever he had got
when in training or marching the borders.

Kerim sighed in disgust.  "I will not force you," he admitted, cursing the
boy for calling his bluff; that was never how he had wanted Isidore.  But
he was just angry enough to do what he did next.

"Then what are you doing?" Isidore demanded as he was shoved on the bed.

"You were given an order," Kerim told him, his voice cold.  "I am seeing
that you obey it."

When he was thoroughly divested of his clothes, he was left alone in the
room.  Kerim unlocked the door and stormed out of it, slamming it behind
him.  But, at least Isidore was no longer locked in and he could put on
fresh clothes.  He didn't though.  Instead he lay back and let the hot
tears spill from his eyes, blurring the view of that awful battle-scene on
the ceiling.  He hated those demonstrations of power; he truly hated them!
Why, he wondered, was it always one step forward and ten steps back with
Kerim?  They could never agree.  They could never stop fighting and
bickering, and yet the Svarya wouldn't send him back to Sheq-Kis-Ra.
Instead he kept him here so they could ever be a source of torment to each
other.

Kerim was thinking the same as he sat in the parlour, not ready to face the
castle as yet.  Gods what was wrong with him?  Could he never get it right?
Why had he stripped Isidore naked?  To punish him for disobeying an order,
that was why.  Then why did it feel wrong?  He could not answer that, but
he felt a right prick at this time; and the more he thought on it, the more
his shoulders slumped as he realised what he must do.

It had just been mistake after mistake with Isidore.  He really did care
for him but, because he was so incapable of showing it, the boy well and
truly - and rightly - despised him.  And so it was to be; there was only
one way, therefore, that he could truly show Isidore how greatly he cared.
Even though it would bring him naught more than a fleeting reflected joy in
seeing pleasure in the Sheq-Kis-Ranian.

If ever he managed to raise a smile again, he would be surprised, Isidore
thought as he sat on the bed.  He contemplated getting into it, since he
was damned tired after his sleepless night and morning on tenterhooks, but
as he stared out the opened balcony doors, his eyes were drawn to the
direction of Sheq-Kis-Ra.  What used to be the source of his pride now made
him feel ashamed, not to be of Sheq-Kis-Ra, but that it called him son.
For he had shamed his home with his foolish actions.  Now that there was no
longer any Daja standing over him threateningly, he could admit how utterly
foolish he had been to try to escape.  If anything had happened to him; if
he had lost his life, his father would have lost a son; his older brother a
younger brother; his nation a Svaraya and Kerim would have been held
responsible.  Sheq-Kis-Ra could have been within its rights to declare war
on Sherim-Ra for the insult, and then countless other lives would have been
lost as a result.  There would have been untold destruction because of it.
He was a fool!  A stupid fool not to realise that there might be wolves in
the forest, and he would have been atop a tired old gelding that was
hard-pressed to outrun anything.  Gods help him; where had his sense gone
to?

But desperation tended to inhibit rational thought, while fear oft
precluded any consideration of the ramifications of one's actions.  Isidore
had had a lot of both as he had lain awake the previous night,
contemplating his rape on the morrow.  But it had not come and, if the
man's words were to be believed, would not have.  But he had not waited
around to find this out.

Though he could wish to wallow abed all day, considering his actions, the
reasons for them and whether or not he was justified in undertaking them,
he realised that wallowing would avail him of nothing.  He was too agitated
to find any peace in sleep, so he climbed off the bed, walking to the chest
of his clothing and selecting items to wear.

Once dressed and ready for the day, he opened the door from the bed chamber
and was halted instantly when he saw Kerim sitting on the parlour couch.
He looked as though he had been contemplating the very set of events that
had been plaguing Isidore, but the Svarya jerked in the direction of the
door when he heard it open.

Isidore opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted.  Kerim got to his
feet and held out his hand.  "I have something for you," he said, and
Isidore took his hand, after a moment's hesitation.

He was led from the parlour and down the hall until Kerim stopped by one
door, opening it.  Isidore's eyes widened as he was led inside, seeing it
was a bed-chamber like the Svarya's, only smaller.

"'Tis yours," Kerim said, pushing Isidore inside so that he might survey
it.  The room looked fresh and clean, not dusty or disused, and Isidore
wondered who had used it in the last year.  A large bed sat against one
wall, freshly made and covered in a heavy throw.  There were several chests
and a dressing table, but what Isidore noticed were the bookcases against
the wall, empty, but definitely designed to take books.  There were three
couches at the far end of the room, beside the balcony, and covered in
suns-light; a pleasant area to sit and read, especially in the afternoon
when the suns'-light would stream in.

"Why are you giving it to me?" he asked after he had wandered about inside,
absently running his fingers along the furniture.

"You need somewhere to call your own," Kerim said.  "I had planned on
giving it to you after you had grown accustomed to me, but that seems never
to happen, so you may as well have it now.  But that is not all, I have
somewhat else to show you."

He reached out his hand and Isidore took it, then he was led from his
chamber, noticing as he had passed the door that there was a key in the
lock.  Kerim would not have missed this either.  So he was to be given the
means to lock himself away from the Svarya if he wished?  This definitely
surprised him.

In silence, he was led out of the chambers and through the castle passages,
trying to remember certain features as he passed them so he could remember
where they were going.  There seemed a certain gravity about the Svarya's
demeanor, as though a weight had settled on his large shoulders and he felt
its burden heavily.

When they had reached a set of passages that Isidore did not even vaguely
recognise, Kerim stopped at one set of very large double doors, taking the
key he had gripped in his other fist, and placed it in the lock.  The
double-doors swung open and then kept propped that way by large brass
door-stops in the shape of lions that Kerim nudged before them with his
boot.  Isidore did not notice this, however, as he turned around and saw
the rows and rows of books.  Ancient books.  He went up to one shelf,
seeing that the script looked a little strange and he gasped to see it was
a variant of Ancient Pasian, not so old as the old language, but older than
any of the dialects that they had used for nigh to a century.

"No one uses this library so 'tis yours," Kerim informed him from the door
and Isidore was surprised to hear the sadness in his tone.  "You may call
it your own for a twelve-month, after which time you will be returned to
Sheq-Kis-Ra."

Then he turned and left, missing Isidore's stricken expression, the boy not
knowing himself that he wore it.

He would be returning to Sheq-Kis-Ra.  He had to stay in Sherim-Ra but one
year, then he would be sent home.  Those thoughts had gone around and
around in his mind for over an hour as he sat in the chair behind the
library desk, surrounded by books, but his mind was too clouded and
agitated to even think of reading them.

It was over, he thought.  The struggle with Kerim, the fight to maintain
his personal space, and the battle against his body's responses, were all
over.  And it was well, he told himself, shaking away that strange feeling
of loss that pricked at him.  He could never have made a life here;
Sherim-Ra was too backward, their beliefs too warped by the thinking of
Kerim's grandfather.

And what of the strange attraction he continued to feel towards the Daja
which, he was sure, was largely responsible for his current distress?  It
was well that they would never join again, he was sure, for no good had
come of it the first time, so it was well that it was also the last.

And so he would leave Sherim-Ra, but a twelve-month to serve his time.
Then he would be back in Sheq-Kis-Ra, back to his old life; back to the
Enlightened One, only having to hear the reports of the way things were in
Sherim-Ra at which he could cluck his tongue ruefully, wishing they were as
enlightened as he.  But how could he do so with any kind of conscience?
Once home, in a little after a year's time, it would be with the knowledge
that he had gone to Sherim-Ra and brought none of his own enlightenment.
Merely, he had served his time and left.  The word coward insinuated itself
into his thoughts, and he bit his lip as his eyes misted over.

"Why are you crying?" a Daran servant entered the library with a pitcher of
watered wine and a goblet for him.

Isidore started at the voice and turned in its direction, only then
realising the truth of the boy's words when his vision was blurry.  "'Tis
the dust," he murmured, embarrassed.

The boy gave him a funny look, for there was no longer a speck of dust in
that library, but he said nothing, having been trained to know better.  "Is
there aught else you require, highness?" the boy asked.

Isidore jerked at the title from his past.  "Why do you call me that?" he
asked curiously.

"'Tis who you are," the boy said, his voice shy but with an undeniable
thread of conviction.  "They might deny your heritage here, but we know of
it.  We heard of you in Sherim-Ra, even those in the provinces did hear of
the Dara-Svaraya."

Isidore nodded, a little surprised, but he supposed the status accorded to
him in Sheq-Kis-Ra would have been a source of some amusement for the
Sherim-Ranians.  He looked up after a moment when he perceived that the
servant remained.

The boy looked unsure of himself, but before he could hasten away, he spat
out what was itching for release on his tongue.  "It did give us hope,
highness, to know you were Sheq-Kis-Ran royalty," his voice went low, "and
we need hope here," he said quietly but earnestly.

Isidore did not know what to say to that.  He who had been relishing his
return home had not even thought of what he might represent to the Darani
here.

"Do you dislike the way of things here?" he asked curiously, for if he was
to believe his attendants, Darani were generally content with the way of
things.

The boy shook his head.  "Things have got better since Svarya Kerim, at
least for we Darani inside the castle walls, though what happens on the
outside is still largely left up to the Clan."

"The Clan?" Isidore asked.

The boy was about to answer but at the sound of footsteps in the hall, he
stopped, pouring the goblet of morning wine for Isidore then bowing before
he darted out of the room, leaving Isidore to mull over his thoughts.

Since his arrival in the household of Kerim da Jaal, he had been kept away
from the Darani, whether incidentally or by design he did not know.  He had
never known that he might be considered by them as anything more than an
interloper or a somewhat pampered guest.  Never had he thought that they
might take solace in his existence for what it represented, that Daran
royalty was not impossible.

Truly his presence here was a fortuitous opportunity, was he of a mind to
take it.  Yet he was not to stay here.  He was not to bring about change,
if that were even possible.  Instead he was to retreat to the safety of
Sheq-Kis-Ra where at least he would be free of the oppression, if none of
the Sherim-Ran Darani had a hope of being so.

So...what if he was to stay here?  He could ask Kerim...  No, such was
impossible; for to do so, even was it to effect change, would be to toy
with a man to achieve his own ends.  And the idea of toying with Kerim's
emotions, even for so noble a cause as this, left a far fouler feeling in
his chest.  Oh, Gods, Isidore thought, leaning back in the large chair and
staring at the ceiling rafters.  Oh, Holy Gods, he did not need this.  This
was most inconvenient.  But try as he might, he couldn't help that he felt
something for Kerim, in spite of his overbearing Dajan manner.  There was
something there that made him feel more than just a moral obligation not to
play with his emotions.  There was something that made him feel positively
ill at the prospect of hurting him.

Why couldn't he have been a dim-witted brute?  Why couldn't he be the
thoughtless and cruel bastard that Isidore had been fond of calling him
when they so frequently butted heads?  Instead, he had bested Isidore on
more than one occasion when they had engaged wits, and, further to
Isidore's consternation, he was caring, in his own way.  Isidore looked
around him at the evidence of the man's generosity.  A room just for him.
Kerim had said it and all it contained belonged to him for the twelvemonth
he was to remain here.  To any Sherim-Ranian's thinking, Kerim owed nothing
to Isidore.  And yet he gave, nonetheless, today's gifts not being the only
times he had done so.

But he had given more than just physically: when they had come to the heart
of the battle between them, the claiming of bed-rights, the warrior had
backed down.  Isidore knew enough of the warriors in his own home to know
that this was not something they did very readily, for they were
relentlessly defensive of their pride.  He had noted more than once that
they would go to the extent of sustaining serious injury, or likewise
hurting another to maintain it.  Yet Kerim had surrendered his pride in
this, and Isidore could not figure why the Daja had done so.

Not only that, he had also given Isidore what he'd ultimately wanted: his
return to Sheq-Kis-Ra.  The one year he was to stay in Sherim-Ra was a
grace period to all of them, for it would be the height of rudeness to send
Isidore back after a month.  Such would have suggested that Kerim had found
him wanting, which would have shamed Isidore and insulted his family.
Instead Kerim would have him remain, in his own chambers no less, to spare
Isidore the insult of appearing to be spurned.  So he had surrendered in
this also.  But why?  Why had he given Isidore all that he thought the boy
wanted, and then left him to himself?

"Oh, Isidore, you fool," he murmured to himself, and he could add stubborn,
intractable, blind and incredibly stupid to that list.

Without stopping to let his overly cautious mind interfere in what he must
do, he stood, walking to the door and pulling the key from it.  His for a
year, Kerim had said and there was but one thing Isidore could think of to
do with it at this time.

It fell on Kerim's desk with a thunk; the Svarya looking up in surprise.
Isidore had been apprised that he was attending matters at his desk in his
great, cavernous office when he had gone to look for him, and he was
utterly pleased that he was alone as he did so.

"Why?" Isidore asked, folding his arms across his chest and directing one
of his severest looks on Kerim, for he wanted answers, direct and no
nonsense answers.  "Why the gifts?  And why the return to Sheq-Kis-Ra?"

Kerim regarded him, wondering why Isidore was being so ungracious.  "'Tis
what you want, is it not?" he asked, his own expression stony.  "Why do you
care for the reasons?"

"Because I do not trust you," Isidore decided to goad the man.  "Your
tactics are so frequently underhanded; I cannot help but look the
gift-horse in the mouth if it comes from you."

Kerim looked thoroughly affronted, and then his expression quickly turned
to one of fury.  "Nothing I have given you has been done with aught but
your well-being in mind.  Everything I have done for you has been done only
to make you happy so you might accept this as your home.  When I had to let
go of even the hope of that happening, I gave so that I might see some
trace of joy in you while you must remain here.  But you mistrust even
that.  Am I truly such a villain to you?" he demanded, his black eyes
showing altogether so much hurt that Isidore regretted engaging his emotion
to elicit that confession.

"No," Isidore answered, "but your gifts are not welcome, if they come at
the price of my quitting your presence."  He grasped the large hand that
was balled into a fist on the desk, and Kerim was surprised enough at the
boy instigating a touch between them that, despite his fury, he didn't
think to snatch it away.  Isidore placed the library key in the Daja's
grasp, folding his fingers back around it.

"What means this?" Kerim asked, looking from the key in his grasp to the
boy.

"It means I refuse your gifts: the chamber, the library, my return to
Sheq-Kis-Ra," Isidore said, keeping his voice steady, and then he forced
himself to admit the truth.  "I wouldst have you instead."

Kerim opened his mouth to berate Isidore for his lack of gratitude, and
then he closed it as the last few words sank in.

"If you will still have me, of course," Isidore used the opportunity to
continue, for his recent behavior made it by no means a foregone
conclusion.

If he was not struggling to keep up with the Daja as he bounded through the
castle halls, tugging Isidore behind him, he would have felt some
embarrassment at their racing through the passages like children where
naught would doubt the reason for their haste.  As it was, a few startled
servants backed out of the way and there were some knowing looks but he put
them from his mind.

"You are sure of this, little one?" Kerim asked once they were in his
bed-chamber, hefting him up into his arms so that he could look him
directly in the eyes, his own black ones searching the midnight-blue ones
for a trace of doubt.

"I am," Isidore said with a surprised smile.  "And are you?" he asked
cheekily.

Kerim grinned.  "Can you not tell?" he asked, eliciting a giggle from
Isidore, then he leaned in, his lips touching Isidore's but not close
enough to form a kiss.  "Do you still require lessons?" he asked against
the full lips.

"I think I have the way of it," Isidore murmured, closing his eyes and then
pressing his lips against those of the man, completing the kiss.  He
wrapped his arms around the thick neck, feeling Kerim's arms tighten around
him, crushing him against his wide chest, but Isidore reveled in the tight
embrace, as he did in the taste of the hot mouth.  They communicated with
lips and tongues, sometimes sucking and playing with each other, other
times licking and exploring.  They did not break the kiss as Isidore was
laid on the bed on his back, Kerim coming to lie over him, their bodies now
touching, fully clothed, their hands poring over each other while their
tongues continued to duel.

Kerim pulled back, despite Isidore's trying to stop him.  As he stood
before the bed, Isidore leaned up on his elbow, watching him curiously.
The Daja yanked the ties of his vest open quickly, so that one or two tore
free, while Isidore watched avidly.  Now that he could finally admit how
much he desired the other man, he wanted to see him bared in his entirety.
The vest was shrugged off and thrown aside, some distance away.  One by
one, the ties on his trousers were also undone and Isidore shifted
slightly, feeling his hardness strain uncomfortably against the thick
fabric of his trousers.  He watched as the last of the ties were opened,
the trousers hanging low on the man's narrow hips, and he felt the familiar
trepidation of stepping beyond what was safe and under his control, of
having his desires pervade his senses so that he was open and vulnerable to
this man's every sensuous touch.

Then Kerim yanked down his trousers and Isidore's eyes widened.  There
before him stood the man's phallus and while he could say he knew it; he
had lost his virginity to it; he had not actually seen it up close before,
and right now it stood before him, in full arousal.

Without thinking, Isidore reached up and touched it, a sound of surprise
passing his parted lips as it jumped in his grasp.  His own did that
sometimes when he felt a surge of additional excitement amid arousal, but
this one's movements were heavier, the jump definitely batted the rod
against his fingers which curled around the velvety skin of the shaft,
sliding along its length while juicy precum gathered at the tip.

He looked up suddenly, his eyes meeting Kerim's which had gone smoky black
with desire.  Smiling slightly, he went back to the task at hand, raising
his other hand and sliding it across the firm flesh of one powerful flank,
caressing across the inner thigh which tensed at his touch, and then he was
touching the loose skin of the large balls that hung beneath the rod he was
caressing with the other hand.

This elicited a groan from their owner, and Kerim stepped forward, bringing
one knee up on to the bed so that the rod was inches from Isidore's face.
The most natural thing to do was to taste the rod, so this he did now,
rolling back the foreskin to completely expose the moist, flared head,
licking the tip and swirling his tongue across the sensitive glans, so that
he could taste the sweet juices that coated it.  Any nervousness he had
felt, any trepidation, was entirely eradicated, possibly because now he was
in control.  Of course, thoughts of nerves or anything other than that
which he was progressively burying in his throat were fast escaping him.

The taste was hot and heady; the musky scent filled his nostrils as he
worked more of the shaft into his mouth, and it was as he was about to open
the back of his throat, tilt his head up, and take the head deep into his
throat that a fist in his hair stopped him.  Kerim withdrew his rod from
the boy's mouth and prised the small fingers off its base.

Isidore looked up in surprise which quickly turned to mortification.  "Was
I not doing it right?" he asked, his cheeks flaming.

"No," Kerim said with a grin, pushing Isidore back into the centre of the
bed.  "You were doing it too right, and I will spill ere I even get your
pants off."

Then there was no more talking.  His mouth was covered by that of the other
man; hot and wet it pressed against his own, the tongue entering his mouth
and possessing its every inch.  It tasted so good; the way Kerim had always
tasted.  It was so right that before long Isidore forgot all else but the
kiss which was accompanied by caresses of the man's hand on his body,
slowly divesting him of each item of clothing until he was likewise bared.

When the fingers moved up to one of his nipples, pinching and flicking over
the sensitive skin, he moaned, arching his back so that his hard cock
rolled on his belly.  For some time the fingers continued to torture the
sensitised flesh, while Isidore's own fingers gripped and dug into the
sinew of the man's shoulders, as the kiss grew more fervent.  Then the
fingers left his nipple, tracing slowly down his belly which quivered
tautly in response to their path.  Then they came across the hot, hard
member that was trailing its slick moisture on his abdomen.  Kerim slid his
fingers over the throbbing member, stroking down the velvety skin, his
finger tips going down to the sensitive sacs below it.  He massaged there
while his palm pressed the hardness against the boy's belly, creating a
sheath and soon Isidore was responding to the stimulation on his balls and
bucking his hips against the palm and feeling his own juices smear against
his belly.  Then his rod was gripped in a firm strong grasp which stroked
up and down it, the fingertips occasionally brushing over the throbbing tip
which made him squirm with desire.

When he was close to being finished, Kerim slipped his hand from the
member; a dirty trick, but he played it nonetheless, sliding his hand back
up the taut musculature of the boy's belly, over his chest and up to his
face, stroking one thumb over the smooth cheek.

"Are you still sure?  You want this?" he asked.

Isidore nodded.

Kerim shifted, reaching to the cabinet and casting Isidore a suspicious
look.  "You will not run away now, will you?"

Isidore flushed and shook his head.

Then he gasped as he was rolled on to his belly and felt the oils rubbed
against his cleft.  The finger stroked along the length of it, and Isidore
jumped a little each time it passed over the sensitive skin of his
love-hole.

"You still want this?"  Kerim wanted to make sure Isidore agreed every step
of the way, so he asked this as he slid his finger slowly up the love
passage, feeling the ridges and finding the small raised part which
delivered a man his pleasure when being fucked.

Isidore's affirmation was only a gasp as he felt that part inside himself
being stroked.  That was what it was, he thought, the part inside him that
he had wondered about, which had given him such pleasure the first time.
His hard rod throbbed against his belly as the gland was massaged, while he
could do naught more than moan in response to the fingers, wanting more but
having enough presence of mind not to beg for it to be given to him.

"Do you want more?" Kerim asked, coaxing a plea out of him yet.

"Mmm," Isidore murmured while the finger moved about in maddening strokes.

He heard a chuckle behind him, then the finger was withdrawn and he was
shifted to his knees on the bed.  Kerim pulled Isidore back until he was by
the edge of the bed, and then stood on the rug-covered floor next to him,
bending his knees slightly so that he could be at the right position for
entering him.

He held off doing so immediately, however, preferring to take the
throbbing, glistening head of his phallus and tease the sensitive flesh of
the boy's love-hole which was clearly on view.  Isidore let out a moan as
he was teased, feeling the head rub over and over the budding flesh,
bringing it back to sensitised awareness.  He wanted it so much; he wanted
the huge organ plunging deep into him; he wanted to feel it fill him to the
hilt, and he wanted it to be buried far within him.

"Please."  The word burst from his mouth as the man continued to lubricate
him with his own juices, but going no further.  Isidore groaned to feel the
tip press against his tight flesh, so hot and blunt, not quite pressing
through, suspended until the man put his own considerable weight behind it,
which he would only do when he was sure that was what Isidore wanted.

"Please," Isidore gasped out again, feeling the head draw tight circles
around his hole.  "Please, do it now."

With a groan, Kerim positioned himself against the hole then leaned his
weight behind it.  Isidore gave a long, drawn-out moan as the flesh filled
him, going deeper and deeper into him, stretching him wider and wider as it
invaded with that same sting.  Only it was less painful and lasted not so
long as it had the first time; the muscles of his opening accommodated more
quickly to the thickest part of the tool and that heavy, stuffed feeling as
the rest of it lay inside him.  Then it was drawn out and he felt every
vein slide past his sensitised ring, before it slid back in, filling him up
again.

He pressed his lips together to suppress the cries with every thrust as
again and again that hot, hard meat was buried within him.  He shivered as
every nerve deep inside him fired pleasure in response to the rigid flesh
that rubbed past it, causing his rod to twitch and throb with pleasure.  He
could not touch it; to do so would be to end it all too quickly.  So he
settled for clenching his muscles around the large invader, tightening his
grip so that they had a better chance of coming together.

Kerim grunted as he felt the passage tighten around his cock, and shoved it
in harder while he heard Isidore's muffled moans below him.  Reaching down,
he tugged the thick column of black hair back so that Isidore's head was
drawn up, his mouth no longer able to remain clamped shut on his moans as
he cried out in pleasure.

"That's better," Kerim told him, in a voice overlaid with pleasure.  "I
want to hear every sound."

"Aha," Isidore agreed abjectly and Kerim smiled, releasing his tight hold
on the boy's hair, but keeping the silky braid in his palm as he thrust.
The one time when Isidore was truly docile and agreeable was when he was
being fucked, it would seem.  And it was the one time when Kerim could get
away with making a demand like that and not have a pair of sparkling
midnight-blue eyes narrowed at him.

The sounds of Isidore's pleasure, the moans and gasps as he was fucked, and
the occasional loud cries as he was rammed deeper, only served to bring
Kerim's climax closer.  He began to pound against the firm, supple flesh of
the boy's buttocks, letting go of the boy's hair and grabbing both hips,
ramming his cock deep inside him, into the warm slick sheath that gripped
him so tightly.  That grip clamped even tighter when Isidore eventually
gave up and climaxed with a loud cry, clutching his manhood as it jerked,
spilling several thick loads before him, releasing so much pent up lust.
Eventually the feeling grew too great and Kerim also climaxed, shutting his
eyes and pulling the boy against him as he drove his hips forward for
several short, sharp thrusts, unleashing his hot thick cream into the warm
cavern.

And then it was over and he was leaning over Isidore's back, his hands on
either side of those of the boy on the bed as he breathed deeply, his lips
pressed to the silky skin of Isidore's cheek.

"The next time, I'll last longer, I promise," Kerim told Isidore who was
breathing deeply, sweaty from their fervent love-making the end of which
had come quickly, as might be expected.

"Mmm," Isidore breathed, "so will I."

Afterwards, they lay together, Isidore's back against Kerim's chest, both
of them cooled by the breeze that flowed in from the open balcony doors.
Isidore felt one large hand slide down the smooth skin of his arm, tracing
the form of its lithe musculature.

"Do you think we should have done this from the first?" Kerim asked.

"Fucked?" Isidore asked absently.  He knew how he had been, screaming out
as he climaxed so he did not resent the question; any clear-thinking man
could have come up with it.  "I think the time was right, for us both, on
this occasion."

The hand slid across his hip and down his thigh, then back up to cup one
firm buttock.  "And are you upset that we have?" Kerim asked.

"That I came to it willingly must tell you that I am not," Isidore replied.

"You were not forced the last time, yet you were upset," Kerim reminded
him.

"You will gloat now?" Isidore asked with a sigh, pushing the hand away.

Kerim ignored the boy's attempts to free himself from the embrace.  "I am
not gloating and neither am I looking for a fight; I merely wanted to check
that, unlike last time, you were not harbouring some sense of upset at what
has transpired."

Isidore relaxed.  "Be assured I am not," he said.

"I am glad of it," Kerim said.  "I would have left you alone, you know," he
mused after a few moments.

"But I came to you," Isidore reminded him.

"No," Kerim said, taking Isidore's fine-boned hand in his own, "before
that, when first you came here."

Isidore laughed.  "You honestly expect me to believe that?" he asked.

"'Tis true.  When I first saw you in the receiving room I cursed you
several times under my breath for being so small yet so enticing, for I was
certain that I would face untold tortures having you in my chambers while
not being able to touch you.  Then you opened your mouth, and any fear I
had of your being weak and terrified disappeared and I knew I would have
you.  So if you had but held your tongue, 'twould have been as you wished:
you would not have been touched and in due time, sent back to Sheq-Kis-Ra."

Isidore turned in his arms, looking up into the black eyes.  "But that was
not what I wanted; you know that now, though it took me nigh as long to
figure it myself."

"For all your excessive cleverness," Kerim reminded him with a smile.

"Aye," Isidore said, wrapping his arms around the man's neck and burying
his head against his chest, kissing the salty skin there.

"An agreement?  I am surprised," Kerim said, running one hand down the
smooth skin of Isidore's back, feeling the ridges of his lithe muscles.
"'Tis always about arguing with you, Darima."

"I would more say 'tis about having the last word," Isidore said, leaning
back and delivering the man a challenging look.

"Ah well," Kerim said, taking one small hand and twining their fingers
together, "I can deal with your faults if you can deal with mine."  He
shifted slightly, and Isidore gasped when he felt the spongy phallus head
press against that portal where it intended to go.  "But now we have one
thing we can agree on, do we not?"