Fall of Angels

CXXI

SILLEK WEARS A purple tunic over a lighter shirt, and maroon leather trousers. The scabbard holding the sabre at his side and his riding boots are both scarred and workmanlike. He carries a heavy leather jacket in his left arm as he stands by the door. “I need to go.”

“I know.” Zeldyan offers a gentle smile. “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

“Don’t be a hero,” says Zeldyan quietly, holding a squirming Nesslek, whose fingers grasp for the blond strands held back from his hands by her green and silver hairband.

“I have no intentions that way-as you know. My idea is to win, not to follow some outdated idea of honor.”

“Please remember that.”

“I will. If … though … If it comes to that, you have what you need … Summon your father …” His voice turns husky for a moment.

“I know. It won’t be necessary.” Her tone is bright, despite the darkness in her eyes.

Sillek enfolds them both in his arms, and his lips and Zeldyan’s touch, gently, desperately gently.

Nesslek’s fingers seize his father’s tunic and twist.

Sillek reaches up and disengages the chubby fingers. “You, young imp. Always grabbing.”

“Like his father,” Zeldyan says gently.

Sillek holds his son’s fingers, and his and Zeldyan’s lips brush again, more delicately, more longingly than the last time.