Dark Age Year 872
Twelfth day of the Forth month
Lying on a bed, more like a fancy stretcher, was Tharos, almost stripped bare aside from a single underskirt and undergarment. His broad, well-muscled chest and limbs were on full display for all who wanted to admire the perfection of a body that looked as if it were carved from marble. A body that appeared flawless with no markings or scars, which would be odd for someone who lived the life of a Mercenary, a life of adventure full of danger. His belongings had also been taken from him: his mismatched suit of breastplate armour, his sword, dagger, and his bag filled with coins, books, and other knick-knacks he picked up on the road, most of which were placed beside his bedside. He was bleary aware of what was going around him as he lay still like a corpse, his breathing faint, his body almost cold to the touch as healers, servants, and a priest tended to his injuries. Oils and balms were prepared and rubbed where he was bitten, and herbal medicines and remedies were forced down his throat. The only thing he could feel was the life force of the people around him, small little fires burning together until they formed a massive fire.
Amid rushing footsteps, shouting, arguments, and debates around him, Tharos was elsewhere entirely, lost in his mind, a truly labyrinthine maze. That place between consciousness and unconsciousness where time flows differently. What felt like a few moments could be several days, if not weeks. In this stillness, the boundaries between life and death blurred, and Tharos was reliving his memories, moments he hadn’t thought about for years, even centuries after they had happened. Even though in the end, all he had left was memories, precious memories that were one of the few things that kept him going, and one memory, in particular, was crawling its way to the surface.
In his mind at this current moment, he was not lying still on a bed fighting back a poison flowed through his veins and violated his body. inside a tent in the hollowed-out corpse of an old abandoned Hillfort that was once home and garrisoned by tribes of many wayward savages. In his mind, he was back in Zarbar, a Zarbar that no one but himself remembers, the times of high magic, where the winds and water were thick with it that you could see and taste it. Of towers of gold and silver, when dragons and airships flew through the skies and towards the heavens, the earth was rich with life, not just animals or magical beasts. But the many races of man and non-human populations roamed the land of Aria, and of lands far from Aria shores whose true names have been long forgotten or sunken beneath the waves and taken on new names by new peoples.
In this memory, he is reliving a moment long lost and forgotten by time, relaxing in a warm and massive bath in a bathhouse. He was much younger back then, perhaps in his late teens. His hair was shorter and tidier, and his body and limbs were slimmer and less limber. He was currently covered from head to toe in freshly healed scars and slight burn marks. Rows of bandages were cast aside in a bin next to a polished sink that was several feet behind him, and in front of him was a floating glass tray with a bottle of wine and a small glass only half full. Beside him on the edge was a container of soap, brushes, cloths, and sponges. It was a vast complex, possibly similar in size to his home in Zarbar. The bathhouse had multiple rooms of baths, some as wide and long as a small house. The baths were often adorned with statues of various gods or monsters, crystal chandeliers illuminating the rooms along with natural sunlight or moonlight through the windows. Columns made of marble or various forms of stone supported the roof, and the ceiling displayed massive paintings or other such art pieces, some painted and others made of coloured tiles. It was a private bathhouse owned by his family, and only members of his family, his friends, or invited guests were allowed to bathe here.
Although he was a diplomat by trade, as the crown prince of the empire, there were times where he had to put down his pen and pick up his sword and fight for the empire. He often helped vanquish the empire’s foes with his sword, cutting down the enemies of the empire like blades of grass, their minds and bodies crushed by his very will, and any fortified walls and gates would fall under the assault of his Azharesh. He knew he wasn’t invincible or immortal, which marked his pride. Despite feeling invincible at times, situations like this served as reminders that fortune and victory were fleeting, and all it took was one mistake, mistimed strike, or missed roll of the dice for all of that to come to an end.
In this latest war against a new foe, called the Batchari, a race of blood-drinking savages who were the twisted amalgamation of man and bat spawned from the great underground. A vast network of underground tunnels and caverns, which stretched all across the entire planet, was home to a myriad of creatures, and the dwarfs had built a small empire within it. However, the miners of the dwarfs dug too deeply and entered into the Batchari domain, fierce fighting soon broke out, and several dwarven holds on the border were brought to the sword. His people were called in to aid the dwarfs to respect ancient deals. Although they won and drove the Batchari back and liberated the fallen holds, his people got as good as they gave. His Azharesh was heavily damaged in the fighting, requiring him to fight on foot for the rest of the campaign, even with Vartark, Arasha, and Zahmesh by his side. The fighting was fierce and devolved into ruthless and cold-blooded slaughter that his people were famed for. As the Batchari had sharp claws that were capable of piercing their magical enchanted armour, and they possessed a blood-curdling scream that shattered bones and ruptured eardrums if you got too close, and they could fly as well. They often flew down to pick up Zarbarian warriors who had been separated or unable to defend themselves, picking them up and then often dropping them to their deaths.
As he lay there relaxing in the bath, with nothing but his thoughts and the darkness, and feeling the stinging pain from his many injuries and wounds inflicted by the Batchari, he only had the moonlight pouring from the rooftop windows for light. The hot steam from the water clouded his sight, and he couldn’t see much aside from a pale bluish hue. It was then, as he enjoyed his solitude, that he thought he heard something. At first, it sounded like faint footsteps walking on the tiles and then a small splashing sound, as if someone was sitting up by the edge of the water, splashing their legs and feet near the water’s edge. Tharos woke from his relaxed state and focused his mind on where the sounds were coming from. There shouldn’t have been anyone else here, as he wanted to be left alone. If this was one of his friends or a servant, they would have called out and announced themselves. As he focused his mind on where the noise was coming from, he seemed to feel a wide range of emotions emanating from that direction. Feelings of love and passion washed over him as he continued to focus. He quickly recognised who it was, as he felt her presence unmistakably.
Once he realised it was her, the fog cleared slightly, revealing Salaba sitting about forty feet away across from him by the water’s edge. The bath was about eight feet long and forty feet wide. She was wearing nothing but a white towel barely covering her well-endowed figure, with a small string tied around her long, curly brown hair. On her wrists and ankles, there were gem-encrusted golden bracelets which she was taking off as she started kicking and swaying her legs and feet in the water. As soon as he saw her and their eyes locked, she gave him a small smile that melted his heart and ignited a hunger within him like never before. However, now wasn’t the time for the passions and pleasures of the lower soul. He was naked before her, with nothing but the steam, water, and poor lighting to cover him. He reached to his side to grab a towel to cover himself before moving closer to address her, ensuring he didn’t have to shout from a distance.
“Forgive me, your Majesty,” he said, giving a quick bow. “But you’re not allowed in here,” he said, trying to be as formal and polite as he could be.
“I am the empress of Zarbar. There is no place in the empire that is off-limits to me,” she said with a stern look upon her face. “Not even you can command nor stop me. I go where I please.”
“Not when you’re a married woman, naked in the bath of another man,” he said with a sigh. “As much as it is a pleasure to see you again, we cannot meet like this. What if the emperor, your husband, finds out?” he said, stressing the point.
“He will not find out; he is busy elsewhere, playing with his other concubines,” a scornful look flashed across her face for a moment. “So we are not going to be disturbed. Besides, there is no rule or law that says I am not allowed to bathe by myself or with company,” she said in an almost playful tone of voice. That wilfulness and her ability to switch from serious to playful were some of the things he loved about her.
“The emperor may claim to have my body,” she continued. “But my heart and soul will always belong to you, Oh Tharos, The Dark Hawk, Crown Prince of the Zarbarians,” she said as she placed a hand over her chest. He frowned at her. “I feel the same way, but I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Call you what?” she asked, giving him an almost knowing look. “Isn’t Tharos your name? Are you not the crown prince of our people? Unless your injuries were more serious than I was lead to believe,” she said, her face turning from a playful to an almost worried and concerned look.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he said to her. “That name, the Dark Hawk. I dislike it and you know that I do. I wish you wouldn’t tease so,” he sighed as he pointed at her almost accusingly. Any sense of formality between them was gone now, and both he and she knew it. For this wasn’t a talk between an empress and a prince of the blood. It was a talk now between two people whose relationship was a complex blend of the personal and professional.
She gave him an almost sorrowful and mournful look before returning to that playful smile. “You shouldn’t worry about old prophecies or what has not been, only worry about what is in the now right in front of you,” she said as she took off her towel and climbed into the water, exposing herself to him. Her full majesty would have been on display for him to see if it weren’t for the shadows where the moonlight did not shine and wisps of steam covering her. As she moved closer, the moonlight landed on her perfect and almost flawless tanned skin, with her long curly hair floating gently upon the water’s edge. The only saving grace that stopped him from leaping upon her and ravishing her like a wild animal was the pain that came with sharp and sudden movements and the long-term consequences if he did. The temptation was all too real for him as his blood ran hot. As he turned his back on her and tried to get out of the bath, a sharp pain struck and coursed through most of his body. His torso and legs shot up in pain, causing him to fall back into the water. He lay on the side of the bath on his back, trying to nurse the pain. As he did so, she was right in front of him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked with her arms crossed in a tone that was as demanding as it was seductive. Hearing her voice bouncing off the walls of the bathhouse was like sweet honey to his ears.
“I cannot stay here, nor be seen with you in this state,” he said, gesturing to his naked self, his toned physique barely concealed within the pale blue moonlight and the steam of the bath as he turned around to leave. “You shouldn’t move around. You’re still injured.” he stopped his motion as he was about to try to crawl out of the bath and instead turned to face her.
“Are you ordering me to stay or asking me to stay?” he asked her, although he already knew the answer, for he could sense her thoughts as she made no attempt to hide them from him. “As empress, I could order you to stay,” she said, putting a finger up to her chin. “However, as Salaba, I ask you to stay. I don’t want your wounds to open again,” she said, this time with a look of worry on her face. Although her eyes told a different story as hazel eyes sparked like a storm of passion and hunger for the pleasures of the flesh that only rivalled his in this moment.
He sighed and threw his arms up in defeat. “Fine, you win.” he said, with a grimace that pained his sharp-featured face, staying where he was as she walked and sat next to him, only a few feet away. The smell of her perfume and the oil she wore faintly wafted through his nose. It was a sweet, fruity scent made from a combination of fruits that he still didn’t know the names of because she never told him.
“Now stretch out your arms,” she said to him, gesturing for him to move closer to her. It sounded like an order, worded like a request. “Why?” he asked, but before he could continue speaking, she gave him a warm smile and reached for a cloth to apply soap on it. He then stretched out his arms towards her as she moved closer.
“Now, hold still,” she ordered as she ran the cloth over his arms. He could feel her thin and slender fingers through the cloth. Gesturing for him to move forward, as soon as he did, he felt something large, firm, and spongy press up against him from behind. As she wrapped her arms around him and began to wash both his front and back. “Salaba, I can wash myself. I am not an invalid child who needs to be tended to and doted on. Besides, it is beneath your dignity as an empress to wash me like some common servant.” he protested.
“Tharos, I decide what is beneath my dignity, not you,” she said from behind in a firm and commanding tone, a serious look flashing quickly upon her face. “Besides, you never had an issue when we used to bathe together as children.”
“That was when we were children, Salaba. Not now that we are adults, especially not now that you are a married woman,” he continued in protest. She continued to ignore him, focusing on washing his body. Despite knowing he shouldn’t allow this, he couldn’t resist feeling her touch again, sensing her life force, and tasting the passionate affection she had for him on the tip of his tongue. He found himself enjoying, drinking deep in the illusion of what could have been if she had been his woman instead of being taken by his cousin and the scheming elders who denied him his rightful throne and, most importantly, his rightful bride and empress. As she continued to wash him, foaming bubbles forming around the couple like a protective cocoon, she would often run her hand over his toned body, tracing his scars with her fingers. “Consider this a special reward and service from me as thanks to the empire’s mightiest warrior and most dutiful of its servants,” she said with a thin smile. He looked at her and returned with a small smile of his own. She knew just how to stroke his ego and pride; she could play him like the strings of a lyre if he let her. It wasn’t just her beauty and charm but also her understanding of people and how to bend them to her fantasies and whims that made her both an admirable and terrifying woman to behold.
“You need to stay still and relax.” she whispered softly in his ear as she sat beside him. Turning his head to face her, she gently grabbed his arm and guided his hand, placing it on her majestic mountains, which threatened to engulf and swallow his entire arm whole. His hand traced down her high peaks and wide valleys until she led it further down through the hot stream and soap bubbles, beneath the water until it reached the entrance of her secret garden. He felt something fluffy on the palm of his hand and something slick through his fingers, and at the tip of his thumb was what felt like a small stone pebble, which he started to flick at. Salaba winced as he did so and started biting into her lip, her cheeks flushed a rosy red. Salaba then pulled his head closer, giving him a soft kiss on the lips, while his free arm was around her waist supporting her. His heart was racing, and his blood was running quicker than the wind, and he felt himself about to kiss her again and bring her closer. But before he could say or do anything else, before they crossed the line of no return, the line they so wanted to cross even if it would destroy everything and everyone they cared about, he sensed something. Three familiar presences—Vartark, Arasha, and Zahmesh—were nearby and heading their way. A shocked look dawned on his face, along with a small feeling of relief.
Salaba looked at him with a face filled with longing and worry. “What is it? What is the matter.” She asked him. He then looked at her straight in the eye. “Nothing is the matter, but. Vartark, Arasha, and Zahmesh are coming. You have to leave; they cannot see us like this,” he said as he broke the grip she had on his arm, standing up in the water and wading to the other side to grab her belongings. “I will keep them distracted while you sneak out the back.”
“Or how about I just hide until they leave?” she said, her tone hopeful. Although they both knew that the mood was gone now.
“Salaba, you know that Arasha and Zahmesh are sacred breath users; they will sense you instantly. Do not make them choose between me and the empire, for we both know they are not always one and the same,” he stressed, begging her, even though he didn’t want her to leave his side. “You must go. They cannot know you’re here.” Looking dejected, she gave a soft sigh as Tharos handed her belongings and gestured her to the back door. As she left, water dripped from her frame, and just as she exited through the back door, she gave him one more small smile before turning her back on him. Tharos heard someone call out to him from the darkness beyond the moonlight pouring into the room, hidden within the stream.
“Tharos,” a woman called out cheerfully. “Are you in here?” It was Arasha. She was a small and short woman with long, braided hair worn in a ponytail, wide dark brown eyes, a small, sharp nose, a thin face, and an often cheery smile that she wore upon her lips. She had a slim and small figure with long and limber limbs. “It’s so dark in here. Vartark, could you please help with the lights?” she said.
“Lay off him, Arasha,” another voice called out. “You know he likes to rest where the shadows lie.” This voice was smooth and clear, like a voice from the heavens above. It was Vartark. He was tall and lanky, with a slim and thin body. His youthful face was almost perfect, looking as if it were carved from stone with no blemishes, along with his strong nose and jawline. Along with a short beard braided in drill-like curls and a thin moustache with not a single hair out of place, looking as if it were carved from stone with no blemishes along with his strong nose. His long black hair, which passed his shoulders, had several strong white streaks, and his pale silver-colored eyes glowed in the darkness.
“But it’s so dreary in here,” Arasha answered back. “It’s not good for him. It’s probably why he’s in such dark moods.”
“You should ask what would be good for him, instead of doing what you think is good for him, Arasha,” another voice spoke out. Straight to the point, this voice was coarse and blunt like a hammer to the face. It was Zahmesh. He was a young man like Tharos. And much like Tharos and many Zarbarian warriors, he was of medium build and stature, with well-toned and agile limbs, short black hair that cut thin and amber eyes. However, unlike the rest of them, he had a small button nose and smaller, more rounded ears, along with a scar that ran down the right side of his face starting from his right eye down to the bottom of his cheek.
“I am here, Arasha,” he said as he waved to them through the steam of the bath while wading through the water. That at his full height was up to his waist. As he got closer, he could see they were wearing towels wrapped around them, carrying bags containing clothes and other items.
“What do you all want? I didn’t want to be bothered.”
“We came to check up on you and maybe join you for a dip,” Vartark replied. “You’ve been in a foul mood ever since you got back.”
“I thank you for the concern, but I am fine,” he said, noticing Zahmesh’s nose twitching. He was standing where Salaba was standing before.
“Hey, did you have a woman in here or something?” Zahmesh asked.
“No,” he replied, a clear lie.
“Really? Why do I smell a woman’s perfume then?” he pointed, narrowing his eyes at Tharos.
“Fine, you caught me. I was trying out a new fragrance.”
“Oh really. Would you like a new dress to go with, Crown Princess?” Zahmesh said in a rather dry tone, with Arasha clapping her hands together in joy. “Oh, I am so happy. I can’t wait to dress you up like a doll. I have all sorts of dresses we can try out,” she said excitedly.
“Sure, that sounds great,” he said, half-jokingly. “As long as you find one that doesn’t make my hips look too big.” All four of them broke into laughter for several moments until it stopped and was interrupted by Vartark.
“Joking aside,” Vartark said. “It’s not our place to question who he wishes to spend his personal time with.”
“It is if it was an assassin,” Zahmesh countered.
“I never heard of any women who bring a knife to the bed chambers,” Vartark said in reply. “What about those i heard about those who bring chains and whips then?” Zahmesh said.
Vartark shrugged. “You got me there, Zahmesh,” with Arasha adding, “yuck,” in reply.
“So you’re so innocent and pure, Arasha,” he said with a small smile on his face, which broke into a chuckle. They all soon joined him in the water, their voices echoing throughout the walls, until everything quickly in his vision became dark afterwards. Their voices that once echoed and thundered throughout the bathhouse faded as if they were far away in the distance. Like nothing more than ghosts, echoes of what once was and what could have been. In that moment, Tharos fell back into the shadows of his mind again.
