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.
As soon as 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 sandy 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. When he saw her and their eyes locked, she gave him a small smile from her thick lips 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 toys.” a sour look flashed across her elegant and refined face for a moment. “So we are not going to be disturbed. Besides, there is no rule or law that says I cannot join you,” she said in an almost playful tone of voice. Her wilfulness and her ability to switch from serious to playful were some of the things he loved about her.
“That may be true, but from an ethical and moral perspective, what you are doing is highly questionable, your majesty,” he stressed.
“The emperor may lay claim to my body, but my heart and soul will always and forever belong to you, Oh Tharos, The Dark Hawk, Crown Prince of the Zarbarians,” she declared as she placed a hand over her chest. He frowned at her. “I feel the same way, but I wish you wouldn’t address me with that name.”
“And what should i address you as instead?” 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. Any sense of formality between them was gone now, and both he and she knew it. This wasn’t a conversation between an empress and a prince. It was a conversation between two people whose relationship was a complex blend of the personal and professional, where formality and societal obligations met with raw passion and tender feelings that only long-time friends and lovers could have, which at this point had blended into an unholy amalgamation of conflicting desires and denials.
“You shouldn’t worry about old prophecies or what has not yet come to pass,” she said to him with an almost sorrowful and mournful look before returning to her playful smile. “Just focus on what is right in front of you now,” she finished speaking as she took off her towel and gracefully entered the water, revealing herself to him. Her full beauty would have been on display for him to see if not for the shadows cast by the moonlight and the wisps of steam enveloping her. As she drew closer, the moonlight illuminated her flawless tanned skin and her long curly hair gently floating on the water’s surface. The temptation was all too real for him as his heart was beating and 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.
“And where do you think you’re running off to, my darling prince?” she asked, leaning forward, her arms crossed and pressed against her chest in a tone that was as demanding as it was seductive. “I don’t recall giving you permission to leave my presence yet.” she said with a sly smile. Hearing her voice bouncing off the walls of the bathhouse was like sweet honey to his ears, and from where he was sitting, she looked as if she towered over him, even though she was only a little bit taller than him.
“I cannot stay here, nor be seen with you in this state,” he said, gesturing to his bare self. His toned physique wasn’t well 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,” she responded. He then stopped and turned to face her.
“Are you ordering me to stay or asking?” he asked her. “As empress, I could order you to stay,” she said, putting a finger on her chin. “However,” she placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, “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.
He sighed and though up his arms up in defeat. “Fine, you win,” he said, sinking back into the water with a grimace as his chest flared up again in pain. She walked over and sat next to him, only a few feet away. The smell of her perfume and the faint scent of the oil she wore wafted through his nose. It was a sweet, fruity scent made from a combination of fruits whose names he still didn’t know because she never told him.
“Stretch out your arms,” she asked from the blue hue of the moonlight and the mist of stream. It sounded like an order, worded like a request.
“Why?” he asked, but before he could continue, he saw her with a cloth in her hands. He then stretched out his arms, letting her take the lead.
“Now, hold still,” she ordered as she ran the cloth over his arms. He could feel her thin and slender fingers through the cloth. Then she gestured for him to lean forward, and as soon as he did, he felt something soft and warm press up against him as she wrapped her arms around him from behind and began to wash his back.
“Salaba, I can wash myself. I am not an infirm child who needs to be tended 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. We are certainly not children any more, especially since you are now a married woman,” he continued in protest while she continued to ignore him, focusing on washing his body. Despite knowing he shouldn’t allow this, he couldn’t resist her. Feeling her skin touch his, sensing her heartbeat, and tasting the passionate affection she had for him. He found himself enjoying it even though he knew he shouldn’t. She was married, she was the empress, and he was just a prince, one among many princes of the empire. However, he wanted to immerse himself in the illusion of what could have been that he couldn’t help but let himself be carried away by her charms and whims. 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 them like a protective cocoon, she would often run her hand over his toned body and limbs, tracing his scars with her fingers. She spoke up again.
“Well, consider this a special reward and a personal thanks from me to the empire’s greatest warrior and its most dutiful servant,” 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.
“Salaba, I need no reward for fighting the empire’s enemies. Knowing that my people are safe and prosperous is a reward in itself.” Before he could continue speaking, she put her finger up to his lips, signalling him to stop.
“I don’t think it’s fair, regardless of whether you are the prophesied one or not, that you give and give for the empire, and you get very little in return,” she moved a little closer to him. “So as empress, I order you to relax, and as Salaba, I ask you to enjoy what comes next,” she said softly as she whispered in his ear while sitting beside him. As he turned to face her again, about to respond, Tharos was stopped in his tracks when Salaba gently grabbed his arm and guided his hand, placing it on her majestic hills, which threatened to engulf and swallow his entire arm whole. As she let his hand trace down her deep peaks and wide valleys, 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 smooth between his fingers, and at the tip of his thumb, something small and firm, which he started to flick at. Salaba winced as he did so and started biting her lip, her cheeks flushing 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 body and mind felt as light as clouds upon her kiss, as if the pain of his injuries or the guilt he was starting to feel for willingly about to betray the emperor didn’t exist. What existed in this moment was just him and her. But before he could say or do anything else, before they both crossed the line of no return, the line they so wanted to cross even if it would destroy everything 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. Please do not make them choose between their loyalties to me and those of 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, straight, dark brown hair worn in a braided ponytail, wide dark brown eyes, a small, sharp nose, a thin face, and an often cheery smile. 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 the elders 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, with a medium build and stature, well-toned and agile limbs, short black hair, and dark brown eyes. However, unlike the rest of them, he had slighter features such as a small button nose and smaller, more rounded ears. He also had a scar that ran down the right side of his face starting from his right eye down to the bottom of his cheek. His face was painted with a look of seriousness that would even make the greatest of stoics blush.
“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 join you for a dip,” Vartark replied. “You’ve been in a foul mood ever since we 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 asked, 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 it, 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. “What if our crown prince got assassinated on our watch?”
“Our prince is not so easily fooled nor beaten. Besides, I never heard of any women who brings a dagger to the bed chambers,” Vartark replied.
“What about those I heard about who bring chains and whips then?” Zahmesh countered. “I have heard that some of the temples have priestesses that offer such services.”
Vartark shrugged. “You got me there, Zahmesh. But I wonder how you know about such things. Unless you’re partaking.” Zahmesh looked at Vartark with an annoyed look on his face. “No, just recounting what I have heard.”
“Ew, yuck,” Arasha added.
“You’re so innocent and pure, Arasha,” Vartark said to her, and upon that, all of them 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 afterward. 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.
