Aran gazed down at the quiescent form of his Shaylan slave on the narrow cot, swathed beneath layers of blankets. The chief battlefield apothecary stood across the cot from Aran. The man's unusually nervous demeanour twisted the knot that had lodged in his chest.
Aran had spent almost a week at the palace dancing attendance upon his youngest brother's wedding. Never thought he would see the day his brother was happy to be caught by a sensual viper from the northern lands. With the palace flush with the northerners with whom they have an uneasy alliance, there had been little rest to be had for Aran and his men as they saw to the protection of the High King.
All the while, he had been plagued by thoughts of the Shaylan. The memory of her soft gasp stealing across his skin as he thrust inside her. The arch of her body beneath his. The scent and taste of velvety soft skin. The texture of silky copper strands spilling through his fingers.
Now he discovered the silky hair spilled across the white pillow only emphasised the pale stillness of her heart-shaped face. Dark circles shadowed beneath her lashes. The backs of his fingers grazed the skin of her cheek and jaw. Her skin was icy cool to his touch.
"Poison?" his queried dangerously. Anger ravaged through him like a forest fire in the heart of autumn. He knew without question that he would kill to protect her. And he would swiftly dispatch those that dared to lay a finger on her in harm. She was his.
The exposure of the intriguing creature to his brethren was not one he was ready to reveal. Shaylan were beyond rare, and hunted remorselessly by his kind for their unique gifts they afforded their owner. For now, he simply wanted her without the distraction of others to come between them. His thoughts were straightforward on the matter. So instead of taking her as his companion to the palace, he had left Melanthe behind the walls of his protected fortress while he performed duties fitting of the Warlord. Believing she was safe.
Aran had held the image their reunion firmly in his mind while he was away from her, of the promise of her delicate curves and lush blood. Her innocence belonged to him alone. He would not lose her when he had only just found her. He had never known such a fierce possessiveness to take hold of him as thoughts of she did.
"I-I don't think so, Warlord."
"Then what is it you think?" he asked impatiently. He drew down the blankets to reveal a prim white cotton sleeping gown. The palm of his hand came to rest over her heart. He felt her pulse jump, then ease. The beat was faint, yet growing steadier beneath his hand. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breathes, the pink nipples a delicate shadow beneath the cloth.
The apothecary walked away to the work bench spanning the distance beneath the wall to wall windows. Papers, liquids and bottles were scattered across its surface. He returned, his hands gripping a small, leather bound book.
"The old ways talk of the binding between an Aridiane and Shaylan. There is a ceremony."
"What has this to do with Melanthe?" Aran asked, his fingers rubbing copper strands between them.
"Although I admit it is theory only, and an untested one at that." He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "Following the ceremony, the couple would be cloistered for a period, oft times a two-week or more. I had always thought this mere tradition, until I re-read an old diary of my great-great grandfather. He wrote the words about a ceremony he witnessed 'in the sequester, only then can the binding be fully achieved, otherwise one must fear fatality'."
Aran gazed upon the still form, his brow furrowing. Did her breathing seem less laboured?
"I do not see the significance as you do," Aran finally said.
"You bound her to you in the old ways?"
Aran gave an abrupt nod. He did not regret overcoming her resistance and feeding her his blood, driven in his need for her, to bind her to him in all ways.
"My working theory, Warlord, is that her physical separation from you may be the cause of her illness. She collapsed a mere day following your departure. Her illness is unlike any poison. Her symptoms are unexplainable. She wakes briefly, and when she does, she is disorientated and weak. She is not feverish. She has no wounds. If she continues to deteriorate, I fear..."
"Melanthe became immortal upon her first death. There is little that can undo immortality." Fear, a dark, desperate fear, stalked him.
"As I said, it is a theory."
"And if you are correct? What must I do?"
"In a sequester, there would be...er, frequent intimacy, both physically and the sharing of blood. Even semi-conscious, mere physical contact may abate her symptoms."
