Chapter 163

Bastian smiled at his wife who was currently curled up beside him on the small litter. His heart was still heavy from the haunting memories, but she'd somehow managed to make him laugh and feel lighter. He smiled again and shook his head at her words.

He wanted to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear to let her know he was there and that he was fine. Even though he wasn't. That night had been one he'd blocked from his memories, the drugs and alcohol had helped to keep it from returning.

He'd smoked the piziet and drunk the strange alcoholic drinks that were continuously handed to him. He remembered being surrounded by woman while sitting on a small seat next to the Tlatoani. He'd enjoyed their attention.

He closed his eyes as he recalled the blurry images of the Jungle Followers' heads on the ground while their bodies were drained of blood. He had barely caught the screams above the din and cheers, but he could still hear the distorted sound.

He remembered trying to shrug it off and act as though he'd not been bothered by it. That had been the night where he'd first known the pleasure of a woman, many women in fact. Yet, he'd still awoken in the dead of night, trembling from the memories that refused to go away.

And yet, he'd forgotten it. He'd repressed it long enough and with enough women and alcohol that he barely thought of it. And compared to the things his hands had done since, it was nothing. But there was still a scar, though it was mostly patched up.

"Bastian?" She asked again and he gladly redirected his thoughts to his sweet and innocent wife.

"Yes?" He asked.

She leaned in closer and whispered near his ear. His stilled and held in a breath at her breath reaching the base of his hairs. Oh, good gracious, this woman didn't even know how she drove him mad.

"Why do the men have wooden collars on?" She asked and he blinked away enough of the desire that clouded his mind to focus. She'd moved her mouth away from his neck and was now facing front.

He moved his gaze to the vague silhouettes of the men carrying the litter. No doubt slaves. From their skin tone he judged them to be Mathuban. He mentally grimaced at the blood that caked their necks and dropped down their backs, running faster with help from the rain.

"Slaves." He whispered back seriously and he saw her stiffen; not at his word, but at his proximity and action. A sly smile curved his lips when he saw the blood rising to her cheeks. He loved how easily she blushed, and how often she did so. Pink and red were very attractive colours on his flower. He cleared his throat softly and continued on his answer, "I assume their Mathuban by their skin."

She nodded slowly and he watched her delicate brow slowly crease.

"What is it?" He couldn't help but ask.

"It's just… Hadok was a slave, did he-?"

"My father, never treated his slaves poorly. He treated them with respect because they had fought for their country. Though it was a disgrace to be taken by the enemy, my father did his best to lessen the humiliation."

"That's very kind." She replied quickly and he detected a subtle amount of awe in her voice and manner.

He pouted, "Yes. Well, to be fair it's a tactic many leaders use because if they, or any of their men get taken by the enemy they'd wish to receive the same treatment." He finished crossly, his eyes fixed ahead of them.

"Ah." She replied finitely.

The next few moments passed in silence. Hydrangea opened the curtain to glimpse outside and they both caught sight of the trees surrounding them, torches placed on a few to light the way. A sliver of doubt and suspicion wound its way into Bastian's mind and he lowered his brow, his mind now becoming more cautious.

Letting the curtain drop Hydrangea huffed a sigh that sounded rather bored. He smiled softly at her bored expression. A smile which turned more cunning as he thought of a few ways he could take away that boredom.

He sighed and punched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He had more self-control than this. He was twenty-three years old, for heaven's sake. He could handle waiting for his wife, because then he knew she'd be ready, and truly pleased when the time came.

He grimaced at his selfish thoughts, he just wished she would decide sooner. But he knew it was for the best. Somehow. It was. He was now trying to convince himself. He sighed again.

Those thoughts were interrupted by her voice. A notion that he wished she would speak in her Crescent accent appeared in his mind and he tossed it away to listen to her distinguished Wanington accent, the most common one. "What was your father like?"

He tossed away his thoughts of why she spoke in a Wanington accent and sat quietly as he pondered her question.

The rain drummed along the roof of the litter as the "vehicle" was brought through the jungle slowly. The Mathubans stepped through the wet earth, their muscles straining as they bore the weight of the litter.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." Hydrangea's nervous voice broke through the silence.

He breathed in a sigh, his thoughts still clouded from her question. "No, it's alright."

He had just composed his thoughts when he felt the litter being set down on something and cease moving. He moved his eyes to Hydrangea, who had jumped at the movement.

He relaxed the nerves that he knew were showing in his eyes, "It will be alright, my flower. I'm here."

He saw her fears lessen and her eyes shine a shade brighter. "I know you will."