Excerpt: We Walk Out Together

When Lucien returned he found Rue perched atop a wide flat rock in whose lee she'd established the fire. Her damp hair hung about her shoulders and her feet were bare, her trouser legs rolled up to her knees. Her hands were busy with her leatherwork as she ignored the steaming kettle suspended on its frame.

Lucien stepped gingerly into view, flinching at the crunch of a dry stick underfoot. He'd a carefully crafted answer at the ready should Rue decide to ask him where he'd gone.

But she didn't even look up from her work.

Lucien stood, indecisive and motionless. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the bubbling of the kettle, the tearing of grass by the horses who grazed nearby, and the maddening pop of Rue's awl through tough leather.

He stepped over a bedroll and crouched down near the fire. The sun was sinking behind the trees in a glittering splendor, as if their limbs had netted a shower of golden sparks. But the light was yet hard enough to make his eyes water, so he shifted first one way and then another. Finally he stood and rearranged his packs that he might lean against them.

The kettle continued to sputter, tiny drops of hot water jumping from its curved spout. Lucien tried to ignore it. Rue'd been the one who'd put it on, so she must have some plan for its use. He glanced at her, pretending to find the trees behind her of interest. She seemed entirely preoccupied with her sewing, but he noted also that she'd neglected to lace the neck of her tunic.

Lucien pressed his lips together and turned back to watch the fire and its angry kettle, hoping the flush seeping into his cheeks might remain hidden in the twilight. He swallowed and found his throat dry. But reaching for his drinking horn he remembered he'd given it over to Rue. He let his eyes drift over the campsite, spotting it at last near Rue's own pack -- beneath her dangling bare feet.

He licked his lips and swallowed again, which only made it worse. He couldn't reach the horn from where he sat, so he'd have to stand up and fetch it, but--

Lucien started as Rue dropped her leatherwork into her lap with a huff.

"What're you fidgeting for now?" she asked.

Lucien kept his eyes on the fire. He pressed his lips together as he racked his brain for a suitable response. But of course, it wasn't the question he'd been so assuredly ready to answer.

At last he gave a quick shrug, his arms wrapped around his knees. "Fidgeting? I'm not fidgeting."

Silence fell over the little campsite, but Lucien could feel Rue's eyes on him. Her hands lay motionless in her lap. He let go his legs and sat back on his hands, feigning ease. He dared a quick glance at her, trying for a casual smile, but the picture she made -- damp hair, loose laces, and bare feet -- only served to remind him of what he'd seen on the grassy bank.

And what he'd done after.

He sat up and dusted his hands on his knees. "Truly, I'm not fidgeting. But shouldn't something be done with this water?" he said, indicating the sputtering kettle.

"Should it?"

Lucien nodded, still avoiding her eyes. "Well, yes. As much as it might seem otherwise after eating it nearly every night for three months, corn mash doesn't make itself." Lucien's attempt at a grin failed as he realized Rue hadn't made any response to his witticism. "I could do it myself, of course," he said, reaching for the kettle hook. "I'm not entirely without--"

"Come here."

Lucien paused. He swallowed, feeling an incongruous stir in his loins at her words. "But--"

"Put the kettle down, and come here."

Lucien set the steaming kettle on the ground and took a deep, slow breath. Then he got to his feet and crossed the space between them, swept aside the drinking horns and piled gear, and settled his back against the broad warmth of the stone, his shoulder resting against Rue's calf. He felt his breath quicken, part of him recoiling at the obsequiousness of the gesture, another part hoping she wouldn't send him away.

"Fetch the brush from my pack."

Lucien hesitated only a moment, then bent to retrieve the bone-handled brush. He sat back and handed it up to her, his thoughts in a panic as to what she might choose to do with such an implement.

"Lean back and close your eyes."

With another dry swallow, he did as she bade.

"You're as skittish as a day-old colt, and I don't know what else to do with such."

Lucien felt soft bristles press themselves lightly to his scalp as Rue pulled the brush slowly through his hair. A chill ran down his neck and across his shoulders, causing them to hitch.

"Easy, boy," Rue whispered. She shifted, tucking a leg beneath her. Then she drew the brush once more through his hair, in a long, slow stroke. "Lean back."

Lucien hesitantly let himself rest his weight against her, his neck fitted to the warmth of her bare leg. He listened to the soft sounds of her breath as the brush once more swept the length of his hair and another chill drifted across his skin. This time it seemed rather to loose his shoulders than tighten them.

He sighed, though he hadn't meant to. The tension in his neck eased and he settled further back against Rue's warmth, drawing in a deep breath to find her scent. She smelt of the sharp herb she chewed, and of horse leather and damp hair, and faintly of sweat. He thought again of how she'd lain upon the grass on the bank of the stream, her legs spread open as if to reveal herself to the sun.

He didn't blush this time, only smiled.

Rue's slow, steady strokes drew from him a deepening quiescence. He sat very still, allowing the brush to pull him slightly each time it dragged against the very ends of his hair. He kept his eyes closed as Rue's cool fingers swept a stray lock from his brow. He felt simultaneously small and cherished beneath her ministrations, like a child or a prized animal. It was a thought that perhaps should have given him pause, but in the depths of his tranquility he could find no fault.

The glow of the campfire grew brighter behind his closed eyes as darkness fell. Somewhere beyond the whispering of trees and meadowgrass came the singular trill of an insect, its lonely song filling Lucien's breast with a bittersweet echo of sadness. The bone-dry summer days here in Sikkar had been hot and silent since his arrival. He'd last heard such a song a year ago, on a warm, wet summer night in Pashan.

He felt suddenly so bereft he might weep of it.

He heard Rue set the brush aside and felt her fingers slowly rake through his hair, coming to rest on his shoulder. Then she lay her cheek against the top of his head, her fingers slowly kneading the muscles of his neck.

She'd spoken no words, but Lucien could feel her invitation. But he could find no words himself to speak of what filled his heart, so he could but turn his own cheek and press it into Rue's small hand, brush his lips against her fingers.

She ran her thumb across the stiff hairs along his jaw, her fingers tracing the shape of his mouth. He parted his lips, tasting salt as she pressed a fingertip inside. A shudder rippled out from the nape of his neck and down his spine and out through his limbs. He closed his lips around her finger, slowly stroking its length with his tongue...