Khal’kha - The Fire Dance (Part 3)(Explicit)

The weight that Dorant was greeted with in the morning was a blessing and a comfort. It was a constant thing, like subtle breezes and the ebb and flow of the tide. Sometimes the weight would envelop him, holding onto him as if he were the only safe harbor on the tumultuous sea. These were the bad times, when nightmares would take hold and fear take over. 

But this is not always the way. Sometimes he was the one to welcome the weight, pulling it onto his chest like a second blanket.

As if summoned by the mere insinuation, Merada’s crumbled body flexed against his,  sleeping deeper than she had ever in months. All he could see of her was her hair, which pooled out like a flood of black rivers from her head. Unbraided, wild and free, smelling of wood smoke and flower oil. The rest of her head was buried in his chest, face-first, along with her body, which attempted to make itself as small as possible against him. He didn’t mind it. He only wrapped her up and pulled her closer, letting the weight of her body flow around his until they were a unified tangle of limbs and love. 

It drew his attention to just how… passionate they had been the night before. Even in the dark of night, the white paint that had so gracefully been traced along her body was visibly smeared in large, definable handprints. He didn’t need to look to see if it was his hands: the dried paint crusting under his fingernails was enough of an answer. She was crisscrossed by bruising and obvious love bites, and they told a story that in the daylight, he wasn’t keen for others to learn. It vaguely passed his mind that he likely didn’t look much better, but what did that matter? Plate armor could hide almost anything. 

She was so dead to the world that a whole motorcade of goblin trike riders could pile through in her ear, and she’d not move. The only reason he knew she was in fact awake was the steady, slow, deep breathing of total relaxation and comfort. Good, she needed the rest. The trip here had been unexpectedly strenuous, and not just because of the harpy ambush. He did not realize the extent of her suffering until he watched the storm die in her hands with his own eyes. 

It was concerning for a variety of reasons, but chief among them was her safety. Not from the world, he would ensure that. No, it was safety from herself.  Merada had been connected to the elements for what he imagined was her entire life. The only time she had been bereft of their guidance was when her mother passed, a period that Merada did not discuss frequently, even with him. There was a growing concern, ephemeral as it was, that she may have been more than comfortable forcing this issue, forcing the elements into servitude regardless of the physical consequences to herself. And if that was the case…

No. He would not entertain the prospect. Kosh’harg and the Khal’kha were the first step in the journey of healing, and Dorant had healed enough of his own physical wounds to know all too well that healing took time. And growing pains. There was a plan, enough to follow and adjust as needed. He just needed to trust her to do this on her own, with support when she asked for it…Which was easier said than done.

Under his arm, Merada made a noise that sounded like a strangled snort, and Dorant had to bite his cheek not to laugh. That was enough mental pacing. Right now, they were safe, and that was all that mattered.

That thought cradled his heart and soothed his mind back into the eventide of sleep, well into the early morning when Merada finally stirred.

Everything ached. It felt as though her whole body protested in unison as she shifted, a dull ache radiating from… well, everywhere. Her breasts and nipples were red, puffy, and sensitive, angry at the slightest touch. Her hips felt as though she had birthed an Ogron in the night. There are marks along her legs that she couldn’t identify how exactly she got them; the only hint available to her was the smudging of the white paint in large swaths that looked like handprints. In particular, there was a large bruise with distinct tooth marks. It radiated a satisfying soreness that made her smile despite the discomfort. She let her fingers drift down to feel the edges and found she was still damp.

Perhaps she would need those herb potions after all. 

She sat up as best she could. Dim light filtered through the gaps in the tent, the quiet morning greeting her with gentle sounds of life, wind, and water. Beside her, however, was the deep, rhythmic snores of a mountain. Dorant’s arm was wrapped possessively around her waist, a testament to how completely the warrior had exhausted himself. Merada could feel his morning erection pressing against her even in sleep; if she did not move soon, she’d likely not be allowed to for some time

Carefully extricating herself from his embrace, wincing with every shift, she moved to cover herself with her discarded clothes. The furs and blankets still carried the scent of their sweat and sex. It beckoned her to return, but there was something she needed to do before the rest of Kosh'harg greeted the day. Merada dressed quietly, not wanting to wake the giant, and only did what was required for the minimum of modesty, and slipped out into the dawn.

The desert air bit at Merada's bare feet as she moved through the sleeping camp. The minor bonfires had surrendered to dawn, leaving only skeletal rings of gray ash and the last dying embers that pulsed weakly against the coming day. The morning chill raised a trail of gooseflesh up her spine, and the sun remained a prisoner behind the distant hills, casting the world in muted blue and gray.

Razor Hill still slept through its collective hangover scattered across the grounds like leaves on the forest floor. From the sheer number of celebrants scattered across the desert field, the Kosh'harg had been rather fierce this year, its fever of drinking, feasting, and fighting leaving no one untouched. Merada threaded through the bodies collapsed in the aftermath of celebration—limbs tangled, mouths agape in drunken sleep. She recognized no one, but one thing was for certain: this gathering would be sung about for generations to come.

When she reached the bonfire circle, only the charred husks of the sacred trees remained, blackened giants that had given their bodies to the Spirit of Fire. She circled them slowly, her eyes tracing the patterns of burn and damage. She searched for cracks, splits, and breaks that were purposeful, not natural. She found nothing.

Merada sank to her knees at the edge of the ashes, her fingers sifting through the gray powder like a hungry fox searching for scraps. An animal bone, a stone marked by heat. Anything that could be a sign from the spirits that they had witnessed the rite and her dancing, that they approved of her course. They did not always communicate in loud, obvious ways, her mother would say; more often, they came in ways natural to their element. Pressure behind the senses, a hum along her spine, the sudden rightness of a choice that came from outside oneself.

She closed her eyes, letting her breath slow until the world narrowed to a point in this quiet circle of ash and charcoal. She reached for that feeling, that connection that had sustained her people for generations. And found... nothing.

The ashes remained cold beneath her searching fingers. No warmth bloomed against her palm when she finally pressed it flat against the ground. No whisper rose from the scorched earth. The wind passed over the site without catching, without sound, without recognition. It was just ash. Just silence. Just emptiness.

Disappointment settled like a stone in Merada's chest. Her eyes burned with tears she fought to contain. Nothing. After all the reparation, the planning, the prayers, the pain–She had nothing to show for it. The dance had been real, the night had been real…but perhaps that was all. Perhaps she had been trying to milk blood from stone all along.

Rising from the earth, something in Merada’s chest seized. A sudden pressure, a wrongness that made the hairs on her neck stand straight. Not from the cool morning air, not from her lack of clothing, but from something else entirely. Movement behind her caught the farthest corner of her eye, and she turned slowly, deliberately, until she faced the cliffs overlooking the festival grounds.

There, silhouetted against the fading stars, stood a wolf.

A vision... or a warning?

At first glance, it appeared ordinary—gray fur, slender build, tail low and still. But as Merada focused, a pit of unease opened in her stomach. The creature’s form seemed slightly off, its fur absorbing rather than reflecting light, and its fur fringes bore a ghostly blue too bright to be ambient light from the rising sun. Its paws rested on stones too narrow to bear its weight. And its eyes, pale and glowing, remained fixed on her with an intensity that burned through the morning mist.

She froze. The wolf held her gaze, unblinking. Neither of them moved. She wasn’t sure whether it was flesh or a phantom. Instinct took over; Merada slowly raised her right hand, palm outward, and traced a small circle against her chest, over her heart—a gesture of reverence, a sign of acknowledgement to the spirits that walk between worlds.

The wolf lifted its head and howled.

The sound was not loud, yet it sliced through the morning air, through the hollow of her ribs, through something deep and ancient inside her that answered without words. It lingered long after the wolf fell silent, vibrating through the morning like a struck drum, yet none of the sleeping bodies around her stirred at its resonating note.

In the next breath, the wolf turned and ran. It darted between the rocks with impossible speed, its form breaking apart as it moved, dissolving into stone and shadow. Merada stepped forward instinctively to follow, heart hammering against her ribs, but there was nothing left to pursue. She blinked, but the cliff face remained empty, though the echo of that howl still rang in her soul.

Merada stood there for a long moment, breathing in half measures as the revelation washed over her. They were still waiting, still watching, but at least she had not danced alone. 

“Very well…Very well.” She sighed, wiping her eyes clear. It was not the answer she wanted, but it was an answer she could act on.

She returned to the tent in a daze, entering without the caution she had used to leave. Dorant stirred at the intrusion and blinked the sleep from his eyes as she crawled back into his arms.

“You left.” His words came out like a statement.

“I had to go see if it worked.” She did not fight him as he dragged her into an embrace. “If they answered…If they cared.”

His frown was devastating against her forehead. “And did they?”

Biting her lip, Merada could only nod. His skin dampened under her face.

“Good.” He pressed a hard, possessive kiss to her skin, his hands already hooking into the last scraps of her clothing to tear them away, intent on having nothing left between them but skin and heat to chase away the doubt. “Now, stay here with me. We may discuss what they said later.”

She could only grunt in agreement, for her eyes were already closed, and her consciousness was already dissolving into the waiting blackness of sleep.