Tired Hands

"Well I need a wife and I realized why should only noble women get tournaments to find partners." said the king to his advisor. "So I'm holding the first ever royal consort tournament." "My lord, this is a very strange ide-"" said the advisor. "Oh it's happening, I was just informing you of it."

Stefanie swung her broadsword. Her arms were sore, her body aching. Her one opponent stood between she and the king’s hand and a way to support her family through marriage to said king. One problem, though, her opponent was so just so damn hot. Across the platform stood a muscled, swarthy woman, long curly hair and fierce, brown eyes. When she had approached the platform, out of all the opponents she faced, this one she could not meet her eyes. She stuffed the tingling beneath her skin, the flutter in her belly into determined indifference. However, as they battle wore on for the next hour, so too did the mask. Exhaustion seemed to had ripped off her mask and flew away with it into the bright blue sky. Left behind was a loud, dominating thrill of pleasure every time their weapons collided, every time she was matched blow for blow. No matter that her mind screamed, think of Melinda, and what of mother? Sweat rivered across her brows.

Caught off guard, Trissa snagged her in the calf. Stefanie fell down and closed her eyes, waiting for the final blow. Trissa approached, towered over her, and Stefanie shivered in her shadow. This is it. I’ve failed. The crowd cheered as Stefanie fought the urge to cry with what was left of her energy. Humidity pressed in on all sides, sending more rivulets of sweat trickling down her body. Just get it over with.

“You want to uh get out of here?”

Stefanie opened one eye, and then the other. Trissa had the best smile, her spear gripped in one hand, and the other extending warmly. Stefanie could feel a slight breeze from the sea grace her skin. Trissa was bathed in sunlight like a f*****g goddess, and she had the nerve to be kind. Stefanie was drowned in a flood of shame, anger, lust, and want. All of these things were fighting among themselves. But, Stefanie was tired of fighting.

There was a murmur from the crowd. “Why have they stopped fighting?” the king demanded, annoyed that they had stopped being a source of entertainment.

Stefanie swallowed, and she slipped her hand in Trissa’s hand, her palm rough as someone who worked with their hands often. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Trissa swept Stefanie off her feet and carried her away-"away from the crowd, her familial obligations. Shame stalked closely. Trisaa took her to a cozy cabin in the forest where she tended the wounds inflicted. When Stefanie winced, Trissa apologized. She made them dinner-"a nice, warm pecan porridge. “I have turned my back on my family,” Stefanie confessed, angry, her appetite almost evaporating. “This tournament was supposed to be for them!” She couldn’t tell if she was yelling at herself or Trissa.

“And taking my hand?” she asked, a vulnerability breaking along the woman that had once been her opponent’s face.

All the anger melted away under the warmth of Trissa’s eyes, the fullness of her lips, the shape of her jaw. “Taking your hand was for me.” Another confession. Goddamn, this is one tough opponent in more ways than one.

“My family put a lot of pressure on me too, but something about you-"I just got so tired.”

“I felt that too.”

Trissa held her gaze. She laughed. “The king’s hand and we found each other’s hands.” Stefanie shared the laugh.

Author's Note

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash