1Also, though he was loath to admit it, Fennick was right about needing to stay strong. His repeated fasts and blood-letting over the last four days had left him feeling dizzy, sick, and weak, and after a day's full ride, he found his muscles fluttering rapidly with exhaustion. He'd almost even fallen out of his saddle once. He'd lain to sleep at night under the peaceful whispering oak leaves and woken soaking in sweat and panting, chased from sleep by demons of his own devising.
Kendel sensed Fennick's emerald eyes upon him once more, and turned away toward the fire, the empty wineglass still clutched in his hand. He could not bear the concern written clearly in the other's wide, guileless gaze. It is his fault anyway that I have to do this, Kendel thought bitterly, his brow and jaw tensing as he forced himself to stare blankly into the dancing flames. It is him; it is his fault, his perversion, his tempting, blonde warrior's thoughts pulled into an aggravated snarl of guilt, blame, and hatred.
Kendel set the empty glass down suddenly and picked up another, with sharp, precise movements, still avoiding the curious worry stamped upon Fennick's gentle boyish features. How he hated that expression! How he hated everything about the sand-cat, from the bare bronze chest to the sweep of his tiger-striped tail, from the tips of his pointed ears to his strong, furred digitigrade feet! How he hated the feverish flush that spread over his own face in response to Fennick's physical presence! He threw his head back and gulped the ruby wine down furiously, the edge of the glass hitting his teeth hard.
He stayed still for a few moments, then curled his face against the cool velvet of the chair. He felt his tightly clenched muscles slowly relax and the anger pounding a vicious tattoo inside his skull fade into nothingness.
He knew it was not truly Fennick's fault that he was failing his discipline; it was no one but his own. Kendel knew that he was weak, imperfect: warrior not of purity and grace, but of filth and savagery. That he was inexplicably attracted to a man of another species only topped the list of his imperfections.
He sighed, once more reaching for wine, still refusing to be baited into conversation by Fennick's gaze. He was afraid of looking at the sand-cat, afraid of what might happen should he let himself fall too completely into the verdant summer pools set into that tanned desert face.
Three weeks ago, Kendel joined the last of Orinskeep's Knights of the Hawk in hopes of avenging upon the King's thugs his Master's unlawful and brutal murder. As the last of those that would call themselves the kutari, follow the fourteen holy katei, and obey the Church in all matters, Kendel was indebted to his Master and was obligated to fulfill his saitori before he could consider himself fully a man and a warrior or the Code, and joining with the Knights who sought to overthrow the crown-stealer and murderer who sat upon the throne seemed a rational idea. At the time. Now he was beginning to fear that he might fall into darkness before he could even ritually say that he walks in light. all because of that sand-cat.
Kendel had never met such a man as Fennick before. He was everything Kendel was not, it often seemed. Fennick was loud, cheerful, often obnoxious and usually laughing about something; he was drunk or stoned as often as he could manage, indefatiguably silly and unpredictable, and oversexed to a degree Kendel had thought was physically impossible. Certainly it had never occurred to the blonde that a man would lust after another man, or would actually engage in disgusting, despicable acts of debauchery with one. While Kendel had been taught that such things were unthinkable, and vile degradations of a warrior's finest weapon-his body- but Fennick seemed to lack the niceties of such an education and not only eyed up both men and women, but pursued both with boundless enthusiasm.
Then one evening, Kendel had noticed the sand-cat staring at him with a speculative gleam in his eyes and a lazy grin, his tail flicking playfully.
Kendel was both fascinated by Fennick's amorous adventures and obvious interest, and sickened by it, and it was hard for him to figure out how to react even to Fennick's mere presence. He could not just ignore one of his men-at-arms, but neither did he wish to encourage the 'cat's interest in him as a sexual conquest. Every day that crept by aggravated the problem, as Fennick's interest did not seem to subside but instead increase, and Kendel's uneasiness grew to new levels of discomfiture and embarrassment. There were times when defending his morals and his life under the Code that Kendel received quick flashes of understanding of Fennick's mind and spirit- like beams of light cutting though the canopy to highlight random patches of dark forest floor-and these revelations were more unnerving to Kendel than the appraising looks of desire and "accidental" touches as they shook the ground underpinning his entire life, his ethical code written out in black and white.
He stared moodily at the bottom of his empty wineglass, then wondered slowly how much of the spicy-sweet liquid he had drunk while sitting immersed in his own thoughts. He was briefly aware once more of Fennick sitting across from him, and raised his gaze to meet his, setting the glass down.
"I haven't ever see you drink so much wine, Ken," Fennick said in a low tone, using that stupid nickname Kendel despised. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." The voice that answered did not sound like Kendel's, but seemed to him to come from someplace on the other side of the room. He knew then that he had drunk far more than he had intended, and that it was time to retreat discreetly to bed before Fennick also realized his lapse of judgment and decided to mock him. He stood, but the combination of blood- loss, hunger, sleep deprivation, and alcohol almost proved his undoing, and for a moment his knees wobbled and bent, nearly spilling him to the floor before he managed to grab desperately at the back of the chair. His hand clenched on the velvet and wood, as he gritted his teeth in humiliation, still shaking and afraid to let go for fear of collapsing and absolutely refusing to lift his head in Fennick's direction. It is his fault I am in this position anyway. damn him!
But Fennick was already there, his arm slipping firmly around Kendel's waist, his warm, firm body pressing close. "Ken. Kendel? He sounded genuinely worried, and Kendel could feel the hot sweet tickle of his breath against his ear as Fennick struggled to hold him upright despite his drunkenness and obstinate refusal of help. Kendel saw one golden furred hand reach for his sword to sling it across the sand-cat's own back, and gave an outraged cry, straining like a tantrum-throwing child for the object he felt no other living hands should dare touch, then the world faded into black.