A Match for the el Maiens Ch. 26

She put her letter down carefully behind her bowl of soup, nudged it until it was exactly in the middle of the tray and began eating. Batren hovered anxiously nearby, pretending to give her already shining mail an extra burnish. When she had finished only half the bowl, she stopped and sat staring into space. He sighed, came and lifted the tray from her lap.

"Your letter, my Lord," he said, holding the tray towards her.

She took it and lay among her pillows and cushions looking at it. Batren put her tray down on the table where the officers came to receive their daily orders in a fierce half hour meeting that always left her white and exhausted. He came over to pull her covers back and shift her onto her side. She submitted to the firm deft skill of his hands with a mute glare in her eyes but when Batren tried to see if the bandages on her leg needed changing, she said: "Leave me," in a queer tense voice. Her fingers clenched on her letter, she stared at it, at Vadya's familiar handwriting drawing out the words: Commander-Lord A. el Maien van H'las of Sixth H'las.

Batren covered her up and went to clear up her meal. "Leave that," she said in a clipped voice. He looked at her in astonishment then went hurriedly out of the tent.

She traced the curling words of her name and title with one thin finger, turned the letter over and broke the seal.

He wrote to her that he understood how it was, that to carry love about in the midst of war was impossible. He said that he would understand if she did not want to read his letter, she could send it back to him to keep till the end of the war if she wanted.

He told her how much he missed her, how he lay down every night and felt the space beside him stretch into the early hours of the morning because she was not there to press her warm body against him. He said how often he turned to tell her or show her something, but she was not there. It did not comfort him to think when the war is over. They would never have back the months they should have spent together when they had been separated and at war.

He wrote it down, how much he loved her, what he loved about her: her courage, her humour, her beauty, her vivid intelligence.

He told her how desolate he felt, at Flava's death, at Petra's death, and this friend and that colleague. He worried about how she must feel, her heart must be breaking. He wanted so much to be by her, to give her comfort and to have comfort of her.

He talked about how difficult it would be, even if they could win the war, but they would be together and would love each other and would build a life that nobody could threaten ever again.

He loved her more than he loved his own self. He trusted her with everything that was most precious to him: with his troop, with his region, with his life, with his heart. He longed for her to caress, to caress him. He was dull without her joy of life. He wanted her kisses, he wanted her hands on his body, he wanted to lay his hands on hers, to feel her fingers in his hair, on his back, in his arse, to press his fingers to her shoulders, to her buttocks, to her sex. She knew he must lie in the nights angrily jerking at the big cock she had been thrilled to take into her mouth and her cunt, the lonely tears of frustration rolling salt down his brown cheeks and into his generous big mouth.

She lay still on her side, staring at the first love letter he had sent her, the first she had ever received in her life. She knew his writing so well. She had read hundreds of warrants and provisions orders in his hand, had received friendly letters, via an address Pava set up for her, when they were on leave away from each other.

"V-Vadya," she whispered. She let the letter go and her fingers crept out as though to feel if he might be there after all. He might be beside her as he ought to have been.

She looked at the empty bedding beside her. She gave a small moan. Her head, her shoulders relaxed, her fingers clenched up on her letter again. She screwed her eyes up, she began to cry. She was not used to crying, she shook with queer sobs, the tears forced their way through her lids. She wept into her cushions, motionless except for her left hand which clung to her letter and waved it to and fro.

When Batren came back, she was sleeping, her fingers still curled around her letter. Her face and her head and her shoulders were all relaxed, her breath barely lifted the covers over her thin chest.

She woke as he was collecting her tray, looked dimly at him from soft slanted blue eyes and fell asleep again. He crept quietly out.