Fyskar

Chapter 20

Eoin peeled his eyes open and yawned. Hands splayed across his chest. The tingling of the void nagged at the back of his head. He blinked, bringing Seonaid's face into focus. She had tucked up under his left arm, happily wrapping her thigh over one of his. He blinked again, trying to clear the cobwebs of his dreams away. Turning his head, Eoin found he was using Fearchar's outstretched arm as a pillow. They both were still dead asleep. He lay for a time, allowing his mind to wander as he contemplated the ceiling rafters.

The day before came into clear focus, as did the night. Heat swamped his system. Seonaid shifted closer to him, and a hard need of Fearchar's pressed against his leg. Eoin pulled his thoughts away and breathed, willing his mind to blank. He was a boat tethered to a pole in the middle of a never-ending black lake. His goal was to keep the water still. With each deep breath, their need abated. He licked his upper lip in thought. He did not want to wake them, but he was growing restless. Pushing himself back into his boat in his head, he paid attention to his breathing, emptying his mind of everything else.

He must have drifted off in his meditation. Once more, he awoke, this time to Seonaid watching him intently from her spot at the fireplace where she had fish cooking. Eoin's stomach growled at the smell. She snorted and hid a smile.

The Fyskar extracted himself from Fearchar and went looking for his shirt. It had been hung on a peg on the wall with his large belt. Eoin exchanged them for his English clothing and his boots. The physician thought better of the single layer and doubled up on his undershirts and pants for the day ahead.

Fearchar roused himself from the covers, his braids clicking in their full fall. They swept forward as he sat up. He grabbed the leather strap that had fallen on the floor and tied his red strands out of the way. "Morning," he yawned, rubbing at his eyes.

Morning. How are you? Eoin clasped the top button of his justacorps around his throat.

Fearchar stretched momentarily. Blinking, he looked around the room in confusion. Eoin watched the redhead's thoughts wander until they found a path by which to travel unimpeded. Fearchar met his eyes with lucid clarity. Addicted, he admitted.

Eoin nodded at the statement. I should not have exposed you to it. He bowed.

"What do you get out of this type of relationship? You give, and you give, and you give. I never knew I could experience something like that, but it was all Seonaid. Not you. You were there, and yet, not. Am I missing something?" Fearchar fiddled with his necklaces.

Eoin smiled to himself at the question. Fearchar was the first person he ever encountered who asked. That floating feeling you get momentarily? It feels like the world is correct, and every fibre of your being has reached perfect fulfilment? It lasts longer for me when I'm tethered to a couple. Substantially. It is a mutual relationship between myself and my partners. They reach heights that they otherwise would not attain on their own. As I pass it between the two, I get to take part in it.

"I can only imagine, with how I'm feeling right now and my desire to have it again, what it must feel like for you." Seonaid ducked, her cheeks reddening at her brashness. Fearchar raised an eyebrow at her statement and nodded. He turned to Eoin.

Eoin shrugged, unable to meet their eyes. How could he explain the depth of need he experienced from his talent? Or what it was like after ten years to sate himself on the feeling once again. A starving man in front of a feast of honeyed desserts and roasted meats. That feeling of pureness, numbness, bliss. He would never be able to forget the driving desire that pushed him for fulfilment. Ten years had been too long. The years in the palace had been one-sided with Mirza.

"Seems ye'll be wantin' ta go fur yer bairns' birthright, aye?" Fearchar yawned once more, willing himself awake. Eoin nodded, pulling his leather cloak out from under Fearchar's arms. He slung it across his shoulders and pinned it into place. "Oye! Ah's usin' 'at," grouched Fearchar.