The Grey Ones
The Demons of the North: II

JUNIPER

She was pleased to replace that the Kamani had settled in rather nicely with the other ohkasenon and the converters. They had even built their own shelters and did their share of chores wherever it was needed. They greeted Juniper with open arms and made her feel welcome. She had felt hatred from many other converters, but the Kamani showed her nothing but kindness.

When heading back in the afternoon, she spotted a Kas warrior walking away from one of the tents and she could spy Neema in the entrance. The maasa saw her as well, smiled, and motioned her to come to her.

Juniper did, reluctantly, and soon found herself in the maasa’s tent. It was rather large and smelled of incense and herbs. From the beams in the ceiling hung bundles upon bundles of dried herbs. The floor was covered with soft rugs, in the middle stood a burning brazier, a wooden cot and a small table, and on the far side of the tent, the floor was covered with furs and pillows. In the back, the tent was divided into rooms, just as in the Vasaath’s and her own, and just beside the entrance stood a low table with a few cushions around it. It was rather snug, welcoming, and calming.

“Please,” said the woman, “have a seat.”

Juniper smiled and lowered herself onto one of the cushions. Neema offered some tea and Juniper graciously accepted.

When the maasa sat down by the table, she said, “How are you feeling today? Any ache? Soreness?”

Juniper felt the blood rush to her face. “No, we never—well, I am still a maiden.”

Neema frowned. “Oh? That’s singular.”

“How come?”

“Well, Kasethen gave me the impression that the business was rather urgent,” said Neema.

Juniper swallowed and looked down into her cup. “I don’t know about the… urgency of it. We have kissed, but we have not lain together. Well, not intimately, that is.”

“You have kissed?” Neema asked, shocked. “On the lips?”

Confused, Juniper nodded. “Yes.”

“And he allowed it?”

Juniper pulled her brows together. “Well, he certainly hasn’t objected.” Moving her hair behind her ear, she murmured, “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Neema seemed surprised. “And yet, you haven’t mated?”

Juniper mumbled over her teacup, “No.”

Neema hummed, had a sip of her tea, and asked, “Why?”

Puzzled, Juniper looked up and asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

“Why haven’t you been intimate?” Neema said. “Are you not attracted to the man? Is he an ill match?”

“No, not at all,” mumbled Juniper, her cheeks burning. “And yes, he is very handsome, but I don’t understand. What has that got to do with anything?”

Neema seemed quite perplexed. “My lady, does he not stir your desire?”

Juniper felt the heat in her face spread. She felt rather uncomfortable and shifted in her seat. “I believe that is a very private matter.”

The maasa furrowed her brows tighter. “Such feelings are natural. You shouldn’t fear them. You should indulge them. Set them free, and you’ll be free.”

Juniper felt utterly uncomfortable now and wondered if she could conjure up an excuse to leave before she had finished her tea.

“Do you indulge yourself, Juniper? Do you allow yourself such release, by your own hand?” the maasa then asked, making Juniper’s ears tingle with fire.

She huffed. “I dare say, you are quite intrusive!”

Neema remained calm. “I only wish to help you. I can see the suffering in you—it is the same in most ladies: shame. They deny themselves the purest of pleasures, just because it’s not befitting for a lady to have such sensations.” The maasa sighed. “Well, if you ask me, it’s just a ruse by men to control the women around them.” She leaned over the table, with a glint in her eye, and said, “Because who knows what horrifying powers a woman could be capable of if she was allowed the same satisfaction as men?”

Feeling quite embarrassed, Juniper said nothing.

Neema snickered, took a sip from her tea, and said, “But in all seriousness: if the Vasaath is not man enough to awaken your loins, I suppose you’re simply looking for something else. Perhaps it requires a woman.” She sighed. “Or, something else. You told me you thought he held deeper feelings for you—is that the issue? If so, it is perfectly fine. Some do require deeper connections in order to feel physical desire.”

“I don’t think—” Juniper clenched her jaw and sighed. She did feel desire. It was the very thing that plagued her.

“But I must have you know,” Neema continued, “a kiss means something very different to Kas than to you mainlanders. It is the deepest gesture we can make to prove our love and devotion to an individual.” She eyed her. “If he has kissed you, Juniper, you must be very special to him.”

Juniper’s heart stopped. A kiss? How could such an innocent and modest gesture mean such a great deal for such strong and assertive warriors? When he told her that there was more than lust between them, how much more did he mean? His kisses were anything but innocent—they were deep, wanting, urging… She drew a ragged breath.

“I do feel… desire. For him. But I—” Her eyes were suddenly brimmed with tears and she was surprised by her own reaction. She quickly dried them away. “I can’t. It’s wrong. I’d be damned.”

Neema gently reached to touch her hand. “Why?”

Juniper shook her head. “I’d be ruined. No one would want me. I’d be worthless.” Then she huffed, dried more tears, and said, “Not to mention I’d be dooming myself to an eternity in the Netherworld.”

“My lady,” said Neema softly, “the Architects have chained our sex to follow silly rules written by men thousands of years ago so that they can hold on to the fragile power they think they have. But the words of Edred aren’t words of chains. They are words of love. You won’t be damned because you allow yourself pleasure—on the contrary! It’s an act of self-love and celebration! Did Edred ever marry after meeting the Builder? No! But he still took lovers and he stepped beyond the Void without any scruples, as did his lovers!”

Juniper stared at the woman. “You’re Edredian.”

Neema snickered. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes. The—the Kasenon—”

“The Kasenon is a philosophy, not a faith,” said Neema. “No one has the right to decide what people believe in, as long as they put the Kasenon first.”

Juniper could scarcely believe it: there, right in front of her, was an Edredian ohkasenon, a woman, who felt no shame in indulging in such sinful activities.

She thought about it for a moment, about what she had said of words of love and words of chains. She knew her own interpretation of the Structure was very different from the Architects and their strict and pious rules—and what she had felt the night before, those delightful feelings she dreaded so, couldn’t possibly be wrong, could they? If they were, why would the Builder allow them?

In her head, she heard her father’s mean words, the Architects’ harsh judgments, and the cruel comments from the townsfolk—she was a woman, inferior, and should know her place. But deep inside, she also heard her mother’s voice, telling her to guard her heart, otherwise, it would break.

Juniper then wondered, if she gave her heart to the Vasaath, a man who did not look at her as inferior at all, would he guard it with the same ferocity as he guarded his own? If the answer was yes, then there should be no doubt that he was the man she belonged to, and who belonged to her. That would be a bond even stronger than marriage. She dried her tears, smiled, and thanked the woman for her sound advice.

That evening, she kept thinking about the conversation she had had with the maasa; about the words of Edred and her own, bodily liberation. All the things kept swirling in her head, back and forth like a storm. She knew not what to make of all the conflicting thoughts inside of her—she wanted to be as free and as untethered from the Architects’ judgment as Neema, but how could she after spending her whole life living by the rules so religiously?

She could not ignore her fears of becoming unworthy, impure, tainted. She didn’t want to believe that the Builder would punish her for loving a man that could not make her his wife, but she knew her people would. She knew the Builder would not punish her for being with a person who respected her, cared about her, and revered her, but her people would judge her harshly for being immoral and shun her—and the fear of such judgment was real, tangible.

Once they had gone to bed that night, she had trouble sleeping. When the Vasaath kissed her, she made sure to truly feel—could she sense something rare in him? Did it feel as special as Neema said it was? She thought she felt it, but she was unsure. Was it only her own romantic heart?

The general fell asleep with his arm around her and she listened to his heavy breaths. Her mind was too occupied to sleep, and she kept thinking, kept feeling. The flutter in her belly whenever the Vasaath looked at her, the heat in her whenever he touched her, and the calmness in her whenever he held her, were all signs that he was the one she had waited for all her life. She was sure of it.

When morning arrived, she had yet to have one ounce of sleep. The Vasaath rose, kissed her lovingly, and left for his duties. Juniper’s mind was still in disarray, she was exhausted, and she withdrew to her tent for some rest, in her own space, away from his intoxicating scent.

Sleep was sweet, blissful, and she dreamt of the general’s golden eyes. They exuded warmth, security, and in her dream, she was certain she could see her future in them.

When she woke up sometime later, she felt sure of her own feelings and wishes—he had given her all he could to express his love, and so she would do the same. Determined, she rose to make the brew Neema had told her to. She had heard of similar concoctions from the chambermaids’ and the kitchen maids’ whisperings, of how they prevented conception, and she knew that no matter how the coming night would end, a child, while not necessarily unwanted, would be unwelcomed in such dire times.

The brew quickly blackened and Juniper felt nervousness creep upon her. While she was certain that she had made the right decision, that her heart knew what her mind would not confess, fear still roamed within her. What if they were not compatible? What if she was a disappointment? What if the Vasaath realised that the physical attraction was more important than any connection their hearts might have made? She was certainly no Neema, and her inexperience was as dooming as her meekness.

He had, however, said that he wanted her very much, that he sometimes wanted her so much he could barely think about anything else. She knew very little of the wants of men, but that must be a good sign.

She paced back and forth for most of the remaining day, until the sun was low enough. The brew had cooled, so she put the flask of oil into the bodice of her gown and grabbed her teapot. Her hands were shaking, as were her legs, but she would not surrender now. She told herself to be strong, that she was in control, and that she had nothing to fear.

As she walked across the courtyard, her legs were still trembling. When she entered his tent and saw him pouring himself a glass of wine, she nearly turned on her heels, but remained.

He looked at her, smiled, and welcomed her. He hadn’t seen her the whole day, but he said that he had longed for her. His eyes then fell on the teapot in her hand, and he furrowed his brows. “Why did you bring your own? I have one—”

“No!” she quickly said, perhaps a bit too urgently. When he looked at her with suspicion, she swallowed and said, “This is special. For me.”

He narrowed his eyes and took a step towards her. “Special how? Are you ill? Are you in pain?”

Sighing, she put the pot down onto the table. “No, I’m perfectly well. Famished, though.”

He nodded. “Of course. We will eat. But first!” He pulled her to him, a crooked smile on his lips, as he gently cupped her face. “I have wanted to do this all day.” He kissed her then, and her heart throbbed. Her decision felt even more right.

When they broke away, he told her of how they had finished fortifying the harbour and how Noxborough had no other chance but to rely on trade routes on land. They continued their conversation throughout supper, but Juniper could barely eat. She was too nervous for that, and the Vasaath was as perceptive as ever.

He commented on her poor appetite, told her that she should eat, and asked her if she truly wasn’t ill. She assured him that she was not. He didn’t press it any further and when the dark had fallen, her nervousness had almost reached its limit. She had been debating with herself all evening whether she should just tell him that she wanted him to make love to her, or if she should abandon this ludicrous fancy and simply let it be. If anything, she thought, she needed a glass of wine to calm her nerves.

As she stood by the table where he had his jug, she suddenly heard him mutter darkly, “This is Shadow Veil.”

She gasped and turned, and watched how he held her teapot in his hands. She could scarcely breathe and tried to replace something clever to say. She rambled, but nothing made sense. The Vasaath stood and slowly walked towards her.

“Does this mean you have decided?” he asked, his eyes scorching her.

Juniper swallowed, and her legs were trembling again. “I—I—” The words simply wouldn’t come out, so she just nodded.

“And your answer remains the same?” he asked, his voice rough and eager as he slowly closed the distance between them.

Again, all she could do was nod.

His eyes dimmed, clouded, as he looked down upon her, and the hunger in them made her heart race and her mind wander.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

It was barely a nod at all, she knew that, but she nodded. She backed into the table as he walked even closer—his stature was truly monumental; broad and strong with beautiful, terrifying, musculature moving graciously beneath the ashen skin. A fleeting thought in her head told her that she was mad to allow such a man to be intimate with her. She could see the strain in his jaw as he tightened it.

She croaked, “I—I might be a disappointment to you—”

“No,” he breathed softly, and gently pulled her to him. “You won’t be. I know it.”

He kissed her, and she could taste the desire upon his lips—or was it her own? As he led her into the bedchamber, her mind was hazy, sunken in dreams and desire she hadn’t dared herself to have before.

He kissed her again, more urgent now, and she was unravelled in his arms. There was still some fear, spreading like ice in her chest, as he tugged at the lace in the back. The small flask of oil fell to the floor, but did not break. He picked it up, looked at it with a ponder on his brow, before he resumed tugging at her lacing.

She felt shy when he undressed her, for she had never been exposed to a man like this before. But he did not look at her naked body as though she was a prey or a thing—as men often did even with her dresses on. Neither did he seem disappointed with her. He revered her, admired her, as his golden eyes slowly and thoroughly traced her form. Carefully, he touched her, in ways no man had ever touched her before, and she gasped, overwhelmed by the sudden pleasures.

“You could never disappoint me,” he breathed into her ear, and she sought his lips in earnest.

He undressed as carefully as ever, but his burning gaze was eager. When he stood in front of her, tall and proud and naked as the day he was born, she felt nearly faint with fright. His stature surpassed anything she could ever have imagined.

When he lowered her onto the bed, she felt almost numb. She could barely breathe. The sensation was almost too much. His frame encased her, and all she could see was him, the lethal muscles straining powerfully underneath his skin. The scent of him permeated the air, overwhelmed her with desire and yearning. She felt so small, so frail. She was a novice, inexperienced, and he was not.

Her breath was rough, her limbs were trembling. All her life, she had been taught by men that she was to perform this act, and by women that she was to fear it; she had been taught that she was to oblige and do her duty, but only to her husband and her owner. This man, this creature, was neither. Not even the burning kisses he left all over her body claimed ownership of her, even if she’d let them.

His burning gaze locked onto hers, and he hesitated. He must have seen her insecurity, but she kissed him assertively and defeated the fright. No, this man was certainly not one of those men she had been taught by women to fear—he was the sort of man she had been taught by other men to fear.

Despite his disposition, he was tender and attentive—his touch, meticulous and studied. He used the oil to warm her and help her relax, and the scent was sweet and spicy. No matter how much she writhed underneath him, or cried in desperation, affected so by his burning hands, lips, and tongue, he remained slow, tantalising, and rewarding.

She dared to touch him, to feel his magnificence under her fingertips, and she was pleased to replace that her touch caused him to tremble as well. That she could affect him, at least a fraction of how he affected her, was a reward in itself. He spurred her senses to no end and awakened sensations inside her she did not know anyone could conjure. Out of the few things she had heard about the act, this was far from it.

The more he touched her, and the more she touched him, the more demanding their want became. Eventually, he let go of control and caution, she let go of insecurities and doubt, and finally, they were joined.

He was gentle as he breached her, and yet, she winced. The oil eased the resistance and aided her through the discomfort, but the ache was dull and sharp, all at once. She closed her eyes, determined. She had experienced worse pains, and she would treasure this one.

The general was slow and tender, letting her accommodate him at her own pace. He was well-endowed, impressive, and the way he so carefully moved made Juniper think he was still holding back, much aware of the strain. But she didn’t want him to hold back; she wanted him to lose himself in her as she had lost herself in him. So, she moved to meet him, ready for whatever agony would tear through her.

But there was no more pain, as she had always heard there would be. There was no true fear, as she had always feared there would be. No pain, no fear—only pleasure, comfort, and love.

The two of them melted into one; one mind, one soul, one body. His build was no longer an object of worry, but him. Her inexperience was no longer an object of shame, but unimportant. Although the intensity of their pleasures fluctuated, their passion never faltered. At times, they just held each other, while other times, they drove each other mad with desire.

When they had finally exhausted themselves and each other, the two bodies slumped together against the bedding, spent and satisfied. She lay in his arms, listening to his heavy breaths while trying to catch her own. Her body strained, ached, and trembled, but she was content—happy, even.

He stroked her hair, caressed her skin, and pulled her close. She held her hand over his heart, feeling its decisive, rapid beats, and she was terrified she would suddenly wake and realise that this had all been just a dream.