The Bandits’ Raid – Part 2

Read Part 1 of the story here for some background, and an introduction to some of the other characters.

 

Isabella was under complete shock. As Victor gently lifted her, carrying her like a new bride into his chambers, she leaned on his shoulder. Inside, she was shaken to the core of her being. What grand acts of valour he was capable of—what terrible acts of violence—she had not yet seen until this day.

This is my husband, my earthly Master? she thought in utter awe of his strength—a strength which, at once, made her revere and fear him.

For his part, Victor acted in swift haste, not wanting his wife to be drenched in rain or be fearful any longer. As guards and some men of the Service arrived, secured the area and began investigating, Victor left his post of duty for the night. Geoffrey, Victor’s dwarven compatriot, ran up alongside him as he carried his wife away from the scene.

“Victor? Victor, what happened? Are you alright?” Geoffrey questioned, the stocky dwarven man struggling to keep pace with his friend’s long strides.

Geoffrey stood in front of Victor and exclaimed, “Victor, what in all the realms of Amancia were those creatures?!”

Victor only briefly looked down at his friend, and into the eyes of Geoffrey’s wife Ethel who had just come to stand by his side.

Kallen arrived and gently placed a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder, nudging him away from Victor’s walking path, sensing Victor was in no state for questions.

Victor made no further eye contact, but kept his wife firmly in his arms as he strode toward his cottage. He used his shawl and cloth keep their heads covered from the rain as he disappeared into the late evening fog.

“Kallen, what happened to him?” Geoffery asked, bewildered.

Kallen sighed deeply. “Ethel?” he questioned Isabella’s dwarven neighbour.

Ethel was still shaken, and obviously traumatised from the attack.

Geoffrey put an arm around his wife’s shoulder, quietly whispering, “Now what would make a man stare so blankly into my eyes like that? I never seen the lad so stalwart.”

Ethel gently leaned into her husband’s shoulder, watching as guards and healers tended to the bloody scene left in the wake of the raid and Victor’s defence.

“A man never does understand. But as a lady, let me tell you both that very few in the realms of Amancia who are born in my station would not understand what that poor girl needs now. She needs him more than perhaps all of High Lorail tonight.”

Kallen looked into the forest from where the bandits had come, and whispered, “Do not be so sure of that, Lady Ethel.”

 

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The rain was light and slowed as Victor carried Isabella in his arms. His cloth covering his armour had protected their heads from water, though she was shivering regardless. His arms carried her directly into their cottage, to the washing stone. Setting her down on the stone, he found a large vessel of warm water, with some wonderful oils in them.

Gently, he undid the ties on her dress, her lace undergarments, and her headscarf, letting them fall away from her. He threw them into a basket, and removed his own armour and clothing, laying them to dry in front of the kitchen fire. Isabella shivered—partly in fear, partly in shyness, partly in need. Never had she felt such fear, as it was rare for a young woman of Amancia to ever be exposed to such carnage, such repugnancy.

As Isabella shook at his touch, Victor paused. After what felt an eternity, her eyes looked up into his. An unabashed trust, respect, reverence even was in her eyes. His hand grazed her cheek, the callouses on them melting away to a uniform warmth that soothed her chilled countenance.

“Bella, my dear girl…”

His voice was deep, echoing through her soul as if his words came were from an organ in the church. The tenderness was no less pronounced, however, as Victor’s large, weary and yet powerful form towered above her.

In need—in desperate need, no less—she clung to him. Her head was on his hairy chest, her hands held together and his arms encircling her. Silence reigned as Victor carefully freed one of his arms to reach for a washcloth, dipping it into the warm water and wringing out the moisture before soothing her body.

As his hands traveled down her curves and onto her supple waist, she gasped.

“My lord…”

“Shh, silence Bella.”

She whimpered, cooing as his hands turned her around against the wall, tenderly letting her rest against it. As if on instinct, her hips swayed to his motion, as his hands kneaded her derriere with tact and patience. He wiped her entire form, in the most gentle and possessive manner.

“Master… oh, Master…”

Warm water and his strong, impossibly loving hands made her melt as she purred against him, leaning back onto him. The coldness of the rain and mud was taken away, replaced by a loving embrace. Leading her out of the area, he dried her with soft fabric, and lit a steaming fireplace in their chambers. Gently, he sat her down on some cushions near it, holding her unclothed form tightly to him in his lap. She winced as her ankles brushed the cushions.

Dastardly creatures… he thought as he noticed some small injuries on her ankles, where the prickly rope had ensnared her. He gently used a warm cloth to sooth her pains. The entire time, Isabella looked blushingly into his face. It wore a great sense of tiredness, yet focus. Agitation, but affection. Her admiration of her head of household was interrupted by a calm but authoritative questioning from Victor.

“Now, why were you so far from our cottage this late?”

Isabella remained quiet as she shifted slightly in his lap. Her unclothed body shivered and was soothed all at once, as she bowed her head in silence. Victor’s hand reached to turn her cheek to him, turning her face to meet his. Mere inches away from his lips, she was beckoned to speak.

“I asked a question. A good wife answers. Be a good girl and tell me.”

Isabella, ever the weak one when called a good girl, responded quietly, “I… I heard some horses, and… Ethel and I saw smoke rising over the trees of the forest. Forgive me, my lord…”

Isabella was red in her face, shivering in his lap. Her voice was small. Her being was small. She sat on the lap of a being who was undoubtedly her head, her leader. There was no question. She looked into the fireplace as haunting images of her dear husband flashed through her mind unceasingly—the thunderous sound of a pommel striking a brute’s jaw—the chest of a bandit ruthlessly impaled on Victor’s sword—the nasty, green-faced snarl of the one who begged to be spared with a boot upon his face.

Isabella was a young girl married to a Service-man, but did not know of the details or abilities he possessed. Very few wives of Service-men would ever see their husbands in the midst of great turbulence. But now she had.

Victor had some linen trousers on, but without anything to cover his upper body, the two lovers were ever so close to having their physical forms mingle in the most beautiful of ways. Victor looked at the fireplace before them, holding her in his lap with authority. His hands rubbed her thighs, her legs, feet, arms, waist…

Oh dearest Master, what are you? Isabella’s mind wandered. Her eyes watered gently as Victor touched her. His rough hands employed a tender touch on his young wife as they kneaded her bosom. She leaned back into his chest and cried.

“Shhh, do not cry, my dear. Do not cry. You are safe.” His voice was deep, with a texture that was noticeable yet not abrasive. It was akin to a heavy woolen blanket; rough in some ways, but still soft, warm, and comforting.

Victor touched his wife’s bosom and hips, her soft abdomen and navel, her round thighs and gentle feet. His touch was not the sort of a man wanting to ravish or be in lust. Lust was foreign to either of them. This was a gentle emptying of her sorrows. He was not asking her for her body, but rather for her to empty herself of her fear and be filled with a divine act of love. His touch had not been familiar to her in their first days, weeks, together. However, with due time came the comfort and soon wish to be comforted by it.

Isabella’s tears flowed freely as she shifted to sit facing to the side on his lap. Victor repositioned himself on a cushion, and held her closely.

“Sir… they… I saw…” Isabella whimpered and sobbed into him, her tears like droplets of dew on his chest hairs.

“Whatever you saw, Bella, leave it be. Let your memories be burned in the image of our Lord, and fill your thoughts of the good things of this world, as difficult as it is.”

“Sir… they… one of them scarred your arm…” Isabella, reached for Victor’s right shoulder where a slight scar adorned his muscle. She touched it with reverence. The blood had halted its flow, and Victor’s supernatural blessing of healing had repaired the wound, yet the scar remained.

“It is nothing. A wound of the flesh. It is a lie to assume we are of the flesh alone, my dear bride. We no longer live on, it is Christ who lives within us. The flesh is the sacred gift given to live a most proper life. If it be scarred, let it be scarred for sake of righteousness. I have no fear, the Lord is there above me always.”

Bella’s sobs slowed as she touched Victor’s shoulder, slightly calmed by his touch and assurances.

“I know you are worn, and tired,” she said softly. “Never have I seen someone harm you. It… broke my heart…”

“I refrain to show them for that reason. You see the results, as do the women of Amancia. War—it is not the domain of girls and women. Battle. Blood. Tactics. Let the churches, gardens, civil academies and the household be your domain. Is not the Service there to provide men those other purposes? Hmm?”

Isabella nodded, her tears no longer falling. Victor raised her gaze to his, their lips separated by only few inches. The breath Victor took was from Isabella’s lungs, and the very same breath returned to her with haste, carrying his minty flavour.

“How is my dear girl?”

Oh, Master, you make me feel such wondrously frightening things… she thought.

“I am better now, my lord.”

“Good. Very good.”

With that, Victor leaned in and captured her lips with his. It was a sensual dance, an orchestra with light playing of strings. The song of their kiss was akin to the bard’s call, telling tales of the warrior coming to save the damsel. The warrior becoming a steward. The damsel giving herself over to the warrior. Their kiss contained the story of this bittersweet evening.

Isabella sat facing to the side on one of Victor’s thighs. She leaned into his chest and her hands gingerly lay upon his upper body. Victor’s hands touched and kneaded her body as she shivered, feeling flustered. He gently lifted her as he rose from the ground. Walking to the marriage bed, he lay her softly on the sheets. He joined her and covered both of them with a blanket. He pulled her body toward him, fitting her feminine curves into the grasp of his muscly form. His lips, boiling with the heat of love, planted themselves on her neck as she whimpered in response to her husband’s motions.

“Rest now, dear Bella. I do not require the intimate company of my wife tonight. I merely wish to hold her in my arms. Did I not tell you? No matter where you may be, I shall find my path to you. The Lord guided me to do so tonight.”

Turning her face back to him, he looked with longing into her eyes. Emeralds gazed back into his dark eyes. Isabella could see the tiredness in them. The grey on his temples, and the smile on his face.

“Sir?” she whispered softly.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I was so afraid,” she sniffled and sobbed dryly, “that these creatures would have… have…”

“I did not marry you for this flesh, and even if they did manage to lay a finger upon you, surely the wrath of God would have found its way to them before I did. To touch such a chaste and pious girl is to invite suffering onto oneself.”

“Oh, my dearest lord, I prayed ceaselessly for God to forgive them. For my dignity to be rescued. Above all, that my pains not cause you anguish. You suffer enough as it is, Sir.”

Victor grunted, and answered, “As a girl, you should see Christ. Flowers. Trees. Rivers. Let these provide solace. God and His blessings. His grace. His unending Love and our unending devotion and service.”

“… and you, my lord?” Isabella asked with a genuine concern.

“You pray for me, do you not? The Lord is with me. I pray to Him. I beg, ‘O Lord, He Who so lovingly guides me, offer me the pittance of your Grace,’ and He answers. I smile, despite my suffering, because of Him. Because of blessings from Him—blessings such as you, Bella.”

They shared a long and quiet gaze between them. His hands held her supple, feminine form to himself. Muscles coiled around her and embraced her tightly. Kisses seared his mark of stewardship into her shoulder and neck as she cooed, moaned, blushed, and shuddered.

Isabella found sleep through the course of her dear husband’s care.

As her mind eloped into slumber, Victor whispered in her ear, “Good girl.”

Nothing more was needed for Isabella. Nothing more needed be said. She was her lord’s good girl, his bride. As she rested, Victor occasionally watched her. His mind was preoccupied elsewhere. A righteous anger boiled underneath the surface of his calm countenance.

Briefly closing his eyes, he prayed, O Lord, remove from my mind this anger. It is not befitting of a servant of Your Will. Remove it, and fill such an empty space with Your directive. Let justice prevail under Your Grace.

He opened his eyes to look out of the thin sliver of the window exposed by a crack in the curtains. By the light of the occasional flickering torch, he observed the distant sight of bustling Service-men, guards and villagers by the clearing where the bloodbath had occurred.

There is a debt to be paid, Victor thought as he once more looked at the peaceful, sleeping bride in his arms. Her breasts rose and fell softly as she breathed.

A severe debt, indeed.

 

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This concludes Part 2 of The Bandit’s Raid, and I apologise if any of the subject matter was perhaps inappropriate. Please offer your kind comments and thoughts. There are plans for more entries in the future for this tale and for future stories involving Isabella, Victor, and the fantastical land of Amancia.

Love and prayers,

SophTea “n_n”