My 1000-years love

Chapter 17

“Damn it…” I cursed as I took a solid punch to the jaw from Regev. As of today, Tragaon decided that my physical condition had improved enough from grueling training sessions combined with the regenerator that it was time for me to learn how to dodge punches. To this end, he brought in a gleeful Regev, fearing that he might accidentally knock my head off himself. Agron’s girlfriend attacked instantly at the command, nearly leaving half of my teeth on the floor. It took me half a second to get angry. After another minute of helpless dodging and evasion, my anger peaked. With a furious scream, I began attacking, which only made the beautiful bald viper burst into laughter.

“What a helpless little earth rat you are.”

What?! I’ll show you helpless. And about the rat, you have no idea how right you are, dear.

Taking a deep breath, I suddenly felt the air around me begin to vibrate, thicken, and swirl. Apparently, only I could see it because the others continued to watch me impassively, waiting for me to return to reality. And when I attacked again, raising my hand for a strike, I didn’t even have to touch Regev as her head jerked to the side and she fell.

“Stop!” Trin barked.

“What the hell?” the girl whispered, holding her cheek. “That’s not fair.”

“Sorry,” I bleated. It really wasn’t fair. “It happened once before when I got angry.”

“Archon.” Trin bowed respectfully to something behind me. “Apologies, is this your gift of archaite? Part of your abilities?”

Sgannar shook his head.

“Abilities are only passed down genetically. I can’t even transfer them through blood infusion. It’s likely that Haagnarath has learned a few things over her millennia of reincarnations. Now, after the frequency alteration, her abilities have awakened. She even blocked me from mental influence.” Sgannar finished proudly. I glanced at Regev. She looked at me with respect, and I exhaled in relief.

“Trin,” the archon said, heading for the exit, “you could at least teach her basic self-defense moves before inviting assassins.” He nodded toward Regev and disappeared through the doorway. Why did he come at all? To admire my black eye? And realizing that he most likely responded to my stress level, warmth spread through my body.

“Apologies, archaite. The emperor is right, but I needed to assess your initial abilities, fighting style, and level of anger.”

“Did you find out?” the “assassin” interjected. “Can I go now?”

“Well, if you’re not interested in the ancient martial art of qui-dragal, then leave. And thank you, triary.”

The following weeks were tightly scheduled. In the mornings, Tragaon trained us with Regev, who, of course, stayed upon hearing that she might learn the secrets of the ancient art. After lunch, I would run to the hangar to meet Kalon. Since our first encounter, he never brought up that conversation again, and I never felt any physical impact from his gaze, although he often stared at me. We rarely talked. He spoke the minimum words necessary to explain all those intricate sensor screens. He often demonstrated maneuvers and control techniques instead of answering foolish questions. Hence, I had to pull myself together and clearly and concisely formulate my questions.

Incidentally, I also had to master the Allion hieroglyphs. This script was used in the Empire. Raath script was considered something like Sanskrit in India: used in sacred texts and to convey secret knowledge among the ruling elite. Surprisingly, learning to operate these flying boxes, simply and unpretentiously called ‘wa’, came easily to me. I especially excelled in maneuvering through asteroids flying at me in the simulator. Although I doubt I could do it in real life. Kalon’s taciturnity made spending time with him my favorite part of the day. He gave me simple instructions in a dispassionate voice, never praised or showed displeasure, but next to him, I somehow felt calm and peaceful. Of course, my curiosity eventually surfaced, and I blurted out:

“So, do you still judge me?”

Naturally, he remained silent, continuing to demonstrate another maneuver on the simulator. But at the end of the lesson, as I was leaving and he was watching me with his usual piercing gaze, I heard:

“Is my judgment important to you?”

“Yes.” I don’t know why, but that’s how I felt and saw no reason to hide it.

“Why?”

“Just. I feel an unusual calm near you. It gives me a small respite on this ship. In the chaos in my head and soul. So yes, it matters to me.”

I had already opened the door, thinking he wouldn’t answer my question, but I heard a quiet:

“I don’t judge anymore.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, looking at the ceiling, and ruffled his hair.

“Can’t manage to.”

From that day on, he became a bit more talkative, but not overly so.

Now that I wasn’t as tired, each evening we dined with Sgannar on the most exquisite dishes I could never have imagined. During dinner, the Archon would come up with endless topics for conversation, telling me about his Empire, about Tauanir, raising various philosophical questions, and listening to my musings. He would nod frequently as I expressed my opinions. Our positions and thoughts were often so similar that it seemed almost impossible. Sometimes, I suspected the Archon of just agreeing with me to find common ground. But then he would delve into his reasoning, and all my doubts would disappear: we were indeed a perfect match. And somehow, this realization made me even more furious.

After dinner, he would always leave, citing work, but he would return once I had fallen asleep and lie down next to me. Every morning, I would wake up wrapped in a cocoon of his embrace. He no longer smothered me; now it was always tender and touching. It took me two weeks to get used to this feeling of security and rightness. I realized this one morning when I woke up and didn’t feel him beside me. Later, it turned out that he had been dealing with some imperial matters all night. He chose to report this to me himself, for some reason.

The next night, discovering that he was sleeping on his back, I began to secretly observe him. It seemed I had been doing this more and more often lately. What broad shoulders he had. They rose above me, giving the impression that I was lying in the shadow of a small mountain. My mountain. Which could shield me from the wind and rain, where it was warm and safe. When I barely touched his bare skin with my hand, he inhaled sharply, turned towards me, and grabbed me as usual. He pretended not to wake up, but his significant endowment pressing against my stomach was so eloquent that I began to swallow convulsively, restraining myself from touching him too. No matter how much my pride suffered, I had to admit the obvious. I desperately wanted my captor. It seemed like Stockholm syndrome. Understanding this, I tried desperately not to show him my desire, but something told me that he felt it anyway. He smirked too often.

The most surprising thing was that, in the many days that followed, he never once attempted to kiss me. And yet he constantly touched me: either tucking a lock of hair, lifting my chin during a conversation while waiting for my answer, removing invisible specks from my clothes, or brushing a crumb from my lip during dinner. All this became part of our daily routine. And very soon, I found that I no longer flinched every time he held my cheek in his hand, staring intently into my eyes, searching for something known only to him.

A few evenings, when I longed for simple “human” company, I asked Sgannar if I could go to the forum after dinner. Once, he let me go quite indifferently. That time, sipping my favorite long drink in the company of Agron and Troy, I witnessed the latter’s drunken confession about how long and hopelessly he had been in love with the arrogant Kalon.

The next day, I decided to shake up my surroundings from the ship’s routine and play matchmaker. After all, if I’m supposed to be some kind of Archaite here, I definitely have the right to do that! Maybe Kalon just doesn’t know about Troy’s feelings, and a new romance might help distract him from thoughts of Laor.

“Do you know that Troy likes you?”

“I’m not blind,” he said, swallowing and finishing his vitamin cocktail from a metal can.

“And do you like him?” I asked, diving into my role as the ship’s matchmaker.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, sorry,” I nodded, “Laor.”

“What about Laor?” Kalon stared at me, puzzled.

“Well, you know,” I said meaningfully. “I hope he’s alive. There’s a chance he could have been saved, right?” I truly hoped I didn’t have the blood of an innocent man and a fantastic lover on my hands.

“Miss him?” Kalon growled, reverting to his previous gloomy mood. My shoulder burned like fire.

“Ouch!” I grabbed my shoulder. “What the hell, Kalon! Again! I thought you missed him. You like him, don’t you?”

Blurting this out, I stared at Kalon’s mouth, which was open in surprise.

“Me? What makes you think I like men at all?”

“What do you mean? In our first conversation! I assumed, and you didn’t deny it!”

“I told you then that you were an i***t! That meant you assumed wrong.”

He suddenly stood up, tossing the crushed can aside, approached me, and leaned on the armrests of my chair, trapping me.

“Let me repeat for the person with intellectual disabilities: I have never been attracted to men. Laor is a brilliant commander, a fearless warrior, and has saved my life many times, just as I have saved his. If I could call anyone in my life a friend, it would be him. But,” he paused, studying my face, and added harshly, “I have no friends.”

Then his gaze settled on my lips:

“And you’d better not wish for him to be alive. Because if you were mine, in the Archon’s place, I would have killed Labor right there.”

And he stormed out of the hangar like a rocket.

Well, damn. Kalon is right; I am an i***t. But I don’t want him to end up in space because of me either.