Page 44 of His King Enslaved

Sindar went to his knees. His legs were no longer capable of holding him up. Any pretense of dignity went out the window. He crawled across the dewy grass, his palms and knees damp, dropping his head as near to Ardor’s feet as he dared.

Oh, to touch those slender feet!

Ardor sighed. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I see you are right where I left you.” He did not sound displeased.

Sindar lifted his head. “I nearly died,” he said plaintively. “I dream about you every night.”

“So you said. Your letters are beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so. What, ah, part of the last one did you fancy?”

Ardor’s expression was unreadable. “May I show you something?”

Sindar rose and followed him deeper into the garden. It was heaven walking alongside his Beloved. Ardor’s fragrance was less overwhelming now, but faint, familiar notes of spice and fruit teased the nose. His silver hair shone in the light. Pregnancy suited him. He was magnificent.

Ardor stopped in front of a cluster of lilies. “Your Majesty,” he began.

“Please. Call me anything but that.”

Ardor didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring at the flowers. “I need to tell you something,” he said finally. “I don’t know how, so I’m going to show you and hope you understand.” There was a slight tremor in his sonorous, deep voice.

Ardor was upset.

The realization steeled Sindar’s spine, and he shoved all his hopes and longings down deep. This was not the time for childish infatuation. Whatever this was about, it was important enough for Ardor to tell him in person. Ardor needed something from him.

“People often compare Flowers to lilies,” Ardor continued. “It helps visualize how we differ from humans.” He stepped lightly into the flower bed, and the slender green leaves parted as he reached out to a particular bloom. The flower had not fully formed. The bud was partly closed, with two of the petals unfurled, and it was mottled with white and red variegations. “If Flowers are like lilies, then I am like this one. What I’m saying is… my flower is different.”

Sindar considered the plant. He’d read Flowers possessed an ovule which was ringed with “petals,” or labia that produced lubrication and pheromones. The petals could form into a phallus to retrieve a female consort’s egg, or they could open and lie flat, providing male consorts seminal access into the muscular birthing channel.

The easiest way to inseminate was by penile penetration, but Ardor manually inseminated with his fingers. Sindar had wondered about this at first, but concluded Ardor was imprinted by Xandar and his bloom would not open for anyone else. They said Flowers were monogamous in that respect, and once biologically bound to their consort they would not bloom for another. Ardor suspected he was an impostor early on, and this was probably why.

“You say your flower is different,” Sindar said, still studying the lily. “I assumed you were imprinted by, ah, my other side, and that was why you manually inseminated.”

Ardor blinked. “You know about imprinting?”

Of course, he would be surprised. Until recently, Sindar had been woefully ignorant of anything that wasn’t horses. “Well, I don’t understand entirely, but I made it my business to try.”

Ardor’s expression shifted. “Do you… know what we’re supposed to look like?”

A few sterile diagrams in the medical textbook had given him the gist of it, but that was not what Ardor was asking him. Ardor’s Kysanian, normally clear and certain, was hesitant now, as though he was seeking words he did not have.

“What do you mean?” Sindar asked in Pavarian. Or at least, he hoped that was what he asked.

Ardor blinked, surprised once again, and said. “I am…” followed by a word Sindar didn’t understand. Sindar stumbled over the word, asking Ardor to repeat it, and his flower said, “I’m sorry, but I’m broken.”

Now it was Sindar’s turn to blink. What the devil was he talking about? Ardor, misinterpreting his confused look, repeated himself, but Sindar cut him off. “That is not possible. You are my Ardor. You are perfect.”

Ardor glanced aside, not meeting his eyes. “I need you to understand that I’m not like other Flowers,” he said curtly. “He thought I was denying him on purpose, but I’m not. My body does not work the same as the others, and it isn’t something that can be fixed. It’s how I am. It cannot be changed.”

Sindar’s mind slowly pivoted from what to why. “Why are you telling me this now? Is it because of the letter? Because I—“

“I’m damaged, and my flower doesn’t bloom,” Ardor said, crossing his arms over his belly. “We’ll never be able to consummate. Do you understand?”

Arguments leaped to Sindar’s tongue, where they promptly died. This was the old Ardor, the wary Ardor who believed his consort was Xandar. This Ardor was afraid and put up walls to protect himself. “I understand,” Sindar said. “You were given that letter by accident, and I’m sorry. You’ve been put in an unfair position. I don’t expect anything from you, and you’re under no obligation to reciprocate my feelings. I hope you understand that.”

Ardor turned, his eyes flashing. “Why would you write such things if you don’t care about reciprocation?”

Ardor’s Pavarian was rather fast when he was angry, but Sindar got the gist of it. “What I want is immaterial, and your reciprocation doesn’t change how I feel. I care for you regardless.”