These are mildly edited vignettes from the very first version of the Andrea + Elspeth relationship that I wrote. At the time I wrote a lot of my dirtier fic in "you" form. Dysphoria stuff, kind of.

I wrote this in mid-2024. My later stuff in this universe is not quite as stuffy and filigreed, but it's also significantly less horny.

She pulls you by the hand, drawing you into the bedchamber. You hear the heavy oaken door shut quietly behind you. You look around the room, awe and a trace of fear in your belly. The walls are covered in rich tapestries, and the floor in furs and woven rugs; there is a fine couch sitting before a mahogany table, facing a crackling fireplace; further in you see a large wardrobe, as well as what appears to be a rack laden with arms and armor; still further you see a velvet curtain, which you can only imagine leads to the boudoir. "Such is the bedchamber of a human princess..." you murmur.

Turning away from you, she gestures to the stays of her gown on her back. "Here, my meadowlark, would you loosen these?" Hesitantly, you reach out and untie the knots holding her fine violet gown on her shoulders. She shrugs those shoulders and the gown slides off. Beneath, she is clad in silken smallclothes; you can now see her lithe and tanned back and shoulders, which are covered in silvery, red, and brown lines. You look closer. Scars, dozens, perhaps hundreds of them. You see them on her arms as well, and as she pulls the gown down to her feet and daintily steps out of it, on her legs and belly. She turns back to you and smiles, reaching up to remove her hairpins, raven-black hair flowing down across her shoulders. "Much better. Here, turn around, I'll help you."

You swallow hard. To enter the private chambers of a princess is one thing, but to allow her to disrobe you? But in her hazel eyes you see nothing but simple, open affection. You decide to trust her, and turn around. "Of course, my lady. Thank you." Her hands work quickly at your back, and she slips your lavender gown from your shoulders, and unlaces and removes your corset. She sets them on a side table. "I'll have the servants take these to be washed. You shall have them back before you leave today."

You turn to face her, and she looks you up and down briefly. Then, she reaches out and takes your hand. "Come now. My clothes should fit you, if a trifle long. We shall sup together in comfort." She leads you over to the wardrobe and opens it, rummaging around. You watch her as she pulls out a yellow linen tunic and holds it out in your direction. "Here. This is long enough that, on you, it should serve as a shift." You take the proffered garment and pull it over your head, silently watching as she pulls a forest-green belted robe from the wardrobe. She puts it on and fastens it and turns to face you. "Well?"

"Thank you, my lady. The garment suits me." You look briefly at your bare arms and legs, and then back up at her. "If I may say so, yours suits you as well." She gives you a brief toothy smile and bobs her head. "Kind of you to say, my meadowlark. Shall we retire to the couch?" Not waiting to hear your response, she takes your hand and leads you over there, lowering herself onto the velvet cushion with a somewhat unladylike sprawl. She pats next to her. "Here."

Sitting down, you draw your legs up onto the couch and fold them under you, so that your bare feet do not touch the floor. The human customs for such an intimate encounter are unknown to you. You certainly did not expect to dine privately with a royal princess. "My lady, your chamber is quite elegantly appointed. The luxuries of your kingdom far exceed anything I have seen among my people. Are all human kingdoms blessed with such wealth?"

She pats your shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. Yes, they are lovely chambers. My life is one of the utmost luxury. But many humans live differently, in this kingdom and others." She takes a jug of wine and pours into two crystal goblets, the first time you have seen a human noble serve her own food or drink. Handing one goblet to you and sipping from the other, she seems lost in thought before continuing. "Our kingdom has great wealth, borne by the sweat and brawn of the hard-working peasant and the abundance of the earth, but also... that which was taken by force of arms in years past, from our neighbors with whom we now know peace." The thought clouds her face, and she looks into her wine, as if to find an answer reflected in its surface.

You respond quietly. "Such as my clan."

She looks over at you and raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that not even threescore years since, some of the soil now tilled by human farmers for your kingdom was dwelled upon by my people." Now it is your turn to gaze into your goblet, choosing your words carefully. "My ancestors were slain and driven away from the land, and when our peoples made peace, we were too weak to demand to be made whole." You rotate the goblet in your hand, watching the surface of the wine sway, and take a sip. "Not that we would desire to dispossess those who dwell there now, in any case."

Gazing at you silently for some time, her expression is unreadable. You blush, and cringe, and look away, fearful that you have angered her, and that she will drive you away. Instead, you feel the warm touch of her hand on your shoulder, and you look back into eyes brimming with tears. "I am sorry, my meadowlark. I knew that we had only made peace with your clan in recent years, but I did not know we had taken so much away from you." She shakes her head. "Someday, when I am queen... if I am blessed to become queen..." Looking away, she takes a deep breath and wipes her face, attempting to hold back tears.

You place a gentle hand on her knee. "My lady... may I ask you a question?" She wipes her red eyes and smiles. "Of course, my friend. Anything."

"You live in such luxury, and you are a royal princess... why, then, is your body scarred like the veteran of a hundred battles? I have only seen such marks on the oldest and most renowned warriors, and you are..."

"... a young, slight woman. Yes." Looking at you thoughtfully, she rolls up the sleeve of her tunic, showing you the silvery marks all up and down her arm, holding it out for your inspection. "You are a foreigner here, meadowlark -- a welcome one, of course -- so you do not know. As crown princess, by tradition I am also the high priestess of the Lord of Battles." Reaching out, you trace the scars on her arm as she continues. "My life is dedicated to perfecting the art of combat and war. I train my body and mind again and again, day after day, holding nothing back. This is my sacred duty, so that like my mother and her mother before her, the people will know that a true warrior, god-blessed, reigns over them."

Looking up at her with concern, you shake your head slowly. "But... is it not painful, my lady? There must be hundreds of these marks, each which could have only come from a deep wound. The suffering, the blood... it must have been unimaginable."

She nods. "Yes, meadowlark. But my body is dedicated to the Lord of Battles. Every drop of blood I shed consecrates the earth upon which it falls. Every cry of pain is a prayer that reaches her ears. Every broken bone is knit together again by his blessings. I was born for this duty, this burden, and I bear it for the sake of my people."

Confused, you clutch at her arm. "But to what end? Her Majesty the Queen, your mother, she has reigned over an era of peace. You are at war with no one, and none could stand against you. Why must you continue to shed your own blood?" Imagining the pain she must endure, you bend your head over her arm, as teardrops spatter onto her scarred skin.

Reaching out to embrace you, she holds you close, stroking your hair as your tears stain her tunic. "You have a truly kind and generous heart, my meadowlark. As have I learned is common among your kind. But you need not weep your tears for me. I accept my duty. And I relish the ways of battle. Even, in a way, the pain." Her calloused hand tenderly wipes your tears away. "I want to be strong for my people. To defend the peace. To come to the aid of our allies and friends. And, and I beseech the Lord of Battles it never be necessary, to protect our homeland." She rubs your shoulder comfortingly. "As long as my mother lives, and as long as I live, we shall not wage again a war of conquest. And I will teach my daughter to do the same, and to teach her daughter as well."

You sniffle and nod. "My lady, you have the countenance of a warrior, but it takes true bravery to seek peace. It is my endless honor to count myself among your companions."

She kisses your forehead. "Chief among them, meadowlark." She pulls back and you sit back on the couch. As if on cue, there is the gentle ringing of a bell near the door. Shaking off her somber mood, she claps her hands together and calls out. "Come in!" She looks at you. "Our feast."

You look at the door and see servants streaming in, bearing covered dishes, bowls, and jugs. Quickly and quietly, the repast is laid out before you, along with a fresh pair of goblets and a basin of steaming water containing soaking cloths. The meal is a broad assortment of small morsels: fruits, nuts, eggs, small pieces of meat, preserved vegetables, and dainty pastries you do not recognize. Almost before you can react, the servants are gone again, and she rubs her hands in delighted anticipation. "I am so hungry, meadowlark. Please, allow me to serve you. What would you like?"

You blush, embarrassed to be served by a royal princess and by your ignorance of the foodways of this land. "Whatever you enjoy the most, my lady." You point at some of the pastries. "What are these?"

She begins to pick out pieces of food and put them on a plate. "Little savories, containing herbs and cheese. They are a favorite of mine." Filling the plate, she hands it over to you and picks up a jug, and then hesitates. "Would you prefer wine or mead, meadowlark?"

"I would like to try the mead, my lady." You have started to develop an appreciation for the fruit of the vine, but your people are renowned beekeepers, and you yearn for the familiar taste of honey. She pours out two goblets and hands one to you. "Well chosen. The royal beekeeper produces exceptional honey. Well, I suppose the royal bees do." She grins. "And mead is a traditional toast to the Lord of Battles after a victory, and I count at least two today."

Two victories? You incline your head. "Which victories are those?" She laughs. "The first being the trouncing I gave that insolent Cynthia, for laying hands on you. The second being the victory we are sharing right now." She shrugs, with embarrassment showing on your face. "I consider winning your friendship to be one of the finest victories I have ever achieved. And I hope you feel the same way, meadowlark."

A broad smile crosses your face. "Oh, yes!" You nod happily. "A great victory for us both, indeed, my lady." You pick up one of the small pastries and taste it, your eyebrows raising at the taste. The preparation is unusual, but you recognize the flavor of the herbs. "This is delicious. We use this same green herb to flavor fish. I myself have gathered it in the field many times. It is well-used here."

She smiles and munches on some small eggs. "It is heartening that despite our differences, our peoples can still enjoy the same foods. I believe that we will find there is much we can share. The traditional song you performed was a delight, and your voice still rings in my heart, my meadowlark."

You blush deeply at the compliment. "Your praise honors me, my lady."

You continue to eat and drink together until satisfied. She places her plate down with a bit of a clatter and leans back, patting her belly. "Ah. A fine repast. How does it compare to the feasts of your clan, my friend?"

"There are qualities in common. In banquet halls here, I have seen great roasts, mighty cheeses, elaborate confections, dishes with dozens of ingredients. Our feasts are simpler. We prize the freshest foods, harvested from the wild -- game, fish, roots, nuts, tubers, herbs, fruit, and so on. This meal today reminds me more of home than anything I have yet tasted in my time here."

She nods approvingly. "Good. In fact, my tastes are somewhat unusual, and the meals I have served reflect those tastes. It sounds like I would quite enjoy myself at table with those of your clan."

You laugh softly, and tilt your head to imagine the possibility. "I think you would enjoy the food, and the conversation. The recitation of poetry, however, would likely strain your patience. My people have great love for poetry and song."

She shrugs. "A fine song is a wonderful thing, meadowlark, and my heart has been touched by one or two poems. But my education in the refined arts has been limited. My days have been spent training for battle." She notices your legs curled up under you, and her eyes flicker upon your bare feet. She tilts her head and smiles. "I had not noticed... meadowlark, your feet must be sore tired from standing at the ball all day. Would you permit me to soothe the ache with tender ministrations?"

Your feet do ache a little, but the request is a surprise. You look at her with a quizzical glance. "Of course, my lady, but why do you ask now?"

She blushes, looking embarrassed. "Truth be told, my friend, I simply had not noticed something about you before. The claws on your feet." Extending her own leg, she shows you her foot. Like all human feet, it is stubby, with blunt nails. "I would like to soothe your aches, but I would also like to inspect your claws more closely." She looks away for a moment. "I hope this request does not offend you, meadowlark."

Slowly, you shake your head. "No, it does not. Indeed, it warms my heart that you look upon this difference with fascination and joy, rather than fear or disgust." You move over and rotate, leaning back to prop up your head on the end of the couch and laying your feet in her lap. "You may inspect them as much as you please."

You feel her hands, warm and strong, gently grasp your feet. Her fingers slowly press into the balls of your feet, moving in a circular motion. You feel tension fade away, and a warm sensation begins to rise up your legs. Sighing, you close your eyes. "I am feeling more relaxed already, my lady."

"Such wonderful claws." You feel her brush her thumb across one, testing it, and quickly withdrawing her hand. "Ouch. And razor-sharp, too, meadowlark. I shall have to use caution."

"Oh, my lady! Forgive me, I was not thinking." Flexing muscles in your ankle, you retract your claws, eliciting a shocked gasp. "Your claws... I had no idea! Like a cat!"

"A cat?" The term is familiar to you, and you have seen the small beasts roaming around human dwellings, sometimes in the laps of lords and ladies. "The small furry creatures humans keep? They have claws like mine?"

"Very similar, meadowlark. Sharp, hook-like, and they can be pulled within." Her hands resume their tender massage on your feet, and you hear her clear her throat. "I realize that comparing the qualities of your people to those of a dumb beast may give the wrong impression... I am sorry if I have offended you, my friend."

You shake your head. "Not at all, my lady. Cats are graceful, beautiful creatures and beloved of humans. I aspire to the same." You hear her chuckle, and reply: "An ambition already achieved, meadowlark."

She begins to gently rub your ankles and calves. Your muscles continue to slacken and relax, and the warm feeling rises up past your knees and toward your belly. After a moment of silence, she speaks. "We seek to find the common ground between our people, but the differences should delight us as well. And I find them delightful, meadowlark."

"Like my claws, my lady?"

"Yes, like your claws. And your skin, pale green like the new leaves of spring... your eyes, yellow as fresh butter... your ears, sharp as my finest blade."

You blush deeply at being described in such a poetic way. "My lady, your words honor me far beyond my merit."

"Nonsense." She continues to tenderly rub your calves, working out knots with her probing thumbs. "And your hair. I have seen ladies attempt such a silver color with dyes and powders, but none of them achieve the luster that nature gave you. Truly, meadowlark, you are delightful, not despite your strangeness, but because of it." She is quiet for a moment. "And, of course, your wit, wisdom, nobility of spirit... and so on." Another pause. "I am eager to discover what other differences we may have, my gentle friend."

For a moment you are overwhelmed by the kindness shown to you by your new friend. The warmness rising up your legs reaches your heart, and you are filled with affection, and the desire to please her. An idea comes to your mind, accompanied by a twinge of fear. You do not wish to make her think you are a threat, and yet... Your mind settles on her scarred body, and her brave words. "Thank you, princess. As some small measure of thanks, there is one difference I have yet to show you..."

You reach out your hand toward her and flex your slender fingers. Narrow, sharp claws emerge from the tips. She gasps and covers her mouth. You flutter your fingers at her so she can see them better. She removes her hands from her mouth and speaks. "On your hands, too... may I look closer, meadowlark?" You nod and sit up, so she can take your hand.

Tenderly, she holds your arm with one hand and inspects your hand from all angles, murmuring appreciatively. She tests the sharpness with one thumb and nods. Her eyes lift to meet yours, and you can see thoughts churning within. Finally, she lifts your hand to her face, pressing your claws against the flesh of her cheek. You take a deep breath, afraid of hurting her, but you do not withdraw your claws. She speaks, low and quiet.

"Meadowlark, my body is covered with scars, from countless battles fought in the name of my god. I have trained my body without mercy or cease, and my flesh has been cut by the blades of comrades, rivals, my trainer in arms, even my royal mother. But never has my face known the cut of a blade. I have kept it safe from the ravages of battle. But today, I would ask of you, my dear... my body has never been pierced by the blade of a true friend. Please..." Her lips tremble as she stares at you, pleading in her eyes.

You swallow. "Princess, you wish for me to... cut your face? With my claws?" Panic rises up in your gullet. "My lady, I am no harm to anyone. I would never injure you or cause you pain."

She smiles at you, still holding your hand in place, her cheek warm against your palm. "Don't you remember? Every drop of blood shed from my body is sacred to the Lord of Battles. What I am asking is not for you to harm me, but to aid me in an act of... devotion." She looks down. "I will understand if this is something you cannot do, meadowlark, and it will not affect our friendship. I swear it."

You shake your head at first, and then nod. "Your ways are strange to me, princess. But I trust you, and I understand the honor that you are bestowing upon me. I am truly grateful." You take a deep breath. "Please tell me if what I am doing is too much. If I were to harm you, I do not know how I would survive the shame."

Her eyes shine back at you as she smiles. "I will. I am ready for your blessing, my friend. Lord of Battles smile upon you for what you do today." She closes her eyes, and you press your claws against her face, the skin dimpling and then breaking. You see your claws dip below the surface, and spots of red bead out. She gasps, but does not cry out. "Yes, meadowlark. Keep going."

Slowly, not wanting to dig too deep, you draw your claws across her cheek, from the temple where they were placed to her jawline. Three parallel red lines well up with blood, which drips down her cheek. She shudders, from what sensation you know not. Finally, you reach her chin, and lift your claws free, retracting them. She opens her eyes again, and wonderingly wipes blood from her chin with her hand. "Lord of Battles, consecrate this bond..." She brings the bloody hand to her mouth and licks it, swallowing. Then she extends her hand to you. "Here..."

You stare at the bloody hand, and then up at her eyes. You can see what she wants you to do. Memories flood into your head about how humans think of goblins as man-eaters, blood-drinkers, and you search her face for indication that she is testing you, or that she believes you to be a monster. You see nothing but love, and trepidation that her offering will be refused. You nod your head. "Thank you, my princess." You lean forward and lick the blood off of her hand. It is a sharp, strange taste, different from the small tastes of your own blood you have had from split lips and small gashes. The flavor is metallic, harsh, but for some reason... comforting. You swallow it and then look back at her again. A pleased grin beams back at you, and she reaches out to embrace you.

"Meadowlark, you honor me and my god to the utmost. Today we are bonded in blood, companions in arms under the watchful gaze of the Lord of Battles. No challenge will divide us." She squeezes you tight, rocking back and forth. "I am so happy, my friend. Thank you for your bravery and your kindness."

Tears well in your eyes. Your emotions roil within you, but at long last what rises to the top is happiness, joy at being accepted. "I am happy too, princess. My heart soars to be counted as your bosom companion. I wish nothing more than to be your faithful servant all my days."

She pulls back from the embrace and tenderly kisses your forehead. Your face is smeared in her blood. "And I you, meadowlark. But first..." She reaches over and takes a wet cloth from the washbasin, and wipes your face clean with tender strokes. "There. I am sorry I made a mess of you."

You smile at her and giggle. "Not nearly as much of a mess as you made of yourself. Princess, your tunic is soaked!" You take the cloth from her hand and begin to daub at her wounds. "Allow me to be your healer, my warrior. To soothe your pains, having inflicted them."

Tears of joy stream from her eyes as you tend her wounds. "Meadowlark... thank you..."

You stare into the traveling-pack, face blank and eyes distant. Something inside you is continuing to move your legs and arms, calculating the space left in the bag and mechanically picking items to stow or to leave. But your mind is elsewhere. There is not much room left. Only something flat could squeeze in.

Without thinking, you reach out to pick up a sheaf of papers, bundled in twine, and start to put it in. Then, your eyes focus on the writing on the paper. Staggering backwards to the bed, clutching the papers in your fist, you fall backwards and sit with a loud thud. With shaking hands, you unwind the twine and begin to leaf through the pages.

For such an impetuous woman, she has a painstakingly precise hand — the hand of a girl who was drilled in the use of the pen from an early age, but who has found precious few reasons to write ever since. Until recently, that is. Every morning, you have been handed one of these by your attendant, bound by her Highness's seal, and (she writes) her kiss. When she writes things like that, her impeccable hand begins to lose its integrity.

You wonder if she will continue to write once you return home. It takes nearly a month for a mail-coach to travel from her home to yours, if it is not turned off its course by bandits before then. Even so, how long would it take for her ardor to cool? Surely she would not write letter after letter, day after day, in your absence. They would come every week, and then every month, and then perhaps one every long while, until you receive the notice of the royal wedding...

Shaking your head, you bundle the letters back up. Foolish girl you are. She is a fine friend to have, but this affection is a passing fancy, a fascination with the strange and the mons— the unknown. There is no way. Not her. Not you. You stand up, walk forward, and push the bundle into the pack, with a trace more force than you intended.

There is a knock at the door. You have learned to recognize this particular hollow boom, from the hilt of a temple guard's dagger. In this land where steel is venerated, to strike your weapon against someone's door is a sign of respect, not a threat. "Please do come in," you call out, turning around and fixing a friendly, tight-lipped smile on your face.

The door opens, and the guard sidles in a little awkwardly. Wait. You know this one. No guard at all. "Templar Janna," you say with a more genuine smile. "How nice to see you. Have you come on business, or just to say your farewells?"

The plump, golden-haired woman nods, her cheeks flushed. "Ah. My lady. Well, it is good to see you, and fain would I linger to wish you safe travels, but—" She coughs and shakes her head. "My apologies. My lady, her Highness desires your immediate presence."

"Andr—" You pause, and correct yourself. "Her Highness wishes to see me?" She has communicated with you only by letter for the past week. To save herself the pain, she wrote. "I thought she would see me off in the morn."

Janna looks even more anxious than normal. "It was quite sudden, my lady. She is quite insistent. Although of course you are free to decline—"

"No!" It comes out faster and louder than you expected, and Janna jumps a little. "I mean... I would gladly accept an audience with her Highness. Shall we leave now?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Lead the way."

The templar moves quickly, her long legs propelling her heavy boots across the marble flagstones. You have to scramble to keep up. Janna is usually quite empathetic and considerate — the mark of a good doctor — but she seems to be especially preoccupied today. A chill gathers in your belly. Is something wrong? What isn't she telling you?

You arrive at the door to the princess's bedchamber, and the guards station there salute as Janna approaches. She quickly salutes back and, drawing her dagger, raps the butt against the door three times. "Enter," a voice comes from inside.

The guards open the door and nod as the two of you pass through. Janna stops short right after the entryway. "Your Highness, Holy Eminence—" She coughs again and sputters a little.

"That is all right, Janna. You may go, with my blessing." Her voice comes from behind the partition that separates the entryway from the lounge.

"As you wish, your Highness." Janna salutes, and then she gives you a look. For a moment, you think you can see a smile flash across her lips, and then she hurries off. What? Now you are even more confused. The door slams shut, and now you are alone.

"Please come in, meadowlark." Her voice is softer now, more tender, as you have come to know her to be. "I need to see your face."

You still your trembling hands and start walking in. There is nothing to fear here, of course. This is a woman who cares about you deeply, who thinks she sees what you truly are, and even so— The tremble has returned. These are not thoughts to have at this moment. You push them aside, and continue on.

She is standing at her armory cabinet, gazing up at an array of gleaming blades. The sight of it has always made you uncomfortable, but you have learned that inspecting her weapons gives her peace of mind and focuses her thinking. And, of course, you know she would never harm you. Turning around without closing the cabinet, she fixes you with her hazel eyes, and her face lights up with her broad, toothy grin. Almost blinding. The sight makes you falter as your heart skips a beat, and she rushes forward. "Meadowlark! Are you faint? Here, rest on the couch here. Shall I pour you something to drink?"

"No, no," you murmur, giving her a small smile. "I am quite all right. But I will sit, and... I will have a little wine."

"Marvelous. Marvelous!" You feel her hand resting on your shoulder as she guides you to the couch. She is usually so sure in her movements, but something about her feels off... is her hand trembling, too? As you sit, she strides over to another cabinet and opens it, pouring two small goblets of red wine. She brings them over, setting one on the table in front of you, but does not sit. Instead, she paces, swirling the wine in her glass and idly sniffing it.

You watch her pace as you sip your wine slowly. Two... three... four... After the sixth circuit from one side of the room to the other, she turns to face you, head raised high and face impassive. "You leave tomorrow."

"Yes." It is an observation, not an order.

"There is..." She hesitates. "No other option? You cannot extend your visit, even for a little while?"

Your heart aches at the thought. "No, your High... I mean, Andrea." She smiles a little at that familiarity. "I have served my duty here. It is time for me to return to them and convey your mother's desire for a closer bond between our peoples. Others, more experienced in these matters, will come in my stead."

She shakes her head and paces again. "But... surely you could stay as a guest of the Throne!"

"Andrea, my place is with my people. With my family."

She freezes, and her hand nearly clutches hard enough to shatter her goblet. She turns slowly. "Your family. Yes." Looking down into the wine, she takes a deep breath. "Meadowlark... I cannot come to visit you. I, too, have a duty, to my people and my god. I must not leave the city, not unless—"

You lean forward. "Unless?"

"Unless there is... a matter of great importance to the realm." She looks away. "To wage war, to make peace, or to... arrange a royal wedding."

You stare at her as she avoids your gaze, and drain the rest of your goblet. Setting it down, you shake your head. "So... I do not understand. Why did you ask me to come here today?"

She looks at you with a pained expression. "Is it not enough that I desired to see your face, and hear your voice?"

"If you wanted to do to that, you could have done it any time this week." You stand up and raise your chin. "Or you could have done it tomorrow, while seeing me off. You asked me here for a reason."

Her hand trembles so much that the wine spills over the edge. "I— Meadowlark, I—"

"What?!" You stride toward her, standing in front of her with fists balled. "Out with it, Princess! Is this the brave warrior who came to my aid? Is this the high priestess of the Lord of Battles, whose soul is forged steel? This craven that shakes before me like a stand of aspen—"

"No!" It is a helpless cry, and the goblet falls from her nerveless fingers, smashing to pieces on the floor. "Meadowlark, I—"

"My name is Elspeth!" Your eyes blaze. "And you are Andrea! What are you going to do about it?"

She whirls around and lunges for the armory cabinet. Your blood runs cold. There is no way she would mean you harm, surely not, but herself... You raise up a helpless arm, and try to cry out, but nothing comes from your gasping throat.

Seizing a filigreed box from the bottom of the cupboard, she opens it up and snatches something out. You see a glint of silver. A blade. She raises it in front of her, still facing the cabinet, and speaks quietly. "Elspeth. You once told me that when a goblin desires another as a mate, to bear young together and to cleave solely to each other for a time... that it is traditional to offer a finely crafted gift."

Eyes still on the blade, you nod slowly. "Yes. My father offered my mother a new oaken staff. She still uses it."

"Then..." She turns around, her face solemn. "Before you leave, you must take a token of my admiration, meadowlark. Here." She turns the blade around in her hand, holding it by the point, and kneels, offering its hilt forth. "For you."

Is this... This cannot be! And yet... You step forward, one step, two steps, three. And reach out one hand to take the dagger from her offering hand. When your hand touches it, she looks up at you. Tears are streaming from her eyes. And, you realize, yours as well. You raise the dagger up to look at it. Its blade is chased with silver, the hilt set with brilliant jewels. "A masterpiece," you murmur.

"It is very old," she says with reverence. "A heirloom passed down countless generations of queens to their princesses..."

This is absurd. "I cannot accept this, Andrea. It is far too precious."

She leaps to her feet. "It is the only gift that is precious enough for you, meadowlark. And it is like it was made for you. See..." She steps forward and takes your slender hand between her warm, calloused ones. "A silvered blade, like your elegant tresses. Yellow topaz, like your eyes, and green emeralds, like your skin." Her finger traces up yours as she speaks, her gaze meeting yours with fervor and growing confidence. "Sharp like your claws, a blade that can pierce anything..." She bites her lip and takes a deep breath. "As you have pierced my heart. Never before have I been so defeated, Elspeth."

Your shoulders slump. "But... can you really ask me to... Do you know what this means?"

She nods vigorously. "Yes. Yes. And I want naught else." She pauses, and then the words come rushing forth. "Will you be my consort? Will you stay with me, stand beside me, as my companion forever more?"

Yes. Yes. Yes. "I... Andrea, I..."

Her eyes widen. "Elspeth, if my flesh interests you not, I hope still that you will take my heart. I know that it is not the way of your people to form such bonds, but I had hoped—"

"Yes!" You wrench your hands free of her grasp, and set the dagger down before wrapping your arms around her. "Yes!"

"Oh, meadowlark!" You can feel her sobbing as she holds you tightly. "I am so happy. Beyond measure, beyond words..."

After some time, you lessen your grasp on each other, and pull back to gaze in each other's eyes. Hers are red and puffy with tears. "You look like you did after General Valeria socked you one during the duel last month," you say, giggling.

She grins. "And you... I did not know that your eyes would become greener, as mine are red. You are full of surprises. I cannot wait to discover more."

Something tickles your mind. Ah, yes. "Andrea. You said something about 'if my flesh interests you not'..."

"Yes, of course." She shrugs. "Just because you are my consort need not mean we share a bed. It has happened before. If you wish—"

You reach up and grip her shoulders. "Not on your life." This needs to be clear. "If I am to be your consort, and you are to be my mate, then your flesh interests me greatly."

She throws back her head and laughs. "What a relief! Ah..." Lowering her chin again, her gaze grows intense. "Come with me, meadowlark."

"Yes."

You both rush toward the bedchamber, tumbling onto it in a frenzy of kisses and giggles. Her hands grasp at the stays of your gown and pull roughly at them. You hear the sound of ripping, but could not imagine caring. It loosens the gown enough to pull it up over her head, which she helps you do in a frenzy. And then it is time for her tunic, which is quickly removed and tossed aside. She is scarred even here, dozens if not hundreds of silvery lines on her lean torso, even criss-crossing her shallow breasts.

Her hands and her lips are everywhere, as are mine. You were not sure what to expect from a human princess, but she seems to have some idea of what she is doing. Even if she is a bit clumsy, she makes up for it in eagerness. After one particularly fevered clinch, you push her back and pounce on her, looking down at her red, flushed, sweaty, panting face. You smile. "Our combat has winded the mighty warrior, I see."

She rolls her eyes and laughs. "Of course not. But, meadowlark..." She reaches out a hesitant hand. "Can we..."

"Yes." You move back and lift each of her legs over your shoulders, and in a few swift moments her smallclothes are gone, tossed to the side of the bed. And now you look down. Thank goodness. It seems that, where it matters, humans and goblins are more alike than—

She surges upward and grabs hold of you, tossing you back down on the bed and wrestling your last garments off. She lays you down and her hand slides up your thigh. Her eyes meet yours. "Elspeth!"

You nod. "Yes." And gasp, as you feel her pressing inside. It has been some time, and although you were well ready for it, the intrusion is still a bit of a shock. "Yes!" She is insistent, but tender, and each movement is accompanied by a kiss, on the neck, the ear, the cheek, the mouth. "Yes..."

Her powerful body works fervently, muscles flexing under her tanned, scarred skin. With each movement, each push deeper, each caress, each kiss, you feel yourself being pulled inexorably to the inevitable conclusion. You wrap your arms around her and pull her close, gripping her tight, as tight as you possibly can—

You hear her scream. Her motions slow. You look up into her wide eyes. You feel warmth on your hands... wetness? Wetness? "Oh... no! Andrea, no—" You relax your hands, and the claws retract back into your fingertips. "I am so sorry, I—"

She takes a deep breath, and shivers, closing her eyes. Then she opens them again. "You don't need to apologize, meadowlark." Her voice is soft, low, dark.

You bring your hand in front of your eyes. As you feared, it is dripping with red blood. Her blood. "I was not thinking... I was so full of passion, I lost control..."

"Do not worry." She reaches out and takes your hand gently, and caresses the fingers. She looks at the droplets of blood and smiles softly. "I told you. Every drop of blood I shed consecrates that upon which it falls. You have made our lovemaking holy." She leans forward, and presses into you again, taking your arm and putting it back around her. "More."

"What?" You freeze. "You want me to..."

"Yes." She kisses you, and then holds your gaze. "My flesh has been pierced by countless blades, so often that I barely feel it any longer. I will be all right. Please, meadowlark."

She thinks you are a monster. Surely she does. Every human does. But... if she thinks you are a monster, then she loves a monster, because there is nothing but honest love in her eyes. And you do not think she is cunning enough to pretend otherwise. Slowly, you extend your claws again, and pull on her, hard. You see her grit her teeth and shudder, and begin to push harder. Are all human women like this?

Your musing is interrupted by a sense of pressure, a tension between your legs. You can feel it approaching now. Her blood drips down all around you, running from her back and even splattering from her shoulders. The bed will surely be ruined. Oh! "Andrea," you cry out. "Andrea!"

She answers by plunging her tongue into your mouth. Every part of her is moving in perfect coordination, pursuing your ecstasy with the same dogged single-mindedness that you have seen from her in the sparring ring. Her tongue wrestles with yours, and then you taste copper.

"Aaah," she groans, pulling back. Her mouth is bleeding now, too. "Right..." she pants, not slowing down. "Fangs. Fangs!" Her eyes are wild. She is grinning down at you. "Meadowlark."

"Yes..." You are beginning to feel lightheaded. The world is going white. "Anything."

"When you reach your peak..." She leans down and puts her head beside yours. "Your fangs. I want them in me."

"In you..." What she is asking for is madness. You are not a monster. You are not a cannibal. You are not a beast. But she could ask you anything, now, if only she kept moving within you. "Yes. Yes. Yes!"

She lets out a frantic cry, and moves with even more speed and power. A few more steps— just about there— and—

Everything goes dark, and then the world is suffused with bright light. As your back arches and your legs kick, you pull her to you, your sharp fangs finding purchase and sinking deep. You taste hot copper again as her blood fills your mouth. Her life fluid, her essence, the sacred ambrosia of her god. It tastes foul, it tastes acrid, it tastes bitter, it tastes like you never want to taste anything else again. You hear her let out a wild, joyous whoop, before all things fade away.

When you come back down from the pinnacle and become aware of your surroundings again, you notice a few things. First of all, she is curled up next to you, kissing your shoulder and murmuring your name. Second, the bed is completely sodden with dark red blood. Third, she is terrifyingly pale. You sit up. "My love, we need to get you a medic!"

"'s all right," she murmurs, waving a blood-soaked hand. "'ve had worse."

In a panic, you rush out of the room, through the lounge, and out to the entryway. You burst out into the corridor. "The Princess! Come quick, she's—"

As you see the guards' faces light up in fury, and they lift their glaives, you realize that you are a goblin, completely naked, soaked head to toe in red human blood, who was just alone with the Crown Princess. You sink to your knees, knowing what surely will come next. "Just... help her, please..."

A heavy, warm hand rests on your shoulder, and another one grabs you under the arm, lifting you up. "Stand down, ladies," a deep, rich voice rumbles. "Make yerself useful and go fetch Janna."

You look up, and up, and up, into the ruddy face of General Valeria. Her mother. One of them, at least. You cannot believe it, but there is an amused grin on her face. "Your Eminence..."

She guffaws. "None of that, hon. I'm Val to you. Because we're just about family, right?" She pats your back, nearly knocking the wind out of you. "Let's go check on her, all right?" Still gripping your shoulder, she leads you back into the chamber, and before long you are back in the bedroom.

Andrea's eyes are still open, if barely. She lifts herself up a little upon seeing her mother. Neither of them seem particularly distressed about her nudity. "'ey, mama," she mumbles.

"Hey yourself, kid," Val replies, chuckling. She walks up and rolls her daughter over, inspecting the wounds. "You really laid into her, hon."

"I asked," Andrea mumbles.

"I know." Val straightens up and puts her massive hands on her hips. "Should be all right. You've lost more blood before, and Janna will get you fixed up." She shakes her head. "Apple don't fall far from the tree, huh." It is a human expression, but you are not sure what it means.

Opening her eyes a little wider, Andrea reaches for Val's arm. "Mama," she slurs. "I chose her."

"Yes." Val's shaggy red mane dips into the blood as she bends down to kiss Andrea's forehead. "Damn fine choice. Maybe the only good one you made today, kid." She looks over at you and smiles, shrugging. "You still on board, hon?"

You stare at the scene in front of you, in shock. Something inside you nudges you, though, and tells you what to say.

"Yes."