Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

As the lights came on, he looked around with unabashed curiosity. There wasn’t much furniture—a carved, heavy-looking bench padded with bright cushions, a cast ceramic stool painted to look like a drum, a length of polished wood propped on glass bricks that served as a table, more cushions piled on the floor beside the bench, media center wedged into a corner—but one short wall was lined with storage shelves filled with stacked disks and hardcopy. A cheap reader lay on the floor in front of the media center, and there was another on the floor beside the bench, a crumpled tunic half covering it.

“God and the spirits, I want a bath,” Warreven said.

“You sure?” He looked sideways, winced at the rush of static that blurred his vision, looked at the media center instead. The time display was dark; he said instead, “It’s almost dawn.”

“I know,” Warreven said. “But I’ll be glad I did later.”

Ȝe disappeared down a short hallway. After a moment, Tatian followed, not fully certain he’d been invited, but very certain the other shouldn’t be left on 3er own. The hall led to a dark bed- room, the piled quilts of the bed just visible in the rising light, and the bathroom and kitchen opened to either side. Water was running in the bathroom, and he tapped on the half-closed door.

“Need a hand with anything?”

The door opened at his touch, and Warreven looked out at him. “Actually, yes, if you don’t mind. I’m really sore.”

“I don’t mind,” Tatian said, and stepped into the sudden warmth. The tub was enormous, nearly long enough for him to lie with arms outstretched, and deep, the edges rising well above his knees. Both taps were turned full on, and the air was thick with steam.

“It’s the shirt,” Warreven said. “I can’t get it off.” Ȝe had loosened the neck, and Tatian stepped forward, lifted it carefully off over 3er head. Warreven murmured a thank you, turning 3er back to step awkwardly out of 3er trousers. Ȝe lowered 3imself into the steaming water, leaned back stiffly to hold 3er head under the still-running tap. At that angle, 3er body was fully exposed, bruises dark on 3er ribs and one thigh; the synthiskin bandage ran from 3er left collarbone all the way to 3er right hip, slicing across the shallow curve of one breast, ended in a broader patch of synthiskin that covered the hipbone and a deeper cut. He was on Warreven’s blind side, a third of 3er face covered by the lump of dark bandage, and he suspected they were both glad of the illusion of privacy. Warreven shifted then, penis bobbing in the moving water, started to reach over 3er head, and stopped, muttering a curse.

“Could you—” Ȝe stopped, though whether it was embarrassment or pain Tatian couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter; 3e looked miserable, the bruises on 3er face and shoulders and across 3er unexpectedly muscled stomach darkening rapidly, and Tatian took a step forward.

“What do you need?”

“My hair,” Warreven said. “I need—I want to wash my hair, and I can’t.”

Tatian lifted an eyebrow—it didn’t seem like a good idea—but on second thought it was probably better not to argue with 3im. “No problem,” he said, shoving his sleeves back above his elbow, and knelt cautiously beside the tub. A squat pottery jar stood on the tiles in the corner, and he loosened its stiff lid. It was filled with a pale green cream that smelled strongly of catseyes and, more faintly, of witches’-broom. Tatian eyed it warily—would even Harans put hallucinogens into soap?—and said, “Is this it?”

“Yes.” Warreven seemed to have learned better than to nod. Ȝe leaned back again, bending from the hips only, dipping 3er head into the stream of water from the tap. Tatian suppressed the desire to look for a pair of gloves—the witches’-broom was topically active—and dipped two fingers gingerly into the jar. The musky smell of the catseyes made him sneeze; Warreven blinked and shifted so that he could reach 3er hair.

“What happened to your chest?” Tatian asked, and smeared the cream onto 3er hair. His fingers were tingling already, but he told himself that was purely psychological.

Warreven looked embarrassed again. “A rana with a cargo hook,” 3e said, after a moment.

“He could’ve killed you,” Tatian said.

“He wasn’t trying to,” Warreven answered. “They, their leader, was trying to make a point about herms. Or about me, that I was one. Cutting me was actually incidental.”

Tatian shuddered, unable to suppress the vivid image, began to rub the soap into 3er hair, cautiously working up a lather. “What did the mosstaas say?”

“Æ?” Warreven’s good eye blinked.

“You didn’t call the mosstaas ?”

Ȝe made a noise that might have been laughter. “They wouldn’t’ve come. Tendlathe’s paid them off.”

“Bastards.” Tatian looked away from the bruised face and body, the massive bandage covering 3er injured eye, the thinner strip running from shoulder to hip, made himself concentrate on the mass of hair under his hands. Even tangled as it was, it felt like silk, heavy and so smooth that the strands seemed to catch on the calloused skin of his fingers. He winced, thinking of the pressure on Warreven’s neck, and carefully freed himself. Warreven sighed, suddenly and deeply, and let 3imself relax, so that 3er head lay heavy in Tatian’s hands.

“That feels better.” Ȝer voice was slurring—a combination of the broom and whatever else they’d given 3im at the hospital, Tatian thought, and probably a very good thing.

“Good,” he said aloud, and took 3er shoulders, guiding 3im back under the stream of water again. Warreven let 3imself be moved, the visible eye closed now. Tatian was reminded again of Kaysa, she of the long mahogany braid, and the long, graceful limbs. Not that 3e was particularly feminine, anymore than 3e was masculine—3er body beneath the water drew his eyes, long legs, long, clearly defined muscles, cock and the swell of the cleft scrotum behind it. Ȝe had forgotten to hunch 3er shoulder, and 3er breasts, herm’s breasts, small and definite against the bony ribs, were fully exposed. A perfect herm’s body, Tatian thought, and felt himself flushing, embarrassment as much as desire, well aware that he was responding as much to the memories of Kaysa as to Warreven’s presence. The broom sang in his blood, Warreven lay passive in his hands, and he made himself look away, feeling depressingly adolescent, concentrated on rinsing the last of the soap from 3er hair until his erection subsided.

“All done,” he said, and Warreven nodded and sat up slowly. Tatian stepped back, but stayed close enough to steady 3im as 3e climbed carefully out of the tub. He handed 3er a towel before 3e could ask and looked away while 3e dried 3imself, moving as slowly as an ancient.

“Do you want me to comb out your hair?” he asked, and Warreven wound the towel awkwardly around 3er waist, wincing as the coarse fabric touched bruises and the bandaged cut.

“I’d appreciate it,” 3e said, and lowered 3imself carefully onto a padded stool. “I don’t think I could manage on my own.”

A wooden comb lay on the edge of the tub. Tatian picked it up and began to work out the snarls. Kaysa had taught him how to do this—her hair had been one of the pleasures of the relationship—and he worked slowly, careful not to put too much pressure on Warreven’s neck. The bandage hid most of 3er expression, but when Tatian looked more closely, 3er good eye was closed again, and he thought 3e might be falling asleep under his hands.

“That’s finished,” he said at last.

Warreven sighed, straightened slowly, and turned to face him, drawing the towel up over 3er chest. “Thanks. God and the spirits, I hurt.”