ALL NOVEL Chapter 12 – Urganza Mercy
Urganza woke up to the cruel prodding from the searing rays of the early morning sun assaulting her naked form. Despite the comfort of the velvet and satin bed, she felt an oppressive pressure of unease rolling in. Like million tiny needles pricking inside her heart, inside her mind. She grinned her teeth and rolled out of the ornate bed. The ripped Orc stretched her muscular frame as a heavy groan escaped her lips. The pain of stepping on her very two legs made her grit her teeth. Painfully aware of the ache issuing from her hips. For a brief moment, she wondered, how did Orc men survive those pain the following day? Pain that came from her salacious act with Antilorwe. Pain that came from muscles; muscles she never even knew that she had.
No wonder, the males slept longer, she sighed to herself.
Reaching behind the rosewood room divider, she found the gilded basin -- worth a fortune for an average Orc tribe -- freshly filled with sparkling water infused with mint and various other assortments of herbs. She reached for the stand and knelt. Sinking her callous fingers in the fresh cold water, she found something resembling tangibility. As the water assaulted her face, driving the remnant sleepiness from her face, clarity slowly slipped in and the consequences of her inconsiderate lust-filled act of the previous night dawned on her.
Every fibre of her being was aware of herself willingly given to her own raging desires. Disgust washed her as the vivid images encroached upon her memory; still fresh and leaching cracks through her inner soul. Still scratching and scratching away at her conscience.
And then it happened. It happened again. No! She did it. She did it again.
She has garotted Cyrene this time. Just like how she did with her brother. Her father, perhaps, deserved it, but not her brother. Yet, with Urganza, it was always the innocent, the pure and the blameless who are the collateral of her heedless acts. Especially, those she held close to her heart.
The pain. A harsh siren screaming its terrifying presence into her mind. As if millions of carving knives were slicing their way through her veins. Even the strength to scream failed her. Thrashing, the excruciating wave of unmitigated agony -- thousands of times worse than she could imagine the rawest physical injury would ever be.
By dint of her own volition, by the raw power of steel in her nerves, she held her bulwarks against the invading hazy fog and dispersed the tenebrous feeling of dread. Just like how she did it multiple times before. But her past was relentless. The shadows, like a tide, ebbing and flowing, never fully retreating.
She was -- by some miracles -- given a second chance. Another opportunity to mend her standing with the elegant Mage. Lost to the impossible quest to regain what should have been hers again. To get one last glance at what should have been and reclaim what she had thought lost. And once again, her body succumbed to thoughts of forbidden pleasures. Yielding to an animalistic response, pushing aside logic and reason. When she heard of Cyrene being the arbiter for the negotiation, Urganza choose to place her belief in destiny, yet here she stood once again feeling more forsaken and alone than she ever was. Feeling nothing but regret and looming darkness of her own stupid impulse, Urganza became aware of her own naked flesh and covered herself in a silken robe that she found while rummaging the room.
Exiting the room, she ran into the waiting-maid.
"Orc High-Lady, you are awake," said the maid, "I will have the breakfast table set."
"No need," dismissed Urganza, "Where is your Mistress Antilorwe?"
"My Lady is in her office, pouring over documents. My mistress works intensely, and I would not suggest intruding on her solitude now," said the Maid vehemently, but added as an afterthought, "But her other guest the Mage Cyrene is in the garden. Perhaps, she would be grateful for your company."
Urganza, hiding her apprehension, gradually let the suggestion of the maid sink in. She could meet Cyrene. Explain herself. Because -- she can. Unlike those others who she failed and no longer roam the land of the living for her to apologise. So unlike her mothers, her brother; Cyrene is still alive. She could lay her heart in the open. Accept her shortcomings. Despite her love, her inability to control her senses, failing, committing a sin so egregious that she knew that she could not redeem herself -- not by herself. She would submit herself to the delicate Cyrene's judgement.
With a flick of her hand, she dismissed the maid and descended the stairway. She dispersed the burning question of why the lavish manor was otherwise devoid of scurrying servants and decided to focus on the ordeal before her. In fact, seeing the hallway empty gave her pause, allowing her the silence to reflect.
Pausing by her own living quarters, Urganza became acutely aware of the exquisite sensation that the silken garment of the robe elicited on her weather-beaten skin. The luxurious fabric made her strangely aware of her own skin but did very little to expunge the guilt and contrite remorse poisoning her blood. With not a moment to spare for a second thought, she rushed in and combed through her own items. Finally, thanking Tharkas, her brilliant seneschal and his foresightedness, she took a long mammoth hide skirt with splits at the side for her chorded muscled legs to move with ease and a strapless bodice of cured suede leather. Its strange texture, hard as any cured leather armour and yet soft as velvet.
Urganza would have preferred something with sleeves, or at least with straps running along her shoulders. This kind of bodice was impractical. Impossible to move with unrestricted grace during any combat. To her plight, there was always the very risk of one of her breast falling out. Under every other circumstance, Urganza would have scoffed at that ensemble. But now, in her moment of apology, she could think of no other attire to make herself less threatening. A less intimidating attire would do more to assist; plead her case.
Running through the side door of the Manor, she stepped into the paved pathway leading towards the garden. She trod down the long winding path with the soles of her boots crushing the gravel, while on either side stretched an endless array of flower beds hosting a dazzling rainbow of orchids. Ornamental shrubs thrived with more colour than she could even recall, adding an aura of luscious greenery. She breathed in the fresh air, infusing the garden with its aromas. Fragrant flowers, a gentle breeze, and the sound of water trickling down an architectural cliff mingled together.
Antilorwe had replicated a miniature symphony of nature in perfect harmony within the grounds of her Manor. Splendid structures rested atop pedestals on the golden sanded ground, but even those paled before the girl serenely strolling about.
Dressed only in a pale green silk dress, with golden needlework adorning her already captivating form, Cyrene looked as if all the beauty of the nearby nature converged on her gorgeous form. Light streaming down from the crystal clear sky reflected off of her glowing fair complexion and shone brighter in her verdant green eyes. Dark tresses, like the inkiness of a pitch-black night, bounced around her shoulders with playful abandon, gleaming in the warm light. Slender hips swayed with an effortless grace as her slim figure carried itself leisurely around the lavish garden and finally perched on a wobbly bough. Her dainty naked arms extended, plucking a snow lily in her slender fingers, she twirled the stalk, slowly letting the aroma fill her. The way her chest heaved as she took the deep fragrance in, the slight flaring of her nostrils, and even the slight expression of contentment on her face, made Urganza go weak in her knees.
Spirits, above and below, why did she ever fail this girl?
It was ironic, really. A fact that Cyrene was totally oblivious to. When it came to Urganza, she possessed the qualities of nature -- refined, elegant and dignified beyond measure, while when it came to Antilorwe, Cyrene possessed an innocence beyond adoration and a bold naivety that only served to accentuate her robust beauty. If anything, they both complemented each other perfectly. And yet, Cyrene knew not the qualities she possessed.
"Beautiful Cyrene," muttered Urganza, bowing her head, averting her eyes and coming to stand before the striking Mage.
Digging her fingers deep into her palms, one of her arched eyebrows raised upwards further.
"How can I begin," mused Urganza, still shackled by a coil of trepidation, "perhaps an explanation might help?"
"Orc High-Lady Urganza?" stammered Cyrene.
At the stunning voice of the Mage, Urganza staggered. Assaulted by a million invisible punches, that ruined the very foundations of her soul. The beseeching look in those green eyes darkened the very skies. She found the will to look at her lacking. In fact, she felt nothing, not even a semblance of any intelligent emotion. She was a lowly worm before the adorable Cyrene. Her gaze fixed on the dirt, where she belonged, where all lowly creatures belonged.
What could she do now that the goddess stands before her? Perhaps, grovel and beg for her forgiveness?
Cyrene's thoughts were singular. Try hard as she could, she could not stop the rising elation that surged within her heart. Her mind kept reeling back to the wonderful moment they shared. Antilorwe was warm, gentle yet forceful, caring and still callous. Nestling in her arms, Cyrene felt tranquillity envelop her, dragging her to a blissful realm. Her sharp analytical mind failed before the ebb of her heart.
Antilorwe's lips were both inviting and demanding. Cyrene could only marvel at how she managed to live without tasting those lips. Perhaps, that was the anomaly. Why her life felt shallow and why her whole being was filled with vibrant vitality now. She never lived until Antilorwe taught her. Touched her. Tasted her. Almost as if the hazy mist blocking her view, suddenly dispersed, She saw the world through clear eyes for the first time. Cyrene could now see that everything existed for more than mere surface appearances. How beautiful and how good the world truly is. Like gazing upon some exquisite craftwork sculpted in rose petals. Or looking upon a glittering sea studded with innumerable gems, in waves of cerulean blue, flowing onto the white sand.
Their intimacy was undeniable, but Cyrene surprised herself by openly professing her love to Antilorwe. Deep in the silent recess of her heart, the lovelorn Mage knew that Antilorwe would accept her. Just as she had accepted her flaws, faults and irregularities. The Lady of the Manor had showered her with enough affection, indulgence, trust and admiration -- perhaps too much. Perhaps too generously. Cyrene felt herself lacking. All she could provide in return was her own heart, her self, her very being to the goddess. She felt blessed. No longer broken.
The bright rays of the morning sun kissed her delicate complexion. The tender breeze caressed her tall form. Even the fragrance from the snow lilies seemed to rush, to fill her insides with gentle warmth. She heard the melodious voices of birds chirping around, but she did not care to investigate. Only one voice mattered. One certain voice that spoke with gentle affection and forceful authority, promising unfathomable pleasure and boundless joy. In every breath, she drew Antilorwe in. Into the depths of her soul.
As Cyrene gently perched on the wobbly bough, she realised suddenly that she was in Antilorwe's garden. Her Antilorwe's garden. Some place -- a sanctuary -- where she belongs. Unlike the respite of her childhood, a permanent sanctuary to someone to whom she belongs. To experience the nectar fed through those luscious lips, every day; was almost too much to bear.
"Beautiful Cyrene," came the voice of Urganza, breaking the spell of enchantment cast over her.
Breathlessly, almost as if she had swallowed a mouthful of water, Cyrene sat forward, clasping her slender finger tightly, the peduncle of the flower twirling between her moist palm.
At the thunderous bellows from the Orc, the sense of belonging faded. Every breath she took caused her bones to chill. Her own senseless action, given into an emotionally vulnerable moment, materialised before her -- in the form of the Orc High-Lady. No one is meaner than an Orc and no Orc is meaner than the Overlord and she just cheated with the Orc Overlord's paramour.
The crippling realisation made her drop the snow Lilly that she so tenderly held in her hand and to dug her fingers sharply into her palms. Cyrene cursed under her breath. Her mind recoiled in shock at what she had done. At what they had done. Was it a misstep in judgement caused by an emotionally battered state? Did Antilorwe take advantage of her momentary weakness? No. Cyrene refused to believe. Antilorwe's eyes were brimming with pure love and unadulterated affection when she stared at them.
Even her brilliant analytical mind, which often warred with her emotional side, agreed that what Antilorwe had for Cyrene was pure and selfless. Antilorwe respected her boundaries. She had given Cyrene all her attention during their tryst, never received any reciprocation nor expected anything in return from Cyrene. What she shared with Antilorwe was a moment of sheer intimacy not a nightmare of unbearable depravity.
The thought horrified her. Everything became unclear. Everything became wrong. Somehow, it all seemed unreal and then, everything became dark. Inertia set in, preventing her brain from delving into those thoughts any further. She rejected any notion or reason that fuelled her feeling of utter betrayal. She just found her paradise; her permanent sanctuary and she could not let the very grounds swallow it -- again.
"How can I begin," said the brutal orc with a slowly measured and controlled pause, "perhaps an explanation might help."
Cold shivers ran up Cyrene's spine. Urganza knows! And now, she demands an explanation.
The orc even refused to acknowledge her presence. The way her deep sunken fiery eyes drifted towards the periphery of her own vision, denying the existence of Cyrene.
"Orc High-Lady Urganza?" stammered Cyrene.
Urganza's eyes still remained focused on some unknown point. It lingered on the dirt on the ground. Some lowly insect crawling held more interest to the Orc than the traitorous mage.
Does the Orc expect her to grovel and beg for forgiveness?
"The act was callous, inconsiderate and shameful," stated Urganza, in a collected detached tone, "It made me unworthy, but my honour urges an explanation to be provided."
The cool breeze sauntering in the garden did very little to keep the sweat-drenched Cyrene dry. Urganza has spoken about Honour. This is bad. Her mind screamed to her like a trapped beast. When Orcs talk about Honour, it is, invariably, definitely, undoubtedly, and with absolute certainty followed by other illustrious and perverted concepts such as vengeance, retaliation, retributions and resurrection of honour with only death looming in the end for the person before them.
Cyrene felt her very death crouching before her, like a savannah lion ready to spring.
"If I had known this would happen," Urganza continued, apparently oblivious to Cyrene's non-committal response," Then I would taken far greater measure. But there are things that cannot be undone. Though, truth be told, I barely could understand how and why something so treacherous and betrayal-laced happened before the very eyes, but correct it, I must. I only request a few precious last moments. And then you will see me no more, sweet Cyrene."
Just as Urganza uttered those words, everything around Cyrene faded. She struggled to maintain her composure. After all, the orc has pronounced her death sentence. A verdict. And her crime -- to love the one who held her in affectionate regard. The lack of compassion and the steely edge with which Urganza pronounced her demise shamed her. She worried, not for her but for Antilorwe. The tall Elven beauty had offered her strength and courage while the brutal orc before her sapped those.
"Urganza," spoke Cyrene, abandoning all titles and monikers to touch her tormentor's heart directly. The fears ripping through her pounding heart were incongruous to her own safety. To Cyrene, it was unlikely that someone who embodies all traits of savagery and raw power to demand absolute submission would spare Antilorwe after extracting her twisted notion of justice upon her.
"Mercy is a commendable trait. More virtuous than honour." She pushed those words out.
Hearing Cyrene's melodious words, an amalgamated bloom of exhilaration, hope and ecstasy giving rise to a harmonious bliss that seemed to stretch till eternity, filled Urganza. Cyrene, the learned one, had indeed revealed wisdom beyond her years. While she was struggling with her own failing, the Mage focussed on higher qualities -- redemption and acceptance. Urganza admired and deeply coveted these innate features that defined Cyrene who is gentle yet determined, sweet and merciful.
For Urganza, Cyrene -- who was still willing to look beyond her vile acts and offer a chance for betterment -- was a radiant herald of love and passion that made the captivating Mage so much more desirable. From the deepest corner of Urganza's gut, she knew, and she wanted -- demanded, loved Cyrene. To cherish the innocent mage who has shown surprising insightfulness in the times of her tribulation. To heal and forgive Urganza at any necessary cost -- unconditionally.
The stunning Mage's melodic voice echoed through the lush gardens, enchanting Urganza to share everything -- from secrets that drove away her peace and contentment, to the blood on her hands and the throes of her own soul seeking to break the self-imposed cage. A strong breeze of wind blew against Cyrene's blood-lustrous cheeks and for a very brief narrow moment, Urganza felt a twinge of jealousy surge at the wind itself -- to so freely caress Cyrene's cheek; her Cyrene's cheek. Closing her eyes, pleading inaudibly, begging the flowers and shrubs to stand still. But the gentle winds aloofly continued their indiscreet caress of Cyrene. But even those soft murmurs, whispers and calm serenity gave Urganza solace and promise to bask in the utter perfection of Cyrene.
A curl of fire flicked from Urganza’s inner core, further accentuated by the noblest of qualities displayed by the Mage, only to augment the already throbbing pain in Urganza's heart. An ensnared primal part of her screamed to wrap the immaculate Mage in her corded arms, plant tender kisses on her forehead, nose and lips -- to cleanse herself in her radiance.
Cyrene -- so gracious and empathetic -- demanded nothing from her, even leading her -- a maggot of corruption and misery -- onto petals paved road of love. Urganza's callous hands rose unconsciously to the tusk dangling from her neck; a tusk that meant more than life itself; the last vestige of her brother she was allowed to retain and swore, wordlessly, to be her bulwark forever. An unwitnessed alliance forged between the raw savagery encased Orc and the tormented spirit that dwelt within.
Far in the cozy confines of her private chambers, Antilorwe shifted uncomfortably. Her eyes wandered through the haphazard collection of parchments that taunted her from her large ivory-enamelled desk. Her trembling hands rummaged through and plucked off a thick leather-bound journal. Staring at the crumpled sheets of paper brought back harrowing memories. Not the first and not the last. But definitely painful with every invocation. Her fingers lightly traced each and every crevice of each page in a methodical order. Their contents enigmatic to all and purposefully obscured, perturbed her soul -- ever so lightly, gently and painfully -- like the searing scalpel of a surgeon.
One glimpse at the two alluring beings in her garden broke her will. Cyrene, the girl who seems to glow like the brightest star on a cold moonless night and Urganza, the resolute Orc, devoted, indomitable and unwavering, like the ancient mountains, bowing before the girl. One more beautiful memory to relish.
She desperately wished that the two would rip each other's clothes apart and revel in their desires. To enjoy carnal sin under the naked sun, limbs writhing and eliciting deep moans from each other's lust-filled throats. Wet slick holes, sucking cunt-lips, spurting tongues and juicy whimpers of desires -- both lips kissing until the brink of exhaustion. Blissfully surrendering to the unfathomable passion.
Despite those powerful conjured imageries, her wishes were, in the end, simple willful wishes. What other paths lay open for her to tread?
Walking up to Urganza and casually stating, "After our intense amorous entanglement, when you filled me with those powerful thrusts, I sought her out, -- the girl you were enamoured with, who turned you down and you still ache for -- and, I tasted her virgin juices," will, in no plausible scenario, lead to a harmonious symphony. Not with Urganza's natural inclination to pure undistilled rage.
But, most of all, concern for Cyrene shrouded all her other worries. After all, she had known both of them -- intimately. She knew Urganza’s slumbering bestial force, awakened only at height of her untamed passions and also Cyrene's own forbidden zones. Touching the tender Cyrene; making love to her, was akin to walking blindfold through a field filled with dwarven landmines.
Could Urganza be trusted not to violate Cyrene's boundaries? In the rising heat of their passion? When her own senses were blunted by every spasm of savage pleasure? When the Orc's reason, caution and precaution dispersed like a hazy fog under the searing rays of the sun? What if Urganza's carelessness led to Cyrene being broken permanently? The layers upon layers of emotional scarring finally pushing the girl over. Her tortured mind might not survive such a kind of heart-shattering experience.
Would Urganza even comprehend the concept of boundaries during amorous liaison? After all, consent is not a binary shade of black and white -- ruminated Antilorwe.
But the final eradicating thought, shackling her to inactivity, was the subtle hue of wisdom crying out from a reticent corner of her own deep subconscious. In relationships of these sorts, the facilitation of both parties by one person rarely leads to long-lasting results. She had provided them with the comfort and sanctuary of her Manor. If the Orc and the Mage were to forge a bond, they should do it on their own accord and not on her insistence.
Antilorwe once again turned her focus on the leather-bound journal and her mind shattered into tiny bits of her ego, lingering fragments -- bits of scrambled conscience. Her own admission of her intense need to protect Cyrene shook her core. Did she fully immerse herself in the world of Cyrene, -- indulging and ravishing the grace in her gossamer beauty? This was never, any part of her plan. Her carefully drafted meticulous plan, involved convincing Rylonvirah that her interest in Cyrene was purely carnal -- no ulterior motives. That is how she planned it.
Sobbing quietly, Antilorwe sat down before her writing desk, placing her head on the polished wooden surface -- sobbing for her mental sanity. Hot shivers crept down her spine -- as if her own motive, an unrepentant demon, vicious and cruel, unleashed its sadistic claws to torment her. Slowly, her unstifled mournful wails reverberated the chamber, punctuated by a desperate wail, followed by another, and then another.