Ark(11)

The hood of my cloak fell back as we hurried, revealing my face to the crowded street. I had come out at midday, because it was then that I could no longer hold myself back. I heard people muttering, “It’s the princess, it’s her . . .” and I knew we were in trouble. I felt eyes on me, hated the feel of them searching, examining, accusing, judging. Hand in hand with a human I fled through the streets, expecting at every turn to be stopped by palace guards. We weren’t being pursued, or watched—that we were aware of—but I think we had a feeling, deep down and unnameable, that we should not be caught or seen, that we should not be together like this in broad daylight, with all the city watching. There was no law against humans and Nephilim being together . . . but me, the only daughter of King Emmen-Utu, and a follower of Elohim? Foolishness.

I ignored the cautioning of my head, giving over instead to the song of my body, the thunder of my pulse at the feel of his hand in mine, the burning tingle of my lips where he’d kissed me. I let him lead me, watching his back twist, his broad shoulders move. Watching his taut backside shift as he wove a path through the thronging market crowds. Merchants hawked their wares, calling out the prices for dates and figs and pistachios and grapes, gold rings and cheap baubles, hand woven rugs, spices . . . I heard the familiar cacophony of the market, felt the press of bodies around me, but had eyes only for Japheth.

Eventually, we left behind the bazaar at city-center, and I found myself in a part of the city to which I’d never ventured before: the tight, shadowy, twisting streets where houses were stacked two and three high, accessible only by narrow staircases that were more truly ladders than stairs. Here, the houses were built right up against the city wall itself, stacked like towers of blocks leaning against each other. If I were to stand in the window of a house on one side of the street, I could reach out my arm and touch the windowsill of the house opposite, so narrow were these streets, and yet now and again we had to press ourselves against the wall as flat as we could to make way for a wagon drawn by onagers—a race of donkeys native to this region, used widely among humans and Nephilim alike to draw carts and plow fields and carry burdens, since they are hardy, powerful, intelligent, and loyal, if a bit recalcitrant.

Japheth made his way unerringly through the maze to where the narrow alley-like streets intersected with the wide thoroughfare of the main road running straight as an arrow shaft from city gate to palace gate, the main road swept clean by the king’s order and the gate within shouting distance of the houses against the wall. I was closer to this part of Bad-Tibira than I’d ever been without Father’s troop of guards and the security of a slave-borne litter.

He led me to a stack of houses directly against the wall, close enough to the gate that I could hear the bawdy jokes of the guards as they idly scrutinized the foot traffic entering and exiting the city. Up, then, ascending one of those narrow ladder-like staircases to the second level. The home below smelled of animal fat being rendered into candle wax. Japheth’s home was tiny, a single room barely wide enough for a pallet and a few baskets of belongings, the ceiling low enough that the top of my head brushed against it if I stood upright; this was a uniquely human dwelling, and not meant for the height of a Nephilim.

Here, in his home, I felt our differences keenly. As a Nephilim, I would be alive centuries after he was long in his grave. I stood several inches taller than he, and even as a woman possessed greater total strength. My eyes glowed golden, as all did those of every Nephilim, a gift from the gods who were our ancestors. He was a human, merely a human, and not even a king or a renowned warrior.

But yet, standing facing him, his eyes blue as the sky, hot as lightning bursting from thunderheads . . . I didn’t care about any of that. Our differences faded to dust under the heat of his gaze.

“Princess—” he began.

“Aresia,” I interrupted. “I do not always wish to be a princess. Certainly not now, and certainly not here.”

He gestured at the pallet that was his bed, a thin nest of threadbare blankets on the floor. “I have no fine linen sheets to offer, Aresia.”

We were separated by a handful of feet, me on the far side of the room, he with his back to the door, the rude bed between us.

“I don’t care,” I said, and took a step closer to him.

He unbuckled the wide belt around his waist, tossed it aside, and hauled the garment off, standing before me in nothing but a thin cotton undergarment. “I have no money for gifts, either.”

I tugged a thick, golden, ruby-encrusted cuff off my wrist and tossed it aside carelessly. “Gold and jewels I possess in abundance.”

He took a step toward me, tugged the strap of my dress aside, so the garment sagged, displaying the upper portion of my breasts. “I am a human, the son of a poor farmer.” The other strap followed suit, and then only the tips of my breasts held up my dress. “My family worships Elohim.”

I stood still as a statue, barely breathing, as my dress drooped lower and lower. If I took a breath, if I filled my lungs and let my chest swell, the garment would fall . . . I wore no undergarments, so that single breath would leave me naked.

“I care for none of that,” I whispered.

“Shouldn’t you?” he asked, tracing a fingertip down between my breasts.

“Yes,” I answered. “But I do not. Not now, anyway.”

He hooked a fingertip inside the bodice, his blue eyes on mine. “And you want this?”