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    Beachhead (Fellfire Summer Short Story #2)
    Beachhead (Fellfire Summer Short Story #2)
    Beachhead (Fellfire Summer Short Story #2)
    Ebook64 pages1 hour

    Beachhead (Fellfire Summer Short Story #2)

    By Blayre Delecour

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Everet has finally settled into the unexpectedly monotonous life at Veld Martiale's Hadryan's court in Vasque, and the doldrums of summer are doing nothing to improve his mood. Alaric thinks he may have just the pick-me-up, as he concocts a plan to lure Everet out of the safety of the Capitole's walls and off to the eastern shores for a lovers' retreat.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlayre Delecour
    Release dateDec 1, 2015
    ISBN9781311073655
    Beachhead (Fellfire Summer Short Story #2)
    Author

    Blayre Delecour

    Just a M/M fantasy enthusiast who, after being inspired by so many great stories and playing in others' sandboxes for ages, finally decided to add her own worlds and characters to the melting pot. She lives in a tiny high-rise in Tokyo with the world's cutest and fluffiest cat-shaped distraction.

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      Beachhead (Fellfire Summer Short Story #2) - Blayre Delecour

      BEACHHEAD

      Fellfire Summer Short Story #2

      Blayre Delecour

      Copyright © 2015 Blayre Delecour

      All rights reserved.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

      No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This book is free-to-share but may not be redistributed through any means, print or electronic, for-profit without permission from the author.

      BEACHHEAD

      Everet was certain he was going to die.

      Not in a fiery volacipede crash, as he’d always imagined—oh, he would be spoken of for generations hence in that case, his life a cautionary tale gossiped about in scandalized whispers—or even his second choice: in bed, beneath a paramour, when his heart finally gave out following a robust round of love-making at an age well beyond when such activities were physically feasible.

      No; he was going to just melt, right here in his chambers—bits and pieces of himself oozing down in long stringing tendrils to pool on the lovely marble tile beneath his boots. He would be a terror to clean up, and his leavings would be painstakingly scraped into a ceramic jar and shipped back over the border, where he might have a wick poked through his waxy remains to burn as lamplight in King Vizick’s study. Which, he recalled belatedly, was rightfully Everet’s own study.

      It was becoming rapidly apparent the Stars-blasted heat was sapping his mental faculties. How did anyone ever manage?

      Alaric was proving absolutely no help in the matter at all; quite the contrary, he seemed to take a kind of smug joy in teasing Everet for his misery, all but crowing that for someone who’d spent his entire life bathed in the warmth of the Fellfire summer, he certainly didn’t fare well when exposed to a real summer earthside. Everet had grudgingly admitted—in the privacy of his own mind, of course; never aloud—that perhaps Alaric was right: all his book-reading and studies and bells whiled away with his nose buried in one tome or another, and he’d never truly grasped how different life was like outside his comfortable little Oresian bubble.

      Granted, aside from the blasted heat, he was still quite comfortable even now. It was difficult not to be, when one was the honored guest of a nation’s ruler.

      The Palaizon Tonne-Kolore—the Court of All Colors—was lavish elegance Everet had seldom seen outside Crown Hold, and where the Oresian Royals preferred a restrained, refined hand, striving for beauty in minimalism, Veld Martiale Hadryan and all her predecessors had decidedly been of a different mind altogether. Stained glass was their medium of choice, it seemed, and every room with a view had its windows or skylights paneled in color, carved and shaped to reflect the vibrant Vasque mythos. Even his own receiving room had its western wall covered floor-to-ceiling in a glass mural that quite sparkled in the morning sun, depicting what Alaric had assured him was a very solemn, beautiful scene invoking the changing of seasons and the inevitability of death following life—though to Everet, it seemed little more than a fair rendering of a happy young maiden getting her arse thoroughly plowed by a half-goat fellow.

      It was a conversation piece, at least.

      Hadryan had been most gracious in receiving Everet, he had to admit. Nearly six months now since he’d arrived on the Veld Martiale’s exquisitely polished, gilt doorstep, and she not only hadn’t turned him around on sight or dismissed him without consideration, she’d offered him residency in her court and even granted his request to have Alaric remain on-call to satisfy any minor…needs he might have. Of course, she’d probably intended him to function as a guide or aid for Everet, but as these were his apartments, he would use them as he wished and ensure his maidstaff were well compensated for their discretion when it came time to launder his sheets.

      Alaric, the dear, could not bring himself to be quite so cavalier with their liaisons, but neither had he yet declined an invitation for dinner or a request to stand as Everet’s escort to some function or other. If tongues were wagging, they hadn’t reached Alaric’s ears with sufficient volume to cause him to reconsider their arrangement, and so spring waned into summer, which seemed to last the better part of the year, only building in intensity with time and showing no signs of relief.

      He groaned loudly in disgust, wishing he had an audience to commiserate with—though he had no visitors just at the moment; few but Alaric ever sought him out in his private apartments—and slumped inelegantly into the plush fabric of his fireside chair, groping at his side table for the folding fan he’d received as a gift from his secretary a month back, after the solstice celebration.

      Stars, he had a

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