The Weaver's Lament by Elizabeth Haydon

dragon within his blood, abandoned him. The centuries of aging and damage to his body seemed to fall away, leaving him giddy, happily vulnerable, lost utterly in the woman beneath him. Time and space became suspended; it seemed like hours and at the same time only a few moments before he came back to awareness, naked, breathing heavily, bathed in sweat, spent, his arousal sated, his soul satisfied, his heart full, drowning in love.
    His wife in his arms, clinging to him, her heart beating in time with his.
    Finally, as their ardor cooled, their breathing slowed, Rhapsody sighed beneath him and stretched. She leaned up on her elbows, kissed him warmly, and rested her forehead against his.
    â€œ Now are you ready for supper?”
    Ashe sighed comically.
    â€œI suppose I could be forced—” He curled up, laughing, as she poked him under the arm and slid out from beneath him. She rolled gracefully to one side and stood, using training in the battlefield skill of a horseman’s rollout, kissed him on the top of the head, then started over to the fire.
    She froze in her tracks, chilled by the sound of his gasp of horror.
    He had seen the scratches that scored her back—in blood, blood that was also on his hands.

 
    9
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    The look of devastation on Ashe’s face caused Rhapsody’s heart to sink suddenly. The draconic pupils in her husband’s eyes were expanding, even in the light of the fire. He could barely form the words.
    â€œYour back—I’ve gouged you.”
    Rhapsody’s forehead furrowed, and she looked over her shoulder. “You have?”
    Ashe nodded, rising slowly from the floor of the turf hut. “Aria, I’m so sorry.”
    In response, Rhapsody walked to the small closet that had always been part of the tiny house and opened the door. She examined her back in the looking glass hanging on the door, then chuckled.
    â€œOh, for goodness’ sake, Sam, that’s nothing. Be quiet a moment,” she said as he started to speak. She chanted a soft healing roundelay as she reached farther into the small closet and pulled out his bathrobe and her dressing gown, then looked back over her shoulder again. She came to him and handed him the robe.
    â€œAll better,” she said briskly. When her husband just stared at her, she turned her back to show him her newly healed skin, then pulled on her dressing gown. “If you’ll pour the wine, I’ll serve supper.”
    â€œI can’t believe you are dismissing what just happened as if it were nothing,” Ashe said, cinching the belt of his robe and looking around for the bottle.
    â€œIt’s the red over on the windowsill,” Rhapsody said as she ladled the stew into two bowls. “And I can’t believe that you are worrying one more moment about it.”
    â€œI— harmed you, Rhapsody, injured you; the dragon is overzealous again—”
    The Lady Cymrian set the bowls in their places, then stood up and crossed her arms in front of her, looking at him with a mixture of fondness and disbelief.
    â€œIn a thousand years of spectacular lovemaking, there have been surprisingly few bumps and bruises, Sam, largely owing to your impressive agility, but there have been some,” she said humorously, her tone gentle. “We’ve both endured an occasional scratch or two, rug burns, insect bites, even a splinter, especially when utilizing the floor of a turf hut, rocks by the shoreline, or some other rough surface. If I recall correctly, on the two hundredth anniversary of our formal wedding, a collision of our foreheads during vigorous knobbing against a pillar in the Great Hall of Highmeadow after everyone else had left resulted in a rather impressive black eye for you—am I wrong?”
    Ashe’s despair tempered and he chuckled. “No. You are never wrong.”
    â€œWell, now you’re just trying to gain points with sweet talk