Page 178 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Endzoh
T he rains will come before the next sunset.
It is the secret significance of the moonlight flutterwings.
Always they emerge from their chrysalises the night before the rains start, tuned into some rhythm of the seasons that raskarrans cannot sense, so they can travel from the place of their birth to the breeding ground, find their mate and lay their eggs on the underside of the moonflower leaves, where they will be safe from the coming downpour.
The two flutterwing breeding grounds are on opposite sides of the village. Our ancestors were either lucky, or smart, positioning their huts the way they did, for every season we get this warning of the rains. And we get this dance, also, if we happen to be awake late enough to see it.
The moonlight flutterwings only have the shortest of lifespans, hatching, traveling, mating all in one night.
Once their eggs are laid, their life is spent, and they pass back into Lina’s embrace.
Their mating dance is one of the most fleeting beauties of Lina’s forests.
If my brothers were not all sleeping off Torfen’s poffi berry drink this night, there would be many of us here watching.
I am grateful they all snore in their beds this night.
That I get to share in this moment with my Carrie alone.
I look down at where she is nestled against my side, her gaze following the movements of the flutterwings.
Much like the flutterwings, she glows in the moonlight, her dark eyes glittering.
She is achingly beautiful, and I cannot help but sit up straight, my chest puffing up, as pride fills me that it is my arms she is content to be held by.
It is my leg that hers is pressed up against, her warmth bleeding into my skin.
Lina has blessed me truly that this kind and talented female has let me into her heartspace.
I know the pain she feels in her heartspace for her mother has not stopped troubling her since yesterday.
I know it may be many sunsets before she feels ready for more kisses.
But she has shown me in so many ways that she is glad for our new closeness, that our heartspaces are aligned in our desires to explore this bond between us.
That she considers me hers as well as I consider her mine.
It is not mating in the truest sense, but I am well content to have it.
I am certain the rest will come in time, but even if it does not, it does not matter to me.
As long as my Carrie is smiling and happy to be beside me, then I will not question it. I will trust in my Goddess.
I wonder if my Carrie would like to live in my hut with me.
I have always been a male who has needed his own space, but the thought of her sitting in my spare chair working on her sewing, me bringing her a warm cup of the special tea that Shemza has instructed her to drink - it fills me with a fierce kind of pleasure to imagine taking care of her this way.
Sharing in her company. Filling the long quiet days of the rains with the sight of her smiles.
Like most of the huts in the village, mine is designed for a family, having a spare room large enough for a bed.
I would even be happy to bring one from her hut over for her, though, I confess, I would much prefer to sleep with her in my arms. If she is not desiring to mate, that is fine.
I can wait as long as she needs me to. I would just like to go to sleep each night with her body against mine as it is now, to wake the same way.
I run through in my mind many different ways of posing this question.
It is beyond what I can achieve with pictures and hand signs, so I will have to go to Sally.
It is not ideal to disturb a female who has just birthed a youngling.
She will be exhausted and probably displeased to be bothered by a foolish male’s troubles.
But if the rains are to start tomorrow, I only have this one chance to move anything in to my hut from my Carrie’s.
The question must be asked as early as I can in the morning, and it is imperative that I find a gentle way to ask it.
Sally is a kind and patient female, but such qualities are quick to disappear in the face of tiredness and pains.
I am busy tangling my headspace in knots over my choice of words when my Carrie looks up at me, and all those thoughts go flying out of my ears. There is something changed in her, a new feeling behind her expression, and she is more than just beautiful. She is radiant.
“ Butterflies, ” she says, the many sounds that make the word tumbling out of her lips with ease.
“ Butterflies? ” I say, tasting the word, adding the lilt of a question to its sound.
My Carrie’s lips quirk a little, and she gestures to the flutterwings.
They have settled now on the moonflowers, their bodies entwined in the final stages of their mating dance.
Until this evening, those moonflowers will have been closed up tight, only turning their petals out to the moonlight when the first of the flutterwings arrived, their lifesthreads woven together by Lina’s hand, just as my Carrie sews together clothes for her sisters.
We should head back to the village before the life of the flutterwings starts to fade. There is no joy to be had in watching such things. The promise of a repeat performance next season is little consolation.
“Flutterwings,” I say, giving her our word for them.
“Flutterwings,” she repeats, her brow furrowing in her concentration. Then she looks up at me again and says, “ Yoogaveme. Flutterwing .”
Her words are a little breathy, the effort of speaking them obvious by the last. But it is the most I have heard her speak since she arrived in our village.
Her words must carry some importance, and I strain my headspace trying to work out their meaning.
But the only word I can distinguish from another is the one she speaks in my tongue .
The musical jumble of the human language does not stick in my headspace so well.
My confusion must show on my face, for she points to me, then shapes her hand as if she is holding something and moves it to her chest. Then she holds out both her hands, palms facing her chest, sliding them across each other until her thumbs hook together.
When she wiggles her fingers, I see that she has made the shape of a flutterwing.
If she meant I had showed her the flutterwings, then surely she would have indicated her eyes.
Her hand with her fingers spread and crooked, as if wrapped around a bowl or some other object - it is as if she means that I have given her the flutterwings.
I am still puzzling over this when she taps her chest, moves her hand in the same shape back towards me, then places her palm flat over her chest. Right above where her heartspace beats.
My heartspace pounds. Her actions have spoken this truth to me, but in my eagerness, I have forgotten my own counsel.
That she is not raskarran, as I told Shemza of his Lorna so many sunsets ago.
Human females give their kisses to males who do not have their heartspaces in their quest to find their true mates.
All the touches she has given me may not have meant what I wanted them to.
But it does not matter, for she has told me the truth of her feelings with her hands.
I give my heartspace to you.
My smile is so wide my face aches with it, and in case she has any doubt in her headspace over my feelings, I repeat the gestures back to her.
Once, twice. Then I catch her face in my hands, pressing my forehead to hers, wishing I could think my thoughts straight into her headspace.
Let her see how happy she has made me with this declaration.
She does better. She shifts so her lips press against mine.
I am startled by the touch, surprised that she wishes to give it to me again so soon.
I return her kiss gently, keeping my movements to slow caresses, rather than giving in to my desires to ravish her with my tongue.
Her arms wrap around my neck, and I can feel the shape of her smile against my skin as she peppers kisses over my lips, my jaw, my cheeks.
The glow in the clearing has dimmed as the life of the flutterwings starts to fade.
I hop down from the rocky platform we are sitting on, reaching up to help my Carrie down.
She shuffles forward, gingerly pushing herself from the edge.
I catch her, sweeping her up into my arms before her feet can touch the ground.
She laughs, and was there ever a greater sound than her laughter?
Her soft gasps of pleasure, I think, my cock stirring in my leathers. But it is a close thing.
I carry her all the way back to the village, loving the way she nestles into my chest, her ear pressed to where my heartspace beats. I like to think she listens to its rhythm and hears my desire, my admiration, my affection for her in it.
When we arrive at my hut, I set her down.
I study her face, looking for a sign that she desires to come inside with me.
When she runs her tongue over her lips, I nearly groan, reaching for my door and pulling it open.
I hold it for her and she steps through, no hesitation.
When I close it behind me, we are plunged into thick darkness, my fire not lit.
It is a darkness so absolute, it makes the sounds of our breath louder, and I can hear the rapid pace of her inhales.
I step up behind her, touching a hand to her shoulder, running my palm from her shoulder down to her hand, linking my fingers through hers as she likes to do to me.