* The Girl Who Cried Wolf *
--..–…–..--
Raspberries never fancied Ciaran’s tastes. Neither did the chilling touch of spring water against her toes. Releasing an exasperated yelp, the young woman allowed her body to fall flat against the crystal-blue surface of the large pond—which proved to be an efficient means of escape from the drizzling rain that had been relentlessly pouring down against the blonde’s pale skin. Amidst the tall, green grass that surrounded the rounded pond, a cluster of different berries lay scattered upon a worn, ashen cloth; red, blue, and black hues stained the thick material, almost as though it were to be used as a sort of canvas. Ciaran surfaced a few moments later, whipping her neck back as her thick, blonde locks followed suit—though, the colour had temporarily taken on a brunette hue. She released a drawn-out sigh as her body floated upwards into that of a starfish, and she remained there–unmoving—staring up at the darkening, blue sky as the sun had almost completely spilled over the horizon. Bathing and floating about the water leisurely both typically took on the same role, and Ciaran relished in the refreshing blanket of the cool water against her bare skin; she slowly dragged one of her hands across the opposite arm, reaching over her chest as she allowed her fingertips to slide across the slick and smooth surface of her skin. A soft hum spilled from her lips, and she closed her eyes—listening only to the distant waterfall and occasional submersion of the water against her ears… And the sound of blade whittling down wood, which erupted from the tall grass that surrounded the pond.
“It looks as though a storm is fast-approaching, Ciaran,” Artorias called out to his friend, dagger in hand as he added skinny and thick sticks alike to the start of a bonfire. “And I hold no desire in learning lightning incantations,” he added, keeping his cerulean gaze fixed on the blonde female, who remained lifelessly afloat in the water; for the most part, only her head and neck were visible, but her chest and thighs would occasionally rise above the water for but a moment, along with her hands and feet. Perched peacefully across from her, Artorias’ hair hung widely against both his front and backside, blatantly in the midst of drying as the odd dribbles of water fell from his dark tips every few seconds. The young man sat at the edge of a small nook, which was embedded in a large rock-formation that rested on the fringe of the pond. Ciaran allowed her body to sink down until she was standing on her toes—chin barely reaching the surface—as she met Artorias’ gaze; it was hard not to gawk at his bare chest and damp trousers, and she found herself biting her bottom lip to stifle some sort of carnal response to the divine sight that she was met with.
“My, I could say I’ve always been rather fascinated with lightning incantations,” she called back, grinning cheekily to herself as she watched the edges of her friend’s lips twist upwards into a toothy grin, accompanied by a disapproving shake of the head. “Leave the lightning theatrics to our comrades—like Ornstein,” Artorias replied, halting his dagger’s movements as he watched Ciaran slowly begin to trudge through the water, towards him. “That man is going to burn his own eyebrows off, one day,” she added, finally reaching elevated ground as she lifted her body gracefully from the water, relishing in the slickness that temporarily shrouded her naked body. Artorias gazed back down to the sharpened stick, before tossing it to his side as he, too, stood, and looked his friend directly in her azure eyes.
“How are our little aquatic friends faring?” he spoke, making towards the tiny, wooden barrel that sat at the edge of the small cavern. Ciaran furrowed her brows as she watched Artorias practically walk right past her sleek frame—paying her no mind as he knelt down before the bucket, studying the three, medium-sized fish with great intent. “They’re faring swimmingly,” she replied, yearning for the sound of her dear friend’s chuckle as she stood there, painting the mossy ground in her dampness.
And he did laugh, but his focus remained on their future meal. Ciaran allowed a drawn-out sigh to escape her lips, before turning on her heels and squeezing pools of water from her thick locks.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
“I must say, it is rather refreshing to have a change of pace from our usual routine,” Ciaran let out, bare back turned towards Artorias as she admired the bonfire in which he had constructed while she bathed. “As wonderful as the food provided by Lord Gwyn proves to be, day and night… the man does not seem to fancy seafood,” she finished—and to her surprise, Artorias let out a raging howl of laughter at her words, to which she did not expect.
“What?” she huffed out, unable to let her deeper thoughts of her dear friend vanish, as though they meant nothing.
“You never fail to draw a laugh from me, is all,” Artorias replied, finally looking back at the young woman. “I admire it, and I admire you.”
Ciaran swore she felt her heart skip three beats. No, maybe even four.
“Artorias,” she breathed out, clutching her hands as they rested against her chest; in that very moment, it felt as though he were the only visible thing in her line of sight. “I admire your very soul. What ever it is you feel for me, triple its intensity, and that is how much I care for you, my dearest friend.”
Artorias’ grin widened at Ciaran’s response, and he watched with great interest as she began to slowly make her way over to him; her nude figure did not hinder his thoughts nor replies—for even his gaze remained fixed on hers alone. Ciaran carefully took to her knees, then her thighs, as she sat next to her friend. “Our friendship stands above all in this land,” she continued—though much softer in tone, as if the very rain that poured down from the heavens would have silenced her words, were she to speak too loud. “Be it shameful to voice these intimate thoughts or not, I can say with utmost certainty that your soul plays a far vaster part in my life than that of our Knight training, and utter devotion to Lord Gwyn,” Ciaran finished, searching Artorias’ eyes for traces of resentment or retaliation. But she found none.
Artorias’ gaze finally faltered, to which Ciaran watched as his attention fell down towards her lips; she interpreted this as an expression of desire. Of want, and of need. And so, she allowed her eyes to grow lidded, and ignored the raging bells of alarm that began to sound in her mind—were her understanding of their current situation flawed. Closing the tiny gap that remained between the two, she leaned into his face as she aimed for her dear friend’s lips—yet she stopped, inches away from her goal, as she looked back up into his gaze.
He was looking straight at her.
“I see,” Ciaran breathed out, and she slowly pulled away as though she were hoping Artorias would have grabbed hold of her chin—right then and there—and forced her back into position, to which he would finally have relieved her of such repressed desire.
“Thou truly art a dear friend,” Ciaran murmured, retreating back to her original, seated position beside the man. “I’ve no doubt we’ll become great knights,” she added; and she suddenly felt extremely naked. The air quickly grew cold, as did her confidence from earlier. She found herself wrapping her arms around her chest, hunching over, and staring down at the bonfire as she waited for a response.
“Ciaran,” Artorias finally began—his voice low and gentle. “Now is not my time to—”
She rose to her feet, back turned towards her friend as she squeezed her eyes shut. “Please,” she interrupted, “I cannot bear to hear the words that will next spill from thy lips. Spare me the pity—please.”
He let out a soft hum.
“Thank you, my friend,” she finished.
Ciaran walked to the edge of the cavern, and glanced out at the heavy rainfall that now plagued the air—though, it was not the worst sight to behold, as she needed something—anything to direct her attention towards… one that was not of her dear friend. But even then, in that moment of pure weakness, she found herself looking back at Artorias, who still remained seated against the ground of the cave. In his eyes, there was suddenly a hint of something other than composure—other than his usual cool stare; for in that cerulean gaze, he suddenly bore a trace of sadness.