The Shieldbearer

The night passed uneventfully and Cofcos began to wake. He tried to roll onto his back, but something soft and warm stopped him. Julian had begun spooning with him some time in the night. “Good morning,” she said sweetly. “Good morning,” he replied, somewhat agitated, “Remember what I said?” “I know,” she said, “But it got so cold and the sheets are so thin…” Cofcos sighed quietly. “And you took more than your fair share of the covers,” she continued. Cofcos opened his eyes. The morning sun shined weakly through the room’s only window, suffocated by grime. He saw his hands holding a rather large clump of linens and one more arm holding him. “Not that I don’t mind sharing. And you’re on my half of the bed. My rules,” she finished, squeezing him tighter and rubbing her feet against his. He sat up abruptly, taking what little was left of Julian’s covers with him and almost bumping her over the edge, proving her point further. He retreated to the other side of the bed and handed her an armful of white fabric. “Sorry,” he apologized. “’Apology accepted,’” she imitated, “You’re not used to sharing beds.” “I’m sure it’s a difficult art to master,” he retorted. “I’ve received a number of compliments on my skills in bed,” she teased, “This one comes to mind in particular.”



She launched herself at Cofcos and grabbed his shoulders, turning him around and pushing him face-down into the bed. She climbed on top of him and straddled his back, putting her knees around his waist and stretching her short skirt to its limits. By the time he realized what happened, all he could do was let out a muffled “Hey!” Julian’s fingers gripped his shoulders while her thumbs gently dug into the base of his neck and circulated gently. Her digits worked diligently with a firm and deliberate grip. Skin and muscle and bone seemed to melt in her hands. “Hey!” he said again, rocking from side to side to shake her off, “Hey!” She took her hands off of him and began dismounting. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why—“A little lower?” he asked, pulling a pillow under his head and stretching his arms out in front. She went silent; the words hit her hard and unexpectedly. “How low?” she said deviously, returning to her old self. “Around the ribs?” he suggested, “I should take my shirt off first though, right?” “Uh, no, it’s alright; I can work through it,” she said quickly, returning to her former position. “No, no, I insist,” he said lifting himself up one arm at a time removing his shirt roughly and dropping it to the side of the bed.



His back was rough and scarred with burns and old cuts. Her hands trembled before she pressed her palms against his back and worked her thumbs halfway down his spine, rubbing him through his clothes. Her soft hands drifted over the bumpy, leathery landscape. She massaged around one vertebra before moving onto the next one up, reaching between his shoulder blades before starting again at the bottom. Her method seemed a little more rushed, her technique a little more sketchy. She had a hard time concentrating, one hand massaging vigorously while the other simply pressed down hard. “Lower,” he said. She moved her hands lower. “Lower,” he said again. She went lower. “Lower.” Her hands were at the bottom of his waist, starting on his hips, brushing against his pants. “Lower.”



“Maybe we should get breakfast?” she said quietly getting up. She leaned far over the edge of the bed and grabbed Cofcos’ shirt. Her hand brought it up to him; the shirt was immaculately white with a large red cross embroidered on the front. “Maybe,” Cofcos said sitting up. He whirled around suddenly, grabbed Julian by the throat and pushed her down against the mattress. Julian gripped his wrists tightly and tried to push him away. She wheezed under the pressure he was exerting on her throat and her eyes opened wide in terror. Cofcos sneered, exposing his gold-capped canine. His thick sideburns went halfway down his jawline and back up into his hairline. His red mane was combed backwards exposing a pronounced widow’s peak and stuck out in several small spikes like fire. He moved his head I closer, letting his warm breath wash over her face through his gritted teeth. “Maybe we should go lower,” Mortebarbe growled.



Julian woke Cofcos, gasping for air and rolling around in the bed. “Is something wrong?” he asked worriedly. “I’m fine,” she croaked, “Just a bad dream.” A moment passed quietly, broken only by Julian’s deep breaths. Cofcos rolled over slowly and pressed himself against her, mindful of her delicate wings. “I’ve got a shield for that,” he said quietly, pulling himself closer. He buried his face in her straw-blonde hair and molded the rest of his body to hers.