Bloodraven by P. L. Nunn

never shown talent for healing before—even though it was in his blood. Never shown more than passing sensitivity for the underlying essence of the great forest and all she encompassed. At least no more than any other young Ydregi warrior who was more interested in proving himself a man than searching for the secrets the Goddess had hidden in nature.
    And he’d been satisfied with no simple harmless magic, but had accomplished the forbidden, and not only borrowed from the forest, but withered and killed it in his desperation.
    Wary and nervous, he pulled at the still damp length of his hair. The bulk of it was still too wet to properly braid, but the shorter strands by his face were dry enough to work with, so he sat about separating hair for the small ritual braid. He unraveled a thread from the bedding and tied it off, feeling better for that small dignity.
    Eventually, with nothing else to occupy his time, he relented and lay back on the soft furs of the pallet, drawing his knees up to his body and facing the door, determined not to sleep and be caught unawares, but merely to rest his body.
    He slept anyway. Drifted off into peaceful darkness for he knew not how long, and awoke to the sound of loud voices outside and the jangle of armor and weaponry and the barking of dogs. He chased the sleep away with a frustrated curse and sat up, legs folded beneath him, hands covering that most sensitive part of him, back straight and head high. He wouldn’t cower again. He promised himself that. They would force no further acts of cowardice from him, no matter what they did.
    He flinched a little, regardless, when the tent flap was pulled back and the broad-shouldered figure of the ogre he’d been given to, entered. A step into the tent and Bloodraven paused, eyes drawn to Yhalen in what might have been a casual assessment of his newly collared slave. He stood for a moment, staring, armor spattered with bits of dirt and mud and what might have been blood, hair sweat damped and clinging in places to the ochre skin of his face. Then he said something, short and soft, before ambling over to the armor rack and shedding the leather and metal, piece by piece, until he stood shirtless, clad only in boots and trousers. Yhalen heard an audible sigh of relief from him, to have the weight of so much armor gone.
    Bloodraven moved finally towards the pallet, gold eyes fixed speculatively on Yhalen.
    Don’t flinch away, Yhalen told himself. Don’t cower before him. He lifted his head and met those glittering eyes. Black rimmed, with long slitted irises and filled with intense intelligence and pride.
    Arrogance. He was smaller than his brethren by far, but this one—this one, Yhalen thought, considered himself superior.
    Bloodraven said a word. A sharp command that Yhalen could only blink at, not comprehending.
    Then one large hand reached out and caught the chain, sliding up its length until there was only a hand span of it between the collar and the ogre’s fingers. He pulled up and Yhalen had little choice but to scramble to his feet on his own or be hauled there by the metal encircling his neck.
    Standing, his feet on the pallet which gave him an extra hand’s width of height, the top of Yhalen’s head still barely reached Bloodraven’s shoulders. Flatfooted on the floor he’d be staring at the lower portion of the ogre’s chest.
    Another ogre word and Bloodraven reached out and touched the locks of Yhalen’s loose hair that trailed over his shoulder. Clean, it glinted very much the color of the beaten bronze collar around his neck, liberally streaked with dark strands of auburn and brown. In the midst of high summer it would lighten, but it held the colors of fall now.
    Yhalen shivered, losing his battle to keep his eyes on the ogre’s face and instead finding them drawn to the large hand that brushed his shoulder as Bloodraven touched his hair. He wanted to step back, away from the touch, away from the closeness of the large