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To the Hilt

Chapter 4

Daphne heard hooves on the stairs and her heart sank. She was pretty certain it was another cruel nun or perhaps a young acolyte come to tease and arouse her. So when she looked up and saw a handsome stallion at the bottom of the stair, her heart almost stopped.

Daphne felt the lips of her sex threatened to swell just looking at him. The stallion was gorgeous, all bulging calves and arms, broad shoulders, a flowing white mane, and piercing golden eyes that were intense and yet somehow . . . gentle. He was also taller than any stallion she'd ever seen in her life, and his white fur had a subtle glow that was mesmerizing. His hooves were even golden, gleaming against the torchlight and reflecting it like glass.

The stallion stood in place a long moment, his mouth slightly open in shock. Daphne bit her lip, remembering that she was naked and chained to the wall, with her entire front on display. Though Snowflake had bathed her, she knew the room still smelled like her waste. As he drew close and breathed in the smell, she wanted to die.

The stallion was carrying a brown robe and slung it over his shoulder as he came. He stopped to look at Daphne again, and his white cheeks flared just the tiniest bit, but his face was otherwise unreadable. He slowly turned his eyes away and reached above her head to release her chains. Daphne cried out and fell forward when the weight of her restraints was suddenly lifted, and the stallion fumbled to catch her. He grunted as he caught her against his chest, and her lashes fluttered as she breathed his smell. He smelled like pure mountain water and flowers and the juices of succulent fruits. The smell of him made her relax, and suddenly, she didn't feel as nervous.

He was nervous, though. He blushed harder when his paws closed on her waist to steady her, but he let go very quickly, as if he'd touched something hot, and took the brown robe from his shoulder. She thought he was going to offer it to her, but he opened it for her instead, helping her pull it on. His eyes seemed determined not to look at her breasts, and when they jiggled softly, he swallowed with difficulty.

"You're my angel?" Daphne asked, clutching the robe shut under her chin. She was suddenly very glad to be wearing clothing again, to have her soft body not on display for probing eyes. She pulled the hood up over her pale mane.

"Yes. I am Artesda," the angel answered, tying the rope belt for her. He kept his eyes on his work, and as he was distracted, Daphne glanced over his shoulder and stared at his magnificent white wing. He only had one, just as the nun had told her. It made her sad. She felt guilty when the angel caught her staring and abruptly turned away.

They quietly left from the abbey, and the angel was moving so fast, Daphne could barely keep up. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought he didn't want her to see the front of him.

It was morning when they left Brayven Abbey behind for the forest path. Sunlight streamed through the trees, and birds sang, heralding the start of a beautiful day. Daphne recognized the path they were taking. It led to Haymar, a quiet little town where she and her father had often gone to sell produce.

They walked in silence, and Daphne's thoughts were restless. Artesda was tall and powerful and handsome, and she had to wonder what the Lord Above was like if his angels alone were this handsome. It was difficult to calm herself just when looking at Artesda, as he was wearing a very short skirt that did nothing to hide the occasional flash of his swinging penis. Should he lift his tail while walking, the plating of his skirt would shift aside, offering her a glimpse of his firm backside, which was flexing with every step. It was maddening.

And somehow, the fact that Artesda was completely oblivious of his own appeal made it even worse, as he seemed to possess no modesty because he possessed no sense of self. If a fallen tree was blocking their path, Artesda would stop and casually lift the tree out of the way, shoving it aside like it weighed less than a feather. On top of the initial shock of discovering his incredible strength, Daphne was momentarily breathless just watching his muscles flex through the motion. Or should they stop beside a stream for a drink, Artesda would squat down, thighs spread, and gathered water in his paws, completely oblivious of the fact that Daphne had full view of his penis. She couldn't help but gasp the first time she saw: it was enormous. And seeing her blushing surprise, he showed modesty for the first time by clumsily snapping his thighs together and scrambling up.

Daphne found it very curious that an angel who barely understood modesty or shame should be so ashamed of his penis being seen. She was beginning to suspect that someone in the abbey had taught Artesda this shame. Reflecting on her own molestation, it wouldn't have been surprising.

When the afternoon sun was high in the sky, Daphne knew it would be at least another hour before they had reached Haymar, and she didn't think she could spend another hour walking in silence. What was more, Artesda seemed very unhappy. His movements were heavy and slow, his eyes sad. She thought he could use some cheering up. "I'm Daphne," she said, jogging to walk at the angel's side.

Artesda didn't look at her. "You are the Purest One. That is all I need to know."

Daphne laughed flatly. "Yeah. You angels are a real laugh-riot."

Artesda frowned, clearly not picking up on the sarcasm. "No, we aren't. We are warriors of Araton, here to protect the mortal realm and the gates of Heaven."

Daphne sighed. "Ooooh, yeah. You're a riot, you are."

"No, I'm not," Artesda said in confusion.

Daphne laughed softly. "No," she wearily agreed. "You really aren't. So . . . why are we going to Haymar?"

"I need a sword, that I might defend you," Artesda said matter-o-factly.

"Really? That's the only reason?" Daphne said, disappointed. "I was hoping we were going for some mystical guide stone or some magical-whatever. Something to point us in the right direction."

Artesda frowned slightly. "Mortals talk a lot," he realized.

Daphne smiled. "Well, at least you didn't immediately say 'mares talk a lot,' which makes you good in my book."

Artesda's hooves suddenly crunched to a halt, and Daphne stopped beside him. He turned and stared down at Daphne, and his golden eyes were baffled. "You speak in riddles," he said, his eyes pleading. "It's confusing me. You have no books!" His eyes danced over her, as if he thought she had books hidden in her robe.

"It's a figure of speech," Daphne said, holding back a giggle. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. She didn't want to hurt his feelings: he seemed sad enough.

". . . figure of speech," Artesda repeated, testing the words out on his tongue, as if he'd never heard them before.

Daphne thought he had a peculiar accent and reminded herself that the Lord Above and the angels of Heaven actually spoke their own language, which was apparently a very straightforward language with no innuendo or jokes. Daphne found that disappointing. Life in Heaven was going to be very boring if no one was going to understand her sarcasm.

Artesda turned and started down the path again, looking pensive. Daphne followed.

"You lost your sword?" she asked sympathetically. "Is that why you're sad?" She really wanted to ask about his wing and the other angels, and he seemed to sense as much.

"Yes. That many other reasons," Artesda answered reluctantly. He didn't seem to want to talk about it, and Daphne didn't blame him. He had watched his fellows get slaughtered by demons, and even though he knew the same thing could happen to him, he continued in his duties. She had to admire his determination, at least.

"How can we hope to avoid the demons?" Daphne wondered anxiously.

"We won't. When they come again, I will kill them," was the adamant reply. "So long as we travel during the day, they will not come. The sunlight hurts them, because it is an extension of my Lord Father and his power."

"Oh," Daphne said in a small voice. She didn't feel reassured. She also wondered if he truly believed the sunlight was an extension of Araton. She glanced at his serious face and realized that he probably did believe it. It only made her pity him all the more.

"Do not worry, Purest One," Artesda said firmly. "I will not fail you. I can not."

Regardless of the angel's determined assurances, Daphne was relieved when they reached Haymar before nightfall. In the drowsy pink twilight, the little town was turning in for the evening, shops were closing, and shopkeepers were sweeping steps. Mothers walked home with their foals bouncing at their sides, farmers prepared to set out in wagons, cows mooed as they were led from market, and fresh fruit venders closed their stalls. Lanterns were lit on street corners by old stallions with wooden ladders, and candle flames blossomed in windows.

Artesda looked around in wonder, and it was clear he'd never been in a village before. The townsfolk were just as baffled by him. They stared in amazement as he and Daphne passed through. Children stopped to gawk, mares fanned themselves as they eyed Artesda with fluttering lashes, and even a few stallions paused to glance in appreciation at Artesda's backside.

They arrived at the smithy to find the forge deserted and the shop closed. The house next to the forge was where the blacksmith lived, and they could see the firelight in the window: the blacksmith was home. Artesda passed under the swinging shop sign and knocked on the door without pause.

"It's the middle of the night!" Daphne scolded him. "And they'll just give you a sword?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes," Artesda answered. "The Covenant commands that mortals should give the Lord Above and his angels everything they need in order to protect them. Mortals are obligated to give me food, shelter, and weapons; whatever I need to ensure your safe journey to Heaven."

Daphne made a face and folded her arms. The Lord Above sounded like a bandit demanding "protection fees" from helpless farmers. That Artesda couldn't see that was . . . quite sad. She looked at him and saw a brainwashed minion, not the shining warrior of Heaven he claimed to be. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she dreaded finally having to ascend to Heaven.

The horse who opened the door was a black mare with warm brown eyes and a thick black mane. She was wearing a filthy gray apron tied back over a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her arms and shoulders were muscular, her waist was narrow, her breasts full behind the apron. Daphne knew her as Darla, Haymar's blacksmith. She had inherited the smithy from her father and had been working it all her life. She looked up at Artesda in shock and was too busy gaping to even notice Daphne was there.

Daphne pointedly cleared her throat, and Darla blinked and looked at her.

"Hi, Darla," Daphne said with an amused half-smile. "We need your help. Artesda needs a sword."

Artesda nodded solemnly.

Darla looked again at the towering angel, then looked at Daphne in surprise. "Ah, Daphne. I'd heard you were the Purest One. Didn't trust it was true," she teased with a wink, and Daphne scowled. Darla took a step back. "Come in."

They passed inside the house, and Daphne noticed with irritation how Darla's hungry eyes followed Artesda's flexing backside. His tail lifted casually, flashing her a glimpse of his tight buttocks, and when she realized Daphne was giving her a scolding look, she shrugged innocently as she closed the front door.

Darla's house was small and cozy, with a narrow bed on one side of the hearth, a table with chairs on the other, and a bathing basin before the fire. Darla's supper was on the table, hot vegetable stew with a mug of ale, as if she'd been eating when they'd come. A pot containing the rest of the stew still simmered over the fire. Pans and ladles hung from the rafters, bearskins lined the floor like rugs, and the walls were adorned with the many swords and shields Darla had proudly crafted. A lot of them were terribly made, as she'd created them in her earliest days of learning and had kept them out of sheer sentimentality.

Artesda's eyes passed curiously over the displayed swords as he went to a chair near the fire and sat. He was so large, the chair looked minuscule beneath him, and Daphne held back a laugh. He reminded her of her cat back on the farm, a silly creature who was so attached to his old pillow that he kept sleeping on it, long after it was too small to hold him.

Artesda spread his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his head. He looked sad and tired and didn't appear aware of the fact that his large penis was visible to them, resting quietly against his sack on the seat between his thighs. The musky scent of it hit Daphne in the face and she felt herself getting warm. She looked over and noticed Darla staring with her mouth open at Artesda's enormous genitals.

There in Haymar, Darla was widely known as the middle-aged mare who took colts and made them stallions. She liked males and she liked them young, innocent, and inexperienced. For her, it was the thrill of dominating completely. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, she took them at night to her bed and they left her shack in the morning with a limp. Daphne knew the older mare was looking at Artesda and no doubt thinking of tying him up.

"No," Daphne hissed under her breath.

Darla smirked and held up her paws in mock surrender. "I wasn't going to touch him, honey."

"No," Daphne said darkly, "you weren't."

Darla laughed softly, folding her arms and leaning against the wall. "Well, well, well," she said in her deep, silky purr of a voice. Her slanted eyes hooded in amusement. "Look who's got a hard-on for Prince Hung."

Daphne felt her cheeks getting hot: her clit was indeed hard and throbbing. "No," she said at once and lifted her chin. "He is innocent and pure! A warrior of Heaven!"

"As if you believed in Heaven," smirked Darla.

Daphne made an impatient noise. "Just the same, he is innocent, he doesn't understand our world, and you will not take advantage of him!"

"I wouldn't dare," sang Darla, more amused than ever. "Though I can't escape the feeling that you want--"

Daphne's breasts heaved. "I do not . . .!" she growled, but she glanced at Artesda, who had turned his head and was looking at them with his ears pricked forward in surprise. She lowered her voice and whispered furiously, "I do not want him."

"Keep telling yourself that, honey," said Darla, pushing herself away from the wall. She moved past Daphne and went to Artesda, hips and tail swaying. Daphne watched her irritably.

"You can have any sword from my shop, handsome," Darla told Artesda, sliding her paws in the pockets of her apron.

Artesda frowned in confusion. "My name is Artesda."

Darla laughed softly. "I'll call you handsome just the same." She jerked her head. "Go on."

Artesda hesitated, then eased up from his chair and walked along the wall, looking at the swords. Daphne knew none of the swords could possibly match anything he could have gotten from Heaven. The warriors of Heaven fought with swords of gleaming gold that were razor sharp and deadly . . . or so the legends said. So she wasn't surprised when Artesda not only wasn't impressed but also seemed sad and disappointed. After a while, he chose a gleaming silver sword with an elegantly shaped hilt.

"Ah, that one's a beauty," said Darla, nodding in approval. "I made it for the duke of Endenhayel, but he died in a horrible accident, and his daughter refused to keep it. Said the thing was cursed." She lifted a discarded scabbard off the back of a chair and offered it to Artesda.

Artesda didn't seem concerned about the supposed "curse" and Daphne was glad: she had grown up surrounded by enough superstitious farm folk to last her a lifetime.

When the angel buckled on the scabbard and sheathed the sword in it, Darla invited them to sit down for a bowl of stew. Daphne was terribly hungry and glad for the invitation, even though she wanted to get as far from Darla's house as possible.

"Have you ever been down here before?" Darla asked Artesda over supper. "I mean, here with us lowly mortals?"

Artesda frowned, not getting the joke. "Mortals are not lowly," he said indignantly. "You are the subjects of my father, who loves and protects you! And no . . . I have never been down here before. I have spent the last one hundred years guarding Heaven."

Darla gave a low whistle. "You look damn fine for one hundred years, honey," she said, ignoring Daphne's disapproving glare. "How d'you like it here so far?" She dipped a chunk of bread in her stew and bit it with relish, eying Artesda's broad shoulders with hungry eyes.

Artesda frowned, staring off thoughtfully. "The mortal realm is confusing. No one says what they mean, and no one calls anyone by their given name." He looked at Darla. "You call me 'handsome' and you call the Purest One 'honey.' And back at the abbey, a sister called me 'bubblebutt.' "

Daphne choked on her stew, trying not to laugh.

Artesda shook his head. "Perhaps I am simply not used to this world and its strange customs. I will adjust. I have to." He scooped his spoon through his stew and tasted it. Daphne and Darla waited for him to make a face, but he appeared pleased by the stew and kept eating, smiling and content.

Daphne was impressed: if Artesda liked Darla's stew, that meant it was as good as any food in the eternal halls of Heaven.

Darla seemed flattered by Artesda's delight and sat up a little straighter, peevishly sticking her tongue out at Daphne. Daphne couldn't help but laugh and felt at ease for doing so. Darla wagged her brows at Daphne and returned to her stew, and looking at the older mare, Daphne realized she hadn't laughed in . . . so long.

"You two can have my bed for the night," Darla said, tipping her mug back for a gulp of ale. She set down the mug and licked her lips. "I've got a . . . date . . . with the tailor's son anyway. Boy's hung like a bull."

Daphne frowned, glad that Artesda didn't understand what she meant.

"So sleep well, you two," Darla sang, her laughing eyes passing over them.

"I don't sleep," Artesda said matter-o-factly. "That's what mortals call it when they lie still at night. Sleep?"

Daphne frowned. "You don't sleep?"

Artesda looked at her calmly. "No."

Daphne held back a weary moan. That meant he would sit up all night while she was sleeping . . . watching her. When she looked up, she was annoyed to find Darla watching her embarrassment with twinkling amusement.

The blacksmith tipped back her bowl and finished off her stew, then she pushed herself up from the table. "Good night, you two," she sang with a taunting smile. She looked at

Daphne, "Make sure he sinks it to the hilt, eh?"

Daphne blushed furiously and was suddenly very grateful Artesda was too innocently oblivious to have a clue what Darla meant. She scowled at the blacksmith's back as she left, hips and tail swaying. Once she was gone, Daphne glanced down and realized she was filthy after a day of trudging through the forest. She wanted to make use of Darla's bath, but there was one problem.

Daphne looked at Artesda, who was sitting calmly at the table, staring in deep contemplation at the fire. When he felt her eyes on him, he looked back at her calmly, waiting for her to speak. Daphne swallowed, hating that his golden eyes were so beautiful and intense.

"I'm going to take a bath," Daphne announced, rising from the table. "Could you maybe . . . go outside?"

"No," Artesda said at once. "I have to watch over you."

"You could close your eyes, go stand in the corner --"

"No."

Daphne scowled. "You don't have to watch me bathe."

"I am your angel," Artesda adamantly returned. "I can not allow you from my sight. My father commands it. I will stay here . . . and keep my eyes on the fire."

Daphne groaned and rolled her eyes. But she wanted to take a bath, a real bath. She couldn't imagine the next time she'd come across a bathing basin. Not many peasants owned them, and Darla only owned one because she'd made it herself. The last time Daphne had a real bath was two weeks ago, when she came across a stream out in the forest. If she didn't bathe now, she was going to be filthy for a long, long time. The way Artesda talked, it seemed their journey to Heaven was going to be a long one.

Suddenly fed up, Daphne decided she was going to take a bath and to hell with everything. It wasn't like Artesda hadn't seen her naked before. She moved around the table and went to the basin. There was water inside and it was slightly warm. Perhaps Darla had been planning to take a bath for her "date." It was clean, warm water, with towels and soap tablets waiting nearby.

Delighted, Daphne started to take off her robe, but she halted when she felt Artesda's eyes on her. She bit her lip and slowly looked at the angel. He had promised to look at the fire, but he was watching her quietly, sitting upright in the chair with his knees wide apart. The flaps of his skirt fell open around his large phallus, which lay quietly on the seat between his thighs. He was completely unaware that it was bare, and his steady eyes were fixed on her.

Daphne looked Artesda in the eye as she allowed her robe to slowly fall. She stood there naked, clutching her breasts in fistfuls. Artesda's nostrils flared to take in her scent, and her lashes fluttered when she noticed his penis swelling slightly. His chest heaved as arousal filled him, but he made no move to hide it. Daphne had never seen a male become erect before, and for several seconds, she couldn't move as the angel's penis slowly lifted.

Artesda frowned apologetically. "I . . . am sorry," he said breathlessly and put his paws over his erection with a blush. "I saw things in the abbey, things I was never meant to see. Then I saw you bare before my eyes and . . ." He swallowed hard and looked away. "I am sorry."

Daphne frowned: those damned nuns! She climbed into the bath, and standing in the water, she took up the soap and started to bathe. "What did you see?" she asked unhappily. "What did they do to you?"

Artesda bowed his head in shame, and his ears went back flat. "I knew pleasures I was never supposed to know . . . I fear I will not be able to return to Heaven. I have been sullied. You will enter the gates, but I will not."

The angel sounded so ashamed, Daphne's eyes softened with sympathy. "Artesda . . . there's nothing wrong with . . ." She avoided looking at his penis, which was still hugely erect.

"You don't understand!" burst the angel and snapped up from his chair, muscular thighs flexing, penis wobbling.

Daphne froze, staring at his powerful body. He hesitated, then marched her way and stood over her. She looked up at him, clutching her breasts, her lips parted as her sex throbbed with arousal. He barely even noticed: his face was twisted with regret.

"I have sinned!" he insisted. "A warrior of Heaven should not feel this way! These filthy delights are for demons and mortals --!"

"And for your father?" Daphne quietly pointed out.

Artesda hesitated and blinked thoughtfully, but his face hardened against her counterargument. "My father is the Lord Above," he said firmly. "The Lord Above may do as he pleases --"

"And you may not?"

Artesda slowly frowned. "You are the Purest One. It is not your place to question the Lord Above --"

"No, it's my place to suck his cock for all eternity!" Daphne snapped.

Artesda looked at her with his mouth open, and a bright blush crept over his white cheeks. "P-Purest One!" he stammered. "You shouldn't use s-such language --"

"I shouldn't do a lot of things, apparently," Daphne said bitterly. She hesitated, then defiantly grabbed Artesda's erection. He sputtered in shock as she gave it an experimental squeeze. She had never touched a penis before, especially not a hard one. It was firm and smooth and warm, it smelled like salty sweat, and the pink skin was silky soft. It was so thick, she could barely get her little paw around it. She looked at it curiously and her lashes fluttered when it squirted a little. The sudden desire to lick the moisture away overcame her, and she was leaning down to do so when Artesda grabbed her shoulders and stopped her.

"Purest One . . . you mustn't," he said softly and gave her a pleading look.

Daphne straightened up and held back a sad laugh. Her entire life, stallions had been trying get her alone. They wanted her to suck them or ride them, they wanted to grope her and lick her. She had never wanted them in return. Now, for the first time her life, she had found a male she was attracted to completely, and he was begging her not to touch him. She turned away, thinking in amazement how life just wasn't fair.

"It's not right," Artesda said behind her, his voice soothing, coaxing. "You belong to my father --"

"I belong to no one," Daphne said at once. She frowned and picked up the soap and returned to bathing, rubbing it along her extended arm. She could feel Artesda still towering behind her and wondered why he didn't go back to his chair. He was determined not to know pleasure, after all.

"This is my fault," Artesda said behind her. "If I hadn't allowed those mares to touch me back at the abbey . . . I never knew what pleasures existed before. They told me I could be inside them, and . . . and I haven't been able to stop thinking of it since."

Daphne frowned sadly and continued to bathe.

"I thought I could forget," Artesda went on regretfully. "I thought the Lord Father would never know if only I could hide these feelings. Now I'm afraid. I think of you all the time and it steals my breath, makes things happen to my body that have never. . . You are so beautiful."

Daphne smiled sadly. She heard the angel's hooves clop softly as he returned to his chair. As she continued bathing, she glanced over and saw he had taken a washcloth and was rubbing himself with it. She paused, watching with fluttering lashes as he gently massaged his own erection with the damp cloth. She continued bathing, lifting her breasts to wash them, letting the soapy water drip off her nipples. She hesitated, and looking at him steadily, she passed the washcloth against her sex, fingering herself through it. Her eyes hooded and her lips parted with a sigh. He watched her with a strained expression and fondled himself gently, slowly, until his thick shaft flinched and he squirted with a choked cry into the cloth. Daphne saw it grow dark with his seed. When he glanced at her again, he was blushing and could not meet her eye.

"Finish bathing, Purest One," he said, not looking at her as he covered himself again.

"We have a long journey ahead of us. You will need your rest."

Daphne frowned. "Why are you ashamed --?"

"Because I should be!" Artesda snapped at her. "I can only hope that my heavenly father will not strike me down the day I finally deliver you to Heaven, though I would deserve far worse for this trespass."

Artesda refused to look at Daphne. She could see there was no arguing with him, so she took up the soap and finished bathing, and as she rubbed herself down, she could feel him watching her with sadness and longing.

Artesda was still sitting in his chair, still staring with determination at the fire when Daphne had gotten out of the bath and tied on her robe. She climbed into Darla's bed, and she was surprised when he brought his chair to her bedside and faced it toward the door. He sat with his back to her and drew his sword, glaring down the door as if he expected an army to come through.

When Daphne awoke the next morning before dawn, Darla had returned and was cooking breakfast, but Artesda was sitting in the same chair, in the same position.

He had stayed that way all night. . . . guarding her.