Night had fallen over the Neutral Lands. The only light in the master bedroom came from the Lunar Moth living in the Cosmosphere filtering through the sheer curtains, and the faint, nervous glow of their Auras.
Nguvu stood by the side of the bed. He had taken off his armor, his cape, and his boots. He was now wearing only a loose pair of linen drawstring trousers.
Amamihe sat on the other side, brushing her hair. She wore a silk night-robe that did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she was built to be the mother of nations.
The bed was a California King. It looked like a crib next to Nguvu.
"So," Amamihe said, her voice tight. "The mattress seems... firm."
"Firm is good," Nguvu replied mechanically. "Good for the lumbar support. Essential for a Warrior."
He approached the bed like it was a trapped hallway in an enemy dungeon. He calculated the trajectory. If he lay on the extreme right edge, and she lay on the extreme left edge, there would be exactly six inches of demilitarized zone (DMZ) between them.
"I will take the side closest to the door," Nguvu stated. "In case of assassins."
"Nguvu, we are in the middle of a forest. The only assassin here is a mosquito." Amamihe sighed, setting down her brush. "Just get in."
Nguvu climbed in. The mattress groaned in protest under his 400+ pounds of density. The entire bed frame tilted slightly to the right.
Amamihe slid under the sheets on her side. She rolled over to face away from him.
Silence descended.
Nguvu lay on his back, stiff as a board. His arms were crossed over his chest like a sarcophagus. He was using every ounce of his Blue Aura to suppress his body heat, but he was naturally a furnace. He could smell her—she smelled like rain and crushed lemongrass. It was intoxicating.
Do not breathe too deeply, he scolded himself. Breathing is flirting.
"Nguvu?" Her voice was a whisper in the dark.
"Yes, Ekon Amamihe?"
"You are glowing. Your Blue Aura is lighting up the room like a Fulgur beetle. I can't sleep."
"Apologies." Nguvu squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dim his internal power. "I am... alert."
"Are you afraid I'm going to attack you?" she teased, though her voice wavered.
"No," Nguvu said honestly. "I am afraid that if I roll over, I might accidentally concuss you with my elbow."
Amamihe snorted. It was a very un-aristocratic sound. She shifted, turning to face his back. "Nguvu, I am a High Cultivator. I have wrestled wild bush-pigs. I can handle an elbow."
She reached out and poked his bicep. It was like poking a steel girder.
"You are very... solid," she murmured, half-asleep.
Nguvu stopped breathing entirely. Her finger lingered on his arm for a second too long. The tension in the room spiked. The air grew heavy with Orange Huenergy (Desire/Attraction) swirling between them—a mix of his repressed longing and her curiosity.
Then, they both remembered the Elders.
"Tear-rubber children!"
"Pillars of the State!"
Amamihe yanked her hand back as if burned. "Goodnight, Nguvu."
"Goodnight, Amamihe."
They lay there in the dark, six inches apart, widely awake, listening to the frogs screaming in the pond outside.
It was going to be a very long marriage.