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Stjepan notices Leon -- who still makes a point of ignoring him whenever they cross each other's paths in public -- lurking at the edge of the campfire on more than one night when he talks to the men sworn to Araswell about that dreadful trip into the Bale Mole.
Inwardly he shudders at the thought of being asked more questions about Arduin or Annwyn. For all the things he does not know (because he lay insensate in the muck when they happened) there are at least 3 more things he dare not say, first and foremost being, "Your sister fucked me in Azharad's barrow," followed by, "Then she fucked the reanimated corpse of Azharad while three of us looked on. Granted, I was more interested in finding a way to get my hands untied and escaping, but I certainly saw it happen," followed by, "It turns out your sister's a rather powerful self-taught witch who deceived and bound Azharad. She's not really Annwyn any more. The sister you knew and loved is dead," and "The Hathaz-Ghúl ate Arduin. I'm pretty sure he died before they started in on him, but I can't say for certain, because I wasn't there when it happened. We took a few pieces of his armor, before putting what remained of him on the pyre."
Stjepan finds no pleasure in revisiting these memories beyond giving a little comfort to the grieving and easing the tension between them. He escaped a gruesome fate only through sheer luck. Granted, Fortune favors those who temper their boldness with skill and plans for the worst, but skill and the best laid plans only go so far in a tainted place like the Bale Mole, and even less far in the cursed wastes of Lost Uthedmael.
So, Stjepan says nothing to Leon, just remains perfectly polite to everybody in the Araswell contingent. Provoking Leon will gain him nothing but a moment's pleasure at the jibe, and might end up costing him (and Leon) more than either of them bargained for when -- not if -- it escalates.
~oo(0)oo~
But as they grind their way deeper into the hostile territory of the Manon Mole, Leon keeps being there like a lurking ghost, flickering in the corner of Stjepan's vision any time he's in camp. Stjepan wishes it were a ghost. He knows well enough how to handle them -- ward yourself and leave them an offering. Entitled Aurian lordlings are another thing altogether. He sighs and resigns himself to the fact that he'll have to do something about it when and if the opportunity presents itself. Leon obviously doesn't want to speak to him in public, but he does want something from Stjepan, and the sooner Stjepan discovers what it is, the better. He doesn't think Leon means to attack him, but he knows better than to not watch his back where somebody as angry as myself as angry as Leon is concerned.
~oo(0)oo~
The moment comes when the men of Araswell are assigned picket duty (with Stjepan attached to them as a scout) near the remains of a village in the Cawall Vale, abandoned and mostly burnt as part of the scorched earth resistance of the folk of the Manon Mole. A few leagues ahead of them, perched high on a crag, lies the fortress of Cadwalladür, home to a legendarily tenacious pack of hill fighters nicknamed the Cadwalladogs. Stjepan expects that Duke Pergwyn will choose not to take it, once he realizes just how formidable it is. Instead, there will be a token force to pen the Cadwalladogs in … and then they'll get picked off bit by bit, or captured and swallowed whole if cut off from the main body of the army. And just as the thought crystallizes, Stjepan feels as much as sees Leon trailing off to the side of him as he weaves his way through the ruins of a small farmstead just outside of the village proper. As an attack during daylight is unlikely, Leon's not in his full harness, just his sword, sturdy leathers and a quilted gambeson, so he's quieter than usual, but he's not trained to stealth like Stjepan is. It's almost child's play to give him the slip, double back around one of the outbuildings, then come up from behind.
"My lord," Stjepan says, voice all silky smooth politeness though inwardly he relishes watching the big blond start at the sound. "Do you wish to talk privately?"
Leon whirls, scowling, face red with what Stjepan surmises to be a mixture of rage and embarrassment. He fumes for several moments, but as his eyes keep flicking to the open doorway of what's left of a granary, it dawns on Stjepan.
Yhera Fortuna, he groans inwardly, I have only myself to blame for this. "Right," he replies. "Follow me."
As soon as he's determined the doorway is clear, he steps to the left and murmurs an invocation. His eyes are still adjusting to the darkness inside when Leon ducks in, a little too fast, and it's almost nothing for Stjepan to transfer that momentum into jamming him up against the wattle and daub of the wall with his right arm twisted up, back, and behind, hand brushing at the edge of his shoulder blade. Leon's strong, but struggle as he might, he can't break Stjepan's grip, not without dislocating his shoulder, and he's not the kind of man willing to do that, not for these stakes. Which shows that he is capable of tempering his rashness under some circumstances. Stjepan files that away for future reference.
However, the close contact between them reveals something else -- "Islik's balls! You smell, Athairi!" Leon blurts.
Stjepan gives the smallest of shrugs. It's true. He does stink. "Scouting in rough and hostile territory leaves little time for bathing, and even less for laundry." He pauses and adds, "You don't smell like roses either, my lord," dropping only the faintest hint of amusement into his otherwise neutral tone.
Leon says nothing to that, but the tension in his body eases fractionally, and despite the dim light, beneath the anger in his eyes, Stjepan can also see the want.
"What do you think is going to happen, my lord," Stjepan asks carefully. "Are you a baron with a large private pavilion and a fiercely loyal staff? Do you have a special skill, one so critical to serving the King's Army that people will look the other way? Is your family well connected, with favors to call in?" That last one's a bit of a cheap shot, but it also cuts deep to the truth. For all that he's a lord, Leon has even less protection than Stjepan should they be caught.
In a surprisingly non-sulky voice for a man with his face jammed into a dried mixture of mud, straw, and shit, Leon replies. "It seems I did not entirely think this through."
Stjepan doesn't try to keep the amusement from his voice, but he's not cruel when he speaks, "No, you did not. This is the absolute last place I'm going to drop my pants." A bit of laughter creeps into his voice as he recalls one particular misadventure at the edges of the Uthed Wold. "Speaking from experience, it's a bitch to run or fight with them around your ankles." (Alas, that incident did not occur as a result of a lover's advances, but rather from scarfing down lukewarm gruel thinned with fetid water.)
"We could -- we could do other things," Leon murmurs. A moment later he follows with, "Ease up on me. I'd like to get my arm back."
"No, I don't think so," Stjepan replies. "Makes it harder to do this." He reaches around with his free hand and begins working at the front of Leon's britches.
Leon groans in reply, and as Stjepan's fingers scrabble clumsily over the buckskin, he can feel the heat and hardness of Leon's cock through the leather, and that is all it takes to start the fire in him.
A part of Stjepan still wants to jerk Leon ruthlessly -- control him, make Leon shudder and gasp depending on what he does -- but Stjepan knows that could come back to bite him if it increases Leon's resentment, considering how Leon has shown himself to be volatile. "Change of plans," he says, and releases Leon's arm as he slips around to Leon's front. If nothing else, this gives him two hands to work the tie on Leon's britches. "I'll leave you to sort the rest," he says when it's open, reaching for the buttons on the front placket of his own sturdy linsey-woolsey trousers.
Stjepan anticipated some mutual jerking -- which is what most often happens in the field based on his experience -- but Leon planned something else entirely in those brief moments while Stjepan worked his pants, and before he can react, Leon presses him to the wall, knocking his hat off, hands clenching Stjepan's hips, grinding up against him, and oh yes, he can do this, he thinks as he rocks his hips in response. He prefers a good manhandling, all things considered. He offers a silent prayer to Dieva in thanks, and begs her protection as well.
"Fuck, you smell," Leon hisses into his ear, but doesn't stop his thrusting, and Stjepan hooks his left leg up and around, because -- oh yes, just like that, oh Dieva, that's great -- each frantic thrust, each rough chafe of Leon's cock and his dark blond thatch of hair against him brings Stjepan closer, just as each passing second brings them that much closer to the disaster of discovery. Stjepan huffs out a breathy laugh of joy at the pleasure of sex, but also in acknowledgement at the thrill of once again combining it with dancing on the knife's edge. He was made for this.
"Harder, you Aurian lordling," he pants, as they rut against each other. "I know you want to. Give it to me!"
Leon's hands clench on his hips, and he snarls in Stjepan's ear, "Going to leave you banged and bruised, you Athairi whoreson." Stjepan feels it gathering, building at the base of his spine, at the growled words and the increased savagery of the thrusts. "All day tomorrow you are going to bounce in the saddle and remember this, whether you want to or not."
"Yeah?" Stjepan hiss-taunts back, "Prove that you've got the bull in you! Show me that his blood runs through your veins."
Leon bucks against him, brutal and rough, and oh so good, and like that, they both clench as they come in a glorious shuddering mess, Leon's legs buckling with the release, sending them both clattering down to the floor, Leon climbing off of him only when the last of the aftershocks cease.
"Now we both really need baths and fresh clothes," Stjepan says from his place on the boards when his brain clears enough for coherent sentences. He can see where they've left marks on the wall, and knocked off a few chunks of the daub for good measure. He whispers a thanks to Dieva under his breath.
Next to him Leon studies the rafters overhead through the dust motes, and grunts noncommittally.
Stjepan sits up, using his neck kerchief to wipe away the worst of the mess coating his pelvis. "This isn't happening again."
Leon's hand clenches on top of his. "And if I want otherwise?" His voice is low and holds a steely undercurrent.
I'll kill you and curse you before you even get your dick out of your pants, Stjepan thinks. "Find someone else," he says flatly. A moment later he takes a deep breath, and, choosing his words carefully, continues, "Were I different sort of man, I'd be flattered that you'd risk everything for a tumble with me, but that's also wantonly stupid. Stupid gets you killed out here … and back in Therapoli." He adds, almost as an afterthought.
Leon sighs heavily. "You always this cold, Athairi? Always this calculating? Yours are supposed to be a hot blooded folk."
Stjepan climbs to his feet. "I am as the world has made me. It's the only way a man in my position can survive."
Leon cocks his head to look up at him, and in the dim half-light, a grim and bitter smile flits across his lips. "Does not Fortune favor the bold?" He slowly gets to his feet and starts tucking his spent cock back in his trousers.
"It may seem like a fine line between bold and stupid," Stjepan says quietly, stooping to pick up his hat. "But Fortune knows the difference. Boldness comes from a place of power. Recklessness and stupidity from hubris and pride." He finishes fastening his britches, and beats at the worst of the dust on them, though nothing short of a wash will really help.
He's halfway to the door when Leon's voice stops him. "What … what if we were caught?"
"Besides the final ruin of your house?" Stjepan pauses and shudders at the thought. "It would almost be better for you to give yourself over to the hill folk." He shrugs. "My … tastes are an open secret at Chancery. I'm useful. I have friends at court." He quickly adds, "I have enemies, and this might be enough for them -- but as that ridiculous ballad makes clear, I have friends in low places, too. It won't be easy or pleasant, but the odds are ... I'll live.
"You, on the other hand," he continues, "Well, if you don't decide to fall on your sword or open your veins with a knife? Since a sea voyage is out of the question, you should run, as fast as legs can carry you, to Daradja. Hire on with one of the free companies. You're good enough at arms that they'll overlook that you follow the King in Heaven, so long as you're discreet about it." A skip-beat later he adds, "They also won't much care about your choice of bedmates so long as you earn your keep. In a year or two, with some prudence and luck, you might rise to being a Deputy, perhaps even a Captain."
Leon shakes his head and chortles mirthlessly. "You are absolutely correct. This cannot happen again."
Stjepan smooths his hair and re-seats his hat, stepping through the door. If he hurries, he might be able to manage a bucket of warm water from one of the camp followers who takes in laundry and have a scrub down in his mess bowl before he's sent out after sunset. He can even give his coat and breeches a shakeout and brushing before he sponges them with a little watered down stale piss to neutralize the worst of the stink of two weeks of ground in dirt, blood, and sweat.
The eerie and unsettling wind of the Manon Mole blows almost in response to his thoughts at that moment, reminding him that it's easy enough to move unseen and unheard with the right skills, training, and a pinch of magic when necessary. But there is no moving unsmelled. He'd best rinse his shirt, too, and hang it over a fire to dry. The smoke will help cover the reek of its going too long unwashed.
Offering a quick prayer to Yhera Fortuna, Stjepan briskly walks towards the place he saw the laundresses setting up.