Chapter Text
In passing from this world the Reverend Father made himself an example to his flock, showing his students and fellow priests that it was The One God’s command, his duty, their doctrine, to go into the world and through it, and to live and teach and leave their own flocks with the knowledge that their work would be endless. In his ivory tomb, his drying face turned up to sniff the incense washed over him each morning at vigils, and to sip the sweet dark smoke when the candles were snuffed, the Reverend Father lay dead and solemn. His students stretched across the countryside, carrying on his undying word, and with the Chapel at Gone as its softly beating heart they tracked through the muddy, bloody grounds of civil war to spread a word that could not be altered by the petty lines of royals and pretenders.
By night the Reverend Father’s face was covered with a tall porcelain mask, made in the oval shape of his living countenance with the softness of his closed eyes etched into the round surface. By day the mask was removed, showing the growing desolation beneath. To commemorate their loss and their unending loyalty to their mission, his priests wore masks of the same likeness.
This was the one affectation that Verrin allowed himself. Otherwise he was wrapped in black, beaten linens, habit, hood, boots more mud now than leather. He was a small man, narrow and severe, and when he let himself feel it the warmth of his clothes was a joy, their worn softness a badge of honor for his travels.
The camp was busy and orderly that day. His monks went about their work, one group going to the nearby town to proselytize while a handpicked few stayed behind with Verrin, their abbot. Water was fetched early in the morning, the goats were fed, clothing was washed and beaten. It was through the drying, dripping vail of the wash that the first monk saw the riders coming on. There was shouting and then a storm upon them, the gnashing of steel on bone.
Monks ran to the shelter of tents, threw shoulder and blade against the riders and were trampled under the beating hooves of horses. Verrin took up his mace and led the small camp in action against them, the scattered group giving a kicking, screaming, dying fight. In the gnashing of the riders’ blades Verrin saw himself, and a glimpse of the beyond. He saw his own ivory tomb, empty while his body lay in this nameless country’s mud. The vision filled him with a life unlike any he had felt before, and he fought with a viciousness that drew away his compatriots for fear that they would bear it too.
Tents were aflame, the camp was shattering, and Verrin was pushed back by an oncoming horse towards his tent. The animal beat across bone and blood and fire towards him, its broad muscular front sweating as a pike was pierced into it and Verrin shattered the rod and hammered it home with his mace. The beast fell, shrieking, and the rider descended and snatched the priest off his feet and threw him into the tent.
“That’s enough, father–” Verrin landed on his back, his mace slipping from his hands and landing somewhere in the tent. “You preach death to us laymen, you should know it now!”
Scrambling, Verrin found the wooden handle at his belt and shunted it forward. The rider split softly around the blade, warmth pouring down Verrin’s hand from his gut as the man fell on top of him. A bloody, groaning roar wet the porcelain covering his face and brute hands closed around his neck. Verrin drew the dagger up, feeling guts tearing across it as he struggled to breath and the reddening eyes of the rider bore into his. He could do this, he was so close, he could feel the other man spilling out across him. His grip would give soon and everything would be right. His grip would give soon. He would breathe. His grip would give soon. His head burned, his eyes clouded. His grip would give soon.
A bony crack sounded, a shadow and weight fell on top of him and Verrin felt the warmth covering his body and hands spilling from his throat. He shuddered, breathing raggedly, and blinked his reddened eyes. The body lay on top of him, him on his back with his legs wide and the dagger clutched in the other man’s stomach. His puffing, shuddering breaths sounded pitiful to him.
The black weight of the dead body was moved, sloughing off of Verrin in one motion. He felt the still quiet air of the tent press against him now, heard the sounds of running and shouting outside but no longer the tumult of failing violence. He squirmed under his mask, getting his eyes in place again and seeing the figure who stood over him.
He was tall, taller than any man Verrin had seen before, his head and shoulders bent to stand at the highest point of the tent. His skin was dark and full of color, he wore a half plate over his chest and shoulders, his arms and hands wrapped in leather and stitched with red and gold. He had a long, angular face, a proud nose, and yellow eyes that reached out to Verrin from the deep blueness of his face.
A gloved hand took Verrin’s arm and lifted him from the ground, propping him up next to the big man. Verrin noted a pair of gold rings on his wrists, fitted to mark him a captain.
“There, father,” the captain said breathlessly, as if he had just been laughing. “Safe and sound now.”
Outside there was the call for water, for men, and not the crush of battle. He didn’t even hear the pathetic squealing of horses. Verrin clutched the captain’s arm, his legs shaking under him. His blood beat in his ears, his skin was hot and alive. His voice was gone, his throat rubbed raw from the rider’s hands. He bowed his head and cleared his throat, turning his dark eyes to the corpse of the rider.
The dagger was in his hand and so he crumpled to the ground and shoved it into the man’s back, again and again, piercing the lungs, scoring his rids, tearing the muscle of his back. Leather moved under his arms and across his chest, and with a laugh the captain pulled Verrin free and carried him away. One arm wrapped around his chest, the other wrapped around his back and tucked between his thighs, and he was carried off with the dagger still waving in his fist.
“Now, now, that’s more than enough.” Verrin was dropped onto his woven mat of a bed, bouncing back up to continue his work only for the big captain to grab him again and brace him against the mattress. He was big all over, one of his legs pressed snuggly between Verrin’s and pinned his right leg to the mattress. He spread a hand on Verrin’s chest that covered his pec and upper ribs entirely, and he caught Verrin’s hand with the blade and lifted it away like he was taking a toy from a child.
“He must be punished!” Verrin said, his voice returning in a wild hiss. He kicked and bucked under the captain, wrestling under his weight and being pressed down harder. “He tried to kill a priest, he tried to kill me! If he is not punished now he can never repent!”
“He has already paid,” The captain’s voice was low and soothing, his smile standing out bright white against his dark face. “He’s gone to tell how sorry he is, see?”
A leather hand turned Verrin’s head gently to the side, his body still squirming as cold fingers slipped under his habit. He looked where he was turned, and saw the rider’s head was smashed in. He lay with his teeth in the mud, his mouth open in a last gasp and his eyes staring at nothing. His hands were purple and red knots in the mud.
Verrin hissed in a shaking breath. His hand loosened in the captain’s grip, lifeless now that he had lost his dagger. He shivered in another breath, his skin burning. The captain tilted his head, handsome smile still in place.
“Satisfied, father?”
The captain was pushing between his legs, their bodies pressed together. The dry hay and sunbeat dirt smell of his mattress was in Verrin’s nose, the smell of blood. He slipped his hand out of the captain’s and removed his mask, huffing in unsteady breaths.
His face was brown and stubbly, his eyes big and dark and heavy. His hair was coming loose of his habit, long dark brown waves cut with dry grey slipping down from the blackness of his habit and hood. The severe shape of his face was softened by action and fear and he felt himself blushed red under the captain.
“No–” He grit between his teeth, grabbing for the knife as the other man moved it away. “No there has to be more– He must suffer more!”
Verrin threw a hand out for his dagger as the captain changed hands on it. He saw it moved in a flash and just as he grabbed for it it was gone, thudding into the ground beside them. The captain leaned forward, the long sweep of his thigh pressing between Verrin’s, and gently took Verrin’s wrist and held his grasping hand against Verrin’s chest.
“He can’t suffer any more, I’m afraid.” His voice was sweet and close. Verrin felt himself alive with energy and a rage that wavered into something more animal now. He liked being spoken to so softly. He wanted to feel the close air of the tent on his naked skin. Between his thighs he felt the captain’s own warmth, stirring now that battle was done.
“Then–” he took the captain’s big gloved hand and put it to his chest. The captain pushed aside his robes and cupped his pec, his thumb stroking his nipple. His leather glove was worn and smooth. “Then we are alone.”
Outside there was the noise of work being done, withered groans as the camp was tended to by monks and soldiers. The captain’s ears, pointed, were perked to the sound. He laughed a sighing, bright laugh, and nodded. His weight eased down on Verrin and the hay sighed under them.
“That we are.” He leaned his face into Verrin’s neck and his beard tickled his cheek. His big hand moved down, slipped out of Verrin’s robes only to gather their heavy skirts and pull them up around his waist. Verrin gasped, feeling the relief of the cold air and the captain on top of him. Verrin chewed his lip, his gasp turning to the mewl as he reached both hands down and clumsily pulled open the captain’s pants. Cold kisses dotted his neck, a cool tongue licked the sweat and blood from his collarbones, and his warm hands found the captain’s pulsing cock.
Verrin felt he was empty, and burning, and pinned under the thing that could fill him. He groaned through his teeth, stroking the captain and shivering as he felt the length and breadth he couldn’t take in one hand, the softness of the hot skin, the impatient thrumming from the veins.
“Come on then,” He bent one willowy leg, the softness of his thigh brushing the captain’s side. Verrin’s cunt was plush and pink, his pulse irritating him as it sang through the emptiness he felt inside. His clit stood out of the brown and grey nest of hair between his thighs. “You waste time.”
“Not a waste.” The captain’s hands closed around his doe-like thighs and lifted them off the mattress. The soldier eased back, out of Verrin’s grip so he could glimpse his cock twitching and bobbing between his legs as the captain bent down and tasted Verrin’s cunt. He gasped at the feeling, the wet sigh and cool lips closing over him. He felt the captain’s tongue roll over him and then slip between his lips, trailing slick as it smoothed up to his clit. Cold lips wrapped around him and the captain sucked his clit, sighing and groaning against him gratefully while Verrin cried and his thighs shuddered around the captain’s head. He eased off with a kiss at his base, his tongue lulling inside again before he sucked Verrin’s lips and left them throbbing for more.
“That’s enough–!” Verrin wriggled back on the bed, his thighs shivering down to either side of the hay mattress with his knees knocking after them. He saw himself spread out before the captain, saw the leaking trail that ran down the length of the other man’s cock. “Do it– Take me!”
The dark weight of the captain shoved down against him. He felt breath, words, teeth at his throat and felt a shock of relief as his lips were spread around the captain’s head and he pressed inside. His cock was hot and thick and moved easily even as Verrin whined and threw his head back. He remembered the shape in his hand, too big for him to grip, too long for his to stroke, and felt the heavy sweep of the hips on top of his as the captain started inside. He would be smeared open and left broken by this man.
The taste of his own skin and slick pressed inside his mouth and the captain was sucking his tongue. Verrin panted and shivered, his body shocked at first but now going hot and alive. His hips rose to meet the captain’s thrusts, his tight cunt was soft and needy, he clawed at the backs of the captain’s arms and kissed back from his overheated delirium.
The wet noise of their bodies working together rose and filled the tent with the captain’s brisk pace. Verrin mewled and broke the kiss, trembling under him as his own moans mixed into the symphony, and under them the rumble of the captain laughing and muttering to him. His thighs shook hard enough that the captain had to take them both in hand and, holding them steady, starting a quick deep rhythm that made Verrin cry out.
“That noise ,” He said, all unraveled. “They’ll hear– they’ll hear the noise!”
A high moan was pressed out of him and he scored the captain’s leathers, chewing his lips. A cold leathery hand tilted his head back and turned his face into the hay mattress, one ear turned up to the drape of the tent.
“This noise?” The captain cooed to him, his hips beating a relentless time. The wet slap of their bodies together, the drum beat of their pulses and the delayed slap of the captain’s balls was the only noise Verrin could hear. He whined pitifully, his body melting into the sound and milking the captain. Soft and ready and pliant, grateful to be used. He was rewarded, the captain pressed in as deeply as Verrin could take him and he felt the captain collapse onto top of him, moaning out an oath against Verrin’s chest. Arms wrapped around his back and Verrin was lifted off of the mattress, now all in the captain’s power. He rolled their hips together, stretching Verrin further while a throbbing inch of him still waited to press inside.
He cradled Verrin and worked them together, propping up the smaller man’s hips and testing how deep he could go. Verrin could feel there was more of him waiting, and felt his body already straining to take what he had. He saw a vision of the captain pressing him into the mud, rutting into him and dragging Verrin against him with all his strength, his doe legs stretching on either side of the other man as he screamed and begged for more.
He came with a shout, pulling the captain down against him, bracing his legs around the other man’s hips. The cock in his cunt throbbed hard and hot, trapped in him as he tightened all over and mewed into the wooliness of the other man’s hair. His hands shivered open and he slowly went slack, blinking his glassy eyes.
The captain sighed heavily and rolled his hips in three more long, testing thrusts. He came with a groan, guiding himself out with one hand and finishing in and out of Verrin. He glimpsed the mess the captain left on him, his navel, his lips, the length of his own cock. The smell of sweat and sex was all around them, seeping into his robes and bunched in the skirts around his waist. A piece of dim light glanced on the cum and sweat lacing his cunt and Verrin shoved his skirts back down, then lay boneless on the mattress.
Under the thudding of his slowing pulse and the warm, empty feeling it rang through him, Verrin was foggy and had to focus to think of anything more. He was aware of the captain wriggling at his side, trying to fit on the hay mattress that could only hold Verrin if he lay still and folded his arms over his chest.
It was more than enough for an abbot, and now the captain had to brace his back against the wall, laying with his side pressed along Verrin’s. He smelled like blood, sweat, metal. The leathers were matted to his dark skin with sweat, but still had a whiff of country air and sandalwood. His abdomen was tucked against Verrin’s arm and the slight shifting of the muscles there made Verrin keenly aware of the scratch of his cassock against the naked skin underneath. The stickiness between his legs.
“What? What did you say?” Verrin turned his sharp, intense face up to the captain as he reclined with one bent arm propping him up. Spent as he was, Verrin’s voice was a reedy, hushed annunciation.
The captain shifted awkwardly against him, wincing and fishing an arm between his back and the wall.
“Is it not enough, scratching me up like a demon–” As he turned Verrin looked at bright red tracks in the back of his arm, spaced like his own fingertips. His eyes moved from the strong muscles of his arm to his armpit, then to the man’s arm as it wormed behind him. With a jerk he brought up Verrin’s porcelain mask from where it had been pinned between his back and the wall. “You have to lay a trap even in your bed?”
The mask was smeared with blood, its softly drooping eyes peaceful and kind as life dripping down its oval chin. The captain turned the face to him, puzzling over it for a moment before opening his mouth and licking a white streak from one cheek to the other temple. One eye watched Verrin, white and hollow, and the captain savored the taste.
“A priest of the Reverend Father.” He set the mask on Verrin’s stomach.
“An abbot of the order of the One God at the Chapel in Gone.” Verrin corrected.
“Oh, dear me. What an awful blunder.” There was no remorse in the captain’s voice, so Verrin didn’t mind that his eyes were closing. Perhaps he heard a smile, too. A little one.
“All things can be forgiven, my lamb.”
“Even an abbot gutting a man? An abbot fucking a soldier while his monks run scattered and broken?”
Verrin listened to the softness of the canvas tent in the breeze. The smell of cold, wet weather outside. No crying voices, no tramping feed. He reached out a hand in the blind dark beside him and found the captain’s thigh. He gave it a pat, then lay his hand there and ran the tips of his fingers into the toned lines etched between his muscles.
“We’re not that kind of church.” He said, and dreamed of the captain laughing.
The next morning his mask lay by his dagger at the side of the bed. They were clean.