Chapter Text
It all began on a night without moonlight, yet filled with nightmares; one of those nights where candlelight seemed to be swallowed up by darkness as thick as tar.
I had had nightmares before; I was no stranger to waking up in a cold sweat, lost in a comfortless blackness and with my heart galloping like the devil's own horse in search of condemned souls. Stupid oniric terrors like seeing my cock fall off just before satisfying a pretty wench who, for whatever devilish reason, shifted into the disgusting frowning face of Hanush.
Ugh.
These nightmares, however, were heavy and Dantesque, hell and death mixed in foul poetry behind my eyelids, an obscene dance between Thanatos and Orpheus, brothers playing with the marks left by the hemp rope on my abused and reddened neck. It had barely touched me for a couple of minutes at most, and yet I could still feel those rough, indifferent fibres whispering in my ear that not even the weight of the name of the lords of Leipa would make them yield.
Amidst those nightmares— where a thousand eyes watched from balconies and walls, salivating like vultures eager to gorge themselves on moral superiority while tearing at my guts in the name of man’s law— one dream in particular left me hopelessly confounded, a dream like a lone poppy petal adrift in a pool of blood and entrails.
A kiss.
Among the multitude of gazes, almost beastly in their cruelty and indifference, one in particular, blue as the colour of the sky in the idyllic paradise, watched me as if my execution would be the end of all that was good. Amidst the growls of animals demanding my death, a wounded roar begged for my life.
And that voice, those eyes pulled me, pulled me to a cell carved into the mountains of Trosky, in the dungeons of a cold and strange castle.
That ought to bring us closer together.
His voice said with a hint of mockery, as if we weren't surrounded by the stench of rot that those miserable walls brought with them. And without preamble or logical lines that would definitely have been complete chaos in reality, his figure pushed me against the stone and lips still smeared with blood and wine from the night before rested chastely and almost naturally on mine, as if that was their rightful place.
And the nightmares continued immediately afterwards. The noose around my abused neck and the cruel and disgusted stares and the hemp rope mocking my lineage, for death weighted heavier than any bellatore no matter how great.
"What in Christ holly fucking wounds was that?" was the first thing that escaped my lips when the sobriety of reality brought me back to this wrecked body bathed in sweat, tremors and something else.
But it wasn't worth dwelling on it too much.The brush with death caused the body to react in strange ways, too strange. There was nothing else to it.
At the execution of a bandit not many years ago on the gallows south of Rattay, I had watched the wretch die with his prick standing almost proud. Rigor erectus.
When all the rabble had their morbid need for entertainment satisfied, and no one but the executioner's hounds could attest to the need to satisfy my noble one, I asked the man about the nature of such obscenity, too busy looking for answers to care about the sensibilities that came with talking about death with someone who saw it every day.
“Only the devil knows what goes through the minds of those poor bastards. But I wager it is just a natural reaction. It is more common than you'd think, my lord, for sinners or otherwise”
Just a reaction to the prospect of death. Yes. Just a natural reaction that for some reason had seeped into the pile of shit that was my head right now, like a fucking strange looking pig, alive, in the middle of a butcher's storage room filled with blood dripping pork. Fucking bizarre.
The nightmares recurred with meticulous similarity a second night, with the addition of bell tolls tearing at my heart to the rhythm of the clapper striking metal, and a couple more minutes of lips against lips.
I could have considered it nothing more than an osculum pacis, a kiss sealing the fealty between a lord and his vassal, but you clearly didn’t need your tongue for that.
I decided to continue to attribute that oneiric taste of sin to my brush with death. That didn’t make me feel any less restless in the training yard at Trosky’s castle the next morning, wine goblet in one hand and dice in the other.
Sir Bartosch had indulged my need for distraction with a few games of farkle that I had lost spectacularly, just like everything else lately, damn it. But now he was satisfying someone else's need.
Henry's.
Henry, who for some reason was now seeping into my dreams like a damned pest. Henry, whose honest and consistent gaze kept me anchored to reality and gave me certainty not even the walls on my own castle could give me now. Henry, who lunged at a proper knight without the invisible chains that hindered any commoner, knightly and proud. Henry, by my side and safe. Henry, shouting bloody nonsense between blows like a damn animal.
“Ah, come on, Sir Bartosch. I can swing my prick harder than that!” Ah, shit. I didn’t understand how the hell his opponent could just laugh at the words, while I almost choked on my wine and whitened my knuckles around the dice.
I had heard provocations of that nature thousands of times before, all directed at me, now that I thought about it. Why did they feel so bloody crude and irksome all of a sudden? Probably because we weren't surrounded by Rattay's compatriots or friends. This place hadn’t earned my trust yet, I still felt my skin itching to run away from these bloody walls that had welcomed us with a cursed bucket of manure on our heads.
“Henry. What the fuck?” I shouted with the intonation of an insulted lord from the table I was sitting on, all high and appalled, for words that were not even directed at me "Do you think we're in a fucking peasant brawl in some tavern? Have some decorum, for God's sake!" Half of that was lost behind my goblet, knowing that neither of them had given a damn about my protests, too focused on the art of bashing each other's brains out.
And an art indeed it was, with both masters absorbed in their exchange, oblivious to the rest of the world in a display of almost childlike excitement. It was captivating and even capable of arousing jealousy in me, were it not for the fact that I had found myself in that same position with Henry many times in the past. The two of us being absorbed in a dance without rehearsed steps, with consecutive movements stylised by the art of war, that flowed as if engraved in every muscle, every reflex, every...
“Are you yanking my pizzle right now, Bartosch?! Was that supposed to be a riposte? More like a sad wank I'd say!” The excitement of the moment seemed to have dulled Henry's manners, or what little he had to begin with.
“Sakra” I once again drowned his words in wine leaving the dice aside.
If Bartosch answered, I didn’t hear it. I was now invaded by an intrusive thought, the kind that only came in moments of absolute and debilitating boredom, even though I wasn’t particularly bored right now.
If Henry was so vocal when fighting, would he be just as loud while fucking? He was a peasant, completely devoid of romance and poetry, but it didn't take a lick of scholasticism to talk dirty in the heat of a good fuck.
And if so, what kind of things would he say?
“You needy whore, want me to fuck you stupid, don't you” something like that? Or maybe more crude like "Bloody hell, you take it as if your ma’ had raised you just to sheath my cock”
Ah, I had to stop. This was fucking embarrassing.
I decided not to dwell on this idea for too long, not that I was shocked by it, though. I had entertained worse intrusive thoughts in the midst of endless council meetings in the rathaus. My mind couldn't help but wander into obscene corners amid the boredom from time to time, watching that bunch of insipid old farts around me enjoy shamelessly the sound of their own dulled voices, imagining how small their dicks should be for them to have such an impending need to prove otherwise in those dreadful meetings. In the end I’d spend more time pitying the unsatisfied wenches they surely left behind, than actually listening to whatever stupid shit they had to say.
Still, given my recent dreams, I decided that that particular thought deserved the last sips of wine in my goblet.
I took one last look at the pair of men still drunk on their sword dance, sweaty and gasping for air like vulgar animals ignoring whatever strange feeling the view stirred on me, and forced myself to venture out for a short walk along the inner walls of the castle.
For a moment, I thought that perhaps a visit to the bathhouse would stop this mind of mine from wandering down such precarious paths; however, the first time I had tried to go in there I was received by familiar faces, the same ones I’d seen at the gallows.
All around me, I could only see faces that had been burned into my memory like fire on skin, faces that had greeted me when I took my first steps outside the prison threshold with scorn and pity equally. Seeing them now frightened and uncomfortable with my reinstated title as a nobleman, made me feel sick with the reminder of how easy it was to strip me of my dignity and return it to me in equal measure, and how fast these peasants adapted to that reality, less consistent in their loyalty than a starving hound.
I felt unnervingly vulnerable and just as suffocated, if not more so, by these walls than by those in Pirkstein. Never had I thought such a thing was possible, but if there was one thing I had to thank Trotsky for, it was showing me that things could always get worse, every fucking time.
That knowledge had instilled in my chest a constant and uncomfortable tension, ever present like a divine decree, that would surely remain there until Judgment Day.
To the stables, then.
The company of Aethon would probably be more enjoyable in his complete ignorance and indifference to the trivialities of us miserable humans, peasants or nobles alike. I had an almost overwhelming desire to saddle my steed and gallop towards north, heading for Kopanina. It would take me no more than an hour to reach my old camp, where not even the stare of wild wolves would disturb me as much as that of the castle's subjects.
“Sir Hans!” But Henry was here. A presence more soothing than the thickest of forest. I watched him running towards me as I stroked the mane of Aethon.
He stopped in front of me, gasping for air, hands on his knees, his practice armour still in place.
"Good heavens. One would think your lord has you running around like a headless chicken" I waited for him to catch his breath as the wind blew down the hill from the training ground towards the stables, hitting me along with the musk of sweat, leather and herbs as if I had my nose buried right in his neck. His gloved hand tried to wipe away the sweat cascading down his brow, finding it once again damp from the hair stuck to his forehead and temples. I suppose it was a particularly hot day; I was beginning to feel the heat now myself. “You reek, Henry”
“Aye, forgive me, m’lord. Sometimes I forget that you blue bloods neither sweat nor shit. You smell like roses from dawn to dusk" a smile crept into his words. He stretched, arching his back with the help of his arms, his pectorals testing the elasticity of that poor gambeson. What an obscene sight, the wenches would love it for sure.
“Hah! What a blessing that would be, that way you would stink only half as bad” A satisfying pop came from his spine, shoulders, and finally his neck, eliciting a groan of pure pleasure that was as indecent as it was annoyingly innocent. If I didn't know better, I might even think he was doing it on purpose.
“Ah, come on. It’s not that bad” and to prove his point, he sniffed his armpit where the musk was strongest, wrinkling his nose while letting go a little Oof, successfully undermining his argument.
I didn't know if it was the walls, the castle's inhabitants, the lingering remnants of persistent nightmares and discovered fears, or perhaps a mixture of everything, but I was starting to feel terribly inadequate.
“Out with it, I don't have all day” he laughed at my words.
“But you do, though. There's not much to do around here” and worst of all, he was right. My gaze wandered to Aethon almost instinctively. I felt his eyes follow the same direction. “I still have some unfinished business to take care of before leaving for Nebakov tomorrow. I was thinking of riding to Tachov, if you want to co—”
“Say, Henry” The sudden gravity in my tone seemed to catch him off guard. He straightened his back like a hound would, waiting for instructions from its master. When had he started acting so obedient? Perhaps it was just the lingering regrets of having failed me, even though he hadn't. That didn't change the fact that he would see it that way no matter how hard I tried to convince him otherwise, unfortunately.
“Yes, sir?” Even though he seemed unconcerned and almost accustomed to the walls surrounding us, I knew he was as uncomfortable as I was in this damn place. I knew I wasn’t the only one whose memories played tricks on me at night, nor the only one with an almost burning desire to be over with this nasty business and go back home to mourn our dead properly.
“Those nightmares of yours…” His brow furrowed almost immediately at my words. A warning flashed in his eyes, the one that always appeared when he knew that my lack of sensitivity could bring out the worst in him. But today I didn’t want to push buttons, I just wanted to avoid a third bloody night of absolute torture. “How do you deal with them?” The tension in his back eased along with a soft smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Is my lord having nightmares?” My eyes returned to Aethon.
"I fear so. I have the bloody night terrors of a soldier hardened by war, without the merits of having been in one. It's simply appalling.” Pathetic was the right word. “So tell me, how do I defend myself against these pesky burdens?” I didn't dare look at him, letting my gaze wander over my fingers still caressing the steed's mane. An illogical part of me feared that he might identify that the nightmares not only brought death, but also temptation to sin if he were to look long enough into my eyes. It was a most sinister though.
“Well, sir... That's the thing about nightmares. They don't go away.” A gentle undertone in his voice forced me to look at him once more. Melancholy dressed in empathy cleared up any doubts I had about whether I should even bring up the topic. Showing weakness in front of a subject was a mistake I could make in front of him, I knew that now.
“There must be something. I refuse to believe that from now on I will have to share my bed with those nightmarish mind fucks” He clicked his tongue, as if he had failed to explain the simplest thing and now had to start all over again.
“Hans, if I could make them go away that easy, I would have done so by now” A smile spread across his lips, almost commiserative. “And although I try to defend you from your own foolishness the best I can, I'm afraid I can't cut or impale nightmares with my sword” He could impale them with his damned sword, alright.
“How the hell do you put up with them then?” I had no intention of letting the frustration seep into my voice, but lately, many things were slipping out of my fucking control. He noticed, of course he did.
“Well…” His gaze wandered towards the stalls.
Silence.
“It's okay if you don't want to talk about it. God knows I don’t want to either”
He just shrugged.
“I've tried. A lullaby potion helps, a potent one, or drinking on some spirits until I pass out” Suddenly tired eyes looked at me. "But those options are too incapacitating. It can be dangerous if you need to wake up in the middle of the night and... this place doesn't… you know"
“I know” This place did not invite one to let their guard down. He smiled at my understanding.
“So I just put up with it, I suppose. There’s not much else to do”
Perhaps the disappointment his words brought was evident on my face, because his hand, still warm from physical activity and the sun, rested on my shoulder as if seeking to comfort me. “Talking helps too, or so I think” he finally said.
“You think?”
He let out a small, shy laugh, like the ones I used to get from that Henry who was still new to the task of killing and surviving. How was it possible to feel nostalgia for something that had been only a few months ago?
“Aye. I haven’t tried yet” and his hand left my skin, as if remembering its place. “I’m no priest, but I’ve got good ears, if you want…”
“Enough. This is pointless” Of course I wasn’t going to talk about my damn nightmares with one of the many culprits “I’m going to my room. Bring me some wine when you get back from Tachov. I’m going to fucking need it” I tried to leave, but his hand on my forearm stopped me. I looked at his fingers, then his eyes.
“Hans, are you all right? If you want to talk…”
“I don't want to talk about death on such a lovely day, friend; but thank you for the offer. I do appreciate it” I took his hand to pull it away. The contact now felt charged with an indecent connotation that I never wanted to feel while touching his skin. I couldn’t stop the disgust I felt towards whatever was making me feel this way, for conspiring against me and my friendship with Henry with such dirty images that I couldn't control. I moved his hand away as nonchalant as I could despite the hellish storm in my head. “I’ll be leaving now. Godspeed, Henry"
Later that night, as I went to the kitchen for food, I heard rumors of a gateway to hell beneath the rocky depths of Trosky, passed from the lips of one old wife to another. Damned peasants, inviting the devil to a place already painfully akin to hell. It gave me the fucking chills.
And the bloody nightmares returned, this time accompanied by distant memories that I thought were buried in the recesses of my mind, put on hold in the rush to survive. Faces that deserved much more than to wander like lost souls in miserable dreams. Once my subjects and companions, now nothing more than mounds of earth in distant soils that their families would probably never visit. A crooked wooden cross reddened by my shame and shortcomings, and the cries of wives and mothers that I would have to face as soon as my feet touched Rattay.
When my eyes returned to reality, my chest pounded in an oxymoron of terror and relief, clouded by past sins but free from the new ones my mind seemed determined to conjure up.
The fire in the hearth, now almost extinguished, did little to light the room. There were still hours to go before dawn and the certainty that more dreams would haunt me tonight lingered in the darkness. And even knowing that, I tried to sleep once more.
I would not let myself be subjugated by my damned mind. I would face my madness as one faces a fever, hoping that it would simply disappear when it was satisfied with the havoc it had wreaked on my body.
And although dreaming about the dead people I would have to carry from now on was a suffocating and painful experience, dreaming about something that gradually seeped into my actions in the light of day was even worse.
The lust that permeated my dreams about that man was simply criminal, and as foreign to me as sin was to a particularly deceitful clergyman.
And so I lay: on the gallows, naked, back pressed against the wood, legs spread shamelessly like a whore awaiting her tenth cock and still craving more. I begged before the gaze of dozens of spectators—pleading for someone, for him, to let me come undone—for this body was but flesh, and this flesh but a vessel to sin.
He was nowhere in sight, yet I felt his gaze like the rope around my neck pressing down against the blood pounding, struggling to rush through my jugular, forcing its way to my temples to the rhythm of my cock twitching. And the stares that at one point made me squirm in my place now glorified my thirst to an almost divine level, like steps to the gates where Saint Peter awaited.
My arms stretched towards the sky as if seeking to touch the pagan god who would bring my liberation, finding blue eyes and calloused hands against my skin, debilitating as only an act of complete surrender can be.
“Fuck me, oh God, take me, for mercy's sake!” Obscenities poured from my mouth between moans, with the gut-wrenching honesty of a final ‘Our Father’ before resigning oneself to an eternity in hell. “I want to come, please, I want to…” But he remained silent, watching me with an indifference that hurt, yet made me melt in the sweetest of despairs. “Henry—shit—Hal. Take me like a wench if you must, but just fucking touch me, I beg of you…” And just when his fingers were about to brush the aching core of my lust, the vision vanished. I was left staring at the ceiling of that room. That fucking room.
“Vade retro Satana.” I crossed myself, mumbling the words through shaky breaths.
What the fuck was that? That certainly couldn't have come from me. Not a fucking chance. I’d rather die than beg like a common whore. Take me like a wench? God, the mere words turned my stomach in unspeakable ways, and yet...
“Lord Capon?” And his bloody voice. Shit, the mere sound reminded me that I now had a fucking problem between my legs to deal with.
The knocking on the door brought me back to reality a second time, and the disgust and shame that washed over me was almost strong enough to make me want to bury myself under the sheets.
“I'll be right—” My voice came out broken and weak, I cleared my throat to continue. “I'll be right out Henry. Just... Give me a moment to make myself look presentable. Are the horses ready?”
Silence.
Was there something strange in my voice? Could he sense the distress in my tone? Had some indecent noises come through the door before I woke up?
“I was thinking of eating something first…” And an annoyed sigh reached me “Can I come in? This talking through the door is just—”
“No!" Shit. I needed to calm down. “No. Just... One minute, just give me a minute” and I began to move around like a man possessed. I could only ignore that fucking tent as I searched in my chest for my nobleman's clothes, because the ones of a fucking animal in heat were driving me crazy.
“Are you all right?... My lord” the echo of footsteps, probably from another servant nearby, forced him to utter the last words.
Damn his inquisitive nature. It was quite useful when tracking a bloody necklace to the far reaches of Sasau, but a proper cunt if it was me he was trying to track down in fucking Trosky's arse crack.
I opened the door at last, not caring if I was a little out of sorts. I didn't want to be in that fucking room a minute longer, and even though the man in front of me had been a source of... inappropriate things in recent days, he was better than this shit hole for sure.
Finally, we could ride out of these walls and take another step closer to home.
“Just get the horses ready. I'll go get something from the kitchen, we can eat on the way.” His eyes scanned my face with that damn insolence that would one of these days get him in the pillory, again.
One simply cannot scrutinise a lord like a criminal. The nerve of this peasant.
“What?” His gaze travelled to the interior of the room behind me for a second, then back to my eyes once more. “What’s gotten into you? The horses, Henry”
“Aye, my lord” Whatever he had found in his scrutiny, he did not let it show in his tone or expression “I’ll get to that, sir” He gave a clumsy bow, more out of the presence of a guard coming up the stairs at that moment than out of real respect, and disappeared down the stairs with quick steps.
“Kurva” My heart was still racing. How could such a small thing affect me like this? That could only mean it was the devil's doing. Even with the sodomitic nature of the dream, I should be able to leave it behind in the sheets and not bring it with me beyond the bedroom door.
Or maybe it was just me, victim of a dream resulting from the ravings of an exhausted mind with its guard down. A few days without cock ups or surprises would surely put everything back in its place.
When we finally crossed the walls on the backs of our horses, I felt like I could breathe again. The cloak of despair that had been made worse by those damn nightmares fell at the feet of the enormous gates that had brought us so much distress, and the world felt a little greener, a little bluer without those accusing eyes on my back and Henry by my side.
A horse race later made the conversation flow free of any intrusive thoughts or unwanted connotations. Just camaraderie and friendship, the kind I didn't know I had been longing for since before I met that commoner in Rattay.
I had missed it so much.
Yes. That damned place was to blame, it had to be. There was something there that made my mind simply not work as God intended. Perhaps those rumours about demons were true? Or it was that bloody memento mori that they refused to dismantle for whatever fucking reason. I would never have had gallows so close to my castle; it was in poor taste and a bad omen. Lord Von Bergow could shit gold bars for all I knew, but his taste in choosing chamberlains was arse.
The growl of a stomach, clearly not mine, pulled me out of my thoughts for a moment. It wouldn't be long before we crossed the southern forest from Troskowitz. I could see the light from an opening in the woods beginning to appear in the distance, along with the Nebakov mill. We had been riding for at least an hour since we passed through the gates of Trotsky’s castle.
Another growl.
“If those gossiping old hags in Trosky heard that growl in the middle of the night, those rumours of bloody fiends fucking goats or whatnot, would have no end”
I smiled in response to his laughter echoing through the forest, drowning out the sound of the stream running down to our left, and the wind blowing through foliage so green that just looking at it made me want to take a deep breath and ride at full speed. Fucking beautiful.
“The only demon I see around here is the one who forced me to ride for hours without so much as breakfast. A proper bastard, he is”
“Be quiet, you beast, or some actual demon will end up sneaking into the wine!” or in my fucking dreams, though it was too late for that.
“Well, it’s two now” I knew he was smiling; I didn’t need to see him to know.
The forest gave way behind us, we passed the mill on the left and further on, in the meadows that stretched to a line of trees not far away to the right of the road, we decided to stop. It wasn't very appropriate for a nobleman to have a snack next to grazing cows, but there was no other suitable place before we reached Nebakov. Henry's stomach, insatiable creature that it was, would surely appear in my nightmares too at this rate if I didn't show it mercy in the next few minutes.
The horses grazed not far from us. Across the road, beyond the stream, the mill workers moved back and forth like sheep being constantly herded, disappearing from time to time into the shacks surrounding the mill. The sun was about two or three hours away from reaching its peak, and the wind blew gently, like a mother's caress.
“Say, Henry”
A grunt of annoyance was his immediate response. I looked at him as indignantly as my noble abilities allowed. “What?!”
“My lord is bored, and now I'm the one who has to suffer for it” said the brute with half a sausage still in his mouth “Let me have some grub first. Aye?”
“You could pass as a bloody goose with the way you gorge yourself. Chew, for God's sake, or your humours will get all fucked up for eating like an animal!” he finished swallowing with a painful sound. How had he not choked to death by now?
"It was a good sausage," he finally said after washing down his food with a long swig of wine.
"All the more reason to let your palate process what the hell you're stuffing your belly with. But anyway, you should be proud to be part of my crusade against boredom. With Sylvan red and pretty wenches..."
"And a shiner by dawn" I waved my hand as if to brush off that nonsensical complaint.
“You can't embark on a crusade without considering the costs. Although it's not like I expect you to know anything about it, blacksmith’s boy” he just snorted in response, keeping quiet whatever cocky reply he had prepared in order to gobble down another sausage. Priorities.
I remained silent after that, savouring a piece of cheese, grateful to Henry for stopping the outrageous question that those demons in the wine were going to prompt me to ask.
A maid walked away from the fences surrounding the mill shacks. Not too far from us, she crouched down with a wicker basket in her hands in front of the river, and after setting it aside, she searched for something in her satchel. A bottle of soap appeared from the cheap leather moments later. Cloths were soon submerged in the water, and a melody accompanied the monotonous movement of her hands shortly after.
I tried to find among the patched garments, cleaned and cared for with the diligence of someone who only has one change of clothes, the curves I would prefer to dream of. The slim waist mouldable in my hands, generous and graceful hips, delicate and flexible back, easy to bend at my will...
Perhaps she sensed my staring, because she turned over her shoulder as if looking for something, only to find two men and an overexcited dog eating sausages in the middle of the cows. It wasn't the most ignoble thing I had done in recent weeks, but my thousand times wounded pride still writhed like a horse that refused to die, no matter how badly beaten it was.
She smiled in my direction with the spontaneity of someone who recognises possibilities and is willing to make them happen, and a small but lovely blush spread across her cheeks like morning dew. She returned to her task, a little more tense than before now that she knew someone was watching her, tossing her tied back hair to one side in a subtle movement to reveal her now naked neck as an invitation.
The spark that such games brought was still there, I could still feel it, so why the hell couldn't I just...
“What was it?”
Why couldn't I just remove this brute from my dreams and replace him with someone like her?
“What was what?” I asked back without taking my eyes off the woman. Mutt wandered around my peripheral vision begging for a second sausage, his tail wagging at the speed of my damn thoughts.
“What was my lord going to ask?” I took a swig from my wineskin. I don't know why I drank, knowing that the bloody devil Henry had summoned with his perfidious yokel tongue might be in there. How else could I explain these thoughts?
“Ah. Yes” I murmured, pretending to remember something I hadn’t really forgotten.
The quiet Henry of my dream, the one who hadn't made a damn sound or said a single word despite my bleeding despair, haunted me like an unknown entity whose sole reason for existing was to pique my bloody curiosity. Could someone truly ignore the pleas of a nobleman in such a way, twisting and debasing my station yet remaining indifferent to my tears?
"Nothing important. Like you said, I'm just bored” I took another swig, trying to silence those persistent thoughts.
“If it's about the nightmares…”
“No" I interrupted before the concern in his voice unnerved me even more. What the hell was wrong with me? “Just stupid questions to pass the time” My gaze remained fixed on the woman, her voice still offering songs to the wind.
“Stupid questions?” Once again, damn Henry and his inquisitive nature.
To hell with this.
“Well, for example, if you're... How can I put it? Vocal? Yes, vocal, when it comes to fucking wenches, like as in dirty talk or something of the sorts” I turned to look at him for the first time in a while, curiosity overcoming the embarrassment that was eating away at my guts. The confusion in his puppy dog eyes was priceless, and a smile that I had to bite back spread across my face anyway.
“What?” a small laugh escaped me. I couldn't tell if any of the nerves left over from those nightmares had seeped into it or not. “How is that any of your business?” Mutt settled between us, seeing his attempts for a second sausage were fruitless, seeking pettings instead. I had to be careful now if I wanted to emerge victorious from the exchange.
“Ah, I suppose our old pal here isn't the most experienced with wenches. Huh, Mutt?” I stroked Mutt behind the ear, hoping not to smell like dog when I got to Nebakov, my eyes focused on the task at hand.
“What does my experience have to do with…”
“Everything, Henry! Don't tell me you've never encountered a demanding woman who tightens, oh so deliciously when called a whore, or swallows deeper when reminded with pretty words she’s there just to be used” and my eyes returned to seek his, enjoying more than I should have the slow but consistent shift of the conversation to more erogenous topics, at least for me.
Oh, the horror on his face.
“Why would I call them whores?! They're giving me the privilege of being with them, not being used. How could I sully their honour with…” I couldn't help but laugh when I got some of the response I wanted. “Ha ha, very droll. I don't even know why the hell I asked”
“I'm not joking, though” I finally said after calming down. “Your prudish yokel brain may not be able to grasp it, but there are women who enjoy that. I wouldn't do it without them asking for it, of course, I'm not a barbarian” A thousand emotions flashed across his face at my words. Disbelief, confusion, surprise and finally curiosity. Exactly what I wanted to see.
“They ask for it?” The pleasure I got from ruining the few traces of innocence this peasant still had was dangerous.
“Some do, yes. Others are more shy, it takes them a while to come to terms with their own needs” I saw his brow furrow with more questions, wishing he would ask them all and more.
“Why?” I shrugged, putting on my sex expert mask. I couldn't allow myself to keep smiling like an idiot, I couldn't let him see how much I was enjoying this. “Why the hell would any sane woman want a stuck up lord…”
“Careful, Henry” he just rolled his eyes, because of course he did. "There is pleasure in the act of serving, at least for some. And what greater expression of servility can there be than reducing oneself to an object intended only to be used?” The confusion remained in those stupid looking eyes, the depth of my meaning clearly lost on him. It was like trying to teach Mutt not to drool all over my fucking boots.
“That makes no fucking sense”
“Of all the people I know, you should be the most adept in the field of servitude, always going back and forth like the servant of the whole damn fiefdom, be they nobles or peasants” I did not hide the bitterness of the statement.
I still remembered the lonely nights in Kopanina, haunted by the absolute silence and the guilt it brought with it; while my bloody bodyguard, who was supposed to be with me through thick and thin, went looking for lost sheep and damsels in distress instead of staying by my side, as if I hadn't been enough for him.
I knew I was the one who left, but… But that didn’t matter anymore.
“It’s different”
“Is it? Because I refuse to believe that wandering through the woods for hours chasing some dumb sheep like a daft mutt, just for a loaf of bread and a handful of groschen only fit for a beggar is worth it” I said while trying to read the answer on his face, only to see his brow furrow. “There must be something else”
“I’ll have you know, sir, they also give me ale… sometimes” the words came out somewhat defensive with a slight pout forming on his lower lip, drawing my eyes to it irreparably.
“You know that’s not the point” he sighed, lowering his gaze to Mutt between us, to my fingers tangled in the white fur. I felt the weight of his stare on my skin somewhat overwhelming. Perhaps the wine was going to my head faster than usual; I hadn’t eaten much before I started drinking, after all.
“It distracts me, and that’s about it” His fingers joined in stroking Mutt’s head, no more than a finger’s breadth from my hand, moving gently so as not to brush the fur with the metal part of the gauntlet “When I’m busy chasing some dumb sheep like a daft mutt, as my lord so colourfully puts it, I don’t have to think about anything else but the stupid sheep.” A growl of pleasure was the beast’s only response as his muscles relaxed against the grass like melting wax.
“That’s it” my voice came out low, somewhat hushed, like that of a sinner about to confess his sins. “A hole to fuck doesn’t need to think, doesn’t want to think. With the right words I can remind them of exactly that” There was something about the closeness of our fingers, as harmless as only something so insignificant could be, that pushed me towards indelicacy. “I can see in their eyes the precise moment when they stop thinking entirely”
Perhaps it was the devil in the wine, or the weight of his stare—so heavy it was almost palpable—that urged me to seek out his eyes. When I finally met his gaze, something between my heart and stomach fucking fluttered. He was staring back with an intensity that was intimidating, yet exhilarating. He was taking my words in like a particularly complex alchemical formula now being dissected.
Fuck, I just needed a little bit more of whatever this was.
“When they start to surrender control not because they want to, but because they need to…” He tilted his head in the most enchanting way, listening as if I were about to reveal the bloody secrets of the heavens to him. And I couldn’t have adored the attention any more even if I’d tried. “... It’s when I know I can do whatever the fuck I want to them, no matter how lewd, and they’ll actually thank me for it” The metal of his gauntlet brushed against my fingers, and contrary to the soberness that the cold hardness should have brought, an almost inebriating sensation completely emptied my mind, erasing everything in its wake and leaving only an almost obsessive thought of that single, insignificant point of contact “Oh, the things the allow me to do to their bodies, Hal. It’s so fucking lovely”
“And you?” The question caught me off guard, and him too it seemed, because a look of surprise flashed across his face for a second before he withdrew his hand completely, as if his own mouth had betrayed his mind.
And then everything was gone. A moment so fragile that even the song of a bird might have disturbed it.
“What about me?” I asked back.
He hesitated for a second while I was pulling myself together glancing down at my fingers holding Mutt, then at the wineskin still in my other hand. That fucking wine.
“Have you ever felt that need to…” He cleared his throat, turning his eyes back to the woman whose singing hadn't stopped for a moment, committing to his question like the stubborn bastard he was “...To be treated like that?” He probably cursed his inquisitive nature more often than I did.
“Well, that wouldn't be very proper of a nobleman, would it?” Those dreams were not proper of a nobleman at all, showing me needs I could not recognise in myself, needs I would not admit even in my last rites.
“Nor is it proper for a lady to ask for that, and yet they do, according to you” I smiled at his insolence. Something told me I couldn't lie to him, so I took the next best option available. Run away.
“Well, Henry. That was quite the revealing conversation, but I hope to be back in Trosky before that wanker chamberlain starts to enjoy our absence.” I began to get up despite Mutt's protests, shaking off some bread crumbs and grass in the process. “I need to put my negotiation skills with old geezers into practice; all the suffering I went through with Hanush must have been for something” I stretched out my bare hand towards him. His, encased in metal and leather, enclosed mine in an almost overwhelming way as he got up. The memories of the dream came back like an ever present itch “To the task!” and I ran toward the horses putting as much distance from him as I could.
He followed my footsteps as I knew he would, and for reasons beyond my understanding, but which were appreciated nonetheless, he did not press for answers as he usually did.