Work Text:
Blessed Are The Merciful
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Outside of the village to the west, fifteen paces along old Petar's cabbage patch, is where the river splits into a hair-thin stream, its blue vein barely noticeable amongst the tufts of wild grass that grow alongside it. Then, up this tiny rivulet towards the woods, not through the path marked by a solemn rock post, but between the hedges and up the small slope. There is no path here, only small indicators that show the hidden way: a stump, a growth of bluebells, a tree hollow that looks like a fist. Anyone else would get lost, but not Erik. By now, he's learned this path by heart and step after step, the indelible silence of the great spruces and lithe birches around him opens willingly, almost eagerly.
No one would ever come this far down, anyway. No one ever does anymore. Nature seems to be beating with a different heart here, as if fashioned by a different God. Even during midday, the place is eerily quiet and dark, as cold as a November afternoon marked by the promise of freezing rain. The blinding sun of June doesn't pierce the thick foliage, and neither does the birdsong. As he walks, Erik feels shadows dance around him. Unseen creatures slither and skitter about, not daring to disturb this holy silence. Once upon a time, some of the village boys - always the biggest and dumbest - would venture this far despite their mothers' warnings, seeking what Erik now seeks. But the ruins of the old church of St. Andrew, for all their promise of mystical spooks and tales of ghosts and demons, harbored boring, unimaginative, and yet very real danger; unstable and rotten, the old blocks didn't need much to fall on a pair of daredevils that were trying to scale the steeple as a challenge. That was more than thirty years ago, back when Erik's parents were younger than even him. Ever since then, even the bravest and loudest thrill-seekers learned to steer clear of that place, and it had remained completely deserted until Ištván's mercenaries started using it as their base.
Landing upon a small clearing, Erik stops. His fists are balled at his sides, blunt fingernails leaving crescents on his skin. He feels a rough shiver course through his veins and down his spine, turning into a violent tremor that makes his whole body shake. He looks down, his shoes almost indistinguishable from the damp soil. With a few gulps of air, he tries to still himself but he just can't help it. A smile climbs to his face, a shivering chuckle leaves his mouth. He's always excited to see Ištván.
Around him, the forest's silence is absolute. That's how he knows he's almost there. The village lies well behind now, and no sound from it makes it this far down. If he stayed here forever, he could very well pretend that the village never even existed. But he marches on, his pale, lanky figure treading through the tall grass and prickly bushes with borrowed confidence. Soon, the growth becomes thinner, with ribbons of light cutting through the evergreen. Erik hears the fretful skipping of hares all around him, fleeing in nervous terror even though the bandits won't hunt them. They have no need to. Their Chief keeps them well-fed and with no reason to complain. Even now, the smell of roasted meat rises suddenly through the perpetual and pungent cloud of petrichor that is so familiar to this side of the land. It strikes Erik like an arrow, reminding him of his own hunger. He picks up the pace. He's getting closer.
The camp comes into view in a burst of color and sound; red and yellow tents proped up everywhere around the clearing, silver flashes of armor, gruff voices and the throwing of dice. All things he should stay away from, but he simply can't tear his eyes off of. The blackened remains of the old church seem to engulf the camp, to the point where the life the bandits have built looks like some sort of disease taking over an old body. They don't want to kill, just to leech off of for a while.
Faces rise immediately upon the intrusion but quickly fall at ease. Erik's chest swells. By now, they've come to recognize him, even the ones speaking in a rough, foreign tongue that scared him so terribly the first time he heard it. Ištván had laughed, then, and had explained that this language had been none other than his own mother tongue. But he sounded so graceful when he spoke it, and the few words he'd taught Erik in it had been as sweet as music. He recognizes bits and pieces of it as he walks towards Ištván's tent, head held uncomfortably high, back straight, even though it protests painfully.
The guard posted there eyes him with half-hearted curiosity, as if Erik is an animal he's grown used to but finds no less annoying. "Hey, you're back again."
Erik doesn't return the greeting. "I'm here to see the Chief." Ištván's men all call him that, mostly for discretion. Erik very much doubts if most of them even know his name, or that they care to find out; to them, he's simply The Chief, who gives them purpose and pay and that's all that matters. But Erik knows Ištván's name, has let his tongue taste the music of it. That secret knowledge makes him swell with pride.
The guard scoffs. His lips are pulled with a nasty little smile and whatever thought has formed inside his head, he doesn't voice it. He merely pulls the tent's flap aside, letting Erik in.
From the first step, relief fills Erik's lungs. He can't help but feel his lips quiver with delight and anticipation. He looks around. The image is familiar but as exciting as a novelty; rugs and pillows, dark furniture, dried fruit, mulberries and sweet wine. Ištván stands behind his desk, looking down at a map, but he quickly lifts his head when Erik enters. Those cat-like eyes hold the boy in their piercing gaze for a moment and he smiles.
"Erik's come to see us!" he says warmly. Erik smiles, feeling the blood rush to his face.
Regrettably, he's not alone. His man stands beside him, possibly the biggest person Erik has ever seen, ironically named Runt. He's some sort of lieutenant for this rough bunch, the instrument of Ištván's will. Erik doesn't like him much. His beady eyes always shine with unspoken intentions, his lips are always quick to wear a mocking grin. Worst of all, he always stands far too close to Ištván.
"Come in, my boy."
Erik steps inside, his previous confidence forgotten. None of those terrifying mercenaries out there or even Runt himself has this effect on him, yet Ištván does. Short little Ištván, dressed more finely than a prince, with his plump mouth and honey-colored curls. How good he looks! Dressed in black and mauve, he looks like a clever little bird as he hops about his tent, trying to make Erik comfortable. He presents the boy with a bowl of mulberries, as dark as the gambeson he wears, as sweet as what his mouth must be. The life of a mercenary is hard, this much Erik knows, but all the exotic luxuries around Ištván's room speak of the pleasure often found even in this difficulty.
"Back again, already," Runt remarks dryly. "You must have something important to share with us."
As always, Erik sits down on one of the thick pelts Ištván keeps on the ground. Even in June, the Chief feels cold. Countless times Ištván has told Erik he can sit wherever he likes, but Erik insists on sitting on the floor. Whatever his role in this is, he could never presume to claim his spot beside Ištván on that table, not yet anyway. Besides, from this spot, he can gaze upon the other man all he wants, let his eyes skim up his legs, follow the swirls of the brocade that envelops him and imagine its softness under his own two hands.
"I do," the boy responds gruffly. He keeps his voice low, here, for fear that it will betray him and crack, as it so often likes to do these days.
"I never doubted you would, dear boy," says Ištván and with a little jump of his heart, Erik recognizes this as a jab aimed at Runt. The larger man rolls his eyes, arms folded across his chest.
Erik lowers his head at the praise, feeling his cheeks heat up.
"Let us hear it, then," Ištván coaxes in that gentle voice of his. He tilts his head to the side. He's not wearing his chaperon and so an unruly curl slips out from behind his ear. His hair looks soft and glossy. Another luxury, another thing that sets him apart from his rough bunch of ruffians. Every man out there - Runt included - keeps his head shaved, to keep away the lice and make cleaning-up less of an imperative. But not Ištván. He must wash often, in a basin and not the river, with oils and potions Erik can faintly smell on him; orange blossom and something dark and woody, speaking of faraway lands.
"Sir Jaromir will come for the taxes after St. John's day, a week from now," Erik says. He listens to his own voice as he speaks, low and steady, not at all afraid. Ištván narrows his eyes as he fixes them on him, following him closely. "He usually stays about two days and has ten men with him."
"What, that's it?" blurts Runt. "Ten men to protect the king's silver? What about the castle's guard?" Castle here being a very polite term to discribe the half-decrepit keep that lies on the village's edge, used primarily from storing grain and for their lord to sleep in, whenever he remembers they exist.
"About a dozen in total." Suddenly, the boy feels self-concious about his coming from peasantry, and he quickly adds: "Every man in the village can wield arms. Sort of."
Ištván hums. "We don't intend to wait until then, anyway. The money is still here, probably dispersed about the homes and not collected."
"Ha!" The exclamation comes from Runt. "Probably stuffed down potato sacks and flour!"
Ištván shakes his head. "It's expected to mistrust one another, and more expected yet to try and fool the lord's men. Surely, they will search the homes and try to bleed the peasants dry of every bit of silver they can find. The more fruitful this village proves, the better is Sir Jaromir's standing with Jobst and the king."
Erik listens, his eyes wide. With a few words, Ištván, a complete stranger to this land and its struggles, has managed to pinpoint exactly what is going on. Sir Jaromir is old and vain. He surrounds himself with his equally incompetent sons that enjoy throwing their old family name around more than they care to preserve it. Once upon a time, it used to mean something. The old keep used to stand tall and the village well used to have clean water. All that remains is moth-eaten velvet and the tired eyes of the serfs, bowing their heads to this farce simply because they have to.
"Better that we get our hands on this money than let these frightened mice hoard it," Ištván muses. "His Majesty understands that a kingdom's prosperity relies on strength, not the greed of some backwater peasants."
In truth, Erik doesn't give a fig about that. Sigismund could lay waste to the entire land and rule upon the piles of ashes for all Erik cares. It's difficult to feel anything these days except for the longing and anticipation before every meeting with Ištván. Death and danger live in the woods, is that the elders in his village always say. And perhaps they were right. No matter his end goal, Ištván intends to torch the village and kill its inhabitants. Death and danger indeed, then, just not for Erik. For him, the woods was the place he found reason for his heart to beat.
Ištván is a man made of nothing and everything at once. There's no impressive features on him, nothing to make him stand out or be admired. But there's this allure about him, coming so naturally from his every pore. It's in every word and every flicker of his lashes, woven in the finery he wears. Black and gold, always. This rich purple today is new. Another side of him, a sign that Erik is getting to know him better.
The boy sits on the floor like a docile animal, listening to the two men as they talk about strategy, action, purpose. He understands little of what Ištván is saying but he pays attention all the same, not letting the man away from his gaze for even a second. He only looks away - always a beat too late - whenever Ištván turns around to look at him, and his cheeks immediately heat up, not with shame but with satisfaction.
"Almost ready, then," Ištván hums.
Runt straightens himself. "Aye," he says. Unconsciously, Erik unfurls; he lets go of his knees and pulls his back taut, as if to mimic the man's posture, make himself appear bigger and taller. Older.
"Whenever you give the order, Chief."
Ištván nods. "Could I have a few minutes of your time, Erik? Runt, you can go." The boy perks up, nodding without much thought. Runt hesitates, looking uncertainly between the odd pair. Ištván cocks a brow, shooing him with a little wave of his hand. "You can go."
Runt walks a few paces backwards before leaving the tent, muttering something indecipherable under his breath. As the flap falls back in place, Erik realizes with a strange shiver of excitement that he's alone with Ištván.
"Care for some wine, my boy?"
This isn't the first time they've been alone, and yet Erik can't keep his heart from beating up a storm. He keeps his head bowed, afraid his eyes will give him away, tattle on all the things he feels for Ištván. A few weeks ago, he wasn't aware of this man's existence and now he finds himself unable to sleep at night, plagued by constant visions of him; flashes of his black and gold, his smooth voice, his rich laugh.
"Can't," Erik says. "My Pa will smell it on my breath."
Ištván chuckles. Still, he pours two cups and hands Erik one. The liquid inside is thinner, a faint rose color instead of Ištván's crimson own. "Watered, then. You simply must try this one, dear Erik. It's a delicacy."
Erik looks down. Indeed, the wine smells rich and sweet, even when watered down. He runs his hands over the cup, feeling the engravings on the gold. The ones in his home are made of wood or clay. Never before in his life has he seen such luxury and comfort. Sitting there with his old, stained linen, too short on his arms and legs, he feels like an insult to Ištván. And yet, the older man holds no contempt or mockery for him. Strange. The other village children, just as poor and grimy as Erik is, always have a mean thing to say, though lately they've known better than to provoke the village's biggest boy. But not Ištván. For him, Ištván only has kindness and understanding and little morsels of his luxurious, refined world to share generously.
Erik takes a sip. The liquid travels down his throat, leaving a pleasant sting in its wake. It warms his blood. He blinks, feeling more awake.
"It's delicious." Ištván smiles.
Erik drinks again and Ištván laughs, and the sound seems to come from the earth itself. The older man reaches over, making Erik lower his goblet. A few droplets spill and he wipes them away, smiling. "Savor it, boy. It's not going to grow legs and leave!"
Erik swallows thickly. Even gloved, Ištván's fingers burn where they touched him. A faint touch. Vaguely familiar, its echo awakening something inside Erik with a violent start. Motherly, yes. Its taste is sweet, even in the crumbs that touch the boy's lips. Erik goes still, letting Ištván wipe the wine off, his breath held in his throat. Ištván retracts his hand and Erik flinches forward, chasing after it, chasing the warmth and stability, the acknowledgement that his is a life worth paying attention to.
Ištván eyes him curiously. "Something the matter?"
Erik bows his head. He digs his nail into the goblet, scratching the gold. The metal, soft by nature, is prone to gaining battle scars, and the various nicks and dents here and there speak of how it's rather well-used. A bit blackened in places, too, especially wherever lips and fingers touch it. When Erik had questioned Ištván about it - all childish naivete and with no insult meant for his strange friend - Ištván had only smiled, coyly as always, and said:
"The beauty in expensive things comes not from appearance but from understanding their true worth."
The boy sighs. "The wine might not leave but I have to. My Pa needs me before sundown. He'll…" He stops. "He won't like it much if I don't show up."
Ištván says nothing but Erik has the profound feeling that he understands. In his life of angry silence, always lowering his head and biting his tongue in front of those who could never just get it, Ištván makes him feel visible and heard, even when his bitter truths remain unattered. How strange it is, how dangerous and yet how sweet!
Finally, the older man sighs. The slight sourness of defeat colors it, the unmistakable tremor of disappointment and Erik feels his heart tighten. He would throw himself at Ištván's feet if he could, apologize for being such a child. But the threat of his father's belt is all too real, as is the terrifying prospect of his mother dying the slow, torturous death of starvation. Shame makes his face heat up anew, and his lowered gaze follows Ištván as he, the Man, goes and pours himself another drink with no objections from anyone.
"There's something I'd like to ask you, Erik," he starts. He's leaning against his desk, legs slightly bent. His head is cocked to the side, one golden curl spilling from among the rest.
Erik listens without saying anything. He only nods, his tongue a stone weight in his mouth. Ištván takes a moment longer, agonizingly long. His smile as it forms over the goblet's rim is cruel and he doesn't peel his eyes off of Erik as he takes a long sip.
"As you are well aware, our stay here is coming to an end. As is our alliance."
Erik isn't sure he much likes this word but the reality of it is unshakable. This is what this is and soon enough, it will be nothing.
"Your village will perish and so will everyone in it. Is that clear, boy?" Another nod. Very clear, indeed. Young he may be, Erik knew what he was doing the moment he opened his mouth. Was he forced into this? Initially, yes. But even after Ištván let him go, he alerted no one and kept on returning with more information, more hope, more appetite for Ištván's fine wine.
"Everyone but you." Erik stills. Countless times before Ištván arrived, Erik fantasized about this shit hole burning. The pain and horror inflicted on all who made a black sheep out of him was easy to imagine. But when it came it to the great After, Erik found his imagination suddenly lacking. All he could see was a dandelion standing among the scorched land, swaying in the wind with what little life it had left, until it, too, was gone.
"Have you someplace to go?"
Erik shakes his head. "No, sir." His voice is hoarse, caught in an emotion he didn't know was there. It's another thing to be lonely and another to be irrevocably and absolutely alone.
Ištván sighs again. "Hm. That is unfortunate. Well, I suppose some monastery might take you in."
"I don't want that, sir," Erik says loudly, surprising even himself.
Ištván's eyes widen. His expression is mysterious but not unpleasant. If anything, he seems satisfied and even relieved.
"No? What is it, then? You're in the place to be making demands but you deserve a reward for your help."
Erik takes a deep breath. "Can I ask for anything? And you will grant it to me?"
Ištván shrugs his shoulders. "If it's within my power."
"I want to come with you. Join your band."
There. The thing he has been thinking about for weeks now, laid bare before the two of them. In Erik's mind, the convoluted games of adults seem mundane, even pointless. He knew that Ištván knew from every glance and coy little smile, and yet the older man would push the boy to spilling it himself. So be it.
Once, Erik had watched as some village kids had tied a sausage to a dog's tail and entertained themselves endlessly by watching the poor animal spin around in futile circles. It went on for hours until the dog had collapsed from exhaustion, though never once losing sight of what it wanted.
"With me?" Ištván questions, his tone incredulous. He chortles, shaking his head in a way that infuriates Erik. "Dear boy, I don't think you know what you're asking for."
"I do," the boy argues, his voice level even as the whole of him buzzes with excitement, fear and nerves. "I've proven that I can be useful to you."
Another sigh. Ištván puts down the wine. Erik watches him as he paces about the room. A dog, not once letting sight of what it wants.
"Yes, but can you fight? Can you even ride a horse? A bandit's life is difficult and unforgiving and I have no room in my forces for dead weight."
"I can't do any of these things but I can learn. I learn fast." He says those words desperately, his voice getting louder and quicker the more disbelieving Ištván looks. "I can cook. I can sew very well. I can keep a house clean. I could be your squire and with time, I could become your-"
Here, he stops, face aflame. He bites his tongue. "My what? Go on."
"Your man, sir." They stare at each other, dark brown and steel grey. Every fiber of Erik's body screams at him to go but he silences the voices with a violent hand. This is the closest he's even come to happiness. "I could show you loyalty and devotion the kind you've never seen."
"Loyalty and devotion? Like the kind you've shown your neighbors?"
Erik doesn't shrink under the weight of this fallacy. If anything, he straightens himself taller. "Choosing weakness is choosing death many times over, for oneself and for othhers."
This, the boy answers with great certainty, as though such philosophical conundra were often the topics of discussion at his village. A facade it may be, Ištván allows it to convince him. He smiles and Erik realizes he passed some test he was only vaguely aware he was going through.
"You'll see," the boy continues, still looking Ištván in the eye. "I'll be strong enough for you."
Ištván opens his arms in a broad, dramatic gesture. He bows slightly and the brooch dangling off his chaperone produces the faintest jingling sound.
"You set an impossible standard for yourself, my dear Erik," he says, smiling. "but I appreciate the fervor."
Impossible. Erik mouths that word and finds he doesn't like it one bit. He bites his tongue, feeling it buzz and twitch with words begging to be spilled. The wrong words. The words of a man much bigger and older.
Ištván cocks his head to the side in that way he does that makes Erik so weak. His dark eyes search him and are quick to find the truth of what he wants to say.
"What is it?" he asks, his voice as sweet as honey. It reminds him of his mother's voice, back when she used to speak, trying to tease her boy into talking.
"You say it's impossible because you haven't seen what I can do."
Ištván pauses and in those horrid seconds, Erik wonders if he's taken it too far in the wrong direction. But as the older man bursts into laughter, the boy feels a tightness within him, as if his very insides are clenching with anticipation.
Ištván kneels in front of him, humming as he grasps Erik's jaw. He's close enough for Erik to smell him, the sweetness of the wine on his breath and his very own musk, dark and woody and just sweet enough. He feels his skin burn where Ištván is touching him and he leans forward, desperate for more.
"Cheeky little thing, aren't you?"Ištván purrs. His eyes are narrowed like those of a satisfied cat. He strokes Erik's peach-soft cheek with his thumb and tuts. "Can't even grow a beard yet and you say these things."
Erik would very much like for the great orator he has inside to spring forth and come up with another smart response. All he manages is a stammer, a pathetic whine that sounds more dog than human.
Ištván chuckles. It's warm and dark and it goes straight to Erik's core. The older man's lips are dark from the wine. To kiss him right now would be to step into Heaven.
Suddenly, he let's go of Erik's face. He still sits close, giving another pleased hum.
"Off you go, then."
He gets up and Erik follows. Ištván's presence and his touch seem to have put him in a trance and he forgot he was supposed to be home by now. And yet, the promise of nothing but drudgery and insult waiting for him back at the village doesn't sour his good mood and neither does it cool down the fire Ištván lit within him.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Erik says as he stands at the flap of Ištván's tent. And then, perhaps a bit too somberly, he decides to add; "I promise."
Ištván doesn't tease him, even if he's a little boy stumbling about in a man's shoes. "I'll hold you to it."
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Back to the village, the happy, melodic thrilling of sparrows and nightingale has given its place to voices rising from the tavern, along with the dull, repetitive sound of dice being thrown, followed soon by the exclamation of a profanity.
When Erik's cottage comes into view, his throat tightens. There, in the middle of their plot of land, looms his father's shadow. He's digging away at the dry soil, huffing and puffing after each blow of his spade. The boy stops in the middle of the road. The harsh sun beats down on his father's figure, making it appear darker than a shade, but Erik can very easily discern what his expression looks like. For a long moment, he stands there, as tall and broad and menacing as Erik will one day soon himself be. He says nothing. His great square jaw is set as though made from stone. Erik tightens his fists and hurriedly walks past the gate and into the house.
Dark and damp as always, as though not a single ray from the summer sun can find this cavern of misery, not even by accident. The house is as he left it in the morning and his mother is sitting in her spot by the window. Neither Erik nor his father is the type to fool themselves with hopes, but the healer had told them that perhaps listening to the sounds of the village and breathing fresh air might make her voice return one day.
Perhaps. Might. One day. Words like leaves in the wind, sand running through Erik's fingers.
"Hello, Ma," he greets sweetly and a bit hurriedly, as if guilty of his absence. She doesn't react to his voice and when he kisses her cheek, it's like kissing the cold, wet flesh of a fish. He remembers Ištván's skin and just how warm it was, how alive and full of promise.
His mother can't eat anything other than mash or soup, so he feeds her some of the gruel leftover from this morning. It's cold and sticky, its meagre flavor long gone but it's the only thing in the house fit for her, seeing as his father didn't think about preparing anything else. She doesn't complain about the repetition or the taste. She merely sits there, eyes glassy, lips flapping mindlessly. She doesn't chew very well and after each spoonful, Erik wipes the greyish lumps of oat and milk from her chin and mouth. She doesn't react to that either. She simply keeps her eyes fixed on nothing, lips moving like those of a fish.
How long has she been like that for? Erik can't say for certain. Hell, he can't even tell his own age. After his mother was pulled into the world of the living dead, no one cared to keep track. When Ištván asked him how old he was, Erik answered with uncertainty. After his mother's mind stopped, time seemed to flow into a single flat line, separated into the Before and the After.
When Erik thinks back to the day of the raid, it seems like any other. It was a Sunday morning and his mother had woken him to go to church. His father, reeking of booze, slept in the corner, shaking the very walls with his snoring. The raiders arrived in the middle of Mass, to find nearly the entire village's population conveniently gathered inside the church. Run! was the last word Erik's mother ever spoke to him and he did just that, running until his feet cramped and bled, only stopping at nightfall. When he returned in the morning, the village still stood but its spirit had been broken; corpses of people he used to know were piled outside the church, ready for burial, while others milled about with dead eyes, trying to remember how to live. His mother was alive but barely. The priest had urged Erik and his father to think of it as a blessing. Yes, a blessing that she had only been raped and not killed, a blessing that the bastard she bore months later was a sickly thing, and no remorse came when Erik's father took it to the woods, to feed some higher creature. She had screamed during the birth but she's been silent ever since. Sometimes, Erik catches her arms twitching, as if trying to form a cradle. As guilty as it makes him feel to admit that, seeing her do that fills him with black rage; instead of looking at her living, breathing child, her broken mind seeks her dead one. On the days when that happens, Erik lets her starve, but apologizes the next.
His father enters the house. As always, he fixes his gaze on the two of them and holds them for a moment. His anger, empty and colorless, doesn't scare Erik anymore. After the raid, he had tried to strangle his wife but the priest had stopped him. He had spoken of miracles and God, asking them both to hold onto their faith. Erik has none. None for God, anyway. He has never seen His great benevolence. If anything, the idea that an all-powerful being sits sowing misery and pain all day disgusts him. Erik doesn't believe in God, he believes in Ištván and the way his brown eyes seemed so beautiful and mellow when he promised the boy he'd raze the village to the ground and make sure this cycle of suffering finally stops.
"Soon Ma," he tells her quietly, leaning in to kiss her cold hand. It gives a slight twitch, as if trying to move away from him. Erik stiffens. Has her state of being granted her the ability to see into his mind? Disapproving or not, the truth is that the village will burn and as much as his mute mother might hate him for it, Erik can find comfort in knowing that at least the pain will stop with him.
"Boy."
His father's voice is gruff, barely above a growl. He glares at Erik from beneath his brow and Erik returns the look, unflinching.
"Go and take care of the weeds."
Erik knows that arguing is futile. He took care of the weeding two days ago, and besides, only a madman would do yardwork in such heat. His father wants to punish him for some imaginary sin, wants to see his skin blister and burn under the scorching sun. Nowadays, he's not as violent and unpredictable as he was, and until Ištván arrived, he had mostly ignored Erik. But his son's recent disappearances, combined with the disorder they caused, resulted in friction. The silent, hateful kind. Sometimes his father would lash out, others he would order such punishments and mask them as chores, as if asking the boy to argue or fight back.
Gritting his teeth, Erik grabs their rusty old hoe and steps out to weed their weedless, barren plot of land. He can feel his father's eyes stabbing into his back, burning hotter than the sun's glare. Sweat rolls down his back and face as he works, stinging his eyes. Again and again, he strikes the land as the fury builds within him. This cursed soil! This godforsaken land! Not even the tears he shed into it could make anything grow. Every strike is a wound on what is already dead. Clouds of dust come out in puffs, sticking to his face and hair, coating him in a layer of the dead self, trying to kill him too. He huffs and groans, growling like an animal with nothing but hatred for the land that bore him. Tears run down his cheeks, carving paths through the caked dirt.
Foaming like a rabid dog, Erik snaps up. His snarling echoes in the silence of the afternoon. All around him, the trees are alive with bands of cicadas playing the same song. When Erik turns around to look at his father, he realizes that he's gone.
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"My word, dear boy! You're about as red as an apple!"
When Erik arrived at Ištván's tent, half-delirious and badly sunburnt, he realized for the first time how truly alone he was. Standing at the man's doorstep, about to collapse from pain and exhaustion, he realized how foreign and strange this all was. Hell, he had absolutely no idea whether Ištván would even take him in or not! The weight of his desperate aloneness made him cry even harder. Alone in the world, save for the bandit he had met only a few weeks ago.
"Bring me water for a bath! And clean clothes!"
As he fled from the village, running through the woods in a frenzy, not once did he stop to think if Ištván would take him in. Not once did he doubt. Somewhere in his childish mind, he had come to think of Ištván and Death as one and the same; clad in black and born from some strange mist, filled with indulgence and mercy, love carved into the tip of his sword. And who else but Death to take someone like him in, a pale, broken thing, sick with grief and with nowhere else to go? When he was younger, someone had told him about the legend of Saint Tarcicius, the child-martyr who had died whilst bringing the Eucharist to the jailed Christians of Rome. Upon his death, Tarcicius was surrounded by angels, who then carried his spirit to Heaven. Whenever Erik thought of this story, he thought of himself in the saint's place, and now, as he teeters on the edge of consciousness, he sees his own angel lean over him.
He only realizes he still lives when he's submerged in a tub of water, lukewarm and pleasant. He gasps and jolts, surprised to find himself in Ištván's tent, even though he very clearly remembers making his way here.
"Glad you're still with us."
Ištván chuckles. His form is elusive, coming and going somewhere behind Erik. The soft sound of his heeled feet is music to the boy's ears. Erik looks down. His pale, naked body looks like a supersized fish. The fever is coming off of him in thick beads of sweat.
"You must forgive me for taking the liberty of stripping you, but you were about to combust." His clothes lie in a heap on the floor beside the tub. Erik vows never to wear them again.
Finally, Ištván comes to sit next to him. He's as Erik left him this morning, smiling with that aloof kindness one reserves for a good horse. Erik will take even that.
Erik leans against the wooden rim, watching Ištván watching him. Their eyes are unwavering, searching and curious.
"What happened? Surely, you can't have missed me so soon."
Erik lowers his head. It would be odd to admit it, but Ištván isn't wrong. "Father made me work the field."
Ištván makes a low hum in his throat. "He's done this before?"
Erik nods. He feels bitter tears well in the corners of his eyes but he refuses to let them spill in front of Ištván, in front of the man he was to convince to believe in him the way he does. "This and others. I…I never cared before but I guess I-I haven't been sleeping well."
"Why?" Ištván's question takes him by surprise. "Why haven't you been sleeping well?"
One thing that sets Erik apart from perhaps every living thing is his inability to experience shame. He still feels embarrassment and coyness, just no shame, no apprehension when it comes to the things he says and does. This has often landed him on the wrong foot with the others in his village and has ended with him being smacked upside the head or worse. It's like ill-placed courage, and strange as it may be, it's what makes him look at Ištván and say:
"Because I've been thinking about you."
It's clear that the other man is caught by surprise. He chuckles weakly, shaking his head. "Are you always so bold, dear boy?"
"I can be," Erik says.
Ištván stands again. This time, he circles the tub and ends up right behind Erik. The feeling of his looming presence agitates the boy, it spurs the fever inside him anew. His head bowed, he tries to follow the man's movements. Suddenly, a jug of water is raised and its lukewarm contents are spilled down Erik's back. He gasps, trying to squirm away.
"Do you know how to bathe yourself?"
Erik shakes his head. In his village, you either bathed in the river or the trough, and a quick rub with a rough cloth would do just as well for your pits and privates. Bathhouses were for the moneybags and the sleazes, 'coming out of there dirtier than they'd entered'.
Ištván sighs. "Very well," he mutters. "I'll have no mangy, flea-ridden mutt in my camp."
He submerges a rag in the water and rubs something on it. A solid, pale bar that gives off a fragrance. Myrrh? Erik leans closer, curious, and Ištván splashes him playfully.
"It's soap, pup," he explains. "Can you smell the lavender?"
Erik can, as clearly as though he were standing in a meadow covered entirely in those purple buds. He watches with amazement as the suds coat his skin, taking away the grime and dirt. Most fascinating is the sight of Ištván's bare hands, ugly and scarred, as they carefully work the soap and cloth on him, baptizing him anew. His touch, rough but tender all the same, isn't foreign. Erik feels as though he's been touched by these hands a million times before. It doesn't feel like a revelation but as a primal memory suddenly awake inside him. Yes, he thinks. This is how it was always supposed to be.
The scars on Ištván's hands have faded into flat, white lines, puckered here and there under the pads of his fingers. They look like the roads and rivers on a map, running through the hills and valleys of some unknown land.
"How…" Erik begins but quickly stops. The words fail in his mouth. He wants to know everything there is to know about Ištván. His tongue refuses to cooperate, his previous boldness forgotten.
"Who are you?" he asks instead. "How come you're here?"
Asking those questions is a gambit. Who can say how the lord of these bandits will react? Ištván is still a perfect stranger and Erik is mighty stupid for surrendering himself to his hands. Literally. And yet, even as he knows all that, he can't help his curiosity, this magic pull that brought him to Ištván.
"Once upon a time, my father was the lord of some small fortress," Ištván begins. His hands don't stop their work, scrubbing down Erik's arms and back, going no farther than his waist. "This was in Banat, which was often ravaged by Turks. Soon enough, they raided our town and my father's fortress, killed nearly everyone and captured everyone else."
"Were you captured?"
"Yes, for a time."
Ištván's voice is unbelievably gentle as he speaks. Erik shivers as Ištván rubs against a tender spot on his neck.
"And what happened?"
"I escaped. I fought for my freedom and won it. And do not be fooled, boy. Freedom is bitter and hard, nothing like the glory they promise you in songs and poems. Perhaps it would have been easier to remain a slave; at least you had clothes on your back and food in your belly."
"Why did you escape, then?"
Ištván sighs. "Why, indeed. Hard and bitter freedom might be, but there's nothing in the world like it. Nothing. To be your own master, the owner of your body and mind. To act upon your desires, not stifle them and let them fester inside of you… Living in chains is worse than death. At least in death, one can be free."
Ištván brings another jug and slowly pours it over Erik's head, washing away the suds. The water in the tub has turned a pale and milky grey and Erik knows he'll have to get out soon enough.
"Been on my own since then…more or less."
"And the king?"
"King Sigismund was gracious enough to allow me, an impoverished knight from an obsolete line, some liberties and even the right to be at court. He's not a native, you see, and he needs to rally the noblemen of the land in his favor. But he also has to be careful not to overindulge them like his idiot brother is doing."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that while I am recognized as a knight of my land, I still have to prove myself to him, make myself useful and indispensable."
Erik frowns. He doesn't see how the King of Hungary, son of the Holy Roman Emperor, would give a fuck about a village in the middle of nowhere.
"Is this why you're here?"
Ištván chuckles. His breath tickles the back of Erik's neck. "No, my boy. I'm here because we have to eat."
He stands up and goes to fetch another jug of water. Erik watches him indulgently, shamelessly, following the way the light falls on the gold of his outfit and the crown of his head. What color even is his hair? Up close, it seems light brown, darker at the top and almost blond at the tips, yet as the light touches it, it looks like spun gold. A mystifying deception, like the rest of him. Erik suddenly realizes that he's never seen Ištván in the light of day.
"Seems like a lot of work just for one village," he murmurs.
Ištván huffs out a little laugh. "It's not the only one we've raided these past few weeks, dear boy. Haven't you noticed?" Erik stares at him, speechless. The truth is that he hasn't. If he paid attention to the conversations of those around him and the atmosphere around his village, he would have known that, within the past few weeks, two other villages had suffered as his soon would. Instead, he'd spent every waking hour thinking of or being with Ištván, and even in sleep, he rushed to him.
"I'll take that as a no. Sounds like we've been doing our jobs right."
He pours the water over Erik's head, washing away the final layer of soap. He sits at the rim of the tub, watching Erik with a calm, content smile. "What a lovely color," he says, looking at the boy's hair. "Couldn't see it under all that dirt." Erik feels his breath tickle his top lip as it comes out in hot puffs. The fever again, bubbling from inside his stomach, rising through his throat.
Ištván cocks his head to the side. "What is it?" he asks in a quiet, tender voice. "Do I make you nervous, Erik?"
The boy swallows. His pink tongue darts out of his mouth, moistening his achingly dry lips. "A bit."
He smiles. "Well, I suppose it's only natural-"
"I can't go back," Erik blurts. He thrusts his body forward, the dirty water sloshing all around him. "Pa will kill me tonight, I can feel it. I can't return."
Ištván stares at him and Erik can clearly see that the older man doesn't like this type of surprise or decision forced upon him. Erik's hands curve around the rim of the tub as he stares up at Ištván. He looks every bit like a dog begging for scraps.
"Haven't I been good for you?"
Ištván lets out a sigh. He rubs his eyes with his fingers as Erik observes him. Children's perception of age is funny, often dictated by arbitrary milestones in their own short lives. For Erik's mere fifteen years, Ištván's assumed thirty seem mountainous. And yet, observing him from this close, he sees a man who is perhaps a bit younger than his own father, not yet lined and grim in the face, but with some silver threaded among the hair at his temples. That is good, the boy rationalizes. We still have time together.
"You may stay here," Ištván decides, ignoring Erik's last question. Erik sighs, relieved. "You can sleep in this tent."
"With you?" the boy asks before he can stop himself.
Ištván quirks a brow. "Seems to me far too thoughtless to have you spend the night in some stranger's company. Unless, of course, you prefer Runt to me." Erik shakes his head fervently: no. Ištván chuckles. He ruffles Erik's wet hair and the boy feels the touch traverse his entire body. "Don't get cheeky, now."
Finally, Ištván gets on his feet. Outside, the sun has begun its descent beyond the tree-covered hills. The familiar twirling dances of flames begin, accompanied by the music of pots being placed over them, the smell of stew wafting in the air. Meat. How long has it been since Erik last ate meat? Some time ago, a traveling troupe had visited his village and put on a shadow theater play. The memory returns to Erik as he watches the shadows from outside dance on the walls of the tent, telling the story of a bandit's life. His new life.
"You can get out, now. Don't want to get dirty again. I brought some clothes for you to put on."
Erik glances at the small pile on the floor beside him. Clean clothes. When was the last time he had those?
Ištván looks around, momentarily confused. "I'm not entirely sure how to keep you occupied or entertained. Suppose you are to be my page, you may start with some chores. There," he says, indicating towards a heap of black and gold dumped on his bedroll. "You could start with sewing some buttons. You do know how to do that, yes?" Erik nods. "Good." The man looks around again. Something in the light-hearted uncertainty of his demeanor gives away his youth. Erik leans into himself, trying to hide the giddy smile that tickles his lips. "That's one less thing to have to teach you."
As the man turns on his heel to exit the tent, Erik looks at him, following him with his gaze. "Ištván," he says meekly.
"Yes, Erik?"
Silence. Erik watches him intently, his face half-submerged in the water. He has so much to say and no way to do it. His first instinct is to thank Ištván, but he quickly catches himself. What for? This is about to annihilate the world Erik has come to call home. Perhaps that's reason enough.
Ištván smiles. "You may rest tonight, pup. You've done well so far. No need to give me every ounce of your devotion right from the beginning!"
Even though his words and tone are mocking, the taste of his voice is sweet on Erik's mouth. He feels the heat inside him stir again, starting from his sensitive loins. He thinks it's the fever but it's only his own blood, a reminder that he is still alive and that he wants.
"And yet you have it," he whispers to the silence of Ištván's tent.
⋆༺𓆩⸸𓆪༻⋆
The morning of the raid begins as any other. Erik opens his eyes to find Ištván's tent empty and himself tucked into the small corner his new master has granted him, bathed and fed and rested. He blinks blearily, realizing how deeply he slept as he stretches his limbs for several satisfying seconds. Ištván is nowhere to be seen, but he is felt everywhere; his smell lingers, and his half-eaten dinner is still on his desk. His presence would be stifling if it weren't so pleasant, yet part of Erik shivers with terror. He will have to get used to this stranger fast. He has laid down his life at his feet, after all.
Still dressed in the clean clothes Ištván gave him last night, he steps out of the tent, yawning and stretching some more. All around him, the bandits are entirely preoccupied with their own lives and pay him no mind. They all seem rowdier than usual. Though he can't understand much of what they're saying, he can tell by their crude gestures and barked laughs that they are mighty excited for the raid and its spoils.
Sheepishly, Erik moves farther into the camp and still, no one acknowledges him. Not formally, anyway, only through sideways glances, followed by quiet snickering and knowing smiles. Only Runt looks at him, before going back to polishing his great cleaver of a sword. As his is the only familiar face in this sea of strangers, Erik gravitates to him, not sure what to make of his sardonic smile.
"Look who's here!"
"Where's Ištván?" asks the boy, receiving a snort from Runt.
"The Chief," Runt begins, pointedly over-pronouncing the two words, "always disappears before a raid. But he'll be back when it's time, no need for you to worry."
Erik stiffens. "I'm not worried." Another snort. Runt won't look at him, entirely absorbed in his task. It seems that everyone knows what to do, how to keep busy, and what role to play, all but Erik. There's so much he doesn't know, and the weight of his ignorance presses down upon his shoulders. The Chief always disappears before a raid. During their little time spent together, Ištván had only ever been Ištván. Was that part of his seduction? Erik doesn't mind having to call him Chief, but he can't shake the feeling of God opening his mouth to take away his bite before Erik could swallow.
"You're with us now?" Erik nods. Finally, Runt looks at him. "When a superior officer addresses you, you use your words, boy."
Erik shudders. His jaw trembles uselessly, unable to form any response. As he opens his mouth to speak, Runt suddenly bursts into a bark-like laughter. He doubles over, his dark eyes closing as lines of joy form around them. He laughs and laughs, and even some others join him, the previously silent but all-seeing witnesses to Erik's torment. The boy watches, shocked by his own helplessness, mute and burning with shame.
Runt stands. He's a big man, made even bigger and more terrifying thanks to his black-and-silver brigandine, but Erik calculates he'll be a head taller in a few months. His hand falls on Erik's shoulder, giving him a few rough pats. Erik correctly guesses that the gesture is deliberately harsh, to drive a point across, make the difference between them clear, and even communicate the not-so-subtle threat that Runt could easily cave Erik's skull.
"I'm messing with you, lad," he says, still snickering. He leans in, his voice dropped to a whisper. "Just make sure you don't go around mentioning any names. The Chief is very particular about what the others know and don't." Erik nods stiffly. Runt smiles. He examines his sword. The polished blade catches what little light finds their shady campsite. "You sure you know what you've gotten yourself into?"
Erik freezes. He stammers, his face even redder with mortification. Runt gives him a crooked smirk, the kindest gesture Erik has seen him make so far. He pats him again, reassuringly this time.
"Don't answer that. I can tell you don't."
And with that, he struts away, leaving Erik to glare at his broad back, alone in the middle of the wolf's den he now has to call home.
⋆༺𓆩⸸𓆪༻⋆
True to Runt's prediction, Ištván appeared sometime later, just in time for the raid. To spare his men the cruelty of the summer sun, he ordered the attack to take place in the afternoon. Erik watched as Ištván saw his men off, though seemingly with no intention of joining the attack himself.
"You won't fight?" the boy asks when it's just the two of them.
Ištván offers him another kind, all-knowing smile, the expression Erik has come to associate with him the most. "Not today, boy. Today I shall watch, and I want you to watch with me."
Erik follows his new master without question or complaint. They make their way out of the campsite and into the woods, where they tread along a path that takes them uphill. From there, Erik's village presents itself like a meal on a platter. He can see all his neighbors cannot; life flowing like water on the river, unaware of the figures that approach quietly from the forest. His heart clenches, and he hates it for that. His gaze follows the movement of Runt and his men, inching towards the unsuspecting village like overgrown ants. Over the past few weeks, he'd imagined this scene over and over again, but he never thought he'd stand there watching. Why would he, anyway? What's the point in watching something he can't change or prevent?
The attack begins with a roar, as the men pour out from the bushes and fall upon the villagers. Erik's eyes dart from place to place. Another squad attacks the northern side, a tower crumbles, a cry of agony rises from the valley, then another, then some more. A whole chorus of them, indistinguishable from the sound of pigs in a pen. Erik has always hated pigs for being far too clever, always knowing when the end was near. Squealing and running, unlike the glassy-eyed lambs, bleating sweetly even on Easter day.
Great fires appear and soon, their flowing flames and blankets of smoke cover the entire village. He can't tell where his house is anymore. The valley is blind, like an animal about to die. The screaming becomes one continuous sound of nothing and everything at once. He's heard from a traveler that the great earthquakes down in the island of Sicily are always preceded by a deep, rumbling hum, coming from the Earth's womb itself. He expects the ground to split at any moment now, take him down to the pits of Hell for what he did, where all his slaughtered villagers will tear him apart. He feels the Earth shake under his feet, but it's only the tremor of his own body, frail and sickly and frightened. It stinks. In the heat, the smell is even worse, more pungent, almost like the fumes from the braziers of Hell.
Suddenly, Erik doubles over. He gags and chokes, puking out the contents of his stomach in a puddle of brownish yellow before him. The roast chicken and lentil soup Ištván had given him last night lay right before him in a sludge, and its acrid smell makes the urge to vomit even stronger. His eyes sting, filled with tears. Spit trickles down his chin, chest heaving with desperate, gulped breaths. He can hear them whistling in his ears, like the sharp, howling winds of winter, out of place for a summer evening. The sky is dark. It's going to rain, he thinks. When he looks up, he expects to see rainclouds looming overhead but all he finds is great pillars of smoke spreading over the entire valley.
"Erik."
Startled, he looks to the side. Ištván kneels beside him, looking at him. Through his foggy vision, Ištván appears to him like a ghost, his black-clad form outlined against the catastrophe behind him. As Erik's vision clears, the orange glow of the fire frames Ištván's head like a halo, illuminating his features.
"Why did you do this?" Erik wheezes. "Why did you make me watch?"
"This is the reality of a bandit's life, dear boy," Ištván says. His voice is calm and almost flat. "This is what you helped create."
Erik looks beyond Ištván's shoulder, back to the sea of ash that is his hometown. Gone. A smudge on the map. Next year's cartographers will skip this empty field and in ten years, no one will know this place even existed. No one but Erik, riding beside Ištván, bringing this flame-colored mercy across the land.
"I didn't…" the boy stammers. His eyes, frightened and quick as a chased buck's, flicker from place to place, trying to find traces of anything familiar. There's nothing he recognizes, nothing he knows except for Ištván's face.
"You didn't realize?" Erik shakes his head. Ištván sighs. His gloved hand caresses Erik's clammy cheek with overwhelming fondness. "I didn't bring you up here to be cruel to you. I brought you here so you could see. So you could understand."
But Erik doesn't understand. He doesn't see anything. Only Ištván's face stands before him, a pale sun appearing through the clouds of doomsday.
"Every decision you make, every breath you draw and every one of your steps upon this Earth weighs on someone else." Suddenly, his hands grab both sides of Erik's face and he stares into the boy's eyes. "You can take all you want, my boy! You can have your fill! But never forget what you have to give for it. This, my poor little lamb, is the price you have to pay. No one will wash your hands for you. People will scorn you if you walk down this path, they will fear and even respect but never admire you. But your belly will be full and you will know that it was your own two hands that did this. Are you ready for this life, Erik? Is this truly what you want?"
Erik feels drunk. Maybe it's the wine on Ištván's breath, so close that he can taste it. "Yes," he says drowsily. He feels his body become lighter, limp in Ištván's hold. He collapses onto the grass and he still feels like he's floating. Ištván hovers above him, still wreathed with the halo of flames. The most fitting crown for the Angel of Death.
⋆༺𓆩⸸𓆪༻⋆
After the raid, the bandits celebrated. Runt was the first to make it to the hilltop where Ištván had set up his observation deck, his face covered in soot and blood but grinning widely as he presented his lord with a chest. The parish's pride and joy, Erik realized with a start, elegantly carved and adorned with pearls and topaz, more valuable than anything else in the church.
"Indulgences!" Runt said. "We'll surely go to Heaven now, Chief!"
Like ants carrying grain and leaves back to their cavernous homes, one after the other, the bandits returned to camp, whistling joyfully as they watched the spoils pile up. They slaughtered two pigs and finally got into the good ale. Erik watched the merriment idly, neither sadly nor gleefully. Runt had reported no casualties. No survivors, either. A good haul of loot, which surprised even Erik. The coin must have been dug out from under beds and floorboards, even from the lining of the walls. Most of the treasure had come from the church; some icons, the gold leaf-covered triptych from the altar and of course, the indulgences. Once upon a time, this place had been a famous stop for pilgrims, as legend would have it that some great miracle had happened where the church was built. Erik had seen people on a pilgrimage several times, approaching their village dressed in rags and offering hefty pouches to the priest. And now, Runt was digging his hands into this waterfall of silver and pretending he was washing his face with it, much to the amusement of the drunk bandits all around him.
The pilgrims offered the money in order to be absolved of sin and gain access to the Kingdom of Heaven. Was the act of offering enough on its own, or did the money have to stay where it was left? Were those souls evicted now that the bandits held the money? Erik pondered all this sullenly and quietly, staring at the silver coins until they were burned into the backs of his eyes.
He got up and went back to the hilltop, where he watched the smoke rise in great columns all through the velvet night. All was quiet, save for the faraway sounds of merriment and the thud of burnt wood and stone collapsing. Erik had heard how corpses transformed after death; losing color, bloating with the coagulated blood, sometimes even bending into shapes and poses. He found that to be true for all corpses, even that of his hometown. By daybreak, the village he had known all his life was but a memory, and what lay before him was a blotch, a stain of broken limbs and ash.
He made it to the foot of the hill before he could stop himself. The smoke lingered, albeit thinner, making his eyes water. The shape of the village had changed. The streets and landmarks he knew no longer existed. Standing in the singed clearing - what used to be the village green - Erik glanced around him in confusion. He recognized none of it, and the bodies strewn on the ground spoke in a language he couldn't understand. Those that didn't burn to death lay in puddles of their own, sticky blood, glassy eyes turned to the sky.
Erik felt the same nausea bubble in his gut and he spilled his dinner as he had before. Coughing and wheezing, he vomited next to the body of the butcher's young daughter, crushed by a beam into unrecognizable paste. Erik had recognized her by the hem of her skirt, embroidered with the most like-like stalks of wheat, a skill that made her famous and beloved. What would remain of her when the footpads stripped her of her clothes and the carrion birds chipped away at her flesh?
"An ossarium," Erik said to no one in particular. He glanced around once more. More terrifying than a graveyard, an ossarium was a man's last stop on this Earth, a deaf, blind pit of endless stillness, where bone turned to dust turned to dirt. And from the dirt, new life would grow, and those bones that once had lived, would go on to feed the new living.
But Erik was alive. His stomach reminded him of this fact with a rumble. While alive, he would never again feed anyone else. He would live and by God, he was going to eat his fill.
"Erik!"
This is where Ištván finds him, standing amid the ruins of his hometown and looking around for something. Ištván is sat upon his horse and Erik fixes him with a long, hard look, as if seeing him for the first time. He stares at him obsessively, almost longingly. His master. His father. His new home.
"Lost something?"
"No, sir."
Ištván huffs. He glances around, his lips curling with satisfaction. "This was a good one, and all thanks to you, my boy. The spoils were good, too, but barely sufficient. We shall need to move onward, to the next one." When Erik shows no sign of having heard his words, Ištván cocks his head to the side, eyeing him curiously. "Last night, I remember granting you permission to join us. Have you changed your mind?"
"No, sir." Erik straightens his shoulders, letting his body unfurl to its full height. "I will ride with you."
Ištván holds him in his gaze, his lips curved into a slight smile. Something about Erik amuses him endlessly, but Erik feels no cruelty from his expression, no ridicule in this enjoyment. Admiration? Hardly seems like the sort of emotion one would associate with him. Ištván's expression of satisfaction is unreadable for the most part, but Erik can tell that there's something in him, something that Ištván found that Erik didn't know he had, and he likes that very much.
"We have no spare horses at the moment, so I hope you don't mind sharing one with me," Ištván says.
Erik can't help the excited little smile that climbs to his lips. "Not at all," he says.
He mounts easily, with enough dexterity to surprise even himself. All in the name of appearing competent and necessary to his new master.
"Good boy," Ištván praises warmly. "Grab on tight."
Erik wraps his arms around the older man's middle and leans his cheek against his back. Ištván grabs the reins and spurs his horse, which breaks into a gallop with a sharp neigh, as they ride out of the clouds of smoke and into the sun.