Chapter Text
Somewhere in the Bohemian countryside, some years ago.
They were running through a forest. The mission should have been easy, an early misty morning, a small town, a badly attended guard post, just a bit of gold and a few weapons that should be easy to carry. They should have been in and out like ghosts. The information had seemed good, the little side door was just where it was supposed to be, and all was quiet. They’d waited until there was barely enough light to approach without torches, and gone in. Then, Ištván had felt a grip on his arm, strong enough to bruise.
“Don’t manhandle me boy!” He’d hissed, pulling away, “what has gotten into you?”
“We need to leave,” Erik had said, “this is wrong, it feels wrong.”
“We are finishing what we came here to do,” Ištván had replied.
But Erik had not heeded him, and pulled him out despite his protests. And he’d been right. The soldiers had killed two of his men in the first few seconds, or so he’d gathered, from the sound. If they’d not been halfway out already, they might have shared their fate. The third unlucky member of their raiding party had fallen down on the way into the wood and Ištván had not looked back. Now it was just him and Erik and the damn forest that seemed intent on pushing them back towards their enemies instead of sheltering them. Branches whipped his face and caught on his clothes, and his vision was blurry with grey-green fragments that sometimes yielded to their passage and sometimes not. The air was thick with damp and the mud that didn’t cling to their legs made them slip. His heart raced, and he tried to focus on the task at hand but his mind was fuzzy with the panic. He’d been content to command other men to fight for too long. He followed Erik, hoped the boy had kept his head enough to remember the way to the horses. The shape of him was his one beacon as his mind raced. Who’d betrayed them? Why? What would he do to them if he lived? Three men were dead, they couldn’t have known. A thought lodged itself in his mind. Erik had pulled him out seconds before the soldiers had arrived. The thought dug its way in, too painful to look at and yet impossible to ignore. He wanted to scream. He ran into Erik when he violently stopped, the insults dying on his tongue when he saw the wall of rock in front of them. At least once he was dead he would no longer care who the traitor was. He suffered further indignity when Erik grabbed him by the waist, switching their place and pushing him against the wall. He stood for half a second between Ištván and whatever pursuant they’d not managed to lose. His dark eyes were hard as steel, his hand steady, and Ištván’s breath burned a little less in his lungs.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said, “let me negotiate.”
There was the sound of disturbed foliage, footsteps in the thicket, the glint of a blade. Erik let out an awful groan and twisted around, a red wound on his neck. Before Ištván had the time to think there was a great squelching noise and a grunt as Erik pushed the man off his sword. A lull fell upon the forest. Ištván glimpsed three other men beyond Erik’s shadow. They were better armoured that the both of them, in their clothes made for stealth, although nothing very sturdy. He was a cunning fighter, and Erik had brute strength on top of that, maybe they stood a chance.
“Any one of you want to die?” Erik roared.
His voice was full of a rage that made Ištván's stomach drop. It frayed at the edges as if his lungs didn’t have the strength to carry it. The men flinched.
“Anyone? I dare you!”
He took a step over the corpse of the fallen man, waving his sword. The impact of his foot made Ištván’s bones vibrate. Another step, another barely human growl and the men fled, with vague promises to each other to get reinforcements. Only when they had properly disappeared did Erik turn back. Ištván could understand their fear. He panted, his eyes wide and black, his neck twisting to the side, his face and clothes covered in mud and a bright spray of blood. He seemed to shrink in size when he saw Ištván.
“Come on,” he said, “we don’t have much time.”
Ištván followed. He breathed a great gulp of air when they emerged from the humidity of the wood and into the fresh air. A few paces away, half hidden behind a large rock near the bend of the stream, were their horses. The world had gone infinitely quiet, but for the sound of water and the waking birds.
Ištván kicked a stone, and swore. He felt Erik come up behind him, quiet now, as he so often was. He wanted to collapse into his familiar presence. This was the thought of a weak-willed man, and he pushed it away. Erik was staring, another habit of his. His eyes were lighter now, in the sun, and his shoulder slumped. There would be time for shouting at him, for now, they were alive. He beckoned with one finger, and looked into Erik’s grime covered face. He gingerly touched his cheek, watched him fold himself down. The animal roar still resonated in his chest. He felt a little crazed, his limbs and his mind full of the poison of death too close at hand. He held on to Erik’d arm to steady himself. Fury fought with gratitude for mastery over him, and in a moment of madness, he placed a kiss on Erik’s brow. For a second he watched his features rearrange themselves, and then he turned away, gave orders about tying the horses together, which path to take so no one would catch up with them. They rode out, and he tried not to think if it.
---
Ištván stomped into his tent, in a mood for rending and tearing. He eyed the wine pitcher on the desk, felt a tremor in his closed fists, but thought better of such dramatics.
“Well?” He barked, “come in then.”
Erik pushed the flap of the tent, and stood with his hands together. This had been his way of late. He stooped, as if trying to make himself smaller, and he seemed to always be looking at the ground. Yet the second Ištván looked away he felt his eyes boring into him, and when he turned back, the young man stared just a second too long before remembering he wasn’t supposed to. It made him uneasy.
He hurriedly unlaced the fastenings of the old gambeson he’d chosen in the morning. It was heavy with the forest damp, which it oozed when pressed. He threw it to the floor in disgust. God, he needed a bath.
“Sit,” he said, rolling up the sleeve of the old grey shirt he wore underneath.
This too he felt like ripping off, but had to content himself with scrubbing at his hands in the small washbasin. He hissed at the freezing cold water. He felt cold down to his bones, like he could never be warm again. Erik limped to a stool and sat obediently, his back turned.
“You are limping,” Ištván said.
“One of the soldiers got me with his mace, just as we were leaving. It’s nothing.”
Ištván could see where the ill-fitted breast plate dug into the padded gambeson beneath. He imagined the ache of the red welts, felt a pang of maudlin tenderness that only stoked the fire of his fury. He reached for the leather straps and started unbuckling them with precise, unnecessarily rough gestures. Erik let himself be jostled. Ištván should have sent him away. He’d managed to recruit a half competent saw-bones, a man haunted enough by his own past to find his offer compelling. He’d done wonders to reduce the little band’s casualties. The breastplate swayed on the floor for a while, like an overturned scarab. Ištván stood to Erik's side, pulled at his collar and tried his best to examine his neck in the gloom of the tent. There was an angry red line there, not deep, although it had bled profusely. He was about to continue his inspection when Erik slumped against him. A fragment of sunshine fell from a hole in the tent’s wall and onto his face, cutting a triangle of light on his cheek and highlighting his white lashes. The rest of his pale face was coloured in by the remnants of the morning’s incident, brown mud and thick droplets of blood, smudged into wide strokes where he had wiped them. Ištván realised he was gripping his shoulder, his knuckles white. He let go with a start, but Erik's hand was on him, his fingers running slowly through the thick dark hair of his forearm. The boy turned his face into his belly. He was so warm, and Ištván could feel his shallow breathing through his skirt. He closed his eyes, felt a hand slide around his waist, until he was securely held.
“You disobeyed me,” he said, failing to heed his mind’s alarmed calls to pull away.
“Yes.” Erik whispered, burrowing further into him.
“You don’t apologise.”
“No. You are alive.”
His voice was deep, his body so warm and so big that Ištván felt himself fall into its pull again, his spine curving as he bent protectively over Erik. He wanted to grab a cloth and wash the blood off his face, tend to his wound, whisper words of thanks. It had been a mistake, calling him here.
“You’re to go to the saw-bones,” he said, “get your leg seen to.”
“Don’t send me away.” Erik said.
He looked up.
“You’ll do as you are told, for once,” Ištván said, and extricated himself from his arms.
He sat at his desk, felt the cold slip back under his shirt.
“Why?” Erik asked, not pleading now, but angry.
“Go.” Ištván said.
He did not look up as Erik's heavy steps faded away.
---
Ištván collected himself, and walked to the bath tent. He had the lanky young man who’d been assigned the chore fetch bucket after bucket of hot water until he was almost sure he had scalded himself. He scrubbed at his skin until it was red. He had not a scratch on him, an impossible thought when death had seemed so close a couple hours before. He couldn’t manage to feel clean. He kept thinking of the grime on Erik’s face, about how he’d not wiped it away. The stain clung to his own skin, invisible but a constant distraction. Ištván was no fool, he saw the way Erik lingered after receiving his orders, as if he waited for something more. Still he’d wondered if it was just his mind playing tricks on him, wishing what he wanted into reality. His presence had become difficult to bear of late. It’d been easy enough, in years past, to let him sulk around his tent once in a while, give him a rare respite from the hard life of mercenaries on the road. This had been his one indulgence with the boy ⏤ ridiculous, he knew, to still call him that ⏤ since he’d brought him to a much shabbier camp than this. Big enough to pull his weight, he’d argued with the scowling band, although he could hardly have been more than fifteen years of age. The men, he knew, would teach him how to be hit and hit back well enough, and he would take care of the finer things. And so he’d gotten used to having him around, quiet as if in chapel, frowning in concentration over a book or polishing some armour. He did not remember when the resentful glare had faded but it had eventually, probably around the time he’d gotten better at hitting back. It was not often he saw traces of that boy now, unless he prodded and mocked to get a rise out of him, another vice of his. Now he took too much space. Ištván was always aware of his presence, like a burn at the edge of his vision, an itch on his skin. He tried to relax into the water and exhaustion fell upon him. In the steam he half dreamed, half thought about running a damp cloth across Erik’s chin, down his neck, across his shoulders, down the curve of his wide back. He awoke to a cold bath, in a dreadful mood.
Ištván kept himself busy all afternoon, digging into the mud that was his band for the man responsible for the morning’s disaster. He’d seen some worried faces as they rode back, kept those name tucked away. He started with the least likely suspects, hoping the others would have time to stew in their own anxiety. He made a note of the ones who seemed the most relieved to leave his tent, and called on them a second time, just to make them sweat. He pointed out unimportant inconsistencies to make the guilty crack, and kept the salient ones to himself. He flattered the prouder men and snarled at the meeker ones. He yearned for a cleansing by fire. By the late afternoon his effort bore fruit, as one of the mercenaries ran into his tent to announce that one-eyed Luděk had just stolen a horse and galloped out of the camp. He called for Erik who rushed in minutes later. He still favoured his left leg, though much less than he had in the morning.
“If you ride hard enough you’ll catch up to him.” He said. “Go now. You’ll make short work of the weasel.”
Erik left a bright impression on his retina. He’d cleaned up, and wore a light coloured gambeson and wine red hose. Almost dashing. His memory occupied most of the space in the tent. An odd anxiety slowly filled Ištván. He’d sent him after a man half his size, yes, but a desperate one. Who knew what might happen. The breastplate still lay on the floor, where he had pushed it with an angry kick. He’d hoped the gold from the morning’s adventure would pay for a new one.
Night had fallen by the time Erik returned. Ištván was sitting on the table with his feet on the bench. He’d been desperate for something to do and had settled on sharpening his sword and quickly emptying the pitcher of truly dismal wine by his side. Erik stood as he had a couple of hours before, unchanged except for a great swipe of blood on his clothes, which appeared black in the tremulous light of a few candles.
“It is done.” He said. “Left the bastard by the side of the road.”
“Good,” Ištván said.
And then, maybe because he was more drunk than he cared to admit, he drew a cross in the air.
“I absolve you,” he said, and sniggered.
He looked at the young man standing with his hands behind his back, remembered the great roar that had shaken the forest in the morning.
“I thank you,” he said. “For this morning. I might not be here if it wasn’t for you.”
“It is what I am here for.” Erik said, blankly.
“You may go.” Ištván said.
Erik didn’t move.
“Was there any thing else?”
“You didn’t send for me.” Erik said.
Ištván gestured rather dramatically at him.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“For interrogation.”
Ištván remembered the morning’s brief dread. He’d not contemplated it since.
“I didn’t think it was you.” He said, drinking another gulp of wine with a grimace. “Have you come to confess otherwise?”
“You know I would not betray you.”
“I know.” Ištván said.
He placed the sword down on the table, and sighed. He felt so tired.
“You may go,” he said, sharply this time. “Although it seems you’ve become rather fond of making up your own mind.”
“You’ve trained me to be smart,” Erik said, “not to blindly follow orders.”
“Is that so?” Ištván said.
He felt light headed, and regretted the last few sips of wine.
Erik took a step forward, and sat on the bench. Ištván was quiet, looking down at his profile in the half light. His hands, so large, seemed scrupulously clean. No dead man’s blood there, no trace of the dirt he always carried under his nails. He leaned gently against Ištván’s leg, and placed his head on his knee. Ištván touched his cheek, watched him lean into the touch, felt the flutter of his eyelashes on his palm, and the sudden softness of his lips. He shivered.
It would do to pretend he’d not yielded already. He could defend himself against the insanity. He’d almost never let himself want like this, not since he’d come back from Nicopolis with a fourth of the men he’d taken there and the trust of the king. He could have found relief, of course. This was a camp full of lonely men, and it was difficult to put a stop to fumbling in the dark, but he didn’t partake in such things. It just wouldn’t do to wallow in the mud with common mercenaries. He’d had his share of anonymous meetings in inns on the road, returning an insistant look across a farkle table. But this felt different, and that was where madness began.
“You don’t know what you are asking for, boy,” he said.
“I do.” Erik replied.
“What is it then?” he said, and felt the cruel snarl on his lip.
His sharp tone hit Erik like a whip, and he stood up, his fists closed. For a instant he reminded Ištván of the boy he’d found by the side of the road, tall but so thin it seemed any gust of wind might snap him in two, facing the raiders with nothing but a woodcutting axe and clenched teeth. A lost soul he’d saved as a testament to the broken boy he himself had been, in another life. This trembling image, standing side by side with the man that now towered over him, called many cruel jabs to mind. He could throw some at him, make him leave. Somehow he didn’t find the courage to utter any of them.
---
When he’d been sent out, Erik had been glad for the task. The gallop of the horse, the triumph of seing one-eyed Luděk on the horizon ⏤ the fool had stayed on the road, expecting a head start, maybe ⏤ one swift movement to get him off his horse, another to end his life. He’d grabbed the purse from his belt. A part of him had wanted to rip the traitor’s heart out, hold it in his hand, like in the icons of Jesus he’d seen in the small church of his childhood, and hand it to Ištván. Of course, there had been no time for such foolishness, and he’d just left the man to rot in a ditch, his leg at an odd angle and an expression of surprise on his face.
It had been easy, and the exhaustion had begun to creep into his bones only on the way back. There was little left of the morning’s panic but the ache in his limbs. He remembered the overwhelming green, the humidity and the feeling of being hunted. He’d thought he’d forgotten all of his training, that he would choke on the encroaching foliage before any hidden blade could get him. But Ištván was with him, and so his body had remembered. He’d felt a fierce joy at seeing the man he’d felled, the way his cut up body broke the forest’s spell with its red blood. In the end, it had been easy. So had been grasping Ištván’s waist, or lowering his head to receive his blessing.
He’d gone back to camp, annoyed at the blood smeared across his best gambeson. After the morning, he owned no other. The atmosphere was uneasy, and there were no conversations he wanted to join. It was always like this, even after he’d learned to distinguish proper jeers from the constant ribbing that was the normal currency amongst the rougher men. Unlike him, Ištván was good around the campfire, when he came out of his tent. He made the men laugh, and knew how to push against their cruder jokes without seeming like a spoil sport. He could create absolute hilarity just with the raising of one eye brow. He’d washed as best he could, paying special attention to his hands, and headed for Ištván’s tent.
He’d killed for Ištván before. But that morning had been different. It felt like a baptism, like he had stepped into himself. The man he’d wished he’d been when he was just a scrawny lad being pushed around the camp. And he could not forget the kiss on his brow, and the feeling of nestling into Ištván’s body. Like he had in the past, he vaguely wondered if he should want such things. But Jesus and his fiery heart were but a distant memory, and the thought was quickly dismissed. His heart beat violently in his chest as he made his way from one pool of light to the next, until he reached the tent. Ištván was sitting on the table, his sword on his knees, sharpening it with careful, sharp swipes. His face seemed to float in the yellow light, his dark clothes melting into shadow. His face and his hands. He had this way of looking up at him, his eyes wide and his lips pressed together, like he could see right to the deepest secrets of his heart. Dismissed, Erik decided to stay. Walking the few steps from the entrance to the bench had been one of the greatest efforts he’d ever had to make.
Ištván’s tent had always been his favourite place of any camp. Here, he could always find peace, quiet, even if it was just a moment spent polishing armour while Ištván read endless missives, and replied in his sharp, nervous hand. Here there was order, a feeling than the world made sense. He’d learned to read here, and write too, although not quite as well. It was a respite from all the combat training that left him bruised and battered. Limping, like he was today. He welcomed all the training, tried to see every bruise as a reward. He wanted to be strong. He was not a page, fetching wine and linen, but a warrior. Still, he’d not been able to resist those few moments of quiet and peace. An indulgence. That morning had been different, though, Ištván had never tried to see to his wounds himself until today. And so he placed his head on his knee.
Ištván touched his cheek and on instinct, he leaned into the touch, nestling his face into the palm of his hand. He froze. Ištván was staring at him, just as still. He found himself unwilling to move, it’d been so long since he’d known any soft touch. Instead, his heart threatening to burst from his chest, he leaned in further and placed a shy kiss on the heel of Ištván’s hand.
“You don’t know what you are asking for boy.”
Ištván’s voice was a whisper. Erik had never heard it so soft, stripped of all its bombast and authority. He forced himself to look at him again, to take in all the melancholy that pulled at his features.
“I do,” he said.
His voice was still hoarse from his uncontrolled scream in the morning. He didn’t mind, for it had saved the both of them.
“What is it then?” Ištván said, suddenly cold.
Erik stood up. He winced at the small cruel smile at the corner of Ištván’s mouth.
“Don’t mock me,” he said.
He leaned in, placed his hands on the table of both sides of Ištván’s knees. He thrilled a little when the chief leaned back with a small gasp of surprise, then stoped as if realising he had ceded ground.
“You know I’m not eloquent, like you.”
“You could try,” Ištván said, pushing him back.
Erik grabbed his shoulder and he made an undignified sound that felt like triumph. The next sentence he smothered with a clumsy kiss. There was one small, beautiful moment of yielding. And then he heard the scraping of the sword on the table, and moved back.
“Go to sleep,” Ištván said, “this day has been too long.”
He took another sip of wine, and Erik ran out, his face burning.
One-eyed Luděk had been quickly forgotten, and the camp was full of relieved cheer. A previous, much more successful attack on a caravan had yielded many casks of ale, and this alone was a reason to celebrate. Erik accepted some, and then some more. Men had tried to touch him, in the camp, and he’d yielded sometimes, out of curiosity, until he’d started to hear too many whispers. He’d sent the friendlier ones away with bruises, the less friendly ones with broken noses and fingers. He knew that none of them were what he wanted anyway. He sat on a log and stared into the fire, answering the demands for tales of the morning’s exploit with grunts. He walked around the small camp a while, holding his tankard against his chest. After a while he felt dizzy. He never drank that much, he’d been a skinny boy in a camp full of men with a penchant for cruelty, and he was used to keeping his wits about him. He abandoned the tankard on the ground and went straight for his tent. His mind was confused, the green of the forest mixing with the red blood, Ištván’s golden face in the gloom, screams and taunts and soft words. He lay on his bedroll and felt the world sway about him. He wrapped himself in a blanket, but could not get warm.