Archive of Our Own

The moon was full out that night and the stars bright as diamonds. Both so luminous as to reveal every corner of Apollonia, from it's proud rocky outcroppings to it's numerous hidden caves. No footpath was left hidden or field uncovered in their glow.

But they were not all encompassing nor were they everlasting. Gentle and calm as it was in the late summer season, the evening's breeze was strong, and it pulled across the sky clouds of deep and heavy form. They obscured the celestial bodies and their light, casting the night into a shadow thick as ink and black as pitch. The darkness that once accentuated the moon and stars in it's contrast, filling the margins of the sky unnoticed, took it's reign over the land just as the light had before it.

And yet the breeze would blow again, the clouds carrying on. The moon and its stars would return to the sky and the land would once more be illuminated in their silver light.

Back and forth it went, a peaceable waxing and waning of the heavens. A cycle born by the warm wind and the the pleasant night air that rode along it.

And through that night air, warmth, and peace, a high pitched tirade cut.

"And that's another thing!" Ištván continued. He had been continuing for several minutes now and did not show signs of stopping.

"If that jumped up harlot thinks he's going to insult me and get away with it he's sorely mistaken! He should be grateful our business was concluded and our departure urgent. Should I hear another conceited word out of him I'm going to have him whipped for his insolence!"

Erik listened contentedly to every word.

"Brandy. What a fraud. I doubt it was anything more than alehouse slop! The man's armor was cheaper than a sixty year old whore. I could smell the dye even in that dungeon of a dining hall."

"Aye," Erik nodded. "And not nearly as dark as yours."

"Not even close!" Ištván exclaimed. "I've seen linens dyed with charcoal that look better than the garbage that pompous fool was wearing!"

They'd been trotting along like this for awhile. Ištván drunkenly raving, Erik sometimes commenting, the crickets and frogs singing over them both. It was the best evening Erik had had in a long while and he suspected the same went for his lord.

"The next time we're there you must insure I never see him!" Ištván declared.

"Of course sir."

"Not a hair of him!"

"Understood sir."

"I mean it Erik! If I see that insufferable mustache I'll-"

He made a sort of growling snarling noise of frustration, shaking his head and wobbling in his saddle.

"Feh! Stop up here! By the trees." Ištván called, slowing his horse.

"What for?"

"I need to piss."

"Do we really need to stop for that?"

"I'm not going to piss while riding my horse."

"You could try."

Ištván shot him a suitably irritated glower, one that was hopelessly ineffective in his inebriated state. Looked more like an annoyed pout to Erik.

But they continued on until to the trees. Ištván dismounted without much grace, walking off into the brush with even less.

"Keep watch." he called with a dismissive wave over his shoulder, stumbling assuredly into the tall grass that lined the copse of trees.

Erik did as he was told, adjusting the torch in his hand as he dismounted, remaining watchful for anyone who might harm his lord.

Though he found it hard to hide his snickering.

The horses snorted in response, clearly more annoyed than entertain by their riders' antics. Niki, black as the night and just as dangerous, tossed her mane with displeasure at their journey's interruption. Stein, pale as the moon and just as unhappy to stand still, pawed at the ground as if to agree.

Erik patted them both absently in assurance, certain he'd see them all back safe, if a little tipsy.

Though, Erik could barely feel the effects of the ale he'd drank less than an hour ago, now that he thought about it. He was certain he was actually quite sober. It was more Ištván, who he watched curse and fumble around with the ties of his hose, that was drunk. And suitably so, for a man who'd thought he'd be enjoying a comfortable night's stay at an inn.

Though their day had begun as one of reconnaissance, it had ended as one of leisure they could claim was reconnaissance. After a good meal and a trip to the baths, they'd settled in to a night of drinking, card playing, dice, and eavesdropping at Zhelejov's wagoners' inn. They'd intended to stay the night before riding back to Nebakov in the morning, ostensibly to gather gossip and information from the locals that they couldn't have otherwise gleaned from their visit with von Bergow.

It'd been fun while it lasted. They'd been playing the part of a traveling noble and his body guard that evening. Ištván bemoaned his plight of having to visit a sick distant relative to anyone who would listen and then, after he'd had a cup or two of wine, to anyone who wouldn't. They'd tried their hand at a few dice games against each other, but stopped after they'd both rolled three consecutive busts. Knife throwing, checkers, and watching the locals beat each other up in the barn out back had proven similarly unsatisfying, and so they eventually settled on cards.

Not that much playing had actually been done. They'd spent the extra on a room with two beds and the plausible deniability they brought, which put them both in a certain mood. As the wine flowed Ištván had become more daring in his flirtations, boot teasingly sneaking up his calf under the table. Erik had barely been able to hold the his cards in front of him for how flustered and red his master's whispered plans had made him.

Ah but things always went to shit just as they were getting comfortable, Erik thought.

A duo of Zizka's men and a few of von Bergow's had wandered in damn near back to back. None that either knew particularly well, but all of whom they recognized. One of the guards, some idiot by the name of Mortimer, had been quick to spot Ištván. He'd waved and made to approach him just as a bandit prick my the name of Oslo caught sight of Erik.

So ride through the night it was for them. They'd abandoned the inn quickly so as not to be discovered, but Ištván had made sure to finish off his sixth cup of "just passable" wine before they did.

The cups must have been quite deep, Erik thought. Since he was taking so long to piss them all out.

"Are you done yet?" he called, only a little gruff.

"Quiet you," Ištván snapped back, echoed slightly in the overhanging trees. "It's dark as a witch's cunt, and I paid too much for these boots to risk pissing on them."

"You can't be that drunk."

"I said quiet! Bring the torch closer so I can see."

Erik took a few steps into the brush, holding the torch high while restraining his chuckle as best he could.

"What? Want me to come over and aim it for you?"

That got a reaction out of his master. The sort of head back cackle he did when something suitably devious was afoot. With the firelight closer Erik could see the way the laugh-lines on his cheeks and forehead creased with mirth. So annoying, how ingratiating it was.

"Maybe when we get back to camp," Ištván sighed. "If you behave."

"I always behave."

For whatever it was worth, his joke seemed to have flushed the remainder of the wine from his cock. Ištván was soon pulling up his braies and stumbling back through the grass.

He was unbalanced but still assured on his feet. Still, Erik held out an arm to guide him, holding the torch high so that he wouldn't falter on his path. When they returned to the horses he offered his hand, which Ištván took it with a sloppy smirk as he let himself be helped up like some noble maiden rather than a cutthroat mercenary. Erik remounted next, and they continued on down the road in comfortable silence

The night was warm and pleasant with the smell of barley on the wind, an easy road ahead, and the moon and stars still so bright above. It was the sort of weather where Erik wished desperately to race. He could so easily imagine how the wind would feel on his face, blowing through his hair. Feeling Stein strong, and powerful, and just as apt to run, charging across the countryside at his command. These were the sort of nights made for racing! The nights when Erik was grateful to have ever been given the chance to learn by his master.

Though unfortunately, his master did not look to share his mood. Several minutes had passed now of Ištván drunkenly wrestling with his chaperone, spitting the liripipe from his mouth, wrestling the dagged edges out of his face, and struggling to keep his hair tucked under it. Erik didn't bother hiding his laughter, and Ištván didn't bother holding back the slew of insults he returned. After a time, his lord declared the fight lost, yanking the damned thing off his head and shoving it into his saddle bag.

Erik watched Ištván shake out his hair, letting the wind toss about his sweaty curls with a look of exasperated relief. He admired how his features relaxed as he did, growing less sharp. Eyes half lidded, a smile playing at his lips instead of a frown. He looked so different under the moonlight from how he was in court!

It made something in Erik's chest flutter and his laughter ease into a gentle hum.

It was nice like this, when they were alone. No need for acting or formality. Ištván was no longer a noble or a mercenary, just Ištván. His face and body both simultaneously relaxing and animating. Freed from the watchful eyes of others to act as he pleased. No having to feign deference and restrain his laughter and biting remarks for the sake of polite company, or to guard his expression and bark his orders for the sake of vicious company. Still cautious, but not constantly vigilant and preoccupied with the machinations of war. He could laugh and joke, bow and flourish, speak as frankly or vulgarly as he wished. He would have made a fine troubadour, Erik thought, though he'd never say so aloud for the smack it might earn him.

He knew he must relax something like that too. Everyone did, didn't they? No longer having to play the soldier or bodyguard, he could tease Ištván all he liked, reply to his witty words with his own teasing remarks. No concern for how easily his face and skin gave away his feelings. No worry that his gaze might fall too softly on his lord, or his touch linger too long.

He wondered if he was like that now. Or perhaps when he slept. What did his lord see when racing along the back roads of the countryside with him?

Ah fuck it, he thought, why not?

It was just as he went to suggest a race, already prepped to spur Stein on for a sneaky lead, that Ištván raised his hand.

He slowed his horse and Erik, without order or question, did the same.

Ištván's gaze had gone suddenly sharp, his eyes focused on the road ahead. Erik followed it, squinting down the path ahead.

His sight had always been just a bit better than his own. At first he couldn't see what he saw. But then the wind blew and the moon disappeared behind a passing cloud. The world darkened, lit only by the torch in Erik's hand.

In the distance, at a crossroads, stood a tree. Just under it, the smallest glimmer, almost indistinguishable from the gentle blinking of summer fireflies.

"Does the watch come this far out?" Erik inquired.

"I can't see why they would."

The light did not move. In fact as they approached it became clearer that it was not one light but many. Firelight, small and dim. Candles.

There was a man amongst it, low to the ground.

The look between them was brief but knowing, even in the darkness, and even with the wine. A man alone at a crossroads at night could easily be waiting as part of a larger ambush or some similar plot. They'd done similar themselves countless times.

They slowed their horses even more, Erik kept his hand on his sword, and Ištván, either more paranoid or more inebriated, drew his.

Soon they heard talking.

It came from the man. Hunched over himself and head low to the ground with his hands clasped in front of him. He looked like a peasant. Messy hair and beard, dressed in dirty tunic and hose, smelling of a days worth of sweat on his back and shit on his boots.

He didn't notice them. If they wanted to, Erik thought, they could easily sneak up and slit his throat.

As they drew closer and the man continued his murmuring, voice pitching up at random as he spoke. He appeared to be praying over the candles, fervently so. Dozens of them were balanced along the branching roots of the grand tree, herbs, a few small wood figures, and what remained of a torn apart hare scattered between them. Some sort of ritual then?

Ištván motioned to Erik, and he raised his torch higher to better access the grizzly scene.

The flickering of the torch's light must have caught the stranger's attention. Or perhaps the gentle tread of their horse's hooves. Because he turned from his prayers then, finally realizing he was not alone.

He screamed of course, before falling back on his ass and into the roadside altar. They watched him flail in the dirt, knocking over idols and candles and kicking up dust as he tried to catch himself.

It made Ištván snort.

"You're here!" the man exclaimed, scrambling to sit up.

"Indeed I am," Ištván answered without hesitation. "And who might you be?"

The stranger, breathless from his own foolishness, attempted to collect himself. He was soon back on his knees, body taught as he looked up at them. There was a look of awe in his eyes Erik had only ever seen in men of the cloth as they prayed. It made him uncomfortable.

"I?" the man stammered. "I- I am but your humble servant my lord."

He bowed deeply, uncoordinated and almost falling over himself.

"Are you now?"

Ištván looked ever so subtly to Erik, brow piqued and smirk barely concealed.

"Y-yes my lord."

Ištván laughed and spurred his horse closer. The man scarpered back on his ass once more, looking up wide eyed and fearful as Niki and her rider loomed over him.

"You speak with such familiarity," Ištván pressed. "You must think yourself quite important."

"I-I am sorry!" The man stammered. "I did not mean to offend I simply-"

"What you meant means nothing to me."

"My-my deepest apologies sire. I only wish to address you in a manner that rightfully befits your station."

"Oh? My station? And what do you know of that?"

"I...." he swallowed. "I can claim no knowledge sire. I am but a novice."

"So you admit, as a novice, you forget yourself?"

"I-I..."

Erik held back a snicker. Ištván could turn any man's words into a challenge or insult. Sometimes he even did so intentionally. Erik had more than once been on the receiving end of it, especially as a young lad, and he didn't envy the poor bastard before him who now faced the same. Even so he couldn't help the swell of pride that came with watching his master's ability to lead a man to a gallows built by his own words.

Especially since they didn't know what the fuck he was actually talking about.

The man groveled before them, head in the dirt, hands held up clasped together and pleading.

"Forgive me please. I wish nothing but to be your humble servant! Your slave!"

"Hmmm," Ištván drawled. "Do you now?"

"Yes!" the man implored. "Anything you wish! I beg of you!"

The man was nearly prostrate, lowering himself further and further with each word, nose probably inhaling horse shit for how ground into the road it was.

"Some fine groveling," Ištván smiled. "Perhaps you do know who I am."

"Of course, of course!"

"Though I suppose even a novice such as yourself would."

"Of course sire."

"Well go on then. Say it!"

Ištván spat the last words in a sharp, pointed tone. It made the man flinch as he groveled. When he raised his head, only barely, it was with a quivering reverent fear. He could look at him only briefly, his gaze falling back into the dirt as if he was looking at the sun.

"You are," the man gulped. "You are the dark lord, prince of lies, and the ruler of hell and all it's demons sire. You are the devil himself."

Ištván raised his head, messy, sweat soaked locks falling to his shoulders as he looked down at the cringing peasant. The light of the torch catching like fire in the strands of his hair and the golden stitching of his purpoint.

He certainly looked the part of a fine devil, Erik thought.

Ištván looked to him over his shoulder, eyes impishly bright and as sharp as a knife, with a grin to match.

And oh didn't he have the smile of one too.

He was going to be insufferable about this, he thought fondly.

Ištván gave the slightest of bows, one hand to his chest and the other flourishing his sword at his side.

"Prince of lies I may be, but you speak the truth," he said with a raised bravado."You would do well not to forget it."

"Yes, I'm sorry" the man replied, not having once stopped his begging. "Of course my lord. Uh, my dark lord."

"Speak your name then! Who are you that would call upon me?"

"T-Tomas sire," the man babbled. "But some of my friends call me Tommy. Or...Toad"

"Toad!" Ištván laughed. "And you've earned that title, haven't you?"

"I...I confess I have."

"Well then rise, Toad."

Tomas looked away shamefully even as he straightened himself.

It'd be funny how quickly he collapsed under his lord's scrutiny, Erik thought, if it wasn't so embarrassing. He usually enjoyed watching others break under Ištván's cruelty. But there was a certain willingness to Tomas, the way he so quickly debased himself. It soured anything he might otherwise find amusing. Erik could only muster a snort in derision.

Tomas' flinched at the sound.

He turned, looking up at him with the same quivering fear as he did Ištván. But there was confusion and uncertainty too. As if Ištván had so blinded him he'd forgotten Erik's presence, if he'd even noticed him there to begin with.

So the man was stupid as well as pathetic. Fine by him. The oblivious were easier to kill.

"May I ask," Tomas said as he looked away. "That is...I did not think you would be accompanied by another."

Ištván snorted.

"A fool thinks many things."

"I apologize, I did not mean to presume-"

"And yet you did."

"But-b"

"No no, do not continue your interrogations, novice. Ask what you intended to."

He raised his eyes again, to Erik, to Ištván. Game in a snare that knew there was no escape.

"Then...I mean...With all respect to you, your lordship, who is he?"

"You speak of my companion?"

Ištván looked back at Erik.

"Do you not recognize him?" he motioned to him with a grin. "I thought him known well in these parts as of late."

"Not to me, sire."

"Do you lie to your master?"

"I do not sire! What I say is true! I have never seen him before!"

"I find it hard to believe."

"But it's the truth!"

"You know he has traveled the world over, seen more of creation than any other I have known."

Tomas merely shook his head. Ištván frowned, clearly displeased.

"You are certain you do not know him?"

"I swear I do not sir, on my life."

Ištván hummed and then, after a moment, chuckled. Tomas risked only the briefest glimpse up at him before returning his gaze to the dirt, shivering when next his master spoke.

"You will."

Ištván pulled at Niki's reigns, turning to look at Erik like a cat with a mouse.

"This is my loyal attendant," he declared. "My dearest friend and faithful champion! The one who follows behind me wherever I go upon this earth. Who reaps the virtuous and sinful alike, but brings only the damned to my kingdom's gates!"

He paused for dramatic effect.

"He is Death."

Erik had to hold back an immediate bark of laughter.

Oh? So he was going to be a part of his master's little play act? He was never much of a performer like Ištván, never good at acting or hiding his emotions, either in front of nobility or commoners.

But this was not court or a mercenary camp and there was a glee in the other's eyes he so rarely saw when he was called upon to play his parts on those stages.

Ah hell, Erik thought, why not?

He said nothing, glaring at the man with as much death-like severity as he could muster. The wind obligingly turned, shaking the branches of the tree above them like the rattle of bones. Tomas, painfully unaware and still on his knees, recoiled into himself.

"But we are not here to talk about him," Ištván continued, turning back to his prey. "Not yet at least."

He looked down at the beggar once more, a disgusted sneer on his lips.

"Why have you summoned me here?"

Tomas seemed unable to talk, perhaps paralyzed by the realization of what he'd done and who he had summoned.

Erik took his cue.

"Speak!" he boomed as deep and low as he could, his voice echoing over the hills and valleys around them.

Tomas flinched, raising his hands in defense and ducking his head in fear.

"Please sire. My lords I-" he stammered. "I need- That is, I mean to request a favor. Your favor my lord."

He tried to steady himself as best as one could on his knees.

"My wife. She is ill. Fell ill almost a year ago. She grows wane with each passing month. The local physician was unable to do anything for her. The herbalist as well, even the men of the church."

Tomas' voice began to tremble as he spoke. Ištván was unmoved, as was Erik.

"I've spent almost every groschen we had to try and cure her. But still she grows weaker by the day. She is nothing but skin and bones and she can barely eat. And the sickness turns her cruel. The things she says to me. To others. Friends and family alike she curses and attacks!"

He swallowed back tears.

"I do not recognize her my lord. I request, plead only for her health to return. I'll do anything you ask of me if it might make her well again."

Ištván looked at Erik, clearly unimpressed. Which was good, because Erik wasn't impressed either.

"Such a high favor you ask of me," he sighed. "Presume of me really, since you've wasted my time summoning me here."

Tomas curled into himself. He was crying now.

"And why should I save you your wife?" Ištván continued. "Be she wicked as you say I will surely have another soul to claim at her passing."

"No..."

"Why allow her to live, so that she might confess her sins? Devote the rest of her life to your putrid little god?"

"Then I shall go in her stead, sire!" Tomas hurled himself forward, groveling again on hands and knees.

"Hmmm, a likely story."

Tomas shook, looking between them, desperate. Helpless. Ištván only looked down at him with disdain.

God it made Erik's heart race.

Ištván was nowhere in his element more than when he was tormenting some poor soul at his mercy. With an executioner or with his words it didn't matter. There was a pleasure to it. A sadistic enjoyment of the mind and body comparable only to a cat with an injured mouse. And yes there was a value in how he could wring information from others, a price he could always demand for his ability. But Erik knew too, that there was artistry. Skill. Always a lesson to be taught or lecture to be had at the end of it. A talent brought about by the simple genuine enjoyment.

It felt good to be so in control and to lord so much power over another. To watch Ištván be the one controlling and the one with power. He wanted to spend the rest of his life ensuring he always would be.

Even in times as ridiculous as this.

"Please! I'll do anything you ask! Tomas pleaded.

"As they all say."

"I swear it!"

"A sworn oath means nothing to me."

"Please! Anything! Whatever it is I will do it! Steal, kill, rape whatever you ask!"

Ištván snorted at the mans pleading, as he pulled at Niki's reigns to turn to Erik again.

"'Anything', he says."

"Not a soul's walked the earth that hasn't said the same when their time comes." he smirked in response.

"I can not think of a single one!"

"He must think himself quite the exception."

Ištván laughed, teeth flashing like wolf fangs.

This playacting nonsense was turning out to be rather fun, Erik thought.

"And yet...I am nothing if not indulgent."

Again he looked down at the pitiful sight before them, taunting in his amusement.

"If you wish to gain my favor, you must earn it," he said. "Prove to me that you have renounced your god."

"I do!" Tomas cried, rising to his knees. "I renounce him! The lord god, Jesus, every saint in the heavens and every angle beside!"

The man's words hung heavy in the air. If Erik had ever been devout, perhaps they would have shaken him. As it was, he could only find them pitiful.

Ištván at least, seemed to find them amusing, gloved hands clapping in mock applause.

"Beautifully spoken," he giggled.

But his clapping stopped, the mirth fading quickly with it. He leaned down, face closer to the beggar than it had yet been that night. From there his countenance must still have been obscured in darkness, with only the light from Erik's torch to halo around his master's head.

When Ištván spoke, it was in a voice much lower. Crueler.

"But I require much more than that."

Tomas was crying now, hands twisting in the dirt, face contorted in anguish.

"Anything."

Ištván outstretched his arm, a murky swath of black that cut even into the darkness of the night, the glimmering gold of his purpoint like hellfire as he motioned to the distant east.

"There is a monastery, past the rocks of Apollonia" Ištván sighed with annoyance. "The brothers there are of a most licentious lot. They glutton themselves on rich wine and food, use donations to buy themselves fine clothes and jewelry, and fuck each other in their (alcoves) where they think no one either see or hear it."

He looked back to Tomas, chin held high, smirking.

"They are as damned as any man who walks this earth. Deliciously sinful."

"Sire?"

"Burn the monastery to the ground. Send the wicked souls therein into the clutches of my champion and the embrace of my dominion."

Tomas mouth dropped, eyes wide and body shaking.

"Then and only then, will I grant you what you ask."

"M-my lord...You wish me to kill them?"

"Of course! And why shouldn't you as well?" he raised an eyebrow. "They've certainly not helped you or your wife. Or even the people of Trosky, with how they sequester themselves away. Nothing will be lost should they all perish in the halls of their hypocrisy, as they deserve."

He straightened himself with a sigh.

"But neither fate nor luck are mine to command. Perhaps you will not catch them all in their rats nest, so I will accept the destruction of the monastery itself and whoever you may catch in the process."

Tomas blinked, frozen. It was as if Ištván's words had paralyzed him, limbs stiff to his chest and face unmoving except for the sweat and tears that dripped down it. The mere idea of such a blasphemous act, the reality of what sacrilege he had offered, and the desecration he'd been asked to deliver in kind.

Erik found the man's hesitation infuriating.

"But, my lord..."

"Yes?"

"I....I do not know if I can..."

"Oh? I thought you said you would steal, rape, and kill on my command?"

"Yes but I...I..."

Ištván waved dismissively at the man.

"It matters not to me. If you do not wish to burn them, then you may seek them out to consecrate your wife's grave."

"No..."

"No?" Erik chimed in. "You must think your wife far more hale than you lead on, if you would refuse such an opportunity to save her."

Tomas' head spun to him, but Erik spoke before he could.

"Tell me, is it that you think I will not be able to run her down in her hour of passing? Or that you do not value her presence upon this earth so dearly as you claimed?"

He tried to keep his words fancy. Lofty even. Like Ištván did when he spoke to the king. It wasn't hard. He often mimicked his lord, in speech and mannerisms, when left to deal with the nobility on his own. He'd always been grateful to have such a example to pattern himself after.

But he also did not want to sound too much like him now. Because he was not Ištván or even Erik. He was Death. And he tried to sound like what he thought death would sound like. Cold, almost bored. Lacking in wit or charm but sure and unshakeable. He had always imagined death a woman. That the taker of all life mirroring the bringers of it. And so he imagined Death patient, yet chiding. Wrathful in the face of defiance yes, but soothing in the face of pain. And speaking always in knowing tone, gently mocking with the inevitability of her will, like a mother calling her child to bed.

"I know your wife Tomas," he continued. "She has become quite familiar to me in the past months."

"Please..."

"Her hair has started to fall from her head has it not? Or have you been too busy begging every medicine woman and charlatan around to notice?"

"No-"

"Do you wish to know how long she has left? Months? Weeks? Her hour draws near Tomas."

He leveled his eyes at the man, lowering his voice as his master had.

"And it is much closer than you think."

Tomas was crying now, near blubbering and pitifully so. He brought his hands to his face as he let out a sob, unable to muster even an ounce of dignity at the choice he face.

Not too bad a job at playing Death, Erik hoped.

"I..." Tomas whispered, lowering his head. "I shall do as you bid my lord."

The man shook as he rose slowly to his feet. His face pale, beard soaked in tear, sweat, and snot. He did not look at them.

Beside him, Ištván hummed, effecting a boredom that wasn't there.

"Then I shall await the completion of our covenant." he said coolly.

"Yes my lord."

"And do not think to warn the priests before you set the fire. Do not attempt to save them from what fate decides."

"I will know." Erik said flatly.

Tomas flinched, still unable to look at his new lords. His legs shook beneath him, his hands clenched his tunic.

What a fool, Erik thought.

"Go!"

His voice echoed across the land once more. Tomas tripped over himself as he ran from them, down the road and towards the damnation which he so desperately desired.

They watched him go in silence, the sound of the man's harried footfalls fading, replaced by the songs of crickets and frogs on the wind.

But inevitably they looked to each other.

And how could silence remain then?

They burst into laughter.

It echoed raucous and cruel over the hills and valleys, carried on the wind like the shrieks of the devils and the damned they pretended to be. The clouds too were carried, the sky opening up to moon and star light, as if their game of play pretend had pleased them all.

After several minutes, when they could both breath again, it was predictably Ištván who was able to speak first.

"Oh now that was a fine entertainment," he gasped. "I haven't had so much fun fucking with the peasantry in ages!"

"What a bellend." Erik was barely able to reply past his own heaving breaths.

"Unbelievable! The absolute buffoon!"

"I can't believe you were able to keep a straight face!"

"I can't either!"

"Almost makes up for the inn."

"Oh fuck the inn I'd sleep in the dirt for the night if I got to do that again!" Ištván breathed, trying to calm himself as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "Thank the virgin Mary's holy tits I pissed before that I think I would have soiled myself."

"The horse too!"

"It would have been a disgrace!"

"Quite the devil you would have made then," Erik sighed. "The lord of lies and tavern gutters."

Ištván broke into laughter once more and then, well, so did Erik. Because how could he not when he saw his lord and master so happy?

"Stop stop you bastard I still might actually do it!"

"It's alright sir I think dear Tomas did all the pissing himself judging by his pant legs."

"No! You jest!"

"Yes it's the truth! When he was running! Can't you smell it?"

Ištván folded forward, grasping helplessly at Niki' as he was lost to another fit of giggling. And Erik, ever loyal, was happy to be lost with him.

It was a timeless moment, they way any such moment between lovers was. The wind, cooler now in the later hour, carried their cackling for as long as they gave it. Each new breeze soothing, stealing away their breath and cooling their lungs until eventually, minutes or hours later, they calmed.

"Do you actually think he'll do it?" Erik asked with a sigh and a smile.

"Oh who even knows," Ištván replied, waving absently. "Maybe he'll get cold feet on his way there."

"Aye, or he'll get caught."

"Well we're to be here for awhile, a public execution could give us some excitement."

"And if he actually succeeds?" Erik smirked. "You gonna cure his wife?"

Again Ištván's laugh rang through the midnight air, beautiful as birdsong in the morning.

"If he succeeds I might just give him enough groschen for a proper physician," he giggled. "It'd be improper for a lord to not pay his servants."

"I'll be sure to act suitably disappointed in my lost quarry." Erik grinned.

"Oh yes of course!" Ištván beamed at him. "You played an excellent Death my boy, I commend you!"

"Aye, was only because I had such a good Devil to act beside."

Ištván bowed with a flourish of his hand, preening under the praise.

It took a few minutes more before they were steadied, but when they were Ištván set his sights back onto the road ahead of them.

"Well my loyal companion, shall we continue on?" he asked.

"Whatever you wish my lord." Erik nodded. "Your faithful champion shall follow you wherever you go."

Ištván giggled, finally sheathing his sword and spurring Niki on once more.

"Fine night out," he said with a look that was all too knowing and far too fond. "Would you enjoy a little race?"

Erik smiled.

"I certainly would. Besides, hell's throne is probably getting quite cold without you."

Again they broke into laughter once more,their horses breaking into a gallop, their voices shimmering bright like the stars above. Just the devil and death on a moonlit road.