by J. C. Owens
Aidan whimpered, squirmed against him, fingers restlessly wandering over his back as though uncertain what to do.
So much to teach him. The thought made Torin almost whimper himself. Virgins had never appealed to him. He had valued experience and an equality in his lovers. Amadan and he had experimented outside of their relationship when they were younger, until they had become closer, exclusive.
He froze for a long moment, waiting for the inevitable guilt to rise up, the very reason he had had nothing but sporadic, one night relationships since Amadan’s death.
This time, there was nothing.
The feelings this young man engendered in him were so different, Aidan himself so far from what his former lover had been, that it seemed acceptable in a way he would not have expected.
For this moment, there was no guilt, no worry, only heat and want.
Relief poured over him and he pulled Aidan closer, renewing the kiss with fervor, his hand sliding back within the material to close around the cock that pulsed against his fingers. Aidan arched against him, moaning into the kiss then moved an uncertain hand to the ties of Torin’s own pants.
He thrust forward, encouraging the action, and let out a sigh of bliss as he was freed. Those long, beautiful fingers curled around his erection, sword calluses rubbing deliciously over the tender skin.
Aidan pumped him slowly, making him hum contentedly in the back of his throat. He broke the kiss and laid his forehead against his lover’s, sharing breath. He had to focus, to remember that his own hand had a job to do, had pleasure to give.
Aidan’s cock felt so good under his touch, hard and hot, yet the skin was so exquisitely soft. He curled his fingers around its girth, hearing Aidan’s sharp gasp in his ear, feeling need trembling through the body he held so close to his own.
He flexed his wrist, slowly stroking the hot foreskin down, feeling the mushroom head free itself into open air.
Aidan’s hips flexed, his hold on Torin faltering for a moment.
Torin let his thumb trail over the edges of the head, tracing its contours, feeling moisture pearl upon his skin as he touched the welling slit.
Aidan twitched, his fingers spasming upon Torin’s cock, before he closed his grip once more and began to pump with more vigor.
Torin drew in a sharp breath, his lips moving soundlessly, hips flexing almost without his knowledge, the wound giving angry jolts of pain.
He traced down over Aidan’s testicles, feeling how high and tight they felt, knowing the young man would not hold out for long.
He let his own body go, hardly feeling the sharp twang of his wound. He placed his boots flat on the wagon floor and began to thrust up into his lover’s grip. He sped up his own touch, hearing the sharp, labored gasps that escaped Aidan’s lips, his own hips circling helplessly.
Aidan froze in place, a low keening in his throat, which cut off abruptly as though he had thrust his free hand into his mouth in an attempt to muffle his cry of pleasure.
The feeling of hot moisture spilling over his hand sent Torin over his own precipice, and he choked out a groan of completion, feeling his own come spatter over his chest.
Should have taken my shirt off, he thought dazedly, the aftershocks coursing through him in waves that made him utterly helpless, stealing his strength and mind equally.
He felt his hand taken and pulled upwards, and then the sensation of a hot, wet tongue tentatively lapping at his fingers.
He shuddered, the image of Aidan tasting his come for the first time hot enough to make him want to come all over again.
“Good?” he croaked, wishing he could see.
Aidan hummed, wordless. Torin blinked into the darkness and grinned, a wide and foolish joy rising in his chest.
Chapter Six
They reached Whileton two days later, halting at the heavily guarded gates. They could hear Nyton’s cheerful voice, and seconds later, the hay was scraped back, the tarpaulin was rolled away, and they could see the sky once more.
They blinked at the sudden light, momentarily blinded.
There was a brief silence, then an incredulous voice.
“General?”
Torin smiled, brushed a few wisps of hay out of his hair. “The same.” He squinted. “Manley?”
“Yes, sir. Dear gods… The men, Lord Paulsten, your companions, they will be…”
Manley, captain of the watch, stoic and known for his cold demeanor, choked off the words. Torin’s vision cleared, and he could see tears in the man’s eyes and felt a surge of emotion of his own.
This was real. They had made it back.
He glanced at Aidan, whose eyes were fixed upon the guards with a troubled expression, no doubt remembering his former treatment.
Torin reached out and grasped his hand. Drawing him close, he rose to his feet.
Manley raised an eyebrow for a moment, then returned his joyful gaze to Torin, reaching out to help him slide cautiously down from the wagon. Torin turned, offering his lover the same courtesy. Aidan landed at his side awkwardly, stiff from the enforced inactivity. He curled his arm over the boy’s shoulder, clapping Manley on the arm.
“Damn good to be back. Aidan here helped free me. Make sure everyone knows that. I want him treated well.”
Manley bowed, a smile spreading across is lips. He called forth several of the other guards, ensuring that Torin would have escort across town to the camp on the other side.
Torin turned to Nyton and his son, shaking their hands. “We will celebrate this night, and you will be there. I want everyone to know what you have done for me, for all of us.”
Nyton flushed, taking off his hat to twist it between nervous fingers. “I don’t know, my lord. We are not really dressed for something like that. Don’t really know what to do around fancy people.”
“You are worth a great deal, my friend. Fancy or not. Clothes are not a mark of greatness. Share my meal with me. It would mean a lot. Find your eldest son, you said he was posted to the army? Bring him with you.”
The farmer glanced at his son, who nodded eagerly then turned back to Torin and bowed. “We will accept, General, gratefully.”
Torin smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “It is I who is grateful. Manley, ensure that these two fine men are seen to. They saved our lives with a bravery and dedication that must be acknowledged.”
The captain bowed and called his second in command forward. “It will be seen to, my lord. I have an escort ready to get you to where Lord Paulsten is staying.”
Torin nodded. Keeping his arm around Aidan’s shoulders, he followed the escort into the town itself.
Progress was painfully slow. First of all, his leg was throbbing angrily as he struggled to conceal the limp.
Then men turned, recognized him, and crowded round with tears and joy, reaching out to touch him as if to ensure he was real.
Aidan cringed into him, obviously trying to remain calm, but overwhelmed by the crush of people, the press of bodies into personal space.
Torin was feeling a little overwhelmed himself, grateful when their escort began to restore order, ensuring that the two men were granted a small space for respite as they walked.
He had never realized how much his presence mattered, how much his people looked up to him. It was humbling and terrifying at the same time. The faith they had in him, the hope in their eyes. They hardly knew him, and yet, his title, his bloodright, and apparently his mere presence, gave them reason to follow his lead.
Never had responsibility pressed upon him quite so heavily. He pulled Aidan more tightly against him, taking as much comfort as he gave.
“Torin!” Paulsten’s voice, strong and wonderfully familiar, sounded over the ruckus, and then he was there, long red hair blowing in the wind, striding through the masses, who parted at his coming with low bows and much respect.
Torin released Aidan to throw his arms around his friend, feeling tears of his own finally rising. They had grown up together, closer than brother
s, and to be parted had been agony of its own.
“I killed them.” Paulsten’s voice was muffled against his shoulder, strong arms holding him tightly. “I found out it was Wilhilm and Graith. I executed them on the spot. I am sorry. I know the right was yours to see them punished, but I could not control myself. I lost you.” A sob broke from his friend, more emotion than Paulsten was prone to. Torin own grip tightened.
“You saved me the trouble, my friend. Only that. I am glad you did not stay your hand on my behalf.”
Paulsten shook, held him harder. Torin could feel dampness against the side of his face, their tears mingling. “I am back, Paulsten. I am back, safe. Let it all go now.”
Paulsten leaned back finally, grey eyes wet and swollen, then smacked him on the shoulder. “Don’t you ever do anything like that again. Bastard. Had me worried half to death. Should have known you would find a way out on your own before we could get there. So bloody independent, never wait for help.”
Torin shook him, laughing now. “I had help this time, my friend.” He pulled Aidan forward, his possessive hold showing all and sundry what this young man meant to him now, what his role in Torin’s life was going to be.
Paulsten stared for a moment, then he grinned, pulling Aidan into a powerful hug that made the younger man yelp.
“We have you back too. Damn, the gods are on our side. We were coming to rescue you too, boy, but apparently you and Torin are too much alike. I should not have worried, could have just sat back with some wine and left you to it.”
Torin elbowed him, feeling a surge of joy at their bantering. So familiar and so very precious. He was back where he needed to be, back with those he loved.
He glanced at Aidan’s trepidant expression, and kissed the young man’s temple.
“Aidan is worth his weight in gold. Without him, I would not have made it.” He hoped his words made the rounds of gossip swiftly. He wanted Aidan safe, and not having to suffer prejudice any further than he already had.
Aidan pulled back from them both and tried to straighten his clothes with self conscious tugs, flushing deeply.
Paulsten ruffled his already tousled hair, making the younger man glare with outrage. “You are together then. Good.”
Aidan stared at the other man, flummoxed at the casual acceptance of the barely born relationship, while Torin grinned, proud.
Aidan was his. He just had to demonstrate that to all concerned, especially the boy himself.
* * *
Aidan watched the festivities with wide eyes, shifting uncomfortably from time to time as people stared at him with intruding fascination. He was seated to Torin’s left, a place of great honor, and the way the general kept leaning to speak to him, served him tidbits of food with his fingers, made their relationship all too public for Aidan’s comfort.
He felt no shame, only confusion and fear.
There would be those who remembered all too well how he had come to them, and were unlikely to forgive or forget that beginning. Not to mention that he had no idea how far this was going to go. Was this some whim on Torin’s part? A short fling that would end swiftly and be forgotten even faster?
The uncertainty of this all, the strangeness, gnawed at him.
He had no experience to guide him, no ability to understand relationships, or indeed the political climate that would now surround him at the general’s side. Book learning, yes, he had plenty of that, but was it readily transferable to the present, to reality?
He did not know.
To go from relative obscurity, to this intense attention, wore on his nerves. So many people, their focus on him, judging, weighing his value and worth. Intimidating to say the least.
He could eat very little, despite his hunger, and only picked at the food, his stomach in knots. He saw the servers set down the remaining food on trays to the side of the room and vowed to try to take some with him, to eat in peace later on, if peace was ever to be had again.
He was learning that to be at Torin’s side, was to be in the public eye constantly. The feeling was not at all comfortable.
Down the hall, he could see Nyton and his son, seated beside another man whose resemblance to Nyton was quite marked. His oldest son no doubt. The joy in their faces at each other’s presence, the way they easily interacted with those around them, much laughter to be had, made him wistful. That was what it must be to have a family then…
The night wore on, and Torin rose to go to speak to people. He invited Aidan along, but he was too tired, too intimidated at that point, and he waved him off with a small smile.
Paulsten, on Torin’s right, rose to walk with his friend, supporting him and the injured leg. Several of the general’s companions followed, laughing with each other and Torin.
“So you certainly landed in clover, didn’t you, boy?” The tone held no true humor, only a subtle bite.
Aidan looked to his left, to the sole remaining companion. The man stared back and he struggled to remember names so as not to offend. Lord Cermun. That was it. He considered a cautious smile, but those cold blue eyes, so condemning, gave no quarter. This one was spoiling for a fight.
Aidan rose to his feet, settling his own expression into neutrality, an ability he had learned only too well.
“It would depend, my lord, on what you consider clover, wouldn’t it?” He turned away, strolling to the south wall of the hall, quietly considering the portraits there along with several respectable pieces of artwork.
From the corner of his eye, he watched, wary, but Lord Cermun only rose to his feet and stormed off in the opposite direction.
Aidan let out a shuddering breath, then turned his full attention to the art, hoping that people would ignore him, give him space, at the very least suspend hostilities for one night.
He walked slowly down the wall. Some of the art was very good, and he mused over the artist’s names, wondering if they were well known in Ceratas. At least the pieces had survived the invasion intact. The memory of Amadan’s room, the artwork vandalized and rotting, saddened him greatly. So much lost… So much he had never had the chance to see or experience.
Aidan blinked, startled, as he came upon the next framed piece, a very large portrait. Familiar.
He drew in a sharp breath. He had seen this in a book. The royal family. He had studied it for a long time, staring at Amadan in fascination, and then at the youngest boy, Aidan, his name sake, trying to understand what others saw in him that resembled the dead prince.
Here, in a larger form, it was startlingly clear what they had been speaking of. He stared into bright green eyes the mirror of his own, and found he could not breathe. His fingers twitched with the need to touch, as if the boy were real, as if…
The prince was perhaps five in the portrait, so this would have been painted perhaps a year before his death. The shape of his face, the way he tilted his head just so… Even his hair, falling in a part in exactly the same place as Aidan’s. He felt a chill run over him, and stepped back, wrapping his arms around himself.
From a greater distance, he could look at the whole picture and he stared, frozen in place.
The king sat on his throne, handsome face stern, but with a faint twinkle in his green eyes that beguiled the viewer. His long silver hair, the sign of his royal blood, was bound formally in a long ornate braid that lay over his left shoulder and down into his lap. One arm draped over to the left, grasping his queen’s hand where she sat in her own throne, the youngest prince on her lap. Curled at their feet, leaning back against them in obvious love, sat three girls. From what he remembered researching, they ranged in age from seventeen down to ten. All beautiful, with laughing eyes, two with green and one with brown, all with the famous silver hair and open expressions.
To the right stood the crown prince, leaning against his father’s throne with casual elegance, his face serious, his brown eyes sharp and bright with intelligence, silver braid over his left shoulder, mirroring the king. His father’s hand was on his arm, as
though to draw attention to the fact that this was his heir, the future of the realm.
Aidan viewed every detail with hungry intensity, then switched his gaze to the queen. So beautiful, so regal. She did not have the color of the royal line. Her hair was like spun gold, piled artfully atop her head, the crown nestled in its embrace. Her expression was calm, regal, but there was a warmth there, a softness that stared out from her brown eyes.
Aidan half raised his hand to touch, emotion rising in his chest…
“This was the official portrait, copied for every city, every town, to display. I am surprised this one survived. The invaders targeted them, destroyed them first before all else.” Torin’s voice was painfully neutral.
Aidan snatched his hand back, flushing.
“It is beautiful,” he managed, proud of the steadiness of his tone.
“They were beautiful. Each of them in their own way. Our king was a great leader, powerful, yet with mercy in his soul. He was much loved, as were they all. Never would we have believed…” Torin’s voice cracked, and he drew a deep, painful breath.
Aidan reached over and took his hand, gently cradling it in his own, trying to send what comfort he could.
He stood silently at the general’s side, as they both stared at the past.
“You were fortunate to have known them.” Aidan sounded wistful even to himself.
“I was.” Aidan glanced at him, seeing sad eyes fixed upon the crown prince. Torin blinked, seemed to come back to the present. He squeezed Aidan’s fingers. “Now you see why you were chosen to be the young prince.”
Aidan shivered as he looked at the portrait, meeting those green eyes once more. “I only saw a passing resemblance before, in the smaller prints, but here—it is uncanny.” And very disturbing.
Torin glanced down at him, his gaze roving over his features. Then he leaned over to kiss him, perhaps sensing his unease.
“It is uncanny, and I cannot help but wonder if you are related somehow, to have such similar features. I have several historians working on lineage, trying to find out where you came from.”
