Ylv was there but he did not challenge anyone. His knuckles were covered in red wounds; dried blood covered the gashes in his skin. The sight of them made Nethel excited. He instantly felt ashamed, but he was excited nevertheless. The Prince watched Ylv as he played dice by the hearth. Watched the powerful figure, the way he moved.
He was not surprised, but taken aback with the power of his own fear when the green gaze of the other sought his own. A shiver ran down his back and he felt caught somehow, trapped like a rabbit. He hated that feeling instantly. He was never hunted, never the rabbit. He might be lithe and slim of build, but he was no coward, no victim. He was a master and a prince. A hunter and a warrior.
Ylv's gaze darkened, as if he had read the Prince's thoughts. Then he broke the stare and grabbed the dice off the table.
Prince Nethel fled again, with his heart in his throat. Angry and humiliated. Rejected, perhaps. Disappointed, most certainly. He felt confused and helpless, still a bit like that rabbit in the trap. At the castle he threw open the door to his chambers and grabbed a dried apple from a wooden tray. With an oath he threw it against the wall. It made a bumping sound but left no mark on the tapestry. The apple landed on the floor unharmed. Prince Nethel gave a bitter laugh. Not even an apple could he harm! He felt utterly weak and useless tonight. It was as if the green gaze of the fighter had put him in his place somehow, drained him of his confidence.
He was in love, and he knew that he was. Why else would he lose his dignity so easily; why else would it matter what the other man thought? No other foolishness could make him behave and feel the way that he did. It was so silly, all of it. Nethel grabbed a dusty bottle off the table by the fire and called for his servant to bring a glass. He spent the rest of the evening with his friends and the stupid dogs, listening to the sitar players, while his mind drifted and his heart yearned. His blood boiled with this insanity that had taken him. Nobody asked him why he was quiet. Likely they did not even notice.
The next night, Ylv fought and Nethel thought it pure bliss. He did not come in his trousers like the first time, but he did when he arrived back at the castle. He bucked on the floor by his bed and made the sweetness come forth with a few sure strokes, spraying his hand and the rug on the floor with his semen. The power of the waves made him dizzy and he had to lean his forehead against the wooden bed frame for a moment, just to calm himself down enough to rise without faltering. His hands shook and his skin was sticky with cooling sweat.
It was an obsession. It was love! Every night, Prince Nethel rode to the village. To the Green Lady's Inn and, later, the Black Swan. Sometimes Ylv fought, and on those nights Nethel was ecstatic with joy. On others, he did not. Then the Prince sat close by his table, watching him drink and play dice. Sometimes their gazes met. Ylv would smile and Prince Nethel would flee.
He felt raw and open like a flesh-wound. Insecure in a sense he had never imagined. Like a newborn baby, no master of his own heart, when faced with this huge man. He could not imagine himself speaking to him. But one night, after a fight, Ylv caught him in the flight. Nethel had chosen not to ride this time, so he was easy to find and corner as he hastened through the night dark streets.
"You shouldn't walk alone on nights like these." The voice was easily recognizable and made the Prince stop blank, without reaching for his sword. The voice had come from an alley to his right, and now Ylv came wandering out from it, slowly approaching on silent feet.
"Don't you want to talk with me, my Prince?" The fighter cocked his head.
Prince Nethel shifted on the spot. His mouth felt dry and his head spun. The scent of blood and man wrapped around him like a shroud when the blond man came closer. Nethel moaned and then he blushed. His eyes fluttered shut and he took a few deep breaths, trying to regain control of himself. Think of something to say. A way to react.
He startled and his eyes flew open again when he suddenly felt a touch on his chin. Ylv cupped his jaws with strong fingers. His thumb caressed the Prince's skin.
"You will come when you are ready," Ylv said quietly. "And you will come, I am sure of that." His lips parted in a smile.
Nethel thought of clever replies. Why would he, a prince, seek out a man like Ylv? What made the stranger think he could speak to a royal like that? But the words died before they reached his tongue. There was no room for lies in this. No need for pretence. Ylv already knew.
"Will you wait for me?" Nethel asked him.
"I came for you!" Ylv replied. Then he let him go, just like that. His gentle hold on Nethel's jaw was gone and he quickly retreated back to the shadows. Nethel shook with both fear and joy, not quite able to believe what had befallen him. He felt like a virgin on her first ball, and a doomed man with his head on the execution block all at once. It was a peculiar stir of mixed emotions. His member grew hard in his trousers and his veins throbbed so he could feel them in his fingertips, rapid and hard. But most of all he was excited. Ylv was waiting. That was the most important thing. Ylv was waiting for him...
Back at the castle, he looked in the mirror and saw red fingerprints on his chin. He traced them with his own fingertips. He did not wash but went to bed with them. A strange man's blood on his chin.
***
The days of love's first passion came abruptly to an end when Ylv underestimated his own strength one night when fighting outside the tavern. Nethel was there; he saw the man Ylv fought fall to the pure snow in a spray of blood. Heard his skull crack when he hit the icy ground.
Some said he was sick and should not have fought at all. That he would easily fall because he was weak. Nethel did not know what to think; Ylv was a dangerous man.
The opponent was dead. His head had burst like a ripe fruit, spraying the crowd with blood and gore. Ylv did not seem to care. He licked the blood of his fingers as usual, then turned his back on the corpse and went inside.
The city guard picked him up the same night. The bar maid said he was waiting for them, ready with his belongings packed. Some were disappointed; they would have expected him to fight, or to flee. Some had even anticipated the fight, eager to see the city guard's blood flow on the street. They did not understand why he so willingly let himself be chained. He had no conscience; he had proven as much during his stay. He had shown no mercy during his fights, never a sign of regret, though his victims were severely wounded. He must be tired of life, some said. Ready to die and pay for his sins at last.
Nethel was devastated. He too would rather have seen Ylv flee far from the city, even if it meant he would never see him again. The King would have the murderer executed, of that Nethel had no doubt. Such were the laws, and fighting for money was illegal in the first place. Neither had Prince Nethel done much to be in his father's good graces. A plea for mercy from his son would likely just make the old man more stubborn. He had never quite come to terms with the fact that his son was so very unlike himself.
The trial would be swift and public. The executioner's axe would be polished and sharpened so the edge would cut through the sinew and bone like butter. The crowd would cheer again, Nethel was sure. They would cheer for Ylv's death this time, become followers of justice and law for the day. But Nethel knew that this time, he would not feel excitement at the sight of blood. He would feel pain.
So Nethel would come to him at last then, would he not? It should have pained him more to leave the castle. To jeopardize the crown and his own life. Yet it did not. Ylv had become so important. Such a fire. A fever poisoning his blood. What was a kingdom to this starburst of passion? A scepter to this feeling of being completely and utterly alive?
He could not deny this calling to his blood.
He could not let Ylv die.
***
Prince Nethel arrived at the prison gates before dawn the morning following the arrest. Determination and worry tumbled in his mind as he unsheathed his sword and approached the old stone building. He had not taken anything with him from the castle: no clothes or jewelry, no extra weapons. Now he th
ought that it might have been rash. He was not expecting to go back. There was no time to craft clever plans and bribe the guards to have Ylv sent off to somewhere safe. By this act, Nethel became a traitor. There was no turning back. Yet the thoughts of his betrayal to the kingdom were of less concern when he knocked on the solid wood of the gates. Never had it meant less to him to have a crest on his shield, a mark of royalty on his finger, glittering blue between pearls and silver. The ring of the crown prince. Now Prince Nethel wondered what it was worth in gold.
The guard opened the gate and obviously startled upon seeing the Prince. Then the fat face gained an expression of suspicion. It was no secret in the city that this new prisoner was a favorite of the Prince. Someone he regularly came to see fight and put bets on. It was a silent agreement of centuries: the royalty said naught about the ongoing at the taverns, and the people never gave away the mighty's secrets. It worked well as long as nothing went wrong, as it had the night before, with the dead man's skull split open. The laws survived in this void of silence, and the Prince's attention had likely added to Ylv's mysterious reputation. Doubtless, it had been much spoken of, this peculiar bond between the next King and the strange savage. The prison guard's expression left no doubt about it.
"You came to see the killer, my lord?" The prison guard bowed and stepped back.
"Yes, yes I did..." The Prince stepped inside the courtyard. A loud scream sounded from the west wing, where the cells were. It made Nethel sick with worry. "You have not taken him to be questioned, have you?" He thought about the glowing iron, the stretch bench, and the copper nails.
"No...no," the guard shook his head vigorously. "He is still in wait. He even got a meal." The guard smiled with rotten teeth. "This way, your highness!" He lifted a lantern off an iron hook on the wall and gestured for Nethel to follow. The fat man's keys rustled by his side as he walked across the courtyard. His clothes were of worn linen and he smelled sourly of stale wine.
They passed a few guards on their way. Soldiers all, standing still like statues with their hands on the sword hilts; just their glittering gazes gave them away in he dark as they curiously followed the Prince's silhouette across the open space, following a naked trail in the thin layer of freshly fallen snow. Finally they arrived at a small wooden door. The guard lifted the heavy ring of keys from his belt and quickly picked the right one and inserted it into the lock. The door slid open without a sound and they entered a narrow corridor that smelled of water and decay. A rat crossed the circle of light from their lantern on tiny legs and Nethel shuddered under his black woollen cloak as the icy coldness of the corridor came creeping into his core, slithering against the marrow of his bones.
"This way," the guard repeated, and his voice echoed between the walls. His chubby finger pointed further down the corridor. The cells were closed with thick, wooden doors. A small opening was set in each door, covered by bars. A bearded man looked at them from one of the black squares with a hazy gaze. He blinked slowly, as if drunk, but said nothing. There were about twenty cells in this corridor, and next to the end the guard finally stopped.
"Here he is," he said cheerfully, and picked another key from his ring. Nethel began to feel restless. His mouth went dry and sweat broke on his skin. "Are you here to see him, or to question him?" the guard asked, and again he gave Nethel one of those suspicious looks.
"Neither," Nethel muttered, and lifted his sword in the air. With a sudden burst he hit the side of the man's fat neck with the flat side of the blade. The man staggered with a surprised expression, and his keys fell to the floor, but he did not fall. Again Nethel lifted his sword. It was a heavy weapon, forged of pure iron, and he let it fall against the man's head. It hit his jaw and the man fell to his knees. The guard whimpered, gaze focused on the Prince. It was not good. Not good at all. The Prince suddenly panicked and whimpered himself, being in this impossible situation, having just failed in his plan of knocking the guard unconscious. With a final roar of anger and frustration, the Prince let his sword fall again. This time he caused blood to burst forth from the guard's temple. The man finally fell to the wet stone floor with the burning lantern still in his hand. He gave huffing sound when he fell, and finally he was out. His face held no expression at all, just stared emptily at the pile of dust and mouse droppings in front of him. The huge body almost blocked the whole corridor.
Nethel took a deep and shivering breath. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. He could not care at all right then whether the guard was dead or alive. He felt strongly like sitting down, dizzy and slightly sick, but he knew there was no time. The heat of his own body mingled with the cold air between the stone walls and made him feel damp and slow when he stepped over the fat man's belly, picked up the keys, and took the lantern from his stiff grasp. He was still breathing loud and shivering when he began working at the door, Inserting and discarding keys, unable to remember which one it was the fat man had chosen. He fumbled and cursed, sniffed a little, was confused and on the brink of tears. Then finally a long, black key fit and he unlocked the door with a final sigh of relief.
With eager movements he pushed the door open and slipped inside. The cell was all dark but for the cool, blue light from a tiny opening, set high up on the wall: a first kiss of day on the horizon. Nethel lifted the lantern high up in the air to illuminate the surroundings.
"You are late! It's almost dawn." The dark, well-known voice spoke from a corner of the floor. He sounded amused, Nethel thought; it annoyed him.
"Are you really that confident and sure or yourself, or just stupid?" he spat, the dire circumstances making him forget his own shyness and the breathless awkwardness he always had felt when faced with this beast.
"I knew you would come for me." Ylv still sounded smug. "And I was right..."
"Maybe I shouldn't have..." Nethel heard his own voice, bitter and confused.
"Hush," Ylv said, softer now. "I had no patience to stay here. You must forgive me if I rushed things..."
Nethel paled. Finally he realized what the other man was implying.
"You mean...you did...!" He stopped, blank, unable to form a coherent sentence.
"Please." Ylv sounded calm. "Just unlock this." He rustled a short chain and showed off an ugly, rusty iron ring around his neck. The ring was chained to a hook in the wall and made it impossible for Ylv to even rise. "We must go!" He added.
The words spurred Nethel back to action. "Of course," he said, and crossed the small floor. He knelt by his imprisoned champion and put the lantern down on the stones. He fumbled with the keys again, but it was easier now, there were not that many small ones.
The guards had taken Ylv's shirt. Nethel swallowed hard, despite the situation, the stress and the fear; he could not help but feel his skin, sense his scent, feel warm and restless by the nearness.
Ylv smiled calmly, obviously aware of Nethel's longings. Nethel had never been good at hiding it: his rapid breathing, the desire in his eyes. "Soon," the savage mouthed to his ear as the Prince bent forth to insert the key into the lock. A pleasurable shiver ran down Nethel's spine. Such a tempting word, as if it held all the world's joy and madness in its core.
The ring fell open and the Prince quickly redrew. His heart was racing from different kinds of excitement now. He watched as Ylv rose from the floor. The fighter stretched his long legs and rolled his head to get rid of the stiffness from the iron ring.
"How..?" The prince muttered. Ylv was no small man; he could hardly be hidden. Would they have to fight their way out? He had not thought as far as to how they were to do it in his initial rush, his desire to come to Ylv's rescue.
"Where is the man you knocked over?" Ylv asked.
Nethel answered with a tilt of his head, directing him to the corridor.
Ylv knelt by the unconscious man's side and, without much concern for his wellbeing, began to undress him and roughly push the sour-smelling cloak of his shoulders. The blood at the guard's temple had dried up already, but he st
ill had that blank expression on his face. Nethel realized he had likely killed the man.
"Hurry!" he urged Ylv, watching him put on the cloak and fasten the keys to his belt. The fighter hunched down and reached for the lantern that Nethel was still holding.
"And if they recognize you?" Nethel said, rushed.
"Then we will fight," Ylv replied sternly.
The darkness of the night helped them though and hid the true form of the one huddled in the fat guard's cloak. Nethel fought not to hurry when they crossed the snowy courtyard, but adjust his pace to the man that walked before him. Nethel wondered why it was that Ylv could be so cold in the face of danger. He admired him for it, but it scared him too. He had put his life in the hands of this man now, traded the crown for his presence.
Who was he really, this man? Was Ylv capable of feeling as warmly as Nethel? Was he as icy on the inside as he appeared on the outside? If so, it was a harsh fate that Nethel had chosen.
Back at the gate, Ylv calmly hung the lantern back on the hook in the wall and, seemingly without effort, picked the right key from the ring. He unlocked the heavy gates without looking back.
A Promise of Garnets in Winter Page 2
