by Lisa Henry
Noel’s voice droned on, something about a shipment of guns coming in and an organisation of a counterattack on the group from Milbourne Avenue. Then he speculated on who was supplying them, which led to some heated discussion around the long table.
All supplies in Dublin were controlled by the king. There were other, smaller factions that had sworn loyalty to Boru, although they operated independently. Such independence was tolerated only as long as they paid tributes and provided support when it was needed. One of these factions, Noel said, must be secretly supporting the Milbourne Avenue group, or they would never have grown so strong.
Ciaran only half listened.
“The gangs know better than to turn against me,” Boru said. “I could cut their supplies off and starve them.”
Boru’s fingers twined in Ciaran’s hair, and Ciaran imagined that it was Darragh’s touch instead. If it were, then he wouldn’t have to force himself to submit to it. He wouldn’t have to be afraid it would turn painful. A touch like Darragh’s … he might even let himself drift off to sleep underneath it.
“If there is a threat, perhaps it comes from closer to home,” Boru said, twisting Ciaran’s hair roughly.
Ciaran flinched, his heart thumping, and not just from the pain. Treason in the king’s own court? Whether true or not, it meant danger to every man.
“No!” one of the men shouted. “Impossible!”
Boru pushed Ciaran away from his lap and stood. “Who said that? Who fucking dares to contradict the king of fucking Dublin?”
One of the men stood up and raised his hand. “I wasn’t contradicting you—”
“Like hell you weren’t!” His voice went high and shrill, that out-of-control tone that meant soon he’d be pulling legs from the ants he called his subjects. He paced across the raised dais, then came to an ominous halt, tilting his head to the side. “I wonder … why it is you’re so invested in treason being impossible?”
The contradictory man squirmed under that gaze. “I’m not, Highness, I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
“And yet you see fit to stand in front of your king and declare his suspicions impossible.”
Ciaran wrapped his arms around his knees and watched quietly.
He saw so much from his place at the king’s feet, but most of the king’s men thought he was just a dumb whore, beneath consideration. The things he could tell them … except he didn’t. Why risk his life? It was precarious enough as it was. If one of these men was plotting against Boru, good luck to him. Ciaran could only hope that the man succeeded, and that he found Ciaran pleasing enough to keep around. Because it was too much to hope for the alternative, wasn’t it? That the man would sell him back to his father.
And really, did he even want to go back to his father?
Not like this.
No, maybe he’d rather die.
Or escape with Darragh.
Except Darragh was never leaving. The culchie didn’t know it yet, but the king had ensnared him, and he was never returning to his village-without-a-king. If there was one thing Ciaran had learned, it was that once the king of Dublin caught you, he didn’t let you go.
“I’m onto you,” Boru said. “I know what this is.”
Around the table, the men shifted. Only Darragh seemed unmoved by the king’s rage, standing perfectly still and staring blankly at the opposite wall. Didn’t he realise that as a newcomer he could easily be first on the chopping block during the king’s paranoid rampage?
Well, it seemed the idiot who’d spoken up had inadvertently jumped on that grenade for them all. “Noel!” Boru barked.
“Your Highness,” Noel replied smoothly.
“Take Gerard here for ‘questioning.’ Bring the culchie and see if his fists get the traitor to speak.”
Noel nodded, moved quickly to Gerard’s side, and took him hard by one shoulder. “Yes, sir.” Gerard twisted, shouted, but didn’t try to run. Where would he go?
Ciaran glanced at Darragh. He looked dumbstruck. He opened his mouth.
Don’t, Ciaran thought fiercely. He doesn’t deserve your protection. This is not an innocent man.
Innocent of treason, probably, but how many other crimes had Gerard committed in the name of the king? Enough to have earned him this grim sentence, that was for sure. Ciaran certainly had no pity for him.
“When you’re done with him, send out word to the gang leaders. It’s about time they remembered their allegiance to the king,” Boru said. “I want a hostage from each of them to stand as their champion in the sacrificial games.”
The games. Ciaran shuddered and shut his eyes, but his lids couldn’t wash away the visions of blood running through his mind. The king’s ultimate show of power and prestige, to send enemies and allies alike to their deaths, all for cruel entertainment. Danny had died in them, beaten to death like a dog. Ciaran had watched it all from his place naked at the king’s feet.
Danny hadn’t been a champion, of course. Danny, and several other terrified slaves, had been there for the champions to dispatch to show their form before they faced off against one another in the main tournament. Nothing but a warm-up show for the howling audience.
And Boru, as always, had played the gracious king. The victorious champion, a large man from the gang in Ballyfermot, had been lauded by Boru. Rewarded with a gold torc, supplies for his gang, and a loan of the king’s boy—Ciaran. The champion had taken his reward right there, fucking Ciaran on the blood-soaked ground of what had once been Croke Park, where Ciaran had gone as a boy to watch hurling. Not a boy anymore, but the king’s Boy.
That night Ciaran had snatched a knife from Boru’s plate and tried to cut his own throat. Boru, laughing, had struck the knife out of his hand and chained him to the bed. Told him he wasn’t going anywhere, that he belonged to the king and the sooner he realised it, the better off he’d be.
Ciaran wasn’t sure where the anger in him had gone. It had been worn down so far that barely a spark remained. And his pride had gone with it. There had been a sort of reckless glory in him that night: I won’t let you have me. It was gone now. There had been plenty of opportunities since, when he was alone, when he could have found a knife or a rope and ended this nightmare for good, but he hadn’t. He wasn’t strong enough. He sometimes fooled himself that it was hope keeping him alive, but it wasn’t. He was scared. And he hated himself for that.
Boru sat and yanked Ciaran’s head back into his lap. He stroked Ciaran’s hair peevishly but didn’t lash out at his men again. But there was blood in the water now, and they all knew it.
Darragh and Noel had gone away with Gerard.
And Ciaran hated himself, too, for being so disappointed that Darragh had obeyed.
Two nights later, when he was summoned by the king, Darragh was afraid. Sure, the king liked him, but he’d liked Gerard once, hadn’t he? The sound Darragh’s fists had made when they’d connected with Gerard’s guts were still with him. Thick, muted noises. The way Gerard’s breath rush out of him in a grunt. Noel had stood watch the whole time, telling Darragh where to hit, how hard, and he thought he’d seen sympathy in Noel’s face at one point. But then, Noel probably had liked Gerard, too.
Not that it mattered now. There was no solid ground in Boru’s court. No security or safety. Nowhere for a man to stand and think a while and get his bearings. Indeed, the only one whose position was unchanging seemed to be the highest of the high, the king himself, or the lowest of the low, Ciaran. And even Ciaran would eventually lose his beauty, become used up, stop amusing the king for one reason or another. Boru’s moods shifted so fast they were impossible to read, to anticipate. After seeing Boru turn on Gerard without warning, the danger of uncertainty in this precarious place seemed worse now than ever before.
Michael walked with him across College Green to the king’s court. “You’ll be all right, culchie,” he said, grinning at Darragh’s nervousness. “Good man.”
Talking to him like he was a dog. Darragh knew what the other men
thought of him, even though they feared his brute strength, especially having seen it put to service by the king’s orders. A stupid, loyal brute.
Too stupid to be conniving, too loyal to be treasonous. Maybe that was why the king seemed to favour him.
“Oh, look,” Michael said as they climbed the steps into the grand, decaying building that Boru had claimed as his palace. “You’ve got a welcoming committee!”
Ciaran stood in the foyer, frozen to the spot as though he’d been caught in a crime. Probably on his way to the library. Darragh wished he could go there, as well. Wished they could start again. But it was too dangerous to repeat that fateful secret tryst. And after what he’d done to Gerard, he understood better than ever the risky position their meeting had put Ciaran in. Never again.
“Look at the little slut.” Michael smirked. “Shameless. Not trying to run, are you, Boy?”
Ciaran jutted out his chin. “My loyalty is to the king.”
He said it like he meant it, and Darragh marvelled at that.
“Gobby little cunt,” Michael said. “Maybe you didn’t tear him up good enough, hey, culchie?”
Darragh was sure he flinched.
“He’ll get sick of you one day, Boy,” Michael taunted, “and throw you over to us. How do you think you’ll like that?”
“I am his treasure,” Ciaran said boldly. All his gold seemed to glitter in agreement.
“You’re his fucking bitch,” Michael laughed. “You might have lasted longer than the others, but you won’t last forever. Come on, culchie. Let’s leave the king’s bitch to his fantasies.”
Darragh didn’t look back as he followed Michael further into the building. “There were others?”
“Course,” Michael said.
“Why …” Was there even a way to ask without painting a target on his chest? “Why has he lasted longer?”
Michael laughed. “Oh, don’t you know? Boy’s special. Not just a pretty face and a pretty arse, like the ones before. You fuck him, and you’re fucking the government, too.”
“The what?” Darragh knew the word, but he also knew there was no government. Not since the pandemic, and the even greater horrors that had followed on its heels … or had the pandemic followed on the heels of the rest of it? It had all happened so fast: the riots, the hunger, the sickness, the complete collapse of Irish society. Ireland had gone from a country in dire straits to a lawless hell in the span of a few terrible months, and now all that was left of her was the primitive savagery of the king of Dublin’s rule.
Darragh could remember seeing some of it on television, back when the stations had still been broadcasting. It had felt remote and unreal. He hadn’t even realised how strange it was until Mr. O’Leary, the postmaster, had locked up the post office for good. For a while, things had kept on as usual. The remoteness of Cúil Aodha had protected them. The garda patrolled the village on foot—petrol was one of the first shortages—even though they were no longer paid. The teachers still turned up at the school to teach. The grocery store’s shelves went empty, but thanks to the farm, Darragh didn’t go hungry. All in all they had managed in the village and would have kept on managing had the pandemic not come to them as well—as remote as they were, it had still come.
“The government in exile, culchie,” Michael explained with a roll of his eyes. “You know, the fuckers that ran up north when things got ugly and never came back. The Dáil? Even you must have heard of them.”
Yes, Darragh remembered the Dáil. Remembered his father cursing a blue streak at the television and even writing up a protest poster or two. Didn’t remember them fleeing the country, though, but then, maybe by then there’d been no television for his father to swear at.
Ciaran must have been a child when it had all happened. He was younger than Darragh, and even though he didn’t much feel like it, Darragh was still a young man himself.
“But—” he began.
“Don’t ask dumb questions, culchie,” Michael said, rolling his eyes. “All I’m saying is, there may be a fair few newer and prettier arses for the king to fuck, but none of them are the Taoiseach’s only son.”
His father. Ciaran had mentioned his father.
A son of the government in exile. The son of an important man. Was that why Ciaran had called himself the king’s hostage? But then why was Ciaran still here? Hadn’t his powerful father offered a ransom for his return? Hadn’t Boru, in his greed, taken it?
And why had Ciaran ever come here to begin with?
What a stupid question. It didn’t matter. He was here now, and here he would stay because, ransom or no, Boru wanted to keep the boy kneeling at his feet, because Boru loved the symbolism of Ciaran’s submission, because Boru’s will was the only one that mattered in Dublin.
And Ciaran had kept all this from Darragh. Purposefully kept it secret, even after what they’d shared.
“I want you,” Ciaran had said. It should have meant I trust you, especially here, especially considering all they’d risked by being together. Except … except if Darragh had been in Ciaran’s place, would he have spilled all his secrets to a stranger? No. He hadn’t told Ciaran the name of his village, after all.
This terrible place. Nothing was pure here; nothing was good. Everything was twisted and ruined before it was started. Ruined by secrets and paranoia and cruelty. Would Ciaran be any different in some other place? Would Darragh? It was probably too late for either of them. Even if they escaped Dublin, they could never escape its contagion. There wasn’t enough fresh air in the world to clear their lungs of the stench of Boru’s court.
Or wash the blood from Darragh’s hands.
Or the cum from Ciaran’s thighs.
Michael left him, and Darragh climbed the stairs to Boru’s chamber alone. He dragged his feet as much as he dared, unwilling to meet with the king but unable to avoid it.
The king’s private chamber was large. As regal as a palace but for the grimy floors and the clutter of furniture. Some of the furniture was old, probably antique. Some of it looked newer, like it had come from shops or private homes.
Spoils to the victor.
Darragh’s gaze drifted to the bed and to the rumpled blankets, and he thought of Ciaran.
“Ah, Darragh.” Framed in the grey light of a wide window, Boru appeared sombre.
“Your Highness,” Darragh acknowledged.
“We have a problem, Darragh,” Boru said.
Fear bit at him. He knows.
He thought back to his encounter with Ciaran. Had there been any sign? Had someone seen them? Or maybe it had been some sort of sick game from the start. Maybe Boru had told Ciaran what to do. Maybe everything Ciaran had said was a lie.
Darragh toyed with that uneasy thought for a moment before he discarded it. No, he couldn’t believe that. He was still sure he’d seen a side of Ciaran that nobody else here had. That Ciaran had given something of himself that he’d given nobody else, not even Boru. Even if, as he gave of himself, he kept even more back.
“What problem?” Darragh asked evenly, determined not to show any fear or guilt.
“There is a traitor in my court,” Boru said tightly. He curled his hands into trembling fists, barely suppressing his rage.
Darragh didn’t respond because he couldn’t think of a safe way to do it. He watched Boru warily.
“I will find him,” Boru snarled, “and I will kill him!”
Darragh nodded.
“And you,” Boru said, unclenching his fists and wiping his hands on his shirt. “You will help me. When the other leaders come to pledge their loyalty during the Sacrificial Games, you will watch them. More importantly, you will watch my men. Watch and listen, and report back to me!”
Darragh exhaled slowly. “Why me? I’m not smart, king.”
“You’re loyal,” Boru said, “and you’re new. You might be the only man of mine that I can be sure hasn’t been dealing with the gangs on the sly, telling them which of my enemies to aid. Giving supplies and sh
elter to fucking rats.”
I’m not loyal, Darragh thought, but he nodded his understanding.
Boru relaxed, the tension bleeding out of him. “You might want to stay by Noel, understand?”
“Noel?” Darragh couldn’t hide his confusion.
Boru tapped his temple. “Think, Darragh. He tells me the rats at Milbourne Avenue are organised. He’s the one who asked for more men and weapons, and he’s the one who lost the fight against them. What better way to sow dissent in the ranks, hmm?”
He’s also the one who was in the back of the van that was firebombed. Not the smartest place to be if he’d known what was coming. But then, he also hadn’t been injured.
So maybe.
Darragh had no head for intrigue, and no stomach for it, either, but refusal wasn’t an option.
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“Good man,” the king said and patted him on the shoulder. “Find the traitor, and you’ll be well rewarded.”
Darragh’s mind flew immediately to Ciaran, and he hated the way his cock stirred.
“Medicine,” he croaked out, awash with miserable shame. Once, his mind would have gone immediately to his people’s welfare, and now? How could he think of using Ciaran that way? Under the king’s gaze, and maybe even bent over a table while the king’s men watched and ate. Wanting him in that way, as payment of some sort—as though Ciaran were nothing but currency to be traded—made him as much a monster as Boru.
“Yes, yes, yes, your precious medicine. You’ll have it.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you believe me to be not a man of my word?”
“No,” Darragh said firmly. “I know you are a man of your word, Majesty.”
Your crazy, evil words.
“Good. Now go.”
“I know who you are.”
Ciaran spun around, dropping the book he’d been clutching in both hands. It landed with a dull thump, the pages swollen and mouldy. “You don’t know anything. Leave me alone.”
