King of Dublin

by Lisa Henry

  Oh God. He could just slide down the wall now, boneless. Could sleep for a day, wrapped in Darragh’s arms, as long as Darragh kept kissing his shoulders like that. A gentle trail of kisses that brought Ciaran out in gooseflesh.

  He was … The word was still so foreign to him that he searched for it for a moment. Darragh’s fingers laced through his against the wall. He was loved.

  “Well,” said a voice, low with amusement, hideously familiar, “I should have guessed that wherever I found you, it would be with the culchie’s cock shoved up your arse, Boy.”

  Boru.

  Darragh stiffened, pulled Ciaran’s small, trembling body close, shielding Ciaran’s nakedness with his own.

  “Impossible,” Ciaran whispered. “Impossible, impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible for the king,” Boru countered. “I would think you’d know that by now.”

  “Stay away,” Darragh growled. Small, little man with his big, crazy delusions.

  “Or what? You’ll beat me with your bare cock, you simple-minded fool?”

  Darragh squared his shoulders and slowly turned, using his arms to keep Ciaran safely between his back and the wall. “Bare cock. Bare fists. I can take you.”

  “Can you?” Boru asked, his eyes dancing. “Can you, indeed? Well, maybe you ought to tell that to the eight men I’ve got waiting outside. Maybe you ought to tell that to the filthy little bandit rat who led you here. Maybe he’ll even hear you when I cut his fucking ears off.”

  Behind him, Ciaran gasped, but Darragh had no sympathy to spare for Rabbit. Little bastard had probably sold them out himself. Maybe Boru had promised him Ciaran’s body after Darragh had denied him. Well, he’d have a hard time of it if Darragh tore the balls out from between his legs.

  Boru showed them his palms, a smile spreading across his face. “But I’m here to make you a deal.”

  “What deal?” Darragh growled.

  Boru’s smile vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by cold anger. “Not you, traitor. The deal is for my Boy.” He tempered his tone. “My treasure.”

  Ciaran didn’t whimper, didn’t make a sound, but Darragh felt him stiffen. Darragh kept his arms back, kept him boxed in safe. “He doesn’t want to make a deal with you, tyrant. He’s going free with me, and I’m taking him home safe to his father. What could you possibly offer him compared to that?”

  “How about a dose of fucking reality?” Boru asked. “You can’t really think you’ll walk away from this, culchie. Oh, wait, you will, but only if my Boy takes his deal.”

  Now, Ciaran spoke. “What deal?” He tried to squeeze out from behind Darragh’s shoulder, but Darragh just pressed him tighter to the wall, nearly crushing him against the stone. He struggled but didn’t break past Darragh’s defences. Maybe didn’t even want to. “What deal, Boru?”

  There was only one entrance to this place, and Boru was currently blocking it with his body. And outside … his men? How many had he brought, truly? Were the bandits with him, too? Or was he alone, usurped and desperate and spinning lies?

  As if in answer to Darragh’s question, a voice floated down the passage from outside, muted by the rain outside and distorted by the ancient stone. “All right, boss?”

  “Just fine,” Boru called back without shifting his gaze from Darragh. “Just fine.” He reached inside his coat and withdrew something. Dropped it onto the stone floor. It gleamed in the scant lamplight. The golden torc that Darragh has last seen around Ciaran’s throat. Then, like a man looking for something he’d misplaced, Boru patted down his pockets, taking out first one and then the other of the gold wristbands. The bands Ciaran had worn around his upper arms were next. They followed the torc onto the stones. “There now. All your gold returned to you, my treasure. And your place at my side with it.”

  Darragh stared at them and slowly became aware of Ciaran’s hand on his spine. His trembling fingers counting the knots there. Comforting him? No, he realised with sudden dread. Farewelling him. Darragh’s shoulders slumped.

  “What deal?” Ciaran asked again.

  “Culchie goes free and you come back to Dublin willingly,” Boru said. “Otherwise, culchie dies, and I drag you there by the fucking balls.”

  Darragh felt Ciaran’s breath against his shoulder. What was it he’d said in Garvan’s van? He was so tired of fighting. That soft exhalation of breath sounded a lot like defeat.

  “I dishonoured you,” Ciaran said. “Why would you want me back?”

  Boru spread his arms. “Because I am a sentimental fool, Boy. You really were my precious treasure, and I was so angry at you for being such a whore, I forgot how much I loved you in spite of it. But this time will be different, Boy, I promise. This time I won’t tempt your whorishness by sharing you. I’ll keep you all my own, just like you wanted.”

  “I wanted …” Ciaran faltered. “I wanted you to feed your people. I wanted you to stop trading slaves.”

  He was bargaining. Cold dread filled Darragh’s stomach. This was the beginning of the end.

  Boru’s face lit up. “I’ve missed you, Boy. None of the others challenged me like you do. Your replacement is sadly lacking in imagination. But now, if you come home, I can set him free. Would you like that? For me to set that poor, filthy boy free?”

  “Him, and the other slaves. You have to stop the slave trade. Feed your people. Be a good king, and I’ll be a—your—good boy. I promise.”

  No, Ciaran. Darragh could still feel Ciaran pressed up behind him. Still feel him, even though he was already lost.

  “You ask a boon before you even swear your loyalty?” Boru asked, a teasing smile on his lips. “You’ve run wild, Boy, and forgotten all your manners.”

  “You’ll let Darragh go?” Ciaran asked. “You’ll let him walk away from here? Now?”

  “I swear it.”

  Ciaran moved.

  “No!” Darragh turned and held him. “No, it’s lies. You know it is.”

  Ciaran’s face was pale. “I know.” He lifted a hand to Darragh’s cheek. “I wanted to do grand things, Darragh. Let me save you at least. Go home.”

  “You heard Boy,” Boru said. “Get dressed and fuck off.”

  “I want to see him walk away,” Ciaran said. He twisted out of Darragh’s limp grasp. “Your Majesty.”

  “Ciaran …” Darragh could hardly breathe for the weight in his chest. “No.”

  He watched as Ciaran went down onto his knees in front of Boru. Watched as he picked up the first wristband and, shivering, slid it onto his arm. Watched as he transformed himself, piece by piece, back into Boru’s Boy. Watched as Boru carded his fingers through his hair.

  “Chilly walk back home in just your skin.” Boru smiled at him, practically batting his eyelashes, the smug git.

  Darragh dressed woodenly. Couldn’t coordinate his limbs. Couldn’t think past the sudden, sick shock of this, or see a way through it. Ciaran’s clothes and boots … what about Ciaran’s clothes and boots? He would be cold without them. He was already shivering as he knelt before Boru. “Ciaran …” Darragh pleaded, and yet he couldn’t put any force into it. Would he be any better than Boru if he tried to take Ciaran’s choice away from him now?

  And yet, hadn’t that been what he had been doing from the very beginning? Ciaran had never wanted to go back north, and Darragh had insisted. He’d even tied Ciaran up and dragged him. He’d given Ciaran no more choice than the one Boru was giving him now.

  “Such a slut,” Boru murmured, twisting Ciaran’s hair. “You might have had him just now, culchie, but I had him first. Mine was the first cock you ever took, wasn’t it, Boy?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Ciaran’s voice was a monotone. Boy’s voice.

  “It’ll be the last as well, won’t it?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Then all’s right with the world, hmmm?” Boru smiled. “You leave first, culchie. Boy and I will follow.”

  There would be knives waiting for him outside, Darragh had no dou
bt of it. Boru wouldn’t just let him walk away, whatever he’d sworn. Except, when he squeezed out into the open, nobody attacked.

  Eight king’s men, like Boru had said. Eight faces Darragh remembered from Dublin, Noel and Michael among them. There were several others, too, that he recognised from the bandits’ camp. Garvan, standing over a kneeling Rabbit, a hand on his shoulder to hold him there.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Rabbit cried out as Darragh climbed over the entrance stone.

  You were supposed to warn us, Rabbit.

  The rain had stopped, but the late-afternoon sun was still hidden behind grey clouds. Even in the gloom Darragh could see that Rabbit’s grimy face was streaked with tears.

  “Was jus’ Garvan!” Rabbit wailed. “Then all of ’em!”

  Darragh turned to Garvan. “You betrayed us! You sold Ciaran out, sold out your own lad, Rabbit! You think that will protect you? You think the mad king won’t want more? He’s got your arm twisted now, you—”

  “Darragh, enough,” Ciaran said. He’d emerged out from behind the entrance stone and now knelt in front of it, bathed in gold but not glittering at all. Boru’s hand was tight on his shoulder, pinching until his skin turned white.

  Darragh wanted to look away but couldn’t. He didn’t know why, but it would feel like a final betrayal. He needed to look at the slave, needed to let Ciaran know he still saw the man.

  “Boy wants to see you walk away, culchie. He’s done with your animal cock now,” Boru said. “Go on then, walk away.”

  Darragh took a step towards Ciaran.

  “Culchie,” said a man in a warning tone. Michael. Michael, who’d once been almost friendly to him. “Walk away as the king commands.”

  “Ciaran,” Darragh said, but Ciaran had dropped his gaze and wouldn’t look up. “Ciaran!”

  Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him.

  Noel.

  “Fuck off,” Noel said. He caught Darragh by the collar of his old coat, fumbled for a moment, and then pushed him away. “Go on, get!”

  Darragh stumbled.

  “Get,” Noel repeated and winked.

  There was something pressing gently against his belly that hadn’t been there a moment before. Darragh raised his hands to feel it.

  Fuck.

  It was the hilt of a knife. Noel had slid a knife into the waistband of his trousers.

  “Come back near the king’s camp tonight, and there’ll be trouble,” Noel shouted at him.

  Not a threat, Darragh realised as understanding washed over him. Not a threat at all. An invitation.

  Ciaran couldn’t watch as Darragh left. He stared at the grass instead and felt the chill rising up out of the earth and crawling into him, lodging in his bones. He couldn’t watch, even though he’d told Boru he wanted to. It was enough to know that Darragh had gone, and that none of Boru’s men had been sent after him to stab him in the back. He could only hope that Darragh stayed safe. Went back to his village and his sheep and his bathtub, and never set foot out in the world again.

  “What is this place anyway?” Boru asked, sighing.

  “The home of the Dagda, Majesty,” Ciaran murmured. “The burial place of the kings of Tara.”

  A holy place to catch the light on the darkest day of winter.

  And it had. It had caught such a brief flash of light on Ciaran’s darkest day. Not enough to hold on to though. Not enough to see him through.

  “And would you like to bury me here, Boy?”

  “No, Majesty.” You’re not a fucking king at all. “I wouldn’t want to see you buried unless I was beside you in the ground.”

  It was so easy to slip back into being Boy. Too easy.

  Boru tousled his hair. “Noel, get a fire started, if we’re here the night!”

  Ciaran thought of the state of the roads and wondered how far Boru and his men had walked from wherever they had left their van. He was sure Boru would make him pay for every mile.

  Why didn’t you just let me go? Why leave Dublin and go to this trouble to bring me back?

  He knew the answer. Boru had been humiliated at his Sacrificial Games, and losing Ciaran had been a part of that humiliation. Even those gang leaders still loyal to him might laugh because he had lost his Boy. Boru would have to show them they were wrong. Ciaran would pay for the king’s humiliation for a long time.

  “Ground’s wet, boss.”

  “Well pile some wood on the stones or something.”

  “Wood’s wet, too,” Noel said. “Gonna be a cold night.”

  “I hate the fucking country,” Boru muttered. “Ah, at least Boy will keep me warm.”

  Ciaran closed his eyes. Without a fire, without clothes, he’d probably catch his death here.

  Boru leaned down. “We’ll sleep inside tonight, Boy. You can show me how much you’ve missed me.”

  “I will, Majesty.” He was beyond caring about how much it would hurt to have Boru fuck him in the place where Darragh had loved him, where the stones had whispered to him. “I only want to please you.”

  “Oh, you’ll please me, all right. But we’ll first have to do something about that hole of yours full of that fucking culchie’s cum.”

  The humiliating words hardly held any meaning. Ciaran felt dead already. “What would you have me do, Majesty?”

  He was aware of Boru’s men close by. Watching, listening. Aware of the bandits and of Rabbit. None of it mattered. He was Boy, now. Boy again. Boy’s public humiliation didn’t matter.

  And to think he’d imagined that it would be difficult somehow to go back to being Boy. No, the sting wasn’t in being made to do this again. The sting was in how very easy it was.

  “Clean yourself, you filthy slut,” Boru raised a boot and kicked Ciaran in the chest, knocking him backwards onto the ground. “Drag yourself across the grass like a dog for all I care, but make sure your hole is empty of his cum by the time my cock’s inside it.”

  Ciaran nodded, rolling onto his side. His eyes stung with tears. He reached out and grabbed a handful of grass, tearing it free. He wiped himself uselessly with it.

  “Just like an animal, that culchie. Breeds you full of cum then leaves you without a word, off to better pastures. Good thing you’re not a woman stuck with a litter of his pups, eh?”

  I hate you. Ciaran’s tears fell. Darragh had left him with his name, with his dignity, with respect for his sacrificial choice. If Ciaran had asked him to stay and fight for him—even die for him—then Darragh would have stayed. He would have. He would. He hadn’t abandoned Ciaran. He’d given Ciaran the choice he’d begged for all along.

  Ciaran drew himself up into an awkward squat. Tears obscured his vision as he pulled more grass free.

  “Majesty,” said a gruff voice. Garvan. “If you have no further need of me and mine, we’ll head back. Get home before dark, like.”

  “It’s almost dark now,” Boru said.

  “So it is,” Garvan said. “But we can find our way just as easy. Keep an eye on your roads on the way.”

  Boru flapped a hand. “Fine, fine, very well, go. But leave the traitor boy. His life is forfeit to me, now.”

  “As you say,” Garvan said.

  “No!” Rabbit shouted. “Garvan, no! Please, I’m sorry. I was tryin’ to do right by them like you did right by me, you can’t—”

  “My men will need a replacement, now that Boy is retiring from public use.” Boru’s smile was perfectly cruel. “You’re young enough and spry enough to do well at the job … for a while, at least.”

  Ciaran looked up to see Garvan flinch, but the man didn’t voice a protest. “Majesty,” Ciaran protested instead. “You said no more slaves. You said.”

  Boru rounded on him, putting another boot to his stomach and sending him sprawling. “I know what I fucking said, cunt!” And then he calmed. His smile smoothed. He fixed his coat. “But this one isn’t a slave. He’s a criminal. A proper prisoner. I am just laying out justice. He’ll earn his freedom, won’t
he? Better that than the death penalty for his treason, like in the old days. Am I not a generous king?”

  Ciaran coughed and clenched his stomach. “Generous, Your Majesty.”

  Rabbit wailed as Michael hauled him over and pushed him onto the ground at Boru’s feet. “Please! Garvan, please!”

  “Tie him,” Boru said, waving his hand. “And if you can build a fire, burn his feet. That’ll keep him from running for a while.”

  Rabbit wailed louder.

  Just a boy. He was just a boy. As young as Ciaran but as innocent as Darragh. He wouldn’t survive this life. He wasn’t like Ciaran, used up and past shame or pain.

  Ciaran reached out for him. “Don’t. Shut your mouth, Rabbit. Shut it now.” Rabbit burrowed in close, and Ciaran wrapped his arms around him. Rocked him back and forth as Garvan and the bandits walked away. “Quiet. Stay quiet.”

  Boru beamed down at him. “You’ll show him, won’t you, Boy? Show him how to behave.”

  “I will, Majesty, if it pleases you.” Ciaran’s stomach twisted, unable to force down the images of what Boru would make him do. Playing the slut was one thing; being forced to victimise someone else was quite another.

  “Oh yes, I think it will. Two sluts together, one well used and one a frightened virgin, yes, I think it will please me very much.” He jabbed the toe of his boot into Rabbit’s back. “You are a virgin, aren’t you, bitch?”

  Rabbit whimpered.

  Boru snorted. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough.” He stretched. “Now, can we build that fire or can’t we?”

  “Don’t let him,” Rabbit whispered into Ciaran’s neck. “Garvan, please, don’t let him. I’m real fast. Can run real fast.”

  “Garvan’s gone,” Ciaran said. “I’m sorry, but he’s gone.”

  Just like Darragh.

  Ciaran held Rabbit tighter, held him through the shaking of his bony body. How had he ever hated this boy? Resented him? Thought he was as bad as Boru? He was just a scared boy. Just a scared boy, that was all. “It’s just us now. Just you and me, Rabbit. So you listen to what I say and you follow my lead.”