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Part I
Tarq couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t think, he was consumed in his entirety by the gaping hole his Prince had left. His chest was tight, from the moment he woke up to his restless nights where sweat drenched his sheets. That was what he got for having a conscience, Tarq thought savagely. It served him right getting involved. He should have refused King Mayyar’s preposterous assignment, because his heaving very morning in the water basin assured him there would be no completion possible.
Prince Asrar had been given and wed, Tarq handing the chains to a Lady Beche with hungry eyes.
Very few had assisted to the ceremony; Tarq even doubted it was legitimate. He had been there, holding the chains shackling Asrar, both of them in their most official-looking garments: that was still ascetic compared to the lavish gown of Lady Beche, her heavy hair piled atop her head in a tidy heap, her waist cinched by a red silk corsage that flared out in what wanted to be a majestic manner. Unfortunately, it served only to obscenely highlight the officiousness of the situation. The minister at her beck and call, the King too busy leering at his son and the latter’s pending demise to realise he was being artfully played. And Tarq, who had even less of a saying in the matter than Asrar. Well, no: that wasn’t true. He had just as much of a right to protest as the Prince, which is to say he had no right to protest at all.
It had only taken a quarter of an hour for Asrar to be given to the Lady. Tarq did not miss the shivers that ran continuously along his charge’s arms, the way Asrar was as tense as a bowstring. Tarq knew it had to do with that woman, and the way she kept on licking her lips in anticipation, her fingers toying with the heavy chains.
Her eyes were avid while roaming the collared Prince, like they had never been sated. And Tarq knew for a fact that she had been, that she made a point of being satiated at least twice a week. Usually with muscled shoulders, but there were rumours she had something to do with the periodical sacking of kitchen helpers, male and female.
Beche had something for wide eyes and slighter figures.
Gods, this wasn’t going to end well. Tarq chewed his bottom lip as he dressed in the dark, leaving his stifling sheets for the coolness of the dark room. Maybe a walk would clear his head, or he could go grab some cold drink from the kitchens. It had been a week since the ceremony, and King Mayyar had him supervising the recruits training, all of them thirteen and wide-eyed and some still innocent. Very few. Oh, he was not thinking of the recruits now, with their fumbling movements and hesitating attacks, not when he could only see a tall body poised to strike in a flawless position, eyes burning under a sweaty mop of hair and harsh breaths echoing in the cellar where they had practiced. Asrar had not been a natural with weapons but the daggers suited him; he could read an opponent better than Tarq himself, and the small knives made him dangerously nimble.
Of course, that was when he finally understood his enemy’s intent. Yes, Asrar could defend himself, but would he know what situations warranted it? Tarq had showed him how to conceal the daggers and had stressed their use only in times of need, but Asrar couldn’t hear, what if someone insulted him or struck from behind or--
This was pointless. Tarq knew a clause in the marriage had been a heir, and Lady Beche had to conceive, and for that Asrar needed to be alive. He shouldn’t be worrying, the King had to have planned his choice carefully: there was always something more to his choices, and if Tarq had been assigned Asrar’s kill, then he had to believe the King would still come to him for that. If Asrar had been assigned Beche, then there must have been a reason to it as well.
In any case, since he still hadn’t been fetched, it meant Asrar was still alive; even though no one had seen him nor his bride for the past week.
These thoughts accompanied his trek to the kitchens, were two children stayed up during the nights to cater to the King and potential guests. Tarq felt sorry for the bedraggled urchins in filthy rags as a little girl, no more than nine, served him ice-cold ale. The children were shivering, huddled next to the fire, and Tarq couldn’t help but give them a few coppers. Their gratefulness almost broke him; Knights were usually nasty and no doubts these waifs knew it. And yet they thanked him, the little boy with his green eyes so big for such a small face…
No, he was not going to let his thoughts stray again.
As he made his way back in the dead of hallways, Tarq heard a distant uproar in the nearby castle wing. Frowning quickly but dismissing it (there were other Knights to take care of this, surely. Maybe the origin of the ruckus were drunken Knights, it wouldn’t be the first time the situation arose,) he continued along his way. He heard the screams and noise approach and he stopped, unsheathing his sword.
“Hail, d’El Sol!”
“Adwan, what is the meaning of this?” Tarq asked, alarmed. His fellow Knight was barely dressed, only his sword at his side. He looked as if he had just awoken, hair mussed and in disarray, but his eyes were sharp.
“The Prince… He has disappeared. From the royal quarters.”
What royal quarters?
“Prince Asrar, you mean? Are you sure?” Tarq frowned, incredulous.
Adwan regarded him suspiciously. “I do not think his wife would misplace him, d’El Sol. She is the one who has alerted us. And she was sporting a shallow wound; the poor woman said she had slipped when scrambling to alert us.”
“Well, have you checked the quarters themselves, or the rest of the wing? Maybe he’s gone for a walk.”
“How would he know how to return, d’El Sol?” Adwan sounded genuinely surprised.
Tarq’s eyes narrowed. “He is not incapable, Adwan.”
The other Knight waved him off. “It does not matter in any case. Princess Beche does not care for us in her quarters, and that is perfectly understandable; who knows what the Prince has turned them into. Although maybe he wandered off, since he doesn’t realise much.” Tarq was seething but thank the Gods for the hallway darkness that shadowed his face. “Do be on the lookout, d’El Sol. He is familiar with you, is he not? You were his Keeper till a week ago. The King has ordered only those of the West Wing to the search; others will not be familiar with the layout.”
Tarq gritted his teeth. Damn the King for renovating his castle like a maze, each Wing having been planned and reconstructed by different draftsmen. “I’ll be sure to alert you.”
The West Wing held the dungeons at its bottom and bare rooms at its top. Why in the seven hells would the Prince and his bride be living there? And how did no one know about it? Tarq assumed neither Adwan nor the other Knights of the West Wing had been aware of their royal guest, since it had been obvious they had been pulled out of their beds an hour ago at most.
Royal quarters would have had their fair share of Guards at their entrance. Where were those?
Mind swimming with questions, Tarq strode towards his room and stopped in his tracks, a few steps before the door. The small candle he had left burning had been snuffed out.
Tarq doubted it was the December wind.
His sword at ready, he kicked the door inwards, cursing the lack of light.
His war cry died on his lips. The candle may have been snuffed out, but moonlight proved to be enough for him to recognize the quivering heap huddled in between the wall and his disarrayed bed sheets. Tall limbs folded awkwardly, as if Prince Asrar wanted the night to swallow him whole.
Dark blood on Asrar’s torn shirt, fresh blood from shallow cuts on the skeletal wrists. Bruises on every square inch of visible skin. Asrar was clutching the daggers Tarq had armed him with ten months ago, and the blades were trembling.
The anguish on the injured face, Asrar’s contorted features--
Tarq ripped the daggers out of his Prince’s hands before he was even aware he had made it to the other side of the room. With a cry Asrar hunched forward blindly, and Tarq realised the swelled up eyelids made it impossible for Asrar to see.
Blind, deaf and dumb. His Prince had stood no chance.
He grasped the too-thin wrists lightly, pulling Asrar’s trashing form towards him. A week ago his Prince might have --maybe-- escaped Tarq’s grip, but now he was weak, battered and bruised and blind and so desperate it was palpable. Engulfing Asrar in a warm embrace, Tarq ran his hands on stark shoulder blades that stuck out painfully, the knobbed spine and ribs he could feel even under the thin and dirty cotton shirt.
Asrar had ever worn silk and linen.
The flailing body he held suddenly stilled. Tarq moved away, catching those wrists in his hands again as Prince Asrar let himself be moved, head cocked unerringly as he waited, tense to the tip of his nails. Tarq brought the thin fingers to his face.
Absently, he wondered if it really was a good idea; Prince Asrar would have ample opportunity to gouge his eyes out. But even as the abused pads of Asrar’s fingertips skittered over his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead, his lips… They stroked his lips again and again before suddenly sinking in his hair and Asrar let out an animal sob as he sank against Tarq, nails digging into Tarq’s scalp so hard it hurt.
Tarq had been recognised.
He wondered how many tears injured eyes could summon; his shirt was beyond damp by the time the convulsive sobs wracking Asrar’s frame quieted down to a mere shivering and arms, likened to a vice against his middle, loosened a little. He had been scared of touching his Prince anywhere, the lightening darkness as the night drifted away revealing more and more contusions littering the reed-thin body. Tarq had settled for comforting caresses across Asrar’s narrow back, hoping it would soothe him enough.
How he needed to know who was going to pay…
As day broke, Tarq realised the slumped frame that was resting against him had slipped into unconsciousness. Carefully extricating himself from Asrar’s grip, he stretched his Prince over the rumpled sheets, retrieving healing balm from the trunk at the foot of his bed. Tarq settled for working the ointment into the bruises on Asrar’s face and neck, insisting on the eyelids. His movements were firm and sure, the balm melting under his fingers and into Asrar’s tumefied skin.
Next was the clotted blood matting the Prince’s forearms; with a wet cloth Tarq cleaned the blemished skin till only the shallow scabs were visible. Rubbing more of the ointment onto the lesions marring Asrar’s arms, he finished the task by carefully bandaging the cuts.
Through his ministrations, Asrar had not stirred once.
It would be three nights before the Prince awoke with a start and stared at Tarq painfully, as if utterly lost. Before he could attempt to try and scramble out of the bed and away from Tarq, the soldier caught Asrar’s fingers and brought them to his lips in a slow, measured motion.
Asrar was trembling, eyes wide under blackish eyelids that had shrunk back down to their initial size. No doubt blinking continued to be painful, but at least Asrar could see. Under his terrified gaze, Tarq pressed his lips once onto each palm before placing both Asrar’s hands on top of the covers with a slight pressure to indicate he was to keep them there and he wasn’t to bolt.
Not that he could; Tarq was be surprised Prince Asrar could even attempt motion.
“Prince. Do not attempt to sign. You have to eat before anything else.”
Asrar looked horrified.
“Do not give me that look.” Tarq smiled a little. “You have been lying here for three days and you barely took in any water. I’m going to the kitchens to bring back some broth. Lie down, move as little as possible. I’ll be back in as quickly as I can.” Asrar’s face had shuttered sometime along Tarq’s gestures and desperation had regained the foothold it had lost since Asrar had seen Tarq.
This wouldn’t do at all.
“No one is coming for you, my Prince. I’m keeping you safe, trust me.” And he kissed those sweaty palms once again as he left quickly, dark green eyes he could still feel on him even as he hurried to the kitchens and back. The small bowl of broth was left half-full as Tarq fed the weak man in his bed small spoons of soup which were obviously having a hard time settling in Asrar’s stomach. A few sips of water and the Prince dozed off, leaving Tarq in the dark once again.
What in the seven hells had happened?
After he had treated Asrar’s wounds that first morning, he had locked his room and went out to scout for information. The little he had gleaned was that no one apart from the West Wing Knights knew of the vanishing Prince; the King had not called upon anyone else for the search. It was also apparent Adwan had taken Tarq’s advice into account: the Knights were searching the West Wing in the hopes that the Prince had wandered off.
It was fortunate the West Wing could be most likened to a maze; what with the dungeons at the bottom, King Mayyar had wanted to keep the number of theoretical escapees to zero. Many Knights had also been trapped in the labyrinths of hallways and corridors before learning how to make their way from and to their quarters. Most didn’t bother learning anything else. They simply slept elsewhere.
Tarq knew a few of those Knights; they lived in the stables.
In any case, this was certain to buy him time. There was no way he was alerting anyone before understanding what was going on. Some of the bruises marring Prince Asrar’s body were a week old. The damage Tarq had witnessed had not been caused over a period of a few hours and it was more than likely that the abuse had been occurring since Asrar’s wedding night.
Who?
The anger simmered in his chest, hot and toxic. His questions were going to be answered; he just had to wait for his Prince to be able to move his wrists and fingers.
In the meantime, Tarq had to find a plausible way to seamlessly incorporate ‘hiding and healing Prince Asrar’ in his daily routine.
*~*~*
“Prince, Ketyar is nowhere to be found.”
Asrar’s face was blank. It had been a week and half, and the bruises were finally fading. He couldn’t help but twitch under Tarq’s hands as the soldier applied the cooling ointment in the mornings and the evenings, but it was his soldier. His Keeper. He left Asrar in the mornings with enough bread and cold broth for three meals and returned in the evening after his duties, more food in tow.
It seemed the man was always feeding him.
“It doesn’t seem to surprise you.”
Asrar sighed. “He set me free.”
Tarq’s eyes narrowed. Asrar knew that meant questions. “Prince, I haven’t asked. And that is because I expect you to tell me.”
Definitely not. Not in the seven hells that Tarq had taught him how to curse in. Asrar suddenly felt gentle fingers under his chin, and he hadn’t realised he had been clutching the rough sheets hard enough for them to rip. He trembled, his eyes closing just for a moment, revelling in that soft touch.
Tarq always stirred him, making him hot and cold at the same time, making him want --need-- something he couldn’t name. It was the contrast between the large but gentle hands that cared for him, the broad and powerful shoulders that had never once wounded him, the stern face with eyes that were so kind it hurt.
Asrar always failed at staying distant, even when he knew ties brought only pain. He failed so spectacularly when Tarq was concerned it was a wonder he was still alive, and Tarq still unharmed. The King was not known for indulging his only son.
“He set me free and guided me here. I don’t remember-- It was painful.” He wouldn’t say anymore. Not when he saw them each night in his dreams. “Do you suppose-- Nothing happened to him, he is unharmed, yes? Tarq?”
He only needed to look at the sorrowful eyes and doubled over, a burn jabbing him in the chest. Tarq’s solid arms were around him in an instant, ever careful of his healing bruises. Ketyar, Ketyar.
It was his doing, and the burden was too much for him to carry. Asrar pushed Tarq away; it was time for his soldier to know. Surely there would be a befitting punishment for him being his instructor’s demise. Then he could rest, because it would be enough to know he had met his end at Tarq’s kind and gentle hands. “The King needs an heir from me because his seed is too weak. Do not ask me how Ketyar found out.” His fingers were choppy as they related what little of the tale he knew. “That explains the union. But then-- I had looked up what is supposed to happen in these situations, and Ketyar had told me what I was expected to do, but--”
Asrar gulped as his eyes, which had been shadowed since the beginning of his tale, grew so hard and brittle Tarq was afraid they’d never go green again. “She didn’t remove the chains so I could move. She left me at the foot of the bed, and the room was so cold--” The darkened eyes were very far away now, and the fingers trembled as it seemed Asrar was fighting them to form the correct gestures. “There were no windows. The water I was given was dirty, in the bowl used for hunting dogs. She had very hard boots, and the other Keeper was with her.”
Boerg.
Tarq was going to kill him.
“It was cold, and the pain didn’t help. They did-- they had intercourse on the bed. I watched. They wouldn’t kill me, they just hit me again and again and they wouldn’t stop and I don’t understand!” Colour had returned to the bloodless cheeks and it seemed Asrar’s fingers could not contain their fury. The signs were getting quicker and more uneven, making them barely understandable. “I took the daggers out once, and I caught him in the chest. He punched my eyes so hard I thought they burst. Then it was very dark and then-- Ketyar.”
The hands slowed down, and Asrar looked as if he had a hole in his chest. “I had not realised-- But his hands were nothing like theirs, and he smelled of the Library. I do not know how he managed the shackles, but he lifted me up and helped me out. To you. Where is he now?” Asrar’s face was contorted in anguish, the fading contusions distorting his features horribly.
The Head Librarian was most likely dead. The only way a person would know their way through the West Wing was if they had chanced upon the remaining prints of the building, and the sole way of unearthing those was to live in the Library.
What the King had not yet uncovered was where his son was now. Few had seen past Tarq’s unbending demeanour, and Tarq doubted the King had been one of them. “What of the daggers, Prince?”
“Ketyar gave them to me when he left me. I recognised them at once.” With a few deep breaths, Asrar had got himself under control. “What still escapes my understanding is the Lady. The King-- I do not understand.”
It didn’t matter. With brief kisses to his Prince’s palms, Tarq laid his Prince back onto the thin pillow. He was to go hunting; Boerg was going to answer a few things before falling victim to Tarq’s blade.
*~*~*
Tarq was livid. Boerg was bleeding on the ground, in one of the unused rooms of the West Wing, and Tarq was too close to his answer than he had ever wanted to be.
Boerg and that bitch had thought they could rule. He would get her pregnant, and it would be their child that would sit on the throne.
And the Lady would have the boy to do as she pleased. The boy. Asrar wasn’t even a man in their eyes, and Tarq didn’t know if the relief that flooded him --and his thankfulness that the pair had only hit Prince Asrar and not tried forms of sexual torture Knights were proficient at-- was twisted or not.
It mattered not. Apart from witnessing the coupling and a few kisses the Lady had administered her ‘toy’, nothing sexual had happened. His Prince was hopefully free of that particular trauma.
“You really thought you could get away with this?”
“We would have… If that animal hadn’t gone! That devil bastard had knives that he took!”
Tarq backhanded him so hard Boerg went flying the opposite way. “The child you wanted would have been a bastard, sitting on that throne that is not rightfully yours, you sc--”
Oh.
Oh. Tarq’s breath caught as an idea struck him so hard his mind was left reeling from the possibilities.
Freedom for Asrar. Freedom for him. Yes.
He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “Far from me to stop your scheming, swine. You want to fuck and impregnate the devil bitch with your taste for blood and bruises, feel free to.”
There was only a disbelieving silence as his words rang through the dusty room.
“What are you playing at, d’El Sol?” Boerg spat out. He sent blood spraying on the floor, his cheeks already carrying the imprint of Tarq’s fists.
Tarq thought he could see a small tent at the apex of Boerg’s breeches.
“You want to put your spawn in power, do you not?” Calm and composed, as if he had thought about it in great detail… That is what he should be striving to reflect. “I do not care for that useless ruler that we have,” Tarq sneered, hoping his face carried enough contempt. “I do not care for your endeavor. But I will not stop it or reveal it, on one condition only.” Boerg was breathing angrily. “I disappear, you get the Knights off my trail.”
The silence was tense; Boerg broke it with a sharp bark. Tarq thought it was meant to be a laugh. “You want to desert, d’El Sol? You like blood too much. Just like I do.”
“What I want is none of your concern,” Tarq snapped. “Do not compare me to you who has not control. You think with your cock and your fists, pig!” He strode towards the fallen man, pressing his boot harshly against Boerg’ crotch, feeling the hardness there. “Hard and I didn’t even touch you,” Tarq smirked. “Do you think I do not know of the kitchen children you buried in the dungeons?”
Boerg started, eyes wide; his cock deflated under Tarq’s boot.
“Oh yes. They were too weak for your tastes, weren’t they? But I happen to know His Majesty was quite fond of one of them… Has been looking for her ever since.”
That poor girl; she looked like the portrait of Asrar’s mother that hung in the Library, the only place in the castle the King would not set foot in. No doubt King Mayyar wanted to best the girl in life like his late wife had bested him in death, her only gift to him a flawed son.
“If I leave, no one is to come after me.” Tarq sauntered away, enjoying the cloying scent of Boerg’s fear. He stopped at the heavy door, as if he had just remembered something. “Do stop looking for the boy, Boerg. He’s probably already dead in some corner of the West Wing.”
Now to get rid of the last obstacle to freedom.
*~*~*
“You requested an audience, Knight d’El Sol?”
“Majesty.” Tarq kneeled in front of the throne, King Mayyar alone in the cold room. Their voices echoed off the walls. How strange the usual flux of guards was not present; and why was the King in such disarray?
“Have you located It?”
Tarq’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware I was put on the search party. Majesty,” he added belatedly.
The King barked a laugh that grated. “Do you think me blind, Keeper? I have not missed the kindness you have given It. Are you protecting It? Relinquish It at once!”
“Your accusations are unfounded Majesty. I am not protecting your child.” I am trying to protect him, Tarq thought.
“But you know where he is! You have not denied that!” The King was getting amazingly flustered, cheeks burning and eyes too bright in the semi-darkness of the room. “I should have never left him alive, that whelp. Same as his good for nothing mother, wench that she was! Damn that Librarian and his assertions, damn him, damn it all!”
Gone was the ‘it’ appellation. King Mayyar had gone mad, there was no other explanation; never had his King been so feverish and uncontrolled. It seemed the grasp on his thoughts and emotions was strenuous at best, and the King was battling against them.
“Majesty--”
“That Librarian told me things, before he bled to death,” the King continued as if he had not heard. “That the reason none of the mistresses I’ve had had ever borne children was because of my seed. My own seed! That the child had been born because that Bitch was too fertile! Oh how he bled, it was a superb sight, that it was…”
Madness.
If he had not been sure of his actions, this had settled Tarq onto the path. Regardless of Asrar, there was no way in the seven hells he was ever bowing to an insane man.
Time to take control. “I know where he is.” The King started, his eyes devouring Tarq. “And I’m leaving with him.” The King trembled so much the wooden throne seemed to move as well. His majesty’s eyes bugged out of their sockets, his tongue peeking out of a panting mouth like a hound being denied its supper.
Repulsive.
Tarq sneered in contempt. “I do not have enough honour to keep serving you, King. You can send as many a Knight as you desire, you know I’ll best them all.” He stroked the tally marks on his shoulders; Tarq knew he had more than twice more kills than any other Knight heeling to King Mayyar’s whims. “The Eastern border is stirring; as is the North. You won’t have men to spare, sending them after me, or even after the child. You are too well-versed in your Knights’ proficiency to vanish.”
There was a long silence: Tarq only heard his breathing, and his heart thumping in his chest. He was certain the rhythmic sounds were echoing off the walls as well.
The King’s face was blank. Ah, it seemed the royal composure had returned; the King had gone from the Fool to the Queen as a chess piece, after revealing too much. The games were beginning.
“What prevents me, Tarq, from beheading you here and now?” Oh yes. The royal composure had returned all right.
The soldier smirked. “You are assuming, your Majesty, that I would be of a mind to let you.” King Mayyar’s eyes widened. “My blade is not known for not retaliating.”
The King lost his veneer again, bloodshot eyes in a contorted, livid face holding more than a hint of insanity. So it was certain; there would need to be a new ruler. “You dare threaten me, renegade!”
There was also fear in those bugged-out eyes, and Tarq relished in it. “I am but a pawn in your games, King. However this particular plan of yours was in very bad taste, and I do not appreciate being played to no discernible end. Either I have a use, or I do not. So now, you lose.”
The King was seething. “I am King!”
“And I am stronger. There is no one here, Majesty. Your lackeys are on the prowl for the child. Were I to kill you right now and claim the throne, no one would think anything of it. After all, that is the same strategy your ancestors devised.” Tarq didn’t wait for his former King to interrupt. “We seem to be at a stalemate, Majesty.”
The King recognised an attempt at a draw that would permit him to save face. “Name your terms,” he said stiffly.
“Turn around and walk to your chambers,” Tarq answered. “I have no use for you in death, Majesty,” he assured the broad man who had lost his composure and was eyeing him with barely concealed wariness. “Even if you are not able to abide by your word, I do abide by mine.” The sharp edge of his blade pressed into the King Mayyar’s back as they made their way to the adjacent royal quarters. They were maybe the only rooms in the castle so lavish the colours unsettled Tarq’s stomach.
Using the heavy hilt, Tarq dealt a quick blow and his former King fell unconscious. The only thing left for him to do was lock the chambers on his way out. He left his spurs at the heavy doors on the royal quarters, with not even a pang of regret.
Now the fastest way to make it to the South.
*~*~*
It was the silence that speared Tarq and left him bleeding.
They were doing well and he couldn’t hold that against them, with water from the nearby well and some food from the tiny garden they kept around the house. Both Asrar and he kept the horses that had accompanied them in their escape warm and well-fed, often at their own expenses, especially when winter came. Thankfully they had arrived in the summer and reaped some of the village’s harvest in exchange for a few silvers, with the last of Tarq’s gold swallowed into their acquiring of a shack, a few kilometres away from the village.
More isolation. Tarq refused to stretch their luck by establishing Asrar or he near known settlements lest they be recognized by Knights patrolling on chance and not under Boerg’s control, but this did not help the change his eardrums had to adapt to: no sounds of swords clashing or men yelling battle cries, no puttering of maids nor their ceaseless crooning, no sound of footsteps echoing on dull stone. Just earth, wind and a man who was everything but distracting.
Much work was still to be done on the cabin but the four walls were standing, even if the roof left to be desired. The shifts in the weather had Tarq working on sealing the largest breaches till the first snow, with Asrar toiling away on the inside walls and rooms. The first months were rhythmic: tools clanging and the sun beating on his head, a cloying heat Tarq tried to keep at bay with tuneless singing. But it was no use singing alone, especially since he was certain he wasn’t in tune. And Asrar would never join him. So he stopped, and let the rays beating down upon him set the pace.
It was tiring and left him no time to think. He thanked the Gods for that.
It was also quiet, silent but for the steady sounds of Asrar inside the house. Tarq didn’t see his old charge much except for the evenings and nights, when they ate and slept the aches of the day away. Even with every day work, the cabin roof had to wait till the next thaw to be completed, but the worst of the damage was kept at bay with Tarq’s quick fixes.
The soldier was worried the change was too much for his Prince: Asrar had been through many ordeals but food and shelter had always been available. Well, food was at the mercy of his Keeper --his captor, although Tarq pushed the thought away with disgust-- but shelter and relative warmth… Well, shelter had been a given. And now, food, shelter and warmth were rationed.
He was also worried about his own sanity: if Asrar insisted on the minimalist approach -which was to sign as little as possible, by the Gods why?-- Tarq was certain he’d lose what little rationality he had left. Silence with no communication… He doubted he could take more of it.
Asrar seemed to be adapting quickly to their new living conditions, though, and hadn’t protested when being handed the tools to work on the inside of the cabin; he had been more and more subdued since their escapade.
Tarq had also noticed more food on his plate and less on his Prince’s once Asrar had acquired the art of stew: throw in chopped legumes and a peeled potato, an onion and, with some luck, strips of meat, cover in boiling water and wait. It was much easier for Asrar to take care of the cooking since he wasn’t perched on the roof, and to blatantly take advantage of that fact when came the moment to pour stew in their two bowls.
Tarq needed to have a little talk with his Prince. Well, talk was probably not part of the correct vocabulary, but in layman’s terms, it would do.
The soldier was barely starting to take in the enormity of what had happened, but the very real physical work involved in renovating the shack was beating the knowledge into his bones and body with every single movement. The nights spent stretched at Asrar’s side to keep the autumn cold at bay as drifts through the roof threatened their thin fire made him all the more aware of their new situation. Being so much closer to the one you’ve sworn to protect…
And yet, they were communicating less and less. It seemed as if Tarq could not get past these walls Asrar had put up as they escaped, as if he could not share and shape the new thoughts and considerations in Asrar’s beautiful head. His Prince was shutting him out, as if it would push away the reality of what had happened.
Tarq didn’t know how to clear the air between them. They were so close and yet so far, it was ridiculous.
Little did Tarq know Asrar would be the bold one and break the vicious pattern.
He had been astonished when he had come down one autumn night, muscles stretched and aching from working on the roof, to find a flushed Prince bent over their only pot and stirring nervously. The floors were free of the dust and rubbish that had just seemed to accumulate no matter how many times one swept, and the large copper tub Tarq had dragged in with the help of the horses gleamed in the firelight, steam rising from the clean water that filled it almost to the brim.
A bath. When neither Asrar nor he could afford the time-consuming task of warming buckets and buckets of water when there was still so much to be done. His Prince… Tarq stood, speechless, as his muscles screamed for the heavenly reprieve. His Prince…
Asrar yelped when Tarq embraced him. It was so sudden, these arms tight around his tense frame. Tarq released him after a few moments, letting his strong hands slide to Asrar’s abused ones, fingers and palms reddened and bleeding from the chafing and the scrubbing, nails jagged and dirty. He brought those gentle hands to his lips, kissed them and warmed them, trying to soothe the aches away.
“Prince, you shouldn’t have--”
Asrar cut him off with imperious fingers, eyes downcast, signing for the first time in days. “Tarq, you’ve been toiling away at the roof, and I… Please allow me to ease this nuisance.”
Oh yes, a heart-to-heart was most definitely in order. “You haven’t bathed.” It was a statement Asrar didn’t even bother answering. His dusty clothing and cheeks and hair spoke for themselves. “Don’t you suppose you’re also in need of some unwinding?”
“I’m not the one on the roof, Tarq. It is only fair you recuperate--”
“Enough of this nonsense, Prince,” Tarq exclaimed, incensed, hands flailing wildly in front of him and words pouring out of his mouth. It felt good to hear words and sentences, even if he was the only one to speak them. “You are doing more than you ought to and my duty would be to see you do nothing at all. It is obvious I am failing quite abysmally at it, and you’re working more than you should ever have to. Please share the warm water you so diligently heated. I’m afraid my muscles can’t quite say no and offer you the tub,” Tarq chuckled, rueful, as he continued to sign and speak at the same time. “But it would mean the world to me if you consented to share.”
Asrar’s frown was his first answer. It wouldn’t do at all. Time to use solid arguments, and Tarq thanked his father in thought for all the training; he was especially grateful for all the time he spent trying to convince his Baba he didn’t need to bathe. “My Prince, if I may… This is to relax my muscles, which means I get to spend my time in the water till it’s cold. Following this, you should bathe first so I can get more time in the water.” Tarq cut off Asrar’s indignant gesture. “But you won’t. And since I disagree with your assumption in the first place, which is to say that I need this bath more than you do, then we share.”
He grinned in the face of Asrar’s disbelieving eyes. A bath… What an ingenious idea Asrar had had: nothing better to break the ice between them, especially as it looked like Tarq was going to get his way after all. “And quick, Prince! The water’s getting cold, and we wouldn’t want your efforts to go to waste now, would we?”
Tarq’s hands were light on Asrar’s chest, flutters that undid the fastenings of his dirty tunic, the buttons of the inside shirt, that pushed the fabric out of the way till it pooled to the ground and exposed the slim collarbone where pale skin still healed bruises.
Asrar was trembling and his eyes were dull. Oh no.
“No, no, no my Prince, my Asrar… Don’t go, come back to me, Asrar--” Tarq whispered, panicked, and he stopped touching his Prince as if the white skin had burned his palms. The shivering, however, only increased. Cold drifting from the only gap left in the roof hardened Asrar’s nipples and hued the white skin purple as the Prince slowly doubled over, thin arms hugging himself as he started to curl into a shivering ball, losing it right in front of an overwrought Tarq who was utterly at loss. “Asrar, Asrar…” Tarq hovered above the prone form, hesitating and hating himself for it. He was afraid to touch his Prince again, but the younger man had to snap out of it, Tarq just hoped he wouldn’t lash out and injure himself in the process--
A dull cry was the only sound Asrar made as Tarq’s arms engulfed him with care, regardless of the Prince’s weak struggles. He was still shivering and Tarq could feel the corner of his shirt dampen as Asrar burrowed his face in his broad shoulder. Everything was silent, even as the violent tremors wouldn’t subside: Asrar was so quiet in his meltdown Tarq could hear an owl ululate right outside the shack and the evening wind ruffle the leaves of the pine outside.
He embraced Asrar tighter, trying to warm the huddled body, and slipped an arm under Asrar’s knees to lift him up and carry him towards the tub. His Prince was akin to a puppet, limbs lax as Tarq quickly divested him of his breeches. Long, slim legs with elegant feet and slender toes… Tarq fought to keep his eyes from devouring Asrar as he immersed his Prince in the tub, careful to keep the dark head above the water.
Rapidly removing his clothing as well, Tarq also got into the tub, facing the other man; his hands immediately went to his Prince’s arms and torso and rubbed, circular motions to get the blood flowing. His palms then went to the warming cheeks and he slapped them, light taps to try and get his Prince back. It didn’t hurt the water was doing his back a world of good in the meantime: his worry was tampered by tension flowing out of his muscles, Asrar must have put something in the water…
Tarq knew the instant Asrar came back to. The slight frame tensed, long and nervous limbs curling inwards in the crowded tub and away from Tarq. Asrar’s face turned very, very red and Tarq thought his Prince would get a kink in the neck with the way Asrar tried to avoid his gaze.
But Tarq’s hands still continued their comforting ministrations up and down Asrar’s arms, stroking the pale neck and collarbone, slipping down his torso then Tarq was shifting, moving the water as he tilted Asrar’s frame forwards and pulled the long legs towards him so he could move. He got up to his knees and twisted, gathering Asrar’s body close as he rested his back against the scrubbed clean copper, nestling the tense but unmoving man in between his arms and legs.
Both of them were warm; the water was still warm, and Asrar’s body was loosening little by little. Tarq hummed under his breath a slow, steady rhythm that had Asrar’s body turn lax and his head rest in the crook of Tarq’s collarbone.
“B-e-t-t-e-r?” Tarq spelled in front of both their bodies, arms encircling Asrar. What little he could see from his vantage point showed the blush had not left Asrar’s cheeks but the Prince still chuckled in silence, burrowing deeper in Tarq’s embrace.
“Apologies, Tarq,” Asrar’s hands stirred, slow and graceful, water dripping from his fingers as he gestured in front of him. Tarq spied the signs from across Asrar’s head and left shoulder: it seemed his Prince had finally awakened from his long communication abstinence. “They just came over me, I couldn’t--” His back sagged against Tarq’s chest a little more. “I didn’t know how to find my way out of it.” It looked as if he wanted to say more but his hands just fell back in the cooling water. “It’s been difficult for you to bear me and my spoiled ways--”
Tarq interrupted Asrar’s bout of anxiety by catching the fluttering fingers sending water droplets flying everywhere. “Prince. You’re so strange,” he sighed, the words rumbling in his chest and throat, causing Asrar’s head to swivel and try and look at him. Tarq refused to let the delicate wrists go, forcing them underwater in between Asrar’s legs. He then reached for the bar of rough soap the villagers had gifted hem with and pushed Asrar forward, lathering his back and collarbone with care, soaping up his own hands to run them through the dirty locks.
He knew his Prince couldn’t hear him, and yet he talked. “I’m very serious, Prince. This requires me to have a pen and paper in front of me, I don’t know how well you would take to me calling you dense to your face. I can’t believe you would think you’re a burden, Asrar…” Tarq tsked, soft in the evening, as his hands ran the length of Asrar’s torso, his spine, his buttocks and thighs that were in reach.
Asrar felt wary in between Tarq’s arms but he let himself be washed; Tarq soaped up the pale stomach, careful of the bruises on the ribs, before finishing with Asrar’s armpits and arms and covering all the skin to the fingers with a rich, soapy lather. “Now you,” he said, directing Asrar’s hands to the man’s lower abdomen and pushing him upwards to his knees. “I’m not looking,” Tarq continued, also kneeling.
The cold water sloshed as he turned away, an arm braced on the rim of the tub as he scrubbed at his own skin and hair, mindful only of the sounds behind him in case Asrar slipped.
The long fingers that suddenly skirted on his shoulder blades made him lose his footing; he tipped backwards and collided with a flat, wet chest and Asrar let out a guttural cry, stopping his fall by taking most of Tarq’s weight and bending backwards just enough.
Thank the Gods for Asrar’s reflexes; the younger man held him up, hands steady under Tarq’s arms as their closeness left nothing to the imagination. Tarq could feel Asrar’s abdominal muscles straining, the hands gripping him tightly for balance where Tarq would maybe bruise, the bend of angular knees digging in his thighs, the soft cock nestled just above his buttocks.
Cursing at the slippery surface, Tarq righted himself, but not fast enough he couldn’t feel a twitch nudging at the small of his back, and he felt himself starting to answer in kind.
By the Gods, this was certain to confuse Asrar even more. Bathing together fulfilled Tarq’s baser instincts, that was for certain, and he cursed the day he decided to go along with spontaneous actions as opposed to well-thought out plans. Time to calm the game, and thank the Gods the water was cold enough. Being careful, Tarq immersed himself in the water once more, washing the soap away, hearing his Prince do the same. Once he asserted the cold had done its job well and his reaction was gone, he gave Asrar an additional minute before he turned back towards him.
Asrar was beet red, eyes darting everywhere but on Tarq’s face and looking as if he had been caught stealing pastries from the castle’s kitchens. The soapy lather on his skin was gone, although his hair remained full of bubbles; Tarq found him so endearing his breath left him. For the first time, the Prince looked young, righteously frolicking in a tub with --dare Tarq say it?-- playfulness and the embarrassment characteristic of the adolescent he had never been; the lighter-hearted man stirred him straight to the core.
Asrar blinked at Tarq’s sudden lack of movement, darting a shy glance to his face and his lips blooming into a grin to match Tarq’s own. “So childish, Prince,” Tarq signed with a laugh, “thank you for the catch.”
“True, a knight losing his footing in a tub, what a shame,” replied Asrar, eyes crinkled, glad to see the incident wasn’t detailed any further. “It’s a wonder who’s the child here.”
And then Asrar was blinded, Tarq taking handfuls of cold water and drenching the dark hair with a chuckle. Such a cheeky Prince! Asrar let his hair be rinsed, good-natured, and watched as Tarq submerged himself enough to get rid of all the soap. By that time, both their sets of teeth were chattering and Tarq hurried out of the tub but shook his head as Asrar tried to follow him; he padded to the stack of large, rough cloths an old woman had given them, nose wrinkled as she had surveyed their sorry state when they had haggled tools in exchange for a few sword-fighting lessons from Tarq.
Wrapping and drying himself, he unfolded another sheet and had Asrar stand up in the tub, covering him with the thick cloth and scrubbing him dry. “There you go,” Tarq whispered, taking care to turn away as he dressed, giving them both a little privacy.
They still had to empty and clean the tub: it was tedious but they took their time, limbs heavy in content and smiles on their faces. Tarq still wanted to explain, go back to Asrar and his choices, but he was drained. It seemed Asrar had also forgotten as they both curled up in their blankets in a corner of the room.
It was but a small respite; the morrow saw Asrar return to his taciturn manner. Tarq vowed he’d clear the air by the end of the week.
It was progress.
*~*~*
“Lady Beche’s kisses were bloody-- She bit my tongue before she did it. What should real kisses taste like?”
Tarq dropped the cooking earthenware hard enough it was a wonder the baked clay didn’t shatter. He was, of course, the only one to wince at the loud noise it made.
“Prince--”
Tarq’s gesture was stopped by long fingers. He hadn’t seen his Prince approach and suddenly the man was mere inches away, his body warm, his fingers hot as they steadied his wrists, elegant and light and never had Tarq imagined Asrar would touch him so casually after all he had been through a few months ago. Too soon though, his Prince’s hands let go.
“Tarq, you needn’t--” The hands stopped and Asrar seemed at loss. “I’m not a Prince anymore. Asrar will do just fine. Please, disregard my question if it bothers you, I shouldn’t have presumed--”
Tarq looked at him, drowning in those darkened eyes. He could only say what his thoughts screamed at him, for once echoing the heaviness that had settled in his chest since the beginning of the debacle.
“I don’t care about the question. And you’ll always be my Prince whom I keep safe.”
Asrar’s hands started fluttering, fingers twisting and tensing to relax, as if he could not decide what to say. His eyes were fastened to Tarq’s. To the soldier’s dismay, they were starting to shine suspiciously. Tarq started shaking his head. “No, no, no, Prince Asrar, don’t--”
His callused fingers caught the first of the tears as it rolled down a white cheek. His index flickered against the soft skin and Tarq couldn’t recall who leaned in first but suddenly, his palm was fully cupping the damp cheek, warming it and the tears underneath, thumb wiping off the salted streaks underneath the storming orbs.
“Prince, don’t. It’s not worth it, it isn’t…” Tarq soothed, voice low. He couldn’t be heard, he knew, but Asrar’s eyes were on his face, scrutinizing, searching, heedless of the tears Tarq’s thumb insisted on wiping away. Tarq didn’t know what his liege was looking for, what on earth a demoted and incompetent soldier could provide to a deaf and disowned prince out in the middle of nowhere.
The contact was sudden, Asrar’s lips. They were moist and soft, a whisper on his palm.
Tarq knew his eyes had gone very, very wide.
Asrar’s own eyes had slipped shut, his head tilted just so, Tarq’s palm a perfect fit. The dark head had swivelled, the bridge of his nose a gentle slope against Tarq’s trembling fingers, black lashes tickling Tarq’s fingertips.
Asrar’s lips were still brushing against Tarq’s lifeline, his cheeks flushed.
Both men were trembling.
“Prince Asrar… Asrar.” Both Tarq’s hands cupped the beautiful face, his thumbs caressing the damp cheeks. The tears had stopped but Asrar’s eyes were a little swollen, his nose and cheeks violently red. Tarq’s breath caught as two hands slowly came to rest above his, Asrar’s soft palms warming his knuckles.
They couldn’t. Not when there were so many things unsaid.
The long fingers pressed onto his, sliding to his wrists. Tapping familiar patterns. It was long. It was tedious.
They had all the time in the world.
‘Kiss me,’ the fingers said.
Yes. Please, yes.
But Tarq shook his head with an impish smile. “You want to know what it tastes like… You. Kiss. Me,” he replied, distinctly articulating the words to Asrar’s expectant eyes. It was obvious his Prince wasn’t going to do it, what with everything that had happened, so it would just be an awkward moment then both of them could forget this madness that seemed to have seized them. Maybe it was the wild herbs he had put in the soup this morning--
It was over too quickly. Asrar’s breath ghosted over Tarq’s mouth as the pale face he still held surged towards him, soft lips brushing his own before retreating, jerking half a meter away. The younger man was livid, eyes everywhere but on his soldier’s face, hands clamped over Tarq’s wrists to the point of pain.
Tarq’s chest was going to burst.
“My Prince. Do it. Properly,” and Tarq dragged those lips back to his, tilting Asrar’s head just so and it was perfect, warm and moist and Tarq fought to keep his mouth compliant, gentle nibbles to that sinful bottom lip to urge Asrar on. He could feel heat gather under his fingertips as his palms stroked small circles on unblemished cheeks and a strong jawbone. The heaviness that weighed on him was crushing him, oh how he wanted his prince to let him in, to just let him--
And with a tiny yield of Asrar’s mouth it finally, finally, turned into a proper kiss.
Asrar’s lips moved under his, his mouth tasting of the peppermint tea he was so fond of, one of the few relics of his past. Tarq was drowning, lost in the feel of those damp lips that shifted with his, tasting, experimenting and by the Gods did Asrar feel good, did his Prince feel right in between his hands, flushed cheeks his calloused fingers insisted on caressing again and again. Tarq broke away with a gasp, the heaviness escaping away at the sight between his cupped palms. He was still clutching Asrar’s face and the Prince was smiling a little, eyes bright in the middle of a full-blown blush. Those eyes raked over him, searching his face and features. They were devouring him.
It took their lips only a moment to meet again and this time, it was hot and messy with Asrar’s mouth open and wanting. Tarq’s tongue licked at his Prince’s lips, tasted his pearly teeth, nudged at Asrar’s tongue before retreating. He didn’t have to wait long; his lips were licked shyly, Asrar panting as Tarq opened his mouth wider, sucking on Asrar’s tongue and lapping at the taste of peppermint, overjoyed as his Prince kissed back avidly.
The need for air was rather unfortunate as both men parted and Tarq settled for embracing Asrar tightly, one hand around his shoulders and the other at the back of his bent neck, delighting in the feel of his prince’s beautiful face nuzzling at the hollow of his throat. Tarq could feel Asrar’s deep exhales against his Adam’s apple as he threaded his fingers in those silky locks, stroking the dark curls, caressing Asrar’s nape. It was a while before they moved, both men content to catch their breaths.
‘Was that doing it properly?’ Asrar’s fingers asked, quick and nervous, on Tarq’s arm. Tarq laughed as he disentangled himself from Asrar, pushing him far enough he could sign between them.
“Yes, I suppose it was.” He sobered, expression losing its mirth. “Prince. Do you-- Is it--” Tarq couldn’t find the right gestures, couldn’t even formulate his thought properly. That had been one hell of a kiss. Sighing, he let his hands fall to his sides as he took a few moments to gather his scattered wits. The madness had gone on far enough, Asrar was undoubtedly going to have one of his nightmarish episodes during the might and it wouldn’t do at all. “Prince. What is it that you’re hoping to accomplish? Your fear… you still nurse it.”
Asrar’s cheeks had not lost a fraction of their redness. “Tarq, I-- ” he faltered, eyes never leaving his soldier’s face. It was as if Asrar was drowning, trying to grab onto a lifeline and salvage what little could still be saved. “I don’t know. I don’t know how--” he gestured uselessly, right arm moving vaguely to encompass their surroundings. The dingy cabin with only two rooms, one of which was still inhabitable. The leaks and drafts in between the disjointed tiles and wood beams making the roof, the rickety table and chairs in the common area. The odd loaf of bread sitting in a close-to-empty pantry, the soup leftovers that needed to be warmed on the morrow. “I thought I couldn’t-- But I want you to touch me. If I am to your liking, that is. I can learn--” Asrar’s hands stopped.
Tarq’s heart twisted, ugly and painful.
“Say you’ll touch me. You’ll show me. Please.”
Tarq trembled as he sought Asrar’s hands, squeezing them tightly before bringing them to his lips just for a moment.
“If you choose me freely, then I will show you. I promise. But Prince, I am not leaving your side. There is always time.” Asrar’s eyes were wide. Tarq was certain of the hint of shame that coloured his Prince’s cheeks and the evading eyes. “Time, Prince. Let the thought rest, it is still so very raw. You-- we… have time,” Tarq smiled, signing with a certainty he did not feel. Who knew what mindset Asrar would be in tomorrow?
Best was to let it rest.
“Swear you’ll show me, Tarq.” It wasn’t a question.
Tarq’s lips were light on Asrar’s mouth as he answered, short and sweet.
It would be many months before he kissed Asrar again.
*~*~*
Tarq ruffled his hand in the mop of black hair that continued growing longer. Asrar refused to cut it, insisting on tying it back and, recently, on plaiting it to keep it away from his face. Well, plaiting it… It was Tarq who twisted the strands every morning and made sure they were secured properly before both men left the house and headed towards the village. It was their second winter in the cabin, which was no longer draughty thanks to Tarq’s reinforcements. They had purchased an actual mattress from the small village and both of them now spent considerably smoother nights.
Well, smoother in the lack of bunched up and contracted muscles that had always followed a night in blankets on the cold and hard floor of the cabin. Not smoother in the way that Asrar now pressed against him, lank body wrapping around Tarq when sleep overtook them both.
It had, of course, started innocently enough. Tarq had refused to blind himself any longer; yes, his Prince did indeed make his heart race and his palms sweat. Yes, seeing him in all manners of undress when they bathed did not make matters better.
Yes, Asrar was so utterly desirable it hurt.
Tarq had already known that; had known he could not remain wholly unaffected by the beautiful man for whom he had thrown away his life without ever hesitating. He had not thought to put a name to that which had spurred his actions.
Two years hence, he could finally name it.
Yes, it was love he felt, but there was also so much lust… It unsettled him. Tarq had never thought to love the bodies he had once lusted after; they were whores and fellow soldiers, both beautiful in their own ways, curvaceous for ones and angular for others.
He had never even respected any of them.
Nor did he hold them in contempt, mind: it was just that there had been lust and desire and need, and then there hadn’t. They had shared his bed and he had shared theirs, and both parties had left with relief in the morning. With Asrar… With his Prince it was not a matter of leaving. It was eating together, sharing bedding and bath, walking together to the village only to return in the evening battered and tired in his case, eyes and fingers aching in the case of Asrar.
It was the silence, and him not minding it a whit. It was learning to communicate, and the heat in his chest when he signed a particular word in the correct manner, or when he needed not ask the meaning of something for the whole of the week. It was Asrar and his coming up with new gestures for their daily activities, fingers nimble and quick. It was the way his Prince’s eyes were so green and bright it seemed he was lit up from the inside.
And Asrar laughed. It wasn’t a pleasing sound; it was too loud and often pitched incorrectly, but never had anything wrenched Tarq’s heart the way it did. Never had anything ignited heat so fast in his gut that he wanted to press those laughing and open lips to his, to touch and stroke the thin arms that had grown a little bit of muscle, the narrow hips and those incredibly long legs. To bury his hands in the smooth curls he wound in a plait every morning, which he didn’t touch longer than he should because Asrar was his Prince, his Prince, damn it to all the hells that were.
He shouldn’t want to get closer than he already was; it shouldn’t be possible.
But it was.
And he wanted it. He was terrified he couldn’t wait, that some day he would just snap because Asrar’s pale body would have made him lose the last shreds of his sanity. And he was already barely clinging on to those. The oath his Prince had forced out of him all those months ago burned at the back of his mind; it just seemed as if, since then, he was being tested.
Asrar smiled more, laughed more. His Prince touched him more, on the arm when they walked side by side, on the shoulder when pointing out anything intriguing, everywhere whenever they slept, slender arms encircling his shoulders and a slim torso pressed the length of his back, interminable legs tangled with his.
Gods, this was torture.
Adding to that, winter solstice was coming up; damn the Gods, the Heavens, and the seven Hells there were. They were all conspiring against him. Thankfully he had planned for the day, with a small gift for his Prince. It didn’t do to forget the day Asrar had chosen to celebrate his birthday. The Prince had been born in summer, but the day Tarq and he had fled the castle for good had been a few days before Yule.
Asrar said he hadn’t truly existed before Tarq had set him free.
It was a sobering thought. As Tarq made his way into the village after abandoning Asrar to the library books, he greeted the many people with which they both had become familiar. Small children accosted him to ask about sword lessons as he made his way to a small house whose owner was well known for the best quills in the village, goose and crow and swan feathers of the highest quality making up her stores. Tarq had commissioned two of each, along with bottles of ink and parchment.
After his purchase, all the silver he had made teaching those brats would be gone.
He didn’t think there could be a better investment.
Placing his order and winking at the lady for good measure, he set off to his tasks in the village, helping the men with wood chopping, tending to the bare crops and reinforcing a few roofs in exchange for bread and fruit. Asrar and he had started growing their own, but none of them seemed to have any affinity with living beings other than each other.
He swore the women of the village were laughing at them. But then, they permitted him to watch sometimes as they planted and tended to their gardens and plots, and he daresay he had gained some knowledge that had eluded him at the same time last year.
By the time the sun set, his Prince and he were on their way back. Asrar was oddly subdued, contending himself with bumping into Tarq’s shoulder as they walked, his head bowed. He was obviously mulling something over, and Tarq didn’t want to insist. As they arrived, dusty and dirty, Tarq set out to pull some cold water from the well that he could heat up so they could wash the filth off. He’d barely managed to build a fire when Asrar walked up to him and stared him hard in the eyes.
“It is winter solstice.”
“Almost,” laughed Tarq, careful to articulate so Asrar would understand. “Not for a few days yet.”
“Two years, almost… I think--” Asrar’s fingers stopped, frozen, and he had to struggle in order to make them behave. His cheeks were every shade of red. “I would like for you to honour that oath, Tarq.”
Tarq’s heart stopped beating.
“After getting clean, of course,” Asrar wrinkled his nose. He closed his eyes as his blush finally overwhelmed him –it had reached his collar by that point– and trudged on. “That is, if you are amenable. I’d understand if--”
Tarq’s mouth crushed his. Asrar’s hands wound around Tarq’s neck and it was sweeter than any words Tarq could have ever thought of. Asrar’s lips were warm and moist, flavoured lightly with the sticky toffees women pressed in his hands whenever the young man wrote out some form they had a need for. They didn’t mind going to Tarq if it was a little complicated; he translated with a smile, but that had only been the first few months. Now they just articulated slowly and shouted, and Asrar used all his skill in reading lips.
The mouth under his was warm and pliant, and oh did Asrar have a skill in reading lips… Tarq came up for air, his eyes and arms full of an impish Prince with a blush down to his neck and graceful hands twined in his cropped hair.
Tarq knew his smile was threatening to split his face in two. He cupped Asrar’s face, his eyes burning, and murmured, “Oh, how I love you--” and then he drowned again in the soft lips that had frozen for just a moment, heedless of the fingers that had tightened almost painfully in his short hair.
He yielded as Asrar bit and nip, tongue licking to soothe the soft aches, angling his head to allow open-mouthed kisses being pressed along his jaw line. As Asrar came up for air, he pushed his Prince away. “I do, Prince, never doubt it.”
Asrar’s eyes were very bright as he sank his face in the hollow of Tarq’s throat, hands caressing Tarq’s powerful shoulders and back before fingers made their way to his nape and tapped. ‘Hurts. Burns.’
Tarq’s heart sank in his stomach. Carefully peeling Asrar away from him, he signed. “Prince, what on earth do you mean?”
Asrar sighed, but there was a lingering smile on his lips. His hand came to rest where his heart beat. “There’s just too much--” he wavered before continuing. “It seems my heart has too much in it, and all of it is yours. And it hurts. Won’t you allow me to share it, Tarq?”
Oh.
“Only if you indulge me too, Prince.” And Tarq had no need for a reflective surface to know he was just as red as his Asrar. Who promptly kissed him again.
‘Tarq.’ The fingers tapped and paused on his naked shoulder as Asrar’s lips were nuzzling his throat. Tarq’s hands were buried in the soft dark curls spilling on his Prince’s shoulders and he had to concentrate on the hesitant tapping to make sense of it. ‘At loss. Teach me.’
Tarq did.
As Asrar slid inside him with a sob, eyes wide in fear and wonder and his whole body quivering as he jerked to completion after a so very few and shallow thrusts, Tarq knew this was their true beginning.
~*~*~*
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