The Red King (20 page)

“That wasn’t curiosity. It was humiliation,”
Andrew said, looking away for a moment.

“I think, maybe for him, it was curiosity. My
reaction was unimportant when he began. He just wanted to see.”

“When he began?” Andrew repeated, brows drawn
together. “Was there more?”

Rory took a moment and a deep breath.
“Maarten was, and is still, I imagine, extremely thorough. He
wanted to explore all of me. He put his hands in my mouth to feel,
opened it nearly far enough to split my lips so he could see. Then
he opened my ass, using his fingers much the same way. I tell you
he did not hurt me, it was all very gentle,” he added when Andrew
looked ill.

“I can’t imagine how he did not hurt you,”
Andrew whispered.

“He made me come. I didn’t know what had
happened, all I knew was that not only did I not hurt, I felt
pleasure I had never known. He seemed very pleased by it,” Rory
continued. He couldn’t repress his sudden trembling and sat up,
away from Andrew, to stare at the fire.

Andrew moved slowly, sitting up next to him.
He followed suit, staying silent while he watched Idir act out a
violent battle. After the story returned to its normal pace, he
said, cautiously, “You…defend his actions.”

“I defend my own!” Rory snarled, facing him.
There was a pause in the conversation around them and he quieted
his tone, but with difficulty. “I was terrified and alone, I wanted
my mother! Maarten comforted me, held me, and even his rutting
against me was better than the cold fear and agony in my heart. He
was gentle and I was grateful, even though it was wrong.”

“Maarten was wrong, not you,” Andrew told
him. He spoke softly, his eyes held no judgment. “You don’t need to
explain yourself. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“Then to myself, I defend. I never thought to
fight, Andrew. For years I went where he led. I did as he told. I
took what he gave, without question.” Rory had to stop now, his
voice was wavering and he felt a veritable barrage of emotions.
There was fear, anger, regret, pain and longing and something new.
It was the thing that pushed all of the feelings afore it, forcing
them through the narrow crack of his barricaded heart. “I think,”
he said, thickly, trying to prevent his lips from twisting, “I
need…to take a walk.”

Andrew nodded, but took his hand before Rory
could stand to leave. “I will be waiting for you.”

Rory walked towards the sea, struggling to
contain the overflow of emotion that threatened his control. He
shook with the effort, clenched his fists and ground his teeth.
He’d not had this lapse of detachment since he’d escaped the
chains, and it infuriated him. Cursing his weakness, he lashed out,
smashing his hand into the trunk of a cypress. Rory hit it again,
and again, until he felt his knuckles split and swell and his hand
throbbed from the pain.

Focusing only on the pulse of his engorged
hand, he walked farther, stopping at the edge of the water. He
still shook, still found it hard to breathe. The tension was
starting to cause an ache in his shoulders and in his head and
still he fought the release. Rory took deep breaths, steadying
himself as he had been taught. But the teaching had started with
Maarten, who had wanted him to bear more and more of his
torture.

Suddenly his mind supplied the full memory;
Maarten was above him, so tall and long limbed. His long hair
was nearly white, his eyes like chips of blue ice and his smile was
beatific, even while he forced his huge fingers into Rory. Up, in,
going on and on until Rory had cried out. Then the pressure began
and Rory’s body responded. Maarten laughed, took his small,
childish erection in hand and squeezed. The guttural language he
spoke did not disguise his delight. He spoke one word in English,
“Breathe”, and Rory did as commanded. Maarten had continued,
pressing and squeezing until his slender body stiffened and he
choked.

Rory dropped to his knees, retching as he
relived the moment with shocking clarity. He had vomited then, too,
and fainted. Maarten had thrown cold water on him and continued,
repeating the process until Rory was sore, weak, and exhausted. The
gentleness he had remembered, yes, but not the relentlessness, the
utter disregard for his meager form and the ordeal he had faced.
Hours passed before Maarten had finished with him, releasing him
only to put his manly, thick cock between Rory’s thighs and rut
there until completion.

Seeing through the eyes of his child-self,
Rory could now recall the bruises on his thighs and stomach, his
own small, sore, reddened cock, and the ropes of come springing
forth to land on his chest. His gut heaved again and found a scream
at the back of his throat as it spilled the remainder of his
supper. Rory screamed loud enough to wake and set to flight a flock
of sleeping birds and he screamed again, again. Something tore in
his throat and he stopped, sitting back on his knees with his face
to the sky.

Rory counted the stars, remembering the night
he spoke to Andrew about them. A man’s decisions are his own, he
had said, encouraging Andrew to make his own choices, to follow his
own heart. Andrew had taken his word and made his choice, offering
himself up, bruised and battered, to Rory’s whim. He questioned, he
argued, and he resisted, but he was there when Rory called, when
Rory reached out a hand. Andrew was following where Rory led,
preparing for a mission that would surely end in his death.

Something in Rory, the warmth that had been
growing daily since he first set his eyes upon Andrew, winked out
for a moment. It was like a candle that flickered in the wind but
brightened once again when the breeze was gone. That one second
without it left him cold, empty, and dreading the day when it was
gone completely. He contemplated it a second time and the cold
overtook him, causing him to shiver. Rory’s chest began to hurt. He
put his face in his hands and began to weep.

Rory did not hear the steps behind him, nor
his name called. He was unaware of anything but the searing pain in
his soul until gentle hands rested on his shoulders. Rory tried to
shrug them away, but they persisted. Only resting on his shoulders,
though, they did not try to curb his tears or pull him into an
embrace. They merely stayed, warm and comforting, where they
were.

Eventually he calmed, but did not move. The
hands slowly ran down his arms, stopped at his elbow. Rory felt
breath at his neck, then a head rest on his shoulder. There were no
words, still, but Rory knew it was Andrew. He’d known at the first
touch. “I…” he began, but his throat was raw and dry.

“You do not need to speak, my king,” Andrew
whispered.

“Yes, I do,” Rory croaked. “He did hurt me.
He hurt me terribly, but that’s not why I hate him.”

Andrew waited, simply holding him. Rory sent
a fervent thank you to the winds, not daring to name God.

“When I was grown he took another boy. I was
able to keep the worst from him, but one day…one day Maarten wanted
me to…hurt the boy, while he watched. I refused. Maarten killed
him, because I said no,” Rory felt his tears return and paused to
swallow them back.

“He killed the boy because he was evil,
insane, not because of you,” Andrew said, softly but with great
assurance.

“I tried to stop him. He beat me, nearly to
death, and sent me away immediately. I was put into chains and sent
to the ships.”

Andrew raised one hand and brushed the hair
away from Rory’s face. “You have every right to hate him, Rory, but
consider this. All of your energy has been focused on Maarten for
so very long, what do you think will happen when he is dead? Where
will you turn when his evil is gone? Hate fills your life. When you
are left without the thing you hate, your life is empty.”

“Are you saying I should not kill him?” Rory
asked, sounding tired to his own ears.

“I am saying,” Andrew told him, pulling him
around so that their faces were together. “I am saying if you could
let go of your hate your life would be filled with so much
love.”

Rory asked him, “And when love is gone it
leaves you empty, too. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is Fleming and Etienne,
Malik, Idir and Titrit. Love begets love. Hate begets only
darkness,” Andrew said. He smiled, sweetly, tears standing in his
own eyes. “You don’t have to live the rest of your life in
hate.”

Rory touched his face and let his thumb trace
the curve of Andrew’s lips. “Let’s go home. I’m tired.”

Rory woke to the smell of cooked meat and
warm spices. He opened his eyes to find a plate and a tall cup of
liquid beside him. He gratefully reached for the drink and drew it
to him, pausing when the smell of mead reached his nose. Smiling,
he quaffed half of it in one great gulp. The meat and vegetables he
made short work of and he finished the rest of mead. He wondered
where Andrew had gone, certain that it was he that had brought the
meal.

Hearing a curious noise, as if a door closed
on the wind, Rory rose, wincing at the stiffness of his hand. The
memory of striking the hard, unyielding cypress came back to him
and he shook his head. Unwise, in the face of all they still needed
to accomplish. He could make a fist and flex it out, though it
pained him, so he chose to be glad he did not break any bones. He
noticed then that the light creeping in beneath the drapes was
leaning towards the east, and knew that the hour was much later
than he had first believed. The strange sound came again, a sort of
dull thud that he could not place.

Pulling aside the door’s curtain and hooking
it out of the way, Rory saw Andrew in the clearing. He had returned
to his trousers and boots, forgoing the native garb in favor of his
sturdier garments. Shirtless, he stood quietly, holding the small
dagger Rory had given him. When he whirled with the knife raised in
his hand, Rory’s eyes widened. The dagger hit a tree some twenty
yards from where he stood, sticking squarely in the center of a
large carved X. Andrew smiled, satisfied.

“You’ve been practicing,” Rory said,
impressed. His voice sounded like a toad’s.

Andrew turned to him, his smile stretching
into a wide, happy grin. “You’re awake!” As was his way, he ran
towards Rory to greet him, only to stop before he was within reach.
“How do you feel?”

Rory looked down at his hand. “Perhaps not
well, but,” he looked back to Andrew, “at ease.” He opened his arms
and Andrew went to him without hesitation. The feel of Andrew
pressed close, even the very scent of him, lifted Rory’s spirits.
After a warm, gentle kiss, Rory asked, “Why did you let me sleep so
late?”

“You did not want to wake, at first. I could
not get you to even crack an eye or make a sound. You slept so
peacefully I decided it must be necessary,” Andrew answered,
brushing a stray lock of hair from Rory’s eyes. “Sleep is nature’s
balm, and you were in great need.”

“I believe my balm is you,” Rory told him,
leaning in for another quick kiss. He ran his hands up Andrew’s
back, slipping in the sweat. “That shot was impressive. How long
have you been practicing?” he said, indicating the thrown
dagger.

“I worked some with Etienne, that morning
before we left. He said you’d only shown me one way and that I
should entertain other options. I didn’t recognize his clever
insinuation until later,” Andrew said, smirking. He left Rory’s
arms to fetch the weapon and did a fast spin of it on palm, with a
proud grin. “He is a good teacher.”

Rory smiled and nodded in agreement. “You’re
doing well. Remind me to thank him.” He watched Andrew as he
returned, wiping the sweat from his face with one arm. “How do you
feel about a swimming lesson?”

Andrew had fed and watered Brighid while Rory
slept and the mare was as playful and easy with him as she was with
Rory. “It took me damn near a month to get her to warm to me. I
find that unfair. You trollop,” Rory said to the horse, “you are a
disloyal nag.”

“Don’t blame her,” Andrew said, holding a
soft ripe pear up to Brighid’s mouth. He smiled, beguilingly, “It
is my changeling blood that has her enthralled.”

Rory conceded with a shake of head and moved
to Brighid’s side. He hoisted himself up and threw a leg across her
bare back. “Come here.”

Andrew obeyed, looking up at him,
curiously.

“Take my arm, firmly. When I say, bend your
knees and jump as high as you can. Throw your leg over her as I
just did,” Rory instructed, leaning down and offering his arm.

“Can she hold us both?” Andrew asked,
concerned.

“I promise she can.”

Andrew took his arm at the bend, as
instructed, and jumped when told. Rory hefted him atop the horse,
at his back, and felt him settle unsteadily against him. He took
Andrew’s arm and wrapped it around his waist. “Just relax and move
with the horse,” he said, smiling when Andrew’s other arm joined
the first. “Hold on.”

Rory urged Brighid to a gallop, taking them
to the cliff’s edge and following it out of the ruins. He felt
Andrew ease into the gait, hips rocking in rhythm to his own. Arms
still clutched tightly around Rory’s middle, Andrew had his face
pressed into Rory’s shoulder, eyes hidden as the trail passed
beneath the horse’s hooves. Rory found all of this quite to his
liking, but as they neared a break in the cliffs, he slowed.
Brighid shook her head and whinnied, wanting the speed and power of
the run, but Rory petted her neck and promised more exercise on the
morrow.

Andrew lifted his head to peek over Rory’s
shoulder. He had to brush tangled hair out of his face first, but
then saw the cove below them. There was a strip of pale sand
between the cliff and the water, some trees and rocks lining the
beach. Further out there were more rocks, a toppled bit of cliff
that now served as a breaker to stop the waves from pummeling the
shore. “We’re going there?” he asked, incredulously.