ground
up bark and hours of patience and pain. Chainmail glinted at his
neck.
Though Bertie could see no visible wounds,
his heart pounded for one moment at the sight of the tarnished
metal links. He had to blink away the vision of blood, of lives
lost and blades buried in flesh, and held back his gasp with
unappreciated effort. When he had, mostly, composed himself, he
looked back up.
There were lines at the corner of Godric’s
eyes, lines Bertie had not seen before, lines not there when Bertie
had last leaned toward him to offer a painfully respectful
farewell. Seeing them hurt in the way that Bertie was used to
hurting around Godric, his chest sore as though it was bruised and
his body shaking with helplessness. He wanted nothing so much as to
run to Godric and hold him until he felt as strong as Godric
looked, until those cracks at Godric’s eyes went away and never
returned.
Instead he swallowed and silently burned
with the effort to keep still as Godric looked him over; Bertie was
a spoiled creature, it was true, but he would not like to force
himself on Godric, again, simply because that was what he wanted. Or, at least not when he was a dirty wreck. He recalled
himself and his scraps of dignity enough to nod a greeting as he
could not seem to force out a sound.
“My lord,” Godric spoke in his low, quiet
voice, as warm and solid as a hearthstone. “I am happy to find you
alive and unharmed.” That was all, but Bertie reveled in it. He had
often wondered if his ever-silent Godric had learned to make his
words rare in a court that mocked his low birth. His origin was in
his accent for all to hear, although no one in this tent seemed to
find it worthy of scorn. Not one eyebrow in the room was
raised.
With no one then to glare at on Godric’s
behalf as there often was in Camlann, Bertie had no choice but to
stare back at Godric. He did not mind. Godric might have been
short, but he was thick with hard-earned muscle and his skin spoke
of health and sunshine. Health. Bertie thanked the gods.
Bertie had been younger and sheltered behind
Camlann’s walls the last time the invaders had come, but he had
heard the stories of what they had done to anyone who had defied
them, stories enough to give old soldiers pause and leave others
trembling with remembered terror.
But for now, Godric lived. Inside Bertie was
pure joy, white like the heat of weapons being forged. Godric was
alive and in front of him and had not been captured or tortured or
killed.
Thus, because Bertie was not only a fool but
a fool in love, what finally emerged from his mouth was, “You grew
the beard again” and a small tut of despair.
He could have bitten his tongue.
In truth, he did not mind the short beard on
Godric’s face, though it was rare to see a nobleman unshaven. It
was simply a long-standing, friendly jest between them, or so he’d
thought, begun years ago with Godric riding alongside Bertie on the
trail to the Keep while Bertie had pestered him with a thousand and
one questions.
The others assembled in the room seemed
shocked at the perceived rebuke. Godric, praise the Lady, merely
scratched at his chin. It was his custom to forgo shaving when
travelling, as they both knew. What was necessary to belong amongst
courtiers was not so on the road, as he had once told Bertie, and
then had reached out, letting his hand pass over Bertie’s skirts
without touching them, making a point without saying another
word.
Bertie’s skirts often confused others, but
he did not wear them to startle others or for comfort while
travelling. He wore his skirts because he pleased to. Just as it
had pleased him to touch himself at the memory of Godric’s hand so
close to him, and what Godric might have done if he had loved
Bertie in return, if he would have lifted the layers of cloth to
bare Bertie’s skin, if he would use his mouth on his cock, or just
work him with one strong hand, if Godric would like the feel of
soft skirts against his
up bark and hours of patience and pain. Chainmail glinted at his
neck.
Though Bertie could see no visible wounds,
his heart pounded for one moment at the sight of the tarnished
metal links. He had to blink away the vision of blood, of lives
lost and blades buried in flesh, and held back his gasp with
unappreciated effort. When he had, mostly, composed himself, he
looked back up.
There were lines at the corner of Godric’s
eyes, lines Bertie had not seen before, lines not there when Bertie
had last leaned toward him to offer a painfully respectful
farewell. Seeing them hurt in the way that Bertie was used to
hurting around Godric, his chest sore as though it was bruised and
his body shaking with helplessness. He wanted nothing so much as to
run to Godric and hold him until he felt as strong as Godric
looked, until those cracks at Godric’s eyes went away and never
returned.
Instead he swallowed and silently burned
with the effort to keep still as Godric looked him over; Bertie was
a spoiled creature, it was true, but he would not like to force
himself on Godric, again, simply because that was what he wanted. Or, at least not when he was a dirty wreck. He recalled
himself and his scraps of dignity enough to nod a greeting as he
could not seem to force out a sound.
“My lord,” Godric spoke in his low, quiet
voice, as warm and solid as a hearthstone. “I am happy to find you
alive and unharmed.” That was all, but Bertie reveled in it. He had
often wondered if his ever-silent Godric had learned to make his
words rare in a court that mocked his low birth. His origin was in
his accent for all to hear, although no one in this tent seemed to
find it worthy of scorn. Not one eyebrow in the room was
raised.
With no one then to glare at on Godric’s
behalf as there often was in Camlann, Bertie had no choice but to
stare back at Godric. He did not mind. Godric might have been
short, but he was thick with hard-earned muscle and his skin spoke
of health and sunshine. Health. Bertie thanked the gods.
Bertie had been younger and sheltered behind
Camlann’s walls the last time the invaders had come, but he had
heard the stories of what they had done to anyone who had defied
them, stories enough to give old soldiers pause and leave others
trembling with remembered terror.
But for now, Godric lived. Inside Bertie was
pure joy, white like the heat of weapons being forged. Godric was
alive and in front of him and had not been captured or tortured or
killed.
Thus, because Bertie was not only a fool but
a fool in love, what finally emerged from his mouth was, “You grew
the beard again” and a small tut of despair.
He could have bitten his tongue.
In truth, he did not mind the short beard on
Godric’s face, though it was rare to see a nobleman unshaven. It
was simply a long-standing, friendly jest between them, or so he’d
thought, begun years ago with Godric riding alongside Bertie on the
trail to the Keep while Bertie had pestered him with a thousand and
one questions.
The others assembled in the room seemed
shocked at the perceived rebuke. Godric, praise the Lady, merely
scratched at his chin. It was his custom to forgo shaving when
travelling, as they both knew. What was necessary to belong amongst
courtiers was not so on the road, as he had once told Bertie, and
then had reached out, letting his hand pass over Bertie’s skirts
without touching them, making a point without saying another
word.
Bertie’s skirts often confused others, but
he did not wear them to startle others or for comfort while
travelling. He wore his skirts because he pleased to. Just as it
had pleased him to touch himself at the memory of Godric’s hand so
close to him, and what Godric might have done if he had loved
Bertie in return, if he would have lifted the layers of cloth to
bare Bertie’s skin, if he would use his mouth on his cock, or just
work him with one strong hand, if Godric would like the feel of
soft skirts against his
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