The Sounds of Eternity
A wind blew across the terrace adjoining the Warlord’s chambers. On the face of the mountain, mist curled around the Torrent waterfall. Brynnan sat on a stone bench, listening to the muted thunder of the falls, and contemplated his harp. It stood on the ground before him. Mavrenn was singing to him as the wind soughed through her strings. The figurehead of a woman, carved from age-stained bone and inset into the breast of the harp pillar, looked almost alive as the ruby eyes glittered. Scrolled ravens were scribed into the face of the soundbox.
Brynnan reached forward and settled the staved back of the harp by his knees and rested his chin against the harp’s shoulder. With his wrists supported with leather bracelets, his hands could now feel sensations again. He caressed the deep purple wood. Mavrenn was ancient and mystical, and generations of Master Bards had been chosen to serve her. It was said that if her Bard betrayed his oaths, she would not play for him. Thus, while not unduly superstitious, Brynnan felt a certain trepidation as he reached for her strings.
He plucked one of the longer strings and was answered with a rich, deep tone. Emotion flooded Brynnan, and he almost wept with relief. Tentatively, he touched other strings and was rewarded with the harp’s voice. Then he played softly to the wind’s harmonics.
Voices interrupted his meditation, and he laid a hand across the strings to still them. Geraint arrived with Nijal and a young man in tow who was barely out of boyhood.
“Please, don’t let us stop you, Brynnan. How are your hands? Can you feel the vibrations?” Nijal asked him.
“I can feel the strings. I need to exercise my fingers more, though.” Brynnan’s voice was no longer hoarse since Nijal Silver-Hand, battle surgeon, had operated to remove scar tissue from his larynx due to the penetration of the cruel claw-collar that had very nearly killed him.
“It will come back to you. It’s only been a short time since I operated.”
Geraint said, “Your voice has changed. It sounds deeper. When will you sing?”
“Not just yet. I will borrow Mavrenn’s voice for now.”
“Well,” said Geraint. “Here is one who can sing. Tell him who you are, lad.”
Brynnan looked at the young man. He was slender, lithe, and tall, with a shock of blond hair, sun-bleached over darker streaks. Bold, dark eyebrows, blue-grey eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and curved lips. The planes of his face showed hollows and muscles—seeming to have only recently grown out of boyhood softness. He was dressed in a plain black cassock with a high embroidered collar that did not hide his broadening shoulders. His hands were large, hinting of growth yet to come.
“I am called Andri. Master Nazar sent me from the Hall of Music. He sends his greetings and hopes to see you again soon. I was sent to sing for you.”
‘’Very well, Andri. In your own time. What’s it to be?”
“’ The Sounds of Etermity,’ Master Brynnan.”
“Death and rebirth? An . . . unusual choice.”
“Master Nazar said you would understand.”
“I’m afraid I do. But, please, begin.”
Andri stood tall with his arms resting quietly at his sides. He began to sing. His voice was surprisingly deep—a baritone. It seemed odd coming from one so young—a countertenor would have served his image more. But what a voice! It was rich, powerful, and melancholy to suit the dark theme.
Nijal and Geraint sat and listened, and it was evident to Brynnan that Geraint was entranced with the boy. Brynnan wasn’t surprised. Then he began to weave a counterpoint on his harp, which matched the song’s feel. As he played, his fingers naturally fell into the harmonics and grace notes the tune demanded. It was perfect as a reintroduction to his music, and Brynnan began to appreciate Master Nazar’s choice on another level. It was a gift to him.
Andri finished, and Brynnan stilled the harp after an ending phrase. There was silence but for the wind.
Brynnan gently moved Mavrenn and stood up. He crossed to Andri and, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder, leaned in, and kissed him softly on the lips in thanks. Andri kissed him back.
“It is I who should thank you, Master,” Andri said, “I’ve fantasized about singing with your harp as accompaniment.”
The Bard smiled at him, “Please. No ‘Master.’ I am just ‘Brynnan’ to you now. You have a great talent.”
Andri blushed. It made the otherwise solemn young man look vulnerable. “I have other messages for you from Master Nazar . . .Brynnan,” he replied hesitantly.
Brynnan glanced at Geraint.
Nijal touched Geraint’s shoulder, saying, “Let us leave young Andri to give his messages.”
To Andri, he added, “That was well-done. I hope we see you here more often to hear you sing and listen to the Master Bard playing his harp.”
As Geraint passed Brynnan, he whispered, “I envy you, Brynnan. And I think I’m in lust.”
“Just close your mouth. It’s hanging open. Be patient, my friend.”
Then Brynnan found himself alone with Andri. He patted a hand on the stone bench, inviting the young man to sit beside him. Andri did so. He was the first to speak.
“You have been an inspiration to me. I thank you for lending me Mavrenn’s voice to accompany my own.”
For the grace of that remark, Brynnan felt compelled to kiss Andri again. Their lips met, and this time the boy shyly put his tongue in the Bard’s mouth. Brynnan, feeling aroused, kissed him back deeper. He wrapped his arm around Andri’s neck and pulled his lean body to him. The boy’s arms embraced him in response.
Andri said, “I have never been with another man sexually. I have dreamed of something like this. When I was younger, in the Conservatory, I would hear you play your harp and sing… your voice stirred so many emotions in me and brought images as clear as glass. I resolved that I wanted to sing like you.”
Brynnan’s spirit was moved, but he stayed silent, letting Andri speak his heart. He held the boy’s hands in his.
“Then, you disappeared for a long time, and I heard rumours. I hope they all weren’t true, because it broke my heart. I knew something terrible had happened when Mavrenn turned up in the Conservatory under Master Nazar’s care. Then it got taken away. I didn’t know what that meant.”
Andri bowed his head against Brynnan’s chest, and the Bard felt a surge of grief when he remembered Mavrenn being brought to his prison chamber as a cruel joke when he was never expected to play again.
“Would you care to begin with me?” Brynnan asked him, with a growing sense of wonder at this young man’s trust. Brynnan felt the head against his chest, nodding. Raising the boy’s face to his with his fingertips, Brynnan kissed him again. “Touch me,” he encouraged.
Andri hesitantly moved his hands over Brynnan’s body, feeling his chest and arm muscles. Then he hesitantly placed a hand over Brynnan’s cock.
“Can you feel me getting hard? It’s for you,” murmured the Bard.
“Please, touch me back,” Andri whispered.
Brynnan complied. When he felt Andri’s cock through his clothing, he wasn’t surprised to find it hard, and by the size of it, it matched his hands and his voice—much larger than expected. He got down on his knees in front of the young singer. Slowly unhooking the cassock and opening Andri’s breeches, he freed his cock. It was a beautiful thing, just like the boy himself, and there was nothing immature about it. It was thick and straight, with a larger head. Carefully Brynnan placed his lips to it.
Andri tilted his head back and sighed, “So good,” he moaned. “I can’t believe this is finally happening.”
“Believe it!” said Brynnan and took the cock into his mouth.
Brynnan found that with care, he could take the cock in deeply. He had not deep-throated his master, the Warlord Samir, since his operation, and Samir, being patient, had actually forbidden it so far.
The taste of young cock was intoxicating to the Bard. He felt intense enjoyment because he was pleasuring the young man and wanted to make it memorable for him, but he really desired to tear into that sweet ass, only that would be counterproductive at this point. He needed to earn Andri’s trust.
Throughout the sucking, Andri talked to him in his baritone voice. He told Brynnan how amazing it felt and how much he wanted it.
“Don’t be shy; tell me what you really want. You don’t have to be polite, you know,” Brynnan told him as he lifted up his head.
“I want you to . . .suck my cock until I cum,” Andri said as if tasting the words. “I want to be fucked in the ass by you.”
It turned Brynnan on to hear those beautiful lips enunciating each word as if Andri was learning lyrics in another language.
Brynnan wanted to take the boy inside the Warlord’s chambers and undress him properly, but an urgency was on him; besides, he felt that finishing the event here was the right thing to do as he did not want to interrupt the flow at this point. He continued sucking until the boy was on the verge of ejaculation. Then, that point passed, and Andri came in shuddering jerks. Brynnan swallowed and felt no pain.
“I felt close to eternity when I came,” Andri whispered. “I want to do that for you.”
Brynnan forgave the young man for his dramatic turn of phrase; besides, he knew what Andri meant. He was also happy that the boy still wanted to continue, as ejaculation can change the mindset of some men. He remembered Councillor Tangar, whose cock he had been forced to suck and who afterwards had treated Brynnan with disdain as if he had never wanted Brynnan to do it in the first place.
He was about to reply to Andri when a voice interrupted, “You may get the chance to do that, young man.”
Brynnan turned to see Samir, the Warlord, standing on the terrace.
“It appears your throat is healing well, my Bard,” Samir said with an enigmatic smile.
Brynnan realized that Samir had seen the whole event. He went to the Warlord and knelt at his feet, bowing his head submissively. “Forgive me if I have stepped beyond bounds, my Lord.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Bard,” Samir replied. “I am only glad you are healing. You did well, but I missed our young man’s vocal performance.”
“He can sing again, my Lord. His voice is unusually promising. Would you care to hear?”
“Yes, I believe I will hear it.”
Brynnan directed Andri, who was standing still with an unusual poise, “Please sing ‘Hall of Cyndullan’ for us. I believe Master Nazar would have taught it to you?”
“Yes, Lor— Brynnan. He said it is from your homeland, and it’s very ancient, from the Before-Times. Would you like me to sing it in your tongue or in translation?”
“The translation, if you please, verses one to four,” Brynnan replied, impressed that Andri had learned both forms; the ancient ArMorican dialect was challenging to master.
Andri bowed formally to the Warlord, then stood still again with his arms loosely at his sides. Brynnan began to play softly, a melody evoking the sound of rain. After several harp phrases, Andri joined in, speaking the opening theme, as the song demanded, and then singing. The rich baritone again rang out, clear and sorrowful, expressing the desolation of the plundered Hold.
“The Hall of Cyndullan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without bed—
I must weep awhile, and then be silent . . .”
Brynnan glanced at Samir to gauge his reaction. Razed Holdings were a sensitive issue to Samir’s past, but the Bard wanted him emotionally engaged.
After he had sung the verses, Andri was quiet, eyes downcast.
“I can see why he appeals to you, Bard,” said Samir.
“My Lord, by your leave, I asked the Master Bard. He has been a major influence in my life, and I—”
Holding up a hand, Samir said, “Peace, young man. You have an excellent voice. I often torment my Bard. Now, it’s gentle revenge for the subject matter of your song. He understands.
“But come, I bid you welcome. If you can help Brynnan practice his art, I’m glad, even though I caused his misfortune.”
To Brynnan, he said, “You may bring this young man to our bed if you are so minded. But I will stay—fear not, I won’t interfere, but I need to know your current capabilities.”
Brynnan turned to Andri, “Will you place your trust in me and come in? There will be no violation of body or mind. I will only do what is agreeable to you . . . mostly,” his honesty forced him to add. Brynnan smiled at the singer.
Andri smiled back and gave his consent, allowing himself to be led inside.
* * *
To be continued . . .
