The Not-So-Gentle Night
Well into the darkness of the night, the Bard accompanied Lord Samir and Geraint, his keeper, along the silent corridors to the Warlord’s apartments
in the Torrent Mountain Redoubt, that ancient fortress, living facility, and seat of power.
For Brannan, this was the first time he had left the cells and tower chamber for over a whole Turn. Despite the confession of his belonging to the Warlord, he did not know what new torments awaited him. His imprisonment had taught him to trust nothing. He carefully kept himself fully present in the moment, absorbing the unaccustomed scene change. Once-familiar corridors looked strange as if he’d never set foot there.
At the doorway, Samir’s guardsman, Leoric, looked surprised to see Brannan, and then his expression became bland again as he stood aside to let the party enter the Warlord’s chambers.
Geraint led Brannan straight to the bedroom, where a large fur rug lay before a brightly burning fire. An actual fire was an almost forgotten experience for the Bard, and he revelled in its warmth as he settled on the thick, lush fur. In the tower chamber, he was always cold.
Brannan had previously been in Samir’s rooms in what now seemed another lifetime. Then, the Warlord welcomed him as an honoured guest and friend, and they had spent many an evening discussing strategic and political issues over a combat simulation board game. Now, he was a tortured prisoner, his Lord’s sex slave, who had discovered a revelation: he loved Samir. This simple fact altered Brannan’s perceptions beyond all recognition. He felt as if his imprisonment and torture had created a twisted illusion of life, whereas now he entered the world of reality. But his love for Samir was like a steep mountain he must climb with a treacherous route to the summit, where a misplaced footstep could bring injury, pain, and death. What would have to happen before they could trust each other again?
The Warlord finished talking to Geraint and sat in a fur-draped chair with arms carved in the likeness of two prowling leopards. Geraint brought goblets of wine. He served one to Samir and set the other down on the tiled hearth beside the
startled Bard.
“M’Lord, I’ll pick him up in the morning. But call for me before that if you need my services, and I’ll come.”
“I know you will, old friend,” Samir replied.
Geraint approached Brannan and laid his hand on his dark hair, stroking the Bard’s head, as was his habit. “You must have pleased m’Lord. Do everything he asks of you.”
The Old Warrior bid them good night and left. Now, it was just the Warlord and the Bard again. Brannan did not trust this new development, but it seemed useless to question it. Earlier that night, the Warlord had subjected him to an intimate, deep-reaching event that had shattered him emotionally and seemed to have similarly affected Samir. During the act, the Warlord’s habitual ruthlessness changed when his fist and arm penetrated to its maximum inside Brannan’s body.
“I can feel your heartbeat,” Samir had told him. That signal moment had opened a door between them. Brannan had watched as Samir’s eyes had softened from an icy stare to a warm gaze as his pupils dilated. Thereafter, the Warlord completed the act with a tenderness that swept away Brannan’s resistance. “Are you mine, Bard?” the Warlord had asked.
Yes. The Bard now knew that he and Samir were irrevocably bound. For Brannan, the experience had broken down all his carefully erected defences. Samir had not listened to his denials in the past. Would he be more open to change now? In this new territory, he and the Lord seemed equally at a loss for words as they sought a new path of communion.
Samir raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the wide-bowled goblet set beside Brannan. The Bard took the cup awkwardly between the heels of his damaged hands and drank the rich, red wine. He had not partaken of the intoxicating beverage since his imprisonment and immediately felt its effects—the warm flush in his belly and light-headedness.
At first, Samir seemed in no hurry to talk, and Brannan settled in the silence, feeling raw and vulnerable.
Eventually, the Warlord spoke, although his eyes betrayed a struggle. “Brannan, we have discovered something within us that lay dormant over these many Turns. However, I find it difficult to conceive of a change in my plans for you, but I will try to find an alternative for us. My urge is still to have you tell me what you knew. What say you?”
“I never expected otherwise, my Lord. Indeed, the love you have just now discovered must intensify the sense of betrayal that drives you.” Brannan closed his eyes as he searched for words. “How I wish I could appease your need to know, but the knowledge you seek does not exist. I could confess many things, such as my love for you, but I cannot fulfill that one demand.”
Samir looked at the Bard for a long time before he said, “Perhaps I will have to reevaluate my position if the truth is as you say. I will admit a certain fact: if you do not confess, I will be faced with committing an untenable deed.”
“Yet you would force my compliance and risk my life. Lord, I cannot see you releasing me at this juncture.”
“It’s true I allowed you to live for a reason: a threatened war with ArMorica, should the full tale get out of Mara’s loss and your imprisonment. But I played fast and loose with your life, forcing you to wear the claw collar when I punished you. You could have so easily succumbed. In tormenting you, I tormented myself. Now, I may have a different reason to keep you alive. The feelings we both share run deeper than I allowed myself to admit. I swore to myself that I would not swerve from my stated path. However, I will give you—give both of us—this one night, and we shall see how events may progress.”
Hearing these words, the Bard felt one fear drop away, lightening his burden. He understood that the Warlord was deeply conflicted at this moment. It is hard for us to give up our most cherished illusions.
However, a respite from pain would be more than welcome, however brief. He was reluctant to entertain hope, but perhaps Samir would listen when he spoke his message, long held close. He thought of what Samir proposed.
“I cannot ask for more than that, my Lord. Let the night take us where it will,” he said.
Samir spoke again. “When I touched your beating heart tonight, an emotion came over me. I felt—such deep love for you, and part of me wished past events concerning us had never happened. Once, when I trusted you totally, we were close.”
“Mayhap you can bring yourself to trust me again, then I could truly open my heart and tell you—not what you wanted to hear, but the unvarnished truth. You trusted my heart tonight when I told you I am yours. Can you not see I have been speaking truth all along?”
“I am in a quandary, my Bard. These feelings threaten my notions of what is true. Yet I cannot cast them aside. Give me time to consider this further.”
“I have no choice. I will do whatever I can to show you my gratitude for your gift of the night,” said Brannan, noting how the Warlord had addressed him.
Samir nodded, drained his cup, and beckoned the Bard to follow him.
They entered the bathing room, where Samir stripped off his clothes, revealing his powerful physique, and Brannan shed the dark blue cloak covering his bare skin. Samir took him into the hot water pouring over the stone ledge and washed the Bard’s body, being gentle on his back. He pulled Brannan to him, gripping his hips so their loins pressed tightly together. The Warlord then kissed him deeply, tonguing his mouth and biting his lip, and the Bard returned the kiss, feeling a sense of wonder that surpassed his underlying apprehension.
He sank to his knees before Samir, taking the impressive member in his mouth. Water ran over Brannan’s face as he performed the act of worship, and tonight, it seemed something holy. He reminded himself that in his native land, the position of Master Bard conferred the role of a priesthood, where all of Nature was sacred, compassion and trust ruled, and there were no unnatural acts.
As the Warlord spoke, Brannan felt Samir’s hands stroking his shoulders and his back’s tender, damaged skin. “Though the wounds heal, you will have permanent scars on your flesh,” the Warlord told him in a low voice. “The welts given you by my henchmen are nothing compared to these new ones. I did not want to mark you like this at first, but now you will always be reminded of what you are becoming under my hand.
”Brannan paused in his ministrations to reply, “I know it, Lord. Life marks us, often invisibly. By their very nature, scars, seen and unseen, imprint on our souls.”
“Your words are truer than you realize, my Bard,” Samir said softly in a deep, reflective voice.
Samir did not permit Brannan to bring him to release but led him from the waterfall shower, where he towelled the Bard’s wet skin and long, water-curled hair.
Taking Brannan’s wrist, Samir guided him to the expansive bed. But as Samir reached it, Brannan slipped behind the Warlord, overcome by a sudden need. He slid his damaged hands over Samir’s bullwhip-scarred back. Brannan slowly licked each thick, keloid scar with profound gentleness before sliding to his knees to rim his lover, finding the Warlord’s natural musk intoxicating. Samir’s body shivered, but he did not remonstrate with the Bard or halt his explorations.
“Come here,” the Warlord said as he turned around, pulling the Bard onto the bed and sweeping aside the black fur coverlet. Twining and rolling together, licking, kissing, and sucking each other heedlessly, they allowed their desire free rein. Time ceased all meaning as they became lost in one another. The night’s heat in the fire-lit room surrounded them, flickers of firelight contouring their sweating limbs. Velvet darkness in the
corner shadows blanketed their bodies.
Samir moved down on Brannan, licking him from his nipples to the trail of hair on his stomach. He concentrated his attention on the Bard’s abdominal scar, a sword wound inflicted by Lord Samir himself more than a Turn before. He then sucked Brannan’s member and sensitized shaved balls until the Bard came helplessly, feeling the Warlord’s mouth swallowing his semen.
Turning Brannan onto his stomach, Samir returned the gift the Bard had bestowed on him. He kissed Brannan’s scars, the marks still red and half-healed. Tonight, Brannan accepted his lover’s large phallus readily. As their passion increased, Samir pounded against Brannan’s buttocks without respite before succumbing to his release.
Their immediate thirst for each other slaked, they collapsed together in a sweating, exhausted tangle of limbs. When Samir recovered his breath, he settled behind Brannan’s back and carefully clasped his arms around his lover. The Bard nestled against him, melting into the embrace, the part of himself that had starved so long for human affection finally satiated.
Feeling that their passion had been an act, not of lust, but of love long denied, he questioned Samir. “My Lord, I sense a change within me. Tonight…in the tower room, you seemed to hold my heart in your hand. I feel as if you still do. Is it merely my own perception?”
“No, my Bard. Your senses don’t deceive you. I feel it, too.
Ask no further questions just now. I must think on this.”
“Do not think too hard, my Lord; I know this will not change your plans for me, but these are matters for the heart, not the mind.”
Samir sighed deeply. “You have the right of it. I am surprised you can feel this way after all I put you through.”
“I could fight it, as I suspect our love will only bring further pain, but we cannot deny our hearts,” Brannan murmured.
“I am finding that out,” Samir admitted. “Now, sleep a little while, then we will again love each other.”
They lay in comforting silence for a time, but before he abandoned himself to sleep, the Bard dared to ask the Warlord the question that slowly burned inside him.
“Lord, your back is scarred as mine will be. I sense a deep pain in that experience beyond the agony of the lash. Will you not share that burden with me? Whatever else you decide to do with me, even death, know I will lock your words within my soul.”
The question would have been far too invasive from any other man, and Samir paused for some moments before giving the Bard his reply. “Brannan, you are a bard and priest in your homeland. I trusted you all those Turns, but you betrayed me once: dare I trust you again? When I give you the tale of these scars, you may regret hearing it. Do you want to carry this knowledge within you as long as you retain your memory?”
Brannan shivered at the Warlord’s mention of his memory, reminding himself that the cruel promise to erase it had not been rescinded. The thought that he might forget his love for Samir devastated him, but he replied, “It is, my Lord Samir. There is a truth you want from me. But the truth I can give you is not what you desire to hear. But how do I yield that without knowing the path to your truth? You must know by this night—I will do anything for you within my power except violate my oaths as a Ruithin.”
Samir held the Bard tighter and pressed his forehead against Brannan’s shoulder.
“Very well, Bard. But not tonight. Tonight is for love. I will take you out of the Redoubt within the next few days. There is a place I go to when the cares of my position overburden me, and I will be better able to speak, free of distractions. We will ride to Scarfell Mountain, where I will tell you my tale. Be warned: it stirs me deeply, bringing to the fore untamed emotions, and my reactions may put you at risk. But perhaps this is necessary to re-establish our lost trust.” Stroking a hand down the Bard’s side, he settled himself and continued, “But now I have two commands for you.”
“Lord?”
“No more questions—and go to sleep.” “Yes, my Lord.”
In the intervening days before the planned trip, Brannan stayed in the tower chamber, thankful that his tormentors left him alone–a condition he was sure would not last despite the Warlord’s seeming reluctance to continue. Of his two torturers, Efan, whose throat Brannan had nearly crushed, remained incapacitated, but Kai’s absence had no explanation. However, the Bard appreciated the respite.
His circumstances had improved slightly: as well as giving him Lord Samir’s old cloak, Geraint brought him warmer bedding, a small but significant mercy. However, Brannan could not yet fully trust the Warlord’s intentions—too much pain inflicted had changed him. He considered himself as a horse beaten too often for refusing to leap a fence. Any approach to a new obstacle will cause the beast to shy away.
This morning, the Bard exercised his body as best as he could manage, working his muscles until he could feel them burn. He found that the movements reminded him that his body still had needs. Even though hope seemed scarce, Brannan was alive, and life demands acknowledgement. For his heart’s fitness, he performed the positions and responses in the Dance of Cuts, that part-sword fighting, part-dance ritual in which the masters had trained him at ArMor-ys, the Ruithin Bardic College of his homeland. His painful back and crippled wrists would not allow him to incorporate the spins or rolls, but he managed well enough, although his reactions had slowed. Brannan considered it a gift from the Mother-of-All that he was not chained but allowed to move freely about the tower room. But all the time, his mind dwelled on becoming the Warlord’s sex slave and now, apparently, his lover.
That he had adapted quickly to the changes in circumstance was no great surprise: as a bard who had travelled afar, his training allowed him to absorb other cultures’ customs and languages, but never had it been so deep or so personal as now, when the stakes were higher than mere survival. He had resigned himself to captivity and death, but now that love offered a doorway to freedom, he realized he had everything to lose. Regaining Samir’s trust would be paramount; he would finally be free to speak his truth.
Geraint entered as the Bard finished the Dance moves. “You’ve worked up a sweat. M’Lord might have something to say about that. You’re supposed to rest until you’re fully healed.”
“Could you rest in my situation?” Brannan responded. Geraint sighed. “No, lad, I’d be too impatient, like you. Come on, let me check you over, then you can greet me.”
After examining and re-taping Brannan’s wrists, Geraint inspected his back and grunted. “You don’t seem to have done yourself any harm by exercising. I won’t say anything to Lord Samir unless he asks. Then I’ll have to tell him—come to think of it, he will ask. He always does.”
Brannan knelt before Geraint, who loosened his breeches. But instead of immediately taking the Old Warrior’s phallus in his mouth, Brannan rested his forehead against Geraint’s hip and embraced his thighs.
“What ails you? Not in the mood?”
“That’s the problem, Geraint. I am in the mood, and it makes me question myself. Lord Samir initially made me his bitch to shame me and push me further toward a breaking point. But I have come to accept these acts with him and with you. I realize it’s mostly a survival tactic, but the issue has become complicated. His deep use of my body opened doors to suppressed emotions in both of us. I am having difficulty reconciling love with torture.”
Geraint stroked Brannan’s head before resting a hand on his shoulder. “He’s taking you to Scarfell Pass soon, and he’s never taken another soul up the side trail except for me, and even then, I’ve never stayed. He goes there to be alone. But it seems he’s taking you and presumably will speak to you. I don’t know what he’ll say, but be very careful in how you respond. Your life might be at risk.”
Brannan turned his face to Geraint’s, looking searchingly into the older man’s eyes. “My life is at risk daily, especially now if he plans to use the claw collar on me again.”
“It’s a twisted thing and no mistake,” said Geraint, grimacing. “But come, you won’t find your answers kneeling here. I’ll give you a choice this morning. What’s it to be?”
“You…you. It seems to bring me calm. Besides, you are the one person who has not acted in cruelty towards me.”
“Well, then…”
Brannan bent his head, taking in the Old Warrior’s proffered member. Allowing himself to become lost in the experience did calm his mind, and he felt only gratitude when Geraint ejaculated in his mouth. Afterwards, the Old Warrior seized Brannan’s hair, pulled his head back, and kissed him soundly.
“There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? Now I’ll feed you, then take you below for a wash. I’ve brought you fresh breeches and a warm shirt. When we return from bathing, I’ll have to chain you briefly, mostly for appearances. A servant will come in presently and mop the floor here because, as we say on campaign, ‘A clean camp is a happy camp.’” Geraint looked at him pointedly and tilted his head to one side. “Even at his harshest, m’Lord Samir hasn’t chained you when he’s left you alone. He must have his reasons. Does he count you as so little a threat? Because let me tell you, it’s not something I’d do. I don’t mean to pry, but I’m curious.”
“He knows I won’t defy him directly. He is safe from me. I need him unharmed—I will not explain it now, but there is a method to my madness.” Brannan felt tempted to explain that he needed to disclose a message; however, he did not want to strain the Old Warrior’s loyalty to his Lord.
“I don’t doubt it, lad. You’ve always had the capability of being devious and cunning. I remember when m’Lord sent you on a mission to Hesperon to spy out its Lord. You would have succeeded if you hadn’t uncovered a traitor who recognized you, causing you to take that arrow in your back. M’Lord Samir told me about it. Even now, I wonder what workings go on in your mind.”
Geraint was uncomfortably close to discovering Brannan’s motivations, so he changed the subject, causing the Old Warrior to raise an eyebrow without saying more. Instead, he brought the Bard a bowl of food. Breakfast consisted of cooked grain mush with dried fruit and a bowl of soured, thickened goat’s milk. Brannan ate it all.
As they walked down the stairs to the bathing chamber, accompanied by two guards, Brannan questioned the Old Warrior.
“Geraint, do you know of my horse, Rhiannon, a dappled-grey mare? Will I be able to ride her when we leave for Scarfell? It’s been so long since I have seen her. Does she thrive?”
Geraint (taking pity on him, Brannan thought) answered him. “I know your Rhiannon well. She’s in good health. As it happens, she’s stabled near my Shade, and they seem to get along together. There’s a groom she trusts to ride her, so she has been exercised. M’Lord can be harsh, but his cruelty doesn’t extend to beasts.”
Unexpectedly, Brannan’s eyes teared up, and he blinked the wetness away. He had not dared think of the mare since his imprisonment. She was a vulnerability that the Warlord had failed, or refused, to exploit.
Leaving the guards outside the bathing chamber, Geraint stripped and helped Brannan wash under the fall of water. “How’s your back now? Does it still hurt when this water hits it?”
“Only a little. It seems to be healing well.”
“Good, now turn around. I’ll do your ass, legs, and back, then I’ve got a special lotion I can apply that will soften the scar tissue so it doesn’t pull on you when you practice your Dance of Cuts. Works a treat on horses.”
“I’m sure it does,” said Brannan dryly.
Brannan did not see the Warlord or his torturers for the next two days. Although he felt relieved, Kai’s continuing lack of appearance felt strange to the Bard, and he thought that the Warlord no longer trusted his minion since their last encounter when Efan had raped him.
He wondered what Lord Samir had planned for him. No use speculating. Brannan sighed as he sat cross-legged on his pallet. But given free rein, his thoughts turned to his harp, Mavrenn. The case rested in a corner of the chamber but loomed large in Brannan’s mind. He missed her whispered voice in his mind and her enchanting sounds. Her silence daunted him. He had not dared approach her, feeling unworthy. If my wrists were healed, would she still sound for me?
Since boyhood, he had been the Marec Mavrenn, the Servant of Mavrenn. An accident had conferred the ancient title to him. Brannan’s Master, a renowned Ruithin bard who had taken him in apprenticeship, had challenged the Bardic Council to become Mavrenn’s Servant on the death of her previous one. You would not break your silence for my Master or the others who attempted to play you, my harp. But you responded when I touched your strings without permission, and on that day, you chose me!
A pang of longing swept over him. He yearned to commune with Mavrenn again, blending their minds in shared music: his voice and touch and her beautiful sounds. The living spirit within her had whispered her thoughts to him, leading him on mystical journeys of the soul. Unbidden, words surged in his mind, spilling out to give a barely audible song.
“Corleu has died, holding the breach, By his actions, he redeemed the land.
Darkness fell; he cleaved the foe: So many dying by his hand
Corleu’s companions found him far too late
To save his life. They fought and overcame the rest. And on the pyre that night, they mourned his fate.
Through Death, he passed the final test.”
The words wound through the air, simple and unsophisticated, yet a favourite with many warriors on the campaign trail. Brannan hoped the guards outside the chamber door had not heard. His torturers frequently goaded him, challenging him to sing in return for fewer lash strokes. Brannan never complied, knowing it was just a cruel game. The shame and disrespect impacted him more than the blows they gave.
The chamber door opened, admitting Geraint and the guards. Had they indeed heard him sing? Brannan felt a moment’s panic, but Geraint, greeting him, did not mention it. However, the Old Warrior’s news sent a tremor of anticipation through the Bard.
“M’Lord Samir has arranged for us to leave tomorrow morning. And your harp—someone from the Hall of Music will take it to m’Lord’s quarters. He wants it there in our absence.”
“Did he give you a reason?”
“No, but I suspect he thinks it will be safer.”
“Mavrenn was safe enough in the Music Conservatory under Master Nazar’s care. Our Lord must have a deeper reason.”
Geraint frowned. “You are probably right. But don’t fret now. Better there in his rooms than here. You have more critical things to think about.”
Brannan privately disagreed, his heart sinking. The Music Master had agreed to smuggle Mavrenn back to the Bard’s homeland in the event of Brannan’s untimely death. But most likely, the Warlord considered the harp a hostage to ensure his good behaviour on the journey.
As if reading Brannan’s thoughts, Geraint continued, “I know you have never needed this advice before, but I’ll tell you how to behave. If you want to avoid being chained all the time on the journey, be obedient, humble, and compliant, and don’t even dream of escape. I shouldn’t have to tell you, but it’s my duty. For some reason, I want to see you safe.”
Brannan was surprised that the Old Warrior would care about his well-being. He desperately wanted to trust Geraint, who had treated him fairly and impartially. Was something else evolving? A tentative friendship, perhaps? Brannan was more than willing, for the past Turn, loneliness had tormented him almost as much as pain.
The Bard’s thoughts returned to the present. Now, it’s time to turn my mind to the journey.
To be continued...
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