Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  Coarse hands enlivened his skin like he’d drunk akvavit. Absolon led him into the house, laid him on his bed and made love to him with a frenzied but mournful devotion.

  Ragnar woke beneath the crush of half of Absolon’s heavy body on him and listened to his gentle snuffling. From the heat in the sparse room, it was going to be a warm day, probably their last until spring came and the flowers woke from their slumber to greet the returned sun. Hopefully Absolon would wake before then.

  Ragnar turned his head to get a better look at Absolon’s dwellings: a single long room with a hearth at the far wall, two tables and benches, shelves that held dishes and cups, a cupboard mounted on the wall, and a collection of farm tools that gathered dust and cobwebs.

  Absolon grew up in something similar though would have shared it with his mother, his two brothers and two sisters. Their father had died of stitch and sting, the ailment in his lungs stealing the man when Absolon was thirteen. What did he think of having all this space to himself?

  As for Ragnar, it was barely bigger than the kitchen in his father’s castle, though, he had to admit, a damn sight more comfortable than the forest he’d been exiled to. At least this was a home.

  He scratched himself, stretched to get some blood flowing into the parts of his body that were going numb beneath Absolon’s weight, and stirred him from his rest. Absolon smacked his lips and struggled to open his eyes. Ragnar brushed the white hair out of them and caressed his brow. The lines of worry and age had fallen from his face and he appeared so much like the young man he’d been when they’d first met.

  Angelic.

  Now more so than ever.

  Absolon pried open his bleary eyes. Sleep had fled and been replaced with trepidation and a trace of confusion.

  “Good morning,” Ragnar said as brightly as he could.

  Absolon grunted, threw back the blanket, rolled off the straw-stuffed mattress, and searched for his clothes. He gathered them into one hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Ragnar asked.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen.” He hmphed. “Not again.”

  “I’m glad it did.”

  “What?” He stopped like he’d been slapped.

  “I’m glad it did.” He rolled back onto the bed, put his hands behind his head, teasing Absolon with the full display of his body.

  “You always were about your own pleasure.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of me.”

  “That’s a first.”

  “Well, not just me. We were always good at that, and last night was exceptional.” Better than exceptional. Intoxicating and addictive. “But I thought you needed to relax a little. You’re not as much of a monster as you think you are.”

  “You think because you let me fuck you that means I won’t hurt you.”

  “Do you still intend it?”

  Absolon paused then shook his head.

  “Then don’t worry about it.”

  “You can’t say things are fine and expect them to be so.”

  “I didn’t say all things were fine but you, you are fine. You don’t scare me, Absolon. You are not a monster. And if you want me to leave, then that is your right. This is your place, after all, but…well…if you’ll let me, I’d like to stay.”

  Absolon narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I want to make amends.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I saw how broken you were last night.” He slid to the end of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. “I know I have no right to expect your forgiveness or for you to give me charity, but I would like to repay you as well as I can for the wrong I’ve done you.”

  “You think a few fucks will do it?”

  “They can’t hurt.”

  Absolon glowered, but Ragnar laughed. “I’m joking. Though what we did last night would make the nights easier to bear. You can’t enjoy so much solitude, and wouldn’t I be better than no one?” Ragnar stood and took hold of Absolon’s hand. “Let me take care of you for a change.”

  “I want for nothing.”

  “Nothing except companionship and care. I can give you that.” He silenced the doubt inside himself.

  Absolon chewed on his cheek. “I’ll think about it. I’m going to wash then I’ll get you some clothes from the village.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Not for me and my speed, but for you it would take most of the day.”

  “I guess I’ll stay here then.”

  Absolon didn’t answer, just gave a long, disparaging look at his naked body, and left the room.

  Ragnar waited, listening to the splash of water and a few muttered curses before Absolon’s feet hit the dirt in a heavy thud. He hurried outside and looked for Absolon but there was no sign of him. He shook his head at Absolon’s speed and walked naked to the trough. He scrubbed himself of the dirt and the grime that had clung to him over the past week.

  A week…

  It had felt like months trapped in that cell wondering what Absolon was capable of. Well, he’d shown him, all right. Shown him intimately. And yet the fear drifted away beneath the full gale force of his ambition. Absolon had power and Ragnar would have it for his own. Then he wouldn’t need to rely on cutthroats and bandits to carry him into the hallowed history books. He could perform heroic deeds—truly heroic deeds—by himself alone which would bring him before the King. His father and brother would not be able to dismiss him so easily then. They would cower in fear at his strength and he would be denied nothing.

  He rinsed his face and beard, detangled the matted mess of his red hair, and braced against the chill morning air, before returning to the hovel he’d call home for the next few months if all went well. He still had nothing to wear but he put his boots on and wrapped a cloth around his waist. When Absolon returned, he wanted to be ready to fuck him for days if that’s what it took. By the time he was through he’d have Absolon panting for him like a dog and willing to perform any trick he commanded.

  Thankfully, Absolon had left some food: a few pieces of dried fish and bread that was beginning to turn stale. He grazed on them as he explored Absolon’s home, but there was little of interest. Some furniture, a hearth that he tended for his own needs if not for Absolon’s, but nothing to make it personal. They’d left the army with nothing and he’d abandoned Absolon with only his clothes; what could he have taken even if he’d had anything?

  There was plenty of farm equipment, but it was unused. What did Absolon do there? How did he spend his days? And where were the original occupants? He shuddered to think, but his imagination supplied the horror. One stormy night, the family sitting down to eat… Absolon darkened their door, carried on the back of a nightmare, stole into their home then stole their souls.

  One day that would be him.

  Ragnar went outside, circled the building, bypassed his former cell, and walked the farmstead, across the uneven ground, refastening the cloth over his hips as needed. The breeze brushed his balls and the wind pinched his nipples, but he gritted his teeth and walked the length and breadth of the field, surrounded on three sides by forest. A stream babbled out of view but to what river it ran, he had no idea. No mountains rose up beyond to indicate where he was or if he were even still in Sweden, though he reasoned that Absolon could not have taken him far from the site of his kidnapping if he remained unconscious throughout the journey. Perhaps they weren’t too far at all, and his treasure was within grasp.

  He scoffed at himself. What was he worrying about treasure for? He could have the whole of the Empire’s treasury if he so wished.

  He walked, spotting fresh pawprints in the soil. So, the dog was still lurking nearby. Absolon would be pleased about that, though the fact it hadn’t yet returned to the house did not bode well. He dropped a piece of uneaten fish in case the animal was hungry and would return with more when Absolon brought him some. In secret. He didn’t want to get Absolon’s hopes up.

  He kept to the farmed land rather than step into the s
hade. He preferred being somewhere he could see no confinement, where he was free to roam as far as he liked. He ignored his superstitious fear, infected by all those stories of his dead men. It was better to stay where Absolon could see him when he returned.

  Even then, he was unprepared.

  “Afraid of the forest, Ragnar?” Absolon said from behind him.

  Ragnar cursed and spun, stepping further into the weak midday sun. “Just walking your demesne, Sol.”

  “It ends somewhere back there, beyond the stream.”

  “So it is yours then? You bought it?”

  “I did.” He stepped out of the shadow of oak and spruce carrying a stuffed satchel. “Lysander left behind a lot of possessions. He liked to collect things, jewelry in particular, and when he abandoned me, I sold everything, hoping he’d hear about it and it would bring him pain. I turned away from everything he wanted me to be and became what I’d always said I was—a peasant. I bought this place, hoping it would draw him back. But it didn’t. Trogen provided some company, but the silence provided fertile soil for my hate of you to return.”

  “You have built yourself a fine home.”

  “Better than the one you and I lived in.”

  Ragnar shrugged. “That hovel was more of a home than the one I grew up in.” And that was the truth. It was where he kept his most prized possessions, along with his most treasured memories. Maybe he’d go back there one day. He pointed at the satchel. “Is that for me?”

  Shrugging it off his shoulder, Absolon held it out at arm’s length. Ragnar came closer and took hold of the satchel, but when Absolon retreated, Ragnar grabbed for his hand. Absolon froze and looked at Ragnar with the full strength of his sadness. Unwanted, abandoned, cursed. Ragnar told himself he only wanted to twist those feelings to his advantage, but his soul ached to see Absolon so forlorn.

  “Come with me.” He tugged Absolon towards the line of trees.

  Absolon resisted. “You should dress, or you really will die of the cold.”

  “Later.”

  He pulled and Absolon followed. The temperature cooled in the shade and Ragnar’s skin livened with the brisk wind and anticipation. There was nothing to fear in the trees, not with Absolon there, and soon the magic of the woods opened before him. The smell of damp rich earth, the twitter of birds and the trickle of fresh water…how the place must sparkle in spring!

  “Do you remember our first night in the forest after we left the army?”

  “Left? You were court-martialed and I deserted, but yes, of course I remember.”

  “Do you also remember how grateful I was that you were there with me?”

  He stopped. “That wasn’t gratitude. You were a raging lunatic. Your temper was so bad the animals in that barn thought a storm was coming. I was frightened of you.”

  Ragnar closed the gap again and steered Absolon until his back was up against a tree. “Is that all you felt? Fear?” Ragnar placed his hand on Absolon’s chest and slid it down his muscled abdomen and lower to press against the bulge of his trousers.

  Absolon’s hand gripped Ragnar’s wrist, and Ragnar nearly purred from his might. He bit his bottom lip and held Absolon’s gaze with an intense focus that could have burned wood. Despite the hold tightening on his wrist, he was still able to press his palm against the outline of Absolon’s thickening cock.

  “I would have let you do anything to me then,” Absolon whispered.

  “And now?” Ragnar sank to his knees, still held, still in Absolon’s power. He looked up, determined, strong, in control. “You helped me then. Allow me to help you now. Let me take your pain and swallow it whole.”

  Absolon’s cock twitched, throbbing and primed, having grown beneath Ragnar’s attention and the stirring of that remembrance of their first night together in the forest. Both unwanted. Both abandoned. Both cursed.

  And both desperate to forget everything that had happened.

  Absolon’s grip loosened enough to give Ragnar assent, and with his free hand unbuckled Absolon’s belt and untied his trousers, letting them drop to the ground to reveal Absolon’s erection. Ragnar wet his lips and forgot himself. Forgot that this was all meant to be about tricking Absolon into making him into a soul-eater. Forgot that this was all about power. Forgot all the wrong that Sol had done to him and he had done to Sol.

  Instead, it became all about their pleasure.

  He took Sol far into his mouth and relaxed his throat to limit his gagging. Even then tears welled in his eyes. He moved his head back and forth, building up a rhythm, with Absolon trying not to thrust but cursing when he did. Ragnar’s throat opened wide to take him deep, feeling full, feeling secure and complete with Absolon there. He gripped the shaft with his free hand, using his saliva to make him slick and move in time with his head so Absolon never lost a second of pleasure.

  He focused on his other wrist, the one Absolon still held and held so tightly his bones hurt from the squeeze. He could snap his wrist and Ragnar wouldn’t care. Absolon’s fingers burrowed into Ragnar’s hair and gripped him, and no matter how much Ragnar tried to control the motion, Absolon took over, his hips pushing deep into Ragnar’s throat. He relaxed and gave himself over completely to Absolon’s frenzied thrusting, moaning at the sound of Absolon’s groans. His own cock ached to be touched, straining and throbbing in exquisite pain.

  And when he thought Absolon was going to punch through the back of his throat, when his scalp sang out in pain, when his wrist creaked close to breaking, Absolon came into his mouth with three hard jolts. Ragnar swallowed his thick offering whole. Absolon spasmed, his breathing labored, then pushed Ragnar away.

  Ragnar sat back on his haunches, cock tenting and leaking into the blanket that covered him and licked his lips of anything that had escaped and sucked it into his mouth.

  Apart from Absolon’s added strength, the experience was exactly the same as that first night in the forest. He’d lost control of so much that he’d needed a way to regain it, and Absolon had been that. He had wanted to give pleasure to know that he could have another man in his power whenever he chose. He needed that confidence, that reassurance, regardless of what he had to do to get it. The fact that he enjoyed sucking Absolon’s cock dry was an added benefit.

  He didn’t stand. He waited until Absolon’s breathing had returned almost to normal. He didn’t touch himself, no matter how much he ached to. Only when Absolon looked at him, did he speak.

  “Will you let me stay? With you?”

  Absolon put his cock away and buckled his trousers without taking his eyes off Ragnar. And when he was done, he stalked over, grabbed Ragnar by the throat and hoisted him into the air. Ragnar’s eyes bulged in fear. Had he got it wrong? He grabbed Absolon’s forearm in some vain attempt to keep himself alive, but then Absolon brought him close and kissed him, long and deep and exploring, his tongue swiping over the thickness of Ragnar’s own. Relief swept through him, and he gave himself over.

  Absolon broke the kiss abruptly, and Ragnar scrambled to stop his mouth reaching for more. So aroused and yet so helpless, he barely admitted to himself how much he liked it. He opened his eyes to Absolon’s smug grin.

  “Yes, you can stay.”

  That kiss was not one of capitulation, nor was it one of declared love. Absolon had done it to stamp his control over Ragnar, but if that’s what he needed to believe, then Ragnar could go along with it. Absolon needed another’s love to survive, and Ragnar could make him believe that’s what he was being given. In exchange, he would be made Darisami. All the affection he gave Absolon now could serve as payment, because once he was changed, he’d owe his former lover nothing.

  Absolon allowed him to share his bed and in return Ragnar allowed him to use his body, drawing as much pleasure from it as he could without letting Absolon feel anything but in charge. Yet after the second night, he found himself drawing closer to Absolon’s body in the cold hours, hugging him from behind and wrapping his arm around as much of Absolon’s broad body as po
ssible. He pressed his lips to Absolon’s shoulder, and the tension melted away. He didn’t shift from it, didn’t stop, but he didn’t overstep. There was something about those moments that he didn’t want to ruin with his plans.

  In the dead of night, even his ambition slept.

  As for their days, Absolon lacked structure and the farmstead was crumbling into ruin. He existed in a purgatory that befit his existence. Neither alive nor dead, neither human nor angel, neither peasant nor noble yet crossing both. He cared little for work, having no need for food to feed himself, but Ragnar got him into it. He warned that the tax collectors or the priests would come eventually demanding their tithe. Unless he planned on killing every single one in the Empire, he would do well to produce something. He replied sullenly that he would steal what he needed, but there was no denying the glint in his eye that he would have something to fill his time.

  At least he had strength to work the farm himself, no matter how others—if they ever came—might grow suspicious. The first day he gently guided Absolon into putting his house in order, while Ragnar cleared out the cell he’d been confined to and repurposed it to what it was originally intended for as a tool shed and store.

  He talked to him about what the land could produce. Absolon may have worked his family’s farm, but Ragnar had learned from those who swore fealty to his father. Management was what he did best, and Absolon was stronger than any beast of burden. It was too late in the year to plant crops, but the soil could be tilled, and weeds pulled in preparation.

  And then there should be stables.

  He proposed them on the third day, arguing with Absolon about where they should be and fighting against his flimsy resistance. Absolon loved horses and he could breed fine stallions and mares that the local baron would be proud to sit upon. They would also provide companionship for Absolon once Ragnar had departed. Though he didn’t say that.