by Aldrea Alien
He blamed the man’s kisses. They were warm, welcoming and soft. Something he found himself craving more and more of.
Nothing like these cold, needy pecks that left no room for his own wants. Authril took and took. He’d been fine with their simple arrangement at the beginning, but now? It wasn’t…
“Enough,” Dylan growled, pushing Authril off of his lap. He kept his hand raised between them in the off chance that she still wouldn’t heed his words. “I said, stop.” He hadn’t the same agreement with her as he did with the hound, but it shouldn’t matter. “I don’t feel like doing this tonight.”
She sat back. In the gloom, he caught her forehead creasing. Her eyes glittered as an errant wind fluttered the tent flap and allowed a brief gleam of firelight to illuminate her face. The disappointment he had been expecting, and perhaps even a touch of annoyance, but anger?
Dylan quietly gathered his clothes. “I need some fresh air.”
“I’ll be sure not to wait up.” Without bothering to clothe herself, she flopped onto the bedding and hauled the blankets over her.
He exited the tent without another word. The cold night air nipped at his face the second he was outside. Dylan rubbed his arms, not prepared to sacrifice a scrap of magic to heat the air when the campfire still burned so brightly.
Tracker sat near the fire, his back propped against the log the women had dragged to the fireside and used as a seat. The man had taken first watch, claiming he would still be awake tending to his weaponry anyway. And, although he would calmly throw on the occasional bit of wood into the flames, he was running a stone over the vast array of throwing knives spread out on the ground beside him.
Dylan closed the distance between them softly and slowly. His presence would have been marked the moment he exited the tent, but there was something about seeing the knives arranged in neat lines next to man that demanded caution.
The hound waited until Dylan had halted just on the other side of the log before speaking. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Or rather, entertaining a certain red-haired beauty?”
Dylan’s gaze flicked to the man’s russet hair and he sucked on his teeth. In the glow of the fire, the braid almost seemed alight. “I can’t sleep,” he said. “And I didn’t feel like taking the other option.”
Tracker hummed as he continued tending to one of the knives’ edge. “Well, I cannot be of assistance at the moment, seeing that I am on watch, but if you are willing to wait a few hours, we could retire to my tent and—”
“No.”
His denial had the man’s head snapping around, shock lifting his brows.
With his cheeks growing far warmer than the fire could be to blame, Dylan continued, “I’d prefer not to tonight.” There were so many conflicting thoughts buzzing through his mind, that it felt like a hive had taken up residence. Sex with anyone was likely best left until he figured out precisely who he’d preferred to be doing such an act with.
Tracker shrugged. “As you like. Seeing that you are not looking for anything physical, would you be amenable to talking?”
Dylan settled on the log. “About what, exactly?”
“Anything you feel comfortable discussing. The tower, the army camp, us… Whatever you wish. I would not even mind if it is something as absurd as your preferred nightcap.”
Us. There’d been a slight change in the way Tracker uttered the word. A softness that spoke of longing. Dylan’s throat tightened a little at the thought and he swiftly turned his focus to what else the man had rattled off. “And why does my selection of topics not include your past?”
Tracker snorted and sheathed the last of his knives before joining Dylan atop the log. “My life is not something you want to hear about for too long. There is only so many times one can talk about torture before it grows boring.”
“Why did they torture you in the first place?” Surely, if hounds were so rare compared to spellsters, those who trained them would’ve wanted to ensure all of the young ones survived.
“It is supposed to make us strong.” The elf thumped his chest. “Harden our hearts to the pleas of spellsters who would prefer to live beyond the tower’s confines. A weak hound is of no use to the crown and if you are of no use…”
You get put down. Dylan bit his lip as the thought surfaced unbidden. What else was denied to them with such hardening? “I don’t know where I’d start.” A lot of the things he could think of were far heavier than he wished to discuss so late. The absurd would have to do. “Blackberry cider.”
Tracker glanced up, the firelight twinkling through his earrings. His brow twitched. “Hmm?”
“You mentioned something about my preferred nightcap?”
The hound laughed. “So I did. A pity we have none, unless our dear hunter is holding out on us. I was not even aware you could make cider from blackberries.”
Dylan smiled, remembering the first time Sulin snuck one of his concoctions into their quarters. It had smelt vile and tasted little better, but it swiftly got them drunk enough not to care. “You’d be surprised what you can make alcohol from.”
“And where did you sample such a thing?”
“Home. I told you, the alchemists are very good at making something alcoholic. Sulin can make…” The words stalled. Can. He didn’t want to think what had become of his friend. Any of them, even his guardian. A part of him hoped they’d escaped, but he knew the chances were slim. None, if they’d been in the tower itself. “Although I suppose he doesn’t do anything now.”
“My apologies,” Tracker breathed. “The memories must still be quite painful.”
They were. He clung to them nevertheless. Letting himself forget almost felt like letting them die again. He would hold on to everything he could remember, keep them safe and alive until it was time for him to face the Seven Sisters. How long did spellsters live serving the army?
The hound shuffled closer. A hand slid across the distance between them. The man’s little finger—the digit almost as long as Dylan’s ring finger—gingerly linked with his. “I know it likely hurts for you to remember those you have lost, but trust me, holding everything in will only let the pain burrow deeper into your soul.”
“That almost sounds like you speak from experience.”
Tracker shrugged. “A hound’s life is never easy. Sometimes, sacrifices are made. But I would like to hear more about the tower, if you do not mind.” Those honey-coloured eyes, seeming redder than usual in the firelight, stared up at him in warm, open invitation.
“I’m not sure I can.”
“It will hurt at first, but try.” His other hand alighted on Dylan’s thigh, consoling rather than seeking anything further. “Tell me of your time there. Anything. What you studied or your friends, if you have the strength to speak of them… I hear spellsters have individual guardians. Is this true?”
He nodded. “I was assigned to Tricia at the moment of my birth.” And she’d spent almost three decades raising him, only for him to abandon her advice and bound after the first chance to risk his life. “Is it not like that amongst the hounds?”
“No. The hounds live and train in the old dungeons beneath the king’s castle, but before then we grow up in small groups scattered around the capital. Those rearing us would ensure we were healthy, but nothing more. Everything else is left to the trainers.”
Who would beat and torture their charges, when they weren’t marking them or doing gods’ knew what else. “Tricia was…”
“Like a mother to you, I would think.” The finger that had linked with his shifted, allowing Tracker to grasp his hand. “It must have been hard leaving her.”
Not at first. But after seeing what had become of the tower… “She tried to stop me from competing.” If only he had listened, thrown the brawl, maybe things would’ve been different.
“Competing?” the hound echoed, frowning. “For what?”
“To leave. Only the strongest are permitted to join the king’s army.” Laughter bubbled through his lip
s. “The overseers would tell us it’s an honour.” Had they known what really happened? Quite likely. And still, they sent more spellsters into the army’s grasp.
Tracker’s nose wrinkled as if he’d caught the whiff of something odorous. “Of course, they would say that,” he muttered. “Is everyone made to compete?”
Dylan shook his head. “Just those deemed suitable. They start testing us as teenagers.” By then, only those who hadn’t been raised in the tower needed any instructing on the basics. “See who can handle a fight and who would be better off in other pursuits.”
The hound’s lips parted in silent comprehension. “And you, naturally, were amongst the suitable.”
“No.” A bit of a mixed blessing, that. If he had been leashed earlier, then maybe he’d be suffering the same fate as the others in the attack. Death or slavery. “Not for some time, at least. Tricia… Well, before the overseers placed me in the brawl, my guardian had them believing I wasn’t strong enough.”
“Then you used to train against friends, yes? The way you move… react… you must have had some experience in fighting.”
“At first, sure. It’s easier to test your defences with someone you trust. Not in the brawl, though.” He smiled, trying to picture any of his closest friends in the brawl. “Ness is strong enough, but she never puts her heart into an actual spar. Henrie’s quick and could actually do well, if it wasn’t for his terrible shield work, but he’s also likely to throw the brawl to stay with Harriet who’s not much of a fighter. And, like I said, Sulin’s an alchemist.”
The elf’s brows rose at the final mention. “He was your roommate, yes?”
Dylan bobbed his head in agreement.
“So, not only do they allow you all to mingle, but they actually house an alchemist with…” He waved his hand, indicating all of Dylan. “A powerful man such as yourself?”
“Strength only matters in the arena.” Anyone who dared to use their magic to harm another was sent to solitary. Although, sometimes, they weren’t seen again. “And I believe putting him in a room all on his own was the only alternative at the time. He came to the tower quite late, from Stonebay. I learnt everything I know about the dog metal from him.”
“So it was just the two of you sharing sleeping accommodations? We did not have such arrangements growing up. There was one room for all of us. Or was privacy in the tower less easy to come by than I imagine?”
“At times,” he admitted. “The first few months were a little awkward.” Dylan remembered resenting Sulin when they first met. That had been the very day they shuffled the alchemist into what Dylan had just become used to thinking of as his space. It hadn’t crossed his mind that the gangly, barely preadolescent boy with long kinky hair who would become one of his closest friends, especially when he… Well, Dylan hadn’t quite gotten around to realising what certain parts could be used for. “The curfew didn’t exactly help.”
“Curfew?” Tracker blurted. There was the faintest hint of repressed laughter hiding in the word. “Even for those all grown up? Did your guardians also tuck you in at night?”
Dylan chuckled. “They didn’t go that far, no. Just guards on the lower levels. We were supposedly trustworthy enough to follow the rules without supervision. Most times.”
“So, an enterprising young man could venture forth if he thought the journey worthy of the risk. And yet, you chose to spend a good deal of that time in your roommate’s company?” A smirk tweaked the hound’s lips. “He was quite an attractive man, yes?”
“What does that matter? I… guess so.” Most elves were, barring injury or illness.
Tracker leant closer, his head cocked to one side. “And you never tried to—?”
“No.” Even if he’d wanted to, Sulin wouldn’t have been receptive to such an advance. “Just because two people share a room doesn’t mean they have to be involved that way.”
The hound sat back with a slightly amused quirk to the corner of his mouth. “I know. I just thought that, given your tastes… You truly never thought about it? Surely, the idea of sex with a man must have crossed your mind before we became intimate. Perhaps when you were both drunk?”
Dylan recalled the multitude of times he’d caught his gaze lingering on Sulin’s lips whilst his friend spoke, wondering how the alchemist’s split tongue would feel in his mouth and on other places. He’d never been brave enough to dare attempt anything.
“That probably wouldn’t have been wise,” Dylan muttered. “He’s rather wary of men who enjoy the company of other men.” He didn’t know why—there were just some things you didn’t ask of those who’d been brought to the tower—but he would wonder from time to time. Especially when someone enraged the alchemist. Perhaps things in Stonebay hadn’t been as rosy as Sulin made them seem. “He wouldn’t relish the thought of sleeping in the room with me if he’d thought I had any ideas of sharing his bed.”
Tracker sat in silence for a while, staring into the fire.
The hound fed another branch to the flames. “Is that why you still do it?” he whispered. “This hiding from others? You lived a lie, denied a part of yourself, all to keep a friend?”
Dylan shook his head. He’d been doing it far longer than that.
The man’s brows slowly twisted into a worried frown. “You must realise that concealing the truth will do you no good. Nothing gnaws as deeply into the soul as denial.”
Biting his lip, he found himself unable to look the man in the eye. “I know. And I don’t believe I thanked you for the other day.” He glanced at Tracker and, upon seeing the confusion creasing the man’s face, added, “For not telling the others about… you know.”
“Why would I? I am certain you will tell who you wish at a time that suits you. It is not my place to decide when that time will be.”
“What you said to Marin, about your people frowning upon hounds and spellsters being intimate with each other? Was that true?”
A small smile tweaked the man’s lips. “It was a half truth of sorts. Hounds are forbidden to have prolonged intimacy with anyone, not just with our spellster charges.”
Dylan hadn’t considered for some time how he was technically under the hound’s command until they reached Wintervale. “So, we shouldn’t be doing be doing this?” Not that it appeared to have stopped the man in the past, if the hound’s recount of his exploits could be believed.
“Not really, no.” Tracker leant back on the log, bracing himself with a well-placed hand. “Our first night would have received some disapproving looks, but ultimately forgiven. As for the rest of them…” Frowning, he turned his head. “If I may ask, why do you still hide a piece of yourself?”
“I don’t know.” Dylan stared into the fire, trying to find the right way to explain that didn’t sound pathetic. He’d considered it in his early teens, that wouldn’t be too difficult to admit. But he hadn’t the courage to do more. Even back then, he’d faced his share of rejections, to have to share the bathing rooms or, the gods forbid, sleeping quarters after a similar rebuttal…
After a while, it was merely easier to continue along the path he’d made, to rebuff men who were surer of themselves than he, to convince himself that what he felt in the presence of a man who caught his eye wasn’t attraction. He’d built his own comfortable barrier to keep from straying into riskier waters. “I guess… I thought I’d lost my chance to decide.” Dylan tore his gaze from the flames to find the hound watching him. “Until I met you.”
Tracker’s lips gently curved in what had to be the most genuine smile Dylan had seen from the hound. His whole face was soft and receptive.
Dylan quietly considered the merits behind bridging the small space between them to kiss the man.
Then, all at once, the elf cleared his throat and the look vanished. He shook his head, his breathy chuckle heating Dylan’s shoulder. “Did you think there was a cut-off period where it would go away if not admitted? Because that is really not how this works.”
“So I’ve
learnt.” It seemed so obvious now. He could even recognise how much he’d denied it over the years. “When did you realise you were attracted to… men with meat on their bones?”
Tracker grinned, a short blast of mirth hissing through his teeth. “That is quite the question. Well, for starters, my realisations came from another direction entirely, although I was quite young when the notion occurred to me. But if you are seeking to find if I have a preference, I am afraid the only answer I can truthfully give is ‘with a pulse’.”
“How is that even possible?” He’d been trying to figure it out ever since the man told him. He just couldn’t see how… “You’d sleep with anyone you’d happen to come across?”
Tracker straightened. A small huff of affront gusted through his open mouth. “And I suppose you have slept with every woman you have spoken to, yes?”
“Of course not.” He couldn’t even say he’d been successful with the majority of those he’d propositioned.
“But this is what you expect of me?” The man’s brow arched high.
“You’re the one who just said he’d slept with anyone who had a pulse.”
“Potentially, yes. But do not mistake attraction and possibilities for desire and action. In a perfect world, I would have no qualms in sleeping with whoever asked, but I do have standards. Fancying many things does not equate to everything. It is…” Tracker rubbed at his mouth, silently grumbling to himself. “It is like a tavern menu.”
“What?” He peered at the man. How had their talk managed to find its way to taverns and menus?
The hound sighed. “That is how it was explained to me as a boy. When it comes it intimacy and who you choose to lay with, the world is like a menu. Most people stick to one thing. A stew, perhaps. There are many kinds and people have their preferences as to what belongs in one, but it is all stew. Others are the same with soup. Some might try the soup and decide it is not for them and some bounce between both whilst others might prefer fish.”