by Nunn, PL
He recalled the face of the man who had attacked the dark lord. The utter shock and fear as his body was attacked by a force that no mundane creature had defense against. He felt pity for that man, human or no. There was no honor in such a death. His first impulse, the reflexive one driven into him by years of listening to the superstitious talk of the old ones around the fire, had been to strike out at the author of it, just as he might strike off the head of a mountain viper if one chanced across his path. It had taken as much will to stand idly by and then calmly walk away as it had not to flee this place, abandoning his purpose in the face of such baneful magic.
And yet he hadn’t. Fool that he was, he still looked upon Fah’nak Gol as a solution to his dilemma, its dark lord a path to that goal that might be politically less demanding than the one King Valeran proposed, though far more treacherous, morally.
He sat upon the bleached slab of rock and stared out over the valley. A long, green swath of haven.
He envisioned huts and longhouses on the hillside beneath his perch, and further out where the trees did not shadow the earth, neatly plowed plots of earth where food could be grown instead of killed.
His folk, even the half-bloods, were not farmers, preferring to leave those tasks to human slaves, but they could learn. How hard could it be? He imagined the most advantageous places along the valley walls for defensive positions, calculating how well an ambush could be sprung upon invaders utilizing the thick shelter of a mountainous forest.
His gaze traveled further down the vale, to the keep perched upon its rocky slope and frowned. It wasn’t as if he weren’t accustomed to living under the shadow of danger…this threat was simply of a more unnerving nature. And it could be avoided and ignored for the most part, if his folk kept to their end of the vale and the dark lord to his. One could hope. He’d rather keep to this end himself for the duration of his stay, but there were issues yet to be resolved and temptations within that keep that he was not willing to forego.
He rose, stretching his limbs, and resolutely started the long walk back towards the keep.
The knight’s men who loitered in the courtyard near their stabled horses were subdued when he tromped back in through the ominous gate. They gazed at him as he passed, but there was little distrust or hatred in their eyes. They had discovered a far more virulent threat to cast their suspicions upon.
Bloodraven grunted, grimly figuring that a trust formed on the basis of a mutual enemy wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Better for Elvardo to occupy the role of villain than the halflings who Bloodraven wished to lead back to this human-held valley.
He heard the clack of hooves behind him and the low voices of men. His escort following him back into the keep, and a man being sent to inform the knight. Bloodraven ignored it, caring very little what Alasdair’s thoughts were about his foray into the valley or the hour of his return.
He retraced the pathway to his guest room, and smelled the acrid scent of smoke and cinder before he reached the half open door. One of Elvardo’s females stepped out into the hall, her face as passive and sloe-eyed as ever. A shiver of wariness passed across his skin. A chest-tightening pang of concern as to why this woman was here and Yhalen was not, when the smell of fire that had fed upon more than logs in a hearth infused the air.
He stopped, lips pulling back in a low snarl, in no wise confident that Elvardo’s females were as helpless and weak as the rest of their species.
“My lord ogre,” the woman inclined her dark head. “My lord expresses his apologies for the upset to your rooms. New chambers have been provided. All of your things have been moved.”
“Yhalen?” He moved forward warily, wanting to see beyond the door that blocked his view of the room.
“All your things,” the female said with a solicitous smile.
She pulled the door shut behind her, and though he could have moved her easily, he hesitated to lay hands upon her.
“Follow me, please.”
She moved down the hall and he lingered a moment, fighting with the desire to see what had become of his rooms and the growing urgency to assure himself that nothing ill had befallen his human.
The new room was at the end of the hall, close to a balcony that overlooked a large and shadowed hall. The dark-haired female rapped once, lightly, before turning the latch and opening the door for him.
She stepped back and let him pass.
He stepped into the room as if he expected enemies, his guard up and his suspicions high. There were no enemies. Simply Yhalen, in the process of rising from the deep, padded alcove before one of the room’s two tall windows. It was a larger chamber than they had been afforded before, or perhaps that was the flood of natural sunlight that the windows let in. The hearth crackled merrily, the rug was thick and warm and the bed no less spacious and tall, flanked on all four corners by thick, subtly carved posts.
Yhalen stared at him, a bone-handled comb in one hand, hair loose and damp across his shoulder, eyes large and worried. Guilty, almost.
Bloodraven stood there, the tension draining out of him, the worst of the apprehension dissipating.
He heard the soft sound of the door closing behind him, and the softer, almost imperceptible tread of the female as she departed.
He stared at Yhalen, waiting for an answer to the questions Yhalen knew very well wanted answering.
Yhalen turned his gaze away, staring towards the hearth and the low burning fire there. His fingers tightened over the comb.
“There was an accident. With the fire,” Yhalen said softly.
“A stray ember?” he prompted, brows drawn in curiosity.
Odder still when Yhalen laughed, looking up to meet his gaze with a frankness that Bloodraven had rarely seen from him. “A stray ember. I suppose. None of your things were singed.”
What few things Bloodraven still had. As if they mattered.
“Did the valley meet with your approval?” Yhalen asked of him, and the oddity of a burned room shifted back from the center of his focus, overwhelmed by the extent of his excitement over the richness of this vale.
And perhaps because of that enthusiasm, he spoke more frankly that he might have, to a human and a slave, or perhaps Yhalen simply invited it, with that level gaze as bold as any blooded warrior.
He spoke of the fertile earth and the dense old forest that surrounded the length of the vale on all sides like a warm cloak. Of the likelihood of the steep sides of the valley protecting the interior from the worst of winter weather. Of the ample tracks of game and the numerous sources of pure water that sprang from the depths of the earth.
Yhalen sat with knees drawn up in the nook of the window, paying heed to his words with none of the usual disdain or fear in his face. With something perhaps that bordered on a respect that had nothing to do with the fact that Bloodraven could break him with one hand. He beetled his brows, faltering, losing for a moment, his train of thought.
He shook his head and gathered it back, deciding that since warm water was a luxury beyond imagining and he had time to while away, to make use of the baths again himself. He had a fondness for clean skin and hair that went beyond the ogre norm. The baths were deserted, the water clean and inviting and tranquil. The silence was as soothing as the heat seeping into his flesh. He laid his head back and allowed himself to simply sit there in the water, though it was an effort of will after a while not to be up and about his business. He wasn’t a creature comfortable with inactivity. He’d not survived as long as he had, nor reached the status he enjoyed in the hierarchy of the clans, by being inactive in both mind and body.
His ears twitched a little, the few remaining rings making a lonely clank. He regretted not bringing Yhalen with him. He could have made good use of him.
When he could tolerate stillness no more, he dried and dressed, then stalked the twisting halls of this keep with wary guardedness until he found what he was looking for. A balcony open to the outside air that sported hefty stone benches, ornate columns and
a fine view of the valley below. It was a fine escape from the ominous weight of the keep, without creating the turmoil that camping out outside its walls would have caused with the knight and his men. He stayed there, making plans in his mind, until one of the dark lord’s females found him and asked him to dinner.
He had no wish to go and endure the company of the knight and his men, much less the unnerving presence of Elvardo himself, but the female was insistent. She stood silently waiting while he pretended to ignore the summons, until her patient presence could be tolerated no more and he growled softly to himself in irritation and rose, glaring narrowly at her passive face. She was uncowed, simply inclining her head and walking before him into the interior of the keep.
The formal dining room again, but very few of the knight’s men were in attendance. Only the knight himself and his two highest lieutenants, both of whom looked as if they’d rather be elsewhere. The human witch sat on the knight’s right side, caught in the act of whispering something in the knight’s ear as Bloodraven entered. Yhalen was there, his hair neatly braided and his eyes guarded, only looking up once when Bloodraven entered on the heels of his red-haired guide. There was a place setting before an empty chair, at the head of the table, and no one seemed eager to see it filled.
Bloodraven’s chair, massive as it was, still creaked when he sat down next to Yhalen, opposite the knight and his men and almost as if on cue, Lord Elvardo entered. He padded gracefully in, wearing a flowing black shirt and pants, the material of which shimmered here and there with silver stitching.
The tension around the table thickened, no man or half-man there forgetting what had transpired that morning. Elvardo showed no concern at all.
Soup was served. The knight grasped his spoon like it was a weapon, mouth pressed tight and brows drawn.
“Is the soup not to your liking?” Elvardo drawled lightly, after he’d downed half of his and Alasdair hadn’t yet begun to eat.
“We need to talk specifics.”
“About the soup?” Elvardo lifted an innocent brow.
The knight glared, too easily provoked by the dark lord.
“About this valley and the king’s request that you harbor Bloodraven’s kinsmen.”
“Why should I talk to you about it?” Elvardo asked. “You won’t be living here. Arrangements ought to be made with master Bloodraven, don’t you think?”
Bloodraven lifted a brow and met the knight’s frustrated glare from across the table.
“At your convenience then, master ogre?” Elvardo asked lightly and Bloodraven inclined his head.
Alasdair hissed, slamming a palm upon the tabletop. Elvardo lifted a brow at him, waiting for the explosion. The witch watched as well, curiosity on her face and a slight smile on her painted lips. But the knight composed himself, taking a deep breath.
“I’d take it as a favor to be included in these talks,” he said, with only a slight gritting of the teeth.
Elvardo smiled at him, evidencing amusement. “Since you ask so nicely….”
They retired after dinner to speak, the knight, himself and the dark lord. Confined in a smallish, elegantly appointed study with so powerful a practitioner of dark magic, Bloodraven was uneasy, contemplating more often than not how quickly he could snap Elvardo’s slim neck if he sensed some baneful wizardry afoot. Of course, he probably would sense no such thing until it were too late.
Yhalen’s presence and his sensitivities to such things would have been a boon.
He felt out of place in this room, with these human men who threw their human barbs with sly subtlety on the one hand and irate, honest indignity on the other. But they were half his blood, despite the fact that his skin color and the cant of his ears leaned more heavily towards his ogre heritage. It was the human half that let him tolerate this captivity and their verbal maneuverings when a full-blooded ogre would have been reduced to berserker rage long since.
Only when the dark lord asked what he thought of the vale and what plans he might harbor towards the settling of his people here, did Bloodraven give him his full and serious heed. The far end of the vale seemed preferable to Lord Elvardo as well as Bloodraven. They both seemed to want as much distance between them as possible.
“I treasure my privacy,” the dark lord said. “More so than you might imagine. A quiet village of outcasts at the far end of my vale concerns me less than the prospect of the regiments your king might like to send crawling about my lands to watch over them.”
“King Valeran has spoken of no such thing,” the knight said.
“To you.”
Elvardo shrugged and the knight frowned, not denying that there were many things his king might not have confided.
“I won’t have it, you know,” Elvardo said softly. “And if Andjuran’s son thinks otherwise, he is sorely mistaken. You ask a great deal, Bloodraven.” Elvardo turned his unnerving stare upon Bloodraven. “If you bring them here, your half-blooded kin, to reside within the shelter of my lands, then by extension they reside under my protection.”
“I do not ask it of you,” Bloodraven growled.
“It hardly matters what you ask. If you live on my land, then you are mine, just like any peasant to his liege lord.”
Bloodraven’s hackles rose.
“They’ll owe fealty to the king…that was the bargain made,” Alasdair protested.
“The king isn’t letting them settle in his backyard, now is he? The king ought to think long and hard before he tries to impose his long arm upon me. Oh, calm down, master ogr’ron, my yoke is almost non-existent compared to what the King of Suthland would impose upon you.”
“Damn it!” Alasdair rose, composure crumbling as the plans of his own liege lord seemed to be slipping awry. Elvardo sat back, steepling his fingers, satisfied with the turmoil he had birthed.
“The bargain will be met,” Bloodraven said softly, liking neither option, but liking the cold cruelty of the northern clans even less. “When your king has need of it, the fighting strength of the halflings I bring here will answer.”
The night obscured the view of the vale from the tall windows of the new sleeping chamber.
Bloodraven stared for no short time regardless, through leaded glass panes, forcing stricture and cohesion to chaotic thoughts. He turned to Yhalen eventually, who sat curled in a chair by the hearth, watching him warily. Bloodraven beckoned, deciding on an action that did not require mind games or maneuverings. Yhalen drew his fine brows, frowning, not making a move to obey. Bloodraven padded over, neither annoyed or offended by the lack of proper obedience. He had come to expect nothing less—had rather come to appreciate Yhalen’s spirit and pride, and the eventual submission in the end.
He used Yhalen perfunctorily, a rigorous exercise that drew his thoughts away from the frustration of politics and the men who played at them like honest warriors played at dice. His cock in Yhalen’s body overshadowed the complex machinations of human lords and kings, at least temporarily.
Yhalen made no protest and when Bloodraven had finished and flopped onto his back to stare moodily up at the shadowed canopy above the big bed, Yhalen rolled out of bed and walked to the bath with the gait of a body that had been well used, to rinse the residue of their coupling from his skin.
He came back in the shadows cast by the low burning hearth and slipped back into the bed, beneath the covers that Bloodraven lay atop.
Eventually Bloodraven slept.
And woke to darkness only barely pierced by the last struggling embers of a fire that had almost entirely died.
He was alone. He knew that without even having to feel in the darkness for Yhalen’s form. He could sense the solitude in the air. He rose on reflex, the urge to hunt down what was his, singing strong in his blood. He took a breath, curbing baser instinct to hunt and subdue, standing in the darkness with his bare feet on a thick, ridiculously soft rug. He took another and reminded himself that the days of chaining human slaves within a body length of the bed were over. Even b
efore, it had never been his practice to treat the unfortunate humans who served his folk harshly. He had always been acutely aware of what side of the sleeping furs he’d been birthed on.
He went to feed the dying fire. Sat in the wing-backed chair before it and waited. Yhalen made a habit of wandering this place at night. This place that disturbed Bloodraven so profoundly. Minutes bled into hours, and the darkness outside the windows began to lighten, turning purplish with the onset of dawn.
The door to the chamber opened, silent on well-oiled hinges. Yhalen slipped inside, hair caught up in a haphazard, loose tail at his neck, as if he’d done it quickly and in the dark. Almost immediately, he bent to pull off loosely laced boots. Pulled his tunic off over his head, and loosened his trousers as he crept towards the bed.
And froze, eyes that were no doubt already adjusted to the darkness, discerning that there was no sleeping figure upon the mattress. His breathing quickened, panicked, as his eyes swept the room, settling finally upon Bloodraven in his chair by the hearth.
Bloodraven said nothing, scenting the acrid tang of fear. Yhalen moved towards him, regardless, an admirable act of courage in the face of the unknown. When he reached the edge of the broad fur rug before the hearth, he hesitated, moving his hands nervously.
“I—I was—”
Bloodraven lunged with the speed and the power that had kept him alive for the last thirty years.
He caught Yhalen by the throat, swung him around and down with nothing of gentleness in the act.
Yhalen’s back hit the rug and the breath left his lungs. Bloodraven leaned over him, growling.
“If a lie passes your lips, I will punish you.”
No small bit of frustration had been building these past days, searching for an outlet. It found it now.
Yhalen lay gasping, face red. Bloodraven loosened his hold upon Yhalen’s throat and Yhalen pushed himself up, scooting back until his back hit the chair Bloodraven had so recently vacated. His eyes were unreadable in the shadow.