Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  More rustling, while Yhalen lay waiting to expire from cold. The blanket was pulled back, exposing his flesh to the air. He whimpered in shock, and then Bloodraven’s large, bare body settled in beside him, rearranging the blankets, pulling him close and enfolding him in an embrace of arms and legs against flesh that seemed only marginally warmer than his own.

  But soon enough warmth began to seep from Bloodraven’s flesh to his own, and it drew him like some addictive nectar. He nestled closer, wanting to lose himself in that welcoming heat. Bloodraven took his frozen hands and rubbed them between his own large ones, then brought them to his mouth and breathed hot breath upon them. Yhalen felt the bare fringes of the warmth, but even that made his skin tingle almost painfully. It was a welcome sort of discomfort though. As Bloodraven continued to warm his body, gradually the cold began to fade and drowsiness seeped in to take its place. He lay in growing comfort, cocooned under the folds of blankets and, pressed against Bloodraven’s heat with the crackling of the fire on his other side, Yhalen drifted to sleep.

  It took a very long time for the tremors to leave Yhalen’s body, for the ghostly bluish tint to leave his skin. Bloodraven had seen many a small animal die from immersion in icy water, the cold seeping in to shock their insides and slow their hearts to deathly stillness. The stream was mountain-fed, coming from the frozen heights and holding as much icy death here as it did at its source. He was used to the cold, and still it had hit his own body like the strike of a hammer when he’d plunged into its depths after Yhalen.

  He’d taken a chance, going after the horse and the mules, endangering both himself and Yhalen with every second spent immersed in the water, but the packs held things vital to a small body surviving the cold. Herbal teas and spices and extra layers of clothing and bedding, though the latter was damp, even through the protection of oiled canvas covering. What they had lost with the second mule, he didn’t know, nor had he taken the time to look. The wolves most likely had strewn it far and wide by now, if they’d managed to track the mule to wherever the beast had washed to shore.

  He had Vorja on guard at the mouth of the cave against further attempts, but he doubted the remaining members of the pack, even driven down from the heights in hungry desperation, would attack them again.

  Yhalen was limp and quiet against him, only the very crown of his damp hair visible from the folds of blanket. His skin was still cool, but no longer had the feel of frozen, half-dead flesh. If the wolves had hemmed him in for five minutes longer, Yhalen might have gone the way of the second mule, dragged under the ice by the grip of the slow current and swept away. The notion sent a pang of unease through Bloodraven’s chest. A curling dread in his belly that was a new and perplexing sensation.

  He carefully slipped out from the bedding and went naked to feed the fire and turn the clothing he had hastily flung to the ground near it. He’d have to go and fetch wood from outside the cave soon if he hoped to keep the fire strong, which meant donning damp clothing and trekking out into the snow that made the daylight coming in from the mouth of the small cave seem gray and muted. An uncomfortable, but not a daunting prospect, save that he dreaded the notion of leaving Yhalen unprotected after he’d failed so miserably to protect him at the stream. His to protect, and he’d almost lost him to the simple grip of nature.

  He crouched next to the fire and frowned, suddenly doubting his own reason in bringing a soft southern-bred human into the savage heights. It had been nothing but his selfishness and need to have Yhalen within his reach.

  He called himself a fool in his native tongue, then broke a dry limb across his knee and shoved it into the fire, casting up sparks in his wake. He retreated back to the blankets, slipping into their warmth and shifting Yhalen against him to his liking, without so much as a sigh of protest from his little human. Yhalen simply adjusted, molding against him and pressing his cheek into the crook of Bloodraven’s shoulder as he curled his arm around Bloodraven’s upper arm. There was a bruise on his shoulder that had not been evident before. As big around as Bloodraven’s palm and purplish pink around the outer edges.

  Carefully Bloodraven felt the integrity of the shoulder, feeling for swelling or misalignment that might hint at a disjointed limb or break. The bone seemed sound, though the flesh and muscle would undoubtedly be sore for many days to come, unless Yhalen used the magic Bloodraven knew him capable of and cleansed himself of the wound. The thought of that didn’t make him as uneasy as it should have. In fact he rather hoped for it, for it would make travel for the next few days easier on Yhalen, and Yhalen’s comfort had become a thing that mattered to him He watched the fire-spawned shadows dance upon the uneven walls of the cave, listening to the muffled sounds the horses made outside, those mountain-bred animals that he’d been assured were well capable of enduring the worst of northern weather. He listened as well to Yhalen’s even breathing, and drowsed a little, himself.

  His sleep was light during the depths of the night and later, in the midst of the afternoon. He barely grazed the surface of true slumber and roused easily when some while later, Yhalen moved.

  His human was awake and peering about the small cave from the shelter of the blankets.

  “The fire’s dying,” Yhalen commented softly, voice still filled with the lethargy of sleep. And so it was, having eaten its way through dry deadwood quickly. Yhalen raised himself onto an elbow and winced, bringing a hand up to touch the bruised shoulder. He made no complaint of it, looking over Bloodraven’s bulk to the gray light at the mouth of the cave and the tumble of snow that had been driven onto the sheltered ground within.

  “The snow’s heavy. Is it the storm from up north?”

  “Yes. It’ll be thigh high to you, come morning. If we’re lucky we may be able to travel by afternoon.”

  “Where is this?”

  “A cave. Not far downstream from where the wolves attacked. I saw it as we rode.”

  “Ah. I went in the water.” Yhalen lowered himself back onto the blankets, flexing the arm with the bruised shoulder. “I didn’t know such cold existed.”

  “The stream’s fed from the frozen heights. It holds their bite, even in high summer.”

  Yhalen shivered, no doubt remembering. Shivered again and rolled close to Bloodraven, then murmured, “The fire should be fed, or we’ll lose it.”

  “Easy enough to make another. You have that skill in particular.”

  Bloodraven felt the flinch that traveled across Yhalen’s skin.

  “I’ve a talent with flint, yes,” he said softly.

  Bloodraven lay for a moment, indulging himself in the pleasant sensation of Yhalen’s body yearning for the heat of his own. Then he pushed the blankets away with a sigh, and rose to search out his clothing while Yhalen clawed for the covers he’d displaced. Sent into the storm as if Yhalen were the master and he the slave to do his bidding. It amused him marginally more than it chaffed. And he would take his retribution when he returned by relieving the chill of his skin with Yhalen’s warm body.

  He tromped out into the storm, Vorja bounding up from her post just inside the mouth of the cave to join him. Flakes of snow immediately gathered upon his coat, as well as his hair and lashes, landing on his skin and lingering but a moment before they melted. The two horses and the mule were huddled together in the lee of the steep slope where the cave mouth nestled. There was shelter there for them, between the rocks and the trees, but not knowing how much more snow the storm would dump upon them before morning, he thought it best to built them a more substantial shelter.

  He used the axe to cut limbs and saplings enough to make a hasty, slanted lean-to that would shelter them from the worst of the wind and the snow. In his haste to get Yhalen inside and warm, he hadn’t bothered to unburden them of packs or tack. He did so now, hauling the lot of it inside the cave where he might sort what the water had spoiled and what not at his leisure. He portioned out damp grain from the pack, but neither horses nor mule seemed to mind.

  Finding s
easoned wood was no problem. There were ample fallen trees hidden under the blanket of snow. He had to wander no further than forty feet from the cave to find fuel for the fire, and he hauled it back over the course of several treks through snow that already reached mid-calf.

  The exertion drove away the cold, as much as his determination to ignore it. Despite a damp coat and boots and the heavy snow, the temperature was mild compared to the weather of the higher reaches. Other than immersion in mountain-fed streams, he could prosper in such weather. It was only southern-bred woodsmen, like Yhalen, who held such intolerance for cold weather. It wasn’t yet true winter and Yhalen’s body complained, even if his words did not. He’d never survive true winter in the heights. Bloodraven had no intention of inflicting that upon him, for if all went well, they would be on their way back south towards Elvardo’s vale before the depth of the cold season.

  He stomped snow off boots and legs before feeding the fire with the driest of the wood he’d gathered. He stacked the rest out of reach of the snow, then took off his coat and laid it out to dry on the rocks near the fire. Finally, he pulled out the various items that had been in the packs of the one surviving mule. Half the grain had gone to the river, including as a good portion of their dried food as well as the remaining meat from Vorja’s kill. Extra clothing had been lost as well, which meant they had better take care of what they wore until they reached a clan friendly enough to barter for new ones. The tea was still intact in its oiled leather pouches, as well as the pot for brewing it. Bloodraven gathered what needed drying on the floor by the fire and laid it out, put clean snow in the pot and sat it at the edges of the coals to melt for later, then disrobed.

  Yhalen was a quiet lump under the blankets, having drowsed off again while Bloodraven labored in the snow, so he had little hesitation in sliding under the blanket and drawing Yhalen close to his chilled skin. Yhalen roused abruptly, with a little yelp of surprise, wriggling instinctively to distance himself from the cold of Bloodraven’s flesh. He was prevented by Bloodraven’s frigid hands upon his torso and Bloodraven gained some dubious amusement from pressing his palms to those areas most sensitive to the cold.

  Yhalen writhed and tried to push his hands away, breathing hard and gasping with what might have been strangled laughter.

  “Is this vengeance?” he panted. “For sending you into the snow?”

  Bloodraven could not quite form an answer, momentarily stymied by the sound of amusement. He’d never had a bedmate, of either human or ogre blood, that had found amusement from any touch of his.

  It was very seldom that laugher of any sort might be heard in ogre camps, save for the malicious sort that accompanied great pain or violence being inflicted. Ogrish amusements very seldom had joyous ends.

  “Yes,” he answered finally, low and rough, very much feeling the need not to sound at a complete loss.

  Yhalen blinked up at him, humor fading, lashes hiding whatever resided in his eyes.

  “Fair enough.”

  Yhalen caught his breath and drew one of Bloodraven’s cold hands between his much smaller warm ones, brought it to his mouth and breathed hot breath upon cold fingers, much as Bloodraven had done for him hours earlier.

  It was enough to make his body spring fully to attention, nerve endings prickling down the entirety of his body, blood pounding urgently in his nether regions. Bloodraven groaned, catching Yhalen’s jaw and covering his mouth with his own, plunging his tongue past soft lips and slick teeth to plunger the depths of his mouth. He rolled atop him, covering Yhalen’s smaller body with his own and catching his weight on one elbow while he ran the other hand eagerly down the sleek body beneath him.

  The need came upon him so urgently that it took almost more strength of will than he possessed not to take Yhalen as brutally as Yhalen had ridden him that last night in Elvardo’s keep. But that had been more self-flagellation than sex, and Bloodraven had no wish to inflict needless pain. He slowed his breathing, though the thud of his pulse continued to race as he made his way from Yhalen’s soft mouth to the hollow behind his jaw.

  Yhalen made a soft, keening sound, fingers curling about Bloodraven’s arms as he spread his legs so that Bloodraven settled between his knees with open invitation. Bloodraven plunged his hands beneath Yhalen’s body, lifting him up as he grasped his buttocks and kneaded firm flesh. Yhalen’s nails bit into the skin of his shoulders as he arched, the rigid heat of his erection pressed against Bloodraven’s belly.

  That was all it took. Bloodraven’s control slipped and he flung the blanket off, kneeling between his human’s spread thighs as he snatched the small bottle of oil he’d salvaged from the packs, then set near the fire to warm. He spilled a portion in his palm, the liquid still a little sluggish and thick from cold temperatures. Rubbing his hands briskly, he coated his fingers, then himself, before pulling Yhalen towards him, settling his hips upon Bloodraven’s thighs. Yhalen’s cock bounced upon his belly, and the juncture between his buttocks called for Bloodraven’s attention.

  He spread the cheeks and rubbed his thumb across the puckered nub of flesh around the opening.

  Yhalen threw an arm across his face and moaned, and a tightening stab of need pierced Bloodraven’s lower anatomy. He slipped his index finger inside and the flesh clung to it like a suckling mouth. A bead of sweat ran down Bloodraven’s temple, spurred by his restraint. He could well imagine the same tight muscle clinging to his thick cock. Could feel the pulsing heat inside.

  He took a shuddering breath and worked the finger in and out, stroking the big vein on the underside of Yhalen’s cock with his thumb as he did. He ran the same hand down Yhalen’s taut belly to the tiny nubs of nipples gone hard and pebbly from either cold or ardor. He leaned forward, pressing his finger inside Yhalen to the knuckle, and took one small teat in his mouth.

  Yhalen’s fingers grasped at his hair, then caught hold of the sensitive outer ridge of his ears and forced his head up. He peered at Bloodraven, the irises of his eyes gone large and dilated behind heavy lids and thick lashes.

  “Get on with it,” he rasped, his voice breathless and rough from a combination of the cold and arousal.

  Bloodraven pulled back a little to study him, but not much and not for long. He couldn’t ignore such an order, no matter who it came from. He shoved Yhalen’s knees forward, almost to his shoulders, and positioned himself at his entrance. Worked against the resistance with slow, twisting strokes, until the slick tip of his cock had wormed its way inside. It was only a matter of pushing the rest of the way in, then—of sliding into heat and constriction that was as close to heaven as anything he’d ever imagined.

  He kneaded the trembling, taut muscles of Yhalen’s thighs, smoothed away the reflexive tick that quivered under the smooth skin of Yhalen’s shoulder. Leaning forward, he braced his hands on either side of Yhalen’s head, curling his fingers into the burnished hair that lay in unruly waves on the bedding and drove in to the hilt. Felt Yhalen gasp and shudder beneath him—around him, body as always accepting the intrusion and adapting to the size and length of him.

  And then, he simply fucked. Mindless, satisfying rhythm, feeding the building crescendo of pleasure that drew his balls up, hard and full and excruciatingly sensitive. He spilled his seed, a careless release buried deep inside his human’s ass. Strained and shuddered and felt the tension drain out of him even as the last waves of orgasm passed. He remained for a moment or two, head lowered, spots of color dancing behind his closed lids, then pulled out, his cock sliding out with an accompanying trail of milky, clear seed. There were red marks where his fingers had grasped Yhalen’s thighs that would darken to bruises by tonight. He hadn’t taken the care he usually did in restraining his strength.

  But Yhalen voiced no complaint, his cock still half hard on his belly, which made Bloodraven’s lips turn up in satisfaction. He’d been remiss in not attending to it, while he was taking his own pleasure.

  He would see to it now and take his time at it, for they had a
storm to wait out in this cave before they might take up travel again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  With morning the storm had abated, passing southward where warmer climes would undoubtedly turn snow to rains. The snow left in its wake was now an unbroken, pristine blanket of white.

  Yhalen woke to Bloodraven’s stirring. Warm and comfortable in the cocoon of fire warmed blankets and ogr’ron flesh, he lamented an end to slumber.

  Bloodraven murmured something that might have been an apology before he lifted the covers and let the cold rush in to hasten the wakening process. Yhalen hissed, lurching to his knees and clutching the covers back around his shoulders. He watched balefully as Bloodraven moved, naked and seemingly unaffected by the cold, to the packs. There were considerably fewer things than there had been.

  Amazing that there was anything, considering that the last Yhalen had seen of the pack mules, they’d been struggling in the clutches of the icy stream.

  He shivered at the memory, pulling his blankets tighter. His clothing was laid out on rocks near the fire, and when he ventured a hand out to drag his trousers towards him, he discovered them dry and pleasantly warm. It was as good a time to pull them on as any, with the kiss of the fire still lingering in the leather.

  By the time he’d pulled on his tunic and laced the accompanying vest over it, Bloodraven was padding back towards the fire with his hands full of supplies. It was a plain breakfast, half of their foodstuff having been divided between the pack animals. Bloodraven had told him of the loss of the one.

  Bloodraven pulled on his trousers while the pan bread cooked. Vorja was absent, likely hunting up her own breakfast in the new snow.

  They ate dry, mealy pan bread and drank tea in silence. Afterwards, Yhalen wiped the skillet clean and rose stiffly to start repacking the supplies that Bloodraven had taken out during the night to dry.