Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  He felt a pang of guilt for the deprivation of half their stores. The pack animals had been under his guidance when they had gone into the water. The loss was on his head. That Bloodraven had been forced to wade into the water to retrieve him and the remaining mule was a great shame. Last night he’d been too cold and miserable to dwell on it. It pricked at his pride now.

  He knelt near the fire, dividing the remaining stores into three sets of packs. Two smaller ones that he and Bloodraven would carry, and a larger one for the remaining pack animal. He brooded while he worked, building a fine head of guilt-fed indignation and finally blurted out, “I’m not un-adept at woodcraft.”

  Bloodraven looked up from the sword he was oiling. The hatchet was by his side, having also received scrupulous cleaning after being submerged. The halfling canted his head questioningly.

  “I am… was renowned for my woodcraft. I was first of my age to be welcomed into the circle of hunters. To be allowed my first braid.” He lifted his hand reflexively to his hair where the slim hunter’s braid should have hung down from his temple. It had come undone somewhere along the way, and he’d not even noticed.

  “My father was…so proud….”

  He flexed his fist helplessly, a sudden wave of loss surging over him. He looked up into Bloodraven’s golden eyes, which were not condemning, nor pitying, but simply curious.

  “It was never so cold at home. Never so much snow. It’s not full winter here yet, is it?”

  Bloodraven shook his head.

  Yhalen shuddered and tied off the first of his packs. He’d do better. He’d learn to ignore the cold, for the sake of his own pride. If he’d survived the icy daggers of the stream, he could endure the snow and the mountain winds.

  He found a carved bone comb that Elvardo had provided, a frivolous addition to their stores, but not an unappreciated one, considering the moodiness of his hair when slept on unbraided. He sat cross-legged near the fire, with strips of leather on his knee and began the process of working through tangles.

  He felt the weight of Bloodraven’s scrutiny, but wasn’t so intimidated by it as he once had been. It was still no easy thing to ignore Bloodraven’s presence, but flinching from his attention did not happen so frequently.

  The fact that a body so large could move so quickly and silently was disquieting, though.

  Bloodraven rose and shifted around the fire before Yhalen realized he’d moved. Yhalen eyed him warily, but the halfling only settled behind him, removing the comb from his hands and gathering Yhalen’s hair in his fingers, working the comb through the unruly mass with the same diligence he’d used on his weapons.

  Yhalen sat still, the tension that had hardened his back slowly bleeding out. Bloodraven’s hands were assured in their movements, the comb applied gently. The roughened calluses of his big fingers occasionally brushed across the back of Yhalen’s neck, and he shivered at each unintentional touch.

  Memories arose unbidden of similar skillful caresses across the bare skin of his body. He shut his eyes and thought of biting wind and frigid mountain streams. It was enough to curb the rebellious tingle in his loins.

  There was the steady pull of his hair being braided, the tying off of the tail, and then the touch of Bloodraven’s fingers at his temple, gathering a long lock of hair that he had excluded from the thick braid at his back. Yhalen’s eyes snapped open in surprise, but Bloodraven ignored him, turning Yhalen’s head with a touch at his jaw so that he might better work at the small, tight braid that contributed so thoroughly to Ydregi pride.

  When he’d finished, he patted Yhalen twice on the shoulder, as he might reward Vorja for sitting still through a grooming session, and then pushed himself to his feet.

  “The day’s still young. There are many hours of travel before dusk.”

  After donning his own dried clothing, Bloodraven cleared the mouth of the cave and went to dig out the animals. When he was gone, Yhalen hesitantly touched the slim, slick braid at his temple. It was finely done, with no stray hairs escaping the weave. His father had honored him with the first working of his hunter’s braid. A great sign of respect. He wondered if Bloodraven knew.? Even if he didn’t, which was more than likely, it had still been an act of regard that Yhalen felt to his core.

  Gratitude was not an emotion he was used to feeling towards Bloodraven. He hardly knew how to deal with it, hardly knew how to equate it with the comfortable antipathy that Bloodraven usually aroused when he wasn’t warping Yhalen’s mind with sex.

  He finished the packs and sat them near the mouth of the cave, just beyond the tumble of snow. He had no idea where this cave was in relation to the stream, having been insensible when Bloodraven had brought him here. When he stepped out into the rough path that Bloodraven had trampled, he realized that even if there had been landmarks to gain his bearings by, they were now well covered in snow.

  The world was white and silent, the blanketed trees bending under the weight of snow. The wind had mercifully abated, leaving a cold, bright day in its wake. The snow reached past his knees in places, but if he followed in Bloodraven’s path walking was easier.

  Bloodraven led the mule out first, the solid little beast plowing through snow as if it were merely tall stalks of grass. It seemed unaffected, though the tips of its bristly mane and tail were coated with ice.

  Yhalen dragged out the big pack and the thick blanket that protected the beast’s back from the canvas of the packs and watched as Bloodraven secured it. The horses were next, first Bloodraven’s big mount, and then Yhalen’s smaller one. Yhalen’s tack was mostly dry, but the leather of the saddle still held a little frigid dampness. There was no helping it, save another day and night spent drying by a strong fire. And that luxury Bloodraven’s impatience would not allow.

  So it was that late in the morning, they started their journey again. Yhalen’s horse followed directly on the heels of Bloodraven’s, taking advantage of the path the larger animal plowed. It was slow going still, and close to an hour had passed before Bloodraven commented that they’d reached the point where the wolves had attacked. By late afternoon, when Yhalen was so cold it felt as if his extremities were numb, they’d only just found a safe point to cross and started a northward climb.

  Vorja returned as the sun reached its lowest point, before it would fade and the moon would come out to take its place. Whether she had been successful in her hunt was uncertain, but she was happy to be back at Bloodraven’s side, cleaving ponderously through the snow. It would have been nice if she’d brought back prey, but Yhalen supposed most woodland creatures were holed up snug in their nests and dens, waiting out the snow.

  When they came to a deep crevice protected by an overhanging slab of rock, Bloodraven chose to take advantage of the natural shelter instead of forging on and sleeping exposed to the elements. The snow was thin and a space easily cleared at the narrow back of the crevice for bedrolls and a small fire. Yhalen hobbled the horses close by, divesting them of tack and packs, while Bloodraven and Vorja tromped down the slope to hunt for firewood.

  He found a few pieces of deadwood under the thin blanket of snow against the wall of the crevice, and broke them into pieces small enough to start the fire. He contemplated doing it the mundane way, but that would entail removing gloves and fighting with damp tinder, the notion of which drove away any squeamishness about simply calling the fire into existence with his Goddess-given power. Without Bloodraven there to witness it, it didn’t seem quite so sinful.

  Subsequently, by the time Bloodraven returned with a heaping armful of snow-crusted branches, Yhalen had a small fire crackling merrily by their bedrolls. Bloodraven gave it, and then him, a flat look, before dumping his load of wood and moving away from the fire to brush the snow from his clothing.

  They had another uninspired meal, which was only heartened by several cups of steaming tea and the subtle warmth of a fire that threw dancing orange shadows upon the slanting walls of the crevice.

  Bloodraven leaned against
the rock wall, not trusting this marginal shelter to protect them from hungry predators enough to lie down. Yhalen settled beside him, pressing close from necessity, and Bloodraven pulled him over his thigh and settled him comfortably between his legs. Yhalen could hardly complain of a position that offered more comfort than hard rock and more warmth by far, lying against the firm heat of Bloodraven’s body. They bundled under the combined layers of their bedding, and Vorja huddled close, the warmth of her big body adding extra insulation, the sharpness of her hearing added security.

  Yhalen shut his eyes and drifted, listening to the steady rhythm of Bloodraven’s heart. The insulation of snowbound woods created a solitude where sleep wasn’t difficult to find.

  Bloodraven’s hand, big and warm from the heat their bodies generated under the blankets, drifted across Yhalen’s hip, fingers sneaking under layers of clothing to find the bare skin of his stomach. He spread his fingers, stroking skin, idly circled the crevice of Yhalen’s navel with a forefinger, before dipping inside the shallow indention.

  It felt good. Indolent and erotic and…safe. In the open, in the cold and the snow, with wolves on the prowl and Goddess knew what else come down from the heights, there was little chance of anything more than roaming hands under the covers. And Yhalen had come to appreciate the skill of Bloodraven’s large fingers.

  Bloodraven plucked at the lacings of Yhalen’s trousers, loosening laces enough to slip his hand inside. Fingers touched the crisp curls above Yhalen’s awakening cock, slid down and curled around his tightening balls, gently shifting, kneading, before moving up to circle his cock.

  Yhalen pressed his forehead against Bloodraven’s chest, fingers clutching at the leather of his coat, at the hot ache flooding up from his loins. It was torture, in a way, Bloodraven’s slow, too gentle exploration, when his body craved a more forceful touch. When his cock twitched full and desperate in Bloodraven’s loose grasp and his hips shifted of their own accord seeking deeper satisfaction.

  Bloodraven grunted, pleased perhaps, and tightened his grip, callused fingers stroking long and hard, answering Yhalen’s need. The tension burned along his spine like the fire he had summoned out of thin air, eating away rational thought. The whole of his body throbbed with it. He heard himself moaning Bloodraven’s name, cursing him, adoring him, begging him—he hardly knew, hardly cared as vision turned white as the snow around him and he came in Bloodraven’s tight fist.

  He sagged limply against Bloodraven’s chest, tension and passion drained out of him along with the semen that Bloodraven shook off his hand outside the blankets. He was aware of the hardness of Bloodraven’s erection, trapped between them and layers of winter clothing. He wondered dimly, lax and lazy with spent passion, if he was expected to attend it.

  “You may return the favor,” Bloodraven’s warm breath stirred the hair on the top of his head. “the next time we’re warm and dry with shelter over our heads.”

  “Fair enough,” Yhalen murmured sleepily and gave it no more thought than that, before he sank into slumber.

  He awoke again before dawn, to Vorja’s low growling and the tensing of Bloodraven’s big body. The dog scrambled to her feet and bounded out into the wood, silent and deadly, and for a long while after Bloodraven fingers griped the hilt of the sword that he never let far from his side. There was quiet in the woods though, no great racket proclaiming Vorja had run into a predator that was up to giving her a fight, and eventually Bloodraven relaxed. Yhalen wondered if the halfling had gotten any decent sleep at all. He’d likely been half awake through the night, on his guard against dangers that might come upon unwary travelers.

  Having slept very well, this night as well as the last few, Yhalen felt a small pang of guilt. It made him feel womanly, to sleep the night through, with no responsibility of night watch, when the chore should have been halved.

  He pushed himself up, rolling out from beneath the blankets and into frigid early morning air. He regretted the loss of warmth almost immediately and tightened the fastenings of his coat. Bloodraven watched him warily from beneath half lowered lashes.

  “Sleep.” Yhalen pulled on his gloves and rose, stretching to work out the stiffness of muscles. “I’ll feed the fire and see if perhaps I can’t come up with something more palatable than pan bread for breakfast. Maybe the dog will bring something back with her.”

  Bloodraven made no comment on that plan. Whether he slept or not was debatable, but he did close his eyes and settle deeper into the bedding, while Yhalen walked out to the wider part of the crevice and relieved his bladder. He stood afterwards, staring into snow gray woods, following the line of Vorja’s tracks into deeper shadow. Whatever her sharp dog’s hearing had perceived, it had fled deep into the forest with her on its trail.

  He gave the horses and the mule small portions of grain. Their feed was dwindling, halved at the loss of the other mule, much as Bloodraven’s and his own. They accepted it gratefully though, shifting on the cold stone earth, blowing puffs of foggy air from their nostrils. Equines held no great place in his heart, but these had served well, and deserved more than half portions of breakfast to last them throughout the day. He did what he’d seen Bloodraven and various human horsemen do, and took a rough cloth and rubbed the dust and dirt of the trail from their thick coats while they worked at the grain.

  The exertion helped chase away the cold. He bent to the task of breakfast. Upon more leisurely contemplation, he decided that the small packet of dried peppers mixed into the meal, might give the pan bread a new kick. He put them in water to soften, while he mixed the meal.

  He caught the faint sense of something approaching from the forest. He narrowed his eyes and stared into diminishing shadows, and caught a hint of focused, canine satisfaction.

  Vorja. And soon enough she came bounding through the snow, flecks of blood on her coat, a large bloody hare in her jaws. The fact that she’d brought it back mostly unmarred was miraculous.

  “Good girl,” he said softly, approaching her slowly, holding out a hand, palm up, for the hare. She eyed him warily, growling, cropped ears flicking back. Yhalen closed his fingers, debating how much fresh meat for breakfast was worth.

  “He’fra,” Bloodraven said softly from his mound of blankets, and Vorja’s ears went up and the growl turned to an eager whine. She dropped her prey, and went to lay down next to Bloodraven, big tongue dexterously cleaning the blood from her muzzle.

  Which meant meat for breakfast, for all of them. Yhalen took his knife and adeptly skinned the hare, leaving skin, entrails and bones for Vorja, who consumed them all with no complaint. He cut the rest of the meat into thin strips, which he roasted over the fire on sticks.

  The sun was almost up and Bloodraven roused, throwing off the blankets and padding out of the crevice to relieve himself, before coming back and sniffing appreciatively at breakfast cooking.

  Very few words were exchanged as they consumed the food and refastened bedrolls and packs for the day’s travel, but there was a sense of ease about the campsite that was new to Yhalen. Perhaps it was merely himself, less antagonistic of Bloodraven’s mere existence, perhaps it was simply an edible meal and full bellies.

  Vorja’s hunting had better results that night. She downed a yearling deer that had floundered in deep snow. It was too large for even her to drag back, but the timbre of her howls alerted her master and they strayed off course to track her down. They took the best meat and left the carcass for Vorja to gorge herself on. She was back at their sides by dusk when Bloodraven found a campsite that suited their needs.

  Another filling dinner, but the shelter was less substantial than the crevice of the night before, the wind more cutting. It was a cold night and an uncomfortable rest. Bloodraven didn’t dally with him under the blankets, contenting himself to simply curl around Yhalen and fall into the half doze he used in the wilds.

  Vorja curled close by, sharing in their heat, but she was up and gone by morning, silently slipping off to hunt down fresh breakfa
st. Bloodraven and Yhalen had venison and tea. They were off again not long after dawn, traveling a treacherous, snowbound slope that led towards a ridgeline that Bloodraven hoped would offer easier travel.

  The animals were miraculously sure-footed, and made the climb without incident, reaching their goal by mid-afternoon. The travel was marginally easier then, but without the dense forest to cut it, the wind bit into them with a vengeance. Yhalen rode with head down, hood up and scarf covering the entirety of his face, trusting in his mount to follow the lead of Bloodraven’s. He had fallen into a numb, miserable half doze by the time Bloodraven’s soft voice alerted him that there was something of concern ahead.

  Bloodraven held a finger to his lips, indicating silence, and swung down from his horse. When he beckoned, Yhalen did as well, wading through snow to reach Bloodraven’s side. They’d been traveling along a relatively level stretch of mountain that ran just below the ridge top. An odd finger of rock jutted out of the ridge a hundred feet beyond, like a great stony finger thrust up out of the mountain itself. Bloodraven had no interest in the odd formation, more intent on the ridge above them.

  Quietly and with as much stealth as was possible in high snow, Bloodraven climbed to the crest and lay upon his belly, staring over. Yhalen joined him, and stared down into a rocky trench. He saw nothing of particular interest. It was a snug pocket in the mountain, a lee of sorts scattered with house-sized chunks of rock and those mostly covered with snow.

  “What?” he mouthed, barely a whisper, and Bloodraven beetled his brows at him and pursed his lips to shush the sound, then he pointed. Following his finger, Yhalen squinted at a particularly large, lumpy rock, nestled in the shelter of a rocky overhang.

  He cocked his head, perceiving very faintly over the constant whistle of wind, the rhythmic rumbling wheeze of…breath? He looked harder, searching beyond the perception of snow-covered rock and found what appeared to be a large set of feet shaped-protrusions…and what could have been the curve of a shoulder, and a great arm thicker than a full-blooded ogre curled around a lumpy head.