The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  Wil grinned, shook his head. “Well, it’s only fair,” he said, took hold of Dallin’s shirt and dragged him down for one more. “You helped me find myself.”

  He patted Dallin’s cheek, shoved him away and back toward his admirers. Grinning, Wil swept a small bow to the still-smattering applause, then went off to find Andette.

  Everything

  It was almost a… mystical thing, the exertion. Which sounded a little ‘woo-woo’ and nudged his practiced practicality into a bit of a knee-jerk ‘oh please’ but there it was. The push-pull of muscle against bone; the stress of sinew over ligament, veins swelling and popping beneath sweated skin gone winter-pale. Dallin liked the physicality of labor, liked the way the resultant weariness felt oddly clean and somehow more satisfying than just about any other form of fatigue-as-aftermath.

  Just about.

  He grinned.

  There hadn’t been much left to do, in truth. Carver had helped him run the pipes, adjusting the last of the fittings and slathering joints with the sticky pine-resin paste he swore would resist leaks through winter, though he—respectfully, but very sternly, as few here dared to do toward Dallin—made sure to point out that winter was hardly ideal for this type of work, and he wouldn’t be responsible for any cracked or broken pipes.

  “It’ll have to be re-done come spring,” Carver had said, all laconic authority. “That’s if it lasts the winter. It surely won’t last two.”

  Dallin had merely smiled and thanked him sincerely; he didn’t mention that Wil wouldn’t be here to enjoy it another winter, anyway. He made it a careful habit not to mention that to anyone, even Wil, though they all knew.

  Dallin decided not to think about it now and took a look about as he absently scrubbed the last of the thick mud from his hands and onto his trousers. It would harden and cake, and he reminded himself to fill himself a pail to soak them this time. He already had one trouser statue to commemorate his inexperience at actually creating something, and the scrapes where he’d had to chip the stuff off his skin had been a study in innocent-deception-for-the-good-of-the-surprise when Wil had asked if Dallin had pissed off a squirrel or something. Wil knew something was up—Dallin could tell just from the narrow slant of the green eyes, the lift of a black eyebrow, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—but Wil had let it go, probably thinking to give Dallin enough rope so Wil could laugh when Dallin hung himself. Wil had a unique sense of humor.

  He’d managed to keep it through their stay here in Lind, thus far, but Dallin could see it wearing thinner. He wasn’t sure Wil would ever get used to people being nice to him ‘just because,’ didn’t think Wil would ever completely trust genuine consideration and open respect without wondering what the one offering it wanted.

  Strangely, it was Woodrow who’d made Dallin see it plainly. He’d understood it all along, but there’d been nothing against which to compare it—no empirical evidence to prove the theory—until Woodrow. Until Wil’s physical recovery was complete, and the Old Ones’ tutoring had begun; Wil and Dallin had been drawn in separate directions, coaxed apart when Dallin could tell Wil really didn’t want to be. But what else was to be done?—they didn’t have all the time in the world. Their winter in Lind was to be no holiday. There was more for them to do, and they needed to learn how to do it.

  Quiet panic had set in for Wil. Dallin had seen the flailing hidden beneath the snark, the hunt for Self and Place in this world that belonged to the Aisling and not Wil. Wil was still trying to figure out who he was, and Dallin was still trying to decide if he should do anything about it, when Woodrow had just sort of… happened.

  There was some surprise for Dallin at the bond Wil and Woodrow had apparently formed, but only because he hadn’t thought about it ’til then; he’d been looking at it from a completely different angle. Woodrow was one of the most ingenuous and kindhearted people Dallin knew. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hide his thoughts and motivations—it was that he didn’t even try. And his thoughts and motivations were generally simple and benevolent. There was nothing beneath it to read, so Wil didn’t have to exhaust himself trying. Woodrow genuinely liked Wil, for nothing other than the fact that Wil was Wil, and Wil genuinely liked him back.

  Dallin understood it, once he really thought about it, because he had the same experience every day. It wasn’t that the people of Lind didn’t like Wil for who he was, but the Aisling would always be who he was to them. Dallin would always be the Shaman to them, so everything they said to him, every action they took in his sight, was ever colored with that same subliminal expectation. Dallin had lived his whole life as something other than what he was now, something relatively normal and unremarkable; Wil had never had the chance.

  He’d reveled in it with Woodrow. Corliss couldn’t help but mother Wil, and though Dallin knew Wil enjoyed it—not that he’d admit it—still, she’d accepted Wil because she was Dallin’s friend. Same with Creighton. Minus the mothering part.

  Dallin snorted. He stepped over and primed the pump before opening the spigot. Woodrow had left with the others before the snows moved from the mountains to the valley, and Dallin had watched Wil wave goodbye to the first real friend he’d ever made. It had been poignant but gratifying, too. It was amazing, after all, that Wil had managed to hang on to the courage to take the risk. Then again, Dallin thought with another snort, this one a little grim, Wil was all about risks.

  He shook his head and decided not to think about that, either. The Old Ones thought about it enough for everyone. They’d rather swooped in on Wil’s free time, once Woodrow wasn’t filling it anymore, wasn’t keeping Wil busy and content while Dallin learned to use his magic and prepared for when they would be the ones venturing out of Lind. Dallin had already learned to be the Guardian; he was learning now to be the Shaman. Teaching, as Wil had insisted; updating defensive tactics; training Weardas, as his father had done. It was good, exhausting work, too, but there was a taint beneath it, the knowledge that he was doing it for a reason, the awareness that they needed it because he wouldn’t be about to see to it later.

  Dallin preferred this. Building something with his own hands. Handing a gift to someone who’d received gifts so rarely he almost didn’t know how to accept them when he did. Anticipating the look on Wil’s face when Dallin presented it to him.

  He’d been surprised, when he’d first noticed Wil’s not-quite-aversion to the bathhouse in the common. Surprised, because it was rather luxurious for Lind—perpetual hot water, and attendants, and soaps and soft bath sheets—and Wil did like his baths. Wil liked a bath as much as he liked sex, and Wil really liked sex.

  There’d been no problem at all, when they’d stayed at the Temple for those first few weeks, and before Corliss had decided she’d been away from her brood and her job for too long. It was smart to strike off before winter moved down from the mountain and into the valleys; neither Wil nor Dallin could negate it. They’d only watched the blue and brown fade into the distance as Corliss dragged her small contingent back to Putnam.

  They’d been presented with the house immediately thereafter. And they’d both been more than ready to leave the kind-but-cloying atmosphere of the Temple. Only a small house in Lind-proper, but quite luxurious by Lind’s measure. Rough and rustic by general standards, and downright archaic by Putnam’s, but for Lind, it was pretty much royal treatment. It was nice, it was comfortable—it was private. They could speak to each other without lowering their voices; they could lounge in a pile of limbs for hours and not feel decadent; they could make as much damned noise as they wanted to, and bloody hell, but Dallin loved the noises Wil made. Plus, Dallin could have all his weapons where he could get at them quickly if he wanted to. Dallin was pleased, Dallin was grateful, Dallin couldn’t have asked for more, under the circumstances.

  Wil hadn’t said anything—had, in fact, seemed quite content with it all—and Dallin had bivouacked in worse conditions, so it hadn’t occurred to him for at least a week or more. Not until he no
ticed Wil opting for a quick wash from a basin in the bedroom more often than not, instead of venturing down to the common baths at least once every two days—sometimes daily—as he’d done before Woodrow had left.

  Something was off with Wil. And Dallin was not at all pleased that he had no idea what it was.

  ****

  “They… stare,” Wil had told him. They were lying in bed, the fire stoked high, and Wil scrunched down into the furs, almost wedged between the mattress and Dallin’s left side to absorb his body-heat, as well. Wil’s fingers were idly toying with the springy hairs on Dallin’s chest, his steady, even breaths like a warm little bellows ghosting over Dallin’s ribs. “They try to be polite by not ‘disturbing’ me with talk, but I can feel them staring, and they all stop talking when I walk in. It’s… I just don’t like it. Woodrow just sort of… well, he was company. I didn’t notice it as much when he was there.” Wil shrugged. “Anyway, it’s fucking freezing here. It takes me a bloody half-hour to get undressed, which makes them all stare even more.”

  Dallin had not snorted at that mental picture—unpeeling Wil from layer-after-layer-after-layer had become one of Dallin’s favorite pastimes. He’d sighed, though. He’d had a very long day, and he knew Wil had, too. He was too tired for this, he should never have brought it up now, but he couldn’t help it. He’d watched Wil shiver over the damned basin again this morning, and all day—through the drills and the practice maneuvers and the tactical tutorials—he couldn’t get the picture out of his head. Wondering at it, and unable to figure out why he couldn’t let it go. And now, with Wil warm against him and Dallin fully aware of how much he liked Wil warm against him, how much he’d grown to need it, he couldn’t sleep. Something was wrong, Wil was unhappy—Dallin should be able to fix it. Wasn’t that what he was for?

  Plumbing was a luxury in Lind, a somewhat decadent afterthought. A small outbuilding housed an acceptable privy behind the little house, but a bathroom was unheard of, a private bath unprecedented.

  Maybe Dallin was concentrating on the wrong things. Maybe he should have been just as worried about dragging the world into Lind as he was about dragging Lind into the world. Maybe plumbing was just as important as… as reading, or learning proper tactics.

  Wil had, in his own words, ‘frozen his arse off’ for three winters, while he’d been on the run; he shouldn’t have to do it again, now that he wasn’t. A bath without enduring awed stares wasn’t too much to ask—not for the Aisling, and certainly not for Wil. Wil should have everything he wanted. Wil should be coddled and spoiled and petted and indulged, and what the hell kind of Guardian was Dallin, if he couldn’t even—?

  “What?” Wil huffed, voice rumbling low with near-sleep, but piqued with impatience, too. He’d been drifting off when Dallin had started off on this little mental puzzle, Dallin could tell just by the uneven pulse of his caresses, and now he hovered on the verge in-between, apparently feeling

  Dallin’s unease, waiting for him to unclench a little so they could both sleep. Dallin rolled his eyes at himself and set his jaw. Wil would have an answer, now that it had occurred to him there was one to be had, and there was no sense in pretending Dallin could get around it. Not that he wanted to, but he still didn’t know exactly what the question was in the first place, so how was he supposed to know how to pose it? He took a page from Wil and just came right out with it:

  “I was just, um…” Well, tried to. “I hadn’t realized you were… well, it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder until just recently, and you know, not that it wouldn’t be your… that is to say, you shouldn’t have to… well, I don’t want you to feel like you have to— Ow, fuck!”

  Dallin jerked across the mattress, and away from the damned-strong fingers that had just pinched and twisted his right nipple. Still swearing, he pressed a hand to his chest, hiked himself up on his elbow, and glared. “What the hell was that for?”

  “You were babbling.” Wil was still burrowed like a tick in the furs, blinking up at Dallin with an innocent look of harmless concern that Dallin knew he wasn’t really trying to pull off, because he was letting the smirk curl rather obviously. “You never babble, so I thought you must’ve been dreaming.” Wil’s eyebrows went up, eyes wide. “Aren’t you supposed to pinch a person to wake them up?”

  “You’re supposed to pinch your self,” Dallin growled, still rubbing at his chest, scowling now, because ow, fuck. He supposed he was lucky Wil hadn’t gone for the stones.

  “Oh.” Wil yawned and somehow managed to stretch and tunnel down deeper into the furs while he did it. “Sorry.”

  Yeah, he looked real sorry. The smug little prick.

  “You were saying?”

  Dallin narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth and… frowned. Apparently, he hadn’t been saying much of anything before the pain had chased away the dull stupidity that had been driving his mouth. Probably just as well. With a dubious shake of his head, Dallin flopped back down on the bed and sighed.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Well, it did, but Dallin hadn’t quite figured out what the hell was bothering him yet, and the babbling hadn’t exactly helped move things along.

  “It did a moment ago.” Wil shoved in close again, fitted himself to the angles and curves of Dallin’s body and went about absently fluffing the rest of the nest about them both.

  Dallin’s arm went automatically around Wil’s back to draw him in tight. “A moment ago I still had both nipples,” he groused.

  “Aww.” Dallin could hear the grin in Wil’s voice, could feel it against his pectoral as Wil fidgeted until his mouth was hovering just above Dallin’s chest, hot breath skimming over the lingering heat from the sting of the pinch. “I only torture you because I care.” Long fingers roved beneath the furs, stirring arousal Dallin couldn’t have helped if he’d wanted to. “Kiss it better?”

  Wil paused, waited until Dallin answered, “The least you could do,” trying to pout fetchingly and probably not quite getting there. A flash of white teeth in the half-light of the fire was the first part of Wil’s answer; a gentle kiss to Dallin’s nipple was the second. Small, warm shudders rippled through Dallin, fuzzing his brain just a little. He opened his mouth to sigh, maybe groan, maybe tell Wil, Yeah, that, do that, gah, tongue, I like the tongue, but what actually puffed out was, “It isn’t that bad, is it?”

  It took a second for Dallin to realize what he’d said, what he’d asked, and another to wonder what the hell he’d actually meant. And why he’d said it now, because Dallin had really liked the direction things had been headed a second ago. There’d been tongue, for pity’s sake—maybe it had melted his brain.

  “I mean… it’s… I know you don’t like the cold, but… I want you to… I mean, I don’t want you to…”

  What the fuck? He was babbling again. And he didn’t even know what the hell he was trying to… Shit. Maybe he did. He left it hanging, because he was pretty sure now what he was trying not to ask, and why he was trying not to ask it.

  Wil’s head had come up; Dallin could feel those eyes on him, staring, probably bemused. Maybe there was a smirk there, too, because Wil’s sense of humor was not only unusual, but fairly wicked.

  In pretty much every sense.

  A gentle brush of fingers up the center of Dallin’s sternum, then: “I want to be here.” Wil’s voice was soft and low, sincere. If there really was a smirk there, Dallin could hear no evidence of it.

  “You’re here, so I want to be here. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. You’re stuck with me, Guardian—even if Lind is the coldest place in the whole fucking world—so suck it up and stop worrying.”

  That was where the unease had been coming from. What if we find out we don’t even really like each other? Wil had asked the question once, in a moment of high emotion and low confidence. Dallin had given it the barest thought, because it wasn’t an issue for him—he’d liked Wil right off, even back when he wasn’t supposed to. And love, as both concept an
d fact, had been out there and acknowledged between them before it had ever actually become a question. Dallin hadn’t realized until Wil handed him reassurance to a question he didn’t even know he was asking that perhaps his own confidence wasn’t what it should be. Wil was Home for Dallin, wherever he happened to be; that Wil would willingly give that back to him was… something for which he had no words.

  Something humbling. Something transcendent.

  Wil had been willing to die for Dallin. He’d intended to. He’d believed all his life that Dallin was meant to kill him, and yet, when it came to it, he’d stepped willingly in front of the bullet meant for Dallin. Dallin’s hand went automatically to the scar on Wil’s shoulder, but he stopped it before Wil noticed.

  Dallin had decided right then—with Wil lying in the bed beside him with his furs and his fire, looking at Dallin like that—what he was going to do about Wil’s little problem-that-he-wouldn’t-acknowledge-was-a-problem. There was a nice, thick bank of evergreens behind the house, and the well wasn’t too far from it. Wil never even ventured outside if he didn’t absolutely have to, and Dallin doubted he even knew what the back of the house actually looked like. If Dallin was careful to only work on it while Wil was with the Old Ones—maybe even get Hunter to drag him about for a while, if Dallin needed extra time—Dallin figured it wouldn’t be too hard to keep the whole thing under wraps. With the admittedly very little Dallin knew about building things in general, he was aware that building things in the winter was both ill-advised and appallingly difficult, but… well, bugger that. It was for Wil. Dallin would drag every builder in Lind out into neck-deep snow if he had to, and he’d lay down some serious money that none of them would complain.

  Another kiss to his nipple then a long lick drained any remaining disquiet from Dallin’s nerves and strengthened his new resolve; the gentle scrape of teeth and a soft almost-purr turned it into instant lust. “All better?” Wil hummed against Dallin’s skin, a cheeky smile in the dark—Dallin could hear it—as Wil drew back some and feigned retreat.