The Red King

  “Then sail with on with a new captain.”

  All turned to Malik, who sat in his mighty chair at the stern, one hand on the rudder.

  “I’m in no hurry, you understand. I wish to refit this fine beauty, to make her as glorious as her namesake-to-be. There will be no revenge, no battles save for the ones that seek us. But know that even in a quiet life, the life of a trader, I would be honored to have such a crew,” the man announced.

  There were murmurings. “Tis bad luck to take a ship’s name and give a new one.”

  Malik laughed, booming across deck and sea. “And we have this ship, stolen with a stolen name! ‘Tis bad luck to have a captain with hair like fire, sail upon the New Year, and begin a voyage on Friday! We have done all of those, my brothers, time and time again and yet here we stand.” He stood proudly, his dark eyes glittering in the half-light of evenfall. “If it is not me you wish for as captain, then we will take a count.”

  “But know that I will not remain, no matter the outcome,” Rory reiterated. “The Red King is no more.”

  More murmurs and mutterings swept through the crew, growing louder and more agitated until Yousef leapt up to hang from the clewlines of the mainmast. “I say Malik! Aye, for Malik!”

  In no time, the rest of the men had taken up the cry. Malik grinned broadly and roared his acceptance by ordering, “Haul the anchor and prepare to bring her about!” He returned to his chair as they set to work, waiting to guide the rudder. His happiness was palpable in the very air around him.

  “There was never any doubt,” Rory told him as the uproar faded. “It is deeply gratifying, however, to see it all played out.”

  “Aye, for a moment I feared we would lose them,” Malik agreed. Then he amended, “That I would lose them. I am not half the captain you are and would not blame them if they decided to go.”

  “In some ways you are twice the captain I am,” Rory quipped, which brought another thunderous laugh out of Malik. He leaned over to put one hand on Malik’s shoulder and meet his gaze. “It was you who devised all of this. You are the reason I still live, for insisting on digging me out of that cairn when others would have left me. You rallied them all when I could not. The design to fool the Danish king we owe to you, as well. You will be a just, wise, and patient captain, Malik. You will do well.”

  Malik may have been blushing but the light was almost gone and Rory couldn’t tell. Still, there was a sheepish grin and a soft, “My thanks, Rua—…Rory.”

  “Do you know what you’re going to name her?”

  The question came from Yousef, but all the men turned their heads to listen for the answer.

  “Aye,” Malik answered, with a good deal of warmth. “She will be called Amira.”

  ***

  Though it was dark now, Rory navigated the hold and passageway with ease. He trailed his fingers along the bulwark, speaking softly, thanking the Taibhse, and praising her strength and beauty. Telling her goodbye. He could hear her whisper to him, too, of their travels, battles, of all that was lost and the glory of what was found. It was her final gift to him; the quiet memories that told his story. “Thank you,” he whispered in return. He pressed a kiss to his fingers and touched the deck beam above his head. “Take care of them, please, my lovely lady.”

  He quietly entered his cabin. His, he’d been told, until Malik could refit it with a larger bed. Etienne sat at the table, cup in hand, staring into the low-lit lamp. He looked up when Rory entered, holding a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he admonished before Rory could speak.

  Andrew slept, curled into a tight knot beneath a wool blanket. Rory’s heart ached from the sight; for all its sweetness and familiarity it still reminded him of time gone, of innocence stripped away. Bearing up to his own guilt for that was more difficult than he’d anticipated.

  “If you plan to join him I feel I must warn you,” Etienne whispered. “He has slept quite restlessly this time. Don’t be surprised if he wakes you with his fist or foot.”

  “I’ll manage,” Rory answered with a soft smile. Leaning against the table, he toed off his boots and shrugged his doublet loose. “You do not have to stay, Etienne. You should rest, also.”

  Etienne reached out, took his hand. “If you don’t mind, I would stay. If only to make sure you do not fall off of the bed or tempt Andrew into more licentious exercise.”

  Rory chuckled, returned the grasp and leaned over to kiss the man’s head. “Stay, for a long as you like.”

  As he climbed in beside Andrew, carefully easing the sleeping man farther into the bunk, Etienne whispered, “You should come to Algiers, stay with me and under Laurent’s care while you heal.”

  The thought was tempting. “It would be pleasant, to be sure, what with your hot baths and fine beds. It would be too dangerous, though. I cannot be seen for too many know my face. We must let the strife pass for I have brought much of that to your door, as of late.”

  “As of late meaning seven years,” Etienne sighed, but smiled as he said it.

  “We will visit, again, after a time. After it is safe,” Rory assured him. Turning to face Andrew, Rory slipped an arm beneath his head and nestled close. He closed his eyes and fell into sleep before he took his next breath.

  When next he woke, Rory found the room empty and that lamp barely burning. Andrew had loosened as he slept, unfurling to lay warm and flush against his side. He could feel Andrew’s breath on his neck, the weight of one leg thrown over his thigh. The ship was quiet, overall. Only the gentle sounds of wind and water, rustled sail and creaking wood could be heard. It was comfort like no other and he felt himself drifting towards slumber again…

  Andrew jerked against him, his entire body tensing. Rory held him tight, stroked his hair and made soothing sounds, but a trembling set in to Andrew’s limbs that nearly shook the sturdy frame in which they slept.

  “All is well, my love,” he murmured, seeking to quell whatever terrors were rampant in Andrew’s dreams. When Andrew tried to rear away he held on, kept him close enough that he could stop an errant blow before it struck. He spoke a bit louder now, for he could feel when the tremors turned to shuddering sobs. “Andrew, hear me, now! I have you. I have you!”

  With a gasp, Andrew came awake, arching up and away. He stilled, hands clenched in Rory’s shirt.

  “I have you, my love,” Rory repeated, gentling his hold.

  For a moment, Andrew stayed like that, motionless and taut. Then he went slack, letting his head fall to Rory’s chest. He was panting and sweating, still shaking even as he pressed his face into Rory’s neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed, sounding tearful even without his voice.

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Rory told him. He resumed stroking Andrew’s hair, dropped kisses to his forehead and cheek.

  “I woke you.”

  “It is no matter if you did. I will always wake for your troubles, and gladly,” Rory reassured him.

  Andrew’s hands fisted again. “Rory….I can’t…”

  “Shhh, you don’t have to say anything,” Rory soothed, lifting Andrew’s chin so that their eyes met. “You’ll tell me when you are ready.”

  “What if that…is a long time off?” Andrew asked, blinking, but not quite hiding the tears.

  “Then I’ll wait,” Rory answered, simply. “Until the end of days, if need be.”

  “I love you, Ruaidhri.”

  Rory smiled, winced a little, and said, “Ruaidhri is no more, Andrew. He had to die. It was part of the arrangement. To allow us freedom.”

  Tucking his face into the hollow of Rory’s throat, Andrew released a deep sigh. “Etienne told me this, but you will always be my Red King, my Ruaidhri. And I shall call you what I like.”

  Still smiling into the darkness, Rory rested his cheek against Andrew’s hair. “As you wish, Coinin.”

  Epilogue

  Time healed wounds, food restored strength, and sunlight returned the flush to pallid flesh.

  Their arri
val at Tipaza was quiet, though the village wished to celebrate with fire and song. It took much convincing on Rory’s part to hold the feast until the New Year. He gratefully ensconced himself and Andrew in the small stone house, put up a proper door and shutters against the winter rains, and together they staved off the darkest nights.

  They found comfort in each other’s arms, seeking pleasure and affirmation as the dark of the solstice passed and the Christian Holy days approached. Andrew spent his first Christmas day without his family of holy brothers in silent, sometimes tearful, reflection. Rory faced his mortality in the start of his thirty-first year a few days later. They gave each other their most tender attention, healing as best they could with hands and mouths and never any further.

  After the forty nights of winter and before the return of spring, a caravel bound for Tunis anchored offshore. The smiling men it dispatched brought letters from Algiers, their delivery paid handsomely for by Etienne. All was well, according to his report. Laurent was easing into his new life, unsure of his place, but Etienne was confident he could help. He had even prompted a smile or two from the young man and his self-satisfaction fairly leapt off of the parchment.

  The Amira was all but ready to sail. She awaited her christening and her crew, and the goods she would bear down the coast of Africa. There was to be a wedding, as well, for Amira had consented to become Malik’s wife. It would not be in time to hide the blossoming of her belly, as the child would arrive at the start of summer, but neither was troubled by this. Malik’s letter was filled with joy and pride, and insistent that both Andrew and Rory be present.

  Rory kept his hair barely long enough to cover the swath of gnarled skin behind his ear. He would let it grow again, someday, but for now the need to put to rest the tales of Ruaidhri outweighed the loss of his namesake. To venture into Algiers once more, he had to present himself as an anonymous traveler, to simply be Rory. He shaved his face smooth for the first time since gaining his freedom. In the middle of the day, he took a short, sharp blade, a polished plate of silver, and a bowl of water, hot from the fire. Outside he knelt in the sun, propped the plate against a fallen tree, splashed his face with the water, and set to shearing. Andrew stood in the shade and watched as the blade scraped his skin, looking alternately mournful and amused. When Rory finished, he rose and turned to Andrew with a broad grin.

  Blinking, moving closer to gaze unabashedly at Rory’s newly hairless face, Andrew breathed, “You look so…young.”

  Rory laughed. “Do you like it?”

  Andrew brushed his fingers across the soft, pink flesh. It contrasted his own, for there was now a line of silky dark hair outlining his mouth and trailing down his chin, with the promise of a full beard to come. Rory found it quite fetching, for it defined the dusky rose of Andrew’s lips and emphasized the ivory hue of his skin. Andrew’s hair now fell in artless, chestnut curls, thick and glorious, across his forehead and down his neck. The disparity between himself as hirsute and newly clean-shaven Rory did not go unnoticed.

  “I now look the wild man and you look…” Andrew whispered, still staring. His thumb stroked the scar on Rory’s lip, the hollow beneath one high, chiseled cheekbone. The corners of his mouth curled and a light appeared in his eyes. “Innocent.”

  “But does it please you?” Rory asked, gentling his toothy smile to encourage an honest answer.

  “Oh, aye,” Andrew replied, still soft and nearly soundless, for the depth of his voice had not returned. His eyes showed all that his inflection could not convey.

  Rory curled his fingers around Andrew’s hips. “A wild man? Silent and swift, like a wolf in the night?” he asked, eyes darkening. “Have you come to spirit me away?”

  Andrew smiled and rested his hands on Rory’s neck.

  “Would you sully my virtue? Will you force me to submit to your shameful desires?” That was all he could say before his words were swallowed by his laughter.

  The fingers at his throat twitched, as did Andrew’s lips. “I give you a chance,” Andrew breathed, moving closer still, fitting his thigh between Rory’s. “If I can best your strength, I will have you, all of you.”

  “Mmm...and if I best yours?” Rory rumbled, tightening his thighs around Andrew’s leg.

  “If you best me, you will have me.” This was spoken against his mouth and punctuated with a swipe of Andrew’s tongue.

  “When do we begin?” Already half-hard, certain of winning regardless of the outcome, Rory still felt a thrill at the promise of struggle.

  “We’ll count, together, to three.”

  “One.” Andrew tightened his hold on Rory’s shoulders.

  “Two.” Releasing Andrew’s hips, Rory put one hand at Andrew’s waist, the other on his neck.

  “Three!”

  There was a thud when Andrew’s back struck the ground. Rory had swept his feet from beneath him and sent him sprawling. He was pulled down as Andrew fell, for the hold on his shoulders did not weaken. He found himself resting between Andrew’s legs, held close as those legs closed around his hips and kissed breathless for a long moment.

  When his mouth was released, he stared down at Andrew, his eyes narrowed in feigned displeasure. “You didn’t even try,” he admonished, lacing his words with disappointment.

  Andrew was grinning, looking more the hungry wolf now. “Aye,” he whispered. “I win.”

  Though it briefly crossed his mind to pout and pull away, before he could Andrew’s ankles crossed at his back and their cocks were flush against each other, both hard and eager. Rory kissed him, rocking their hips together as his tongue swept through Andrew’s mouth. He felt his shirt shoved up to catch under his arms and groaned as clever fingertips traced his ribs. Andrew pushed back against him, legs clenching tight around his waist as he thrust harder into the resistance. Andrew made a deep, huffing noise, breathing heavily into Rory’s mouth. It was the closest to moaning Rory had heard since before the damage and now, just now when his teeth found the tender space beneath Andrew’s jaw there was almost….

  Rory drew back onto his knees, gripping Andrew’s thighs and pulling them away from his hips to press them up to Andrew’s chest. He thrust, mimicking the act, using as much force as he would if they were truly fucking. There, again! Andrew’s voice found a measure of resonance but cracked and was lost in the next moment.

  “I will have you, now, Andrew,” Rory panted.

  “Yes, please, now,” Andrew rasped, oblivious to the odd, atonal quality his voice had acquired.

  There was a flurry of movement with shirts, belts and breeches shucked and tossed aside. Rory shoved Andrew on his back once more. He pressed Andrew’s knees out and up and bent to swipe his tongue over the tender, exposed hole. Holding him thus, Rory licked and stabbed there until Andrew was trembling beneath him. His eyes stayed open, watching Andrew’s face as he panted, bit his lip, flushed and sweat so that his hair stuck to his forehead. He continued despite the burn in his jaw and the ache in his own cock, hot and heavy and leaking where it twitched on his thigh. It took time, but his ears were keyed sharp for the proper sign.

  “Rory!“ Andrew cried. The broken beginning of his name, spoken hoarse and hungry, pitched Rory’s need high enough to join the sun. “Rory, please.”

  The whisper was back but it was thick with passion, wavering on the edge of something more. Rory groaned, rising to put his weight on Andrew’s trembling legs. He paused, staring down at the pink, crinkled flesh, admiring the slick shimmer of his spit. It was joined by a drop of clear fluid that fell from the head of his cock and the sight of it was almost his undoing. With a twitch, another fat tear welled up to join the first. He groaned. “Andrew…are you…”

  Andrew did not speak to answer. Instead, he reached for and took hold of Rory’s cock with one hand, gripped the back of Rory’s neck with the other. Without waiting, he pressed entry, forcing the wide, round knob-head inside. Rory’s hips jerked, involuntarily, forcing another inch past the ring of muscle. “Do it,” An
drew growled, lacing his fingers together at Rory’s neck.

  Rory thrust, a cry tearing from his own lips as he was seated, firmly and to the hilt. Andrew did not make a sound. He arched up off of the grassy earth with his head thrown back, shuddering as his body adjusted to the invasion. Rory took the advantage, lowering to set his teeth to the pale flesh so exposed, and waited. He felt the clench soften, felt the hold on his cock relax before he withdrew with a long, slow pull. He pushed back in, just as slowly.

  Rory battened down his lust and kept the pace just so, ignoring Andrew’s urgings to go faster, harder. He kissed away the curses, murmured encouragement when Andrew left fingerprint bruises on his shoulders and arms. His control nearly slipped when Andrew looked up at him wide eyes, teary and dazed, but still he waited.

  “Tell me, Andrew. Let me hear your voice,” Rory ordered, grunting against the moist heat of Andrew’s mouth. He swiped his tongue across the wet and trembling lower lip, then bit there as if he meant to tear the flesh away.

  Andrew’s cock jumped, let loose with a stream of its own. The sound he made was so deep as to be almost guttural, an animalistic moan more suited to his sobriquet. “Oh,” he groaned, long and loud, as Rory withdrew, slow and scraping, maddening. The following thrust proved the break. “Rory! Oh, Rory, more!”

  It was his voice, not true and smooth as before, but it was Andrew’s voice and it was beautiful. Rory quickened his pace but kept the thrusts deep, the motion controlled.

  “Harder, please! My lion! My king!” Andrew was panting, begging, lost in prolonged pleasure. His hands fell to the grass beside his head, grasping, grounding his body to the earth. “I love you!”

  Releasing Andrew’s legs to grip those pale wrists tight, Rory let the hunger rule. He loosened his battens and did has he was asked, fucking hard and fast and echoing Andrew’s cries with his own. It was forever and an instant when Andrew tensed, shouted, and spilled his seed. Rory rode through it, his pleasure bordering on delirious, the tight grasp of Andrew’s body on his cock milking him empty.