Bound by Blood

by Mia West

  He cried for all that, more than he thought he could. But the rent through his middle, the one with the rawest edges, was for Bedwyr.

  How was it possible to feel as if a person had been torn from his body, as if they’d grown together the way two broken ends of bone knit themselves whole? He felt as though someone had wrenched his ribs apart in two or three great crunches of gristle, and everything inside him was spilling out onto the dirt. If he lay here long enough, would the pain end, eventually, or would someone have to deal him the kindness of a killing blow, as he’d seen done on the battleground?

  He was pathetic, and he knew it. Lying on the path, his face caked now with dirt, crying like a small boy. Part of him despised himself at this moment. By the gods’ sweet blood, get up, that part said. Other men have lost more and held themselves up. Who are you to wallow on the ground? To forfeit strong arms and sturdy legs that could be of use? Pick yourself up and act like a warrior.

  The voice sounded like Cai, and like Lord Uthyr, and a little like Grandfather Marcus.

  At best, he had disappointed each of them. At worst, he’d betrayed them.

  Why, then, didn’t the voice sound like Bedwyr? Arthur had made a blood bond with him, and a hundred other unspoken promises besides, and then he’d rejected him in public, pushed him away. Left him with nothing but sharp-edged words. He’d had to; otherwise, Bed would have been banished with him. But he’d cut the man, and the pain he’d seen in Bed’s eyes haunted him. If anyone had a right to berate him now, Bedwyr did.

  And yet, in Arthur’s mind, Bed’s voice was the same gentle growl it always was.

  Arthur didn’t deserve him. He set his forehead to the damp grass and willed it to happen, willed some stranger among these hills to venture into the night and find him. Racked by grief, he closed his eyes and begged those footsteps to come.

  And then, to his relief, they did.

  They sounded heavy but quick. Good, he thought, it will be done and over that much sooner. Pain, gone. Regret, gone. Broken heart, gone.

  A warm hand came to rest on his forehead. One swift slice, he pleaded to his gods.

  But no blade touched his throat. After several awful, gulping seconds waiting for it, he turned his head.

  No. No, no, no. The gods couldn’t be this cruel. To send him at his lowest hour a vision of the one man who embodied everything he’d lost? Everything he’d thrown away? Were they toying with him like a cat with a mouse?

  The vision smiled. “Hullo, cub.”

  Arthur jerked away with a grunt. Visions didn’t speak. Or have warm hands. Or smell like Bedwyr.

  He scrambled to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  Bedwyr, still kneeling, looked confused.

  “Back! You have to go back!”

  He stood. “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, it’ll all have been for nothing.”

  “All what?”

  “Everything I did!” Arthur pulled at his hair. “It was all for you, fool! Every damned thing. To make sure you’d have your place. You can’t be here. If Uthyr finds out, you’re finished. He’ll disown you—banish you. You’ll never succeed him.”

  Bedwyr stared at him, the whites of his eyes lit by the moon.

  “Go!”

  “Arthur—”

  “Go back!”

  Bedwyr stepped toward him, and Arthur drew his sword. Bedwyr froze. “What are you doing?”

  Arthur held his blade at the ready, resolved.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  It was the only way. Arthur charged him.

  Bedwyr scrambled backward, drawing his own blade with a sharp song. He met Arthur’s first strike, weakly, Arthur noted. He could use the man’s surprise against him. He swung quickly to throw him off his balance.

  Bedwyr parried, grunting. “Stop this.”

  But Arthur kept on, swinging and slicing, driving the other man back down the path. He would use two hands if he had to. One man’s unfairness was another’s advantage. Taking hold of his hilt with both hands, he raised his blade high.

  Bedwyr put his head down and surged forward. The impact knocked the air from Arthur’s lungs. He fell backward, landing hard on his pack, the rim of his shield hitting the back of his skull. He let go of his sword and clutched his head.

  “What the fuck was that?” Bedwyr shouted.

  Curling onto his side, Arthur buried his face in his arms. He’d failed, again.

  Bedwyr cursed softly. There came a rattle and thump as he discarded his gear, and then he must have knelt in front of Arthur, because his voice was close. “Hey. Are you all right?”

  Arthur shook his head, miserable.

  Soon he felt tugging at his arms. Bedwyr was trying to remove his pack. Arthur resisted for a few seconds before giving up and letting him wrestle it off. Scuffling sounded behind him, and then strong, familiar arms were lifting him to sit up. They pulled him back into Bedwyr’s broad chest.

  “Now then,” he murmured in Arthur’s ear, “what was that about?”

  “You can’t follow me.”

  “I already have.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You don’t want me to?”

  He sank into Bed’s warmth. Of course he wanted him to.

  “Why did you draw your weapon on me?”

  “You wouldn’t listen.”

  Bedwyr scoffed. “To you telling me to piss off? Why would I heed that?”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “By pushing me away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you push me away?”

  “Because I love you, you arsehole!”

  The man behind him grew still.

  Arthur shut his eyes, mortified. “I mean—”

  “I heard you.”

  Bedwyr pushed him off, and Arthur’s heart sank. He turned when Bedwyr’s hand pressed him to. He didn’t want to meet his eyes, but not doing so would have been cowardly. He’d said the words; he should face the consequences.

  Bedwyr looked at him for a long time, and Arthur had to fight the urge to grab his pack and run. Why were all his instincts so craven?

  “Say it again,” Bedwyr said, his voice deadly quiet. “To my face.”

  His eyes looked black in the moonlight, unreadable.

  Arthur wished he could shrink smaller and smaller until no one could see him. “I love you,” he mumbled.

  Bedwyr said nothing. After a moment, he gestured, his hand rolling in a keep going sort of way, and Arthur groaned inwardly, cursing his thoughtless mouth. If Bedwyr struck him it would come from Arthur’s right side. He braced himself and said it.

  “Arsehole.”

  Bed’s hand stopped its rolling and curled into a fist, and Arthur readied himself to dodge left.

  But Bedwyr didn’t throw a punch.

  He started laughing.

  Chapter 20

  The laughter hurt worse. “Shut up.”

  Bedwyr laughed harder and gathered him into a hug.

  Arthur pushed at his stupid, huge chest. “It’s not funny.”

  Bedwyr’s arms tightened around him. “I’m not laughing at you. This joke’s on me.”

  Arthur relaxed into his hold because he couldn’t not do so. But he still didn’t see any joke.

  After several seconds of shaking mirth, Bedwyr set him back, his hand on Arthur’s neck. “I laughed because I deserved that.” His expression grew more serious. “When I gave you my oath, I didn’t give you everything I should have given. And still you reward me.”

  “By calling you names?”

  Bedwyr shook his head. Leaning over, he retrieved Arthur’s sword from the grass. He held it between them like a horizon. “I want to give you my true oath. Will you hear it?”

  For being so thoroughly broken, Arthur’s heart was welding itself back together quickly. He helped hold up the sword.

  Bedwyr knelt in silent thought for a moment, and Arthur knew he was arranging his words. When they came, Be
d spoke them in a calm rumble.

  “I vow the protection of my sword and my shield. I vow my hand to steady you, and my back to carry you. I vow my legs to lead you when you need it and follow you when you don’t. I vow my sight to watch for danger. I vow my loyalty. I vow my body.” He swallowed. “I vow my heart,” he said softly. “Every day, for all our days.”

  His strength, his loyalty, his heart. How long had Arthur wanted those things from Bed? So long he’d made dozens, maybe hundreds, of bargains with the gods to give him something to offer in return, something that would be worthy of him. It seemed like everything he’d done from his tenth year on had been to become a man Bedwyr would notice—a man he might want the way Arthur wanted him, if Arthur was fortunate and the gods especially kind.

  And here he was, facing Bedwyr, having just heard nearly everything he’d ever hoped to hear from him, and his own thoughts were a hopeless tangle. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, so he closed it again. His vision swam. When he blinked to clear it, tears slid down his face. Bedwyr saw them but didn’t say anything.

  He was waiting. Patiently, as always.

  “I vow the protection of my sword and my shield,” Arthur said first because that was the easy part; he would die for the man. He thought about all the ways he’d trained to be the friend to Bed that his grandfather had encouraged him to become, ways he’d grown that might make their partnership a strong alloy. “I vow my reflexes to meet the unexpected, and my mind to solve problems. I vow my ears to listen and my mouth to speak on your behalf should you need it.”

  “Gods help me,” Bed muttered.

  Arthur punched him in the shoulder with his free hand. “Shut it.”

  Bed grinned.

  Arthur took a deep breath. “I vow my courage and whatever good sense I can muster to know when bravery is called for and when it isn’t.”

  Bedwyr’s smile softened.

  “I vow my loyalty. I vow my body. I vow my heart. Every day, for all our days.”

  Silently, they nicked their thumbs on the sword’s edge and slipped them into each other’s mouths. Arthur let go of the blade to grip Bed’s hand. The sword slid off Bed’s other wrist to rest on their knees, and his arm came up behind Arthur’s neck, drawing him close.

  Then they were kissing, and it was Bed and blood, and Arthur could scarcely tell them apart. And somehow that felt more right than anything else in a long time. Since their last campaign at least, when they’d fought side by side and it had seemed effortless, as if their minds and bodies knew each other well enough to act as one. Now Bed was before him, not beside him, and it was just as good, just as complete. Under his hands, Bed’s ribs contracted and expanded, and Arthur made a small, foolish prayer to his gods that they would keep doing so forever.

  A hand bumped his belt, and the clasp fell open. As his belt and scabbard fell to the ground, Arthur broke away to strip his shirt. Bedwyr did the same, and the next few seconds were nothing but hurried movements and impatient clouds of breath until they were naked and mashed up together again.

  They tussled on the cold, dewy grass, kissing and grinding until they both were hard. Bedwyr rolled on top, his fingers in Arthur’s hair. Arthur spread his legs, hoping Bed would settle between them and give him his weight. Bed had some other plan in mind, though, and straddled Arthur’s hips instead. He braced himself like that, on hand and shins, and scanned Arthur’s body in a slow sweep that left prickles in its wake. Arthur arched his back, meaning only to ease the heat on his skin, and Bedwyr grunted. Leaning on his short arm, he rubbed his hand across Arthur’s chest.

  “Raise your arms.”

  Arthur obeyed, shoving his hands under his head.

  Bedwyr traced his chest with his fingers, as if he were following lines on a map. Maybe he was, for then he lowered his head and retraced those same paths with his mouth. When he took Arthur’s nipple and sucked on it, Arthur pushed into the pressure, that hint of Bed’s teeth behind his lips. He didn’t realize one of his hands had strayed into Bedwyr’s hair until Bed caught it and pinned it to the earth. Then the man’s tongue was in his armpit, rough and swiping. It sort of tickled but mostly made his mind scream more.

  He struggled in Bed’s hold. “I want you.”

  Bedwyr lifted his head but didn’t release Arthur’s wrists. “How?”

  “Inside me.”

  Bed lowered his mouth to Arthur’s. “My fingers?”

  “No.”

  He spit on his fingers anyway and reached down between their bodies. When he slicked them over Arthur’s hole, the wetness was cold in the night air. He pushed up into the heat radiating from Bedwyr’s chest.

  “Hurry.”

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  He pushed a finger inside, gentle enough, but Arthur grunted at the intrusion. Soon, he was groaning as Bed pumped more fingers into him.

  “Give me your cock.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  “Bed—”

  “Shhh.”

  Bedwyr held Arthur’s leg up with his arm, so that he was bent almost double. He should have felt exposed but didn’t. Or he did feel so but didn’t care. He wanted Bed to see him. To take whatever he wanted, however he wanted it.

  But now.

  He reached down and gripped Bed’s cock, and it pushed at his hand, thick and insistent. Impossible, his mind said. He shook his head against the warning and pulled. Bed’s jaw fell open. Against the advice his brain was trying desperately to give him, he stroked Bed until his prick was so hard it must have verged on painful.

  “Do you want me?”

  “Yes,” Bedwyr said.

  “How?”

  “Taking me deep.”

  He felt his hole tighten around Bed’s fingers. “Fuck me.”

  Bed spit again. Slicked Arthur, slicked his own cock, and then it was there, that fat, blunt head pushing at him.

  Pushing and hurting. Arthur caught himself shying from it.

  Bedwyr smoothed his arm over Arthur’s chest. “Breathe.”

  He grabbed Bed’s wrist and exhaled, and the pressure grew almost unbearable. Then Bed broke through and was inside him and it hurt, but he stopped, his breath puffing between them.

  “Breathe,” he said again.

  He tried. His lungs hitched, but he kept on, exhale, inhale, exhale, and Bedwyr waited, watching him.

  Then the sky seemed to shift behind Bedwyr’s head, the stars sharpening to the brightest points imaginable, and the pressure eased.

  He inhaled again, testing. Bed was still there, still inside, but it didn’t feel impossible now. He put his hands on Bed’s thighs and pulled at him.

  Bed pushed, and Arthur almost regretted touching him. But when he withdrew and slid deep again, it wasn’t terrible. Then it wasn’t bad at all.

  Then it was good. Very, very good.

  He tried to say Bedwyr’s name, but it came out as a long, ragged moan.

  “Fuck.” Bed leaned on his hand, watching Arthur’s face as if he’d never seen it.

  Arthur scratched at the hair on Bed’s legs. “Deeper.”

  Bed groaned and drove into him.

  Arthur gasped as something in his core sparked.

  “All right?”

  “Deeper,” he said, grasping for Bed’s arse.

  Bedwyr gave him what he wanted. The thrusts made his voice stutter because he couldn’t seem to stop talking, giving orders, begging, then just shouting, over and over, as Bed hit that place inside him. Then Bed was surging faster, his breath chuffing from his clenched jaw, his powerful shoulders knotted, until his eyes shut tight and his body locked in place. His cock pulsed, and the thought that he was emptying himself inside Arthur had him grabbing for his own aching prick.

  The relief of his grip came over him like cool water. He tugged himself mercilessly until, with Bed still buried deep, he came. He could feel his body jerking, feel the spatter of warm seed as it hit his belly. But all he could see were Bed’s eyes, wide and staring at him, as b
right as anything in the sky. Driving his fingers into Bed’s hair, he dragged him down and kissed him. His weight pushed Arthur into the ground, into a thousand small stones and blades of grass, and it made him feel so safe he wrapped all his limbs around Bed to keep him there.

  He obliged, caging Arthur as he kissed him. When he broke away, it was to nuzzle Arthur’s cheek, then his neck, his shoulder. As their bodies slowly came back to calmer heartbeats, Bed’s lips brushed over Arthur’s skin.

  He lay staring at the stars, then not because closing his eyes made it easier to feel Bed. His mouth, his beard. His belly, sticky against Arthur’s. His cock, softening and then slipping from Arthur’s body so that they both shivered.

  He’d told Bed he loved him. Twice. He didn’t regret that, at least. It was true, and the truth should be spoken. It should be lived too, and he would. He would prove it to Bed every day if he could.

  He would say it again too, when he worked up the courage. If it had to be dark and they had to be alone, he would try not to feel cowardly about that. Bed was the only one who needed to hear it anyway.

  Maybe some night down the road, when they were alone and skin to skin, and the moon slipped behind a cloud, Bed would say it back to him. Waiting for that to happen would be its own sort of game. In the meantime, the man could use Arthur’s body as that map, finding all the interesting, off-the-track places. He could think of worse ways to spend his time.

  Presently, Bed’s lips brushed northward up his throat again until his breath warmed Arthur’s ear. Before Arthur could turn his head to capture a kiss, Bed whispered to him.

  “I love you too, cub.”

  And Arthur grinned, because not having to wait was far better.

  Bed rose and, seeing Arthur’s face, smiled at him. “Worth the wait?”

  Nineteen years, it felt like. He punched Bed lightly on the shoulder. “Arsehole.”

  Bed chuckled. “Be careful, or I’ll start taking that as an endearment.” He yawned.

  Arthur poked him in the ribs. “I was going to make another ten miles tonight.”