The Downs

by Kim Fielding

  Rig paused before responding. “Yes.” He didn’t sound all right, though. His voice was hoarse.

  Without a conscious decision to do so, Enitan stood, pushed his mat against Rig’s, and then lay back down.

  “What—” Rig began, but Enitan interrupted him by rolling close and flinging his arm across Rig’s torso.

  Rig went very still— Enitan couldn’t even feel him breathing— and then nuzzled the top of Enitan’s head. “What are you doing, Eni?”

  “What I’ve been wanting to do for some time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” Enitan didn’t have an answer. Who could understand the topography of want, the calculus of desire? All he knew was that Rig’s body felt lovely and every spot of skin-on-skin contact was like a balm to his bleeding soul.

  But he couldn’t assume that just because he yearned for this, Rig felt the same. “Do you want this too?”

  Rig answered on a long exhale, almost a moan. “Yeeees.”

  That was all the urging Enitan needed. He impatiently kicked the blankets away and rolled on top of Rig, loving the unusual experience of mounting a body larger than his own. He kissed Rig’s face— soft presses of lips to brow, to cheeks, to nose— and he kissed his lips before focusing on his jawline and corded neck.

  At first, Rig didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. For some reason, hesitancy in a man who was usually confident and competent sharpened Enitan’s hunger. Enitan sucked on Rig’s skin, no doubt leaving marks that would cause smiles in the morning.

  Rig made another long, low sound— this one definitely a moan— as he firmly squeezed Enitan’s ass. “You’re better at this than fighting.”

  Enitan laughed. “I told you. My skills are few but they’re first-rate. And I haven’t even begun with you tonight.”

  When Rig laughed in return and gave him an extra squeeze, Enitan felt something akin to joy.

  They had all night. Neither of them had to leave for duties elsewhere, and Minna would not come pounding at the door and peppering them with scornful words as they emerged. So although Enitan and Rig had seen each other naked many times already, they took time to explore. Not with eyes— the room was dark; and besides, vision lied— but with fingers and tongues. Sometimes even with gentle teeth.

  And it was true; Rig was loud. He groaned and panted and cried out incoherently, and when Enitan took Rig’s thick salty cock into his mouth, Rig keened.

  It had been a long time since Enitan gave head. And gods, Rig tasted good, and his heavy cock pulsed deliciously against Enitan’s tongue. Enitan very much wanted to keep it there, to make Rig writhe and scream, to milk him of his essence and swallow every drop. But he wanted more than that too.

  Enitan released Rig’s cock with an obscene-sounding pop and slithered up his body. Rig tugged lightly on his hair. “Maybe you’re the demon. You certainly seem intent on torturing me.” He was more than slightly breathless.

  “Hmm.” Enitan resisted the urge to slide his aching prick along Rig’s belly. He kissed Rig— long, hard, openmouthed— letting Rig taste himself on Enitan’s tongue. Letting Rig know that a bit of himself had already entered Enitan’s body. But Enitan wanted more than a bit. “Fuck me,” he whispered into Rig’s ear.

  Rig shuddered beneath him. “Are you sure, Eni?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

  “But after what happened to you on the Reach…” Of course. Rig had seen the damage to the most intimate parts of Enitan’s body. He’d healed that damage with his touch.

  “That’s why,” Enitan whispered. He didn’t say the rest— that Rig would cleanse him. That Enitan wanted his final time to be not with sadistic rapists but rather with a kind man who cared for him.

  Rig kissed Enitan’s brow. “Then I’d very much like to make love to you.”

  Enitan would have laughed at the quaint wording. Make love? That’s not what a man like Enitan was for. But he gasped when Rig bent to suck his nipple. They rolled over and Rig applied his mouth nearly everywhere, so that soon Enitan lay splayed beneath him, as needy as a creature could be, yet pliant from the stimulation to his sensitive nerves. “Please,” he begged raggedly in response to Rig’s exquisite torture.

  “Just a moment,” said Rig, and Enitan nearly sobbed when he stood and walked away.

  But he returned quickly, and now his fingers were slick as he teased them around Enitan’s sphincter. “Cooking oil,” he said in response to Enitan’s unasked question. “Not fancy, but it does the trick.” And then he gradually eased Enitan’s tight muscles, softening and stretching until Enitan was ready to resort to threats.

  “Now, Rig!” he managed to whimper.

  Rig withdrew his fingers. Enitan immediately and wantonly hooked his ankles over Rig’s broad shoulders. “Now!” Enitan repeated.

  And it seemed as if Rig was going to obey, because he repositioned himself slightly, leaning forward and pressing the head of his cock to Enitan’s ready entrance. But he didn’t push in. “Eni?”

  “What?”

  “Will you… let me try something?”

  At that moment, Enitan would have probably allowed Rig to dismember him if that was what it took to move things along. “Anything.”

  “You can tell me to stop and I will.”

  “Go, Rig!”

  Rig did, pushing inside Enitan with frustrating slowness and care. Enitan tugged at Rig’s hips in an effort to speed things along, but Rig chuckled roughly and remained unhurried. Then he did something that made Enitan gasp in surprise. Rig began to sing.

  It was not one of his lullabies. This song was deeper, wilder, rougher. It was not a song to soothe but rather to arouse. Every note burned through their joined bodies like a flame through kindling. Enitan didn’t understand the words, but that hardly mattered. He knew what they meant. Rig sang of possession, of desire, of cherishing, of pleasing and being pleased, of needs both primal and divine.

  Enitan felt every thrust— each to the rhythm of the song— and every stroke of his own palm on his cock. He felt the heat of their bodies together and the little droplets of sweat that fell from Rig onto him. And that was all very lovely, but even more than that, he felt the singing, the tune building within him as Rig increased his speed and volume, the notes so loud and clear that the whole Downs seemed to shake with them.

  Enitan shook too. And when Rig reached a crescendo, Enitan tasted the song, saw the words dancing like colored lights in the darkened room. He screamed as his climax crashed through him like a river through a broken dam.

  At some point after that, Rig withdrew from Enitan’s body, fetched a damp cloth, and cleaned them both up. Enitan lay there, limp and dazed. Then Rig lay down, took Enitan into his arms, and kissed his cheek.

  “I’m still better at fighting,” Enitan mumbled.

  “Agreed.”

  That settled, Rig snuggled more tightly against him. Gods, Enitan rarely slept with anyone. This would be nice even without the mind-blowing sex that preceded it. But before he could fall asleep, Rig kissed him again. “Eni?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I don’t do that with Dany. Until now, I’ve only done that with Ayo, and even with him it was only rarely. Dany and I have sex and it’s good, but I don’t…”

  “What did you just do?”

  “It’s part of my gift. It’s a kind of healing, isn’t it? A special kind.”

  Enitan tried to process this with his muzzy mind. It made sense, he decided after a few moments. Maybe sex— making love— with Rig hadn’t cured him of anything, but he certainly felt as if he’d been dosed with some very good medicine.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Rig chuckled. “It’s no hardship. Healing a wound tires me, but what we just did? That feels wonderful.”

  “Wonderful,” Enitan agreed. He burrowed his head into the crook of Rig’s neck and enjoyed the final taste he’d ever have of safety and love.

  ****

  Chapter
Ten

  For the next few days, Enitan kept a careful distance from Rig. He separated their sleeping mats and kept his clothes on at night, and although he worked with Rig at the house by the lake, Enitan never touched him. Rig kept casting him troubled looks but didn’t ask for an explanation for the sudden change in climate.

  Not that Enitan didn’t want to touch Rig, to sleep with him. Gods, he spent hours turning restlessly in the darkened hut; and when he finally did fall asleep, he dreamed of Rig. It would have been so easy to entice Rig back to him. But that would have been a theft, and although Enitan was unredeemable, he was not a thief.

  It was another reason to hate Minna, really. If she hadn’t damned him, he wouldn’t have fallen into the Downs. Rig wouldn’t have found him and healed him. They wouldn’t have made love. And Enitan wouldn’t have abandoned him, no doubt leaving Rig angry and bereft.

  Maybe, Enitan thought, after he dealt with Minna he could make his way to the Judge, and he could exact vengeance on that bitch as well.

  Four days after the fog lifted, the day dawned so brightly that Enitan squinted up at the sky. It was the same color as Rig’s bird, which was greedily gathering crumbs from their breakfast. “No clouds,” Enitan said. He hoped his calm voice hid his racing heart.

  Rig looked at him sidelong. “Maybe my friends from the village will come today. We’re running a little low on supplies.” He paused. “You can go with them when they return home.”

  Instead of answering, Enitan tossed a few more tidbits to the bird. It knew him so well by now that it would sometimes peck at his bare toes if he was too slow at feeding it.

  After a time, Rig turned to him. “A dip in the lake would be nice today, don’t you think? And I’d like to gather some stones for the hearth in my house. We don’t have enough.” The house by the lake had an enormous fireplace. Enitan could stand inside it without stooping. “Help me pack a lunch. We can eat there.”

  “I’ll help with lunch, but I’m not going.” Voice flat, matter-of-fact. Face expressionless. Stomach turning itself inside out. He marched to the hut as if everything were settled.

  But Rig grabbed his arm as Enitan passed him. “Come with me, Eni. Please.” He looked as if the final word cost him a great deal.

  The nickname almost broke Enitan, but not quite. “Not today,” he said quietly, and he gently pulled his arm from Rig’s grip. He entered the cabin, where he began to assemble food for Rig’s midday meal: leftover flatbread, smoked dragonfish, a few small red fruits that tasted bland but were, according to Rig, good for one’s blood. Rig watched silently as Enitan stuffed the food into a cloth bag.

  “I won’t let you—” Rig began when Enitan held the bag toward him.

  “If we fight, I’ll win. And I’ll tie you up. Your friends from the village can rescue you.”

  “I’ll tie you up,” Rig said, jaw tight.

  “You can’t. And even if you could, then what? You’d keep me chained up forever? Could you do that to me, Rig?”

  When Rig’s eyes welled with tears, Enitan’s heart shattered. But the tears didn’t fall, and Enitan didn’t yield. He’d warned Rig. He’d told him what he was.

  Rig still hadn’t taken the bag from him, so Enitan grabbed Rig’s big hand and pressed the cloth against the palm until Rig curled his fingers. Gods, those fingers. Enitan shivered with the memory of them against his skin.

  Rig seemed to misunderstand the reason for Enitan’s shudder. “The scars. I can ask one of the other healers to work on them. I don’t know if they’ll disappear entirely, but—”

  Enitan touched the marred side of Rig’s face. “This has nothing to do with the scars. You’re a beautiful man, inside and out. I’m not. I’m ugly.”

  “I’d hoped to help you see otherwise.”

  Enitan had to look away. “Go work on your house.”

  Without another word, Rig left.

  Enitan hadn’t known it was possible to feel simultaneously deeply relieved and completely bereft. He stood inside the cabin for quite some time, rubbing his head and feeling ill. He would have liked to write Rig a letter, to thank him. To tell him that if Enitan had been capable, he would have loved Rig. But there was no parchment in the cabin, or ink; and anyway, Enitan had no idea if Rig could read. It didn’t seem a very necessary skill in the Downs.

  In the end, Enitan had to do Rig another disservice— he stole his borrowed shirt and pants. He’d become a thief after all. He stuffed some dried meat into his pocket, filled a waterskin, and tied it to his waist.

  That was all, he thought, taking a final look around the cabin. Odd how the little room felt more like home than his family’s mansion ever had.

  His feet had toughened over the past weeks, so he felt no discomfort as he left the cabin and ventured into the woods. He didn’t take the well-worn path, instead traveling a fainter trail almost overgrown with vines and seedlings. He took care to avoid the plants Rig had warned him about— the ones that stung or had thorns or caused rashes.

  Where had Rig fallen when the fog had caught him? In which spot had he lay unconscious, his skin peeling, as his lover died atop him? And merciful gods, how had Rig stood again and lived? How had he kept himself from turning bitter— from hating the fog and the Downs and the villagers who had sent him away? And the cursed city dwellers who fell, robbing him of everything?

  Enitan’s eyes stung, but he continued walking.

  It didn’t take him long to get to… the edge. There was no other name for it. The trees and brush stopped abruptly, as if they wanted to avoid the slopes of the Reach, and the last forty paces of the Downs contained nothing but bare, rocky soil. The steep incline began so suddenly that Enitan stood with one foot on completely flat land and one foot beginning to climb. He looked up and up, but he couldn’t see the top. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen so far and survived. Of course, he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Rig.

  That thought was enough to set him moving. Along with the realization that although the sky was currently an innocent blue, nothing stopped clouds from reforming. He imagined himself halfway up, the vapor beginning to coalesce, his flesh peeling, his eyes going opaque, his body spiraling down and down. Rig wouldn’t be there to save him this time. Probably wouldn’t want to, now that Enitan had abandoned him. And anyway, Enitan could not go through that agony again. He’d prefer to die.

  The ground on the slope was softer than he expected. He crawled upwards on all fours, fingers and toes digging in for purchase. His back began to ache almost at once. Quite often, he slid back down a ways, desperately scrambling to regain his grasp. By the time he came to a slightly flatter bit where he could rest for a few moments, every muscle in his body was sore. But he still had a long distance to go.

  He drank some water and ate some dried meat, and then he resumed his ascent.

  The day was impossibly long. Hours after it seemed that the sun should have set, it continued to shine above him. He began to believe that he’d always been climbing that endless slope. Maybe that was the truth of the Downs— the demons taunted a man with false tastes of kindness, then set him to a perpetual, impossible task.

  Then he began to laugh, and the sound was not sane even to his own ears. But he couldn’t help it. He’d been struck by the irony of his fate. First he’d fallen to love and kindness, and now he was rising— still fucking rising— to hatred and revenge and destruction. The gods had made a very good plaything of him.

  He crawled and he crawled, and he constantly expected the clouds to appear. He could almost feel them watching. His fingers sank into the gritty soil, and his nails cracked and bled. Stones dug into his palms and his knees. Dust caked his skin, made his dry mouth taste like iron, coated his lungs.

  When he reached the top— the edge of the Reach— his mind didn’t register it, and he continued to creep across the ground. Only when his arms and legs gave out and he collapsed completely did he realize that his face was buried in stubby grass, not bare earth. And his prone body lay
completely, blessedly flat.

  Enitan began to cry. Sour tears ran from his eyes and soaked at once into the parched ground. Why not? he thought brokenly. He’d already watered the Reach with his blood. He told himself that he sobbed with relief at surviving the climb out of the Downs, but he knew it was a lie. Fine then. He cried at the memory of what had been done to him in this place, the abuses those three men had inflicted on his body and his soul. Surely those memories were reason enough to weep. And then there were the losses he’d suffered. His father, his freedom, his friends, his home.

  Any other losses he’d had? Those were his own damned fault and gave him no excuse to wail like a baby.

  He eventually rose to his feet, though his legs wobbled and he knew he wouldn’t last long. The blue sky had darkened to indigo, and the sun had disappeared over the edge of the Reach. Perhaps a few last rays still shone on parts of the Downs. But here, night was falling.

  He knew he wouldn’t find shelter, a thought that terrorized him until he remembered that he need no longer fear the fog. He could sleep safely— if not very comfortably— right where he stood. The only real risk was that another poor wretch might be transported across the Reach and the three sadistic keepers would catch sight of Enitan. But that was unlikely. And besides, he could see the route the wagon and the yaley-beasts had made through the grass. He chose a sitting spot well away from it, but not so far that he’d be unable to find the path in the morning.

  He took out the waterskin, swooshed a bit of liquid inside his dry mouth, and swallowed. Then he ate half of the remaining meat. He’d go hungry at least a day before arriving at the city, but that was all right. Rig had kept him well fed, and a day without meals wouldn’t starve him. On the other hand, he needed to conserve his water, so he drank only a few more sips before replacing the stopper.

  Enitan stood, and like a dog settling down to sleep, he turned in a circle a few times, hoping to press the grass down a bit. The ends were prickly, but if he could lay the blades flat, they might cushion the ground. The grass was tough, however, and resisted his bare feet.