Pilgrimage

by Kim Fielding

  Goran took off at a trot. Mike shook his head, wondering if he was dying on the road and hallucinating the rest, but then Goran came running back with an armload of twigs. He dumped them on the ground, and in a remarkably short time, he had a fire going.

  He hissed when he saw the slice on Mike’s face, and then again when he rolled up Mike’s sleeve. “You’re hurt,” he repeated.

  “I’m— What the hell is going on?” Mike knew he sounded more plaintive than demanding.

  “I’m patching you up.” Goran rummaged in a small sack tied to his belt. “I decided after Ugolin that I should be prepared if I was going to travel with you. Good thing.” He pulled out a handful of dried leaves, pressed them to the wound in Mike’s arm, and tied a strip of cloth as bandage. Then he tended to the cut on Mike’s face, cleaning it with a damp cloth he’d acquired somehow, followed by dabbing with more leaves. After that he washed the bandits’ blood from Mike’s hand.

  “You’re going to have more scars,” Goran said with a sigh.

  “Then I won’t be a pretty boy anymore.”

  Goran managed a small smile. “Yes, you will. Always.”

  “Gor, what the hell?”

  “I was… following you.”

  Yeah, that was fairly clear. “For how long?”

  “Since you left Varesh.”

  “You’ve been following me for two days?”

  “I’m a hunter, Mike. And I’m… I know how to keep myself hidden if I want to.” He drew his sword and began to meticulously clean the blade with a cloth, checking the edges in preparation for honing.

  “Why were you stalking me? Because you knew I’d do something stupid?”

  Goran didn’t look at him. “Because I love you. I didn’t want to lose you.”

  Shit.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t faster, Mike. They… they almost killed you.”

  “But they didn’t. They—” Mike stopped as he had a sudden sense memory of grinding broken glass into a soft and vulnerable throat. “What happened?”

  “I killed two of them. The other was yours. You were very brave, Mike.”

  Mike’s laugh had an edge of hysteria. “Brave? I didn’t even—didn’t even know what I was doing. I…. Fuck.” He sank his face into his hands, which was a mistake—it hurt both his cheek and his arm. He felt a little shaky and decided that lying down was a very good idea. So he did, but even then he felt the earth spinning beneath him.

  Goran sheathed the sword and hurried over. “Mike? Are you all right?”

  “Just… a little overwhelmed here. I murdered someone. Jesus. I feel grossed out when I squish spiders in my bathtub.”

  “You killed someone who was trying to harm you. You killed to survive. There’s no shame in that.”

  “Does this place recognize self-defense? Are we going to end up with the noose?”

  “Mike.” Goran stroked Mike’s uninjured cheek very gently, like he might pet a timid kitten. “They were outlaws. Even if they hadn’t attacked, you could have killed them without fear of punishment. That’s what being an outlaw means.”

  “Oh.” Mike closed his eyes for a moment, but that made the spinning worse. What seemed to help most was looking up into Goran’s face, concentrating on Goran’s touch.

  “Are you going to be all right, Mike? Even if you had no choice, even if it was the right thing to do… taking another life hurts. It leaves scars inside.”

  Mike thought about that for a moment. “You’ve killed before, haven’t you? More than once.”

  Goran sighed. “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s late and you’re wounded. You’ve had a terrible day. Let’s sleep and—”

  “Tell me.” In a softer voice, Mike added, “I don’t want to sleep. Not yet. I’m remembering the sound a throat makes when it’s impaled by a broken bottle.”

  Goran caressed Mike’s jaw. “All right. But give me a minute.” Before Mike could answer, he’d stood and run off again. He returned quickly with Mike’s rucksack. Mike had forgotten all about it. Goran slipped it under Mike’s head as a pillow and then spent several more minutes fussing with him: making him drink from the water skin, arranging him more comfortably on the ground, adding more wood to the fire. Finally he seemed to run out of excuses, and he sat next to Mike, not quite touching him. Mike reached out and laced his fingers with Goran’s.

  “Pavo and I… when we first got to Strazha, we lived however we could. He was quick, so sometimes he stole things. Sometimes we begged or scavenged. Sometimes… sometimes we sold ourselves.”

  “Jesus, Gor.” Seeing the stricken look on Goran’s face, Mike squeezed his hand. “No child should have to go through that. I’m sorry.”

  “We survived. I was always big for my age, and soon I was big enough for a man’s job. I’d haul heavy loads, help dig and repair roads. It wasn’t as good as hunting, but it was honest work. Pavo was a runner.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He ran errands. Delivering goods for merchants, carrying messages for rich people, that sort of thing. Also honest work. He had plans. We would save enough money to buy a stable. Maybe an old one that needed repairs—I could do that. He could care for people’s horses and I could help. He talked about it all the time. I think he dreamed about it.”

  “It sounds like a good plan.”

  Goran nodded but remained silent for a while, staring over Mike and into the flames. There were smudges of blood on his face and splatters on his neck and tunic. Most of his hair had escaped from the ponytail. “It was a good plan,” he said finally. “But it wasn’t mine.”

  Mike waited. He squeezed Goran’s hand again. Could you transfer emotional strength via fingertips the same way you transferred body heat?

  “I wanted revenge, Mike. I wanted to kill the people who murdered my father and stole my home. Pavo told me I was foolish, told me to forget it and move on. He married me. Said now we were our own family and that was good enough. We fought about it. Often. Until one day Pavo gave in. You might have noticed that I’m a little stubborn.” He tried a smile, which made Mike’s heart ache.

  Mike remembered how he’d felt when he’d been crying his eyes out in the Temple of Four Winds and Goran had held him so tightly. So he managed to lever himself into a sitting position. And then—dignity be damned—he crawled right into Goran’s lap. “What happened?” he whispered against Goran’s neck.

  Goran wrapped his arms around Mike’s body. “We left Strazha. We went to the lord who killed my father—to his castle. But it’s not so easy for people like us to get close to a great lord like him. We decided—no, I decided to become one of his men-at-arms. His captain was glad to have someone big and strong like me. Pavo they weren’t so pleased with at first, but then they saw his skill with horses.”

  “So you became soldiers.”

  “Among the very men who’d destroyed our home, yes. And we fought, because that’s what soldiers do. This lord wasn’t satisfied with taking over my home—he was trying to conquer all the small lords around him. I think he wanted to be king.”

  “Can you do it that way?” Mike was uncertain about royal politics in his own world, let alone here. “Do you get to be king if you beat enough opponents?” Like playing Risk, maybe.

  “I don’t know. He thought so. And while I waited to get close enough to assassinate him, we fought his battles. I killed… I killed.” Goran’s breath caught for a moment, and then he let it out loudly, slowly. “I killed men who were trying to protect their homes, their families.”

  Mike didn’t point out that those people probably would have died even if Goran had never become a soldier; some other soldier would have killed them instead. Even though it was true, it wouldn’t change the way Goran felt. Not any more than knowing he was defending himself from rape and murder changed the way Mike felt. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “They still haunt me in my sleep, Mike. Their faces… their children crying and cowering.”

&nbs
p; Mike allowed him to sit in silence for a while. The fire crackled and snapped. “Is that how you got all the scars, Gor?”

  Goran shuddered slightly. “Yes.”

  And Mike knew that Goran’s shame and embarrassment over the scars wasn’t over the marks themselves but rather how he’d earned them. “You must have been badly injured more than once.”

  “Yes. But I always survived.” He was quiet again for a long time, and then in a tiny, raspy voice, he added, “Pavo didn’t.”

  “Oh, Goran.”

  “I killed him. Might as well have run him through with a sword myself. Gods, if we’d stayed in Strazha like he wanted to….” He sobbed only once, and his voice was steady as he continued. “I was at his side when he died. He said not to blame myself. Said it was fate. Told me to find someone to love.

  “And you know what? I kept on fighting. I was even more convinced I had to kill that lord—it was his fault too that my Pavo was dead. A few weeks later I had a chance. We were traveling. I slipped into his tent at night and cut his throat. He never made a sound. It wasn’t…. I didn’t feel anything. I wasn’t happy he was dead.

  “I left that night, and I’ve been traveling ever since. Over ten years. I used to worry that if I stayed too long, someone might recognize me as the man who killed that lord. Then I just got in the habit. I’ve hired myself out as a guard, earned enough to buy more ale. Because if I drink enough ale, I can silence those voices for a little while.” Goran snorted. “I’ve killed more men since, but only while protecting others. I don’t know if that’s any better.”

  “It was tonight, Gor. You saved my life.”

  Goran squeezed him. “That was worth it. I’d kill a thousand men to save you.”

  “Hopefully that won’t be necessary.”

  “You know what, Mike? You silence the voices too. When I’m near you, I feel… worthy. I feel like there’s a reason to go on. That’s why I followed you.”

  Mike wanted to cry again. “But I told you. I can’t take you with me. I want to. I… I really want to. Remember how Benny said I wouldn’t let him in? You’re in, dammit. In here.” Mike pulled away enough to pound a fist against his heart. His right fist. Ouch. “But you have to believe me, Gor. It’s just not possible.” He very nearly divulged his last secret but bit his tongue. He couldn’t afford to piss off Agata.

  “I know,” Goran said quietly. “But we can have a little more time together, can’t we? I’d have given anything for just a few days more with Pavo. Let me have them with you.”

  “It’s not like I could get rid of you even if I wanted to, now could I?” Mike leaned in close and kissed Goran’s bloody cheek.

  Chapter 14

  THEY DIDN’T travel far the next day. Goran was worried about Mike’s wounds and wanted to play healer. The throbbing cuts were annoying, but alone they were not enough to keep Mike from walking. He was tired, though. Somehow getting jumped, killing someone, and listening to his lover spill his guts took a lot out of him. Mike was willing to take it easy for a day. At the next village, Goran splurged on a room at an inn, using some of his wages from Varesh. The river route attracted those traveling by foot and by boat, and most of them had the good sense to put in somewhere safe for the night. Consequently, each village offered several inns, and enough competition that some of them were fairly decent. They got a private room with a big bed covered in clean linens. The landlady scowled at Mike’s wounds and Goran’s bloodstained clothing, but then Goran said a single word—“Bandits”—and her demeanor changed. She fussed over them both, making sure they had a big lunch with lots of ale and promising to clean their dirty clothes. She even had her two sons carry up a large copper tub and several buckets of hot water, so Mike had the luxury of a warm bath.

  Once Mike was clean, Goran tended to his wounds. The landlady had given them a viscous stinky ointment, which Goran smeared liberally onto Mike’s damaged skin. And of course Goran made Mike drink gallons of that terrible tea. The more faces Mike pulled over the vile stuff, the more satisfied Goran looked.

  After Mike was cleaned and stuffed and rubbed and medicated, Goran tucked him into bed even though it wasn’t yet dinnertime. “Rest,” he ordered.

  “You too.” Mike patted the mattress.

  “After everything I told you, you still want—”

  “I still want. But right now I’d just like to sleep with you, okay? I was too out of it to enjoy last night.”

  For the first time since they’d reunited, Goran flashed his sunny smile. He stripped off his belt, boots, and trousers—his tunic was already in the landlady’s hands—and he climbed in beside Mike. Even though they had plenty of room, they squashed together, Goran wrapping himself around Mike’s back. Then they sighed in unison.

  “Are you all right, Mike?”

  “Yeah. And let me sleep, ’cause after all that tea, pretty soon I’m gonna need to wake up and take a piss.”

  Goran chuckled and tickled Mike’s side, but then he settled down with a soft contented grunt.

  MIKE DID need to piss when he woke up. Badly. Goran was still snoring comfortably, so Mike moved very slowly out from under the covers and off the bed. There was a chamber pot in a cabinet. As he used it, he admitted how much he missed plumbing. If he ever got home, he’d never again take a toilet for granted.

  He was less stealthy getting back into bed, causing Goran to stir and mumble sleepily. “Dinnertime?”

  Mike patted his lover’s flat belly. “Not yet, big guy. Go back to sleep.” Through the open window he could hear sounds from the kitchen below: the homey clatter of pots and pans and the friendly banter between the landlady and another woman.

  Goran embraced him from behind as usual, but it was immediately clear that sleeping was not foremost on his mind. His cock was hard, pressing into the crack of Mike’s ass. Mike chuckled and pushed himself back more firmly.

  “Is this all right?’ Goran asked. “Are you well enough?”

  “I’m not a delicate flower, Gor. As long as you stay away from my face and right arm, I’ll be just fine.”

  He received in reply a snuffle at the crook of his neck and a big hand reaching around to fondle his balls. “You feel so good against me, Mike.” A swipe of hot tongue on his shoulder. “You smell good too.”

  “Good enough to eat?”

  “Delicious.” Goran settled Mike onto his back and shoved the covers away so he could nestle his head where Mike’s leg met his torso. Mike was already rock hard—he’d never before felt so turned on so quickly. But Goran was cruel—instead of sucking Mike off, he licked at the crease of Mike’s leg, gently mouthed his scrotum, fucked his navel with his tongue.

  Mike had to stop himself from whining. He grabbed double handfuls of Goran’s hair and tried to use it as reins to urge his head into the right position. Goran chuckled. “Is there something you want, Mike?”

  “You. Want you.”

  That must have been the right answer, because Goran kissed the tip of Mike’s cock before sliding the crown between his lips. Mike had found that Goran wasn’t the most skilled giver of blowjobs he’d ever met, but what he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm. And really, just the sight of him between Mike’s legs—every ounce of his attention wrapped up in making Mike feel good—that was better than being deep-throated. Goran had already learned what Mike liked, and so as he sucked and licked, he also inserted a spit-slicked finger into Mike’s ass.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck….” Mike realized he was chanting loudly—and the window was open. He wondered whether the landlady was enjoying the entertainment. And then he didn’t care because Goran was delicately tonguing his slit while rubbing his prostate just right.

  “Gonna— Gor, stop— Gonna—”

  Goran did stop, and not a moment too soon. He looked up at Mike with wild eyes, the pupils almost obscuring the green irises. He scooted up until his torso was aligned with Mike’s, his hand plenty large enough to grip both cocks at once. Together they writhed and mo
aned. A thousand outlaws could have burst into the room just then, followed by a thousand angry gods, and Mike still couldn’t have stopped. His orgasm was like a neurological tsunami, so pure and fierce that it was almost agony.

  Goran collapsed on top of him, which would have made it hard for Mike to breathe if his lungs had been working. They weren’t. None of him worked—he’d blown a full-body fuse.

  “You killed me,” Goran groaned after a few moments. He rolled to the side, flopped onto his back, and lay there panting.

  “Ditto. That was… good gods, Gor.”

  “It’s because of last night. Brushes with death always make life more… real. Because Agata and Alina are sisters. Can’t have one without the other.”

  “I thought you said they don’t get along.”

  “They don’t. But they need each other too, and they both know it. So they play little games with each other. Like children kicking a ball around—and humans are the ball. One time Agata might score a small victory and Alina the next, but neither will ever defeat the other.”

  Mike remembered what a baseball looked like after a good game with lots of hits: dirty, torn, misshapen. That’s the kind of ball he felt like. But hey, he was still in the game.

  THE LANDLADY and her sons giggled when Mike and Goran appeared for dinner, which made Mike blush hotly. Goran only smirked. When the landlady plopped their plates down in front of them, she said, “I’ve given you some extra meat. To help you recover from your… exertions.” That sent her sons and Goran into gales of laughter. Mike wanted to crawl under the table.

  But he soon forgot his embarrassment. The food was good and plentiful, and the ale was some of the best he’d found. The company wasn’t bad either. The landlady, her family, and the locals had apparently decided Mike and Goran were minor heroes, which meant the visitors were cheerfully included in the discussion and laughter.

  Goran didn’t drink enough to get drunk, but he looked relaxed and happy. When the food was gone and a large bowl of berries and cream downed for dessert, he slung an arm around Mike’s shoulders and joined some of the others in belting out several songs. It was like medieval karaoke. Mike did not chime in, but he had fun listening.