Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is already dark: not late, not yet, but the colder months are merciless with their early sunsets, and darkness rules over the lands longer and longer each day. There’s a chill in the air that sneaks underneath his shirt: bites at his ribs in something between a tingle and a pain. He prefers it that way; prefers the cold and the dark. It makes him feel numb. It makes him feel less alive. 

Life has not brought him anything good. This chilling and stilling facsimile of death is preferable, and he welcomes it each time he sneaks out from the village into the forest. And he sneaks out a lot, sometimes every other night, risking a beating again; comes back home in the darkest hour, right before the dawn. Slips into the uninviting bed and falls into short and shallow sleep. He doesn’t sleep as much as a boy his age should—never has—and this fall his mother seems even more unsettled by it. She grabbed him by the chin just yesterday, shaky hand—from up close Erik could tell she was crying—and she chastised him, breathy and trembling, for the dark circles beneath his slightly swollen eyes.

Erik knows she’s been crying more and more lately, and not because of his father, but because of him. Even though he’s done nothing. She berates him more often: grabs him more often, and gets closer and closer, and she’s always crying, and her breath smells worse. She’s scared he’s too different. She’s scared other children in the village don’t like him. She’s scared he’s her only child and the only fruit her dry womb ever managed to produce and he’ll never amount to anything, and he’ll never find a sweetheart, and he’s on the cusp of being a man yet he’s never as much as held anyone’s hand. 

His father, at the very least, doesn’t cry. 

A hoot echoes out through the dark forest; the wind brings the sharp scent of pine and then the murky, softer smell of rotting leaves. Erik stills entirely: the owl’s call is what he’s been seeking out, and so he listens closely. It’s coming from the clearing towards the southern stream—then, a twin call echoes out, haunting. Short. 

They’re calling each other, Erik knows. Two owls in the dark. A mated pair, most likely, seeking each other across the night. Returning to each other now that summer died and withered. Village folk tell cruel tales of these owls: see the devil in them, and evil, and something hungering for blood. 

He walks, slowly and quietly, towards the clearing, following the distant call and the smell of the stream among the trees; he makes sure to keep to the path he always threads, careful, knowing it’s best to use the same route as often as possible and fill it with your scent. The more you walk it, the more it bears your smell. Wolves will avoid it. 

The calling song echoes out once more: he’s getting closer. He wants to see them: it’s been a full year since he has seen the owls last; he would not dare try to track them in spring and summer when they have their young. Their flight is entirely silent in the dark and they swoop down if they feel the nest is in danger: they go for your ears and your mouth and your eyes, and they claw, and they claw, and their talons are sharper than knives. They maim you worse than the executioner: and they care little for how pure your intentions were.

A haunting hoot again, solemn, sounds out in the dark. The smell of water is stronger: Erik knows he’ll see the clearing soon. There is no moon tonight but stars alone give off enough light to make his eyes, so used to the deep darkness of the forest, snap to the brighter stain of the clearing peeking out between the dark trunks of trees right away.

He sneaks towards it. He can no longer fully feel his fingers, his hands are so cold—he reaches to his belt, half-aware, to brush against the handle of his knife. Useless against wolves, if they wanted to tear him to shreds, or bears, or wild dogs. Useless against owls. Useless against all the horrifying beings all the tales warn him about, not human and not animal: damned by the devil. 

The knife, in fact, he carries for humans. He’s strong for his age and they're scared. Erik knows very well one of the boys in the village will try to kill him at some point: if not this year then the next one. It’s a fate he accepted, just as he accepted that he will do everything to take that boy with him. 

He stands right at the edge of the clearing: looks up at the stars. He’s quiet but he knows the owls can hear him—he just hopes they don’t care about him, enough to let him see them. 

Another hoot; another chill. He spots the owl across from him, across the clearing, perched on the branch. She tilts the bright disc of her face slowly, listening in. Then, as he tries to steady his heartbeat into something near-death again, a shadow flies across the starry skies—lands, silently, on the branch next to its love. 

The song echoes no more: they found each other now. 

Erik stands in quiet awe for a moment longer. It feels like it’s the owls watching him more than the other way around: and it’s a good feeling, even if unsettling. 

It’s so cold. He backs away, slowly, and turns to go back home. 

He knows something is wrong even before he reaches the village. It’s late now, yes: but it shouldn’t be this quiet yet. There should be the tailor’s brother in law still pestering the innkeeper for one more round—there should be the blacksmith beating his wife again, as is his late-night ritual each day. There should be the miller’s daughter leaning out of the window, a different boy this night trying his luck and failing. 

But the village is dark and it is quiet, even from afar. Erik walks towards it, straying from the main tract to make sure he’s not seen: and so he doesn’t see the tracks of hooves upon hooves in the dirt, and heavy armoured boots, and the wagon they haul with them for the spoils. 

His eyes are used to the darkness: sneaking behind the houses, past the coops and fences, he makes his way closer to his home. Then, he sees them in the middle of the village. Multiple dark silhouettes, moving quietly in the night: they’re sheathing their swords. Wind carries the scent of blood; his nostrils flare and his heart skips a beat in a strange, horrible way: like the final step you miss when you walk down the stairs. 

Only then, he hears them: the silhouettes on the road are joined by a group that just left the church—they let the grand wooden door creak loudly, and they actually speak, talking with each other. Not hushed. Not sneaking anymore. As Erik squints, trying to see them better, they’re suddenly illuminated: in a flash of oranges and yellows, and the billowing cloud of smoke, as the church behind them is swallowed by abrupt flames. 

The fire gives off so much light Erik can suddenly see the road—and the gardens and the paths and the thresholds—strewn with corpses. And it is the miller and his daughter and it is the blacksmith and his wife, and the tailor’s whole family, and as he turns his head towards his home, it is his father and his mother too. She looks like she’s been crying before she died. 

The priest runs out of the burning church, shrieking—stumbles blindly through the night, running between the armed men, and the men laugh. Their laughter mixes with the sparks and the sound of the wooden belfry beams, half-cinders, creaking beneath the weight of the bell. It all burns: God is puny and cares little for his shepherd and his temple. Or maybe he’s too powerless to do anything. 

Someone sets fire to another house. The men keep laughing: the biggest among them, shaking his head in exasperation, walks slowly to the priest thrashing in the dark, panicked. Puts him down with a swift hew of his sword.

Erik doesn’t move: he doesn’t even breathe, and he can swear his heart isn’t beating.

But he’s pale. 

In the night, he’s stark like the clearing—like the stars—like the owl’s sharp, bright face. Across the darkness, the man’s eyes snap to him in an instant. 

Erik wants to run—takes a step back, his heart suddenly in his throat, and turns—but he’s cut off already. There are silhouettes of armed men on his path wherever he looks.

Tonight, then, he thinks to himself. Tries to steady his breathing. He’ll try taking one of them with him, at least.

The men all turn to look at what's happening: as the mountain of a man cracks his neck and slowly walks towards Erik. His sword is still dripping with the priest’s blood. 

“Just grab him,” he rasps out, disdain in his voice—nods at one of the hooded silhouettes to Erik’s left. The man comes; doesn’t even bother to have his weapon ready: and as he tries to grab Erik, careless, he receives a strong, fear-fuelled hit to the temple; then another, above the kidneys, and then Erik kicks him to the ground. Then, another man, surprised, lunges at Erik—and he thrashes and punches and he too, bleeding and reeling, falls back. Someone shouts something—someone laughs. 

The man standing in the middle of the road, sword dripping, raises his eyebrows. His head is shaven clean; his armour, dark and heavy, catches the flickering light of the burning church in the sticky spots where it’s stained with blood. 

“You little fucker,” he says, and it’s both terrifying and amused. 

Erik knows the man will no longer walk slowly towards him—he can see in his eyes that he doesn’t find it entertaining enough to prolong. He’ll charge and he’ll kill him: what’s a knife against a sword? 

Erik takes a step back, to move away from the beaten men getting up from the ground: but he stumbles on a corpse in the path and it makes him panic, and instead of thinking about what to do next, he just turns and runs. He runs, and his lungs burn: but the man is at his back in a heartbeat, and a big hand grabs him by the neck like a pup.

Pulls him back; and the pain of the man’s fingers clenched on his neck shoots white-hot waves through Erik’s cold body. 

Erik thrashes and twists himself—nearly manages to slip away. The man huffs, annoyed; slightly surprised, he sheaths his sword quickly. Another hand on his back, heavy and strong, and the man is about to wrap his arms around him to choke all breath out of him when Erik contorts his body again, and aims a punch—pitiful—into the man’s armoured ribs. He feels his knuckles split: blood pours out through the suddenly opened skin, and the white of bone flashes in the dark.

The man looks amused by the attempt: enough to be distracted, and so the second punch Erik deals lands right into his eye socket—and he roars, and lets him go, and takes a swaying step back. 

“You,” he rasps out, “little...” grabs him again, and this time Erik cannot slip out as he gets pushed forcefully to the ground, “fucker!”

The man unsheaths his sword again: silvery sound in the night. Erik’s on his knees.

He won’t die on his knees. 

As the big man leans down to grab Erik by his bloodied shirt and pull him up, Erik slips the blade of his knife right into the opening in his leg armour. The man howls and curses, hand reflexively pulling the blade out. He throws the bloodied knife away, furious, and aims his sword right at Erik’s pale, exposed neck. 

“Runt,” someone exclaims suddenly, “don’t fucking kill the whelp!”  Another man backs him up. “For the Chief?”

Runt, huffing in anger and pain, deals Erik a debilitating punch to the side of the head instead: nearly knocks him out. Erik sways, his head turns—blood pours—and the man grabs him by the neck. 

“He’s too young,” one of the silhouettes says, spitting onto the ground next to them. 

Runt pulls Erik to his feet, abruptly: again, like a pup, brings him up to the centre of his vision. Looks at his face. Assesses. 

“Nah,” he shakes his head. His eyes track the razor cuts on the side of Erik’s jaw; then, they fall to his arms, strong, and his thighs. “Not a child any more, are you, cur?”

Erik spits in his face. It splatters red. 

The men laugh, shaking their heads—the ones Erik managed to defeat a moment ago laugh the loudest. 

The church keeps burning: flames lick up into the night sky, nearly reaching the indifferent stars. Houses burn. Corpses bleed into the dirt. It’s not fear of death that climbs Erik’s spine, suddenly: but humiliation and shame. If they’re keeping him alive it’s only to suffer the same fate as women during raids; as prisoners of war. It’ll be worse than death—and then they’ll kill him anyway. 

Runt pushes him back onto his knees and then lower, into the ground, and Erik’s unable to stop it even though he tries; Erik’s strong but the man’s much stronger. 

Runt presses him into the dirt: his broad hand at his neck again and at the back of his head, and he pushes his face down so hard Erik feels his nose break against the ground. It’s a crack and a soft squelch, and an outpour of blood again. 

“You actually stabbed me, you fucker,” the man says, more to himself. “And where the fuck is the Chief, eh?” He yells out to the men.

“Wanted to take out the lord’s patrol on his own,” someone replies. “And-”

Suddenly, absolute silence falls. Erik struggles to twist his neck enough to dig his face out of the dirt: look at the path in front of him—Runt, for some reason, allows it, easing the pressure with which he pins down his bloodied body. He himself stills: Erik can fill his muscles tense against him.

In the dancing shadows of the flames, through the bloodied path strewn with corpses, a man walks towards them. The wind, carrying the smell of ash, plays with his hair—he walks slowly, the armour on his legs clinking sharply. His longsword is bloodied, too, as he keeps it nonchalantly unsheathed and swaying in his hand as he comes closer. All the men part like the sea: all eyes are on him. He's elegance and disdain in equal measures.

Erik looks up at the man’s face.

His eyes are amber, pulling in the flames from the burning village: reflective in a horrifying way like that of an animal in the night. His face is locked in an expression between amusement and mockery: and a slight daze, too, unfocused. 

He’s a terrifying sight. Beautiful, too. 

“Chief,” Runt growls out. “Caught you something.”

The Chief furrows his brows slightly—tilts his head to the side like an owl. 

“Mangled it, too,” he says. His voice sends a shiver through Erik’s whole body, sharper than the pain from his wounds. He eyes him, grimacing at the gore and mud glued to his skin. “All dirty,” he clicks his tongue. “Disappointing, Runt, I must say.”

The mountain of a man pinning Erik down flinches. Before he can say anything, the Chief inhales, and speaks.

“And you’re bleeding, too,” he says, eyeing Runt curiously. His eyes, terrifying, are hazy: he seems a little bit… Drunk, in some strange way. 

“He stabbed me,” Runt admits, cross, and shrugs. 

The Chief’s eyebrows raise, slowly—his gaze drops to Erik. 

“Did he now?” He hums, and it reverberates through the night, and Erik feels dizzy. It’s blood loss—but it’s something else, too. “That’s a nice change of pace, no?”

The men murmur between themselves, agreeing. Someone laughs. 

“Pull him up,” the Chief commands, “I want to look at him.”

As Runt pulls him up, Erik looks at the Chief: tries not to let himself be overtaken by strange, coiling awe, and so he focuses on the spot in his gambeson that’s soaked through with blood darker than the night. 

“Hold him,” the Chief adds, and the melody of his voice slithers into the very core of Erik’s whole being. “I’m, as you can see, also… Slightly incapacitated.”

Runt’s eyes flick to the wound in the Chief’s side, too. 

“Shit, chief,” he says, holding Erik, rough. “How many men did you take on your own?”

“Ten,” the Chief replies, and it's a half-giggle. Erik doesn’t know if he’s ever heard a scarier sound. “Wouldn’t be an issue if I wasn’t so hungry.”

“See,” one of the men yells out. “Told you not to kill the little fucker.”

Runt grimaces. 

“Now,” the Chief moves up to them: he sways slightly as he walks. It’s nonchalance and confidence—and the wound, too. “Mhm," he hums, lifting Erik's drooping head by the chin slightly. "You're so pale… Like a lamb." 

A shiver runs through Erik's battered body: a dark, debilitating thrill. Too dangerous to think about. 

The Chief stops looking at him: lifts his gaze to Runt.

“Find me a spot that’s not caked in dirt.”

Runt’s strong hands take up the task immediately, twisting Erik’s body—pulling his head to the side, exposing his neck, stretched, down to the pale collarbone. 

The Chief looks at Erik: his eyes locked with his. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, smiling. “It’ll only take a moment, boy, and then it’ll stop hurting.”

The smile, Erik thinks. His heart beats fast, dizzying, and he cannot even feel the pain through the adrenaline.

The smile is sharp. A glimmer, horrifying, of white fangs in the night. Sharper than any human has any right to have—sharp like some beast, and like the talons of the owls, and Erik recalls all the stories, and he knows. 

Not human and not animal: damned by the devil. 

In that instant, he understands: they’ve kept him for the Chief not to violate him—but to drink his blood. 

The devil—but he feels like a god. The Chief is so close Erik can smell him: the scent burrows into his mind. 

“Hm,” the Chief hums, suddenly, leaning closer. “You’re not afraid.”

“I’m not,” Erik replies. Death is welcome—and yet, something in him stirs, especially as the man’s strange eyes light up slightly, curious. Impressed. There’s a spark that suddenly awakens, painfully, in Erik’s heart, and he both welcomes it and abhorrs it deeply. 

“Commendable,” the Chief says. Leans over and-

“Wait,” Erik catches himself saying, voice rough, nearly breaking. It’s that spark, refusing to fizzle out. 

The man chuckles, as all other men watch them, entirely silent. 

“Go on,” he says, amused. 

“Do I have to die?” Erik asks. It’s a question so honest it makes the Chief cock his head to the side again. Before he can answer, Erik continues. “I know what you’re about to do,” he rasps out. “But do I have to die if you… Do I have to die when you feed?”

Runt’s hand clenches so hard Erik fears he’s about to break his neck—but the Chief’s eyes flick to the motion and he makes a small gesture with his gloved hand. 

“Ease,” he commands, a half-whisper. Runt complies. Turns back to Erik. “Yes, dear boy, you do.”

Erik’s heart sinks. All hope is lost.

“Why?” He asks, instead of giving up, and it’s biting and brazen. Nearly mocking. “Can’t do it without killing?”

He can tell the men are exchanging glances: worry and surprise; he can hear Runt inhale sharply right behind him, ready to deal him more pain to shut him up. But the Chief looks at him, still, and his mouth curls up in a smirk. A flash of a fang in the night, again. 

He smells like the night: like cold and like death. Like leather and incense smoke, and some heavy flower, and something bitter—and the blood slowly pouring out of his side, thick and dark, smells like something Erik had never encountered before. Not human and not animal. Is that how devils bleed?

“Well,” he sighs, low, then clicks his tongue: his eyes scan Erik’s face with something bordering on pity. “I’m very hungry, boy. And wounded, as you can see.”

He touches his side briefly—raises the bloodied fingers up to look at them. The smell of his dark blood is heady and strong. Erik can hear a low, nearly animal growl in the back of Runt’s throat. 

“And I might have lied before…” the Chief murmurs. “It won’t be as quick nor as painless as I told you initially. Especially not now, as you’ve dragged it out.”

His eyes turn to Runt: he nods, ever so slightly, and his hair falls into his eyes as he does it—he smooths it back with his other hand. Then, that hand slips beneath Erik’s ribs to steady himself as he leans in.

His face changes, for the heartbeat that Erik gets to look at it right before it happens: it’s sharp and terrifying, and the fangs seem endless, and it’s ravishing. 

Runt pulls, again, prying his head to the side: for a moment Erik thinks that the stretching on its own hurts, but what comes right after is so much worse that he can’t even make a sound. His breath hitches in his burning lungs: neither the bleeding wound on his head from the punch nor his hand ruined to the bone compare to the sharp, tearing pain as the Chief’s teeth sink into his neck. It’s overwhelming—it’s all-encompassing. 

He should be scared: but he’s just frozen in something that’s less terror and more awe as he feels blood escape his body—his limbs weaken and his head slows down, but it all matters very little. Because—there—he—is. 

Erik’s never been this close to someone else, not like this: he feels the Chief’s gloved hand on his side, pressing against his skin, and he feels, despite the sharp lacerating pain, his mouth on his neck, too. The Chief closes any last bit of distance between them: it’s body against body, and Erik can feel his own heartbeat bounce back from the man’s armoured chest.

He doubts the Chief’s heart is beating. 

The pain is paralysing—but he’s elated, too, and pulled in, and there’s a thrill lurking somewhere deep within him that he doesn’t understand. Erik lets himself look up—his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head—and he realises he can no longer see the stars. Everything becomes dark, dimmed. 

This is a better way to go than a knife in the back or the dark depth of the river, he thinks. This is a better death than his life ever could be. 

He drinks and he drinks and he drinks. Erik’s body flexes, taut: a quiver through every muscle, sharp as needles, numbing like snow. 

And then: the Chief hums. He slows down—stops—pulls back, and it makes a nasty sound, and Erik’s body contorts in sudden repulsion at being abandoned. His mouth is stained with blood and Erik’s gaze falls to it, and he doesn’t understand how he’s not dead yet. He wanted to die still pressed against the man. 

“Well, would you look at that,” the Chief says, melodic, and there’s dark amusement in his tone. “I can do it without killing you.”

Erik inhales. He’s weak, terrifyingly so, and would fall to the ground if Runt wasn’t holding him steady: but the pain slowly eases. It’s strange. His body thrums with something… Bordering on pleasure. Dissipating in waves. Heat, like a wave, melts beneath his skin.

It’s intoxicating. 

The monster, inches away from his face, inhales slowly. It’s so intimate the rest of the world stops existing for two frantic beats of Erik’s hardened heart.

“But what now, boy?” The Chief asks, nearly a whisper. It snakes around that heart. “Do you want to die by my sword? Or do you want to live?”

Erik holds his head high even though it’s heavy and hazy. 

“I want to live,” he replies, simply, throat rough. 

“Mhm,” the Chief looks at him for the final time—then, takes a step back. Licks his lips clean.

The wound in his side is no longer leaking the dark blood. He turns. “Have you had enough of watching me eat?” He addresses his men, mocking. “Get to work! It’ll be dawn soon.”

The men scatter: to loot and strip the corpses. The church is still burning.

“You little fucker,” Runt repeats, whispering, impressed. He lets him go: surprisingly gently, suddenly, and helps steady him by his shoulders. Then, he reaches down, to Erik’s knife in the grass. Picks it up: pushes it into his hand. “Keep it as a fucking memento of the first and only time you surprised me,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Erik,” he replies, and his heart skips another beat as he notices the Chief listening in. 

“Erik, then,” the Chief says, turning the name on his tongue along with the aftertaste of his blood. Resting his hands on the pommel of his sword, he looks unbothered by the carnage around him—and not dirty but adorned with all the blood. “This is the last time you’ll ever see your home. Say your goodbyes.”

Erik nods. There's nothing more than he can do but nod: his heart is heavy in his chest with something strange and twisting. 

“And clean yourself,” the Chief adds, voice echoing through the night. “I’ll have to feed again in a couple of hours and I won’t bear damned dirt in my mouth.”

Erik nods again. His hand, hidden in his pocket, clenches around the bloodied knife.

Stumbling slowly towards the ruin of his house hazy from blood loss and pain, pressing his other hand to his torn neck, Erik wonders if the Chief liked the taste. 

There isn’t much in the way of goodbyes: he looks at the corpses of his mother and father and it doesn’t feel real at all. He knows it’ll hurt later, the same way it did with the only friend he’s had; but for now he’s dizzy from all the blood he lost, and his throat is torn and he has to look away from his hand because he knows he’ll see bone through the wound and he doesn’t want to retch. 

He had seen many wounds and many bones before: but when it’s his own body, the reaction is not up to him. 

There isn’t much to pack; he never owned much and he doubts anything he cared about would be useful. It’s not like he knows what awaits—but it’s surely nothing that he can prepare for with anything from his house.  He cleans himself from the sweat and dirt and glued blood as well as he can as he listens in to the company outside gathering the last of the loot, and getting ready to leave. He washes himself in the dark, dead house: preparing himself for the devil, as the people who brought him into this wretched world lie dead on the threshold. He washes off his childhood from him, too. 

As Erik exits his house for the final time, without looking back, the church is embers now. The night is darker again. He walks to where the men haul their spoils onto the wagon: the horses are gathered in one spot, saddled and ready, except one. A black point bay steed, lonesome, stands farther to the side—restless, stepping in place.

“You’re going onto the wagon,” Runt says, “with the rest of the loot.”

Erik shoots him an angry look but the man just laughs.

“You’re wounded, you dolt,” he says, “you’ll get to sit on your arse as we ride. The camp’s far. Be glad.”

Just a moment ago this man tried to kill him: now he’s reaching to his pouch and pulling rations out, and then he throws them to Erik.

“And eat,” Runt lets out a short, rough laugh, moving past him to get one of the horses, “trust me, you need to eat.”

Erik climbs onto the wagon, sitting next to things he pretends not to recognise the dead owners of. Suddenly all the horses start moving, upset, and making noise in the night: the Chief walks past them and they all spook—he shakes his head and makes his way to the lonesome horse to the side. That horse, in contrast, calms the second he approaches; gives into the touch of his gloved hand as he prepares to get into the saddle.

Then, the horse pushes its head towards his side, nuzzling at the bloody spot on his gambeson. Tries to lick it. 

“Greedy beast,” he clicks his tongue, pushing the horse’s head away: it’s abrupt but there’s fondness in the gesture, too. “You’ve had enough already.”

Runt chuckles as he passes the wagon, hurrying his horse to trot right behind the Chief’s. 

“Not a word, Runt,” Chief hums. “Or you’ll have to let that wound in your thigh heal on its own.”

“Not saying a damn thing, Chief,” Runt says, grinning. 

As they ride through the night, the Chief never once turns around to look at Erik. Still, somehow, it feels as if he can see him anyway: the pulse reverberates through Erik’s body, rattling him in something veering between excitement and horror. He tries very hard not to let his body pass out: but the blood loss and pain are powerful enemies, and the cold, and the grief that hasn't yet caught up to him. 

They ride: the air smells like pines again and the night wind, fast, banishes the smoke from his lungs. Erik keeps looking ahead, too, forcing himself to stay awake and aware: looks at the Chief and his men, and the horses, and the road. Doesn’t turn around to look back at his smouldering village. 

He only thinks, briefly, about the owls. 

Only once, the Chief looks back: turns in the saddle, slowly, just enough to catch Erik in the corner of his vision. His eyes glow: half-animal, half-devil. The moonless night is darker, suddenly.

There would be nothing about him that seemed human: if not for that little impulse that Erik notices right away. The impulse to look back—and then to turn his face again, hiding a smirk dancing on his lips despite his own better judgement. 

Erik feels his heart beat faster: and it’s excitement, primal, underlined with a dizzying, raging need, waking up like a beast somewhere within his soul. To find whatever soft part of that monster remains. Dig and claw until he gets there:

And bite into it, the way he did to him that night. 

Deep, unforgiving: to the core, to death, to oblivion. 

Until it damns them both.

Chapter Text

It’s still dark: the rhythmic thud of hooves echoes out through the night. Blood loss and pain and cold pierce through Erik’s body as he tries to stay awake in the wagon. And the wagon rolls and rolls and rolls: the men are silent, as silent as they were when they fell upon the village and killed everyone. He’s not spoken to. He doesn’t speak. 

Erik sways—looks up at the skies, unwillingly, as his head falls back. The stars are innumerable and indifferent, and so bright that they hurt his eyes. Something aches deep within him, and for the first time in a long time he thinks that he should pray. 

It’s been a long time since he prayed last. The stars glimmer and there’s a cruelty there that he doesn’t understand: for a moment he thinks, his head still swaying, that it’s not God he should pray to—but Virgin Mary. Mother’s mercy. Madonna, cradling her baby in her arms. Holy, bright like those stars. Pure. 

Pure and bright.

Like a lamb.

Like a lamb, echoes out in a voice that coiled around his heart like a blackthorn branch.

The last time he prayed was in a church that is no more. Last time he confessed was to a priest who now lies dead, slaughtered, in a village that’s burning and drowning in blood. That same priest christened him: Erik’s not sure whether it still holds now. 

Mother’s mercy—lamb marked for slaughter.

The only thing that he knows is tangible and real is the pain from his torn throat.

They reach the camp right as the skies threaten to start brightening with the sunrise: Erik’s still bleeding from his hand, even though slower, and the side of his head is swollen—and two ripe black eyes bloom on his face from the broken nose. He’s been fighting hard to stay awake: through the pain and the lulling, monotone rolling of the wagon through the tract. 

But adrenaline started to wear off, slowly, and fear began sneaking back in. Now, as they’re riding into the camp, a horrid abyss gnaws at his insides. It’s starting to catch up to him: the corpses, the bloodshed, the fire. His torn throat, burning, and the devil that drank from him. 

It’s that devil that is the only thing keeping him awake: Erik hates the thought that the Chief could turn back in the saddle at any point and see him passed out, asleep. It’s self-preservation and it’s pride, too.

The Chief never turned around again. 

They ride in: the camp is quite large; the men are in no hurry, lazily unloading what they took from the village and unsaddling the horses. But the Chief hurries, getting gracefully down from the saddle—passes the reins to Runt. His horse starts getting restless the second he moves away: but Runt pats its side with his broad hand and the steed calms slightly, at least for the moment. 

The Chief pulls his hood a little bit more over his eyes. Erik pretends he’s not looking at him; pretends he’s not trying to overhear what the men talk about. 

But Erik has good hearing—and men are much louder than owls. 

“Come to my tent, later,” the Chief says to Runt, rushing. Dawn starts sprawling over the vast horizon, somewhere behind the line of the trees.

“Aye, chief.”

“Go to the quartermaster to make sure the loot’s divided as it should,” he adds, sighing. “Not… All of it, though,” he finishes with a slightly mocking note, and Erik’s still pretending he’s not listening—but he feels a warmth crawl beneath his skin at the fact the man clearly means him.

“What a shame,” Runt replies, stretching—trying not to laugh. 

“Shame is the one thing you lack,” the Chief replies. From beneath the black hood, Erik can only see the lower half of his face: the corner of his mouth curled up in a judgemental smile. 

“Just the one?" Runt teases.

“Don’t piss me off today. My patience’s battered and my hunger’s not all gone yet, either.”

“Aye,” Runt nods. “Speaking of…”

“Come to my tent later,” the Chief repeats. “And bring him with you.” There’s a sudden solemn note in his voice.

“Aye, chief.”

The Chief walks, uncannily fast, towards the dark, ornamental tent deeper into the camp—disappears in it, heavy flap closing behind him, raising clouds of dust from the ground with its weight. Something within Erik aches at his absence: it’s a ridiculous and horrible feeling.

Runt brings his hand up to his brow: rubs it, slightly, and curses.

“Knife in my leg is one thing,” he says to Erik, “but that punch was fucking unnecessary.”

“You were about to kill me,” Erik replies, dryly. “Define unnecessary then.”

“Aye, right,” Runt shrugs, there’s a grimace on his face that’s a half-stopped grin. “You’re stupidly strong, though.”

“I could be stronger,” Erik replies, surprising himself. It’s a strange thing to say. 

“True,” Runt seems unbothered by strange things being said, just as he seems unbothered by the fact he’s limping—his thigh is still bleeding. The knife wound is deep. “Come, you’re sleeping in the tent I’m sleeping in.”

A slight wave of disappointment swirls somewhere within Erik. He swallows it down, unwilling to admit to it even in front of his own self—replaces it with anger.

“Why?”

“So you don’t try running, you weasel,” Runt says as he leads him across the camp grounds. “Or anything else stupid.”

Erik doesn’t say anything: he looks around the camp and wonders if all the men there know what their Chief is. 

He wonders if they know how to kill a thing like him. It’s something Erik would like to know.

“You’re really not afraid?” Runt asks, suddenly, unloading his things on the floor of the tent he shares with two other men—and Erik now, too. 

“No,” Erik shrugs. “The worst that can happen is death. She doesn’t seem like the most awful of fates.”

Runt looks at him, for the first time any trace of a smirk is gone from his rough face: he’s serious, focused.

“Your ma and pa,” he starts, and his tone is unpleasant, “and your whole-”

“I won’t talk about this with you,” Erik cuts him off, daring. He has to: be strong and appear strong. He can’t break down in front of the man who had him pinned down into the bloodied dirt just hours ago. “The Chief requested you, didn’t he? Is it typical in the camp to make him wait?”

Runt’s eyebrows raise—then, he shakes his head. 

“You either have a very bright fucking future ahead of you,” he says, sourly, “or you won’t live to see spring.”

Erik shrugs. The weight of his knife in his pocket is a pleasant reassurance; no one at the camp knows what he’s capable of—he might have arrived on a wagon full of looted spoils but he’s not a thing to be conquered. 

“Then let’s go,” Runt says, spitting on the ground, “if you’re so fucking eager to see him.”

Erik scoffs.

But he is. 

It’s only when he enters the tent he realises how bright it was outside, with the sun already rising. In the tent, it’s quite dark: there are candles flickering on the desk, offering sparse warm light and casting shadows on the thick, ornamental walls. It all smells—like him.

Runt stands, back straight, hands at his belt: waits for the Chief to acknowledge them. Erik mirrors his pose—but he can’t tuck his hands into his belt because the pain is too much, and he knows there’s bone right beneath the slowly scabbing mush on his knuckles. 

“He should get his wounds tended to, first,” the Chief says without looking at them. He’s busy slowly taking off his armour: undoing the buckles of his couters. “It’s hard to focus with all this bleeding going on.”

“Sorry, sir,” Erik catches himself saying. 

The man’s eyes snap to him: there’s a slight furrow to his brow. He seems surprised—not sure what to say—and then his gaze lingers on, for a second, on the swelling of Erik’s face and the two black eyes, and the broken nose.

“I’m pretty sure my leg is bleeding worse,” Runt chimes in. Glowing eyes turn to him.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the Chief mocks him, unfastening his gambeson. Erik feels his heart in his throat, suddenly, as he takes it off and flashes skin: neck and shoulder, as the shirt underneath it is pulled slightly to the side and bloodied. He’s not pale: he’s not as pale as Erik and definitely not as pale as all the village tales would claim. 

The Chief takes off his gloves, throwing them carelessly onto the bed in the corner of the tent: then he slowly rolls up his sleeves. Erik’s eyes fix to his forearms: the dark hair there, dense, and the outline of muscle, sword-trained. 

“Give me that knife you keep in your pocket, Erik,” the Chief says, eyeing him with slight disinterest. “And next time, if you want to hide something from me, make sure it’s not covered in blood. I can smell it.”

A chill runs down Erik’s spine: but it’s not fear. 

“I don’t suppose a knife can hurt you much, sir,” Erik says, taking a step forward to pass him the blade—hopes their fingers will brush against each other. He wonders if the Chief is cold like a corpse. 

“Not much, no,” the Chief replies. Makes sure they don’t touch, or maybe it’s just Erik’s imagination. He narrows his eyes for a second—they’re still as terrifying and thrilling as they were at night, and Erik’s transfixed. For half a heartbeat, he can swear he saw the man’s nostrils flare. “You can step back,” the Chief adds.

As Erik takes a step back, the Chief suddenly brings the knife to his exposed forearm: to the soft skin on the inside of his arm, and then he cuts, and the blade draws out a dark line of blood thicker than it should be. Erik can smell it immediately, even through his broken, stuffed nose—it’s a smell that works a little bit like melody. It’s inescapable. It echoes across the tent, bouncing off the items in it. 

The Chief raises the arm—looks at Runt—and nods.

It’s clear Runt is stopping himself from lunging at it: but he’s restrained, and respectful, and he walks up to the Chief slowly, and then he leans down to the offered arm—and drinks from the wound. Erik stands unmoved, his head turning.

Three emotions swirl within him, sudden, overwhelming: the first is disgust. Whatever is happening now—it’s wrong. It’s evil, in a way that hasn’t struck Erik the night before, not yet. It’s wrong and you should pray it away, and repent, and turn your eyes away from the sin of it. The second is fear: uneasy, crawling up his limbs.

The third is vicious, inexplicable jealousy. 

Erik watches the strange ritual with unfocused eyes. Runt doesn’t have sharp teeth: he needs to let the blood slowly drip into his mouth. It only lasts a moment: sooner than Erik can understand what’s happening, Runt steps back. Nods.

“Thank you, chief,” he says, and suddenly he shifts his weight fully to his wounded leg. Stands without issue. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand just in case, even though he made sure not to let even a single drop escape—not to smear the Chief’s forearm.  

“You can leave us now,” the Chief says and looks as the cut on his arm slowly closes, making a strange sound. “Go to the quartermaster. Tell him to set aside whatever sword he deems appropriate for training.”

“Aye, sir,” Runt turns to leave the tent. Looks at Erik, briefly, and then he’s gone. 

The Chief puts the bloodied knife away and leans back against the desk. Erik assesses: they’re nearly the same height. In a brawl, Erik might be stronger—but in a duel, sword or otherwise, he’d lose to him.

Well, Erik thinks. If he was human. 

Ten men on his own, Erik thinks, he said last night. And it didn’t seem he was lying.

Now he doesn’t even have his fucking knife. Not only is it pointless to think whether there is a way he can kill him—it’s time to start worrying about his own life again. One misstep and Erik’s done for. 

“I’d also suggest bathing,” the Chief says, slowly undoing and taking off the belt with his sheathed sword. “There’s a bath tent at the end of the camp.”

Erik nods. 

For you, he thinks, and the thought echoes out in his head, unwanted. 

“But you cleaned the worst of it,” the man adds, and there’s something darker in his voice for a moment. “Good.”

Silence falls, for a second: Erik takes in the smell of the tent, or at least what he’s able to tell apart from his own blood.

“I’ll explain how things work around here,” the Chief says, still carelessly leaning against the desk and looking at Erik with slight boredom in his eyes. “Then it’ll be up to Runt and the rest to show you the ropes.”

Erik nods. Straightens his back again: he knows he must look awful, swollen and beaten bloody, but he hopes to at least look strong. Proud. Undefeated: even though he was.

“And then, you’ll go to the sawbones to take care of this…” Chief’s upper lip lifts in slight disgust, flash of sharp teeth for a blink of an eye, “mess.”

Erik nods, again. The pain makes it hard to focus but he wants to listen: he wants to prove it wasn’t a mistake to keep him alive. 

“We travel a lot,” the Chief says, reaching for the knife and turning it in his hands absent-mindedly, “we move between kingdoms, depending on the orders of those we are working for at the given moment. We don’t stay in one place too long. You can imagine why.”

He throws the knife up in the air, gracefully: it turns once and falls back down into his hand. He twists it in his palm and the blade catches the flickering candlelight.

“Sometimes we are hired as mercenaries,” he continues, watching the blade, “sometimes we raid for our own benefit, purely.”

Erik doesn’t say anything: he listens.

“You will make yourself useful around camp,” the Chief says, turning the knife in his hand—he holds it by the silvery, bloodied blade now. “And you will listen to orders of those senior to you, whether those orders are to dig a latrine or set up tents or kill.”

His eyes, low glow in the dimmed tent, snap to Erik.

“The men you see in this camp are ready to die for me,” he says, and his voice is low; the bored look is gone. “They know there is no other fate for them, either. Once you know the truth about me, you are no longer free to leave.”

Erik holds his gaze—even though he can feel his heart thrash in his chest, and the air is strangely heavy. 

“I expect loyalty and I expect obedience,” he says, and he extends his arm: offers the knife back to Erik. “And I am generous when my orders are fulfilled well.”

Erik grabs the knife by the handle: steadies his hand as hard as he can so it doesn’t tremble.

“But I am not a forgiving man,” the man’s voice reverberates as he holds the blade firmly, still. “Nor merciful,” the Chief finishes, only then letting go and leaning back against the desk again.

Erik takes the knife; turns it in his hands for a very brief moment, looking at the smear of dark blood on it. 

“Your generosity,” he says after thinking for a second, “I’ve just seen.” He traces the dark smear with his own bloodied finger: it really is thicker than blood has any right to be. He wonders if he’ll ever have the chance to ask Runt how it tastes: if the man would even have the words to describe it. 

“Yes,” the Chief eyes him slowly. 

“And your lack of mercy… I do not need proven either,” Erik adds, clenching his jaw, “given you slaughtered everyone I knew.”

Silence falls in the tent: the Chief looks at him, still, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“If I tried to run, I’d be killed?” Erik asks simply.

“Yes.”

“And if I tried telling anyone what you are?” The next question sounds brazen but in truth Erik barely manages to force it out of his tightened throat.

“Are you so eager to die?” The Chief asks, tilting his head curiously. “You could have said so last night and I would have gladly indulged you, boy.”

Erik looks at the walls of the tent for a second—chews on his answer. Decides to shrug instead: partially because he’s not sure what the answer truly is. But mostly because he needs, so desperately, to test where the line lies: see how far he can push before he awakens ire, and he knows shrugging might just cause annoyance enough. 

He wants to awaken something. Even if it’s ire, yes: something, anything more than that disinterest. That cold, distanced boredom, with the only words between them being orders.

“You can go,” the Chief says simply. “Unless you have questions.”

Erik winces: he did not expect to be dismissed—and the notion of asking if he has any questions seems horribly ridiculous given everything that’s happened. 

“What are you?” He asks, as suddenly and outright as he can. 

“Did you not just threaten me with revealing what I am?” The Chief’s mouth curls mockingly and his tone is cold. “And you don’t even know, boy?”

Erik tries not to grimace: he feels humiliated. The Chief is right: he doesn’t know exactly. He’d like to know everything. 

“It is not for you to know,” the man says, and his tone disallows any attempts at continuing the subject. 

“When they…” Erik grits his teeth for a second. “When Runt caught me, they worried I might be too young. I thought they meant-” He stops himself. “Why would age matter?”

The glowing eyes scan him slowly—then, they narrow slightly, as if in a smile that he tries to hide. 

“I don’t eat children,” the Chief replies, slowly, revelling in the grimace of disgust it brings to Erik’s face. “Despite the stories village mothers might tell their sweet little pups to lull them to sleep with fear.”

Erik nods: mostly because he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to think about mothers. Or their babies, cradled in their arms. Sheep in the mountains. Lambs with their necks torn. 

“They don’t taste good,” the Chief adds, a sly smile warping his face as Erik’s mouth turns into a downturn, ever so slightly. “And there’s very little blood.”

You should pray. Mother’s mercy. Madonna with her baby in her arms. 

“When you got wounded fighting off the patrol,” Erik changes the subject frantically, heart in his throat. “You said it was because you were hungry. Why didn’t you feed on the lord’s soldiers?”

The Chief inhales—looks slightly annoyed by the question—and turns his eyes away from Erik, glancing somewhere to the side absent-mindedly.

“I don’t feed on just anyone,” he says.

Erik’s heart skips a beat. The Chief suddenly looks at him, and the glow in his eyes is different. His mouth, once again, turns into a slight expression of disgust.

“What-”

“Enough questions,” the Chief cuts him off abruptly. There’s some uneasiness to his movements suddenly. “Go to Runt. I need to rest now and you’re impertinent.”

Erik straightens his back and nods. 

Do you not want to feed? Is the only thing echoing in his mind. But he doesn’t want to ask this question: it would sound needy and horrid. And the answer is probably no, too, which would make him feel small and despicable and weak. 

I washed myself, his own voice repeats in his tired head, and Erik hates it. For you, he thinks and curses himself for the thought.

He leaves the tent and looks across the camp: at all the men who are strangers to him. 

In the village he was alone, too—but at least he recognised the faces. A couple days more and the faces he knew will start to bloat to the point of being unrecognisable. Wild animals will sneak into the burnt village and bite off chunks of flesh—the rest will fester and rot. 

Madonna with a lamb in her arms, and the fleece is dirty and smells like death. The lamb's bright hopeful eyes are dimmed: maggots crawl in them like tears. 

The sawbones cleans and bandages his hand—takes a look at the wound on his head, too, and his broken nose. He tuts, shaking his head: it was a lot of cleaning and a lot of blood, and a lot of pain, and it’ll take some time to heal, too. But it’ll heal. 

He brings a warm, wet cloth to his neck—it smells like herbs Erik doesn’t know. He bandages it and his movements are slightly less rough, suddenly. 

“That one will…” The sawbones bites the inside of his cheek for a second, hesitant. “It will heal, too.”

It’s just a wound, Erik thinks. Same as your hand. It’ll be just a scar. 

“Take this,” the man pushes a small bottle into his hand. “Use it when you change the bandage tonight. It helps with the pain and with the healing.”

“Thank you,” Erik replies.

“But be careful,” he adds, “so you don’t mistake it with wine or any other bottle. If you drink it, you’ll die.”

Erik nods. Yet another thing looming over his head: another crossroads on his path leading to death. 

“You’d have to drink at least half of the bottle,” the man says, busying himself with packing up his kit and the leftover bandages, avoiding his eyes. “It’s very bitter so you’d have to down it quickly before your body forces you to retch.”

Erik doesn’t look into his eyes as he stands up and turns to leave the tent. He understands. 

Nothing more needs to be said. In one pocket he carries the knife—in the other, the bottle.

He wants to learn what to do: but Runt tells him to sleep. It feels strange to sleep when it’s only noon and the sun’s high in the skies—but the moment Erik touches the cot, his body suddenly crashes. He’s so horribly exhausted.

The camp is quiet: most men are sleeping off the night raid. Runt gets into his cot as well: he lies on his back with his arms crossed, and Erik thinks it’s both a funny and a fitting way for him to sleep. 

“Don’t try anything stupid, you little fucker,” he mumbles. “Got it? You try to sneak out, I’ll hear it.”

“Yes,” Erik says, looking up at the roof of the tent above his head. “There’s nowhere for me to go anyway.”

Runt just shifts, setting into his position more comfortably. His eyes are closed and his face is stuck in a grimace, nearly like in focus. Erik wonders if it’ll remain the same when he’s asleep, too. 

“Runt?”

“Mhm?” A grumble.

“What’s your name?” Erik asks, simply.

“Are you stupid?”

“Your real name. Your parents didn’t call you fucking Runt, did they? What’s your name?”

Runt snorts, without opening his eyes—but the furrow on his face eases.

“Hildegard von Bingen,” he says, pushing his hands more firmly underneath his arms.

“Right,” Erik replies, closing his eyes. “Fuck you, then.”

“Fuck you too, you little fucker.”

Erik turns on his side, wrapping his own arms around himself without realising he’s doing it. Then, he falls asleep: and maybe there is someone looking over him, somewhere, because his sleep is blissfully free of any dreams. Good or bad. 

Erik wakes up in the afternoon, right before sunset: everything is golden, bathed in a soft glow. It only lasts a moment, as autumn is already slowly turning into its final, duller days of rains and cold winds—but for that moment, at least, the world is all reds and oranges as he steps out of the tent.

The camp is busy: loot’s still being divided, armour and weapons are cleaned, fires are started. Suddenly he remembers he hasn’t eaten for—so—so long—but his stomach turns at the very thought of food. He still has the rations Runt gave him tucked somewhere in the tent: he couldn’t force himself to eat. 

His hand brushes against the bandage on his neck: whatever the sawbones used worked well, as it hurt much less. Erik has no way of knowing the extent of the wound on his throat but he assumes it wasn’t too deep, in the end, if simple herbs helped enough to ease the pain. 

Maybe the bite hurt so horribly because it came from the devil. Because it was wrong—because it was damning. Perhaps next time it will hurt even worse. 

Bitterly, Erik stops himself from recalling the feeling that washed over him after. His hand briefly touches his side, too, absent-mindedly: in the spot where the Chief held him the night prior, steadying him as he drank from him. What would be the bigger sin: surviving, letting the devil drink from him willingly—or downing the contents of the bottle to follow the one path everyone always told him only leads to hell? 

“You need to fucking eat,” Runt says, suddenly walking up to him. His expression is unpleasant.

“You’re not my fucking mother,” Erik bites back reflexively. 

“Aye,” Runt nods, “cause she’s fucking dead, isn’t she?”

There’s a wave of anger that rolls over Erik’s whole body: and it’s frustration and hunger, and solitude—because it’s not true anger, it’s not justice, it’s not offence. His mother is dead. He doesn’t miss her. He clenches his jaw and looks away.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” the man says, rough. “I don’t think we need another fucking mouth to feed, you little cunt. But the Chief took you in and told me to show you what’s what.”

Erik doesn’t reply. He thinks about the knife in his pocket. 

“And there’s only one fucking reason he took you in,” he adds, “so you need to eat.”

Erik’s still silent; he thinks how bitter could the decoction in the bottle be, and how long it’d take. 

“When did he tell you to come back to his tent?” Runt asks, hands tucked into his belt. Erik eyes him, sideways: the fucker’s big. He’ll have to get sneaky and creative to even dream of trying his luck against him. 

“He told me to make myself useful around camp.”

“Not what I asked. Are you daft?”

“He didn’t say.”

Runt turns to him fully. 

“Maybe you weren’t listening,” he says, voice unpleasant. “Or you’re too stupid to comprehend what’s being said to you, you little fucker.”

“I’m not deaf, or stupid, or little,” Erik just shrugs, as forcibly careless as he can. “He didn’t tell me to come back.”

And it hurt. 

Runt scoffs—shakes his head. 

“You’ll go with me and some other men,” he spits on the ground. “We need wood for the palisade. You ever held an axe before?”

“No,” Erik lies.

A knife isn’t much, especially with someone as big and strong as Runt. But an axe in Erik’s skilled hands, used to its weight, is a chance. An opening. The wound on his head and his black eyes and broken nose and his mangled hand: he is not a thing to be defeated or conquered, and he’ll make that point with all the force he can muster. 

They spend the day felling trees for the palisade: it’s tiring work and Erik’s hands are full of splinters but it’s good to be busy. Runt and the other men keep drinking, too, in-between trees; it makes them careless and so they don’t see that at the end of the workday, one less axe returns to the pile.

Erik hides the axe in dead blackberry brambles behind an anthill to the side of the clearing. Tries to remember its location exactly, and prays to every saint he knows to keep it hidden from all other eyes. 

Night falls in the camp: moonless again. There are clouds in the skies and even the stars are less visible. Erik sneaks out. 

He sneaks out, even though he probably should know better: but Runt was drunk and tired and it seems he’s passed out because he’s on his back and his arms are crossed—but his mouth is slightly open and his head fell to the side, and he’s breathing loud. 

It’s not like Erik can run: he has the knife and the rations but it’s not enough. Even if he could find his way back to the clearing and get the axe, where would he go? What would he do?

But he needs to breathe. He needs to get out of the stuffy tent that smells like half-digested booze and old sweat, and he needs cold air of the night to sneak beneath his clothes and bite at his ribs. He needs to feel more alive—and dead. Dead and gone. 

So Erik sneaks out, quietly, into the night, with nothing else in mind but just being away, for a moment. The guards will be easy to avoid: they’re careless, assured by their numbers and the barely built palisade. 

The night smells sweet: like rotting leaves and murky water, somewhere far. Like rocky ground and the promise of winter, soon. 

He lets his eyes get used to the darkness first, looking away from torches and fires. Then, he walks.

Erik thinks about the owls: the camp’s so far from his old home that he doubts they could still have territory here. He cannot hear their echoing, mournful song as they look for each other—but he thinks of them fondly, and then something strange squeezes his heart, and it’s grief. And it hurts. 

He walks in the opposite direction of the clearing: he cannot risk any suspicion. There is a hill overlooking the forest and so he climbs it, slowly, making sure not to tire himself enough to start breathing too loud: he crosses dying grasses, half-withered, covered in nearly freezing evening dew. The wind is cold—so beautifully cold—and it caresses his skin and his swollen face and his aching hand, and lulls the grief to sleep. 

And then: from afar, a glow. A blink, like a firefly. 

Atop the hill, still paces upon paces away from him, in the soft darkness, a silhouette—and a slight turn of head as he notices Erik climbing, and the glow of his eyes is just a spark in the night. Erik freezes.

The first instinct is to turn back and run: it’s what every single nerve in his body tells him, frantic, yearning for survival. The second is to just stand there, unable to do anything. But from the depth of his wicked soul, somewhere: the need to keep walking. To climb to the top of the hill as if he wasn’t standing there.

Stand with him shoulder to shoulder, looking down at the dark forest. Pretend, for a moment, that Erik means something. That he’s someone. 

So he walks. His hands don’t tremble: the cold wind steels him. 

“You should be asleep,” the Chief’s voice is a thrilling echo in the night as Erik walks up to him and stands just two paces away. Erik doesn’t look at him, even though he feels his glowing eyes on his face. 

A wince rattles his body, unwilling. The vision of his mother, crying, seething, weeping, shrieking that he needs to fucking sleep, clawing at his cheeks as she points out his swollen eyes and the dark circles undeathneath them. Erik feels sick. 

“I don’t sleep much,” he replies, steadying his voice so it doesn’t betray how he feels. It’s bitter. He regrets he didn’t listen to his body—he should have ran back to camp.

“Mhm,” the Chief hums, looking away, down the hill at the dark stain of the forest. “Neither do I.”

Erik steadies his hands: they’ve trembled now, but only once. 

“Your steps are quiet,” the man says, as they stand side to side. “If I was human, you could have easily snuck up on me.”

Erik doesn’t answer: he doesn’t know if it’s praise or an accusation. It’s hard to believe he’s even standing—right there—next to him. 

“You don’t talk much either, do you?” The man asks, and there’s a slight note of amusement in his voice. 

“If I have nothing to say,” Erik replies, simply. 

“Commendable,” the Chief comments. There’s a heavy black coat on his shoulders, long like a cape: it makes him look like a revenant even more than his glowing, horrid eyes. Erik wonders if he can even feel cold. 

The silence that falls is electrifying: like winds right before the storm, heavy and wild, whipping you senseless before they bring forwards the thunder.

“You’ve asked me plenty questions today…” the Chief says, melodic, lifting his head slightly to look up at the skies. “Let me ask you one.”

Erik doesn’t say anything.

“Why weren’t you home?” The man asks; his face turns ever so slightly towards Erik, and he can tell it does only because of the sudden flicker of his reflective pupil. 

It’s the same question his dead father could ask him. Or his dead mother. Or the dead priest. Why? Why weren’t you home?

Madonna, alone in the forest as the wolves chase her: the sheep is lost, far in the meadow, bleating hopelessly. 

“I wanted to be alone,” Erik replies, truthfully. 

The Chief just nods. Silence covers them both, again: dispelled only by the murmur of trees swaying in the cold wind. 

“I will leave you alone now, then,” he says, and it’s half-mocking. “I hope you weren’t planning to run.”

“There is no other fate for me now, as you’ve said,” Erik says, shrugging, and it’s straightforward and honest like a blade in your guts. “It’s either this or death.”

“And you chose to live,” the Chief says, low and slithering, and looks at Erik with his horrifying eyes. 

Erik shrugs. The monster, slowly and elegantly, turns to leave—the coat flutters in the midnight wind. 

“Your blood,” Erik suddenly says, and the dark figure stops. “It heals, yes?”

“In a way,” the answer rings solemn.

“I see,” Erik answers, curt, and makes sure his eyes remain fixed on the dark forest spreading below. “Do all men get it or-”

“Absolutely not,” his voice is stern, suddenly.

“Only Runt?”

The Chief doesn’t reply—but his silence is enough. Erik absent-mindedly massages his mangled hand, still stubbornly looking ahead. 

“Question for a question,” the man says, and it’s hushed; the cold wind snakes around them both. “Where were you, when you weren’t home?”

“What use could that knowledge be to you?” Erik replies, harsh, strangely—irrationally—emboldened by the moment. By the cold—by the Chief’s hushed voice. 

In the short silence that falls, tense, he realises he made a mistake. 

“You will answer me.”

Erik inhales: the air is so cold it nearly hurts as it gets into his lungs. Fear nearly sneaks back in: the Chief’s voice has a terrifying note to it.

“In the forest, behind the village, chief, sir,” he says, and no emotions find their way into his words. He’s just fulfilling an order. “There’s a clearing. I was there.”

“Hm,” the dark figure nods. “Half an hour, I suppose… Maybe a little over it,” he says to himself—and it’s clear he wants Erik to pry.

Erik chooses not to. 

The man exhales, slowly, amused. 

“If you stayed there, in that clearing of yours, for half an hour more,” the Chief says, amusement yielding to something stranger, nearly like pity again, “you’d miss us. You’d still be free.”

“I wasn’t free before,” Erik says, still looking at the woods below. “And I’m not free now. Not as much changed as it might seem to you.” 

Silence falls for another moment. Erik can hear an animal in the woods below: roe deer, mostly likely, even though it should be asleep now. He wonders how much a thing like the man standing next to him can hear in the night. He wonders how long he was aware Erik was walking towards him before Erik noticed the glow of his eyes. 

“Your wounds,” the Chief asks after a couple of heartbeats, “do they hurt?”

Erik swallows. The roe below stopped moving. 

“Am I ordered to answer this?” He asks. “Each time you ask me something, do I have a choice?”

Erik doesn’t know why he asked that: it’s impertinent and irrational, and risky. So very risky. The man could kill him in a blink of an eye—he could prolong it, too. 

But the man doesn’t say anything: he just inhales, and lingers for a couple of seconds. Then, the Chief walks away: slowly. So slowly. The woods echo and the wind is howling—and Erik’s heart is beating so fast. As he leaves: the branches still, just for a heartbeat. 

The trees sway. 

“Come to me,” the Chief whispers, and the cold wind carries it towards Erik. “Before the dawn breaks. Come to me.”

And then: he’s gone. It’s just the wind. 

Erik stumbles towards the dark, ornamental tent like he’s drunk. He didn’t intend on it—he doesn’t want this desire, this eagerness, this readiness to go swaying through the darkness towards that one, glowing point. Ignis fatuus, there to doom him. Scent of death. Will-o'-the-wisp of the devil’s eyes, leading him into perdition. 

He clings onto the fact that it was an order. That he has no choice.

The tent is unguarded—the night is dark. Erik just walks in. The scent envelops him immediately: and, choked, he understands immediately what that scent is. It’s leather and that strange blood, yes, but it’s incense first and foremost. Like a church—like a catacomb—low rot of wet, old wood in the roof beams and the basement, and heavy like a prayer. And the more Erik tries not to think about it, the more it smells like smoke.

It’s dark.

“You came,” the Chief whispers, and it carries through the tent. “I was worried you’d run.”

“I don’t run,” Erik says. 

“Wouldn’t have left you alive otherwise,” the man hums, sitting back in the chair. The coat and armour are gone—he’s wearing something dark and soft and rich, and Erik thinks it might be silk. Shot silk, maybe: purpura, expensive and horrid, and so beautiful in the way it reflects its duality back into Erik’s dark, wide eyes. He’s only seen fabric like that once, and from afar—he wonders how it feels to the touch. 

The Chief stands up: moves to light the candles in the tent.

“They’re for your benefit,” he says, and Erik isn’t sure what the aim of these words is. “Come closer, don’t linger by the exit like a guard.”

Erik complies, for the first time truly stepping into the tent: it’s much bigger than the one he shares with Runt, and it’s richer, but it’s still quite pragmatic. It seems to be a crucial sort of balance, reflecting in the Chief as well. 

“I asked you about your wounds before,” the Chief says, “and I will ask you again, and no, it’s not an order. You don’t have to answer if you’re not willing to.”

Erik nods.

“Do they hurt?”

“The hand’s annoying,” he says, “but it’s on me. Idiotic to punch against full armour.”

“Survival,” the Chief says, leaning back against the desk. Erik wonders why his gloves are still on, while the rest of his attire is so different and relaxed already. 

“The rest is…” Erik shrugs, “It’ll heal.”

“That it will.”

Another moment of silence. The Chief’s glowing eyes flick to Erik’s neck—and he can feel his heartbeat amp up, just a little bit. 

“Have you followed what the sawbones told you to do?”

“Aye,” Erik nods. 

“Is the bandage fresh?”

“Aye.”

The Chief pushes himself gracefully off the desk: closes the distance between them in two steps and suddenly he’s close—nearly as close as he was that first night.

“Don’t move,” he says, low, “I need to see how it looks.”

Erik doesn’t move: steadies himself as hard as he can even though his heart is suddenly beating so hard it nearly hurts. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Erik says, even though it’s not entirely true. But it doesn’t hurt much: and suddenly he feels studied and judged, and he needs to be strong. The man is so close to him he can feel his breath on his skin—he didn’t know a thing like him would even breathe. 

Slowly, the Chief unravels the bandage from Erik’s neck: the touch is feather-light and his eyes are focused on the action; then, on the wound.

In the silence that falls, the Chief grimaces: his upper lip raises in disdain again, and he clicks his tongue—it’s some sort of disgust and disappointment, and Erik suddenly feels… Crushed.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says, even though he’s not sure why, and his voice nearly breaks. It’s embarrassment: fear of being looked at with disgust. 

The glowing eyes flick from the wound to his immediately. 

“You haven’t seen it, have you?” The Chief asks, half-whisper, and there’s something in his voice Erik can’t crack. 

“How would I,” he replies, simply, and tries to steady himself again because it’s all becoming too much. He didn’t bathe yet, either: he must still smell like wounds and like sweat and like hunger. The disgust in the Chief’s eyes is becoming unbearable. 

The man shakes his head slowly—then, he steps back. 

Erik swallows down another apology, trying to hold onto his pride. 

Then, the Chief moves across the tent: with a swift movement of his hand parts a veil hanging over something tall in the corner. He lights the candles there, too, and then Erik can see: it’s a mirror. He’s never seen a mirror that big: it must cost a fortune. 

“Come here,” the Chief says, waiting by the wall, and Erik walks. 

The edges of the mirror are scratched: there’s something swirling beneath its surface, murky like a lake, and there’s a green hue there that in some spots turns into copper, like rust. In the corner of it, as the Chief moves, Erik can see his reflection, too.

Then, he looks at himself, and he winces. Turns his eyes away immediately—and they fall to the Chief, standing next to the mirror and watching him carefully. Another click of tongue and the man moves: steps behind Erik, and stands there, and when Erik looks into the mirror again, he sees them both. 

But it’s such a pitiful sight—himself. 

His face is worse than it was when he would look at himself in the surface of the water: two black eyes, even though the swelling’s down, still look horrid. His nose, set now, has a cut running through it where the skin split as he was pushed down into the dirt. It’s all bruises and leftover hues of blood, and corpse-like purple right beneath his pale skin. He tries to stand tall but it’s hard: clings onto the fact that he’s strong, that his shoulders are broad, that his arms are toned already, but it’s not enough not to feel crushed. Embarrassed. 

Then he sees it: the same spot the devil’s eyes are locked onto. His neck, unwrapped. 

And it’s terrifying.

Erik can’t believe he didn’t bleed out the night before—he can’t believe it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it should. His neck is torn: the wound is a gaping abyss, ragged at the edges, like he’s been mauled by a wild animal. Even cleaned and taken care of, it looks horrid. It looks like it should have killed him. 

He lets his eyes stray for a second: looks at the Chief in the reflection. The man doesn’t look him in the eyes—he’s focused on the wound. That disgust is there, again. Could it be: that he’s not disgusted with Erik—but with his own handiwork? 

“I was horribly hungry,” the man says. Explains himself. It rattles Erik with some surprising unease; he doesn’t know what to say so he just keeps looking into his glowing eyes in the mirror. “It shouldn’t… It shouldn’t look like this.”

Erik feels his heart in his throat: looks at the wound again.

“It’ll scar,” the man says.

Erik swallows, and nods. Then, he shrugs—forces himself to appear nonchalant—and it makes the devil behind him chuckle. 

“There’s a lot of pride in you,” he says, looking at Erik’s body in the reflection: Erik looks at him, carefully tracking his every move. The Chief makes sure their eyes don’t meet. “You need to make sure it’s not your downfall.”

“I don’t think I have anything to be proud of,” escapes Erik before he can bite his tongue. 

“It’s not the same,” the Chief’s voice is softer, for a moment, as his gaze still trails slowly all over Erik’s body. “Your pride is a part of you, no matter if you want it or think you deserve it.”

“Maybe.”

“Your pride is what doomed you,” the man whispers, “and what saved you, too. You refused to die kneeling. You refused to die, at all.”

Erik clenches his jaw. He looks at himself in the hazy surface of the mirror: the candle flame flickers all around him.

“Your pride is what makes you talk to me as if I couldn’t kill you in a heartbeat,” the Chief finishes, and his eyes are once more fixed on Erik’s torn throat. 

“It will scar,” he repeats, more to himself. “It’ll be an ugly scar, too.”

He looks at Erik’s neck from up close in the silence that falls when Erik doesn’t reply—he hums to himself, suddenly.

“What’s this scar from?” He asks, and it’s once more a whisper that seems to reach Erik’s bones. A rough shadow of a loop around Erik’s throat; hardly visible during the day, nearly impossible to spot in the dimmed darkness of the tent. 

“Rope,” Erik replies and his voice is raspy. 

The man behind him stills. Erik focuses on the reflection, looking at his boots. 

“Why?”

Erik feels his throat tighten.

“Is this question an order?” He whispers back. “Chief, sir?”

The monster behind him inhales, as if surprised. He doesn’t reply—instead, he raises his gloved hand slowly to Erik’s neck. His fingers trace the outline of the old scar, barely touching the skin—then, they linger at the edge of the fresh wound. 

It hurts: but a different tremble rattles Erik’s body, too, and it’s much scarier than pain. Erik inhales, shaky. The Chief stands so close behind him he can feel him against his own body, ever so slightly.

“The bruising looks beautiful,” he murmurs, and Erik can feel his breath on his skin, and it terrifies him, and his heart beats so fast he’s scared it echoes through the tent. “On skin as pale as yours.”

Erik doesn’t say anything—but he looks at himself in the mirror, trying not to look at the Chief, and forces himself to withstand the wince that ripples through his body again at the sight of himself. 

“And the dark circles underneath your eyes because you refuse to sleep,” the Chief continues, “and the scars you keep to yourself.”

Madonna with the lamb in her arms and the fleece is dark-red, its throat slit. 

“You wince looking in the mirror while you should stand tall,” the Chief whispers, “in awe.”

The tent smells like the Chief—and like smoke, slithering, from a candle suddenly put out by a gust of wind sneaking in. Gloved fingers touch the edge of torn flesh: it stings. The disgust he saw before: the Chief was disgusted with his own work—not him.

In his gaze now, trailing on Erik’s skin, there is no trace of disgust. It’s all… Erik clenches his jaw hard enough to hurt just so he doesn’t think about what he sees in the Chief’s gaze. 

“It’s always violent,” the Chief says, low, and his voice goes through Erik in waves. “But it can be… Less ugly than this.”

Erik inhales, slowly. The Chief moves—shifts to the other side of Erik—and takes off his gloves.

“I’ll show you,” he says, quiet and reverberating. “It can be beautiful.”

Erik knows he should brace but he’s just standing there, heartbeat in his fingertips, and a chill in his spine. 

“It can feel beautiful, too,” the Chief murmurs. “Tilt your head.”

And Erik complies: bares his neck, withstanding the pain it causes to the wound on the other side of it. Watches himself in the mirror, bathed in the flickering light of candles shaking in the draft sneaking around the tent. Watches the Chief’s eyes fixed on his throat. 

Skin on skin, suddenly, as the devil’s bare hand touches his neck—to shift it, ever so slightly, and steady himself. The other hand sneaks under his ribs, again, in the same spot it did the night before. His hand is cold—like the biting winter wind—but the touch itself burns. 

In the murky, scratched reflection of the mirror, Erik watches the Chief open his mouth: the fangs flash, again, but it’s different than the first time. It only borders on need—it’s controlled, steady. Elegant. 

Not any less terrifying.

And then, it’s a mix of pain as the fangs break skin—and pleasure, dark and horrid, as the Chief’s mouth closes on his neck. It goes through Erik in waves, rippling, touching every muscle and every vein: he feels his knees getting weaker but he keeps standing, and he can hear his heartbeat slow down, the same way he can feel the Chief press against his body from behind. For a brief second, it seems like he can feel the devil’s heartbeat, awaken, against his back. 

And the devil drinks, and drinks, and drinks—and it is beautiful, and it feels like it, too. Erik would feel shame if not for the fact that his whole body and mind are suddenly possessed by one, overwhelming wave.

Pride. 

He looks at himself in the mirror and he sees it: the swirling, rich hues of bruises, the marble-like pallor, the tremor in his muscles right beneath the skin—the way he stands tall even as the devil drinks from him, no fear in his heart. All resolve—all pride. And he feels the Chief’s hair brush against his skin, soft, as he presses his face closer, nearly nuzzling his neck; and he feels his body pressed hard against him, in hunger that crosses the simple need for blood. 

It’s that pride that makes Erik keep looking into the mirror—and it’s that pride that makes him tense his muscles; to be strong, to stand tall. 

And then, as he does so: a sound, somewhere deep in the devil’s throat, between a hum, melodic—and a moan. His fingers press harder into Erik’s ribs, unwittingly. The sound and the sensation shoot through Erik’s body, awakening every nerve and every hidden desire, every need he himself does not dare acknowledge: and it’s more pride now, pride, overwhelming, because that sound, it’s all Erik’s doing. 

He’s still drinking: but his eyes flutter open. Rise: meet Erik’s in the dizzying reflection of the mirror. The glow is stronger, different: even more maddening, impossible, out of this world. Erik holds his gaze. And holds. And holds, and his head turns, and his heart threatens to break his ribs as it thrashes in his chest. 

And then the Chief pulls away, slowly: and not with a strange guttural sound like the previous night—but with a sigh. Content. Satisfied. Soft. 

The wound is still bleeding: a slow trickle of blood rolls down Erik’s neck, onto his collarbone, soaks into the shirt. 

He’s still holding me, Erik thinks. 

The Chief raises his thumb to his mouth: licks it, and then wipes it across the bite. And it stops bleeding. Erik feels hot shame wash over him as he realises he wishes desperately the Chief wouldn’t use his fingers but just lick him closed. 

“Wasn’t this better?” The Chief asks, hushed, still holding his gaze in the mirror. His hand slowly moves away from Erik’s body—but he’s still standing close.

“Yes,” Erik says simply. 

The Chief inhales sharply, as if that one word alone meant much more than it does: he lets himself linger for a second, thighs and stomach and chest still pressed against Erik—then, he moves back, just an inch. 

“Question for a question,” Erik whispers. The trickle of blood, smeared, slowly dries on his skin. 

The devil tilts his head: nods, expectantly.

“Chief, sir,” Erik says, and it feels strange to say it when the man’s mouth has just been against his skin—when his lips are reddened with his blood, “what’s… What’s your name, sir?”

Chief’s eyebrows rise: he smiles despite himself, a sharp smirk, slightly surprised. 

“István,” he says, and his breath tickles Erik’s neck. “But you are not to use it.”

“Of course,” Erik replies, still holding his gaze in the mirror. “Sir.”

Silence falls, again, for a moment: the Chief moves to the mirror to let the veil fall over it again. It puts out some of the candles, and the tent is even darker. 

“You still haven’t eaten anything,” he says suddenly. “You have to eat, especially now.”

“How do you know?” Erik asks, bold, as he fixes his shirt. He fixes his hose, too, sneakily, and then searches for the bandage that was taken off his neck. 

“You can tell from the blood,” the Chief explains, putting out the candles around the tent slowly with his fingers. They make a soft hissing sound before dying. “Eat.”

Erik nods. As the tent becomes darker, he notices faint lines of light sneaking in right on the bottom of the walls, where the tent meets the ground.

“It’s dawn already,” the Chief says. “Go. Eat and sleep at least an hour or two.”

Erik nods, again. There is a question he wants to ask but is too proud to allow it—he hopes the Chief will just say it himself.

But he doesn’t. He chooses a different question instead, then.

“Do you? Sleep?”

The Chief tilts his head, watching him in the darkness of the tent.

“Too many questions for one night, boy,” he says. It’s cold—but it’s not harsh. 

“I’ll ask again, then, next time,” Erik shrugs, and turns to leave the tent. 

Sun rises slowly over the camp as he walks out: the day will be cold, he knows, and he feels a chill somewhere deep in his bones that mixes, dangerously, with the warmth of pride and excitement in his veins. 

As Erik walks across the camp grounds to reach his tent, and eat, and sleep, he lets himself whisper out loud:

“István,” it feels bittersweet on his tongue. “István, István, István.”

It tastes like sin. 

Chapter Text

It is late morning, nearly noon: all of the camp is already awake and busy, and Erik dreams of something vaguely familiar—soft and warm—when a hard kick to the side of the cot rattles him awake.

“Wake the fuck up, princess,” Runt spits out, looking down at Erik trying to shield his eyes from the light and rub sleep out of them. “Or should I have heralds come wake you with royal fucking trumpets?”

“Eat shit,” Erik grumbles, scrambling to sit up, “trumpet.”

Runt scoffs, crossing his arms; for a second Erik wonders how he can even achieve the motion, with the bulging muscles of his arms and his chest being like that. 

“More trees needing chopping,” the man says, watching him get up impatiently. “No fucking sitting on your arse, freeloading.”

Erik shrugs, reaching for his belt and his boots. And then: everything swirls in a haze of colours and lights, and his head turns—his vision dims and suddenly Runt’s broad hand is on his shoulder, trying to steady him. He sits back on the cot with a loud thud, hardly able to remain upright: everything is turning and even words refuse to form, and Runt’s hand seems to be the only thing anchoring him still to consciousness.

“What the fuck?” The man gives him a slight shake, and Erik’s head sways on his shoulders. “If you still haven’t eaten I’m going to fu-”

“No, I ate,” Erik mumbles, pawing at Runt’s hand to get it off. “I’m just-”

Standing over him, the man lets go of his shoulder and instead grabs him by the chin, forcing his head to the side. The motion hurts but Erik tries to just focus on not falling over. 

“Aha,” Runt mutters, “mystery solved.”

Erik has no strength to fight him off in any way—so he just sits, woozy, grimacing, and lets Runt look at the other side of his neck where the bandage slipped in his sleep. His hand is annoyingly warm and the callouses rough against Erik’s irritated skin; his thumb brushes, hard, against the fresh wound. It stings; it feels wrong. Erik wishes Runt hadn't done that. It’s not his to touch.

“Good,” Runt adds while sounding definitely put-off. “Whole reason you’re here.”

Erik tries to stand up—it’s pride, unreasonable—and Runt pushes him back onto the cot. The air in the tent is stuffy and everything is still turning and swirling.

“Nah, stay here, you’re useless like this,” Runt shakes his head. “Probably didn’t eat enough either, you stupid fucker.”

“I ate,” Erik gets out through gritted teeth; he’d argue more but it's hard to talk. 

“If you’re not up and in the clearing in an hour,” Runt says, hands at the buckle of his belt, “that nose of yours is going to need setting again.”

Fuck you, Erik wants to say, but his mouth is all mush and his head turns again. Runt leaves, scoffing mockingly again: saying something crude and horrible about Erik but he can’t even focus enough to decipher it. He just lets his head fall back and lies, and stares at the tent’s ceiling while shadows dance before his eyes maddeningly. 

Fainting is not a foreign sensation: it had happened to him before, when he was younger. It hadn’t happened in a long time. 

Erik knows he should be mad. He should be angry, he should be disgusted: he’s weak and unsteady because of him. Because of the one who not only slaughtered everyone he knew in the hole he called home—but then nearly killed him, too, and took him, and pressed himself against his body, and drank from him, and it should feel violating but instead it’s warm. It’s something warm and it beckons him to go back to sleep, and he wants to be angry but he isn’t—not now. The covers are soft. 

Erik steadies his breathing: invites sleep back in to help him through that weakness, and his body begins to calm—but no sleep wants to come, not yet. He just lies there, muting out the noise of the camp coming in from beyond the thin tent, in the swirling post-dream warmth.

He raises his hand, slowly, to his neck, to fix the slipping bandage: wants to chase Runt’s rough touch away, half-aware, and so he swipes his own thumb across the wound—and a coiling stirring reappears as he touches it: smaller and deliberate, nearly elegant as far as wounds can go… And then that desire pools in his stomach even hotter as remembers the Chief’s mirroring motion, slick with spit, across the bleeding marks. 

Breath speeding up, the weight of the previous night suddenly falls on him: the heavy-lidded glowing gaze, reflected back at him, as he drank; the warmth of breath, horrid, on his neck, and the whisper in his ear, and the feeling of the devil’s body pressed flush against him, fingers digging into his ribs. 

Madonna with—Madonna—Madonna—and it’s no longer there. The vision of the hopeless lamb dissipates, as suddenly his mind goes entirely blank for a second, and his heart drops like a stone—because he feels his braies tightening and his thighs tensing, and it should be terrifying but instead it’s simply needy.
They tried to beat shame into him when he was just a boy and it never worked. It’s just like hunger and the need to sleep: it’s just how your body works. Call and response. Base, honest loop of the body—like eating when you’re hungry, like sleeping when you’re tired, a need disallowing refusal. Like being out in the sun, sweltering, sweating, and thirst leading you to water, and drinking, and swelling, and then the pleasure of pissing, warm ripples rushing through you. What shame would be there, and what for?

Even if his loop had always been off: even when his body always seemed to stray, strangely, and react this way to things it shouldn’t, smells or sights or sensations—it still was just the body thing to do. Shame seems a useless thing.

And yet he doesn’t bring his hand down: he doesn’t let himself grab his cock right away like he wants to, and he tries to still his own hips that are reflexively moving to find at least a trace of friction against the rough fabric of his underclothes—because, painfully ironically, it’s what the Chief planted in him the night before that stops him.

The pride.

Giving in would be easy: it would feel good, and it would push the yearning for cold and death and blood from his mind, and the lamb would stop bleating as if slaughtered, and it would calm his nerves the way it always did, at least for a while. But perhaps because it’s easy—because it’d be giving in—he refuses himself.

He refuses himself: flips onto the side, facing the wall, to make sure no one walking in will see his state before enough time passes for him to soften. The unfortunate pressure of his own thighs against him spurs him again into his hips bucking; but he grits his teeth, exhales, and closes his eyes to sleep. 

One more hour of rest. He had never been this tired. He had never lost this much blood. 

Before sleep claims him, again, shallow and shifting, his hand absent-mindedly travels to his neck once more: fingers circling the wound the same they would the head of his cock if he allowed himself, and he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and it feels good—and then he falls asleep. 

When Erik leaves to join the rest of the men in the clearing, the sun is high in the skies: but the air is cold and there’s a northern wind blowing that brings about the faraway smell of smoke and the threat of winter, right behind the corner. He wonders when the first snow will fall; it’s a strange realisation to have, knowing this will mark the first time in his life when he won’t be seeing it fall on the rooftops of his village.

As he gets there, it becomes clear that he overslept more significantly than he thought: the men are all already tired and sweaty and rather cross with him, and most of the work seems to be complete. 

He feels his heart in his throat as he hopes no one discovered the one axe, hidden away by the anthill. 

“There she is,” Runt says, mockingly. It’s so cold outside: but he’s only wearing his hose and leg armour, and nothing else, and there’s sweat running down his bare chest—steam billowing from his heated skin. “Slept well?”

“Fuck you,” Erik says simply. Looks around for a free axe—surely more wood is needed for the palisade. 

Runt laughs, wiping the sweat off his forehead: then, the laughter stops, worryingly abruptly. 

“You say that again, pup,” the man says, eyeing him. “Go on.”

Suddenly Erik realises all the other men in the clearing are looking at him: some in worry, some in surprise, most of them in disdain. 

“Deaf, eh?” Erik asks, trying not to grit his teeth too much. “I said: fuck you.”

Runt nods. Then: he throws his axe to the side. Someone inhales sharply in anticipation, someone laughs.

Erik holds his ground, even though he probably should have considered running. 

“Listen, our Moravian princess,” Runt grins, and it’s very nasty and mocking. “You either learn your place… Or you’ll have it bludgeoned into that stupid head of yours.”

Erik scoffs, bracing.

“You calling me stupid is particularly funny,” he replies. “Given I’m surprised you even know which end of the axe to hold.”

Runt’s eyebrows rise: then, he laughs. 

“You think you won’t get your arse kicked,” he says, still laughing, “just because the chief needs something to nibble on on the side?”

Erik should know better. He should play the long game. But the memory of that first night is still very much alive in his mind: his broken nose and mangled hand, and the humiliation of being overpowered. 

“Jealous?” Erik asks, simply and directly, crossing his arms. He’s still woozy: his pride truly threatens to be his downfall. Runt looks at him—so do all the other men—and silence falls for a brief second. Then: the man pouts. 

“Aw,” Runt replies simply, tutting. Mocking: shattering, and a little bit like pity. Pity at Erik’s transparency.

Uneven, burning blush creeps up Erik’s neck and jaw. Runt just shakes his head, shooting a telling look to the other men—then, he picks up his axe again, and gets back to work, ignoring Erik entirely.

It’s infuriating; Erik clenches his jaw and his fists, and focuses on the fact that at least, no one has found the axe he hid to the side of the clearing.

For the next couple of days, the camp is busy: two scouting parties are sent out, new resources are brought and divided; one of the horses has to be put down and cut up for the meat to be preserved, and the palisade turns out to be tiring work with the ground already being hardened by overnight frost. 

Erik finds himself falling into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm of everything: it is clear he’s the lowest in the camp hierarchy and plenty of the tasks that fall to him are menial, but he doesn’t mind. Even the men aren’t the worst company to keep by the fire in the evenings. 

The wounds are healing well: the sawbones provides him with a good supply of the herbal tincture and no longer makes any comments—there is still some worry and sadness in the man’s eyes but it seems to be calming, especially now that it’s been days since Erik’s been… Invited into the tent. 

In fact, it hasn’t happened again. 

The rhythm of the camp is a bit peculiar in one aspect: even though Erik hasn’t been called to the tent at any point, he’s seen the Chief a couple of times. Always right after the sun’s gone from the skies: sometimes it’s the Chief riding out with some of his men, hushed orders and obedience so absolute it makes Erik wonder if there is some ungodly secret there, too. Sometimes it’s the Chief taking stock of the camp, checking the state of the palisade or being consulted by the men setting up the new kitchen tents or appraising loot. Then, the camp falls asleep, with the exception of the men chosen to ride out with the Chief: those men return at dawn, and then are allowed to sleep throughout the day. 

Erik doesn’t sleep much. He makes sure to always be up before dawn—catch the Chief riding back into the camp, heavy cloak over his body and dark hood over his head—always as inconspicuous as he can, and far from any attempt at being noticed. He only wants to learn as much as he can. He’s not sure why he hasn’t been called to the tent again: he’s even less certain whether it’s mercy or whether he should be worried. So he watches. Observes. Remembers. 

He does the same with Runt: he observes the man carefully, each day.

A curious thing becomes apparent as they work together in the clearing and in the camp: Runt is incredibly strong. He likes to boast that strength, too. But day after day, Erik notes, that strength lessens just a little bit. One less tree brought down. One more break through the day. Finishing just a little bit earlier. Choosing to pick up just a tiny bit less to carry.

Unnoticeable to anyone else: very stark and apparent—and of great interest—to Erik. 

Runt’s not been called to the tent either, not since that very first night when he was given the Chief’s blood to heal.

Must be the blood, Erik thinks, watching the man quietly. Tries not to recall the smell. 

If it doesn’t just heal—but makes you stronger, too—then Runt getting it is a sign of surprising favour. Or simply being considered a tool; either or.

Then, Erik realises that if he ever wants to have a chance against Runt—and that’s crucial—he has to level the playing field. Either ensure, somehow, that Runt is not getting the blood… Or finding a way to get some himself.

Ideally, Erik thinks to himself, both. 

Some nights, Erik sneaks out past the guards: onto the hill, away from the camp, overlooking the dark forest. The Chief isn’t there any of those nights; each time, Erik veers between relief and bitterness at that fact.

Still, he doesn’t mind being alone—having time to think and breathe in the cold air—and one night, he even thinks he can hear the mourning, echoing call of owls somewhere far away. 

The day was particularly unpleasant: cold and rainy, and the wind was so strong the men had to secure some of the tents at the edge of the camp with additional stakes. Not much other work got done—two parties rode out, again, weapons in hand—and it made Erik restless. The sun is nearly setting. 

The Chief still hasn’t called on him: at this point, Erik starts assuming he’s feeding when he’s out of the camp, on someone else among the mercenaries or some unfortunate, unlucky villagers or travelling merchants.

I don’t feed on just anyone, rings out in Erik’s head in István's voice and cadence. 

Erik should be glad he’s not being called to give his blood to the devil. He should be glad he has the time to actually be useful: to heal, to work, to get stronger. He should be glad he’s not weakened and torn from the devil drinking from him.

He’s not.

“Ey, boy,” someone says, pulling him out of his thoughts. “You’re not with the scouting party?”

“No,” Erik replies, raising his eyes at the man. Stupid question, he thinks, as clearly I’m sitting right in front of you. “Why?” He asks instead. 

“Can you ride a horse?”

“Sort of,” Erik’s voice falters a bit, hesitant. 

“Some horses need to be taken out, they haven’t been ridden in way too long,” the man says. “It don’t seem you got anything else to do. Care to help?”

“Aye,” he nods, and follows the man to the stables. “A bit late to take them out.”

“It was raining the whole day,” the man shrugs. “Besides, didn’t want to bother-” He clears his throat. “Well, one of them horses, she's a bit different.”

Erik knows which one. He suspects why she’s different, too. 

She’s kept away from the other horses, in the only part of the stable that’s sturdy and with planks or fabric covering each opening in the walls and the roof: a black point bay mare, quiet but clearly restless.

“Don’t get too near or she’ll go mad,” the man shakes his head. “She kicks and fucking bites, stay away! Come help me with this one instead, he’s a stubborn prick.”

And so Erik spends the afternoon helping with the horses: there weren’t many horses in the village, and certainly none that belonged to Erik’s family—but he had some experience, and the man turns out patient and more than willing to teach him what he can, and Erik soaks in all the knowledge he’s able to. 

He finds himself enjoying it, too: there is honest simplicity in learning how to approach the animals and how to get into their routine, and how to keep himself in the dirt cheap spare saddle—when before he was only ever able to sneak a ride or two bareback. 

It’s already dark when the man calls to him to make sure all the horses are back in the stables for the night: tells him it’s high time to get back to camp and rest. But he also looks at him with slight hesitation, as Erik hangs the saddle across the wooden fencing.

“What?” Erik asks, blunt, turning around to look at him. To his surprise—and satisfaction—the man flinches slightly. 

“You know, at first,” the man seems worried but pushes through, “I thought you’re… Like, one of them.”

“One of them?” Erik asks, looking down at the man with an unmoved expression. 

“Aye, like… The chief,” the man coughs out. “On account of you looking a bit… Well, a bit-”

Erik doesn’t say anything: just watches him. 

“Dead, like,” the man says at last. His eyes unwittingly gloss over Erik’s pale, bruised skin, and the dark circles under his eyes. “But I can see I was wrong and…” His gaze darts to Erik’s bandaged neck, only half-hidden by his clothes. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Erik lies, and it comes easily, and it’s good to watch the man’s eyes widen in slight surprise. In being impressed. 

“And you’re sure you’re not…” The man is clearly struggling to hold his composure. “You don’t feel… Different?”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know,” the man shrugs. “I guess we were just worried that you might… Like, become one of them or something, too.”

Can you? Erik thinks. Become one of them?

“Were the horses an excuse to feel me out?” Erik asks instead and crosses his arms: he didn’t plan on coming across as threatening but the man is clearly slightly worried, and it does feel good. 

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “Well, a bit, maybe. But- I’m sorry, like. The men were worried. Now I can tell them you’re just the same as we are.”

Erik chooses not to say anything. 

“This is just a first for us,” the man shrugs, turning an old horseshoe in his hands. “The chief’s never, well. He’s never spared anyone. When he,” he swallows, his face pale and slightly green suddenly, “when he feeds.”

Erik tilts his head slightly to the side, eyeing the man. 

“He always kills them,” the man continues, unasked, as if he felt some overwhelming need to get it all off his shoulders. “Or they’re in such a state that we just put them out of their misery.”

Erik nods. There’s a thousand questions he wants to ask: but he knows, very well, that it’s often being quiet that’s more likely to make people’s tongues untangle. 

“But it seems he just,” he puts the horseshoe away, awkwardly. “Well, we all found ourselves here one way or another. You might have started off… Different, but you’re the same as us.”

Erik uncrosses his arms, slowly. 

“If you need help with the horses again,” he says, “let me know. This was good.”

The man’s relief is nearly palpable: he nods at Erik, nearly smiling politely, and quickly turns. 

“Let’s get back to camp, it’s late.”

As they leave, Erik turns around for a brief moment: looks at the strange mare across the darkness, and there’s a slight glow to the horse’s eyes—and she’s looking at him, too, and it seems she’s less restless than before. 

One night, Runt catches Erik waking up before dawn and leaving the tent to observe whether the Chief rides in; Erik’s quiet and good at sneaking around but this one particular time Runt’s too rattled by some sort of pervasive insomnia, and his sleep is shallow. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks, hostile and hushed. 

“Going to piss,” Erik replies, shrugging. “Where the fuck do you think?”

Runt eyes him cautiously, scratching the side of his neck: the stubble makes a rough sound in the silence of the tent. 

“Go piss,” he says, getting up. “And that’s enough of sleep for tonight for you. There’s shit we gotta do so we’ll start early today.”

“It’s not even dawn yet,” Erik bites back. “I’m not fucking doing anything in the dark.”

“Right,” Runt looks at him with a half-amused grimace. “I’d make a joke about a little boy being scared of the dark… But gotta give credit where credit’s due, you actually latch onto the dark like a mongrel pup to a bitch’s teat.”

“Very wordy sentence for you, Runt,” Erik says, leaving the tent. “Careful or you’ll tire yourself out.”

Erik’s halfway through pissing—although it’s more of an attempt, given he didn’t need to go and it’s a stupid sort of lie—when Runt leaves the tent as well, announcing his presence by spitting loudly on the ground. Before Erik can even do anything, the man walks right past him: unceremoniously looks down. His eyebrows rise, ever so slightly: Erik clenches his jaw and just tucks himself back into his braies, but there must have been a shadow of crimson blooming across his neck and cheeks even in the dark because Runt whistles.

“Well, Saint Eligius and all other saints in heaven,” he says, nasty grin in his voice. “The lasses would have loved you if you weren’t this fucking strange otherwise.”

“Fuck off,” Erik grumbles; the cold night air banishes the blush very quickly, and most of what remains is just anger. 

“We could earn good coin hauling you from town to town,” Runt continues, walking across camp and clearly expecting Erik to follow him. “Show you off during market days, make the days of those dried up noble cunts a bit brighter.”

“Where are we going?” Erik asks instead, deciding the very idea of talking about his cock with Runt of all people is too ridiculous to entertain. 

“To wake up our dear combat master,” he replies, stretching slowly as he walks. “In my opinion, all you’re good for is digging latrines and feeding horses. Can’t even hold an axe properly,” Runt’s voice is unpleasant but largely unbothered; Erik forces himself not to smile at the fact that his honest attempts to look like he can’t handle an axe are paying off. 

“Right,” he says simply.

“But the men are of the mind that you might be helpful if push comes to shove,” Runt adds. “And help if anything happens when we’re gone.”

“Gone? Where? When?”

“Fuck off,” Runt says simply. “Don’t get too curious.”

They arrive at the opposite end of the camp: it’s still dark and few torches are lit, and everyone is still asleep. Runt opens the flap abruptly and barges in.

“Good fucking morning!” He yells, quite loud, kicking the side of the combat master’s bed. “The day starts early today!”

The man grumbles and scrambles to get up, looking at Runt with half-confused fury. 

“What the- Ah,” he stops himself seeing Erik standing outside. “Right.”

“Morning,” Erik says simply, crossing his arms. The man sighs, exasperated.

“Really, this couldn’t wait until-” He starts but falters beneath the weight of unpleasant gazes from both Runt—and Erik. “Right. Alright.”

“Good girl,” Runt grins. The man just shakes his head and gathers his things strewn about the tent in the dark. 

“Have you ever held a sword, boy?” The combat master asks as he leaves the tent. They’re walking towards the makeshift pen: the skies, deep towards east, slowly brighten.

“You’ve been in my village during the raid,” Erik replies, low and neutral, “and I’m fairly certain you helped our blacksmith depart this world. Did it look like a smithy that makes fucking swords to you?”

The combat master grimaces; Runt whistles again, impressed for the second time. 

“Careful,” he says, patting the combat master on the back with unnecessary force. “The pup bites.”

Erik wants to say something—bite back—but instead he focuses on Runt again. He doesn’t look too good: he clearly got no sleep that night. Perhaps it is connected: lack of sleep and lack of Chief’s blood. Perhaps it’s some sort of withdrawal, sneakily setting in. 

The training goes well: despite the combat master’s slight drowsiness and Runt’s unnecessary, harsh comments, Erik finds the rhythm to the basics of swordfighting quite intuitive. His hand still hasn’t healed and it proves to be the most annoying part of the whole endeavour: his grip isn’t as strong as he’d like it to be, and with a stronger parry the combat master manages to fully knock the blunt weapon out of his hands. 

Erik swallows down a curse and reaches down to grab the sword—but suddenly Runt’s boot is on the blade, pinning it down. There is no other reason for him to do it: just to piss him off. The combat master opens his mouth to say something—and then they’re interrupted by the sound of hooves as three riders return to the camp. 

Erik feels his heart speed up at the sight of the rider at the very front: heavy cloak draping across his body, the hood of it only halfway on his head—and then quickly uses Runt’s momentary distraction to pick up the sword.

The Chief slowly rides towards the pen, letting his horse slow down to a lazy trot. 

“Morning, chief,” Runt says, stepping back from Erik. The combat master straightens his back: nods respectfully. 

“Not yet morning,” the Chief replies, looking down at them from the saddle. “Whose idea was it to start this early?”

“The pup’s impatient, chief,” Runt tuts, shaking his head in feigned concern. “Who am I to tell him no?”

There’s a shadow of amusement on the Chief’s lips as he turns his head towards Erik: his eyes slowly trail from his neck to his arms, and the sword in his hands. 

“Disrespectful,” he says, eyeing him curiously. “Not to even say good morning to your chief.”

“Not yet morning,” Erik says, “but morning, sir.” Doesn’t dwell on whether he should apologise, too; then, he turns his eyes away trying to seem uninterested in whether he made the Chief fight back a smile or not.

The combat master moves to put his sword away—and suddenly, the Chief’s mare whinnies angrily, stepping in place.

“Easy now,” the Chief murmurs under his breath, leather of his glove creaking as he tightens the reins—and the horse calms down. Erik’s breathing speeds up a little: both the sound and the motion burrow into his mind. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. Resume,” he says, gesturing with his hand. 

“Oh, chief, you don’t really want to see this,” Runt laughs, crossing his arms and watching with smug joy how Erik fights himself not to grimace or retort. “He barely knows which end of the sword’s for holding.”

Erik doesn’t say anything: fidgets slightly with the sword in his hand, turning the hilt. It’s heavier than the axe he’s used to and his arm is already tired; he really hopes the Chief won’t actually want to witness his further training. The combat master walks away to the other end of the pen, clearly unhappy about the way the Chief’s horse keeps looking at him.

“Maybe I do want to watch,” The Chief hums, looking at Runt. 

“I can come up with better things for you to watch, chief,” Runt replies, and it’s brazen and there is not an ounce of respect in his voice. This time Erik does grimace: but stays quiet.

“Mhm, I’m sure,” the Chief eyes Runt slowly again. 

You should be furious, Erik thinks. Put him in his place. But instead you-

“Besides,” Runt continues, swaying nonchalantly back and forth on his heels. “He’s got enough for one day, I think. At least one of his arms will be sore for days.”

The Chief looks at him with slight exasperation: but it’s more amused than stern and Erik really doesn’t fucking like that fact. 

“Getting tired so quickly?” He asks, turning his gaze to Erik. 

Embarrassment comes over him in a sticky, unpleasant wave: and the frustrating need to prove the Chief otherwise follows. He hasn’t talked to the man in so many days: and now the first thing he’s told is being mocked. 

“Well, look at him, chief,” Runt shrugs. 

“I suppose not everyone,” the devil hums, slightly cruel, “has the same stamina you do, Runt.”

The Chief shoots Runt another look, another slight smirk, and his voice is just a little bit too low—and it makes Runt grin just a little bit too filthily. And Erik swallows down all the horrid feelings he doesn’t want to name out of pride, and forces himself to shrug. 

“Give me a month and I’ll take you,” he spits out, looking at Runt with hostility.

“Oh, aye,” the man grins, “sure as shit.”

The Chief doesn’t say anything: just looks at them from the saddle, curious. 

“We can make a wager,” Erik says, trying to sound like he doesn’t care. Tries not to look at the Chief, too, just holding him in the corner of his vision instead.

“You don’t have any coin, you stupid little fucker.”

“I will, in a month,” Erik replies, holding his head high. Weighs the training sword in his hand absent-mindedly. 

“You know what?” Runt laughs, rough. “Alright. But your patron Saint Eligius better watch over you.”

Erik scoffs. The tension between them nearly reverberates through the cold air. 

“Why Saint Eligius?” The Chief asks, shifting in the saddle to get his steed to move again; presses the reins slightly to her neck to get her to turn beyond the pen, towards the stables. 

“Good fucking question,” Erik mutters, and to his dismay it makes Runt laugh.

The Chief turns his eyes to him: tilts his head.

“Do you know what Saint Eligius is the patron of, boy?” He asks.

“No,” Erik shrugs, and feels red crawl up his neck again. How the fuck would I know.

Runt keeps laughing, and it’s rude and obscene, and his eyes dart from Erik to the Chief and back. 

The Chief looks at Runt—their eyes lock for a second—then he looks back at Erik and his gaze trails down, for some fucking reason, for just the briefest moment.

“Horses, boy,” he says, looking him in the eyes again, and there’s cruel amusement in his voice that he doesn’t even try to hide. “Eligius’s the patron of horses.”

Erik feels his ears turn crimson: and Runt’s still fucking laughing to himself, satisfied. The Chief turns his eyes away, pulls the hood over his head, and clicks his tongue at his steed to ride away towards the stables without another word.

Erik waits a short moment: to make sure the Chief’s far away into the camp already. The skies are getting brighter with every minute. 

“Really?” He asks, his ears still burning. Runt just shrugs. 

“You should be flattered,” Runt says, laughing. “The Chief clearly no longer gives a shit enough to feed from you… Might as well advertise the only other quality you might have going for you.”

Erik scoffs, moving to walk past him—purposefully bumps against Runt’s shoulder as he passes him. And Runt stops laughing. Then, he sighs to himself.

Then, quicker than Erik realises what’s happening, he feels a crushingly hard grasp on his arm—and then he’s pulled to the side, and down, and onto his knees again. And he tries to resist it: Runt’s not as strong as he was during the raid but he’s still fucking strong, and big, and his second hand joins and fully pushes him into the ground. Erik attempts to push back: force his body upwards, but suddenly Runt’s knee is on his back, pressing into his spine debilitatingly, and the only thing Erik can do is tilt his head to the side before it’s pushed into the frozen ground of the pen to avoid getting his nose broken again. 

Runt’s squeezing his arm hard, forcing him to unclench his fingers curled around the hilt of the training sword: even once he lets go of the weapon, Runt’s grasp doesn’t lessen.

“Listen here, you little cunt,” Runt presses his knee even harder into his back, making Erik groan out loud—leans forward over his body to speak directly into his ear. “If you want me to beat the shit out of you, just say so. I’ll indulge you out of the goodness of my fucking heart.”

His knee digs into his back with force enough to stop Erik from being able to breathe. Erik stills—waits for Runt to let up at least a tiny little bit—and when that happens, he twists his body to get away and turns, hitting Runt in the side of his head, landing the blow right on his ear. 

Runt huffs, grimacing, and punches Erik—still pinned under him—in the ribs, knocking out his breath fully. Erik just lies there, trying to get any air into his lungs, as Runt stands up and spits right next to his head. 

“Learn your fucking place,” he says, cracking his neck, nearly unbothered. “You’re only making this difficult for yourself.”

Erik doesn’t say anything: manages to catch his breath and slowly sits up, aching all over. 

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” Runt spits again, then offers him his hand to help him up. “On account of it being Sunday tomorrow, at last.”

Erik looks at his extended hand: grimaces and decides to ignore it, instead trying getting up on his own—and the extended hand, suddenly, hits him hard, flat against his chest, making him fall onto his arse again. 

“Stupid little fucker,” Runt shakes his head. Then he turns to leave, nodding at the rather worried combat master lurking in the corner of the pen awkwardly. “Have fun training tomorrow. Better apply yourself, you’ll be the dog guarding the camp once we ride off soon.”

Erik massages his arm: it hurts horribly and he’s sure it’ll bruise. 

“What’s on Sunday?” He yells after Runt at last, his voice raspy. 

“Fuck off,” Runt yells back, laughing.

“What’s on Sunday?!” Erik repeats, relentless, as he gets up. 

Runt turns around, walking backwards to face him.

“Eucharist, little fucker,” he grins, “The Lord’s Blood and all!”

Erik spits on the ground. 

Fuck, he thinks to himself, bitter, dusting off his clothes. Only one day to come with something to stop Runt from getting stronger again.

Erik spends the whole of next day mulling over his options. He tries not to think about anything else: none of the humiliation in the pen, the Chief’s mockery, Runt’s crude annoying laughter. He definitely doesn’t think about the fact that it’s been so many days since he was called to the tent. 

Will that just never happen again? Was Runt correct: that the Chief lost any interest in him? He never appeared on the hill, neither of the nights Erik walked there. Didn’t seek him out in any way. Surely fed when he rode out, on someone else. And the Sunday being the day the Chief, apparently, lets Runt drink his blood: how horribly fitting.

So it's too late to stop it. 

Unless, Erik thinks, turning towards the bath tent. Unless…

He walks across the camp, focusing on the way the evening air smells—cold, damp, slightly sweet—and not on any doubts slowly swirling somewhere in his head. If he was to look up into the dusk-filled skies, he’d see first stars already glimmering above his head; but he only looks ahead, towards the dark, ornamental tent. His hair is still slightly wet: his clothes and bandages clean. 

Erik approaches the tent with all the calm he can muster. The Chief’s personal guard eyes him: first with disinterest, then with unpleasant confusion. 

“You taking a tour of the estate?” He asks, hand on the pommel of his sword. It’s a good sword—Erik saw him sharpen it the day before and it looked much more expensive than what the rest of the men were equipped with. Second only to what the Chief was using, perhaps, which Erik made sure to remember. 

“I want to talk to the Chief,” Erik says and the calm in his voice surprises even himself. He’s not calm within: but he’s calm outwards, and it’s a good skill to have in a camp full of ruthless men. 

“And who the fuck do you think you are,” the guard looks at him with disdain, “to barrel in and demand to talk to the Chief? Bugger off before you piss me off.”

Erik inhales: looks at the guard.

“And who are you to decide for the Chief whether he wants to talk to me or not?” He asks. 

The guard’s eyebrows rise—he grimaces, ready to bite back—but then he closes his mouth, and turns to disappear within the tent. Only a moment passes and he’s out, looking at Erik with forced neutrality. 

“Go in,” he says, and opens the flap to let Erik in. 

Inside is dimmed: no candles and only sparse dusk light falls in through the cracks by the ground. It all smells like him, again, and it makes Erik a little bit dizzy. The Chief sits behind his desk, strewn with maps and pieces of parchment, his head propped up on his hand. His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion: but not in any malice.

“You should know better than to take it up against my personal guard,” he hums, looking at him across the darkness of the tent. 

“I was perfectly courteous,” Erik says, “sir.”

The Chief doesn’t say anything: looks at him expectantly. 

“I heard the men are leaving for some battle tomorrow,” Erik says, standing tall and confident as he can muster; somehow, walking up to the tent was a bigger challenge and now that he’s in, it seems most worries have peeled away. 

“Yes,” the Chief says. Seems adamant not to make any of it easier for Erik, forcing him to be the one to talk.

“Are you leaving too, sir?”

“Yes.”

Erik nods. 

“I wanted to make sure I know what my orders are,” Erik says, hoping his bluff isn’t all that obvious. 

“You’d find out soon enough,” the Chief says. “It’s to stay in the camp. You don’t have skill enough, yet, not to be a burden when we fight.”

Erik nods. It makes sense. 

“The man who hired us wants us to deal with some of his adversaries holed up to the south,” the Chief explains, his eyes momentarily switching from Erik to go over the parchment in front of him. “It should take two days, three if we camp there.”

“And who hired us?”

“A local noble,” Chief replies, eyes flicking back to Erik. He looks slightly bored, again, and it makes Erik’s thoughts race to find a way in through that wall. 

“Right,” he nods. 

“I imagine the specifics of his orders,” the man says, leaning back in his chair, “and the very nature of their conflict would escape your common understanding.”

It’s a painful remark—but honest, simple. There is no malice there, even if it stings. 

“That’s true, sir,” Erik admits, honest and simple as well. “Day or two, then, so it’s not far.”

The Chief eyes him, slowly.

“Not far, no,” he says, “They’ve encroached on the borders of his estate, and that stretches only a bit farther to the south than the valley.”

Erik makes sure to breathe slowly: to be calm. Tries not to think about his neck or his eagerness or the real reason he’s there—and he tries not to worry about the fact that it’s getting harder and harder to bluff. 

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” he says, steady. “I don’t know where we are.”

The Chief inhales: looks at him with slight surprise, genuine.

“Right,” he nods. “Right.”

Silence falls in the tent for a while.

“I can show you,” the Chief says after a moment, gesturing vaguely at the desk in front of him. “If you’re curious.”

“Yes,” Erik nods, “please.” But he keeps standing by the entrance where he stood—waits for the Chief to tell him to come closer. The sound of chair legs dragged across the ground as the Chief makes more room by the desk is already sweet—the command right after sends a pleasant wave through Erik’s body.

“Come,” the Chief says, simply. Lights the single candle next to his right hand. “This map isn’t perfect but should give you some understanding.”

Erik approaches, slowly: stands right next to the Chief sitting, and leans over the desk. He focuses on the smell of the candle and not him. 

“This is where we are,” the Chief points to a spot, “and this is east, where the sun rises, making this the west.”

“Aye,” Erik nods, and focuses, and then his eyes follow the marked line of the road downwards. “So this is south, and this is where you’ll ride?”

“Mhm,” it reverberates pleasantly through the man’s throat; he seems pleased. “This is the road that crosses the forest beyond the hill. This would be the stream. As you can see, this says…” He stops. 

Erik turns a bit around to look at him, slightly puzzled.

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you? The Chief asks, slightly amused. “You can’t read, I suppose.”

“Why would I,” Erik shrugs. “I’m my father’s only son, I wasn’t meant for any convent or church.”

Then, he catches himself grimacing: against his own will and against his own better judgement. It’s a strange feeling, off-putting: grief getting the better of him. 

“I was,” he corrects himself. “My father’s only son.”

Silence falls in the tent, once more, as the Chief’s eyes remain fixed on Erik’s face. 

“So was I,” the Chief says suddenly—and there’s a shadow that crosses over his face but only for a second, and then he seems to shake it off entirely. “Still, the writing here marks the noble’s estates, and then the estates of his rivals.”

“I can learn, sir,” Erik says: because saying that, outwardly, is scarier than the grief, and you should always fight fire with fire. He awaits the Chief’s reply, suddenly feeling his heartbeat in his temples. “To read,” he adds when the man doesn’t say anything, even though it’s painfully clear that it was what he meant. 

“Well, as you said,” the Chief leans back, gloved hand tapping the wooden plane of the desk absent-mindedly. “You’re not meant for a convent.”

“Neither are you, sir, and you can read,” Erik replies. 

A huff: half-exasperation, half-agreement.

“That’s true, I suppose. Still, for you, it’s the sword that’s more important. Can’t kill men with words.”

“No?” Erik pushes back, feeling the tips of his ears burn a bit as he notices a slight smirk on the Chief’s face. He realises, suddenly, how close they are: it nearly feels like he could just move a little bit and take a small step and lean, and sit back on the Chief’s lap and—

Your father’s only son, rings out in his head suddenly, and he has to banish the thought.

“Not the sort of men you’ll be killing,” the Chief replies, amused.

“I can learn two things at once,” Erik shrugs, pushing back still.

“You’re stubborn, hm?”

“Wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Erik mutters; catches himself being rude. “Sir.”

“Well,” the Chief says, pressing his fingers to his mouth in contemplation for a second. “Why are you here, actually?”

Erik stares at him; swallows.

“Now, I mean,” there’s a smirk there somewhere, again.

“The orders and-” Erik clenches his jaw and suddenly it’s a bit difficult to find words again. He moves, steps away from the table and from the Chief sitting in the chair. The devil’s eyes follow him, curiously, and the way they glow tonight is different: dimmed, like the tent. 

“If there’s something you want to say,” he says, “you need to be able to say it.”

“I was wondering,” Erik says, and it’s calm again, even if the calm is a lie, “given you ride out tomorrow, sir, I was wondering if you’re not,” exhale, slow, “hungry, sir.”

Sharper inhale: Erik wonders if the Chief is aware he’s giving himself away with his breathing like that. Perhaps others can’t hear it—don’t notice it. 

“I wasn’t planning to feed tonight, no,” he replies.

Erik nods. It feels bitter but he’s adamant not to let it crush him; he can’t show that he’s disappointed, weak, that he feels—rejected—because the point is to take up his time and not let Runt in. Nothing else.

“But,” the Chief says suddenly, clearing his throat. “I suppose… Well, talking of maps always has the chance to whet one’s appetite, doesn’t it?”

It’s a ridiculous thing to say; doesn’t make much sense either. Erik looks away—his brows furrow when he tries to stop himself, and his nose scrunches, but then he fails: and he laughs. 

“Apologies, sir,” he manages to get out, hurriedly forcing himself to stop laughing. “Apologies.”

But when he looks at the Chief, the man is rubbing his forehead, exasperated, and laughing himself. The sound goes through Erik’s body like ripples on water when you’re skipping stones. 

“I need to finish writing this first,” he says after a moment, sighing. “So do sit down. Have some wine.”

Then, he switches his attention back to the parchment in front of him; reaches for the quill. Erik debates, internally, whether he should refuse the wine: but then decides against it, and reaches for the bottle and one of the cups next to it. He can handle his booze and it’s a good way to prolong his stay in the tent, too. 

“Can I light more candles, sir?” He asks. “I can no longer really see anything.”

“Yes, yes,” the Chief waves his hand, deep in focus; Erik wonders if he even heard the question, really. The ease of the moment—familiarity—goes to Erik’s head much quicker than the wine he gulps down in one go. 

Still writing, the Chief exhales: chuckles.

“It’s not vodka, Erik,” he says, eyes not leaving the letter. “You don’t just down it like that.”

“Why not?” Erik asks, and it’s that question that makes the Chief raise his eyes, amused.

“You’re supposed to savour it. It’s expensive.”

“It’s still just rotting fruit, no?” Erik refills his cup and relaxes in the chair a bit. “But if it’s so expensive, I will drink it slowly.”

The Chief shakes his head, smiling—finishes a sentence, the quill ceasing its quiet scratching on the parchment. 

“There’s depth to it,” he says, putting the quill and the letter away, and resting his chin on his propped up hand again. “Plum. Spices. Wood.”

“There’s wood in this wine?”

“Well, no,” the Chief laughs, tilting his head to look at Erik, “there aren’t any plums either. But the flavour reflects more than just what you add there.”

“I imagine that’s the part that makes it expensive,” Erik says, drinking the next sip slowly and trying not to grimace at how sour and dry it is. “Reflecting things that aren’t there.”

“Do you like it?” The Chief asks. Erik wonders if the glow of his eyes is so dimmed because it’s been many days since he fed—but that would mean that he really didn’t feed when he rode out, and Erik knows it’s a dangerous thing to hope for. 

Wine makes it strangely easy, suddenly, to hope for dangerous things. 

“Not really,” Erik replies. “But thank you, sir.”

“Well, no need to thank me,” the Chief replies, his voice slightly lower.  

They sit in silence for a moment as Erik finishes his wine. 

“How’s the wound?” The Chief asks—as if he wasn’t about to find out. 

“Better,” Erik replies, “the herbal decoction helps a lot. It’s healing faster than my hand, certainly.”

“Mhm,” the man’s gaze drops to his bandaged hand. “The hand would heal faster if you weren’t so adamant on picking fights all the time.”

“I don’t pick fights,” Erik snaps back, slightly reflexively. “It’s Runt who’s being an arse, and I won’t stand for it.”

“He’s much stronger than you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Erik shrugs. “It’s not even about winning.”

“Just not rolling over?”

“Aye.”

Another moment of silence falls: the Chief looks at him with something undecipherable in his eyes, and the warmth of wine spreads pleasantly through Erik’s limbs in tandem with that gaze. Maybe there was an aftertaste of overripe plums there, after all. 

Then, the Chief stands up—the silk makes a soft sound as he moves—and he looks down at Erik.

“Do you want to see?” He asks, gesturing vaguely towards Erik’s bandaged neck; but Erik knows that the real question the devil is asking is: Do you want to watch? 

And he does.

Erik stands up and follows the Chief deeper into the tent: towards the mirror, half-unveiled. The Chief pulls the veil fully to the side—while Erik simply undoes the bandage around his throat and walks close to the reflective surface to get a good look at it. It is healing quite fast, all things considered: and the black eyes are nearly entirely gone, and then as he allows himself to look at the rest of his body, it’s starkly apparent that the work around the camp and the sword training are paying off. He’s still corpse-pale and bruised in many spots, but he looks healthier. Stronger. 

Without taking his eyes off his reflection, he takes a step back—wonders if the work is visible in his thighs, as well—and then it’s both the wine and the surprise of the sudden closeness that nearly makes him stumble when his back, suddenly, hits the Chief. 

“Apologies, sir,” he blurts out, slightly flustered, but then any awkwardness dissipates—and he laughs, quietly, before composing himself again. The man nearly killed him just days ago, now he’s bumping against him clumsily in the dark of his tent.

The Chief doesn’t say anything: one hand is at Erik’s side again, steadying him, and the other grabs his throat, lightly. Erik realises he’s still wearing his gloves—and he realises he likes the touch of leather just as much as the devil’s bare skin. 

“Tonight is the first time,” the Chief says, low, nearly against his neck already, “that I’ve heard you laugh.”

Erik inhales. Looks at his reflection, still: his forearm is bruised where Runt squeezed. The bruise does look nice—and the Chief’s breath on his throat feels nice and warm and fluttery, and the remark about him laughing mixes in his veins with the wine. Exhales.

“Likewise, sir,” he replies, simply, and watches the Chief’s eyes flicker only for a second to his. And then Erik braces as he sees the sharp flare of fangs in the mirror. 

Then, the devil’s teeth break skin, and it stings, and the ripping pain intertwines with a thrilling warmth again: but only for a moment, desperately short, because suddenly the Chief grimaces and pulls away, exhaling sharply. He takes half a step back, face contorted in abject unhappiness: and he spits out some blood on the ground. Erik turns around, quickly, reflexively pressing his hand to his bleeding neck: there’s a sticky, horrible wave of worry overcoming him. 

“Apologies,” the Chief mutters, wiping his mouth with his sleeve in a surprisingly ordinary way. “Unreasonably rude of me, I admit.”

“What- What happened?” Erik asks, and once again his voice is much calmer despite the hesitation than what’s going on inside his head. 

“You’ve-” the Chief is grimacing worse than Erik did before when he drank the wine. In fact, the man reaches for the bottle now: takes a sip, swishes it in his mouth and spits it out as well. “You’ve just used the herbal tincture the sawbones gave you, no?”

“Yes,” Erik replies, swallowing down any apology. “Before I came here,” he adds. After I bathed.

“It’s horribly bitter,” the Chief explains, his mouth still twisted. “More bitter than you can imagine. Apologies, again, Erik.”

The way his name sounds in the devil’s mouth nearly tunes out the worry; it also nearly tunes out the other thought that suddenly sneaks into Erik’s head: the reaction was disproportionate, no matter how bitter it could have tasted.

It looked like it hurt. 

He’s lying, Erik thinks to himself, and then shakes his head. He says it’s bitter but that’s not it.

It hurt.

“I had no way of knowing,” he says, “let me wash it off, sir.”

“There’s some water in the basin by the bed,” the Chief says. “It escaped me entirely to mention this to you at any point. I’m not blaming you.”

Erik walks over to the basin—lets his gaze, sneakily, linger on the bed. The covers look soft; he wonders how they smell. Then, the first touch of water stings: the basin colours in red, as Erik remembers the wound is still bleeding. 

“I need to, uh,” he says, looking at the water, murky with blood, “I have to bright fresh wa-”

“Nevermind that,” the Chief says. “If you’re done, come here.”

There’s a note of still being flustered at his own reaction there that the Chief tries to hide—but there’s a pervasive note of impatience in his voice, too, and it’s stark. And exciting. So Erik returns to the mirror, wiping the final droplets of water off his neck with his sleeve.

“I can try to aim,” the Chief says, hushed, and there’s amusement there, too. “But most likely I will have to break skin again.”

Erik shrugs. It makes the man chuckle a bit, once more—and then the levity is cut, abruptly and sharply, as he sinks his fangs in, and Erik’s whole body rattles again. And it’s pain and it’s pleasure, and it’s pride, returned, and his thoughts get muddled as he feels the gloved hand press into his ribs. This time, Erik doesn’t look at himself: in the hazy, dark reflection of the mirror, he only focuses on the Chief.

The way his hair curls, softly, now pressed against Erik’s neck, and the way his eyebrows are pulled slightly when he drinks, eyes closed, bordering between focus and—the way he said about the wine—savouring it. Erik wonders once again: is it only hunger, the loop of the body, or does it… Does it taste good, too?

Ever so slightly, he can feel the Chief pull him closer: there’s pressure on his ribs and on his throat, and he feels the man’s body flush against his back, and it doesn’t even seem like the Chief is aware he’s doing it. His stubble scratches lightly against the sensitive skin of Erik’s neck, and he keeps drinking, slowly, and slower. It feels unreasonably good, the pain only amping it up: and there it is again, his own loop of need, and it pools deep within Erik, and coils, and coils.

As slowly and inconspicuously as he can, Erik switches his focus from the reflection of the Chief to himself: and down, and down, and then he has to clench his jaw to steady himself as he quickly looks back up. He hopes, desperately, that the Chief won’t open his eyes and won’t look: because there’s nothing to be done and there is no way for Erik to hide himself and his state. He’s hopelessly hard. He shouldn’t have refused himself for so long.

And then, like a curse—like he jinxed himself with the thought alone—the Chief’s glowing eyes flutter open. In the reflection: their eyes meet for a moment, and then the heavy-lidded gaze of the devil, as he keeps drinking, trails lower. Snaps to the one spot Erik hoped he wouldn’t look at. 

A wave of overwhelming warmth comes over Erik as he feels blush make its way up his neck and his ears, blotchy. It should be shame: but it isn’t. No mother’s mercy from the Holy Virgin reaches this part of him; no prayers match what’s happening in the tent. 

The Chief stops drinking—the pain eases a bit—and he pulls away from the wound, but only slightly. He’s still leaning over and his mouth is inches away from Erik’s skin. 

His gaze lingers. He inhales: slowly. 

“You can touch yourself,” he whispers, “if you want to.”

Erik feels as if the tent suddenly became seven times smaller: as if it’s closing around them both, tight and hot, and it’s hard to breathe. He doubts, for a heartbeat, if he even heard right: maybe he made it up in his head. But the glowing eyes of the devil are still lingering down, and Erik can nearly swear the gaze burns where it falls. 

“There is no need to be ashamed,” the whisper coils around Erik’s throat.

“I’m not ashamed,” Erik replies, voice steady. It’s true. It’s not shame that makes him run so hot; it’s not shame that crawls up his body in crimson. He briefly flexes his palms hanging by his sides, inhales, deliberately.

I won’t, he thinks. He wants to, desperately so: to touch himself, to find the release, to have the Chief hold him and watch him through it—spill as he still drinks from him—but he won’t. It’s too insane to even think about. Instead, he stubbornly looks into the glowing eyes in the reflection of the mirror: forcing the man to look up, at last. 

“No?” The devil asks.

There’s a slight flush to the Chief’s face and it’s in that moment when Erik realises why he’s so much slower in his movements and his speech—why he forgets himself. Why he said… The thing he just said. 

It’s the wine. 

From my blood.

He’s drunk.

“No,” Erik’s skin is burning beneath his gaze but once more: no shame finds its way under it. He doesn’t plan to explain it so plainly and openly—but it just happens. There’s something in this moment that makes honesty just flow out of him, like blood. “Just call and response.”

“Call and response?” The devil’s voice is low in his throat: it’s brazen and seductive, pulling at any thread he knows might unravel Erik—but there’s something else there, too, a slight hue of hesitation. Inquiry that fears the threshold it might cross.

“Yes,” Erik replies. “The way the body works,” he lets it linger for a moment, holding the Chief’s gaze. “What use is shame?”

There’s a slight furrow to the man’s eyebrows, suddenly—a shadow passes over his face, and the air in the tent is suddenly stale and dense. Silence falls. 

“Are you no longer hungry, sir?” Erik asks, steering the subject away. 

“I always am,” the Chief replies, shaking off the momentary stupor that came over him. “But again… With the aim…” He hums; looks at the blood slowly trailing from the wounds and soaking into Erik’s shirt again. “I don’t want to tear you up.”

Please do, crosses Erik’s mind against his own will, and he feels himself twitch against his braies, and has to steady his body again. But he remembers, stubbornly, the entire reason for his presence in the tent: he’s there to make sure Runt isn’t.

He needs to prolong it. If it means damning himself, so be it: but not too fast. Not yet. Not this early in the night. 

“It’s alright,” he says instead, voice slightly husky. “Besides, sir, you’ll be gone. It’ll have the time to heal.”

The devil smirks. 

“Unless you’d like me to,” Erik flexes one of his hands harder to calm his nerves, knowing he might be risking crossing a line, “to have more wine first, sir.”

Another sharper inhale: the glowing gaze snaps to his eyes in the reflection, and holds. 

“You don’t like the taste of it,” the devil murmurs.

“But you do.”

A moment of silence, tense: it would be thrilling if not for the fact that it starts to last a little bit too long.

“You’re clever,” the Chief says: and Erik is both glad to hear it and frustrated—because he really wants his body to stop being so eager but each word of praise has the opposite effect. “But I think you might be getting too bold.”

Perhaps Erik would be worried—perhaps these words should scare him—but the Chief’s hand is still at his ribs and his mouth is inches away from his neck, and his lips have the hue of his blood, and there are no words to hide that damning reality from either of them.

But he understands, very quickly and very well, that these words were uttered for a reason, and he must be careful. That threshold: it’s uncrossable for now. 

“Apologies, sir,” he says, for the third time that night. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

The Chief huffs to himself. 

“Of course you did,” he says as his eyes in the reflection drop between Erik’s legs again. Then he looks away: and steps back. “At least be honest about it.” His voice is suddenly unpleasant; forced disinterest is finding its way back in. He wipes his bottom lip with his gloved thumb and walks back to the desk, leaving Erik standing aimlessly in front of the unveiled mirror. 

“Chief, sir?” Erik tries, voice slightly nervous—but he can hear the quill again and when he turns to look at the man, he’s busy writing, eyebrows drawn. 

“Do you pray, Erik?” He asks, suddenly, not lifting his eyes from the parchment. 

“I- Why?” There’s something strange swirling within him, and the coiling lessens—his need softens—but it feels off and wrong and out of place. 

“It’s Sunday, today,” the Chief says, “tonight.”

“Aye,” Erik clears his throat; realises, by the cold stickiness on his neck, that there’s blood slowly stagnating on his skin, off-puttingly gelatinous. 

“It’s a simple question, boy,” the man adds, slowly looking up at him. “Will you answer me?”

Erik isn’t sure what’s happening: how to approach it best, and what the Chief expects, and even why this sudden change took place. Wine makes men foolish, yes—but it shouldn’t make them this…

“Or will you ask me once more if it’s an order? Escape the answer, like a coward?”

…Cruel.

“Last time I prayed,” Erik says, and his voice is distant too, and he swallows any need and any fear, “was when I was sitting on the wagon with the rest of the loot, getting hauled here.”

The Chief scoffs: it’s unpleasant but it’s aimless, too.

“Well, then it’s high time,” his eyes return to the parchment. “When you can’t attend mass on the Lord’s very day, the least you can do is say a prayer.”

“Mass?” Erik asks, and it comes out harsh. Impertinent—mocking. 

“Does the concept escape your understanding?” There’s anger in the glow of his eyes: but the words are slightly slurred. 

“The concept of mass, no,” Erik says through gritted teeth. “It’s funny, is all.”

“Funny?” He could kill him in a heartbeat but instead he just flexes his gloved hand over the letter, vexed. 

“As a question coming from a church-burner, aye.”

And there it is: true ire, sudden. Burning, flames reaching the skies. The Chief looks at him with rage only thinly veiled by the facade of humanity: it’s the devil’s rage, mocking and potent and biting. 

“This isn’t even insolence,” he says, slowly shaking his head in disdain. “It’s just plain stupidity. Do you have a death wish, boy?”

Erik holds his gaze but it’s starting to be difficult: the wine made him bold but now he truly feels the sudden shift in the mood and the glowing eyes look as if they reflected, again, the fire from the burning houses.

“I’ve been too kind to you,” the Chief says and his gaze burns, and doesn’t let Erik go. “Have I misled you into thinking you’re more than you are, just because I wasn’t cruel?”

The air is heavy—Erik feels uneasy and his heart is beating faster, telling him to run. Run. The flames are licking up and up and smoke hides the stars.

“Do you think that you have a say, in any of this?” His voice is low. “That you walk in here, offering yourself to me, as if I wouldn’t just take what’s mine, had I wanted to?”

Run. Right now: run. Through the flames. Run.

“The moment I spared your miserable life,” the devil says, and it’s venomous, “it became mine.” Erik swallows, knowing he should say something, do something—but he’s frozen. Even if he wanted to run, he wouldn’t be able to. “You belong to me, entirely,” the Chief’s voice pierces right through him, “and I will snuff that life of yours out without a second thought if I so fancy.”

Once more: there’s a cacophony inside him but outwards, Erik is calm. Nearly unmoved: he just stands there, looking into the eyes of the devil, and doesn’t lower his gaze, and doesn’t say anything. 

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” the Chief mocks him. “You truly think you have a say in this,” he scoffs in cruel disbelief. “Do you think you have some control over me, just because I like the way you taste?”

And there it is: the flames rage and the smoke chokes him and he should be scared—but that one phrase makes it all suddenly insignificant because Erik’s filled with pride again. He does like it. 

The pride is more visible than the worry and the fear: the pride sneaks out through his eyes, through just a shadow of a badly reined in satisfaction on his face—and the devil realises what he said, and his mouth warps in something between rage and disgust. And the fangs-

It all happens quicker than Erik can register: because suddenly, there is a hand at his throat, squeezing, and he’s being pushed back forcefully by the Chief who’s all of sudden right there in front of him—before the wooden chair by the desk even has the chance to fall back and hit the ground. Erik gasps, reflexively, for air, and his hands shoot up to clench around the arm at his throat—but both of these motions are irrelevant. No air finds its way to his lungs and the devil’s grasp is strong: strong enough to make him fear, frantically, that this is it. 

And he’s dragged, by his neck, back in front of the mirror: still unable to breathe. The wounds on his neck hurt beneath the leather and his heart is thrashing in his chest— for a brief moment their gazes meet and the glow makes his head turn.

Then, forcefully, fingers ripping into his shoulder, the devil turns him around: makes him face the mirror—but they’re too close to even see much; Erik’s forehead nearly touches the cold reflective surface.

“You think you have a choice?” He hisses right into his ear, kicking his legs apart to keep him in place.

It’s a flash of abrupt, horrid pain shooting through his throat and shoulder, as the devil tears into him: it’s less animal than the first time, it’s less hunger—this time it’s cruelty. It’s purposeful: it’s domination. Erik realises how much restraint, whether conscious or not, took place before: because now when the devil drinks he can feel life escape him in waves. His fingers go numb first; his heartbeat, frantic, turns forcefully slow. It all burns.

Survival kicks in, and he tries to pull away; a pained groan escapes his mouth and he attempts to move, to rip himself out of the bite and out the clutches—but it’s not only pointless, it seems to rile the devil further, and Erik feels he can no longer breathe at all, and his heart—his heart—his heart-

“On this border of life and death,” the devil murmurs, pulling away from his throat with a loud, satisfied inhale; his mouth and chin all coloured crimson. “it’s so clear you know no shame. It’s nearly impressive,” his whisper snakes into Erik’s ear. “Look at you.”

And Erik does, even though his vision is dimmed and limited: even though he’s certain, as he feels the cold overtake him, that his heart is no longer beating—but his body is stubborn and it betrays him so openly it’s difficult to accept. He’s hard, again, and whatever desire was coiling within him before is now horrifyingly doubled.

“Call and response, you said?” The Chief asks, fingers curled around his throat right above the wildly bleeding wound; he forces Erik to look ahead, into the mirror, where their faces blur in a dimmed, strange glow and breathlessness. “That’s why I asked if you pray, boy.”

Erik’s throat is bleeding—his head is turning, and his heartbeat’s still too faint to discern—but he’s needy, and he’s hopeless, and he wants, and the hand on his throat doesn’t let go. 

“It is Sunday,” the Chief whispers, and his mouth nearly brushes against Erik’s ear, burning red, “and that’s what mass is, no? Call and response,” his stained mouth warps in a lethal smirk, “the Prayer of the Faithful. Litany of the Saints.”

A shiver goes through Erik’s body, low and thrumming, as he feels incredible weight pull him down: his vision nearly goes dark and only the glow of Istvan’s eyes remains to anchor him, still, to his mortal body. His touch—the only thing keeping him from crossing that border between life and whatever comes after it.

“Be merciful,” the devil whispers, and it’s half-mockery and half-sanctity. 

It echoes through the dark tent: and even though it’s been a long time, Erik’s mind immediately supplicates the answer.

“Spare us, o Lord,” Erik whispers back, rough and pained, through throat nearly crushed closed.

“Be merciful,” the devil repeats, the leather creaking as he holds his neck.

“Hear us, o Lord,” Erik’s voice is barely audible in the darkness of the tent.

“From all evil…”

“Deliver us, o Lord.”

“From all sin…” The Chief’s lips brush against the curve of Erik’s ear, and another shiver runs through him, and his hips buck. 

“Deliver us,” he manages to get out, choked. “O Lord.”

“From Thy wrath,” the wound is still bleeding and the devil’s other hand slips from his ribs down to his hipbone; clings there, cruelly. “From sudden and unprovided death…”

“Deliver us,” Erik’s looking into his own reflection in the murky mirror, and his face is illuminated by the unholy ire in the eyes of the man holding him.

“From the snares of the devil…” He smirks, his lips blood-red. “From anger, hatred, and all ill-will…” He presses with more force, and Erik’s head falls back onto his shoulder; their bodies are pressed together indecently hard. “From the spirit of fornication, from lighting and tempest.”

“Deliver us,” Erik says, raspy; then he clenches his jaw, and rests the weight of his body against the devil—and his hand, slowly, travels downwards, towards his desperately straining need. 

“From the scourge of earthquake,” the Chief inhales, slowly—his mouth presses to the spot right behind Erik’s ear, brushing against his cropped hair. “From plague, famine and war…”

“Deliver us,” Erik’s voice is so rough he can’t believe he’s still speaking; he palms himself, softly and hesitantly, through his clothes. His movements are frantic; there’s a tremble to his hand and a grimace, between pain and pleasure, on his face. He wants—but he’s resisting, still, and it seems his own body is at war with his will.

“From everlasting death,” the devil says, at last. His glowing, horrid eyes lock with Erik’s in the scratched, strange reflection of the mirror. 

“Deliver us.”

“Mhm,” István hums into his skin. All Erik can feel is his body pressing against him from behind and all he can smell in the air is him and his own blood, bittersweet.

Then, the devil lowers his head: presses it into the nook of Erik’s neck, into the carnage he created with his hunger and cruelty—and suddenly his tongue slowly licks a heavy, damning line across the bleeding wound. And Erik clenches both his palms into fists. It’d be so easy—to give in. To have pleasure be the final moment. 

But the pride: the pride.

The wounds stop bleeding, wet with spit. And the Chief’s eyes find his in the mirror, again, heavy-lidded and hazy and hungry: and that pride, it's reflected in them, too, like the flames of the burning church. 

“Lamb of God,” he whispers, lips brushing faintly against his skin, trailing up Erik’s jaw. “Who takest away the sins of the world.”

“Have mercy on us,” Erik gets out, and it’s nearly a groan, and while he stops his own hand with every impulse of strength he can muster—it’s Istvan’s hand, suddenly, pressing hard, trapping his cock in the heat between the glove and his own stomach. 

“Oh, Lamb of God…” it’s a reverberating hum crawling into the darkest parts of his mind and heart. “Have mercy.” There’s something strange in his voice, and Erik presses even harder against him.

Is it pain?

And then: the leather slides across his twitching need, and once, and twice, and Erik stops a growl rising somewhere in his throat—and abruptly it’s gone, and the lack of pressure feels nearly heartbreaking, and his heart is back to beating, wild beat, desperate, rushed, needy. 

And—even though he should know better—Erik nearly reflexively grabs the Chief’s wrist. 

“This is mercy,” the Chief whispers into his ear, his arm unmoved and not returning to touch him. “I’m sparing your life for the second time, Erik. I’m leaving some part of you, at least, unmarred. Untainted.” He twists his wrist away from Erik’s hold. 

“Mercy?” Erik asks, breathy and prideful. “What do you know of mercy?”

Their eyes find each other in the reflection once more. 

“How is this mercy?” He asks again.

“It is, even if you can’t understand it,” the gloved hand brushes, briefly, against his side as the Chief steps back. “Be grateful, little lamb. And go, before I change my mind.”

Erik clenches his jaw: hard enough for his teeth to hurt. 

He turns on his heel to leave the damned, forgotten by God tent. To Hell with Runt, to Hell with the plan. He’s hard and dizzy with need but the pride is more potent than any desire. He wants to say something: something cruel and prideful, but nothing comes to mind—and so he leaves, even though it somehow hurts more than the bite and the disdain. Istvan’s eyes, filled with rage at him talking back, still glow somewhere beneath Erik’s eyelids as he rushes across the camp grounds to his tent.

In his head: the church is still burning.

Madonna swallowed by flames, crumbling, turning to ash. The lamb is nowhere to be seen: its fleece must still smell of smoke, wherever it lies dead. 

The tent is dark: he put out all the candles, and stands now over the final one. None of them were for his benefit—he doesn’t need them to see in the darkness—and so he takes off his glove, slowly, and kills the last flame between his fingers. It’s a short sizzle, and never enough to hurt. Few things hurt. 

But the darkness is hazy now: swirls with softer stains and trembling lines of half-light. His head is turning, slightly, the warmth of blood mixed with wine slithering through the cold veins—waking up the body with desire and need, and more brazen hunger. Anger kept turning and churning and now simmers, low, in something more between passion and frustration: doubly horrid through the sheer source of it.

István grimaces, catching a shadow of his reflection in the mirror as he pulls the heavy veil over it again. How ridiculous: to be so lenient as to allow for insolence, and from some pitiful whelp who should have died with the rest of his miserable village.

Whose blood is still, definitely and overwhelmingly, on his tongue. 

Before he has the chance to further fuel his own frustration, the faraway sound of steps pulls him out of his thoughts: heavy steps, direct but careless in the night. Very stubbornly aimed right at his tent. It is Sunday, still, after all. He nearly forgot. 

“Stop where you stand,” István says,knowing his voice will carry outside the tent—tired disinterest in it, “and turn around, and go away.”

The steps stop indeed, right in front of the tent. Weight gets shifted from the left to the right—he can easily imagine the man’s hands tucked into his belt. 

“Chieeef,” Runt says, prolonging the syllables, rough voice teasing and already infuriating. “At least let me in for a moment, eh? Something important I gotta tell you.”

It’s a lie, István is perfectly aware. He’d indeed banish him: if it wasn’t for the fact that the darkness still swirls slightly, and the air is pleasurably soft against his skin, and the wine from the whelp’s blood makes him slightly more… Malleable, when it comes to persuasion. 

István sighs—and Runt treats that short sound alone as an invitation inside. 

“Darker than up the devil’s arse,” Runt hums, walking in. “Still giving me the creeps sometimes, chief.”

“I’m sure,” he replies, cross, standing in the middle of the tent. “What is it Runt? I don’t have time.”

Runt looks him up and down, eyes narrowed: cracks his neck, slowly, once, then twice. There’s a smug smile on his face. 

“No time?” Runt’s thumbs are hooked by his belt, the rest of his fingers tapping the armour on his hips. “Dawn’s still far away, chief.”

“I’m not in the mood for your impertinence, Runt,” István says, grimacing slightly. “Out with it or get the fuck out.”

Runt’s eyebrows rise, amused. 

“I came to see about our little Sunday thing,” he says, “but I see it might be off? On account of you clearly not having fed today.”

István doesn’t reply: just looks to the side, half in thought. It’s not like Runt needs to know.

“You’re only ever this hacked off with hunger, chief,” Runt says, eyes still narrowed and watching him curiously. “Unless I’m wrong and something else got on your nerves.”

“And you’ve come here to dwell on my mood, is that it?” István asks, tilting his head. Absent-mindedly, he starts undoing the top buttons of his coat: he’s running hotter than he’s used to. 

“If you haven’t fed, I can drag some fucker in here,” Runt says, “we’ve enough men to shoulder the unfortunate loss.” He’s grinning, and his fingers are still tapping across the armour. 

“I don’t feed on my men,” István replies, quickly, curt. 

“Well, that,” Runt shrugs, still grinning. “Complex issue, that.”

“That’s different,” István says and immediately stops himself: the wine must have truly gone to his head if he’s being defensive—pathetic, truth be told, and only further adding to his frustration. 

“I can drag the whelp here by his fucking scruff,” Runt laughs, “if he’s that different. But I gotta warn you chief, he’s gonna be kicking and screaming. The fucker bites, too.”

“What makes you say that?” István asks, voice purposefully disinterested—he sits back on the desk, putting his gloves aside, and reaching to light one of the candles again. Runt’s eyes immediately snap to the motion—smug—knowing it means he’s now allowed to stay. 

“The pup feels scorned and spurned, I think,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Poor thing.”

“Poor thing,” István repeats, raising his eyes at Runt. 

“Should be happy, eh? That he’s off the hook for so long now,” the man walks across the tent slowly, to the wine and cups on the table: reaches for the bottle. “You mind, chief?”

István waves his hand, huffing in exasperation. 

“Thanks,” Runt grins. “So he should be happy but instead he’s not… Well, who wouldn’t feel spurned, eh? Suddenly losing your interest,” he teases, downing a whole cup of wine at once and stopping himself from belching. 

“You know how much this wine costs,” István says, trying to sound stern. 

“Aye…” Runt pours himself another cup. “But I think, chief, that I’m gonna make it up to you.”

“I don’t need you to drag anyone here,” he says, clicking his tongue. “I don’t plan on feeding tonight.”

“Not what I meant by making it up to you, chief,” Runt smirks with the cup by his mouth again. 

“That means no blood tonight.”

“Aye, I’m not daft,” Runt shrugs, still grinning. “Still.”

“Still.”

Runt finishes the wine, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand. 

“Nasty shit, this,” he laughs. “But stronger than you’d think, eh?”

István sighs, looking at the man from beneath eyelids slightly heavier than he’d usually allow himself.

“Tomorrow,” he says, clearing his throat slightly. “Once we arrive, it’s crucial not to-”

“Chief,” Runt says, low and teasing, nasty smirk appearing on his rough face. “All due respect but I really,” he grins, “really don’t give a fuck. You give the orders and I follow them. All this talking’s just gotta be wasted on me.”

István huffs, half-mocking. 

“Let’s make a deal, though, then,” the man continues, putting away the cup and cracking his neck again. Then, he takes two steps towards his chief. “You can talk strategy and politics and whatever other high and mighty stuff you need…” Two more steps, and István eyes him in the dimmed tent, eyes a-glow. “And I’m gonna put my mouth to better use, eh?”

Insolence, again: and usually István would be offended, and mock him before throwing him out—but the wine from the pup’s blood was potent, and his own need coils within him unacknowledged, and dawn is indeed… Far away, still. 

“Gotta make sure I won’t get spurned,” the man is still grinning. 

“I’m really not in the mood for your-” and István wants to say insolence, or something similar, but Runt’s suddenly just a pace away, towering over him and smiling in a brazen way.

“Well I do think you’re in the mood, chief,” he says, smug, gesturing with his head, looking down. “On account of your cock being hard, eh?”

István manages not to let his expression betray him in any way: he just inhales sharply and flexes his hand right above the surface of the wooden table. It is, unfortunately, an apt observation, surprising as it might be. 

“We ride right after sunset, aye?” Runt asks, closing the distance between them and unceremoniously reaching down to untie the Chief’s hose. His movements are rather rough and unrefined—but quick, and soon he’s pulling the soft fabric of the hose down. István’s still wearing his greaves: but it doesn’t matter much.

“As always,” István mutters out, low and forcefully unaffected: but he’s eyeing Runt with badly reined in curiosity, dark and languid. The wine still swirls within his veins: makes the air in the tent feel hotter and denser, nearly like smoke. 

He’s allowed it before: hesitant, at first, whether it wouldn’t give Runt any misplaced notion of having some power over him—luckily, for István’s own position and desire, Runt turned out to be wonderfully simple and lacking any expectations. If anything, it seemed to cement his loyalty further. And: it’s good to have a way of release that doesn’t mean a thing.  

Runt’s thumb hooks over the band of István’s dark braies.

“Chief?” He asks, smirking.

Cursed wine, István thinks—and nods, ever so slightly, and already halfway through the nod Runt’s broad hands are on his hips, turning him abruptly around. His knees hit the table, rattling all items on it: the candle’s flame flickers and the water in the basin ripples, threatening to splash on the pieces of parchment strewn about. 

Runt’s right hand hooks over the band and pulls down his braies in one definite motion, letting them fall halfway down his legs, caught on the greaves—while his left hand, quick and rough, finds itself at his lower back. Presses him down—and forward—bending him over the table. 

István lets out a huff, half-surprised and half-prideful, still: but any ire is snuffed immediately because Runt lowers himself, first crouching then kneeling, and brazenly spreads him apart. He spits, the way he tends to do, right between his cheeks—and licks in, hard and entirely unashamed and straight to the point. Runt’s stubble is rough, unshaven for way too long again, even against Istvan’s coarse hair: and his mouth is uncouth as always, dragging in long motions across the sensitive softness bared entirely by his swordhand, calloused, spreading him open hard. 

István groans, quietly, supporting himself on his outstretched arms: his fingers drag against the wooden plane on the desk as Runt’s tongue, among sounds entirely too loud and entirely too filthy, forces his way into him. A relentless rhythm, in and out—and his knees hit the desk again, and everything rattles, and the water from the basin spills slightly to the side.

Runt hums to himself, satisfied, muffled by István’s arse: and his other hand sneaks around, immediately finding his chief’s straining cock and tugging, brazen, to the maddening rhythm. He pulls his face away, slightly, for a moment: biting at the heavy flesh of his cheeks, first the left one then the right one, dragging his teeth across skin. His other hand masterfully keeps the rhythm: there is no teasing there and no prolonging. As always with Runt: it’s simple and to the point, and it only takes him a moment and another lick deep into István, and then lower, right behind his balls, to draw out a louder moan. 

“See chief, I told you,” Runt says, smug and raspy, “no wine so expensive that this wouldn’t make up for it.”

“Don’t ruin this by speaking,” István hisses out, hips driving into Runt’s curled palm. 

Runt snorts in half-stopped laughter, filthy and full of himself: but he obeys, the flat of his tongue back between the chief’s cheeks. 

István knows it won’t be long now: he squeezes his eyes shut, eyebrows drawn, focusing on the pleasure and muting out all other thoughts. He can hear Runt shuffle: his hand stops spreading him and disappears from his body.

“No,” István says through teeth nearly gritted in pleasure. “Try touching yourself and you'll get dragged behind my horse tomorrow.”

It’s an empty threat, perhaps: but necessary, and there are already too many thresholds violated that night—the last thing István needs is for the man to get too emboldened. 

Runt groans: but it’s a satisfied groan, still, and smug, and it reverberates through István’s body as he feels himself strain harder against Runt’s rough fingers. 

It’s good to have release that doesn’t mean anything. The wine makes it doubly sweet, too, and István lets his hips press back harder against Runt’s face. And he’s close: his knees hit against the desk again, and it rattles: and István’s eyes snap open.

The water in the basin—ripples upon ripples—is murky. It still smells like him: his blood coloured it a darker hue, and at the very edges of the basin there are still drops of it, thick and crimson. 

István inhales sharply and bites his lower lip, hard, feeling his whole body tense nearly painfully as Runt keeps up the rhythm. Release that doesn’t mean anything, and the air in the tent is heavy, and it all still smells like him: he can't stop thinking about the fact that the boy bathed before he came to him. And he would never admit to it but he reaches with his hand, as Runt licks into him hard for the final time—and his fingers dip into the basin, into the bloodied water, and drag across the thick droplets on the edge of it. And István brings his fingers up, pressing them to his mouth: and then in, against his tongue, to taste Erik’s blood again, at least for a moment, and it pushes him over the edge. His hips buck—his own fingers muffling any moan that’d threaten to escape—and he comes, hard, leaving both the side of the desk and Runt’s hand filthy. 

Runt pulls back with a loud inhale, catching his breath fully at last: then, as if nothing happened at all, he gets up, wiping the spend into the side of his padded hose. 

“Good thing Monday’s a laundry day,” he grins, then spits on the floor out of habit. 

István takes a moment longer to collect himself: lets his head hang forward for a while, eyes closed, steadying his breathing. Then, he pulls up his clothes and gets his bearings.

Tries not to think about the blood. 

“I’m gonna go have that wank now,” Runt says, still grinning nastily. “Thanks, chief.”

István just rolls his eyes as he ties his hose back up. 

“Make sure the horses are ready by sunset,” he says, similarly as if nothing happened. “And let’s take the wagon, too.”

“Aye.”

“More torches than the last time. No feed for the horses, we’ll use the hospitality of the villages we pass.”

“Aye, chief.”

Runt nods—a rather amusing attempt at respectfulness—then leaves the tent. István stands for a moment, deep in thought: looking at his own fingers and the slight hue of blood on them. 

Then, he grimaces to himself and shakes his head. 

Erik’s sitting in the tent, jaw clenched so hard it’s starting to make his whole face hurt. It took a long time and a lot of trying to distract himself for his need to finally lessen and his cock soften. It’s not a particularly bright idea to keep denying himself: but he knows he’ll have plenty of time starting tomorrow, with the Chief and most of the men riding out.

Now, even if he swallowed his pride and wanted to give in, he had no guarantee he wouldn’t get caught cock in hand, halfway through, by someone walking in. And most likely—

“Shit, and here I hoped you’d be sleeping,” Runt says, walking into the dark tent. “Missing your ma?”

“Fuck off,” Erik replies but there’s not much bite in it. His mind is focused on his own misery: on the failed attempt of keeping Runt from getting Chief’s blood, and his throat that really fucking hurts, and the horrid feeling of being both terrified by his own desire and strangely thrilled by it. Desiring not only a man—not even just the man who killed his fucking family—but the devil. Some evil, horrid-

“Get the fuck out then,” Runt says, simply, pulling him out of this thoughts. “Unless you want to watch.”

Erik’s gaze rises and snaps to the motion of Runt holding himself through his clothes. 

“God,” Erik grimaces, standing up. “Nasty fucker.”

“Listen, pup, if you want to watch, I’m all for it,” Runt grins, grabbing himself even harder to taunt him. “Maybe you can learn a thing or two.”

“Fuck off,” Erik spits out, turning to leave the tent. He’s furious and disgusted: mostly, however, he’s pissed that he won’t get any sleep. No fucking way I’m getting back into this tent and sleeping here, he thinks to himself, spitting on the ground again. 

Passing Runt he braces: he knows he’ll smell Chief’s blood, dark and heavy and tempting. He’s glad Runt’s careful when he drinks it, at least, and it doesn’t openly mock him by being visible on his mouth. It’s not like Erik can judge him either, for returning from the Chief’s tent hard—somehow, still, it only makes him feel worse.

As he passes him, he stops in his tracks, grimacing. Runt does smell like the Chief. 

Just… Erik clenches his jaw.

Just not like blood. 

The wave that overcomes him is equal parts disgust and abject, horrid fury; the disgust he can understand—the fury only makes him recoil further at himself. 

“Bugger off now,” Runt repeats. 

Erik inhales—stops himself from lunging at the man immediately and gauging his fucking eyes out—and leaves the tent. 

István watches as the water from the basin, tilted in his hand, slowly pours out onto the grass. In the quiet of the night, his attention turns immediately to the sudden noise: farther into the camp, Erik storms out of his tent, furious and fuming. 

He knows Erik can’t see him: probably can’t see much at all, with most of the camp being entirely dark, as men put out most of the torches to get a proper night’s sleep before the busy days looming over them. So he watches as Erik stops, angry and uncertain, and clearly doesn’t know where to go—watches as he moves towards the stables, first, and then changes his mind and turns towards the path to the clearing in the woods.

Then, Erik stops—clenches his fists, once, twice, exhales—and turns towards István’s tent. 

The water stops pouring as István tilts the basin back, caught off-guard by the boy’s decision. 

But Erik stops again, halfway through: and instead, turns somewhere between the tents, where István can no longer see. 

It’s amusement, at first, underlined with satisfaction—but very quickly, it gives way to an off-putting wave of worry climbing István's spine. Because what he feels, in fact, in a way he hadn't felt in years, is alarming: looking at Erik changing his mind and disappearing deeper into the camp awakens only one particular emotion.

Disappointment.