The Red King (21 page)

“Yes,” Rory answered.

“How are we going to get down there?”

“I know of a path,” Rory said.

“Oh. We aren’t going to gallop anymore, are
we?”

Grinning, Rory replied, “Not right now.” He
put one hand over Andrew’s where it held his waist and squeezed. He
found the path and guided Brighid down, crisscrossing the cliff
face on the narrow ledge. Andrew had his face hidden once more,
tensing at every falling rock. “It is not like you to be
frightened.”

Andrew said something against his back that
he couldn’t hear.

“Try saying that without a mouthful of my
back,” Rory teased.

He heard Andrew take a deep breath and then
he spoke close to his ear. “I’ve only been on a horse once. It
threw me. I was unconscious for a whole day.”

“As you grow accustomed to her, you will find
that fear will fade. Brighid is a remarkable animal and will treat
you as you treat her.”

Brighid nodded her head and took the last bit
of the path at a faster pace. Andrew clutched Rory tightly and
buried his face once more. “I will take your word!” he cried.

Rory laughed and let Brighid run to the
water’s edge. Andrew slid from her with one arm still around Rory’s
waist. He took a moment to pet Brighid’s nose and stepped away.
Rory jumped down, smiling wickedly. “Take off your clothes.”

Andrew grinned and sat to remove his boots,
eyes on Rory as he did the same.

Rory raced into the water, diving beneath the
surface. When he emerged once more, he saw Andrew standing timidly,
in up to his knees. He had his arms across his chest. “It is a
little cold!”

“You will get used to it!” Rory called
back.

It took Andrew several minutes to move
farther out, only making it up to his waist before Rory decided to
take the matter in hand. He swam towards Andrew, staying low in the
water as if he were stalking him. Andrew was smiling, but still
unmoving, when he rose up from the sea before him.

“You look like a merman.”

“You,” Rory said, hands lifting to cup
Andrew’s face “are far too dry.” He pushed, throwing Andrew off
balance and sideways into the water. Laughing, Rory pulled him back
to his feet. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he cried, when Andrew took a
half-hearted swing at him.

“That was unfair!” Andrew sputtered, pushing
Rory’s hands away. He wiped the stinging water from his eyes.

Rory ignored his batting hands and pulled him
closer. “That is a good lesson to learn. Be fair in all things,
Andrew, except fighting. There is no honor in battle, only life or
death.”

Andrew looked up at him, frowning, with water
dripping from his unruly hair. “I had hoped for swimming, not
fighting.”

“Does the water feel too cold now?” Rory
asked.

After a moment of consideration, Andrew said,
“No.”

“Then let us go farther.”

Rory walked backwards, leading Andrew by his
hands. “Look at my eyes,” he said, watching carefully for signs of
panic or dismay. Only when the water began to touch his chin did
Andrew flinch. “Here, hold on,” Rory coaxed, putting Andrew’s arms
around his neck. Still holding his gaze, Rory kicked away from the
sand. With a few strokes they had gone out into the deeper
water.

Andrew held on, close but not overly tight,
his body smooth and slippery beneath the water. Despite the fire
stirring low in his belly Rory did not hold him, but let him become
accustomed to the feel of the water. “Aren’t you getting tired?”
Andrew asked.

“I’m a strong swimmer, and if I get tired,
I’ll float.”

“Float?”

“Yes, float. See?” Rory stopped moving, his
arms finally circling Andrew’s waist. They bobbed for a moment; a
swell lifted and lowered them with no disruption. Andrew showed no
sign of alarm. His eyes were still on Rory’s. “Do you trust me?”
Rory asked, reaching up to take Andrew’s hands.

“I do,” Andrew answered without hesitation.
He let Rory pull his arms away and they separated.

“Your first obstacle is overcoming your fear
of the water. It is instinct to want to stay above it, to fight
it,” Rory told him, keeping his voice calm. “Once you stop
fighting, “he said and let go of one hand, “you will find that the
water will support you. You can trust it to hold you up.” He
released the other hand.

Andrew blinked, sank just a bit, and righted.
His face split into a brilliant grin. “If I make a Biblical
reference, will you still kiss me?”

“No,” Rory lied.

Andrew pouted until he dropped into the water
up to his nose. His eyes widened but he did not flail. He made a
circle in the water with his arms and came back up, spitting and
coughing. Rory pulled him back. “I’m sorry,” he sputtered, his arms
going to Rory’s neck once more.

“You’re doing well. This is the most
difficult part but I promise after a few days you will be able to
move about freely. You will not be able to cover long distances,
but you will have the basic skills to learn,” Rory assured him.

After a moment, he released Andrew and slowly
pulled away. He waited awhile, letting Andrew accustom himself
again, before pulling him back. He repeated the action a dozen more
times, each interval apart becoming longer. The end of the lesson
came when Andrew, holding onto Rory a bit more tight than
necessary, slipped his thigh up between Rory’s. “I like this part,”
he sighed, resting his head on Rory’s shoulder.

Rory pressed them closer together, laying his
cheek against Andrew’s hair. He was struggling with the finely spun
contentment wrapping his heart, softening the sharp edges of his
long built battlements. What could he do against it? Andrew had
already breached the walls. Now he offered to help clear the ruined
pieces and rebuild. Should he shun the joy Andrew offered? Would he
be able, even if he wanted to?

The questions were chased from his mind by
the feeling of Andrew’s lips opening against his neck. Slowly,
those lips slid up under his ear, tongue joining to lap at the
salty water lingering on his skin. Rory shivered and groaned, his
turmoil forgotten for the time being, and tilted his head to the
side to offer Andrew more. With increasing zest Andrew explored,
his kisses becoming more forceful with every sound Rory made. He
opened his mouth wide to bite, gently, on the pulsing vein at the
juncture of Rory’s shoulder.

Rory spun them around with a powerful kick
and sent them back towards the shore. He did not stop until his
feet were in the sand and he could plant them firmly. “We should go
back. The water is lovely but not the best place for this,” he told
Andrew, setting him down.

Before he could pull away Andrew had his
mouth. “I do not need the oil, not for what I want to do,” he said,
his hungry eyes boring into Rory’s. “All I need is a place for you
to lie down.”

They found a mostly flat rock at the base of
the cliff face, out of view from the path above. It was not quite
long enough for Rory to lie flat but he reclined against the cliff
as if he were lounging upon a throne. Andrew ran his hands down
Rory’s torso, mapping every curve of muscle, every scar. His mouth
soon followed, hungrily tracing those details with tongue and teeth
until Rory slipped a hand in his hair and pulled him up for a
kiss.

When Andrew’s fingers wrapped around his hard
and ready cock, Rory groaned and covered them with his own. Andrew
pushed his hand away and lowered himself to his knees. Without
teasing, without preamble, Andrew took him into his mouth, moaning
around it as his tongue danced wicked patterns beneath the head.
His unskilled attentiveness was more arousing than any seasoned
whore. He slid his lips down, not too far, but his cheeks hollowed
with the force of the suction he used as he drew back. Andrew used
the flat of his tongue to lick across the head, his eyes opening
briefly to meet Rory’s.

Rory was breathless from the sight and almost
pained by the sensations. His hands balled into fists at his side
to keep them from holding Andrew’s head steady and fucking his
mouth with abandon. The resistance was rewarded by the next
descent, farther down the shaft, with a pause as Andrew adjusted
his breathing. His hand kept measure, lowering as he did to mark
his progress and soon he had more than half past his lips. It was
maddening and Rory could not contain his reaction.

He thrust, crying out, “Oh, Christ, Andrew,
please!”

With a quick, shaky breath Andrew held his
cock steady and set to with a quickened pace. Rory watched as his
lips swelled and reddened and his face flushed from the exertion.
Andrew’s eyes were closed but his face was drawn and Rory thought
perhaps he was repulsed, but Andrew moaned before he could make a
move to stop him. It was not the sound of someone unwilling but was
full of want and hunger and pleasure. Rory was thrusting again, up
into heat and wet and unable to stop. “Andrew, Andrew I’m
close…pull away…stop…” he was saying, not wanting to spill there
but Andrew pressed forward, moved faster, took a deep breath and
waited.

Rory gasped and came, calling Andrew’s name.
Andrew did not stop, even as he choked on the jism flooding his
mouth and running down his chin. “Oh, God…Andrew,” he said, his
voice rough, sounding strangled.

Rory finally pulled him off and Andrew’s eyes
flew open. They were bright, dazed, and full of need. Rory lifted
him and placed him astride his lap. With two fingers he wiped
through the spill from Andrew’s chin and offered it to him, saying,
“Wet them.”

Andrew sucked them as thoroughly as he had
Rory’s cock, which gave another lurch in sympathy. Rory reached
down between Andrew’s parted thighs and pressed, searching and
probing until he felt Andrew jerk. His other hand closed on
Andrew’s erection and he pulled and pressed, rhythmically then in
tandem. Andrew rose up on his knees, fingers digging into Rory’s
shoulders for support. “Kiss me,” Rory told him and it was messy,
full of hungry tongues and biting teeth. Andrew’s hands tangled
into Rory’s hair to tug and twist and with a shout he found his
release, his cries spilling into Rory as his come covered them
both.

They did not sleep. They lazed drowsily
against the rocks as they watched the sun turn from golden yellow
to orange and then to deepest red as it dropped into the sea.

Nor did they speak. Andrew seemed content to
lie pressed to Rory’s side, holding him tight as if he would never
release him and Rory was content to imagine, for a moment, a life
where he never would.

“Keep your wrist straight, always. This part
of your hand must stay aligned with your arm.” Rory held Andrew’s
arm, demonstrating the form. He closed Andrew’s hand and pressed
his fingers to the first two knuckles. “Use this part of your fist.
If you hit any other way you will do as much damage to yourself as
you do to them. Focus your energy right here.” Rory released him
and held up his own hand.

Andrew concentrated, drew back and jabbed his
fist forward. The sound it made when it hit Rory’s palm was flat
and satisfying. He did not smile but looked to Rory for
instruction.

“Good. Again, as hard as you can.”

They worked like this for close to an hour
and then switched to Andrew’s left hand. It was tedious, exhausting
for Andrew, but to his credit he did not waver from his focus. Rory
watched his face, the lines in his body. Andrew had to learn this
part correctly.

“You have it, but you’ll need to work on your
strength in order to be able to slow your opponent. The more you
do; the swimming, the running, even the chores you’ve taken on- the
stronger you will become and the more pain you can cause.”

Andrew nodded, serious and intent. He had not
spoken much this day but until now they had been too preoccupied
with work for it to matter. Rory missed his voice, his chatter that
never seemed to be mindless no matter of what he spoke. “Why so
quiet today?” he asked, watching Andrew flex his fingers.

Staring at his hands, Andrew said, “I am
tired.”

Rory knew that. For the ten days they were up
before first light to begin. Rory had pressed for Andrew to swim,
run, and swing a staff, along with going out with the village men
to fish. Even during the heat of midday, when the rest of the
village was quiet behind drawn drapes, they would be locked in
contest. Rory emerged the victor, always, and yet Andrew was never
frustrated by his losses. He was completely dedicated, Rory
realized, more than he’d ever imagined. After the third time in the
water, Andrew was able to move about with confidence. When they
ran, Andrew was keeping ever closer on his heels. In the evenings
after supper, Andrew was so tired he would be asleep on the bedding
as soon as he lay down. Still, it was not Andrew’s usual way to be
so silent. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough?” Andrew snapped.

The tone of his voice surprised Rory, used to
the endless patience and good nature Andrew possessed. He looked
more closely, noting the lines on Andrew’s forehead and the tension
in his shoulders. “Not for you, Andrew. What troubles you?”

Andrew did not look at him. “I had a dream,”
he said, but did not continue.

“You have comforted me through my dreams,
some of my worst. I would be honored to return the favor,” Rory
said, stepping up closer to him.

In a voice that was not exactly angry, more
distressed, Andrew looked him in the eye and said, “In my dream I
was trying to kill a shadow, I thought it was Maarten but when I
looked at his face, it was you.”

It was not unexpected, at least, not for
Rory. It still felt like a dagger in his heart. He closed his eyes.
“Good.”

“What?”

Looking at Andrew once more, Rory told him,
“I will not draw the parallels for you, Andrew. I shouldn’t have
to.”

Andrew stared at him, open-mouthed. “You
think to compare yourself with Maarten?”