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After the joust, Roland returned Lady Dogmata's favor, then angled his horse so he might speak to Zorion.
"Thank you for lending me the use of your man. I fear he was wasted as my squire." Roland dipped his head, though he kept hold of Zorion's gaze. "You are most generous."
"Of course, friend. I am sure that we all—" Zorion made a broad, one-armed gesture to all the gathered high-clan, "—wished to witness your best performance, and my men are the best." Zorion, too, inclined his head. He too held Roland’s gaze. "I hope he was of some help."
"Help, indeed, yes— he has an eye for the sport."
Roland thought briefly of Nofret's inn, and the coin Zorion spent to make the liquor flow. He was indeed a generous man; sincerely so. This spot of ugliness was such a shame.
"Am I to understand that help was the meaning of the message Ambrose delivered?"
Zorion's gregarious smile thinned.
"You are a tournament knight, are you not?" By which, of course, Zorion meant, You were meant to put on a pretty show.
He thought of music, and snapped strings.
"One of the best," he said. "But not your man. Do well to remember that."
He granted Zorion a final smile.
The Courts of Love had a thousand different smiles, many of them little more than knives with fine silver handles. This smile, at least, was rather simple: Do not seek to yoke me, Zorion de Iruña, or find yourself trampled underfoot.
After the joust concluded, Ambrose again helped him with his armor. He was as efficient in this as he had been before.
"Tell your domitor..." Roland began, and paused, to ensure Ambrose was listening. "Tell him that if he wishes to see my best, then he should meet me here before retiring. And that he should bring his sword."
When the field was cleared, and the attendees gone, Roland put himself through his paces. He began, as always, with footwork. He walked the field in crossing loops, treading and retreading his steps, never by the same path twice. It began slowly, but as he gained a sense for the field, his feet sped, and sped, and though he burned no blood, he found perfect, graceful rhythm — muscle memory that would never, ever fade. Roland let the rote exercises overtake him: the forward step, the backward feint, sidestep and lunge. With every step, Roland put Emmerich from his mind. He did not think of the man's heraldry and its petty provocation. It was typical Ventrue posturing.
Roland unsheathed his sword. He kept pace, and kept the paths. It began with the pretty strikes of tourney fighting, but his muscles ached for the quick and brutal jabs of warfare. He could have knocked Emmerich from his horse in a single pass, had he less honor. He would have deserved it. But Ambrose had spoken true. They were guests here. He could not shame their hosts. He would not dishonor himself. He was meant to smile at the things he hated. What model would he be for the others, if he could not even manage that much?
Drills were meant to center him. He meant to clear his head. Instead he thought of Zorion. He thought of the way Zorion had looked at him, and wondered what message he had actually intended his vassal to deliver, for Roland knew Zorion's expression for what it was, and the things it said had little to do with honor and shame. The Beast reared up. Its hooves stomped upon the ground, angry and restless. Here, against no opponent but himself, Roland let the Beast rise.
Zorion did not announce himself, but Roland sensed him anyway. Call it battle-sense, or call it paranoia, but the shadows felt longer when he was near. Propriety dictated that Roland greet him properly. He’d invited the man, after all. But propriety demanded they not skulk in shadows like brigands on the road, and Roland, he was used to being watched.
Rote drills slid into imagined opponents; measured circles dissolved into true maneuvers. Blood spurred his feet without any conscious thought at all. The Beast did that sometimes, the tempestuous thing. Roland had learned to live with it. He might have been indignant and angry, but oh, the Beast loved to rage. Together he and the Beast put their imagined enemies to the sword. They made sure to make it look good. They loved to give a show. They thrived beneath an audience. This is the thing you tried to tame, said the Beast, and Roland could not disagree.
"Is this your best?" Zorion stepped onto the field, though that was never quite the word for how he moved. He glided over the uneven ground like an evening shadow. It was unnatural. Roland admired his grace regardless.
"My best? Ah, nothing of the sort." Roland laughed, and the Beast laughed. His blood felt hot and wonderful. He finished his last maneuver with a flourish, because he could, and because he was enjoying himself. The Beast reminded him that they were angry, that they had a point to prove, but did that mean he could not let Zorion admire him? Would that not make victory all the sweeter?
He sheathed his sword to face Zorion. "You brought your sword. Good."
"I go nowhere in the night without it." Zorion cocked his head, like a question.
Roland considered that. He considered Ambrose, and the liberties the man took when speaking for his domitor. What liberties might he take with a message from one whom he was not bound to by blood? Roland decided this vassal's behavior reflected poorly on his lord, however clever it might be. It was good Zorion's men did not fear him — but they ought to do their duty.
"What message did your man relay?"
"That you wished to show me your best."
"He is a poor choice for ferrying messages, I think."
"Is that so?" Zorion strode forward, into his personal space. It was an ordinary step that time.
"Ah, well. Today, your man reminded me that I should not dishonor the Sheriff with my prowess, while your eyes demanded that I heed you like a dog. I said that you should find me here, and that you should bring your sword. I wish to spar. Do you find Ambrose was accurate?"
"You would not enjoy a bout with me."
"Is that so?" Roland mocked. "I wish to see the warrior who presumes to command me. I am not your man, your dog, or your horse. Continue to presume, and you will find yourself caught underfoot. Spar with me.”
"I have commanded knights before. Entire units, in the Holy Lands."
"We are in Pest," Roland said, and that was to say nothing of his feelings on the church's damn crusades. Brigands in the shadows had more honor. At least their greed was honest. "I am not your man."
Zorion's mouth twitched. "And should I take our match?"
"It would be a start."
They moved to the center of the ring. Some of Prince Rikard’s men had done their best to flatten the ground again, but the fields were made of damp spring earth, and Roland had already made a mess of them.
Zorion drew his sword. "To first blood, then?"
Roland considered the mud. "First on his back."
They took position across from each other. Zorion at least held himself like a warrior. The affectation in no way matched his delighted grin. "Let us go until one yields."
"Are you certain? I do not yield often."
Zorion fixed him with an expression not unlike the one which had started this, made darker by their lack of audience. Moonlight and shadow sharpened his features. It said, You are mine. It said, You work for me, and you do as I say, and you do this because I say.
And then something shifted. Roland could not, at first, say what. Zorion still looked at him, assessing him, but not like a warrior or a lord or a knight. Like a Cainite.
Like he was hungry.
Roland thought, Ah.
Very deliberately, Zorion said, "Quite certain."
Zorion would not be the first man who sought to possess a thing simply because he wished to fuck it. What a shame he went about it like this, or Roland might have been amenable. He said, "I look forward to hearing you yield."
Zorion began without even so much as an 'At your ready.' In his shock, Roland did not seek to parry; he merely stepped aside. It was easy. Zorion wished to take him off guard, but Roland was quick, and his blood was alive, the Beast burning hot. He would be hungry after this. He was hungry now. He didn't care. Zorion's second strike chained smoothly from the fist, already gaining speed.
Roland could have ended their match here, before Zorion had had the chance to remember his bearings. But where would be the sport in that? Roland had a point to prove, yes, but he would prove it in a fair fight, otherwise what use was the match at all?
Rather than bring the game to an unsatisfying end, Roland used the time to take his measure of the man. Was Zorion hasty, or did he circle his opponent and observe? Did he lose himself to the battle-thrill, or did he comport himself like a seasoned man? Did he favor his right, which remained always in shadow? At times it almost seemed as though his right hand blurred a half-second behind the rest of him. It was like the after-image of a candle in reverse: his vision anticipating darkness where there was none. That happened sometimes with Cainite celerity, but this was less blurred momentum and more like a, a smear, as if Zorion had dragged his hand across damp ink. Shadow followed him in ways that it should not.
At some point — Roland could not say precisely when — he was forced to fight in earnest. They danced each other around the field, trampling through the tidy circles of footprints Roland had left behind. With the rust shaken from Zorion's sword, he made a good opponent. He was not hasty. He was clever. He did indeed favor his right. There was a story there. Perhaps when Roland had won, he would have Zorion tell it.
As much as he looked forward to victory, Roland realized he was having fun. It was almost enough to make him forget that he was angry.
But he did remember, or else the Beast would not let him forget, and the next Zorion swung too wide — when Roland, in a better mood, might have let the opening slide simply to prolong the match — he caught Zorion's sword-arm by the wrist and yanked.
Zorion bent to recover his balance, but Roland did not relent. He dragged Zorion low, lifted his foot, and stomped the sword from Zorion's hand.
With the man disarmed, Roland demanded, "Do you yield?"
Zorion jerked his knee up into Roland's face.
Bone cracked. Pain radiated from his nose. Blood filled his mouth. Roland had already been hungry before. And now—
He released Zorion and retreated several steps, resisting the urge to touch his face. Zorion reset his posture, no longer that of a warrior in Jerusalem. Not a duelist, nor a lord — he was a thug in an alley, fists up to strike.
It'd been some time since Roland had fought like that. Roland glanced at his sword, still in hand. What kind of fun was a sword against fists? What did it prove?
Zorion said, "Don't you dare."
Well, it was no fun at all. Roland laughed, and threw his sword into the mud.
Zorion snarled.
They went at each other again. To his pleasure, Zorion held his own. Roland even had to work for it. Roland rarely missed mortality, but in moments like this, he felt the loss. He missed his heartbeat roaring in his ears; he missed how his lungs had ached; he missed sweat down his neck, the way it plastered men’s hair to their face; he missed panting each other’s breath, and the way he and his opponent sometimes began to pant in harmony. He missed tired limbs, and the full-body exertion of a hard-fought match. Now there was only hunger.
As with the sword, Zorion favored his right. This close, Roland gained a true sense for how shadow warped and smeared through the air around him. Roland could get lost, watching the shadows move. He wondered what that hand felt like on skin — Zorion's fist, or his open-palm.
Again that sensation of being watched. Roland split his attention to search the field, looking for what his Beast swore to him was there. Something small, dark and human darted between his legs. Roland spun to follow it — this was no place for a child, not at this hour, stuck between two Cainites — then found himself, quite suddenly, staring at the moonlit sky.
Zorion kept him down with a boot upon his chest, and the whole of his weight followed. Air wheezed from Roland's lungs. The opposite foot found his shoulder, slid precisely to the joint, and kicked.
It was a good kick, at least. Clean. Precisely as Zorion intended, Roland's shoulder popped from its socket into perfect, useless agony. Pain blotted out the stars — but he felt Zorion bend above him, felt his fingers lace through Roland's remaining good hand. Threat clear, Roland opened his eyes just in time to watch that shadow, that dark, child-shaped thing, dissolve into Zorion's right hand.
Zorion said, "You will yield."
Roland yanked his good arm, twisting as if to dislodge Zorion's foot from his chest.
Zorion, of course, pulled. That shoulder went as cleanly as the first. Roland bit his tongue to silence himself, as if that mattered. Zorion bent to catch his eye.
Roland knew what came next. He'd tilted before against Cainites who could do it. Usually it came before the joust began, to ensure an easy victory, else it came after, when losing made his opponent sore. Never had it come like this, when he'd already so thoroughly lost.
Exactly as Roland knew he would, Zorion commanded, "Yield."
Arms useless, Roland had no means of fighting back. Still, the Beast tried. It had to try. The Beast snarled and bucked and refused to let itself be commanded by any unworthy man. Roland knew he was beaten. The Beast simply did not agree.
He found his voice for long enough to say, "Try again."
A crueler man might have taken the invitation to inflict more pain. But Roland was fairly certain that Zorion only intended to disable him; the pain was effective, but incidental. It'd all been too clean for anything else. Instead, Zorion cocked his head. He stilled. Roland watched the predator come over him, the same predator who’d caught his eye across the jousting field and presumed to treat him like his man. Roland knew the warrior behind that look, now. When Zorion claimed Roland's gaze a second time, his fangs were out, his golden gaze that of a cat stalking from on high, both their Beasts so, so close to the surface, but not at all like frenzy.
"Roland de Roncevaux, you will yield."
“Yes.” Roland's Beast bent its head. Every word came with effort. "Yes, yes, I yield."
"Good man," Zorion praised, and easily popped his shoulder back into place.
Roland shouted once — then let out a long, pathetically grateful breath. Zorion lifted his boot from his chest. He even offered Roland his hand, which he took.
"May I?" Zorion said, hand hovering over Roland's opposite arm.
Roland nodded. "If you would not mind."
It hurt less the second time, and Roland knew it was coming. He merely groaned, long and low. Dislocated limbs were not so bad. Back in place, they hardly ached at all. What pain lingered coiled in his gut, about where the evening's embarrassments had already made their home.
Zorion's hand remained on his shoulder. It kept him on his knees. The other hand, the shadow-thing, pushed hair from his face. It'd stuck to his skin with mud in some places, blood in others.
Roland cocked his head. He should have objected. But he'd wanted to feel that hand, and now he had his wish. So he remained silent, and let himself be touched. It trailed further through his hair, to the back of his head. It was cold. Colder than this spring night in Pest, colder than a winter's night at home, colder than death. He shivered, bodily and helplessly, while Zorion pet him like, like a thing he did not yet care to name. The hand wasn't cold at all, really. It felt like air given form. It felt solid, and felt like nothing. But still Roland could only think of steel in the snow. He shivered again. Helplessly, helplessly.
Zorion laughed a single laugh. Just a soft puff of air. No sound to it at all. His eyes glittered in the dark. Grinning, he said, "What prize does victory earn me?"
From the moment they’d met, Roland had understood that he found Zorion handsome. He liked his dark skin and bright brown eyes; he enjoyed his noble bearing, his fashionable attire, the rich fabrics; all of him, a man clearly accustomed to giving orders and seeing them obeyed. He was the sort of man Roland would like to have on his back for the simple pleasure of looking down at his face while they fucked.
Zorion took Roland's chin in his hand. He tilted it one way, then the other. He moved him the way one moved an animal at market to make sure it was good.
Still grinning, he said, "I should like to see your cheeks flush."
No command accompanied his words that time, but Zorion still held Roland's gaze, and so Roland saw precisely what he truly meant.
I want to see you want me.
Roland had always been a red-cheeked boy. He'd blushed easily and often. People had found it adorable and charming. But then that red-cheeked boy grew into a red-cheeked man. However well Roland had learned to schooled his mortal face, it hadn’t mattered, for his cheeks gave him away. He'd been glad, after his Embrace, to learn that the boyish flush would never give him away again.
Roland roused his blood, and his cheeks flushed.
Zorion's eyes blackened, then. True black, pitch black, a black that swallowed every scrap of moonlight. Roland was glad he could not see himself reflected there. He did not want to see himself like this, in the mud, on his knees, fiercely aroused. He saw only Zorion's desire shining down at him. He pressed his thumb to Roland's bottom lip. It was ordinary flesh, not shadow — and what would the other hand feel like on his lip, in his mouth? This hand was warm. It swiped over the blood caught on Roland's upper lip.
"You look rather dashing in red." Condescension dripped from Zorion's voice, his gaze, the way he held Roland’s chin. It all coiled in his stomach. It all went directly to his cock.
Roland breathed out a slow, shaking breath. "Was all this necessary?"
"You wanted a spar, no?"
"Yes. And if you wanted a fuck— you could have simply asked."
"What of showmanship? You must leave all your lovers wanting."
"You dislocated both my arms!"
Zorion laughed, and damn him, but it was a good, deep sound. "I put them back."
"You are a condescending ass."
Zorion lifted an eyebrow. He lifted his boot — the very same boot that had kicked his arm from its socket — and pressed it, ever so lightly, to where Roland had grown hard.
"You enjoy my condescension."
He did not.
He did.
Roland changed tack. "Is this how you satisfy your lovers?"
It was meant to be an accusation.
It very much was not.
"Sometimes," Zorion said. But then he sighed. "No, Roland, I merely had to make you yield. You and your Beast both. Would anything less have allowed you to accept defeat?"
"No."
"Then you understand why I did it."
Feeling petulant, Roland said, "It hurt."
"You took it well."
"Fuck you."
"And so we come back to fucking."
Zorion applied more pressure to the toe of his boot. Not much.
But enough.
"I could bring you off like this. Let you rut on my boot."
The moment Zorion said it, it crystalized into truth. Roland could get off like this. Here, in the mud, Zorion's boot and his shame.
He said, "No."
"No?"
A little more pressure, enough to make a man's eyes water, balanced perfectly between agony and pleasure. He almost wanted to get off like this. His pride let him have this so rarely.
And still, he said, "No. I will bring you off. Now. Here."
He ran his hands over his thighs and bit back the ‘please’ which lurked beneath his tongue, then realized he did not actually have to wait for Zorion's word, and reached for him instead.
Roland knew Zorion wanted him, but it was another thing altogether to feel the truth of it beneath his hands. He found that he wanted to put his mouth on Zorion — here in the mud, slave to their passions like the low-clan rabble. If Roland had to suffer the indignity, he would ensure Zorion suffered the same.
Zorion said, "Then ask."
"For what?”
"You know what I want from you. I know what you want. I am generous. But you will ask."
And though Zorion's expression had hardened, Roland understood Zorion was giving him his out. If he truly did not wish to be here, then he could simply let himself fail to put lust to words, and it would end. They would retire to their rooms alone, and perhaps they would never speak of it again. Zorion was a condescending ass, but he was honorable enough. They could put this behind them.
It just felt like being dared to give up, and Roland would not yield to Zorion a second time.
He summoned every bit of courtly manners he could muster. He straightened his back, even as it pushed his length more firmly into Zorion's boot. If he was going to ask, then he would do it right. "Would you grant me, Zorion de Iruña, the honor of sucking your cock?”
"There's a good man," Zorion said.
Roland tilted up his chin, thrilling in the way Zorion's hand followed. One could pull a rope in either direction, after all. "I did not hear an answer."
Zorion's hand tightened in his hair. Roland imagined the shadows writhing. He wished he could see it. He knew it must look lovely.
"Does the Beast have your tongue? You demanded the question — you give me an answer."
"Well,” Zorion said, “I would never wish to deny you that."
The fist in Roland's hair pulled him back, bent his neck to its limit, and ensured Roland met Zorion's gaze.
Roland thought, oh.
Zorion commanded, “Now suck me."
He probably could have summoned the willpower to throw off Zorion's command. But he'd already done that once tonight, and it hadn't mattered, not one bit. His Beast was already cowed. Roland let Zorion's power wash over him, and through him, and take hold. He wanted to do this, and now he could not stop, not even if he wished. The whole thing was absurd, all of it, the way Zorion directed him like an animal to be broken, the way that handling bypassed all sense and went directly to his cock. That was the most absurd thing at all.
Roland tried to put that into his voice, make a mockery of what they were doing. And he could not. With pure, unadulterated sincerity, Roland said, "Thank you."
Zorion released his chin. He brushed that hand over his cheek like petting a horse's flank, but no less gentle for it — a perfect counterpoint to the fist in Roland’s hair. His grip did not relent. Roland would have to fight against it to get near Zorion's cock, and he had no choice but to do exactly that, didn't he? It was a kindness, Roland knew, to rob him of any choice but forward. It was a kindness that Zorion held back Roland's head and made him struggle toward him. Zorion's hand left Roland's cheek to undo his laces, but Roland's hands got there first. Zorion relented. Another kindness, to let Roland undress him at his own pace. Unsteady hands exposed Zorion's to the air.
God, he was beautiful. Tanned skin washed blue with moonlight, slightly darker at the head, flushed and lovely. Roland leaned forward against the fist in his hair. He knew it would sting, but nothing prepared him for the way it went to his cock. His eyes fluttered. Zorion brushed his cheek again.
Enough of this.
Roland looked Zorion in the eye and took him in his mouth. Now Zorion's eyes fluttered. Now his chest heaved and twitched with uneasy breath, which was only fair. Roland decided he would make this last. He would draw it out and pull Zorion to the edge and keep him there as long as he was able. Zorion had said to suck him, and he would. He’d said nothing of making it good; nothing of making him come; he’d demanded no obedience beyond the act itself. Roland pulled off, laved his tongue down to the base, never breaking Zorion's gaze. If Zorion would have him on his knees, then Roland would see him come apart. Zorion’s eyes were still so, so dark, and so hungry, and all of it for him. He took the tip back into his mouth, just that little bit.
Zorion growled.
Roland hummed.
The fist in his hair pushed down.
The Beast summoned his blood on instinct. He meant to push back, remain where he was, but then the command settled over him, and resistance evaporated into a high, helpless moan. Zorion forced himself deeper, slowly, inexorably, and Roland knelt, and he took it, and he'd never been this hopelessly, damnably aroused in his life. It'd been some time since he’d had a man like this, but he remembered how to swallow, how to make his cheeks hollow and ignore the mortal urge to gag even as he fought not to roll his eyes shut.
Zorion helped. "Look at me," he said.
He could have shut his eyes, then, but everything Zorion had made him do felt good. So he looked.
"Do you need me to fuck your mouth, or will you work for this?"
It was fortunate Roland could not snarl with a cock down his throat. Instead, he moved. Zorion still did nothing about the fist in his hair, but Roland supposed he didn't mind the sting. It anchored him. He bobbed his head, marking time by every tug on his scalp. It felt a bit like putting himself through his paces — meditative and punishing at once. He braced a hand on Zorion's thigh, its muscle tense from the effort of remaining upright. Good. They both ought to work for this. It was only fair. Together they found rhythm, Roland dipping his head, Zorion thrusting to meet him. They moved well together. Understood each other. He didn't think too hard about that, only let himself be grateful.
Roland brought his other hand to his cock.
No. He brought his hand to Zorion's boot. It did not move. Roland could not move it.
"Go on," Zorion said, or grunted, really, but it did nothing to curb the man's indulgent tone. Like telling a dog it could have its bone.
So Roland did not touch himself, and he did not rut against Zorion. Instead he broke rhythm, pushing his pace, driving Zorion closer, closer. The fist in his hair pulled, and pushed, and spasmed, and then it felt like no hand at all. It was shadow given form, light as air heavy as skin. It cascaded through his hair, wrapped around his neck, curled around his hips. Roland did not look. He was focused on his task. But he felt it all around him. It was Zorion, all around him, holding him and commanding him, and cradling, too. It cradled him. Shadow pulled his thighs apart. Shadow pushed him into Zorion's boot, and it was good. He liked it. He gave in.
He moved his hips, dragging the length of himself over leather. He moaned around Zorion's cock — so Zorion moaned, and they went like that, each spurring the other on. They found a new, harried rhythm, both desperate, which was only fair. It was only fair. This time when Roland reached for his laces, Zorion allowed him to take his cock in hand. He wasn’t even sure if that counted as kindness or cruelty anymore because between his hand and Zorion’s boot and the distant press of humiliation, Roland knew he would not last long. He didn’t care. He shook against Zorion’s thighs, spilling over his boot, over his hand, into the mud. He lost rhythm. Lost control. He choked on Zorion, still buried in his throat, and when he moved off to breathe, Zorion let him go. A generous man.
“Thank you,” he said again, barely a whisper.
Zorion came. Blood hit Roland’s cheek. He moved to wipe his face, arms shaking, but Zorion got there first. He cupped his head in both hands, the shadow no more than fingers once again. Roland liked the coolness over flushed skin as Zorion brushed blood from his face. It was far too tender for what they’d just done, but Roland let him do it. His eyes slid shut while Zorion cleaned him, first with fingers, then soft, perfumed linen. He opened his eyes in time to find Zorion tucking his handkerchief away along with his spent cock, an image so absurdly ordinary that Roland laughed.
The domineering man who’d presumed to give commands blended into someone warmer. That man looked at him, not so much like an animal at market anymore, but as assessing as he'd been before.
"You spar well," Zorion said, but he wasn't talking about sparring, and it wasn't a compliment. Zorion held himself stiffly, not quite with fear. Apprehension, though. Zorion asked, hesitant and hopeful, "Have you taken my measure?"
"I've not." Roland remembered himself. He remembered the Courts of Love, and its many pretty knives. He let Zorion squirm for a moment. It was really only fair. "We'll have to spar again until I am satisfied. Some other night. Yes?"
Zorion's tension broke into a grin. "Yes, I suppose I could be your man."