Archive of Our Own

The mouth of the cave was the first sign of hope Scott had seen since the sun rose on this terrible day. It was not much of a salvation, a hollow in an outcropping of rocks on the bloodied hillside. Scott dragged himself towards, breathing ragged in his own ears. The sounds of battle had long since faded.

The wound Scott had taken would only be fatal if he got the blood poisoning. Or if the conquering army stalked through the field of the dead, making a point of slaughtering those that malingered among the corpses. When Scott had come to at the edges of the conflict, he had very briefly considered letting that fate take him. When he determined that his head was still attached despite the horrific pain in it and his shoulder was still usable despite the stab wound, he pushed himself up to his feet.

His head had swam terribly and he'd taken a moment to throw up as quietly as possible. There was tacky blood on his face and down his neck, evidence of the damage he had rendered in return.

Taking stock, he found there was no one left standing in the colors of the Admirals or even their tentative allies among the Raiders on this part of the battlefield. The conquering terrible army with their bronze plate and ruthless tactics had parted them like water. The cry for retreat had struck out and he could only hope that it had been heard, obeyed and survived.

Scott should have followed the path of retreat when he rejoined the waking world, but he found himself staggering more than walking. How he had evaded notice as he stumbled away was a questionable miracle.

The ringing in his head led him astray and he found himself away from immediate danger, but also far from the relative safety of the forest-hall. It was there that their meager army would fall back. Only those well initiated with it's location would easily make their way there, sheltered as it was in the only woods that grew in these lands.

The forest-hall was Scott's home of many years. That he had lost track of which direction it was in, could only be a sign of how badly his head had been shaken. He could admit that he despaired as he clawed his way up the outcropping, making himself a target to any eager archer.

Then the cave. A beacon of hope. A place he could rest an hour or so. At least until the sun had slipped away and he had found enough of his wits to make another go of returning home.

With shaking relief, Scott made it into the cave. There was no sign of animal occupation, another win in a day of incredible loss. He pulled himself as far into it as he could and sat down heavily. In the darkness, he allowed himself to hang his head and weep for those that he had lost. He didn't know who was dead on the battlefield, but the number was too substantial to have spared all of his men.

The crying made his head hurt worse. Of course it did. He was too heartsick and pained to be hungry, but he was terribly thirsty. With a fumbling hand, he reached down hopelessly for his waterskin.  It met his fingers and he almost wept again in relief. Still half full! He unlatched it from his belt and drank a few mouthfuls carefully. If he threw it back up, he'd want more to wash out his mouth.

With that need sated, Scott closed his eyes. He would simply rest here. A few hours. Then he would push himself onward.

Maybe he dozed or maybe he was feverish, dropping in and out of sleep. It was hard to say, but he did know for sure that he jolted awake all at once from a small sound. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

"If you've come to kill me," he said tiredly, "then I ask you make it quick. I'm in no mood to wait around."

The hulking shadow at the mouth of the cave paused and then it laughed. A low rumbling sound that raised the hair on the back of Scott's neck.

"No more death," a voice said, deep and dark. The accent was thick and strange. Not that of the enemy. The enemy spoke Scott's language and wore a similar face. A neighboring nation with greed in their hearts and blood rising in them like a tide.

A mercenary then. A sellsword.

"Ever?" Scott asked. "That'd be nice."

The shadow moved closer, the outline blurring into the dark of the cave. A thin metallic sound, a scrapping over the rock made Scott's hackles rise. A weapon of some sort. But what could he do? If it came to a fight, he would do his best to defend himself, but he knew he was weak. Prone.

"No more death today," the man said and then he was close enough that Scott could make out the shape of him in the darkness again.

A large man, moving into a crouch at Scott's side. He held something in his hand, long and swaying. A mace, perhaps?

"That would be good," Scott agreed. "I won't kill you if you won't kill me?"

There was a delay. A hitch and then a nod. "Yes. This."

"Great. Fantastic. I'm Scott Hunter, Knight of the Admirals."

"Hunter," the man repeated. "I am this too." 

"It's a name, not a title. What's your name?"

"Rozanov."

"Rozanov," Scott said carefully. "You're from somewhere far?"

"Very," Rozanov said. "Fire?"

"I don't have any way to make one," Scott said. "Even if I could, I'm not sure it's a good idea. It might tell them where I am. Or maybe that's a good idea for you. You won't get paid for running off. You'll be lucky if they don't kill you."

Rozanov grunted, but didn't argue. He only sat down near enough to Scott that Scott could catch the scent of the battle on him. The copper-tang of blood, sweat, and smoke.

"Hurt?" Rozanov asked.

"Yes. You?"

"Mmm, no. Hard to hurt."

"Lucky for you," Scott said. "Why are you hiding then?"

Rozanov didn't answer. Or at least not in words. Instead, in the murkiness, Scott made out an arm raising. There was a chain hanging down, but there was nothing on the other end of it. A length of chain. Scott followed it back up. It wasn't held in Rozanov's hand at all, but hanging from his wrist.

"Oh," Scott said softly. "Not a sellsword."

"No," Rozanov agreed. "No sword."

The sword that Scott had carried since he was twelve was still strapped to him. It had been the first thing he had checked for when he came to and he'd found it only an armspan away from where he'd fallen. Not that it had done him much good, but he clung to the remnants of his family and if it had been lost, he might not have had the will to get to his feet again.

"Were you a prisoner?" Silence. "Sorry, I suppose that's a bad subject."

"I do not know what this is," Rozanov said. "Your words and my mouth, bad still."

A prisoner from far away. Did their enemy sink to the lows of slavery? It was possible. There had not been a slave in Scott's lands for time out of memory, but there were stories of what other places did. It seemed very impolite to inquire if someone was a slave.

"Do you want some water?" Scott asked.

"You have?" Rozanov asked, an eagerness in his voice.

"Yes. Here."

Scott passed Rozanov the waterskin and hoped vaguely that the man wouldn't finish it off. Rozanov's fingers brushed over Scott's warm and alive. It was reassuring even if they might've killed each other when they met only a few hours earlier. The sounds of drinking punctuated the silence.

Scott saw some movement, but his vision swam. With a huff of annoyance, Rozanov's hand seized on Scott's again, tucking the waterskin into it.

"Thank you," Scott said. The waterskin made out a sloshing sound as he resecured it to his belt. There was still water to spare. Rozanov had not drained him dry. That was a good sign. "When my head stops spinning, I'm going back to my hall. If anyone else survived they'll be there. You're welcome to come with me."

Another pause. "Say again. Slow."

"Do you want to come home with me? It's safe for now."

Rozanov went still beside him. "Why?"

"You didn't want to be with them," Scott said. "And if you stay out in the wastes, they will find you again. The land here is bad for hiding."

"I fight you. Today."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "Did you want to?"

Silence. A slow shake of the head.

"Same. We won't make you fight. I'm not even sure there's enough of us left to put one up anyway. You may just be finding a new place to die. But there's food there and water. People who are worth dying for. You could do worse."

If Rozanov answered him, Scott didn't hear it. Whatever delicate balance Scoot had been clinging to for wakefulness fell away and he was dashed into even darker depths. He dreamed of fire and copper.

When Scott opened his eyes again, the cave was lighter instead of darker. He had lost the night and his heart sank. There was no sign of Rozanov. Either Scott had dreamed him or his temporary companion had ignored his advice and taken off. Scott wished him well if he was real. Maybe under the cover of darkness he could get far enough away that the flatness the barrenness of the land wouldn't betray him.

Scott, on the other hand, would have to wait out another full day here. At least his head had cleared a little. He was still queasy, but there was a cramping of hunger now too. A good sign.

His shoulder hurt, but when he lifted his hand to touch the wound and access it, he touched fabric. The wound had been bound. Shifting himself a little into a trail of sunlight that had made it's way into the cave, Scott found a familiar homespun ripped and wrapped tightly. Rozanov had cut away at Scott's tunic to make it. The bit that hung free from his leather chestplate.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud.

"You bleed too much."

Not a cloud. Rozanov stood at the mouth of the cave, blotting out the light.

"I was stabbed," Scott said defensively. "Thank you for wrapping it."

"I say no one dies. So I wrap."

"Good work. I think I can get us back tonight. My head isn't completely full of dirt now."

"Food," Rozanov said.

"Yeah, that's the goal."

"I bring it."

"What?"

Rozanov made a noise of impatience, coming closer and sitting down beside Scott again. "Hand."

Scott put out his hand and small rain of items fell into it. Nuts. Thin ovals, so ordinary and familiar it was hard to reconcile them with the situation.

"You found groundlings? That's lucky."

"No luck. Work," Rozanov said haughtily. "Eat."

"We can share," Scott said. "We'll both need to eat."

"I took. I found many."

"Have you had them before? Hard on the teeth if you don't know how to eat them."

"My teeth are strong."

No one's teeth were strong enough for uncracked groundlings, but Scott figured that was between Rozanov and his mouth. If the man said he'd eaten, Scott wouldn't argue. He smacked the nuts against the rocks, tenderizing them then ate them. It wasn't enough to fill his stomach, but it took the edge off his hunger.

"Thank you."

Rozanov nodded. Even with the reach of sunlight, it was difficult to make out much of the man this far into the cave. He had fine features, Scott thought, and he was clearly big. He wore no armor which seemed ill-advised, even for a slave-warrior if that's what he was. There was only a long dark tunic, a simple belt, and leggings. Surely they weren't sending out unarmed, unarmored men to fight? Even if they were heartless, it was simply poor strategy.

"Where is your weapon?"

Rozanov made a disgusted sound. "I do not need."

"I thought you were a fighter?"

"Yes," Rozanov agreed.

"Did you throw it away?"Scott asked. Rozanov paused and then sighed. He held up his manacled wrist again as if that was a full response. "They really sent you out there with nothing?"

A low considering noise. "They keep me behind until they cannot."

Scott didn't really know what to make of that. "Do you know what time it is? I can't tell from in here."

"Mid-day."

"Hours still. Did you sleep?"

"No. You sleep. I did not."

The idea that Rozanov had stayed awake, perhaps to protect Scott, was odd, but reassuring.

"Then sleep now. We have time and it's a long walk. I'll keep watch."

"You will do what? If someone comes, you are too hurt."

Which was unfortunately true. "I'll wake you up."

Apparently that was good enough for Rozanov because he made a grunt of agreement, then simply lay down with his head coming to rest on Scott's thigh.

"I don't think-" Scott started to protest, but a soft fluttering snore told him he was somehow too late. Rozanov had fallen asleep the second he was horizontal. Nice trick.

Pushing him off was an option, but what was the point? Scott was only laying here and watching the cave entrance, hoping no one came to kill them. He could be a pillow too.

The hours passed slowly. The cave grew colder, but Rozanov ran hot, so at least Scott's legs stayed warm enough. He tried not to lose himself in scenarios of despair, instead forcing himself to recount the names of constellations that Bennett had taught him, then the poems he had memorized at the feet of many teachers of varying degrees of patience.

"We walk the paths of giants/lost in their steps," he murmured as the sun finally started to set. "Trace their goings to the caverns/and lose them in their depths."

"You know giants?" Rozanov asked, his voice thick with sleep. There had been no sign of his waking. Only his voice in the dark.

"I know stories of giants," Scott confirmed.

"Stories," Rozanov said. "I like them. Tell me."

"You want me to tell you a story?"

"We wait for dark."

How much would Rozanov understand? His grasp of Scott's tongue seemed inconsistent. Then again, what else were they doing?

It would be good if Rozanov would sit up, but instead, he came in closer, draping himself over Scott's lap like a cat. The heat of him drenched into Scott's stomach, his chest and finally, his shoulders. The terrible cold released its hold and Scott relaxed fractionally. No one could see them. No one would have to know that Scott let a man rest on him like this. At least Scott's body was too weak to betray him.

"There were giants in the world once," Scott began.

"Once?" Rozanov asked.

"A long time ago," Scott confirmed. "One of their footsteps is a pond near the hall. I'll show you. If it's still- any way. There was one giant named Ophi and she was a smith. She made swords the size of trees and pots that could fit five big men inside it. She could swing them better than any warrior, but chose to make them instead.

"All the other giants knew Ophi was the best smith and they sought her out to make them things, paid in her in cattle and casks of wine. But she wanted something else too. She waited for the one to come, a man with a fair face and skill with a blade. Simi, he was called. When he asked for a sword, she asked for his hand in marriage in return.

"Simi agreed, but Ophi didn't know that as fair as he was in face, he was ugly in his heart. She made him a sword and he laid with her in the sweetgrass, but when the morning came, he was gone. Betrayed, Simi forged herself a great battle axe. She chased Simi down through the hills and over the wastes. When she found him at last, he laughed in her face. Told her she had sold herself too cheaply. She raised her axe and he took up his sword. They fought up and down this land, tearing it to shreds. They made the wastes as they are, without trees or succor.

"When at last Simi knew the fight was lost, he tried to charm Ophi again. She pretended to be wooed and let him get very close. It's said right before she chopped him clean in half that she told him she loved him. His blood made the Red Lake and his bones lay at the bottom of it still."

Rozanov shifted, rolling onto his back. His eyes were glittering points in the dark. "I know this story. But we say different. They fight, but he wins. He cannot kill her. The battle is too close. She is too good. Too much a match. It makes him love her. He knows they are the same. She knows. They stay together."

"I like that better," Scott admitted. "But it doesn't explain the Red Lake."

"The ground is red. Water has no color. This makes Red Lake, red. Yes?"

"Well, yes, but that isn't a story to tell around the fire, is it?"

"Mm. True story is better story."

"I don't think either of them are true. Giants have been gone a long time. People tell things over and over and change them."

"My story is true," Rozanov said firmly.

"It's sweeter. I'll give you that"

The darkness stole over the sky again as they both considered that. Rozanov ventured, "We go?"

"Yes. Have some water first," Scott said, passing him the skin again. "If we can get to the woods, I can find more."

They shared the last few mouthfuls. Then Rozanov got up and Scott pushed himself to standing for the first time. He staggered a little, then stamped his feet to get his blood flowing again. His head ached, his shoulder throbbed. No use waiting to get better than this. It might only be downhill from here.

"We go," Rozanov said again.

"We go," Scott agreed.

They walked cautiously out into the night. Above them the stars were starting to pierce through the last of the sun's fading light. Scott studied them and to his relief, found the tiny cluster constellation that had always guided him home.

"This way," he said and started down the hill on the other side. "I'm not sure where we are, but I can get us where we need to be."

They walked in near silence for some time. Both of them were tense, starting at any noise. It was only when Scott finally spotted a familiar stand of boulders that he spoke, with some dread.

"We were further out than I thought. I don't think we'll make it before sunrise."

"How much?" Rozanov asked, voice low.

"A few hours. We can look for another lucky spot or we can hope they haven't made it this far yet. We're moving a lot faster as two men then an army can. Especially one tending it's wounds."

Rozanov sighed. "Hope is weapon."

"It is?"

"It can cut, hurt. You. Them."

"It can," Scott agreed. "Take a chance on a weapon or hide?"

"Always weapon," Rozanov said wryly. "Yes?"

"Yes," Scott said.

With gaining surety, Scott led them out of the wastes and finally, at last to the forest. The outskirts of it were thin, younger. It took a solid hour before things grew closer, more shielded and Scott could relax a little. Rozanov grew only more tense. He went from walking a respectable distance from Scott to nearly being shoulder-to-shoulder.

"Old growth," Scott said in a hush. "It's dense and home to a lot of things, but nothing that would consider us a good dinner."

"No?" Rozanov asked. "Then why do you hold your sword?"

"Wolves are wolves," Scott said. "Even if I know they won't bother with us, it's best to remind them of why. At least, it's harder to move armies through woods this thick."

That did not seem to ease Rozanov. Scott was glad when he spotted a cluster of vines a few minutes later. He reached for it, running his hand through the leaves until he found the plump round fruit that hung from them. There were five and he plucked them, handing four to Rozanov.

"Have you had these before?"

"No," Rozanov held one up to the moonlight. The purple skin ate the light. "Berry?"

"We call them bruiseberries. The juice stains your fingers, but they taste good."

The berry was held to Rozanov's noise, sniffed and then bitten in to. "Sweet."

"Very." Scott bit into his own, pleased to find it juicy and fragrant despite the lateness of the season. "They'll start to rot soon. If we can get them before they go bad, we make wine out of them."

"Sweet wine? This is real?"

"It is in a few months," Scott's lips twitched. He wasn't ready to smile, but it was close. " If we're still around to make it."

The entire time they'd been walking, Rozanov had carefully kept the hanging chain wrapped around his arm. Now he tugged at restlessly. "Why do they fight you?"

"They didn't even tell you why?" Any desire to smile disappeared. Monsters.

"Not my fight. They do not care."

"That's stupid. People who know what they're fighting for fight harder."

"Not stupid. No reason they give would make me care for them."

"Still," Scott frowned, then shook his head. "They want our land. They say it was theirs to begin with, a long time ago. We've had peace for generations. But they have a new king and people say he's hungry to be an emperor."

"Land," Rozanov said with such intense distaste that Scott felt understood on a base level.

"I know. Like the land gives a shit which side of a border it's on."

They walked on in silence again. Scott's head had never quite cleared, but it was starting to truly hurt again, a pounding that couldn't be silence. He almost missed the sound of the spring over it.

"Water," he said. He reached out instinctively to touch Rozanov's elbow like he would to guide any one of his men in the dark.

The fabric that greeted his fingers was not rough at all. The simple tunic was so soft that Scott momentarily thought he'd touched skin instead. They put slaves in their best fabrics? Or had Rozanov been seized with it on? Was his new companion royalty in his far away land or did everyone there dressed more finely?

Scott didn't ask. Instead, with Rozanov's attention gained, he dropped his hand and led him to the spring. The promise of quenching their thirst drew them in, but they both slowed as they got closer, all too aware that water drew everyone, not just the righteous. They waited, silent in the trees for long minutes until they were certain they were alone.

Close to the mouth, the spring issued out in a narrow creek. Scott went to his knees, cupping his hands into the water and drinking from them in relief. Beside him, Rozanov went down on all fours and stuck his whole face into the water. When he came back up for air, he shook his head, sending a spray of water over Scott.

"Hey!" Scott protested. But the water felt good against his skin. He reached down and cupped another handful to splash on his face more deliberately. It cooled him, even as he shoulder protested the movement.

"Here," Rozanove said, reaching for the wound and Scott froze. Rozanov scoffed. "I will clean. So you do not get sicker."

"That helps?" Scott asked. "Are you a healer?"

"It helps," Rozanov said simply.

Staying still was hard as the makeshift bandage stuck to the wound, but Scott did his best as Rozanoz unraveled the length of fabric.

"Breathe," Rozanov chided, dipping the bandage into the stream. With care, he used the soaked fabric to clean the wound.

"Fey teeth and tits," Scott swore as dried blood and who knew what else was wiped away. Pain seared through him.

"What?" Rozanov asked, amusement thick in his voice. "Tits and teeth?"

"The things they use to lure in men. I've heard. I don't know. Old stories. Old swears," Scott said through his own gritted teeth.

"Fey are old stories. Like giants?"

The question was a distraction, something to draw Scott's mind away from the depth of his wound. Fine. Scott would take being tricked for utility's sake.

"There was a fairy queen and this was all her territory once. The stream, the woods, the place where my hall sits. She had a castle carved from bone and everything she could desire there, but she liked to walk the woods. When she washed herself in the waters one morning, a man came across her. He covered his eyes and apologized for seeing her naked. For a fairy, this was very funny. She told him to look and he did, stunned by her beauty. He asked if she was hungry and when she said that she was, he caught her a rabbit and made her a meal of it.

"The man did not know that to feed fairy was to perform a favor and bind them together. The queen did not trust it the first time. She waited and met the man at the stream a second time. A second time he fed her. The a third time. A third time, she decided, was a good as vow. She took him from this world to hers and put him in her bone castle, high above the earth."

Scott went quiet to suppress the scream as Rozanov dripped clean water directly into his wound.

"She steals him," Rozanov prompted, dipping the bandage back into the water.

"She steals him," Scott confirmed. "And at first, he was happy to be stolen because he's so in love. The fairy castle is beautiful and full of music and wine, so he stays and stays, until one day, he says he wants to go home and see his family. The queen weeps. He cannot go home. Why would he want to? Slowly, their love becomes a prison. The man was clever, he waited and eventually escaped."

Rozanov wrung out the bandage and then started to wrap the wound again. Scott shivered, the cold seeping into him now, but it did soothe the wound.

"Escape to what?" Rozanov prodded again.

"He found the world changed. Years had passed. His family had moved on. He had grown used to fairy food and wine, so that human food was ash in his mouth. But he never tried to go back. If he went, then there he would be for eternity. He tells the story so no one else lives in such pain."

Rozanov tied off the bandage and sat back. Scott wished he could see his expression, his face, but in the shadows of the trees, the moonlight couldn't penetrate enough to do more than linger on the high points of his profile.

"This is bad," Rozanov determined. "We tell this, but the man, he does go back. The fairy land is sad too. All cry with their queen. When the man returns, they bring him to her quickly so she does not fade away. They make a new deal, the man goes back and forth. His family meets the queen. She must give away some of her magic to live in this world sometimes and he gives some of his year. They have less and more."

"Are all your stories happier than ours?" Scott asked in disbelief.

"They are not stories. They are truths," Rozanov said. "We must go, yes?"

"Yes," Scott confirmed. He got to his feet more slowly than he'd gone to his knees. His stomach surged and for a moment he was sure he would lose what little he'd eaten.

"Hunter," Rozanov said urgently.

"I'm here," Scott muttered, eyes closed, breathing deeply. "I just need a minute."

His weight shifted, Rozanov was tucking up under his arm. They were of a height though Rozanov seemed larger. Wider, maybe.

"I can walk on my own," he protested weakly.

"No," Rozanov said simply.

Scott sagged against him. Tits and teeth. His bones felt heavy. "Just for a bit."

They moved in tandem through the woods, Scott giving direction under his breath. When he shivered from a breeze moving over his now damp clothes and armor, Rozanov pulled him in closer. The man was a kiln, heat rolling off him in waves. It made Scott drowsy in a way he could ill-afford, but could not bring himself to pull away from.

The dawn broke through thick clouds and the canopy of trees. It made walking in tandem a good deal easier and faster, their path more quickly outlined. It also made Scott aware this his companion had been walking for hours with no shoes.

"Your feet!" Scott cried when he realized. "They must be a bleeding mess."

"No," Rozanov said.

It was true that while they were filthy, they seemed unmarred.

"How?" Scott demanded. "You must've stepped on a thousand rocks and roots."

"I am hard to hurt," Rozanov said. He had said that already, hadn't he? Their time in the cave was blurry for Scott, scoured over with pain and confusion.

At least it gave Scott a reason to say, "We should stop. Only for a little while, but a rest would be good before the sun is all the way up."

"Yes," Rozanov conceded.

They came across an enormous fallen tree, the way it had come to rest creating a useful hollow. Sitting down in a pile of leaves, Scott fell against it heavily. For the first time, he had light and time to study his companion.

Rozanov was something to look at. His features were finely made, sly sharp eyes and fine brows. His hair was burnished gold where it was clean and fell in curls around his high cheekbones. For a warrior, he was mostly unmarred, pale skin untroubled by scars. His tunic was not only a rich soft fabric, but dyed the same purple as bruisefruit, so dark as to be nearly black. The belt around his waist was woven leather, intricately made. His leggings were of the same material and dyed even darker than the tunic. It made his bare feet seem all the more impractical and strange. Had his captors taken his boots and left him his clothes? Surely someone would have coveted the beautiful weave and attempted to wrest it from him as surely as they had his shoes and weapon.

"You like to look?" Rozanov asked, apparently amused.

"I didn't know your face. That seemed wrong," Scott said quickly. His eyes had lingered on Rozanov's strong arms and calves far longer than his face, his injured mind losing some protections.

There was a low rumble, almost like a growl that emanated from Rozanov. Then there was an arm around Scott's shoulders and a voice in his ear. "You can look. I am very good to look at."

"You're very confident," Scott said, a flush starting up at the back of his neck. 

"I know what I am," Rozanov said, resting his chin on Scott's uninjured shoulder. After his half-bath in the stream, he no longer smelled like the battle though smoke from some fire clung to his hair and clothes. "Do you?"

"Yes," Scott said. Without quite meaning too, he let Rozanov take some of his weight, leaning into him.

"What am I?"

"A man who should be free," Scott said firmly.

The rumble came again and this time Scott could feel it. The vibration was strong.

"I could be a man who has killed many. Maybe I am chained to keep others safe from me."

"Maybe," Scott said. "I've killed a lot of people and I'm still free. They call me a hero for it, sometimes."

"In battle," Rozanov stated as if he was certain of it.

"A few times in self-defense too," Scott said.

"Who attacks you?" Rozanov asked.

"Sometimes people mistake kindness for weakness," Scott sighed. "I have things they want. It's not different than this fucking war, is it? For land. For jewels. For good cloth. For wine. For something someone has that someone else doesn't."

"Your kindness is a weakness," Rozanov said. "You are a little weak."

"I am not," Scott protested.

"You give me your water. You share your food. I would have come with you anyway. There is no other choice. You do not have to do this and give away the things you need."

"I didn't do that so you'd come with me!" Scott protested.

"No?" Rozanov asked, bewildered.

"I had water, so I shared it. You brought me food first."

"For the water," Rozanov said. "This is fair. One thing for one thing. But then you give food again."

"We're in this together. Why would I only feed myself?"

"You give me more. You take less even though you are hurt. Because you are afraid of me?"

"Tits and teeth," Scott groaned. "No. It's just the right thing to do. I know there will be food when we get to my home. I can be hungry for a little while longer. You were being poorly treated. I can do better than that."

Rozanov's head went heavier on Scott's shoulder and then there was a very strange sensation against Scott's neck. A small point of heat.

"You are weak," Rozanov decided. "And strange. I like this."

"Did you just kiss my neck?" Scott asked, his voice shaky.

"Yes," Rozanov said untroubled, then did it again. "You like it."

"I-" Scott started then stopped. "That's not something I can like. It's not allowed. Two men to kiss each other. Is it different from where you're from?"

"Not different," Rozanov said and those words were bitter. "But they are all wrong. Why can we not enjoy each other? Who does this hurt?"

"I don't know," Scott said and their bitterness match. It could have poisoned the earth for acres around them. "I don't- no one's ever been like me before. That way. You really like to kiss men?"

"Yes," Rozanov said. "There are many like this. Giants, fairies, centaurs, nymphs and men like you."

"And you?"

"There are things like me too," Rozanov agreed and he pressed his lips to Scott's cheek. His other hand came to rest against Scott's thigh and the manacle caught the sunlight.

It was almost like jewelry, a thick band of metal around a strong wrist. The bronze gleamed as if someone had deliberately polished it. The surface was covered in runes. Scott had been taught to read a few basic things, but these were beyond his meager skill.

"Why did they decorate it?" Scott asked, bemused.

"I am very dangerous," Rozanov said, right into Scott's ear again, his words curling there. "They lock me up."

"They tried," Scott said wryly, the imprint of Rozanov's fingers burning through his leggings. "You got free."

"No."

"No?" Scott frowned, tapping the manacle. "You're here with me, not with them."

"But still it holds me," Rozanov said and kissed Scott's neck again.

"We'll get it off," Scott said dreamily, getting lost in that kiss.

"No!" Rozanov pulled away and Scott only barely stopped himself from pulling him back. "I am dangerous. Very."

"You said that. A few times," Scott sighed. "So what? You're helping me now and you didn't have to. If you want it off, we'll get it off."

"I want," Rozanov said heavily. "Very much."

"Then we'll do it."

"I could do terrible things."

"You're not special," Scott said. "We can all do terrible things. The measure of a man is what he actually does."

"That sounds pretty. And stupid."

"Probably. We should get up or I'm going to fall asleep here."

With a heaving sigh, Rozanov pushed to his feet. He held out both hands to Scott, who took them, his finger brushing over the manacle as he did. A jolt when through him like a tiny bolt of lightening. He had felt it a few times before when he had shuffled his feet through woolen rugs and then touched the metal latch of the hall door.

"Which direction?" Rozanov asked.

"This way," Scott pointed, more unerringly now.

He was able to walk on his own power for a bit, but eventually, Rozanov seamlessly ducked under his arm again and they carried on together, a shambling beast of four legs, making enough noise that Scott was embarrassed about it. It was unsurprising they saw not a single animal, but at least it meant the enemy wasn't nearby or they would surely have been found out.

"Hold on. I need to lead," Scott said as they at last got close. They were both filthy now, sweat and dirt kicked up from their long walk. There had been another brusieberry vine too, the juice staining their fingertips. "It gets tricky here."

"You cannot do 'tricky' right now."

"I'll have to manage," Scott said.

He did feel awful in a way that was getting hard to quantify. Sleep and a proper meal would help and both should be close at hand if he could push through.

"This is a terrible idea," Rozanov said. "I am starting to think you are not very smart."

Was his language improving? Maybe Scott had thought it was worse than it was in the beginning. That had to be it. No one could pick up that quickly. Could they?

"Trust me, this is the only way," Scott said.

"I do not trust easy."

"Then don't trust me, but I have to go, with or without you. I'd prefer with."

"Fine," Rozanov said reluctantly and let Scott slid away from him.

Walking under his own power again was destabilizing, but Scott managed. He counted his steps with care from the boulder with an old man's face to the space between two of the biggest trees in the woods. Then he took a step to the side. It was superstition probably, but Murdoch had shown him the way of it when Scott was still young and he had never found his way home with the shuffling dance.

A few steps to the side, a few backwards and then counting again, twelve careful steps. Then there would be the stairs hewn into the rock and strewn with leaves to disguise them. You could walk right by them a thousand times and never see them. Scott almost wept again when he planted his feet on the top one and started to make his way down.

"This is not tricky," Rozanov said from behind him. "This is…I do not know your word for it."

"It's a good disguise," Scott said, focused on the steps.

"Not only this. This is a protected place."

"Yeah, we try."

A sound of frustration bubbled up behind Scott, but he was focused on getting down the steps and to the winding foot stomped path. He followed it, straining for any sound. What if they had already been found? What if no one had made it back at all?

"We are through," Rozanov decreed and returned to his spot under Scott's arm, bullying his way there when Scott didn't automatically reach for him.

"Yeah, we're here. Or almost anyway."

A shout and a return call reached them. Voices. Someone was alive. If Scott could've run he would've. As it was, he tried to speed up and with another grumble, Rozanov accommodated him, his natural ground-eating stride making a reappearance.

The woods gave way to the meadow, thick with blooms this time of year. In the distance, the hall loomed tall and proud over the village. People moved urgently there. Many people.

"They're still here!" Scott said and he grabbed Rozanov a little harder. "They're alive!"

"Yes, I see," Rozanov assured him.

They didn't even make it a quarter of the way through the meadow before they were spotted. A group of men had been drilling (soldiers! Maybe not all his men had died!) and one of them shouted out.

"Hail and well-met!" Scott shouted back.

"In my ear," Rozanov complained.

One man peeled off the rest and pelted towards them, almost going down in the flowers at one point.

"Carter!" Scott cried and that was all he had time to say before his friend collided with him in a hearty hug, spinning him away from Rozanov.

"Scott," Carter said in disbelief, crushing him and his wound a little. "I knew you couldn't have died. I told them to turn back! To go through the bodies. But there was no time."

"It's fine, I'm here now," Scott assured him. "Shoulder."

"Oh! Sorry," Carter pulled back to study his face. "You're alive! This is a good day."

"How many did we lose?" Scott asked. "What do the boundaries look like? Did they follow you back?"

"He needs to sleep," Rozanov said heavily. "And eat. A healer too. The wound in his shoulder has blood poison."

It did? That might explain why Scott was doing worse than he had this morning. How could Rozanov know? Did it smell? That was embarrassing.

"You do look awful," Carter said, then frowned and glanced at Rozanov. "Who is this?"

"He saved my life," Scott said. "Rozanov, this is Carter Vaughn. My second-in-command."

"Your second," Rozanov repeated. "Hunter-"

"You're not from here," Carter said with blunt protective assessment.

"Neither were you or me once," Scott reminded him. "He saved my life. I promised him food and as much safety as we can offer. And to get that manacle off his wrist."

Carter glanced down, face going tight, then he nodded. "Then it's done. Come on."

Before Carter could offer help, Rozanov took up his position as living walking stick again. If Carter had any question about that, he kept it to himself and simply led the way back through the flowers.

As they neared the training men, they all dropped to one knee.

"Don't do that," Scott sighed heavily. "Get up. Go back to training. We don't have time to waste with niceties."

As they passed through the village, the motion was repeated and with it, the chant, "He lives! He lives!" carried up the road until more people came streaming out to witness Scott's hobble back to the hall. Some enterprising young man climbed to the top of a thatch roof and cried, "The Hunter-King lives! All hail the Hunter-King!"

The cheer was taken up and Rozanov leaned in closer still. "You told me you were a knight."

"I am," Scott muttered.

"Then why do they call you king?"

"A man can't be two things? I am a knight of this land, made so when I was barely a man."

"This is not a lie," Rozanov realized. "You don't lie."

"I try not to," Scott agreed.

"You do not lie and you live in a protected place. You tell stories to say what you mean."

"I just like stories," Scott said bemused.

"He really does," Carter said, turning around and walking backwards a few steps, almost falling over a grandmother who had taken the knee at Scott's passing. "I'm so sorry, Tati! Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," she said, swatting a little at Carter with her handkerchief. "Watch where you're going."

"Yes, of course," Carter said and bowed at her which made her laugh.

"Was your father a king?" Rozanov asked.

Carter's face went dark, but Scott shook his head once at him. "No, I'm an orphan. I grew up in another land, but I sold my sword to fight for this one when I was seventeen summers and have stayed ever since. The last king here had no children."

"And he loved Scott," Carter supplied when it was clear Scott would go no further. "He was our bravest soldier and good to the people."

"That did not make them angry? That one of their own did not take this title?"

"There were a few people who weren't happy," Scott said.

"They tried to kill him," Carter said. "They found out very quickly why Scott is the best."

"I wish they had spoken to me instead. We could have used more men with a fighting spirit. Did the Raiders return with you? The Centaurs?"

"All that lived," Carter said. "Everyone healthy enough to patrol has been going out. One shift to drill, one to patrol, one to sleep. So far, no sign of the enemy."

"Good, that's good."

The doors of the hall swung open as they approached. A horn sounded. It rang unpleasantly through Scott's aching head.

"Carter," he groaned. "Make them stop."

"On it!"

His entrance was still met with the upwards of fifty people in the hall taking the knee, but at least they did it quietly. As soon as Bennett could get up without someone elbowing him back down, Scott was being embraced again.

"Healer, food, bath," Carter was saying in snatches behind them.

"You're alive," Bennett said against Scott's shoulder.

"So are you," Scott said, knocking his forehead against Bennett's. "Huff?"

"Here. Mullin and Klein didn't make it. We have a few others injured, but overall the Admirals took the fewest losses. From there, the Centaurs are down to only twelve men. The Raiders are decimated, only Marley, Connors and Carmichael made it back."

Heavy losses. Blood running through Scott's fingers. Every soldier had known the battle was hopeless, but it still hung heavy around Scott's shoulders.

When he was a last seated on the elaborately carved chair that cradled him for many years, it was in exhaustion and not triumph at their survival. The end was still coming.

"Eat," Rozanov demanded. He had been given the seat to Scott's left that was usually Bennett's. He took it like it was his due.

Food had appeared. Stew and good fresh bread to soak up the juices. Scott ate slowly, pausing when a young bearded man appeared at his elbow.

"Harris," the man supplied. "A healer with the Centaurs. Your wound?"

"Here," Rozanvov said before Scott could reply. With deft fingers, Rozanov unwrapped the much abused bandage. "The blood poison only began last night."

"Then we can still draw it out," Harris said. "Was he delirious at any point? Feverish?"

"Clear in the head, but his fever gets worse and worse."

"I have a fever?" Scott asked.

"I did not carry you for fun," Rozanov said dryly.

"You didn't carry me! I just needed some support."

"Like a falling over tree."

"Either way," Harris cut through that with a smiling efficiency that Scott appreciated. "I'm going to give leechmoss to chew. Every meal for the next three days. It'll help along the poultice."

Leechmoss tasted exactly how it sounded, but Scott only nodded obediently. He had watched people die of poisoned blood, and he wasn't eager to have first-hand experience.

Food consumed, medicine administered and then Scott looked up to find a cloud of worried faces with questions surrounding him. It was a minor miracle it had taken that long.

"All right," he squared his shoulders. "Supplies, medical, military, then general questions."

Rozanov made a protesting noise beside him, but Scott's focus was all for the flock around him. His advisors, both trusted and new from their tentative alliances, buzzed with questions. He answered quickly, all-too aware that what most people needed to hear was that their judgment was sound and they could proceed with what they'd wanted to do in the first place. Soothing anxieties and making definitive statements cleared away much of the crowd.

"Vaughn has the run of the schedule until tomorrow," Scott finally decreed to the remaining serious faced military men. "Then we can bring out the maps and the carvings and do our best to prepare for a relentless oncoming army. I would recommend sleep, for myself as well as the rest of you until then."

"But sire-"

"He must rest." Rozanov's voice had that timber. The one that commanded attention. All at once, everyone in the room snapped their attention to him.

"My new friend is right," Scott said with a lopsided smile. "My head is ringing and I'd like to keep down the first full meal I've had in a few days."

"Sire, who is this?" Someone asked with a curl of distaste.

"The reason I'm here at all," Scott nailed them with a look. "In fact, I do have one more piece of business before bed. I require the smith."

Which was how Scott took one last walk that day. When they reached the smithy that had once been the provenance of an old man that Scott had been passingly fond of. The man had followed the army to repair their swords and been slaughtered in the final push. Scott pushed aside his grief to lead Rozanov and Cater inside.

"Marley?" Scott asked with some surprise. "I didn't know you worked metal."

"My father was a smith," Marley said without looking up from his borrowed anvil, his hammer striking up sparks. "You have none now and I need something to take out my anger on."

"Thank you. I'm sorry for your losses," Scott said heavily.

"I'm the king of the Raiders now," Marley said, striking again. "If our people survive to have a kingship."

"Then let me treat with you for the first time," Scott said. "I have a delicate job for you. What do you need in return?"

"This is your smithy, Hunter-king, your land. I can't charge you for work."

"You can and you should," Scott said firmly. "I failed your people. The least I can do is compensate you fairly for what you do."

"Failed us?" Marley finally ceased his hammering. "We diverted an entire army that would have discovered our central city if not for your scheme. Maybe it only delays things, but a month of life is a month to spend finding more ways to live. Show me your job, Hunter-King."

"This is Rozanov. He's got a problem."

Rozanov held out hand, the chain unwound and hung down from the manacle.

"Nice to meet you, Rozanov. Give it here."

Holding out both hands, Marley waited until Rozanov reluctantly set his wrist in them. The sound Marley made was thoughtful and he gave Rozanov a long curious look.

"I've seen ones like this before. A long time ago. My Da always said that these kinds of things meant danger."

"I have told him this," Rozanov said gesturing with his other hand at Scott. "I am dangerous. You remove this, I will be very dangerous."

"Huh. Dangerous for us or against us?" Marley asked.

Rozanov went still and quiet, considering. "Not against you today."

"Then I don't give a rat's ass. Let's get rid of it."

It took a little more time than that. The manacle had been soldered shut instead of locked, an idea that made Scott grit his teeth, especially as Rozanov said breezily, "I did not make this easy for them."

With some doing, Marley managed to melt the solder without cooking Rozanov's wrist and pry the manacle the rest of the way off. As it fell away, the forge flared with heat, sending a hot blast of air through the room. For a fraction of a second, Scott thought he saw their shadows all grow long and Rozanov's grow huge. The image faded as he blinked away spots.

"Thank you," Rozanov said, inclining his head. "Raider-King."

"Yeah, whatever," Marley clapped Rozanov on the shoulder. "No one's crowned me yet. There's a battle still to fight."

"Yes," Rozanov nodded once. "Hunter, now will you bathe and sleep?"

Scott nodded once, his vision finally returning. He got to his feet and went back to the hall. His room was behind the banquet table, tucked away above the winter kitchens so it stayed warm from the fires below all through the cold season. In the warmer season, it had windows at both ends to carry the cool air through.

Tonight, it was cool still and the promise of his bed almost diverted his course. If someone hadn't gone through the trouble of heating the water for him and carrying it to fill the tub, he might have.

"A bathtub," Rozanov said reverently as Scott started to undress. Scott almost fell over.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Where else would I go?"

"Carter showed you a pallet and a place to wash, I know he did," Scott said.

"I will not sleep among strangers," Rozanov said haughtily. His fine clothing had come through the woods only a little dirty and otherwise perfectly intact. His bare feet were equally untouched. Who had he been back in the far away place he had come from?

"You can't just-"

"I told your second-in-command that I will sleep in front of your door tonight."

"He asked you to do that?"

"No," Rozanov said impatiently. "I say that I told him. Listen. You have no guard and you are still not able to defend yourself as you should. He agreed."

"Fine," Scott relented. He didn't want to worry Carter any more than he already had. "Turn around, I'm going to use the water before it gets cold."

"A large bath. You will share," Rozanov declared and started to take off his belt.

"I will not!" Scott said, eyes going wide.

"We have talked. I will not be surprised if you show interest," Rozavno put a lot of scandalous emphasis on 'interest'. "The water will go cold if one of us waits."

"It's my bath!"

"Our bath," Rozanov said, unperturbed and pulled off his tunic.

His chest was impressive. The width of his shoulders, the power in his muscle, the trimness of his waist and stomach. Scott knew how to avert his eyes from other men's bodies. Yet, Rozanov was inviting his inspection. Daring him, almost.

Scott watched Rozanov, then started to work off his chest plate without jarring his shoulder.

"This is very sad to watch," Rozanov decreed and crossed the room to bat Scott's hand away.

"I can do it," Scott protested.

"Before you fall asleep trying?" Rozanov scoffed. He made quick work of the chest plate, removing it and seemed about to throw it. Before Scott could protest though, Rozanov paused, scanned the room and found the dummy that Scott's armor used to hang on for months at a time. Lately, he had taken to wearing it every day.

"I can-"

"Shut up," Rozanov said, then carefully hung the chest plate.

When he approached again, Scott sensed a shift in the air. He stayed still as Rozanov removed the single shoulder plate (the other lost in the battle, the thing that left him exposed in the first place), then the back plate which was heavily streaked in dried blood. How had that gotten there?

When Rozanov took in the leg guards, he paused only to say, "I do not bend a knee to the title. I bend it for you."

"I don't want-"

Too late. Rozanov sank down, curly head bent to the task.

Many people had knelt before Scott since he had taken on the proverbial crown (there was a very literal crown, an iron circlet, but it gave him a terrible rash and a headache the likes of which were difficult to describe, so he never wore it). None had looked so good doing it. Rozanov's hands were rough, yanking and tugging, but he also braced a hand against Scott's thigh so he wouldn't stumble and made small sounds of satisfaction as it all came away.

"Arms," Rozanov said and waited expectantly for Scott to extend them.

The act had taken on a solemn air as if an ancient rite was taking place. Scott couldn't find it in himself to break it. The arm guards had smaller buckles and Rozanov's touch gentled as he undid them, his whole face gone blank in concentration.

Then Rozanov dropped to his knees again and put his hands to Scott's boots. The clasps gave way to clever fingers and with a telling shove of two fingers, Rozanov indicated a foot had to be lifted. Away came Scott's boots and his stockings. When Rozanov stood this time, he hooked his slid his hands under Scott's tunic.

Without protest, Scott let him skin it off and away. Both of their eyes dropped to the laces of Scott's breeches. Without so much as a smirk, Rozanov met Scott's eyes and inclined his head inquiry.

There was no consideration. Scott only nodded and then came the smirk curling over Rozanov's lips in smug triumph. The laces were undone, and Scotts breeches came away. His clothes were treated with less reverence than his armor, simply cast aside by the door.

Naked and a little chilled, Scott stood before Rozanov. There were still no more words, Rozanov simply got under his arm again like they were still in the woods and led him to the bath. He was a steady pillar as Scott maneuvered himself in and sunk at last into hot depths with a bone-deep groan.

"You need this," Rozanov said. "Even more than me."

"You don't smell like a rose either," Scott said. "You stink of a campfire."

"Do I?" Rozanov asked amused. "Another reason that I must bathe then."

While Scott watched, unable to look away, Rozanov undid the fastener on his fine leggings and rolled them down. Long strong haunches revealed themselves and when he straightened, the proud jut of a semi-hard cock. Rozanov stretched out his arms in an invitation again.

"You are finely made," Scott murmured.

"Thank you," Rozanov smirked again. Then he stepped into the tub.

It barely fit Scott at a stretch, but somehow, the water made way without sloshing over the edges. Rozanov didn't even try for distance, taking his place between Scott's legs, his own going up to rest on rim of the tub as he rested his head on Scott's uninjured shoulder.

"Just make yourself at home," Scott groused.

"You made me at home," Rozanov said, untroubled. "You invited me here. You fed me. You freed me. I warned you."

"I didn't realize the danger you posed was to my personal space."

"You like it. Where is the soap?"

The press of another man's naked body to Scott's was causing havoc in his aching tired mind. His own cock valiantly tried to rise to the occasion, defeated only by a lack of resources. He could only try to relax. At least enough to enjoy the decadence of a man scooping the soap-sand from it's copper bucket and washing them both with the same rough tenderness he had shown with Scott's armor. Everywhere Rozanov touched burned with desire. When Rozanov came to Scott's face, he used the pad of his thumbs to scrape away spots of muck and dried blood. It was so intimate and close that Scott felt flayed apart. He could see the striations of blue in Rozanov's eyes, the places where it was cut through with a color that was almost green or brown. Like the hottest part of a fire where it glowed blue into black.

Then there soapy fingers in his hair, chasing away dried blood, and rubbing over his scalp. Scott moaned like the most wanton woman to ever be seduced. He couldn't help himself as it relieved at last the terrible ache in his skull.

"You like this," Rozanov said with obscene satisfaction.

"I wish I could make you feel this good," Scott told him.

Rozanov stilled, tilting his head to one side and studying Scott. "You are a strange sort of king."

"Kings are just men with fancy headgear."

"Some are. Some are kings here," Rozanov pressed his palm to Scott's chest, "this is you."

"Just a tired soldier there too."

"Mm. And bad at taking compliments."

Scott exhaled into something that was almost a laugh. "I suppose so."

"You cannot wash me, but you can be useful," Rozanov declared, once he sluiced the soap from Scott's hair. The water was cloudy, obscuring the lower half of Rozanov's body. He reached for Scott's hand and plunged it under the water.

The thick handful of Rozanov's impressive erection made Scott's mouth went dry.. He should object and pull away.

Leaning in, Rozanov's face grew close to his. "You know how to do this. You want to give me pleasure? Give."

What was Scott supposed to do? He kissed Rozanov with all the pent of feeling the last two days. Rozanov froze for a moment, then went liquid against him, moving in impossibly closer. The heavy hot brand of his cock in Scott's hand twitched. With the skill of a man who had spent years with only his own hand for company, Scott moved. Rozanov moaned into his mouth, steadying himself on Scott's good shoulder and the rim of the tub. He rutted wantonly in Scott's grip, sucking Scott's bottom lip into his mouth.

The water in the tub never went cold. If anything, it seemed to grow hotter, steaming up as Rozanov grunted and came, streaking more bodily fluids into the filthy water. The kissing didn't end, only calmed from demanding to exploratory. At last, Rozanov drew away to stand and held his hands out to Scott again. There was a last bucket of water left by the tub and Rozanov plucked it up, rinsing both of them quickly.

After that, Scott wasn't surprised that Rozanov herded him to bed, stoked the fire in the fireplace and simply climbed in beside Scott.

"So much for guarding the door."

"I can guard you here and have a nice mattress. Sleep now."

It wasn't like Scott had any reserves left. As he had in the cave, he fell into a deep dark sleep.

Many hours later, he woke in the soft dawn light to the unfamiliar sensation of being held. Rozanov's arm was wrapped around his middle. Scott's head was no longer throbbing. His shoulder hurt and he might still have a light fever, but he no longer felt like he was hanging on to consciousness by gossamer-thin threads.

The end result was that his cock had recalled the night before and had several urgent requests. Scott stayed still, the incredibly hot wall of muscle behind him doing nothing to alleviate the issue. Might, in fact, be the cause.

"Stop moving," Rozanov grumbled.

"I'm barely breathing!"

"You are twitching. Already thinking about how to go out and throw yourself on another sword. You do not need to, I have one here for you." The drag of Rozanov's hips across Scott's lower back spoke of equal urgency.

"That was awful."

"Why? Hard, strong, interested in stabbing," Rozanov said and he was kissing Scott's neck again. The hand that had been lax on the mattress crept back to Scott's chest, rubbing in soothing circles. "On your back. Let me do things."

"What things?" Scott demanded.

"You will like them."

He did like them. Rozanov took Scott's aching prick into his mouth and Scott's world tilted a little on it's axis. It was divine revelation. He was undone. When he came it was with a muffled scream against his own arm, his awareness filed down to a singular joined point. Rozanov swallowed around him and emerged back from under the cover with a single pearl of fluid at the corner of his lips.

Poised above Scott in all his glory, Rozanov was briefly something like a sculpture, a force of nature, or a god. But when he bent down again and Scott carefully wiped the droplet from his lips and said, "That was amazing. Thank you.", he was none of those things. Rozanov only looked very young and vulnerable. Just another young man in a situation over his head, scared and clinging to something certain.

What could Scott do? He kissed him, licked the taste of himself out of Rozanov's mouth and ran his hands through burnished gold curls. Together, between Scott's hand and Rozanov's fluid hips, they got Rozanov to completion too.

Then they lay beside each other in the sweet early hour and breathed together. Their only point of contact was Rozanov's fingers resting against Scott's wrist.

"They'll bring a tray soon to break the fast," Scott said regretfully. "We cannot be caught."

"You are the king. You should make your own rules."

"Sounds great in theory. Does not work in practice. Especially not on the eve of war."

They both dressed, Rozanov pulling on his good things again and Scott regretfully, dressing as befit his title. The heavily embroidered red doublet went over another plain tunic and black hose beneath. At least his practical boots remained.

He wanted to suggest that Rozanov take up his spare pair of boots, but the words stayed in his mouth as he met Rozanov's frank appraisal of his person.

"I see it now," Rozanov said with amusement. "A red king."

"Clothes don't make me a king anymore than the crown does."

Rozanov answered the door, taking the tray with a courteous bow of his head and bringing it to the table by the window. They ate bread, cheese, and eggs, sharing the same flagon of water. It was the last peaceful moment of Scott's day.

There was no news from any borders, but that did not stop them all from worrying. So there were long meetings, moving strategy around and around as if their meager handful of soldiers will make a difference against the conquering hoard. For most of the morning, Rozanov was at Scott's elbow. How he had so easily insinuated himself into the meeting was something Scott couldn't pinpoint. Except for how maybe he'd come in at Scott's heels and planted himself beside Scott's chair as if he'd always stood there. Bare feet and all.

After lunch and shoving the lump of leechmoss at Scott insistently, Rozanov finally evaporated. When Scott emerged into the twilight hours later, he desperately needed to walk. His shoulder ached, his head had a faint ring, but he was otherwise nearly himself and he usually spend most of his day moving. In better times, his advisors had known if they wanted a longer meeting, they better keep pace as Scott walked the length and breadth of the meadow.

Today, he kept to the village, walking slowly and greeting people more personally. Now that they knew he was back and not dead, they all wanted a word. An assurance. He gave what he could.

It was only when he reached the blacksmith and heard the familiar accent that Scott could admit to himself that he'd been a little concerned. Maybe Rozanov had walked off into the woods to make his own way now that the promises between them had been fulfilled.

Instead, Scott found him watching Marley sharpening blades. Connors was there too, sitting cross-legged on top of a barrel. He was a smaller man, slight and very very deadly. Scott had watched him kill a man with only a fork once.

When Scott stepped into the smithy, all three of them went silent.

"You weren't at the meetings, Marley," Scott observed.

"So I could spend hours arguing about where me, Connors and Charmichael will stand when we face our deaths?" Marley said with a shake of his head. "I'll follow your lead when the time comes. I can do better work here."

"Have they been spotted?" Connors asked in the nervy sharp way of a man wanted the answer to be 'yes'.

"Not yet," Scott said heavily.

"Then tonight we drink and eat," Rozanov declared. "Another day alive."

They did just that.

They did that for three days. Days of meetings and pacing. On the third day, Scott joined the patrols over the protests of pretty much everyone, except Rozanov, who simply walked beside him. He would take up no weapon or armor or boots, but he walked with all the confidence of a man armed to the teeth.

When Scott's usual servants knocked on the door, Rozanov gave them a sharp grin and told them he had it in hand. He was the one that helped Scott with his armor, who brought his meals the final steps, and who put any vital communications into his hands. When his advisors complained about the interloper, Scott only said mildly, "He has never given his opinion on any matter outside the quality of the food and my personal safety."

Which was true. Their time in Scott's room was marked only by their bodies' ability to rise to the occasion. When they did talk, it was in stories. Scott's stories mostly, but Rozanov offered his too. Scott's language fit into his mouth nearly perfectly now, only the strangeness of his accent giving away it wasn't his native tongue. It had likely always been that way and Scott's memory of the cave degraded by injury and confusion. 

"There was an ancient underground city," Rozanov told Scott, his head pillowed on Scott's chest, one leg thrown over Scott's. There was a chill in the air, but Scott had never been more drowsy-warm than when he was pressed to Rozanov, "built by goblins. They are not very smart, but they are good at digging and building. A man, running from a beast, took the wrong twist in a tunnel and found this city, towering all around him. The goblins had mostly left it behind by then, but a few remained. They watched as the man fell asleep in one of their towers and they planned to kill him.

"Except one goblin thought the man was very pretty. The goblin could not stand to see the man's nice face smashed in with a hammer. So this goblin stole into the man's bedroll and woke him. The man was afraid, but he listened because he knew that help freely offered should never be refused. When the others came to attack, they were not ready for the man to know the ways goblins fought or to fight one of their own. They escaped with their lives, but the goblin could not go home. The man could not bring the goblin back to his village. They would not let a goblin live among them."

"I know this one," Scott said as he traced patterns over Rozanov's back. "The ending I know is they bring the man's army to the city and overtake it. Claim it for men. I never liked that."

"Yes, this is very bad. In ours, they do not do this. They stay together and go on many adventure until they must make a decision. The goblin cannot always live in the light, the man cannot always dwell in the dark. They go their separate ways, but they remember each other always and in times of great need, find each other again."

"How did they find each other?" Scott found a tight spot on Rozanov's shoulder and dug his thumb into it, enjoying the resulting soft moan.

"I don't know. Maybe they know each other by sight or smell or taste or the feel of them in dreams."

They woke very early on the fourth morning. The wood smoke smell of Rozanov never dissipated even after baths and it tickled in Scott's nose as they rutted against each other, fingers entangling where they were most wanted. As Rozanov licked their joined mess from his hand in a way that made Scott's cock attempt a second rising, the prickle of danger rose on the back of Scott's neck.

"It will be today," he said with a certainty he could not explain.

"Yes," Rozanov said and flattened his hand over Scott's stomach. "One more. Tell me one more."

What Scott should do was get up immediately and ready himself. His army. Out there, the enemy was testing the edges of the woods and finding it littered with booby traps and pitfalls. Perhaps some of them had already been strung up in the high branches and fallen on the wooden spikes of hastily dug pits.

The enemy would retreat to the edges of the wood, happy to settle in and lay siege to Scott's people. When they grew tired of waiting, they would send battalions to the lands beyond, the undefended villages of the Raiders and the Centaurs. It was a fight that needed answered.

The battle would take place at the edges of the wood, mostly in the waste. The hour and the location was under Scott's control even if nothing else could be. If Scott and his army were to die then it would be in service of protecting those that could not protect themselves.

It would wait a few more minutes.

"A woman of pure heart ran from the man who tried to wed her against her will," Scott said quietly. "She ran until she found the stream that we drank from. As she caught her breath, a unicorn, might and strong with a horn as long and sharp as the deadliest blade emerged from the trees."

Rozanov kissed Scott's neck, his shoulder, then settled his head once more on Scott's chest. "Was she scared?"

"Yes, but she was also enraptured," Scott said. "She stayed so still that the unicorn approached and eventually, it laid it's great head on her shoulder and cleansed her body of all pain. They spoke for long hours and came to love each other as only two pure things can.

"'Go now', it said, 'and you will find your way home.' 'Will I see you again?' she asked. And the unicorn said, 'I am what I am. I love you as you are, but if you return to me changed, then I will kill you.'

"The woman kissed the unicorn's nose and she found her way home. Many years later, distressed, scared and sick, the woman came again to the stream. In the years since they last met, she had lived a life and it had stained her as is stains all people. With crystal tears of regret, the unicorn came to her and stabbed it's great horn through her fragile heart, splitting it in two. 'I warned you,' it wept and the woman embraced it's neck as she died and said 'Better to die with you than without you'. Every step the unicorn takes with her blood on it's horn leaves behind sprays of white flowers. They bloom in the fall. I suppose I won't see them this year,"

Rozanov slid upward. He kissed Scott long and filthy and deep. Then he pulled away to study his face as if memorizing it. "Our telling of this story is the same."

"Oh," Scott said and his own heart broke a little.

"Come," Rozanov said and got off the bed. He held out both hands to Scott and pulled him to his feet.

His shoulder ached still, but the wound was clean and closing. It didn't hurt as Rozanov strapped on Scott's armor, now with practiced hands. The replacement shoulder piece was stiff. The backplate had been oiled, but the stains remained.

"You have no helm," Rozanov noted.

"You wear no shoes," Scott said.

"Interesting," Rozanov's lips twitched like he wished to smile. "I have this for you."

From under the mattress, Rozanov pulled a circlet. It had been cleverly woven from green branches, the patterns intricate. Threaded through it was a bruiseberry vine with its blue-black leaves. Without waiting for Scott's permission, Rozanov settled it on Scott's head.

"The right crown for this king," Rozanov said with finality.

"I'll look ridiculous."

"No," Rozanov said simply. "Come. We go now."

Quickly, Scott had no time to worry about niceties as crowns. No one remarked on it, though a few gazes caught on it with curious reverence. There was only the grimness of preparation, the march through the woods. They did not pass the spring and Scott was grateful for that. He might have stayed to drink the water one last time and that might have broken his heart.

They did march in formation, but spread through the woods. The tactics were simple. Use the enemies ignorance against them, bait them into daring the treeline and there sneak up on them one by one.

"You don't have to come," Scott had told Rozanov last night. "I won't make you fight."

"Shut up, Hunter," Rozanov had muttered, and bitten his hip, leaving behind and impression of his teeth that Scott could still feel. "I will walk beside you."

They kept pace through the trees, aware of the army spread thin around them, disappearing up into the canopy or lurking behind the trunks.

The young growth gave way to the wide vista of the wastes. The bronze-clad army ranged before them. Easily two hundred soldiers. Maybe three. It was a sight Scott had faced before and recently, but he had at least had his full might then.

Scott stood straighter still. He could not see his soldiers, but they could see him and they would not see him bow his head or bend his back in defeat. Beside him, Rozanov muttered in another language, the rise and fall cutting off abruptly.

"You should go," Scott said. "You came with me this far and I appreciate it, but if they lock you up again then I would not forgive myself. If I was alive to see it, anyway."

Another word spat that Scott couldn't place. His vision shifted, no more opposing army, only Rozanov's face and his hands on Scott's shoulders.

"You will not die from these bronze men. Even I killed you once and you stood up again," Rozanov said.

"What?" Scott sputtered.

"I told you this. I am dangerous. I have killed. They held my chains and forced me to fight when your soldiers were more than thin threats. You hurt them and they sent me in, chained to their wagon. I came at you from behind and hit you hard. You fell to my feet and you died there. One of them stabbed you so they could say the death was theirs, but it was mine."

"I'm not dead," Scott said, anger rising him. "Why would you say that? Now? I have to-"

"There is not time to say 'no' or 'I am not'," Rozanov snapped. "I watched you die and I went to kill more, so they would not- it does not matter. I fight. And when the fighting stops, the men that hold me are busy. I watch. I watch your corpse roll over and get up. The back of your head still bleeding and broken.

"I think that if a dead man can stand, then I can be free. I let them keep me because I knew no other choice. But you defy death. I defy my chains. I broke them and I followed you."

Scott shook his head in denial. "Why?"

"Why do any two creatures find each other?" Rozanov blew out a breath and his eyes were blue fire on Scott's. "Make a story with me, Hunter-King. A deal."

"Rozanov, this is not the time-"

"This is the only time. It is now," Rozanov said. "This, I will vow: I will protect you and your lands always, but only if you promise this: that you will never bind me and never rule over me. Yes or no?"

What could Scott say to that? Rozanov was mad, clearly. He had vaguely suspected it since the moment they met. What did it matter if Scott made promises to a mad man?

Except….

A deal. The word was resonate. It was as heavy as waterskin, as sweet as a bruiseberry.

A deal. A vow. A promise. Something sealed. The crown on Scott's head writhed as if the vines yet lived.

Scott wrapped his hands around Rozanov's wrists. "I vow that I will never bind you and never rule over you, in return for your protection."

Whatever that was worth. Whatever one only barely grown man with bare feet and no weapons could provide.

The earth rumbled under Scott's feet. Rozanov surged forward, "We seal this."

The kiss was thorough, deep and slick. In full view of any of Scott's soldiers who could see them. What did it matter? Death was coming anyway. Scott hauled Rozanov in closer and kissed him with equal fervor.

A name, crystalline and True, was fed into Scott's mouth. "Ilya," he whispered.

"Shh," Rozanov kissed the corner of Scott's lips. "For you and you alone now. I will see you on the other side."

Before Scott could stop him, Rozanov took off running straight towards the gleaming army. Scott started to follow, his heart leaping into his throat.

The rumble in the earth grew louder. The bronze army's perfect lines started to break. Soliders started running and not towards the woods, but away. Cries of terror struck up.

Rozanov's speed was tremendous. Then he leapt, straight into the air and the sky itself was rent in twine. Enormous golden wings flashed wide and the bellow of a great furnace sent more soldiers running.

"Dragon!"

That was the only word Scott could make out before the fire started to rain down from the sky onto the waste. A massive wave of destruction. A danger beyond comprehension. A danger bound to Scott with a vow.

He turned to his hidden men, "We wait no longer! We do not need to hide in the shadows! Today, we roll back this terrible tide!"

It took several stunned seconds before the reality sank in. Scott's army inhaled shakily as one, then they flew forward, gathering beneath Rozanov's enormous shadow to bring death to any that foolishly remained behind.

A day of certain death turned on a needle's head into a day of victory. The bronze army was decimated and scattered. Their proud armor was melted into slag by fire the color of a fresh morning sky. For generations, children would peel thin sheets of bronze from the rocks and use it to decorate their toys and braid into their hair.

The dragon stayed aloft for a long time after the battle was won. Scott ordered their own injured and then the dead to be carried home. No one would be left behind this time. If the kiss had alarmed anyone, they were not ready to discuss it in the moment. Carter issued his commands down the line then came to Scott's side, their eyes both trained upwards.

"I should have known that anyone you brought home would have that special something," Carter said wryly.

"I didn't know," Scott said. "I know it's- I can step down. You can have the crown."

"Tits and teeth," Carter huffed. "I don't want your crown. I like your choice. Much more useful than a political marriage."

"We're not married. How could we be?"

"Looked like a marriage to me," Carter said.

They had made a vow in the woods that Scott held sacred. They had kissed and sealed it between them.

"Did you see me fall in the last battle?" Scott asked. "Did you know I had been struck?"

"No," Carter frowned. "Only that you were not among the survivors. Connors claimed he saw something, but he wouldn't say what."

"Fetch him for me?" He tried not to make it a hard command, but he needed to know while Rozanov still circled above. 

All three of the Raiders had made it through. All three of them arrive with their eyes to the sky. There will be a lot of that going around today, apparently.

"My grandmother always said not all the wild things had left the world," Marley said. "I thought she was a crazy old lady."

"She was. But even crazy old ladies are right sometimes." Carmichael elbowed him.

"Connors, a word," Scott took a step back, not far enough to alarm the man's companions, but enough for audible privacy. Connors didn't hesitate to follow. A man not afraid of someone who kissed dragons. Useful and frightening. "Vaughn says you saw what happened to me at the last battle."

A tick went across Connors' jaw. "And if I did?"

"Tell me. No matter how strange, I will listen."

Connors nodded once, then flicked his eyes back to the sky. In a baffling move, the dragon was turning flips in the air, lazy circles, tumbling among the clouds. It reminded Scott of Rozanov throwing his arms open when he had stripped down. The loud bid for attention. Apparently dragons could be show offs. Scott repressed a smile.

Connors was not smiling. "I had been in combat with an enormous man. Finally got my knife in between his plate, but he was still slashing wild. So I was a little distracted. But I could have sworn I saw the only man on the field without a helm in combat with three men. You were holding your own, and then…there was this blur. As if the sun had fallen in my eyes in a single spot. It vanished and the back of your head was caved in. You fell to the ground. I knew in that moment you had to be dead."

"And you're sure you saw it?"

"No," Connors said wryly. "Here you stand before me, head intact on victorious ground. I must've mistaken you for someone else. Or the sun was in my eyes."

"Thank you. I suppose it was a trick of the sun."

"I suppose so," Connors said, then bowed deeply. "Hunter-King. Marley! We're done here."

"Are we?" Marley looked up from cleaning off his blade.

"Will you come back tonight? Before you go home?" Scott asked.

"We must. If we want the rations to march," Marley acknowledged. "We will go with the Centaurs part of the way. But we will return, I think. No tentative truces this time. Some annual feast and discussion to keep our alliance strong. What say you?"

"An alliance seems wise," Scott agreed.

"I'd offer you my sister's hand, but that seems an opportunity that has left us behind," Marley said with a smirk. Then he craned back his head and shouted upwards, "Thank you, Rozanov, King-Consort!"

The streak of fire that licked across the sky was as good a rude gesture as Scott could manage with a few fingers.

Marley laughed. It was the first good long laugh Scott had heard in months.

A moment later, the dragon tucked in his wings and dove like a hawk hurtling after it's prey. Marley, Connors and Carmichal dodged out of the way. With a faith born of sheer sudden stubborn belief, Scott stood still. He watched as a golden arrow struck towards him with a faint smile. The great wings folded and blended away into nothing and the flight became a run, became a jog and then a casual stroll, Rozanov standing on two feet before him again.

"Impressive," Scott said fondly.

"King-consort," Rozanov rolled the words around his mouth. "Yes?"

"If they don't behead me for it? Why not?"

"They can try." The ominous rumble curled Scott's toes in his boots. 

"How did they catch you? It should have been impossible."

"They did not take me," Rozanov said, darkness clouding over his expression. "My father gave me to them. A gift to keep them away from our mountains."

"I could kill him," Scott offered.

"You could not," the denial was flat an inarguable, but the storm left Rozanov's face. "But it would be interesting to see you try."

The work of a battle fought and won was still the work of a battle completed. There was mourning and misery and fear. The walk back through the woods was long. Rozanov snagged bruiseberries as they walked. Though Scott was certain they had been sparse when they came this way days ago, they were everywhere now. The bag that Rozanov had likely stolen from an enemies' corpse (bad etiquette, but who had more right than him?) filled fat and swollen with the fruit. He gave one to every man that came close, speaking with them until they laughed tiredly and took the offered food.

They passed by the stream and Scott did pause to fill his waterskin while Rozanov trailed his fingers through it, then flicked them both with droplets with a wink.

The entrance to the meadow shuddered into view as Scott approached. No shuffling steps, no dance. Reality simply ripped itself in two.

"This day is bad for my eyes," Carter declared. "And my sanity." 

"Is it…broken?" Scott asked, bemused. "Did we ruin it?"

"A spell needs it's caster to see it," Rozanov said with a shrug. "You see more clearly now. Go. I want wine and food and sleep."

"Yeah, me too," Carter said.

Scott led the way down the stairs. He waited at the bottom of them, watching the long train of those that lived, the injured, and the dead. Accounting for them all. When the last of them passed by, he gazed back up the steps and very tentatively made a gesture, drawing his hands together in a slow clap. The slit in reality snapped closed.

 "Magic," Scott murmured. "I can do magic?" 

"Only very weak and small things," Rozanov scoffed and took Scott's hand to tug him along.

They walked back through the flowers and to the forest-hall. There was a great feast that night. When Scott had eaten and drunken enough among his people to be clear that his indiscretions would not end his time in the only home he'd ever chosen, he gave a victory speech with all the right cadence and spirit. The words slipped away from him as soon as they were said.

At his side, Rozanov smirked through the entire thing. It was annoying and gorgeous. A man in finery that he wore easily. A dragon with scales of gold. They spun in Scott's mind, a coin flipping over and over.

"Ilya, come to bed," Scott whispered under the cover of revelry.

"Needy," Ilya deemed, but he rose and held his hand out imperiously as if he were the king.

Scott took it and let Ilya lead him to his own room. The door closed behind them, latch thrown and the world with all it's complexities was cast aside in favor of the easy language of their bodies.

Best beloved, there was once a great battle on a rocky plain. A king of fey blood took a mighty blow, but it was the sword's steel that poisoned him. He died there. Or he lived there. A dragon, stolen or given or by its own changeable nature there willingly, followed the king home. They broke bread, they exchanged favors, they made vows. In a dark cave, in the thick woods, by the fresh water stream.

They lived in a fairy circle of flowers and sweet wine. They disappeared into the mists. They quarreled and the dragon flew off, only returning in times of great need, long after the king had gone. They lived the rest of their days together in peace. They died in days. Their hearts beat ever as one. They broke their vows and took other lovers. They never strayed and died in each other's arms. They were immortal, standing up from every battle to stride forward hand-in-hand another day. 

Maybe you heard all these endings at one time or another. A man with a crooked smile and gold curls told it to you once in a sports bar in Boston. A guy with dark hooded eyes whispered it in your ear as he helped you in an Uber when you were too drunk to stand outside a gay bar in Manhattan.

Or if you were lucky, you heard it in the bright sun, sitting on a dock outside your own home. One on either side of you, both of them laughing. A joke shared that you miss, but you miss a lot of jokes and either way you get a kiss after the story is told.