34. 34.
34.
D eep, even breaths. The infrequent snore. Folke didn’t wake much throughout the night, but when he did, it was to the comfort of an embrace two-fold. To sleep-soaked kisses pressed along the bridge of his nose, his neck. To murmured concern, asking if he was alright. And when he roused in the morning, it was within the stronghold of warm bodies waking alongside him.
“Morning, Precious.”
Folke groaned into his pillow as the mattress surged. While he couldn’t guess at the hour, Finlay sounded far too alert already, his bare feet snapping to the floor, undoubtedly cold.
“Good morning, mo chridhe.”
Darach, at least, had the decency to sound somnolent.
Lips grazed his cheekbone as Folke managed a groggy, “Good morning.”
He struggled upright and winced, regret bolting down into his rear in an instant. He was sore . Something that appeared to amuse both his lovers, even though it was their fault.
Folke groused, “You won’t be laughing when it’s my turn to rough you up.”
Finlay’s intrigued, “Is that right?” and Darach’s placating laugh spiked his heart with hesitant curiosity.
Would he, if permitted? Could he?
It was easy to disregard the particulars while Folke remained the recipient. Neither Darach nor Finlay had asked him if he wanted to be on the other side of things. So, Folke had simply assumed there wasn’t an option.
Now, he wondered if he wanted it to be.
Such curiosity followed him out of bed and into the lavatory, where he lingered by the door, waiting for his turn. Folke remained uncertain, now specifically, upon hearing signs of the toilet being used.
They were soldiers, accustomed to sharing their space.
Folke turned away to give them their privacy, and something hard bashed into him .
“Watch it!” Thomas yowled.
Wearily, Folke sighed. “Try as I might, I cannot.”
He brushed past. Suppressed the discomfort pulling at his face with each step he took down to the kitchen, floor tiles chilly under his bare feet. There, he gathered supplies to prepare breakfast. A notion so foreign to him, Folke struggled to recall on which pantry shelf he’d left the rice. Yet he remembered the brown sugar. Unused, packed away in the back. A bit old, perhaps, and the rationing book would have him use salt, but Folke wanted to indulge his lovers, much like they did him.
The pan quivered along the grate with a gentle rattle as the water reached a boil. Hands slid across the breadth of Folke’s hip bones, and a hot exhale ghosted over his nape. Beard hairs tickled, ushering gooseflesh across his skin. Concupiscence imbued Darach’s hum, the brush of his kisses along Folke’s neck.
Dulcet tones murmured, “Tha thu a’ coimhead Bòidheach.”
Folke didn’t know their meaning, but understood them to be words of affection.
He forced himself to focus on tipping rice into the pan rather than the way Darach pressed against the back of him. Allowed himself to drift with the patter of grains, into early mornings of days long gone. The sticky sweet aroma of cinnamon and sugar greeting him at the bottom of the stairs. Old girl Weaver, twisting herself around his unsteady legs to herd him into the dining room. Sitting at his mother’s heel as they ate rice porridge together.
“Where did ye go?”
Folke stirred back into motion. Answered simply, “Into the past.”
“I reckon ye’ve spent plenty o’ time there already.” Said none too innocuously. “Would ye like to join me for a walk after breakfast?”
Join me in the present, in other words.
“Will it be safe for Socks and Shawl?”
A pause before the humour-tinged reply, “Perfectly safe.”
“Then, yes, that would be lovely.”
The throb of last night’s activities aside, it would be nice to stretch his legs.
“Canae say I’ve often had rice in the morning.” The heat of Darach’s words, spoken against the back of his neck, dampened Folke’s skin. Or perhaps it was the drag of that tongue.
“It’s a traditional Christmas dish.” He was determined not to be distracted, convinced Darach wanted him to be.
“Och, I thought ye were only visiting, no trapped in the past.”
Folke lightly swatted a hard thigh with the back of his hand. “As we’re closer to autumn, I could be looking to the near future. In any case, there was a demand for me to cook, so I’m cooking.”
“So ye are.”
He did not expect the virile thrust against his backside, knocking him into the stove. Or to feel the grind of his lover’s length, marginally obscured by fabric. Folke braced himself along the worktop’s sides, his fingers uncomfortably twisted around the wooden spoon. Uncertain he could take more, but willing enough to try.
“While looking like ye’ve been thoroughly ridden and ready to beg for more, na less.”
A swift kiss to the ball of his shoulder. Folke spun around, but the touch had already left. So had Darach’s warmth. Although the embarrassment creeping into his face was plenty hot.
Challenged, yet readily bent at the knee.
Folke huffed, remembering to stir the rice. Waited impatiently for it to thicken.
“This is why I can’t be bothered with breakfast,” he said at the sound of socked feet padding across tiles.
“And what’s ‘this’, exactly?”
Thin lips secured a kiss against Folke’s right cheek.
“It takes too long.”
“Christ, you’ve barely been here fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes he could have spent getting dressed, or kissing his lovers, or making himself look presentable on account he didn’t want Thomas to mention how. . . ridden he looked.
Vulgar. His lovers were both vulgar men.
“Smells good, whatever it is.”
“Risengr?d.”
“A Christmas dish, traditionally,” Finlay reiterated.
“Yes, but from time to time, we liked to indulge.”
Only a hum met Folke’s huffish reply. How was he meant to feel about Finlay listening in on all that was said? He had no secrets and now, there were fewer between him and his lovers, but did that entitle Finlay to hearing all?
“Can you switch it off?”
“Switch what off?”
“The hearing.”
Immediately, Folke realised he was being asinine. Finlay could stop himself from hearing no more than Folke could, or indeed a wolf. Nevertheless, he rather thought the hard nudge into his side was wholly overblown.
“Right,” he mumbled.
Cinnamon. A generous helping of brown sugar. A touch of butter. Not his, but borrowed. Finlay didn’t seem to mind as Folke helped himself to it.
There were no complaints forthcoming from any of them. Not even Thomas, whom he had expected to remark on the unusualness, at least. Rather, the rapid clicks of spoons meeting dinnerware and in someone’s case, slurping, suggested that his offering was acceptable.
“I’m going to get dressed,” Folke said, rising. He turned to where he knew Thomas sat across from him. “You can clean up.”
“Good,” Thomas said, acid-tongued. “Because you look like a bush caught in a windstorm.”
“Thomas,” Darach warned .
“It’s fine,” Folke cut in, calmly. “I don’t expect much else from a chi—”
“Alright! Blimey.” A brief, tense pause before Thomas strained, “You’re a very good-looking windy bush.”
Finlay snapped, “For fuck’s sake.”
While Folke kept his victory smile to himself.
Thomas might have admitted his age in confidence, but he’d done so without Folke offering guarantees of secrecy. Ordinarily, he was not a man to hold information against another, but he hoped that the threat, made once, would suffice.
Surprisingly—disappointingly, his lovers didn’t join him in the lavatory, where he was left to bathe alone. Neither did they find him in the bedroom, where he redressed. A chillsome wind swept across the hallway floor once Folke made it back downstairs. The front door had to be wide open.
“It’s cold today,” Darach called from outside.
Folke gathered his chore coat, left neatly hanging for him by the entrance along with his crook. As he tied the laces to his well-worn boots, Shawl bleated her impatience.
“Who is herding who here?” he asked her once outside, and gave what he hoped was her rump a faint nudge with the crook. There was no bounce. Darach must have done a wonderful job shearing them.
The last wisps of smoke teased his nostrils. Folke thought Finlay lurked around the cottage’s corner. He turned his head in its direction. “Thank you for bringing them out.”
“See you later, Precious.”
“Bye.”
Rather than assume, he reached for the guide rope. Vehemently hoped that the noise Darach made wasn’t one of affront. Nevertheless, Folke held a hand out to him, instead.
“That’s better.”
Warm fingers slid along his and grasped firmly. He allowed his lover to guide him, their stride followed by the slow plod of cloven hooves and clinking bells. The wind ran its chilled hooks through his hair, and the squeak and crack of glossy earth beneath his feet reminded Folke of that question he’d been burning to ask.
“How does altering work?”
A pondering hum. “There are many clouds above us. Shifting an’ changing as the wind pulls them along.”
Like roving wool, combed through the sky as though with a carding brush. Folke asked, “Does it hurt?”
“Na more than lifting something that’s too heavy and ye think ye canae do it.”
Folke thought he understood the meaning behind that, too. “Are you the same size as Beithir as you are a man?”
“A wee bit bigger.”
Large enough to possibly crush him, he remembered. Which meant Darach was understating. Being cautious, perhaps.
“Is this something you were born with?”
“I was struck by lightning once.”
Folke’s brows furrowed with concern. “And this imbued you with Beithir’s abilities?”
“Naw. Completely unrelated. Just thought it’s ironic. I wasnae injured, but it bloody hurt.”
“I can’t imagine.”
Never been struck by lightning before.
Unless he counted Darach.
“I was born wi it, but it manifested while I was in the army. I told ye I was an angry man. Part o’ that was because o’ the things I didnae understand.”
Something else Folke couldn’t imagine, all the things Darach must have gone through. He gave that large hand a comforting squeeze.
“I have one more question.”
Rain-drenched grass squeaked underneath heavy feet. Darach’s hold forced Folke to a stop.
“Ye can ask anything ye like, sweet Folke. But I’ll no answer if it means I’ll lose ye.”
“You told me you can transform into a being of legends,” Folke continued, each word fulminating with sincerity. “You may have a venomous stinger, for all I know. The point is, I’m not running. I’m not especially good at it, anyway.”
Stammering. As if Darach couldn’t quite believe he’d just made a joke at his own expense.
“What was yer question?”
“How does Fin ensure you don’t alter while. . .passionate?”
“Och, it isnae really important. . .”
Did Darach sound embarrassed?
Folke thought to say, you don’t owe me an answer. He could assume there were things Darach might not want him to know. Things he didn’t need to know, for reasons other than risking his departure.
This, however, Folke thought he had a right to understand.
“Please tell me.”
More stammered mumbles. Even over the wind ascending the hills, he heard Darach churn fingers through his beard.
“Is it that bad?” he pushed.
Reluctantly, “The same thing he does to ye.”
Folke mouthed an absent response, hoping to make sense of Darach’s admission. Then it fell into place, the realisation leaving him standing there, entirely dumbfounded.
When finally he managed to reply, it came as a disbelieving croak. “He bites you on the neck?”
For men who weren’t intimate with each other, how had they even discovered this?
The faint tug on his hand suggested Darach shrugged .
“It’s what wolves do, ye ken. They bite the neck to assert dominance.”
Folke remembered to shut his mouth. To swallow the saliva accumulated upon his tongue. To ignore the sudden burst of arousal.
Breathless to his own ears, he said, “I’m glad you found a solution. It worked out well.”
Not least of all, it enabled Darach to be intimate. With others. With Folke, specifically.
Darach huffed, a blend of relief and gainsay. “How far are we going?”
The implication was clear: the last time they ascended these hills together, Folke had suffered a mental collapse. He didn’t think himself any better yet.
“A ways before the brook.”
Where the grass was long and the flow of water unheard. Where his sheep could graze and he and Darach could sit on a dry stone wall overladen with moss. The sun made no appearances, but the rain held off and bodily warmth kept Folke comfortable. Darach’s caressive voice lulled him into resting his head against a large shoulder while made privy to just how Darach had met Finlay and Thomas.
On a day he’d been allowed outside after weeks of good behaviour, and he’d chosen to be, “a wee bit carnaptious,” out of spite.
“Finlay was caught in the crossfire between me an’ the guards. He didnae take kindly to being lit up like a bonfire. I had na intention o’ breaking out o’ prison, but neither was I expecting any man to still be standing. He took me by surprise.”
Folke had no doubt that being bit in the neck during a fight would shock any man into submission.
“We had a few more disagreements after that. Make na mistake, I could’ve easily overpowered him, but even then I was working on my anger. That an’. . .he’s a quick one. That’s how we found out that Finlay could help me. Before I knew it, I was being sent on missions to control other creatures of legend. I figured it was better than prison, and so did Finlay.”
“And where does Thomas fall in all this?”
“Believe it or no’, but Thomas is an excellent marksman with a rifle. He’s useful sometimes.”
“Is he?” Folke made no attempt to disguise his surprise.
“He’s got ten confirmed kills under his helmet. D’ye ken what the average kill count is for a young soldier like him at the frontline, Folke?”
“No, should I?”
“Zero.”
“What?”
“Counting yer kills was impossible when surrounded by weapons like mortars, yet there were several recounts o’ soldiers who saw Thomas kill an entire line o’ men. The exact number varies depending on who tells the story, but I suspect at least ten. He went into shock after that from what I heard. Maybe he was in shock from the beginning.”
Wandering the trenches and then prosecuted for supposed desertion .
Folke would have felt some level of outrage for the boy, but his stomach had become too leaden.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Darach’s shoulders shifted under his cheekbone with another shrug. “Ye’re stuck wi us for a while yet. Ye might as well ken us better.”
Fair enough.
Could have done without that knowledge, though.
Folke ran an open palm down the length of Darach’s sleeve, benumbed to the scratch of Scottish wool, to the bevel of knuckles. He laced their fingers together. An ewe ruminated nearby. Low shrubs whispered against the stone wall by his feet.
He had listened to these sounds all his life, but never whilst feeling so uprooted.
He asked, “Why don’t more people know about any of. . . this ?”
A kiss dropped to his hair. “I think ye ken, already.”
Folke thought that, too.
Humans were chaotic at the best of times. Knowledge that mythical creatures threatened their existence would aggrandise that a thousand-fold. To know was to fear.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Arenae ye?”
Folke eased away from Darach’s shoulder and settled his hands along his knees.
Quietly, “Going to cafes terrifies me, yet knowing that the legend of the Twelve Shrieking Barghests is a reality leaves me feeling. . .indifferent. It’s ridiculous.”
“Ye’ve braved cafes, but no’ yet been faced with a mythical creature.”
“I have. One.”
“Aye, but at the time, ye thought it was a wolf, naw?”
He had, and understood Darach’s point. There was nothing to respond with.
Folke hoped he would never need to confront another Barghest.