The Return - 4. Chapter 4

Birdsong pursued Dmitri from sleep into consciousness. The incessant chattering irritated his headache and twisted his mouth into a frown long before his eyes blinked tiredly. There wasn't a muscle or bone in his body that didn't ache and worst of all were his elbows. While he had slept, he'd pulled his arms in close to his body. Stretching them out took a force of will almost greater than he could manage.

"Hey," crooned a low, soothing voice.

Large, callused fingers brushed Dmitri's hair back. He instinctively leaned into the gesture. Comfort vanished as Dmitri came further awake. He jerked in surprise and then hissed as the sudden movement pulled at the wounds across his body. He was fully aware in an instant, rolling onto his back and staring at the stranger in his bedroom.

Late morning light spilled into the room, curtains billowing in the strong, salty breeze. Dmitri squinted in the brightness, focusing on the face inside the shadows.

"M-Mordred?" Wide eyes scanned the room, but they were alone. "Where's Ania?" He grabbed at the blankets, acutely aware of his nakedness. The blankets suddenly felt all too thin.

Mordred's face fell. He shifted along the edge of the bed, running his fingers through the messy tangle of his hair. An image of Dmitri's wife as he'd last seen her flashed before his eyes and he winced. He sighed, "I'm sorry."

"No." Dmitri closed his eyes and turned his head away. "No." He ground his teeth together against the pain stabbing his chest.

"Dmitri..."

"No!" He hit the hand off his arm, continuing to roll until he faced away from the strange man. He felt the bed shift and knew that Mordred had followed. Dmitri bit back his tears. Ania wasn't dead! How could she?

"It was the plague."

Mordred's voice floated softly but steadily to Dmitri's ears despite the hands he'd raised to block any sound. Ania's face swam before his eyes, the laughter and smiles from his nightmare tormenting him. He could feel Mordred inching closer and Dmitri ignored the pain flaring across his chest and belly as he tried to flee.

"No. No, you're wrong." She wasn't dead. She wasn't!

"Dmitri --"

"No!" Wildly, Dmitri threw out his hand, shoving Mordred away. He gulped in deep breaths, shaking his head against the tears, ignoring Mordred's attempt to explain. He clung to his denial; the dream -- that was just a dream. Ania would be coming in here at any moment ... any moment. Then they'd see that this was only another nightmare. Something this horrible couldn't happen with a perfect summer day outside his windows.

He sat up, throwing his legs over the edge of the mattress. She was there; Ania would be in the very next room, cooking or sewing. He’d only come in here for a nap, or … or … his mind stumbled over why he would be in his own bed, naked, in the middle of the day. Nothing came to mind, but Dmitri lurched upright, and promptly collapsed. Instead of landing on the floor, however, strong arms slipped under his armpits to support him from behind.

“Please,” said Mordred anxiously, his voice warm and gentle against Dmitri’s ear. “I am sorry to have caused you pain.”

There was no fighting that iron grip, but still Dmitri struggled. Tears escaped to wet his cheeks. He murmured denial, leaning forward and plucking at Mordred’s hands to no avail. He shook his head vigorously. The plague happened to other people; it didn’t come to Whispering Cliffs! Ania would be there if he could get to her.

Mordred kneeled on the bed and with surprising ease brought Dmitri back to rest against his chest. He curled his arms against Dmitri’s shoulders and felt the bandages on his left side. They were moist from the wounds that had yet to begin closing and healing.

Dmitri leaned forward, straining against the offered comfort, and Mordred followed, bending over his back. Even though Mordred did not understand the emotional pain, he felt an echo of it. Yet at the same time heat radiated out from their joined skin, teasing and tantalizing in its perfection.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Dmitri’s neck. He didn’t want to let go but with Dmitri no longer in danger of falling, he started to ease away. Still he could not resist the impulse that pressed a kiss on that hard nub between Dmitri’s shoulders at the base of his neck.

Autumn in Whispering Cliffs often involved a race to get all the crops harvested before the storms arrived. Every few years a late summer storm would surprise them in its fury, blasting the town with crackling winds which battered the sea against the cliff side. Dmitri had on many occasions stood outside as the ominous heat broke preceding the first drops of rain. In those moments the heavy air could raise goosebumps along his skin as if all the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms stood upright: waiting.

The kiss to his back felt like that; an electric warmth enveloped him, bursting forth from that tiny contact to every last inch of his skin both inside and out. He gasped, at first going completely rigid before shaking in uncontrollable shivers. He moaned from the back of his throat, deep and long. The soft blankets were a torment against his legs; they twitched, and he dropped awkwardly onto his side. Made newly aware of the flesh between his legs, Dmitri moaned a second time. Blood rushed in his ears, almost as loud as his heart.

He ignored the sound of his own name and of Mordred’s concern. Dmitri’s reality had been reduced to his own skin, burning hot and cold by turns in a pleasing torture such as he’d never before experienced.

The orgasm rocked through him with the force of a thunderclap, leaving Dmitri breathless, blind, deaf, and dumb. He panted, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, hands fisted into the blankets, and body shuddering in the aftereffects. Thoughts were not easy to grasp hold of and his head pounded fit to come out his eyes.

Mordred’s hand on his shoulder was a cold shock. Dmitri started and flung himself from the bed with a shout. This time Mordred was not quick enough to catch him and Dmitri landed on his side, legs tangled beneath him. He raised his hand to stare at the newcomer to his town.

“Wh-what did you do to me?” Dmitri gasped, shoving trembling limbs into working. He stopped only when his body fetched up against the wall. He took no notice of Mordred’s alarm or worry or confusion, shivering in sudden cold unable to catch his breath. “What did you do to me!”

Privately, Mordred thought the what was pretty obvious; what interested him was the how. Still, having Dmitri visibly shaking in fear felt like a punch to the gut.

He followed after, but froze when Dmitri screamed, “Stay away from me!” and huddled further against the wall. When Mordred got close, he had to jerk his hand back when Dmitri bared his teeth and snapped at him like some feral animal.

“Dmitri … Dmitri, you’re bleeding,” Mordred ventured anxiously, hobbling a bit from a kick Dmitri had landed to the inside of one knee. He wrung his hands helplessly; he’d gotten a good grip on Dmitri’s upper arm only to have the man roll over onto his side, tucked up into a ball and weeping. Mordred’s skin prickled with each sobbed breath until he wanted to scream himself.

There was not enough light in the room somehow. The birds sounded faintly, more like a memory than the real thing. The soft rug beneath his feet faded away to cold, rough stone and Mordred wanted to gag from the memory of putrid, diseased flesh leaving him more confused than ever before.

He stepped back, wrapping his arms around his body and sinking back on his haunches. Waiting was not easy and in the end Mordred could not hold back. As he inched forward, the sun drifted from behind a cloud, a sunbeam darting in through a window and across the baker’s tightly-curled body. Dmitri opened his eyes and ensnared Mordred with those dark, brown-gold eyes and the hint of bronze in their depths.

They stared at each other.

A knock on the door broke the tableau.

“Dmitri? Ania?”

“Lel!” whispered Dmitri, relief turning his spine to mush.

Mordred clicked his jaws tightly together, half-way to his sword before he could harness the unexpected possessiveness. He shook himself and quickly stooped to pick up Dmitri before depositing him back in bed. He called out to the man now pounding on the door, bidding him patience. There was nothing to be done for the blood oozing out from under the bandages; taking the time to care further for Dmitri would only ensure their visitors’ suspicions.

In the days since that disastrous foray to the forge, Mordred had barricaded both the bakery and the upstairs entrance. He had to shout twice more to silence the pounding and shouting. He barely stepped out of the way in time once the door was finally freed.

The man Dmitri had identified as Lel dwarfed the doorway. He had lost quite a bit of weight since Mordred had last seen him. He eyed Mordred for a brief moment before shouldering his way through, leaving Mordred to scramble along in his wake. He ground his teeth together in frustration. The new man was an invader to Mordred’s turf. To Lel, Dmitri spoke gently and warmly. Only the occasional drifting of Dmitri’s eyes to his kept Mordred from shoving the older man away.

Mordred watched the flames rise. It was Burn Day, when all those killed by the plague were reduced to ashes. Burning was the only sure way to prevent the spread of the disease. Nearby stood Dmitri, looking small and young and lost. He’d barely said two words together since Lel had removed them to his home.

Mordred didn’t understand Dmitri’s reaction. He’d tried to discuss it, but apparently “She’s only a wife,” was not the correct way to introduce the topic. Mordred still had a black eye from the resulting punch. He’d resolved not to say anything further on the topic, however much Dmitri’s grief bothered him.

The survivors of Whispering Cliffs would observe five days of mourning, days spent fasting and reflecting on the lives lost. On the sixth day they would celebrate in the Old Way: feasting and dancing from dusk until dawn.

"Brother," called a voice close to Mordred‘s elbow. He started. So intensely had he watched Dmitri that Mordred had not noticed Lel's approach.

"Please, come inside, you've been out here for hours."

Dmitri at first couldn't focus on his brother-in-law's face. "I --" he began, but his mouth was too dry; he couldn't fuel the words.

Lel threw a burly arm over the smaller man's shoulders. He dwarfed his brother-in-law by at least six inches but his sizeable strength was nothing to the grief which burned in his heart. There was nothing he could say or do to console Dmitri, he knew, but from his own experience he knew better than to leave the man alone.

"Come," he said, gently, steering the grieving man away from the pyre. "Come inside now. You must eat. Mourning begins tomorrow and you will need your strength." He glanced at Mordred.

Mordred swallowed his resentment and nodded, following the pair towards the house. Lel owned one of the small stores in town, but his daughter had lived above the store. The rest of the family had filled one of the houses nearby, aside from an older boy who had married and moved out. They were a large family -- had been a large family, Mordred reminded himself. The only ones left were Lel and his youngest son, a boy name Burian who had lost an arm when one of his siblings turned on him in a craze.

Most of the town had likewise suffered. There were more dead than alive leaving the town eerily hushed. The survivors huddled together, with the more able-bodied of the men patrolling the streets. They thought they had hunted down the last of the plague-creatures, but they were not yet certain.

Watching Lel settle Dmitri into a chair in the kitchen, Mordred busied himself with checking on Burian in order to keep from snapping at Lel. Dmitri was his! And at the same time he berated himself for his jealousy. Although surrounded by horrible memories, Mordred caught himself thinking back with fondness to the time he’d spent nursing Dmitri in those tiny rooms above the bakery.

He looked down on the slumbering child with a sigh, tugging up the blanket to cover him fully. Tears prickled behind his eyes and he turned quickly away, closing the door to lean against it. Only then he had to seek out Dmitri yet again; having him out of sight made Mordred restless.

He heard Lel speaking and paused so that he could eavesdrop: "It's not your fault. It's the plague. Ania was just too weak, she --"

"Don't!" Dmitri shouted. Feet scuffled and Mordred clutched at the wall to keep from rushing to Dmitri’s side. He immediately wished he had as Dmitri continued, "Don't say it! Don't say she wasn't - wasn't worth it! How could I have - have just toss - tossed her aside? I loved her!"

How could Dmitri have loved her? She was just a woman. A human woman. Town gossip said much the same. People had derided the marriage, wondering why Dmitri hadn’t set Ania aside for another woman, one who could bear him children and add to the town’s prosperity. Somehow, Mordred had envisioned an unhappy marriage even after getting to know Ania. Yes, she had been unhappy, but she’d loved her husband. She hadn’t been selfish in her love, either. Thinking back, Mordred felt certain that Ania had known exactly why he’d been there, and yet she’d said nothing.

"She was Alina's sister," Lel voice rumbled. "which made her my sister, too. I raised her after her parents died. I know what you're going through."

“You don’t know anything!” Dmitri cried.

Wood scraped on wood and Mordred barely stepped back in time to keep from being run over as Dmitri stormed past. He followed, because he recognized the sharp angle to Dmitri’s jaw and the way his arm clutched at his side. Beneath the grief and anger, Dmitri hurt from wounds no one understood, but they had no healers. About all they could do was keep the long slashes clean and covered and hope for the best. Worse were the nightmares that peppered Dmitri’s sleep. He now walked around in a daze or dropped off into quick naps because he feared sleep -- not that he would ever say so, but Mordred understood that kind of stubbornness.

“Dmitri…?” Mordred barely stuck out his arm before the door slammed in his face.

“Leave me be!”

Mordred straightened his arm, pushing Dmitri back as he stepped into the room. He closed the door behind them, frowning. Dmitri backed away, chin jutting out stubbornly. Mordred shook his head.

“Sit down and take off your shirt.” He walked over to the small crate of supplies and took out a new roll of bandages. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Dmitri still watching him warily and snapped, “Sit! Down! Dmitri!”

The man jumped, hit his elbow on the windowsill and fell more than sat on the edge of the room’s small bed.

Mordred scowled. “Quit acting the fool,” he snarled, dragging over a chair.

“Easy for you to say!” Dmitri retorted, but he pulled his shirt over his head.

He flinched back when Mordred reached for the blankets, making him want to snap again, but there was no use. If it killed him, Dmitri would learn not to fear his touch. All he’d done was kiss him! Why should Mordred be responsible for what had happened next?

He unwound the soaked bandages, using a bucket of water and a rag to clean the slashes before re-packing and re-wrapping Dmitri’s chest and abdomen. At least Dmitri had stopped insisting he could do it himself. Whether or not he could was hardly the point when tending him kept Mordred by his side. Jealousy not withstanding, Mordred saw how the others were leery of Dmitri once word of his injury had spread.

The townsfolk huddled together for protection and mutual comfort. In lieu of any surviving councilors, they’d elected new ones. From there, they had sent volunteers to each of the homes in town checking for survivors and hunting those the plague had transformed. A small group had gone together to check the closer farms but hadn’t yet returned.

At first the townsfolk had rejoiced in Dmitri’s survival, but one by one that support had dwindled with the passing days and Dmitri stopped leaving his brother’s home, professing weakness. Lel said nothing, but Mordred understood being treated like a pariah. He wasn’t exactly welcome in town, either, but he’d expected it. Dmitri just sat and brooded away the days. Now that the town stood ready to begin rebuilding and getting on with their lives, Mordred wondered what Dmitri would do.

He wondered what he wanted Dmitri to do.

Tying off the bandages, Mordred’s fingers glanced against Dmitri’s side. The flesh shivered and Dmitri jumped, grunting as the movement jarred his wounds. Mordred sighed and rolled his eyes.

“I’m hardly going to eat you,” he muttered. Happening to glance up and catch Dmitri’s attempt at a glower, Mordred had to clear his throat and move away in order to keep from laughing. He busied himself with the supply box until he felt he had regained control over himself.

“Dmitri,” he said in all seriousness, “I’m only trying to help.”

“I know that!”

Turning around, Mordred quirked an eyebrow, pressing his lips together again to keep from ruining the effect by smiling. There was something inherently adorable in ruffling Dmitri’s feathers. Partly, Mordred knew, this came from the high esteem which had surrounded Dmitri for most of his life. People simply didn’t argue with him. For Mordred, this made challenging him an irresistible temptation.

“Then why are you so afraid of me?”

“Why can’t you just leave me be?” Dmitri returned. “Why me? Everything was fine until --” He broke off, having the grace to look abashed. “I apologize, Mordred; that wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he agreed, swallowing the hurt and resulting anger only with effort. He grabbed the bucket with its bloody water and soaking rags and left the room. He scrubbed the bandages by the light from the pyre, taking his frustration out on the hapless cloth.

Whether by accident or design, Mordred chose an area not far from Dmitri’s window. He could hear the scrubbing and the low muttering, but only if he stood right at the window and remained perfectly still and silent.

As a boy Dmitri had listened to his peers talk about the girls of the town, how they longed for just a small smile or hint of fondness in attitude. As they grew older those talks included the thrill of a chaste kiss, of sitting side by side on the porch at twilight, and of catching a glimpse of a pale ankle from underneath billowing skirts. Boys talked, and young men talked more. It was fascinating for Dmitri and he’d wondered if he would be one of those men who sought comforts in the arms of another man before going home to his wife, but those stories did not excite him, either.

He had tried with Ania, but she’d known he was pretending. She had wanted a child so badly! They’d tried and tried and in the end it hadn’t been enough. Still he had loved her smile and wit, and her company in his arms at night. By unspoken agreement they kept their secret.

Now Dmitri did not know what to do. He had never felt the overwhelming need for masturbation like other young boys, but since that kiss . . . Why could he never be alone? His cock ached and even sometimes throbbed. He could think about other things for awhile, but always the need poked through. And that kiss!

A few men became so enamoured of drink that they would do anything for another glass. The only way to overcome such an addiction was to stop all drink. Dmitri was trying to be strong, but his skin crawled and begged until that kiss became all he could think about. He’d heard other men talk about lust, of sex-games and pleasure, and it had all been some distant theory.

What had Mordred done to him?

Keeping him near was a torment, but Dmitri couldn’t let go, not yet.

Standing by the window, Dmitri leaned against the wall with one hand for support on the sill. His other hand slipped inside his pants. He had to bite his lip to keep from shouting as his fingers found and wrapped around his aching flesh.

And of course right then came knocking on the door and Lel’s voice. Biting back a curse, Dmitri jerked his hand free and called out to his brother-in-law. He was fine and would be getting some sleep. There was a rumble of assent followed by receding footsteps.

Dmitri sighed and sat down on the bed, his fingers idly touching the bandages criss-crossing his chest. Tears prickled. He turned his face into the pillows, making a fist in the blankets. The plague had changed his town -- two-thirds of the people were dead and it was his fault! He could see the distrust and doubt in their eyes when they looked at him. The slashing wounds were his just punishment, a brand of guilt he could not hide. Even Lel could not fully overcome his unease in his presence. Only Mordred treated him just as before.

This was his home, but Dmitri felt more and more like a stranger, and an unwelcome one at that.

Exhaustion so hard-fought sank into him with a suddenness Dmitri couldn’t deny. He slept and dreamed, and woke up thrashing, crying, screaming. Blood soaked his bandages as if from a wound freshly made. He trembled and blinked away lingering fright while Mordred held him and softly crooned, rocking them while the early morning mist slipped into the room to caress Dmitri’s sweaty skin. The lullaby felt familiar but wasn’t; Dmitri wasn’t even sure what language it was.

“Tell me,” he became conscious of Mordred asking. His large hands with their long fingers smoothed over Dmitri’s hair and the skin of a bare shoulder.

Dmitri shivered but not in pain or fear. He cast after the tendrils of his nightmare as a distraction. “A dragon,” he whispered.

“A dragon?”

“He smells like death,” Dmitri said. He squeezed his eyes shut and shivered. “I run and he laughs. He catches me. He’s going to kill me!” His breath caught in his throat and he sobbed again. “He is toying with me, Mordred, and when he tires of this game, he’ll kill me.”

Mordred’s hand, which had stilled, took up its petting once more. “Do you dream this often?” he asked softly.

Dmitri nodded, briefly biting his lip. “All the time.” His voice cracked and he clutched at Mordred. “All the time.” He said nothing of the darker dreams, his childhood terrors. Dmitri preferred the dragon.

Mordred said nothing more, and while he began crooning once more his face was anything but calm. There was something just on the edge of his mind, if he could just catch it! Dragons came with stories from far-away lands, but they were not real. They were not real. Yet he knew he lied to himself, and so he said nothing.