AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And he meant it, meant it so hard it ached, and why did it ache so much? Why was he blinking away the sudden prickling behind his eyes, swallowing down the thick lump in his throat. And curse him, why was he even still here, he was supposed to be convalescing in the med tent, Bassey would no doubt already be making excuses for him, but they’d only hold out for so long, and…
“And look, sorry, but I — I need to go,” Gerrard abruptly said, without meeting Olarr’s eyes. “They’ll be waiting, and I…”
He what? What, damn it? He needed to go, because they were waiting, because he couldn’t bear to be here an instant longer. Because was he — was he some kind of —consolation fuckfor Olarr? Some kind of pity prize, a reckless, imprudent warrior to replace the one he’d lost? Or maybe — maybe he was even part of Olarr’s vengeance against Slagvor? Slagvor had killed Olarr’s true lover, his Bautul orc lover, so in return Olarr would go off and fuck his human enemy instead? Get that human to kneel for him, to praise him, to debase himself for him?
Never felt anything like it in my life, captain. Your big, fat Bautul cock spreading my human arse wide open, shoving around in my insides, making me fit you —
Gerrard’s hands shook as he yanked on his undershirt, and swiped for his uniform. Not looking at Olarr as he pulled it on, even though he could feel Olarr watching him, could almost taste the sudden tension juddering in the air between them. And fuck, no wonder, because Olarr had just told him something so personal, so horribly, sickeningly vile, and now Gerrard was just — just —
“Sorry,” he said thickly, with a brief, chagrined glance toward Olarr’s oddly pale face. “I just…”
He couldn’t finish, again, and he spun and lurched unseeing for the exit, for the tunnel that led to the trapdoor. And how the fuck did it even open, why the fuck had he thought it was a good idea to come down here, and —
And now Olarr was here, striding after him into the tunnel — and he was even still entirely naked, because Gerrard had gone and ruined his trousers. And Gerrard couldn’t think, couldn’t hide how fast he was blinking, as Olarr silently handed over the crutches — curse it, he’d almost forgotten them — and then he stepped past Gerrard, and shoved up the trapdoor.
It flooded them both with light, so bright Gerrard had to cover his eyes, but it gave him an excuse to wipe at them, to brush the appalling wetness away. And maybe Olarr hadn’t seen it, or had he, because he cleared his throat, and came a step closer.
“Ach, Aulis,” his low voice said. “I… I did not wish to make you scent thus. If there is aught I have done wrong, I hope you might… speak to me of this.”
It was too much, too damned much, and Gerrard shook his head, attempted to wave his hand — but now Olarr had caught it, and again brought it to his mouth. “Or if you ken I yet long for Harja,” he said slowly, his breath wavering against Gerrard’s skin, “you mayhap ought to know that I have had — other lovers, since this. But none have ever… called to me, as you have. None have ever gained my… my trust, in this. My fealty.”
His trust. Hisfealty. And was he lying, he had to be lying, Gerrard was still his enemy — so why was he looking at Gerrard like that, his dark eyes pleading, almost sad. And why was Gerrard’s hand slipping up to that heaving chest, just needing to touch him again, just for a moment…
But it was still too much, too close, too heavy to bear — and Gerrard spun and sprinted away. Away, up the stairs and out into the sun, as fast as he could run, before Olarr could see him weep.
18
Gerrard spent the rest of the day in a towering foul mood. Avoiding his men, glaring off at nothing, and even snapping at Bassey when he’d asked where he’d run off to all afternoon.
“Sorry, Bassey,” Gerrard mumbled afterwards, rubbing at his eyes. “Was just — trying to work off some steam after that meeting earlier with Livermore. Overdid it a bit.”
Bassey seemed to accept this without complaint, and even blandly pointed out that Cosgrove had come by looking for Gerrard, on what he’d said was an important matter. Which very nearly had Gerrard snapping again — why was he only hearing this now? — but he gritted his teeth and thanked Bassey as steadily as he could, before hopping back out on his crutches to find Cosgrove.
It turned out that a letter had come from Head Command for Livermore, a few days earlier than expected — and that the runner was staying the night, and returning with Livermore’s reply in the morning. But — Cosgrove’s blue eyes looked rather panicked — Livermore had already finished his response, and the letter was currently sitting sealed and ready to go on his desk.
Gerrard couldn’t deny an instant’s panic at this, too — but no, curse it, he’d spent the afternoon sparring with an orc, and he could be cunning when he damn well needed to be. So after a few moments’ considering it, he sent Cosgrove off with specific instructions, and then slowly hopped back in the direction of Livermore’s tent. Taking his time getting there, and then calling out to Livermore through the flap, asking if he might have another moment. And at Livermore’s irritably snapped assent, Gerrard ducked inside, and…
“General Livermore!” came Cosgrove’s frantic holler, from across the camp. “Your horse got loose! He’s running off due west this instant!”
Livermore leapt up and dashed past Gerrard at once, pale eyes blazing with rage — just as Gerrard had fully expected, since the bastard had always cared more about his horse than any of his men. And with Livermore safely occupied and out of the tent, Gerrard strode over to the desk. Swiping up the letter that had been lying there, and then slicing off the wax seal, and rapidly scanning the letter’s contents.
It turned out to be mostly more predictable rubbish about the regiment’s various recent successes against the orcs, but — damn him — Livermore had also included a detailed description of Gerrard’s failures and inconvenient injuries, along with an official request for his demotion. And after staring at Livermore’s cramped writing for an instant, Gerrard crumpled the letter in his fist, and snatched out a brand-new sheet of parchment.
His new letter was short and terse, copying Livermore’s terrible penmanship as closely as possible, and it requested food, medical supplies, relief units, and proper leave time for any men who were overdue, while also flatly pointing out that given their current limitations, further offenses against the orcs were now impossible. And with his heartbeat now thundering in his ears, Gerrard blew the ink dry, folded the parchment just the way Livermore had done, and used Livermore’s stamp — still lying carelessly on the desk — to press on a new seal.
He left the letter precisely where the previous one had been on the desk, and hopped out of the tent with as much innocence as he could muster. Luckily, there still seemed to be general chaos coming from the west side of the camp, so Gerrard headed back to the med tent, and gratefully collapsed onto his cot again.
But despite the apparent success of the entire business, Gerrard’s foul mood only seemed to worsen as he stayed there in the cot, frowning up at the tent’s canvas ceiling above him. He’d been… prudent. Cunning. Just how he’d intended. Or, rather, just how Olarr had intended. Just how Olarr had suggested, endorsed, encouraged…
It was all crashing back in again, clouding and swarming Gerrard’s thoughts, because damn it, now he knew why Olarr had wanted him to be prudent and cunning. He knew what this meant for Olarr. What Olarr had faced, what he’d suffered, what he’d lost. What that sick bastard Slagvor had stolen from him.
The images of it — the horrifying possibilities of it — were now streaming behind Gerrard’s eyelids, and he dug his palms into his eyes, hard enough that he saw stars. Fuck, it was vile. It was downright evil, and Olarr had been forced to bear it, to keep serving Slagvor, fighting and killing for Slagvor, foryears.
And when Olarr had told him about it today, what had Gerrard done? He’d shut down, and jumped up, and left. He’d just fucking left, because — he dug his palms in harder — he’d gone and made it about him. About whether Olarr truly…cared… forhim.
Gerrard dug his palms in harder, biting back his groan, because why did it even matter? Why did it matter if Olarr actually cared, or whether he was using Gerrard as a replacement, or a pity fuck, or vengeance, or — or anything else? They’d only met a handful of times, they still barely knew each other,none have ever called to me as you have…
Gerrard fought to shove that away, to shove himself over in the cot, to sleep — but now there were visions from the cave, of how Olarr had looked at him, gasped for him, trembled all over for him. And how Gerrard had smiled down at him in return, and kissed him all over, and… and comforted him.Oh, captain. You feel so good. Look so good. Such a good orc, aren’t you?
