Dark Towers: A Gothic Fairytale

Thanks so much for the review! You helped me write faster - and if there is even a small readership for Relic Hunter adult fic out there, I’ll take requests etc., AU or canon, het. or slash! I don’t just drown in pathos and angst, either…so go on, try me ;) Thanks!

Chapter 3.

The Captain of the Guard shouted a gruff demand for attention as he galloped under the coaching entrance to the Inn.

The yard was a mess. Derek’s black stallion was forced to weave a dexterous path between burst and broken beer barrels, their spilt contents filling the air with a stale, yet sickly odour. The sign of the ‘The Speckled Hen’, which had hung jauntily over the once-homely frontage, was trampled under heavy, steel-clad hooves and now, finally, splintered in two. The timber-framed building itself was still in one piece – one of the few not ravaged by fire.

As Derek reared the horse to a stop, two-foot soldiers emerged from a door hanging on a single hinge. Their ruddy countenances and dishevelled clothing spoke of intoxication – but they still carried their weapons, and greeted his presence with solemn salutes.

‘Has this Inn any rooms still worth taking?’ he demanded.

‘We wouldn’t know, Captain,’ replied the first soldiers, an aging Goliath, quite enormous of stature, with a bushy black beard, and bulbous, broken nose. ‘We’ve just been taking shelter while the snow passes.’

‘Aye, and drinking the remnants of the stock dry!’ observed Derek, but he could scarce be bothered to frown. It was a conquerors prerogative to seize their share of the plunder, however lowly the soldier. ‘Is the Keeper of this house still alive?’

The second soldier - a younger man, wirily powerful, with a long, weasel-like face – grinned malevolently. ‘Oh, yes. He’s been very accommodating – and so have his daughters.’

Derek was silent a second, his expression inscrutable. The man was insubordinate, speaking to him in such a way, but he was obviously drunk. Further more, he knew exactly what the two men were thinking. They both stared glassily at the slender figure, swathed from head to toe in rough, brown sacking, who he carried on the front of his horse, his arm folded possessively around their waist.

‘…but I see you’ve brought your own entertainment,’ sniggered the younger soldier, staggering over and reaching towards the Captain’s passenger with an unguarded boldness. ‘Come on, Captain, let’s see her! I’m betting she’s a beauty, and there have hardly been rich pickings in this city…’

The back of Derek’s gauntlet smashed against the man’s face, generating a sickening crunch of breaking bones. The soldier crumpled to the floor, bleeding and unconscious.

‘You!’ barked the Captain at the remaining soldier. ‘Tether my horse. Then see that my every request is obeyed and that I am not disturbed - or you will find that ugly nose of yours broken in more than two places!’

The soldier rushed to obey, as Derek dismounted, then helped down his companion. As Nigel’s bare feet hit the sticky, stone slabs on the ground, he stumbled, despite Derek’s steadying hand in the small of his back. The fringes of the sacking tangled beneath his feet, tugging down the top end from where it was pulled like a hood over his head. Their eyes met for an instant, enough for Nigel’s confusion to melt into fear.

‘Damn you fool!’ growled Derek furiously. He yanked the sacking back over, even as Nigel fumbled to do it himself. He then pushed the prince forward in the direction of the doorway, ignoring his whispered apologies. He knew the soldier had seen the boy.

The bearded man was indeed now staring after them. Unbeknownst the Captain, he murmured under his breath: ‘My, you did find a beauty!’

On the other side of the door was a scene of equal devastation: broken bottles, broken furniture and broken pottery littered the wooden boards. The Innkeeper and his daughters were broken too. A rotund man with a grey moustache, who had been hovering near the door, backed away as Derek entered, his harrowed, grey eyes, sunk into a drawn, pasty face. In a corner near a meagre hearth, two girls with ripped clothes and lank hair, no older than their late teens, found solace huddled in each other’s arms. They glanced up at the Captain with expressions of utter terror.

But Derek ignored them. ‘I want your best room,’ he stated. ‘And I want a fire blazing in it, if you have to burn every piece of furniture in this hovel. Do you understand me?’

‘I do, Sir and we will do everything in our power to make you comfortable!’ replied the Innkeeper, motioning frantically that the wretched girls should animate themselves. ‘You’ll have the best room, and the best fire,’ he continued, but Derek regarded him suspiciously. The Innkeeper’s vision was fixed upon his disguised companion.

Had he seen Nigel from behind the door? If he had, this was far more dangerous that the glimpse snatched by the soldier. A native would recognise his Prince! So should he travel on into the forest tonight? Or should he strike the father dead in front of his children?

This concern, however, was superseded when Nigel gave a soft moan, and then went completely limp. Derek cursed loudly, pressed the boy’s face into his shoulder, slipped his arm under his knees, and lifted him.

‘Just take me to the room, man,’ he spat. The Innkeeper nodded wordlessly and guided Derek and his burden towards a steep narrow, staircase.

The ‘best’ room was to be found off a long corridor with an uneven, unpolished floor. It was not clean or tidy – it smelt of sweat and fetid ale, and a washstand with a porcelain bowl lay smashed upon the floor. Nevertheless, it contained a largish, four-poster bed with its scarlet hangings still attached. The two daughters scampered in and out, returning several times with food, wine and arms full of firewood, whilst the Innkeeper knelt at the fireplace, striking at a tinderbox and fanning the flames until he had conjured up a very successful blaze.

Derek, meanwhile, had laid Nigel on the bed, drawing what remained of the hangings so they were safely concealed. Then he pulled away the coarse sacking from Nigel’s face.

The prince had been slipping in and out of consciousness ever since they left the dungeon. His exquisite face was now a greenish shade of pale, and far from relaxed. His dry lips moved soundlessly, but distractedly. Derek pulled his leather glove off, and rested the back of his knuckles against Nigel’s forehead, then skimmed them down his pallid cheek. Nigel was still chilled from the icy conditions, but there was no sign of fever. His skin felt sensuously smooth against the Captain’s battle-worn, calloused touch.

Very carefully, he peeled the sacking from around Nigel’s upper torso, easing it from where it clung to the drying blood, and then removed the damp remnants of the boy’s shirt. The creamy flesh beneath was almost flawless, his arms lithe, his chest and abdomen trim, yet vulnerably soft. The only desecration lay in the dark welts around his wrists – Derek wondered if he alone had caused these? – and a series of bruises and raw lesions creeping around his ribs and the top of his back and shoulder.

These had certainly not been his doing, and were sure signs of a beating. Carefully keeping the weight off Nigel’s injured arm, Derek rolled him onto his side, and sponged off the remaining blood with a damp cloth.

It was only when he laid Nigel on his back and peeled the makeshift bandage from the more serious wound on his arm that Nigel cried out in his uneasy slumber.

Derek muttered a muted apology. He paused to stroke back the prince’s hair from his forehead, breathing deeply himself, before reaching for a candle and leaning in to examine the wound.

He gently kneaded the stained flesh, causing Nigel to stir and attempt to wriggle away. Derek placed down the candle and pressed a hand down firmly on his chest, stilling him. In the dim remaining light, he could still see it was cleaved with a sword, and that it reached from the shoulder nearly as far as the elbow. It was still bleeding, which explained Nigel’s faintness, yet the blood was pure, and the skin around showed no signs of blackening.

Derek muttered an oath under his breath. If he treated his injuries now, the boy might live.

Derek pulled a patch-work coverlet up around Nigel’s shoulders. He then rose quickly, only to find the Innkeeper still lingering, with an incriminatingly curious expression, by the now keenly burning fire.

‘Bring me a needle and a long thread,’ he ordered, and returned to the other side of the curtain. Then he stopped dead.

Nigel was staring straight at him. His expression was inscribed with confusion, but his eyes, which gleamed emerald in the candlelight, focussed on the Captain with a clarity that had been absent since before he’d been chained in the dungeon.

‘I…I hope…you know what you’re doing,’ said the prince quietly.

Derek did not reply. He returned straight to the door and called loudly after the Innkeeper, who had slipped away to carry out his command.

‘I need jug of your strongest liquor! Now!’

………………………

Nigel darted his tongue nervously over his lips as he watched the Captain, who had just bound a clean cloth around his wound, bolt the door and throw back the side curtains of the large bed to let in the warmth from the hearth. Next, with a strenuous heave, Derek pulled his heavy coat of chain mail off over his head. Underneath, he wore a thick, wool arming-doublet, which emphasised the broadness of his shoulders. He stripped that off too, revealing a golden, sculpted torso and thickly muscled arms, and started back over towards the bed.

Nigel shifted awkwardly, as Derek climbed into the bed beside him. The Captain looped a powerful arm around him, pulling the prince up so his head rested on his shoulder. The contrast of the larger man’s heat against his own cold skin made him shiver

Then, suddenly, there was a warm hand beneath the blanket, easing over his good arm, and now his chest and tummy; it felt unfamiliar and slightly ticklish.

‘What are you doing?’

Nigel made the demand sharply, lifting icy fingers to push the hand away. They were captured and gently squeezed in a tender yet confident fist.

‘I’m warming you up,’ stated the Captain, reaching towards the bedside cabinet and picked up a large wine goblet, which rested beside a large, earthenware jug. ‘And I’m getting you drunk!’

Nigel let out a long, withering sigh. He wanted to strain against the Captain, he wanted to resist - but he had simply no strength left to fight.

‘So that’s why you saved me,’ he said slowly, looking away. ‘Hell! Why didn’t you just take me in the castle, like the last unspeakable bastard - then put me out of my misery?’

Nigel’s voice hitched with brittle anger, but it was Derek who went rigid with fury. He’d suspected the truth, but to hear it from the prince himself seemed like a new sacrilege, special even amidst a world defiled. He slammed down the goblet and seized Nigel’s chin, forcing him to face him.

‘What did he do to you? Are you hurt?’

‘What do you think?’ Nigel’s upper lip curled incredulously. ‘Oh, yes, I appreciate the Inn, the seduction routine, the liquor, the whole bedside manner, but I…I…’ He trailed off, his eyes floating downwards. ‘I thought you were…’

Derek jerked Nigel’s head up again. ‘Maybe I should have slit your throat, you ungrateful little shit! Now listen to me! Are you injured in any way that I cannot see?’

‘No,’ husked Nigel. The side of Derek’s hand was now pressing into his throat making it difficult for him to breath.

‘I don’t believe you,’ replied Derek plainly. Nigel’s eyes widened in apprehension, but his captor released his chin and reached for the goblet again, this time tipping it towards his lips. ‘Now be quiet and drink this!’

Nigel did as he was told. The liquor was not of the finest quality, and as pungent as rotting cheese. He choked on the first mouthful, spitting it out over Derek’s bare chest.

The Captain couldn’t suppress an arid laugh as he lifted the goblet away. Nigel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and mumbled a habitual embarrassed apology as Derek reached for the cloth.

‘It’s no matter. Shall we try that again?’

‘Do we have to,’ moaned Nigel. ‘It’s hardly a fine vintage! I think I’ll be sick…’

‘Do you wish me to sew up your arm, and tend to any other injuries while you are sober?’ asked Derek, serious now.

Nigel let out a truly miserable groan. ‘No…oh, for heavens sake, give it here!’

Pulling himself upright he took the goblet from Derek’s hand and, to the Captain’s great surprise, began to glug down the contents. After an impressive feat of drinking, Nigel breathlessly cast down an empty goblet, screwing his face up in sheer revulsion.

‘Good work,’ chortled Derek. ‘Want some more?’

‘Ugh! No thank you!’ Nigel flopped back against Derek’s shoulder. For the first time, the Captain discerned Nigel’s smaller frame relax and snuggle up. Derek began moving his hand over his lower abdomen again, in slow, circular movements. Nigel juttered once then melted into him. The prince’s eyes began to lull shut.

‘Sleepy?’ asked Derek.

‘Sort of,’ replied Nigel, wearily ‘I…um, I think I’d still feel it, though. If you started to sew.’

‘Do you think you could bear it?’

‘I…I don’t know…I’d rather not.’

‘You’d better go to sleep, then.’

Derek peered down at Nigel. Long, dark lashes highlighted his pale complexion, washed in shimmering firelight. His full lips, an almost disarming rose-pink, were now moist and slightly parted. The Captain’s fingers began to trickle over Nigel’s bare hips, and onto the soft suede that still ensconced his pert behind, discreetly beneath the low-cut waistband. However, the prince flinched with discomfort and, realising it was too soon, the Captain moved his attention to his back, smoothing the skin, which was warming nicely, and absorbing the calming rise and fall of the other man’s breathing. For a subliminal moment, he though he saw the edges of Nigel’s mouth curve into a little smile.

‘Try to sleep well, my friend…’

But Nigel’s eyes flew wide open, lifting his chin so it dug lightly into Derek’s chest. The Captain raised his eyebrows questioningly - and slightly tiredly.

‘I still don’t understand why you are you doing this?’ asked Nigel, his brow furrowing. ‘What do you mean by calling me your friend?’

‘Not everything in life has an answer,’ replied Derek. He thought: ‘and even less so in death,’ but he did not say it.

‘That’s not good enough,’ insisted Nigel, alcohol having both dulled his pain and inhibitions. ‘You could have done what you wanted with me…and you do this? It’s like one of the legends of my forefather’s - but I long since lost faith in those. So...why am I your friend?’

Derek replied monotonically, his vision glazing: ‘I don’t have friends. I’m the Captain of the Emperor’s Guard, I kill to eat, to survive, to conquer and to live. I take what I want, and who I want…but I did have a friend once…long ago.’

‘And…and I remind you of him?’

Nigel shrank into the crook of Derek’s arm as the Captain’s expression misted with a discordant and decidedly angry yearning.

‘I…I’m…sorry,’ whispered Nigel, his eyes closing slowly. ‘I don’t mean to pry.’

‘It’s alright,’ replied Derek, forcedly swallowing his passions. ‘Perhaps I’ll tell you about him one day - and perhaps you should tell me about the legends of your forefathers instead. Maybe they aren’t so long-dead!’

Nigel’s eyes moistened, even as he blinked hard. ‘They’re dead alright,’ he mumbled. ‘You must have known the tale – the man that destroys my lineage will have his eyes gouged out while his heart still beats, then his end shall follow, slow and painful. How can that be true when my father lies rotting, and the books that told of our ancestors’ triumphs are no more than ashes? So, um,’ Nigel drew a deep breath; now he was the one smothering his emotion. ‘Maybe you should just tell me instead what an expert surgeon you are!’

Derek couldn’t help chuckling. ‘Oh, yes, I’m an expert alright! I’ve sewn up a man’s arm…uh, once before.’

‘Once!’ squeaked Nigel. ‘Is that all? Oh God, I hope he lived!’

‘He did,’ affirmed Derek. He pointed a thumb towards his bare chest. ‘It was me!’

‘You sewed up your own arm?’ Nigel’s nose scrunched with a new kind of disbelieving horror. ‘Why…don’t they have surgeons in your army?’

‘Yes, but I was a young foot-soldier and too embarrassed to tell anybody what happened.’ He pointed to a well-heeled scar, which zigzagged between the sinew, muscle and veins of his sturdy left arm. ‘Some angry whore broke her looking-glass over my head; I was lucky not to be killed, but the shards were small, apart from this one…’

Derek trailed off, as Nigel laughed. It was an infectious little giggle, which faded into an endearing lopsided smile. The prince lifted his good hand to wipe-away a stray, leftover tear.

‘What? I didn’t think it was that funny?’

‘It wasn’t,’ replied Nigel, biting his lips against further giggles. ‘Its just so, so stupid…and pointlessly brave! It sounds like something my idiot brother would have done – if he hadn’t been such a coward! So, um, did you deserve it?’

‘The smash over the head? Uh…yes, I suppose I did. She wasn’t really a whore, actually, but a respectable gentleman’s daughter. I guess I had a few too many on the go! Never loved any of them, though…’

‘No?’

Derek found himself looking down at the man in his arms with something that resembled affection. ‘There were some real vixens among them, and some of them I was told could bewitch a man with their beauty alone. I went to heaven and back with a few of ‘em, to hell and back with many more. But…no. I loved none.’

‘Oh…’

Derek moaned in surprise as a cautious hand dusted down his rippled stomach, and then came to a rest at the front of his well-buttoned breeches. Nigel hovered there, as if clueless as to what to do next. His eyes glimmered nervously, however, as he traced the hardness and length of Derek’s aroused member, all too prominent even beneath the thick material.

He went to pull away, but his fingers were captured and stilled over Derek’s manhood. ‘I don’t ask any more,’ husked the Captain.

Nigel favoured him with the hint of a mischievous smile. Then he offered him his mouth.

It was all Derek could do not to devour him there and then. Their lips touched; Derek’s tongue moved restrainedly over the prince’s, gently probing the warm opening beneath. Nigel tasted of wine, and it was so much sweeter here than the acidulous liquid from the jug. His hand tightened around Derek’s erection. It was too much.

Tightly gripping the prince’s hair, the Captain enveloped him. His mouth now bruised against Nigel’s, and teeth slashed heedlessly against flesh, as he thrust ever deeper towards his throat. Their heartbeats accelerated indistinguishably as the prince’s hand moved back and forth over him, as he so desperately desired. Any moment know, he was going to have to rip himself free, gain satisfaction…

Derek heard, or rather felt, Nigel cry out desolately. He pulled away quickly, and Nigel threw himself back down onto the pillow. Blood was trickling from the side of his lips.

‘I…I can’t do this,’ he almost sobbed. ‘Please, not now…it would hurt…just too much…’

With the greatest willpower in the world, Derek struggled to dampen his burgeoning lust.

‘Then let me treat your wound,’ he snapped. ‘We must leave for the forest at dawn, before any alarm is raised or rumour spread. We will get away.’

‘Really,’ panted Nigel. ‘You really think there is hope?’

‘Yes,’ muttered Derek. This realisation flooded his long-stifled heart with a disarming combination of euphoria and fatalism. Nigel’s death would still be so much easier – as long as it was not by his own hand. His own reawakening was not just making him disobey orders – he was destroying his Emperor’s victory. The Captain of the Guard was ensuring the legend lived on.

He refilled the wine-goblet and offered it to Nigel again. ‘Drink it,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘Drink it, and be done with you.’