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If you asked Metodey, the pivotal moment in his military career was when he stepped into that unholy tomb. Espionage, thievery, a knife glimmering in the dark—he was perfect for the task, so of course the Flame Emperor had chosen him to accompany her. He’d dipped the torch of his ambition in her righteous fire and it was to be his glorious moment of triumph, to set the Church aflame and bask in the glow of its funeral pyre.
All he basked in now was an orange wisp of a campfire in Faerghus. Metodey rubbed his hands together so that he could pretend he was warm.
His fellow guard for this shift hadn’t asked, but he was telling her anyway. The unfairness of it all burned like coal in his chest, which helped warm him on nights like this when his flask was empty and all he had to look forward to were the barracks, his hand, and a scant few hours of sleep before the morning reveille. Some nights he dreamed about slitting the throat of whoever played that trumpet and watching their blood froth from its bell.
Metodey’s breath came out as steam when he sighed. “I don’t know why they sent me here.”
The other guard—Winola, that was probably her name—leaned against her spear with its iron tip resting at her forehead. “Neither do I.”
“Exactly! See, you get it.”
All he had to do was steal some old rocks and dusty bones. They’d been warned about the archbishop and that strange professor, but with the Emperor herself gracing the battlefield with her might, what was there to worry about?
Quite a lot, as it turned out.
Pious fools would say the goddess’ grace let him escape with his life that day, but Metodey knew better. He’d survived because he was destined for more—fate wouldn’t see him die at the hands of children, a nobody in some filthy tomb.
But then no one asked him to join in the sacking of Garreg Mach, even though he knew all the best ways to raze a home. Because he was an assassin, you see, and you didn’t send assassins to plod through ditches and fling themselves at spiked barricades like your average pikeman.
He was curiously absent from more than Garreg Mach, however.
At the time the soon-to-be Marquis Vestra was his superior. Metodey executed his targets with precision, never left any witnesses, and always filed his reports on time, give or take a few days. When Hubert informed him of his new post on the Faerghus front, he framed it as an honor. Though it’d take him far away from Enbarr’s balmy comforts, Metodey’s work was vital to the Empire, he was assured.
“Bastard thought I wouldn’t notice the demotion.” Metodey ground his boot into the crisp snow, imagined Hubert’s smirk underfoot.
Winola’s flask wasn’t empty. She sipped at it now while staring into the fire.
“Can’t imagine how anyone else ends up here.” He stuffed his hands in his armpits and bounced in place just to keep his blood flowing. “Did you volunteer?”
“No.”
Metodey waited for more but that was all she said on the matter. Oh well. He could keep talking.
Right as he opened his mouth, Winola set her flask aside and gripped her spear, peering into the darkness. Metodey grabbed the hilt of the knife at his belt and followed her gaze to where moonlight bounced off black armor in the distance, turning its wearer’s hair a ghostly white. There’d been reports about this—a one-eyed beast who stalked between the pines and could crush a man’s skull with one hand. Metodey knew that was no exaggeration. He’d seen that beast as a pup, once.
The figure that approached them was one of their own men, though his reputation was no less fearsome. They called him the Death Knight.
“Ah, Sir Jeritza.” Winola lowered her spear.
Metodey supposed they called him that, too.
His spiked pauldrons were dusted with snow, his movements slow enough that he disturbed none of it. Was he called the Death Knight for his deeds in battle? Or was there more to it? Metodey watched his blue-tinged lips for a puff of steam. That horn-tipped helmet of his was missing and Jeritza wore nothing in its place, despite the chill that nipped at Metodey through his own fur-lined cap.
“It is my turn to keep this vigil.” Jeritza said.
Metodey had spent his night lamenting missed opportunities—he wasn’t about to let this one slip through his numb fingers. “Fantastic!”
Jeritza didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at Winola, either. All he did was walk past them, take a seat on a log near the campfire, and fold his hands in his lap.
“...I’ll be going, then.” Metodey grabbed an unlit torch and dipped it in the fire. While it was a pitiful flame, it was still enough to guide him. Odd how Jeritza had arrived without a light. And why the weird armor?
“Hey, Metodey—”
Before Winola could finish he scurried off into the snow, but not before one last look over his shoulder. From here he could only see Jeritza’s back and his moon-silver hair, tucked in a ponytail. It was tied with such a dainty bow that Metodey wanted to laugh, seeing something so delicate between spiked pauldrons.
And so he did, snickering at it on his way to the barracks. No one greeted him when he arrived, not even the wannabe scholar who was up reading some tome by candlelight. He simply peeled off his boots, rubbed circulation back into his feet, then crawled under his covers and set about relieving some of the night’s tension.
The bow haunted him.
It unraveled under his touch, and once Jeritza’s hair was free Metodey could run his fingers through the strands, fine like spider silk; when he pulled Jeritza looked ready to flay him, but at least he was looking.
That baleful expression might be the last thing he saw before the Death Knight gut him for such a brazen gesture. Tension coiled below his guts, his toes curling at the thought—a sharp taste trickled into his mouth. He’d bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood apparently, and the authenticity it lent the scenario was enough for him to spill over in his hand with a muffled gasp.
Metodey sucked at his lip until it stopped bleeding. His movements were sluggish and satisfied while he licked the mess from his fingers, his body hot under Jeritza’s imaginary gaze. It was more than enough to keep him warm that night.
* * *
When Metodey saw the Death Knight, he was usually alone. Though he commanded his own troops as a general, he never spoke with them outside of drills. He didn’t speak with much of anyone and when he did it was with that half-awake drawl of his. They said people like that had spent too much time in Faerghus, that it iced over their hearts and turned them wicked. Metodey had seen—and perhaps engaged in—enough spite during his time here to consider this, but the Death Knight seemed different.
At times he was polite, almost shy, even, in how he kept his distance from others. Other times he shunned everyone but would announce the bloodstained glory that awaited him in the chaos of battle. When he wasn’t going on about culling the weak he liked to train and had a sweet tooth, Metodey noticed, but more importantly Metodey noticed that their allies feared him.
He couldn’t imagine why. It wasn’t like he’d killed any of them, despite some threats towards the chattier soldiers—Metodey had earned a few, and the frostbite in Jeritza’s voice left a provocative scar in his thoughts—and if it was because of his attitude in battle, that wasn’t something to be afraid of. Or maybe it wasn’t fear. How could he tell if he didn’t feel it?
Whatever he inspired in their allies, Metodey wanted it. When the Death Knight walked into a room, everyone noticed.
The attention was one-sided. At first Metodey tried to ply him with casual greetings and offers of fun, but on the rare occasions Jeritza deigned to dismiss him with words, he didn’t even look at Metodey. At best he looked through him, or looked down and forgot who he was within the hour.
And then he was sent north for some campaign and Metodey was left to ponder his next move. By the time Jeritza was due to return, he’d come up with a plan, thanks to his imagination and the obscenely long nights this time of the year.
The first step required simple persuasion.
His target was easy to spot as she left their camp’s training grounds; a crescent scar carved into the edge of her mouth often made it look like she was smirking. Metodey didn’t know how she got it, but he knew that type of injury wasn’t from combat.
Joan wasn’t smirking when Metodey approached her, nor did she smile back at him when he greeted her.
“Working up a sweat, eh Joan?”
She kept walking. “What do you want?”
Metodey held up a glass bottle by its stem and sloshed the clear liquid inside. “I happened across some nordsalat vodka and nobody wants to share it with me. Can you believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why the cold shoulder? I’m already freezing out here—aren’t you?”
“Whatever you’re up to, I’m not interested.”
“I’m not—alright, fine.” Metodey jogged ahead so he could stand in her way. “I’ve been looking for someone to swap with for tomorrow and I heard you’re on guard duty.”
For a moment he thought she’d plow right into him, but she stopped. “And you?”
“The stables. So—”
“Yeah, not interested.” She grabbed his shoulder to push him aside.
“Look, Joan.” Metodey clasped her hand. A friendly gesture, he hoped. “I’m afraid of horses, and there’s cavalry coming back from Fraldarius—”
She yanked her hand free and started walking again. “Which would mean more work for me. Nice try.”
“You’d have to clean anyway. Sauna, right?”
“Better than horse shit.”
He tapped the glass bottle in his hands like a club. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. The Death Knight’ll be back, too.”
That got Joan to pause. She scoffed, but he smiled at the crack in her tone. “Do I look like a new recruit? So what?”
One of the ways the Death Knight lived up to the name was how death followed him back to camp, caked into his hair and smeared across his skin. The sauna was one of his first stops whenever he returned from a battle. A cleansing ritual of some sort—Metodey didn’t know the details—but it left behind a stubborn mess based on the complaints.
“I know, I know, the stables smell,” Metodey said. “But they’re quite warm when there’s a lot going on.”
“What do you want with the sauna, anyway?”
“It’s not the sauna, it’s the stables. Not a popular job.”
And then Joan was off again. “Ask whoever’s on latrine duty.”
“Already did.” Now he had to jog just to keep up. “He’s afraid of horses, too. Absolutely terrified.”
“Is that so.”
They were approaching the barracks. More and more soldiers milled about, giving him less time before she decided he was pestering her a bit too much and someone else got involved. It wasn’t friendly to grab someone and pull them aside, but his attempts at friendliness were getting him nowhere, so he dragged Joan over to a stack of firewood.
“Fine, fine.” He made a show of glancing around. “I’ll tell you—but only you. He’ll kill me if he finds out.“
Though Joan jerked herself out of his grip, she didn’t leave yet. Curiosity must have won her over. “...Who will?”
“Jeritza. We...we made plans before he left.” Metodey drummed his fingers against the bottle still in his hand. “I’m supposed to meet him there.”
“For what?” When she saw his grin, she held up her hand and shook her head.
“Oh, Joan, you don’t understand. It’s not as good without the blood, and all that sweat—”
Then she made a face like she was the one on latrine duty.
“Look, we already made the plans. I’ll show up when he does.”
“And I won’t let you in.”
“Would you deny the Death Knight his fun?”
Joan crossed her arms. Metodey waited—he could be patient for this, though he couldn’t help how his leg jiggled. This was when you let the other person stew in their own thoughts. He often found that people did a better job conjuring up things to fret over without his help. Once her arms uncrossed and she rubbed her chin, Metodey held out the vodka for her.
“If something happens, you won’t be in trouble if we’ve swapped,” he said. “Then it’ll be my responsibility.”
Though she eyed him like he offered poison, she took the bottle. “I’m not coming to your funeral.”
But then maybe he shouldn’t have given her the vodka at all, because that made him want to chug it until his chest burned. Instead, he laughed. “There won’t be one.”
* * *
While the sun shined its meager warmth on him the next day, Metodey thought of Joan shoveling horse shit in the stables and scowled. There were some practical aspects to his plans he’d failed to consider, and chief among them was the jealousy that did nasty things to his mood whenever someone came to use the sauna.
It was one of the first things built when they established this camp. There were some Faerghus-born soldiers among them who insisted it was an essential structure, and while from the outside it was a ramshackle cabin, everyone soon agreed.
Metodey had been in there a few times. Most people chatted or brought drinks or otherwise had a good time, but on busy days it was miserably packed, and if it was just him and another person, the other person usually left first.
Today was a busy day, what with that campaign or whatever ending, which meant that Metodey had to stand there and swear at people through chattering teeth whenever there was a mess to deal with. Some fool spent too long in there and threw up, another started a fight over who sat where—petty business that made him want to toss them all out and kick snow on them.
Whenever the temptation grew strong enough for his hands to itch, he reminded himself why he was here.
He couldn’t catch Jeritza’s eye through his usual means—bribes were useless, he was immune to charm, and direct threats were out of the question—and so he had to get creative. The Death Knight spoke of chaos and blood, and while Metodey knew how to provide both, the secretive nature of his talents made it hard to show off. He could admit there was no way he’d best Jeritza in direct combat, but he knew how to give himself an edge.
It was on his belt, in fact, a knife clear of his usual poisons. No one kept their guard up in the sauna, not for long—the steam had a way of sapping energy and clouding the mind, which was why they had a guard outside in the first place. It didn’t matter if Jeritza was the embodiment of death itself; without his armor he was just a naked man.
Metodey would remind him of this. The way he talked sometimes, Jeritza seemed like he forgot, so it would help everyone. There was no way Jeritza could ignore a knife at his throat or wherever Metodey held it, since Jeritza was frustratingly tall, enough that it’d be awkward to sneak up behind him and try to loom.
The sun crept higher while he waited and eventually the moon showed its face even though it was still daylight. When the sky turned a dusky orange that meant the sauna would be closed soon, but Jeritza hadn’t shown up. It wasn’t a rumor that he always did on campaign days, right? Metodey heard it spoken with such certainty that it must be true.
He kicked snow over an imaginary version of himself. Rumors. Gossip. Misinformation. Such obvious things to consider in retrospect, yet somehow he hadn’t. But when he looked up...
A lone figure approached the sauna, their silhouette gilded by the sun’s dying light. Were it not for the crunch of boots in the snow, he could have mistaken them for an apparition come to haunt their assassin, but the satisfaction of a lock clicking open filled Metodey when he recognized the Death Knight by the blood caked in his flaxen hair.
As the Death Knight—Jeritza, he reminded himself—passed him without so much as a glance or a greeting, Metodey caught a pungent whiff of fresh violence. Though he’d changed out of his armor and into a simple tunic, it was clear he hadn’t been back for long. Swinging that arcane scythe of his around all day must have been exhausting, so of course he’d want to soothe his no-doubt aching muscles at the soonest opportunity.
Metodey waited until the sun kissed the horizon before making his move. Steam poured out to blind him the moment he cracked the door open; he rushed inside before the change in temperature gave away his presence, but if it came to a scuffle he could handle it. That scythe was nowhere to be found and Metodey was the one with a knife.
His first enemy was the steam, which flooded his lungs until they burned from holding in a cough.
Jeritza was blurry and indistinct in the center of the room with a bucket at his side. He ladled water from the bucket over himself, his back to Metodey, but not only was his back turned, he sat on a stool—a stool! It left him at the perfect height for Metodey’s knife at his throat after all, and it delighted him how Jeritza’s shoulders tensed when he held the blade snug against the Death Knight’s jugular.
Jeritza’s even tone gave away little, though his grip on the ladle tightened. “Who are you?”
“Your executioner,” Metodey breathed against his ear.
The ladle could be a bludgeon if he decided to struggle so Metodey kept his eyes on it, but he also pressed himself closer to feel more of those muscles, whose subtle shifts would betray any plans.
“Will you be the one to quench my thirst?”
“Er...yes?” Metodey finally let that cough out, then cleared it from his voice with a raspy laugh and tilted the blade against Jeritza’s throat. “Oh, yes. Your tongue’ll be slick with your own blood, then you’ll never be thirsty again.” Jeritza made a quiet ah at this like he might interrupt, and to show he meant business Metodey dug the knife in until it threatened to break skin. “I’ll leave you with a smile ear-to-ear—but it won’t be on your mouth.”
Jeritza’s breath hitched when Metodey demonstrated the motion across his throat. If Metodey weren’t wearing so many oppressive layers of clothing, he was certain he’d feel the Death Knight quiver against him.
“What is it that stays your hand?”
It was much too early to give away the ruse. Even naked, Jeritza still seemed encased in armor; Metodey wanted to strip him of it and see what sort of man he was underneath.
“Are you in a rush to die?” Metodey whispered, “I never said I’d make it quick.”
The hm Jeritza responded with sounded...disappointed? Different from his earlier sound. Metodey got a better response when he twirled the knifepoint against Jeritza’s throat.
“They say ice runs through your veins.” Metodey shifted the blade to the side of his neck, tracing it down the artery that lurked beneath his skin. “I want to see for myself.”
Jeritza tilted his head, exposing more of his neck. “You haven’t the nerve.”
The nerve! Metodey’s grip on his hilt tightened. What to say? He couldn’t drag this out any longer, but if he gave up now then Jeritza would know him only as a gutless coward. There was a vulnerary tucked into his jacket, so maybe he could get away with something…
Now wasn’t the time to second-guess himself—he flicked his wrist and cut a thin line across Jeritza’s cheek. Shallow, but a face wound, and it bled readily.
Jeritza, he—he was naked, and Metodey hadn’t thought much about that until he licked the blood from his captive’s cheek and saw his cock spring to life in response.
“So, the Death Knight lusts for death?” Encouraged by the reaction, he brought the knife to Jeritza’s collarbone and drew out a bead of blood. “Is this what you think about when you touch yourself?”
He glanced at Metodey through the side of his eyes, his face scrunched up not at the knife but, apparently, the accusation. “...I don’t...”
Finally, a gap in that armor. He’d get Jeritza all worked up and leave him desperate for...Hm. Once Metodey revealed who he was and had a good laugh about it, maybe he’d be feeling generous enough to help out.
He glided his knife lower, pressed the flat of it against Jeritza’s thigh. “Go on. Tell me.”
“What you speak of is a frivolous pastime.”
A huff snuck out of Metodey. No, no, he had to keep his cool—somehow, despite the steam cooking him like a clam—and finish before he let Jeritza go. Then he could tear off this damn fur-lined jacket.
“You should try it,” he purred instead, then tapped the blade’s flat against Jeritza’s stiff cock and watched it bounce. “Might help with this.”
The moan that earned him gave Metodey a similar problem, flush against Jeritza’s back though trapped behind leather pants that squeaked whenever Metodey moved, drenched in sweat. His gloves were uncomfortably damp, too, as he slid his free hand down Jeritza’s chest, and while that didn’t net quite the same reaction as his knife’s kiss, Jeritza arched into his touch.
“Ah...You...are not the one who shall bring about my end.” One of Jeritza’s hands still gripped the ladle, but the other squeezed his own knee. Now wouldn’t that be something, if he could be teased to indulge in that so-called frivolous pastime?
“What makes you so sure, hm?”
“It will be...on the glorious field of battle.” Jeritza’s hand slid to the inside of his thigh. “Their sword splitting me open, ah”—Metodey rubbed the flat of his knife against Jeritza’s cock—“a crimson arc, my blood, bright against their...green hair...But, you…”
Metodey leaned in close, relishing the moans Jeritza tried to hide under his breath.
Pain cracked through Metodey’s skull and he was on the floor before he could piece together what hit him. The floor was wet and sticky—not from his head, he hoped—but the knife was still in his hand, so maybe he could—Another searing burst cut that thought off when Jeritza stepped on his wrist. Some damnable reflex made him drop his only weapon.
Jeritza tossed the ladle aside. So it did make an effective bludgeon... “You squandered your chance to kill me. A foolish mistake, and your last.”
At first he thought Jeritza punched him even though he didn’t see a fist, but then something wet trickled down his side and when he touched it his glove came away glistening red.
“S-sir Jeritza!” Metodey wheezed, “Comrade, wait!”
Jeritza raised his knife. He wasn’t the type to hesitate.
Metodey covered his throat and hoped his jacket was thick enough for his lungs, or that Jeritza would hit a rib, because all he had was his hoarse voice. “Night watch, W-winola, allies—”
Though his pulse raced and his senses blazed, the thought he might die in a puddle of someone else’s blood and filth while sweating his ass off wasn’t so appealing outside the comforts of his bunk. He should’ve seen it coming, quite frankly. Those muscles of Jeritza’s weren’t for show, and despite the situation a thrill tingled through him when he realized Jeritza had been the one toying with him. He could have done this at any time.
Jeritza could finish him off at any time, too. A double-sided coin of fear and excitement kept flipping in Metodey’s mind. He watched his knife drip with his own blood while Jeritza studied him in turn.
When Jeritza knelt by him, the knife still in his hand, Metodey squeezed his eyes shut. The buttons of his jacket popped off one by one and he heard fabric rip; he peeked one eye open and saw Jeritza cutting into his jacket. His first instinct was to swat at his former captive, hissing when he hit the knife instead and it sliced through the side of his glove.
“Stop that,” Jeritza said. “I am inspecting the wound.”
“You’re—” Another hiss snuck through Metodey’s teeth when someone’s sweat dripped into the gash. “You’re not going to kill me?”
Jeritza placed one of Metodey’s hands on it. “Apply pressure.”
As if he didn’t know how to stop bleeding! Metodey squeezed his side, sobbing not from tears but from the laughter that bubbled from his throat. His vision had that fuzzy, dreamlike quality at the edges, his limbs felt encased in mud, his head throbbed. Blood from his side seeped into his cut glove and when he raised his hand to look at it a thin red stream trickled down his wrist.
“...I cannot tell if this is your true nature, or if the heat has melted your brain.”
Before Metodey could answer, Jeritza took the bucket of water he’d been washing himself with and dumped it over him. The frigid shock snapped him out of his haze, and while pain still burned in his side, the water cooled him once he stopped sputtering.
Jeritza took a scrap of his jacket and pressed it to the gash. “Do you have any medicine?”
Words tangled on Metodey’s tongue, bad enough that he swallowed them back down, then nodded and fumbled at one of his jacket pockets until Jeritza retrieved the vulnerary for him. The fur-lined scrap came away soaked in blood and Metodey giggled at the soft plop it made when Jeritza tossed it aside.
He didn’t giggle when Jeritza uncorked the bottle and poured it into the wound. It stung worse than the sweat, worse than if someone rubbed a salt lick in it. His back arched and he writhed on the floor as his skin stitched itself together, leaving behind little more than a slight inflammation where the knife had struck.
“I do not know what a weakling such as yourself hoped to accomplish.” The disdain stung even worse than the vulnerary, but it soothed Metodey’s injured pride to notice that, despite everything, Jeritza was still hard.
Lying in his jacket, sopping wet with blood and sweat and a mixture of dirt and bits of gore on the sauna floor wasn’t going to help his own mood, however. Metodey shrugged his way out of his jacket’s remains, then the rest of his shirt while he was at it—his bare skin was already soaked, but it was easier to breathe without all the fur, and disgusting as it was down here, it was quite the view. All that horseback riding had done wonders for Jeritza’s thighs.
“I, uh”—Metodey swallowed—“weakling? I don’t mind pain, you know.” He brought his glove to his mouth, sucked at the cut, and licked away the blood it left behind on his lips. “See?”
Though Jeritza said nothing, Metodey grinned at how his cock twitched.
“I just wanted to have a bit of fun.” He pushed himself up on his elbows and his own wrist twinged, not unpleasantly. There was a bit of a difference between soreness and stabbing, that was all.
“Does it excite you?” Jeritza took his hand again, this time to help him sit up. “The thrill of death?”
Metodey’s wrist throbbed where Jeritza’s fingers touched. “I think it can make for some lovely fantasies.”
It felt like he was in one of them when Jeritza ran his tongue along the glove, sucking at the same cut. Metodey’s gasp wasn’t from the sting. Oh, and then Jeritza bit the tip of his finger, pinched dark leather between his teeth, and tugged. With all the liquid soaked in, his glove slid off easily and made a wet sound when it landed.
Metodey grinned.
Jeritza looked at the red smears on Metodey’s hand, not his face, even while sucking the blood from his fingers. That shrunk his grin. The tension in his pants added to his frustration, but Jeritza’s hair, clumped from humidity rather than blood now, was within reach of his free hand. Metodey leaned forward enough to pull one of his bangs.
It wasn’t like his fantasies at all—Jeritza moaned in response, his eyelashes fluttering and his expression anything but baleful. No, his eyes were clouded over with lust, with dilated pupils that finally looked at Metodey. Exhilaration flooded through him, made his blood sing and his pants even tighter when Jeritza tilted away so that he pulled again.
An essential part of his work was flexibility, in every sense of the word. Plans changed all the time. So what if he’d walked in here thinking he’d pull one over the Death Knight and somewhere along the way things went awry? A new plan came to mind as he grabbed a fistful of Jeritza’s hair with his bare hand, then closed the distance between them.
First he had to slip out of these pants, which had to wait until Jeritza was done biting his lip, but once he was free he took Jeritza by the hips and pressed them flush against each other. He found himself leaning for more support than intended, still all sorts of light-headed and woozy; it was a relief when Jeritza sat back on the stool and pulled Metodey into his lap.
Even now Jeritza was taller, and while that annoyed Metodey for reasons he couldn’t explain, it didn’t matter when those lavender eyes focused on him. They exchanged sloppy kisses that tasted of metal while Metodey shifted his hips until he could squeeze their cocks together and stroke, pleased to find that his gloved hand barely fit around their combined girth.
“Still think it’s, ha, frivolous?” He snickered, his other hand tangled in Jeritza’s hair.
Jeritza’s response was a knife at his throat.
When had he grabbed that? Maybe while Metodey had been fussing with his boots? As Jeritza held it close enough for Metodey to feel the pressure when he swallowed, he couldn’t recall the answer to that whole “are you going to kill me” matter.
Fear wasn’t sexy at all. But it was all excitement after Jeritza leaned until his neck was against the blade’s other edge, and then they were close enough to share hot breaths with Metodey’s hand slick between them. Now it was a game, stealing kisses and air from each other, seeing who’d flinch away first, like that classic of splaying your hand on a table and dancing a knife between your fingers. Or for even more fun—doing it to someone else.
Right now Metodey had the best of both worlds. The knife bit into his skin until blood welled up, giving him the same ripe feeling as his injured hand. It told him he was alive even as the steel at his throat reminded him how easily that could change.
Pinpricks of pleasure-pain spread from his scalp when Jeritza tugged his hair back with one hand. His other hand tossed the knife aside—then there was an eager mouth at Metodey’s neck, sucking at the cut, and he squeezed them both as a reflex.
The sound Jeritza made while he came tickled against Metodey’s skin. It was undignified in the way all sounds were during moments like this, as was the stupefied expression on his face when he leaned away, slack-jawed with lolling eyes. There was a matching cut on Jeritza’s neck, a fresh red in contrast to the scabbed line across his cheek.
Even though the other man was done Metodey was relentless, drawing out more of those delightful sounds while he watched blood ooze from Jeritza’s neck, until a burst of pleasure left him giddy and gasping with his forehead against Jeritza’s chest. Something stuck to his own cheek, already gumming up in the humidity. He had a feeling it wasn’t blood.
Metodey wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, studying the complementary gold and purple of each other’s eyes. Long enough for the cuts on their necks to scab.
Eventually, Jeritza pushed him away and stood, though they had to use each other’s shoulders for support.
“I…” It was hard not to laugh at how Jeritza swayed, red-faced with his hair all messed up. “I am in need of fresh air.”
When Jeritza let go and wobbled towards the sauna door, Metodey stumbled. He caught himself on the stool, bent over giggling while the door creaked open, then shut.
How many could say they survived an encounter with the Death Knight? A small number, Metodey wagered, and fewer still could claim to see him with such lewd expressions.
...Could anyone? It didn’t matter if he was the first; Metodey was certain that Jeritza would remember him regardless. Why, they’d practically swapped blood at this point! That made them closer than your average pair of soldiers, even if Jeritza hadn’t recognized him when he first snuck into the sauna.
Without his boots Metodey felt how gross the floor was between his toes. It got him to look down at the wreckage of his clothing, the discarded knife, the blood of various origins…Maybe he could gather up his clothes and go? No one would let him near the sauna for months if he left it like this, but right now he felt boneless and ready to faint.
How pointless, to try and think while sweat dripped down his bangs. The atmosphere had gone from heady to oppressive again, so he also slipped outside to clear his mind.
The sun was long gone and it was cold enough that standing in the doorway was all it took for his balls to shrink. That alone helped sober him up, but he flung himself into the nearest pile of snow anyway. Though the chill nipped at him with its usual ferocity, he’d jacked off death himself—what could a little cold do, eh? It soothed his cuts, and whatever worries he had about silly things like cleaning melted away into the snow.
* * *
Metodey was banned from the sauna.
No one believed his story about a bear—those were hibernating this time of year, apparently, as if this frozen hellscape had a season besides “cold”—but no one seemed aware of exactly what happened between him and the Death Knight.
Joan might’ve had an inkling, but she’d lost some sort of bet about his survival and refused to do more than glare at him when he entered the dining hall. Tempting as it was to brag, he had the feeling Jeritza wouldn’t appreciate it, though he smiled knowing that someone had won that bet. Whoever it was had a good head on their shoulders. Maybe he could find out who it was and negotiate a cut of the winnings...
He was grinning ear-to-ear when he spotted Jeritza, the calm center in a storm of chatter, alone at the end of the furthest table. Once Metodey had snagged his portion of stale bread and shriveled up pork, he sat next to Jeritza and flung an arm around his shoulders.
“How’s the day find you, sir knight?”
Jeritza tensed under his hand. When he glanced at Metodey from the side of his eye, his gaze burned in a less-than-fun way.
Metodey’s smile wavered. “Surely you remember me?”
“You never told me your name.”
“Oh.” He let go and leaned away. “Uh, Metodey.”
“Metodey,” Jeritza said, slow enough to taste every syllable, “you are disrupting my meal.”
His face hot and flushed for all the wrong reasons, Metodey looked down. Jeritza’s meal was a large bowl of snow drenched in custard. It seemed unwise to say what it reminded him of.
“I’ve no interest in idle chatter.” Jeritza stabbed his spoon into the snow. Crystal clear message, Metodey thought, until he spoke again. “But if you wish to see me, I shall meet you in my chambers this evening.”
“Oh? What for?”
Jeritza looked to the veins of frost on a nearby window. “It will be quite some time before the Death Knight can return to his hunting grounds. He grows...restless if he cannot spill blood.” He turned back to Metodey. “You understand, do you not?”
“Sure, I get bored all the time around here.”
“Hm.”
“You think I can’t handle it?”
As much as he wanted to peel the scab from Jeritza’s cheek and watch it bleed, he didn’t seem the touchy-feely type. Instead, he opened his collar and picked at the scab on his own neck, smirking even as he winced.
“...Do not come unarmed.” Jeritza’s pale skin made it impossible for him to hide his blush. “Or without medicine.”
Metodey pressed his thumb to the cut and felt his pulse race under it. “I’ll bring my sharpest blade.”
“Then we shall meet at the appointed hour, Metodey.”
As Metodey found a different seat and the other two soldiers at the table left, he whistled to himself. How would his name taste on Jeritza’s lips? How often could he make him say it? How warm would it be in a general’s chambers, rather than his own cramped barracks?
He couldn’t wait to find out.