Shared by the Vikings (2 page)

Training. Leo still didn’t understand that part, but he knew he had to obey his master.

Some of the other Vikings hit their thralls, even whipped them with their belts, but Leo had never suffered a punishment more serious than a harsh word or a clout in the ear. Still, he knew the big man’s patience wasn’t endless.

Leo clasped his hands behind his back, feeling awkward and a little wobbly as he knelt on the rough earthen floor, looking up at Runolf.

Then he opened his mouth. It was strange, like this, without the use of his hands; he couldn’t aim right, and Runolf’s stiff cock bobbed away from him just as he tried to lick the head.

“Pay attention,” Runolf told him, his lips curving in a slight smile as he watched Leo struggle for balance.

Leo flinched, unable to smile back. For a heartbeat it was just like being back at the monastery, being instructed by ruthless older men. It was almost as though he could hear Brother Theodore’s sour voice in his ears, saying ‘You could never do anything right. Not even something as sinful as this, you rotten boy.’

And Leo did want to do it right. He wanted Runolf to smile at him fondly, to touch him with those big hands, perhaps even allow him to come. He wanted Runolf to let him sleep at his side, curled up against that broad, muscular back.

Runolf paused, and then he reached down a hand and stroked Leo’s cheek. “Hey.”

Leo looked up a little warily. He knew his cheeks were flushed with mortification, and he feared that his face revealed far too much of his inner struggle.

“Just take it easy,” Runolf said. “I’ll help you.”

Leo nodded, smiling tremulously. When Runolf was gentle with him like this, it made him feel strange.

He opened his mouth, gripping his hands behind his back, and Runolf fisted his own cock and slowly pushed it inside his mouth.

Leo did know to cover his teeth; early on, he’d bitten Runolf by mistake, and Runolf had almost grown angry, then laughed it off when he saw that Leo was only inexperienced, not hostile.

Somehow it felt very different this time. Something about having his hands behind his back, unable to stop Runolf from taking his mouth roughly if he wanted to … something about that was as unnerving as it was exciting.

A hot spark of desire bloomed to life in Leo’s belly as he tasted the salty musk of Runolf’s cock. Its heat warmed him, and it was easier than he thought to take that big rod deeper into his mouth. He wrapped his tongue around the thick head and began to suck hungrily.

“Like that, yes,” Runolf said, sounding pleased. “Now make some noise.”

He thrust his hips forward, and Leo grunted as he felt the forceful nudge against the back of his throat.

Licking and sucking, Leo swayed forward, closing his eyes, all of him focused on the salty heat inside his mouth, pressing against his soft palate.

“Good, good,” Runolf was saying in a soft, purring voice. That voice made Leo feel as though something inside him was melting, dissolving into wicked heat.

He wanted to hear more praise, and so he sucked harder, his tongue straying out to lick at Runolf’s salty skin. The Viking always tasted clean but salty, like the sea.

“Frigg, yes,” Runolf said, rolling his hips and pushing deeper into Leo’s mouth. His voice sounded rougher now.

Leo sucked for all he was worth, and felt Runolf’s big hands settling on Leo’s head, ruffling his short curls.

Then Runolf suddenly pulled out of his mouth, the big purple head of his cock glistening and wet. He rubbed it against Leo’s cheeks and lips, smearing slick wetness over his skin.

Greatly daring, Leo put out his tongue and tasted it. It was salty, and he liked the taste of it, though it made him thirsty.

“Ha, good, you like that?” Runolf said laughingly, then nudged Leo’s lips with his cock and slid himself back in.

Leo moaned against the flesh filling his mouth and closed his eyes, concentrating on the salty taste, the clean scent of Runolf so close to him, and the weight of those big hands on his head.

Noises just kept welling out of him, little moans and groans half-stifled. Sounds of need,
fill me, take me, make me, use me
. Like an animal, Leo lived only in this moment, all heat and salt and pressure and hunger.

Runolf thrust hard into his soft mouth, distending Leo’s cheeks, pushing deeper until his throat opened around the invasion.

Leo swallowed him down to the root, sucking him in, then letting go only to suck him in again, harder. It was a rhythm as old as the sea, and he was lost in it, until Runolf’s big hands suddenly clenched in his hair.

“Don’t drink,” Runolf told him with a strange sudden urgency.

Leo stared up at him, surprised. He had always swallowed Runolf’s seed before, had even grown to like the taste of it.

But Runolf pulled out of him. He stripped his cock in his own hands once, twice, and then a spill of wet heat surged over Leo’s chest, painting him with splashes of salt.

Slowly, Runolf’s hands eased from their tight grip on his short hair, and then Runolf stroked his head with the fondness that Leo longed for so desperately.

A deep ease settled inside Leo, and he tipped his head up and nuzzled against Runolf’s hands, basking in the gentleness of his touch.

“Good boy,” Runolf said very quietly, in that soft voice that he never seemed to use in company. It made Leo want to purr like a cat. He felt warm all over.

“Come, get up,” Runolf told him, then lifted him to his feet with what seemed like no effort at all.

Leo hung from his hands like a rag, and Runolf smiled at him. It was that brilliant, golden smile that Leo had hungered to see, and he smiled back with all his heart in his eyes.

“You look more drunk than I feel,” Runolf said, though he had to know that thralls were not given mead to drink, only weak beer. “Come to bed.”

They sank down on the big mattress together, and Runolf pulled the furs over them both.

***

The next morning, Leo rose early. He knelt before the hearth, finding the few embers that still glowed, and carefully brought the fire back to life. Then he hung the kettle from its long spit and filled it with water, adding handfuls of oats to make a thick porridge.

Runolf was still asleep. As the fire warmed the room, he had stirred enough to push the furs down to his waist, and now he lay half uncovered, his fair skin gleaming in the sunlight that spilled from the window.

Though his hands were busy, Leo kept glancing away from his tasks to watch Runolf.

He did not truly think of Runolf as an angel; that was a blasphemy his mind could not encompass. The big Viking was a man, a mortal, and made of earthly flesh, as Leo knew all too well.

And yet he did look almost exactly like those masculine, golden-haired angels Leo had drawn to illustrate a holy manuscript. Especially when Runolf was asleep and all the cares of the world vanished from his face. Perhaps because those angels Leo had drawn were no true angels, either, only the wistful dreams that his pen had given wings. Dreams of a life he had never thought he could have.

The sunlight painted swathes of bright gold over Runolf’s fair skin, outlining the strong lines of his body. The sprinkling of blond hair on his chest turned to gold dust in the light.

Leo could not stop watching him. Not until a strange smell hit his nostrils, and he realized that the porridge was burning.

“Oh, for the love of -” he muttered, and bit back the name of a saint that threatened to emerge as a curse.

Hastily, he picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the porridge, careful not to dislodge the layer of burnt oats that was sticking to the bottom. Some time later today, he would have to scour the pot clean; it wasn’t fair to leave that task to the other thralls.

Then he remembered that today was the day of the harvest, and he probably wouldn’t have time to scour pots. He would be hard at work gathering in the grain harvest with all the rest of the village.

And then, afterwards, there was the festival.

Leo still didn’t understand what Runolf had meant about training him for the festival. He had not been sober, of course, but…

Just then, Runolf stretched luxuriously and yawned, shaking his long blond hair out of his face.

“Ah, by Thor’s hammer, that was good mead!” he said in an undertone, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “And oh, such dreams I had…”

His blue eyes opened wide then, and he turned straight to Leo, his blond eyebrows rising. “What do I smell?”

“Er. Porridge?” Leo said. He hastily looked away from Runolf’s bare, flat stomach and concentrated on mixing cream and honey into the porridge. When Runolf didn’t reply, he sneaked a look over his shoulder, and saw that Runolf was laughing at him silently.

Leo blushed, hastily turning back to his pot and stirring it vigorously.

“Porridge, aye,” Runolf said. “Give me a bowl then, and take care you don’t give me the burnt bits.”

Leo hurried to obey, knowing how lucky he was. Some of the other Vikings in the village would have laid into him with a leather belt, even for an offense so minor as burning porridge. Runolf just seemed to treat it like a joke.

“Ah, today’s a feast day,” Runolf said with a smile of anticipation. He swung his legs off the bed, then stood up in one supple move.

Leo blushed harder. He couldn’t help it.

He would never, ever get used to seeing this man stark naked. He was so beautiful - so strong, so virile, his muscular arms and solid thighs testifying to a life of hard work. Leo wanted to fall on his knees and service him, never mind about breakfast.

And to think that Runolf was standing naked in full view of the window, in a room anyone could walk into!

Sometimes Leo wondered if the Vikings knew shame at all.

Leo knelt in front of Runolf, offering him the bowl of porridge he cradled in both hands. He was wearing his thrall’s shift, a brief linen shirt that only just came down to his thighs, and he knew that when he knelt like this, it tended to rise up behind.

He could not bring himself to make a more blatant offer, but he hoped Runolf would see his half-bare behind and find it pleasing, perhaps even arousing.

Runolf took the porridge and sat down on one of the heavy wooden chairs, completely unconcerned about his nudity. As he spooned the porridge into his mouth, he watched Leo busy himself near the hearth, cleaning up spilled oats and stoking the fire.

Leo took care to do all these things either kneeling or bending over, exposing himself. He was incredibly blatant about it, or so he thought - but to a Viking, used to seeing thralls walk around in their brief shifts all day long, perhaps it wasn’t all that unusual. Still, he could feel Runolf’s eyes on him, and that sent a giddy joy leaping through him.

“Stop trying to lure me,” Runolf said suddenly. “Not now, boy.”

Leo looked up, startled and disappointed and a little afraid. Was he overstepping his bounds somehow?

But when he dared to look up, Runolf’s expression was not angry.

“I should save myself for the feast,” Runolf said, as if that was an explanation Leo would understand.

But he didn’t, not until that evening.

***

Taking in the grain harvest was hard, back-breaking work. Leo’s task was to go over the fields with a horde of other thralls and women and children, gathering all the loose grains and stalks that the scythe-wielding men had left behind. Then they had to sift these and winnow them, so that the chaff flew away into the wind and the edible grains remained.

The day went fast, for all that it was hard going - the women sang songs, the children ran back and forth to bring the adults flasks of water and ale, and there was a sense of shared purpose to the work that made it easier.

Finally the harvest was in, and Ogrim, the oldest man there, blew upon a great horn so that the blast echoed from the walls of the houses.Leo stood up, stretching his aching back, and smiled as the thralls around him cheered.

Then he saw that there was one massive sheaf still standing, on the edge of the field.

He turned to Frelda, an old woman thrall standing close to him. She had worked in service of the Vikings all her life, and she belonged to Ogrim’s household.

“What about that sheaf over there?” Leo said, pointing. “Shouldn’t we bring that in, too?”

Frelda gave him a strange look. “Did you not hear, then, about the feast tonight?”

“Yes, I know there’s a feast,” Leo said impatiently. “But what about that sheaf?”

“It’s the last sheaf standing,” Frelda said slowly and distinctly, as if she was speaking to a child. “It’s the Guardian. We’ll see it anointed tonight.”

Leo nodded dubiously, though he didn’t really understand. The Vikings’ pagan rituals were still a mystery to him. But Frelda tugged at his arm, pulling him into the crowd of thralls, and Leo swallowed his questions for the moment.

The harvest feast was not held in the jarl’s great longhouse, but outside on the newly barren fields. There was a huge bonfire and a sheep roasting on a spit, and there was mead for everybody, even for the thralls. Groups of young women danced in concentric circles around the fire, laughing and singing. The entire village seemed to be there, except for the children, who had been sent home at sundown.