The Last Canticle: Summoner's Dirge (9 page)

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Balin commanded in a husky tone.

When they had finished preparing for bed, Damir dumped the basin out the window and closed the shutters. He climbed into bed first, stretched out on his side and facing Balin as he stripped out of his shirt and changed into a pair of night pants.

Balin climbed into bed after Damir. Their hands gravitated toward each other, unable to keep away now that their guards had fallen. Balin stroked his way along the twisting blue lines of Damir’s arm until he reached the center of his chest. He pressed his palm flat against Damir’s pectoral.

“Your heart is beating rapidly. Are you scared?” Balin asked, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Elina.

“Terrified,” Damir admitted to Balin’s amusement.

“Why?” Balin asked. Damir reached up and threaded his fingers through Balin’s hair. Balin found it to be one of his favorite things. It reminded him of happier times in his childhood and made him feel like maybe he wasn’t a monster, that he was worth touching—even in the simplest of ways.

“Because this all might be a dream,” Damir whispered, as if it really were just a big secret and a single decibel would shatter the illusion.

“Then let us dream.” Balin took Damir’s hand from his hair and interlocked their fingers together, palm to palm. Another time, another place, it would have all been different. But in that moment, hand in hand, Balin could think of no other fate he would want.

Damir scooted closer so that his feet bumped against Balin’s feet. His voice a gentle caress, Damir asked, “And when we wake?”

“Who says we have to wake?” Balin slanted his mouth against Damir’s, pulling them both deeper into their reverie. Hunger ate away at Balin’s senses and clouded his mind.

If it were a dream, Balin never wanted to awake. He wanted to stay in their moonlit fantasy, breast to breast, heart to heart, and hot mouth against hot mouth.

Damir pressed against Balin, hard and eager. Balin gave a grunt of approval and grabbed ahold of Damir’s hip to steady him. Possessiveness burned through Balin, and all he could think of was claiming Damir as his own.

“We have to be quiet,” Damir murmured.

Balin nodded and dipped his head to nip at Damir’s jaw, then lapped at the column of his throat. Damir rutted against Balin with a silent moan. Balin buried his face against the side of Damir’s neck and latched on to the fluttering pulse. He was teeth and tongue and desperate hands, a wolf prowling in the woods, hungry, hungry, hungry—so hungry for flesh and blood and fluids.

Damir arched his spine and curved into Balin’s touch. Hands and fingers and wet mouth, they all drove Balin to the brink. Damir trembled against him. Balin drew away, panting.

“Have you…?”

Damir nodded. “Once, years ago.”

Balin felt a surge of jealousy rush through him that he knew was uncalled for, but the idea of someone else touching Damir left him hollow and angry. He pulled away and pushed Damir onto the bed.

“But not since?”

Damir shook his head and stared up at him with wide eyes. Balin leaned against Damir and rocked his hips into him, waiting for an answer. Damir’s eyes rolled back. He dropped his chin to his chest as a barely audible groan escaped him.

“Say it out loud,” Balin ordered.

“No, not since the first time,” Damir said breathlessly.

Balin smiled and slipped between Damir’s legs, hooking his fingers into the band of Damir’s pants along the way. Damir was carved from hard-earned muscle, his body tailored until every stretch of golden skin was tight and solid. While Balin was bulked for battle, Damir had created a lean form of broad shoulders and sharp hips from his farm duties. Balin drank in the sight of sun-kissed flesh and the bed of flaxen curls at the apex of Damir’s muscular legs. Like a mighty oak secluded in a wheat field, Damir’s cock stood straight up.

BALIN LICKED HIS lips and rose off the bed. Damir’s gaze followed his every step, drank in each inch of skin revealed as Balin stripped bare. He was a deep burnish brown from head to toe, his skin darker than Damir’s, his dick among a lush carpet of black curls. Battle-hardened and scarred, Balin stood proud. Damir reached out and traced a finger over a thin, pearly pink scar beneath Balin’s navel.

“You have so many scars. Why?”

“Does it bother you?”

Damir shook his head and pushed himself up, moving to the edge of the bed in order to draw Balin between his legs. “No. I have my own scars. But these look painful.”

He leaned forward and kissed the pale scar. Balin pressed a hand against the top of Damir’s head. Damir traced the scar with his mouth, following the dip of Balin’s hip bone. He stopped and rested his cheek against the hard flatness of Balin’s stomach. Balin stepped away and turned to the window. He opened it, letting the moonlight spill across the wooden floor.

As if a candle had been lit, a cool, silvery-blue aura began to radiate from Damir. He let out a shuddering breath as the familiar light pooled inside him and rushed through his veins. He felt life hum through his fingers, singing a song only he could hear.

Balin returned to Damir’s side and laid him out across the bed. He traced a finger up the line of his arm and pressed his hand over Damir’s heart. Beyond the window, the sound of cicadas filled the night. It was the only sound beyond their shallow breathing.

“Do you have oil we can use?” Balin asked, breaking the silence.

“I put the medicine in the cabinet. There should be some
gralui
oil there,” Damir said, proud his mind could function.

Balin crossed the room in quick strides to the large cabinet against the wall. Damir watched him search through the assortment of salves and oils he owned. His collection was enough to open his own clinic. Balin returned shortly with the gralui oil.

“You stare at me as if I were a maiden,” Damir teased when Balin didn’t climb onto the bed right away. Damir shifted so he could prop one leg up, his straining cock bobbing in his lap, flushed red from desire.

“You are far from a maiden,” Balin murmured absently and moved beside Damir. Balin guided Damir onto the flat of his back and spread his legs open.

Nestled between Damir’s legs, Balin uncorked the bottle of oil, the sweetly potent aroma of gralui herbs filling the air, and coated his fingers. The oil glistened a rose-gold color in the moonlight. Gralui was known, among many other names, as a love herb. Not only was it a powerful remedy against chest congestion and blood circulation, but it doubled as a heady aphrodisiac.

Balin set the bottle on the nightstand and leaned forward to seal his mouth over Damir’s. Skin rubbed against hot skin as Balin shifted above Damir and glided his slicked hand down between Damir’s legs, pinching teasingly at the sensitive flesh that connected his scrotum and massaging downward to the puckered entrance.

Damir panted and moaned out some small noises against Balin’s mouth. Balin circled a strong finger around Damir’s entrance. “Relax,” he whispered against his mouth.

Balin slowly pushed a finger inside Damir. His muscles stretched with an elicit burn as he adjusted to take in Balin’s digit. His stomach clenched with yearning. Balin fucking him with a finger sent Damir’s head spinning, but he would only be satisfied when he had a dick buried balls-deep inside his channel. Damir arched his back and tipped his head, breaking contact with Balin’s lips.

Balin dragged his finger out and shoved it back in. Damir crushed his mouth against Balin’s to silence the ragged cry that escaped him. As quickly as Balin had pressed a single finger, he withdrew it and added another. He proceeded with the slow thrust until he built to a good three fingers. For every digit he added, Damir whimpered against his mouth.

Damir could feel Balin’s cock straining in his pants. Damir pushed Balin up so he was sitting. He crawled onto Balin’s lap so his dick was captured between their stomachs and he could rub down onto Balin’s hard length. He rolled his hips in slow, small circles. Balin grabbed on to his waist and mouthed Damir’s exposed neck with a muffled groan.

Balin slid his slicked finger down Damir’s crack and plunged three digits inside his widening sphincter. Damir rocked down onto Balin’s hand, and when the pads of Balin’s large fingers rubbed along his walls and brushed the walnut-sized prostate, Damir’s breath hitched sharply. All his control began to quiver inside him. He picked up a steady canter, biting and nipping his way from Balin’s mouth to his ear.

“Please, no more. I need you, now,” Damir pleaded, thoroughly driven to the brink of insanity. If Balin continued to torture him with his nimble fingers, Damir would spend before either of them was ready.

Balin chuckled, kissed the top of Damir’s head, and withdrew his fingers. Damir slid off his lap and stretched out on the bed, watching as Balin snatched up the bottle of oil and coated his throbbing cock.

“Lift your legs and spread them wide for me.”

Damir obeyed and pulled his legs back, using his hands to help spread them. Silver light radiated from him and reflected in the beads of sweat that slid down Balin’s bare chest. The droplets glistened like hundreds of stars, and for a moment, they both glowed.

“Shit, you’re beautiful,” Balin whispered. He grabbed ahold of Damir’s legs and pulled Damir against his lap. Balin took his dick into his hands and guided it toward the stretched entrance of Damir’s anus, sinking his cockhead in with a low groan.

Damir bit his hand to restrain the strangled moan that threatened to escape him as Balin eased all the way in. His only memory of having been filled—his first time—had been hazed over by too much strawberry wine. He didn’t remember it feeling this good. There was the initial pain, but the ache was tempered by a rightness that swept over him like a northern wind.

“Look at me,” Balin commanded.

Amber gaze met his aquatic one, like the sun ascending over Oculus Caelum. Damir relaxed his legs, letting them wrap securely around Balin’s waist and lock him in. The silver halo emanating from him grew until it encompassed them both. Damir had never felt so whole before, as if all were right, and the joy that pounded inside him threatened to burst through his chest like a fist. For a second, he thought his heart just might leap out of his chest, it felt so taxed by the excitement.

Balin began to rock, and Damir lost all sense of control. His head rolled back, and a low, barely contained groan fell from his lips like droplets of honey. The sound of flesh smacking against flesh, the heady aroma of gralui, the ethereal splendor around them—it all washed over him in a deluge of pleasure.

Damir rocked his hips, hands fisted in the blankets, his gaze locked on Balin’s. He could feel himself melting as Balin began to pick up speed, his slow pace turning into a hard thrust. Man became beast, flesh became food, and hunger was all Damir knew.

Balin grabbed on to the headboard and used it as leverage to slam into Damir. He slowed down and reached between them to take Damir’s cock in his fist. Damir let out a gasp and moaned weakly, biting down on his bottom lip to keep the sound from building into the scream he wanted to release. Balin smiled and buried his face in Damir’s neck, biting and sucking as he worked them into a fever pitch.

“I’m close, Balin,” Damir warned. He could feel his anus begin to clench and his scrotum draw up. A heady rush barreled through Damir and stole his breath.

Balin pressed his mouth against Damir’s ear. “Then come. I want to see you lose control.”

Damir’s spine bowed as he slammed his hips into Balin’s and pumped into Balin’s hand. Damir let out a silent scream, his face flushed with the immense pleasure that rushed through him. He emptied his soul into Balin’s hand, painting the world white.

Damir was only vaguely aware of Balin burying himself deep inside him and the hot wetness that filled him. Balin moaned into Damir’s shoulder, his teeth clamped hard enough on Damir’s shoulder that Damir knew there’d be a mark.

Balin collapsed on top of Damir, their harsh breathing the only sound that filled the room. Even the cicadas seemed to have faded into the night. The blinding light that surrounded them dulled until it was a subtle glow.

Once Balin caught his breath, he pushed up on shaky arms and slid out of Damir. He eased off the bed and grabbed a cloth, dipping it in the basin. He cleaned himself off first and then returned to Damir, washing him. Damir watched Balin lazily with an easy smile, exhaustion weighing his eyelids down.

“Wow,” Damir whispered, and Balin chuckled. He dropped the cloth on the nightstand beside the gralui oil bottle and closed the window. The light around Damir instantly extinguished.

“That light, where does it come from?” Balin asked as he slid onto the bed. Damir just hummed and curled into Balin’s side, falling asleep.

Chapter Eight

Falling Star

Word had spread over the winter months of the failed peace talks between Pheor and Kalrune. The world spun on a trembling axis. What had been a prosperous time had begun to shift toward war. Balin could only get information when he visited Canaan, but from what he heard, he did not like the way things were going. They were on the brink of war, and rumors circled that King Vasilis had been touched by the fairies.

Balin had spent the months watching as Pheor worked Kalrune to its knees, and while he had savored every moment with Damir, he couldn’t shake the unease that swept over him. He spent his nights fucking Damir raw and his days toiling on the farm. But it wasn’t enough.

He was restless.

The weight of the world pressed down on him. Every piece of news on the war front fell upon his shoulders like pebbles, slowly building into a mountain. It didn’t slip his mind that his failure had tipped Pheor into a downward spiral. He had never thought about saving a life, but now he was painfully aware of the millions—perhaps billions—he had suddenly sent to the slaughter.

War would devastate the planet, and he could have prevented it, if he could only have walked away. But Balin had realized that he would rather bear the weight of a thousand lives, than never see Damir’s smiling face again.

He hoped that with the festival, Ides Tres, the winds from the south would bring change. The air was sweeter, filled with the mix of melting snow and fresh grass, and flowers rose from the once-frozen earth. Canaan would herald in the start of the seasons on the fifteenth day of Tres and celebrate the spring solstice.