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Leonid opened the door to the bedchamber and pulled the boy inside, trapping him in a corner by the fireplace. Ivan glanced over at them briefly, then went back to the map he had spread on the table before him. The other warriors in the room made eye contact with each other and smirked knowingly.
“Sergei, scout out this bridge, see what kind of weight it can hold,” Ivan instructed, tapping a spot on the map. “Dimitri, set up patrols in the forest and village. Vladimir, send scouts to the east, I don’t want a surprise attack from the Loic.”
“The Loic never leave their lands,” the boy said suddenly, and everyone turned to look at him. “Not even to help us.” He sounded only slightly bitter.
“You’re not here to talk, boy,” Leonid reminded him sharply.
Ivan looked at the boy thoughtfully for a moment, then turned back to his men and nodded at them dismissively. They all had their orders and filed out, each one taking note of the boy being left behind. The door slammed shut with finality.
“Come here, lad,” Ivan instructed, waving the boy closer to the fireplace. Reluctantly he came, wary and tense. Ivan looked him over, marveling at how the key features always came through—the high cheekbones, full lips, blazing blue eyes. This time his hair was dark and curly and he was skinny as a rail—but he would be strong, Ivan predicted, and quick. “What’s your name?” he asked conversationally.
“You don’t know who I am?” the boy scoffed, with bravado. He was standing in the bedchamber that used to be his father’s, scoffing at the man who had defeated his father in battle.
Ivan smirked with amusement. “Humor me.”
“Nico,” the boy replied, without further games. Ivan found it interesting that he gave only his familiar nickname, and not all the other names and titles to which he was due. Maybe he realized he wasn’t due them anymore.
“And how old are you, Nico?” Ivan inquired, tipping his face up in the firelight. He saw no deeper spark of recognition in his eyes.
The boy jerked his chin away. “Old enough to know what all their smirks and whispers meant,” he claimed, indicating Ivan’s men who had just left. His tone was defiant, but not disgusted.
“You’re very bold,” Ivan observed. He would have to go slowly, then, if the memory wasn’t there yet. Otherwise he would never be forgiven. He turned and eased himself down into a chair, wincing as the day’s efforts caught up with him. “Take my boots off.”
Nico watched him suspiciously for a moment, then, when Ivan stretched his legs out before the fire and leaned his head back as though weary, the boy decided it might be alright and knelt on the flagstones, eyeing Ivan’s filthy boots as though formulating a battle strategy for removing them.
Ivan smirked and tried to be patient. “Were you in the battle?” he asked casually.
“I was a messenger,” Nico answered. Finally he gripped one of Ivan’s boots and tugged.
“Ow,” Ivan complained mildly, and the boy huffed and tried again. “Did you want to be in the battle?” He couldn’t tell from the boy’s tone.
Nico shrugged a little, finally freeing one foot. Ivan sighed, allowing a tinge of the mortal pain to seep through to ground him. Sometimes he truly admired people, for all they accomplished despite the pain they couldn’t turn off. Though a medieval battle was perhaps not the best situation for finding something admirable about humanity.
“I can fight,” Nico said suddenly.
“You’re doing very well against my boots,” Ivan grunted as the boy wrestled with the second one. Fifteen, sixteen, Ivan guessed idly of his age. Some his age would be considered men.
Nico gave him a perfect look of petulant displeasure, and Ivan tried not to grin at it. “I’m very good with a sword,” he insisted. “Only my mother made the King promise to keep me out of the fighting. So, I was a messenger. This one’s stuck.”
“Well I’m not leaving it on all night,” Ivan pointed out, and Nico tried again. “Isn’t Alessio your father?” he asked with a frown, referring to the deposed king.
“Step-father,” Nico corrected. He finally wrenched the boot off and Ivan hissed with pain. Then they saw what had been sticking: dried blood coated the side of Ivan’s calf.
“D—n,” he muttered, contorting himself trying to see the wound. “Get some water and clean that off.”
“I’m not a nursemaid,” Nico protested.
“Fine, then send me one of your pretty little sisters to do the job,” Ivan suggested, reaching down to trace the injury.
Nico sighed. “Stop, you’ll just get it dirty,” he ordered, taking a closer look. “I said stop.” He smacked Ivan’s hand away.
Ivan grinned, slightly incredulous but also delighted. The spirit came through as well, even if he didn’t understand who he was talking to. “Well clean it then,” Ivan repeated, and Nico fetched a cloth and some water, his body language very put-upon.
“What will you do with my family?” the boy asked as he dabbed at the wound, his tone deceptively mild.
“That depends on their behavior,” Ivan shrugged. “If they’re quiet and obedient I think they could live a long time, quiet comfortably.”
“They can’t be quiet and obedient, though,” Nico countered, and Ivan raised an eyebrow at him.
“Oh?”
“The country expects them to be defiant, to repel the invaders,” he added, then glanced up cautiously to check Ivan’s reaction before continuing.
“Perhaps the country would rather have their heads on pikes, and write ballads about their brave defiance,” Ivan suggested, watching Nico’s work with interest.
“That does happen a lot,” the boy sighed, starting to wrap the injury in a clean cloth.
Ivan chuckled, although he didn’t think Nico was trying to be funny. Maybe his memories had started to seep back in, but slowly; they would give him a broader perspective on his narrow, ignorant life, without him really knowing why. “Then what do you think I ought to do with them?” he asked.
“Depends on what you want,” Nico decided sensibly. “Do you want to sit on our throne and rule? Do you want to carry off some plunder and then go away? No one can figure it out.”
Ivan grinned at him slowly. “You might make a very effective spy,” he suggested, and Nico’s head snapped up, eyes wide. They held a tinge of fear.
“I’m no spy,” he insisted.
“No? Where did Leonid find you, with Alessio?” Ivan guessed.
“He’s my step-father—”
“How hard did he try to defend you?” Ivan asked, his voice persuasive. “You think he didn’t know what I wanted you for? I bet he let you go rather easily.” He could see from Nico’s expression he was right. “So I’m guessing you’re supposed to be either a spy, or an assassin.” Or an offering, from a captive king willing to sacrifice his stepson to appease a conqueror; but Ivan didn’t have the heart to suggest that idea.
The boy stood suddenly, though Ivan merely lounged in his chair. “I’m neither,” he insisted hotly, like it was a matter of honor. “He didn’t have any choice, did he, he had to let your man take me—” He broke off, no doubt replaying the scene in his head, searching for evidence.
Ivan gave him a moment. “Finish what you were doing,” he prompted, pointing towards his foot. Looking slightly embarrassed by his outburst, Nico complied. Ivan decided to stop toying with him, at least for the moment. He’d had a hard day, after all. Even if he hadn’t actually been in the battle, he would have gotten a good look at it, and if he’d never seen brutality on that scale before, it could be rather disturbing.
Funny, usually “Nico” was the one causing massive destruction and loss of life, and shrugging it off as unimportant. But Ivan had been born and raised in a brutal place where only the strong survived—true, his perspective had changed somewhat as his memories had returned, but they didn’t alter the character he’d developed here and now. At least, he chose not to let them; it was a conscious choice on his part. He didn’t know if his companion really understood that or not.
Well, right now he didn’t. Ivan watched him work in the firelight, his delicate features thrown in high relief. Stepson of the king, so born to his wife from her previous marriage, something dragged along with her, awkward to deal with. Close to the king but with nothing to inherit—he’d save the choicest positions for his own future sons or sons-in-law. And so far the queen had given her current husband only daughters—did that make this boy’s position better or worse? Academic, really, Nico couldn’t found a dynasty of his own, not under this world’s strict rules of biological inheritance.
It had to be an onerous task the lad had been set to—bloody, dirty, and Ivan imagined he didn’t smell too great either—but Nico concentrated on it single-mindedly. It would be the best-tended wound in the kingdom, Ivan was sure of it.
“Do you play music?” Ivan asked suddenly, startling the boy. He had long, slender fingers, just right for plucking strings.
“What? No, milord,” Nico replied. Ivan covered his mouth to hide his expression at the unbidden use of a title. He probably shouldn’t read too much into that. “In Marios only women play music,” he added, a bit snidely. “Perhaps you didn’t know that.”
“No, I didn’t,” Ivan assured him. Seemed like a sore point. “In my land musicians can be men or women. Surprised?”
“Surprised you have musicians,” Nico responded, and Ivan smirked. He really shouldn’t let the boy get away with so much. “Thought you were all warriors.” This was not a compliment.
“Warriors, and musicians,” Ivan claimed. “Sometimes both in the same person. Music is important on long marches.”
“We don’t go on long marches much,” Nico pointed out. They had been a prosperous and largely peaceful kingdom, for several generations at least. Unfortunate for them that something Ivan wanted had been born in their midst. And that he was not the type to just ask for things politely.
“No, I suppose not.” Nico sat back, admiring his handiwork, and Ivan flexed his foot experimentally. It was bound tightly enough to contain the injury, but still gave him freedom of movement. “Very good,” he praised. Nico smiled for a moment, then remembered himself and scowled. “Get me some more water so I can wash up,” Ivan ordered, standing.
He made sure not to put much weight on the injured leg as he started to remove the rest of his clothing. Nico scrambled to obey, more to give himself distance from Ivan’s increasingly unclothed figure. Men lived close together in this time and place, from peasants in tiny hovels to warriors on the march to kings with ever-ready servants. But Ivan had… something of a reputation. Apparently it preceded him. In this time and place same-sex relations were looked upon as unnatural, heretical; in Vladim few cared about that if you could win battles and treasure, which Ivan could, but he suspected the people of Marios thought themselves more civilized than that.
No matter. He wouldn’t be here that long, anyway.
Ivan splashed the fresh water over his skin before the fire, slopping it messily onto the flagstones. Sometimes he wished he couldn’t remember such luxuries as indoor plumbing and bio-pools. “You’d better wash up, too, boy,” he advised Nico, who was huddled in a corner out of the way. “You’re not sleeping in my bed covered in grime.”
“I’m not sleeping in your bed at all!” Nico shot back, as if he was really in control of his own destiny.
“Well, it’s true, you won’t do much sleeping,” Ivan allowed with a smirk. The boy was not amused. “Wash,” Ivan ordered, winging the wet cloth at him. Unconcerned with his own nakedness he dried with another cloth and then pulled on his clean-ish sleeping clothes—on the march he slept in what he wore during the day, so the thin sleep pants and shirt hadn’t been worn since they were last in a city under their control. But, they had been rolled up at the bottom of a saddlebag on the back of a horse for a while. “Tomorrow have all my clothes cleaned,” he added to the boy, who was gingerly washing his own feet—no doubt he considered that a safe place to start undressing.
He heard Nico huff behind him. “I’m not your washerwoman.”
“Then find a washerwoman, and make sure she does it,” Ivan clarified sharply. He appreciated the boy’s cheek, but he really shouldn’t let him get away with it. “And when I said wash, I meant all of you, not just your feet and face.” The look Nico gave him was anxious, but honest. A girl would be screaming her head off by now—a well-born girl, anyway—because his intentions were clearly not good; so he supposed he should be glad that Nico didn’t fully believe the innuendos, or maybe didn’t completely understand them. Ivan did not hope he could be anticipating the night with pleasure.
“You can put these on when you’re done,” Ivan allowed, tossing him some sleeping clothes.
Nico examined them. “These are mine,” he realized, sounding indignant.
Ivan had been trying to find things to do that would naturally turn his back on the boy, to give him some privacy, but now he faced him and rolled his eyes. “Yes, conveniently, you live in this building! So I was able to rather easily obtain some of your own clothes for you. You’re welcome.”
“You sent one of your barbarians into my room—”
Ivan wheeled back around and shut the boy up with a look. “Actually, I sent one of your servants,” he corrected in a cold tone. Then he shrugged and went back to cleaning his weapons. “We are barbarians, though,” he allowed. “Tomorrow you can tell your servants to prepare baths for all of my men. Bathing once or twice in their lives won’t kill them.”
Nico said nothing, but out of the corner of his eye Ivan saw him finally strip off his jacket and shirt, then his trousers. Studiously Ivan concentrated on cleaning some biological material from the head of his axe. He was going slowly, he reminded himself, and building trust. Well, slowly in a pushy way, granted.
“Done? Good,” he noted when it seemed safe. “Now get in bed before you freeze.” The nights were remarkably cold around here.
Nico didn’t move. “I’d like to go back to my own room now,” he said instead, optimistically.
“No,” Ivan told him clearly. “You’re sleeping in my bed, with me, until I say otherwise.”
“Couldn’t I just—”
“This is not a negotiation,” Ivan interrupted, standing. He set the axe aside first. “Get in bed. Now.” Nico lifted his chin slightly, blue eyes glittering with defiance. He’d been fairly well-behaved up to this point, really, a bit mouthy but done all he was told. This was the key moment then.
Staring accomplished nothing, Ivan had found. Staring was just two people doing nothing, looking for any sign that the other person was going to do something. So instead of trying to stare the boy down, he did something, and took a few steps closer to him.
Nico whipped away from him, slender body in a fighting stance—and in his hand was a knife. Okay, Ivan would admit to being pleasantly surprised by that one, and he grinned openly as they circled each other, which he could see discomfited the boy. “Very spirited,” he allowed, “but you’re just delaying the inevitable.”
“You’re very sure of yourself,” Nico observed, as if this was a flaw, and he feinted with the knife.
In response Ivan reached forward boldly and grabbed him—not the recommended approach in a knife fight, granted, which was why it was so effective. In an instant he had the boy’s back pressed firmly against his chest, one arm holding both of his in place, the other tight across his hips. It was an intimate position and he could practically feel Nico realizing he’d gone from bad to worse. He struggled furiously.
“That’s how you want to play, is it?” Ivan murmured in his ear. “Little boys shouldn’t play with knives unless they know how to use them.” Nico was speechless with rage, his face flushed, squirming in Ivan’s grip in a way that was a little too enjoyable. “Calm down,” Ivan ordered him, then nuzzled his dark curls. “Calm down and I’ll let you go.” He dropped a kiss on the boy’s neck. “Stop struggling and I’ll let you go.”
Another kiss, just the thing to rile him up. Well, a little discipline wouldn’t hurt him. “Really, calm down, that’s all you have to do.” He nipped his ear and the boy swore. “You’re not a very quick learner, are you?” Ivan noted with amusement, taking his opportunity to taste the boy’s skin again. Even with all the other smells and tastes of the era getting in the way, his were familiar, and Ivan closed his eyes and quite lost himself for a moment. Then he realized Nico had finally stilled—quivering with tension, but not struggling. Reluctantly Ivan turned him loose and Nico scrambled to the far side of the bed, eyeing him warily. His gaze darted to the door.
“Don’t bother,” Ivan warned him. “The guards outside know you aren’t supposed to leave.” Then he tossed the knife he’d taken over to the boy. “Here, keep this. Use it on someone who’s actually trying to hurt you.” Which in this brutal age, could be a lot of people.
The action shocked Nico, he could see. He picked up the knife suspiciously and examined it, as if Ivan could somehow have blunted it first. Ivan just shook his head like he found the boy hopeless and blew out the candles on his side of the room. “Lights out,” he prompted Nico, getting into bed. After a long moment the boy followed suit.
Even with the fire in the hearth the room was incredibly dark and increasingly cold. They didn’t even have glass over the narrow windows here, just wooden shutters. Marios was supposed to be a lush land, but the breeze from the sea could be chill and damp this time of year, and the thick stone walls were better suited to a crypt than a bedroom.
Ivan eased his way across the mattress. Nico rolled over to face him, knife at the ready—the knife Ivan had allowed him to keep. Ivan’s intentions were now plain to him, but his methods confused.
“Easy there,” Ivan told him soothingly, taking the wrist that held the knife. “If you’re going to stab me, do it on purpose, not on accident.” As he scooted closer he let Nico’s wrist go, his arm sliding over Ivan’s shoulder. The boy could easily puncture Ivan’s neck or back, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t. His eyes blazed almost feverishly bright in the faint light, a forbidden curiosity and fear deep within them.
“Let me go,” Nico ordered, slightly breathless, although Ivan wasn’t technically restraining him in any way.
“You tell me to stop, and I will,” Ivan promised him. “For the night.”
“Stop.”
Ivan smirked. “Well I have to start first,” he qualified.
His gaze flickered between Nico’s eyes and his full lips and he moved in slowly, brushing the boy’s mouth lightly with his own. Nico inhaled sharply, but didn’t pull away. Ivan pressed a little more firmly, trying to stay conscious of the mechanics and not get carried away. His tongue snaked out and trailed along Nico’s lower lip and his mouth parted slightly; Ivan plunged in. After a moment he felt his shoulder being shoved and he broke off, nuzzling the boy’s jaw and neck while he panted for breath. Forgot about that whole breathing thing, oops.
His hand had been resting on Nico’s ribs; now he slid it down to his hip then started pushing back up, under his shirt. When his hand touched the boy’s skin, though, Nico jerked back as if burned.
“Stop,” he whispered.
His protest was not very convincing; Ivan thought he could successfully press his case, for a few more minutes at least. But he had promised he would stop when asked—for tonight, anyway. Tomorrow was a different story.
He sensed Nico’s surprise when he actually pulled back, withdrawing to his own side of the bed and putting some breathing room between them. Most people in this world just took what they wanted, commanded and expected it would be done. Nico had been at the mercy of his parents all his life, doing as they ordered; now he was at Ivan’s mercy, technically, but he didn’t have to think of it that way. He didn’t have to be afraid that his will would be overridden—at least, not in this particular instance.
Ivan could imagine it would take a while to come to terms with that.
“Get some sleep,” he suggested, and closed his own eyes. Behind them he envisioned the person Nico would grow to be, to remember; the memories must already be returning, perhaps as dreams, fragments of other times and places that didn’t make sense. Maybe they confused and frightened him. Maybe when he first saw his conqueror’s face he was astonished, because it was familiar from his dreams, impossible as that seemed. It reeked of magic, and magic was as forbidden here as same-sex relations. No wonder the boy was so tense.
**
In the middle of the night Nico woke, disoriented, hot limbs wrapped around him. His first instinct was to struggle.
“Calm down, boy,” Ivan hissed in his ear. His voice was thick with sleep, grumpy almost; it was humanizing to Nico and he stilled as his mind righted itself. “I’m just keeping you warm. Your chattering teeth woke me.” The air outside the blankets did seem to be icy; Nico’s nose was cold to the touch. When Ivan seemed to fall back asleep behind him, he allowed himself to do the same.
**
Every day, or rather night, Ivan pushed a little further. When Nico said stop, he stopped; the novelty had not yet worn off for the boy. He was not allowed to run wild, though; during the day Ivan kept him busy on domestic errands or set him to practicing with his sword. He had some skill with a blade as he’d claimed, quick and strong as Ivan had predicted. Defeated nobles, in between trying to parley with Ivan about their estates, mentioned that the boy’s mother was worried about him, and so Ivan sent him along to her chambers for an hour or so, showing how magnanimous he could be in victory. He regretted it when Nico came back looking tense and guilty.
There was much to attend to in a conquered kingdom. Ivan was not trying to build an empire, but no one needed to know that yet. Settling an unexplored land was satisfying, he felt, but conquering and maintaining an empire was merely a lot of trouble, especially in an age when the king’s physical situation was not too far removed from that of his lowest subjects. Technological innovation seemed a long way off, though, especially in this tradition-bound place. Ivan would be heartily glad to see its backside.
And for some reason that made him think of Nico. Of course, what didn’t; he existence was the sole reason Ivan had pushed this far west, trampling all kingdoms that blocked his path. Empires rose and fell, but love was eternal.
He tried not to show too much affection in public, though. It would only upset and embarrass the boy, and any onlookers. His own men wouldn’t care about Nico’s gender at least, but they were not the sort to engage in soft gazes and gentle caresses, at least in front of others. As the days passed and life tried to return to normal Ivan saw daughters and widows emerging from the woodwork, taking curious sniffs of the fresh air brought in by new blood, and calculating their odds of both success and happiness. He predicted many of his men would be smitten before long—the women here did have a certain exotic, beguiling charm that the straightforward women of Vladim lacked.