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“How hard would it be to make one of your numbing poultices?”
Mina glanced up from where she’d been dutifully grinding dried cow bitters into a powder with her mortar and pestle. “Not hard, I have everything I need on hand. Why? Is your leg bothering you?”
Bram shook his head instinctively, just moments before he realized that saying yes might have spared him a few prying questions. The gash Zenos left across the center of his left thigh as a souvenir of his defeat in Rhalgr’s Reach had troubled him from time to time in the early days of its healing, but it’d been fine of late.
“It isn’t for me,” he said vaguely.
“Okay,” Mina drawled impatiently. “Who is it for? Where is the wound? How healed is it? There’s not some one-size fits all mixture, you need to be specific.”
Bram sighed, tensing a bit. “You can’t just make the same stuff you made for my leg?”
“Not if it isn’t going on you or your leg,” Mina said as though he was the stupidest man alive. She paused, assessing him from head to toe, and then squinted. “Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not being weird.” Bram insisted. Hoping it would be enough he added, “It’s an old wound, right above their hip.”
“It’s for Hien,” Mina said with a bombastic eye roll.
He gave up. “It’s for Hien.”
“You’re so annoying,” she complained, even as she crossed the room to kneel down and remove the relevant ingredients from her pack. “If you think I and everyone else in a five malm radius haven’t figured out you two are three days from being caught swiving in the nearest patch of dense shrubbery—”
“Gods, Mina,” Bram hissed. She spoke so loudly he’d be lucky if half the Liberation Front hadn’t heard. “It isn’t like that.”
Except it was, wasn’t it? They had never spoken of the great, looming something that’d been brewing between them in the quiet moments since they’d met, but it was there all the same. Shared glances. Secretive smiles. Vulnerability too freely given for mere companions. Only guilt in a variety of flavors had prevented him from acting on it.
Mina didn’t so much as spare him a deadpan look. She fished a few carefully wrapped bundles of herbs and leaves from her pack, stacking them in a tidy little pile near her feet. “He’d want you to be happy, you know.”
Bram wasn’t certain what she meant. “Who would?”
That did make her look up. Her impatience had waned, replaced by an uncomfortable seriousness. “Haurchefant.”
The name hit him like a bolt of levin. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed since someone last dared to speak his name. He’d never asked why. Everyone seemed to simply avoid the topic instinctively, as though fearing he may break at the barest mention. Of course Mina would know better. Of course she’d strike at the heart of it all, as easily as she referenced her tomes.
“I know that,” he said softly, surprised by the way his throat tightened with grief even now.
“Do you?” she asked. She grabbed her herbs and carried them to the table where she’d been standing, pushing aside her cow bitters for the moment. “You’ve seemed worried.”
“We’re liberating Doma,” Bram said, as though that explained everything.
“Not only about that.”
He sighed. He’d been avoiding speaking about it with anyone for fear of exposing himself as selfish, but since Mina appeared to be welcoming the matter with open arms, he might as well take the opportunity. There was a spare crate next to the space where she’d made a makeshift table to work on. He took a seat.
Like the world’s darkest secret he sheepishly reminded her, “It’s only been a year and a half.”
How quick was too quick? He wanted to honor the time he’d spent with Haurchefant, not make it seem like a frivolous waste. If he’d lived… Kami forgive him. If Haurchefant had lived, Bram may well have spent the rest of his life with him.
“If you feel ready, then you’re ready,” Mina shrugged as she scraped the clear gel of aloe leaves into a small dish. “There is no right answer. You can miss him and you can want to be with Hie—” Bram shot her a look, urging her to be more discreet. She scowled but obeyed. “You can miss him and want to be with someone else. One doesn’t cancel out the other.”
That didn’t seem true. Surely moving on necessitated being over what had happened, and he wasn’t certain he would ever be over watching the light fade from Haurchefant’s eyes. Watching him die, knowing he’d never even told him the depths of his love. It felt cruel.
“You have a very objective way of looking at things,” he said, in lieu of an answer.
“And you are an expert at deflection.” Mina refused to let him escape that easily. “What else is there? What else are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid,” Bram insisted, terrified. He paused. “It’s complicated.”
“So let me uncomplicate it for you.”
He watched her work in silence. When she was done with her aloe, she removed a knot of pearl ginger from one of the bundles, tutted in annoyance, and then swapped back to her cow bitters. She ground them down even more, then delicately tipped the remains into a different jar. She wiped out the mortar with a clean cloth, did the same to the pestle, and started in on the root. Practiced, methodical. He marveled again at just how diligent she was—how much she’d taught herself in the space he’d fought tooth and nail to make sure she’d been given growing up.
Maybe he ought to listen to her.
“We need to focus on Doma,” he said at last. “And if we succeed, he’ll be king. He’ll have to give all his attention to rebuilding. I shouldn’t get in the way.”
“And yet it’s clear to anyone with eyes that he wants you to,” Mina reminded him. “Desperately.” Bram blanched but didn’t interrupt her. “You never told me what happened on the Steppe between you two, but whatever it was—”
“Nothing happened,” Bram said. Mina looked unconvinced, so he swore, “Honestly. We spent a lot of time together talking, but we’ve never spoken about…” he tried to grasp for the right words, failed, and settled on, “this.”
“Nothing happened,” Mina repeated, still disbelieving.
“The night we met I had an Echo vision about him and his father,” he remembered. That first quiet moment together was the most intimate moment he could think of. “I was honest about it and he was grateful. But other than that, there’s been nothing.”
Save for all the flirting. He’d rather die than confess to that, though.
“So you did the classic Hiro maneuver where you welcomed him to spill his guts to you right away and now you’re surprised he likes you.” Mina shook her head. “Do you just assume nothing you do matters? Even now?”
Bram frowned, annoyed by how casually rude she could be. “Just because we talked about his dad doesn’t mean—”
One of Hien’s shinobi wandered in, looking embarrassed at having interrupted. She bowed. “My apologies, Lord Matsuno, but the crate you’re sitting on…”
Bram flushed and hopped up immediately, pretending he didn’t notice the way Mina muttered Lord Matsuno derisively to herself. The shinobi opened the crate, which he saw now was full of leather armor, and removed a few pieces before replacing the top. She bowed again, thanked them, and left. Bram returned to his seat.
“We’re close to the end,” he said, hoping to take the opportunity and move past it. Beyond the doorway, he could hear the bustling of dozens of people in different areas of the House of the Fierce, working endlessly to prepare for the coming fight. “Freeing Doma is all either of us has ever wanted. Anything else can wait.”
“If you say so,” Mina groused. She mixed the mashed ginger and aloe together, then scooped the mixture into a small jar. Right in the center, she carefully pressed half of a wolf fang. She’d explained before that their venom had a paralyzing effect that worked well as a numbing agent in small doses. “I just think you ought to be a little kinder to yourself.”
A life-long struggle, that. And one he was unlikely to get past any time soon. “I can try.”
Mina tied a small wax cloth over the top of the concoction and handed it to him. “Two fingertips, whenever it gets painful. Tell him to try not to use it every day if he can help it.”
Bram nodded and took the jar, tucking it into his pocket to give to Hien later. “Thank you.”
He hoped she could tell he didn’t only mean for the poultice.
Mina flapped a hand. “Now, if you have no further intention of listening to me, leave me to it, will you? The shinobi requested fifty health potions.”
“And that’s probably only the beginning,” Bram agreed.
Space in the House of the Fierce was limited, and so each area had multiple purposes: storage, sleeping quarters, room to train and forge and craft and cook. They slept packed together each night and wound around each other each day like ants in their nest, going about their individual duties while the rest of their forces slowly assembled beyond imperial sight on the Confederacy’s forbidden shores. No one was given the luxury of room to breathe, save, of course, for the man who led them. And so it was Bram found himself standing outside the door to the room Hien did not share with anyone, fidgeting with the string tied around Mina’s poultice.
It was late. He’d procrastinated bringing it to him until nearly everyone had gone to bed, still too buried in his own thoughts regarding what even one more moment alone together might entail to squash his hesitation and simply do it. For all he knew, Hien might already be asleep.
He softly knocked anyway.
Hien answered quickly. Bram’s eyes dropped to his bare chest and loose pants. Not sleeping, but certainly ready to do so.
“Sorry to interrupt you so late,” Bram said, forcibly dragging his eyes up from all that demanded his attention. “I brought that numbing poultice I said I’d have Mina make. For your scar.”
For his scar, which he could now see plain as day.
Hien had shown it to him once before, in the dim firelight on the Steppe, gnarled and shadowy above his left hip. He’d only let his eyes flicker across it there, worried that even freely displayed, it was not a sight to linger on. Here it was clearer and the lantern light just inside the door highlighted it in all its apparent agony. It was still a deep pink, sunken in the center but uneven and rough along the edges. Sight and experience alone suggested it was a sword wound: a piercing blade, courtesy of Garlemald’s crown prince, roughly tugged free and leaving a gaping maw in its wake. The Mol had done well treating it, but its troubled healing process would likely cause irritation for years to come.
Seeing him like this was oddly intimate, devoid as he was of arms or armor. He noticed now that his hair was down, too, draped against his back and shoulders like ink spilling over paper. Soft to the touch, perhaps. Bram’s mouth had long since gone dry.
“Ah, your sister’s fabled remedy,” Hien smiled. Bram passed it to him, mindless. “You have my thanks.”
“Of course.” He was frozen to the spot, wanting to retreat and press inside simultaneously.
Blessedly, Hien made the decision for him. “Come in for a moment, if you would. There is something I wished to speak of.”
Bram hadn’t expected much else given their currently meagre means, but ‘inside’ proved to be a space of little consequence. They’d given the king his own room, yes, but it was tiny and austere, boasting only his sleeping roll and a small, low table on which he’d placed some scattered belongings and an oil lantern for illumination. His dogi and armor were tucked neatly beneath it. Just enough room to ensure he had privacy each night—a luxury no other could be afforded.
“I confess it is not terribly welcoming,” Hien said as he closed the door behind them, “but in the end it need only serve as a place to rest.”
Bram’s heart had already begun to thunder in his chest. Standing as they were, there were only a couple of fulms between them. A bit anxiously he rambled, “She told me to tell you to use two fingertips. And to avoid using it every day if you can.” He scratched his beard. “It can irritate the scar more if you use it a lot.”
Hien took a look at the jar and untied the string right away. “You have fortuitous timing. The cold of these caves is much like the cold of the Steppe. Its aching has robbed me of sleep these past few nights.”
Bram internally winced. “Sorry I couldn’t get it to you sooner.”
Mina had arrived a few days ago, but he’d hesitated to act on his promise for fear of… something. He no longer knew what.
Gods, the room was small. Bram felt breathless with their proximity.
Hien examined the concoction in the jar, his eyebrows knitting together when he spied the wolf’s tooth. “Do I merely rub it in?”
Something in Bram’s mind broke.
He stepped nearer, making his offer hesitantly. “I can show you, if you want. If that isn’t—”
“No, no,” Hien assured him, sounding a little unsteady, himself. They were in a vacuum, devoid of all but each other. “I would be glad of it.” He held the uncapped jar between them for Bram to dip his fingers into. “Please do.”
He was so near Bram spotted a stray freckle at the base of his throat that he desperately wanted to map with his lips. What in the seven hells was he doing?
He scooped a small amount onto two of his fingers, feeling them tingle straight away, but hesitated before touching his scar. “Can I—?”
Hien nodded. He pulled the skin taut by pressing one hand just above his hip, giving Bram a simple canvas to work with. The first touch of his fingertips to Hien’s skin was light and delicate. He applied the poultice in gentle little sweeps, making sure to coat the worst of the scarring liberally, just like he did with his own. Both of them watched without breathing. When he was done, he dared to press just a bit harder, still feather-light, applying it evenly over the whole of the wound. Knotted flesh danced beneath his touch. This was too intimate by far, yet he found he enjoyed the feel of it. The warmth. The proximity. Hien’s skin, so near he could smell soap and the faintest hint of sweat.
Bram had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in all his life. If he looked up, he knew he would crumble. He knew he would do it. And so he froze, unmoving, letting his hand linger despite having no further purpose.
“Bram,” Hien said, voice laden with hope and concern.
He swept his fingers across the rough terrain one last time and dared to look up. Hien’s eyes were filled with the same uncertainty Bram himself felt, fatigued from having spent days questioning whether this was an acceptable risk or a purely selfish display. His chest tightened further and air suddenly seemed a limited resource. Bram’s palm rested flat against his side and cradled his waist. Though he trembled slightly, he did not seem to be afraid.
Perhaps he was restraining himself. Perhaps he, too, wanted this more than anything. The thought emboldened him.
“I worry it is not my place to speak such things aloud,” Hien began, “but in the few moons since we met—”
“I know,” Bram cut him off. He couldn’t bear to hear it. There was no bite in his tone. In fact, he tipped his head forward so that their foreheads pressed together and Hien gasped softly, just an ilm from his lips. “I feel it too.”
He let his hand slip further around to his back, where it found a new home there in the small of it. Hien must’ve set the poultice aside while he was distracted. His own hands settled on Bram’s shoulders. They hesitated together.
“Doma,” Bram said after a time.
He knew there was naught else that needed to be spoken. That was the crux of it: not just the pending liberation, but all that would follow. Hien’s ascension to the throne. The rebuilding effort. Where would they find time? It was senseless—all of it.
“I can ill afford to be distracted,” Hien agreed. He ran one hand up the side of Bram’s neck to cradle his cheek, fingertips moving through the rough of his beard and across the defined divot of his scar where it cut across his jaw. No doubt wondering where he’d gotten it. Bram realized he was willing to tell him anything he wanted to know. Hien could have all of him, if he’d only ask. “But should we succeed… Should we survive…”
The half-unspoken offer hung between them. His eyes had long since fallen shut, but he could feel the way Hien’s back tensed beneath his fingers. For a moment he feared he’d pushed things too far and Hien was going to retreat. Fear remained ever-present in his stomach. He pushed past it.
“Hien,” he protested one final time.
“This can be ours,” Hien swore to him. “If you will allow it.”
Enough. Bram tutted softly to himself, casting aside his reservations, then tipped his head to the side, and met him in a kiss so certain it dispelled any remaining thoughts from his mind. All else was replaced by the warmth of Hien’s lips. He buried his free hand in the prince’s hair, still slightly damp from what must’ve been a recent bath, and discovered it was soft indeed.
It felt so good—so right—that he became confused when Hien floundered in the face of it. Bram’s easy motions were met with awkward stiffness, less pliable than stone. A clumsy return, somehow overly eager and too rigid at once. He pulled away.
Hien had once confessed he had little experience in matters of the heart and it shone clearly now. The expression on the prince’s face was one of pure terror concealed beneath unmitigated joy. The foundation-rocking thrill of a first kiss and all the fear that came with it, writ plain and for the taking. He was so, so dear. Bram laughed. He felt Hien’s muscles loosen just a touch at the sound.
He pressed a steadying kiss to the corner of his mouth and urged, “Relax.”
Hien grinned sheepishly. “I will try.”
It was easier after that. Hien followed his lead and while his inexperience was plain, the fact became more endearing than a hindrance. He improved the longer they carried on, until eventually Bram’s body had warmed through with arousal, bright and deadly as levin. When their lips parted and tongues met, Hien whimpered slightly, and the sound was enough to drive Bram to push him back against the wall, chests pressing together. They lost themselves.
“Hien,” he sighed, moving his lips from his mouth to his neck.
The prince’s fingers dug into his back, sparing him the bite of nails only through his haori. He smelled incredible and Bram inhaled deeply while burying his nose in the crook of his shoulder. Had it always been this way? It had been a long time since he last felt the need to devour someone utterly, body and soul.
Perhaps he ought to stop before he found he could no longer return. The evidence of their hopeless desire pressed insistently between them, the friction of their hips maddening even through layers of clothing. Hien panted softly into his shoulder. They both wanted more—endless, boundless more. But it needed to wait, if only a short while longer. Bram kissed his neck one last time, then drew a final, lingering sip from his lips. He took a step back.
Hien was flushed pink with need and embarrassment. “You’re stopping?”
There was something swelling in him—a mixture of grief and desire in such deep opposition to one another that it made his head spin.
“We can’t afford to get distracted,” Bram lied, the admission sounding pathetic even to his own ears. “Not yet.”
“It is a bit late to turn back. I fear I am well and truly distracted,” Hien said, hopelessly. He scrubbed his palm against the back of his neck and stood up a little straighter. “Do you regret—?”
“Never,” Bram swore and meant it.
Hien pressed forward, crowding Bram’s space once again. His back hit the opposite wall. His breath was hot against Bram’s throat. “Then by all means do it again.”
He tried valiantly to resist, but it was an impossible task; the piece of him that wanted this bore Herculean strength and Bram, at the end of the day, was only a man. He let Hien crush him against the wall and press his thigh into his groin, rolling waves of desire too powerful by malms to deny. Hien grabbed the end of his scarf and pulled it free, letting it drop to their feet, and then lavished attention on his newly exposed neck. The warm wash of his tongue against Bram’s skin made him shudder softly.
The sensation placed him back in a different room, a world away. Cold stone. Snow collecting on the windowsill.
“Hien,” he protested weakly. His pulse was racing. “We can’t.”
Hien ignored him and traced one palm up his forearm to lock their fingers together. He wanted to relent. He wanted to run. He wanted to surrender. He wanted to vanish into the aether.
So many conflicting desires were making it impossible to breathe. He said, a little more insistently, “Hien.”
This time the prince could tell he meant it. He dropped his forehead against Bram’s shoulder and sighed, though not unkindly. “If not now, when?”
Bram could no longer tell whether he was experiencing anxiety or desperation. He needed to think. The room was too small.
“After,” he said simply. Then added, “If we survive.”
“If we survive,” Hien echoed, softly. Hopelessly. He spoke the words as a half-tease, but there was an edge to his voice which betrayed the naked want below. “You would deny us the opportunity to die without regrets?”
There were no words for the regrets Bram had already experienced. Nor any for the regrets to come, should things fail to go as planned. But it wouldn’t be fair to Hien to continue with his mind clouded as it was.
“I’m sorry,” Bram said. He pulled the prince nearer, into an embrace. He stroked his hair. “I want this,” he promised. “I don't want to, it’s just—”
Hien tensed in his arms, but did not pull away. He lingered. He waited. He bore a patience Bram only had experience giving, never receiving. The effect was disorienting and comforting at once.
“Bram,” he said softly after a long time had passed. The silence was accompanied only by the beating of their hearts. “Who have you lost?”
Bram huffed against his shoulder, burying his nose in Hien’s hair. “Too many.” He pulled away and cradled Hien’s face in his hands. He kissed him, brief and chaste. A promise. “And I can’t let you join them.”