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The men had been reckless, lazy, ignorant drunk and stupid. The meat was was charred beyond recognition. It was cooked all the way to the bone. Tough and dark and dry. It was their dwindling supply, and they had many mouths to feed as they had upped their numbers in preparation for another small siege on an outlying town a few more days away. A few had gone on a small poaching trip and brought some game back, but it was sparse at best for their numbers.
They all sat at long wooden tables surrounding the cooking fire crock. Aside from the torches out front of the tents, it was the only light around. The Meade was dwindling, the oats gone. Fruits and vegetables and cured meats had been scavenged through a number of days ago. The few dozen men had already picked through most of the stale and moldy bread, all that was left was the tough overcooked meat in the pot, boiled beyond appetizing into tough bricks. No spices or milk or barley were left to fatten the gruel.
The supply carts from the traders had been raided on their way to their slow moving camps by other lowly robbers on the roads. They were amassing a few more mercenaries and planned to topple the village in the name of Sigismund, capture whatever livestock or wealth and land, and lay claim to it as they pushed ever west. It wasn’t their permanent army, permanent setup or indefinite camp, it was thrown together more last minute when Istvan had gotten the message that the King wanted the small territory before winter and trusted Istvan to command it since he was closest and one of the more reliable in that region.
Of course, wealth was promised to him, good armor and worldly comforts when they would rendezvous again— when Istvan and his men would meet up with the King’s army for their next conquest.
The tough salty meat water steamed pathetically up at them and Istvan had already spent an hour yelling at the useless sods for overcooking what could be their last meal for a few days before they were close enough to raid the village and catch up on some supplies.
He was too noble for this.
His patience was wearing thin and he was cranky and hungry, too. He’d gone out of his way to save a few extra portions out for the youngest in their camp— his little Erik. The men spared him no thought at all. Had eaten most of the breakfasts left and the jerky for lunch and had pushed him out of the way of the bread lines, and the few eggs their caged chickens had produced had been hardly enough to go around.
Even Istvan, who normally had a small store of food for he and Erik had seen it run low. They weren’t in dire straights, but it was less than ideal, far less than desirable, and it, of course, would be much easier on he and the men than a small growing boy who needed food the most.
Erik sat there looking at his bowl sadly, the little boy so hungry for something with sustenance. His cheeks were pink with quiet unshed tears of repressed panic. Istvan had heard his stomach growling all day. It was breaking his heart. Tomorrow they would be able to take off, perhaps ride away together and find some merchants, but it was too late tonight and too cold.
The small pale blonde had tears in his eyes and he was scrunched down into himself, trying to hide how miserable he was as the men complained and tore through their near fossilized meats. The poor boy had tried taking bite after bite, but his jaw was sore, Istvan knew, and his gums were tender as his newer adult teeth were poking through the gaps in the front of his mouth.
He looked precious with the gaps, even though the older men made fun of him for still having any baby teeth at all.
He was in good spirits about it for the most part and Istvan had taught him the lore of the Norsemen’s “tooth fees”, and traded his lost teeth for coins. Istvan said he would keep them, and if they ever came across a clan of Scandinavians, they could trade them as good luck charms for their warriors.
The other men frightened him and told him to burn his lost teeth so that witches wouldn’t find them grind them and use them for evil potions, or curse him into having to find teeth forever in the afterlife. Istvan told Erik that it was a bunch of nonsense, and Erik was curious and played along, reading from Istvan’s books about the witches and vikings and the value of them for protective superstitious and symbolic reasons, and how happy Erik would be once all of his big grown up teeth came in, and he could eat apples, tough meats and candies again.
The men would tease him, telling him that boys his age should be joining the children crusades and marching north to earn his keep instead of sticking like glue to the chief like a nursing welp.
Many fathers brought their sons along with them to their camps, but these mercenaries were not men of family, and many children were led to the front lines and did not return home. Istvan said he would never let that happen to him, and that they were conscripted to more important duties in service of the King. Erik felt very lucky, and he did his best to never leave Istvan’s side.
The new men were not as nice as the ones whom had been in their service before. Istvan had warned him to keep close, and that some of these men had even been on ships in the great oceans. It fascinated and frightened him.
Mostly, the gruff men were too busy to pay him much of any mind, thankfully, and Istvan had made it clear to leave his protege alone as best he could to them with unspoken threats or outright punishments. Luckily none had gone too far.
Erik had tried to tear at his horrid meal miserably, but nothing was pulling away from the nearly blacked bird leg. He tried at it time after time and was forced then to put it down with a quiet huff after struggling with it to no avail. He stared at the men greedily tearing away at their portions of the meal and his stomach made a loud, sad grumble. He was too embarrassed to take out his knife and show he wasn’t strong enough to get the food himself without the assistance of a tool.
He was so hungry his mouth was watering even though the disgusting men all around him ate like beasts. He turned to stare up at Istvan who was sitting directly to his left, looking down at him with a wide mouth pout, eyebrows tensed in concern.
Istvan’s piece was a larger fattier one, a little pinker, a wild hare done more tenderly instead of the bird catches that the others were devouring. He brought the piece down to his lap slowly, looking away from Erik and slid his hand over and sideways after taking a big mouthful with his teeth, getting through the skin and tendon, grinding as much as he could away to separate the meat, leaving the chunk of it hanging torn and ready for the taking. He feigned a casual bite to the leg, knocking Erik’s arm twice to look down where he held the piece out to him, it flayed free and ready to eat.
Wide-eyed, Erik reached down slowly, taking it in his grip and turning up to Istvan with the most pathetic eyes of sorrow guilt and gratitude. Istvan nodded once quietly, a small ‘go on, boy’ in his protective gesture and sure gaze.
When Erik quickly but quietly brought it up to his mouth, shoving as much of the warm juice and meat in as he could, he savored the bite Istvan had made for him. He pulled and tore at it, struggling still until he was able to yank a bite away and chewed for all he was worth like a dog into marrow, leaning sideways a bit toward Istvan with a sad sigh once it was gone, wishing that bite could have lasted forever. He moved to hand it back subtly but Istvan shook his head ‘no’ sharp and short, gesturing subtly for him to hold on to it.
Istvan plucked the other piece off of Erik’s plate casually, as he could do with anyone he wished as the chief and named nobility, and took a few purposeful bites into it, trying to work it free as unceremoniously as he could, leaving it shredded but hanging to the bone. No one noticed, no one cared. Each man was in their own mess of overcooked disaster meat, loudly arguing over this piece or that piece, fighting for the last of the mead and wine. Having someone in your care, having a family, he knew was sacrifice, and it was something he’d decided when he’d taken Erik into his direct care that he was prepared to do.
He brought the hot drum back down and nudged him, encouraging Erik to swap with him again as he traded using the strength of his jaw to free up food for the smaller boy.
Erik was flushed and giddy with delight, finally getting a little food in his stomach that was so hungry he’d been having pangs all day and his own stretching limbs had ached extra. Istvan could do without, he decided, he could have some wine and wait a bit longer. It made him so pleased to see Erik happy and content, he forgot he’d been hungry himself at all.
They could hunt a bit in the morning for some hopeful game, and if sharing his meal kept Erik from crying or fussing through the night, it was worth it. In fact, he thought, he would have to ration better knowing of Erik’s newer limitations. To result to pre-mastication was a consideration he’d never taken when raising a troop— a son.
He took dire notes to himself as he thought about the oncoming winters that might be harder for him that he hadn’t fully anticipated, and he promised to himself that he would be certain that pottages and soft foods would be around more permanently, realizing quite suddenly that tough meaty gruel wasn’t enough for the lad. He would make sure that soft boiled and mortared sieve preps could be on hand for him. He would make sure there was enough bread or bread ingredients were available to them, even if he had to make it himself so he could soak it in milk and broths for Erik as he grew.
They were all cleaning up their supper things, getting ready to settle down for the evening. Istvan had softened and tenderized the meat for him with his bites, leaving every new mouth full hanging loose and delicious, ready to be torn free even as it got tougher toward the center. He dutifully and with precision scraped and chewed every bit off the rib for him down to the last nibbles. Not very much like his regular eating habits at all, but he remained subtle as he could, and they sat through the whole meal as Erik got his little belly full and was licking every finger of the fats and juices, smiling shyly to him with quiet thank yous as the men started to throw things at each other and fight after the last bits and pieces and scraps.
They were washing their hands in the trough, ready to break away from the camp and return to their personal tents for an evening in. The moon was still low, but co-mingling when the men were in this bad of a mood hardly turned out well. They’d be gambling, arm wrestling and fighting soon, and it was best to make their way out of the fray even if it was a bit early to turn in.
Erik was shaking his hands off quickly, eager to catch up with Istvan who had already made his way up the hill toward their shelter when he smashed face first into a man who made it his every intention to chest bump him and knock him backward a few stumbling steps.
“Mommy’s little baby bird, eh?” He growled, and Erik shook, his fear turning into a fierce frown. He kept quiet, hiding his missing teeth with a pout. “You think you can get twice as much food as the hard working men here because you’re the chief’s little pet?” He spat, and Erik winced. “What’s he do, warm your milk up at night before beddy-bye? Chew up every meal for ya too? Chew it to mash for your pathetic little gob?” He took a step forward and poked him in the chest. “You’re just a soft little mama’s boy and you’re a spoiled little rat and a—!”
It looked like the man was about to grab him and shake him with envy when a loud hard whistle cut through all the noise of the camp, silencing everyone, even the horses. It echoed sharply off the trees and low surrounding hills.
“Erik…” He said gruffly and loud. “Keep up.” A tone he used in a war zone. A warning to the man looming over him more than a call for Erik to follow. A threat in his tone so definitive, the man backed off, caught in the act. His face stretched down, knowing his pay would be docked or he would be kicked from service from that tone alone.
“Is there a problem?” He challenged, standing tall despite his stature. His silhouette on the hill so big and strong to Erik’s eyes. A true commander. He looked back at the man who wilted shaking his head no, and Erik nodded no shortly in return.
“Come along then.” His tone shifted enough that the other men, who had been ready to mount up at the call of their leader’s beckoning whistle all settled back to their own doing.
Erik’s feet scuffled loudly in the grass as he scampered quickly after him, running as his head turned slowly away from the frightening man as bravely as he could while trying not to look scared, feet moving faster and faster as Istvan slowed down and held his hand out to him, smiling comfortingly and returning his brave stare while collecting the boy at his side. He pulled open their tent flap with reassuring pride in his eyes at the young boy, standing in the doorway for a second longer to look hellfire down on that man, and Istvan was sure the insolent mercenary wouldn’t be there in the morning.
Erik sat down heavily on a small stool, hunched in shame. “Are you alright?” He put a solid hand on his shoulder, patting firmly and confidently, soothing as ever a father would. “What did he say to you?” Ištván asked gently, petting the side of Erik’s head soothingly, sinking on to his knees beside him when Erik did not look up.
“He said you mother me and that I’m your baby bird.” He pouted quietly, turning his face into Istvans warm hand, trying to get the other man’s mean ugly face out of his mind, soaking in as much comfort as he could from Istvan’s sturdy and sure embrace.
Istvan chuckled sweet and soothing, relieved in many ways it hadn’t been worse, while gathering Erik close to his chest. “Let the others think what they want, Erik.” The boy curled even tighter to him, sighing a soothing breath of relief from his never ending comforts. “And when you grow up, you’ll be wise and cared for and strong with a good head on your shoulders and a good heart. Something unloved men like them could only ever dream for….” Something he wished he’d always had himself. “In the end, love builds strength into the weakest of men,” Erik pat back soothingly to Istvan, as if the sad tone in his voice unlocked his own want to console him back, “And those without it are the ones who suffer most….”
Erik made a tight noise in his chest, sad for all the people in the world who didn’t have a wonderful Istvan like he did. Istvan hummed, pulling himself and Erik slowly apart. “Now go wash up and get ready for bed. We’ll read the story about the dragons again.” Erik beamed and popped up without hesitation.
Before disappearing around the panels of the wooden room separator, he stilled, waiting and turned back with is own air of confidence. “It’s okay.” He said resolutely, smiling at Istvan.
“—What is, boy?” He said as he stood on slow battle worn limbs, dusting his hands and pants off, turning to him.
“That you mother me.” He deadpanned with a short smile. “—I don’t mind.” He pipped, laughing a bit, waiting for Istvan who’s mouth hung agape before he smiled in return, shaking his head at him while laughing, pointing him to the wash basin, as Erik shrieked a giggle and ran away, glowing with joy, grateful to the gods and the earth that for once his his life he was in the care of someone who loved and would always protect him.
The End.