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This time Mil was the one to ride out, while Arden and Mattin stayed behind and worried. There had been reports of bandits, far too near to the capital, emerging only when travelers seemed vulnerable but staying far from the road, without a trace, when more heavily armed parties passed through. The quietest and most cunning eyes-and-ears had finally traced them back to their hiding place and passed on where and how best to strike. There were not enough Outguards currently in and around the capital to safely handle them, given the reports of their numbers, so Mil had ridden out with a contingent of the palace guard- those that were former Outguards in particular- to add to their strength and secure the safety of the capital and all those within.
Mattin had thought he would never be able to sleep with Mil gone on such an errand, his heart in his throat and muscles tense at all times, but Arden had taken over Mil’s habit of finding and guiding him to bed on a regular basis. Whereas Mil would occasionally agree to steer Mattin to his own bed when he insisted he needed to think or just sleep for a short while before working again, Arden’s hand on his back always led to the royal bedchamber, often with a soft, “Help me distract myself from my thoughts, dear heart?” As if Mattin was doing the king a great favor by allowing himself to be tumbled down into the warm bed of furs and blankets and taken apart, gasping, until sleep overtook them both. When one or both of them were too tired even for that, Arden would settle Mattin between his spread legs and knead the knots and fears out of his back and shoulders with his big, hot hands, tsk’ing over the bad posture of librarians at their scrolls and murmuring stories of when he and Mil were young.
But now, after less than two weeks, Mil had sent word of his imminent and victorious return. Travellers’ deaths at the bandits’ hands had been minimal, just a few killed in the heat of battle on the rare occasions when outnumbered victims had nonetheless dared to fight back and give battle, and more personal attacks nonexistent, so except for the leaders, those that had quickly surrendered to the king’s husband and begged for mercy had been spared. Their numbers had been as great as the scouts reported but in the entire camp they had had just enough weaponry for a single raiding party and a few camp guards at any given time. Their thin bodies and frostbitten toes had been a more eloquent plea for leniency than any of their desperate words. Their ill gains had been seized, their wounds and feet treated, their stomachs filled, and the bandits slowly marched back to the capital under guard. Many of them had found the assurance of adequate food, clothing, and shelter while they served their sentences of hard labor to be a fair bargain. It was apparently more than some nobles were willing to provide their people the winter after a bad harvest, something Mattin was sure would be brought up at a council meeting in the near future. Those that proved themselves hardworking and trustworthy during their sentences would be offered honest and decent-paying work once they were complete. It was scarcely possible to imagine a better outcome.
It turns out that the people of the capital did not care about the nuance of the matter. The brave Captain Wulfa had ridden out to protect them and was returning in triumph, once again proving himself their hero. For Mattin, this was a chance to redeem himself as well, to show that he could greet one of his intendeds properly and without shame or shrinking away, as he had done upon Arden’s return the last time. He had humbly gone to Tiiran, Orin, and Nikoly for guidance on how best to do this in a way that the common people would accept. For Arden he had only asked for help on the actual riding. Mattin was not fond of being astride horses, such a far distance from the ground, yet knew a wagon or carriage would not be suitable for such a welcoming and on foot he could not keep pace with the king’s long stride. Arden had smiled, promised to also help with the matter of keeping Mattin warm on such a cold ride, and gave him a very contrived lesson in proper riding technique that night in the royal bedchamber. It involved a great deal of bouncing.
Mattin stood in the palace courtyard, bundled warmly in his gifted cloak and gloves as well as the warmest and most prettily embroidered riding leathers he could find on short notice, trying not to fidget as Arden went to retrieve his horse. He checked and rechecked his smallest and finest satchel and its contents for the tenth time in as many minutes. When Arden returned, leading his large warhorse, brother to Mil’s own, Mattin spent a moment hiding his reaction; forgetting, as he did every time, the full size of the beast. As such, it wasn’t until the king nudged the horse into position beside them that Mattin noticed the two oddities. The warm bundle over the king’s arm was far larger than the cloak he usually wore over his riding armor and the horse’s finally polished saddle was far longer. It almost looked as if it was specially built to seat two, if one of the two was a wee thing unpadded by any bulky armor of his own. Ah. Mattin would not be asked to take charge of a high-stepping steed after all. When he prettily thanked Arden for such consideration, the king’s cautious expression melted into a pleased grin. Mattin forgot, sometimes, that his betrotheds only seemed to be supremely confident in nearly all things, at all times.
Arden easily mounted his high horse without assistance, looking like a figure out of legend once seated at such a height. Mattin, however, made careful use of the mounting block and even then clutched Arden’s hand tightly as he cautiously swung a leg over the large creature. Mattin was so much smaller that his thigh fit easily under the scabbard buckled to the king’s waist and pointing back along the flank of the horse. The curve of the saddle nestled him nicely up against Arden’s back and thighs, where he did not even have to be prompted before winding his arms snugly around the king’s waist and holding tight. Still, Arden murmured a warning before bending, twisting, and suddenly a thick, warm weight was surrounding them. An unusual cloak, made to fit two, just as the saddle had been. A custom piece, both of them, casual display of the king’s thoughtful care and ability to command almost anything he wished. Mattin hid a silly smile as Arden clasped the cloak loosely in front and a groom quickly adjusted a second pair of stirrups, useless for guiding the horse but good support for Mattin’s dangling feet. “The people will need to see you on the way back,” Arden remarked over his shoulder. “But you can stay as bundled and hidden as you wish as we ride out. Think we can surprise our love with your appearance?” Mattin even laughed, despite his nerves and the great height, as the king tucked the sides of the great cloak around Mattin’s legs before he gently clucked at his horse and they began to ride out, the palace guard falling easily into formation around them.
Mattin never felt secure enough to loosen his grip, but after a few minutes his arms felt chilled enough that he carefully moved first one hand, and then the other to grip Arden’s belt on either side of his waist instead of his front so all of him was tucked nicely into the long folds of the cloak. He turned his head and twisted just enough to see that it was specially designed for riding, split up the back so it fell on either side to cover his legs instead of being draped over the horse’s rear and leaving him exposed. He did not wish to ride any other way, ever again, although he hoped the next time would be warmer. And there would be a next time, he realized now. Mil and Arden would sit in a carriage if pressed, if that was what Mattin truly wished, and take full advantage of the privacy one offered, but Mattin going out on occasional rides with them in such a manner would bring them joy. Practical Arden, generous as he was, would not commission such a saddle for just a single event. And hadn’t Mil whispered of some springs and clearings he knew of, within a few hours' ride of the palace, with enough trees to provide privacy once one’s guards had been sent out to form a distant perimeter around them? Ah. For all that the royal couple preferred plain speaking, it appeared that there were still some things being left unsaid. Or, knowing them, being kept until the right moment. They had to ensure this ride was a success first, after all.
They were halfway through the capital before they first heard the returning party, people crowding the streets in anticipation of their beloved captain’s return more than happy to cheer on the king’s passing as well. Arden had occasionally raised a hand in acknowledgment or to share salutes with a city guard as they passed but mostly kept one hand lightly on the reins and the other reassuringly pressed to Mattin’s leg or hand on his waist. Mattin could feel the flex of Arden’s thighs as he guided his horse through every turn and rough patch, barely even needing the reins, something Mattin only belatedly realized must surely come in handy during battles. Still, the control and command in those thick muscles was something Mattin would surely be revisiting the next time he was alone in a bed or bath chamber. If people wondered at the king’s unusually large cloak, or the bundle hidden underneath it and behind him, Mattin could not hear, his head still enclosed by the hood drawn forward to shelter the king’s ears, although it left his handsome face on clear display for his admiring subjects.
He couldn’t see much, either, he realized as he tried to peek for a first sight at Mil but found himself unable to peer over or around Arden’s shoulders without either lifting himself up or leaning in the saddle in ways that felt most insecure and unwise. But he could hear the cheers of the people, the shout of greeting from one set of guards to the other and then a second shout echoing back, the more distant rattling of wagon wheels carrying camp gear, booty, and carefully concealed prisoners, could feel the flex of Arden’s muscles that made his mount trot more quickly in his eagerness to greet his husband. He wanted to check his satchel one last time but didn’t dare loose a hand from its grip on Arden’s belt.
Then suddenly, none of it mattered, as the returning guards joined their ranks and Mil drew alongside Arden, their horses nose to tail with each other, ruddy face beaming but his ears, lips, nose, and cheekbones above his beard sadly reddened and chapped from wind and cold. Mattin didn’t even have a moment to sigh over Mil’s obvious neglect of the lotion and oil that Mattin had so carefully packed and with such simple, clear instructions before Mil was bending forward to greet Arden with a fierce, hot kiss, the king leaning forward to meet him until Mattin nearly squeaked in alarm. They did not need to dismount for this? What else could these two do while still astride their horses? It would save Mattin the strain and embarrassment of needing to be helped to remount without even a block for assistance but still!
Both men straightened and Mil made a broad, public gesture at Arden’s bulkily cloaked form. “Did you bring along a stowaway? Some war booty of your own, perhaps?” He nearly had to shout to be heard over the people and horses around them… or was doing it deliberately, precisely so he could be overheard.
Arden, grinning in the way that melted hearts, nearly shouted back. “Just some sparkle to welcome you back, my love.” Mattin knew what was coming but still had to fight to brace himself against the sudden blast of cold air and wintery bright sunshine as Arden unclasped the great cloak and tossed it back to pool around him, exposing Mattin for all to see.
Mil laughed heartily, throwing his head back with delight, before pressing his horse forward again to take Mattin’s lips in a second fiery kiss, lips cold and rough against Mattin’s softness. Mattin strained his neck up to meet him but could not bring himself to lean over or relax his grip on Arden’s belt at the same time. Only after Mil pulled away did he realize dazedly that the kiss had been of equal length to the one he had given Arden just now. Another public declaration for all to see.
Now it was his turn. Shakily, he unclenched one hand and moved it, trembling, to his satchel. His betrotheds, ever watchful, each put a steadying hand on him in assurance. They would not let him fall. He only fumbled a little as he reached inside to draw out the first courting gift. Mattin held it up for Mil to see, only now realizing that the guards had fallen back a little, leaving the view clear to the townspeople crowding the streets on either side to watch the spectacle. He stretched his hand forward, holding it out on his cupped palm so they could see as well. The sun glinted off of a steel wolf caught midleap, fur rendered with exquisitely skilled etching, eye a tiny glowing jewel and nose a gleam of black onyx. Mattin had nearly chosen silver, back in the jewelry shop when he had commenced it some weeks hence, but thought this a better first step in adorning his big, pretty betrothed in clasps and sparkles. Sturdier as well. Mil’s jaw dropped a little, eyes wide, momentarily rendered speechless. When Mattin gestured questioningly to his hair with the piece, Mil nodded slowly, bending his head to Mattin’s hand. Mattin had to let go with his other hand to properly reach, nearly gasping in fright and clinging desperately with his legs as the hands upon him tightened in response. Slowly, he stroked back the strands that had fallen out of Mil’s short tail with one hand and slid the clasp into place to secure them with the other. Now Mil was the one to shiver minutely at the tentative caress. Mattin could not speak for the sight of that leaping wolf against the backdrop of burnished red-brown hair, both bright in the sun, steel curved gently to fit perfectly against the side of Mil’s head. Arden murmured encouragement, or prompting, perhaps, and Mattin carefully drew out the second hair clasp, mirror to the first, and Mil turned to offer the other side of his head to Mattin’s careful touch. When he was done, Mattin could not stop himself from reaching out and brushing his gloved fingertips over both the wolves, as if checking to make sure they were evenly placed, but really because he could not pull away. Mil was so- “Beautiful,” he breathed, shakily. Mil swallowed hard before tilting his head this way and that as if feeling their weight on his head. Then he straightened, turning to the nearest guard. “What say you?” Arden’s shiny pauldrons were too curved for a true reflection so Mil was being paraded without knowing how he looked.
The woman laughed and shouted, “Well chosen, captain!”
Mil tossed his head with a showy grin but something about the rest of him seemed almost hesitant, as if he still did not truly believe that he should be adorned with jewelry, much less in front of all these people.
The people…. Mattin had forgotten them, again, but now the noise echoed even louder in his ears. The nobles would never accept a commoner daring to take the name of Canamorra, even at the behest of the ruler and in the course of a marriage. But neither were they best pleased by the royal consort proudly keeping a commoner name as rough and growling as it was brave and respected. But to the common people Wulfa meant pride, generations of palace and city guards renowned for their fighting and fierce loyalty. They loved the handsome captain and consort and his commoner name. Already the story of two youths running away from the palace was slipping into legend, with Mil as the only one to stay devotedly by the side of the one true king, even into exile, there to guard and serve him until the time came for his triumphant return. And here Mattin was, revealing himself as the mystery noble suspected of plotting to drive Mil from his honored place at the king’s side. Instead of seeking to diminish either him or his origins, Mattin had chosen to celebrate and honor them, publicly, with lovely, bold pieces unlike any that nobles had dared to wear. The people did not trust this fancy, unknown beat-of-four, not yet, but Mattin felt this was a good first step in gaining their favor. He had chosen well. Even the guard said so. Or that Arden and Mil had chosen well in favoring him? He could not tell. Once again Mil’s favorite guards were too clever by far.
There was only one step left before their return journey to the palace and Mattin did not know how it would be possible, still mounted as they were. He looked to his intendeds and discovered they were already having a silent conversation. At last Arden turned to him and inquired, “Do you trust us, dear heart? At least as far as these horses are high?”
Mattin gathered his courage but his voice wavered as he responded, “I fear I can not carry out any athletic feats you may ask of me but I,” he looked down at where they were still holding him steady, “am in your hands.” He smiled weakly at his joke but the two men chuckled appreciatively.
Arden drew out the cloak from around Mattin and tucked it in front of him over the bridle as Mil did the same with his own. “Then, Mattin of the Arlylian, we ask that you place yourself in our hands once more. Can you ease your muscles, so your body is loose as we move you, and keep them that way, even if you feel unsure? It might help to close your eyes and keep them so,” he added thoughtfully.
“I…” Mattin shut his eyes and took stock of his body. It was indeed easier when he couldn’t see, trusting in their hands on him. They had coupled in the dark, Mattin overcome with hands, lips, and broad bodies, eyes useless but other senses full as they stroked and arranged and pleased him. In moments of private play, Mil had taken to catching him up in his arms to press him against a wall for hungry kisses, relishing the way that his feet leaving the ground made Mattin either scold or submit, depending on his mood. He could do this now. He nodded, placing his hands over his eyes, and letting his back and limbs go soft. “I am ready.”
More hands on him, checking his scant muscles, arranging their grips, the sound of hooves as the mounts’ positions were adjusted as well. Then the two of them counted backwards from three and suddenly the hands were tugging and pulling at him. It took everything he had not to tighten up and cling- to the horse, to Arden, to the shifting hands- and let himself be moved the way he did when one or the other of them would pause in the heat of passion to roll him into a new position before starting again. He was twisted, turned, legs dangling terrifyingly for one awful moment as he fought with everything he had not to kick, to keep his body limp so he could be safely rearranged. He landed with a gentle thump and the sound of a cheer at the success of the maneuver… or the sight of a beat-of-four being handled in such a way. Hurriedly he clung to Mil’s waist and tried to settle himself more comfortably. The captain was in just his usual saddle and there was not quite room enough for Mattin but he pressed close as Mil shifted forward and it was space enough to make it back to the palace without… much… discomfort.
He finally opened his eyes as the great cloak settled around him once more. Mil fastened the cloak low and loose, the hood pulled back so it settled around Mattin’s shoulders. Besides them, Arden was doing the same with Mil’s guard cloak and then they were finally headed back to the palace. Mattin had done his braids farther forward today so each was covering an ear in hopes of providing some warmth but the winter air still bit at him. He kept his arms around Mil’s front, even as they grew cold. He needed to be seen embracing the captain closely, not merely perched on behind. When he could no longer suppress a shiver, Mil settled a gloved hand over his, adjusting his arm so that it was overlapping Mattin’s as much as possible. Ah. That would do nicely. Mattin was warmer and Mil was seen embracing him back.
In five years at the capital, Arden had not been known to give his spouse any visible adornment other than armor and weapons, finely decorated but still of the highest practical use. With Mil riding back in Mattin’s embrace, there could be little doubt among the watchers as to the source of the fine hair clasps now shining in the sun, wolf eyes glinting as Mil turned his head to laugh and talk with his husband, riding alongside them and looking well satisfied. The obviously exchanged cloaks made it even clearer that Mattin had ridden out with the king and was not some outsider being carried back from Mil’s brief but triumphant mission. The king had personally delivered him, sparkles and all, to his husband, who was in turn claiming him for all to see. Mattin felt the urge to hide his face at the weight of so many eyes upon him but he had committed to this spectacle and he would endure for their sake. He tried not to listen to the speculation and commentary, some even shouted, that was directed to and about him. The guards on either side were closer to the people and their chatter and would doubtless make their reports later to Mil as to what they had heard said and how often.
Nearly any noble would welcome the king’s advances but anyone with sense could have seen that the most effective way to gain the king’s favor would be by lavishing attention on his beloved. Any noble with real taste would also admire Mil’s large, fine form, commoner or not, even if they’d not yet experienced his hidden charm. Mattin may yet be accused of being cunning and strategic in his treatment of the heroic captain or to only being willing to ally himself with him for the sake of bedsport. Still, Mattin was determined to both privately and publicly court him all the same. As if he was worthy of it. As if he was setting a public example for how he felt the king’s spouse should be treated, and the care and respect that was due him. As if Mattin truly adored Mil and was seeking to win his heart, even if it was already his. As if he would be doing the same whether or not the security of the country and the contentment of the other noble families was at stake. As if Mattin desired to be casually manhandled and tossed around, passed from the king to his husband and back again. All of these things could be true.
His cheeks were already reddened from the chill so Mattin hoped that his additional blushes at these thoughts would not be noticed. He had plans for welcoming Mil back properly and in private. He nuzzled Mil’s back and turned to smile at a group of children waving ribbons and handkerchiefs. He was theirs. And they would soon be home.