Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/268753.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      X-Men:_First_Class_(2011)_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Erik_Lehnsherr/Charles_Xavier
  Character:
      Erik_Lehnsherr, Charles_Xavier, Emma_Frost, Mystique, Hank_McCoy, Moira
      MacTaggert, Jean_Grey, Alex_Summers, Scott_Summers, Sean_Cassidy
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Historical, Alternate_Universe_-_Roman, Consent
      Issues, Slavery, Master/Slave, don't_learn_history_from_this_fanfic,
      Celts, Rebellion, sword_fights, Hurt/Comfort, BAMF!Charles, historical
      views_of_homosexuality, Charles_is_a_slut_in_every_era, Background_Het,
      Romance
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-10-25 Completed: 2011-11-03 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 27495
****** Taken By His Majesty ******
by Pookaseraph
Summary
     Erik's mission was simple, sneak into the Celtic pretender king's
     tent, assassinate him, and return to Rome with his father's honor
     restored. Unfortunately, he didn't count on Charles. When the prince
     chooses to take him as his personal slave, Erik feared the worst, and
     his concerns weren't entirely unwarranted. The worst, however, turns
     out to be falling in love with the greatest enemy of Rome's primacy
     in Briton. A historical romance set during the early days of Rome's
     occupation of Briton.
Notes
     This fanfic is - as usual - all Regann's fault. We had been
     discussing writing historical AUs and I had decided I wanted to write
     something with an exceptionally toppy Erik with some dubcon elements
     that bordered on noncon, etc. Then she mentioned (slash reminded me
     of) Boudica's 60-61 AD rebellion against Rome and then nothing would
     do but for me to write with that era in mind. Fassy's hilariously
     epic performance in Centurion meant he couldn't be anything but a
     Roman legionary and it went from there. Then Charles ended up all
     toppy instead of Erik - mostly I ended up writing the exact opposite
     of what I intended to write when I set out. All Regann's fault.
     Historical notes are at the end. Additionally, if you're one of those
     people who read the warnings and didn't get turned off right away but
     found yourself going 'I don't know, depending on how it's handled
     maybe I'd like that, I really wish I knew what sort/variety of non-
     con was going to be going on' then there are notes for you! At the
     end of the first chapter (below the historical notes) there is a
     brief explanation of the nature of the non-con.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
The procession of Celts up the Ermine Street had left Londinium two days ago,
and Erik had never been so grateful for the lazy and leisurely pace the wedding
party had set for themselves. He and his men were forced to travel overland and
far outside of the range of the Celtic scouts who traveled up and down their
lines. They couldn't even be called proper lines, not really. Celtic discipline
was notoriously shoddy, they yelled, they screamed, they broke rank, they
couldn't form a proper line or a battle formation, and yet... Erik had heard
the reports from the survivors of the Battle of Watling Street and they had
been anything but dismissive. Erik bristled from even the momentary reminder of
the failure.
His father, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, had taken 10,000 men against at least
80,000 Celtic warriors; a legionary on any day should have been worth at least
ten Celts, at least that was what had been bandied about when Suetonius had
taken well trained auxiliaries and perfectly selected terrain and turned what
should have been a stirring victory into a crushing defeat. Nero had almost
given up on the island, but only the pathetic whining of Cogidubnus and
Cartimandua and the complete arrogance of that bitch Iceni, Emma, and her son -
the self-styled Rex Britannia - had kept the Romans there at all.
That was all about to change, however. The consolidation of the south east of
the island under the Iceni tribe was held together only by the tenuous will of
Emma and the mutual hate of Rome that seemed to lie buried in the heart of
every Celt, with two strokes Erik intended to crush that tie and avenge his
fallen father and his shattered honor.
Even from the distance they were forced to keep, far off into the countryside,
it was easy to spot the 'rex', Charles; he swirled among the men - figurehead
as he was - and Erik imagined he must have smiled, and perhaps had the
occasional stirring speech - fed to him by his mother, no doubt - as he lead
his men carefully to slaughter in the north among the Brigantes.
"Sir?" The tentative question came from one of his men as night began to fall.
"We will move shortly. I want nothing but clear ground between us and their
camp when true night falls."
Moving a true army in the middle of the night was pure folly, the new moon and
typical clouds and fog made it even more so, but Erik only had less than half a
century under his command. This wasn't meant to be a combat, this wasn't meant
to be a battle, it was meant only to be an assassination. Erik would have gone
alone if it weren't for his specific instructions to the contrary.
"Gods with us, they will not even notice their princeling is dead until it is
done."
The soldier seemed satisfied and moved to relay the news. They were Romans,
Roman legionaries, and none of them had so much as taken off his pack or toed
out of a sandal because Erik hadn't commanded it; that was Roman discipline.
They were on the move shortly, moving slowly to keep from making noise that
would attract the attention of sentries, down out of the distant hills and into
the open terrain where the war-wedding party was sprawled. Passed out drunk,
every one of them, certainly.
As they approached the edge of the camp, a few soldiers each broke off to sweep
forward through the camp, searching for the prince and his queen-mother. If he
was lucky he might also manage to take the princeling's sister with him as
well. The loss of both of the children would shatter any unity among the
tribes. Erik quickened his pace, desperately wanting the honor of killing
Charles for himself. His tent was not hard to find, a ridiculous tent done up
in silks instead of wools or hides, the light flicker of a fire banked or dying
the only illumination.
Erik fingered the dagger at his waist, drawing it as he stepped inside into a
small receiving area, abandoned, no soldiers and no servants. The flap that
would have separated the front of the tent from the back was drawn open, and
Erik stepped carefully through, mindful of his footing and his breathing. The
princeling, Charles, sprawled out in sleep wearing nothing but breeches and a
blanket of patched together pelts. Up close he was even more pathetic than Erik
could have imagined, small, fair, with barely a scar or scratch on him, and
with lips that looked painted like a woman's. He looked more like a slave meant
to be kept for pleasure than anyone Erik would have trusted to go into battle
with.
He suppressed the immediate urge to fall upon him - too much chance of noise -
and stepped carefully around to the prince's side and got down on one knee. His
free hand went to the prince's mouth and the dagger was aimed for his torc-clad
throat. The boy woke - not at all groggy - before Erik could strike, his hand
landed on Charles' mouth but he rolled just enough to avoid the blow. Charles'
cried out, but was muffled, and Erik knew no one could make it in time even if
they'd heard. What he did not expect was the dagger drawn from beneath the
folds of furs that slid right between the thin plates of his armor and piercing
him just below the ribs, shallow, but painful.
Erik staggered, and the prince's free hand pressed against him and rolled him
off.
"ARMS!" Charles yelled, latin - Erik noticed, dimly, before shouting again,
something in gaelic. Charles looked back to where Erik lay, bleeding, an
emotion that Erik couldn't quite tell what it was crossed the princes' face.
Erik was too busy fading into an inky blackness that felt suspiciously like
death to care.
The last thing he saw was the prince grabbing for his sword and shield and
charging out into the night.
* * *
Erik woke up. He was in pain, and decidedly not in the land of the dead, or
anywhere else that might have been more welcome than approximately thirty miles
north of Londinium, on Ermine Way, in the Briton princelings tent. He tried to
move, found his legs were tied and his hands bound loosely behind his back. He
stretched just enough to see that the wound that prince had given him had been
bound and he'd been stripped down to his breeches. The Celts had no intention
of letting him die, then, either. He thought he might have preferred the
somewhat honorable death in his attempt than this.
There were two guards now, flanking the entrance to the back of the tent, the
prince himself nowhere in sight. The light from outside suggested early
morning, pre-dawn, just red and grey enough to move about.
He tilted his head, slightly at first, looking for his weapons or armor or
anything else that he might have used to cut his ropes and escape, but found
nothing. His movements alerted the guards he was awake, however, and he
expected a kick, or worse, for his troubles and didn't even get that
satisfaction. What little energy he had, he wasted so he could at least kneel
rather than lay on his side like a dog.
His legs were already aching by the time the prince deigned to return to his
tent.
The prince still looked ridiculous, short, wiry, and pale. His perfect skin was
at least marred by a bandage on his shoulder - no doubt acquired by some Roman
stabbing him in the back when he fled like a startled hare. It was probably too
much to hope for that he would develop some sort of infection and die of that.
Erik raised his chin, the only defiance he could truly manage under the
circumstances. The prince nodded to the two guards and the left him, and they
were alone again. The boy had a dagger at least, and Erik's eyes flicked down
while he considered how he might acquire it.
"A proper centurion." The perfectly formed latin was surprising, and the prince
seemed absolutely delighted. "My lucky day, it seems."
Erik frowned, he'd worn nothing to indicate his rank - or his legion - and was
curious how the prince had plucked that information from his mind. "How have
you decided that I am a centurion, princeling?"
Charles ignored the diminutive insult, smiling anyway, his eyes were a
terrifying icy blue, but Erik couldn't see any malice there. "It is difficult
to hide the fine quality of sword and dagger and armor compared to your
compatriots. Not that their arms are in disrepair, just yours are obviously of
the highest quality." The boy was too clever, or his bitch-mother, or both.
"Where are my men?" There was no use pretending otherwise if the prince already
was aware of his rank.
"Some dead. Some fled. Most have been captured and leave for Londinium at
dawn." Slaves.
"And me?"
"Mother suggested you would be a suitable gift for my bride-to-be." Charles
hunched down onto the balls of his feet so they were nearly level, Erik just
slightly taller now while the prince leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I
think I should like to keep you for myself."
All of the dozens - if not hundreds - of ways that the prince might choose to
abuse him flashed through Erik's mind in an instant, the first of which seemed
painfully likely given his continued presence in the prince's bed while the
guards had been dismissed. When Charles reached out it took all of his will not
to flinch back, but the prince's hand merely touched the bandage at his side,
probing gently. Erik was surprised to find it wasn't painful, although his
fingers avoided the worst of the cut.
"Does it hurt?"
He considered not answering. "No." After a moment he added: "It was a poor
strike, too shallow."
"That was rather the point." Charles stood, brushed his hands down his pants
and then looked around as though he wasn't quite certain what to do with
himself. "Get yourself sorted, we leave shortly."
Erik wasn't certain what the prince meant by 'getting himself sorted' but he
realized he was probably going to be walking, likely hands tied, so he began to
wriggle his arms to get the knotted rope at his wrist in front of him. It was
painful, pulling at the wound and dressing, but it didn't take long and he
stayed kneeling as the prince circled around the room, packing away his
bedding.
"So what are you called, Centurion?"
Erik considered. "Gaius Eriqus Paulinus."
"Eriqus?" Charles tried the name around on his tongue a second time. "Erik?"
He was irritated to hear his name on Charles' lips, and glowered at him,
ignoring the way that Charles smiled at him in return.
"Suetonius Paulinus?" Charles asked, clearly understanding naming conventions
enough to know they must be related.
Erik's frown deepened. "My father."
"Ah." Charles pulled on a tunic and belt, raking his fingers through his hair.
"He was a brilliant tactician."
Of all of the things he'd expected to hear from a Celt concerning his father,
that was not anything he had considered. The prince was right, his father was
brilliant, and it had been universally acknowledged before his defeat on the
Watling Street. "Yes, he was."
A few moments of silence passed; Charles touched and carefully adjusted the
gold torc at his throat, neatened his hair again and then donned his sandals.
Erik found himself more and more confused by the prince, he was casual, for all
his latin was perfect and spoken with an accent that would not have been out of
place in Rome itself, and he spoke with an easy self assurance. The Celts made
their place in the world through combat, and yet Charles did not look like he
would do well anywhere but the back of a line.
His introspection was interrupted by another Celt entering, passing Charles a
plate of food and then saying something that Erik could not understand in
gaelic.
"It seems we will have to vacate while the tent is taken down." He drew his
knife and cut the bonds at Erik's feet. "Up. Do not think of running. I would
prefer not to damage you more than I already have."
Erik struggled to his feet, wishing he could rub his ankles to restore some of
the circulation there, but he walked out of the tent and into the dawn. All
around him, the camp was full of activity; Erik walked along side the prince,
trying to keep as much of his dignity as he could, stripped down as he was to
pants and sandals. Most of the tents were already stowed and packed. For a
procession that contained the prince, his sister and his mother they were up
and moving remarkably early.
They walked through camp, Erik continuing to trail after, watching and
listening to the coarse tongue of the Celts that was all around him. Charles
answered them easily, casual again, and Erik wondered how they could retain
discipline with a man like the prince at the head of their army.
"Charles, are you really going to keep him?" The question came from a blonde
girl with a pretty, round face and bright eyes that almost matched Charles' in
brilliance. Charles greeted her with a hug, and he realized this must be the
princess, Raven.
"Yes, no doubt my bride will have more than enough servants and slaves, and if
not we shall win her some when we take back her tribe from her mother."
Erik snorted - Cartimandua ruled the Brigantes tribe with the consent of the
Empire, her husband, Venutius, had wanted to break with the Empire and his wife
had set him aside. Venutius was apparently content to whore his only daughter -
Moira - to the prince to keep his pathetic territory. Charles' boldness in
thinking that they would be able to defeat the Brigantes and their Roman allies
was laughable. Raven stepped up to him and slapped him hard across the face.
"My brother will bleed as many Romans as it takes to remove your stain from our
island." Erik blinked, shocked at her words and the sting of her slap. She hit
hard - especially for a woman - but then her mother was the Iceni whore who
likely had lain with something unnatural to produce the prince and princess.
"Have you already forgotten that he's taken you once?"
The conversation between them shifted seamlessly back into the babble of gaelic
that he could not understand and he was content to stand there, cheek still
stinging slightly from the slap. The tone between the brother and sister was
light, but Erik could hear a touch of discord there. He wished he could
understand the two of them, wondering if he might be able to drive a wedge
between them if he understood the cause of their argument.
Raven left a few moments later, apparently content enough that Erik assumed the
disagreement couldn't have been over something of importance. No luck there.
Charles finished with the food he had been eating, finally passing the plate to
Erik and he stared down at the small chunk of bread with some sort of game fowl
meat stuffed inside. He looked at it again, confused by Charles' meaning in
giving it to him. "If you do not wish to eat it, you can wait until we stop at
midday."
He didn't need to be told twice and scarfed down the food quickly after that.
Charles took the plate and handed it to a passing Celt. The same one returned
later with a sword and helmet, which he donned slowly before finally reaching
the edge of camp where the bitch-queen stood next to a blindingly white horse.
She was beautiful, despite what the Romans might say about her, with icy blonde
hair and cold eyes that didn't have the same warmth as the prince's. She tied a
cloak at Charles' neck, smoothed it down over his shoulders, and then had a
brief conversation with him. He appeared to have at least a passing mention in
the conversation, or at least his father, Suetonius, was mentioned. The queen
looked down on him like he had come out of the rear end of a horse. Erik
ignored her.
* * *
The Celts were ready to move not long after dawn, and when Erik considered that
they had suffered a late night attack the night before it was actually somewhat
impressive. They made good time, and had gone almost seven miles before they
stopped for midday.
Charles dismounted easily - and Erik decided that Charles' bitch mother must
have been mounted by a horse, it was the only explanation for the way he seemed
to ride like he'd been born in a saddle. The prince handed him a pair of water
skins and then pointed off into the distance where he saw several Celts - maybe
slaves, maybe not - heading in that direction.
"Fill them, make certain you drink your fill as well, we will not stop again."
He watched the prince stretch and shake out his legs slightly, taking the horse
by the bridle and heading farther downstream. "And I warn you, I am quite good
with a sling."
That was all he said, leaving Erik feeling somewhat awkwardly torn. There was
nothing even resembling a forest or hills where he might conceivably escape to,
even if it wasn't by Charles himself he would have been easily run down. No
doubt the entire column was aware of his situation by now. Resigned, he
followed after the others towards the stream and drank some, filled the flasks,
and then took the opportunity to scrub some water into his hair to relieve some
of the grit there.
When he returned to the road he didn't immediately see Charles or the queen-
bitch - or her white horse - but that did not keep the sister from finding him.
She was astride her own horse, a blue roan, looking down at him.
"Well, get him his lunch." She tilted her head towards a supply wagon and then
said something in gaelic. He looked at her dumbly, and she said the same thing
again. "Say it back to me."
He probably mangled it, but she nodded, deciding it was well enough before she
headed off towards the stream, probably to water her own horse. At the supply
wagon he tried the phrase at the slave there, he was looked up and down and
then a few of the surrounding men laughed, echoing something that sounded close
to what he had said. Still he got a decent sized cut of some sort of dried-
smoked meat and a revolting looking soft cheese, most of the bread that might
have been baked in Londinium had long since gone stale-ish, but he got a crust
of bread as well. He took the whole lot towards the head of the column that was
milling about only to find that Charles had returned and was now... sprawled
out, completely undignified, on the grass just off the side of the road.
When Charles told him to, he sat, and then watched as the prince picked at his
lunch slowly.
"I hate carting ourselves off to war." The prince sounded... petulant, perhaps.
Erik bristled. "But I am certain you know how difficult it is to maintain good
discipline and moral among the army." Erik stared - confused by what the prince
was trying to say. Charles looked him over and then spoke again, more slowly,
as though he thought Erik might not have understood him. "These troops are well
trained, the ones that Venutius will have on offer will not be."
Erik looked over at the troops behind him; they were not legionaries. He asked
Charles what the gaelic his sister had taught him meant.
"For the prince, roughly." Charles pulled apart a piece of the meat and offered
it over to Erik. He didn't pause, just took it and ate it more slowly than he
had breakfast. "It indicates your service to me and solicits items - in this
case food - in my name."
Erik didn't care for the grammar lesson, but he still took the chunk of bread
that Charles passed a moment later. Learning any of the strange Celtic tongue
seemed like a surrender to his current position. Slave. By any Roman law, if
Charles had been a Roman soldier and Erik the barbarian, Erik would have been
considered a slave. He still hadn't given up on his freedom. Charles was not
Roman, he was Iceni, a Celt traitor-usurper to Nero's rightful property in
Briton.
"If these are the men who have been trained, I do not envy you the ones
Venutius will bring with him from the Brigantes."
Charles just smiled and looked down the line towards the Celts who stretched
and paced and went to water their horses or fill their water skins. "Many of
them served at Watling Street, they know how to fight both Celts and Romans."
He glowered down at the men, wondered how many of them carried scars from a
javelin or gladius, and if one of them might have been the one who struck down
his own father. "How was it done?" Charles didn't say anything, blue eyes
confused. "Watling Street."
"What do they say down in Rome? Druidic witchcraft and savage and barbarous
magic?"
"What else."
"And what do you believe?" Charles tilted the wooden plate-board that Erik had
brought him back towards him, all that was left was the strange crumbled
cheese. Erik sniffed at it. Charles just laughed at it. "Sheep's milk cheese,
it's soft cheese, but more than palatable."
Erik took one of the chunks and tried it, it was well enough, but he said
nothing, not wanting to admit that Charles was right. "I do not think my father
would have been taken by witchcraft."
"No. I do not think so, either."
"What, then?"
Charles didn't answer, and Erik realized that the boy probably didn't know. He
was barely old enough to hold property and be considered a citizen, he would
have been perhaps thirteen or fourteen four years ago during the battle. He'd
probably been clinging to his mother's teat while she carried the day.
"Some of the Romans who survived that day and carried themselves down to the
Regni territory said the Celts fought ferociously, but not like Romans."
"We are not Romans, so that is only logical." Charles plucked up a blade of
grass, turning it over in his hands. "Standing in a line face to face with men
far better armed and drilled is folly."
That was the logic that made the Roman legions superior to the haphazard Celtic
forces, they preferred leathers, didn't carry much beyond sword, shield, and
dagger, they were mobile and quick, but not quick enough to respond to the
well-drilled tactics of the legion. They were also far more likely to break
ranks and run if the battle turned sour, leaving themselves crushed against
their brothers as they were set upon from behind.
"So then how does one defeat the legion?" Erik asked, but he didn't expect an
answer; Charles was a child, he didn't understand how a true battle would be
resolved.
"The same way one defeats a single Centurion, with a quick strike that slides
between heavy defenses." Charles stretched, sat up slowly, and pressed his
finger next to the wound. "We simply take the best pieces of ourselves, and the
best of Rome, and combine them into something that is uniquely suited."
The prince stood, and waved his hand and a call started to pass down the line.
They were apparently ready to move again. Erik scanned the distance and saw
that there were only a few stragglers returning from the stream with horses or
skins and lunch had largely been taken.
"You're pressing them like an army on the move," Erik said, almost impressed.
"That is what we are, isn't it? Celtic warriors at my back as I ride to face
two fearsome Brigantes women."
"Two?" Erik asked, while Charles tied the end of Erik's bonds to his saddle.
Charles grinned, mounting up again easily and running his fingers through his
hair. "My future wife and my future mother in law."
Erik didn't think particularly highly of a princeling who would be concerned
with the his future wife. Perhaps Erik had misjudged, however, the Celts were
savages and let their women into battle, it was entirely possible his wife
could snap the boy in half.
Erik was spared the worst of the road dust, as the prince road towards the head
of the column. Likely it was because Charles did not yet trust him to stay if
he'd been allowed towards the back with most of the other slaves - which was
wise.
They eventually stopped again well before dusk, and camp broke into life all
around them. Charles finally released his bound hands and Erik realized it
would be unwise to test the limits of the prince's goodwill too far. The mousey
slave from the morning - Hank, apparently, who was also fluent in latin -
showed Erik where the prince's horse was kept, and for the first time since the
morning he was outside of the boy's presence for longer than an hour.
He was never out from under someone's gaze, however, and the temptation to run
was usually dampened by that knowledge. Strange people pushed him through a few
basic tasks in a stranger tongue - water for the prince's tent, brushing out
tangles from the horse's mane, checking legs and hooves for injuries or stones,
and finally standing in line to fetch dinner. He could almost pretend he was
among his own men - smellier, stinking of mead and ale, but warriors
nonetheless. His illusion was frequently shattered by sharp cries from quarrels
or battles, or the presence of a woman armed similarly to one of the men, but
he appreciated the illusion when he could cling to it.
When he returned with supper, Charles was in his tent, naked and casually
washing himself while Erik found he was unable to do anything but watch. The
prince's neck was lightly pink with sun, ruining his fair skin, and an
unexpected smattering of freckles played across his back, hidden only beneath
the bandage he was still wearing. He was lean, and as he moved Erik could see
the way muscles played under softer skin, but that was nothing compared to the
pretty curve of the prince's ass and the nicely formed legs below. Thoughts
from the night before, where Erik had thought the prince looked like the
perfect pleasure slave returned unbidden and he felt his throat grow dry and
his eyes slightly heavy from the thought.
Charles turned, although he must have known Erik had been there for some time,
and gave Erik a smile that was somehow bashful and seductive at the same time.
Erik's eyes flicked down, unbidden, taking in the new details of the prince's
body, he was almost hairless but for a light dusting down his stomach, and ...
lower. Erik barely managed to tear his eyes away, looking towards the tent flap
when Charles came over and took the bowl Erik had brought, his own hands a vice
grip as he struggled for self-control.
He set down the bowl and the - mercifully - stepped into breeches and spared
Erik the worst of his reasons to stare. "You'd best take advantage of the
chance to wash."
Erik hurried over to the bucket and splashed his face with the water, cold
enough to give him at least some clarity, his back to Charles he started to
scrub his hair and wash the worst of the dirt from his shoulders, while he
avoided getting the bandage around his ribs wet. He could feel Charles' eyes on
him, hot, burning into his back, and even that made his throat dry.
When he turned to check over his shoulder he saw that Charles was watching him,
his bright blue eyes dark and lidded, his fingers playing with his lips, dinner
completely ignored. He watched for a moment longer, the prince's breathing was
shallow and rapid.
The sinking realization that Charles wanted to use him, was likely going to use
him - like a woman - settled in to Erik's chest and his fingers curled into the
wood of the bucket, struggling for some way to keep his honor. His eyes flicked
behind him and Charles' eyes pointedly traveled down Erik's back. Slowly, he
undid his pants, fingers trembling, nervous like some virgin, expecting the
prince to fall on him at any moment.
He pushed down his pants, ignoring his fear, ignoring the presence of the
prince. But it was impossible to ignore the low moan from the man behind him,
and a glance behind him found him lounging in his chair, hips canted forward
and his hand palming himself through his trousers. Erik turned back to his
bucket and slowly started to wash his legs, torn between bending over or
lifting a leg. He tried to be economical, scrubbing himself impersonally,
pretending that Charles - his audience - was not even there.
It was an impossible task, Charles continued to make breathy gasps as Erik
moved, and the sounds had a wrenching effect on him, twisting and leaving
unexpected heat low in his belly. Even the slight chill of the water couldn't
keep his cock from twitching.
Erik blamed Charles, Charles with his bright red lips and perfect ass and pale
skin and his impossibly blue eyes. In another life he would have... would have
thrown Charles down onto a bed or the ground and fucked those whimpers out of
him, but even though Erik was the slave to be used his body wouldn't stop
reacting to those sounds.
"Come here, let me touch you." Erik turned to Charles, already embarrassingly
half-hard, just erect enough that Charles would have to be blind not to notice.
His body didn't seem to know the difference, though, between master and slave,
because he was all too willing to come to Charles, his eyes fluttering closed
when lightly calloused fingers ran down his chest and sides.
All he could feel was Charles' hands running over him, touching, lightly
squeezing, feeling the muscles of his thighs and his stomach, and even though
the hands came nowhere near his cock his breath was coming faster and harder
and he felt Charles' hands on him like fire, leaving a trail of heat along his
body that didn't fade even as his hands moved on.
"I could touch you all day," Charles murmured, his lips somewhere near his
thigh.
His teeth grazed against Erik's hip bone and Erik whimpered, thrusting forward
against his will. He wasn't supposed to like this, he wasn't, but his body had
other ideas, and even his mind was having a hard time remembering why he wasn't
supposed to enjoy warm hands and soft lips on his body.
It had been too long; Charles looked like a pleasure slave; Charles was
touching him, not the reverse. All his excuses faded away when Charles reached
behind him and squeezed his ass with both hands, making Erik thrust at his face
again and whine. Charles was some sort of witch to be able to make him rock
hard without even touching his cock, it was painful, even, standing like that,
erect, legs straining. Those hands trailed down his ass, along the back of his
thighs leaving a tingling feeling and the subconscious urge to spread his legs.
Erik shifted, widening his stance even as he fought with himself. Charles
purred, and the sound went straight to his groin and his cock was leaking and
that tingling down his thighs was making his legs weak and his head dizzy and
he couldn't get enough air, couldn't breathe.
"Gods, look at you... perfect..." Charles' mouth was against his thigh, every
move of his mouth brushing lips against him and leaving Erik shivering. "Every
inch of you... I need you in my bed. Now."
His legs didn't even allow him the decency to hesitate, nearly sprinting into
the back of the tent. Charles was going to fuck him, was going to use him, and
Erik's cock throbbed in anticipation, even as he got down on his hands and
knees like a fucking dog hesitant-eager and ashamed of himself.
Charles found him like that, face buried in furs, ass in the air and he could
hear the prince gasp... "Oh that is delightful." Charles' hands returned,
playing up and down his spread thighs, urging his legs farther apart and Erik
complied without thinking, just feeling.
Erik's breath came in shuddering gasps and felt warm and boneless and not even
the touch of Charles' fingers against his hole could shake him just then, but
then his fingers pressed, hard, just behind his balls, and Erik groaned into
the furs, his body shaking so much he thought he might have come, but then
Charles' hand fell away and his cock was just as hard as before.
"Roll over." Erik did, wordless, and Charles was there over him, naked, cock
hard, legs straddling Erik's and looking so perfect. His lips were red, teased
full by the Prince's teeth, and his perfect skin was flushed, sweat falling
down one brow.
"Perfection." Charles was perfect, and Erik couldn't stop himself from noting
it, saying it, making his shame complete.
Charles dipped his head, flushed and embarrassed and pleased. "Touch yourself,
touch yourself the way you would to make it last."
Hesitation lasted only a moment and Erik reached down to touch himself, just
teasing his tip but he felt raw, over sensitive, he let the precum coat his
palm and then slide down his shaft, eyes closing as he tried to think of some
fantasy.
It was folly, he had a fantasy sprawled out above him and his eyes opened,
taking in Charles' lean frame, the light dusting of hair down his stomach and
his cock, fully erect and perfect.
His eyes must have begged for something, because Charles answered, his fingers
sliding against the back of his hand. "You are more than welcome to touch."
He grabbed, pulled, his fingers digging into Charles' hip and dragging the
prince farther up his body, far enough so that Charles perfectly straddled his
hips, close enough that he could have pulled Charles down and fucked him.
Charles didn't protest, though, he leaned forward, hand pressed to Erik's chest
and moaned, low and soft and he sounded like a damn whore.
"You think I look like a boy you'd pay his master so you could fuck."
"Yes," he answered immediately, not even thinking. Yes, yes, oh yes. He was
supposed to make it last but he couldn't, his hand flying up and down his cock.
Charles pressed his hands down on Erik's hips, pinned him, and then slid his
own hips forward, brushing his hole against the tip of Erik's cock. He thrust,
but Charles' hands held him down and he came, short spurts of cum against the
prince's ass. His own body trembled, and he was grabbing the prince's hip so
tight it was going to bruise his pale, perfect skin, but the fuzzy and lazy
feel of his orgasm fled the moment he realized Charles was still over him, hard
and leaking.
Even as his hips tilted up, betraying his mind, Erik scrambled for a way to
keep Charles from fucking him. His hand flew from his own cock, still covered
in his own semen, and he slid his hand up and down Charles' cock, coating him.
"Oh..." The look on his face was pure ecstasy and he could feel the shaking in
the prince's arm as he held himself up with hands pressed to Erik's chest.
Charles couldn't be far from coming, he was only human, and Erik continued to
stroke, hard and fast, his other hand searching for whatever spot Charles had
pressed against behind his balls. He rubbed, experimentally.
"Gods, Erik, harder."
He thought he might have been able to come again just from hearing those words,
but his cock couldn't even manage a twitch. He pushed, harder, up against
smooth skin and Charles came, shooting across Erik's stomach and hunching over,
panting, trembling and spent.
Safe... safe...
Erik drifted off to gentle murmurs as Charles stroked his hair, some chord cut
and slowly unwinding in his spine.
* * * *
Erik woke some time later to find it was dark out and Charles wasn't in bed.
Low voices - gaelic - came from the front of the tent, something was being
debated, not hotly, but enough for Erik to tell there were at least two - and
maybe more - sides to the discussion. He recognized Charles' voice among them
easily but the rest weren't ones he recognized. He debated staying curled up in
the furs - Briton nights were chilly - but eventually gave it up as a poor
excuse, pulling on his pants and shrugging into a tunic and belt before he
peaked out from behind the tent flap.
Conversation quieted. Charles turned, saw Erik, and then indicated wordlessly
that Erik should stand behind him. Conversation resumed in the same hushed
tones.
He did not recognize the particular hillfort, but the table between the
assembled Celts obviously contained a diagram of a hillfort, likely one
belonging to Cartimandua and the Brigantes. The other drawing he recognized, at
least from the symbols on it - one of the outposts for the Legion IX Hispania.
They had been crushed by Emma's forces early in the uprising, but new
reinforcements had swelled their ranks again in the intervening years.
There were no troop markers, nothing to indicate how battle was expected or
would be fought, and Erik wondered if this was a session for planning or just
discussion, it was impossible for him to get much but the emotions or tones of
the assembled Celts, so he watched them, judging them for himself.
They were young, none of them could have been older than Erik, all of them no
more than a few years older than the young princeling. One was blond, with a
narrow face but broad enough shoulders, Erik had seen him circling around the
prince from time to time, protective. He stood shoulder to shoulder with a
brunet with a squarer face, but they had a certain common look about them,
maybe brothers or cousins. The next soldier at the table was a woman, tall and
more graceful than strong, with long red hair that was tied behind her back. A
slightly smaller boy - and he did look like a boy - also with red hair, cropped
closer, stood near the red headed woman, those two were likely Brigantes, the
red hair being something imported from the parts of their tribe that controlled
territory on Eire.
None of them were material that Erik would have selected for war leaders, or
confidants to a prince or governor. They were young, obviously enthusiastic,
but there was more to war than enthusiasm and having all your arms and legs.
He followed the conversational banter, Charles would ask something - usually of
the redheads or the brothers as a pair - they would respond, each filling in or
adding to what the other said, and then Charles would consider, make a
decision, and then deliver it with calm authority. Something was being planned,
but it might have been anything from wedding festivities to an attempted siege
on the hillfort or assessing weaknesses of the Ninth's outpost.
It was annoying for Erik to realize that Charles did carry a great deal of
authority, and he carried it effortlessly. His mother might have been needed to
tame the older members of his tribe, but among the younger generation he could
see that Charles' leadership was easily accepted.
"My... generals, perhaps is the best word," Charles explained after he had
left. "Alex - the blond, Scott - the brunet, Jean - the woman, and Sean, the
red headed man. The last two are of my wife's tribe, Brigantes."
Erik nodded; he would have kept the information in mind even if Charles hadn't
obviously been providing it because he wanted it remembered. "They are young."
"Too young, you mean to say?"
Erik frowned slightly, yes, that was what he had meant. Charles didn't wait for
an answer, however, and walked over to the side of his tent, pouring himself a
drink, wine, maybe. He poured another, and held the cup out for Erik. He took
it, sipped cautiously. It was wine, good, nothing like the watered vinegar he
might have expected a barbarian prince to favor. Charles sipped his own drink
slowly, savoring a mouthful while he thought.
"When do you teach someone to be a good citizen of Rome?"
"When he is young," Erik answered, immediately. It wasn't a difficult question.
"And when do you teach a Celt how to conduct warfare in a way that is different
to the way his father and his grandfather conducted it?"
And then Erik understood. Charles' older soldiers were not the same as Roman
legionaries, not veterans of a dozen conflicts that proved their ability to
hold their lines and change their formations a moment after their Centurion or
General commanded it. They were... Celts. They were good for skirmishing and
charging over walls with a brutal yell, but against a Roman force in an open
field with a General who knew his territory and his men, they were useless.
Charles' generals were the future of his campaign. Erik had no doubt they had
been hand selected by Charles, hand trained by the best warriors Charles could
pick.
"Tomorrow night I will be entertaining the... traditionalists. You will make
certain we are all well served with drink." Charles took another swallow of
wine and Erik reflected that it was exceptionally unfair that the red wine
seemed to stain his lips an even brighter red than they were naturally. His was
a mouth that was born to be wrapped around a man's cock.
"Wine?" He asked to distract himself from his own thoughts.
"Goodness, no. Mead."
Erik made a face and Charles laughed at him. "Not very Roman, is it?"
"You suggested earlier that that was the entire point."
"So I did." The prince looked down into his cup and then inclined his head
towards the back of the tent. "Come."
He watched the prince's retreating form with a mix of lust and dread, before he
took another look at his own cup and drank the remaining wine down in several
quick gulps. Charles had already stripped out of his tunic when Erik arrived a
few moments later, but he didn't move to strip farther. The prince gently
attacked Erik's belt and then tugged his tunic over his head, his fingers
ghosting along his sternum, eyes hungry. "Lay down."
And then Charles turned and left - out into the other part of the tent. Erik
did what he was told, but kept himself perched up on his elbows and tried to
stay calm.
A few moments later Charles returned with a small chest and set it down,
drawing out a small jar of something sickly smelling. Charles was going to...
Erik squeezed his eyes shut, felt Charles shift so he was straddling Erik high
against his thighs, and then touching his hands against Erik's ribs and...
Then he unwound the bandage against his ribs. Erik opened his eyes.
"You do not need to look like I am going to ravish you at every turn, truly."
Charles thought the whole thing was very funny, apparently. Erik gritted his
teeth. Charles leaned in, his mouth close enough to Erik's ear so that he could
feel Charles' hot breath. "Unless you would like me to?"
Erik's breath quickened, and even he couldn't lie to himself enough to think it
was only from fear. "No."
"Pity." Charles pulled back enough for Erik to see his face. At least he wasn't
the only one affected by this - his cheeks pink from something more than the
sun and his lips parted enough to let out gentle pants.
Still, his fingers were sure and professional as he unwrapped the cloth, and
his finger lingered... only slightly more than necessary over the plains of his
abs and stomach. Under the bandage there was a folded square of fabric and Erik
winced when Charles pulled it away. The wound itself was well cleaned, and
neatly stitched by an expert hand. Whoever was responsible for sewing up
soldiers they were clearly well practiced.
Charles used the disgusting smelling balm on the wound and he hissed again, it
burned, but Erik assumed it was to stop infection. A fresh new pad was placed
on the wound and then Charles seemed to give in to whatever desire he'd been
fighting, running his hand along Erik's chest, eyes hot again.
"I want to have you," Charles said, and Erik bit down on his lip to stop from
making a sound. "I want to push you back and raise your legs and slide into
you, taking you so hard that you will scream out 'yes, my prince, harder' for
the entire camp to hear." Something that filthy should never have been said in
Charles' crisp and precise latin and his flawless Roman accent. "The next day,
everyone will see the way you walk beside me, or the way you wince with every
shift as you sit behind me on my horse and they will all know exactly how much
you are mine."
Erik did not moan. If he did, it was only because Charles had reached down to
cup his groin. "Why don't you, then?" He hissed out between clenched teeth,
trying to keep his own treacherous body from making another unwelcome sound.
Charles leaned forward, his body barely inches from Erik's. He left one hand on
his stomach, fingers softly curled into his flesh there, the other hand stroked
Erik's neck and he tilted his head - just barely - exposing more flesh to the
prince's fingers. Charles mouth was right next to Erik's ear, when he spoke
Erik thought he could almost feel his teeth brushing up against the soft skin
there. "Because I have not yet taught you how to scream 'yes, my prince,
harder' in gaelic."
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Historical Notes at the end. Please enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Erik slept poorly with Charles pressed up against his back, one arm wrapped
around Erik's chest pinning the two of them together. Throughout the night the
tickle of hot breath or the occasional twitch of Charles' fingers drove him
absolutely mad, and as night started to fade into predawn Erik was awoken by
Charles rutting up against his naked ass. It was not pleasant... truly, no
matter how much his body wanted to claim otherwise he did not appreciate the
princeling...
"Ohh..." His hissed and then whimpered when Charles' hand moved from its
position on his chest down to his already half-hard cock, stroking gently. He
muffled his next moan into one of the furs that made up the prince's bed.
Charles took his time, lazily stroking and touching Erik while Erik's body
struggled to do anything but give in to lingering sleepiness and arousal.
Charles seemed to enjoy just touching, his own thrusting paused as he played,
fingers and palm tight around Erik. The prince leaned in, nose brushing against
the back of Erik's neck.
"Tell me when you are about to come for me." He punctuated his command with a
bite, just a soft nip against Erik's ear.
Erik nodded, moaning into the ground. Damn horse-witch-boy-whore had him
panting already. Charles continued his leisurely assault, his grip firm. The
feeling of another hand on him - different from last night, or any of the other
times he touched himself for release - had already started to drive him to
distraction. The prince seemed to know exactly how to touch him and please him
and he did it wantonly. Charles' mouth stayed close to Erik's throat, his
breath quick and labored and hot on his neck. Embarrassingly soon, Erik felt
the familiar trembling of his body and the tension in his balls.
"Now," he barely choked out, and Charles' hand went to cover his tip, coating
Charles' hand with Erik's come. Erik's cock twitched and his body shivered; the
mix of predawn chill and his orgasm overpowering any rational thought.
"Hands and knees." Charles' voice was urgent and Erik's sleep and sex sated
body moved slowly to comply.
Charles was behind him before Erik was truly aware of his movements, his
erection pressed between Erik's legs. Charles' hand smearing come between his
thighs and the warmth there made him shiver in the morning chill. The lazy urge
to leave his legs spread wide fled when Charles tugged them closed, thrusting
between his legs and groaning, crazed and hot instead of the slow burn from
last night.
The resemblance to what Erik had expected from the prince last night was
obvious, but rather than leave him tense and afraid he was relaxed. Charles'
fingers dug into his thighs. His hands held Erik tight and ran over his back,
warm and possessive. Erik experimentally flexed his thighs, squeezing around
Charles, and the prince came immediately after in a mumble of 'good, so good,
Erik', before he leaned lazily against Erik's back.
At first he thought Charles might just lay there, napping in some post-coital
haze, but the stillness didn't last and he pulled away just a few moments
later.
"Incredible..." Charles ran his fingers along Erik's back and spine. Lazy
touches turned into a light massage; Charles' fingers dug into Erik's back,
releasing some of the tension there. "I never thought you would be so..." Erik
turned and caught a look on Charles' face, wistful and sad.
Whatever he'd been about to say was never said, and Charles gave Erik's leg a
light slap. "Get yourself cleaned up and dressed, we will be riding longer
today." And then Charles... kissed him, just a press of lips against his neck,
but it embarrassed him completely.
Charles rose, tugged a tunic on and went to wash himself in the front of the
tent.
Erik let himself collapse onto his side for a moment, his breathing and his
heartbeat finally starting to recover from the prince's ruthless morning
assault on his mind and senses. As the fog in his mind started to clear, he
realized two things: he'd enjoyed the prince's touch far more than he'd
expected and he'd enjoyed it far more than any of the other such encounter in
his life.
The thoughts rushing through his head left him confused and shaky, but as soon
as Charles had left the tent he rose, scrubbing himself clean and trying to
wake himself from the sleepy buzz of a morning orgasm. After he was clean, his
mind shied away from what he and Charles had done last night and that morning,
slipping into the safer feel of tending to the prince's possessions instead of
his body. He slipped into a pair of pants that had arrived sometime yesterday
with legs far too long for Charles and obviously meant for him. He shrugged
into his tunic and then his belt before he went about packing the few things
that Charles had unpacked the night before. It wasn't much, the wine skin and
charts from the front of the tent, his fur blankets, and a change of clothes
from the back of the tent. After Erik had helped stow the prince's things he
saw that the soldiers took care of the tent itself and he went off in search of
Charles.
Erik found the prince laughing with one of the men from last night - Sean. He
was clinging to a plate in one hand and the other was wrapped around Sean's
shoulders, the two of them obviously sharing a good natured joke. Charles
looked exceptionally boyish like that, and Erik couldn't help the twist of
something that felt too much like fondness for him to be entirely comfortable
with it.
"Ah, Erik."
"Princeling," Erik answered, biting out the diminutive to help him deal with
how unacceptable his thoughts were.
Charles leaned in and said something in gaelic; after a moment's hesitation,
Erik echoed him.
"What does that mean?"
Charles still didn't back away, and even leaned in just a little closer. "It
means 'my prince'."
It was completely unfair, but now it was burned into his memory. "My prince."
Charles rewarded him with a huge grin.
"Are my things stowed?" Erik nodded. "Good, we will be leaving just after
dawn."
Travel along the Roman roads was boring - intentionally so - all of the roads
were long, uniform, and generally in an area that would be safe from covert
attack. They were designed to move troops up and down the island as quickly as
possible, moving supplies and goods and armies. It was difficult to accept that
the roads that had been built for Romans were now being used by Celts to bring
the fight to his brothers.
"You are thoughtful, today," Charles noted when they were barely away from
camp.
Outside of Charles' tent - when the prince couldn't be naked and utterly
bewitching - Erik managed to keep a good deal more of his wits about him.
Charles dressed in full armor and ready for battle was not the same man as the
pale boy with winedrunk lips. "Why did you keep me?"
"I think I have made myself quite... explicit on that point." Erik turned away,
fighting down a blush. It seemed as though no one near them spoke latin well
enough to catch Charles' meaning, however. Still, rather than continue to
tease, Charles changed the subject. "I am interested in you, Erik, and not just
your body, your mind as well. Gaius Seutonius Paulinus' son is unlikely to be a
fool. Someone thought highly enough of you to send you to kill the boy-king of
the Britons."
And Gaius Seutonius Paulinus' son had failed at that charge. "I do not think
you would currently find me particularly well recommended by Rome, my prince."
"That is certainly your emperor's loss."
"I do not think the Emperor would have the same level of interest in me as you
do."
"Again, your emperor's loss," Charles smiled, twisting slightly to root around
in his saddle bag and then he pulled out an apple, holding on to his horse only
with his thighs while he cut the apple in half with the knife from his belt.
"My interest is entirely selfish."
Erik looked down, still embarrassed by how casually Charles seemed to mention
wanting to fuck him. Charles seemed able to read his thoughts, somehow.
"What I mean is that I want to know your mind, Erik. You are obviously very
clever and well respected, no amount of nepotism would earn you a century under
your command, certainly not after Watling Street, and you are young - as
Centurions are counted." He was a grown man compared to the princeling,
possibly a decade older or more. He managed to ignore the stinging memory of
his father's defeat, barely. "That you were picked to kill me indicates either
exceptionally high regard for you and your abilities... or a desire to see you
dead. Both are promising if you think about it; there's no reason to see
someone dead if they aren't dangerous."
"I will not help you fight Romans." That seemed to be what Charles was talking
around, picking his mind for tactics and strategy. He might be incapable of
keeping his dignity in Charles' bed, but he would not break on the field, and
he would not betray Rome by revealing whatever secrets and advantage he might
have to offer.
"Of course not." Charles handed him down a half apple and Erik took it, turning
it over in his hands while they continued to walk. "What did you think of the
men last night."
"The girl included?" Charles nodded. Erik considered not answering, Charles was
obviously fishing for something - advice, perhaps. "I'm surprised you have a
woman under you."
"No one more surprised than my mother and sister. I think they were despairing
that I would never have a woman under me." Charles' tone made his meaning
obvious.
Erik blanched at the bawdy double meaning. Charles might speak latin like a
Roman, but he talked sex like a Celt. Erik managed to clear his head just
enough to find the irony in the situation. "Perhaps Rome should not be so
concerned with your upcoming marriage, then? One can hardly forge a dynasty if
the Rex Britannia has no heir." Certainly there had been more than one Emperor
in the history of Rome who had been too fascinated with pretty boys to even
make an attempt at an heir.
"Mmm, Rex Britannia is it?" He snorted. "I'm certain I can manage the deed, if
not I'm certain my wife will be more than willing to cuckold me."
Rumors of Celtic lechery were clearly clearly not over-exaggerated. Certainly
there were rumors that such things occasionally happened in the Imperial court,
an infertile man or match between close kin providing only stillbirths suddenly
producing an heir. Such things weren't something one discussed on horseback
with a slave, or even over a polite drink in a back room of a villa. Erik bit
into the apple, finding it was crisp and a little tart, good.
"I believe we were discussing my men," Charles prompted when Erik found himself
lost in thought for too long.
"I have not seen them in battle," he said, not quite wanting to make an
assessment of Charles' men, he had only watched them for a short time, and then
he couldn't understand a word they were saying, they might have been hot
headed, even handed, useless, or brilliant and Erik wouldn't have known the
difference. He wondered if that was the point and that Charles was asking for
some reason other than because he thought Erik had a handle on them. "Scott and
Alex are hot headed, Alex more so. He's not sure of himself, and the one of the
four I would think most likely to break a formation to pursue his own glory or
a vendetta."
Charles nodded, but said nothing, he took another bite of apple.
"Sean is... small." He shrugged, no other word for it. "You are slight but he
wouldn't stand against a good breeze. Jean seems steady enough, but I'm not
certain how she expects to swing a sword."
"They will all surprise you, I think. Alex and Scott I trust with my life - I
have been into battle with them dozens of times."
Erik bit back a retort, he knew that he probably shouldn't assume he'd be
allowed so much candor. Still, Charles seemed to appreciate it, even when he
had nothing good to say. "I do not think practice skirmishes should be counted
in that total, princeling."
"Nor do I." Charles grinned back at him, but his face turned serious a moment
later. "You underestimate me just because you think I look like a pleasure
slave. I have spent a quarter of my life fighting for freedom from a Rome that
betrays her promises to her client kings and consumes more and more land for
little more than sport and glory."
For a moment, Erik thought he might have said too much, but Charles' good humor
returned only a few seconds later and he finished the rest of his apple,
tossing the core off of the side of the road. Erik knew the history there -
knew that his own father hadn't honored the will written by Charles' father.
Rather than leaving the Iceni territory to Rome - as was tradition - Charles'
father had left half of it to Charles with Emma as his regent; Nero and his
father had taken it poorly. Meeting Charles, even Raven and Emma, had given him
a slightly new perspective, and he could no longer feel a certain pleasure in
knowing that Emma had been beaten and her children violated for their
arrogance.
"Did you keep me to punish me for what my father ordered done to you and your
family?" Maybe it was odd that he hadn't even thought of that before, but he
had always thought his father had the right of it... that Celts couldn't
administer anything, and yet...
"No," Charles answered, almost immediately. "If that had been my intention I
would have given you to my sister."
Erik remembered the hard slap he'd received just for a snort, he could only
imagine what the girl might have done if she was given free rein to visit
revenge for his father's actions onto him.
"Your father has already paid for what he did," Charles answered, voice still
hard. "Vengeance must end there or it will never end."
Erik knew if he found the man personally responsible for his father's death he
would not be so forgiving. "Then why marry Moira and ally with the Brigantes to
kill her mother?"
"The fire that first drove our vengeance five years ago has long since burned
out. If you asked your father, or Petronius or Trebellius why they conducted
battles to bring pieces of Briton under control, you would not assume it was
vengeance."
"Pure conquest," Erik had to admit he didn't think the princeling had it in
him. "Bringing physical and agricultural resources under one administrative
control."
"That is already the case of the south east; the tribes there were gutted of
leadership, roads laid down, latin taught, Romans brought in to build little
Roman towns, and then the administrators proved themselves unwilling to even
follow their own laws concerning our properly..."
Charles trailed off, but Erik could finish the prince's thoughts in his own
head. The little piece of the Empire in Briton, realistically months away from
Rome, was barely worth it economically. Clay and gold and silver and venison
couldn't be worth the deaths that Charles forced to keep the cold island under
Roman control.
"You are..." Erik struggled for a word.
"Barbarous? We yell and scream in battle? Paint ourselves blue and run into
battle naked? Pass out every night from drink? Fuck sheep?" Each of those
charges Erik had heard at least once in his time in Briton or Gaul or Rome
itself. They did scream, and some painted themselves, certainly, but on the
other charges it was impossible to say that Charles - or any of other Britons
he had seen - fit that description. "I have read Caesar's Commentarii de Bello
Gallico."
"Not all Celts are like you." That was true enough, it had to be. Celts were
stuck in petty feuds, blood for blood and then blood again just for the sake of
it.
"That is because my father loved Rome, and respected and admired the progress
they brought to our tribe and the island." That seemed to be the end of
Charles' thoughts on the matter, and they left Erik equally silent as he walked
along next to Charles, continuing up the Ermine Street.
Charles' latin was flawless, as always. Erik hadn't given much thought to it
before but he must have had a tutor, or several, who had taught him to speak
like he did, to write like he did, and to think like he did. He wondered, idly,
if Charles youth might not have been a great deal like his own, just with
hundreds of miles of distance between those childhood homes. Briton had some of
the finest goods Rome could offer from trade, and some brilliant tutors might
enjoy the cold and dank weather for a change.
He had said it earlier, Charles wanted to combine something distinctly Roman
and distinctly Celtic across the island. Erik tried to imagine having this
conversation with his own father - were they not father and son - or with the
Emperor himself, and found it was impossible. The Celtic discipline hierarchy
was... odd, but it meant he could share interesting conversations with the
prince.
About an hour before they would likely stop for lunch, one of the scouts,
riding farther off in the wings, came back into view of their lead. Charles
tensed, back straightened, and Erik could see even from the ground. With a few
words, Charles sent a runner heading down the line before the scout reached
them. The scout arrived a few minutes later, panting, and Charles handed over
one of his water bottles while the man collected his breath, a few words made
Charles relax - nothing too dangerous, then.
The situation from the scout seemed to leave Charles tense, barely noticeable
except in the way he sat up slightly in the saddle. His voice was calm and
even, probably picking for more details. Not for the first time, Erik wished he
could understand what Charles was saying, but he ignored the urge, continuing
to walk alongside him.
"Erik. Please tell my mother we expect some diplomacy with the Catuvellauni
tribe over lunch. I require her presence and your service at her direction."
Erik paused for a moment. "Is diplomacy a euphemism?"
Charles laughed, looking down at him with something that Erik could only call
fondness. "No, although I suppose I made it sound like one. Find Alex and
Scott, as well, tell them..." He considered his words more carefully and then
said something brief in gaelic. "My prince dines with your father."
He mumbled it a few times before he headed off to the side of the road and
picked his way down the line, searching for the bitch-queen's bright horse or
the bright bronze helms that might indicate the brothers. Charles was...
exceptionally wise now that he realized the two generals were not part of his
own tribe. Charles said he had fought with them in dozens of battles, and
although he suspected the prince was exaggerating some it meant that the three
of them were bound by the next closest thing to familial blood.
Alex and Scott's father must have been Christopher - the man who had stepped up
to take the place of Caratacus after his defeat fifteen years ago. The boys
would grow used to accepting Charles' authority on the field, and before
battle, and that would naturally mean they would bind themselves to him after
the battles had been fought. He relayed the message to the brothers, and
they... hopefully thanked him, he wasn't certain, and then set off to find
Queen Emma.
* * *
Diplomacy did appear to be a euphemism, but not for anything dangerous, just a
dozen Celts getting drunk together on mead while they picked apart bits of
venison, lounging together on the side of the road. Emma had instructed Erik to
keep Charles' cup less full, and filled less frequently than the other members
of the Catuvellauni tribe, and he'd done so, watching with something akin to
horror as Charles got more and more drunk despite his best efforts.
He was rather shocked, then, when the pause for lunch ended little more than an
hour after it had began, with Charles pulling himself up onto his horse and
sobering the moment Christopher was out of view, thundering off into the
distance.
"I thought you were going to need to be tied to your saddle, my prince," he
admitted, joking. Somehow that was easy when they were alone in the middle of
the swirl of men.
Charles' speech was still slightly slurred, his eyes slightly heavy, but it was
nothing compared to the way Alex and Scott had to lean against each other to
even make it back to their horses. "That would never do, I have an image to
uphold, after all."
"Did all that drunkenness serve some sort of purpose?"
"Yes, I should say so, Christopher and another thousand of his men will be
joining us in a few days before we reach Coritavi territory. Which is good..."
Charles sighed, patting his horse's neck and rubbing lightly. "The Coritavi
have retained their neutrality in this little mess, since before Caratacus'
rebellion, and since. They roll whichever way they sense the wind blowing."
"And you want them to feel the gods currently favor you, as opposed to the
Romans among the Brigantes."
"Of course. A few more men, loyal and experienced, at my back cannot hurt."
"Christopher's tribe is the closest to your family's territory that you have
not taken under your control directly..." Charles nodded. "Is that why Alex and
Scott are among your generals?"
"And they are capable, both of them were with me during Emma's rebellion, and
we learned arms together. Young enough to see the wisdom of something new, old
enough to be ready for their authority." Charles confirmed everything he'd been
thinking earlier; Charles was thoughtful, and having the Catuvellauni princes
among his generals was a tactical and strategic move, not just friendship with
boys his own age. Erik was finding that he continually underestimated the
prince, and he wondered how many other impressions of the young man might have
been mistaken by his own first impressions.
"Like you, my prince?" He teased, again, after his thoughts settled.
Charles grinned. "I should hope so."
The rest of the ride passed in tedium that Erik was glad to avoid by focusing
on the road ahead and behind, ignoring the way he'd already come to enjoy
trading occasionally pointed jabs with the prince and enjoyed the way he
laughed or smiled when Erik's teasing was particularly apt.
When they made camp late in the afternoon, Erik hurried through his own chores
and then went in search of Charles rather than wait for him. He didn't examine
his own motivations too closely, and he told himself it was only to check and
see the competition that the Romans would have from the Celtic boy-king. The
camp itself was filled with men who were practicing the sort of one-on-one
hostilities that couldn't win an engagement on an open field; they were decent
siege tactics, for when men got up over the wall, dividing the garrison apart
and picking at them while they attempted to form lines. There would be need for
that when they arrived in the north. Erik didn't imagine the Brigantes would
want to form lines for Charles to drive his men against - the Romans might, but
Cartimandua would stay off the field. Her death would solidify Charles
authority with the Brigantes, and Rome would want to avoid that at all costs.
Erik wondered if Charles had considered that and if his first goal would be to
secure the death or capture of his wife's mother and end the Brigantes civil
war. He doubted the prince had that level of ruthlessness in him, but he was
beginning to doubt all his assumptions concerning Charles.
He found Charles, in 'command' of approximately a century's worth of men across
the field from Alex and Scott, each holding their own century's worth of men,
formed up in a standard Roman line. Erik might have formed up in a more
protective configuration, but with Charles' men not using slings or javelins it
didn't matter. A stray bolt was more likely to cause damage than the hard mock
swords the two armies employed. Erik thought it immature, not using proper
swords, until he realized that Charles had every intention of running the mock
enemy down, true swords would have courted an unfortunate accident.
Alex and Scott's lines transitioned seamlessly to repel the calvary charge,
spears out - anti-Celtic maneuvering, Charles paused his charge and yelled
something that brought infantry up from behind him, charging between the spears
and running down the front lines. Both sides were taking casualties, and Alex
and Scott held their centuries tight and responded to Charles' shifting tactics
the way Erik might have, but even though Charles only had a handful of horsemen
in his ranks they moved effortlessly to provide a near-constant flanking of
whatever the brothers did.
Erik was unsure if the tactics would scale to a larger battle, certainly one
where Alex and Scott couldn't have the same precise control over a dozen
centuries would have gone even more disastrously for the brothers. They also
had the luxury of familiarity with Charles' moves and they hadn't moved fast
enough.
The battle ended with most of the mock-Roman force down and Charles' forces
down less than a quarter. Erik wasn't certain what he might have done
differently in one of the brothers' place.
"Erik, come to watch?" Charles was... excited, cheeks flushed, panting from
exertion, and it reminded him of the way Charles looked when he... "What are
your thoughts?"
Sex. He blinked, shook his head. "The brothers do not use their pila properly."
"No, not for live practice, but our forces did not use slings either."
"Slings and pila do not offer the same contribution to Celt or Roman tactics,"
Erik shot back, and Charles grinned. Erik realized that, without even trying,
Charles had drawn him into a tactical discussion.
"So would you loose both at the start, do you think? Then what would be the
best response to the handful of calvary...?"
Erik shut his mouth and glowered. Charles shrugged. A few men with more severe
bangs and cuts were helped up by their compatriots while Alex, Scott, and two
of the 'legionaries' who had served under the brothers formed up around Charles
and they began to debate what might have been the tactics of the match. All
five of the boys were smiling brilliantly and a fervent discussion that
revolved around some aspect of pila use continued all the way back to camp. The
two other boys were the centurions in training, then, Alex and Scott just
providing the most experienced hand next to them, teaching by example.
They shed Alex and one of the other boys, followed by Scott and the second
before they returned to Charles' tent and the prince slipped inside, the weight
of being battle leader and prince seemed to fall away immediately and Charles
started to strip out of his armor immediately. Erik found himself helping,
hands barely even tempted by the sword and dagger at Charles waist that ended
up carefully strung in the back of the tent.
"I'll need my wound washed and dressed before I must entertain my other
generals." Charles indicated the chest from last night, the one he'd used to
treat Erik's wound, and then sat down on a stool and shucked his tunic.
Erik unwrapped the bandage against Charles' shoulder. "I do not know if your
tactics would scale up to greater force numbers."
Charles turned, curious about something, but then he turned back to face
forward. The wound was deeper than he would have expected, obviously from a hit
with a sword in the back, and it would scar despite the neat stitching. Erik
carefully cleaned the wound, fingers touching along the edges as Charles leaned
forward.
"They will," Charles answered a moment later. "Or I should say that they have
in both skirmishes and a few pitched battles."
"Even with the use of javelins?" He was curious. Romans uses the pila to break
a shield wall, or just force an enemy soldier to fight without shield, or break
the line. He had never seen an opposition force recover from a well placed
volley of legionary javelins.
"Mmm. There are rumors that a part of the Ninth will attempt to engage with us
in the Coritavi region, they have a garrison just north of there." Erik
listened while he cleaned around the wound, surprised that Charles would tell
him that even if he had no way to get that information to a Roman force. "If
that is the case, you are more than welcome to assess the tactics."
"Your mother's revolt was won by strength of numbers, but you are perhaps
evenly matched on strength with a full legion."
"I know." Charles hissed when Erik's fingers grazed too close to the wound,
arching slightly. "It will be the first test of our full, trained strength
since Watling Street."
"A great deal can change in five years."
Charles nodded, and Erik could see it was troubling the boy-prince. Erik felt
more torn than he would have expected. His first and only loyalty should have
been to the Ninth - one of the longest serving legions in Briton - and he
should have had no thought but to how they should crush Charles' force and end
the threat of native revolt. And he still felt that, he just hoped desperately
that perhaps Charles - and maybe his generals - might be spared during the
slaughter. Maybe he could live out his life in Rome the way Caratacus had after
his failed rebellion. If anyone could give a stirring speech that would move an
Emperor, it would be Charles.
The thoughts were ridiculous folly, though. Charles' force would be crushed if
they clashed with the Ninth, and Erik did not think he could prevail upon the
commander to spare Charles' life long enough for him to beg for mercy at the
feet of the Emperor.
That truth shouldn't have twisted in his stomach and rested like a heavy, lead
ball.
"How long?"
"Four days."
"Do you want to meet with them?"
"They represent over half of the Roman force that Cartimandua has at her
disposal for the Brigantes defensive. She would not be able to field that
impressive a force against me again. My men have been fighting other Celts for
generations, we have only been fighting Romans for little longer than my
lifetime. Without her Roman backers she will fall easily."
Assuming they could be taken. Erik ran his fingers down Charles' back, slowly
touching and massaging the skin there.
"Do I detect a hint of concern, Erik?"
"No," he answered, immediately.
Charles hung his head, sighed. Had Charles though he actually meant it? The
prince had to know there was no way that Erik could say that out loud, even if
he did care, even thought he was concerned. It was betrayal enough that his own
mind couldn't decide if he wanted the prince's success or failure on the field.
He tugged on Charles' waist, pulling the boy back against him, pulling him into
his lap and wrapping his arms tight around the princeling. Charles didn't
resist, just ran his hands down the sides of Erik's legs, touching where he
could, and Erik pressed his nose and lips against Charles' back. He smelled
like sweat and horse and iron, tasted like salt and leather.
Charles gasped when Erik pressed his tongue near his spine, just savoring that
taste. "No..."
Erik blinked, shocked, then pulled his mouth away. Whatever spell Charles had
weaved on him was broken and Erik's thoughts were clear again, free of the
conflicting thoughts in his head. Charles scooted away and moved back to the
stool in front of Erik.
"Finish with the bandage, I need dinner, mead for my men." Charles was...
angry, upset with him, something.
Erik did as he was told.
Charles said nothing to him while he ate the dinner that Erik brought him, said
nothing while he scrubbed himself clean and changed back into his armor to
greet his elder generals, all but ignored him while he circled around, keeping
the men's glasses filled - but Charles' less so - throughout their meeting.
Charles was bright, shining, happy, he was their boy-prince-general, but that
was the first time that Erik realized that it wasn't the truth, that Charles
wasn't happy and bright and shining in that moment.
Erik saw it in the way that Charles almost collapsed when the last general left
him in peace, the energy that had been holding him up was gone, and he shoved
Erik's hands away when he tried to help with Charles' armor. Nervous now, he
went into the back of the tent, almost hoping Charles would stop him or send
him away for the night, but he didn't. He stripped, set his clothing aside
neatly and slipped under the furs he'd laid out to make Charles' bed, not quite
certain what to expect from the man who would join him in bed.
Charles must have stayed up some time, because Erik had already half fallen
asleep when the prince slipped into bed behind him, breath stinking of far more
mead than Erik had served him. He was hard, his erection pressing against
Erik's ass and making him tense. He steeled himself, readied himself to be
pushed over or into, fucked and grabbed and pinned down, but instead Charles
wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, nose pressing into his nape.
He didn't even move to rub himself between Erik's thighs like he had that
morning, just ... stayed there behind him, tense and curled around Erik's
larger frame.
"I care." He didn't know if that was why Charles was upset but... he did care.
He didn't know what he really wanted, what he would want if Charles clashed
with the Ninth, but he did care.
"You do not."
It had already cost him a great deal to even say that, so he couldn't say any
more than that. He spread his legs, reached behind to take Charles' hip and
pull him forward. Charles sighed into Erik's back, hands rubbing down his sides
but still not moving.
"You want me dead." Charles sounded resigned, and he let his fingers curl
gently into Erik's body. "Just a few days ago you tried to kill me. If you do
want me alive it's only so you can lay with me without offending your precious
Roman honor. I don't..." Charles pushed him away, and Erik went even though he
felt cold and bereft from the loss of the warmth at his back. "Tomorrow you
will go to my mother and do as she says. I cannot get what I need from you."
Something cold grabbed Erik's chest and squeezed, not because he feared Emma,
or even Raven, but because... he didn't even know. He should be glad to have
Charles out of sight so he wouldn't have to see those perfect eyes and lips,
wouldn't be tempted by the quirk of his lips.
He should have felt powerful, realizing how much a few words had hurt Charles,
but he felt nothing of the sort. He couldn't do anything to take back what he
had done without giving up being a Roman, without accepting a life as Charles'
slave and give himself over completely to what Charles saw for the world.
"Of course, my prince."
* * *
Erik woke before dawn, still cold and still conflicted. Charles was still
asleep, not peaceful at all, face tense either feigning sleep or truly that
frustrated. He moved about the room for a few moments, packing everything but
the prince's bed, setting out a change of clothes, bundling his own meager
change of clothes into a pile, hugged tight to his chest before he kissed
Charles' naked shoulder and headed out into the slowly waking camp.
Emma was a sight to see in the morning, perfect hair out of place, eyes tired,
and then she was looking at Erik as though he was a bug and he could see it in
her face that she somehow knew what had passed between him and Charles even
though he knew Charles hadn't left the night before.
His pre-dawn was spent brushing out Emma's hair and then taking instruction
from Hank in how to plait it properly. He brought Emma her breakfast and
scrounged a piece of bread and a half an apple with Hank's help. With Hank he
broke down the physician's tent and stowed it in their carts, and then the Celt
stuck to his side as they walked, carefully teaching him more gaelic than he
had learned in his two years on the island before that day.
For the first time since Charles had stabbed him, he was miserable.
With dawn broken and his blood finally moving through his body again as they
walked up Ermine Street he realized that he had hurt Charles' feelings, badly.
But it was hardly fair that he blamed Erik for that, at least as far as Erik
was concerned. Erik was the slave, to be used however Charles saw fit, and yet
Charles seemed to have expected... affection.
He'd been so smug when he'd pressed up against Erik, saying that Erik could beg
Charles to be fucked, but he realized that hadn't been bravado - or if it had
been it was laced with a layer of longing he hadn't realized Charles possessed.
"You are thinking too loudly, slave," Emma finally bit at him while they were
hours between breaking camp and stopping for lunch.
"I'm sorry."
"You should be," Raven growled from his other side, Hank doing his best to
placate her but mostly failing.
He wondered, again, how it was that both the queen and princess seemed to know
he had hurt Charles. Maybe that was the only reason Charles would have sent him
to them.
The ever-present Emma and Raven meant he couldn't even express to Hank how
ridiculous it was for everyone to blame him for the fact that the prince wanted
to fuck him and wanted him to like it. He already did like it! Erik wasn't
certain they had noticed but Charles was perfection, all soft lines but hard
underneath, beautiful face, pale skin, and a voice that made moans twice as
obscene. Charles already had Erik willingly in his bed, what more had he
wanted.
Learning the words for horse and water and wagon and sword and queen and
princess was a meager substitute for philosophical debates on armies and
kingships.
He shouldn't care anyway, the princeling's revolt would be crushed in a few
days, Erik would be dead or freed, Charles would be dead or enslaved, and Erik
was entirely certain he would be miserable.
Fucking princeling and his arrogance.
At lunch he filled water skins, checked the queen and princess' horses' hooves
for stones, and then got a strip of smoked fish and a hunk of bread and a few
swallows of mead.
"You and the prince ... quarreled?" Hank finally asked them when the two of
them sat at the edge of the road eating their lunch.
Erik frowned, he had no idea how everyone in the entire camp seemed to know
what had gone on between him and Charles in the privacy of his tent.
"Yes." He bit the fish strip and gnawed at it with his teeth, it was tough, and
tasted more of smoke and salt than anything else.
The other man looked like he wanted to ask more, but didn't quite have the
words to ask it.
"Charles is a good man."
"You call him Charles?" Emma and Raven did, certainly, but he hadn't even heard
Alex or Scott call Charles by his name, just 'prince'.
"I am his physician, I suppose I have a certain familiarity with him, yes."
"You're the one who sewed me up the night of my attack." Hank nodded. "You are
very talented." Erik stretched out his feet and wiggled his toes while he
thought. "Are you Roman?"
"Greek."
"How did a Greek man end up a slave to the Celtic King of Briton?" And why did
he serve so cheerfully and willingly serve as little more than a body servant
to the queen and princess?
"The same as any other, I was taken from my home at fourteen, served the legion
that captured me, was brought to Briton seven years ago, and then five years
ago was captured again during Emma's rebellion." He shrugged, and then offered
Erik a slice of hard cheese that he had gotten - more food than Erik apparently
now rated - and Erik took it gratefully.
"So you served with my father?"
"Your father? I'm sorry, the queen and princess call you... 'Erik' or other
titles less flattering."
"Gaius Seutonius Paulinus, my father."
Hank's mouth formed a silent little 'O' and then he rifled his fingers through
his hair, scrubbing for a moment before he ran his fingers along the knees of
his pants. "Yes, I was with your father on Watling Street."
That was the end of their conversation, Hank did not bring it up within hearing
range of Raven or Emma - which seemed natural - and they instead continued his
education in the various words and phrases of the Celts. Erik was slowly
starting to realize that Hank was brilliant. He spoke greek, latin, the
language of the southern Briton Celts, and he was one of the most talented
physicians that Erik had never known. Charles was intensely lucky to have him.
He and Hank set up the tents for the princess and queen, and then he followed
Hank around playing nurse to his doctor while Hank treated the various cuts and
scrapes and illnesses of the road. There was nothing major, but he imagined
that Charles and the soldiers he sparred with that afternoon would have at
least a few scrapes and bruises between them, so the two of them ended up
taking their dinner outside of the core of camp, far enough away so that
Charles wouldn't see him, but close enough to watch the battle.
"Do you know how my father was taken?" Erik asked when they were alone again.
Hank looked away, nervous, watching the battle unfold. "Charles didn't tell
you?"
"Charles? He was... twelve or thirteen, wasn't he?"
"He had just turned fourteen, Celts learn to fight young. Charles was... a
studious boy, at least that's what Raven has told me. He always was studying
figures and history, military tactics, grammar, everything he could get his
hands on. He had five Roman tutors."
Erik took in the knowledge. He always - still - saw Charles as a boy. "I
suppose I had assumed he hadn't taken part in the Battle of Watling Street."
"Oh..." Hank tugged his pants lightly, playing with the fabric. "If not for the
prince's study of Roman strategy and tactics the battle would have likely gone
in your father's favor."
Erik watched the battle out in the field, watched Charles seamlessly maneuver
men around, showing them how to shatter Roman formations. "How was it done?"
His back was tense, and he tried to make sense of what Hank had slowly - and
perhaps accidentally - revealed to him. Erik had assumed that Charles took no
part in the battle that had defeated his father, he was too young, and would
have had little experience on the field.
"Charles was always meant to be a leader. His father saw that he had training
from the best Celtic and Roman arms men, tutors, and scholars. He has studied
all of the military histories, Caesar's victories against the Gaulish Celts,
the conquests of the Briton Celts from before his birth, and he had studied the
way an untrained and under armored force could be shattered by the strength of
a legion."
Erik nodded, picking at his food and taking in what Hank was saying. He
realized - dully - that he didn't know Charles at all. He knew the friendly man
who made his heart pound and his body tense, but it hadn't sunk in that Charles
was a prince for reasons beyond his birth.
"After..." Hank looked down, nervous, and then curled his arms around his knees
looking like a child rather than a full grown man. "After Governor Seutonius
ordered the... queen flogged and her children..." Hank shook his head, not
quite able to say it out loud.
Erik couldn't blame him, the consequences of war were something that happened
to other people, people that he didn't know, and yet knowing Charles had been
that betrayed by the Romans he respected made it even more incredible he could
smile at all, could talk mercy or forgiveness at all.
"Charles began training immediately, he took boys and girls just a few years
older than him from all the tribes Emma brought under her own banner. They
drilled daily for the year it took them to destroy Camulodunum, Londinium, and
Verulamium while your father - Seutonius - struggled to disengage with the
Celts in the west and bring a force together to face Emma's battle lines. He
picked perfect ground a defile with forest to the back, making flanking... it
should have been impossible."
"But...?" Erik had heard that much, the terrain that his father had picked had
been perfect, forming up in the defile meant that the Celt's superior numbers
should have been useless.
"Charles had anticipated the maneuver, had said there was nowhere else in a
hundred miles that a man of your father's skill would choose to form up a
numerically inferior force. The defile works in both directions, though.
Seutonius thought to use the choke point to make 10,000 men stand against
150,000, and instead Charles took seven hundred and hit the back of their lines
from the forest after they had engaged with Emma in the front. Most of the
senior legates died in the first ten minutes of the strike."
"The choke point became a death trap," Erik realized in dawning horror. A
forest at his back meant a serious force couldn't have been fielded from the
rear, and a few hundred Celts shouldn't have been a serious force, a few
centuries, formed up properly, could have handled the scattered attacks of a
few amateurs. "My father underestimated Charles and Emma."
Hank nodded. "He... meant to break Emma by flogging her and what he had done to
her children, but all it did was light a fire in the belly of every Celt who
had ever bent the knee to Rome. It burned into their hearts that Rome would
never honor her commitments to them, and at the first sign of advantage the
Celts would be treated as barbarians to be crushed and exterminated."
For a moment, Erik was a Celt and hated his father, and then he felt sick,
fingers digging into his knees. "My father was an honorable man." He'd done as
Rome commanded, bringing Briton under Imperial authority. Charles had killed
him.
The physician didn't say anything, just watched the field where Charles moved
astride his horse, shouting commands and moving men around the field. He was
brilliant. Erik hadn't allowed himself to appreciate that, he'd defeated a
general with twice as many years of battle experience than Charles had been
alive; part of the success had been taking advantage of his father's arrogance,
and the truth that Erik had started to see after only a few days among Charles'
Celts. The Celts were people, just the same as Romans; they drank too much,
talked too freely about sex, and screamed too loud in battle, but they were
people.
"Celts can't be citizens of Rome," he said, like that explained everything even
though it explained nothing.
"Neither can greek physicians."
No, Hank would not have been a citizen, he would have been in Rome, serving his
father, as a useful slave, but a slave nonetheless. "You are not Celtic,
though, not a citizen."
"Tribes are by blood." Neither he nor Hank would ever be considered 'citizen'
in Briton. "If you had asked Charles seven years ago if he could pick one,
Iceni or Roman, he would not have hesitated."
"Roman."
"Yes. He wanted desperately to belong, to have scrolls and histories and
knowledge and math and writing and literature. He wanted a little villa on the
Mediterranean Sea, even though he's never been south of the channel, and hates
olives and fish. Sometimes I think he still would like that, even as he fights
to unify Briton."
Erik didn't understand why Hank was telling him this, or what he hoped to
accomplish. Charles was a Celt, he would never be a Roman. If he'd been a
Roman, Erik's feelings that were slowly growing for the prince would have been
even more unacceptable. Free men did not lay with each other with one playing
the woman, they were not Greeks.
"Charles understands that some people might choose their city or their tribe
for a reason other than blood." Hank smiled, tilted his head out towards the
battlefield where he saw Scott and Jean working together in tandem against
Charles today. "Jean is Brigantes, Scott is Catuvellauni, and together they
will administer the north for Charles and his queen when they head back to
Londinium."
The red head and the brunet worked well together, they forced more losses on
Charles' attacking army than Scott and Alex had the day before.
"So you have chosen to be a Celt?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"When I first met Charles, he was a boy, his hair falling into his eyes, his
hands stained with Roman blood and his chest stained with his own, he looked at
me and he said 'I am Charles, and I will be King of the Britons, would you do
the honor of serving me?' and then he passed out." Hank smiled, it was
obviously a fond memory of his despite the fact it must have come in the wake
of the Battle of Watling Street. "And all of his men crowded around, afraid for
his life, even though the way that Celts often become king is by slaughtering
the old king. He was barely fourteen and he had changed the hearts of seven
hundred men already. How could I not?"
Chapter End Notes
     Historical Notes:
     Petronius and Trebellius - Roman Governors of Briton who succeeded
     Gaius Suetonius Paulinus in real history, they have similarly
     succeeded him in alt history, both had a relatively conciliatory
     policy towards Briton, but in this reality Rome has stayed aggressive
     due to Charles' continued rebellion.
     Commentarii de Bello Gallico - Caesar's commentaries on his conquests
     on Gaul (France), this is generally considered to be where historians
     came up with the idea that Celts painted themselves in woad (an
     indigo-type plant for dye), but this is considered to possibly be
     ahistorical and more to play up the barbarian nature of the celts.
     Catuvellauni - The territory to the north of the Iceni tribe.
     Caractacus lead a resistance against the Romans and was betrayed to
     Cartimandua. He gave a stirring speech in Rome and lived out the rest
     of his life within the Empire. This territory now is controlled by
     Christopher Summers and his boys Alex and Scott.
     Coritavi - Territory north of the Catuvellauni, there's not much
     historical regarding their role in Boudicca's rebellion.
     Pila - javelins. Legionaries typically carried two, they served as a
     throwing weapon, good at disabling enemy shields, and as an anti-
     calvary weapon.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Home stretch. I'm knee deep in NaNoWriMo now, but will try to have
     the last bit edited before the week is out.
     Historical notes at the end.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
After Charles' mock battle finished, Hank retreated back to his tent with Erik
to tend to the injured men. He fetched water when commanded, boiled water when
told, scrubbed linen cloths clean and carried disgusting smelling concoctions
when instructed, and then finally, well passed sundown, he curled up on Hank's
uncomfortable floor covered with a thin wool blanket and slept badly.
Erik should have been furious with Charles. Charles had killed his father,
perhaps he had not been the one who slid the sword into his father's back or
slit his throat, but he had killed his father. The mission he'd been given
weeks ago, had failed to finish days ago, was supposed to end the threat of a
unified Briton under Charles' banner. Erik had always hoped he could slit
Charles' bitch-mother's throat as well and avenge his father's death.
Instead, his vengeance was supposed to be meted out to the prince, little more
than a boy, with soft brown hair and a warm smile. His father had meant to
shatter Charles, and it had only unified the Celts against him and left him
bleeding to death on the battlefield.
The day they had met, Charles had said that his father was a brilliant
tactician, now he had to wonder if Charles didn't mean that at least a bit
ironically, his decision not to honor the Iceni king's will had paid nasty
dividends for the last five years.
Erik considered his options. He should kill Charles. That would solve all of
his problems neatly, end the rebellion, avenge his father, restore his honor,
put him back in with Rome - probably have him in the good graces of the Ninth
and her general. Even thinking it made him feel ill. He could have killed the
princeling Rex Brittania a few days ago, today he would have had to kill
Charles. It should have have been hard to come to that decision. Trying to make
that decision, trying to think of how he might be able to get a dagger again,
slide into the prince's tent because no one would think better of it...
He had no idea how things had suddenly become so complicated. It was made worse
by the fact that Charles seemed to have some genuine feelings for him.
Despite his plan, he did not move to implement it, he couldn't, and instead of
sneaking out in an attempt to finish his mission he slept poorly and woke up
feeling sick.
He and Hank broke camp and his day seemed to be a near-repeat of the day
before. Hank taught him more gaelic in the morning, Hank abandoned him for
lunch to spend time with Raven, the two of them sitting on the side of the road
with Hank settled just behind her running his fingers through her hair. The
image left him... irritated. He ate his lunch, staring off into the distance
and thinking that Charles must be somewhere up the line, if he looked up the
road he could almost imagine he could see Charles' armor and fluffy brown hair.
That evening, Charles did not fight in the mock battle, just watched from the
distance, circling on his horse while the armies clashed and countered.
"Do you think he will defeat the legion if they meet Charles in battle?"
"I have no doubt," Hank answered, instantly. "If Charles picks the terrain, and
knows the enemy, I am not certain the Romans can defeat him."
"He's not infallible."
"No, but he is brilliant, and the generals of Rome constantly underestimate
him. The reason Roman forces tear through the Celts is because they can move
instantly and predictably to counter certain terrains and movements. Charles
has worked on ... counter-counters. Someday they will learn out to move against
those movements, but until then... Charles will win." Hank sounded deathly
certain. "Are you concerned for him?"
"Charles asked me that."
"What did you say?"
"...No."
Hank sucked in a breath between teeth, hissing, and then he turned away from
Erik, just looking out over the field at the troops as they moved and
countered.
"He shouldn't care what I think. I'm just his slave, not even his slave
anymore. I'm his mother's slave." Erik gripped his knees and also looked out at
the field, trying to assure himself that there were no weaknesses in Charles'
lines.
"Raven cares what I think," Hank said it like they were equivalent at all.
"Yes but she..." He looked down. "She obviously cares for you. Are you...
lovers?"
Hank smiled and blushed. "Sometimes, when it pleases her. She does not like me
to spend the night; waking with arms around her frightens her, but... yes. Do
you think Charles doesn't care for you?"
"I'm his slave. Why would he care? We're just chattel." Chattel to be rutted
against when the urge struck and sent away when the urge was satisfied.
"I am not a slave," Hank answered. "I am the royal family's physician,
physician of their army."
"But you were a Roman slave."
"And now I am a Celtic freeman, I have been for almost three years." Hank shook
his head. "You obviously do not understand. Charles... values integration,
certainly a normal slave with no skills would become a simple servant maybe a
tradesman if he knows one, but he's still free. Most Celtic slaves are from
other tribes and from conquest, but Charles believes in the unification of
tribes and thus... a slave from conquest is actually a citizen of Briton."
"Charles is an idealistic fool." He'd never been so certain of that as right in
that minute.
Hank nodded, leaning up against his knee. "Yes, he is. Did you know he has
Romans in his army? Not many, maybe two hundred, and over one hundred of them
are in the south with Charles' other generals poised against advances from
Cogidubnus. He trusts them with his life."
Erik couldn't imagine that - couldn't imagine taking up a sword and using it on
a fellow Roman. All that meant was that Charles' army had two hundred traitors.
That night, Charles visited with a small scratch to his knuckles and to get his
bandage changed by Hank. At first, Erik hovered around, close, nervous, but he
slowly became more and more aware of Charles, topless, as Hank checked his
wound for infection and discussed something with him low in gaelic. Erik found
himself staring. For the first time he noticed the very thin white scars that
marked Charles' body, more noticeable in the brightness of Hank's tent than the
low light he usually saw Charles in. He had a thin scar down his right side,
one - dangerous - along his other shoulder; that cut could have been an inch
higher and ended in death.
"Please leave," Charles told him, and Erik realized his gaze had gotten hot.
He wanted to protest, but he had no words that could have excused him. He
wanted to look at Charles and see him, wanted to imagine his hands playing down
the man's chest and making him moan.
Hank said something, did protest, and he and Charles argued, fiercely.
"Stay," Charles corrected himself.
He helped Hank, then, moved around with some water and the stinky balm that was
used to treat the wound. It was almost healed, and Erik realized that would
mean Charles would be in good form when it came time to clash with the Ninth,
and once again he was left feeling conflicted.
"I need to get some more cloth," Hank excused himself. When he didn't head
towards the back of the tent, but instead outside, Erik realized that Hank was
lying, and had excused himself just to be out of the tent. That left him with
Charles, the prince looking anywhere but towards him.
"You..." Erik fumbled with his words. "You pushed the line hard today."
Charles continued not to look at him. "We must make the Nene River before the
Ninth does."
Erik didn't know the terrain, but he assumed if Charles thought it was
important for the confrontation to be there, on Charles' terms, then Erik
trusted it was. He wanted to say something, wanted to make it clear that he
didn't wish Charles' death or failure, but to say he didn't want Charles'
failure meant he did want the failure of the Ninth, but he couldn't accept
that. "I missed you today."
"Erik, don't." Charles looked... old, weary and tired and run down. "I was an
idiot to court distraction by taking you into my tent, a mistake I do not
intend to continue when I need my mind on the battles to come."
Somehow Charles' words were a punch in the gut and a twist in his chest that
left him winded and confused. Charles found him distracting.
"If I did not know better, I would say you were sent from Rome just to torment
me."
A torment and a distraction. The idea was terrifying. Erik thought the
distraction and the conflicted feelings were only on his own part. Charles had
only known him for a few days, but Erik obviously was affecting Charles. He
felt as though Charles was a half-step away from composing poems in his honor
and that was unacceptable. "I don't want to distract you."
Charles shut his eyes, buried his face in his hands for a moment. "It is far
too late for that, Erik."
He could, he realized, have done more for the cause of the Ninth here than
anywhere else... if Charles was really going to be that distracted by him then
he could have turned the tide of battle. He couldn't. "Then I'll leave you. And
you can..."
Charles reached out, took Erik by the hand and pulled him close. Erik barely
resisted, and then Charles took the back of his neck and dragged him in for a
kiss. It started harsh, more two mouths slammed together than an embrace, but
then Charles slowed, lips relaxing and Erik mirrored him. Charles' lips were
soft, and tasted just faintly of wine, Erik let his tongue slide along those
lips and Charles moaned, a hand darting to Erik's hip to pull him close. They
stayed like that long enough for Erik to completely lose track of time, mouths
and tongues sliding together, Erik's heart speeding up steadily until it was
like war drums in his ears.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were panting, Charles' eyes glazed
over and Erik's head felt foggy.
The man sighed, hands running along his neck and he could tell Charles was
embarrassed, or bashful. It seemed strange that that would be their first kiss,
but Erik wanted nothing more than to kiss Charles again and again. He leaned
forward, mouth hot against Charles' mouth, and he tangled his fingers through
Charles' brown hair. Kissing anyone else had never felt like this, Charles was
driving him mad, there was no other explanation.
"Erik," Charles broke away again, fingers trailing down the side of his face.
"Hank had the best of intentions, I am certain, but..." He paused, seemed to
reconsider what he'd been about to say. "Will you wear my torc? Just until I am
married."
He was certain that meant a great deal more than just wearing the prince's
necklace, but what, he had no idea. He nodded anyway. Charles pressed his hands
up against the metal along the back, and Erik pressed his hands onto the side
as well. He knew it was solid gold and even the warmth of their hands and
Charles' neck was enough to leave it supple. Together they worked it off,
sliding it off Charles' throat and then Charles pulled it onto Erik's neck,
squeezing until it slid into place. The metal was heavy, an unfamiliar weight
on Erik's throat, the two ends resting heavy against his skin.
"Would you like me to... come to your tent tonight?"
Charles just smiled, his eyes sad, and he ran his fingers along Erik's face,
throat, and then across the metal there. "I would prefer we stick to an
illusion that I can maintain, so no."
Erik didn't understand, but he could accept that, he supposed. "Let me get you
bandaged up again."
He drew a few pads from the back of the tent, making it clear exactly how
Hank's retreat had been staged for their benefit, and then Erik wrapped the
shoulder carefully so that he could move around without dislodging the pad.
"Tomorrow--"
Charles shrugged into his tunic. "Tomorrow, please work with Hank again." The
prince pressed their lips together one final time, fingers brushing down his
throat.
Erik was being held, awkwardly and carefully at a distance, but he supposed
Charles must know what he was doing. He didn't even understand his own feelings
right now, so perhaps it was only natural that Charles was similarly confused.
That made him feel just a touch better, but only a touch.
The prince had been gone for almost an hour before Erik remembered that a true
Roman would have tried to kill Charles.
* * *
The next day, when he woke, it was impossible to hide the torc from Hank. He
hadn't meant to try, but the low collar of his tunic meant it sat uncomfortably
visible against his neck. The physician obviously had no idea what to make of
it.
"Is there a reason you spent the night here instead of with Charles?" Hank's
question was pointed and Erik's blush was furious.
Erik wasn't certain of that himself. "I think he does not want a distraction
while he prepares to march against the Ninth."
Hank looked as though he wanted to say something, closed his mouth and then
opened it again. "Would you mind helping me take down the tent again today?"
Yesterday it had been an order, a polite one, but still an order, and today it
was a request. Erik was glad enough to, it was a distraction from Charles and
his strange behavior, a distraction from Charles' mouth and his tongue and the
way he smiled so sadly last night. It was a distraction from the upcoming
battle that - no matter the outcome - was going to shatter Erik's world.
Breakfast was a quick affair, with an apple and some stale bread and venison
jerky. Erik swapped some of his sheep cheese for Hank's portion of a harder
cheese that he didn't care for.
If anything, the presence of Charles' torc around Erik's neck irritated Emma
and Raven even more, but he and Hank were able to have a decent morning
conversation that revolved around one of the many dozen tomes that Hank had
read. By lunch they had started to discuss some of Caesar's battles against the
Gauls and how they had forced the General's tactics only modestly. It was nice,
at least, even if it continued to fill Erik with dread that Charles would not
be able to handle the Ninth.
"You are worried about him, despite what you said," Hank finally noticed when
the two of them spent their lunch walking to and from a nearby spring.
Erik didn't answer with words, but did smile. He still couldn't voice it, but
yes, he was concerned. "I do not know what the exact strength of my father's
forces was, but the Ninth will be more prepared, and the numerical advantage
has disappeared."
"Charles has gotten better in the last four years."
He wished he could feel Hank's confidence. Or maybe he wished he didn't.
Instead he ended up just fingering the braided metal of the torc. It was heavy,
like wearing a cloak or just the heavier feel of armor against his shoulders.
Erik had never thought of it much before, but there were a half-dozen golden
braids twisted around each other, and two circles that clasped tight to his
throat. It had bent easily, last night, just under pressure from Charles' hands
and it was obviously rich gold.
"I feel like I'm some lady being courted," he growled at Hank, frustrated by it
even as he tried to feel flattered.
"I... would have thought that meant the courting was largely concluded," Hank
said, slightly flushed.
Oh. Right. He wasn't certain why he would have thought otherwise. At first,
Erik thought it was something perverse, the way Charles wanted to make certain
everyone in the camp to know that Erik shared his bed, or maybe he meant to
shame him, but everyone acted as though it was the most natural thing in the
world.
"You must know that this isn't the way it would be done in Rome." And really
that was what kept bothering him, that it just was.
"I think we both know that never stopped some men in Rome."
Erik wished he could disagree, wished he could say that he'd never felt the
urge to fall asleep in another man's arms, but here it was allowed. He pressed
his fingers back to his throat. "What does it mean, the torc?"
"You don't know?"
Erik shook his head, feeling like an idiot. He didn't know the language, the
customs, anything, really. "If this were on the throat of a Roman warrior it
would be a sign of distinction in battle." A few of the warriors throughout the
camp had torcs as well, but it was hardly enough of them to think it meant
simple distinction in battle. Of Charles' younger generals only Scott and Sean
wore them.
"I suppose the simplest way to say it would be to say that... if Charles was
going to give it to someone it should have been to Moira when they are wed."
The two of them finally started to head back to the train, Erik's head
swimming. "It doesn't represent marriage or anything so simple; people with
some form of royal authority wear them, sometimes it is just decorative, but
everyone knows that is Charles'."
"Claiming me, then?" Royal property.
Hank looked away uncomfortable again. "Only in the way that none of us could be
above Charles in authority. It represents... royal favor."
It was hard for Erik to take that to mean anything but some sort of royal
concubine and the feeling wasn't flattering. Charles wanted him to wear it,
maybe he shouldn't have accepted. He didn't understand what Charles meant. He
didn't understand a thing about the prince.
"If you do not love him you should not have accepted it."
Erik's blood ran cold. No one had said anything about love. "I..." He ran his
fingers over it again, feeling the very slight bend where it hadn't reformed
perfectly around Erik's neck. "He only asked me to wear it until he was
married."
"Oh..." Hank looked away again, embarrassed, and Erik wondered if he'd done
something wrong to even say that.
"Do you know...?" But then they were back in the lines and there wasn't going
to be any conversation on the typic of Charles and Erik and their... whatever
it was between them, not under Emma and Raven's noses.
By the end of the day, Hank had thought better of further conversation on the
topic, and when Erik pressed him for more explanation while they watched
Charles' drills - this time with several hundred men instead of the usual three
hundred or so - was fruitless. Dinner was stew and bread and there were only a
few scrapes and bruises from practice and Hank finally removed the stitching
that held his wound together from days ago.
He needed to see Charles, he wanted answers, but only yesterday Charles had
called him a distraction. Erik didn't know how to take that, what to do with
that knowledge, but his walk through the sprawling tent city brought him to
Charles' tent anyway, with a light fire roaring inside.
Before he could think better of it he slipped inside, and he supposed as he'd
expected no one bothered to question or stop him when he did.
Charles was sprawled, wearing only his breeches, between two chairs, his
fingers resting gently against a wine glass and his other hand ghosting lightly
over his own chest. His eyes were closed, and Erik bit his lip finding the
display tempting. In the firelight he was beyond beautiful, a perfect
combination of hard and soft that he didn't know could affect him as much as it
did.
His neck seemed naked without the ever present torc and Erik could see where
the band had left an even paler strip of skin at his throat that Erik wanted to
run his lips against.
The prince brought his glass to his lips, tilting it back far enough that Erik
knew it must already be empty.
"Do you need more, my prince?"
Charles snapped up, startled, blue eyes wide before they settled and Erik watch
them, lazy and warm. "I do not need more if my mind is already conjuring
visions."
Erik swallowed hard, wondering if Charles really thought he was a vision or he
was just being more poetic than Erik was used to. He took the glass anyway,
pulled it from the prince's hands and slid it away on the table before bending
down to claim Charles' lips. He tasted like too much wine, maybe he was drunk
enough to think Erik a vision.
Whatever questions he had wanted to ask died on Erik's lips as Charles stood
and pushed the two of them back towards his bed. Charles was slow, leisurely,
as he unbuckled Erik's belt and stripped the tunic, fingers touching along his
neck, feeling the warm metal there and then gently fingering nipples and ribs
and belly. His fingers tugged down Erik's breeches, and then he stood there,
naked, already erect, and Charles was staring at him like he was everything he
could have ever wanted.
"Tell me what you want, Erik. Anything. I love you..."
He felt like a thief, he was stealing something Charles hadn't meant him to see
or hear. A prince didn't beg his slave like this. "Just..." He wondered what he
could ask for, what Charles would have granted him, but he just wrapped his
arms around Charles. "Come to bed, you are going to feel like your head was
trampled by horses tomorrow."
Charles sighed, but headed to the back of the tent. Erik got some water for
Charles to drink and brought the cup back to him, and the two of them curled up
under thick fur blankets. "I don't deserve you..." Charles purred, wrapped his
arms around Erik and the two of them tangled together, naked legs and arms
wrapped around each other.
"Yes you do, hush, go to bed."
Charles took Erik's shoulder for a pillow and then ran his fingers up and down
Erik's arm, ghosting kisses against the plains of his chest that he could reach
just by tilting his head. The slow, lazy affection warmed him more than the
fire or the blankets, and he wrapped his arms around Charles so he could rub up
and down the prince's back, enjoying the smooth skin there. The cut on his
shoulder had finally scabbed and Erik even ran his fingers along that, feeling
the way Charles' skin would leave a thin crease when he finally healed.
"My... warrior prince."
Charles only responded with a strangled gasp, not of pleasure, something more
like a sob, and the easy affection fell away, the prince's head pressed against
Erik's chest almost as though he was hiding. "Please... not tonight."
Erik pressed his fingers along Charles' back, touching the smooth line of his
neck and his back and shoulders, stroking like a mother might more than a
lover, calming him.
"I'm sorry, not tonight."
He didn't know what he wasn't doing, what Charles couldn't handle tonight, but
the ragged breathing against his chest quieted slightly.
"I'm sorry, so sorry..."
"Shhhh..." He hushed Charles', pulled his head back down and touched him, ran
his fingers through his hair, along the shell of his ear and his throat.
"Nothing to forgive, nothing to forgive." For all the indignity, for all he
found himself afraid of how Charles would treat him, for all he found himself
embarrassed in the hot light of day, Charles had never done anything but made
him feel warm and loved.
Erik's nonsense assurances finally calmed Charles down, his breathing became
heavy and slow, and he weighed down on Erik like a sack of grain, warm and firm
and muscled, but still sprawled bonelessly. He wasn't certain why he'd come to
Charles' tent, maybe to offer himself up to Charles, maybe just to steal more
of the kisses he'd had last night, but instead he'd seen something raw in
Charles.
Even his prince apparently had his own demons that Erik didn't understand.
He woke up to a firm prod to his side, but rather than snap awake he wriggled
away, batting away the hands. Fingers pressed into his chest the second time,
and his eyes flew awake. Confused bright blue eyes hovered over him, Charles
hands touching against him as though he might break.
"Charles?" The prince's name on his lips just made the prince's frown deepen.
"My prince?"
Charles fingers touched his face slowly and he nuzzled up against the palm,
kissing his wrist. Erik watched several emotions both familiar and unfamiliar
play over Charles face - lust, he recognized easily, fondness, confusion, maybe
sadness. Erik brought Charles down into a soft kiss, and the two of them stayed
like that for just a moment before Charles pulled away.
"We have a long day and a great deal of ground to cover." Of course, always on
the move.
As soon as Charles left, he took care of packing the contents of his tent, and
then hurried over to help Hank with his own tent, the two of them picking up
breakfast and Erik bringing Charles a sandwich that actually had fresh egg in
it that made Erik's mouth water even though his own bread, apples and cheese
was more than adequate.
"You see something you like?" Charles asked, playing with him, offering up the
sandwich, about a bite left.
"Always." His eyes were on Charles though, and the prince... blushed a
brilliant bright scarlet the likes of which Erik had never seen, not even when
Charles was hot and flush, sliding against him in bed. He took the sandwich,
though, and then kissed Charles' fingers lightly, the affection completely
unremarked on by anyone else around them even though they were hardly alone in
the middle of camp.
"I believe I said something about not being a distraction," Charles voice was
teasing, but Erik could tell there was something hard underneath it.
"Then I will be out of your sight all day, and tonight--"
"I will continue to need you out of my sight," Charles sighed, hands curled
into Erik's wrists. "I am leading a battle tomorrow, Erik."
"I will be thinking of you."
Despite the display, both of affection and... something more, Erik couldn't
manage to feel embarrassed. It had felt strangely good to see Charles blush, to
see his mouth quirk with affection, to watch how easily the prince's mind would
turn towards him. Hank had seen, and Hank was blushed the bright red that Erik
couldn't quite believe wasn't staining his own cheeks.
"Do not tease him, Erik."
He blinked at the physician, shocked. "I--" Erik thought he hadn't been
teasing, of if he had been that was only natural with the way Charles was
always grinning and smiling, using raunchy entendres and curling his fingers
into Erik's skin, possessive and hot.
Hank shook his head. "Maybe for today he could let himself believe you were
sincere, but you cannot play with him forever."
"He--" Suddenly he couldn't finish a sentence, or even a thought.
Hank left him, and Erik thought he might have actually upset him. He, Emma and
Raven didn't talk to him at all that day while they walked - or at least he
walked, Emma and Raven rode - down the Street. Hank couldn't avoid him forever,
though, and Erik tried his luck with the man after they'd powered through over
twelve miles that morning and they were scrambling to get water bottles filled
before they did at least another twelve. Hank thought they were over seventeen
from the crossing that Charles had wanted to make, and despite the pace they'd
pushed the last few days Erik didn't think they would make it early enough to
also rest the night.
"What if I did love him?"
"You don't."
Erik couldn't make a retort, not a wholly truthful one. "But what if I did?"
"Erik... Charles has given you enough. I will not teach you how to hurt him
even more."
He followed after Hank, back to the train and they were moving again almost as
soon as Erik returned, lunch had been a very short affair, barely long enough
to water the horses and Erik's stomach was growling from missed lunch. Hank had
surprised him, he'd gone to Charles because it was what he had wanted, and Hank
thought that had hurt Charles, though the flirting hurt him... Erik didn't know
how, but this had gotten horribly complicated.
Feeling nothing for Charles would have been less complicated, but... he
couldn't.
Maybe if Charles felt nothing for him, he could have ignored it, but it was
starting to become painfully obvious that Charles...
They pushed well passed dusk, and finally ended up on the banks of the Nene
where they would sleep and then Charles' army would face the Ninth - assuming
Charles' information was correct. He hadn't seen Charles all day and any scouts
that may have come or gone had gone without him hearing their news. Tomorrow...
He went to bed still conflicted, not sure how he was supposed to feel. Tomorrow
could break Charles' rebellion - his fight for independence - and Erik should
want that more than anything. He didn't.
Chapter End Notes
     Historical Notes:
     Torcs: Although they are Celtic in origins, Romans sometimes wore
     them to represent valor/etc, the exact nature of what torcs mean is
     sketchy at best. I've taken a smidge of liberties here.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Done! I hope everyone enjoyed my self-indulgent history porn.
     Historical notes at the bottom.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The entire camp was up before dawn, Erik included. He helped Hank with the
tent, moving it closer to the river while Charles and his army formed up on the
other side. It was a good position, poor if he needed to retreat, but good to
keep his flanks protected if the Romans chose to advance against him. Some of
the men wore armor that was not unlike the Roman's, but it was dark leather
with bits of metal rather than the pure iron or steel of a Roman suit.
His and Hank's tent on the hill apparently became the place to stand and watch,
with Emma and Raven joining them a little later when the sun broke over the
horizon. He got Hank's breakfast, and his own, and a few apples that apparently
were for both of them. Everywhere he traveled through the camp he got... looks.
He'd seen those looks several times before, in the home of his family, looks
that wives gave his mother when they knew that his father was going into be in
a battle soon. Erik wondered if they would be so sympathetic if they knew how
jumbled his thoughts were.
Erik ended up eating a hard cooked egg, some game fowl, and a huge crust of
bread while Hank did the same. His tent was set up, well aired, ready for the
worst of the battle wounded. Emma stood back, her and Raven setting over a fire
and burning branches that stunk. Some sort of ritual.
"Who are they praying to?"
"Andraste," Hank answered. "She is the one who Emma and Charles thank for their
victory four years ago, so it is only fitting that she be called on again."
"Are we sure the Ninth will be here?"
Hank nodded. "Positive, I'm certain scouts will bring us more news when they
have it."
Erik paced, back and forth, wondering how large a blasphemy it would be to pray
to Minerva for Charles' victory against the Romans. He put the thought aside.
Erik had never been religious, praying and looking towards the heavens had
never swayed a battle before.
He joined Emma and Raven next to their fire.
"I do not think Andraste would care for your prayers, Roman." Raven frowned at
him across the fire.
"Minerva would not care for them either, Princess."
Raven looked at him, curious, eyes wary, and then she handed him a fistful of
whatever leaves they were burning and Erik took them and held them against his
knee. Raven threw a few more on and closed her eyes, mumbling to herself. Erik
looked over and saw how tense her face was. He threw a few leaves on the fire.
Please bring Charles back, safe and alive. That he could ask for without
reservations. He looked at Emma across from him, her mouth was tight and he
could tell that she was also asking for something similar. Looking along
towards the battlefield he saw the Legion come into view. It was the full
Legion, Erik took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
Andraste... please see Charles through this. Please... bring Charles victory.
He threw another fistful of leaves on the fire and hoped the difficult lump in
his own throat wouldn't offend the goddess too much. He stood up, feeling
awkward and nervous now that he'd given actual words to everything he had been
feeling for the last few days.
"I wish I was down there," Erik mumbled, standing next to Hank as he looked out
over the field.
Hank eyed him, face unreadable.
"With Charles."
Hank's face relaxed and he nodded. "He will be fine."
Raven finally stood and came up to stand on Hank's other side and threaded her
fingers through his, her hand rubbing up and down his arm. Hank pulled her a
little closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
"He's done well, so far," Erik observed.
"All he did is wake up!" Raven protested.
"Yes, but he woke up here, just across the river. I don't know where the Ninth
made their camp, but it was several miles from here. Charles' troops are
fresher, and he's selected the terrain he wanted, so they will have to accept
his terms or not confront him."
Raven nodded, toed her shoes against the ground. "Charles is the one who
understands all that."
"The General of the Ninth has decided to form up in lines to start. They will
probably move to a wedge first, it's designed to provide coverage so that each
man may guard his fellows more and the only way to counter it is to flank
appropriately." Erik pointed to the wings of Charles' army. "That is why
Charles has several horsemen along the sides, so they can... pinch the army,
for lack of a better word."
"Will they throw their spears?" Raven frowned, looking out over at the armies,
and Erik could see that several of the legionaries had their pila out.
"Maybe. It seems they are not planning it at the moment." Which was odd, really
Erik thought it might be best to at least loose one. "They likely will keep
several in reserve to handle Charles' horses."
The Celts began their own attack, hurling stones from slings which were not as
effective as a pila, a lucky sling shot might down a man, but a javelin could
down a man easily, and take his shield if it didn't hit him first. Most of the
Centurions had ordered their men to form up into a more protective formation -
testudo - and that seemed to be what Charles was waiting for.
His entire front line pressed forward, and Erik watched in shock as they loosed
their own javelins - Roman style - that jammed in hard to most of the Roman
front line's shields. The men scrambled to reconfigure themselves. "Dear
gods..."
"What? What!" Raven looked out at the lines, trying to see what had made Erik
so shocked.
"The javelins, the ones Charles used, they punch into a shield, make it too
heavy to maneuver properly, you have to stop and break your line, or give up
the shield for lost." The legionaries in the font lines retreated, and Erik
tapped his foot, impatient, waiting for Charles to...
The front lines of the Celts charged forward, some formed perfect wedges,
others just close approximations. The Romans formed back up into lines and
another round of pila flew from the back of the Celtic lines, a few aimed too
low and hit the charging Celts in the back but no one even paused as they
charged forward, smashing into the lines. The Romans broke, just enough, even
across the field Erik could see hundreds of legionaries who were not backed up
against another legionary, some were cut down almost as soon as Erik noticed
them.
The Celts were taking heavy losses as well - their armor, their shields and
their swords were not as high quality as the Romans and more than once a dented
sword meant the second blow from a Roman legionary meant a shattered helmet and
a shattered head. He lost sight of Charles for seconds at a time as the man led
punishing assaults on the Roman right flank, infantry working in front of it
when the Romans tried to bring out their javelins to strike the Celtic horses.
It felt like hours, hundreds and hundreds of men were struck down every time he
looked and as the battle raged Raven started to whimper next to him. Hank
wrapped his arms around her but soon afterwards the wounded from the back lines
started to pour in and as much as Raven hated him, he was a suitable person to
bunch her fists in the fabric of his tunic and shiver against.
"He'll be fine," Erik assured her, not wanting to touch her for fear of making
her more scared. "I can see him even now. I think he must be trying to force
them to break to the left. He's doing well, truly."
His own encouragement died on his lips as he saw Charles struck down. Erik
wasn't certain what had done it, but he could see Charles falling from his
horse, collapsed into the melee, swallowed by the sea of soldiers that pressed
back and forth.
"Charles..." His voice was barely a whisper. He took a deep breath, shooting a
murderous glance at the burning fire, as though it was a goddess's fault that
Charles had fallen. The flank wavered, the infantry fell back, the cavalry's
movements were less certain. The men formed up, square, protective in all
directions.
Erik breathed barely easier, he could see the centurions near Charles scent
blood. Either they knew it was the Rex Britannia or they just sensed the
flagging discipline on the side and they pushed forward, wedging into the men
as they tried to protect Charles. They couldn't risk pulling back to outflank
and had to hold their ground.
"Come on..." A few Roman centuries hooked around, pressing the square of
infantry from the other side. Slowly a few of the men closest to where Charles
had fallen realized what had happened and swarmed around, crushing into the
backs of the Romans.
The battlefield medics picked away at the fallen in the back, unconcerned.
Without even thinking, Erik pulled away from Raven and charged down from their
hill. He charged across the river and Erik picked up sword, helm and shield
from the nearest body, grabbing one of the medic teams around the shoulder and
pointing franticly. He checked behind him only once to see them following.
His sword found the backs of three Romans before he pushed through the back of
the square, Charles was laying on the ground, moaning, two more Romans had
broken through and the Celts tried to harry them while holding the shield wall.
Erik downed them both without thinking.
"Charles, hang on." He had a javelin in his thigh, deep, which he was still
clutching at desperately. They couldn't carry him like that. Pulling it out
might mean death, there were vessels in there that could bleed a man dry in a
minute if they were cut. One of the medics grabbed the javelin. "No!"
He grabbed the man's hands, placed them at the base. "Hold it tight." Charles
mumbled something in gaelic and the medic nodded, nodded at them both. He
pointed to the other medic, showed him grabbing the javelin as well. It took
three swings to shatter the iron, Charles wincing with every hit.
The three of them fumbled Charles onto a stretcher and charged out from the
square, the lines of the Celts formed back up pressing the attack again and
Erik could finally breathe easier, but only for a moment.
Blood was pooling steadily under Charles' thigh.
"Go faster, damn it!" He yelled at the medics and they crashed into the water
of the river, picking across and Erik spun back to check the battle just in
time to take a javelin to his shield, a lucky shot, but almost a luckier one in
his back.
The trip up the small hill took hours in Erik's mind, and he pressed into
Hank's sick tent to find him working on a man with a cut to his chest. "Charles
is hurt badly."
Hank scrambled to clear off some space, and Charles finally was put back on the
ground, Hank and Erik looming over him immediately. "Get off his armor."
Erik pulled off the leather while Hank cut Charles out of his pants. That was
when he noticed that Charles also had a deep cut across his rib, it hadn't
pierced anything, but it was also bleeding freely. He grabbed one of the
ointments he knew was for cuts, wiped it down. Charles hissed. He tried to
ignore it, but it made him wince in sympathy and then pressed a padded strip of
fabric to the cut itself. He grabbed Charles' hand, pressed his palm down on
the wound, and then forced his own hand on top, pinning as much pressure on the
wound as he could.
"Erik...?"
"Shh, no talking." He found himself clinging to Charles' bloody hand holding
onto his fingers and squeezing tight.
"Ahhh!" He shouted out, and Erik looked down to see Hank... carefully stabbing
a knife into Charles' thigh.
"Hold him down, Erik, his leg, if he moves I may cut something vital."
Erik took a deep breath and looked down at Charles' brilliant blue eyes, full
of every sort of pain Erik could imagine, and then he kissed him, hard. Then he
moved to straddle Charles, his own knee pressed down on Charles' lower thigh,
his hands pinning his hip. Charles struggled - he struggled not to fight,
twitching away from the pain of Hank's surgery, until he suddenly stopped
moving.
"Charles? Charles!"
Hank stopped, leaned over and pressed bloody hands to Charles' throat and Erik
thought he might stop breathing. "Just passed out from the pain. It's kinder
than the alternative."
Erik couldn't see the rest of the operation through thick tears of relief.
* * *
When Charles was finally resting, Erik headed out of the tent and watched what
ended up being the last throes of the battle. A force of Celts - Brigantes,
apparently - had arrived soon after the fighting had been engaged and the two
forces crashed together, ripping apart the Roman legion. Erik should have felt
more conflicted, but he couldn't quite manage it.
"How is he?" Raven asked, her own hands curled into fists as she watched the
end of the battle.
"Hank says he will live. It will take a few days to be certain he will walk
again." The damage to the leg had been extensive, and Erik didn't know enough
about wounds to make a real judgement.
Raven nodded, and then walked up to him. Erik braced himself, expecting a slap,
but instead the girl wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged tightly.
"Alex said... that they couldn't have kept protecting him for much longer."
Erik nodded, awkwardly pressing a hand to her shoulder. "No, the formation they
were using wasn't going to stand up for long. There is a reason many Generals
lead from the back, and it is not just a desire to not be struck with a sword."
"So.... thanks." The half-hearted tone of Raven's voice was undercut by how
furiously she was clinging to him.
"Am I acceptable, now?"
"No." The quick answer stung for a few moments, but then Raven grinned at him.
"Just slightly better than acceptable, I guess."
"You have acquired something of a... following, Erik," Emma said, standing
towards the crest of the hill, looking down over the battle. "Scott has decided
you are a fair fighter."
Erik looked over to where Emma was gazing, the troops picking through the dead
and wounded, bringing more injured soldiers across the river and to Hank's
tent. The injured Romans received either a quick death for the ones who were
too injured for treatment, or they were carefully bound in ropes. "Are they
heading to Londinium?"
Emma nodded. "We may relieve them of some of their support staff."
"You get good help that way..." He sighed, turning back to the tent where
Charles was still sleeping. "Do you mind if I put myself to work? Most of your
army does not speak latin."
Emma's face, usually cold and icy, softened just a touch. "Of course. I will
send a runner for you if there is any change."
He strapped on a sword and dagger, and then slung a shield over his back - no
reason to walk out unprepared, there were still pockets of fighting. The ford
was still shallow and he slogged his way across, the Celts pressed against the
river were all obviously dead, fewer than he would have thought, but still a
great number. A few children from the camp ran through the battlefield, picking
up fallen pila - obviously the source of the pila Charles used.
He waded through the bodies, listening for sounds of life, when Alex came up
and clasped him on the shoulder. "The prince?"
Erik nodded, smiled, hopefully in a way that conveyed the right mix of
emotions. Alex relaxed immediately, clasped Erik into an awkward hug. "The
Romans?" He asked, curious. He didn't know how many of them had gotten a speech
or explanation when they were marched south after his failed attack, but he
thought it would be wise to mention it to the captured Romans here.
Alex pointed, and he found himself led to a string of Romans, all of them
stripped of armor and weapons looking murderous.
"Celtic bitch!" One of the men towards the beginning of the line shouted at
Erik as soon as he approached. Alex, even with no idea what had been said came
forward and cuffed the man violently in response. "At least we bagged your
fucking king."
Erik felt his temper flare and the urge to strike the man was surprisingly
high. "I am afraid Nero will have to continue to be disappointed on that
count," Erik answered him, watching with grim satisfaction as the smug look on
the soldier's face evaporated. "You will be traveling to Londinium and I
recommend you not give your captors a hard time. It will make your life a great
deal less painful."
He felt a bit like a traitor, telling these men - Romans - to accept Charles,
or at least their position here as captives. And yet... he'd made his choice.
He didn't even realize it until right then, but he had. No going back.
The slaves - the ones who had nearly gotten trampled by the Brigantes - were
also bound towards the back of the lines and Erik made his way over, carefully
interviewing them, getting to know them, doing his best to put them at ease. He
remembered from Hank that this was where some of the best men might come from,
men and women who served Rome because it was required and... well, changing
allegiances sounded less bad when it was not at the point of a sword.
His musings were cut short by a runner coming down from the camp and saying
only 'he's awake', but he wasn't able to answer any questions, obviously he'd
just been sent with the message. Erik was back up to the tents in a matter of
minutes. Charles had been moved to his own tent, white as a ghost but awake.
Emma was there at his bedside, Raven as well, and Erik slipped in next to
Charles, sitting, curled up close against his head.
"Erik..." He looked confused, but grateful, and Erik reached down to run his
fingers through Charles' sweat-damp hair. "How went the battle?"
"The Brigantes forces came in time to squeeze the Romans. Alex and Scott are
coordinating the prisoners and dividing them up into groups to head for
Londinium and the ones to leave with us." Charles closed his eyes, nodded. "We
took heavy losses, but Hank is still working."
"We?"
Trust Charles to notice that even while he was half asleep and weak with pain.
Erik didn't answer, just ran his fingers over Charles' cheek and then his nose,
touching just to reassure himself that Charles was there.
"Charles," Emma interrupted the moment. "Moira will be here tomorrow."
"Right..." Charles took a deep breath. "Would you... mind terribly assuring the
men that I have not died?" Erik heard the unspoken 'and get out of here'. Emma
did as well, and although Erik expected something cruel from Emma she gave them
both a warm smile.
"I haven't been properly assured you have not died," Erik said, fingers running
over Charles' throat now, teasing there.
"And what would it take for you to be certain?"
Erik leaned down, kissed Charles very softly on the lips. Charles tried to
press up into the kiss only to fall back down onto his furs, groaning in
frustration.
"You would pick now to be willing."
"I'm just a very difficult slave is all, my prince."
"Not a slave..." Charles sighed. "I have no intention of keeping you if I
cannot have you honestly, Erik."
Erik pulled off the weapons he had been carrying, stripped out of his tunic and
then crawled under the furs that currently blanketed Charles. He was careful,
very careful, not to run his fingers over where he knew Charles had been cut,
and he didn't dare reach lower either. "Then you will have to settle for
keeping me."
Charles hitched up his arm, left it to fall over his eyes, leaving them half
hidden from Erik. "I... I am afraid I have done nothing to deserve you, Erik."
"Maybe..." Erik pressed himself against Charles as firmly as he could
considering how bruised he knew the prince was, but he left his hand on
Charles' chest, touching him slowly. "Still, it seems my mind was more than
capable of choosing a side when I saw you had fallen."
It was just that simple, he had - unthinking - killed a handful of Romans just
to try to save Charles.
"I... I killed your father."
His heart twisted in that moment, and the idea that Charles thought that
somehow made him... unworthy, perhaps, or at least unworthy of Erik, hurt him.
Erik closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to Charles' shoulder. "I know."
"You know?" Charles tried to get up again, winced, and Erik very firmly pressed
his hand against Charles' shoulders.
"I am going to have to insist you stay laying down, my prince. You are going to
tear something and Hank will be very mad at me." He smiled, felt his cheeks
warm and flush at that. "Hank told me, days ago. He must have thought I already
knew... why else would I have come after you, I suppose?"
"Of course." Charles kept his eyes closed, then, and Erik shifted up so he
could actually look down at him. He pulled down the furs, looking at the nasty
gash that covered his rib. It was starting to bruise, hard and angry and red,
Erik wouldn't be surprised if he was a mottled purple in a day or so. He peeled
down the blanket further, ignoring Charles' nakedness and then seeing the wound
in his thigh. It was... covered, at least, but he could see that it was still
bleeding lightly with a welling of red against the top.
Erik didn't touch it directly, instead feeling up and down Charles' leg,
fingers touching lightly. Charles could at least wiggle his toes, and he felt
leg muscles tense under his fingers. Good.
"You need to stop getting injured... Charles."
"I will take it under advisement." He smiled up at Erik, almost laughing. "It
has been a few years since I started training with Alex and the others, you
would think I could trust them to handle a battle, but it is very difficult to
let go."
"After..." He looked away, trying to collect his thoughts and deal with the
twisted up emotion that spiked the moment he tried to think. "After your
marriage, you will need to concentrate your energy on ruling, not conquering."
"That again..." Charles sighed and pulled Erik down to him, and the two of them
curled up like that. "I do not want to deal with that at the moment... We have
a few more months at least while we continue with the conquest of the
Brigantes. Then we will need a diplomatic solution with Rome. I do not like
killing, Erik, and I do not like fighting. It would be sweet relief to finally
put down the sword."
"I think you will be very ... princely." He would, Charles was born for the
position.
"And will you be there with me at my side?" Charles reached up, fingers playing
against Erik's throat and Erik finally sighed, leaned down, and kissed Charles
properly for the first time in days. It was perfect, hot and slow and even
though he knew some of Charles' whimpers were from pain not entirely pleasure
he enjoyed it immensely.
"Yes, even when you are an idiot and get yourself so badly injured I have to
charge through swarms of Romans to help you."
Apparently that was more than good enough for Charles.
The addition of Moira - and Venutius - in the procession traveling north to
bring war to the Brigantes made Erik's life more complicated than he would have
liked. The fact that she was obviously not smitten with Charles only made it
more difficult. They spent a full two days tending to their dead and sending
the Roman soldiers south and Erik worked to select the slaves that were
interested in staying on in support of the army. Charles... stayed in bed.
He knew it would take some time before Charles was back up and about but it was
starting to concern him, spending all night with his arms wrapped desperately
around Charles wasn't a particular comfort when he woke in the morning to
Charles obviously in pain and barely able to sit, much less stand. By the end
of the third day, however, towards the evening, he saw a familiar brown mop of
hair weaving itself through the camp attracting shouts and attention everywhere
he went, like always.
Charles couldn't get away from the throngs of well-wishers long enough to speak
to Erik, but he could see the way Charles smiled for everyone even as he had to
lean against a makeshift crutch. Hank caught him like that, just leaning
against a tent pole and watching Charles.
"Full recovery, I think."
Erik let out the breath he had been holding - if only in his own mind -
concerning that. Charles was brilliant, a fantastic leader, but he didn't think
the Celts would stand for him long if he couldn't still ride and fight. "I'm
just glad to see him smiling again, not just deathly pale..."
"You've been good for him." Erik looked at Hank, surprised to hear the man say
it. They hadn't spoken much after the injury, just enough for Erik to know
Charles was doing fine, but he hadn't expected that. "I could answer your
question... the one where you asked what you could do if you loved him."
"I---" He closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face. "I don't suppose it
matters really, with Moira..."
"Erik, if the marriage happens at all, both of them still know where they stand
with each other."
"If?"
"I do not know what they must have thought in Rome, but the marriage is far
from sealed, Venutius offered it to get Charles up north at all, it was smarter
for him to consolidate the south first. As it stands..." Hank shrugged. The
look that Hank gave Erik told him that he was a major factor that had changed
in the last week, and he blushed.
Still, Hank held up his arm, showing him a thin leather bracelet that he'd
often seen but never really thought about that the physician wore around his
arm.
"Raven has a matching one," Hank explained. Suddenly Erik had something he
needed to finish before that night.
Charles was dozing, lazy, when Erik finally arrived back in his tent - their
tent - Charles propped up on a few pillows and drinking slowly at some wine,
likely a mix of medicinal and to unwind from a day spent being poked and
prodded. "Erik!"
The grin on Charles' face, sloppy as it was, warmed his heart. "Hank tells me
you are feeling a good deal better."
"Yes, tomorrow I may even be allowed up on a horse and we can continue north.
Venutius is getting quite antsy. I understand his anxiety." Charles waved his
hand over and Erik slid into his arms, kissing his neck softly.
"You are not riding into battle any time soon," Erik insisted. "Even if I must
pin you down or tie you up."
"That would be a very agreeable promise..." Charles smiled, putting down his
wine glass and sliding his fingers along Erik's shoulder and farther down.
Erik just gaped, he knew Charles was young, and had a sexual stamina that Erik
could only envy even though he was hardly old himself, but Charles was... "You
have a great many ideas about what is appropriate, my prince."
"And I would do so many of them but... I am afraid I've more than exhausted
myself today." Charles sighed, letting himself lay down on his bed, he did look
exhausted.
"Maybe you should just lay back and enjoy yourself, then?" It was the first
time since... since before the battle that Charles hadn't looked like he was
courting death if Erik leaned on him wrong, and it was nice to see some heat in
his eyes and it would be the first time his own revelation was tested.
"If you insist!" Charles answered, but it was obvious his mind was screaming
'yes'. "I may be a bit of a disappointment."
Erik didn't think that was possible, even falling asleep next to Charles was
not disappointing. Hank might disapprove, but he knew the personal chest he
left for Charles' use had some ointment in it that was slick and thick and Erik
could think of nothing better than using it to give Charles what he wanted -
what Erik had been too scared to give him before.
"Erik...?"
Before he could lose his nerve, he pulled the blankets down off of Charles and
started to unlace his breeches. Getting them down and off was a slow, laborious
affair so that he wouldn't rub against the not healed leg wound, and could move
his leg despite the still-healing muscles of his leg. "I've never..." He knew
the mechanics, knew it was going to hurt, but he wanted Charles to know, to
know for certain, that Erik was his.
"Come up here." Charles patted his stomach, in between his cock, already mostly
hard, and the cut in his rib. Erik came up, straddled Charles along his slim
waist. "I do not want to hurt you, Erik... shouldn't even let you..." He shook
his head, though, stretched enough to get the ointment that Erik had brought
over and smeared two fingers with it. "Erik, love, you must tell me if you are
in pain."
He was a soldier long before he was Charles' lover, he could take pain.
Charles must have read his thoughts somehow, from his eyes. "I know you may not
believe this... but you should enjoy this as much as me." Charles free hand
reached up, touched Erik's cock and he hissed, stiffening immediately.
The slow stroke of Charles' hand was a pleasant distraction, warm and welcome,
but as soon as the slick feeling of Charles' finger touched his opening he
tensed, not in pleasure. He gritted his teeth, wishing he could relax, wishing
he could let Charles in, but Charles didn't seem surprised or upset, just
swirled a finger against his hole, leaving a slick trail there, massaging.
As much as he was anticipating pain - despite what Charles assured him - it was
impossible not to enjoy Charles' touch. One finger continued to swirl his
opening, and the other slid behind his balls, pressing hard enough to make him
shiver; the pleasure was enough for him to relax and Charles slipped one digit
inside of him. "You like that, don't you?" Charles pressed against his balls
again, and Erik whined from the sensation.
The intrusion was unexpected, just one of Charles' fingers, and it pressed
inside of him farther, he could feel Charles probing inside of him and he
fought down the urge to wiggle away. A few seconds later Charles did something
and he saw white, staggering so much he had to brace himself on Charles'
shoulders.
"'s good, isn't it?" He sounded so cocky.
After that, every slow thrust of Charles' fingers hit the same spot inside of
him and he whimpered with every thrust. Erik - only minutes ago tense and
coiled - found himself limp and boneless, every muscle in his body relaxed
except his cock, hard and leaking against Charles' belly.
"Yes... I had no idea--"
Charles took his finger out, which was wrong, terribly wrong, and he needed
something back inside of him and then thankfully, mercifully, Charles pressed
two fingers inside of him, thicker, stretching him more, but he didn't tense
against the intrusion just expecting the awkward-but-good sensations to return.
His fingers started their relentless assault inside him again, making him
shiver, arms trembling while he gripped Charles for support. When he finally
looked down, he saw his prince's frightening blue eyes, bright and shining and
his, filled with lust.
"I want to see you do this to yourself, sliding your fingers inside of you,
thinking about how you want my cock." Filthy... Charles' filthy, precise latin
would always be his undoing.
He pulled out again, grabbed for more ointment and then slid more fingers
inside him again, leaving him even more wet and slick as he spread his fingers
wide, opening him. "Charles... please..."
Charles ignored his begging, and instead dragged him down and into a kiss. The
two of them moaned and whimpered, and Erik wrapped his arms around Charles,
fingers tangling in his prince's hair. Charles - his prince - his prince. They
were connected and he fit in Charles' arms better than anywhere else he'd ever
been in his life.
He never wanted to leave.
"Erik... love." Charles' teeth grazed Erik's neck, his tongue slid down his
throat.
"I'm yours, Charles, my prince." He was gasping and his body loose, relaxed. He
trusted Charles with his body - his heart. "Take me, take me harder."
It wasn't gaelic, but Charles' collapsed back onto his bed and his blue eyes
were impossibly dark with lust. He drew out his fingers, and Erik glanced down
to see him start to slick himself.
"Slowly, Erik. Very slowly."
Erik scooted down, brushing his ass against Charles' tip, remembering how that
feeling had excited Charles days before. He tried to push down, it hurt and he
winced.
"Shhh, relax."
He took a ragged breath, glanced down into those eyes. He saw the lust, and he
saw the incredible fondness there. He slid down again, legs trembling, and felt
Charles' thick head slide into him. He groaned, half pleasure, half pain,
sliding down and feeling a full, stretched feeling. Erik sat himself up
straight and lifted himself experimentally, searching for that spot Charles'
fingers found so easily.
Charles' hands, one still slick with ointment, grabbed his hips and guided
Erik, he could tell Charles was desperately fighting the urge to thrust, the
muscles in his leg not ready for the exertion, every inch of Charles' chest,
his shoulders, his face, showed how much he was holding himself back and he was
taut and beautiful. Erik allowed himself to be directed, sliding up and down,
his hips tilted just enough that each thrust made him see white. He never
wanted anything else but to have Charles buried inside of him, cock hard, he
didn't need anything else, ever.
He squeezed himself around Charles' and the prince came, whimpering. "Erik...
love..." He took Erik's cock in his hand, pumping with his fist. It took
several strokes, firm and sure, before Erik came over Charles' hand and
stomach. He clung to Charles, hands tangled against his shoulders.
"Charles..."
They sat like that for several moments, Erik finally noticing the pleasant
stretching sensation had been replaced with soreness, like muscles long disused
or a dull ache, and he pulled himself up and off, collapsing in a spent heap
next to Charles.
"I hope that wasn't nearly so terrifying as you might have expected."
He grunted, nose buried against Charles' chest. "When can we do it again?"
Charles laughed, wrapped has arms around Erik and pulled him close. "You will
not thank me if we do that again tonight, probably not tomorrow either, and it
will be quite the decision, walking or horseback when we move tomorrow."
He leaned into Charles' shoulder and whined, thinking of how unfair it would be
to have each shift of the saddle remind him of the ache he was already starting
to feel.
"And it is highly unfair for you to enjoy yourself that thoroughly. I insist on
having you inside of me as soon as I can move my leg without pain."
Erik was shocked by the request - almost an order - but he really shouldn't
have been. Charles was... unusual, always had been. Erik could see that wasn't
going to change just because he was injured or anything else.
"Done," Erik slid back into bed beside Charles, enjoying the way he ached and
the way Charles wrapped his arms around him.
Nothing was fixed, not really. Rome still loomed in the back of his thoughts
with a decidedly mixed set of feelings. Erik didn't understand Celtic politics,
but he was going to have to learn, and quickly. The web of impossibilities that
stood in front of Charles was thick, and Erik found he was willing to fight
them with Charles.
The man was ridiculous, naive, and gorgeous, but if he could somehow manage to
overlook Erik's father, what he had done to Briton and Charles' family, Erik
knew he couldn't help but follow. He was... exceptional, and Erik found that he
could stand to try Charles' dream.
Erik kissed his prince's head, and even though he knew Charles couldn't read
his thoughts he felt as though he might know exactly what he was thinking.
Chapter End Notes
     Andraste - Inceni goddess, possibly of war, she was the goddess that
     Boudicca called on in her rebellion against the Romans in 60-61AD.
     Very little is truly known about Celtic gods and goddesses.
     Roman Tactics - Erik explains most of the tactics that are going on
     to Raven. Testudo is a formation where a century forms up with
     shields overlapping and making an impenetrable shell, named for a
     tortoise; it is an excellent defense at range, but poor for close
     quarters combat because it leaves the defenders with little room to
     maneuver. Wedge formations are used to this day as a shock and mob
     dispersal tactic, the configuration means that every member of the
     outer wedge can cover his fellow; only an extreme flanking maneuver
     can collapse the wedge. Square formation allows for guarding on all
     sides, but is weak to ranged attacks or a wedge.
     Pila usage - is as described by Erik, the pila/javelin punches into
     the shield and makes it hard to wield and it must be discarded or cut
     off.
End Notes
     Boudica's Rebellion - In approximately AD 60, Prasutagus, ruler of
     the Iceni Tribe of Celts died. He was a client king of Rome, and at
     that time the tradition was that the king was expected to will his
     lands to Rome. He chose to instead will half of his lands to the
     Roman Empire, and the rest to his daughters with his wife Boudica
     (played by Emma in this fic) as their regent. Prasutagus' daughters
     have been replaced by Charles and Raven in this fic. Boudica's
     daughters were raped and Boudica herself was beaten for her husband's
     arrogance; she rallied several of the south eastern Celtic tribes and
     marched on London, Colchester, and St. Albans, before the rebellion
     was finally defeated at the Battle of Watling Street and Boudica was
     either killed or committed suicide.
     Ermine Street - A Roman road that travels from London (Londinium) to
     York (Eboracum) by way of Lincoln (Lindum)
     The Battle of Watling Street - In actual history, this was the final
     battle of Boudica's rebellion against the Roman occupation. Roman
     General - and Governor of Briton - Gaius Suetonius Paulinus formed up
     in a narrow defile to stand against a vastly superior (in numbers)
     Celtic fighting force. (Think 300 - the movie, basically he did that)
     Gaius Suetonius Paulinus - Roman General and Governor of Briton until
     post Boudica's rebellion, in real history he was reassigned after the
     revolt for fear his violent subjugation of the Celts was causing
     dissent. Erik is his son. Did he have a real son? Who knows! (Eriqus
     - the name I've given Erik, is not a real Roman name, it's totally
     bullshit, roll with it! Charles calling Erik 'Erik' is also pretty
     rude by Roman conventions)
     Cogidubnus - A client kings of Rome. Cogidubnus was the king of the
     Regni (near modern Chichester), and actually took a Roman style name
     and may have had his kingdom solidified via direct military help from
     Rome.
     Cartimandua - She was the queen of the Brigantes (modern north
     England). She sided heavily with Rome in the time around Boudica's
     rebellion. Her husband Venutius, did not agree with her decision to
     ally with Rome and committed to at least two rebellions against
     Cartimandua in the time around Boudica's rebellion. Moira has been
     inserted into the fic as their daughter - who went with Venutius. In
     51 AD a resistance leader named Caratacus sought sanctuary with her
     after he was defeated in Wales, but she turned him over to Rome.
     Roman (and Celtic) views on homosexuality - Romans in general
     believed that being the submissive/penetrated partner in a homosexual
     relationship was deeply shameful. Freemen/citizens would not be
     expected to be the penetrated partner, slaves - and prisoners of war
     - were used as sexual bottoms. Being the topping partner would be
     considered fine. Celtic views on homosexuality are presented through
     the lens of Roman historians writing about their practices and may
     have been meant to display how barbaric/shameful Celtic behavior was.
     Nonetheless, our knowledge of Celtic sources suggest that some tribes
     found homosexuality acceptable with no distinction between topping/
     bottoming as particularly virtuous or shameful.
     SEMI-SPOILERS FOR THE REST OF THE FIC FOLLOW:
     This fic contains: non-graphic mentions/implications of past rape of
     Charles and Raven. Neither Charles nor Raven are narrators in the
     piece and do not reflect on their past assault. Both have different
     personality/behavior displays that should be recognizable as that of
     assault survivors. The underaged tag is used because both Charles and
     Raven would have been in their early teens at the time, Charles is
     'legal' at the time of the fic.
     Erik is the narrator of the piece and reflects (non-graphically) on
     his belief that he is going to be forcibly raped. He is not
     *forcibly* raped, however he is used/assaulted in a manner that is
     non-consensual due to his position as Charles' slave. He - in general
     - enjoys the assault because it's sexually gratifying and comes to
     fall in love with Charles despite his captivity.
     Obviously this is an idealized/fetishized description of non-con and
     is not meant to suggest in any way that this actually happening to
     real people would be sexy.
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