The sun beat down upon the trees, unseasonably warm and oppressive for the time of year, and Sartauvoir was thankful for the wide brim of his hat that protected his eyes from the glare, for the trees had lost most of their leaves and provided scant cover.
He leaned against the large bole of an ancient oak, seat cushioned by moss and a thick blanket he’d spread atop it, and a weighty tome open upon his lap. The scent of the book filled his nose, a little sharp and vinegary, from the age of it, and mingled with the scent of Autumn with it’s fallen leaf tang. All in all, it was an idyllic location to study Novel Methods of Pyromancy: On Summoning and Transformation, which he had been very pleased to have found among the stacks of books he’d manage to grab before fleeing Mannatheihwo.
Idyllic location, idyllic day, so of course, he was due an interruption. Again. Sartauvoir sighed and looked up, tilting the brim of his hat back to get a good look at the approaching man.
His armoured boots crunched through the carpet of fallen leaves, but that was the only thing that gave him away. Sartauvoir eyed him up and down: tall, for a Hyur, with hair neatly swept back and a greatcoat that moved in the slight breeze as he walked. And, for a miracle, nary a weapon to be seen. He walked with an air of command, and though he was entirely unarmed, Sartauvoir could almost smell the skill radiating off him. He had the contained air of a man well used to dominating in battle, something about the set of his eyes, the lithe movements of his hips as though he was used to the weight of a weapon sheathed there.
“So. How many times must I rebuff these efforts, before your lot finally get the idea and leave me alone?”
“I see no one can catch you unawares, Ser. As I expected.”
“As your men already reported, you mean, after I sent a good lick of fire up each of their arses to send them packing.” Sartauvoir closed his book with a snap, settling it down on the blanket next to him. “Do I take it that you are their commander, then? Didn’t have any luck sending your Centurions, so what, had to come yourself?”
“Well, they do say if you want a job doing properly, do it yourself.” The man raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at the book. “Reading anything good?”
“You wouldn’t like it. Very dry.” Sartauvoir set his hand atop the tome, fingers idly stroking the embossed letters, peeling a little by now, from hard usage. People really had no respect for books any more. “The answer’s still no, by the way. You’ve wasted a trip.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The countryside is really quite beautiful, at this time of the year. I’ve always enjoyed taking a walk through the falling leaves, smelling the scent of the season changing.”
Sartauvoir sighed. “Very poetic.”
The man smiled, easy and broad. “I do try, when it suits me.”
“Mm.” The breeze picked up a little, and Sartauvoir pulled his coat a little closer, the fur at his collar warming him. “The hour is late, I do hope you haven’t come far, or you’re like to be returning in the dark.”
A raised eyebrow, and the man sauntered over to Sartauvoir’s great tree, giving a weighted glance to the blanket.
Sartauvoir rolled his eyes. Shifting his weight a little, he managed to tug out more of the blanket from underneath him, allowing enough room for the Hyur to sit, which he did, and held out his gloved hand.
“Basch van Gabranth,” he said, offering another of those easy smiles. Disgusting.
“Soranus.” Sartauvoir took the proffered hand and gave it a firm shake. “Although I know you’re already greatly aware of who I am. I do wonder, though,” he tilted his head to one side, “what else do you know of me, Legatus Gabranth? And why are you going to such lengths to recruit me? Surely the skills of a mere mage such as myself would not be so sought after, for your great Legion?”
Gabranth squeezed his hand before letting go. “You are no mere mage, as we’re both aware. The mage-knights of Mannatheihwo’s skills are legendary, so you can spare me from the humble academic act.”
Sartauvoir huffed out a laugh. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, I am an academic, no matter my background.”
“Hence the tome, I suppose?”
“Aye, hence the tome.” He sighed, and folded both hands in his lap. “Very well, if we’re dispensing with the charade, you can begin. What are your plans, and what do you want with me, van Gabranth?” He said the title with no little venom, eyes narrowed and watching for Gabranth’s reactions.
Gabranth crossed his legs, knocking one knuckle idly on the armour at his knee as he pondered. Not a man to speak with haste, it seemed - one point in his favour, stacked up with the fact that though he had indeed come alone, and completely unarmed, his very bearing told Sartauvoir that he would not wish to cross weapons with this man.
“Dalmasca,” Gabranth began, his face becoming serious. “My Legion is tasked with the subjugation of Dalmasca, after our success at invading Bozja.” Something passed across his face, a shadow that Sartauvoir couldn't quite place. Interesting.
“Dalmasca, is it? I see.”
“You are no doubt aware of their ah, firepower?”
“I have heard it said, aye.”
“I would fight fire with fire, as it were.” At this, Gabranth’s eyes lit with enthusiasm quite endearing, and Sartauvoir folded both his hands together lest he be infected with it.
“Ah, their war mages have you afeared.”
“Magitek is all well and good, and has its place on the battlefield for sure, but can it stand up to a battalion of war mages? I think not. Metal melts just as well as flesh, after all.”
“Mm, it does, at that.” Sartauvoir could almost smell it; the molten steel, running rivulets past his boots, the char of operator flesh drifting past on the hot breeze. He shivered.
“So my line of thinking, as by now you will have no doubt surmised, is that where better to begin than with our own contingent of mages? Led by no other than yourself, of course.” Gabranth offered a small flourish of the hand in Sartauvoir’s direction, drawing a thin smile from his lips.
“You would offer me quite a rank, then. I see,” Sartauvoir murmured, eyes downturned to focus on his fingers as the logistics began to turn over in his brain, almost without his volition.
“You are powerful, this I know, no matter the act you’ve been forced to keep up to keep a low profile. I’ve heard tell that no other mage-knight in Mannatheihwo could match your skill with the flames. So. How would you like to lead your own squadron? Mages all, I am a traditionalist at heart, and I hold not with magitek on the battlefield. That domain belongs to our Garlean leaders.”
Oh, was that a hint of disgust? Very interesting indeed. Perhaps the turncoat Gabranths were not so loyal as they would have the Empire believe. Sartauvoir toyed with one of the crystals hanging from his belts. “I take it that I am the only mage-knight you have found, thus far?”
Gabranth smiled, rueful. “Your people have excelled at scattering to the winds. Indeed, that we found you was near a miracle, and only due to a passing legionary happening to notice that the resident tutor seemed a dab hand with pyromancy, for one of such humble station. That set me to thinking, and now here I am.” He rapped his knuckle upon his armoured knee once more. “Now, I believe ‘tis your turn.”
“My turn? Legatus, I am not the one here trying to persuade you of my good intentions. Surely, you know all there is to know about me? Or are the Optios of Garlemald so bad at their jobs?”
Gabranth laughed, then, loud and hale, and slapped his knee as though he’d heard the funniest joke of the season. “You do have quite a tongue on you, Soranus. I like that! But tell me, does teaching really satisfy you? Would you be pleased to live out the rest of your years in obscurity, with nothing but books and dullards for company?”
Sartauvoir tipped his head back against the tree, eyeing Gabranth from under the brim of his hat. Damn the man to the flames and back, he had a point. This hamlet was… quaint. To put it politely. Quaint and backwater, and so unutterably dull that, at times, Sartauvoir had believed he might expire from the sheer boredom. And not to mention, their library was non-existent. The idea of reading naught but the same five or so tomes over and over again, for the rest of his days, gave him a chill. Certainly, at times he may be able to bolster his collection with goods from travelling tinkers, but what use was that? He would stagnate… and no doubt die in obscurity, with no companionship to speak of, no way to hone his skills to further heights. Even now, he could feel himself rusting - after all, a quiet backwater hamlet was no place to be conjuring great columns of fire, or practising the transformations he’d always enjoyed so much. Not without terrifying his neighbours and drawing attention to himself, anyway. Attention he did not want.
“You are, unfortunately, correct,” he said, after some time had passed. “Much as I am reluctant to admit it. But, Legatus, you are not telling me the whole truth. Before I make my decision, I would have it from you.” Sartauvoir levelled his gaze at Gabranth, who returned it steadfastly. Oh, he did like this one. No Garlean coward was he, hiding behind the words of his superiors.
“Hah, I suspected you might.” Gabranth settled back, leaning on one arm and leaving the other free to gesture hither and yon. “Very well, Soranus. You shall have the whole truth from me.” He paused, as though to marshal his thoughts into order, then began. “I hail from Landis, as do you, and as you are no doubt very painfully aware, there is not much point in standing up to the might of Garlemald, as it is never very long before all are trampled beneath their mighty war machine. For have no doubt of it, Soranus, the Empire is a machine. It chews up countries and spits them out, their culture destroyed and their people subjugated. Though it… was painful, to bend the knee to them, I have ever been a pragmatic man. For how can we ensure Landis survives, if all her people are lost to the great machine that is war with the Empire?”
Gabranth paused, then, the fervour lighting his eyes tempered by pain, writ clear upon his face. “Though it cut me to the bone, I took that wound for Landis. For our people.” He clenched his fist and crashed it against his chest. “If I had said nay, we will continue to fight, how many more would have died? Too many. Even one is too many…”
Sartauvoir’s gaze fell, studying his clasped hands. “And yet, you would have a coward for your Legion, who fled from them, rather than standing and fighting.”
“You are no coward.” Gabranth leaned forward, reaching out to shake Sartauvoir’s knee for emphasis. “You did the sensible thing, though it stung your pride as much as it stung mine to bend the knee. You ran, and with that, you kept the mage-knights of Mannatheihwo alive.”
“Alive, aye, and scattered to all obscure corners of Landis. ‘Tis difficult to keep any order alive with such a spread, for how can one communicate with one’s fellows without drawing unwanted and frankly dangerous attention? That you yourself have found me speaks volumes to the resources at Garlemald’s fingertips.”
“Though I cannot promise that your fellows will be kept alive by my plans, I can offer you the protection of my Legion, and with it, a manner of obscurity. You could melt into the Fourth, safe under my watchful gaze. But,” Gabranth held up a hand, “that is not the crux of my argument. What if I were to posit to you that, by working within the reins of our subjugators, someday we could bring Landis back to her former glory? We can never undo that which was done already - no amount of wishes could bring Bozja back from the destruction that was wrought upon her - but perhaps we could work for a better future from within the machine.” His eyes sparkled with zeal for his plot; green, Sartauvoir noticed, abstractly. Green as a Spring leaf underwater.
“You would need the unerring loyalty of all the men beneath you, would you not? For this plot to come to fruition?”
“That, I have. The Fourth is… unusual, for a Legion of the Empire. We are made up of the offcuts; the misfits and those who would otherwise refuse to be ground into just another uniform cog in the machine. I believe you would find it… home. Not your true home, of course, for I know that will always be Mannatheihwo for you, as Arnsbeirgs will ever be the home of my own heart.”
Sartauvoir unfolded his hands and rubbed at his beard; growing longer as it was, it made a pleasant scratching sound beneath his fingers. “You make a persuasive argument, Gabranth, I will give you that. Although I note you are very sparse on the specifics of this plan of yours.”
“Ah well, what kind of Legatus would I be if I gave away every detail to a man not yet my own?”
“A poor one indeed. Trust is well, but too much trust can be one’s undoing.” Sartauvoir looked sour. He’d trusted to obscurity in this hamlet, and look what that had brought to his door.
“It can. Though you will find any trust you place in me to be well-earned - that I can guarantee you. It is my life’s work to do well by those people under me, as best I can within our circumstances. And if I must hide my true plans to keep them safe, then you will find me entirely close-lipped.” Gabranth looked around at the darkening landscape, giving a little shiver as the breeze began to pick up.
Sartauvoir sighed. “It’s been smelling like a storm all afternoon. I’ll not send you out into the night alone, no matter how skilled you are.” He clapped both hands upon his thighs then rose from the ground, proffering a hand to the Legatus. “Come. My hospitality is meagre, living in apparent obscurity as I have been, but there is tea, inside, and food to boot.”
Gabranth took his offer, gripping his forearm with strength as he hauled himself upright. He bent and scooped up book and blanket, draping the latter over his arm and handing the book to Sartauvoir, who took it and tucked it under his arm. “Lead the way, then.”
They walked the path to Sartauvoir’s tiny cottage in silence, Sartauvoir’s mind working furiously as he chewed over all that Gabranth had told him. Around them, the sky darkened to dusk, with a looming cloudbank shrouding the moon ominously.
Just as they arrived at his gate, the heavens opened with a peal of thunder, and Sartauvoir gasped as the downpour drenched him. Without realising, he’d drawn up a veil of heat across his exposed skin, and it sizzled and hissed as rain pattered upon it. Though it was a small distance to the door through the little garden, by the time they reached it and Sartauvoir had employed the key hung at his belt, the pair of them were sodden through with chill Autumn rain.
Sartauvoir pushed the door closed behind them and stood leaning against it for a moment, both of them dripping up a mess onto the doormat. “Well, this is a fine welcome,” he muttered, pulling his soggy hat off his head and hanging it on a peg. He shrugged out of his coat and hung that too, then did the same for Gabranth’s greatcoat, heavy with water as it was.
Even his hair was wet through, and Sartauvoir shook it out of his eye with a grumble under his breath.
“Even living here as long as I have, you never quite get used to that shock.” Gabranth ran a hand through his hair, squeezing water from it and then from his beard.
Sartauvoir tipped a look at him, then huffed out a laugh. “A real pair of drowned rats we are. Come through, I left the fire unlit, but, ‘tis the work of a moment to get a goodly blaze going.”
They walked through the doorway and into the small kitchen-cum-living area, where an open fireplace sat framed by a pair of comfortable chairs, a small table with wooden chairs against one wall and a cooking range at the other, with a wooden archway showing a stocked pantry beyond.
With a gesture perhaps more florid than usual, Sartauvoir flicked his attention at the fireplace - flames kindled there in the ready wood within seconds, setting a merry, crackling blaze which gave a soft glow to the room. He inhaled the scent of fire meeting wood, enjoying the comfortable sound and the immediate atmosphere it brought.
“Impressive. And you don’t need to touch a thing, to set it ablaze?” Gabranth looked from the fire back to Sartauvoir, the intrigue clear and honest upon his face.
Sartauvoir felt his cheeks pink. T’was the heat, no more! “I would be a lowly sort of mage if I had to touch a thing to work a spell upon it. ‘Tis nothing, really.” He busied himself settling the heavy cast-iron kettle, full with water already, atop the stove, and kindled a similar, yet smaller flame beneath it. “Casting spells from afar is one of the first lessons any mage learns.” He felt himself settling into the cadence of teaching, and smiled a little ruefully. “Though I suppose the accuracy of my spells is the thing to remark upon.”
“Mm, I imagine not just any mage can set aflame such a small target.” Gabranth had pulled out one of the kitchen table chairs and seated himself in it, legs astride, and the tall wooden back in front of him where he leaned his arms, resting his chin atop them and focusing all of his singular attention directly onto Sartauvoir.
The effect of that gaze was near overwhelming, and Sartauvoir cleared his throat and turned to rummage in the pantry, coming up with a packet of loose herbal tea he’d bought from the hamlet market last sevenday, as well as a serviceable teapot. He busied himself setting out the things, measuring out tea into the teapot and digging out two homely mugs as well as a crock of honey and a packet of some rather nice biscuits he’d been saving.
“Not much, but the tea here is particularly good, and I get the honey from a local apiary, in return for aid in smoking out hives when it is needed.”
Gabranth raised an eyebrow, then leaned forward to snag the packet of tea. He gave it an appreciative sniff, and Sartauvoir noticed that he closed his eyes to do so, as though to savour the scent more deeply. “Valerian,” Gabranth said, after a moment, “and spearmint, I believe? With a little apple and rosehip?”
Sartauvoir just looked at him, and Gabranth chuckled. “I am quite a fan of tea, and valerian is one of my mainstays. Helps the bone aches, you know. When the winter begins to set in.”
“Is that so.” Sartauvoir heard the whistle of the kettle and picked it up with his naked hands, carting the heavy cast iron thing to the table, where he poured water into the teapot before setting the kettle back down on the hob. As he took his own seat, he realised that Gabranth was watching him with naked admiration. “What?”
Gabranth reached out and took hold of Sartauvoir’s wrist, turning his hand palm up and squinting at it in the low light. “Nary a burn to be seen! Does heat not bother you at all?” He passed his thumb over Sartauvoir’s palm, tracing the bare, unmarked skin and sending a shiver directly down Sartauvoir’s spine.
“No, not for many years. In the past, yes, when I was still learning my trade. But now, I can thrust my hand into the hottest of conflagrations and come away unmarred.”
“Truly impressive. Does it take much effort, to keep up that level of protection?” Gabranth let go his hand, and set about pouring tea for them both. He spooned good quantity of honey into his mug, then pushed the crock across the table.
“A little, but it’s just… hm, how to explain.” Sartauvoir stirred a spoon of honey into his own tea, watching the golden swirl of liquid, thoughtfully. “‘Tis not dissimilar to having a partition in the mind, in a way. The way that a soldier can go to war and kill men in the morning, then later that day they can go home and embrace their lover. One part of my focus is given over to the flames at all times, whether noticing them, putting up a protective barrier or simply absorbing heat which would otherwise burn me.”
He settled the spoon back into the honey crock, then held up a hand. “Take this hand, for example. He narrowed his eyes infinitesimally, and a slim layer of flame enshrouded it. Sartauvoir kept it neat and close to the skin, barely a fire at all, and it lit the space between him and the Legatus with a warm, pleasant glow. He settled against the back of the chair, enjoying the gentle flickering across his skin while he took a sip of tea with his free hand.
Gabranth watched, eyes fixed to the flame, that easy smile upon his lips that really shouldn’t be so endearing, and yet. Sartauvoir had known the man for all of a few hours, what was he thinking?
“Fascinating. Truly fascinating.” Gabranth sipped his tea and his eyes flickered closed for a moment as he savoured the flavour. “Mm, this is excellent. Perhaps you could bring some with you, if you decide to take me up on my offer?”
Sartauvoir snorted. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an overabundance of confidence, Legatus?”
“It has been said, aye. Am I wrong, though? You’re persuaded, I can tell.”
“I shall not say one way or another until we are at least drier than we are now.” Sartauvoir sniffed, but a smile hovered on his lips as he enjoyed his tea. “Try one of the biscuits, they’re really quite good. There is cold chicken in the pantry, and some fresh bread besides, but nothing better than that, I’m afraid.”
“That sounds excellent to me. I’m a simple man, Soranus, I don’t need a five course meal to be satisfied with hospitality freely offered. And though your fire is quite pleasant, perhaps a towel? I fear that my hair will not dry otherwise.” He carded his fingers through the rough mane of hair and more droplets joined their fellows on the floor.
“Satisfied with the food and drink, but still demanding a towel? The audacity of Garleans.” Sartauvoir shot a grin at Gabranth. “Though in truth, I need one as well.” He drained the last of his tea as Gabranth took a biscuit, eyeing it speculatively. “They’re flavoured with honey and apple blossom,” he said, setting down his mug and standing. He dismissed the flames at his hands with a motion like cracking his knuckles, then went to dig out some of his rough towels from their shelf in the airing cupboard.
“They’re not exactly soft towels,” Sartauvoir said by way of warning, handing one of the greying towels to Gabranth. “I do believe they have had at least three owners before myself. This cottage was somewhat of a haven for people travelling through, or so I was told.”
“Sounds like a lucky find, then.” Gabranth’s voice was muffled by the towel which draped around his face as he rubbed rainwater from his hair. “You were right, those biscuits are good.” He tipped his head to the side and wrapped the towel around his loose hair, squeezing it and giving it another vigorous towelling until he rather resembled an ageing blonde lion, eyes twinkling up at Sartauvoir as he dried his own hair with rather less attack.
“I’m glad you enjoyed.” By the flames, what was he reduced to? Chatting about biscuits with the commander of the very Legion which strove to subjugate his people. And yet… and yet. Everything about van Gabranth’s story rang true to Sartauvoir’s heart. The old man had an air of gruff honesty about him, and an easy sincerity that would look foolish on any other man. Despite his words earlier, Sartauvoir already knew what his reply would be…
There was another peal of thunder and the small cottage windows lit as lightning streaked after it, the insistent patter of rain increasing to a near-torrent against the thatched roof. Sartauvoir looked up, towel still wrapped around his neck, and bit his lip. “I hope that thatching holds. I haven’t seen a storm of this magnitude while I’ve been living here, I know not how sturdy the roofing is.”
Gabranth tipped a look at the ceiling and offered Sartauvoir a rueful grin. “Well, whether it holds or not, it looks like I won’t be leaving any time soon. Storm like this, it is like to last the whole day tomorrow as well.”
“Mm, you’re probably right.” Sartauvoir tapped his foot on the floor, considering, then sent another lick of flame to the hearth, kindling the fire to greater heights. “Better get comfortable, then. I can’t guarantee the comfort of the armchairs for sleeping in, they feel like they’re stuffed with straw and ten years old besides.” He looked back at Gabranth, sizing him up, attempting to reckon his age in his head. “And I’d not make you sleep on the floor, no matter how much padding I could give it. You will take my bed.”
“And where will you sleep, while I am taking your bed?” Gabranth raised one rather bushy eyebrow.
“I’ll take one of the chairs. I’ve fallen asleep there enough times already.”
“Nonsense. We’re both soldiers, even though it’s now been some time since you were in the field and me even more time besides. Or have you not shared a bedroll through a cold night before, Soranus?”
Sartauvoir sighed. “I have, but-”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” Gabranth brushed both hands together as if dismissing the discussion, then turned his attention to the pantry. “Now, what was this about chicken?”
The rest of the evening passed in comfortable camaraderie, and Sartauvoir felt an ache in his gut at how much he’d missed… well, this. Companionship, just having someone to talk to who had a sharp mind, and, okay yes, someone who asked interesting questions and then paid singularly intense attention to his responses and explanations. Someone who was easy on the eye, besides - Sartauvoir had found his own attention snagging upon small things about van Gabranth. The way his eyes crinkled when he found something amusing; the way he folded one leg across the thigh of the other and leaned forward, arrowing his gaze straight to the heart of him; how his hair, now dry but no less unruly, kept falling forward to cover the deep scar across his brow and eye.
So of course, when it came to retiring for the evening, Sartauvoir found himself oddly warm, and not just from the flush that came to his cheeks so damned easily, always when he didn’t want it to. Thankfully, there was a modesty screen in the small bedroom of this cottage, behind which a tidy wardrobe sat, wherein the few clothes he’d brought with him and some he’d bought at the market hung, so he didn’t have to worry about stripping down in front of the Legatus at least.
“I believe I have a tunic or two in here you can borrow,” Sartauvoir said over his shoulder as he opened the wardrobe doors. He located one, about hip-length on him, and dyed a deep purple colour which the seller had assured him was obtained through a secret recipe passed down through his family for generations. Sartauvoir suspected it was beets, but he’d let the seller keep his air of mystery untarnished.
He threw the tunic over the top of the screen and patted it with one hand. “This should suit, I believe. Though it would be short on me for nightwear, I suspect it will be ample for you.” He tried not to think about what Gabranth’s body looked like underneath his clothes, taking a moment to collect himself before picking up his own sleepwear, which had been neatly folded under his pillow - just another simple tunic, in soft red cotton, cut to mid-thigh and comfortably loose.
Sartauvoir undressed with rapid efficiency and slipped the tunic on over his head, readjusting the fabric about his eye which served as his eyepatch so that it wouldn’t slip down as he slept. Normally he would take the thing off to sleep, but the idea of that level of vulnerability in front of Gabranth was unthinkable. No one had seen the full extent of his face for years now, and they would not do so tonight.
A rapping awoke him from his reverie, and he shook his head to dispel those thoughts.
“Are you decent?”
“Yes. Pass me your clothes, I can hang them over the chairs by the fire to dry off overnight.” He slung his own tank top and trousers over his arm, then Gabranth added his own to the pile.
“I could have done that, you know,” he said, reproachful.
“Nonsense. You’re a guest. Now, there’s a mug for water on the side, if you could fill that and another one from the pump while I sort this, then we can retire.”
Gabranth obliged, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed when Sartauvoir returned, after dousing the lamps and coaxing the fireplace to banked for the night. “Do you have a preference for side?”
“The wall, please.” Thankfully the bed was generously sized, and for a miracle it was long enough for Sartauvoir’s legs, which spoke of a previous Elezen owner, perhaps a couple. He’d slept with his back against the wall for as long as he’d been in this cottage, a spell charged and ready in case of invasion, but this time? This time he was… almost inviting the invasion himself, wasn’t he? Was he truly considering joining the Garlean army? What was he thinking… Oh, only of a pair of green, green eyes watching him over a cup of tea, and an impassioned speech beneath an old oak on a chilly Autumn day.
He shivered, and wrapped both arms around himself automatically, as though to keep those thoughts safe inside, where they belonged.
Gabranth stood to make room for Sartauvoir, and then they were abed, finally. Together. Another shiver, and Sartauvoir brought his legs up to curl, just in case his body betrayed him.
“Goodnight, Soranus. I do hope you don’t snore.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Sartauvoir smirked, then gestured at the bedroom lamp, dimming the flame within until it gave off the tiniest hint of a glow. Just enough to highlight the shape of Gabranth, on his back, both hands folded atop the covers, his prodigious nose limned in lamplight. “You’ll have to let me know in the morning. Goodnight, Gabranth.”
Sartauvoir tucked one hand up against his pillow and his eyes fluttered shut, though he didn’t quite drift off. Everything Gabranth had said earlier chased through his thoughts, relentless, and underlined by his soft, even breathing, and the scent of him, in Sartauvoir’s bed of all places.
By all the flames, why did they have to send a man so attractive? Or rather, why did he have to send himself? Oh Mannatheihwo, but he smelled good… and wearing Sartauvoir’s clothing, too, against his bare skin. He’d managed to keep his gaze from lingering on Gabranth after they were changed, but that only seemed to stoke the fires of his imagination even higher. What was his build like? Would he have soft, blonde hair across his chest and stomach? Would he feel as solid as he looked, beneath Sartauvoir’s hands?
Sartauvoir found himself slipping his free hand between his legs as he chased those thoughts to their natural conclusion. He took his cock in hand, grazing his palm across the head as he imagined Gabranth’s cock, what it would feel like, what it would taste like. His eyes slid closed and he bit down on the inside of his bottom lip, stifling any noise before it could escape as he considered how that cock would fill his mouth, how the salt taste of it would make his mouth water, how it might nudge the back of his throat, and oh, what it would feel like to have Gabranth’s roughly calloused hand - the hand of a warrior - fisted into his hair, holding Sartauvoir’s head as he fucked his mouth, used him…
He couldn’t help but inhale sharply, at that, digging a blunt fingernail into the slit of his cock and smearing pre-come about, hips jerking involuntarily, once, as he curled in on himself a little more, protectively.
“Would you like a hand with that, Soranus?” Gabranth’s voice was a low and deep whisper, showing the curl of a smile in its tone, and Sartauvoir stilled immediately.
“W-what?” His voice was ragged, eyes wide with horror.
A shifting as Gabranth rolled onto his side to face Sartauvoir, his eyes gleaming in the dimness. “Soldier to soldier, you know?” He reached out and ran a tentative finger down Sartauvoir’s forearm, bringing goosebumps in its wake.
“You are- ah!” Sartauvoir gasped as Gabranth’s explorations took him further down, between his thighs to take loose hold of his wrist.
“I’m what? Want me to stop? This doesn’t have to mean anything, you know. Just one soldier giving another a hand - who hasn’t done that in the darkness of a tent with just a bedroll to share?”
Sartauvoir searched Gabranth’s face, what he could see of it in the dark, noting the curve of his smile, his lidded eyes. “Y-yes,” he breathed, eventually, heart hammering in his chest. “By the flames, yes.”
“I hoped you’d say that.” Gabranth shuffled a little closer, pressing himself against his curled knees, then all thoughts flew from Sartauvoir’s mind as Gabranth’s hand joined his own, encircling the base of his cock even as Sartauvoir’s hand curled around the head.
Their hands worked in tandem and Gabranth’s were as warm and rough as Sartauvoir had imagined, jerking him with smooth strokes.
“Hells…” Sartauvoir moaned, “I- I’m not going to last…”
“You don’t have to last.” Gabranth’s voice was rough, now, and Sartauvoir was vaguely aware of his hips moving too just as he came, sudden and near blinding in its intensity, streaking both their hands with come.
He stroked Sartauvoir through his orgasm with languid motions, until Sartauvoir could finally breathe again. “Mm, very good, Soranus.”
Sartauvoir’s eyes snapped open and he blushed furiously at the jolt that voice and those words sent directly to his spent cock.
As though he knew exactly the effect he was having on Sartauvoir, Gabranth brought his hand to his mouth and cleaned it with his tongue, eyes never moving from Sartauvoir’s face, holding his gaze even though he squirmed with it.
“Ser,” Sartauvoir breathed, eyelids fluttering, “you are incorrigible.” His gaze darted down between them and he noticed Gabranth’s erection making a goodly tent in his tunic, which rode up his thighs scandalously. He swallowed, then took his courage in hand. “Would- would you like a hand with that?”
“You don’t have to,” Gabranth said, gruff, though the twitch of his cock said otherwise.
“I want to. Why do you think… ugh. Why do you think I started this in the first place?” Sartauvoir ducked beneath the covers before Gabranth could protest further, moving down the bed until he was between his thighs. And oh, what thighs they were, and how he wished he could see them. But he’d not risk conjuring a flame for a better view, although he had a suspicion that the Legatus would enjoy that, if his piercing questions and fascination with Sartauvoir’s magic earlier were any indication.
Instead, he ran his palms across the inside of both thighs - large and well-muscled, they were, and heavily furred - and pushed up the tunic enough that he could get access to Gabranth’s cock which was a heavy, thick weight against the back of his hand.
Sartauvoir bowed his head and grazed his lips over the underside of it, his mouth flooding with saliva at the taste and hot, musky scent. He’d been leaking already, and by the flames he was so hard. Sartauvoir dabbled his tongue into the slit, tasting pre-come with a groan, before loosening his lips and allowing his head to slide forward and down, taking the full thickness of van Gabranth to the back of his throat.
There was a muffled groan, the sound of knuckles being stuffed into a mouth, and then Sartauvoir lost himself in sensation; Gabranth’s cock, heavy and salt-sweet pressing down against his tongue, the blunt head of it pushing just against the limit of how much he could easily take, the stifling, beautiful heat of the covers above him combined with the press of Gabranth’s thighs as they clenched, near squeezing Sartauvoir’s head and by the flames, maybe it shouldn’t feel so damnably good but he could feel his own cock twitching back to life, and with the way he was sprawled face down on the bed, he had the perfect angle to just grind and rut until he felt himself come closer to the edge all over again.
One of Gabranth’s hands slid into Sartauvoir’s hair as his legs tensed, and with a monumental effort, he pulled himself out of Sartauvoir’s mouth just in time, hips jerking as his seed painted Sartauvoir’s face, his lips and chin.
The shock of it was enough. Sartauvoir came again into his bed sheets with a groan as Gabranth sagged backwards, his head dropping back onto the pillow and breath coming heavily.
“You have a wicked mouth on you,” Gabranth said, warm laughter in his voice. “Come here. I didn’t mean to mess you up so.” He pulled Sartauvoir up the bed by his head and wiped come off his bottom lip with one thumb. “Hells, you do look good like this, though…”
He was already warm from the exertion, but the Legatus’ words sent a new heat to Sartauvoir’s cheeks. “I don’t mind,” he breathed, trying not to focus on the pad of thumb that returned to his bottom lip, the way Gabranth’s fingers cradled his face, and that sweaty, dishevelled, blissed out expression on his face.
“You were thinking of this? Before, when you said-”
“Yes.” Sartauvoir cut him off. “Yes, Legatus. I was imagining what it would feel like to suck your cock, if you must know.”
“Oh. Hm.” Gabranth paused, licking his own seed off his thumb thoughtfully. “Did it live up to your imagination?”
Sartauvoir rolled his eyes. “Are you always this talkative after sex?”
“Yes. Would you rather I leave you to stew in apparent embarrassment? You needn’t, you know. Be embarrassed.” Gabranth tipped Sartauvoir’s chin and tilted his face to the side with firm fingers.
“Not everyone can be so cavalier about- whatever this was!”
“You ought to try it. Give me some light, would you? I want to clean you up, since I made such a delightful mess of you.”
Sartauvoir rolled his eyes again, but he lifted a hand and summoned a coating of flame anyway, then held perfectly still and absolutely pointedly not looking at Gabranth as he proceeded to wipe seed off his face, lick his fingers clean then begin again. The ritual was oddly soothing, though, and Sartauvoir finally allowed himself to relax a little.
“Come a little closer,” Gabranth murmured, “there’s a bit I can’t quite- ah yes, there we go, very good.” His voice warmed as Sartauvoir obliged, then Gabranth moved in close and dragged his bottom lip over Sartauvoir’s, grazing it with his tongue, breath coming shallow as he stole a slow, wet kiss.
“Hells…” Sartauvoir breathed against Gabranth’s lips.
“Agreed.”
“Do you kiss everyone you give a hand to, like that?”
“Mm, only the attractive ones.” Gabranth chuckled against Sartauvoir’s lips. “And even then, only the ones I’m desperately trying to win to my cause.”
“I see. Well, since we’re back on that… I was going to wait ‘til tomorrow to tell you, but you win, Legatus. You’ve persuaded me.” Sartauvoir settled down in the bed, pressed up against Gabranth’s side in a show of audacity he hoped wouldn’t be going too far. “I shall join your Fourth.” He rested his head against Gabranth, nestled between chest and shoulder, a satisfied smile curling his lips as the Legatus wrapped that same arm around him.
“That gladdens me more than you know,” Gabranth murmured. He turned and pressed another kiss to Sartauvoir’s head, right where the eyepatch swathed his eye and head.
“I was being serious, though,” Sartauvoir mumbled into Gabranth’s chest. “Do you do this with everyone?”
“No, not by far. You’re the first in… longer than I care to admit. Running a Legion doesn’t exactly lend itself to copious amounts of spare time, alas, and time for romance is even more scarce.”
“Romance, is it?”
“Would you prefer ‘dalliance’?”
“I don’t know what I’d prefer. Hadn’t thought that far ahead…”
“Well, we’ve plenty of time, Soranus. No need to rush.” Gabranth yawned widely. “Tomorrow or the day after, we can make plans for your squadron, on the way back to the Castrum, when the storm lets up. I imagine you won’t have many possessions to bring along?”
“No, not really. Just my books and clothes.” Sartauvoir yawned too, too sleepy to bother with the soiled bedding. He rested one hand on Gabranth’s stomach, feeling the taut muscle of it, padded with fat. “Sleep now, please.”
“As you wish.”
Sartauvoir let go of the spell at his hand and the room dimmed to near-darkness, and the gentle, even breaths of Gabranth soothed him into sleep.