Chapter Text
When Erik was a boy, he decided to learn how to swim.
Nobody told him to do it, but he thought it was necessary. Water was dangerous. Rivers could be as calm as a puddle or as fast as galloping horses. Bridges strong enough to carry the weight of several men could be washed away by floods. Last year, one of the hardest men in Istvan's band had lost his footing on a muddy hill and tumbled into a nearby river, where he drowned in less than a minute. Karsa had been a barrel of a man, tall and broad with more scars than Erik could count, and it was water that killed him.
"How do you fight water?" Erik asked.
There was no answer, because he was alone. That was how he spent most days, ferrying water for Istvan's mercenaries. It was an important job. He was not strong enough to carry as many buckets as full-grown men, but he was big for his age, even as a boy. In the home he hardly remembered, he had fetched water for his mother and their neighbors once he was strong enough to carry a bucket without spilling a drop.
It was quiet, boring work, and that suited Erik best. He didn't like talking to people, except Istvan. Most of the men treated him like he was a dog, lurking nearby for food and comfort. Some were cruel; only a few were kind. Many feared him. He didn't know why or what he could have done, but he hated the way his chest tightened when he heard men whispering.
"I don't care," said Erik, even though he did.
He gazed at the river, fingers tightening around the empty bucket's handle. Courage boiled in his chest. He carefully placed the bucket in the grass and kicked his shoes off. He folded his hose up around his knees and studied the water.
The river was not particularly wide and moved at a slow pace, hardly noticeable until he was close enough to really see it. He stepped closer and dragged his bare foot across the surface. Cold, but not bitterly. In the summer's heat, thick as a cloak, the chill was refreshing.
Erik wondered how deep this river was. Even though it was narrow and mostly clear, he couldn't really tell. Here, by the edge, he thought he could easily stand. There were some rivers where he would be up to his neck after a few steps, but he could walk across this one—unless the water pulled him under.
Something in Erik's belly dipped and pitched forward, like when he climbed a tree and looked down. He pushed through the feeling with a hesitant step forward, then another, until the water tickled the back of his knees. Rocks scratched his feet, but not badly enough to pain him.
Swimming was a skill few people had, in Erik's experience. He could not remember anyone in his village who could swim, but he remembered very little of that place or its people. The cook had a story about a childhood friend who took to water as easily as a duck, darting across the length of the river while his mother waited by its bank, furious and terrified.
Erik touched the water with his fingertips, wondering if Istvan knew how to swim.
"The best way to learn," said Erik, remembering, shaking the fear out of his body with his hands until his wrists ached, "is by doing."
Deeper into the river he went, until his thighs were damp. His hose, which were just a bit too large, slipped down his right leg and sucked up water as greedily as dry dirt. He leaned down, took in a huge breath, and buried his face in the water.
The cold was a delight. Erik could forget the hot sun here, under the surface, where everything was green-blue and surprisingly clear. There was grass and dirt and rocks and all sorts of little things under the water, moving slowly with the river's current. He watched three fish swim closer and turn away at the last moment, out of reach.
He wondered what would happen if he followed them. If he tipped forward, into the water's embrace, and let the river pull him away. His body would leave this place, away from his duties and the stink of mercenaries in a crowded camp. Away from Istvan, who was not his father but tried to act like it. The water would take Erik until he died, and an unlucky stranger would discover his corpse. He would rest forever in unhallowed ground without a shroud, like his parents. Perhaps he would be eaten by wolves, too.
Would anyone miss him? How long would it take for people to forget the sound of his voice? Would it be easy to let go, to let nature decide?
Erik pulled his face out of the water, gasping. Cold fingers trickled down his neck and pinched the flesh under his tunic. He scrambled away from the water, stomach twisting into terrible knots.
It had been a long time since his mind darkened to such thoughts. He didn't recall much of the days after his parents died, but Istvan said that he had constantly wept and begged for death. Erik believed him. He spent the first months in Istvan's camp in a haze, doing what he was told because he had little else. Barely eating. Sleeping for two or twelve hours, nothing in between. He rarely spoke, except with Istvan, who had no patience for a child and didn't bother hiding it.
But Istvan had never sent him away, or stopped talking to him, or punished him for his oddities. A thickness swelled in Erik's throat; his eyes were damp. He wiped his face on his tunic and looked at the water.
Once he felt better, Erik fixed his hose and stepped into his shoes. His toes were still damp. They pinched awkwardly as he filled the bucket, and continued to pain him as he walked back to camp, carefully carrying the half-filled bucket with both hands.
*
That night, after he had rested by the fire and eaten a good meal, Erik approached Istvan's tent. He called his name, then waited. He would not barge inside.
That was a mistake he had made only once, thinking that because Istvan always welcomed him, no matter the hour or how busy he was, it was fine for Erik to open his tent. But it was not, because as soon as Erik had nudged the canvas, Istvan shouted at him with such fury that Erik flinched even remembering. He assumed he had interrupted an important meeting, because he remembered hearing another man's voice and seeing his shadow.
Never saw him, though. Just Istvan—red-faced and bellowing, throat damp with sweat—and that was more than enough to deter Erik from going anywhere uninvited ever again.
"Come in, Erik," Istvan called.
Erik slipped inside the tent. He didn't know how Istvan always knew it was him. Whenever he asked, Istvan gave him a different answer.
The tent was cramped and smelled like sweaty feet, like all the rest. Istvan was sitting at a makeshift desk, cobbled together from a broken cart and fresh lumber, looking over a book in the light of a frail candle. He was dressed as he often was: covered from head to toe, including gloves and chaperon, all in black or close enough that he drifted into the shadows. Sometimes, Erik wondered if he had any skin at all below his shoulders.
Erik stepped closer, squinting at the book. There were a series of numbers at the end of each line. He couldn't read the rest, but he knew what numbers looked like. A ledger, he decided.
Still bowed over the book, Istvan said, "Go on, speak."
"Do you know how to swim?" Erik asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I had more important things to learn."
"I think swimming is important," said Erik. Istvan breathed hard through his nose, which was something like laughter for him when he was busy. "I tried to teach myself today, but…" He faltered, searching for a lie. "The water was too cold."
Istvan lowered his quill. His brows pinched at the bridge of his nose.
"What?" he demanded. "Why?"
Erik frowned. Istvan often said listening was the smartest thing a man could do and that people betrayed themselves with words more than swords. This wasn't a true betrayal, but it annoyed him to know that Istvan didn't always practice what he taught.
"I already told you," said Erik. "Swimming is important, I said. It's like riding horses, isn't it? More dangerous to do if you don't know how. So I thought I'd teach myself, in the river."
"Teach yourself?" Istvan echoed. His face was still twisted into a grimace. "And no one stopped you?"
"I was alone."
"Alone—? You could've drowned!"
Sudden fear jumped in Erik's belly. His mouth was dry. He thought about the river, tugging him into its current.
That was what happened to Karsa. Several days had passed before his body washed up on the bank. Swollen, bloated, too pale and wrinkled. The skin had been greenish and smelled faintly like the earth, Erik remembered, even though it was soaking wet. Karsa's corpse was far from the first one Erik had seen—and at that point, he'd already killed a few dying men with mercy—but something about the bizarre shape and size had always stuck with him. Fresh corpses still looked like people; Karsa had looked like a devilish creature.
Erik shifted his weight. He did not want Istvan to find a nightmare, reeking of cold death. He forced himself to swallow.
"Would you miss me if I was dead?" Erik asked.
Istvan closed his eyes and breathed so slowly, like he was sleeping. He couldn't be that angry, since he wasn't yelling, but Erik braced himself, anyway.
"Of course," said Istvan, as if Erik was a fool for even considering the question.
Erik felt very small. The anger followed, but he beat that back down until his face wasn't so hot. He didn't like being scolded. Istvan's habit of showing kindness right after losing his patience was just as frustrating. It made Erik feel like a child, and he wasn't a little boy anymore.
He looked at the ground, pinching his fingers behind his back.
"Oh," Erik said.
"Do you think I care so little for you?" Istvan asked. His face was smooth again, open with laughter. "I've raised you. Fed you, clothed you, educated you, even though I have men to pay and provisions to purchase. I treat you better than most fathers treat their whelps."
"You're not my father," said Erik. His voice was harder than he liked. He didn't know why. The anger was in him again, like a seeping poison. He hated the way it clawed inside his chest.
"No, I'm not," said Istvan.
"You don't want to be."
"Of course I don't. I never wanted children of my own. Luckily, I won't have any."
"Why not?"
"Because," said Istvan, and no more. He did that all the time.
Defeated, Erik dug his thumb into his palm. His anger had nowhere to go, and it slipped away like smoke. He wanted to apologize, but he wouldn't really mean it and Istvan would know, so he kept his mouth shut.
"Are you satisfied?" Istvan asked. Even though his voice was stern, his eyes were smiling.
Erik nodded. Istvan turned back to his ledger and dragged his finger down the side, mouthing some words under his breath. He dipped his quill in ink and wrote a sum at the bottom of the page.
"None of the men know how to swim well enough to teach a child," said Istvan. "I suspect you'll try again, because you're a stubborn little shit sometimes. If you insist on teaching yourself, try wading into a shallow pond and lying on your back. Not alone." He said that last part firmly. "Promise me that."
"I promise," Erik mumbled.
"Good. Do you need anything else?"
"No."
"Not even some reading before bed?"
"No."
"It's all right if you do. I have time."
"I can sleep on my own," said Erik. When he was younger, Istvan read to him every night until he fell asleep. It stopped his nightmares. He hadn't had one of those in a long time. "Good night."
He turned to leave, then remembered what Istvan had repeatedly told him about his poor manners.
"Thank you, sir," said Erik. He watched Istvan's mouth twitch into a smile, and he left.
*
There was no time for swimming, unfortunately. The two women who did the laundry, fucked the men, and tended small wounds left in the middle of the night. They hadn't stolen anything or bribed any of the men to follow; they were simply gone. Erik didn't understand why, when they had always been so dutiful and kind to Istvan. They had been especially kind to Erik.
Until he could find replacements, Istvan put Erik on laundry and bath duty. It was not an easy job. He thought he would like the repetitive work, but scrubbing made his arms ache worse than an afternoon in the training yard. The baths were even worse. Other people fetched water, but Erik had to heat the pots and haul them from the fires into the tents, then clean the tubs after they were used. The first day, he burned his hands so badly that he couldn't make a fist for a week.
Luckily, in the peak of summer, Istvan found a woman ("A witch!" he crowed, laughing at his men's discomfort and frequent signs of the cross) who had been banished from her village and had little choice for work elsewhere. She was a strange woman, always speaking stiffly with her eyes focused on some point in the distance, but she liked working in silence, too.
The witch taught Erik how to scrape infected pus from wounds and when to feed a fever until it broke. She knew how to brew a syrup from dandelions that soothed coughs, some poppy decoction that helped heal injuries quicker, and a paste that cleaned a man's cock of foul secretions. Erik's attempts were little more than warm, funny-smelling water, but he liked standing over a cookpot with a handful of herbs. Alchemy was like cooking: changing several things into one new thing. If he had the time, he would have practiced more.
Instead, there was laundry. Somehow, there was always laundry.
At least there was less this week, because the sun was so bright that many of the men stopped wearing much clothing altogether if they were safe in the shade. Seeing so much flesh was uncomfortable, though Erik could not explain why. The same thing had happened last summer, but now, the mostly-naked mercenaries made him nervous. Faintly embarrassed. He didn't like thinking about it.
Erik carried his share of the clothes to the river, where he and the witch would beat the fabric with rocks and scrub the sweatiest parts with soap. She was still a good pace behind him; they often raced to the river and he always won, though she insisted that she would beat him one day. Erik dropped everything in the grass and gazed out at the water.
A pond, Istvan said, but the nearest one was a few hours away, and the river was right here. The water wasn't fast enough to drag him away, Erik thought.
Not alone, Istvan had insisted. Erik glanced over his shoulder, squinting. The witch would be here soon; he could see her faintly in the distance.
"The best way to learn," Erik mumbled to himself.
He didn't give himself a chance to change his mind. He stripped down to his braies and stepped into the water, all the way up to his ribs. Nerves prickled over his skin so quickly that his fingers itched.
With a long, deep breath, he fell backwards.
Under the surface, the water was colder. His lungs tightened to a gasp he needed so desperately, but his body knew what to do, or he was so panicked for air that he did the right thing purely by accident. He pushed through the water and tipped his head back as he breached the surface, limbs stretched out.
His body was curved, muscles cramping in an effort to stay afloat. He flexed his fingers and his toes and did not sink. Slowly, he relaxed, unclenching his shoulders and thighs until the water cradled him.
It was nice. It was fun. Erik floated, listening to the birds trilling in the distance.
"What are you doing, young man?" the witch called.
Erik dropped into the river and stood, pushing the water off his face. The witch raised her hand to her eyes, squinting through the sun at him. She was smiling. Erik tipped his head to the side until the last of the water trickled out of his ear.
"Swimming," he said.
*
As summer turned to autumn, Istvan ordered everyone to pack up camp.
They followed the narrow river until it widened, deepened, quickened to a pace that made the horses flinch. Some men left. A few from nearby villages joined, but not always enough to make up for the other losses. The witch befriended a priest in an afternoon and decided to stay with him as a house maid. Erik was so upset that he wept, quietly and alone in his tent, and decided that he wouldn't care about the women Istvan found to replace her.
The band was on the move a lot. When they stopped, the mercenaries went elsewhere and fought. Erik watched from a safe distance until the fighting was done, then helped with throat-cutting and gathering supplies. After, Istvan would ride out at dusk and return in the dead of night or very early the next morning.
Once, when Erik asked what he was doing, Istvan said, "Politics."
"You're not a lord," said Erik, frowning. Politics was for rich men in fine clothes, making laws and playing war from behind the safety of sturdy walls. Everyone knew that.
Istvan made a sound like he was laughing, muffled through his tight mouth. He handed his horse's reins off to a waiting man. Even under the torch light, his skin looked grey, lined with exhaustion. His horse's coat glittered, then disappeared into the shadows.
"No," said Istvan. "Go to bed, boy. You still have work in the morning."
Erik sighed, but he did what he was told.
There was always work to do, and not just water carrying. Every morning, Erik would swing at posts with a wooden sword until the watch changed, and once again before dark. Istvan had taught him how to hold a sword, then told him to practice on his own until he was older and strong enough to carry a proper weapon.
Once a week, Erik helped the cook count their food stores so he could learn his sums. Istvan tried teaching him how to read and write, but Erik struggled to understand any of it. Sitting in a tent and looking at books made him miserable. He preferred to be outside: swimming, riding horses, chopping firewood, or picking herbs.
One of the mercenaries used to be a huntsman and was comfortable poaching just about anywhere. He brought Erik along on a hunting trip after he promised to be quiet, and then a few others because Erik did well enough the first time. Erik learned how to string a bow, make snare traps that turned into knots when pulled, skin a rabbit, and follow animal tracks. He wasn't very good at following, because he couldn't tell the difference between fresh and old tracks, but he picked up the snares easily. Skinning the rabbit was his favorite part. Peeling the fur away to reveal the meat below was almost like magic.
When they camped near villages or cities, Istvan would show Erik around the shops and always tried to bring him along into meetings with employers. Even though Istvan claimed Erik was his son and he was simply too protective to leave him behind, few people wanted a child to listen to their dealings with a mercenary, which meant Erik spent a lot of time in kitchens or courtyards, listening to muffled conversations and watching the household staff. On the rare occasion that he was allowed to sit in on a meeting, he tried to be on his best behavior so he wouldn't get Istvan in trouble.
On the way back to camp, Istvan would play memory games with him. How many men were in this room? How much money was spent in the tailor's shop? Which butcher sold poached meat? Did the guard at the door look comfortable in his armor? What color dress was the house maid wearing? And so on, and so on.
The more people were involved, the worse Erik was at the game, but Istvan said that didn't matter. He said Erik was a fine listener and remembered the important things, which was all that mattered.
"But why do this at all?" Erik asked. They were sharing a horse, making their way home under the setting sun, and his thighs already ached. He shifted around in the saddle, careful not to unseat Istvan behind him. "Are you making me a spy?"
Laughing, Istvan reached up and gripped Erik's bicep.
"With this strength?" said Istvan, squeezing. "You're a warrior, boy."
He let go and gathered the reins in both hands. They continued down the road in silence for a few minutes.
"What is the most important thing in a fight?" Istvan asked.
It was not pure strength, Erik knew. There was a man in Istvan's company, slender and hardly taller than Erik, who was so quick with a shortsword that he always outlasted heavily armored men in the training yard. Not skill, either. It didn't matter how often a man practiced or what he knew about the sword if his opponent was stronger, quicker, didn't have the sun in his eyes, had slipped into his quarters in the night, had planned ahead with poisons or reinforcements—
Well, there was more, but Erik realized that Istvan didn't necessarily mean a physical fight. Conversations were fights. Istvan said fighting with words was more fun than swords, because the field changed constantly. (Though Erik had seen him kill men with a longsword, and Istvan seemed just as pleased doing that.) Strength mattered in those fights, too, because a man could intimidate with his height and threaten with just a look.
The answer came to him. Erik sat up straighter.
"Advantage," he said.
When Istvan said, "Yes," it was with such conviction, as though Erik had answered all the unknown questions of science and medicine and philosophy with a single word. He leaned forward, so closely that Erik could almost feel the smile against his ear before he heard it. "Well done."
Pride nestled under Erik's ribs, where it would always linger.
*
The seasons stretched into years, and Erik grew.
His shoulders widened. His height seemed to double overnight. He felt awkward and strange, exhausted and aching all the time, no matter how many hours he slept. His voice was different again, and not by choice. When Erik complained, Istvan said, "Well, you are getting to be that age," and offered no help.
Everyone treated Erik like he was a different person, just because he was a bit older. It made no sense. He was still the same boy—the same man—doing the same menial jobs around camp, still listening and learning and throwing himself into new skills until he could manage them well enough on his own. But the same mercenaries who had ignored him or called him an irritating brat now greeted him cheerfully and invited him to drink wine late into the night. Some were eager to help him with his swordplay.
The change was jarring and uncomfortable, and Erik hated how he was the only one who seemed to see the difference. He was so used to standing on the outside, listening and scurrying in the background; he didn't know how to react when men looked at him, inviting him into conversations with their bodies as much as their words. The first time someone clapped him on the back, he wanted to break the man's wrist.
It was only now that Erik realized how rarely he was touched. His parents must have embraced him; he was certain of that. When he was younger, Istvan had guided him through camp with a hand on his back, but he stopped after he trusted Erik enough to wander around by himself.
Touch was a foreign thing, especially when it was kind. Years of nothing or violence, training weapons thwacking his arms or hard slaps as punishment, and now Erik reacted so quickly to simple things: shoulder nudges, a hand brushing against his, tangled legs in a wrestling maneuver. Even Istvan stirred something within him.
Erik had no time to decide how he felt about such things, because his body was constantly out of reach. It wasn't his own anymore. Something else, some animal instinct, had taken control. He ached awkwardly, all the time, in too many different ways to count. He feared he would feel this uncomfortable for the rest of his life—that all men simply got used to this feeling as they aged.
"No," said Istvan, when Erik found the courage to ask. "A few years, at most."
They were in the training yard: a lazy square of dirt on the edge of camp, corners marked with barrels. There used to be a fence here, until a fight turned too violent and one man killed another by slamming his head into a post until he dropped. Istvan had seemed more annoyed by the mess than the death itself. If Erik looked at the ground carefully, he thought he could still see the blood.
Both of them were sweating. Istvan had rescued Erik from his least favorite duty (checking the palisades and digging new holes when a section needed replacing) and practiced with him in the yard for hours, until Erik's tunic was soaked and swinging a sword made sharp pain dart up his spine.
A step too far, Erik knew. There was no point in injury; he was only making more work for himself. He covered his mouth, swallowing a yawn.
"You'll survive," Istvan added, patting Erik on the back with his wooden sword.
Even Istvan was friendlier now. Erik had always known that Istvan cared about him—he had saved Erik's life, after all, and treated him better than others might have. Istvan had always been kind, too, even when he was strict. But the difference was noticeable, in a way Erik couldn't name but somehow understood. It made him more wary than he liked.
"Done for the day?" Istvan asked. Erik nodded.
They returned the wooden training weapons to the rack. Erik muffled another yawn. Something inside his ears popped, and he winced.
"You can't be that tired," said Istvan, even though he was breathing loudly and his collar was damp with sweat.
"I haven't been sleeping well," Erik admitted.
The combination of his aching body (the muscle pains, the embarrassing stiffness, the way everything would stir at a slight breeze) and the sounds from the nearby baths kept him awake at all hours. It had been weeks since he'd slept through the night.
At first, it was thrilling. The sounds of camp, so normal and familiar that Erik could pick out the men by their snores or footsteps, were suddenly exciting. There was new meaning in every faint sound. Was that a grunt as a man tried to get comfortable, or was he fucking a woman in the bath tent and desperate for release? Were the tents rustling in the wind, or was that a man pleasuring himself in his tent?
Now, it was a nightmare, and not one Erik could wake up from or sleep through. He was always reaching for sleep, so desperately, knowing it would never come until his body was too weary to do anything else.
"Do you think that has something to do with sleeping near the fuck tents?" Istvan asked.
Erik flushed. "I didn't mean to put my tent there."
"I suspected you did, but I was polite enough not to say anything."
"But you're saying something now."
"Yes," said Istvan, as if he was pleased, but his mouth was flat. "Do I need to warn the women about my boy sneaking a peek at night?"
"No!" said Erik, so loudly that a few men in the distance turned around. He wanted to hit something or bury himself underground and couldn't do either. Instead, he muttered, "No, I don't—I don't do that."
His mouth was twisting, even though he was trying to be polite. Another part of his body that wasn't his anymore. Erik looked away. He could feel his hair itching the nape of his neck. It was getting too long again; he needed Istvan to cut it.
"I believe you," Istvan said lightly. "We have more than enough wine, don't we? Have a few drinks."
"Tried that," said Erik. Sleeping through the night wasn't worth the violent hangover in the morning. There were few things he hated more than vomiting. "I'll just have to get used to this. Or," he said, brightening, just as the idea occurred to him, "you could—can you read to me? Please? Just tonight."
He was too old, he knew, but he thought he'd try. People said he could talk Istvan into anything, which Erik found hard to believe. Whenever he tried to coax Istvan into something—a treat from a bakery, another horse race, more hours in the training yard—it was always what Istvan had planned on doing, anyway.
"Of course I can," said Istvan. Erik felt a great pressure flee his chest, like he was lighter than air. "Wait for me tonight. I'll come to you."
*
Once the sky darkened, Erik stretched out over his bed and waited.
When he was younger, he would stay in Istvan's tent or set up his tent nearby so he felt safe enough to sleep, but he didn't need that shield anymore. Now, he usually found a spot near the perimeter, because he liked having the palisades at his back. That was where he was in this camp, along the eastern wall and within view of the chief's tent.
And the baths. Erik could faintly hear the sounds of bodies moving in water and feminine voices. Istvan always hired women for his band, even when they were short on coin or men, because he said having one around kept spirits up. Erik suspected it was more about getting someone to do laundry.
Istvan did not take long to arrive and swept into Erik's tent without announcing himself. He carried a small bowl with a lit candle melting in the middle and a book tucked under his arm. With his hand cupped around the flame, he knelt and placed the bowl on the very edge of Erik's bed.
"This," said Istvan, brandishing the book, "is about the mortal remains of Saint Wenceslas. I don't know why I have this or where we found it, but be grateful. You'll be asleep in seconds."
"I'll try," said Erik. He watched Istvan nudge the bowl into a better position before laying the book flat on the ground.
Istvan cleared his throat and began to read. Erik shifted his weight around, careful of the candle, and folded his hands over his belly. He closed his eyes and listened, ignoring the quiet laughter in the nearby tent.
It had been a long time since Istvan did this for him, and he was somewhat ashamed to admit that he'd missed it. He wasn't a child, hiding away in Istvan's tent because the men outside frightened him, but he found this calming. Istvan's voice was always just quiet enough that Erik didn't have to listen to the words if he was too tired.
And (this was more embarrassing to admit) Erik liked all this attention, focused solely on him. The book was there, but that was for Erik, just like Istvan's time. He blinked and looked at Istvan's features in the narrow light from the candle, watching his mouth move.
The sound of a page turning was louder than Erik expected, and he flinched. Istvan kept reading. Something invisible skipped all over Erik's skin, twice.
The tent felt hot, Erik realized. He was finding it difficult to breathe. For a mad moment, he thought everything was on fire. He could see the ashes, the corpses, the way the fire licked through homes and hungered for more, and he wanted to shout for buckets of water—until he remembered the candle. A wisp of a thing, just enough to give Istvan light, but the wind kept pushing a small trail of smoke towards Erik's face. No wonder it was all he could smell.
But he was still hot (and nervous, too, for no reason) and so fucking aware of how his skin prickled and the peculiar new heat curling in his belly and the way everything burned and strained and ached. Erik was a bruise with legs most days. He shifted his weight again, trying to settle his body. Even his prick was aching. It didn't matter how many times he tugged it, or what he was doing or who he was talking to. He was worse than a boar in rutting season.
He was so preoccupied with his thoughts, his own traitorous body, that he didn't notice the hand on his knee until it squeezed.
"Stop wriggling," said Istvan.
Erik did. He stopped breathing, too. He felt—
He didn't want to think about that.
Istvan was still reading, but Erik wasn't listening. His body felt strange. It was like being aware of his own skin and bones for the first time; he had never been so certain of where his arms and legs were. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.
The hand did not move. It still touched him, thumb pressing hard into his knee.
"And there in the church of the two saints," Istvan read, in a low, careful voice, "he threw himself on the flags before all and with long prayers and weeping begged Our Lord to have mercy on him for the sake of Saint—Erik? What's wrong?"
Erik hardly heard him over the pulse in his ears. He still felt very strange, and he wanted to blame Istvan but knew it was his own skin that was doing this. Too hot, stretched too thinly over his new bones, too much. He breathed through his nose rather than open his mouth.
For a long moment, they stared at each other.
Something flickered over Istvan's face. Anger, perhaps, or confusion, or a queasiness, or just a trick of the light, but it was gone when Erik blinked. Istvan returned to the book.
"For the sake of Saint Wenceslas. And no sooner did he stand up from prayer," said Istvan, pausing to turn the page, "than by divine grace his knees were firmed. And he gave thanks to God and to blessed Wenceslas…"
He kept reading; Erik kept listening. Slowly, the hand slipped away.
When the candle was flickering in a pool of wax, Istvan closed the book. Erik was nearly asleep. He didn't know how, but he had gone from desperately awake, pulse thumping behind his eyes, to this lazy, summer sun feeling. He wondered if the day's training had finally caught up to him.
Istvan licked his fingers and pinched the candle. The darkness was a comfort. Erik closed his eyes.
As Istvan picked up the bowl, his fingers scraped against Erik's leg. It was worse than wrestling or being trapped between two men on a bench, breathing in their sweat. This stirred something else in Erik's thoughts.
"Good night," said Istvan. Erik held his breath until he left.
*
That night, and many nights after, Erik had strange dreams.
He was trapped in some way, either on his back or his belly. Hands touched him and didn't, twisting in the air around him, but he was always aware of them and their weight. The hands pressed him down until their warmth overtook him and he floated through the ground, disappearing into nothing.