Warrior, Stand Tall by Erin O’Quinn

The tall, silent warrior stood at the pine, seeming to become one with the rough bark. His student Wynn could almost hear the wind sighing through his white-blond hair, just as it sang through the pine needles above their heads. His trainer would stand there, Wynn knew, until his students betrayed by an eye-blink where they were hidden. It was his nature to become one with the woods if he stood in a forest or one with the rocks or the sand dunes—wherever he was.

Now the trainer stood in the pines, waiting for one of his students to give himself, or herself, away. Wynn was lying along a branch, curving as it curved, invisible even to the finch building an early spring nest a foot from his head. The other student—the irritating girl Caylith—was nowhere to be seen. That fact rankled him.

So far in their training together, more than a month, he thought he had proved himself the superior student. He seemed to be a little more nimble, a shade faster, more skilled at puzzling out a fast solution than the girl. He had to grant that she was lightning-fast when it came to bata practice, both of them wielding the knobby cudgels called “shillelaghs” or “batas.” She was faster, yet he was more forceful.

He continued to breathe in the measured, deep way their trainer had shown both of them. It was more than a centering of self. It was a way almost to crawl under the skin of an opponent, to win the war by the swallowing-up of the enemy’s inner thoughts and intentions, of knowing his intentions before he did.

Now, by subtle movements where there should be none, he knew exactly where Caylith was. Boldly, she knelt in the clearing where their trainer had set up sparring circles, her back to the river, her face bowed to her chest. Her clothing, dark as the river, hid her well enough that she looked from his angle like one of the dark stones that thrust from the bank or lay partly immersed in the water. It was perfect. Unless she moved, Caylith was invisible. But a part of her had moved.

Then their trainer spoke, barely moving his lips. “The stone. The branch. You are both discovered. You may stand down.”

Wynn reluctantly swung down from the branch, and the girl stood, almost sullenly. Now they would have to bear the lacerations of his tongue.

“Wynn. Until you lose five pounds of belly bacon, you need to stay out of trees. Caylith. Even with your rowdy hair in a kerchief, you call undue attention to yourself. Therefore, you have both failed. Next time, I need to take more than five minutes to find you. That will be all until tomorrow.”

Caylith walked with stiff shoulders to her palomino pony, tethered to a rowan branch twenty feet away. Wynn made a move to follow, and the trainer raised his hand to stay him. Both of them stood rock-still until Caylith had ridden into the trees, toward the pathway, out of sight.

Wynn was standing near the pine whose branch he had sought. His trainer walked up to him and drew him by one arm around to the side of the trunk, away from anyone who might walk suddenly through the screen of trees where Caylith had ridden.

In an instant, his body was pressed into Wynn, and his finely sculpted mouth was seizing his lips, taking them into his mouth, biting and sucking them. Wynn’s groin shot up, seeming to hammer against the other man’s erection. “Gristle. I need ye.” He spoke into his trainer’s mouth, moaning, answering his hungry, moving tongue. Both of them sunk to their knees together in the bed of fallen needles, sucking and licking each other’s mouths, their hands searching for the other’s leather belt.

Gristle’s very silence was a source of hot arousal to Wynn. He rarely betrayed his emotions by any words. But his body actions spoke an eloquent language to his student and lover. He had Wynn’s tunic open in a matter of seconds and was fingering his balls, stroking his cock, while Wynn threw his head back and opened his knees, giving his groin to his lover. Gristle lowered his head and began to suck, noisily and wetly, while Wynn held his head close, and his fingers threaded his marvelous hair.

“Now! Now!” he whispered fiercely, and he shot his hot fluids into Gristle’s eager mouth. He held his head there until the tremors eased somewhat. And then Gristle was turning him over. He felt the pine needles on his bare stomach, and he felt Gristle empty his mouth of the thick semen and spit it onto and into his ass.

He could feel Gristle seize his buttocks, hard. The next thing he felt was the slick, insistent length of Gristle’s prick on his asshole. Its bulbous head penetrated a few inches, and then it was deeply inside. He bucked and resisted, he moved and cried, and still it probed deeper. Finally, when he felt Gristle’s balls slapping against his ass, he heard his lover cry out sharply, once. And then it was over, and he was lying on Wynn’s back, sucking and biting the nape of his neck.

They lay together like that for a while, listening to the finch building her nest and the bees questing, then sucking, the most aromatic dogwood flower.

Then, without words, they rose to their feet and drew their tunics closed, belting them while looking at each other rather than their own hands. Then they walked together, close companions, to the river.

* * * *

Gristle saw both his students, but still he stood next to the pine, unmoving. He wanted to see how long they could maintain their invisibility before they were given away by a weakness, or by the very elements they sought to blend with.

Caylith, crouched in the open, was almost perfect—a river stone, one of many. He would not tell her openly, but he was pleased with her progress since they had begun to train again three or four weeks ago. She had lain fallow for almost six months, since the waning days in the Britannia seaport where all of them had sailed in small vessels to their new home in Hibernia—this land the natives called Éire.

Since then, all of them had been caught up in the complexities of settling in their adopted homeland…Finding the monastery founded by Father Patrick in Armagh and escorting him to the fair in Tara…Bringing a suit before the high king, who awarded Caylith vast tracts of land…Then finally settling in Derry, here by the River Foyle. Until a few weeks ago, even his own self-training had largely been abandoned in favor of building their new settlement. And Wynn’s promised training had been interrupted by a sinister twist of fate.

Gristle saw Caylith’s beautiful weakness—her lustrous red hair. Enough of it had escaped her dark kerchief that the movement of the wind clearly showed it in the rock-strewn clearing, dancing where no red tendrils should dance.

He eyed Wynn, stretched out along a pine branch, bending where it bent. Even the finch was undisturbed, building her spring nest near his head. His breathing must be very disciplined, his trainer thought, and he almost moved his mouth in a pleased smile.

Wynn was an enigma to him. He was large—almost the size of Gristle himself—six feet tall, well muscled, broad of chest. Gristle once thought that he preferred much smaller, more slender, almost beautiful men. And yet for his size, the young man was as nimble and light-footed as one of his own mountain ponies. On the surface, he was handsome enough. But he had the kind of beauty that appealed to Gristle only after he got to know him better. It was the beauty of ready humor, fresh insight, and deep, immutable love for his trainer.

He was only twenty-two years old. Yet, in some ways, he was more mature than Gristle, almost twice his age. Unlike his trainer, Wynn found it easy to interact with other people and to win their admiration. People like Luke, Gristle thought sourly. He was still unsure whether the young smith, Luke, was attracted to Wynn, whether he longed to stroke his golden skin…

Gristle’s mind snapped back to the present. He had seen Wynn’s weakness. There, in his shoulder blades, where he had recently been severely wounded, he saw a slight trembling as Wynn sought to maintain a close grip on the branch. He already knew by feeling Wynn’s shoulders after his recent fall that he had borne injuries all the way to the bone. Now those injuries had betrayed him.

“The stone. The branch. You are both discovered,” he said coldly. “You may stand down.”

It was not Gristle’s way to lavish praise on his students. They would have to find instruction in what he did not criticize. He told Caylith the truth. Her hair, as always, gave her away. He lied to Wynn. He would tell him later, alone, about his shoulders. He did not want even his fellow student to know about Wynn’s hidden injuries. The boy would work on those injuries and make his body whole again, with his trainer’s help. No sense in exposing what others could not see, putting him in harm’s way.

After Caylith left, Gristle still stood by the pine, and Wynn, undecided, made a move to follow Caylith. As a ruse? To lead her to think he was leaving, too? Although the young man was living with him, neither of them had exactly announced their arrangement. In that regard, both men were very private and very discreet. Gristle raised one hand to stay Wynn’s movement. He walked toward him, inhaling his golden skin and brindled hair, needing to touch him.

Afterward, he lay on Wynn’s back. He licked and bit the only skin he could find, the open nape of his neck, exposed by his tunic. He was not sure when he was happiest—the moment of penetration, the moment of climax, or the moment when he lay limp and drained, close against Wynn’s warm, honey-gold skin.

Later both men got to their feet amid the sound of the wind singing through the pine needles. They closed and belted their tunics and walked together, shoulder to shoulder, down the rise from the training area to the swift, dark river.

* * * *

They stood in the cold, rushing water. Wynn thought that the currents were not just fast. He had to assume almost a defensive stance, knees bent, to make sure he was not swept from his feet by the strength of the swirling, slashing river.

In spite of the cold, he felt invigorated by the buffeting sprays of water. He and Gristle often bathed here, near a very large, almost flat rock that stood out some four feet above the river. After cleansing themselves, they would lie on the smooth stone and talk, or simply watch the sky and the water.

Today they lay quietly. Wynn was on his stomach, while Gristle lay on his back watching the small patch of sky though the tall pines.

“Tell me again how you healed your shoulders and ribs.”

Wynn, who was dreaming about their recent lovemaking, was startled by the armsman’s words.

“Time, mostly. Letting weeks go by, while I pushed up and down with me arms from the floor. Or lifted meself from a branch as high as I could stand. Hundreds of times.”

“That strengthened your muscles,” Gristle mused. “But it did not heal the bones. The bones are still bruised.”

“Me ribs?” Wynn was incredulous. His ribs no longer hurt at all.

“No. No, your flat bones that lie under the shoulder muscles. It is a weakness that you must overcome.”

Wynn half-rose on his elbows and gazed curiously at Gristle. “A weakness how?”

“I saw your shoulders trembling today. That kind of weakness could lead to injury, or worse.”

Wynn suddenly realized that Gristle’s mention of his “belly bacon” was a lie told in front of another person to protect his secret. He would hardly admit to himself that he, too, had felt the small tremors a little while ago in his shoulders as he tried to cling to the branch with muscles not quite ready for the task. Or he guessed it was not the muscles, but the way they attached to the shoulders. He was still hurt, and he was trying to ignore it.

“I should have told ye,” he said glumly.

“No matter, lad,” Gristle said softly. He rose up a little and bent over Wynn’s body, naked, glowing in the late afternoon. “I will show you ways to heal a deep inner bruise.”

Wynn turned his head, his lips close to Gristle’s. “Ye know about inner hurt.” It was not a question. He looked at Gristle with a manifold trust.

Gristle, now on one arm, reached out and stroked his hair. “I learned many years ago. I will teach you everything I know.”

His voice was so gentle and husky, his hand light as a dragonfly in his hair, that Wynn closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Gristle licked it then put his soft tongue inside and began to draw the boy close to his own naked body. They lay kissing for several minutes, slow and measured, their tongues probing deeper and deeper.

Both warriors struggled to breathe normally.

“The shadows lengthen,” Gristle said at last.

“Ie. We have a five-pound trout to cook.”

“Will you tell me later something of your captivity?”

Wynn had shied from talking about his experiences of a few months ago. He was holding back, even though he loved Gristle. For one thing, he did not want to whine about his difficult captivity. But the other reasons were more complicated. Even he did not fully understand the deeper pain he still felt.

“I will.” I will try, he amended to himself.

“Then let us dress.”

The men put on their tunics and attached their leather belts, again without looking at their own fingers, their eyes loving the sight of each other. And then they walked from the river and up a hill, thickly ingrown with ferns, to the house that Gristle had begun to build on the crest of the hill.

* * * *

Gristle’s strong fingers played on his shoulders, bidding every muscle to relax. He started at the neck, almost at the backbone, and he worked down and across the wing-like blades of his shoulders. It took almost half an hour before Wynn began to feel as though his former body was back. He felt that he could stretch, he could grip, he could bear a heavy weight—all without a tremor of pain.

“Diolch yn fawr. Thank ye kindly.” He tried to sit up.

“Lie down,” his trainer said impassively. He continued to work on his student’s muscles, next testing the rib cage where Wynn had cracked three ribs a few months ago. By now, the pain was minimal, almost a nuisance. “Why did you not tell me about these injuries right away?”

Wynn was silent. Did Gristle not remember turning from him coldly, not allowing him to explain his four-month absence? If he had shown even the slightest warmth toward him, Wynn would have told him even the worst of his story. But even now, even as he and Gristle were becoming closer than ever before, he could not tell him some things. They lay buried in his mind and refused to come to the surface.

His lover had been convinced that Wynn had run away from him—a repeat of what had happened to him ten years before, when his lover, on sentry duty in a Roman encampment, had disappeared in the middle of his watch and had never returned. If Wynn had known that story a few months ago, he would have made every effort to get a message to Gristle. But Gristle, like Wynn, was still holding back his most painful memories.

Gristle did not ask his question again. Perhaps he did, after all, remember turning abruptly from Wynn and riding away the day Wynn returned from his captivity by the druids and his convalescence under the physician Dub. Gristle had finally learned some of the details. But not from him.

Tonight, Gristle wanted to know about his injuries. Very well. He would tell him about the surface wounds. But even now, even after Dub had consoled him, he could not speak about the deeper injuries.

“I saw ye and Thorsten, ah, Tristus standing on the side of the hurling field. I turned to join ye, just as the match ended and the crowd swallowed me.”

He lay on his stomach, his eyes shut, speaking to the light and shadows thrown by the candle flames. It was the festival of Samhain, the first day of November. He had watched a game of camán on a field in sacred Tara, home of the high king. He saw himself as he had been that day—excited by the hurling match, brimming with love for Gristle, eager to talk with him. When he caught sight of his lover, he was standing in a close arm-and-hand embrace with a man, Wynn’s own friend, and the two looked as though they had rediscovered all their former love and joy.

He had still wanted to join them. After all, the man he knew as Thorsten was his dear friend, and Gristle was his lover. He was hurt and confused, but still he fought the crowds to approach them. As though the thousands of people had conspired to separate the lovers, he was swept away in the elbowing, jostling crowd. And when he was finally standing apart from the masses of people, he felt a claw-like hand grasping his arm. A sallow-faced man was telling him, “Stop! Come with me!”

“…And when I fought free, just as I was free, I was captured.”

He stopped talking and swallowed, hard. “Take your time,” Gristle said softly.