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The low tolling of the bell, echoing between the soaring figures of the Maiden and Crone towers and around the courtyard of Trosky castle, signals not only the time of day but the shift change of the guard.
Outside the sparring ring, men murmur as silver changes hands, some grumbling, some bragging at their unexpected success. Erik keeps his back to them, letting the sound wash over him as he leans both elbows against the fence, catching his breath. The summer heat is stifling even as the moon is rising and the sky is pinking, and he feels his pulse racing in his neck, the burning flush on his cheeks. There’s a bead of sweat that rolls from his temple, quivering briefly on his jawline before dripping into the packed dirt below his feet, and he swipes at his chin roughly with the leather palm of his gauntlets.
A hand claps him on the shoulder, the guard it belongs to in high spirits; Erik doesn’t catch what he says, doesn’t care to as he stiffens, biting back the instinct to shrug the man away. The sheer number of people that mill around the grounds of the castle is suffocating, the feeling of always being watched makes his skin crawl; he already longs to get out and away from the oppressive eyes of Trosky.
The stress of the last few months have chipped away at Erik’s already short temper. The shame of Erik’s capture - his failure at Talmberg, his failure to help Ištván - still stings. While Ištván hasn’t said as much out loud, there’s a tightness to his tired features that Erik can’t help but read as disappointment; Ištván has never hesitated to express his displeasure in the past, but now Erik is even more driven to ensure he never fails him again. Their fortune has tumbled from bad to worse, leaving them with almost nothing but the clothes on their backs and two horses courtesy of Lord Divish’s stables. They’d arrived at Trosky at first light that morning, seeking the shelter of another of Sigismund’s allies – Ištván had left for von Bergow’s quarters as soon as they had arrived, and Erik hasn’t seen him since.
During their years together, Ištván has taught him a great many things: statesmanship, war strategy, rudimentary German, a whole plethora of Hungarian insults to name but a few - but politesse is something he still struggles with. Erik is used to barking orders at gruff, rough-hewn men, and sorely lacks the patience for any polite politicking and the pretence of camaraderie with the soldiers and guards of von Bergow’s staff.
Fighting, though; that he can do.
Across the sparring pen, Black Bartosch finishes tidying away the blunt wooden practice swords in the weapons rack and turns to face Erik, crossing over to lean casually on the fence beside him.
“I admit, you surprised me,” Bartosch says.
“I told you,” Erik replies, cocky, and when he meets Bartosch’s eyes, the look he receives is appraising.
Bartosch is handsome and well polished, cheeks flushed, dark hair mussed and damp at the temples from their recent bout. Though his lashes are longer, thick and black, his dark eyes remind him of Ištván - and there any similarities end. Despite his skill in the ring, Bartosch strikes Erik as cossetted, not a man used to the hardships of camp life; even his facial hair is fussy, curling at the edges above his mouth similar to how Erik’s own lips might curl into a sneer.
Still, he’s a strong fighter, that much Erik can’t deny - but not quite strong enough.
“You’re powerful, it’s true,” Bartosch continues, tone friendly and a little teasing, “but there’s still some room for refinement. If I may; you’d do well to not just rely on your physical advantages.”
“I’m no knight,” Erik shrugs. “I’ve managed so far without any refinement.”
Bartosch laughs, turning his body to Erik as he props himself against the fence with only one elbow, tugging his gauntlet free from his hand before running his bare fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He swings the gauntlet from his hand casually, and Erik feels a spark of surprise at the way Bartosch’s gaze drags over him; it’s brazen, and he recognises it easily.
“Either way, you seem well trained,” he says, warm and casual. This time, Erik knows the undertone. He frowns, aware of the picture they must paint; two tall figures, black and white mirror images in the dying light.
“I had a masterful teacher,” he replies gruffly, and Bartosch only smiles.
“So it would seem. Where did this master train?”
“Very few places that you would be familiar with I’m sure,” comes the easy, melodic reply, “but you may have heard of Nicopolis.”
Bartosch straightens from his relaxed lean into Erik’s space and turns, folding at the waist in a polite bow. Erik feels something within him unclench.
“Ah. Good evening, Lord Tóth.”
“Ištván,” Erik greets, ignoring the quick look that Bartosch slants his way. Ištván saunters towards the training pen without any hurry, surprisingly light-footed despite still wearing his blackened leg plate. Erik wonders how long he’s been watching; he’s usually acutely aware of Ištván’s presence, his attention pulled to him like a lodestone to metals awaiting refinement in the earth. The thought of him watching Erik’s fight with Bartosch is a warm thrill that unfurls through him.
Ištván glances between the two of them, eyes sharp, before settling his gaze on Erik.
“I wondered where you’d got to - I might have known I’d find you out here.”
Erik pulls his shoulders back, lifts his chin and stands taller.
“You’re always telling me I should seek to better myself. I thought I might learn something.”
Ištván tilts his head, eyes narrowing consideringly at Erik before turning the full weight of his attention to Bartosch.
“Sir Bartoschek, I presume?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Lord von Bergow was very complimentary about you; he even told me you studied at the university in Prague before you formally took up fighting.”
“That’s right,” Bartosch says, flattered and surprised. “For three years.”
“Already so accomplished - and what do you make of my Erik?”
Erik doesn’t miss the way Bartosch’s eyes flash to him, lightning quick.
“He’s an impressive fighter, my lord, there is no doubt. I’m not ashamed to say he beat me in a friendly wager, though it was a close thing.”
Ištván hums, pleased.
“I taught him everything he knows, except for the bad habits; those are entirely his own.”
“Well, from what I’ve seen, Lord Tóth, I’d say you’ve done a very good job indeed,” Bartosch laughs politely. He pulls on his previously removed gauntlet and rolls out his wrist before folding his arms behind his back, standing tall and to attention but clearly awaiting Ištván to either leave or dismiss him.
“Still,” Ištván continues, voice silky, “as Erik says, it’s important to always better oneself; perhaps there is still something for you to learn too, Sir Bartoschek, despite all of your early accomplishments.”
Bartosch’s brow furrows minutely. Ištván rests one palm casually on the pommel of his sword, flexing and curling the fingers of his free hand and examining the rich black leather of his glove as though in deep thought.
“Why, if you can be beaten by a peasant boy with no formal training, perhaps your strengths may lie in academia after all?” Ištván looks up to catch Bartosch’s eyes, his smile carefully, calculatingly charming. “I hope not, for Lord von Bergow’s sake.”
Bartosch opens his mouth to reply but closes it quickly, visibly taken aback, returning Ištván’s smile and tilting his head with all the cold grace he can muster.
“As you say, my lord.”
The repetitive ringing of the smith’s hammer in the inner courtyard does not make the brief silence between the three men any less awkward. Erik bites back a grin.
“Well,” Ištván says with a great sigh, flicking his hand in an expansive gesture, “speaking of your lord; I believe he was looking for you.”
“Then, if you will excuse me, I shall attend to him at once.” Bartosch bows to Ištván, stiff and polite, before pivoting and nodding to Erik with considerably less interested warmth than he’d shown previously. Finally dismissed, he smoothly vaults over the fence of the training ring with practised ease and stalks off toward the gate leading into the courtyard.
Ištván watches him go, head cocked; despite his attempt at nonchalance, there’s a stiffness to Bartosch’s spine that Erik knows Ištván will catch, a delicious vulnerability to sink sharp teeth into. Erik watches Ištván hungrily.
“I didn’t expect you to be playing at being von Bergow’s messenger,” Erik says.
It comes out low, gruff, as though Erik hasn’t spoken in some hours; in truth, the casual way Ištván has of cutting a man down, not with a weapon but instead with barbed words coated in honey, has always caused Erik’s throat to catch, his blood to rise.
Ištván hums, watching Bartosch vanish through the gateway into the courtyard, gloved thumb stroking over the pommel of his sword in habitual contemplation.
“Oh, I have no idea if he was looking for him; I just can’t bear to be around any more of von Bergow’s insufferable men after the day I’ve had.”
Erik huffs out a laugh and Ištván finally turns to look at him, a small smile curling his mouth.
“You barely exchanged any words.”
“More than enough to pass judgement on a man. Am I wrong?”
Erik rests both elbows on the wood of the fence, leaning towards Ištván.
“Rarely. He wasn’t a bad fight, though.”
Ištván tilts his head, curious, and takes a step towards Erik.
“I saw the way he was looking at you,” he says, voice low, and there’s a playful undercurrent that shivers up Erik’s spine. “Bold.”
He takes another step forward and Erik straightens to meet him.
“Not that I blame him,” Ištván continues, as Erik’s pulse leaps and kicks under his jaw, in the cavern of his chest, “you’re very inspiring to look at when you fight.”
“You don’t have to just look,” Erik replies; it comes out rough, eager, and, to even Erik’s surprise, a little hopeful. Ištván steps forward again, gloved hands folding neatly on the fence between them.
When Erik was young, an entirely inexperienced fighter, Ištván had devoted hours to sparring with him where he could. He taught Erik with an unexpected patience, commenting on his posture, his footwork; years later, it still heats Erik to remember the solid warmth of Ištván at his back, correcting his grip on the training sword, voice deep and gently accented in his ear as his hands would wrap around Erik’s thin arms to adjust his stance.
But as Erik had grown, both older and taller, those occasions became increasingly few and far between. As Ištván became busier, Runt had taken over as Erik’s brutal mentor in the ring, and over the past few months especially the time for any playful fighting between them had all but vanished. It surprises Erik just how sorely he misses it.
Ištván makes a soft sound of consideration, dark eyes flitting between Erik’s before he drops his gaze.
“You in your full armour and me without? That seems unfair.” He knocks three times on Erik’s chest with the knuckle of a curled forefinger, the dull metallic thump of the cuirass quiet between them. Erik leans closer.
“I’d be happy to remove some layers for you, if you think you’re at a disadvantage.”
Ištván’s expressive mouth twitches, a fleeting flash of humour that he quickly stifles with a put-upon sigh.
“I’m exhausted - do you think I’ve enjoyed spending the day making plans with von Bergow?”
“Exactly; don’t you want to hit something?”
Ištván barks out a hoarse laugh, and the fine lines by his eyes deepen in amusement. Something fierce swells in Erik’s throat, settling warm behind his ribs as Ištván eyes him with quiet contemplation before slapping the palm of his hand twice on the fence railing decisively.
“Well, why not.”
Erik ducks away from him to hide his grin at this unexpected victory, crossing the sparring ring and pulling two blunt wooden longswords from the weapons rack as Ištván clambers over the fence with a groan.
When Erik looks back, Ištván has removed his chaperon and is unrolling the fabric. The last of the sun highlights the strands of gold in his hair, the messy brown curls flattened down by the expensive fabric and hours of wear. He pulls the chaperon down over his head, adjusts the fabric around his neck before reaching out to accept the sword held out to him, gloved fingers curling around the grip; Erik imagines he can feel the heat of his skin beneath the familiar black leather, worn soft and pliant, even through his own gauntlets.
“It’s been so long since we’ve fought,” he says, voice rough. “Do you think you still remember how?”
Ištván dips his chin, raising his eyebrows and looking at him reproachfully - but there’s amusement there, in the shape of his curled mouth, if one only knew where to look for it. Erik does.
“Cheeky,” Ištván murmurs, testing the balance of the sword with serious consideration as though approaching a real battle, twirling it in an easy, casual loop. “We’ll see if I can’t still put you on your knees.”
Erik’s gauntlets creak around the grip of the sword.
“I can be just as dangerous on my knees.”
Ištván’s answering smile is leonine.
“I’m well aware.”
Ištván angles his blade low, dark eyes on Erik as he waits, still. Erik extends his arm to gently tap the end of Ištván’s sword with his own, and Ištván’s eyes flash.
He swings the blade up and Erik quickly raises his arm to parry him, stepping back as Ištván drives forward with rapid, angled strikes.
The clacking of the wooden swords echoes off of the stone walls, and up on the walkway behind Ištván a castle guard leans over the railing to peer at them, momentarily curious about the two strangers crossing swords, before pushing away and continuing on his way along the wall.
Erik puts some distance between them and holds the sword out in front of him, blade pointed low, mirroring Ištván’s starting stance. Ištván crosses the very ends of their blades and starts to walk sidewards, the wood grinding between them as he slowly slides the tip of his sword up along Erik’s. Erik begins to turn with him.
“You must be tired,” Ištván says, gentle and beguiling, but Erik knows him down to the bone and refuses to be baited.
Ištván has long pressed upon Erik that life is not fair; he is a man who has clawed for every inch of what he has gained, and his fighting methods are often as underhanded as his political machinations. Over the years, Erik has learned never to underestimate Ištván’s ability in a fight; these lessons were usually hard-learned through agonising welts and bruised pride. Erik treasured those wounds as a growing boy, insistent tongue and stubborn teeth prolonging the sharp pain of a split lip for as long as possible.
Ištván employs cleverness over brute strength; he calculates, carefully falling back and wheeling his opponent around only to blind them with the sun, will allow himself to be underestimated over and over in order to seize the perfect moment to strike, patiently drawing out a man’s weakness.
Erik knows by now that his own weakness is his temper, which means Ištván knew well before he did; Erik will not allow his impatience to win out.
“I’d say we both are. It’s been a long few weeks.”
“You more so, I wager, seeing as you’ve already gone several rounds with Bartosch.”
Erik snorts, derisive.
“It would take more than a man like him to tire me out.”
Ištván makes a low, considering sound before suddenly swinging, a rapid slash upward with the blade that Erik catches at the last second, thrusting forward to force Ištván’s sword down and away from his face. Ištván falls back and Erik follows, the two exchanging a brisk volley back and forth. Erik keeps up the pressure, not allowing Ištván any room for trickery as he chases him around the small ring, any playfulness between them quickly forgotten.
Ištván may not be as tall as Erik but he doesn’t lack in strength or speed, parrying blow after blow and answering Erik’s onslaught with his own flurry of rapid strikes, easily turning Erik’s sword away.
The distant, ever-present clanging of the forge, the indistinct murmuring of any voices lingering in the courtyard all fade out as Erik’s world narrows to this: the heavy tread of their feet on compact dirt, the shifting of expensive fabric layered over armour, the measured rush of their breaths.
Erik adjusts his approach, feigns the angle of his attack, an exaggerated aim at Ištván’s left flank that turns quickly into a stab from afar at his unprotected middle, taking advantage of his superior reach - but Ištván knows him, too, and deflects the sword up, grabbing at the blade with his gloved fingers and jerking to the left. It strikes Erik twofold, a sharp jolt of pain in his wrist where Ištván sharply twists it, and a dizzying coursing thrill through his whole body at the sheer strength in Ištván’s grip.
“Come on, Erik,” he taunts, voice low and teasing, a little breathless as he leans into him, “you can do better than that.”
Erik pushes him away with a grunt, mouth dry, blood rushing in his temples, instantly bearing down on Ištván who staggers backwards, grinning fiercely.
He will allow Bartosch one thing; he knows it’s true that he has a tendency to rely on his height and strength in a fight, something Ištván had repeatedly chided him about long before Bartosch had ever seen him wielding a weapon. Ištván is a tempered blade, sharp, fast and deadly; Erik feels raw and clumsy in comparison, a boorish, vulgar striking fist.
That power is an easy means to an end, though, and the brutality of a fast, hard fight is something that Erik revels in; the prospect of overpowering Ištván bodily is another.
It sings in his veins as he barrels down upon Ištván, the burn in his muscles as intoxicating as the ringing of the wooden swords crashing together, the harsh panting of their breaths.
Erik brings his sword down in a powerful overhead arc and Ištván flings his own up to meet it, held sideways, one palm braced against the flat of the blade to absorb the heavy strike that Erik sees rattle his bones. He laughs, hoarse and breathless, eyes bright.
“Good!”
Erik pushes down, biceps and shoulders burning, forcing Ištván’s arms towards himself, trembling as he strains back against Erik who looms over him, bullying him backwards, through the creeping ivy and stinging nettles until Ištván’s back hits stone, knocking a grunt out of him.
In the shadow of the outer wall, Erik steps closer, trapping Ištván’s sword horizontally at shoulder height.
Ištván’s hand drops from the blade and his head tips back against the stone, hair in disarray, cheeks flushed.
“Good, Erik.”
“I told you you’d forgotten how to fight,” Erik growls, arrogant, turned giddy by the searing look Ištván gives him from beneath lowered lashes.
He steps forward again, triumphant, and then freezes at the sudden sharp pain below his collarbone. Ištván watches him, lips parted.
“And I told you, my dear boy,” Ištván taunts, gentle and lilting, the point of his dagger slipped beneath Erik’s mail collar in the gap between his spaulders, viper fast, “that you tie your spaulders too loosely.”
Erik exhales unevenly, the vicious rush of the fight melting into something sweeter, more pliant.
“They’re too small,” he says, and his voice cracks in the fading light. “I can’t move properly if I tie them tightly.”
“You’ve grown since they were fitted,” Ištván agrees, and there’s heat in his voice as his eyes trace the broad slope of Erik’s shoulders. “After this is all done, we’ll have to get you some new ones.”
Reckless, Erik pushes into the point of Ištván’s blade, dropping a hand from the grip of his sword to Ištván’s side. Despite the gauntlets, even through the layers of the luxurious pourpoint and the padding beneath, he knows the heat and shape of his waist, that covered skin, knows the soft give of fat over muscle, the way the flesh drains white then flushes red to fill the indents his greedy fingers leave when he grips too tightly.
“You’re leaving yourself open,” Ištván continues, low and inviting. He slides the tip of his dagger out from under the mail collar; it scrapes softly across the chainmail, a deadly caress, and Ištván’s sword thumps dully in the dirt as he lets go of the grip to bring his other hand to Erik’s throat, thumb pressing into the hinge of his jaw, gently squeezing. “Someone will take advantage of it.”
Erik’s breath catches and he waits, endlessly patient in this, as Ištván trails the point of the dagger upwards, pressing against the racing pulse in his neck.
Ištván’s head rolls to the side against the wall, eyes hooded and dark, and Erik feels a white-hot pinprick of pain at his neck that sets his whole body alight. A searing line of liquid fire rolls down Erik’s neck where his pulse throbs urgently; it throbs between his legs, too, where Ištván slides his thigh between them, a smouldering ember of want that fans into a blaze.
Ištván presses his thumb to the pulse at Erik’s neck before drawing his hand back with a faux look of concern, theatrical; there’s just enough light that Erik can see the wet smear of his own blood on Ištván’s glove. Ištván considers it, eyes lowered, before he catches Erik’s gaze in an iron grip as he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it away, his tongue an obscene slow swipe against deep black. He grasps Erik’s throat once more, tipping his head to the side as he carefully swipes wet leather over the cut with all the tenderness of a mother comforting her child, cleaning the smeared blood away. His expression is predatory, hungry; Erik can’t tear his eyes away from the sheen of his lower lip.
Over the thunderous rushing of blood in his ears, faintly, Erik hears a repeated clanging of plate metal. There’s a distant flare of light; Ištván’s gloved fingers press into Erik’s cheek and angle his head to the right, where on the raised stone wall overhead the figure of the patrolling guard is approaching, torch in hand. The firm press of Ištván’s thumb on the hinge of his jaw guides Erik’s gaze back to him, where Ištván’s dark eyes have never left his.
“Point to me, I think.”
Erik’s reply is a breathless, almost desperate yes.
“Always something to learn,” Ištván whispers, almost unbearably fond. Erik leans closer, eyes on Ištván’s mouth, which curls in amusement. Ištván strokes his thumb tenderly once more down the long line of Erik’s neck before he releases him from his hold, patting him almost paternally on the cheek.
“Come now - tidy this away and we’ll turn in for the night. There are a thousand stairs to the rooms Otto has us in and we need to ride out first thing.”
Erik exhales in a rush as he gathers himself, lowering the blade that pinned Ištván to the wall and collecting the dropped sword before stowing them back in the rack. Ištván tucks away his dagger, smoothes his tousled hair and dusts down the front of his pourpoint, casting Erik a knowing look as he hurriedly adjusts himself, blood pounding between his legs.
“Von Bergow’s chamberlain showed me to a room by the forge,” he says as they make their way to the fence. Ištván frowns.
“I know - the gall of him. I had them move your belongings. There are no other guests here so they’re hardly lacking for space. I’m not having you sleep next to the stables like a peasant.”
Erik swings long legs over the fence with ease before facing Ištván, shrugging and extending a hand to wrap around his upper arm and helping boost him as he heaves himself over the top beam.
“I don’t mind for one night.”
“I do,” Ištván snaps sharply, his dark eyes round and indignant as he looks at Erik. The irony of Ištván’s fury at the perceived slight against Erik, despite happily calling him a peasant boy himself earlier in order to humiliate Black Bartosch, isn’t lost on Erik. Affection blazes through him at the affront in Ištván’s tone, but his shadow falling across the curve of Ištván’s features is the closest thing to a caress that they can afford under the watchful eyes of the Trosky towers, and so Erik straightens the chaperon around Ištván’s shoulders lest he do anything more reckless with his hands. Ištván watches him, irritation melting into something much more promising.
Erik lets the fine fabric of the chaperon slide through his fingers with some reluctance.
“Leaving first thing, you said?”
It’s a cold relief; as much as Erik wants to leave, he can only hope wherever they go next allows them at least some time to rest before they plunge headlong into whatever awaits them. For now, he’s far more interested in the privacy of the quarters on offer to them.
“Yes,” Ištván says, “but we still have some time.” His voice lowers, melodic and enticing as he tilts his face up to Erik, mouth curled and inviting. Still facing Erik, he takes several steps back before he turns away, assured that he will follow. “Let’s see if I can’t get you on your knees after all.”
Beneath the pale light of the rising moon, through the reaching shadow of the Maiden, Erik does.