Chapter Text
Early Spring, 530 CE
Northern Cymru
It was happening too quickly.
When his father first broached the idea, back at the first thaw, Bedwyr had told himself he had months to turn Arthur’s mind. Weeks, at the least, to convince him this mission was folly, dangerous beyond anything they’d agreed to before.
He had tried. Unite the southern lords? It’d be like trying to herd wildcats. Each had his own agenda, his own ambitions for power and wealth. Their concerns were different from those in the north, more rolling, arable land, more coastline. They wouldn’t even sound like the folk of the north, their Cymrish twisted by distance and time apart.
Worse, most had converted to the religion of the Christ, a faith from a land so far away it was irrelevant to Cymru. What could a people from a green and temperate land possibly take from a dogma born in the desert? From beliefs that claimed a single being had created everything—everything! laughable—and then let his human son be executed in his name. And to what end? To create such guilt and fear among the surviving populace that they would live their lives like sheep? Not to mention, give a heaping portion of their livelihood to the clerics of this faith. That anyone in Cymru couldn’t see through that aspect was shameful. They deserved to be sheep.
Then let them be sheep to Arthur, Uthyr had said. While Arthur had at least pretended to hear Bedwyr out, Uthyr had cornered him daily, arguing for his scheme. Bedwyr’s voice had grown hoarse from shouting. Arthur was no shepherd. A warrior, yes, one who had led large contingents of fellow fighters against invading Saxon dogs. But those men had already been united against a common enemy. Arthur was good with individual warriors and could cajole them into doing just about anything, usually by example.
But men who were arguing amongst themselves when predators were prowling around their halls? Men who spent more time in churches than training yards readying themselves for the battle that mattered? It was a fool’s mission, and they were no fools.
Too bad he hadn’t been able to convince Arthur of that. Now spring was fully here, clamoring with lambs and the ring of armor being prepared, and his chances of holding Arthur here, of keeping him safe in the north, were slipping away like the last drops of snow melt down the rushing mountain streams.
Not that he wasn’t trying to put off the inevitable as long as possible. He wasn’t above keeping Arthur in the yard, engaged in round after round, slipping and sliding in the slush until they were more mud than men. He might have hacked his sword edge on a rock—secretly (twice)—before delivering it to mistress Britte for repairs with a recalcitrant shrug.
But when it came to distraction and delay, he’d always known what worked best on his cub.
“Ah—yes—there.”
The words made tiny clouds in the chilly air inside the shepherd’s hut. The flocks were being kept closer to the village during the lambing, the beasts wandering up the far hillsides on the fairest days, and Bedwyr congratulated himself on his ingenuity. With this hut, and with his tongue.
Arthur’s fingers shoved into his hair, gripping tightly. No words this time, only moans, and Bedwyr allowed himself a grin against Arthur’s stones before he got back to the task at hand, sucking on one until his man hissed, then pulling the other into his mouth. Arthur writhed under him, pushing against his face, and then his words were back, begging.
Wouldn’t do to give in right away, though, so he licked lower.
“Fuck, Bed. Don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t stop. Gods, don’t stop.”
He lapped hard at the tender skin, tight and pulsing under his tongue. He pushed, teased, eased up, then dove back in, growling. He’d never been good with logic, never been a quick thinker. Had lost most of the debates he’d had the misfortune to get drawn into, unless they’d devolved into a physical skirmish.
But this… This he could do. This, he’d mastered when his opponent was this man. In this small, private arena, he was champion, one who never gave in until he’d rendered Arthur boneless.
When the tight muscle gave way to his efforts, he spit on two fingers and slid them into Arthur’s heat. Arthur groaned, clenching around his fingers. His voice choked off as Bedwyr finally took his cock into his mouth. Bedwyr worked on him with lips and tongue, with two fingers, then three, trying to draw out the moment. Distract…delay…deny…
The thing he always forgot was that doing this affected him as much as Arthur, and this time when the begging came, it pulled him to his knees as easily as if Arthur had wrestled him into position. Arthur’s cock slapped wetly against his belly, forgotten as Bedwyr took his own in a slick grip. “You want this?
“Yes.”
“Can’t hear you,” he said, desperate to stretch time.
“Just fucking fuck me,” Arthur snarled, “or get on your back.”
Desire licked up his spine and, groaning, helpless, Bedwyr pushed into him in a single thrust.
Arthur arched, head pressing into the straw of the bedding, his hands on Bedwyr’s hips, fingertips hard and bruising. Under their direction, Bedwyr drove into him, again and again, because this too he’d mastered: taking orders from this man. His man, his cub, his polestar—the bright point around which his entire life revolved and had done so even before they’d discovered each other like this. Possibly before they’d even met. The gods’ ways were mysterious, and in moments like this one he was content to surrender to their designs.
But those moments always ended too quickly. He enjoyed all of a dozen heartbeats collapsed on Arthur’s chest, slippery with sweat, his mind as foggy as his breath and stupid enough to hope Arthur might be up for a snuggle and a nap.
Arthur grunted under him. “That was…exceptional.”
Bedwyr smiled to himself, careful to hide it. He burrowed closer, sighing. “Aye.”
Arthur’s laughter jostled him, vibrated into his cheek. “Modest.”
“Modesty is for monks.”
“Which, thankfully, we are not.”
“Praise the gods.”
Arthur hefted him up for a kiss, a slow, sweet thing until he bit Bedwyr’s lower lip. When Bedwyr made a noise of protest, went in for another taste, Arthur pushed at his shoulders. “Up. Off. I was due to meet Mama half an hour ago.”
“Why?”
But he knew why. This venture to the southern reaches might be a diplomatic mission, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t go fully armed, and Britte was the one making sure that happened. He sat up, watching as Arthur pulled on his clothes, mourning each bit of bare skin lost to leather and wool. Bedwyr had succeeded in tugging half of Arthur’s hair out of its queue and was mildly scandalized when Arthur made no effort to tie it back again.
“She’s going to know what you were up to.”
Arthur leaned down and kissed him. Then grinned. “Just as I know what you’re up to?”
And with a wink, he left Bedwyr to a victory as empty as the hut.