Knight Thorn

You don't quite jump at the sudden voice beside you, but I do see the brief flash of surprise. I smile, doing my best impression of reassurance.

"I know you are a busy man, especially right not, but would you be willing to offer me a moment of your time?"

"Knight Captain Thorn - how pleasant to see you." Mind having been otherwise occupied with the running of the Ball, Perroy hadn't seen him approach. He turns properly to face him now though, bowing faintly in polite greeting.

"Of course, Captain. Lead on. There appear to be many happenings afoot, so I appreciate your keeping me informed."

I lead the chancellor out, and I wonder how far from the castle I can take him before he starts asking questions. I don't look too closely as not to raise suspicion, but the windows out seem empty of prying eyes. Seems the nights events has granted us some privacy.

"Can your court truly not be without you for more than a few minutes?"

I turn to him and give him my best easy smile, but I doubt it helps by now. My eyes get caught following the braid running down his neck to the small of his back. I suppress the urge to lick my lips.

"Don't misunderstand me Chancellor, I do not doubt their reliance on you. But you seem to be in a permanent state of fixing, analyzing, scheming, anticipating. Don't you think you've earned a moment to relax?"

"Is it not my job to be doing those things? I will have a moment to relax once the Ball has run its course."

He shifts his weight backwards ever so slightly, eyes on Thorn.

"I see your alarm Chancellor, but worry not. I do not intend to do you any harm. I simply wish for you to spend some time here, with me."

A final step brings us just a little too close, and the physical difference between us becomes impossible to ignore. I can't help but bask in his vulnerability for a moment.

"I might have respected that particular request more if you'd simply suggested it rather than attempting subterfuge," he says coldly. "I am busy, Knight Captain. Play your games elsewhere."

I pull his head up until out eyes meet. "I want to play with You, chancellor." Almost lovingly I wipe some of the dirt off his cheek. "I want to see what's hiding beneath all that decorum, and I think you're curious too. If you need me to be your villain for that, then I'm happy to play that role."

"Unhand me," he says between gritted teeth. He doesn't struggle much, yet - Thorn has too good of a grip on his hair - but one hand does whip out to grab Thorn's wrist where he's reaching towards the pocket square. "No-one asked you to be the villain. To the contrary - up until this point I rather respected you."

But that telling flush is still there. Perroy's breath is just a little too fast.

"You never stop talking do you? Relax, Perroy. Let yourself enjoy this."

I let go of his head and place my knee at the center of his back. With two twists I reverse his hold of my wrists and wrench his hands behind his back. With them pinned under my knee, and carefully tie them with the silk rope I pulled from my pocket.

"They may wonder, but you're hardly the first to disappear to a private corner. I think they'll be happy to grant you some space."

He starts on a response, but it turns to a groan when I pull his head back again.

He tries to fix Thorn with a glare - cold and judgemental, speaking without speaking - but in practice it doesn't work as he'd like. A warm haze has slipped over him, and there's a faintly glassy look to his eyes as he looks up at the Knight Captain, throat bared to him like an offering.

"There we go Chancellor, I knew you'd come around." His eyes are still making some attempt at anger, but the haze of desire lays too thick for it to bite. He lets me coax his legs apart with little resistance, and moans so sweetly when my thigh settles between them.

I lean down over him and my lips wander from sharp collarbones to the edge of his jaw as I rock slowly against him. I pause briefly to unbuckle my gauntlet with my teeth and toss it to the side. My newly bared hand wanders down his waist and along the edge of his pants, til they find their first button.

He could have struggled. He could have tried to fight back.

What he found himself doing instead was wrapping his legs around Thorn's thighs, trying to pull him closer against him as the Knight Captain's hips pressed into his. He was still tense, a coiled spring beneath the other man's touch, especially as his hand trailed lower. He watched as button after button was flicked open, breath coming in short, muffled exhalations.

What am I doing? I can't really be allowing this, can I?

Once all buttons are undone I draw back, and pull his trousers down to his knees. I almost laugh at his stiffness, already throbbing and leaking for me. The only part of the man that speaks in plain truths.

He fails.

I pull out my own length, it too hard and eager to join, and I lean it over him. He looks rough, face flushed and his normally immaculately kept hair tangled. I grab his jaw hard and produce a small dagger from my sleeve.

I quite enjoy the way his eyes widen when he sees it, but it when I being it down I do so on his rope gag, not his neck.

It steals his thoughts entirely for a good moment.

A reward is in order. I sit back on my knees, lifting his hips and dragging him along with me. I watch his hard cock bounce with my thrusts, and watch the droplet at its tip grow dangerously heavy.

My horse shifts a pace under me, sensing my anxiety, and I try to steady my breathing. I pat the animal's neck and look across the pitch to my opponent: Ser Etienne, the Silver Knight. He's fully kitted now, but I've seen him around and at the feast. He's older than me, far more seasoned as a knight, and wields chivalry like it is a weapon in itself. This will be far from his first joust.

I swallow drily, but nudge my mount to take my place on the pitch, reading my lance.

I came here eager to give the ladies a show, test the mettle of the younger knights, and nurture their own glory and renown. To act in accordance with my motto: ‘The honor of being a target.’

I know we looked spectacular. I was in my jousting plate, fine steel from cap-a-pie crafted by the Missaglias in Milan. My mount in my scarlet and white, my shield freshly painted, my crest - a red sleeved arm bearing a longsword affixed atop my armet. I was a familiar sight to any who’d entered a tourney in Italy in the last decade.

But the crest was draped in black, the same black ribbon that adorned my shield. I rode today not in joy but mourning.

My lord was dead and I did this from obligation. I put on the face of one who has known a life of deaths. I accepted condolences with quiet dignity and grace. It was expected for one who had the honor of being a target.

My opponent was Sir Errant, a nom du guerre if ever I heard one. I couldn’t cast stones, such fictions were at the heart of chivalry. I myself spent a year in Savoy as “The Rose Red Knight.” He was a likely lad, young and skilled, dashing and chivalrous. I liked him.

Boniface shied, as if to say, “Head in the game, old man!” This was his first serious course in a few years. My lord insisted I bring him. Now I knew why.

I saluted my opponent at the far end of the lyst, my focus narrowing to what I saw through the visor. I took a deep breath, rose in the stirrups and shouted, “Alles Boniface!”

We launched forward. We were one.

I felt rather than saw the clash of impact, the jolt of his lance meeting my shield, the instant when motion seems arrested, the shivering of the lances, the shower of splinters bouncing off my armor, and then we were through. My lance was broken; I was sure his was as well.

Bravo, lad. You’ve shown your valour and your skill.

I slowed Boniface at the end of the course and wheeled him around. As a squire put another lance in my hand, I could see Errant do the same. I saw the marshal signaling a point to each of us, waited for his command and,

I'm handed a new lance, and I find my heart starting to calm. This is doable. I succeeded well enough in the first charge, and I see the Silver Knight offer a nod of acknowledgement to me from across the list. I return it, beginning to anticipate the next charge with eagerness. The adrenaline has shifted from anxiety to a craving for another round.

This time the charge passes quicker, likely because I'm not shaking in my boots. I hold my lance steady, brace for the meeting, and...

Nothing. My lance misses.

Splinters still fly, Ser Etienne's lance shattering on my shield.

Despite my sorrows, despite my plans for magnanimity, in this moment I want to win. Old habits die hard.

The marshal signals and we charge once more. My old friend runs true and fast, as steady as a galloping horse can be. I line up the target, lower my lance and see his dip too late. I take him on his shield in a shower of shattered wood. I feel a glance to my head, but my armor holds and it’s not a solid blow.

I’ve won.

As I turn, I see that’s not the case. Errant has slowed his lance unbroken but upraised, and festooned with the remnants of my crest, the black silk wrapped around the end of the shaft.

The day is his and marvelously done. This must be his first victory in the tilt, and against a famous knight. I will generously ransom Boniface and my harness at an inflated price. Grace in defeat and generosity of spirit are among the knightly virtues, and it is ever my honor to be their target.

I meet the knight at the centre of the course one more time, at a trot now instead of a charge. He offers a hand to shake, and I take it, accepting the congratulations with what I hope looks like graceful humility.

Don't sell yourself too short, your Highness, you did very well yourself! And it was a pleasure and an honour to compete against you, my Prince.

But... if you're offering some kind of reward, I can't say I wouldn't be interested. Curious, even.

Starved, perhaps.

And if you win, our places will reverse. I’ll let you have me all to yourself to show me just how dedicated you are to me, just how grateful you are to serve your prince.

In my excitement, I don’t notice my hunger growing. That is, until we pass a high-end confectionary shop. I nearly stop in my tracks, eyeing the sundry sweets as my mouth begins to water.

The prince immediately calls on one of the bakers who dutifully collects each treat that catches his eye. Soon the basket is filled with chocolates, sweet buns, tartlets, cakes and candies in every color of the rainbow.

Each treat looks divine, but the growl of my stomach calls for something more robust. I doubt prince Dorian is any better off.