To Take Away His Voice

The Road to Redemption

 The Warlord visited Brynnan every day in the infirmary, spending a long time holding the still hand and talking to him. Samir did not know if the Bard heard, for he was in a coma. But Brynnan’s throat wounds were healing well, and he had recovered from the fever caused by an infection. Brynnan required more care than the old Warrior Geraint could provide as he needed to be frequently turned. Both Samir and Geraint assisted in massaging Brynnan’s limbs to encourage blood circulation.

Samir was filled with regret at his own treatment of the Bard, realizing too late that the fire burning in his heart wasn’t anger but love.

Brynnan had an awareness of a sort. He dreamed. And in this dream, he was a dead warrior lying on a blood-drenched battlefield. Beside him, his harp, Mavrenn, sang. The wind was blowing through her strings, producing a series of ghostly chords. The harp rippled and transformed into a woman in black robes and long black hair. Both hair and robes swirled in the wind. She was very beautiful, even though her eyes glowed red, like rubies in firelight. When she spoke, her voice was intermingled with the sound of harp strings.

‘Brynnan, you must go back,’ she seemed to say to him. “There is work to be done.”

‘But I am dead,’ he responded, puzzled.

‘Not so. You will awaken from this; you must awaken. You must sing to me.’

‘But I have no voice and no hands,’ he told her.

‘You do have a voice. Your touch will return. This is my promise to you.’

‘What must I do?’ he asked, feeling a longing so intense it burned.

‘Sing to the Ravens,’ she said and stepped towards him.

A flock of ravens swarmed around him, their black, fluttering wing feathers brushing against his face and body, their cruel beaks and bright, intelligent eyes—they were coming for his eyes. Dredging up the strength to come alive again, he started to sing to them . . .

In the waking world, the Warlord heard a sound from the Bard. Disbelieving, Samir leaned over and held his breath. Brynnan’s lips were moving as he began to whisper-sing. Samir could barely make out the words, but he recognized it as the last song that the Bard had sung on that final night at Scarfell Pass, ‘The Warrior and the Raven.’ Brynnan was emerging into consciousness. The Warlord felt a wild surge of elation, which he unsuccessfully attempted to control. He called for the attendants.

*    *    *

It was Brynnan’s last day in the infirmary. The moon had turned her full face to the land again when Geraint visited the Bard. The old Warrior found him with Talitha, the head physician’s daughter, and a promising healer herself. Brynnan was speaking to her in a soft, slightly hoarse voice.

“—So we cannot be together as I once hoped. I have gone through changes, and I can never go back. I am not the same man.”

Talitha squeezed the Bard’s hand, “Changes come to all of us, but I hope we can stay friends if your Lord permits. I haven’t seen you in so long—”

She caught sight of Geraint and rose to her feet. Then she bent down and kissed Brynnan’s forehead. As she walked past Geraint, she nodded and acknowledged him courteously,

“Warrior,” she said.

“Healer,” he replied with a bow of respect. He watched her go. He turned to the Bard, “Our Lord Samir bids you attend him. I am to have you—.”

“—stripped and washed and brought to his tent. I know,” Brynnan replied with a faint smile.

“Something like that,” Geraint grumbled, “Sometimes, Master Bard, you have a smart mouth.”  But he was not truly displeased. Brynnan showed signs of life once more after experiencing a period of dark depression as he healed.

So, the Bard was duly stripped and washed and hosed down. But when he turned to dress, he looked at the clothes Geraint had brought and frowned, “What are these?”

“I would think that you’d recognize them. The clothes are your own,” Geraint told him.

“Is this some new torment of me on my Lord’s part?” Brynnan queried, frowning.

“I assure you it’s not,” said Geraint, “Here, lad; I’ll help you dress.”

Brynnan felt the richness of the dark blue cloth lie smoothly against his skin. The black shirt was of pure silk. Soft, calf-high black leather boots and the Bard’s own grey wind silk cloak completed the attire.

Geraint would have put an ornamented chain around his neck, but Brynnan adamantly refused, “Nothing around my neck, if you please, Geraint.”

Geraint looked at the marks of still-red scars encircling his throat and one more prominent keloid scar at the side of his neck and understood.

As he accompanied the Bard along the corridors, Geraint asked him, “How are your hands?”

“They are improving somewhat, but I fear they will never truly heal.”

“M’Lord Samir might have something to say about that,” answered Geraint.

“Mmm…” Brynnan was non-comital. He honestly did not know what to think anymore.

“I suppose you don’t want to know what happened to that bloody son-of-a-crazed-animal torturer that tried to kill you?”

Brynnan sighed, “As happens, I don’t want to know, but I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”

“Lord Samir put the claw collar on him. He lasted all of twelve strokes of the bullwhip before he fell,” Geraint recounted with satisfaction.

“And I suppose you weren’t standing by with your field kit?”

“Funnily enough, I was required elsewhere.”

“I thought you might be,” Brynnan replied dryly.

The Warlord waited for them in his apartments. When Brynnan entered, he was given a seat beside a low brass table near Samir. Geraint made his rough courtesies and left them alone. Samir rose to carry a crystal bottle of red wine. He filled a cup for Brynnan, then himself. Sitting back down, he left his wine unattended and looked at Brynnan, his expression grave. Brynnan prepared himself for the worst.

Eventually, the Warlord spoke, “I have news for you, Brynnan,” he paused and took a deep breath. “My agents located the men you asked me to seek; the ones who brought the accusations against . . . my wife. They have confessed. For the most part, they lied about her.”

Brynnan was stunned. He had expected some new and elaborate plan of torment for himself, not this blunt confession. The implications were shocking.

“Then that means—”

“That means for over a year, I have tormented you. You were only trying to stop me from committing murder when you fought me in the tower chamber. I did not want to admit to myself that all your swordplay was defensive only. Instead, I ran you through. I have blamed you all this time—for saving my wife from death. I wanted to destroy you . . . and I very nearly succeeded.”

“Why didn’t you follow through?”

“I believe you know why. I realized that I have a deep love for you. I tried to deny it, and in so doing, I nearly took your voice and your life. Thank the Gods I failed.” The Warlord sat back, hands steepled in front of him and watched Brynnan.

Brynnan experienced a rapid storm of emotions: anger, sadness, relief, regret . . .Then, as if the storm winds suddenly died down, a calmness settled over him. He embraced the moment and centred himself. Here and now, what really mattered? What answer could he give to the Warlord?

He recalled that night at Scarfell Mountain when the Warlord had told his terrible tale. Afterwards, he had awaited the Bard’s judgement of him, and Brynnan had simply kissed him. But would that tell Samir what he wanted him to know?

Brynnan rose up and went to Samir. He knelt at his feet and, laying his head on Samir’s crotch, whispered, “Let me serve you.”

“You don’t understand. I have wronged you. I release you from your sexual servitude!”

“NO!” The cry was hardly a shout but loud enough. “My Lord, I beg to serve you. Let me be your sexual bondsman. You have seized my heart. The past is done—we only have this moment in our lives to act.”

There was wonder in the Warlord’s voice, “You amaze me. Do you know, that is the first time I have ever heard you beg—even through all I have done to you.”

“I will serve you in any way you deem fit.”

“Do you realize what you are saying—but of course, you know. You are a Master Bard.” He stroked Brynnan’s hair, “Brynnan, you have my heart also. All the time I tormented you, I fought against my inner self, to my own harm. You have remained true to yourself. If this is truly your decision, then I will accept it.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Brynnan’s kissed the Warlord’s hardening cock through the leather, inhaling its scent. He unlaced the breeches and drew it out. Taking the cock in his mouth, he sucked it with all his skills, even with his damaged throat.

Samir sighed like a weary traveller just re-entering the doors of his home after a long and arduous journey. “You are the man I love, Brynnan. That’s it. That’s all.”

Slowly the Warlord stood up and removed his clothes to reveal his naked and powerful body. He raised Brynnan from his kneeling position on the furs and stripped him. Brynnan willingly helped unclasp his shirt and breeches.

On Samir’s bed, they made love, each vying to show the other the deep extent of their growing connection. Usually an aggressive, sometimes even brutal, lover, when Samir put his cock in Brynnan’s ass, he did it with exquisite slowness and tenderness, pushing all the way in, pausing and withdrawing, repeating the series of thrusts. The Bard’s body shook in his passion, especially when Samir climaxed and pumped his cum deep inside him. But things did not end there.

Samir rolled to his back and pulled Brynnan on top of him, “And now, you . . .“

Brynnan felt profoundly humbled to serve the Warlord in this way. The face-to-face position gave them eye contact, and Brynnan never looked away as he pushed his cock into Samir’s ass.

Hot flesh enveloped his engorged penis; rectal muscles gripped it tightly. Brynnan had never put his cock inside another man. He had never envisioned the sensations like the ones he now experienced. He revelled in the feel of his lover’s body. He leaned down, and the two men kissed deeply.

“Cum in me.” This time it wasn’t a command but a request.

Brynnan felt a leap of fire in his balls at Samir’s words. It spurred him on to increase the pace of his thrusts. It was an emptying of self when he came: a total surrender. He cried out in his passion and fell forward onto the Warlord’s chest. Samir embraced him with his strong arms.

Eventually, they arose and entered the shower room, where they washed each other. Brynnan awkwardly grasped a sponge and attended to the Warlord. Afterwards, they returned to the fireside, where the Bard wrapped himself in the soft and shadowy wind-silk cloak. He picked up his wine with both hands and sipped.

Samir took a swallow of his own wine. “I have another piece of news for you. When I ran you through with my sword, I left you to die, but you did not succumb. So, I decided to keep you alive to question you. But Dane, our chief physician, was unable to help you. He brought in a certain battlefield surgeon named Nijal Silver-Hand, who opened you up, then healed you. He attended you once before when you took that arrow wound, years ago; but you may not remember. I had Geraint locate this man, Nijal, and he will meet us tomorrow.”

Brynnan turned pale. The Warlord did not notice Brynnan’s reaction to the name. Brynnan remembered. Not only had Nijal given the Bard his blood and saved his life, but the man was intricately involved in the secret that Brynnan had kept from Samir for so long. And it was time the secret was revealed.

*    *    *