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Gorthur Gvaed, late autumn 1226
Ivar
It started innocently enough, most scandals do. He’d not come back those first seasons, and had sent no word. Ivar had feared for him, though neither his position nor his reputation would allow him to express that fear. Winters this far south were mild. Some stayed out for years at a time. Some came back regular as a heartbeat. He’d not known which way Zeren would fall but he’d come in, finally, just ahead of the first snowfall.
At this altitude, winter would still shut down the passes for a time, though it was nothing like the long cold isolation that the Wolves endured. He’d walked under the stone viper leading his horse and Ivar had had to admire his choice; short backed, surefooted, and keen eyed. When Gerring told him later the quality of steel stock and wire that had appeared in the forges, his admiration had only increased. He’d also managed to buy or steal- Ivar didn’t ask- a book of children’s tales from so many decades in Nilfgaard’s past that the references to the hunting wraiths were still useful. He hadn’t been specifically tasked with hunting stories, but when questioned he’d said it was too good a find to pass by. Clearly he’d put those pieces together on his own.
He didn’t talk about the new scar over his right eye, or the neatly patched armor on his right thigh. Ivar suspected a new scar there and found himself silently hoping that they would be the last for a long time. The first couple of years did tend to leave a few marks. He looked better than most did after their first foray onto the Path. He’d packed on muscle, there was a spark of mischief in his eyes and a quiet confidence behind his movement. The Path had actually been good to him, despite the scars.
That in itself was a rare thing.
After Zeren made the required report, Ivar left him to his own devices those first few days. The climb to the keep was not an easy one, even for a Witcher. When the young Viper did emerge, ready to train and work and study and craft, Ivar watched.
Gods, how could I not? He's damn near my size and he fights like a dancer. He was dangerous enough before he left.
Ivar had heard what kind of trouble he’d gotten into, and just how much he’d had to fight his way out of. He hadn't shied away from the entire truth of it in his report, either. This confidence was born of bloody experience and it showed.
Ivar watched the young Viper defeat opponent after opponent in the ring. Kolgrim had wanted to see how many bad habits he’d picked up. Now Kolgrim was simply staring. For that matter, so was Ivar. Finally Kolgrim himself stepped in. Ivar watched. It was an open handed fight, and neither could seem to gain any significant advantage or land any blow. The fight continued. Ivar made a decision.
“Enough.”
The growled command carried across the training yard. Both fighters stopped, Zeren looking somewhat worse for wear. Ivar exchanged a long look with Kolgrim before turning to Zeren. “Walk it off. You, I will test myself.”
There was a ripple of interest across the yard. Watching the Grandmaster train, in any capacity, was… humbling. It was also instructive. A flicker of apprehension crossed Zeren’s face but he did not hesitate to obey. Ivar very deliberately did not watch him walk away.
“He’s good, sir. Better than I’ve seen. What the hell happened to him out there?”
Ivar said nothing. He knew, but it wasn’t his story to tell. He waited a while, wanting to give Zeren a chance to recover properly. He had no intention of going easy on the man.
Ivar beckoned to Kolgrim. “Let me warm up?” Kolgrim nodded. Ivar shucked his sword belt and entered the ring in only the padded cloth armor that usually lined the heavier chain. He nodded to the other Viper. Kolgrim wasted no time and spared him no effort as he put Ivar through a solid set of drills, alternating strikes and blocks along his entire body. Neither could have counted the number of times they had faced off like this, and Kolgrim might not have been Gerring but he could eke out a win just often enough to keep Ivar on his toes.
Today was not going to be one of those days. When they moved from drills to a match, Kolgrim quickly found himself outmaneuvered. He didn’t quite slip away from a failed strike fast enough and Ivar had him by the forearm. His greater weight became an advantage as he pulled Kolgrim hard off balance and down, pinning him easily. Kolgrim’s free hand slapped the ground. Ivar released him.
As soon as Kolgrim was ready, they began again. Ivar was nearly caught by a sweeping kick but threw himself clear in time. Kolgrim landed a solid blow to his ribs but Ivar had learned how to take a hit a long time ago. Kolgrim was close enough to strike him, which meant he was close enough to grasp. Again Ivar’s greater weight was an advantage as he dragged Kolgrim off balance and put the other Viper on the ground. Kolgrim’s hand slapped the ground again.
When Ivar looked up, Zeren had returned. The young Viper looked composed and ready. Kolgrim stepped away. Tension rose. Ivar asked the question wordlessly, cocking the brow over his golden eye. Zeren nodded. He stepped into the ring.
Kolgrim watched only a moment before giving the command to begin. Ivar did not hesitate; he knew Zeren would not and he was right. His first jab was low. Zeren brushed it aside easily and stepped to his side, angling for a blow at his ribs. A blow that would have hurt had it landed fully; the man was not holding back and Ivar fought back a smile. Good.
They went for some time, exchanging strikes and blocks and side steps; neither able to connect solidly enough with the other to tip the balance of the fight. Finally, a chance. Zeren didn’t quite turn fast enough and Ivar hooked his elbow. Rather than fight the pull, Zeren leaned into it and spun, dropping fast and rolling Ivar across his own broad shoulder instead.
Ivar hit the ground. He rolled the landing and was back on his feet in a blink before Zeren could reach him, but the reality was plain. Zeren had thrown Ivar first. He was astonished. He was pleased. He was determined to win.
Zeren lunged low, aiming to bring him down before his balance could fully recover. On any other opponent it would probably have worked. Instead Ivar met the lunge with a wide grapple and the match shifted. Zeren was quick and agile and though shockingly strong, he could not quite match the Grandmaster for sheer brute strength.
This close, Ivar caught the almost feral gleam in Zeren’s eyes. It seemed he was one to laugh at death and Ivar let the bloodthirsty grin that had been threatening break free. His blood was up, and here was one who would understand. Ivar thought briefly that if Zeren had had the breath, he’d have been laughing outright for the sheer bestial joy of the fight. At the moment they were locked, each putting full effort into tearing the other down, waiting for muscles to reach exhaustion, to see who would shake first and fall. Stunned silence surrounded them.
Ivar could feel, quite directly wherever they were pressed together, the strength and control in the other man, all hard muscle and steady balance. He knew Zeren would still be thinking, looking for a way- any way- to break the stalemate. This Viper was brilliant, resilient, and far too attractive for his own good. A very different set of thoughts skittered across the back of Ivar’s mind before he shoved them aside.
Not fast enough. This close, though it had been only a flicker, his scent betrayed him. Zeren’s eyes widened just a fraction. A tremor ran through him, a delicious sensation but not one Ivar paused to enjoy. Immediately he pressed his probably unfair advantage and twisted. Zeren rolled but, exhausted, simply could not get back up in time. Ivar had the younger man pinned, caught between his own body and the unyielding ground of the training yard. Zeren let go and dropped his hand to the dirt.
Both men were breathing hard, and neither stood quickly. Kolgrim looked stunned. The yard was silent. Yes, the Grandmaster had won, but only barely and they all knew it.
Ivar smiled, a genuine if somewhat predatory smile. He was pleased. Unthinking and unconcerned, Ivar reached out to wrap his arm across Zeren’s shoulders, gripping his far shoulder briefly before giving him a gentle shove. It was a gesture he usually reserved for Kolgrim or Gerring or even Warritt. The implications were not lost on the watching eyes in the yard.
“Wash, eat, rest. At least today. Probably tomorrow too. You’ve earned it.”
“Yes, sir.” Zeren’s answering smile was grateful and… sated, somehow. Ivar, still contemplating the young Viper's moment of submission in the ring, began to think that some things might be worth the risk.
***
Zeren
It wasn’t until Zeren was completely out of sight of the training yard that he allowed himself to stagger. He was exhausted, sore, aching, sweaty, and bruised. There wasn’t a first decade Viper in the keep right now that could give him much of a workout but the others hadn’t been as easy as he’d made it seem. He stopped at the room he was using- 33, this season, not far from the room the Grandmaster had been occupying for a while- to grab clean clothes and a towel. He thought briefly that if Serrit or Auckes had been here (though where one went…) they’d have given him a hard time. They were both so much faster than he was, his strength wasn’t much use if he couldn’t get a hold on them.
Zeren walked the familiar path to the bathhouse, pulled along by the thought of a hot tub to work out the knots in his muscles. He was still processing everything. He’d not really expected Kolgrim to step in. He knew he was good but he didn’t think it had warranted that. But, Evil-Eye himself? First, Zeren hadn’t even realized he’d been watching. Then to have him just appear across the yard like that. He had definitely been watching. Boredom? Professional curiosity about his newest successfully returned Viper?
It was common knowledge that the Grandmaster was simply more. Bigger, stronger, faster, more connected to Chaos. None of the younger Vipers stood a chance. Why even bother with Zeren? I’m good, but Kolgrim was going to have that fight eventually. And Evil-Eye beats Kolgrim nine times out of ten.
Zeren reached the door of the bathhouse. He paused. And what the fuck was that? I know that scent. I could never mistake it. None of us could. But… Evil-Eye? He pushed the heavy wooden door aside and stepped into the dimly lit room. At this hour, hardly anyone would be in here. He’d have the space to himself.
There was no privacy to speak of here. A brutally cold mountain spring welled up in the center of the roughly circular room, draining away through a culvert in the western wall. Small tubs of harsh soap and rough cloths sat along the edge of the stream rushing away from the central pool. Grabbing a pair of buckets, Zeren filled one of the smaller wooden soaking tubs. He was going to need it. Scrubbing and sluicing away the dirt in the bitter cold stream was next. Zeren shivered his way through it, mind on the tub. He’d heard rumors of hot springs in the northern keep of the wolves, but here no one objected to a little gratuitous use of igni. When the tub was steaming properly, Zeren sank into it.
For a long time he let his mind sit blank, just floating on the sensation of the hot water soothing tired muscles. His silver-blonde hair was curling in the steam, but he ignored it. Let it. I’m just gonna braid the whole mess out of the way anyway. Should probably just cut it. Eventually, as his body relaxed, Zeren’s mind started circling the day again.
The tubs themselves were absolutely luxurious, all things considered. The Grandmaster wasn’t exactly known for decadence, but if the others could be believed, he’d had this room set up with these tubs quite deliberately. The old snake loved nothing quite as much as to bask in heat. With centuries of injuries to deal with I’m not really surprised. Centuries. The thought brought Zeren up short. With only a few decades behind him, he was only barely an adult by comparison, despite the amount of experience he’d managed to cram into those few decades. It just made that moment in the training yard stranger.
What was he supposed to do with that information, anyway? It wasn’t like he didn’t recognize the scent of arousal on another man. It was part of why he hadn’t come back for a while. He’d been recovering. Being driven violently out of a town just ahead of a hangman’s noose wasn’t good for anyone’s season. They’d caught the blacksmith’s boy, despite his efforts to stop them.
Zeren had joked more than once that his preferred partner would be described as ‘enthusiastic’ before such trivial things as whether they were a man or a woman were mentioned. Most of the Vipers didn’t care; he was hardly the only one in their ranks with those preferences, and a few like Desten actually preferred men. Some cared a lot. Keynes had loudly and deliberately refused to spar with him. He’d once made a show of being run out of the bathhouse by Zeren coming in. Zeren smiled darkly at the memory. Telling him ‘Keynes, no one wants your scrawny ass.’ had earned him a fight that neither of them could really claim to have won, but the punishment had been worth it.
But that still didn’t answer the question. What was he supposed to do with that scent, with no candidates for its cause other than himself, on the Grandmaster, of all people? Surely not. Though, if Zeren was honest with himself, the thought of Evil-Eye’s- of Ivar’s- substantial weight and shocking strength pressed against him, moving across his body with that deadly grace, well that was hardly an unpleasant thought.
Oh.
Fuck.
***
Ivar
Zeren didn’t surface the next day and Ivar was secretly relieved. It was enough to know that he was well, he told himself. If he had exhausted himself that day in training, refused anything but a frigid scrub to remove the sweat and dirt, and lain awake until he gave up on sleep entirely and forced his mind into meditation instead, well, that was his problem. There was absolutely no reason that one young Viper- no matter how skilled, clever, or unfairly handsome he may be- should occupy his mind.
None.
Except the obvious, of course. He was skilled, clever, and unfairly handsome. There were certainly others around with similar qualifications but Zeren stood out, and not only because he was known to be open to advances from other men. He wasn’t afraid. Ivar’s lapse in self control had startled the other Viper, but there had been no indication of fear. In fact… Ivar batted the memory around his mind like a cat with a piece of string. That strange, satisfied expression.
It was a good thought. A dangerous one, perhaps, but a good one.
He carried it through until evening, when a tense moment in the dining hall forced every other concern to the side. Zeren had finally appeared. He looked fully recovered, Ivar was pleased to see. He was alone. He usually was if Desten wasn’t in. Now there was a thought that should have been cold water on all the others Ivar had been entertaining but from what he knew of that relationship jealousy didn’t play a part. Desten would probably have been cheering Zeren on and slipping damiana into his tea. That one was a menace. They suited each other well.
Zeren entered quietly. Keynes did not. There was a lot of old hurt there, Ivar knew. Keynes had been the one to bring Zeren in, had probably saved his life doing it and Zeren had looked up to him. When Zeren’s preferences- and appetites- became known, Keynes had wholesale rejected him. And now Keynes was looking for a fight.
Ivar stopped his conversation with Warritt as voices climbed on the other end of the hall. Both Vipers turned their attention to the two facing each other. That Keynes was the aggressor was clear, but Ivar knew Zeren. He wasn’t likely to start that fight, but he would absolutely finish it. Keynes was in trouble. Ivar and Warritt swore simultaneously and started moving for the other end of the hall.
“Got a lot of fucking guts showing your face after getting another fucking faggot killed, you do. The fuck you mean even coming back.” Keynes' voice carried, and the insults were deteriorating rapidly as he continued.
“Fuck off, Keynes.” Zeren sounded more bored than anything else, and Ivar could see Keynes’ temper spike. “You’re not worth it.”
“Fucking mob shoulda killed you!” Keynes roared and swung.
Zeren dodged the punch, caught Keynes’ outstretched arm, and pivoted. Keynes hit the stone floor face first. If Ivar had blinked he would have missed it. This was not Zeren the talented but green boy Witcher that had left the keep just a few years ago. Zeren the Viper was a force of nature.
But Keynes was a Witcher, and as rough as the impact had been, it hadn’t stopped him. He got up, lunging for Zeren again. Zeren pivoted around the grasping lunge and planted a vicious kick in the center of Keynes’ back. Ivar and Warritt both winced. They were nearly there. Zeren still mostly just looked bored, though there was anger rising in his eyes. Keynes was out of time. Too stubborn or too angry to quit, Keynes tried a third time. This time Zeren met him before he could finish gathering any momentum. With all of his substantial weight behind it, Zeren’s right hook shattered the side of Keynes' face. The wiry gray haired Viper dropped to his knees, reeling. There was an instant of indecision on Zeren’s part and Ivar took the opportunity to reach through the ring of watching idiots and grab a fistful of the back of Zeren’s shirt, dragging him back bodily. Warritt had Keynes at the same moment.
Zeren’s immediate reaction was to fight, he had, after all, just been grabbed from behind. Ivar was pleased. It was a reaction likely to keep him alive. However, that didn’t mean he was going to take the incoming blow. He caught Zeren’s wrist and held it, marvelling inwardly and the speed and strength in the other Viper. The instant Zeren realized who had scruffed him, the fight went out of him. He dropped his eyes, turned his head just a fraction to the side. Submission. Ivar shoved that thought away ruthlessly. Slowly, he let go. Then he rounded on Keynes.
“You are one lucky shitstain of a Viper right now, Keynes.” Ivar snarled. Fights happened. There was a lot of testosterone in this keep. But walking in and picking one out of the blue was inexcusable. “You want to fight, do it in the yard where you might learn something. You’re an ignorant waste of air who clearly can’t be taught a damn thing unless it hurts. Get the fuck out of my sight.”
“And you.” Ivar turned to Zeren with a growl. He looked stunned. Yes, Zeren, that’s what it feels like when someone stands up for you. Gods you have deserved better. “... have one demon of a right hook. Go work it out. Anywhere but here.”
Confident that this particular fight would not flare up again, Ivar turned back down the hall. Warritt spoke.
“You know, some of them may be old enough to remember Bran.”
Ivar stumbled. Fucking hell. Will that name ever not hurt?
Warritt continued. “And you know perfectly well that some of them have put the pieces together regarding Keldar, too.”
Ivar groaned miserably. “It’ll be all over the keep by nightfall.”
Warritt grinned and patted him lightly on the shoulder. Ivar growled but there was no real threat to it. Warritt was one of the only people living who could get away with that gesture and he knew it. "We both know Keldar doesn't hold anything or anyone against you when you're apart." A mischievous expression twisted the scars on his face. "He's hardly a child. Hasn't been for a while. He knows what he'd be getting into and you know perfectly well if that absolute menace Desten were here he'd be cheering you both on."
"What are you suggesting, Warritt." Ivar growled. He knew. He just needed to hear it out loud.
"When a storm has passed, the stars keep turning. Get it out of your system. It won't shatter the keep."
For a while Ivar said nothing. Warritt wasn't wrong. The Grandmaster cast a long, thoughtful look at the first evening stars, just visible through a high slit window. He sighed, and drew a deep breath before turning on his heel and striding near silently from the hall. If Warritt noted the hunter's lines in his posture, he said nothing. Ivar was many things, but a good man wasn't one of them. He knew exactly where Zeren would be.
***
Zeren
The workshops and forges were Zeren’s favorite places to be when he needed to work his thoughts out through his hands. His armor needed work and his hands needed to work. He’d torn the skin on the backs of his knuckles when he’d decked Keynes, but it had absolutely been worth it. And then the Grandmaster. Zeren’s hands shook as he strung sinew through the lacing needle. He’d heard the rough side of Evil-Eye’s tongue before, the man was not known to hold back when annoyed. But that had been harsh. He’d actually sounded angry, which was different.
That anger had not been directed at him. When he’d felt himself yanked backward by a hand he couldn’t see, he’d almost been back in that mob again, frantic for any way out. He’d recognized who had him too late to stop the strike. Zeren had swung at the Grandmaster, and not in a training session.
And Ivar had let him go.
Zeren couldn’t figure it out. He rubbed his off hand absently over his wrist, bruised where Evil-Eye had grabbed him. The memory of that grip, the heat in his hand, was racing in Zeren’s mind along with the fact that the Grandmaster had defended him, called Keynes out on his behalf, with a posture that had been blatantly possessive. Every half trained Viper and adept in that Hall had seen clearly that Ivar had been protecting him; standing almost over him, in fact, like some bird of prey defending its next meal.
Zeren wished Desten was there. Or maybe it was just as well that he wasn’t. He’d be cheering me on and finding a way to slip damiana into my tea. Menace.
Instead he focused on the leather in front of him. Straps wore out. It was unavoidable. Replacing them wasn’t difficult, just tedious. Zeren elected to make use of the tempered stitching chisel. It was an extra step but it kept everything much neater, and neater work wore more evenly.
He was nearly finished with the slow work when footsteps outside made him startle to full alert. He more than half expected another fight. He did not expect the familiar harsh edged voice that had defended him earlier.
“Can’t say I’m surprised. Busy hands quiet the mind.”
Zeren was still getting his heart rate under control. This was Gorthur Gvaed, hellish in its own right to be sure but there wouldn’t be any bloodthirsty mobs here. The Grandmaster looked concerned.
“Breathe, Zeren.” Ivar’s growl was almost gentle. Almost. “Gorthur Gvaed is not a kind place, but there won’t be any raging mobs here.” Zeren started. That was just uncanny. He crossed to the work bench, eyeing Zeren’s work. He nodded approval before continuing. “It’s bad enough being run out for being a Witcher. It’s going to be a while before every sound no longer makes you think you’re back there. Yanking you back from Keynes probably didn’t help, either.” Zeren did not dare put a name to the emotion hiding inside that voice.
“I’ll… be alright sir.” Of course he would. Ivar had said it would just take time, and if anyone would know, it would be him.
“I know you will.” The growl had almost faded from his voice. Zeren turned, not entirely believing what he was hearing or seeing. The Viper of Morgraig leaned on the work table next to him, close enough to touch, voice as gentle as Zeren had ever heard it in his life. “You’re a devil of a Witcher, Zeren, and an extraordinary man. I know you will.”
“Thank you.” Zeren’s own voice was soft, though he blamed that on being thoroughly overwhelmed.
“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Also you’re bleeding.”
“Ah shit.” The backs of Zeren’s knuckles, torn open in the fight earlier, had cracked in the cold air. He glanced around for a relatively clean rag. He’d rather not get blood on the armor just yet. Not like you’d tell the difference.
“Here.” Ivar’s voice held a trace of amusement, and something else. “Let me.”
Shocked, Zeren let the Grandmaster catch his injured hand in his own and wrap a rag around it. The whole world outside the workroom faded away at that moment. Zeren was lost in the sensation of Ivar's hands on his own. It wasn't like he'd never touched the man, training was often extremely physical. This was different. This felt charged, and certainly dangerous. Ivar’s hands were warm, callused, and so, so gentle. Zeren would never have thought that hands with centuries of fighting behind them could be so gentle.
He’d have enjoyed it more if his hand hadn’t hurt so damned much. It would be fine by morning, mutated healing being what it was. But at the moment it was an annoyance. “Thanks. I did a number on it I think."
“You did a number on his face.” Ivar laughed. Zeren decided he was going to file that sound away forever. It was rare, it was deep and rough and a little bit wild at the edges, and it was pleasant.
Zeren chuckled. He caught a scent in the air. He started, and scented the air again.
Oh.
That wasn’t a fluke.
Ivar had not let go of the rag he held against Zeren’s bloodied hand. His expression was oddly guarded, mismatched eyes somehow uncertain. He knew. He was waiting for Zeren’s reaction. It was that realization that real respect was woven into real desire, that shattered Zeren’s doubt. This was a bad idea. So is Desten, so was Tem. You don’t learn. Zeren let his nostrils flare, catching that wonderful, enticing scent. He breathed it deep and very deliberately let go of the control he’d been holding on his own body’s reaction to Ivar’s gentle touch.
Ivar drew a deep, shaking breath. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he held and savored the unspoken confession in the changing air. Slowly, with a daring Zeren hadn’t been entirely certain he possessed, he turned his uninjured hand to Ivar’s, carefully and almost reverently tracing along calluses and scars. The Witcher mutations may have been beyond his control, but Ivar’s hands spoke of the long, violent centuries earning the reputation that made him so much more. Inhumanly strong, but agile, deft, quick and confident- Zeren marveled at what he was being allowed to touch, traced lines along the backs of Ivar's fingers, catching briefly on blunted nails before he returned to the strangely graceful power in his palms and wrists. He very much wanted to know what those hands would feel like touching, exploring, claiming the rest of his body. Would the gentleness remain? Would the callused palms run roughly over sensitive skin unaccustomed to confident touch? Would they bruise? Zeren hoped they would; he liked it a little rough.
Ivar finally spoke and when he did his voice took Zeren by surprise. The growling edge had been replaced by a huskiness that the younger Viper decided right then and there he was going to hear a lot more of. “You’re playing with fire, Zeren.”
“I know.” Ivar looked about to say something else but Zeren beat him to it damn what am I doing right now… “And I'm sure there will be repercussions. I don’t expect any special treatment. Just… don’t expect to own me.”
Ivar’s laugh was freer this time. “I don’t think anyone could.” His voice turned more serious. “I won’t push you for anything you’re not willing to give. I expect the same in return.”
Zeren nodded. “Of course.”
“And Zeren, please, call me by name.”
Of course. It’s always ‘Sir’ or ‘Grandmaster’ or ‘Evil-Eye.’ That’s… that’s got to hurt after a while. “I will… Ivar.” The faintest tremor ran through the other man and Zeren marveled at the power he’d been handed with so much want in Ivar's voice. This was the Viper of Morgraig. Except, not right now. Right now, this was Ivar.
It was Ivar who moved, who led Zeren gently to his feet, injured hand cradled almost delicately. The difference between the gentleness of this exchange and the violence of their training fight had Zeren feeling off balance, yet he was certain the training fight had not left him feeling as breathless as he did right then. Gods but the man was magnificent. The power in him, the control, the utterly terrifying brilliance and to hell with it, Zeren knew he was as good as lost.
Slowly, Ivar freed one hand and raised it to gently touch the side of Zeren's face, admiration and wonder plain on his scarred features. It was the most open expression Zeren had seen on him, and to be the cause of it was almost more than the young Viper could believe. Ivar's fingertips caressed Zeren's brow, cheekbone, jaw, learning the feel of his skin. Zeren leaned into that touch, hearing Ivar's sudden intake of breath at the motion.
Ivar let out a soft, disbelieving sound and shook his head in amusement. His thumb traced Zeren's cheekbone and Zeren shivered. So gentle a touch from so violent a man. "Rumor will be all over the keep by dawn."
“It already is.” Zeren countered, teasing good humor in his voice. Teasing. He was teasing Ivar. “You weren’t exactly subtle. Not that I’m complaining.”
“Eh, he’s good at monsters. Be a shame to throw him in the moat. Besides,” Ivar’s fingers cradled the side of Zeren's face, thumb brushing teasingly across his lower lip and around until Ivar held a featherlight grip on Zeren’s jaw. Zeren’s head was spinning, he was overwhelmed in the best possible way. “It seems to have worked out in my favor.”
Ivar shifted closer. Zeren may have stopped breathing as he felt the heat from the other man settle into his own skin, his mismatched gaze flicking to Zeren's lips and back, asking. Zeren managed a faint nod. It was enough. Ivar pulled ever so gently and Zeren went gladly. No fluttering moth's wings had ever been as soft as that first kiss, and no whitewater falls had ever roared so loudly in Zeren's head. Surprisingly soft lips pressed against his, curious as they were hungry. The world seemed to tilt around him. This was Ivar he was kissing and blessed gods did it feel good. Ivar kissed him gently at first then with more heat and Zeren answered, shifting forward to press more of his body against the other man. Zeren brought his uninjured hand up, reaching his fingers to stroke Ivar's auburn hair as he lightly traced the other man's lips with his tongue, seeking entry. Ivar let him in and Zeren licked greedily forward, tasting, exploring. Ivar moaned and pulled him tighter, welcoming his exploration. After a long while Zeren pulled away again, only barely enough to shape a single word. A name.
"Ivar…"
Ivar shivered, and when he sought Zeren's mouth again there was a hunger in it that Zeren desperately wanted to fill.
Ivar left Zeren's injured hand resting against his own chest and dropped his hand to Zeren's waist, grip light but with the promise of strength behind it. Zeren felt a tremor run through his whole body. Ivar turned his head, tracing his lips along the line of Zeren's jaw, grinning against the rough blonde stubble. A short, sharp nip at his throat was immediately soothed by a hot tongue and Zeren gasped. This man was going to eat him alive and Zeren would beg him to do it.
"Come back to my room?" Ivar asked in a voice that Zeren would do terrible things to keep hearing, a low, hungry growl very different from his usual cold roughness.
"And make those rumors true?"
"Make them pale in comparison."
Oh.
Oh yes. That he could definitely do.
Zeren spared a glance at the almost finished armor repair before putting it out of his mind. No one would bother it here. He started to turn to the lantern but Ivar beat him to it, releasing one hand and curling his fingers into something that was like ignii but not. Chaos rippled and the flame was snuffed out. Zeren blinked. That kind of control was rare, and Ivar had done it so casually.
As if I wasn't already hooked.
Ivar stepped away, leaving Zeren suddenly chilled in the early winter air. The young Viper followed, thoroughly and quite willingly caught by Ivar's inexorable pull. Ivar led him from the deeply shadowed workroom into the edge of the training yard with all the fluid, soundless grace of a hunting cat- or a Master Viper. Zeren was entranced.
The long clear winter nights had come, and the yard was bathed in cold starlight. Ivar's proud features were cast in stark relief by the silver light. His "evil" eye was as unreadable as ever but the other, bright true gold, blazed like fire in the starlight. Zeren could only stare, astonished and thrilled by the naked hunger in Ivar's expression.
Zeren could feel other eyes on him as he followed, silent as starlight across the yard. Surely Ivar could tell they were being watched? He must have sensed them as well because he stopped quite suddenly and cast a challenging glance toward the barracks. When his gaze returned to Zeren his face was alight with what could only honestly be called a feral sort of mischief. It took the young Viper's breath away, seeing him like this in the cold light. Ivar held out a hand, beckoning.
"Are you ashamed?" There was a challenge in that growl, too, and Zeren knew better than to answer without thought. Was he ashamed?
"No." He meant it. Utterly and completely. He refused to feel shame for this. "Are you?"
Ivar flashed a smile, lightning within a storm. "I have outlived my shame, Zeren." His growl was back, confident and calm. Zeren reached for Ivar's outstretched hand and was drawn close to his chest. "And I'm certainly not ashamed of you."
Ivar's deft fingers caught Zeren's jaw in a grip at once gentle and implacable and Zeren let himself be directed. In the starlit training yard of the keep of the rising serpent, Ivar kissed him again; deeply, fiercely, possessively. Zeren let himself be swept away by it, wrapping his arms tight around Ivar’s broad form and kissing him back with a desperate sort of fervor. Distantly, Zeren heard a hushed and furtive movement from the barracks. Someone shut a window in a hurry. Zeren fought back a laugh and Ivar did allow himself a low, amused sound as they broke apart, though not very far.
“Come with me?” Ivar growled the question- and it was a question. Zeren found himself reassured by the repetition.
“Yes.” was all he could whisper against Ivar’s lips.
It was enough. Ivar all but danced away from him again, taking the warmth and support of his arms and leaving Zeren to stumble after, seeking. And he did follow, gladly at that, across the rest of the yard and into the frigid shadow of the Barracks themselves. They stopped outside of the room at the furthest end of the hallway from any usual activity. The number 42 had once been painted on the door, though it had long faded to a faint memory of its former self. Ivar opened the door, glanced around the room, and stepped inside, pulling Zeren behind him.
Zeren felt the soft ripple in Chaos again and a single shielded candle sprang to life. The man’s control really was extraordinary. The room was plain, but comfortably warm at least thanks to the massive masonry fireplaces that backed up to the Barracks, heating the structure more efficiently than individual hearths. Zeren saw no outward sign that this room currently held the Grandmaster of the Vipers. The pack leaning against the wall could have belonged to any of them. A small stack of wooden crates in the corner seemed the only concession to the Grandmaster’s different role within their keep. Ivar rarely went out on a circuit anymore though he found ways and reasons enough to keep himself in practice, as he put it. Running the keep and the school took too much of his time for much else.
The door clicked shut behind them. The sound cut through some of the fog of lust in his brain and for a moment Zeren was struck by the enormity of what he was about to do; its sheer audacity. Was he ashamed?
No. No he was not.
But he might have been just the smallest bit nervous. This was Ivar after all.
Ivar sensed it. He pulled Zeren close again, one hand resting at the small of his back, the other tangling in his pale hair and directing him until their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the still room. Zeren was stunned. Lust he understood, but the intimacy of the gesture surprised him. For a moment, Ivar just let him breathe, savoring his scent and the rising scent of arousal in the air. His whispered words held heat and hunger when he finally spoke again.
“I meant what I said, Zeren. I want you.” Zeren shivered at the naked desire in that statement. “I won’t push you for anything you’re not willing to give.” The reassurance soothed him and Zeren felt the last line of tension begin to ebb away. As brutal a taskmaster as Ivar could be, he wouldn’t push him here.
“I believe you.”
In answer, Ivar turned just enough to trail a line of biting kisses down Zeren’s jaw to his throat. Zeren moaned softly and Ivar growled, the sound only feeding the fire already burning in his body. Ivar tugged the loose collar of Zeren’s shirt aside to reach the sensitive skin at the base of his throat and Zeren gasped as Ivar worked at the spot, sucking a bruise into the fine skin that would surely last into the next morning. Marking him.
He’d be wearing Ivar’s marks around the keep the next morning.
The realization lit something near ecstasy in him. Zeren leaned back, didn’t even give the question in Ivar’s eyes time to finish forming before he pulled the other man into a hungry, open kiss. He could feel Ivar grinning into it, clearly pleased. The hand at Zeren’s waist slipped low, curling around his hip and the curve of his ass as Ivar pulled them flush together until Zeren could tell exactly how aroused Ivar already was. Zeren’s arms tightened around the other man, the slight, involuntary roll of his hips earning him a sudden moan. Ivar was breathless with want as he whispered his next words directly against Zeren’s skin.
“I want you, gods but I want you. I want to learn every part of you. How you feel, how you taste.” Ivar traced the long, toned muscles in Zeren’s back through his loose shirt, clearly reveling in the feel of the younger man under his hands. “I want to watch you come apart and if you’ll let me yes I really do want to fuck you.”
If you’ll let me. Ivar really had meant what he’d said. Zeren took a breath. He struggled to keep his voice steady. “I’ve… never actually been properly fucked.” Zeren admitted. Ivar looked startled. Zeren continued, “Fingers, yes, and I liked it, but I’m usually the one doing the fucking.”
Ivar actually chuckled at that but offered no argument. “I meant it, if you don’t want-”
“I didn’t say that.” Zeren had made a decision. Ivar’s eyes widened and Zeren could hear his breath catch.
“You’ve never…”
Zeren shook his head.
“And you want me…”
Zeren nodded.
Ivar keened as he pulled Zeren close again into a deep, plundering kiss, claiming him. Zeren’s knees threatened to buckle and he clung to Ivar, to the strength and power in the other man, to steady himself again.
Ivar’s hands, with all the power they held over the world around him and over Zeren at that moment, cradled his face. Gentle, so gentle. Zeren looked into mismatched eyes blown dark with lust. The effect should have been disconcerting, but Zeren couldn't find it in himself to be put off by it. Ivar’s voice had turned to a ragged, desperate whisper as he waited, poised at the edge of his self control. “You know you can stop me. One word is all it will take.”
“I know.” Zeren hardly knew his own voice, the iron control he usually had over it had been shattered by the very man now holding him together. “And if I need you to, I will.” He meant it. He had to. The strange trust that had formed here required it.
“Ivar,” Zeren shifted, most of his balance recovered, crowding against the larger man. “Get me out of these clothes, and into your bed.”
Ivar let go, the storm that had been building in him finally broke free, and Zeren let himself fall into the cascade of sensation. Fingers traced down his spine, along the hem of his shirt, ran lightly across his belly before slipping under the soft cloth to grip the skin beneath. Broad, strong hands dragged hot against sensitive flesh, stark contrast to the cool air against suddenly bared skin. He’d sort his clothes out in the morning. Ivar paused long enough to reach behind him and suddenly his auburn mane slipped free, a cascade of dark fire falling across his shoulders. Beautiful. The man was beautiful, though Zeren thought he’d likely forgotten it. Searing, open mouthed kisses marked the column of his throat before he felt teeth set into his collarbone. A deep, rumbling, laughing growl offered wordless encouragement to Zeren’s seeking hands. He traced the powerful muscle moving beneath burning skin, dusted with auburn hair and lines of scars. A terrible tale behind each one, he’d once heard Ivar say. Zeren believed it. With Ivar’s worn thin shirt out of the way, that growl became a moan of pleasure, blunt nails digging hard into Zeren’s flank as Zeren sought salt-sweet skin to nip and lick, filling every sense with this man. Leather and smoke and the myriad of scents from the workrooms faded; the scent of lightning clung to Ivar's skin. Zeren was holding a storm in his arms. A moment of disorientation- Ivar had spun him around- and falling. Zeren landed on his back on the narrow bed and Ivar followed him down. He was utterly lost in the strength and solid weight of the Witcher above him as Ivar moved up his body, all deadly, confident grace, until he had the younger man caged on the bed under his powerful frame. Zeren's world contracted to the space within Ivar's arms and the blessed heat between their bodies, the rest hidden away behind a curtain of auburn hair and the beating of his own heart. Ivar filled all of Zeren's senses, and claimed him for his own.
***
Ivar
The faint gray light of dawn was rising in the mountains. It was quiet where they lay, Ivar always chose a room well away from the others. Still rising slowly from a deeply sated sleep, Ivar let himself reach for the young Viper. Zeren, sleep soft and pliant, yielded without a thought. Ivar pulled him across his chest, the other man's weight settling something in him that morning light had threatened to disturb. Ivar's fingers ghosted down Zeren's spine and across the sculpted muscles in his back, tracing marks on his shoulders that he himself had left on the young Viper’s pale skin. Beautiful. The man was beautiful. Whatever happened when the storm finally broke, it was worth it for this alone.