The Unsuitable Slave. (NC-17) Part 34/34. Epilogue
Many,many thanks go to sylsdarkplace because, without her support, I never would have had the confidence to continue with this story.
Also, ((hugs)) to all the readers who spurred me along with all the lovely comments. Its been a (frustrating but) fun journey for me.
Four Summers Later
He arrived at the inn without a slave, strange enough for a man with a fine horse, when such property was cheap and easily acquired in these Northern Lands. Odd again, that he fumbled awkwardly in his pockets to withdraw a wad of cash, which he stared at bug-eyed, as if it were the strangest item he’d ever come across. Bandages wound around both of his hands, out of which poked just three fingers on his right hand and a thumb and a forefinger on the left. The innkeeper could see the problem and moved to assist him. He took the ragged man’s paltry belongings and had an ostler hold his horse. “Sixty for a room and twenty more for the stabling. Slaves can be chained in your room or left in the pen.” He indicated a cage by the stable, he thought it best to be clear about these things, in case the man's property followed behind.
The man muttered under his breath, peeled the notes from his wad and added another. A nervous tic twitched and shook on his lip. He gave his host a wild-eyed look as he handed the money over and one eye roamed, sightlessly. “Took my slave! Gotta keep the ghosts away. No ghosts!” He yelled.
The innkeeper was used to the strangers that passed through his small outpost. He had seen the broken ones before. They drifted through with the language of the Kingdom or of the Realm, sensibilities long diminished by a savage war. Some fled from phantoms which ran from the battle fields with them, others survived to see the end of the war, only to find that they could not adjust to peace. He took their money and kept his mouth closed but he was beginning to think that this one was stranger than most. He wished he hadn’t taken his money because the more he saw of him, the more crazies the dishevelled man at his door seemed to have.
“People respected me. They feared me,” the man blurted out without preamble, and then dissolved into unintelligible mumbling and gibberish.
The innkeeper held his tongue and led him through to the smallest and least attractive room he had, he wasn’t about to waste the good space on the crazy. The man shuffled after him, he was crying with the pain of walking.
He would have been imposing once, he supposed. He was tall, over six foot and his once fine clothes hung from a large frame which would have been solid, if full. His brunette hair was greying and cut unevenly. His face was half shaved, just half a beard, which complemented his half ear on the other side. Marks covered his face, healed silver threads, red scabbing slashes and a fresh, raw, red gash. Similar, knife-edge scars shone visible, on flesh of his arm.
“Hey, Buddy, you’re bleeding. Do you need something for the wounds?”
“Ghosts,” spat the man. His one, steady, hazel eye locked on him.
“Er, right, I’ll just leave you to it then.” The innkeeper backed out of the door.
A shout followed him through the door, “Drink!”
He sighed, some days the hospitality trade just wasn’t worth the effort. Still, he had seen the money and with creative pricing at the bar, he should make a tidy profit from the crazy this evening.
The crazy coddled a glass in a corner of the bar and drank steadily. Every now and again he would pull at the innkeeper and speak an assortment of insane statements at him. If the man could be believed, ghosts assaulted him in the dark of night or in the silent, lone places of the day. He ran, he never stopped running but it became harder, he had so few toes left. Wherever he ran, they followed, and they took him apart, day by day and piece by piece. A finger, a toe, an ear, or another gash to bleed. He claimed it never stopped. Soon they would come to take him entirely and then others would rip him to bone and blood and it would all be over except the hell-fires of eternity.
When the sorry traveler fisted his few fingers into his shirt and begged him to keep the ghosts away the innkeeper asked why the man thought the spirits did this to him.
“I coveted beauty that was not mine, I let it destroy." He paused and stared blankly. The innkeeper made to move away but the man snaked his few fingers to his wrist and curled them in a hook about it. "He will take me apart, day by miserable day, piece by painful piece, with just enough left to give back to my people. Then they will shred me, until all that is left is blood and gore. It was his promise and his honor and I gave him that, do you understand?" He was ranting and shaking at his arm. "It was my teaching, my legacy, and he will not rest in the wet murk, he will not lie in peace. "
The innkeeper recognized the mental decay of buried guilt and wondered how bad his crimes could be, to take him this far down. He resolved to account for all his knives and lock them away before he retired to his bed this night. He unhanded himself and pretended to make busy behind the counter. Some crazies weren’t worth the profit.
***
Jensen nipped at Jared’s chin and hmmed with satisfaction. Jared couldn’t look away. His Master was beautiful with sex blown eyes and the slick shine of perspiration that dripped down his chest and over the firm, muscular, freckled flesh. Jensen dragged a finger over Jared’s stomach, through the thick fluid of their ejaculations and pressed it between the wide, kiss-swollen lips of his lover. Jared arched his back, the rope above him squeaked and his shoulders pulled as he stretched the ties that held his arms to the branch above his head. He groaned, in a combination of pain, pleasure and content.
"So good for me today, Child. Everyone saw you, every Master and Mistress in the market looked at you and saw that you are perfect on my leash. They all wanted you, but you are mine, never property, or asset, or for sale, just mine and they can never have that or understand it. They can't know how I love you." Jensen shifted, heavy on Jared’s tired thighs and moved back to dip his sinful tongue into his navel and then lap and slurp at every drop of come on his belly. His slave’s head dropped back exposing the expanse of sweat shiny flesh over a collared and bite-marked, neck. “Mmm,” Jared whined, because it felt incredible and his body thrummed in latent delight, but he was fucked-out, with nothing left to give. More than that, a cold wind chilled his damp skin and there was a faint odor, over the clean wood-smoke, of something scorching.
“Mm. Jen.”
Jensen covered his slave's mouth with his own and kissed deep and tender, pushing the intimate fluids onto his tongue and coating his teeth.”
“mmnng.”
Fingers tapped playfully at his nose. “You know better than to speak without permission.”
“But,”
“Ten lashes,” said Jensen before lifting himself from Jared’s legs and collapsing in a splayed star on the grass. “Tomorrow.” he added.
“Alright, but Jen, permission to speak!”
Jensen rolled onto his stomach to rest his chin on his hand and stare at his lover. “Granted.”
Jared pulled at his ties. “Dinner is burning,” he said, nodding to the fire.
Jensen twisted himself around and sprang into action to stir at the stew. “Nooo! You know I hate burned stew, why didn’t you say something earlier?”
Jared tried to shrug but it didn’t work out well, in his position. He blew a sarcastic kiss instead. “I seem to remember being under orders not to speak.”
“Fuck!” Jensen brushed the grit and grass off his skin and bent to release Jared’s cuffs from the knotted rope. He manoeuvred the arms down gently and kissed at them before giving a massage to Jared’s stiff shoulders. “Y’alright, baby?”
“Better than.” Jared grabbed Jensen to kiss him briefly. “Does this mean you want me to play wifey?”
“Mmhmm, ‘cos you are totally the girl in this relationship,” teased Jensen.
“Admit it, my food tastes better!”
“Your cooking tastes better, wifey,” admitted Jensen, “and meantime, I can find something to cover the taste of burnt yam.”
“It’s still your turn to fetch water and rinse dishes, Jen.” Jared dipped the spoon in and stirred around to remove the lumps that stuck to the base of the crock. He eased them out and flicked them through the air, into the thicket beyond. He heard a loud yowl and Hope skittered from the bushes, chasing an exhausted and tortured rodent.
Jensen was picking through a roll of herbs and Jared was relieved to see that it was the green pack, because Gods knew what damage could be wrought with the various plants in the blue pack. He had asked for descriptions in the beginning but they’d given him nightmares. Jensen still collected them from the wild, he carefully processed them, labeled and packaged them but Jared had stopped asking, long before.
“Thyme and rosemary should do it,” announced Jensen, just as a desperate rodent climbed his bare foot and Hope came crashing down after it with outstretched claws. He gritted his teeth and glowered. “Jared, it is time that your damned familiar stopped toying with its prey, I mean how long has she been at it?”
Jared smoothed twigs and dirt from his body and started to dress. “Jen, I am not some sort of wizard. Also, I have no idea how long, and, in the very passionate, circumstances I am offended that you even noticed.”
Jensen gave an exaggerated scowl and pointed at Jared. “Well, the attachment that creature has to you, is not normal.”
“Aw. You’re jealous.”
“Damn right! She gets a snuggle everywhere we go.”
Jared cuddled up behind Jensen and looped his arms around him, to pull the naked body close. He stood a head taller than Jensen, had outgrown him by inches over the last years of his youth. He had broadened and their lifestyle had cultivated lean muscle. For all of his six foot height, Jensen now appeared small in his arms. Jared kissed at his neck and blew in his ear. " You know I love you the best. You get snuggled too.”
Jensen hmmed his appreciation. Hope dashed by their legs and Jared swung his sword from its sheath, noiseless, smooth and fast, to casually slice the rodent’s head off. “There,” he said.
Hope sat on her haunches and poked at the creature with an inquiring paw and Jensen laughed, a full body laugh, with his head flung back.
“Dinner time,” declared Jensen when he had calmed and clothed himself.
They sat flush to each other’s sides, they chewed their food and contemplated the starry vista of the sky.
Hope sat beside Jared and there was the noisy, wet crunch and tear of skin, bones and flesh.
“Oh. Ew, Jared. Do something!” Jensen screwed his nose up in disgust.
“You wanted it dead.”
“Yes, but..”
Jared looked, soft and gooey eyed, at the fluffy grey feline, or as Jensen liked to describe her, his little Hellspawn. “It’s nice! She brought something back to share with us. It’s a mother-instinct. She’s teaching us to hunt.”
Jensen growled in a way that suggested he may explode and Jared took the hint, he picked up the remains by the tail and flung it into the thicket, Hope chased after it, to finish her meal elsewhere.
They continued eating, washed it down with hot coffee and Jared stared thoughtfully into the flames. “You know, you have a point. It is time to stop toying with the prey, our prey. The road splits from this village, we can double back and get further from the Realm or we head directly in. Morgan has run this far with us pushing. It took us the best part of four Summers to find him, we shouldn't risk losing him now. It’s near enough.”
The older man nodded and swallowed his food. “I was almost out of Blue Narline, to dope him with, anyway. Do you want me to replace it with Dragonweed and Witches Wyrt tonight?”
“No.” Jared looked to Jensen with serious expression. “We take him back. We let the people have their justice.”
“But that means visiting.” There was definitely a childish whine from Jensen.
Jared could see his reluctance and pressed on. “I picked up our mail today. It has been several seasons, Jen. There was a lot.”
His Master rolled his eyes. They’d played this game before and Jared always won. “So, go on, hit me with it,” he said.
Jared produced a stack of papers and shuffled it in his hands. He started carefully, ease Jensen into it, “Chad has another nipper on the way and mini-Misha will be two in the next moon cycle.”
“Yes,” they said in unison, and placed the note on the ground.
“Parliament opens in Ty’Bont in two moons.”
“Bugles and dignitaries?” inquired Jensen.
“Definitely,” replied Jared.
“NO!” they both shouted and Jared dropped the paper to the ground to make a different pile.
“Gordon Woolvett’s grand 40th birthday bash.” Jared squinted at the card “He’s pencilled in, NO bugles or pomp, on our invite.”
“Maybe, if it fits into our trip,” conceded Jensen, and another pile was born.
The piles grew and Jared paused before the next one. He knew it was transparent of him but he couldn’t help himself. Jensen grew agitated. “Whatever it is. NO!”
“Jen, I think we should.”
“Should what?”
“Ethan is getting married.”
“Awkward!” snapped Jensen.
“It will be quiet. Gordon, Josh and Mac will all be there and so will Meggie.”
“Excuse me? How does Meghan know Ethan?”
“Apparently, she is accompanying Josh.”
Cogs turned in Jensen’s head and thick lashes parted wide around emerald eyes. “Oh! Wow! Well! Really?”
“It appears that the Padaleckis have a kink for the Ackles family or the other way around, or something.” Jared trailed off helplessly and then went for the kill. “Cookie will be catering it.” He pulled puppy eyes from his armory.
Jensen snatched the paper from him and placed it on the MAYBE pile, with a glare.
The slave held two more pieces of paper. “So. There were two requests that we might get close enough to fulfil if we head East after the wedding.
Jensen crossed his arms, “Hey, I never agreed to go,” he grumbled.
“Anyway, moving on.” Jared was real smooth. “The Laird of Bel’ten is convinced he has a werewolf issue.”
“Are they even real? Gosh I hope so,” commented Jensen. “Knowing how he treats his slaves, I sincerely wish that the werewolf enjoys chewing on his bones.”
“I’m with you there,” concurred Jared, flinging the letter on the NO pile. “Lastly, there has been a spate of robberies and kidnappings at the Tynbach Pass but nobody has got close to catching the gang involved.” He waved the paper in the air. “Yes? No?”
“Yeah. Definite yes. It’s our sort of case. We should send mail to James Beaver and see if he can assist.”
“Done,” said Jared with a smile.
***
It was getting late and the innkeeper cleaned the bar and wiped glasses. His regulars had slunk home to their families and only one customer remained. Crazy huddled in the corner mumbling and clutching his ale.
The door flung open, letting in a fresh breeze, Crazy screeched like a banshee and drew a dagger while trying to jam the whole of his body under a small table. “They come to get me.They always get me. Ghosts! Keep them out!” Crazy was flailing and gibbering.
The innkeeper dropped the glass he was holding and it shattered, scattering sharp debris across the floor. “Gods!” he swore.
Two men strode into the bar with purpose. “I apologize, we didn’t mean to startle you. We were looking for our Uncle.” The voice was gravel deep and polite. They moved together, as one, their pace fluid but their bulk impressive enough to block lamplight, giving them the impression of a halo. A glint caught on metal around one of their necks and the innkeeper reached automatically to the sign that read, “No slaves permitted in the bar.”
The gravel voice reduced to a threatening snarl. “There is nowhere that I go that my slave cannot accompany me.” The shorter one, a green eyed warrior, spoke even as he honed in on Crazy.
People were the innkeeper’s business and he was good at assessing them. Add to that, he recognized a mistake when he made one. Even if they weren’t the largest freakin’ bulk of muscle and power he had ever seen, even if they weren’t armed with weaponry fit for Royalty, and yes, they were all that. Even if they weren’t, any man who can keep a slave who stands head and shoulders above everyone else, with muscles of Atlas, and a familiar, perched, calm as a cat, on his shoulder, has to be respected. Respected, as in, get out of the way and make no waves. At all.
They moved together in strange synchronicity, taking no personal space, and the air about them may as well have crackled and popped with the dark energy and tension they exuded. One word described them. Dangerous.
The innkeeper cleared his throat and spoke meekly, “O, o, of course. You say you’re looking for your Uncle.”
“Uh-huh.” Spoke the giant-warrior-wizard-slave, who was pushing his floppy brunette hair from his face to look at the innkeeper. “Six-feet-plus-change, of pure crazy. Has us running all over the lands to keep him safe. That would be him under the table. Pathetic, isn’t it?” The slave moved with incredible grace for such a large frame, he had deep dimples in a smiling face with color-flecked, hazel eyes and long lashes, but the voice was honeyed-steel and the soft eyes flashed with hints of menace.
The warrior-Master with the pretty face and calculating, green eyes slapped an excess of money on the bar to cover drinks, tips and inconvenience and smirked his thanks for taking care of their Uncle. Then, they were dragging a hysterical Crazy from the inn with ease, all the while reassuring him that he was missed at home, how his sister and niece waited for him and how old acquaintances would love to chat with him about the war.
The innkeeper watched them leave and bolted the door behind them. He swept the glass from the floor and tried not to think about the events of the evening. His heart should be warmed by the nephews’ care of their Uncle but instead he saw something feral in them. He was reminded of wolves closing in on their prey, nipping at it's heels before taking it down for the final kill. He wondered about the substance and form that ghosts might take.
He shook the thoughts from his mind, counted his unexpectedly elevated earnings, and downed a tankard of ale before bed.
***
“Do you trust him not to run?” asked Jensen, as they trussed and gagged Morgan ready to sling him onto the mule.
“It’s a long way,” said Jared, thoughtfully.
“Precaution?” asked Jensen, with a dark glint in his eye.
“Yeah,” replied Jared.
Jensen sliced Morgan’s foot off at the ankle and cauterized it over an open fire before binding it with poultice. He wasn’t gentle. Any infection wouldn’t be fully developed by the time they reached the Realm. They could always amputate his leg later. They washed the blood off their hands in a cool brook, splashed at each other and laughed together, like children on a Summer's day.
***
The next day they rode in comfortable silence until Jensen spoke up, with a hint of excitement.
“Jared,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“That thing, at Tynbach. Do you remember the Principality just to the North of that?”
“Yeah. That was a great place. I liked that place.”
“Anyone was allowed to marry there. You could marry a donkey if that was your kink, or a donkey could marry a donkey,” Jensen spoke fondly. “When we’ve finished with the case we could go back, y’know. I mean we could go back there, with the marrying thing n’all.”
Jared was quiet for a few moments. His brow furrowed. He was trying to process Jensen’s sudden interest in donkeys. Jensen was biting his lip, he looked vulnerable and terrified, “If you don’t want to…”
Realization dawned. Jared pulled up his horse with a sudden jolt to the reins and dismounted, “Jensen Ross Ackles, did you just propose to me?”
Jensen halted his own stallion. He coyly batted long, thick eyelashes at Jared. “We should get married. If y’know, if you want to, with me,” he muttered, wringing his hands and chewing on his lip.
The slave tugged his Master from his horse in a terrible breech of conduct and, with a horrible lack of submission, dived headlong upon him for a kiss. “Yes,” Jared whispered into Jensen's ear and then growled as he bit a dark purple claim into his Master's neck. "Yes. I do."
They didn’t travel far that day.
~The End~
Timestamp: Passing The Sword
Masterpost
Back to Part Thirty Three
Also, ((hugs)) to all the readers who spurred me along with all the lovely comments. Its been a (frustrating but) fun journey for me.
Four Summers Later
He arrived at the inn without a slave, strange enough for a man with a fine horse, when such property was cheap and easily acquired in these Northern Lands. Odd again, that he fumbled awkwardly in his pockets to withdraw a wad of cash, which he stared at bug-eyed, as if it were the strangest item he’d ever come across. Bandages wound around both of his hands, out of which poked just three fingers on his right hand and a thumb and a forefinger on the left. The innkeeper could see the problem and moved to assist him. He took the ragged man’s paltry belongings and had an ostler hold his horse. “Sixty for a room and twenty more for the stabling. Slaves can be chained in your room or left in the pen.” He indicated a cage by the stable, he thought it best to be clear about these things, in case the man's property followed behind.
The man muttered under his breath, peeled the notes from his wad and added another. A nervous tic twitched and shook on his lip. He gave his host a wild-eyed look as he handed the money over and one eye roamed, sightlessly. “Took my slave! Gotta keep the ghosts away. No ghosts!” He yelled.
The innkeeper was used to the strangers that passed through his small outpost. He had seen the broken ones before. They drifted through with the language of the Kingdom or of the Realm, sensibilities long diminished by a savage war. Some fled from phantoms which ran from the battle fields with them, others survived to see the end of the war, only to find that they could not adjust to peace. He took their money and kept his mouth closed but he was beginning to think that this one was stranger than most. He wished he hadn’t taken his money because the more he saw of him, the more crazies the dishevelled man at his door seemed to have.
“People respected me. They feared me,” the man blurted out without preamble, and then dissolved into unintelligible mumbling and gibberish.
The innkeeper held his tongue and led him through to the smallest and least attractive room he had, he wasn’t about to waste the good space on the crazy. The man shuffled after him, he was crying with the pain of walking.
He would have been imposing once, he supposed. He was tall, over six foot and his once fine clothes hung from a large frame which would have been solid, if full. His brunette hair was greying and cut unevenly. His face was half shaved, just half a beard, which complemented his half ear on the other side. Marks covered his face, healed silver threads, red scabbing slashes and a fresh, raw, red gash. Similar, knife-edge scars shone visible, on flesh of his arm.
“Hey, Buddy, you’re bleeding. Do you need something for the wounds?”
“Ghosts,” spat the man. His one, steady, hazel eye locked on him.
“Er, right, I’ll just leave you to it then.” The innkeeper backed out of the door.
A shout followed him through the door, “Drink!”
He sighed, some days the hospitality trade just wasn’t worth the effort. Still, he had seen the money and with creative pricing at the bar, he should make a tidy profit from the crazy this evening.
The crazy coddled a glass in a corner of the bar and drank steadily. Every now and again he would pull at the innkeeper and speak an assortment of insane statements at him. If the man could be believed, ghosts assaulted him in the dark of night or in the silent, lone places of the day. He ran, he never stopped running but it became harder, he had so few toes left. Wherever he ran, they followed, and they took him apart, day by day and piece by piece. A finger, a toe, an ear, or another gash to bleed. He claimed it never stopped. Soon they would come to take him entirely and then others would rip him to bone and blood and it would all be over except the hell-fires of eternity.
When the sorry traveler fisted his few fingers into his shirt and begged him to keep the ghosts away the innkeeper asked why the man thought the spirits did this to him.
“I coveted beauty that was not mine, I let it destroy." He paused and stared blankly. The innkeeper made to move away but the man snaked his few fingers to his wrist and curled them in a hook about it. "He will take me apart, day by miserable day, piece by painful piece, with just enough left to give back to my people. Then they will shred me, until all that is left is blood and gore. It was his promise and his honor and I gave him that, do you understand?" He was ranting and shaking at his arm. "It was my teaching, my legacy, and he will not rest in the wet murk, he will not lie in peace. "
The innkeeper recognized the mental decay of buried guilt and wondered how bad his crimes could be, to take him this far down. He resolved to account for all his knives and lock them away before he retired to his bed this night. He unhanded himself and pretended to make busy behind the counter. Some crazies weren’t worth the profit.
***
Jensen nipped at Jared’s chin and hmmed with satisfaction. Jared couldn’t look away. His Master was beautiful with sex blown eyes and the slick shine of perspiration that dripped down his chest and over the firm, muscular, freckled flesh. Jensen dragged a finger over Jared’s stomach, through the thick fluid of their ejaculations and pressed it between the wide, kiss-swollen lips of his lover. Jared arched his back, the rope above him squeaked and his shoulders pulled as he stretched the ties that held his arms to the branch above his head. He groaned, in a combination of pain, pleasure and content.
"So good for me today, Child. Everyone saw you, every Master and Mistress in the market looked at you and saw that you are perfect on my leash. They all wanted you, but you are mine, never property, or asset, or for sale, just mine and they can never have that or understand it. They can't know how I love you." Jensen shifted, heavy on Jared’s tired thighs and moved back to dip his sinful tongue into his navel and then lap and slurp at every drop of come on his belly. His slave’s head dropped back exposing the expanse of sweat shiny flesh over a collared and bite-marked, neck. “Mmm,” Jared whined, because it felt incredible and his body thrummed in latent delight, but he was fucked-out, with nothing left to give. More than that, a cold wind chilled his damp skin and there was a faint odor, over the clean wood-smoke, of something scorching.
“Mm. Jen.”
Jensen covered his slave's mouth with his own and kissed deep and tender, pushing the intimate fluids onto his tongue and coating his teeth.”
“mmnng.”
Fingers tapped playfully at his nose. “You know better than to speak without permission.”
“But,”
“Ten lashes,” said Jensen before lifting himself from Jared’s legs and collapsing in a splayed star on the grass. “Tomorrow.” he added.
“Alright, but Jen, permission to speak!”
Jensen rolled onto his stomach to rest his chin on his hand and stare at his lover. “Granted.”
Jared pulled at his ties. “Dinner is burning,” he said, nodding to the fire.
Jensen twisted himself around and sprang into action to stir at the stew. “Nooo! You know I hate burned stew, why didn’t you say something earlier?”
Jared tried to shrug but it didn’t work out well, in his position. He blew a sarcastic kiss instead. “I seem to remember being under orders not to speak.”
“Fuck!” Jensen brushed the grit and grass off his skin and bent to release Jared’s cuffs from the knotted rope. He manoeuvred the arms down gently and kissed at them before giving a massage to Jared’s stiff shoulders. “Y’alright, baby?”
“Better than.” Jared grabbed Jensen to kiss him briefly. “Does this mean you want me to play wifey?”
“Mmhmm, ‘cos you are totally the girl in this relationship,” teased Jensen.
“Admit it, my food tastes better!”
“Your cooking tastes better, wifey,” admitted Jensen, “and meantime, I can find something to cover the taste of burnt yam.”
“It’s still your turn to fetch water and rinse dishes, Jen.” Jared dipped the spoon in and stirred around to remove the lumps that stuck to the base of the crock. He eased them out and flicked them through the air, into the thicket beyond. He heard a loud yowl and Hope skittered from the bushes, chasing an exhausted and tortured rodent.
Jensen was picking through a roll of herbs and Jared was relieved to see that it was the green pack, because Gods knew what damage could be wrought with the various plants in the blue pack. He had asked for descriptions in the beginning but they’d given him nightmares. Jensen still collected them from the wild, he carefully processed them, labeled and packaged them but Jared had stopped asking, long before.
“Thyme and rosemary should do it,” announced Jensen, just as a desperate rodent climbed his bare foot and Hope came crashing down after it with outstretched claws. He gritted his teeth and glowered. “Jared, it is time that your damned familiar stopped toying with its prey, I mean how long has she been at it?”
Jared smoothed twigs and dirt from his body and started to dress. “Jen, I am not some sort of wizard. Also, I have no idea how long, and, in the very passionate, circumstances I am offended that you even noticed.”
Jensen gave an exaggerated scowl and pointed at Jared. “Well, the attachment that creature has to you, is not normal.”
“Aw. You’re jealous.”
“Damn right! She gets a snuggle everywhere we go.”
Jared cuddled up behind Jensen and looped his arms around him, to pull the naked body close. He stood a head taller than Jensen, had outgrown him by inches over the last years of his youth. He had broadened and their lifestyle had cultivated lean muscle. For all of his six foot height, Jensen now appeared small in his arms. Jared kissed at his neck and blew in his ear. " You know I love you the best. You get snuggled too.”
Jensen hmmed his appreciation. Hope dashed by their legs and Jared swung his sword from its sheath, noiseless, smooth and fast, to casually slice the rodent’s head off. “There,” he said.
Hope sat on her haunches and poked at the creature with an inquiring paw and Jensen laughed, a full body laugh, with his head flung back.
“Dinner time,” declared Jensen when he had calmed and clothed himself.
They sat flush to each other’s sides, they chewed their food and contemplated the starry vista of the sky.
Hope sat beside Jared and there was the noisy, wet crunch and tear of skin, bones and flesh.
“Oh. Ew, Jared. Do something!” Jensen screwed his nose up in disgust.
“You wanted it dead.”
“Yes, but..”
Jared looked, soft and gooey eyed, at the fluffy grey feline, or as Jensen liked to describe her, his little Hellspawn. “It’s nice! She brought something back to share with us. It’s a mother-instinct. She’s teaching us to hunt.”
Jensen growled in a way that suggested he may explode and Jared took the hint, he picked up the remains by the tail and flung it into the thicket, Hope chased after it, to finish her meal elsewhere.
They continued eating, washed it down with hot coffee and Jared stared thoughtfully into the flames. “You know, you have a point. It is time to stop toying with the prey, our prey. The road splits from this village, we can double back and get further from the Realm or we head directly in. Morgan has run this far with us pushing. It took us the best part of four Summers to find him, we shouldn't risk losing him now. It’s near enough.”
The older man nodded and swallowed his food. “I was almost out of Blue Narline, to dope him with, anyway. Do you want me to replace it with Dragonweed and Witches Wyrt tonight?”
“No.” Jared looked to Jensen with serious expression. “We take him back. We let the people have their justice.”
“But that means visiting.” There was definitely a childish whine from Jensen.
Jared could see his reluctance and pressed on. “I picked up our mail today. It has been several seasons, Jen. There was a lot.”
His Master rolled his eyes. They’d played this game before and Jared always won. “So, go on, hit me with it,” he said.
Jared produced a stack of papers and shuffled it in his hands. He started carefully, ease Jensen into it, “Chad has another nipper on the way and mini-Misha will be two in the next moon cycle.”
“Yes,” they said in unison, and placed the note on the ground.
“Parliament opens in Ty’Bont in two moons.”
“Bugles and dignitaries?” inquired Jensen.
“Definitely,” replied Jared.
“NO!” they both shouted and Jared dropped the paper to the ground to make a different pile.
“Gordon Woolvett’s grand 40th birthday bash.” Jared squinted at the card “He’s pencilled in, NO bugles or pomp, on our invite.”
“Maybe, if it fits into our trip,” conceded Jensen, and another pile was born.
The piles grew and Jared paused before the next one. He knew it was transparent of him but he couldn’t help himself. Jensen grew agitated. “Whatever it is. NO!”
“Jen, I think we should.”
“Should what?”
“Ethan is getting married.”
“Awkward!” snapped Jensen.
“It will be quiet. Gordon, Josh and Mac will all be there and so will Meggie.”
“Excuse me? How does Meghan know Ethan?”
“Apparently, she is accompanying Josh.”
Cogs turned in Jensen’s head and thick lashes parted wide around emerald eyes. “Oh! Wow! Well! Really?”
“It appears that the Padaleckis have a kink for the Ackles family or the other way around, or something.” Jared trailed off helplessly and then went for the kill. “Cookie will be catering it.” He pulled puppy eyes from his armory.
Jensen snatched the paper from him and placed it on the MAYBE pile, with a glare.
The slave held two more pieces of paper. “So. There were two requests that we might get close enough to fulfil if we head East after the wedding.
Jensen crossed his arms, “Hey, I never agreed to go,” he grumbled.
“Anyway, moving on.” Jared was real smooth. “The Laird of Bel’ten is convinced he has a werewolf issue.”
“Are they even real? Gosh I hope so,” commented Jensen. “Knowing how he treats his slaves, I sincerely wish that the werewolf enjoys chewing on his bones.”
“I’m with you there,” concurred Jared, flinging the letter on the NO pile. “Lastly, there has been a spate of robberies and kidnappings at the Tynbach Pass but nobody has got close to catching the gang involved.” He waved the paper in the air. “Yes? No?”
“Yeah. Definite yes. It’s our sort of case. We should send mail to James Beaver and see if he can assist.”
“Done,” said Jared with a smile.
***
It was getting late and the innkeeper cleaned the bar and wiped glasses. His regulars had slunk home to their families and only one customer remained. Crazy huddled in the corner mumbling and clutching his ale.
The door flung open, letting in a fresh breeze, Crazy screeched like a banshee and drew a dagger while trying to jam the whole of his body under a small table. “They come to get me.They always get me. Ghosts! Keep them out!” Crazy was flailing and gibbering.
The innkeeper dropped the glass he was holding and it shattered, scattering sharp debris across the floor. “Gods!” he swore.
Two men strode into the bar with purpose. “I apologize, we didn’t mean to startle you. We were looking for our Uncle.” The voice was gravel deep and polite. They moved together, as one, their pace fluid but their bulk impressive enough to block lamplight, giving them the impression of a halo. A glint caught on metal around one of their necks and the innkeeper reached automatically to the sign that read, “No slaves permitted in the bar.”
The gravel voice reduced to a threatening snarl. “There is nowhere that I go that my slave cannot accompany me.” The shorter one, a green eyed warrior, spoke even as he honed in on Crazy.
People were the innkeeper’s business and he was good at assessing them. Add to that, he recognized a mistake when he made one. Even if they weren’t the largest freakin’ bulk of muscle and power he had ever seen, even if they weren’t armed with weaponry fit for Royalty, and yes, they were all that. Even if they weren’t, any man who can keep a slave who stands head and shoulders above everyone else, with muscles of Atlas, and a familiar, perched, calm as a cat, on his shoulder, has to be respected. Respected, as in, get out of the way and make no waves. At all.
They moved together in strange synchronicity, taking no personal space, and the air about them may as well have crackled and popped with the dark energy and tension they exuded. One word described them. Dangerous.
The innkeeper cleared his throat and spoke meekly, “O, o, of course. You say you’re looking for your Uncle.”
“Uh-huh.” Spoke the giant-warrior-wizard-slave, who was pushing his floppy brunette hair from his face to look at the innkeeper. “Six-feet-plus-change, of pure crazy. Has us running all over the lands to keep him safe. That would be him under the table. Pathetic, isn’t it?” The slave moved with incredible grace for such a large frame, he had deep dimples in a smiling face with color-flecked, hazel eyes and long lashes, but the voice was honeyed-steel and the soft eyes flashed with hints of menace.
The warrior-Master with the pretty face and calculating, green eyes slapped an excess of money on the bar to cover drinks, tips and inconvenience and smirked his thanks for taking care of their Uncle. Then, they were dragging a hysterical Crazy from the inn with ease, all the while reassuring him that he was missed at home, how his sister and niece waited for him and how old acquaintances would love to chat with him about the war.
The innkeeper watched them leave and bolted the door behind them. He swept the glass from the floor and tried not to think about the events of the evening. His heart should be warmed by the nephews’ care of their Uncle but instead he saw something feral in them. He was reminded of wolves closing in on their prey, nipping at it's heels before taking it down for the final kill. He wondered about the substance and form that ghosts might take.
He shook the thoughts from his mind, counted his unexpectedly elevated earnings, and downed a tankard of ale before bed.
***
“Do you trust him not to run?” asked Jensen, as they trussed and gagged Morgan ready to sling him onto the mule.
“It’s a long way,” said Jared, thoughtfully.
“Precaution?” asked Jensen, with a dark glint in his eye.
“Yeah,” replied Jared.
Jensen sliced Morgan’s foot off at the ankle and cauterized it over an open fire before binding it with poultice. He wasn’t gentle. Any infection wouldn’t be fully developed by the time they reached the Realm. They could always amputate his leg later. They washed the blood off their hands in a cool brook, splashed at each other and laughed together, like children on a Summer's day.
***
The next day they rode in comfortable silence until Jensen spoke up, with a hint of excitement.
“Jared,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“That thing, at Tynbach. Do you remember the Principality just to the North of that?”
“Yeah. That was a great place. I liked that place.”
“Anyone was allowed to marry there. You could marry a donkey if that was your kink, or a donkey could marry a donkey,” Jensen spoke fondly. “When we’ve finished with the case we could go back, y’know. I mean we could go back there, with the marrying thing n’all.”
Jared was quiet for a few moments. His brow furrowed. He was trying to process Jensen’s sudden interest in donkeys. Jensen was biting his lip, he looked vulnerable and terrified, “If you don’t want to…”
Realization dawned. Jared pulled up his horse with a sudden jolt to the reins and dismounted, “Jensen Ross Ackles, did you just propose to me?”
Jensen halted his own stallion. He coyly batted long, thick eyelashes at Jared. “We should get married. If y’know, if you want to, with me,” he muttered, wringing his hands and chewing on his lip.
The slave tugged his Master from his horse in a terrible breech of conduct and, with a horrible lack of submission, dived headlong upon him for a kiss. “Yes,” Jared whispered into Jensen's ear and then growled as he bit a dark purple claim into his Master's neck. "Yes. I do."
They didn’t travel far that day.
~The End~
Timestamp: Passing The Sword
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