Enabling

Authors note: Thanks for hanging on guys!

Darktolight: I actually have not heard of those books, but I suppose I should read up on them. I guess I’m not as original as I thought. Oh well. And the name Seaheart is actually a term from the manga; maybe it was also used in the Japanese version of the game. I just got tired of saying Aquarians all the time.


Albel took a day of rest from the frontlines; he had seen enough slaughter and carnage for one week. Not that he was squeamish, very far from it, but slipping in the blood of ones enemies as he charged to kill more enemies had grown tiresome. Even after they were dead the damn Aquarians were causing him trouble.

A night’s rest away from the boom of the Aquarian cannons and from the front lines proved an efficient balm for the young captain’s fatigue. One did not so much rest on the front lines as meditate. Often Albel would come to his senses, blinking blurry eyes, shaking is foggy head clear. His body would feel slightly rested, but his mind was always awake and alert. The mind never rested while on the frontline. To rest was to surrender oneself to an untimely surprise death.

The tent he rested in back at base camp, however drafty it was, was a comfort. In the camp he was surrounded by his loyal men and an attacker would have to go through numerous men to get to him. He would be given ample opportunity to ready himself for a sneak attack in the camp.

There were other comforts that the tent provided. The food was better in the camp and for too long his belly had been filled with moldy bread and stale coffee. He didn’t expect to eat better then his men; it would be ludicrous to demand a steak while his men ate recooked beans and cornbread while their entire country struggled to feed itself. But the gruel they ate was at least warm at camp.

And he had a cot. It was hard and the blankets were thin and the pillow was flat, but at least he slept vertically rather than in an upright position. His husband at least helped to chase away the chill. Damn bastard had the privilege of always sleeping in the camp because the dragons needed to rest each night.

“Didn’t his men need to rest each night?” Albel had seethed to himself.

Vox had sneered at him and said, “It is much easier to deploy my branch and get to the frontlines than if your branch rested at the camp.”

There was some truth to that, for it would take some time for his men to run from the camp to the frontline and by the time the men got to the front they would be tired from the run. The captains had tried to distribute the men fairly. The Storm Brigade and the Black Brigade sent a third of their army to the frontline. After an allotted amount of time, the third would return to base camp and a new third would go until the first third had cycled back. The same was true for the Dragon Brigade; a third of the Dragon Brigade would go and make camp at the frontline. The only problem was that the Dragon Brigade had much smaller numbers than the other two military branches.

Why Vox returned to camp each night was an easy question to answer; he liked his comfort and would much rather have a glass of wine and sleep in a cheap cot than rest in a pit of mud with his men.

“Some captain you are.” Albel had scoffed even as a strong arm pulled him into a large, hard body.

Vox kissed his neck as the boy shut his eyes and sighed, the stress from the week at the frontlines melting away. He would go back the day after tomorrow, but he would also return to camp that evening as well. He was entitled to a few good nights of rest.

The next morning when he awoke Albel found Woltar staring at him, the man’s old face creased with worry. When he asked the man just what he was staring at Woltar only sighed and turned way. He tried talking to the old man over breakfast, but the count was unreceptive to his attempts at conversation. Well fine, Albel wouldn’t waste his breath then. Albel was determined to enjoy his one day off and he would not let the old man spoil it for him.

After the noon meal Vox guided Albel towards a small fenced square where several of their men were sparring with each other. They leaned on the fence, watching closely; the men had talent, but were no match for their captains. Every now and then the duke would lean over and whisper things in his ear; the men thought that the captains were judging the fighters and commenting on the men’s skills. What was truly happening was that Vox was whispering seductive and suggestive things into his young spouse’s ear. Albel would grin, perhaps shift his eyes to look at the duke briefly, and fix the warriors with a mocking glance.

After a good while of watching a call came up from the men to see the Duke fight his own men. Vox had waved the request off at first, but Albel had turned to him and grinned.

“Are you afraid of being outdone by your own men, Vox?”

The man had given him a cold look. “Watch your tongue, boy, before I cut it out.”

The comment made Albel snarl, but his husband did not hear the soft sound as the man hopped the fence and prepared to fight. The men watched as the duke lifted his shirt over his head and then threw it at the boy. The men laughed as Albel caught the crumpled shirt; they expected the young captain to throw the garment into the mud, but he boy simply draped it over his shoulder with a pleasant grin. It would be interesting to see Vox fight for him; taking off his shirt was the man’s way showing off.

What followed was the shortest fight that Albel had ever witnessed. Those men were nothing compared to the duke’s strength. Vox had the men knocked onto their back and side in less than three minutes. Even double teamed the duke was too powerful for them. Several more men tried their hand at fighting, but when Vox proved to be too much for them to handle they gave up.

Watching the man throttle those weakling soldiers stirred Albel. He clenched his thighs together, feeling his heart racing and his blood begin to rush. The man was strong, and that was alluring to him. He wanted to feel that power directed at him.

A new call went up then.

“Fight him, Captain Nox! You can best Captain Vox!”

A chorus of cheers followed; Albel grinned. At least he was not the only one who wanted to see the man dragged through the mud--literally.

Vox turned to look at him. He beckoned to Albel. “Yes, come, Lord Nox. Show us how you fair against a true warrior. I wager you’ll not stand more than five minutes.”

“Is that so?” Albel hissed, throwing the man’s shirt to the ground and jumping the fence. The other men in the pen left, leaving the two captains.

Albel took a moment to stretch and work is muscles. Vox watched him, his eyes raking over the boy’s slim hips, the pale exposed thigh, the taught muscles of Albel’s belly.

“Are you ready?” Albel asked, breaking the duke from his appreciative staring.

Vox grinned, getting into a fighting stance. “I was ready for you some time ago. Come, show me what you can do, boy.”

The battle did not begin quickly. For several minutes they moved around the small enclosure, slowly getting closer to one another, waiting for the other to strike first. When the fight finally began it was unclear who had made the first move, or the following move. The two captains moved quickly, dodging or parrying attacks before landing their own blows.

Albel fell to his knee once, but before the duke could knock him onto his back with a kick to his belly, he kicked the man’s feet out from under him. It gave him a moment to get to his feet and collect his wits. The man’s punches were powerful; he could feel his jaw aching even as his mind struggled to shake off the fog that came with several hits to the head. Damn Vox for being so muscled and strong. But his gauntlet packed a wallop as well. Vox would stagger after taking a punch from him and he made sure to scratch the man up.

It was a long battle and lasted over forty minutes. The men stood in awe as the two captains battled it out. They were astounded to see that the young captain could keep pace with the duke; no one had ever been able to come close to besting Vox.

Their battle ended just as suddenly as it had begun. As he was making a lunge for the duke, Albel’s foot got stuck in the mud they were treading in and he stumbled. He lurched forward, stumbling to his knees and hitting his chin and lower lip on Vox’s belt. The fight was over. Vox laughed at him, as did the rest of the spectators.

The boy listened to the laughter for a moment, seething at the knowledge that it was directed at him. How dare any of those pathetic, weak maggots laugh at him! When he lifted his head and fixed the gathered men with a burning glare they all fell silent. Vox snickered at him and left the pen, picking his shirt up out of the mud and walking away.

Albel picked himself up, shucking the mud off of his limbs. As he stood there he heard his spouse call back to him,

“Train harder.”

The young captain’s head shot up. The man was going to die.

Albel jumped over the fence and glowered at the man’s back. “Don’t you turn your back on me!”

Vox continued to chuckle softly, but he turned. He nodded at the youth and proceeded to walk backwards.

A sly grin began to make its way onto Albel’s face. “I never attack someone while their back is turned…thank you for turning around.”

He charged then, quick as lightening. The men had barely registered the fact that Albel had moved before they heard Duke Vox gasp and tumble to the ground with the boy on top of him. They watched in horror as the young captain landed blow upon blow at the duke. When Vox finally managed to restrain the boy by taking a firm hold of his wrists he was stunned at the hate in his young spouse’s eyes. He had wounded the boy’s pride.

His own eyes narrowed; Albel had just hurt HIS pride.

He shoved the boy off but just as quickly as he had pushed Albel away the youth shot forward again, trying to wrap slim hands around the duke’s neck. They struggled for a few moments until a new figure broke the circle of men around them. Woltar looked on, mouth agape, then raised himself up to his full height he boomed out,

“Cease at once!”

The count’s voice seemed to reach Albel’s ears and penetrate through the mad craze that had launched the boy at the man like a wild beast; the young captain stopped his attacking and looked down at the duke. Vox glared up at him, eyes burning in rage. Albel blinked and loosened his clenched fists; Vox released his wrists then.

Before Woltar could reach down and take the boy’s arm in a vice grip and haul him up the young captain stood and pushed past the gathered men with a gruff word. Albel’s face burned with a shameful flush. He had not lost control of himself like that off of the battlefield in an age. But it had felt simply divine mauling the arrogant prick. Really, it served the bastard right for humiliating him in front of their men and then laughing at him. How dare they laugh at him! All of them had laughed! He should send all the men back to the frontline early as punishment.

He had been standing at the center of the tent for only a minute before Vox strode in, in an angry huff. The man gripped Albel by the shoulder and spun the boy around. He slapped Albel.

“How dare you, you insolent little shit!”

The boy looked at him, face blank and devoid of emotion. Even the anger in his eyes had faded. Albel was too stunned at himself to care about what Vox might do to him.

“Explain yourself! Defend your actions!”

Albel blinked at the man; he knew he was supposed to feel threatened by the anger directed at him but he was not stirred. A part of himself knew that Vox would not lay a truly punishing finger on him and another part acknowledged that fact and responded to that lack of threat; he was unconcerned.

The boy’s blank face made the blood in the duke’s veins boil. Who was the brat to go and make a fool out of the both of them and then walk away without an apology or explanation? Had the old coot not been there he would have thrown Albel back down and kept him pinned until the boy apologized. The notion that Albel would actually apologize seemed rather farfetched, Vox had to admit; he was certain Albel would rather sleep in the mud than apologize. Albel’s persistence and his unwillingness to ever back down when he felt he was right were fetching traits that had attracted the man’s attention some time ago.

Fetching or not, Vox was too angry at the moment to appreciate Albel’s spirit. Did the boy think that they were merely playing a game? Did he not realize the repercussions of their men seeing them rolling around like roughians in the mud? They were captains, they led the men! Why should the men listen to them if they were incapable of acting civilly and rationally to one another? Seeing one captain charge and maul another was not productive in building faith in the ranks.

Albel was still staring at him, blinking crimson eyes slowly, as if nothing had transgressed between them and he was curious as to why the man still had a hand on his shoulder. Was Albel truly so unconcerned over him? Did he not appreciate the fact that he had beaten the boy in combat? Granted Albel had held his own for a respectable amount of time, but he had still felled the boy. Did the boy not feel the pain from the wounds he had inflicted upon his young body? Did Albel not think he could create such wounds again, outside of the battle arena?

“Do you think I couldn’t do this again?” He hissed, tightening his grip on the boy’s shoulder.

Albel flinched a bit as blunt nails bit into the skin of his bare shoulder. He turned his head to look at the hand and then lifted his gaze to the duke. He narrowed his eyes until all that was visible was a thin slit of vermilion. A wicked little grin began to curve his lips as he grabbed the fingers on him with his claw and slowly pried them off and he whispered darkly “You don’t have the scrotum to do it.”

A hand lifted and caught him across the temple. For a moment Albel’s mind was muddled; he had taken too many hits to the head that day. His vision went white for a minute and his body felt oddly light. When he came back to himself the young captain was sprawled over the table in the tent, his thighs being pried apart by the man’s knee as hands groped at his body.

Vox muttered angry curses to himself as he proceeded to tear the muddy clothes off of his and Albel’s bodies. Albel squirmed in the man’s grasp and craned his head to look over his shoulder, desperate to see what the duke was up to. With an irritated growl, Vox gripped Albel by the hair and forced the boy’s head down so that he could not look at him.

The grip on his neck hurt, but Albel made no complaint; he never did when Vox got rough. He felt Vox tug his sarong roughly, undoubtedly tearing the cloth as it fell from his waist. The man raked nails down his thighs before forcing his stockings down. The hands then went up to force his shirt up to his armpits. The fingers that pulled at his nipples were harsh and cruel, interested only in drawing out strangled sounds from his lips.

Albel laughed and shot a cold glare over his shoulder. “Is this the best you can do? Your play rape doesn’t frighten me!”

The man paused in his eager pawing and clawing of Albel’s body. He looked at the boy then grinned. “Play rape? If I were to rape you—for real or for play—you would need to be shackled and weakened. You are submitting to me willing right now. Are you not? Or would you rather I leave you now? Rape is a serious charge.”

His words were teasing, but Vox took a step back, letting his hands slide down Albel’s sides and hips as he left. He had no intention of ever venturing into the murky territory of what could and could not be considered as rape. The next move was up to Albel.

Albel looked at his spouse as best he could from the position he was in. The duke seemed honest in his offer to cease and desist. He scoffed.

“You really don’t have a scrotum anymore. Act like a man and take what you want.”

The young captain followed his command with a suggestive sway of the hips.

Vox laughed darkly. “Now that you’ve given me permission you cannot say I did not give you a choice.” He grabbed Albel’s hips and crushed his erection against the boy’s soft buttocks. “You will submit to me. And mind you be quiet, brat.”

A hand fisted in the short hairs at the back of Albel’s neck. The young captain hissed in appreciation as the man’s other hand fondled him roughly. The hands left him after a moment then returned. He was bent over the table further and vented; a cool liquid was dribbled down his crack and massaged over his entrance.

“How good of you to remember to carry a phial of lubricant with you at all times.”

Albel grunted as a finger slipped inside of him. “Who can predict your actions, pig? You might want to have sex in the middle of a chaotic battlefield.”

The man laughed as he slipped a second finger into the boy’s body; Albel flinched a bit. “You always are more vigorous on the battlefield, perhaps it is a suggestion I should take into deeper consideration.”

Albel let out a soft noise of disgust; he wouldn’t put it past the duke to fantasize about fucking in the middle of a bloody battlefield. It would be a good way to taunt the Aquarians, but he would rather have his privacy, rather than be ogled by hundreds of horny soldiers.

A third finger had just been worked into the pliant body spread out upon the table when Vox pulled his fingers free and thrust into Albel’s body. The boy’s body gave a spasm as a harsh sound gurgled up from the youth’s throat. Vox clamped a hand over Albel’s mouth before the sound had fully left him.

“Ah, ah, ah, what did I say about being silent?”

Albel bit the man’s fingers. The duke choked on a sound of pain and pulled his hand back. He slapped Albel’s rear.

“There’s the spirit I like.” He growled.

“Shut up and fuck me already.”

They should not have done it; it was the middle of the day and the men were surely interested to know what was transpiring between the two after the embarrassing end to their duel. Their men could be shuffling around the door, listening for all they knew. Still, those very real and alarming facts did not stop Vox from plunging into the awaiting body of his young spouse.

The sound of skin slapping on skin filled the tent as he pounded into Albel’s body. The duke pounded into the boy’s willing body, forcing out strained grunts that were muffled by a hand over the young captain’s mouth. Albel was forced flat on the table, his hard cock rubbing against the rough surface with each thrust delivered to him.

It was animalistic, the harsh rhythm and force behind the man’s thrusts. Vox grunted and growled as he pounded into his spouse’s body, intent on fulfilling his needs. Albel writhed beneath him, helpless to the overpowering feel of his prostate being repeatedly stroked. He held the smaller body down, pressing his chest against the boy’s slim back. Each time Albel wriggled or tried to arch his back, a shiver of pleasure would run through Vox’s body.

The fight eventually went out of the young captain; he could not fight against the weight and bulk of the duke. He surrendered himself then to the feel of his sweet spot continually being hit and the feel of utter bliss as it tingled up his body and through his limbs. It was not in Albel’s nature to give up…but when he was in the throes of sex he was not himself.

Was anyone truly themselves while they fucked, he wondered absently some time later. Sex freed people of their inhibitions; when people are alone in the bedroom…that’s when the true personality is revealed. Did that mean then that outside of the bedroom everyone was truly a faker, pretending to be normal? Did that then mean that he was truly submissive to Vox? That he wanted to be dominated? Gods, was he truly a bitch and he had never realized it? Was his true nature to give up to a stronger adversary?

But all of that was reflected upon later.

At the moment…at the moment Vox was spewing his seed deep into his body and it felt wonderful. Albel let out a long, low, pleased moan, which was smothered by the hand over his mouth, but he had to release the sound or else he might have died. His own semen was smeared on his belly and the table; they would need to clean the table before Woltar returned or the old man would die of shock or disgust.

For a moment the boy was still upon the table. The duke had since pulled free of the soft body and was busy cleaning himself. Albel rather liked to bask after his sexual encounters. He so rarely got to bask after his kills and little else brought him such strong enjoyment, he felt entitled to a few moments of peace after sex. It felt too nice—his body felt too lethargic—to move. So he didn’t move. He remained sprawled across the table, stockings around his calves, shirt bunched above his nipples. It was a mistake.

Vox had just pulled his shirt on when the tent flap was pushed aside and Woltar strode in; he froze, hoping to the gods that Albel had at least moved so that he was not so exposed. The count fixed him with a cold look.

“What was that debacle about back there? Never in all my years as a military man have I seen two grown men, two CAPTAINS act so--” Here he had turned to find Albel and fix the boy with the same reprimanding glare. His words stopped short when he his old eyes fell upon his charge.

When Woltar had entered and begun to speak a chill had gone up Albel’s spine. It was a chill of certain doom; there was no possible way for him to gather up his clothes and redress without being seen. There was also no possibility of him slipping from the table without bringing attention to himself. He could have tried to play the situation down and act as though it was nothing. Before he could even decide on which action to take, regardless of the surety of each plan’s failure, the old man had turned his head to address him.

Albel was almost moved to pity the old man then. What had greeted the aged captain’s sight was nothing less than a fully exposed Albel Nox, bent over their meeting table, semen dripping from his loosened hole and onto the tabletop. Albel could only imagine the look of utter horror on Woltar’s face, and for once he did not wish to see it. He could hear the count struggle to find words, but he could not bring himself to turn his head and look at the other two captains. Under normal circumstances he would have loved to see the old coot get so befuddled by something he had done…but this was not the way he had wanted to go about it. In fact, he had never even wanted the old man to know he and the duke were having sex. For one, it was none of Woltar’s damn business, for another it would have made him feel ridiculously uncomfortable if he had to admit that he was taking it from the duke. It was shard enough to admit that fact to himself. And again, it was no one’s business but his own what occurred in the privacy of his bedchamber.

But they were not in his bedchamber. They were in the tent that all three of them were sharing. He had entertained the idea of fucking Vox in front of Arzei and Woltar, but he was not so foolish to ever do so reckless a thing. That was merely a thought for personal amusement.

He was uncertain how the awkward encounter ended, but Albel was sure that Woltar had left when Vox draped a blanket over his back and pulled him into an embrace. Normally Albel would have shunned the sentimental act, but after having his guardian—a man who he had literally known since he was born—see him naked, spread eagle on a table with semen pouring from his body, his spirit was low and he did not feel he had the energy to struggle.

“Curse you” Vox whispered, his breath stirring the hairs on Albel’s head. “Curse you and your need to lie about after sex.”

There was no venom behind the words to entice the young captain’s rage. The cradling embrace negated any harsh words the duke had. Albel cursed himself as well.

“Put your clothes on, Albel, and get a rag to wash the table. I will go and check on the men to be certain none heard a thing. And then I will track down Woltar.”

The boy nodded as he tugged his shirt down. Before Vox could leave the tent Albel called out,

“How did we resolve our little tiff? In case someone asks.”

The man turned to look at him. At least Albel was keeping his head about him; it mattered little if Woltar had discovered that they were having sex—Woltar most certainly knew that they were—but should any of the soldiers find that truth out it would be his and Albel’s heads. It was merely unfortunate that the count had chanced to walk into the tent at that particular moment.

“We ended it how we typically end our fights.” Albel inclined his head curiously. “We were ordered to desist from our attempts on each others lives.”

A grin twitched at Albel’s lips. He nodded. “It sounds quite plausible, given our nature.”

Vox nodded once at his spouse, sharing a similar grin. He left then to search the men out. He had to discover if anything was heard, what was heard, and who heard it. Then he had the difficult task of soothing the beast that was Woltar’s ire. The count was old, but the old man still had bite in him and having it directed at him and Albel would not be conductive to winning a war. The unpleasantness of bedding together in the same tent was only a minor detail comparatively.

~END

Oh boy…talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I feel quite sorry for Woltar. But next chapter is going to be fun! So, one long ass term paper done, just 16 more papers and projects left to do. I shit you not, that is not an exaggerated number. I hope to have another chapter next week, but with finals approaching I am not certain. Review anons!