Given Freely [Aurin]

[Torin Kilvin]

The acceptance was just how he would have wanted it. He had fretted that Aurin might refuse the gift out of a sense of obligation, or because he saw it as a future one.

He stood, almost reverently at the request; taking back the pendant and its chain. Large hands carefully tugged the tight circle of metal over the red hair, redder for the bright blaze behind it, laying the medallion gently over his chest rather than letting it fall. He stayed there, close, for a long moment, just meeting the older man's eyes, light to dark. The hand holding his wrist felt firm, supportive, hints of claiming in the press of fingertips and flex of forearm.

The position held as he listened to the confession, the gift of something personal in return. He wasn't sure how to respond, no words felt right, just nodding or moving away without acknowledging it felt wrong.

At last, still without breaking the eye contact, he leaned through the final inch between their faces and pressed his mouth to Aurin's. It wasn't exactly a kiss, but also, it was. There was nothing of sex or passion in it, but it was open, as the boy was, as the man was being. It honored that.

When he leaned back, breaking the contact, he wasn't flushed or bashful.
"I trust you." The words hung, solemn, in the air between their lips, and he let them. When they had faded he punctured them with, "Thank you."

At last, when it felt alright to do so again, he moved back to kneeling beside the chair. With quiet efficiency, he cleaned up the supplies, washing the needle before putting it, and the remaining silk thread, back in their little box. It seemed a handy thing to have around, for all it spoke of wounds being a common occurrence. Torin had seen the many fine scars over Aurin's body and could only hope they hadn't once been as bad as the gash in his side was now.

When everything else was put back where it belonged he sat cross-legged in front of the fire and inspected the shirt. It was bloodied, all over now, but the hole in it was hardly bigger than the one in its owner. Pulling the bucket of snow into his lap he began scrubbing the shirt with it.

"Nothing better for bloodstains than cold water." He said, if not cheerfully, at least determinedly. After a few minutes of quietly scrubbing away he looked up from his work at Aurin again, earnestly, worry etching shadowed lines on his face in the firelight.

"Aurin, they aren't coming to find you, are they?" He glanced down, pretending to inspect a stubborn patch of cloth before looking back up again, "Whoever did this to you?"

The idea of someone dangerous coming on Aurin in his current state made Torin's stomach churn and clench tight against his ribs.

[Aurin]

Aurin accepted the mouth-to-mouth touch, then nodded his acceptance of Torin's thanks. He laughed carefully, though.

"You sound like a serial killer," he said of Torin's knowledge about bloodstains. He got up. Part of him wanted a drink, but he knew thinner blood meant more bleeding and wouldn't actually help with the pain. There was some willow bark to put in his tea, but it was fine. He was fine. Shuffling over toward the door again, he didn't have his normal feral grace. He didn't want to pull at the stitches, and while he didn't fear pain, he didn't want any more of it than was his due.

He picked up his boots and carried them over to Torin. The left one was only mildly splattered with dry blood, but the toe and top of the right one were crusted with the stuff.

"If you're determined to be useful. Just watch out for the slots in the toe. That's where the blades are hidden." Another hidden blade came from somewhere on his person. This was clean, so he just set it on the table. "He won't be coming for anyone ever again. Best never to turn your back on an enemy, or leave them alive to cause further mischief." There was no passion in his words, merely weariness. He made his choices, did what must be done, and paid the consequences. While Torin busied himself in service, Aurin poured two mugs of tea and ate something. He didn't offer food to Torin, though he did set the second mug beside him. He had already told him to eat whatever he found if he was hungry. It was only ever a matter of walking over to the Cabaret to raid the stores to replenish his own.

He glanced across the room to where his washing water waited in its ewer. He glanced across the room to his bed, where he really wanted to be. But both required too much energy at the moment so he just leaned against the mantle, letting the heat of the hearth seep into him. Watching Torin work, he didn't say anything for a while.

[Torin Kilvin]

The boy did not initially understand the reference to him being a murderer. When Aurin stood and brought his shoes over the meaning fell into place in his head and he gave a small smile to the jest. The warning about the boots was taken quite seriously, if also in confusion. With great care, he took the one that bore the lesser stain into his hands and examined it until he was able to trigger and replace the blade in the toe. When he had the mechanism figured out he nodded, brows raised in a look of approval. He then took up more badly stained boot and used what was left of the now snow-slush to get off at least the caked-on blood.

"These will need salt to be really clean." He had leather cleaning salts back at his place of work, but he wasn't going out to get them now. He would leave, if Aurin asked him to, but for now, he intended to stick around, being helpful. Hopefully, being a comfort by his presence, until he either had to be back to work on the morrow, or he was asked to go.

His eyes followed the other man as he moved around the single room, not objecting or offering to do for him. Assuming he would be told if his aid was wanted he worked diligently with what he had been given until the three garments were as clean as his bucket of now red ice water could get them.

He could go out and fetch more but he didn't feel like opening the locked door; for emotional reasons as well as practical ones. The fire and brought the room to a comfortable heat and it was very cold out. The heat didn't bother the forge-raised boy and he hoped it would help Aurin's body regulate itself after the blood loss.

Setting the products of his labor before the hearth to dry, he took the mug of tea that had been made for him between his two hands. Steam was no longer coming off it but the scent was still comforting and he inhaled above the liquid for a minute before drinking.

Looking up as his worried question was answered, he nodded, once. Aurin's assailant was dead. Torin's own morality was simple and logical. When someone threatened your home, your family, your property, or your body they forfeited their right to mercy. The gray places where fit hungry children stealing bread were only vague ideas; never encountered close enough to force his mind to make a judgment call. Someone had hurt Aurin and made the mistake of believing him to be neutralized by the wound. Aurin had removed the threat.

Torin had never been in a situation that required him to take a life, but, if he had been there during the raid on his village that claimed his first master's life, he would have. He had run it over in his mind many times in the weeks after learning of his master's death. His dreams had haunted him with feelings of helplessness where his limbs would not work as the raiders descended, but, in reality, he would have raised his hammer to defend those things and people he considered his own.

The two remained in silence for some time, Aurin leaning against the hearth and Torin sitting before it. It felt late, despite knowing that it was still well before noon. Looking up he studied his friend's face. It was drawn with weariness and pain, spattered in tiny flecks of what were likely both mud and blood, though the orange light cast them both the same. The silence was comfortable, the stillness, emphasized by the equally comforting crack and seer of the fire sounds. If he closed his eyes his body thought he was in a forge room. If he closed his eyes he felt like he was in a safe space with someone he trusted. It had been a long time since he'd had this and he soaked it up, slowly, letting it settle into the deep parts of himself.

Eventually, he did not know how long later, he stretched a little, said,

"Would you like me to warm water for you to wash?" He would have gladly washed his friend's face himself, but like everything else, he needed to have been given permission the first time to know that it was wanted. His strong young body moved to do so, even if it wasn't wanted for washing, it could be used for more tea, or left alone without any loss. When the water was steaming, but not boiling, he pulled the kettle off for the second time that day and poured into the washbasin, already half full with cold water, so the result would be pleasantly warm.

Taking the clean cloth from beside the basin he wetted it, then held it out, close enough that Aurin could let Torin wash his face if he wanted to, or take the cloth himself.

[Aurin]

"Sure, kid," he said, almost started by the question after the silence had stretched out. Rarely on what most would consider a normal sleep schedule, he was still weary for being out all night. There had been physical hardship and mental, as well. He realized, though, that if Torin hadn't been there, he would have washed and laid down by now. It was enough of a step allowing someone else to be there while he licked his wounds and recovered from a perilous night. Part of him still didn't want Torin to see how tired he was, how troubled by a close call.

He would be fine on the morrow. At least, he would have wrapped the pain and fear up in something and locked it in some cupboard in his mind so it wouldn't affect him in his daily life. He finished the last of his tea and set the mug on the table, taking a seat while Torin kept busy, pulling off his socks and tossing them in the corner to be dealt with later.

Torin would be gone on the morrow. That is, if he stayed to tend to Aurin, as he was wont to do, he would still leave in the morning even if Aurin wanted him to stay. Not that Aurin wanted him to stay. Aurin didn't need anyone to stay. Torin had done enough already, proven a loyal follower. Best not to complicate things overmuch.

When Torin held out the washcloth, Aurin stared at it for a moment. Weariness was making him stupid. He got up, padded over with his chair in tow, and sat back down close to the washbasin and let him wipe off his face. Perhaps tonight there would be no proper whore's bath. He could be clean enough not to get blood or mud on his bedding, and he could have a proper bath at the Cabaret. He had a knack for timing it so the baths were empty when he went. If called out, he'd say he wouldn't want to tempt his coworkers into unprofessional lusts, but in reality, he kept something sharp nearby even when he was naked and alone.

Perhaps he ought to seek out another rune, one for hurting. A man had to be able to protect himself.

[Torin Kilvin]

When Aurin dragged the chair over to the washbasin Torin could see the fatigue etched through his form like a silhouette, stark against the light. He squatted down and gently washed the night away with warm water. When the face was clean he moved down the neck, which too carried speckles of questionable making. Large hand slipping around, he wrapped the back of his friend's neck in warm cloth and strong grip, rubbing at the tension he found there as much as cleaning. He did not wrap his hand around the front of his neck, knowing instinctively that having a hand close around his own throat would make him balk. With the adventure Aurin had endured the night before he was like to produce another knife and use it before either of them had time to think about it.

Standing he pulled his own shirt off, not wanting to get it wet, then moved slowly behind Aurin, letting himself be clearly seen doing so. Bare from the waist up, only the cleansing cloth in his hands, he hoped even Aurin's frayed instincts wouldn't worry at Torin being behind him. He washed dried sweat, despite the cold from his back. Washed away the feel of violence and the unwanted touch of strangers. Rubbed more tension from his hunched shoulders. Coming back to the front he rinsed the rag. With exaggerated care, he sluiced over the other man's arms, and under, over his chest and belly. Then he knelt, washed his feet.

When all of the red-head that was exposed was clean, except his red hair, Torin stepped back. He held the rag between his two hands which were held low in front of him. He was flushed, eyes on the ground. He wasn't aroused, not in the way he was when he woke most mornings now. He was feeling something else, something akin but sideways from that. He sort of wanted to thank Aurin, and sort of wanted to cry, but couldn't find a reason for either.

Swallowing hard to get his voice to work he said, " I can wash the rest if you want, or, would you like to lay down? I can go," He hesitated, closing his eyes over the pain he would feel leaving in the state he was.

"If you will feel safer alone. I understand that. For the longest time, I could only sleep if I was alone."

Not that he'd ever had much choice in the matter, but for the little while that he'd slept inside his first master's house the man's young wife had tried to sit with him while he fell asleep. He'd learned to pretend to sleep so that she would leave and he could lock the door.

"I... I want to stay, if you'll let me. I'll get you anything you need and I'll keep you warm."

[Aurin]

There was one knot that Torin inexpertly touched that caused him almost to whimper, though he choked it back before it was too obvious. Most of his scars were invisible. The intimacy of all this was not lost upon him, though it took a new aspect when Torin knelt and washed his feet. Poor bastard, he thought. Torin was already lost. He wanted to touch his wheat-blond hair, but he didn't. He wanted to touch his ruddy cheek, but he didn't. He wanted to tell him to stay, but he didn't.

He ought to have told him to leave, but he didn't. Torin laid it all out clearly, understanding but not at all.

"I'm so tired, Torin," he said, but even as he demurred, he stood up, thumbs hooking his trousers and tugging them down over his hips. "I won't be any entertainment for you." Leaning on the back of the chair, he carefully tugged on the hem of one trouser leg to start pulling it off. It wasn't anything Torin hadn't seen. It wasn't even sexual, though both his body and mind recognized that Torin was an attractive youth.

Aurin didn't tell him to stay, but he managed to get out of his trousers without tugging too much at his stitches, standing there so he could wash the rest of him. Because why not? It wasn't his fault Torin wasn't smart enough to stay away. He was nice to the kid, told him things he ought to know not to be taken advantage of by people. Fucking people. He didn't tell him to go, but he offered him a means to serve, which he realized was important to the young apprentice.

He was just giving him what he wanted, what he needed. If it helped Aurin get what he needed as well, was that a crime?

[Torin Kilvin]

He wasn't told to leave. It was enough.

Kneeling again, as Aurin stepped out of the remaining piece of his clothing felt like... like something. Torin shook his head once, the things that were going on inside him were bigger than he had words for.

The answer he got implied that Torin's absence was desired, but the posture that accompanied them, the offer to let him finish what he'd started, said something else. Somehow, even though he often had trouble understanding what people meant, he was starting to see Aurin's ques. Or, maybe he wasn't and was just hoping that they were the things he thought they were.

Perhaps it was selfish, but he stayed and finished. With his customary slow care, he removed the rest of the night's leavings from his friend's body, no special attention was paid to anything except where it was to keep from causing additional pain.

When he was done he put the rag aside, went to the bed to pull the covers back, and arranged the pillows how they might be most comfortable.

"I think I'd like a quiet day by the fire. It's too cold to spend the day exploring outside and if I just stayed at the shop there would be no peace." The sounds of forging were soothing to him, but the shop was on a busy street, only late at night was it anywhere near quiet. Aurin's cottage was tucked back enough to muffle the sounds of the street at least.

He'd been afraid to sit and be quiet with himself for months, knowing his grief would come on him and he'd drown in it. But here he wasn't alone, here he could be quiet without worrying that his memories would come to drag him under.

Looking down at the little bedside table he saw there was a book there, reaching down he took it into his hand and smiled.

"I could read to you, just till you sleep, then I'll read quietly." His smile was hopeful, in a heartbreak sort of way.

No resentment would be laid on his friend if the man needed him gone. He would find something to do with his off day, or even go back to the shop and work on simple projects. He would not pout or beg, but the plain truth was that here was where he wanted to be. It showed in the set of his shoulders, determined but wanting, the placement of his body, leaning toward the door but turned toward the bed.

He was ready to walk away, but if given the smallest chance, he might stay forever.

"I could sit in the chair, here, close by. Keep the fire, mend your shirt if there are needle and thread not meant for skin. When you wake I'll get us some supper." His tone was not pleading. It was even, calm; an offer from a friend.

[Aurin]

It was a strange tension. He was injured, but not critically so. The wound was sewn shut and bandaged. He could feel the bruising when he moved and he was certain it would be morbidly beautiful soon. He was exhausted, and that made it more difficult to keep the demons locked in their cages. He hated weakness, especially his own—perhaps only his own, and the hatred he projected on others was just that: projection. He didn't want to examine himself closely. He would rather bask in that unearned admiration and respect that were always there with Torin. If he was a bad man, at least he was good at it.

Clean enough, he went to sit down on his bed. His hand rested on the nape of Torin's neck as the young man bent to pick up the book he was reading, a treatise in the vein of classical realism. It would not give anyone warm feelings, though perhaps it would chill them, harden them to what the world was like.

"Stay if you like," he said as if it didn't matter to him. It was a luxury, though. He knew Torin would stay and he wouldn't have to ask him to stay. He knew that when he slept, he would feel ever so slightly more relaxed, his senses assuring him that someone trustworthy was on the watch. That locked doors, stone walls, and a burly man stood between him and the terrors outside. At least all he would have to contend with were the terrors inside, but Torin hadn't bothered him about his nightmares. Or perhaps he hadn't noticed. They didn't come every night, but they always could, just waiting for him to slip up, to get sloppy or complacent.

Aurin laid down on his side, pulling the linens up just far enough so they wouldn't get blood on them if he seeped through his bandage. He watched Torin, owl-like. He was starting to see faces in his aura, the flicker of emotions. The weight.

"You can grieve here," he said, words sharp as scalpels, though the sentiment was compassionate enough. Well, if Torin wept, he could weep for Aurin as well. "I won't judge you for it."

[Torin Kilvin]

The touch was all the reassurance he needed, even when the words were dismissive. He held the book at his side as he watched Aurin climb gingerly into bed.

There was a moment when the flame-haired man was laid out, but before he had pulled the blanket over himself when a log in the fire cracked and sparks flew, casting a high light over him. It was just Aurin, bare but for the gift Torin had given him, trusting Torin. The bandage marred the image in one way, but enhanced it in another. The aesthetic was lowered by the knowledge of the injury and the covering of lean torso, but, emotionally, the fact that the self-sufficient man was allowing him close while he was wounded shone, hot and bright, inside the young apprentice. This was Aurin's den, his safe space, and Torin was allowed there, even when the owner was licking his wounds.

Once Aurin was fully settled, the larger blond brought the chair over and settled too. He could have crawled into the bed, was pretty sure that would be allowed. But he would need to move about, tend the fire, mend the shirt, use the piss-pot eventually, and having to jostle his bedmate each time would be less than ideal.

The words came, unexpected, sharp, and sudden, like the cold bursting through tree limbs. He stilled, his breath paused, wide eyes unblinking for a long moment. His throat felt raw, then he was blinking again, rapidly. The wall he kept between himself and his grief had taken Aurin at his word, tried to tumble down then and there. Torin wasn't ready though, the wall helped keep him standing.

His eyes closed and his head bowed, hair falling over his face to hide him, he shook his head. "I... Not yet."
He wanted to say thank you again, wanted to explain that he couldn't let go yet, but he would, when it felt safe inside him to do so. He couldn't do that either though, couldn't force the words out. He could only hope that whatever magic Aurin had used to see his grief would allow him to see the reason why it had to stay.

Reaching to retrieve his half-drunk mug of tea, he took several long swallows, till it was down to dregs, before setting it aside and opening the book.

Clearing his throat, he began reading. It was a little awkward at first. He'd never read aloud before, and his mind worked faster than his mouth. Eventually, he found a cadence that worked for him, slowed his mind to even with how he spoke, got lost in the words. The book wasn't like any he'd read before. His literature curriculum had been a combination of high fantasy fiction or myths, and study for his work.

[Aurin]

Aurin didn't reply with words, but he watched Torin's face contort with emotion. His own didn't change. He didn't offer a compassionate word or gesture; that would have weakened Torin's resolved, forced tears or rage when he wasn't ready for them. He would come to Aurin then, of course, bind himself more firmly to the man who witnessed his inner life. But Aurin could be patient as a spider was patient, feeling the smith's tentative steps upon his well-laid web.

As Torin read, he listened. It was not his first time with this long-form essay, but it was interesting to hear Torin's mind reacting to it with his virgin read. He watched the apprentice's aura flutter like a butterfly after pulling itself free from its chrysalis... He almost laughed at himself, thinking in such poetic terms while beginning to drowse. The book was a good distraction from grief, though; its author seemed devoid of emotion, viewing them merely as foibles to be exploited. It was the way of the world. To be sad about it changed nothing.

A little shiver brought to his attention that he was cold, at least where he was uncovered. A gentle hand touched his bandage and, finding no seepage, he risked pulling the covers up over his shoulder. Settling into his own heat, he let his hand fall upon Torin's knee and then let his eyelids droop. His conscience was not tortured for having killed a man. Had he not, the man would have killed him. Even disabled, he just would have come back later to try again. That was the way the world worked.

Torin was beautiful colors. For a sentient creature, his pattern was remarkably uncomplicated. It was not blank, not without the beauty that internal scars left on the soul, but there was a simplicity about him that was comforting. It was not an act; it was just who he was.