DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of 100% FICTION and contains descriptions of explicit sexual acts between 2 consenting teenage boys. This story is based 100% off of my IMAGINATION and does NOT reflect the views of the celebrities mentioned. If this type of content offends you or if it is illegal for you to read this type of material, please don't.
What Happened to the Green Fairies?
Earldom of Cornwall, England*******************************************************************
I was on the horse again, holding onto the reins with my left hand while the right was tied up in a sling to heal quicker. I was beside Father with Matt slightly behind us, inspecting the line of raggedy-looking, tied-up outlaws.
Suddenly I came to a halt upon recognising the features of one of them.
The man was probably my father's age and his dirty, dark, nearly black hair was laced with sprinkles of grey. That wasn't really what I took notice of, though. It was the familiar features I saw through his beard, a strong, yet delicate face through the wrinkles, holding a strength in a way that was rarely seen in these badly kept commonors that tended to grow old before their time. Even more so, though, I noticed his eyes; large and dark, mirroring those of the boy I'd fought.
"What's your name?" I asked him, narrowing my eyes.
"Urie, James Urie, milord," he answered, nearly spitting out the 'milord'. It was obvious where his son, because by now I was certain the boy had been his son, got his pride.
I nodded, fighting the urge to spit him in the face. He would hang within the hour, that should be satisfaction enough.
Suddenly he seemed to break his pride. "My son, milord, is he alright?"
Suspicion confirmed. "How would I know?" I asked coldly. "Last I saw him he was alive. He may have died from woud fever since."
The man flinched, before picking his mask of defiance back up. "At least the boy bloody wounded you, milord," he croaked.
The urge became too strong to fight and I degraded myself to do the spitting I'd been wanting.
Then I rode on, looking in satisfaction as my saliva dripped down his dirty face.
Cornwall village was in uproar.
The peasants had stayed home from their fields and wandered with their whole families to the village and the artisans had taken a break from their work.
Everybody had gathered at the square in the centre of the village and there was a feeling of festival in the air, performers trying to cheat people out of their last penny, pick-pockets snooping around, beggers on every corner and salespeople trying to fool people into buying their articles and commodities.
Public hangings tend to do that to any village.
I was with Father and Matt in the house of my aunt.
Father's sister had defied all set boundaries when, upon the death of her first husband, she'd returned to Cornwall and married the then captain of our guard. She had much money from her former in-laws and she and her hasband had built a large house, a manor almost, overlooking the square.
Here she still resided, still a part of the family although I knew she embarrassed Father and even more so, Mother. A widow was expected to stay in the estates of her late husband, grieving for the rest of her life.
I liked my aunt. But one of the main reasons could be that it was hard for me to do anything more outrageous than she already had, which made sure to unleash my parents' wrath upon me more rarely.
We had gotten a few refreshments, but now we had moved to her balcony, watching the show beneath us where the outlaws were being brought out into the eye of the public by the hangmen.
The excitement pulsed through the large crowd gathered down there, and I could see some fathers placing their young sons on their shoulders for a better view.
The captives were forced onto their foot-stools on the rink outside the prison, the nooses were placed around their necks, fourteen men all put together. But they were outlaws and the crown had given every noble not only the permission, but the obligation of hunting those down and killing them.
The mass of people gathered around the rink took a deep, collective gulp of air before holding their breath, a sudden silence settling over the village.
The parish priest stepped out to administer the last oil, stopping briefly in front each of the men before hurrying away to stand a bit off, ogling as captivatedly as everybody else.
Then the hangmen got to it, tightening the ropes around the necks of the comdemned before kicking away the first stool.
The crowd screamed and yelled in appreciation, fighting for better view in a morbid fascination that disgusted me.
The man kept kicking and wriggling for a while before he finally fell limp, which was the signal for the next stool to be removed.
Half an hour later it was over. Fourteen pieces of filth less to taint the world.
Just a few days after the executions I was allowed to loose the sling and I had the stitches taken out of my shoulder so all there really was to it by then was a constant bandage and the occasional ache. It had healed up rather well.
And as soon as I was allowed to, if not actually a few days sooner, I started back up with my training. And I trained harder and longer than ever before. The fact that an outlawed kid with a bad sword and no technique had been able to beat me had made me realise that I needed to brush up on my skills.
My arm was still in such bad shape that lifting the two-hand sword was difficult and nearly painful and after only a couple days' training Matt found me a lighter one-handed sword and made me use my left hand to avoid further injury.
This change was a pleasant surprise since I'd never been the most muscular person and the transition to the lighter sword suddenly allowed me to use my speed in a way I'd never been able to before.
Matt, who'd taken to the shorter, lighter sword as well for fairplay, seemed to be having troubles, though. The force he usually put behind his strokes made the blade swing nearly out of control.
My sudden advantage, minus the fact that I had to use my left hand, plus the sudden disadvantage my brother's bulk presented made us more equal than we'd ever been and the only thing that kept us from being locked for hours was the fact that I still tired too quickly.
I still couldn't pull the string of my longbow taut either, which angered me to quite an extent because, after all, I still preferred archery to swordsmanship. But I couldn't really do a lot about that except wait.
I was bored.
Homer is only entertaining for so long at a time and I'd already read the Illiad countless times.
I'd have been out training with Matt, but Father had sent my brother out with some of the soldiers to collect tribute from the more reluctant peasants.
I raised my right arm above my head, testing it. It gave off a slight throb and the joint popped, but there'd been a sword most of the way through less than three weeks ago. It was as good as, if not better than anyone could've expected.
I wanted to get on with the archery and for a moment my boredom battled my wanting of getting well.
Boredom won. I mean, it needn't be the longbow, right?
And therefore I quickly pulled a doublet out of my closet, pulling it over my head to cover the simple shirt. It might be summer, but it was raining and cold out as it so often was around here.
After a bit more consideration I located my thin summer cloak and did the clasp.
Then came the weapon belt, the one-hand sword still lazily attached from the training the previous day. And I made sure to place the dagger in my boot this time. I didn't feel as safe in my family's own lands anymore as I had only weeks earlier.
It took a short detour to the armoury to retrieve my short riding bow and I made sure to order someone to have my horse ready in a moment on the way.
After securing bow and quiver across my shoulders I went out, defying my dislike for horses for my longing to be shooting again.
One of the stable boys, actually the blonde one I'd had my eye on, was standing with the horse, holding the reins when I exited the castle.
"The stirrups are fastened well enough I assume," I grumbled.
"Y-yes, milord," the boy stuttered before bowing.
I smirked. "They'd best be," I concluded, reaching out a hand to lightly trace his behind.
He cowered slightly, but stayed where he was, too frightened to defy me, I suppose. These frightened boys were really starting to bore me.
Nonetheless I muttered an order that included my chamber and nightfall before swinging my lithe body onto the back of the horse, sending the boy another smirk before I dug my heels into the sides of the horse, easily forcing it into a light trot that I changed into a gallop as soon as I was out of the courtyard.
I raised my bottom from the saddle, putting all of my weight in the stirrups as I leaned forward a bit to ease the ride, my hair flying across my face and occasionally half-shading my eyesight from the acceleration.
Soon enough I reached the woods where I slowed down the pace, getting on the lookout for game.
It wasn't season for game hunting yet, though, and I knew this, so when I cooincidentally spurred up a frightened hare, I was more than satisfied.
I galloped after it, controlling the movements of my horse and avoiding the trees of the dense forest with my knees as my arms reached for bow and arrow.
Pulling the string taut was hard and made pains shoot through my arm and shoulder, but I managed to get it right and halted the horse to take aim.
I was always an excellent archer and the animal was less than fifty feet away. It was moving alright, but I'd made and perfected this exact shot so many times that my hands easily picked up on the routine.
The speed of the arrow nailed the hare to a tree. It kicked for a few moments, almost as if it were thinking it still could run. Then it fell limp.
I jumped off the horse and dragged it after me to where the small animal had fallen. I quickly broke the feathered end off the arrow and yanked the furry being off.
Now to the next problem. What on Earth was I going to do with the dead hare? I decided I should probably just toss it as I knew the kitchen would have none of this skinny little beast and I honestly had no use of it except moving target practice, for which it was no use either anymore.
Suddenly I noticed a smell that was annoying my notrils as it mixed with the familiar smells of the woods and the horse and the fresh blood from the hare. I sniffed a bit in curiosity and placed it easily as smoke.
There was a fire, and it wasn't that far off, not in this weather. For me to actually smell the smoke, the fire would have to be close because with the light rain it couldn't be very large.
Once again gripped by curiosity I kept the ears of the hare in one hand, the reins in the other, and walked slowly in direction I assumed the smoke was coming from.
A few minutes later I broke into a clearing, where, as expected, there was a small fire going.
There was a corpse too.
I'd thought it was a corpse anyway until it stirred slightly and let out a painful moan.
Homespun rags hung loosely around the thin body in some places, stuck close in others for the simple reason that the person was drenched in sweat probably more so than from the rain. Hair that was too greasy and filthy for me to decide if it was black or brown or even a dark shade of red and was neither short nor long was matted again the dirty, pale, sick face.
I recognised him easily. The boy, the one I'd fought.
And it seemed I'd been right about the wound fever.
I never knew why I stayed, why I didn't just turn around and let him die from the wound I'd inflicted and the infection that had hit him later.
But not only did I stay, I also tied my horse to one of the trees and went to his side. "Your father is dead, Urie," I informed him in lack of anything better to say and because I wanted to see how caught up in feverish delusions and sickness he was.
"I know," came the answer from chapped lips a moment later and he opened his glaced eyes to look up at me coldly. "When I came back and everybody was gone I knew they were as good as bloody dead, noble boy."
Sick, and still cocky? His feisty spirit annoyed me slightly.
"I'm not a boy," I muttered, already getting angry with him again.
"Let me see your side," I ordered, deciding that dropping the subject would be the best for then. I didn't want to accidentally attack a dying person.
"Why do you bloody care?" he asked aggressively.
His vulgar language was added onto the list of things about him that bothered me.
"Because you beat me," I hissed back. "You're the filthy orphaned son of a dead outlaw and you beat me." That sounded like a good enough explanation to me in any case. "I want my honour back, but I can't fight you in that condition."
He rolled his eyes. "Are you at least going to tell me whose honour I stole, then?"
"George the Younger of Cornwall," I answered annoyedly before crouching down next to him and pulling his shirt up to beneath the crooks of his arms. There was a bad bandage on his side and I was honestly surprised that it didn't fall off when I moved the shirt.
Upon wrenching it off, though, I understood perfectly. It had been stuck to the dry pus from his violently inflamed wound. And how it stank.
I made a face from the smell and the less than flattering visual imput. And I was no longer so sure that I could do anything about this. He should see a field surgeon, but there was no way of arranging that.
I got back on my feet and drew the dagger from my boot, walking over to stick the blade into the weak flames of his pathetic fire, cleaning it. Then I returned to the boy. "This is going to hurt," I muttered. "And if you don't lie still I swear I'll just stab it in and let your pathetic life be over with."
He looked at me with eyes that clearly stated how good a person he felt like compared to me. "I've heard about you, noble boy. Is this what you usually say to the servant boys who share your bed?"
I slapped him. Hard. "Hold your mouth, Urie," I got out through clenched teeth.
"You shouldn't try to heal me or anything," he suddenly stated.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Because if you succeed I'll bloody kill you, blue blood or no."
I shrugged. "You could try," I answered, regaining and keeping my calm. If for no other reason, then for the fact that it seemed to bug him even further than any of my other antics. "Now lie still," I addingly ordered.
He huffed once more, but complied.
I bit my lip and steadied the dagger before cutting down, knowing no other way to possibly help the situation than to cut away the dead and the infected tissue to avoid gangrene. Finally I managed to gather the courage to cut into his flesh, silently willing my hand not to shake.
I heard him gasp and bite back a scream, his legs thrashing madly.
I shot him a look. "Lie still!" I ordered coldly before going back to the cutting.
In the end the wound was bigger than it had originally been. But it was clean, although it was once again bleeding profusely.
I got up again and went to the fire. I blew on it as hard as I could a few times to get the embers going. Then I managed to remove a few of those from the fire and place the small weapon down on them, continuously blowing.
I had to change the embers once i a while and yet I never managed to make the dagger reach a red-hot stage. What it was at would simply have to do.
I picked it up, nearly burning my fingers on the hot weapon, but the hilt was leather-wrapped and that helped the situation a bit.
Then I walked hurriedly back to his lying form and bent down again. "This," I muttered. "Could possibly hurt even more." And with that said I wiped his blood away, mentally congratulating myself on not having worn my favourite doublet before I pressed the blade down against the open wound, listening for the hiss of heated metal burning into cool flesh.
This time he did scream. And loudly. And upon inspection I noticed that his eyes had rolled into the back of his head. I concluded that he must've passed out from the pain, but that was probably easier for me anyway.
When I was done primitively closing up the wound, my eyes suddenly fell on the hare.
Well, at least it could have a purpose now, I decided as I went and picked it up from where I had dropped it.
Then I sighed and dropped it again. I'd have to get a proper fire going first. Which wasn't easy with this weather. Why on Earth had I gotten myself into this situation? And why couldn't I just walk away convinced that I'd done what I could?
I couldn't answer those questions, so instead I went into the woods in search for some at least half-dry fire wood.
A few armfulls later I started to rebuild the clumsy fire, slowly getting it going.
Then I got down onto my knees on the muddy ground, hare and dagger in front of me, and started the process of skinning it.
I checked the pieces of meat hanging over the fire quickly to see if they weren't about done. They needed a bit more yet, though.
My stomach grumbled loudly, informing me that I'd surpassed my usual dinner-time. I dreaded having to explain my abesence, but I knew I'd come up with something.
Then I heard a groan behind me, signalling that the boy must've woken up from the restless sleep he'd fallen into directly after the loss of consciousness. "What's that?" he croaked out and I turned around to watch him sniffing the air.
For a moment I wondered when he'd last eaten. He couldn't really be illegally killing our game when he was too sick to stand in any case.
"Food," I answered simply. Then I checked again and discovered that the first bits of meat were done. I took them away from the fire and wincingly handed him one, blowing on my stinging fingers immediately afterwards before I put another bit of meat in my own mouth, chewing slowly.
I could understand why the kitchen wanted nothing to do with this meat, it was definitely below the standards I was used to.
He seemed to savour the taste, though, an expression of pure enjoyment on his face as he licked the last bit of juice off his dirty fingers.
"I expect you can take it from here," I stated more than asked. I wasn't enjoying being in his smelly vicinity in the first place and by now the sun was setting. I had better things, people, to do.
"I'm not a child either," he returned harshly.
I rolled my eyes and unclasped my cloak and threw it at him. "You've stolen it once, might as well let you keep it," I muttered, not actually knowing why I was giving it to him, why I was suddenly worrying about the filth of the Earth. Especially when we so obviously both loathed each other.
I turned around, walking to my horse without waiting for an answer. As I already stated, I had somewhere more important to be shortly.
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