Disclaimer: Pagan and Jordan and Roland belong to Catherine Jinks.
A/N: All constructive critiques are welcome. This is for a series known as the Pagan Chronicles, particularly the book Pagan in Exile. The series goes Pagan's Crusade, Pagan in Exile, Pagan's Vows, and then the more recent books Pagan's Scribe and Pagan's Daughter. It's about a mixed race (arabic background) boy called Pagan, who is a squire to Lord Roland, a Templar Knight. (which is a kind of warrior monk). It's set in the 1180s. Jordan is Roland's brother, and is canonically gay. You may have seen this on Livejournal. That's because it was me as well.
warnings: slash and sexual situations involving an underage character. (He's 17. In his time period he's an adult, but just warning you anyway) mentions of violence.
Damn that boy. Look at him! How could he even stand a chance with that around? He stood outside the bedchamber, catching a glimpse of Pagan inside, who was tidying up his and Roland's bedding. Even Pagan shaking out bedclothes was unnaturally interesting. Unnatural but so right. Jordan leaned on the wall next to the door way for a moment, before walking quickly away from the sight of Pagan. He paced the length of his own chamber, fighting his own foolish emotions again. If only he could just-
He couldn't stop thinking about him. No matter how hard he tried. It had gone on since Pagan had arrived, what seemed like years ago. And as much as he fought it, tried to distract himself, the boy was always on his mind. Everything about him appealed. That hair, hanging in his lovely dark eyes. It looked even better now that Roland had cut it off a bit around the edges. The way he'd polish the swords, gently, back and forth, seated on some stool in the corner of a room, avoiding everyone but watching knowingly from underneath that hair. Thinking no one noticed him or how he watched. Jordan couldn't help noticing how he smiled. How he smirked. How he scowled. How endearingly small he was but so… active. The boy could move when he had to. (Boy… turning into a man). How he could read and think. How his tunic hung on his narrow shoulders.
Jordan watched him during the day, helplessly. Imagined him while he was in bed with his wife. Wondered if Pagan ever… perhaps. Images would flash through his mind of Pagan lying on his back in bed, legs slightly apart, hand beneath the bedclothes, or maybe in a hayloft… head thrown back, eyes closed and those dark cheeks flushed. He most likely did. But not like he could with him. If only he would ever be with him. A woman did nothing for him unless he…
He'd long realised it. Realised that his wife did nothing for him. All his life he'd only felt that familiar stirring at the thought of another man. Below him… or above him. Next to him. It didn't matter. And it didn't matter how hard he tried to stop thinking of it. Foolish to have let it start as a child. To have let himself think of his naked, swimming best friend when he had been discovering the pleasures of his body. Just as they had when he had been nine years old, the images would come to his mind unbidden. Or sometimes deliberately just so that he could continue with some God forsaken woman without any shame or loss of pride. That made his own personal shame worse. But he didn't care enough to stop. Not anymore. He couldn't stop. It was how he was, how he'd been as long as he could remember. No amount of prayer would fix it. Maybe he shouldn't accept it. But she did nothing for him, no woman actually, and certain others did. He hated her for it. Loathed her.
He'd almost come to terms with the fact that he'd much rather someone like Pagan. Definitely Pagan. This had all gone beyond lust now. He'd had stableboys and young men from the village before. Even a childhood friend once when he was fourteen. Pretty men. Handsome men. With muscles and cheeky smiles and usually obedience or playful teasing… hands everywhere. Pagan, thin, dark eyed, dark skinned, foreign, never quite obedient, never touched him except by accident, somehow inflamed him and captured him more than any other.
He'd sometimes watch Pagan sleeping next to Roland. Creep into their room at night and just stand in the shadows, watching Pagan's chest rise and fall and his hands clench in sleep, wishing he could lie next to him, touch him, hold him. Once he heard Pagan call out Roland's name in his sleep. That day he'd decided to order the slaughter of one of the pigs, and had watched, wishing it were Roland. And that night he'd hit his wife again. She'd cowered at his feet after the slap, staring at the floor with eyes that might as well be dead. Why couldn't she inspire love? Why did she not attract him? That just made him hate himself and her more. Why could he not have love? Receive love, real love. Give love. The stableboys may have liked him, but he never loved them in return, just loved their other attributes. Pagan made him want to save him from all the ills in the world. When those bastards had cornered Pagan, demanded to see what he had under his clothes, he'd been filled with fury first and foremost. Imagining himself looking at Pagan's loins, in some dark hallway, with Pagan's full consent and enthusiasm, had come later, much later. It had been the anger on Pagan's behalf before his own curiosity about the potential state of Pagan's foreskin that had made him realise that he'd fallen. It had happened much faster than he'd like to admit. But it was true.
And Pagan deserved better. Pagan actually seemed to enjoy his company, and he knew that he'd be much better for Pagan than that… Brother of a brother of his. Jordan'd not make him work… very hard. Roland, with his chastity and purity and simplicity. That wasn't a world for Pagan. Roland didn't deserve him, obviously didn't love him. Jordan snorted as he paced and had the familiar thought. Not enough to actually grow a pair and touch him. Kiss him… he imagined Pagan's soft and still smirking lips under Jordan's own, pressing back, reaching up to tangle fingers in his hair, one of his own hands at the nape of Pagan's neck, the other on Pagan's waist, moving further down… He closed his eyes and slid down the nearest wall, fully aware of his own arousal.
It didn't take long for him to finish with that image in his mind. And with it came the clarity that he had to ask Pagan to come with him, stay with him, before it was too late. Before he was gone. Roland's not doing anything for him, Roland who has no heart, a monk who even when the forbidden thought finally properly dawned on him and wasn't just hidden emotions and secret, un analysed glances, would never… fully appreciate Pagan. And he could take him away from this Hell that was his father's home. Keep him safe. If Pagan had the sense that he believed him to have, he'd see who was the better option… the better man. Who would make him feel wanted.
-
He had said it. Hinted around his feelings. Offered a new life. And watched Pagan's face change. Saw that he thought of Roland. So that's how it was. Pagan tried to be polite. But the insults came from his mouth as his heart broke then hardened.
'You're ten kinds of fool, Pagan. I never realised it, until now.'
He'd tried to make his offer still stand.
Pride and hurt made him lash out. But Pagan wasn't ten kinds of fool. He was.
Now there was no hope.