Have I a lover

Who is noble and free?-

I would he were nobler

Than to love me.

~ The Sphinx by Ralph Waldo Emerson

The duel was set on the ship, legally part of Iceland. They had fought relentlessly, but only Draco and Lucius had been allowed aboard since they were the ones taking reprimands in Dyre's favor. Not even Dumbledore was permitted entrance. Lucius couldn't even scrape James by as his bodyguard, having been warned by Victor that asking for a guard would have been highly offensive.

A gruff man, likely part-dwarf, sat over the proceedings. The circle had been drawn with stones, each carved with specific runes. Lucius could make out only a certain encryption that forbade sorcery from interfering with the match, the others lost in centuries-old translations.

Draco had asked that it be to first-blood. Having made his decision, he couldn't help the set of nerves that made him fidget beside his father. He looked more nervous than Dyre, who was wrapping his palms in gauze. Farkoff was outfitted in vambraces, his duelist uniform oiled and sturdy, all leather and no metal. Dyre was in his habit, without shield or guard. The only preparation he made was in trimming back his bangs to free his good eye. He looked oddly vulnerable with just a Viking longsword, and the ease with which he handled the blade, gripping the single-handed pommel, was barely comforting.

The proprietor from the tribunal stood with little interest, waiting for them to step inside the ring. The deck glowed with a single white light that quickly faded like the flash of a camera, illuminating the space between the runes. Lucius felt the ambiance rise like a ward, and he realized that neither man could leave now without blood to appease the rights.

He wondered if the small crowd gathered at the shore with omnioculars could feel the power emitting from the stones or feel the tension that rose, like a palpable presence, between the combatants. The blades rose in left hands.

Dyre held the grip to his breast, gaze fierce but face slack. Farkoff was more cocky, his hold loose and an ugly smirk playing on his boyish face. Dyre bowed. Farkoff did not.

"You were stupid to challenge me."

Dyre rose from the bow, nonplussed, the sword by his side. When it became clear that he would not reply, Farkoff scowled.

"Lost your tongue already, you miserable cur?"

"I am waiting for you to finish speaking, my lord. I was under the impression that we were here to duel."

Farkoff's face darkened. His lip curled in anger, and the grip on his pommel tightened. By the way the boy raised his arm and left his flank exposed, he expected Dyre to be inept, which would have made this duel pathetically short. However, the lord revealed some training. Dyre parried easily, the tip of the sword sliding along the iron in sharp shing. He flung the blow aside, using the lord's momentum to turn himself, attacking his exposed back.

Farkoff continued the aborted motion, saving himself a slashed back. He rounded along Dyre's back, and the boy moved quickly to part them, facing him once more. The surprised look on his face was almost amusing, but the gaze turned critical. He would not underestimate Dyre again.

They fought. It was not an art or a dance. The motions were often crude, but neither paused again, moving instinctually to preempt the blows. They staggered, feinted, and rammed against each other with enough force to make Lucius wince. They parried in brutal thrusts, but never did they stop. Lucius followed the movements better than his son, marveling at the blatant disregard for fighting regulations. There was little elegance in the brawl, the swords sometimes abandoned in favor of digging in an elbow or sliding out a foot.

Farkoff's blows were not intended to wound. The duel was only to first-blood but first-blood could be a thrust through the heart, a slash across the neck. He didn't know if Dyre's curse allowed him to take the brat's life but Farkoff had no such restrictions. Already, Lucius had spotted three opportunities when he could have struck Dyre's thigh or the back of his hand, but he wasn't taking them.

But neither was Dyre. He didn't know what the boy was fighting for, but he defended himself desperately, thrown to the ground twice but not unarmed once.

Farkoff's foot kicked his legs out from under him, and he landed on his back. The older boy quickly bore down on him, aiming for his neck. Dyre threw up his blade, catching the sword at the hilt. The metal made an angry sound of protest that hurt Dyre's teeth, the impact burning the bones in his arm. They grabbed at each other's grip, snarling like beasts. Dyre kicked his legs, trying to find purchase to throw him off.

Farkoff laughed, pressing all his weight towards his throat. Sweat coated his upper lip and forehead, breath heavy with grunts.

"You're so weak," he grinned, nostrils flaring. "You're nothing but a lord's plaything. You were born worthless and you'll die worthless. No one will remember your name. You don't even have a name!" he laughed.

Farkoff was bigger than him, and Dyre was soon forced to bare his neck, tilting his head backwards to avoid the blade. The pressure of Farkoff's seat made it difficult to breathe. Draco gripped his father's sleeve. Lucius grabbed his arm to hold him back.

Dyre thrashed and threw his shoulder. Farkoff was tossed off. Dyre rolled, hand pressed to his throat. Blood threatened to seep through his fingers. While Farkoff gained his feet, he ripped the gauze off his hand with his teeth. He had to abandon the sword, dodging an attack, to wrap the bandage around his throat. He kept low, crouched, spinning out from beneath Farkoff's blows. He stanched the prick, and the duel continued.

Dyre was entirely on the defensive, fending the blows with nothing more than tact and agility. Farkoff had little care for stealth now and swung unrepentantly, a gruesome smile overtaking his face.

"The slave dances!" he taunted. "Tell us, oh mighty Dyre, how does it feel to be a lord's whore? Does he favor you with a kiss when you suck his cock?"

Dyre ducked and fell to his stomach. He rolled, and the sword hit the deck with a thud.

"Or does he just pound you into the bed? Is that how you got to stay in the castle, spreading your legs for the old man?"

Draco and Lucius fumed, but the expression on Dyre's face did not shift. Farkoff laughed and made his mistake. He over-extended the reach, and Dyre went into his guard. He pressed the heel of his hand upwards into his jaw, knocking him back. Stunned, Farkoff allowed the sword to be kicked from his hands. A blow landed in his gut. He doubled, winded. By the time he looked up, Dyre had a sword at his throat.

He stared up, his eyes full of hate. He panted, holding his stomach. There was no pleading, no begging, no desperate crawl backwards. Farkoff looked him in the eye, waiting.

The blade hovered. Dyre's gaze was dark and merciless and without victory.

"Chained mongrels still bite."

He slashed the sword across his throat. Farkoff gaped like a fish. Blood spilled onto the deck in a heady splash. His hands scrabbled at his neck. Dyre stepped back, allowing Karkaroff to take him to a healer. The scar would not be healed but he would live. If he still had his voice was another story, and he lamented that he had stolen Draco's apology. Dyre flung the blood off the blade with a flick, brushing it with the end of his habit.

"Well played, Harry," Victor congratulated.

"My thanks for your sword, my friend."

The proprietor stepped over the puddle of blood, unperturbed by the teeming color. "Dyre Harald Durmstrang is the victor," he said in an apathetic voice. "You may put in your request for a sword."

He handed off the appropriate paperwork and left for the floo in Karkaroff's study. Dyre held the parchment. The stamp of the Icelandic tribunal, the three crests of the ruling lords, graced the top, and beneath the long paragraph of legalities and rights was the space for his signature.

Dyre knelt. He coated his finger in Farkoff's blood, delighting in the oily texture, the slick juice of it. He smeared it across the line. The blood coalesced. In his handwriting, garnished by filling ledgers and writing reports, was his name. Dyre Harald Durmstrang.

He was a warrior.

o.O.o

The first thing Lily did when he got off the boat was try to mend his throat, but he waved her attention off tersely. Then, he was pulled into a tight embrace by Sirius, which lifted him off his feet.

"That was bloody brilliant!" the animagus shouted.

Dyre disentangled from him awkwardly, pulling on his habit.

"Yes," Severus said. "The display was impressively blood-thirsty."

That quieted Sirius for a moment and made his parents look very uncomfortable.

Dyre shrugged. "He will live."

"You must want a bath, Dyre," Dumbledore intercepted tactfully.

He inclined his head, allowing himself to be maneuvered to the castle, the others trailing in silence. England was too soft a land. Still, he felt the heavy weight of Draco's stare behind him.

o.O.o

The house elves had the bath ready by the time they reached his rooms. The group scattered, congratulating him again though Dyre had to wonder how much they meant it. Soon, only Draco lingered, standing nervously at the door and biting his lip.

"Would you like to come in, my lord?"

Draco hesitated, but he wasn't sure when he would see the boy again. Dyre had a penchant for running off into the forest, and Draco wasn't sure he wanted to breach the wood in search of him. He entered, looking down at the floor.

Part of him was exuberant and proud that Dyre was now a warrior, that he could own a sword, that he could now demand respect amongst his peers. But the other part was still terrified. Severus had explained what ergi and argr meant. He still couldn't quite understand a culture that dueled over being called unmanly. It was silly and archaic. What's more though, he had to wonder what Dyre thought of him.

He had to admit that he had inherited his mother's features. Dyre wasn't thick and broad like the northerners, but he wasn't as slender as Draco. Draco treated his hair and his hands. He hated dirt, and he'd much rather be in front of a potion or a book than a sword or ward.

And he was attracted to Dyre. He hadn't considered that his attraction might be considered unmanly before. He didn't give two shits about preconceptions like that. But Dyre… He had slashed a boy's throat open over being called unmanly. Did he think Draco was weak? Disgusting? He'd kissed his hand. Did he think he was womanly?

He looked up, startled to find himself alone. The bathroom door was open.

"Dyre?" he said, sticking in his head.

He squeaked when he saw Dyre naked in the bath. He pulled himself behind the door, apologizing. Dyre's chuckle was faint. He heard the water slosh as he moved. When no reprimand came, he ventured to peek inside the room again.

Dyre was lounging in the tub, steam floating off the water. The patch around his eye was discarded, his hair sprinkled with droplets. The water was clear, his body entirely visible beneath it. Draco tried not to stare, standing awkwardly by the door.

"You can come in, my lord."

Draco wavered, staring into his mismatched eyes before lowering his gaze and entering. He sat on the toilet lid, folding in his hands in his lap. Dyre watched him for a long moment

"Are you too troubled by the manner of my victory?" he asked softly after a long moment.

Draco stared at him. "No," he said honestly.

Dyre's gaze was quick and piercing. Draco swallowed but did not shy.

"Then what ails you, my lord?" he asked.

Draco looked away, unable to speak

He heard the water move. He tensed, preparing to be thrown from the quarters. A hand gripped his face, leaving a trail of damp of his jaw. Dyre turned him so they were facing, his eyes more serious even than when he had cut open Farkoff's throat.

"What bothers you?"

Draco swallowed, heat pooling in his groin. "Do you think I'm weak?"

Dyre's fingers twitched. There was only surprise in his face.

"Why would I think you weak?"

"It's just…" he said painfully. "I'm not a warrior like you. I don't fight or… And… I'm… submissive… to you," he trailed off, unable to look at him.

Normally, he didn't mind that he imagined men riding him. He hated words like "submissive" though. Most people, he learned, had no idea what that word meant. He hesitated to use it, but he couldn't go into the details of what he wanted to say. That sometimes he yearned to have Dyre folded on top of him with his hands holding down his wrists. He blushed just thinking about it, an odd reaction from a man like Draco.

He didn't know what Dyre would do after that word. He didn't believe that weakness and submissive were linked. Not at all. Many times, he'd had partners who admitted that Draco could control them while he was spread beneath them. But, he had never been attracted to someone with such a cultural gap.

He felt vulnerable. He almost couldn't believe that he was standing there waiting for Dyre to reject him.

Dyre kissed him. It was soft and hot, and Draco relaxed automatically into the soft motions, closing his eyes.

"I was raised by women," Dyre said. "I am a servant. Yet, you still believe I can see weakness in something as beautiful as you."

"But…" Draco stammered.

"Farkoff's insult was unacceptable," he said roughly, scowling. "Some believe that lying beneath a man is… argr," he said, seemingly unwilling to even use the phrase in a sentence. "And if anyone says that to you, I will kill them," he promised.

Draco gasped, unable not to believe him.

Dyre touched his cheek. "You have honor. You have such beautiful honor, and lying beneath a man will never diminish that. Besides," he said, leaning away. He rubbed a washcloth across his neck. "You are English."

"What does that mean?" Draco demanded, affronted.

Dyre smirked. "Your warrior is different than my warrior. Here, you do not have to kill men to be a warrior."

Draco rolled that in his head before accepting it begrudgingly. It was silent a moment save his bathing, and Draco allowed relief to coil through him. He leaned against the rim of the tub, watching the Norseman.

"So," he said. "Does this mean that we can call you Harry now?"

Dyre paused, hand caught in wiping away the crust of blood at his neck. It had already started to scab.

"You may," he said eventually.

Draco frowned. "We don't have to if you don't want. I thought you'd like having a warrior's name now."

Dyre dropped the cloth back into the water. "Whatever pleases you, my lord."

"Whatever pleases you," Draco huffed at him.

Dyre gave a small laugh. "Then, I would prefer you at least call me Dyre."

"Why?" the blond said, a little hurt that he was being excluded.

"Dyre is the name gifted to me by the Maiden. If the world knows me by Harry, I would like you and Her to know me by Dyre."

Draco stared at him in shock. He ducked his head. "Then, can you call me Draco instead of all that my lord stuff?"

Dyre smiled. "When we are alone."

Draco leaned forward. "We're alone right now."

Dyre's eye sparkled with humor and a soft emotion that Draco would dare to call affection.

"Draco," he rolled in that rich baritone.

The blond smiled in pleasure. He pressed their foreheads together, unsure if Dyre would mind him snogging him but certain that if they started while the darker boy was naked, he'd lose all manner of himself. He left, allowing the northman to finish bathing, proud of himself for taking the risk in approaching him. He shut the door and hovered, pressing his hand into the wood. A delighted smile brightened his face, and he continued down the hall.

o.O.o

Most the holiday was spent inside Hogwarts, seeing as how Dyre could not travel far from the ship. However, Lucius managed to invite Dyre to the manor for Christmas Eve, where the group usually spent their festivities.

Dyre did not usually celebrate Christmas. He would stay in the Tower for solstice, watching the chants of the all-mothers and the ritualistic bone-fires. Then, he would retire with Yrsa and the Maiden, weaving heather into bracelets and charms. He was fairly sure such mediocrity would not be welcome among the highbreds, and he had no money.

He spent the time when Draco was called for duties with his father wandering the Forbidden Forest. He talked to Morgan, but human traditions were lost on the centaurs. He was miserable at things of this nature. He knew they were going to give him gifts. That's the type of people they were, and not to mention they were all rich. He had an illegal dagger and a single outfit to his name. Even his habit was property of the school. How was he going to deal with an excess of gifts?

He supposed it would be the same way when Professor Snape and Sirius Black foisted all those clothes off on him. He'd thank them and set them aside, trying not to feel ungrateful and wasteful. He didn't think he could manage so well this time.

Truly, he wanted to at least get something for Draco. But really the boy had everything in the world. What could Dyre possibly give him? By the time Christmas Eve came, he was still hoping for inspiration.

Malfoy Manor was a splendid place, sitting on a lonesome estate with vast plains stretching out for miles, impeded by small wind buffers, which were little more than skeletons in this season, and a heavily rutted dirt road. As soon as they apparated, Sirius transformed into a Grim and started chasing the peacocks.

"Goddamn it," Lucius muttered in a rare moment of impropriety.

Narcissa touched his arm, graciously not allowing her mirth to show. So very little upset her husband, but those silly peacocks were a guilty pride of his. Lucius' eyes followed the outskirts of the manor, seemingly trying to find any strewn bodies. This happened every year, and admittedly, Sirius had yet to even maim one. He trotted back, his black form blunt and abrupt in the snow, tongue lolling and ridiculously smug. Lupin shook his head when the beast butted his hand, smacking his nose.

The animagus continued to jump around them excitedly, just managing not to nip at Dyre's sleeve. Severus conjured a muzzle, and Sirius disappeared behind Dumbledore, who chuckled, allowing himself to be used as a shield.

They were halfway through the wards when Dyre stopped suddenly on the path, prompting Draco to halt beside him.

"Something wrong, my boy?" Dumbledore asked.

Dyre turned his head, looking at a small crop of trees. To everyone's bewilderment, he broke from the path, trudging through ankle deep snow. Draco followed at a small trot. Dyre parted the bushes, shaking the snow from the leaves.

"What are you looking for?"

Dyre held up a finger, his gaze intent as he tried to listen. Suddenly, with agile grace, he pulled himself up between two birches, wrestling with the branches.

"What on earth is he doing?" Lily whispered.

There was a small screech, and Dyre swung himself higher, struggling to corner an animal they could not see. There was a small belch of blue flame and another distressed shriek. Dyre moved his tongue in the rough, husky meter of lizard-speak and cupped his hands around the creature. They watched him cajole whatever beast into his palms where it seemed to slither up his sleeve. He swung himself down from the tree.

"What was it?" Draco asked curiously.

"A wood-wyvern." He looked to Lucius. "Is it allowed to take it inside the manor?"

"Wood wyverns hibernate," Severus said.

"It hatched late. It cannot keep warm."

Lucius nodded. "But I expect you to look after it."

Dyre gave him a strange look. "Of course, my lord."

"May I see it?" Draco said eagerly.

"Inside first, Draco," Narcissa chided.

They scurried inside, dropping their coats for the house elves to take. Draco crowded Dyre, the Potters, Remus and Sirius not that far back. Dyre shed his cloak and unbuttoned the doublet, pulling back the collar to reveal the small dragon nestled on his shoulder. The wings were folded tight to its body, its scales like pearl, speckled with small bits of ash. It was tiny, just a hatchling, easily able to rest in the crook of his neck. It hissed and slid back beneath the fabric.

"He is very tired," Dyre said.

He cupped the area where the wyvern had curled.

Severus sniffed. "There will be plenty of time to gawk at the creature like idiots later."

"Would you like for me to create a bed for him, Dyre?" Dumbledore offered kindly.

"My thanks," he said, inclining his head since bowing would disrupt the creature, "but that will be unnecessary, Headmaster. He would flee into the manor if unwatched, and I would prefer not to cage him if it can be helped. He is content now to merely rest."

Dumbledore nodded, something like pride brightening his wrinkled face.

"That is very kind, my boy."

Dyre's brow creased, and Dumbledore retreated, not wishing to make him anymore uncomfortable. Draco reached over and rebuttoned his doublet.

"Come. I want to show you my room."

Draco took his hand and dragged him up the stairs, ignoring his half-hearted protests about propriety. The heir's room was a suite, the color scheme a cream and blue that suited Draco very well. A portrait of a relative, a middle aged woman with a sweet disposition and quick eyes, glanced up at them from her reading. Expensive baubles and silver candelabras coated the mantel, the rugs of intricate design. Porcelain vases, filled with magical floram rested on bookcases, lined neatly with copies of the tomes in their library. Floor to ceiling windows lent way to a veranda and an excellent view of the grounds, coated romantically in white.

Draco pulled him through the foyer into a side room that hosted a much more intimate setting. The blues became darker, merging into navy and sapphire. The mantel was less ornate and a seascape adorned the walling, empty of everything except for white dunes and serene waves. Long grass shifted in a breeze. A fire had been lit, a single couch positioned directly before the hearth. There was only a small window set beneath an eave close to the ceiling. The only bookcase was dotted with dog-eared novels with worn paperback spines.

Draco released his hand, letting him wander.

"The bedroom's through that door," he said, indicating the single oak frame. "There's a guest bedroom on the other side of the foyer with your own bath… if you wanted to stay here that is."

Dyre approached the shelf, picking up a book. He could read only the title and the author without his glasses, making out the shapes of the cover art.

"What creature is this?" he asked

Draco shifted nervously. "Well… it's a, uh… It's an alien."

Dyre stared at him and looked back at the novel. "I do not understand."

"It's science fiction. Muggles write fantasy and manage to get everything mixed up," he said with an irritated sneer. "But no one really knows what happens, you know…" He pointed up. "I can't really understand most of it," he admitted. "But a lot of it is really… interesting."

"You like the unknown?" Dyre said.

Draco's nose crinkled cutely. "I guess. Sort of. I just don't like fantasy because I know it's wrong."

Dyre seemed to find something in that statement terribly funny and laughed. Draco watched him, and when Dyre quieted, Draco was still watching him.

"Hey," Draco said. "Can I kiss you?"

Dyre looked at him, a small smile curled the right corner of his lip. "If you would like."

Draco took his hand, leading him to the couch. Dyre followed his gestures to sit. He coaxed the wyvern out of his doublet. It flew lazily to the mantel, curling up on the warm stone. Draco climbed into his lap, resting his arms to either side of his head. With a happy smile, he leaned in to kiss him.

Dyre's hands rested gently on his thighs as he allowed Draco to kiss him. The blond soon had his hands wrapped in Dyre's hair, trading their tongues to suck on. Dyre followed the movements languidly, learning by mimicking. Draco kept the pace slow, enjoying being able to feel him but also trying to consider how far Dyre would be willing to go.

He broke off to trail feathery kisses along his jaw. Dyre's hands were at his waist now and seemed content to stay there. His green eye was dark, shining fiercely. Draco stared down at him, looking for that smolder that spoke equally of pleasure and humor. It was there, gracing his face with a sharp and soft kindness that seemed reserved for Draco alone. He sat back on Dyre's thighs, his hand trailing his cheekbone.

He hesitated then raised the patch over his eye. He brushed his knuckles across the long scar. Dyre closed his eyes with a sigh, a noise that Draco thought sounded remarkably like abandon.

"You're beautiful," Draco murmured.

Dyre opened his eyes. The stare was deep, and Draco felt himself being held in the gaze of a creature instead of a man. A shudder ran through him, but he smiled, loving even that mysterious part of him.

"As are you, Draco."

Many people had told Draco that he was beautiful, and he was. But it had never made him feel humble before. He moved his legs to sidle closer to his chest, tucking his head so that he was beneath his jaw. Dyre's arm came around his back, holding him. The other crossed his stomach, curling around his hip. Dyre rested his cheek in his hair, humming something that Draco did not understand.

He knew better than to tell Dyre that he loved him. It was much too early for that, and if he did, the boy might run. He could not stay, and he did not want him to feel bound.

Which, wasn't that amazing in itself?