Title: The Left Hand Hound, part 2/3 
Author: Brigantine
e-mail: gidgetpup@netzero.com 
Pairing: Vig/Bean 
Rating:  NC-17
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: When I say Alternate Universe I really mean that. 
Summary: Under the shadow of war, a family living on the 
border takes in a stranger.  
 
#################### 
 
 
"It's possible," Ian surmises after supper, "that they were trying 
to break his legs, and used the weight to hold him steady, 
though I can't imagine that's the most efficient way. If they'd 
*really* wanted his legs broken they would have, well..." He 
makes a face. "Done something else." 
 
All of this, in response to Karl's question as to why the Mederans 
had tied that great rock to North's ankles. Karl pales and says, 
"Oh." 
 
"Also kept him from lashing out and breaking someone's nose 
with a well-placed heel," Ian adds. "I don't expect he went 
quietly while they were hauling him up to the ceiling." 
 
"We had to set one of his shoulders," Karl says, not entirely 
steadily. He's been drinking more wine tonight than is his habit. 
"Viggo and I. It must've dislocated while he was up there. The 
weight, I guess." 
 
Viggo remembers, holding the partially conscious north man 
while Karl pulled; that one, hard jerk, and the north man's body 
lurching in Viggo's arms, and a sickening, popping noise. A 
single, pained grunt, then the northerner slumping back into 
darkness, and what a pity, Viggo thought at the time, that he 
hadn't just remained unconscious for the whole process. 
 
"What do you mean?" Bernard's voice cuts through Viggo's 
recollection. 
 
"I mean," Orlando explains, "does anyone we know, know what 
Gaius looks like?" 
 
Ian shakes his head, answering Orlando's initial question. "No, 
I've never met him. I met his wife at a function once. Lovely, 
gracious woman, Lavinia. Two young children. The only heirs to 
the throne so far, after Quintus and his brothers... Wait... " 
 
Ian drifts off, frowning, and he lifts his eyes to his youngest 
nephew, who voices what he's thinking.  
 
"How many senators disappeared?" 
 
"We don't know the exact number." 
 
"Shit," Bernard hisses, and suddenly everyone is staring at 
Viggo.  
 
"Has he said *anything?*" 
 
Viggo tells his father, "He tried to leave last night." 
 
Karl's hand stalls mid-way with his wine glass. "What the hell 
for?" 
 
Viggo shrugs one shoulder, nearly laughing, as he's just 
mimicked North. "I think he's worried that whoever hurt him and 
murdered the others will do the same to us." 
 
"Bollocks," scoffs Miranda. 
 
Bernard blinks at his only daughter. "My dear." 
 
"Well really, Papa!" She crosses her arms and huffs. "I hope you 
explained to him that we can look after him, Viggo! And anyway, 
how would they know where to look?" 
 
Viggo smiles at his sister. She's adorable when she's indignant, 
and she hates it when he tells her that. "Precisely my argument." 
 
"Doesn't seem quite the behaviour of an ordinary cattle thief, 
does it?" Ian muses. 
 
"Which brings us back to Orlando's question," Bernard says. "Do 
we know what Gaius looks like?" 
 
"Prince Gaius is Mederan, not some north man," Viggo reminds. 
"Ian, you've seen the tattoo." 
 
Ian nods, but takes up the opposite end of the argument, just to 
have a look at it. "Blonde. Green-eyed. Pale. Lean. It all paints a 
portrait of a northerner, but look at you--grey eyes, nearly-red 
hair, and I've seen your bare bottom, it's pale as a peeper's 
belly." 
 
Miranda and Orlando giggle, and Viggo shoots them a dark look. 
 
"My point being," Ian smirks, "is that tattoos can be imitated and 
got by anybody. Gaius has a reputation for being just the sort 
who would join a drinking-buddy in a little friendly artwork." He 
can't help chuckling, "Especially artwork like that. Part of his sort 
of personality, I suppose, more interested in solving Medera's 
own troubles at home than in looking to meddle in other people's 
affairs. Part of what had him clearly on the outs with his brothers 
for years before he disappeared."  
 
Viggo closes his eyes. Gods, but he's tired. As curious as he is 
about North's identity, what he truly wants right now is to go 
back to his little house, to his comfortable bed, and to his north 
man, and go to sleep. "Look," he points out, "it'd be very 
dramatic to believe we've rescued a popular prince, but if those 
were seven dead members of the Mederan Senate in that barn, 
then where are their families?" 
 
"Quite so. For all we know, your handsome and enigmatic guest 
may be no more than a lower-ranking nobleman or some poor 
tavern keeper who overheard a conversation he oughtn't have. 
The cattle and the horses roaming about might not even have 
anything to do with what happened in the barn." 
 
Karl allows, "We were only there because we thought we might 
find a few strays. You know how they drift toward familiar smells. 
The barn was still good. Maybe the cattle were being held in 
there, and the Mederans kicked them out so they could use it..." 
He trails off, looking acutely uncomfortable. "Sorry. Ugh." 
 
Viggo rubs at his brother's shoulder. "Maybe the unlucky men 
who stole them were in the house when the soldiers showed up." 
 
"Put up a fight, you think? Killed three?" 
 
"Maybe." Viggo's weary brain has stuck itself in a loop, going 
from the idea of North being dragged to the barn as a struggling 
captive, to his being one of the maybe-horse-thieves unlucky 
enough to just happen to be there at the wrong time, to 
wondering why anyone would go to so much trouble to torture a 
cattle rustler. Politics, Ian said. Viggo is exhausted, and the 
whole thing is giving him a headache. He can't help the 
enormous yawn. "Look, I'm done in," he apologizes. "I'll see you 
all in the morning, okay?" 
 
"Late," Bernard reminds. 
 
Ian requests as his nephew rises, "Send my lovely Eric straight 
home, will you? I shall arrive shortly." 
 
When Viggo gets to his bungalow Eric is waiting there in the 
sitting room, reading a scroll, and he smiles and makes a shush 
gesture, nodding toward the bedroom. Viggo thanks him for 
staying with North, and Eric grins, "Since you've given him a 
name, I guess that makes him yours," and wanders off through 
the darkness to Ian's quarters before the significance of what he 
has just said settles into Viggo's sleep-deprived brain.  
 
Earlier in the evening, when Viggo came in from the south 
grazing to have a bath before joining the family for supper, North 
had been puttering in the kitchen, and Eric had been full of news, 
which he passed happily along to Viggo as he helped him draw 
his bath. Viggo might have pointed out that he has for some 
years been perfectly capable of managing his own bath, but Eric 
enjoys being useful, and Viggo hated to disappoint him. 
 
North and Eric started the morning with Eric helping him make 
his own bed, on the north man's initiative, and then by making 
up Viggo's bed together. The north man wasn't exactly quick 
about it, what with all the necessary bending and reaching, but 
he managed, and didn't complain, and then they had a nice 
breakfast of bread and honey and that soft, pale, sort of tangy 
cheese that can't be got in the capitol, and Eric had tea, but 
North drank the mare's milk Viggo left for him. He seems partial 
to it, Eric said, which makes sense, given he's a north man and 
all. Then they went out into Viggo's garden which is, Eric noted 
with mild disapproval, in severe need of tending, and Eric set 
North to pulling weeds in a damp, shady spot, which he seemed 
to rather enjoy. They didn't get too far, considering as much 
work as needs doing, and North fell asleep after lunch, and slept 
for a couple of hours, as did Eric, since there wasn't much to do 
by himself. Then they played chess after North woke up, and 
here Eric sighed, "He beat me soundly." 
 
But now it's late, North is asleep again, and Eric is on his way 
home, eager to set about Master Ian's evening rituals, and 
murmuring happily about seeing if he can get Master to sleep 
very, *very* well tonight, 'cause he's been working awfully 
hard... 
 
...which, Viggo smiles to himself, watching Eric disappear into 
the darkness, is true. Ian's been a trooper, and having him here 
has given Bernard a certain comfort. Even this far out the 
Stathan Parliament and in particular Ian's secretary make sure 
Ian's not short of information, sending military messengers back 
and forth regularly. The news isn't always good, but at least 
Bernard isn't left in the dark, and that means a lot. 
 
Viggo extinguishes the lamps in the sitting room, and wanders 
into the bedroom, stretching and yawning. Here the lamps are 
already trimmed low, but there is light enough for him to see 
what he's doing, and as he strips off his clothes and skims the 
light sleep-trousers up his thighs he watches North sleep.  
 
*I've named him, does that make him mine? He didn't exactly 
'follow' me home.* 
 
Viggo puts out all the lamps but the one nearest his bed and 
crawls in, lying on his side to watch North in the dim light. The 
north man has wriggled about in his sleep and kicked off the 
covers, and his sleep pants are in a knot around one ankle. He's 
sunk deep in the feather mattress and sprawled on his back like 
one of Bernard's hunting hounds in a favorite patch of clover, 
and Viggo contemplates the wraparound scores across North's 
belly. Someone who knows what he's doing could eviscerate a 
man, using a bullwhip. He supposes that if the cattle drive hadn't 
come along they would have got around to it eventually. He 
really doesn't want to think about that. 
 
North makes a small noise, shifts, frowns a little, as the 
movement no doubt hurts him, and Viggo wonders if they sleep 
naked by habit in the north. It seems to him it would be a mite 
chill so far north as that, for sleeping raw, but perhaps a fellow 
gets used to it. Or perhaps, he imagines, northern houses are 
built snug and thick, solid against the cold, made soft inside with 
the warm pelts of wild animals... and Viggo finds himself 
picturing North naked and whole, content in a heavy layer of lynx 
and wolverine; perhaps the silken white coat of a northern ram, 
with its fine undercoat and a long, rough topcoat to deflect the 
mountain winds, and Viggo is unsettled to find that his body has 
responded enthusiastically to that image, but he thanks the 
Horse Lord that when North suddenly opens his eyes he finds 
Viggo looking at his face, not... somewhere else. It's dark. 
There's another blessing. North can't see him blushing guiltily. 
 
"Hey," Viggo says, as though he hasn't been caught thinking 
lascivious thoughts about this man he has taken into his care. 
 
North turns carefully onto his side. Viggo notices him wince, and 
then North reaches down and tugs the bedclothes up around his 
chest, and settles in to return Viggo's curiosity. 
 
"Eric tells me you beat him at chess," Viggo says. 
 
North gives him a small, sideways smile, and the playfulness of 
the expression, a hint of wickedness glinting in his eyes in the 
dark tugs at something deep inside Viggo's middle, but strangely, 
given the direction of his thoughts just moments ago, stops short 
of his crotch. 
 
"Will you be working in the garden again tomorrow?" 
 
North yawns and nods, and Viggo can see him starting to doze 
off again. 
 
"That's good," he smiles. "It's needed some attention for a long 
time. Goodnight, north man."  
 
North closes his green hawk's eyes and slips his hand under his 
pillow as Viggo turns down the lamp. 
 
He worries that he might lie there in the dark unable to sleep, 
while his brain thinks in circles, trying to sort through all the 
possibilities of who North might be, and why anybody would want 
to torture him. Why anyone would want to break his legs. That 
explains that huge bruise over his kneecap. Has to hurt like hell, 
and will for a while. Ian said it. Someone went to a lot of trouble. 
There's power involved here, either the reluctant giving or the 
outright taking of it, and things happening at high levels and low, 
things no one in a position to do anything about them is 
supposed to know of until it's too late. And no one seems to 
know where Prince Gaius is, or even if he's alive, while Corvus 
and Quintus covet their road to the sea... and Viggo falls asleep, 
wishing he and his north man had a little more energy to spend 
tonight, wishing there was more time. 
 
 
 
What he notices in the morning is that North is very gently 
waking him. Viggo comes to slowly, finding that the sun is well 
up, and he's getting a late start. He curses, and starts to sit up in 
a rush, but North presses a hand against his chest to make him 
wait, and he remembers that this is all right. The house smells 
like breakfast. Someone is in the kitchen. He assumes it's Eric. 
North is watching him, an amused expression on his angular 
face. Viggo notices that the swellings have gone down. The lower 
half of North's face is largely hidden by over a week's worth of 
blonde beard stubble, but the long slice at his hairline is pink, 
and healing cleanly. The cut that just missed his left eye will 
leave a noticeable scar, and it's still raw and red. North pokes 
him for attention. "What?" Viggo realizes he's been staring, and 
grins sheepishly. "Sorry. Still sleepy. Let me get cleaned up." 
 
Everything has been laid out for him, made ready for him to 
wash up, dress, and amble into his small kitchen to find Eric 
licking butter off of his fingers and setting food on the table, 
while North is busy trying not to be attacked by the grease from 
splattering bacon. Viggo's kitchen was built for a bachelor, and 
having three people working in it is something of a circus, so 
Viggo figures his contribution to the making of breakfast will be 
to stay out of the way. Karl will be by later to collect his elder 
brother, and they'll help Orlando and Ed finish the fence for the 
herd they recently moved to the southern side of the ranch. 
 
It's funny, how chatty Eric is, always full of good-natured energy, 
but Viggo is learning to read North's silence. His mouth, his eyes, 
those flyaway eyebrows, the tilt of his head, shrug of a shoulder, 
the way his entire expression opens up and bares him when, 
after breakfast, Viggo informs him thoughtlessly that he'll be 
getting a decent shave this morning. North's beard has grown in 
shaggy and unkempt, and it's been obvious to Viggo from the 
start that by habit he is clean-shaven. So today, as there's time, 
Viggo has decided to shave him. 
 
North, standing at the kitchen sink drying dishes as Eric washes, 
sets the cup down very carefully on the counter and shakes his 
head and starts to back away. 
 
Viggo huffs, "What do you think, that I'm gong to hurt you? Me, 
of all people?" The very thought that the north man doesn't trust 
him after everything vexes him, and the annoyance edges his 
voice.  
 
Eric is glancing between them, as though waiting either for North 
to bolt or Viggo to lunge for him, and he clearly doesn't know 
which side to take.  
 
Watching North pale and back off, Viggo searches quickly for a 
reason, and when he finds it he feels like a damned fool, and he 
says, "Oh gods, I'm sorry! I didn't think. Look. If it will make you 
feel better, you can shave me, first." 
 
To his chagrin Viggo shortly finds himself leaning back in a chair 
in his sitting room, next to the window, so that North can see 
properly, and his skin is damp and warm and covered with 
shaving soap, while a man whose company he's kept for a week 
but whose name he doesn't know glides a freshly sharpened 
razor deftly over the skin of his throat.  
 
Eric watches from the sofa nearby, breathing so carefully that he 
seems to be holding his breath. North comes to the small cleft in 
Viggo's chin, and it's the strangest thing, but Viggo seems to feel 
the air tighten around them. Something in the way North scowls 
just a little, concentrating on the razor and the little dip, and his 
finger and thumb pressing outward on either side of it, and then 
he flicks the razor just so, and that's that. Then he moves on to 
the rest of Viggo's face and finishes without a nick or a scrape, 
which is a marvel in itself, as Viggo frequently cuts himself, 
which is largely why he shaves irregularly.  
 
Then it's North's turn to be in the chair. "Please forgive me," 
Viggo asks, "if I nick you somewhere." 
 
North shoots an alarmed look at Eric, who scoots a chair next to 
him and holds his hand. Viggo sighs. "Right. If I draw blood, your 
nanny can give me a thrashing." 
 
North snickers, and Viggo feels his nerves ease up. 
 
Remarkably, Viggo draws no blood, but he is, he acknowledges 
privately as he washes the soap from North's smooth skin, in a 
lot of trouble just the same, because without the scruff Viggo can 
finally see all of North's face, and all of his grin, much of which 
he missed by moonlight night before last, when what he could 
see past the beard scruff just the same got right under his skin. 
Part of Viggo's brain reminds him that the north man is not his to 
keep. The other half wants him, right now, and that's a problem, 
because he does not own this man, and Viggo realizes he's 
staring when Eric says, 
 
"Viggo, are you all right?" 
 
"What?" 
 
North regards him with inquiring eyebrows, and Viggo clears his 
throat and tells part of the truth. "You look different." 
 
Karl pounds on Viggo's front door. "Look," Viggo says. He 
fumbles with the knot of the short leather thong around his own 
neck, and manages to unravel it as Eric opens the door for Karl. 
 
"Viggo, are you ready to go--what are you doing?" 
 
Viggo offers the leather thong to North, showing him the small 
pendant that hangs from it. Just about the size of a gold crown, 
four horses and a sunrise are embossed in silver, and Viggo says, 
"These are strange times. If something happens... I don't know, 
but this will associate you with our house. Most of the higher-ups 
in Stathan will recognize the emblem." He bends forward, and 
North bows his head to allow him to put it on him. He tightens 
the knot, the worn leather falling into its old habit, and as North 
sits up and Viggo leans back to look at his mark around North's 
throat the part of his brain that demanded possession quiets and 
fades, and Viggo hopes to hell this will be enough, because North 
doesn't deserve that kind of betrayal.  
 
He meets the north man's level gaze and wonders with a stab of 
fear how well North might have already learned to read *him*. 
From the corner of his eye he can see Eric looking at him oddly, 
but he chooses to ignore it. 
 
When Viggo closes the door to his house behind him, and he and 
Karl make for the barn to fetch the horses, Karl asks him, "What 
was that all about? You really think someone's going to demand 
to know who he is? We've got hired hands all over the ranch, and 
no one--" 
 
"Leave it." 
 
Karl glances at his brother sideways, notes the set of his jaw, 
and leaves it. 
 
 
 
Three days later Viggo slouches on his sofa in his sitting room, 
with North settled next to him, his legs curled under him on the 
cushion. It's the end of the day, and Viggo has shared supper 
and conference with his family. North has eaten and bathed while 
Viggo was at supper. Viggo wishes that he, instead of Eric, could 
be the one to help North wash himself, take care of his back and 
the cuts on his ribs, and his belly… Viggo doesn't have to 
question himself too hard to realize his motives are not entirely 
pure, and he reasons that perhaps it's just as well so much of his 
time is not entirely his own. 
 
The lamps are turned low, and Viggo sips at his beer and closes 
his eyes while North rubs a fine oil of arnica and fragrant 
beebalm into his right hand. This is something the north man 
seems to enjoy, doing little things for Viggo. It's a luxury, and 
Viggo feels coddled, sitting here getting his rough, callused hands 
massaged, but damn if it doesn't feel good, and much like Eric, 
North seems the type to want to be useful. Or maybe he's just 
restless. Hard to know, with this one. North has learned Viggo's 
routine; his habits in the morning, in the evening when he comes 
in from the range, or from one of the pastures, and needs to 
bathe for dinner. North fusses and anticipates, all without a 
word, and Viggo is certain that though he's not outwardly 
claimed, he must belong to someone somewhere, though in 
Viggo's heart North belongs to him, here. 
 
North is past needing tending during the day, and as he has 
trusted Viggo to look after him, so Viggo trusts him alone in his 
house. Eric, missing Ian's garden at their house in the capitol and 
complaining of not enough to keep himself occupied while Ian is 
working with Bernard, comes around to help North in the garden. 
They've decided to hold off on the vegetable patch for a bit, and 
concentrate on the orchard. It's late in the season for pruning 
fruit trees properly, but the trees have been so neglected over 
past seasons that water shoots have grown thick inside, and 
need to be cut out regardless, along with dead branches, and 
suckers from below. The care they offer now will pay off next 
season, as though either North or Eric or the ranch at all will be 
here to see next spring. Eric seems to know what North is 
thinking, and North doesn't seem to mind his chatter. Viggo finds 
himself jealous of the growing friendship between them, and it 
shames him.  
 
North puts a final touch to Viggo's hand and taps Viggo's knee. 
Time for feet. Viggo sets down his half-finished beer and 
stretches out on the sofa with his feet in North's lap. He'd feel 
over-fussed and silly, except that he can feel the good of this all 
the way up his legs, and the fact is that he enjoys evenings when 
he and North have the time and the energy to just sit here 
together. Sometimes Viggo talks to North, tells him what's 
happening with the ranch, the impending war, the neighbors. 
North never says anything, but he always listens. 
 
It's the middle of the night, and Viggo's face is pressed into 
someone's hip, the skin cool and smooth as he stands rubbing 
his cheek against the tender crease between hip and thigh, and 
then he nuzzles a little to the right, pressing his nose and lips 
into crisp curls and intimate skin. He wraps his arms around the 
pelvis, his hands caressing the sweet curve of hips and buttocks 
as he takes the flaccid length into his mouth. He begins to toy 
with the soft skin, his tongue teasing, loving the way it feels in 
his mouth, the satin of the skin, how vulnerable, and he sucks 
gently, savoring, but something seems to be off. The skin is so 
cool, and shouldn't there be some sort of response, some 
warmth--shouldn't his mouth be full of heat and ardent flesh, and 
should it taste like blood? Viggo frowns and pulls away to get a 
better look, and really there's an awful lot of blood, which can't 
be right. There's something quite wrong here. He steps back and 
realizes that his arms, his chest and his belly where he hugged 
the fine hips and pressed against the long, bound legs are sticky 
with fresh blood. The body before him is too still, and there is 
far, far too much red. He would like to leave now. He thinks this 
might be his fault. He doesn't dare to look up. Horse Lord, he 
wants to get out of here, the floor is slick with red. He knows 
what's behind him; the eyeless eyes and the mouthless mouths, 
and he needs to get out of here, please, Lord of Horses, Lord of 
Fields, don't look up don't look up don't look up. He turns and 
flees, but he keeps bumping into things, awful faceless things, all 
red and screaming, and he wants to *leave, please, Mistress of 
Fire, oh please--* 
 
Viggo wakes shouting and thrashing, the north man's hands 
strong about his wrists. Shaking and sobbing, his hands clenched 
into fists, Viggo stares wildly up at him. North gently but firmly 
presses Viggo's arms down across his chest, then begins to 
unclench his fists, rubbing at his hands while Viggo heaves for 
breath and feels the sweat that covers him cooling in the dark. 
Horrible red images lurk and fade behind his eyes. He swallows 
and takes North's face between his hands, "Have I hurt you?"  
 
North soothes at the back of Viggo's hand, turns his face briefly 
into the palm, and then he crawls to one side and wriggles down 
beneath the covers. Viggo is tempted to tell him no, to tell North 
he's fine now, that this isn't necessary, but he isn't fine at all, 
and when North pulls the covers up over the two of them and 
drapes himself over Viggo, he hasn't the strength to refuse the 
comfort of North warm and alive and within reach. The faint 
brush of the north man's breath evens out against his shoulder 
as Viggo rests one hand on the back of North's where it lies 
warm on his chest, and he finally allows himself to drift off. 
 
 
The next morning they're both awake early. Before North can get 
out of Viggo's bed and start playing housekeeper, Viggo makes a 
suggestion. 
 
The horses are drowsy, but Roland perks up as soon as he hears 
Viggo's voice, and he whickers in greeting. Viggo visits him first 
out of respect, feeds him a carrot, laughs at the big roan's 
insistence on whuffling and getting bits of hay into North's hair, 
then leads the way to where the black mare and the bay are 
bedded down with their new little ones. He turns and points to a 
stall on the other side. "That's the mare whose milk you drank in 
those first mornings." 
 
North crosses over to the sorrel, who has arched her fine neck 
over the stall door, the little face of her burnt-sugar filly nudging 
alongside, whiskery and inquisitive. North pulls the carrot out of 
his shirt pocket and feeds it to the mare in pieces, while the filly 
nibbles and sucks on his fingers, letting out a playful whinny 
when North starts tickling her nose. When the carrot has been 
consumed, North takes the mare's halter and pulls her close, 
pressing his face against her soft muzzle and breathing gently 
into her nostrils. The mare's nostrils flare as she draws in his 
scent, and they stand quietly trading breath until North wraps his 
arms around the mare's head, pressing her to his chest, and he 
croons softly into her ears, in a language only the two of them 
understand. To Viggo, it sounds like velvet and darkness. Some 
day, North's voice will be for him. Not yet, but some day, when 
he trusts the family with whatever secret he has kept through 
agony and horror, then those words will be for him. Viggo leans 
back against the door of Roland's stall, scratching idly at a soft 
spot at the back of the big roan's jaw.  
 
 
 
Two days further gone. Viggo and Bernard nearly laugh 
themselves sick one afternoon watching Eric, North and a 
giggling kitchen girl chase a pair of hysterical chickens around 
the villa's yard, in the process inciting an entire riot of panicking 
red hens. Viggo learns what North looks like when he pouts, 
standing utterly baffled amidst a surging sea of dust, feathers 
and squawking poultry. 
 
Viggo allows himself to be mesmerized by North rubbing oil 
steeped with wild white roses into his back, shoulders, and neck 
before bedtime. The roses have been growing rampant at the 
back of his orchard for some time. He had forgotten.  
 
For some days now he's had strange, vague sorts of dreams 
where someone is touching his face in the night, touching his 
chest, stroking the soft, dark hair, but when he wakes he is alone 
in his bed, and North is asleep in his own nest. Sometimes Viggo 
dreams about North's hands. He supposes the dreams are 
related. 
 
Stathan soldiers have started crossing through the ranch, and 
military brass are contracting with Bernard for horses and cattle. 
It's good money, but Bernard would be content without it. Profit 
is nothing to him if he loses the land to war. They've finished 
fencing in the pasture on the southern side of the villa. The 
heavy beef cattle graze there, expensive, docile, and entirely 
unaware. The leaner, more independent cattle, long-horned and 
shaggy, wander on the open range to the west and the east, and 
the ranch's hands, led largely by Miranda and her mother, have 
been pushing themselves ruthlessly to get them all branded. The 
point isn't to keep them from being stolen, as even fences won't 
prevent that, but as the unaffected range contracts south the 
free roaming cattle from Droka in the east and Marton and 
David's ranch in the west, and stock from who knows where will 
mingle. Assuming there is anything and anybody left after the 
war, and the land remains Stathan, they'll want to know which 
belongs to whom when they start to rebuild. 
 
Viggo knows Marton and his brother have been pushing 
themselves just as hard as Bernard's family. He worries about 
where they'll go when the war rolls over their land, on its way to 
the sea. Miranda hasn't said anything, and she likely won't, 
because she's like their mother that way, but Viggo knows she's 
worried about David. David's gentle wit and soft-spoken charm 
have proven a perfect balance to Miranda's fire, and as Viggo 
makes his tired way toward his house this evening the one thing 
he thinks he would like most is to dance at his baby sister's 
wedding, here in the northern frontier, minus imminent threat of 
annihilation. 
 
One of the dogs is half asleep on the front porch, and he wags 
his tail as Viggo approaches. Lanky and smooth-coated, he's an 
old hound, not much for hunting or chasing rabbits or worrying 
the longhorns anymore, and it's ironic, Viggo thinks, as he bends 
down to scratch the good old fellow behind the ears, that Viggo 
likely remembers the old hound's heyday better than the dog 
does. But he supposes that as long as a dog is happy *today* 
that's all that matters. He wishes he had that luxury. He notes 
that Eric or North has left out a dish of table scraps, the dish now 
lying licked smooth on the porch. He carries it into the house 
with him. 
 
His bath is ready when he walks into the bathing room, North is 
in the kitchen making tea, and Viggo wonders, what are they 
going to do when North is healed? He's looking fit, the welts 
turning to red scars, still scabbed over in a few places, and all 
but the worst of his bruises faded. Will he want to leave? Where 
would he go? Viggo wonders, if he just ignores the questions, 
whether he and North might go on this way together indefinitely. 
Given the choice he will take North down to the capitol with 
them, if it comes to that, as though he's part of this household. 
To Viggo's mind, he is one of them now. 
 
North takes Viggo's dirty clothes from him as he sheds them 
distractedly, and leaves them in the little laundry room behind 
the kitchen. Viggo slides into the warm water and takes the mug 
of tea from the edge of the bathtub. "North," he calls, when the 
north man turns to leave. "Don't go. Come and sit with me, will 
you?" 
 
North, accustomed now to the name, of sorts, that Viggo has 
given him, settles cross-legged at the edge of the tub and 
watches Viggo inquiringly. When the name first slipped out the 
north man laughed and looked at Viggo as though he might be a 
bit daft, but he answers to it just the same, and doesn't seem to 
mind. After all, Viggo figures, if he won't tell Viggo his real name, 
then he'll have to take what he gets. 
 
Viggo leans back in the tub and closes his eyes. North hasn't had 
his bath yet, and Viggo smiles, "You smell like horses and alfalfa. 
You and Eric were out with Bernard in the brood pasture today." 
He opens his eyes and watches North. "You enjoy that?" 
 
North gives him a smile that tells him that's a silly question, and 
he rests his elbows on his knees, waiting for Viggo to speak his 
mind. 
 
Viggo begins to wash himself. "Let me tell you something about 
the family you've found yourself amongst, young north man. 
You've seen the old scars on Roland. I bought him from the 
sadistic son of our eastern neighbor, Droka. Neither father nor 
son, far as I can tell, knows the difference between gentling a 
horse and beating it into submission." He's piqued North's 
attention now. He can tell by that eyebrow. 
 
"When my sister was a willowy young pain in the neck of about 
sixteen," Viggo continues, "Droka tried to convince our father to 
give her to his son in marriage. Father declined the offer, not 
quite politely, reasoning that Droka's son is unlikely to treat a 
woman any better than he treats his slaves or his horses, which 
is pretty damn poorly. As Droka and his unwanted son departed, 
our mother, a woman of strong opinions, mark you, pitched an 
orange at the back of Droka's head--an impulsive act which did 
not improve neighborly relations, though I point out that Pop, for 
his part, made a half-hearted attempt to stop her." 
 
As Viggo rises from his bath, finger-brushing water from his hair 
North, chuckling at Viggo's bit of family history is ready with his 
towel. Viggo smirks back at him. "Thought that might amuse 
you. See," he says, hardly noticing that North has almost 
completely taken over the task of drying him off, "I want you to 
know, that while we're not exactly a family of clerics or saints, 
we know what's important. We've got room for you here." Viggo 
stops North as he's rubbing the towel over Viggo's back, and 
turns to him. "If you like it here, if you 're not obligated to be 
somewhere else, y'know, with someone else, we've kinda gotten 
used to having you around. You could have a place here. If you 
want to." 
 
North looks a little taken aback, and Viggo worries that he's said 
too much, revealed too much of his own wishes, but then North 
nods, peering at Viggo from under his lashes, and he smiles a 
little, as though he understands--as though it's something to 
think about, and to Viggo that's good enough for now.  
 
 
 
Viggo has spent another restless night, and wakes early, even for 
him. He lies in the waning darkness for a few minutes, staring up 
at the ceiling, then turns to watch North sleep. North's bed is 
empty. Viggo puts down the swell of panic, muttering, "Don't tell 
me he's left again. Not now." Viggo waits for a few moments, but 
when still there's no sign of him, he gets up to search. He walks 
into the kitchen, and from the corner of his eye notices North 
outside in the renovated garden.  
 
Viggo watches curiously through the window as North performs 
what at first seems to be some sort of dance or dawn ritual, until 
Viggo realizes that what he's seeing is martial in its nature. 
North's face is a mask of focus, and Viggo finds the warrior in the 
dance, in the fluidity of motion, water shifting over and under 
itself, the relentless pull and surge of the sea. When North 
suddenly draws his body up with one smooth, even movement to 
balance far back on one foot, Viggo quickly plots out the defense 
in the left arm and the potential strike from the right, and where 
that drawn in left foot will plant itself for the best push. He 
recognizes that odd, electric stillness in the air from when North 
shaved him. The north man lets it loose in a smooth, downward 
sweep and Viggo reaches out, his impulsive hand splayed against 
the cold glass of the window, and he breathes, "Bodyguard." 
 
A diversion, Viggo speculates. Gaius runs one way, finds a haven 
for himself and his family, while the bodyguard goes the other 
direction, and finds himself strung up in a barn, bull-whipped and 
beaten and forced to watch a half-dozen men dismembered, alive 
and shrieking, while his captors threaten him with the same and 
demand to know in which direction the prince has escaped. Shit. 
 
He flees his watch at the kitchen window before North can turn 
and catch him spying, crawling back into bed just as he hears 
North puttering in the kitchen, adding wood to their small iron 
stove. He feels a coward, pretending he didn't see. It's strange, 
not wanting to keep a secret from North, when North has kept 
his entire life a mystery. 
 
 
 
That evening Viggo is sitting on the veranda at the big house 
with Ian and Orlando, waiting for Bernard to get in from the 
acreage where they grow alfalfa. The sun is lowering, supper is 
imminent, and a hungry Orlando is grumbling about their father 
being late, though Karl and Miranda haven't shown up either, 
when a rider tears through the compound, looking for Ian. One of 
the hired hands on the way to the bunk house points him in the 
right direction, and Ian stands to receive the little sealed brass 
tube. He exhorts the young soldier to stay the night, for which he 
is obviously grateful, and Ian sends the dusty and weary rider 
around to the kitchen to be looked after.  
 
Orlando and Viggo wait quietly for Ian to absorb the message, for 
good or ill, while Bernard walks toward them from across the 
yard, raising a small cloud of dust as he slaps his work gloves 
against his thigh. "News?" he assumes. He stands waiting on the 
ground below his elder brother. 
 
Ian takes a deep, slow breath, and says, "Gaius is alive. He's in 
Solon." 
 
"Ah," Bernard accepts. "The senators?" 
 
"With him. All there." 
 
"Good, I suppose. Will he challenge his brothers?" 
 
Ian shakes his head. "No mention." 
 
"Fuck," Bernard mutters. He ascends the steps to the house, 
flicking his gloves agitatedly and says, "We're damned if he does, 
damned if he doesn't. Is it all right if I send someone to David 
and Marton in the morning, let them know?" 
 
Ian nods, "As little use as it is, at least it's something. Droka?" 
 
"Let him get his own bloody news." 
 
--tbc--