A handsome smile twitched under the point of that mask.

He knows who I am, Esra realised fearfully. He has heard that name before.

“So, you are his son,” the knight pondered, almost to himself. He moved Esra’s hand away from his body, looked him up and down, like he was measuring him. “You look nothing alike, except for the colouring, maybe.”

Many had made this observation before, but Esra had never felt the difference so keenly until now. As much as he longed to be his father’s son, he was more like his mother, in both looks and disposition: gentle-hearted and frail. Or so he had heard. He had no memory of her.

“Your father greatly feared me knowing of you,” the knight continued. “Suppose he thinks you a delicate thing. Once Captain Pierce found out about you, he spoke of bringing you in to torment your father. It was that threat against you that broke him in the end.”

He said it so matter-of-fact, that breaking a man as strong-willed and proud as his father was just another day’s work for him. What had they done to him? Esra swayed a little where he stood, anchored only by that hand, the room seeming to spin.

The knight was still appraising him, gloved thumb brushing over Esra’s thin fingers thoughtfully. Esra had the sensation of a great strength, gently applied.

“You do not look much of a sailor.”

Esra flushed at this on-sight recognition of his failings.

It was an accurate enough assumption. Esra had never been able to keep up with the sailors, nor was he a strong swimmer. His whole life he had endeavoured to be strong, but was hindered by the fact that his throat seemed to close up whenever he exerted himself too much, leaving him helpless and wheezing as he struggled to breathe. No healer he’d met had been able to help. He’d be more hindrance than help at sea, all had decided.

“More of a scholarly type, then?” the knight guessed. “Can you read? Write?”

Esra shook his head. He knew very few people who were literate.

The knight smiled gently at him. “Tell me then, what can you do?”

“I mend things, Sir Knight,” Esra said, his mouth dry with fear. “I... darn the sails of my father's ships so they can…”

“So your father can ferry traitors to the enemy,” the knight interrupted, “and escape Balor's justice.”

Esra hung his head, terrified. “Are you…” dread lodged in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Haven't decided yet.” He released Esra’s hand, and pulled his parchment close again. “Pour me more of that wine, then get me some dinner.”

Shaking, Esra obeyed.

* * *

Esra walked through the remains of his familiar little village as if moving through a dream.

Dark smoke streaked the night sky, blotting out the stars. The bonfires blazed all around him, casting everything with an orange light. Strange shadows flickered on familiar buildings, rendering them unrecognisable. And on the outer perimeter, where Esra did not dare look, the bodies were staked. Just knowing that they were there was almost as bad as seeing them.

He passed the men’s sleeping hut. Normally, at this time, everyone would be settling in for the night, readying themselves for sleep. Now, the hut stood as it always did, but it was empty. All of its occupants were either captured or dead.

There were no other villagers, Esra realised, a cold fear twisting in his gut. He could not even see any of his fellow harmless captives anymore, and dreaded to think what that could mean.

There were plenty of soldiers. The men of Balor’s Fist sat around the bonfires, drinking, laughing, making merry. And eating. They had slaughtered some of the village livestock for fresh meat, and seemed to be feasting on a hearty stew.

Esra would have to approach them, if he was meant to fetch the knight’s dinner.

He was trying to gather up the courage to walk towards them when he was grabbed, and pulled against an armored chest.

The soldier’s hand drunkenly mapped the shape of Esra’s trim waist, breath heavy with ale. “What big eyes you have,” he slurred, and Esra shrank back with a whimper.

There would be no aid, Esra thought wildly. No one would come to save him, not this time. And if he screamed, it might only make it worse...

“Please,” Esra begged, “I... have to get food for the knight. He’ll be waiting for my return…”

“Well, I'm hungry too,” muttered the soldier, grinning as his eyes licked over Esra’s struggling figure. “In more than one way…”

Esra tried to pull away, but the man’s grip had a careless drunken strength.

Then, there was a thud, and the man wailed.

“Red, you fucking drunk!” snarled an authoritative voice. “What do you think you’re doing?” Esra recognised him from the town hall.

“Captain Pierce!” moaned the soldier. He dropped Esra as if he’d been burnt, and rubbed his ear where he had just been hit.

“Lay your hands on him if you want Balor’s knight to slice them off, you fucking moron,” Captain Pierce hissed. He jerked his head to the side. “Now, get out of here.”

The soldier scarpered. Esra wrapped his arms around himself, unsure what was expected of him. Captain Pierce glared just as fiercely at Esra.

“They’ve stew at the bonfire,” he said shortly, and waited for Esra to go.

Esra was quick to follow the order. The soldiers that had been seated around the fire turned out to not bother him much at all; perhaps they had been paying attention and did not wish to incur the captain’s wrath.

“For the knight?” asked the young soldier lazily stirring the cauldron over the fire. Esra nodded, and got an extra large helping of meat. He carried the stew back carefully, more wary of spilling the knight’s dinner than of burning his hands. He had to use his back to swing open the door to the town hall.

The knight set aside his writings as Esra walked in. “Took your time.”

“Sorry, sir,” murmured Esra apologetically, and served the knight his dinner where he sat at the head of the table. He felt the heavy gaze on him, watching him.

“The soldiers gave you trouble.”

It wasn’t a question. Esra just bowed his head.

The knight sighed. “Hungry?”

Esra couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, but he found he had no appetite. The cooked-blood smell of meat was turning his stomach.

“Not really,” he replied.

“Sit with me anyway.” The knight gestured at the seat to his right, and when Esra nervously obeyed, pushed one of the abandoned cups over to him, filling it to the brim from the carafe. “And drink that wine.”

* * *

Esra did not normally drink, and the rich red wine was heady. His thoughts began to buzz, and the darkened room seemed fuzzier, warmer. His towering companion ate in silence, no longer drinking, instead gesturing for Esra to pour himself more each time his cup threatened to run dry. It was rather something, Esra thought drunkenly, to be able to watch him eat normal food, like any other mortal man.

He froze when he realised that the gleaming black knight was looking at him, unmoving.

“Sir?” he asked, voice trembling.

The knight considered him very, very carefully.

I’m going to die, Esra thought, mind blurred. No. He has already killed me. I’m already dead.

“Let down your hair,” ordered the knight, voice soft.

Esra quaked in his seat. He obeyed, of course, fingers fumbling as he untied the cord. His inky hair spilled over his shoulders, slipped down his back, stark in contrast against his white linen tunic. The knight still wasn't moving, just watching him for long moments. Then he reached out and took the wine carafe, filling Esra's cup right to the top.

“Drink all of it.”

Esra tried to drink it quickly, to be good, but the drying tannins of the heady wine on the back of his tongue and throat slowed him. The knight watched him in stillness, watched the struggle of his throat, how his eyes winced. He smiled a little when Esra finished, clumsily setting the empty cup back on the table.

“Aren’t you good,” he remarked, his voice more velvet, as Esra swayed before him. And he reached up one of his elegant long hands and removed his helm-like mask.

Esra gasped a little. It slipped out of him, and he was too drunk to be subtle. The knight was beautiful, with strong, sleek features that were so, perfect, in their masculine proportions, their startling symmetry, that he almost didn’t look real. His eyes were dark and predatory, a fierce grey that put Esra in mind of the smoke that had billowed from the bonfires.

Those eyes latched onto his, and Esra realised he was staring. He ducked his head, face red, begging an apology, but there was no rebuke. The knight reached out and deftly raised his chin, so that their eyes met again.

That mask had been a blessing, Esra realised, to all who looked upon the knight, shielding them from that piercing gaze that razed over him now from head to toe.

The youth tried not to stare so... openly, at that raw beauty, but it was hopeless. From the moment he’d laid eyes on the knight, he knew in his heart that he would never really be able to look away.

He didn’t move when the fingers left his chin, keeping his face upturned. The hand dusted thoughtfully down his slim neck and Esra sat, but for his shallow breaths and the slight sway of his wine-drunk body, motionless, for fear of being strangled.

But the knight had other designs. With a neat tug, he undid the twine bow at the base of Esra’s throat, then pulled at the fabric so that the youth’s tunic loosened, now slightly open from neck to mid-chest. The knight considered this newly exposed skin in silence, while Esra's breath quickened.

“You are afraid of me,” the knight observed quietly.

“Everyone is afraid of you,” Esra replied, the wine emboldening his tongue. “I would be stupid if I were different.”

The knight’s dangerous smile devastated something deep within him. “Ah,” he murmured, easing in, until he was so intimately close that he took up all of Esra’s vision. “But you are different, aren’t you.”

Another non-question, thought Esra, his eyes blurring wetly. He felt leather cup his cheek, hot breath on his skin. Fearful, he raised his hands to the knight’s broad chest, but he did not push. He simply hovered there, on the edge of resistance, and surrender.

The knight cradled his jaw in one large gloved hand so very gently, and caught Esra’s mouth against his own. Expertly, he stole the youth’s first kiss.

Esra’s eyes flickered shut.

The knights’ mouth was warm on his, coaxing, melting into his own. He tasted of wine and spices. His scent was smoke, and leather. Esra, intoxicated, clung to the unyielding black steel that shrouded the powerful body, as he got caught up in the slide of soft lips and slick tongue.

He had never been kissed before; he hadn’t known it was a thing he could want. A man kissing another man should be wrong, a small voice in the back of his mind told him. Bad for the body and soul. And that a Knight of the Order, sworn to deliver Balor’s justice, would break such a law was shocking to him.

But he supposed that, as a non-believer, a traitor, he was no longer quite considered person under the law anymore. Besides, he’d never been much of a man anyway. Everyone could tell. Everyone had always been able to tell.

He gasped when the knight pulled away from him, and covered his lips in an attempt at modesty, but the knight just patiently moved his hands aside so that he could look at Esra's flushed face. He looked intently at the youth’s reddened mouth, his wine-blurred eyes, and that strip of exposed skin rising and falling with every soft panting breath.

“What is your name?” Esra asked, voice small, as the knight watched his lips.

The knight’s smoky eyes flicked up to meet his. “Umbra.”