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Feraud was mad; there was no other word for it.
Their seconds had long since vanished into the mist that had swallowed the forest where their duel had taken them. Their horses were long gone as well. If they were searching for them, d’Hubert could not say. The mist swallowed sound as well as sight.
He could not even tell how much time had passed. It seemed as if they had spent hours in this forest, slashing at each other like wild animals—stags maddened by the mating season who would attack their rival until strips of skin and blood hung from their antlers, eyes filled with otherworldly madness.
Feraud’s eyes were like that, d’Hubert thought. There was nothing human in them when he appeared out of the white mist like a demon, charging at him with his saber. They were no longer capable of words; all that escaped Feraud’s throat was a roar.
Maybe that was what they were, d’Hubert thought, a mad laugh escaping him in turn as he blocked Feraud’s blade with his own and slashed at him, panting for breath. Maybe they’d long since left the mortal world behind, trapped in a strange forest where all those who dared enter were turned into wild animals, living out the mad passions of humanity for all eternity.
Feraud’s blade grazed his arm, drawing blood. D’Hubert shook himself, the pain returning him to his senses for a brief moment.
Not dead, he thought. Not trapped in a fairytale.
Just trapped in a nightmare with his own personal demon.
Again they lost sight of each other in the mist. D’Hubert could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, the rapid sound of drums beating for a charge. The saber was heavy, his arm weary. This was the only sign by which he could tell the passing of time.
There was a crimson stain on his sleeve, but it had already stopped spreading. Nothing more than a small cut. He must have wounded Feraud too, but the man showed no sign of tiring.
The next time, it was d’Hubert who found Feraud first. He came at him from behind a tree, charging out of the mist. Despite the advantage of surprise, once again their sabres met in the air, d’Hubert’s attack deflected, Feraud’s following counter blocked by him in turn.
They took a step back at the same time, staring at each other. They were both panting for breath.
Should he say something? D’Hubert knew there was no way to break through Feraud’s madness. He had tried before, after all. Right now, when he was weary and in pain, furious that he was driven to this again and again and again, all he could think of was survival—and how satisfying it would be if he could just drive his saber through Feraud’s heart and end this once and for all.
Feraud charged once more. D’Hubert took a step back, raising his saber to block the attack—and then he stumbled, losing his balance as he tripped over a tree root hidden by the mist.
Terror filled him, the drum beat in his ears the cacophony of a battle field. This was where he would die, here on the moss in the mist where no one would ever find him.
He landed, the impact driving the air from his lungs. There was no time to think, only abject terror when Feraud came charging once more out of the mist. It was instinct more than skill than made d’Hubert roll out of the way just in time, and when Feraud followed with an infuriated roar, it was instinct too that made him lash out with his feet to trip Feraud.
This was where his luck left him, for Feraud, when he fell, landed right on top of him.
Once more d’Hubert felt the breath crushed out of him. They grappled with each other for what felt like an eternity. D’Hubert had lost his hold on his saber when he fell, and he realised with sudden shock when long minutes passed and he was still alive, that Feraud must have lost his own weapon as well in the fall.
There was only the wet smell of the damp moss and crushed leaves beneath them and Feraud’s panting breath above him. It was no longer a duel, if it had ever been.
It seemed to d’Hubert then that they were the only two beings left in the world, the only life they knew that of the fight that had played out in this forest again and again, their only thought for survival and their rival’s death.
D’Hubert could see himself, a large-antlered stag with crazed eyes and blood-stained fur, rolling around on the forest floor as it shook its head in fury and tried to slit its rival’s throat with its antlers.
Would he be taken as a trophy after his death? Or would Feraud leave his body in this place, a rotting beast for other wild beasts to feast upon?
Feraud rolled atop him once more, his face a grimace, smeared with sweat and dirt and blood. When he leaned down, strong hands clenched around d’Hubert’s arms, he expected Feraud to rip out his throat with his teeth.
Feraud bit him.
Mouth against mouth, lips against lips, Feraud bit at him, panting against d’Hubert’s bleeding lip as d’Hubert groaned. Then Feraud fell still and shuddered, blood dripping from his lips when he raised his head to look down at d’Hubert.
D’Hubert was silent. Against his thigh, he could feel a hardness. The fight had roused Feraud, so that for a moment, d’Hubert nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Truly, they were no better than two delirious stags driven crazy by the mating season, for all of Feraud’s fine words of honour. There’d never been a reason for this madness other than the animal hunger Feraud carried within himself. In the end, did it matter whether it was one or the other?
Feraud seemed to like what he saw when he looked down at him, his blood-smeared mouth twisting into a grimace that on any other man’s face might have been a smile. Then he reached down to cup d’Hubert through his trousers, and d’Hubert heard himself groan. With sudden shock, he realised that he was just as hard as Feraud.
Again Feraud leaned down, the kiss still half a bite, but d’Hubert found himself welcoming it as Feraud’s hand—rough, calloused, strong—stroked him through it, gripping him as if he were a sword.
A hussar’s caress.
D’Hubert laughed into the kiss, then groaned when Feraud scowled and squeezed him.
“Not to your liking?” Feraud said savagely. “None of your excuses now. You seem to like it well enough.”
D’Hubert did, God knew, but he didn’t bother saying that. Trying to reason with this man was what had brought them to this in the first place.
Instead, Feraud moved to free his own cock. D’Hubert felt himself shivering again when their bodies aligned. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant at all—Feraud was thick and hot, hard like a maddened stag, and when they moved against each other, d’Hubert found himself gasping for breath soon enough.
This time, at least, Feraud was blessedly silent. The only sounds d’Hubert could make out was the sound of their panting and the rustle of the leaves beneath them. He could no longer feel his exhaustion or his wounds, and when Feraud leaned over him once more, it was d’Hubert who wrapped his arm around him and pulled him down, stifling his moans against his mouth.
Then Feraud’s hand wrapped around them both, holding them pressed together as they rutted against each other.
It was d’Hubert who was overcome first. He bit back a groan, shivering in the moss as he spilled himself all over Feraud’s hands, soiling their already battle-stained clothes.
“I win,” he gasped with the last of his strength as his head fell back onto the floor, the loose-limbed lassitude of climax flowing through him, even with the wolf still nipping at his throat.
“You lose,” Feraud said at the same time.
When d’Hubert forced himself to open his eyes with a tired groan, he could see that Feraud was watching him—watching him as he’d always watched him, with the single-minded attention of the wolf on the prowl, eyes sharp and dark with hunger.
Would anything ever sate that hunger? Even his death, d’Hubert thought with sudden clarity, wouldn’t sate it, but he didn’t say that.
Instead, he watched as Feraud stroked himself to release. It took only a few strokes, and then Feraud’s face contorted, his lips twisting, a groan escaping his throat as his body tensed against d’Hubert.
Feraud had angled his cock in such a way that his release fell in hot droplets all over d’Hubert’s chest.
Marking him. Just like a wild animal marking its territory.
Still, d’Hubert didn’t mind. They’d done worse things to each other.
He watched as the furious hunger in Feraud’s eyes died away. Could anything ever extinguish it completely? He doubted it. Still, for the moment, all he could see on Feraud’s face was tiredness and satisfaction. He’d never seen that expression on his face before, d’Hubert realised suddenly, which was strange, given how long they’d known each other.
Feraud rolled off him, slumping by his side.
For a long moment, there was silence. All d’Hubert could hear was the sound of their breathing, panting breaths slowing along with his racing heart.
At long last, d’Hubert became aware of the swaying branches above him. The mist seemed to be receding. He stared at the leaves, too tired to move or think.
Would Feraud get up again and hunt down his saber to continue the duel? Perhaps he’d just keep lying here and let Feraud get it over with.
D’Hubert watched as a branch swayed in the wind that was coming up, driving away more of the mist.
With some surprise, he realised now that the back of Feraud’s hand was touching his. It was a curious touch—curious in that it felt comforting.
Feraud’s skin was warm. There was a light spattering of hair growing on it that d’Hubert could feel against his own skin, soft like down.
The strangest thing of all, perhaps, was that Feraud didn’t pull his hand away.
Above them, the mist kept dispersing. There was a sliver of sky visible now.
D’Hubert kept watching the branches sway in the wind.
Feraud didn’t move.