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Young Fréalaf was meant to be a lookout while Héra and Wulf practiced fighting in the woods, so he was there when Wulf was brought in to be looked at by the healers, his skin still bleeding from where Héra had struck him. Wulf was trying to pretend it wasn’t as bad as it was, and certainly he’d live, but it clearly hurt, too. And he’d nearly lost his eye.
Freca of course heard about it quickly as well, and was there to demand answers: what fool with a death wish had attacked his only son? Freca was tall, angry, and big, and intimidated anyone else around him.
Wulf, still being fussed over by the healers, claimed it was a training accident, and that he’d been careless.
He really does love Héra, Fréalaf thought from where he watched from the corner of the healer hut. Héra and Wulf had known each other since near birth, it wasn’t surprising. But Héra was not here to help.
Freca was not the most forgiving. His son was meant to be the strongest warrior. How could he get himself injured while training? And his concern, such as it was, melted away quite quickly to anger. After all, he’d been drinking, too.
Fréalaf didn’t leave, but he didn’t intervene either, not sure what to do. It wasn’t like his own parents were around to help, and Helm would not intervene in the affairs of someone else’s child rearing, particularly given Héra had caused the problem in the first place. Though it was not Héra who was striking Wulf and mocking him now, while the other adults cowered from Freca’s rage.
Fréalaf just wished he, himself, wasn’t so weak and pathetic: he’d been meant to keep watch for the two fighters, but Héra had injured Wulf before anyone else could even bother them, or before Fréalaf could try to intervene. Fréalaf hoped one day that would change, and he could protect Héra and Wulf from his own mistakes and men like Freca, though Héra kept racing far ahead of him. He wasn’t sure what he could protect her from, really.
And he certainly wasn’t protecting Wulf.
After Freca was done and departed, likely for more wine, Fréalaf grabbed a cloth to help Wulf clean off his face as the healers stepped aside, and knew he’d done worse than fail to protect them.
“Go away, Fréalaf,” Wulf ordered him sullenly. His face was a bloodier mess now, worse than Héra’s cut. There were tears in his eyes.
“But your injuries—!”
“Leave me!” Wulf barked, annoyed. “My father won’t be pleased if he comes back to find you here.” He was clearly angry.
Fréalaf didn’t want to bother Wulf even more, and certainly wasn’t a healer himself, so he simply bowed his head and ran away. When Héra questioned him about Wulf’s condition, Fréalaf gave her a shrug: certainly Wulf was alive, but well? He didn’t know. And he didn’t want to get Héra into more trouble, as she likely would if she went and confronted Freca or something.
Really, he didn’t know what to do with either of them. But they were his life, and he dedicated himself to supporting them. As Helm often told him, that was what he was meant to do.
Many years later, Freca’s group arrived in Edoras and set everyone talking. What did Freca want to discuss? What was he demanding? There had been peace among their people for so long, but this move by Freca seemed a bit too pushy.
Fréalaf was wary of course, but it wasn’t like Wulf had told him much: just that Freca was impatient and raring for a fight. Of course, Wulf had then pulled Fréalaf aside to his rooms, where they could be alone, and almost before the wooden door had closed had pressed Fréalaf to the wall for a kiss.
Fréalaf shut his eyes and reached under Wulf’s fur cloak, pulling the other man’s muscular body close. He could feel the way Wulf reached out for the buckles of his robes, and Fréalaf chuckled at Wulf’s impatience. “You kiss like a desperate man.”
“You make me desperate,” Wulf muttered as he tugged Fréalaf’s robes apart. “And we have little time. My father means to settle business while we’re here.”
“What business?” Fréalaf asked as he let Wulf pull his own robes aside. It was a little cold in the rooms, but their body heat pressed together kept them warm. He reached out and tugged Wulf’s clothes open, pressing fingers to hot, familiar skin and leaning forward to plant kisses to Wulf’s neck. When Héra had been busy on adventures she refused to take company, let alone a bodyguard, on, Fréalaf had sometimes been left behind with Wulf, and, well… they got to playing around. As they got older, the play changed.
They’d been barely eighteen when Wulf had come to visit Fréalaf, scared, because one of his father’s men had insisted Wulf come with them to visit prostitutes. Wulf hadn’t liked that: he felt like he was cheating on Héra, even if they weren’t yet a couple. But the older man had been insistent. Wulf had made excuses and practically fled, and he worried his father would hear of it and have thoughts about it. Bad ones. He was never kind to his only son.
Fréalaf had let Wulf sleep in his rooms, and comforted him, saying they could talk to Freca together if Wulf wished. He was glad that Wulf felt safe enough to go to Fréalaf for protection, even if Fréalaf was unsure how much he could guard against Freca. He’d been training for years to grow stronger, but how strong? Freca was larger and powerful, and Helm would not support Fréalaf against him.
But Fréalaf tried all the same. For Wulf.
Wulf hugged him, and asked if Helm had ever demanded such things of Fréalaf.
Fréalaf laughed at the idea and said that Helm had never done such a thing, though he encouraged Fréalaf to consider whom he might marry one day. Fréalaf couldn’t decide on such matters. No one stood out to him. His eyes were too focused elsewhere.
“My father means for me to marry Héra,” Wulf had said then, quietly, even a bit scared. “I think, anyway. And I worry, Fréalaf.”
Fréalaf reached out and held Wulf’s head in his hands, brushing fingers through Wulf’s soft, dark hair, before kissing his cheek, simply looking for comfort. In the quiet of Fréalaf’s rooms, no one would bother them for their actions. The servants left them alone and Freca and Helm certainly couldn’t see them.
Wulf turned his head for a kiss on the lips. And when Fréalaf looked at him in surprise, Wulf gazed back in Fréalaf in equal surprise, and some fear, which Fréalaf realized was fear of rejection.
Fréalaf didn’t realize he could hold such power.
“I… I wish to see what it’s like, Fréalaf,” Wulf said to Fréalaf’s unasked question. “And you are handsome, and…” There was want in his voice. A desperation. Wulf always wanted so much more than they could have.
So did they both.
Fréalaf leaned into another kiss, pulling Wulf down onto the bed with him. They hadn’t left before morning came, even with their untrained fumbling and youthful desperation.
Over the years, they’d stolen moments here and there. Moments when Héra and Freca were busy. Moments in the woods, in the fields where only birds could find them. Moments with hot lips and desperate hands. Two young men with difficult destinies and demanding paternal figures in their lives.
Fréalaf felt that Olwyn knew, but she said nothing, and didn’t tell Héra, Helm, or Freca, at least.
As the older Wulf pressed Fréalaf onto his bed now and reached between Fréalaf’s legs, Fréalaf felt he didn’t care who knew. He just wanted and wanted. He wasn’t allowed to want much: he had to look after his cousin, to be a good nephew to Helm, and a good vassal of sorts to Haleth and Hama. His role was to serve. And he didn’t mind it, just as he didn’t mind the way Wulf’s fingers pressed inside of him, digging and finding familiar pleasure.
Fréalaf liked this, though. He liked the needy way Wulf devoured his lips and pressed his fingers deeper inside Fréalaf’s body. The murmured half-intelligible pleas from Wulf’s throat, as if Fréalaf might somehow deny him after their years together. Fréalaf wasn’t some spare to Wulf: he was the only person Wulf felt truly comfortable with. Not Héra, who always had better things to do, not Freca, who was never satisfied. Fréalaf only saw Wulf, and Wulf only saw Fréalaf.
When Wulf’s cock replaced his fingers, pressing inside Fréalaf’s entrance, Fréalaf groaned against Wulf’s lips. The bed with its old furs and carved wood creaked beneath Wulf’s thrusts inside Fréalaf’s body, and the air was hot and stank of sweat. Wulf’s hand went to Fréalaf’s cock, stroking it in a way that was so familiar, after years of practice. He knew just how Fréalaf liked it, and could tease him, even, drawing out release to the sharpest edge. Not in a cruel way, but in a way that would have Fréalaf moaning in the most pleasure.
Once, years ago, Wulf had said he would take Fréalaf as his own if he could. They could adopt a child to take over Freca’s line. After all, no one wanted children of Wulf, given his mother’s family. And Fréalaf had held him close and said not to say such things. That Wulf came from a heritage of warriors. That his mother had been strong, too.
“Will you have children one day, then?” Wulf had asked as they lay in bed together under the moonlight, naked under the furs, pressed body to body, their skin covered in kisses and bites, and in Wulf’s case, lines where Fréalaf’s nails had dug into Wulf’s back a little. “Will you remember me when you do? Or forget?”
“How could I forget you?” Fréalaf demanded, before pulling Wulf into another kiss. He couldn’t imagine a life without Wulf in it. And he couldn’t imagine having to leave his world with Wulf and Héra behind. Haleth and Hama would carry on their line, and Héra would likely go to Gondor. Fréalaf would make his own way, to a degree, supporting them all.
And he wanted to be by Wulf’s side when he could.
Wulf pushed his hand up under Fréalaf’s left thigh now, pressing it back towards Fréalaf’s chest so he could grind his cock deeper, sending sparks of pleasure through Fréalaf’s body every time he struck some deep spot in Fréalaf’s body.
“I don’t care what my father wants here,” Wulf said as he breathed heavily while thrusting. “But I do appreciate the excuse to see you before the meeting.”
Fréalaf chuckled around a moan and pressed back against each thrust, wanting Wulf deep inside him. “Good. I’d hate it if you avoided me.”
“Never,” Wulf said as he leaned in for another kiss. It pressed his cock even deeper, making Fréalaf groan. When Wulf squeezed Fréalaf’s cock, Fréalaf came hard in the other man’s hand, spilling over them both.
“I’m not done with you yet,” Wulf muttered as he pulled back to almost come out and then fell forward, coring deep inside Fréalaf’s body. “I haven’t come yet. And if I have to stand there and listen to those blathering old fools for some time, it’s going to be while knowing my seed is coating your insides as you stand there being as annoyed as I am.”
Fréalaf couldn’t say he would be as annoyed as Wulf was, but he didn’t mind having the reminder. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone to a meeting with the remnants of Wulf left on him. He’d barely hidden a hickey in one particular place once, which Olwyn had most definitely seen and said nothing of. Fréalaf just hoped everyone assumed it was anyone else, and not the handsome man with dark hair riding back home.
Fréalaf was already hard again when Wulf came, burying himself deep and spilling until Fréalaf’s insides were practically bursting.
“I’m glad no one else sees this blissed out expression on your face,” Wulf said with a smirk. “that it is mine alone.” He looked a conqueror then, as if Fréalaf was someone worth owning.
“I as well,” Fréalaf said with a smile, loving the exultant, covetous look on Wulf’s face. The yearning there. And it was all Fréalaf’s. He reached out and cupped Wulf’s handsome face, stroking the old scar Fréalaf hadn’t done anything for. Feeling the weight of years before and behind them. As they grew older, such things were more precious, and he meant to make the most of them. “Now if you don’t hurry up and come again, Lief will likely be sent to fetch us before you do.”
Wulf chuckled and said, “Ever the romantic, eh?” He stole another kiss before murmuring, “Turn over, then, so I can squeeze your ass as I go.”
Fréalaf snorted and moved to obey, looking forward to it.