At a boring party, a young battle mage speaks with a god.
Just some chatter and conversation between Cicero Penllwynog and Loki, with a little from Coshel Fenwick later on. 2.1k.
CW for casual homophobic slurs, used in a reclaimed and affectionate sense
The night was rather dragging on, and as Cicero moved across the room to collect another glass of wine for himself, he glanced to the large clock over the hall, watching the second hand tick slowly about its face.
It wasn’t yet nine-thirty, and he really couldn’t make his excuses until it was at least ten, not without appearing improper, young man that he was and supposedly with a great deal of energy for a soirée, although soirées were not ordinarily so dull as these.
The room was crowded with people, and as this party was in honour of Lord Huxley, a knight of the realm retired from his duties, the guests assembled were somewhat homogenous in their make-up: Cicero saw a great deal of lords and ladies from across Cymru-Loegr, from Alba, from Cernow; he saw a great many human diplomats from here and there; he saw academics and a handful of others…
Of course it was a dull party.
Even the king regent himself, who was throwing it, seemed bored, although Cicero had no idea if he was correct about that — Myrddin Wyllt had been speaking a great deal to his lordship, but he was not, as he usually did, stirring trouble amongst his guests, talking to absolutely everyone. He was downright reclusive, compared to his usual, and seemed to lack the energy to sow his usual seeds of polite and unassuming discord.
There were no angels, almost no fae, no demons — not that Cicero had ever attended a party with demons before, but he imagined it would be suitably dramatic. There was no one, in short, who might be a little provocative and perk up the dullness of the night, and therefore, there was no respite in sight.
He wondered, in a sort of desperate way, if Coshel Fenwick would still be awake when he was finally able to leave the bounds of Camelot’s Palace and go back to his flat near the university. He went to bed unspeakably, disgustingly early, sometimes as early as eight, but Cicero had woken him of an evening with offerings of his body before.
Would Fenwick’s cock make up for the painful boredom of the evening beforehand?
If anything, it would wipe his mind clean.
“What interesting clothes,” remarked another man at the drinks table, and Cicero turned to look at him, feeling his lips ever so slightly part. “Are you expecting a duel?”
“I’m not expecting it, but I’d hardly complain,” said Cicero. “Why, are you thinking to make my night?”
The other man laughed, showing a mouth of charmingly crooked teeth that were slightly sharp at their canines, but it wasn’t vampirism, and nor was it lycanthropy — Cicero had been made to examine this particular face, in various iterations, quite often of late, since delving into his Gods and Deities module this past year.
He was a tall man with thick waves of red hair, and his face was smattered with a selection of freckles and scars, crow’s feet showing at the corners of his eyes and lines about his mouth. His eyes were different colours, grey and green, the both of them bright and sparkling, and as well as the ornaments he wore braided into his hair, he wore more about his neck and hanging from his scarred wrists.
His suit was very finely tailored, dark blue over a crisp shirt almost icy in its colour, and he wore the shirt open, so that when Cicero saw the many talismans hanging about his neck, he saw them resting on his chest; likewise, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow.
“I don’t think so — I’d hate to disturb the party with all our noise.”
“What interesting shoes,” said Cicero, and Loki followed his gaze down to the shoes he wore, basketball boots painted with wolves on their heels, runic inscription very neatly painted around the rims. “Hoping someone might invite you for a run?”
“I’ll make your night if you make mine,” said Loki, waggling bright red eyebrows, and Cicero laughed.
“You’re very kind, but I don’t run for love nor money.”
“I wasn’t offering either,” said Loki, in good humour as he took up a bottle of red wine and poured Cicero a refill of the glass he was holding, before he poured some for himself. “Do demonstrate, young man — what shoes are you wearing?”
Cicero gripped the fabric of his robe skirt at his thigh and lifted it higher, so that he could see Cicero’s boots. They were made of a shining faerie elk leather, studded at their toes with envenomed spikes and with similar ones at the heels that would serve as spurs, although Cicero had taken care to sponge a protective enchantment around both, just in case he tripped or kicked someone by accident.
“At a party and dressed for battle,” said Loki softly. “How I’d be scolded if I followed your lead.”
“I hardly think his majesty would scold you,” said Cicero, and Loki chuckled.
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” he replied, and looked out over the other guests.
Cicero was dressed for battle — his various relatives, dotted around the room, were also dressed in battle robes, although Cicero’s and his siblings and cousins wore more practical outfits than some of their more aged aunts and uncles; the Penllwynogs, no matter that much of their battle magic served private enterprise, were a part of the king’s forces, and they were battle mages before they were nobles.
Cicero’s robes were a deep, rusted red, brown leather straps belting them closed across his waist, from which hung a few items — a knife, some enchantment tools, a spell tome he never used, a pouch of poultices — but these were ceremonial, fanciful things hanging from an equally fanciful chatelaine, inappropriate for a proper battleground.
They looked rather threatening, to the uninitiated, and when the choice was between wearing a chatelaine and carting one’s staff about, the chatelaine was more convenient for a party.
“Are you bored?” asked Loki.
“Terribly,” said Cicero. “I’m so glad it isn’t just me.”
“Are you a Magister or a Mac Aodha?” asked Loki, and Cicero laughed.
“Please, you’ll have to try harder than that to provoke me,” he said smoothly, standing at his side. “I’m a Penllwynog, as I’m sure you know.”
“You came in separately from your family,” said Loki. “You weren’t formally announced, like they were.”
“Well, a man must be fashionably late. How else will people know how charming he is?” asked Cicero, and when Loki chuckled, he went on, “I’m studying at the university, and I’m afraid my lecture ran over.”
“Mm,” hummed Loki thoughtfully. “What is it you’re studying?”
“Rite and Ritual.”
That got his interest, and Cicero feigned almost not to notice as the Lord of Lies turned to regard him with more interest, his crooked mouth curving into a small, interested smile. “Are you a Christian?” he asked, as though the answer promised to be an exotic one.
“I’m an atheist,” said Cicero, and this made him laugh.
“Me too,” he said pleasantly, tone rich with good humour. “Your classes are no doubt dominated by heathens.”
“Mostly,” Cicero admitted. “Hellenists especially, and quite a lot of druids, as you’d expect, but that’s not all. There’s a fair few magical astronomers, some archaeologists and historians — you can take Rite and Ritual as a double honours.”
“How many other battle mages?”
“I’m the only one this year,” said Cicero. “I tend to get lumped in with alchemists — the assumption being that my faculties will be damaged in much the same way as theirs, I expect.”
“They’re probably right,” said Loki. “The alchemists study Rite and Ritual to perform strange experiments, channel too much power through themselves, the better to hone their craft. Isn’t that what you plan to do, Mr Penllwynog, with your battle magic?”
“I do love how my name sounds in your mouth,” said Cicero. “Who knew Welsh sounded so pleasant, in the mouth of a Nord?”
“I’ve tasted your name — why don’t you taste mine?” replied Loki, and Cicero raised his eyebrows.
“Loki?” he asked. “Son of Farbauti, Enemy of the God, Lord of Lies? The Bound God?”
Loki gasped theatrically, laying a scarred hand with painted nails on his bared breast. “And he knows my kennings,” he said, as though to a silent observer over his shoulder. “What a seducer this young man is.”
“Can you blame me?”
“I can’t, but I can refuse you,” said Loki, and dropped his act. “I haven’t the time to seduce you tonight, little mage, but I will note your interest for our future meetings.”
“I’m already mostly seduced,” said Cicero, and Loki chuckled.
“I think you were mostly seduced when you laid eyes on me,” he said, “but nonetheless. Unless a sexual favour might tempt you to worship?”
“I prefer to be worshipped than to worship.”
“Don’t we all?” asked Loki, and raised his glass in a toast. When their glasses clinked against one another, the glass making a soft ring of sound, Cicero could also hear the jingle of the talismans and pendants around Loki’s wrist knocking against one another — he saw different silver pieces there, different runes-marked pieces, little snakes and wolves. “To a departure from boredom, Mr Penllwynog,” he said softly.
“To liberty and freedom, then, Loki,” replied Cicero, and he saw for a moment the paleness around Loki’s eyes. He saw it, realised it, in a way he hadn’t a moment before.
Loki’s face was scarred in various places, but it was strongest around his eyes, the flesh there stained paler, and there were drips of the same acid burns dappled on his forehead and on his cheeks, scattered amongst his freckles so randomly it almost looked natural, unless you knew to look for it. Cicero didn’t apologise for what he’d said, as thoughtless as it might have been, because to apologise would be to admit he realised he might have wounded with it, and that wouldn’t be gentlemanly at all.
Loki’s thin lips curved into a further crescent of a smile, and he gave a neat inclination of his head before he echoed, “To liberty and freedom.”
The taxi brought him not home to his flat, but to the stables, and Cicero didn’t knock, didn’t even light a candle, as he made his way up into Coshel Fenwick’s rooms and began to take his clothes off.
It was Fenwick’s own fault — he didn’t lock his doors, and while he laid enchantments, they were nothing Cicero couldn’t make quick work of, so it was almost as though he had no locks at all.
Fenwick’s great bulk stirred in the bed when Cicero slid under the covers beside him, and he grunted in his sleep, curving one hand about Cicero’s lower back and dragging him closer.
“You smell like wine,” he muttered. “Thought you were out with your fucking fag friends. You drink wine for that?”
“I wasn’t out with my fag friends, I’m afraid,” said Cicero, stroking his fingers through the thick, silken tresses of Fenwick’s hair and smiling at the way it made him further relax, his face dropping against Cicero’s chest. “I was invited to a party that was rather painfully devoid of faggotry, such that I suffered a great deal of boredom.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Fenwick sarcastically.
“I might have insulted a god, I think,” said Cicero.
“Of course you did,” said Fenwick.
“I hope he didn’t take it that way.”
“He didn’t smite you.”
“No, I don’t know that he’s the smiting type — and I believe sex is on the table, if we meet again.”
“Christ alive, lad, shut the fuck up,” said Fenwick, and Cicero sighed dramatically, arching his back off the bed and pressing his pecs more into Fenwick’s almost-sleeping face.
“I’ll shut up if you fuck me,” he said enticingly, and Fenwick grumbled wordlessly.
“Last call was an hour ago,” he said after this grumbling had gone on for a few moments. “Wake up when I do, and I’ll fuck you then.”
“And what time is that supposed to be?” asked Cicero scathingly. “Five in the morning?”
“Four-thirty,” said Fenwick. “I’ll be your alarm cock.”
“… I hope you don’t think that’s funny,” said Cicero, as coldly as he could, and Fenwick rolled onto his back, pulling Cicero on top of him — he was a very fine mattress, warm and hairy and surprisingly comforting as he was, and Cicero made no attempt to pull away.
That night, Cicero dreamt that his arms were bound in chains, a snake hanging over his head with its fangs dripping, their white surface glistening with thick, green poison —
He woke, mercifully, before it could drip into his eyes, and before he could think too much about it, Fenwick commenced his typical habit of fucking Cicero’s brains somewhere into the nether dimensions.
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