Rescue

By Blue Sapphire

Thomas De’Valware is a self-appointed superhero. Blessed, or should that be cursed, with immortality, he walks through the city helping those in need. But what about his needs? Who takes care of those? Does he even have needs anymore? It’s been so long since he last touched or was touched that he wonders if that part of his life ended when that woman cast her spell.

As if to answer once and for all those questions, into his unique life walks Daniel. Another life for him to save. Another good deed done in hopes of reversing his curse. But is the young man just another means to an end or is he salvation for a man burdened by loneliness and guilt?

Daniel has his own burdens though. There is darkness in his past and monsters seeking him.

But his monsters and those in De’Valware’s own distant past share similarities and may in fact be one and the same.

Has fate brought them together so that Thomas may finally defeat the dragon and Daniel be freed of the darkness haunting his dreams?

De’Valware was never much of a believer in destiny but he is drawn to Daniel in a way he’s never been drawn to anyone else ever.

He takes him into his home. He takes him into his bed. He takes him into his heart: the heart he had begun to doubt he still possessed.

But even the heart of an immortal can be wounded. Who will prove the bigger threat to Thomas: the dragon stirring in his lair or the troubled young man sleeping by his side?

Rescue is a m/m erotic fantasy with dark themes running through it: monsters, magic, murder. The dragon lies coiled up, sleeping, waiting for his acolyte to wake him with a sacrifice of blood. Will that blood be Daniel’s or does Thomas have the strength to protect him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yvonne C.
• Release date: Jun 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310720208

Blue Sapphire

Blue Sapphire is the pen name of English author, Yvonne Carsley. It is the name she uses when writing m/m erotic fiction.

Book preview

RESCUE

Blue Sapphire

Rescue

Ebook (Smashwords Edition)

Written by Blue Sapphire

Published by Yvonne Carsley

Copyright © Blue Sapphire 2015. All rights reserved.

The rights of Blue Sapphire to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Warning: This work is not suitable reading material for the under eighteen’s and/or those who find descriptions of homosexual acts offensive.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

It was…disheartening was the only word he could think of. He pulled his coat tighter around his shuddering body (hating the wintry weather with its merciless winds and flesh-numbing rain) and wondered why he even bothered.

He smiled grimly, knowing full well why he bothered; because he had to. He was a hero.

He was a superhero.

He smiled again. There was no joy in the expression.

Yes, a superhero. He had all the qualifications and the outfit; for him that was black from head to toe with a black mask covering the top portion of his face. His trousers were light to enable ease of movement and minimise chafing. He did a lot of running and jumping. A tougher material might have prevented the numerous scrapes and scratches he received on his nightly treks through the city but if a superhero couldn’t handle a few scrapes he had no business calling himself that. Besides, it wasn’t as though he needed to worry about scrapes and scratches. He healed swiftly enough.

He smiled again, the expression growing thinner and colder.

Oh yes, he healed quickly, he thought bitterly. The curse was generous in that regard.

He glanced down at his shoes and tried to calm his deepening rage. Good shoes, tough, hard-wearing, good thick soles. They had pounded a lot of turf.

He rubbed absently at his chest. Bruises ran in ugly clumps of purple and red down the left side of it but the pain was already easing. The jumper was dry beneath his palm. Bruises but no cuts. Good. He healed but his clothes did not. He was running low on jumpers and would have to make a trip to his tailor before the week was out.

He would soon have to find a new tailor. He had been visiting O’Reilly’s for many years now and the old man was starting to give him funny looks. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? How many tailors could serve the same customer for more than thirty years and not notice he did not age as they did? At first his talk of regular moisturising had satisfied the curious old man but now he was giving him those funny looks; speculative, curious but tinged with a touch of…fear?

He smiled again, this time grinning like a shark, white teeth flashing in the light. They were good teeth, straight and strong. They were human teeth. No fangs noticeable. He was no vampire, though he was ageless.

He’d thought of telling O’Reilly that he was no monster to be afraid of (but was that entirely true?). He wasn’t a blood-sucking creature of the night (though he did have cause to travel only when the sun was down). He’d thought of trying to ease the old man’s obvious concern but what was he to say that would so do?

Not to worry, my good friend, I’m just an ageless immortal cursed to walk this world doing good deeds in order to atone for the terrible things I did when I was mortal like you. I cannot be killed though I can be harmed, but my wounds heal with frightening swiftness that not even a shotgun blast at close range can put me down. I am over two thousand years old and have had time to feel angry at being cursed, then hopeful of lifting it, but now dispirited and doubtful. I’ve walked the paths of many cities. I have saved lives and possibly souls. I’ve done more good deeds than Florence Nightingale, Mother Theresa, Gandhi and Geldof put together, and still I am cursed. My anger deepens with each passing day (or in my case night). I see so many terrible sights on my travels. So many people in need of help. So many people doing so many wicked things (things I’m sure more terrible than anything I ever did; or do I deceive myself there?). I do what I can but it’s not enough. It’s never enough! I despair of this world. I look around and can’t help but think that perhaps God had the right idea when he sent his Great Flood (if only he’d had the courage to see it through completely). Sometimes I think it would be better if the world burned and mankind followed the fate of the dinosaur. And it could be done. I know how. I could do it.

The smile finally vanished from his face.

Somehow he didn’t think old man O’Reilly would be at all comforted by these words. He’d probably prefer that he be a vampire.

He sighed.

He’d miss the old man. No one could make clothes quite like him. The jumper enclosed his torso like a glove encasing a hand. The material followed the lines and curves of his body perfectly, flowing over hard pectoral and tough abdominal muscles, and caressing his broad shoulders and strong back.

When the curse had come over him he’d been thirty two years old. Not old enough to have developed deep wrinkles on his face or grey hairs on his head – though there was a streak of white running through the rest of his midnight-black hair, which had been shoulder-length at the time of his change. He cut it short in the modern soldier’s fashion so that it didn’t hang in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision. It grew out within hours so that cutting it was a constant part of his morning (or in his case nightly) routine.

The white in his hair had appeared during his seventeenth year as a mortal and he did not dwell on the reason why.

He paused briefly to stare at his reflection in a puddle.

He ran a hand over his face, briefly touching the mask, thinking to remove it but deciding not to until he was home. He did not fear to be unmasked. It wasn’t as though he was a mild-mannered businessman by day and a superhero at night. By day he was…nothing. Being unmasked was not a fear he had but he nevertheless enjoyed the anonymity of the mask. It reminded him (as if he needed reminding) that he was different to others. He was separate and should remain so. He did not get involved. He saved lives but he didn’t stay for tea and biscuits afterwards.

What was the point in getting involved? He couldn’t have a relationship with any of the people he met on his travels. It would only end in heartbreak as he stayed young and vital while they grew old, withered and died.

And even if he chose to involve himself with another what sort of life could they have when by night he was too busy, caught up in his seemingly futile efforts to rid himself of the curse, and by day he was…nothing?

He gazed again at his reflection in the water; young enough not to have developed wrinkles but old enough to have lost his boyish demeanour – old enough to have seen something of life, old enough to have had experiences; some good, some bad.

It was the latter that concerned him now.

Some of that bad had been done to him but the rest of it he had done to others. He hadn’t thought of himself as so very wicked, though he had known he was very far from angelic, but someone else had decided otherwise.

Now he was whatever they had made him: an immortal, inhuman…a monster?

He couldn’t decide about that.

He sighed again and moved on, heading home. No more rescuing this night. The damsels and the despairing would just have to save themselves. He was tired of their need. It never ended. How many lives was he to save before his penance was done? How many had he saved in the two millennia since the curse had come over him: hundreds, thousands? When would it be enough? How long would he have to keep doing this; till the stars burned out?!

He shook his head fiercely. No more! He was tired; maybe not in body (that would never tire) but most assuredly in his soul. He was weary of heart (did he even have one; he wasn’t sure).

Save yourselves, he growled softly to the night. Why must it always be me?

He turned a corner and heaved a sigh as the bridge came into view. He always did. It was the halfway point for him; halfway between his home and the rest of the world. Once he crossed that bridge it meant he had given up work for the night and was on his way to a well-earned rest.

Others might look forward to a nice hot supper after a hard day’s work. A hot supper, maybe a glass of wine and perhaps an hour or two in front of the fire or television.

He had no television. His eye would turn helplessly to the news programmes and their relentless revelations (wars, murders, rapes, famines, natural disasters; the list was endless) would fill him full of misery. So he had got rid of the foul contraption. He knew the world was full of horrors. He didn’t need his home to be bombarded daily with all the gory details.

The fire was much better. A cheery, toasty log fire (he hated the gas or electric ones; they had no soul). He enjoyed sitting in his chair, warming his feet (though warming was illusionary for he never got cold, or not for very long). He could not look forward to a tasty supper and glass of wine; he no longer ate or drank (his body neither needed or wanted such sustenance) but he could still enjoy sitting and reading or perhaps listening to some music. Most of the modern contraptions he avoided with a shuddering horror but the music machines he liked: the gramophone, the record player, the stereo, Walkman and now the MP3 Player he had used and enjoyed.

What was wrong with people? They were capable of creating such beauty as music (be it classical or pop), music that moved the body as well as the soul, but it didn’t stop them from devoting most of their time to developing new and interesting ways of destroying one another.

His grim smile returned.

Had he not himself once been a soldier? Had he not favoured the adventure of battle over sitting in the music halls and listening to the latest tunes being favoured by the masses? Had he not once failed to notice the beauty of just standing still to listen?

He had gone to war. He had killed. He had watched blood flow like a river.

He chastised the mortals of today’s modern world for failing to notice what he had failed to. In fairness it had taken him centuries to realise that man’s priorities were completely skewed. If everyone had as much time as he perhaps they would see it too but human, mortal, life was so very brief. It had been when he had been mortal. In his day a man was considered an ancient if he lived to be fifty. These days many people lived well into their seventies and some beyond but it still wasn’t enough time.

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

He could do nothing about the lack of time mortals had. He could only hope and pray they would one day wise up to their situation, and then maybe his work would be done.

The problem was that his hope was fading and he had never really been one much for praying.

Forget them. They would never learn. They didn’t want to. So why should he keep bothering with them?

It was time to go home and perhaps this time he would close up all the doors and windows and never leave.

Save yourselves, he muttered again.

His feet finally stepped onto the bridge. When he reached the centre of it he’d take a moment (as he always did) to lean over the wall and take a breath of the river air. It was a strange ritual he had developed over the past few hundred years; he marked the passage of time and progress by the water’s smell.

On first coming to live in the city the river had been heavy and cloying with the stink of overflowing sewers, rot, decay, death and disease. It had not been unusual to see bodies floating in it: some suicides; others murdered. Over time the waters had been cleaned, sewers renewed and improved. There were fewer suicides, still the occasional murder victim, but the river was no longer rank with smells.

He strolled along the bridge, enjoying the feel of cobbles beneath his boots (there were few bridges left that were cobbled; fewer cobbled roads too). Everything was tarmac and concrete these days (efficient but like many things in this modern world somehow devoid of soul).

The bridge was a long one and not well lit, which was why he did not at first see the young man.

He was stood in the very spot where he liked to stand.

He halted, momentarily surprised and a little irritated to find someone usurping his special place. He chastised himself sternly for the mean thought, brief though it was. He did not own the bridge. It was a public right of way. Anyone could use it, and did, though never before had he come across anyone using it at this time of the night. Morning, he corrected himself. It was nearly four a.m. What fool was walking out and about in the city at this god-forsaken hour? Apart from his fool self?

He pursed his lips and walked on, hoping the stranger wouldn’t turn and speak to him. Saving lives was his business, not chatting. He was no good at small talk and didn’t want to get involved in any deep conversation. Just keep walking, he told himself firmly. Don’t look at the guy. Don’t make eye contact and everything will be okay.

Eye contact didn’t seem to be anything he needed to worry about. The young man didn’t turn though surely he must have heard his approach? He was still stood in the same position, facing the water, leaning against the wall, elbows resting on it. He seemed relaxed, his manner casual, as though he was just taking in the sights.

As he passed by he took a minute to look the stranger up and down.

The young man (early twenties he surmised) was slim (like so many young men these days; was it some sort of fad?) but not scrawny. He was of medium height, very pale (ill maybe or was he cultivating that pale but interesting look: or perhaps he was cultivating a drug habit; it seemed to be quite a problem in this modern century). His hair was dark and hung down past his ears. He wore jeans tightly moulded to his form, trainers (the laces neatly tied) and a waist length jacket (leather?) zipped all the way up to his throat.

He turned slightly as he passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man’s face (curious despite his desire not to get involved with mortals) but the stranger did not turn or acknowledge his presence. He felt slightly offended. It was not everyday that a masked man sauntered by. Couldn’t the guy see him? Was he blind?

He entertained the notion for a moment when suddenly the man turned and fixed him with a gaze that lasted a long five seconds. Then he turned back to the wall, suddenly clambered up onto it and leapt!

He stood, stunned, not moving until he heard the splash. Then he raced to the wall and leaned over it.

There were ripples spreading out from the spot where the young man had entered the water; entered and showed no sign of exiting.

What the hell?!

The thought flashed through his mind (he thought he’d lost the ability to be surprised after all these years but apparently not) then he vaulted over the wall and dropped down into the chilly water.

He dived down and down, having no fear of drowning (he didn’t need to breathe) and felt around (superhero he might be but seeing in the dark was not one of his powers). He had developed a sort of sixth sense over the years (handy in a fight, knowing where the enemy was at all times) and even though he couldn’t see the young man he had a sense of where he was. He stretched out a hand and clasped a limp shoulder. He clutched it tight, turned around and kicked towards the surface.

He immerged with the stranger hugged tight to his side and swam quickly for the bank opposite. He hauled the jumper’s unmoving body up onto the gravelled surface and climbed up after him. He crouched by his side, reaching out to touch fingers to the man’s neck.

No pulse. Damn!

He tilted his head back, checking the airway, knowing there must be water in the lungs. He straddled the young man’s waist and placed his hands on his torso at the bottom of his ribcage and applied forceful downward pressure: once, twice, three times.

Water spewed from the man’s mouth.

He reached out to finger the man’s neck again.

Still no pulse. Damn it to hell!

He inched up the body and placed his hands over the heart and began chest compressions, fearful of breaking ribs but knowing there was no choice. One. Two. Three. Come on, breathe damn you! One. Two. Three. Breathe!

This had to work. He had nothing else. He couldn’t perform mouth to mouth. His lungs didn’t work. He had no breath to give.

He pressed again. One. Two. Three. Come on!

Finally he balled his fist and sent it crashing down. One! Two! Three! One! Two! Three!

And finally, thank god, a gasping breath and the young man flailed weakly as his reawakened heart forced his lungs back into action.

He heaved a sigh and clambered up, gathering the semi-conscious young man up into his arms and gazed around.

The nearest hospital was miles away. His home was closer and he knew of a GP’s surgery nearby and it had X-Ray capability. If the young man’s ribs were broken they would show how badly and if there was a danger of punctured lungs or heart.

He carried the man gingerly, not wanting to jostle him unnecessarily, and headed towards home.

The man’s weight in his arms was strangely comforting and sort of…nice.

CHAPTER TWO

He woke slowly, not wanting to come awake at all, feeling the beginnings of pain he’d rather not face full on, but he could not prevent the inexorable rise from sleep to wakefulness. He ordered his eyes to stay shut but they opened with a life of their own.

Muted light filled his gaze; a flickering yellow light, candlelight not electric. Where on earth was he?

He groaned weakly. Wherever he was he was alive. It seemed he couldn’t get anything right. Not even dying.

He frowned.

How was he still alive? He’d jumped into the river. It was terribly deep and he couldn’t swim. He ought to have drowned. How had he not?

A small cough caused him to freeze in place. He was not alone!

He heard the sound of a chair scraping as it was pushed back then a figure was leaning over him.

He began to tremble.

The man looming over him was tall and powerful-looking, but it was his eyes that held him fast. They were a golden shade of brown; the eyes of some fierce African lion and they seemed such old eyes, ancient. They were eyes that had seen much in their time. They were eyes that saw everything and gave up nothing. They looked him up and down, showing some concern but mainly curiosity. He squirmed under their scrutiny.

The man reached out and pressed the backs of his knuckles to his forehead. He wanted to throw off the touch but didn’t dare.

The man touched fingers to his neck, checking his pulse, then suddenly pulled back the covers and moved his hands to his torso, which was covered in bruises.

Tell me how you feel, the man uttered, running his hands lightly over his skin. Does it hurt? Are you in any discomfort? Can you breathe alright? Speak!

The last word came out rather more sternly than he had intended but the young man was just lying there, staring fearfully up at him as though afraid he was about to be eaten.

Get…off…me, the young man finally replied, softly, but with a hint of something (menace perhaps?). Don’t touch me.

He stared hard for a moment then stood back, pulling the covers back into position, smoothing out the wrinkles as he did so.

I’m not going to hurt you, he said, infusing his tone with warm reassurance. I’m just trying to help you.

I didn’t ask you to.

He took a further step back, feeling oddly confused. It was his purpose, to save lives. He’d never before come across anyone who didn’t want to be saved.

The young man turned his face to the left and firmly closed his eyes.

When he opened them again the tall man was gone.

----

He walked the corridor in a measured fashion, each stride no wider than the one that went before. He turned a corner and strode down the next corridor, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his expression wondering. He turned a second corner and went down a third corridor. His home was large. It had many corridors, all with the same luxurious wine-red carpet fastened securely to the floor. The walls were wood panelling hung here and there with tapestries, paintings and photographs; from daguerreotypes to digital printouts. They were images of places he’d been, buildings of interest, flora and fauna and various miscellaneous subjects. There were no pictures of himself, or indeed any other people.

He did not spare them so much as a glance as he walked through his home.

Home?

The word conjured up images of family, of big dogs lounging in front of the fireplace waiting for their master’s return, of children playing in the nursery, of a wife setting the table for dinner. It evoked thoughts of friends gathering to drink wine and celebrate anniversaries, Christmas, birthdays. Home was safety and security. Home was where you came after a hard day’s work, where you returned after a holiday.

He smiled ruefully.

At least that was what you were led to believe.

He had been in many homes, saving those living within; often from each other. Home was not always a safe haven from the world. For some home was a place full of screaming arguments, mindless violence or complete indifference. For some home was a lonely place where not even a faithful hound waited by the fire.

His home was…not even a home. It was just a house; albeit a spectacular house filled with treasures from all over the world and times forgotten. It was a house of riches; a house to marvel at. It had a vast library, countless bedrooms, opulent bathrooms, a fully equipped gymnasium and a kitchen. He didn’t eat but he still enjoyed the scents of freshly baked bread and sizzling meats.

There was a massive garden surrounded by a huge impenetrable wall; all overseen by the most up-to-date state-of-the-art security system he could find. Some of the treasures in his home were irreplaceable and there were other things he wanted protected; his secrets.

His home would have sent shivers of envy through the Queen herself.

He harrumphed softly.

No eyes but his looked upon the paintings. No hands but his touched the tapestries. The countless bedrooms with their soft beds and silk sheets were never slept in.

There was no dog sleeping by his fire, no children playing boisterously in their room…no wife preparing the table. He had entertained no friends here. He celebrated nothing.

This was the first time someone other than himself (and those who’d renovated this house for him; he’d been careful not to meet them) had set foot inside these walls.

He finally had a guest. A pity he was an unwilling one.

Or perhaps it was better this way. No danger of getting too deeply involved with another human being. He corrected himself; another living being.

He should have taken the guy to the hospital after all. He could have left him there and been done with him. What had he been thinking, bringing him here?

For all his musing about home and family and togetherness he had never been that sort of man. Not even…before.

He’d been an only child, content in his solitude, enjoying the pastimes of horse-riding, swimming and hunting. There were a few boys in the village he spent time with but was never particularly close to. His mother had been his teacher in all things intellectual. He could read and write better than most men by the age of five. He could read and speak three other languages, could read music (though he had no real talent for the playing of an instrument) and was fully versed in mathematics, history and science by the time he’d left home.

His father schooled him in the art of swordsmanship but it wasn’t due to the old wolf’s wishes that he became a soldier. All men became soldiers when there was nothing else left for them and by the time he was seventeen there had been nothing left for him but to enlist.

After that it seemed he’d lurched from one battlefield to another with barely a pause for breath between each pointless war. Mud and blood was what he mostly remembered from his mortal life; sloshing through rivers of mud, blood running down his face, and the awful weather.

He had always been so cold, never able to get warm enough. There must have been summers but all he remembered was endless rain, bleak and relentless. Rain in his boots, rain down his back, rain all the sodding time. And with the rain came the bitter cold. Shivering in his bed at night, assuming he’d been lucky enough to get an actual bed. Cold feet, numb fingers, numbness in his ears and nose. Sometimes he thought the only reason soldiers whored around so much was to keep warm. He’d wondered at the ability of those women to put up with such frozen bodies pressing against them.

He’d done his share of it. A soldier who didn’t soon provoked the wrong kind of attention.

His appetites had never been as voracious as that of his fellows though and while he had paid a fair number of women to share his bed he had never shared the darker desires of some of those he marched with. Hearing men screaming on the battlefield was wearying enough. He had no desire to listen to the screams of women away from it.

Not that it was always the women who suffered that way. A military life was very educational. He had learned much about what men were capable of when roused and what they did if desperate enough. He also learned that some men didn’t need much rousing to do things other men deemed reprehensible.

He had been almost twenty when he’d learned that when it came to desire there were other things on offer besides feminine charms, and that certain men preferred it that way.

He’d been sent to deliver a message to his captain and had caught him rutting with a young ensign.

Looking back, he tried to put a nicer spin on what he’d seen but he could hardly call what he’d witnessed lovemaking.

The ensign (such a young-looking lad) had been bent over the captain’s table, arse bare to the world, the captain’s swollen shaft buried deep between his cheeks. He’d been groaning in a most pitiful way and the captain (his back to the doorway, oblivious to the witness) had been thrusting so vigorously and snarling like some rabid animal.

He chuckled softly with the memory.

How shocked he’d been. So shocked he’d tossed the message on the ground and legged it with his face burning and praying no one saw him and asked what was wrong.

He’d thought he was the only one who knew about the captain and he’d fretted over what to do, whether he should do anything at all – but then he’d heard others talking.

The captain’s little…predilection was an open secret. His troops joked about him. The younger ones listened with horror as the older ones admonished them to be cautious and watch their arses.

Don’t let the gallant captain get you alone, boys, or he might steal your precious honour.

Don’t turn your back on him and give him too easy a target.

He likes the innocent ones best of all so if you’re still a virgin get down to Molly’s Place. One of her girls will put a mark on you that’ll put the gallant captain off you for life.

One of the older men had nudged him at that point and grinned. He really likes dark-haired lads so you’d best be wary, young-un. I reckon you’re just his type.

He’d flushed and the men at the table roared with laughter.

The young ensign had been dark-haired. He’d seen him around a few times since and had caught himself staring and wondering; the initial horror giving way to curiosity.

Had the ensign been a willing participant in what he’d seen; had he enjoyed it? Had he done it with others? How many?

He’d been full of questions but had no way to ask them without revealing what he’d seen, and he was loath to do that.

Months later, another war had ended; there was another town for the troops to rest in, more ale, fighting in the streets and of course the whorehouses. And there he’d had the opportunity to discover the answers to a few questions. It wasn’t just women who sold their flesh when times were hard.

The first time, the man was older than him and he dominated. The second time the man was younger and he’d bedded him.

Like most things in his life he had found the experiences interesting but of no particular significance. Why did people make such a fuss when a man lay with a man instead of a woman? The action was still the same; a cock went in a hole (a crude but correct description he felt). Who cared whose cock and what hole? Why did it cause such arguments?

If pushed for a preference he would have said that he preferred to lie with men, if for no other reason than they were warmer than women, being larger and hairier.

He had always felt then that his life was a simple one with simple needs; survival, which meant food, water, shelter and, most importantly, heat. Many nights he’d fallen asleep with some great hairy beast of a man draped over him like a bearskin. Looking back, he couldn’t always remember what the sex had been like (good or bad; he didn’t much care) but he could recall that glorious warmth.

Now the vagaries of weather held no sway over him and he couldn’t recall the last time he had shared a bed with anyone, man or woman.

He halted suddenly, his head jerking up, his gaze falling unseeing on a painting of the great pyramids at Egypt. The sun blazed over their sharply-pointed tips, bathing them in golden rays, but he did not see the splendour.

Was that why? Could that be the reason? After all this time?

He shook his head. No. It couldn’t be. It didn’t make any sense. It had been so long since he had felt those desires. He wasn’t sure he had them anymore.

Had he brought that young man here instead of taking him to the hospital because he…what…fancied him?

Nonsense. Not possible. It was ludicrous.

He didn’t get involved with people. It was not his way. It was safer to remain aloof, apart.

But then it didn’t seem like it would be a problem anyway. The young man had no desire for him, didn’t even like the fact that he’d saved him (hadn’t wanted to be saved). As soon as he was well enough to move he’d likely go and find another river to jump into.

Perhaps if he had a reason to live–

He stopped the thought. He was not going down that road. This was nonsense. He’d saved the young man because that was what he did. He didn’t expect payment in return. Nor did he expect…favours of that nature. He’d brought him here because it was closer than the hospital. He’d brought him here so that he could heal and then be on his way. That was all.

He walked on, his stride a little more unsure.

----

He stared at the ceiling for a long time after his…rescuer was gone. Tears prickled at the edges of his eyes. He bade them not to fall but a few traitorously trickled down his cheeks. Salt water collected in the corners of his mouth. He lapped it away with the tip of his tongue and then hunched over onto his side.

He suppressed a groan at the pain in his chest (fortunately he was nothing more than bruised but he did not feel fortunate) and pulled the covers tighter around himself.

He recalled with vague horror the awful coldness of the river. The water had been shockingly icy but at least only for a moment. His lungs had filled and his vision darkened fairly swiftly. He had been so close.

And then that man. Who was he? Why had he saved him? He hadn’t asked to be. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone?

He shifted in the bed. He was too sore to get comfortable. With a moan he heaved himself up and pushed aside the covers, starting when he saw he was naked beneath the blankets.

He snatched at the covers and pulled them up to his neck, his eyes darting around the room, heart hammering against his abused ribcage. His mind filled with images of that man with his intense gaze running his hands over his body while he lay insensate, stripping away his clothes, running greedy fingers over his naked flesh.

What had he done to him while he lay helpless and unknowing: touched him all over, between his legs? Had he done more than just touch him? How would he know if he had? His whole body ached. How much of that discomfort was down to his dive off the bridge?

He sat shuddering and panting harshly.

Get a grip, he finally told himself. Stop being a fool. Think. Of course he removed your clothes. You were soaked to the skin. You would have frozen if he hadn’t. He tended to you, that’s all. Sniff the air. His nostrils flared. Ointment. He put ointment on your bruises. He watched over you while you slept, and look over there. No, over there, by the door.

He looked.

There was a chair on which dry, clean clothes had been folded into a neat pile. A pair of shoes was tidily placed beneath it, balled-up socks placed inside the left one.

He saved you, tended to you and has lain out fresh clothing for you. Does that sound like something a greedy sex fiend might do? He could have had his way with you when you woke, if that was his desire, but he didn’t. He left as you wished him to. Now get a grip. Get up and get dressed. Then you need to decide what you’re going to do now.

He pushed the covers aside once more and climbed shakily out of bed, testing the ability of his legs to hold him before he took a step across the carpet.

He staggered to the chair and gathered up the clothes. There was a long mirror in the room but he didn’t look into it until he was fully dressed. Then he stood, staring, wondering where the man had got clothes that fitted him so perfectly. Even the shoes were the right size.

The clothes were very comfortable and whoever the guy was he had good taste. There were black cotton trousers belted at the waist, a white cotton shirt and a waistcoat (blue with silver stars sprinkled across it). The shoes were black leather and buffed to a high shine. It was a somewhat old fashioned outfit but it looked good on him, despite the paleness of his skin. He stared for a moment longer before shaking his head and turning resolutely away.

What did it matter what he looked like? Nothing mattered.

He stared around the room, unsure what to do now.

The window beckoned him and he moved to look out through it.

He couldn’t see much but acres of grass and trees and starry night. Was it still the same night he had jumped or had he slept right through the day? He looked down, noting that he was quite high up in this particular room. High enough?

Jumping into deep water when you couldn’t swim had seemed a sure enough method. Flinging yourself out of a high window was less sure unless you were a hundred floors up. He didn’t fancy surviving with a broken neck. But they said beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He tried to open the window but it seemed to be stuck. Then his eye fell on the lock. It was the type requiring a key and someone had removed it.

He uttered a tight laugh. His rescuer was no fool it appeared. And no doubt he wouldn’t find a razor or anything else with a sharp edge in this room. He fingered the belt at his waist. An oversight on his rescuer’s part?

He heaved a sigh.

Who was