Curiosity's Consequence

"Great gods, boy, get out of here!" growled Eomer, staggering to his knees. He had barely survived his own experience and now some wet-behind-the-ears youngster with a crush on his superior was offering himself up for sacrifice?

And yet the sight of the bare, smooth back before him sent a strange shiver through him. So perfect, so unmarked.

With a shake of his head and a mumbled curse he picked up the boy's tunic, meaning to thrust it at it him so he might know he should put it back on, but as he did so his eyes alighted on the handle of the whip, half kicked under his pallet. As though in a trance he reached out and caressed the handle, without thought grasped it and drew the bloodied leather out into the light.

No, he thought.

He let the thongs fall into his other hand and caress his palm.

Looked at the boy still prone, quivering and silent beside him.

No.

He reached out his free hand and traced the warm flesh from shoulder to the dip of the boy's spine. Traced rough breeches and squeezed the tight globes of buttocks beneath, hearing the boy suck in his breath. Touched again the tender, soft, exposed skin, a blank, expectant, welcoming canvas.

"No," he whispered out loud, the negation sounding more as if he were pleading for forgiveness.

"Yes, my lord," said the boy. His tone was firmer than Eomer had ever heard it. And it was full of
love. Full of trust.

No. It was the last silent cry of his soul.

"Please, my lord," said the boy. Firmness gone, his voice shook with a need that caught and magnified Eomer's own until there was nothing else left.

Yes.

Eomer lifted his arm high and brought the whip down with all his strength.