English Accent Lyrical Period Romance Narration Male Character Voices
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EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)Transcript
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Song for a Viking copyright 2015 by K J Charles A coda to the novel Think of England, also by K J Charles Daniel. Looked at what he'd written, it was one line. It had taken him an hour. He had changed every word except for th at least twice, the paper was thick with scribbles and alterations. But here it was the fruit of his afternoon's labor. 12 words. He put his pen to the page and very carefully crossed the whole thing out. He walked to the window clean on the inside, but still hard to see through for the smuts and grime and looked out over his panorama. Low brick walls blackened with smoke, washing lines in the clutter of housing all mercifully shadowed by the winter twilight closing in. It was a typical view from the back rooms of shabby Gimcrack, Artie Bloomsbury. Archie lived in one of the new service flats on Cran Bourne street up in the west end and Daniel was quite sure his rooms didn't overlook the backs, which was just one more reminder why he had made the right decision. And one more thought about Archie Bloody Curtis. He put both hands into his hair and tugged hard. It was one of many childhood habits out of which he trained himself a long time ago, but it was that or stream aloud, which would doubt the subsets bar his landlady had fled Eastern Prussia to escape the gros and her nerves had to be protected. He needed to stop thinking about Archie they would not meet again. Daniel had made the decision and was reconciled to the consequences in the unlikely event that Archie's absurd sense of honor did lead the overgrown blockhead to seek him out. Daniel would simply send him packing a second time. It was the only decent thing to do or rather it would be the decent thing to do if Archie were to come, which he would not, Daniel could and would forget him. He had forgotten plenty of men. The problem, the only problem, the insuperable grating, deafening problem was that he could not put what had happened into words. Normally, he would have gone to one of his clubs, a place for bohemian poets and artists and those who made a theatrical production out of life and turned the story into a dramatic monologue for their entertainment. Daniel de Silva falls in love with a boy's own paper hero during a weekend, my dear, the countryside in the north. It would be hilarious in the telling. He would make it hilarious and as he did, it would rewrite his memories. Turning Archie into just another terribly decent army type himself into a languishing love lawn queer, the whole thing into a sour witty joke. It wouldn't be true, but it would be a form of the truth he could use until it became true in his memory. And once that happened, it wouldn't matter anymore, but he couldn't talk about it. His week in the country was still all over the newspapers thanks to its shocking ending in the recently concluded coroner's hearing and most of them had photographs of Archie fair haired, firm, deep chested mutilated hand, firmly shoved into a pocket in every photograph because it didn't do for anything to chip away at the perfection of British officer did it, Archie Curtis war hero, Explorer's nephew, a picture of English manhood. The newspapers adored him in a way. Daniel knew he would loathe grabbing at his guarded sensitivities with inky fingers. Daniel had not been called to give evidence at the inquest. Thanks to Sir Maurice Vasey, but he had been mentioned by name and plenty of people knew he'd been at Peco. He'd been very popular in the last few days as friends and acquaintances. So the juicy which was to say so shocking, so tragic details of the armstrong's death and tried not to look terribly disappointed when told he had left before the murder and suicide. And thus he couldn't talk even to mention falling in love with a golden lad again. You never learn. Do you even to present it as unrequited adoration for a resolutely queer man would be to risk someone linking his name to Archie. He could not do that. But if he didn't cough this mass of thorns out of his chest, somehow it would lodge there forever. He could talk to his father. Perhaps Bruno Da Silva would not rebuke or disapprove or offer advice. He never did. He would probably listen in silence and then produce a new patent block and teach Daniel to pick it. And that might even help. He couldn't tell his mother about it. He could go and have a raging argument with her about something entirely trivial. And that might help too if he could muster the strength or he could write a poem, which was after all, what he did when he wasn't having his time wasted by Sir Maurice Vasey in the demands of the private bureau. That was what he ought to do. Right. But he couldn't do that either because the poem he wanted to write was not the one on his desk. It was all Archie's fault. He kept getting in the way. Daniel's memories of that appalling limestone cave back at Peco were confused fragments, overlaid with exhaustion, fear and the Nauset sense of weight from being underground. And all those remembered images were nagging at his mind like pieces of a puzzle that had to be slid around until sooner or later, the edges fit together. The flickering light of lanterns casting weird shadows on the weird walls, wet and bulbous growths of rock. Archie, the bright haired barbarian laughing in battle. He could feel his thoughts slipping into the cadences of Anglo Saxon epithets, alliteration, short rhythmic lines. That was how to write Archie English officer and Viking beer. Not in the style of the modern fragments, poetry in which Daniel had made a barely noticed name for himself, but as an ancient lament for a lost warrior, written with the desperate loneliness that rang through the era's verse and echoed down the centuries. You are a sentimental fool de Silva. He said aloud and you are not going to write an elegy for Archie Sodding Curtis. That song is sued the man easily sunders that which was never joined our song together. The line from an Anglo Saxon lament for parted lovers had been in his head for days now. And the worst of it was that the man who had torn apart their song before it began was Daniel himself. They had had one single night, those glorious few hours when Archie had trusted him with his scars and called Daniel's poems beautiful. He'd kissed him and being Archie, he'd done it with single minded purpose forging forward without thought to anything in his path. Daniel can still feel it all. Archie's big hands on him, moving with such care, the scar tissue under his own fingertips gnarled and ugly in the awful absence of three fingers, but it was Archie. And the look in those blue eyes when Daniel had gripped his mutilated hand had been all that mattered. The absurdly endearing concentration Archie had applied to him. So that Daniel had almost expected him to stick his tongue out like a child faced with a slate of mathematical problems. He'd found better uses for his tongue. Of course, that had undone Daniel more than anything else because he'd had an inkling what it meant even before Archie had confirmed it. Of course, he never sucked another man off in his life. He was a Curtis, an officer, a gentleman, a thoughtless insensitive oath of the kind. Any self-respecting decadent poet would despise. But he'd taken Daniel in his mouth, insisted on it with hopeless and experience and absolute determination. And Daniel had felt his fiercely guarded heart crack like an egg held in Archie's clumsy, powerful grip. It had been the best night of Daniel's life on the heels of the worst. And the next day he'd ended the whole business because he could not repay Archie any other way. And because he had a little bit of sense remaining, Archie was an unthinking, uncomplicated, overgrown schoolboy with no capacity for reflection and a laughably simplistic moral outlook. He had killed two men in front of Daniel's eyes, one with his bare hands and that itself should be sufficiently repellent to a lifelong pacifist. He was hopelessly mired in convention and Daniel really did not have the time or energy to deal with a young man's awakening of the soul and then be left behind. When his lover decided that inversion wasn't worth the effort. He had done the right thing. There was no question of it. And if he needed proof, it would come when he never saw Archie again, the man was probably congratulating himself even now on a narrow escape from a lifetime of absent and sodomy. Or if he wasn't, he soon would be. Daniel had spared them both a great deal of difficulty and embarrassment. That was all he put his hands in his hair again, shut his eyes and tugged. It was quite remarkable how a pain in the scalp could distract one from pain elsewhere. All right, he said, talking to oneself was a poor characteristic in a secret agent, especially one who relied on sneaking and secrecy. But speech was Daniel's Rod and his staff. I shall write a bloody poem for that bloody man. And then perhaps I may be freed of this incubus and get back to work. And it would be in the Anglo Saxon style un rhymed alliterative paired lines. He lit the gas against the winter evening and went back to his desk, letting the images run through his mind. Instead of stamping them out, there would be three parts to it. A fight in a cave, a song in a stone ruin and a parting. And yes, it would be an elegy to Archie Curtis, a lament of love and loss and it would hurt like **** to write in the raw humiliating way that all work that mattered did. But he would write it and then put it in a drawer or burn it as a sacrifice to something. And the whole business would be done with it. Last, the fighter in flickering light, no flickering fires, flames flicker or d words deadly in the fire's dance. His pen scratched, he wrote and 19 lines in with the words flowing for the first time. In days. Some utter swine knocked at his door for buggery sake. Daniel said aloud and got up with an angry shove of the chair to send the unwelcome visitor packing. An hour later, Archie was lying on Daniel Shays lounge and Daniel was lying on Archie. This is a damned useful thing. Uh She observed, what is this? What do you call it? He slapped the She's Los side only has one end so a fellow can stretch his legs. I thought they were just for grand ladies and artistic types. I am an artistic type. Daniel pointed out. Well, yes, but a she floundered. I mean, I thought they were just for show to look bohemian for its own sake. You see blasted uncomfortable things without backs. Whereas now you realize they are perfectly designed to accommodate large men for *******. It all makes sense. Well, yes, Archie frowned. He was evidently considering some other owner of a, she's lounge in a new light. Daniel cherished a gleeful hope it was an elderly relative. Uh, anyway, Daniel. Daniel looked down at him. Yes. An hour ago, Archie had walked into the room and all over Daniel's objections, carrying his hopes and fears with a determination, made all the stronger by his obvious uncertainty as to how they would be received. Daniel had been prepared for reproaches or for argument. He had been utterly defenseless against the unstoppable tide of Archie's honesty, smashing Daniel's palisades to match wood. Of course, it was rather difficult to defend oneself. When one didn't actually want to, he'd given into everything agreed that they would see one another even acquiesce to the insane proposition that he should work with Archie since it seemed they hadn't made enough of the pig's ear of things to date and then gone to his knees as though in physical demonstration of his hopeless capitulation, he'd sucked Archie off, sending him stumbling back over the she's lounge since the sordid little room was barely big enough for the few pieces of cheap furniture it contained and finished him off like that and crawled over him because he needed that big warm body close again. And now Archie was looking nervous and all at once, Daniel was terrified. Uh Yes, Archie's expression was undeniably shifty on a face made for openness. Daniel felt his chest clench, please not this not after coming here. Not again. I, uh, look Daniel, I, I dare say, you'll think I'm an utter fool. Can you doubt it? Daniel said, bitingly, prepare, prepare, do stop. You know, I have very little experience with this sort of thing how men conduct. He waved his hand. The other. Daniel realized was resting on his own back as though it was quite natural for them to be touching. He hadn't noticed that somehow. Well, I'm stuck at home for days, you know, answering all the agent for those questions a dozen times and kicking my heels for hours on end, everyone else had gone home and it rained. So I had to find something to read. Read. Daniel repeated. Yes. The thing is, there was an un explicated Petronius translated was there indeed. Daniel propped himself up the better to see Archie's face in case there might be a clue there. You amaze me. So did the armstrongs. Actually, I had no idea their taste was so Catholic. I am fascinated my dear, but slightly bewildered as to why you mention it. Now, Archie was going distinctly red. I suppose you've read it. It's notorious pornography representing the vices of Rome at their most filthy and depraved. Of course, I have. Well, I hadn't and I can't say I approved now I have, but Archie's arm tightened. I read the damn thing cover to cover. That's all because it was what I had to hand that in the fish pond I missed you and I wanted to, I don't know, make an effort and I thought you should know that I didn't try and I intend to keep trying to, to understand. Although I must say, I don't think I can manage anything along the Roman lines. That's all Daniel stared at Archie, fair skinned, flushed, scarlet, laying classical perversions at his feet like a gift and had to bite his lip. I hope you're not laughing. And she said, of course, you bloody are. I don't, I'm not. Daniel said somewhat stifled. Or if I am, it's it myself, but I'm not. I was writing your poem. The words tumbled out without his conscious intent. He felt like slapping a hand to his mouth. Archie's mouth dropped open you me. May I see? No, I'd only just begun. You interrupted me? Well, I'm sorry. No, I'm not. You were writing me a poem. An incredulous smile was dawning on Archie's face. All that fuss you made when I arrived, all that. What are you doing here? Stuff and all the time you were writing a poem for me. But four, Daniel mumbled, exquisitely embarrassed. Now about me, loosely inspired at most. Shut up, Curtis. I will not. You have to show me I shall do no such thing. You Philistine oath. You can see it when it's finished. You're going to write it. Archie's expression was something Daniel wanted told forever. Kind of baffled awe as though he'd been given something so precious. He couldn't quite believe it. I don't know what to, I do know what to say what Daniel inquired and was caught by the blue sincerity of Archie's eyes. This Archie pulled him into a kiss. His hands were on Daniel's head unbalanced in feel by the glove and the missing fingers holding painfully tight. He kissed hard giving rather than taking, pushing himself into Daniel, an offering that could not be refused. And when he pulled back, there was an almost lost expression in his eyes. Archie, I'm jolly glad you let me come in. That's all. Well, that and Archie sat up lifting Daniel with him as though he were a featherweight so that Daniel was left more or less straddling his lap. We did agree that I needed practice at what Daniel said and found himself on his back at the wrong end of the Che's lounge. There was a certain amount of fumbling which ended with Daniel sprawled over the furniture and Archie kneeling between his legs, hands moving very lightly to his hips. Oh, that, so we did. I rather thought Petronius might be of some use with this sort of thing. Uh She said eye is intent on his work. You know how one should go about the business. I can lend you all sorts of helpful literature. Then you broke off with the gasp. I bet you could. Archie muttered. I think I'm more of a practical learner. Daniel did not intend to object to that. He shut his eyes, letting his head fall back and reached for Archie's thick hair, murmuring encouragement. Feeling his muscles spasm as Archie's mouth closed around his *****. Yes. Like that like that and growing certainty in Archie's movements. Now his lips firm and tight. His good hand exploring very cautiously between Daniel's legs, the leather glove ho against his thigh. And as Daniel moaned, Archie increased the suction of his mouth. God, you're a quick study. Good teacher. Archie mumbled around him and took him down until Daniel had both hands fisted tight in his hair until he could barely stop himself from thrusting upwards until Archie's mouth and spit and warmth were the center of the world and everything else fell away. He groaned. A warning was ignored, made a more urgent noise as his pleasure peaked unstoppably and felt Archie's hands close on his hips with startling force. Daniel choked, cried aloud and came in Archie's mouth with sharp and fearful joy. Archie held on tight until Daniel relaxed his grip and only then pulled his mouth away with a noise, suggestive of alarm. Spit it out. Daniel advised there's a mug there. Archie rose with some haste spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Curse it. I thought I could do that properly. My dear, you did. Daniel was half off the she's lounge. He was contemplating whether he had the energy to hold himself back onto it. When Archie flopped down onto the floor, Daniel slid down to join him and found himself very pleasantly draped across a comfortingly solid British officer that was delightful inspired. Even I am grateful to Petronius Archie grinned down at him. Worth a poem. A Limerick. Certainly, Limerick, there was a young captain named Archie Daniel suggested whose ways were initially starchy with a few Latin tricks and a go at some Archie swiped at him. I wouldn't finish that. If I were you spoil sport, you couldn't think of an end rhyme. Anyway. Are you staying tonight? I'm in here. May I, Mrs Bark is quite marvelously discreet or oblivious. One of the two then. Yes, God, yes. Archie grinned at him. It was a wide idiotic infectious grin that suggested its wearer couldn't stop smiling. And Daniel had a feeling that his own expression might be all too similar if you're not too busy writing. Of course, I wouldn't want to distract you. Daniel waved a languid hand. I dare say the muse will forgive my defection for a night. He'd probably have to reconsider the poem's structure. Anyway, he thought, as Archie leaned in to kiss him, still wearing that absurd incredulous smile. He knew what he'd end up writing now or where this would lead or what the pair of them would end up doing for the bureau and for themselves. It didn't matter now, not with Archie's mouth on his hands and his hair. All that mattered in this moment was, well, that he would not be writing an allergy, not today.