The Scent of Winter

Chapter 5: The Scent of Winter

The bathroom did have running water, thank God. And the water was scalding hot—even better. Kingsley always liked taking a hot shower before playing with Søren when possible. He could take more when his muscles were relaxed from heat and steam. He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and went in search of wine.

Søren already had it waiting for him on the bedside table.

With glass in hand, Kingsley found Søren sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. He seemed to be performing some kind of surgery with an X-Acto knife on a black elk-hide flogger.

"Do I want to know?" Kingsley asked.

"Shoo." Søren waved his hand. "I'll meet you in bed."

Kingsley obeyed but only after taking three extra seconds to try to discern what the hell Søren was doing.

"Kingsley..."

"Going, sir."

He went into the bedroom, lit the bedside lamps again, lit the bank of candles, and got the wood stove going until the room glowed with both soft heat and warm light. He finished his wine and felt much better now. Warm inside and out. He tossed his towel aside, pulled down the covers, and laid on the bed naked. He meant to think about kink and sex and all his favorite subjects of reverie but all he could think about was that hawk. The floor creaked and Kingsley opened his eyes. Søren stood in the doorway of the bedroom, gazing at him. Søren had taken off his sweater and wore only a white t-shirt and jeans.

"How did you know that was a goshawk?" Kingsley asked.

"My father," Søren said. He sat on the bed next to Kingsley's hip. Kingsley rolled over to lay on his side facing him. "Falconry and hawking are traditionally old English sports. For centuries the sport was the purview of only the aristocracy. The summer I was eight or nine, I was allowed home for a few weeks over the summer. When I came home I discovered my father had decided he would join the ranks of the great austringers."

Kingsley shivered with pleasure as Søren ran his hand over Kingsley's naked side. "Austringer?"

"Falconers fly falcons. Austringers fly hawks. Hawks are harder to train, therefore the glory is greater when you do. So said my narcissist father." Søren gave a sad smile as he pushed Kingsley's wet hair off his forehead. If Kingsley had been a cat he would have purred. "I was treated to days and days of lectures about the glory of 'Merry Olde England' and the beauty of goshawks and how only the greatest men could subdue such magnificent wild beasts. He'd ordered the bird and she arrived... I was enamored of her at first sight. My father would never let me touch her though, even hooded."

"Who buys an animal to keep as a pet, and then doesn't let his son touch it?"

"It was a beautiful bird. I imagined myself walking along a field with that lovely thing on my fist. Lonely children have fantasies like that. But my father's attempt to join the ranks of Merry Old England's greatest huntsmen ended badly. During a training session, the hawk gripped his bare arm with a talon and drew blood. My father snapped her neck."

Kingsley touched Søren's hand, a better way to show he was sorry than to say such inadequate words.

"I should have learned my lesson then," Søren said, as he stroked Kingsley's naked hip. That lock of blond hair had fallen over Søren's eyes again and Kingsley could scarcely breathe much less speak. "To train a hawk you must be infinitely patient. They respond only to gifts of food. They can't be punished into loving you. And if you treat a hawk with any cruelty whatsoever, the moment you let her off the leash, she'll fly away, never to come home again. And possibly to die if her jesses get caught on something. Training a hawk requires patience and love, qualities my father lacked in abundance."