HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO
CHAPTER TWO: A Dream Come True

PART 3/3

All this flashed through Kaneesha's mind in an instant as she sought some reason for her Father's unusual announcement. Was he dying and worried that Jaxtar would not return home in time to claim the throne, thereby leaving his country in the dangerous situation of not having a leader, leaving it and his people vulnerable to attack and annexation?

"But, Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Jaxtar is heir."

"I know he is but by tradition alone. I do not think he is worthy to rule. He is hardly ever here, always off somewhere with his friends. His responsibility is to Carteria but I haven't seen him take the slightest interest in our homeland's future or her people." He took Kaneesha's hands in his, gently stroking them.

"Now I know there has never been a female ruler in this or any other kingdom, but I know that you have the full support of my Knights and I have convinced the Senate that you are the best hope for the continuing prosperity of Carteria."

"But I don't want to... You are Carteria's leader. Are you ill?" She asked, her voice breaking with the emotion of the night's revelations. "Are you telling me you're going to die?"

Gareth wondered how much to reveal. Was she strong enough to handle the immense responsibility that he was placing on her young shoulders?

"Everything dies, my love. It is something that cannot be avoided. My only hope is that I have enough time left to spend with you, to prepare you for your new role." He held his daughter, wishing that he could bestow all his love, his knowledge and his wisdom with just a touch of a magic wand. "I'm not ill," he reassured her. "But none of us are getting any younger either. I would like to see you choose a suitable husband, someone you love and who loves you, who will rule by your side."

Rajiv had quietly slipped out the door, leaving father and daughter, Lord and heir to spend time by themselves, something neither of them got the opportunity to do very often. He was proud of his Lord's decision to go against hundreds, if not thousands of years of tradition by appointing Kaneesha his heir. It had taken many hours and days of heated debate to convince the twelve members of the Senate that a woman could rule as well, if not better than a man. Although Gareth had the supreme power to declare who he pleased to inherit the throne, the new ruler would need the support of the Council of the Law to rule effectively. The council had first been elected at the end of the reign of Gareth's grandfather, Thomas the Terrible, a cruel and heartless ruler who had plunged all of Carteria and many other kingdoms into a state of barbaric war that had lasted almost forty years. He had used weapons that many believed had been conjured by the very Devil himself, strange flying arrows that could be launched many miles from the intended target, that exploded in the sky like dozens of shooting stars and rained burning hot fluid down on the land. Those not killed immediately were stricken by unknown illnesses that ate the victims' flesh off their very bones. No animals could be bred nor grains planted on the spoiled land. Even now, almost one hundred years later, it was known as a cursed and haunted place, to be avoided at all costs.

Thomas had died without leaving a son to rule in his place, only an infant daughter who wasn't even considered as a possible monarch. The elders from the larger villages and towns had been elected to govern in her name until she came of age and could be wed to a man capable of healing the damage Thomas and his bloodthirsty ways had wrought.

With her mother's kind heart and her father's determination, Rajiv was certain that Kaneesha would make a worthy ruler. Hopefully the peace and stability that had marked the thirty years of Gareth's reign would continue with his daughter. Rajiv was looking forward to handing leadership of the Carterian Knights over to his second-in-command, Vidkun and spending more time with his wife and children.

**********

Stable Hut
CARTERIUS CASTLE
2 Days Later

*Oh my God, Oh fuckfuckfuck.* If he was in hell before then where was he now and how could he get back there? He tried to speak but couldn't because of a piece of foul tasting leather that filled his mouth, immobilizing his tongue. Attempting to move an arm to remove the gag, he discovered that all his limbs were restrained, rough ropes digging into already bruised flesh despite furry cloth that lay protectively beneath the restraints. He tried to focus on anything but the pain, tried to control his breathing even as his lungs screamed for more air, tried to assess what was happening. The pain seemed to be centered on his right leg, just above the knee. An unwanted memory of the arrow imbedded in his flesh flashed in his mind's eye, the agony he had felt during its removal was almost pleasure compared to what he was experiencing now. It felt like his leg was being devoured from the inside, hundreds of tiny teeth ripping and pulling, pulling and ripping, shredding the flesh into a billion atom-sized pieces. A nauseating stench that he somehow knew was coming from his own body set his stomach rolling. *Great I'll die from choking on my own tripe. Looks like you bombed out on my death prediction, Clyde. I would have preferred to go your way though as undignified as it might be.*

He searched the room, seeking something, anything, someone, anyone to relieve the torture. A low wooden beamed ceiling was directly above him, glistening spider webs hung from the rotting rafters, their owners patrolling the borders in search of food. Huge, furry creatures, bigger than any spiders he could ever recall seeing before.

Twisting his head as far to the right as the gag would allow, he spotted the source of all the pain and torment of the last few days, weeks, months. Time had no meaning anymore.

All his anger and rage and hatred and despair and helplessness coalesced into a tiny dense mass, as black as coal, as hard as diamond, as sharp as the sharpest blade ever honed. He could feel it straining to break free, like a wild animal caught in a trap. He had felt a similar though much, much weaker version when he lost control with Barry, Mostow, Roche, Krycek (his human punching bag), Calderon; an elderly Romanian and a young Russian had both warned him — "It knows you, it can find you, maybe it already has."

But something had always held him back from releasing the trap, freeing the animal within. **He took Scully, he can get her back; He knows the monster, he can lead you to it; He took Samantha, he can give her back; Hell even I don't know about Krycek; He knows about Emily, he can tell you.**

And that undeniable something was present now. **He brought you here, maybe-just maybe- he can send you back.** It took both an eternity and the blink of an eye for him to recognize the voice, so different from his own and yet it was a part of him.

*No! He lied to me. He said he was helping me and he lied.*

And yet there was something disturbingly familiar about the room's only other occupant. Mulder knew what the other man's skin felt like, how it tasted. The smoothness of the youthful flesh, untouched by age and disease. He knew the scent the man gave off when aroused, how his body would quiver when on the verge of release only to freeze at the moment of orgasm before exploding like a volcano as he shot his semen deep into Mulder's rectum.

Mulder tried to ignore what his mind, his memory was telling him. He was in horrible pain, burning up with fever, stoned to the eyeballs on whatever passed for painkillers in this hell-hole. He could not, would not rely on the images and sensations that the other man's presence was stirring in him. Instead he concentrated on how to get out of his current predicament.

The key to his future was sitting cross-legged on the floor, quietly chanting as he mixed something in a bowl on his lap. As loathed as Mulder was to ask his latest captor/lover... *lover??? Where the hell did that come from?* for help, he knew that he couldn't take the pain much longer. Knowing that he had to catch the guy's attention, he tested each restraint, gauging how much, if any, slack he had to work with. None at all, he quickly discovered. He groaned in frustration and yanked on his restraints as hard as he could, ignoring the daggers of pain the useless action caused.

Suddenly the young man was standing over him, talking to him in that soft, melodic voice that had lured him to this hell-hole. A voice that logic and paranoia told him not to trust, whilst the rest of him was willing to sell his soul for relief, respite from the agony, no matter how brief, no matter what price was charged.

"Fox. Fox, calm down. It's all right. I'm here."

*It's not fucking all right, you idiot*

Fox's distress hit Morten like a slap, almost knocking him off his feet. He quickly put up the strongest shield he could create, seeking protection. He thought about trying to guide Fox to the garden and to his Walter, but knew that Fox was in too much pain to accept the illusion. It didn't matter that he didn't understand the words, the sheer force behind them left no doubt as to their meaning.

"Fox, I'm ......gag....thing......pain," Morten was speaking to him but he was barely able to focus on the man's face let alone his words.

"You have to relax, Fox. Calm down or you'll hurt yourself more."

*You have got to be fucking kidding. I'm dying here and you want me to calm down.*

The obstruction was finally removed, his mouth and tongue free to give voice to the agony engulfing his body.

"Oh shitshitshit it hurts! Make it stop, do anything just make it stop!" Mulder screamed, tears streaming down his face, his head rolling from side to side. He was biting hard on his lower lip, blood already welling and dripping down his stubble-covered chin.

Suddenly firm, strong hands were holding his head immobile, fingers forcing themselves between sore lips, pushing something moist and sweet past his tongue, those same fingers massaging the side of his throat, coaxing the substance toward his stomach.

"Swallow lad, it'll make the pain go away." A different voice, older and feminine, full of motherly concern.

It was the last thing he heard before he once again succumbed to the sleep-inducing medicine. His last thought was *this place has some damn good shit.*

The next time he woke an old woman was fiddling with his left hand, placing something stiff between two of the fingers, wrapping soft cloth around them to hold it in place. He had no idea how much time had passed since his last brief period of awareness, only that the bald boy was still in the small room. He was curled up on a pile of fur in one corner fast asleep. Mulder thought they might have talked, but couldn't recall any details of conversation. He did recall having one hell of a nightmare though; the very act of remembering it sending a shudder and a new wave of nausea through his exhausted body. He had dreamt of worms, hundreds and hundreds of fat, wriggling worms burrowing into his flesh, eating him alive, unable to move or to scream, to bring attention to his torture. The boy was in the nightmare too, but whether he was causing the pain or trying to relieve it, Mulder didn't know. He had also heard music playing, loud and primitive at times, at others it was as cultured as a symphony. He recalled faces, feminine, youthful and curious, one in particular beautifully framed by golden hair, the touch of a slender hand, a soft murmuring in his ear. It was the strangest dream he could ever recall having; it had seemed so real, as real as the ones Roche had created.

He tried to speak, but all that issued from his dry sore throat was a croaky whisper that the old woman must have heard. She finished wrapping his hand and then held a cup to his parched lips, cradling his head as he drank.

Deciding to stop before his stomach complained, Mulder thanked his helper and let his head drop back to the cot. He felt better than he could remember feeling in a long time and was content to just lie back and relax, not knowing how long his luck would last.

"How...... how long was I out?" he asked the woman as she crossed the small room to nudge the boy awake, bending to whisper in his ear. The boy (*what was his name—Mort? Morty? Morten? Yeah that was it*) raised his head, a look of surprise lighting up his boyish features.

"Out? You haven't been out anywhere that I know of," she looked genuinely confused, as if he had suddenly spoken in a foreign language.

*I s'pose late twentieth century American is another language to these people.*

"I meant how long have I been asleep?" he corrected, carefully stretching sore muscles and aching joints. He felt the whip marks on his back protest at the movement, but the pain wasn't too bad. He couldn't move his right leg, could feel some sort of straps holding it tightly against the cot. A rough, hand woven blanket covered the lower half of his body, held above his leg by some sort of frame but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to investigate further. The pain in his leg had subsided and that was good enough for now.

"Almost 2 sun-cycles," Morten answered, speaking for the first time. He rose from his make-shift bed gracefully and walked towards Mulder, picking up a small package from a low wooden table on his way.

Mulder looked around, noticing his surroundings clearly for the first time. He was in a small room with roughly hewn timber beams making up the walls and roof. The floor appeared to be packed earth, a few moth-eaten rugs scattered around. Hanging on the walls in various places were bridles and saddles and reins and things he recognized but chose to ignore. If he never saw another whip, he would die a happy man. Large buckets sat on the floor near the only entrance, but he was unable to determine their contents from his position against the far wall. Sunlight poured in through a single small window that had been carved in the wall opposite the doorway.

Morten knelt down by the cot and removed the blanket that covered Mulder's leg, revealing the wound. By the look of relief that appeared on his face, Mulder guessed that he liked what he saw.

"Why am I here? What do you want from me?" he asked, not expecting an answer. No-one ever answered his questions, not Cancer Man, not X, not even his own parents. He was not disappointed as Morten concentrated on his leg in silence. "You brought me here and I want to know why!" he yelled, his anger rising, his patience just about running out.

Morten still ignored him, speaking to the old woman instead as she placed a bowl of water and some rags on the floor by his side, "I think it's time to inform Lady Kaneesha of our success." A note of triumph was in his voice and his eyes. His hands worked quickly as he cleaned the wound, scooping out a blood-speckled white, runny substance which he dumped in a bucket.

Mulder glanced at the contents and immediately wished he hadn't been so inquisitive. The substance was alive, hundreds of fat worms wriggling and squirming in the bottom of the bucket, some beginning to crawl up the sides. His stomach heaved at the sight, bile flooding his throat and mouth which somehow he managed to expel into the bucket. *Oh my God.. it wasn't a nightmare.. it was real*

"What the hell have you done to me?" Something inside him snapped and grabbing the first thing his hand touched, he hurled the fragile wooden frame across the small room where it smashed into the far wall next to the open doorway. It did nothing to lessen his anger and rage and hate that he felt for these people. "What am I to you people? Someone to be bought and sold, abused, experimented on? What gives you the right to treat me or anyone else this way?"

"You're alive, Fox. You were going to die and I saved your life by bringing you here."

"Yeah well send me back and let him finish the job. I'd prefer to die quickly from a bullet to the back of my head than to be the main course for your pet worms." Mulder struggled to rise before remembering that his leg was still strapped to the cot. He fell back in defeat and despair.

*I've come all this way, beaten, shot, sold and raped only to end up as the main course for the kid's worm farm. I know livered onions are a delicacy on Reticular, I guess pate Mulder is all the rage here* He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Tears formed and ran down his face, creating streaks in the accumulated grime.

"If you don't calm down Fox, I can't finish dressing your leg." Morten said in what he hoped was a calming, soothing tone. Luckily, his patient was still strapped to the cot, and had only limited movement. He glanced at Mulder. His short outburst had drained him. He was lying back, hazel eyes fixed on him, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his face. *Sweat or tears?* Morten wondered.

He continued cleaning the wound, smeared a freshly made poultice over the healing flesh and wrapped it securely with clean cloth. "Your leg was poisoned. I had to get rid of the spoilt flesh before it could spread further and kill you. I hadn't really expected it would work quite so swiftly. You should be up and walking soon," he explained as he worked.

Mulder recalled noticing black, dead looking skin, thick, bubbling pus and a nauseating odor in the arrow wound the last time he had looked at it shortly before the wagons arrived at the castle. Gangrene had obviously set in and without modern surgical techniques, Morten had used a primitive but effective treatment of using maggots to eat away the dead flesh. It had been used in the trenches of World War 1. He didn't want to even think what the poultice had consisted of.

"No wonder your last Master wanted to kill you. Have you always been this difficult? I know our mistress won't be too pleased with your behavior."

"My last master? Our mistress? What the hell are you talking about?" Mulder knew what Morten was inferring, but he didn't want to believe it. A part of him had known since Steven handed him - *no SOLD him* - to Imram at the market fair. He had thought he could deny and ignore all the evidence, not wanting to accept what he heard and felt and saw and smelt. The chains and whips, the massacre and his flogging, the slave pen and his rape...... For to accept his fate was to give up all hope that he might wake up from this nightmare and find himself on his own couch, an old sci-fi re-run on TV, sunflowers seed husks on the floor, eager to see Scully at the office to discuss the latest case. With Morten's words he could deny the evidence, the truth, no longer. Morten was a slave. His mistress was Mulder's mistress therefore he himself was also a slave. *Welcome to the harem, Mulder.*

"And how did you know I was going to die? How did I get here? I want some fucking answers, damn it!"

"I can see we are going have to work on your attitude, pet. I don't expect total silence but I will not tolerate rudeness." The new voice caused Mulder to turn his head towards the doorway to see its owner. "Besides, I think you should at least show some gratitude, Fox. I've saved your life twice now. You should be thanking me, not cursing me."

"Thanking you?" Mulder replied in amazement. The young woman he remembered from the strange ritual that had brought him here stood in the doorway, backlit by the setting sun. *This must be the mistress* he deduced. "Excuse me if I don't get down on my knees and kiss your feet, as pretty as they may be. For what should I be thanking you?" He again struggled to rise, wanting, needing to be in a more equal position to his self-confessed savior. "For being beaten and whipped and sold into slavery?"

Kaneesha hesitated at the doorway, stunned at being addressed in such a manner and by Fox, of all people. She had been in the middle of a boring game of croquet with some of the other daughters of the visiting nobles wishing she could be out riding in the Great Hunt instead. But her Father had forbid it, saying it was not a proper pursuit for a young lady.

"But Daddy, you got me that magnificent horse that I know was born and bred for hunting, are you saying I won't be allowed to ride him? Two days ago you said I was capable of ruling Carteria and yet you won't allow me to join in the hunt."

"When I am in my grave and no longer able to worry that you'll hurt yourself, you can do whatever pleases you. In the meantime, the stable-hands will break him in and he'll be perfect for your carriage." Her father had then ridden away with the hunting party, following the hounds on the trail of some unfortunate creature. She had stood there fuming, watching him disappear across a dry field. Then Amah had come, bearing the news she feared she would never hear. Her pet was alive and awake. She had visited the hut a few times since his arrival only to find him still unconscious, usually moaning with pain and burning with fever. She had begun to doubt that he would survive, silently wondering if Morten really was doing everything to save him. But one look at her exhausted slave, his body slumped and eyes drooping from lack of sleep and food and fresh air told her that he was doing his best to keep her latest pet alive.

She quickly composed herself and entered, crossing to sit on the stool Morten had placed by the cot.

"Of course I don't expect you to go down on your knees," she replied in her most mistress-like voice, "not until that nasty wound of yours heals. And if kissing feet is a sign of respect and obedience among your people, then I should be flattered." She turned to Morten who was standing quietly by her side, waiting for further instructions. What he didn't expect was the level of praise her next words contained. "Morten, you have done a wonderful job, he looks so much better now. You just keep surprising me."

Morten was unsure how to react. He couldn't believe this was the same angry woman who had ordered him to be flogged just a few days ago because her plans hadn't worked as she had hoped. She was as a sweet as an angel now, her face lit up in a delight that couldn't be hidden. "Thank you, M'Lady. I wish things had worked out better in the beginning." He could feel himself blushing and lowered his head in embarrassment. Did this mean his banishment was over? Possibly. That tonight he would be taken back into her bed and her arms? Maybe. He took a gamble and silently suggested to her that his healing abilities were still needed if she wanted Fox to make a complete recovery. He had some very specific remedies in mind, including a lot of full body massages with fragrant herbal oils and plenty of bed-rest for the patient, snuggled up between the both of them to keep out the fever-chills that not even the biggest fire could dispel. He felt his cock hardened at the image he had implanted in his Mistress' mind and it almost began rising when he realized that she was open-minded to his ideas, wanting what was best for Fox.

Mulder couldn't believe what he was hearing, but there was not the slightest hint that the woman was being sarcastic. She truly believed what she was saying. He had witnessed enough polygraph tests and participated in enough interrogations of suspects to know when someone was lying outright. And she was deadly serious. Her belief of superiority over him was startlingly clear, in her words, the tone of her voice, the way she sat and most of all the way she looked at him. It reminded him of his own reaction upon waking on Christmas morning as a child to see a puppy under the Christmas tree. *Not just any puppy though* he thought. *A puppy she has seen in a window and dreamed about that night and each night there after, never really believing it would be hers one day*

"Now you must be very hungry, Fox. I've sent Amah to get some food and once you've eaten Morten can give you a bath." She looked at Morten and grinned, though Mulder couldn't quite translate the unspoken communication that passed between Mistress and slave. Seeing the look of absolute pleasure on Morten's face, he deduced that she had just granted his healer a reward for a job well done and that bathing him was the reward. For some reason being bathed by the good-looking young man was not an unpleasant thought. It sounded pretty good actually. He knew that not all of the ripe smell that permeated the small room was caused by his infected leg. A hot shower and clean clothes, hell any clothes, would be most welcome.

"You definitely can't come inside until you're clean and you'll need some new clothes. Those rags you were wearing won't do at all." She was giving orders as if it was second nature to her and they were carried out immediately by the servants and slaves around her. She rose and turned towards the doorway, through which he could see the setting sun give way to a pink and orange twilight. "Now I need to see about a bed for you, my pet. You can't stay out here forever." She quickly bent and placed a soft kiss on his forehead then left.

Mulder was left stunned and speechless. He didn't know what annoyed him more — his confused feelings about his latest "hosts" or being called Fox and my pet. He looked to Morten for answers. He was busily packing things away and clearing the table for the food that the old woman had just arrived with. He looked so boyish and innocent, young in body, small in stature, but his eyes, those windows to the soul, revealed Morten to be only ten or fifteen years younger than himself.

"I take it you were following HER orders when you brought me here? I'd still like to know how you did it. Was it soul transference or some sort of cosmic transporter beam?"

The look Morten gave him reminded him of the barriers of language and technological advancement that separated them.

"Yes, that was Lady Kaneesha. We address her as M'Lady or Lady Kaneesha." He knew Mulder was bursting with questions and demands, but as he didn't know how to reply, he tried to change the subject. "How much do you remember, Fox?" he asked as he laid out the food, cold meat, fruit and bread.

Mulder realized that Morten was hoping to distract him, bribing him with food and questions of his own. He wanted to ignore the various plates being placed on the table by his cot, but his body's need for sustenance overtook all other thoughts.

"I remember her and you and a tunnel with a light at one end. She was lying on a cot and you were standing over her, linked by some sort of multicolored cord. Then there was a flash of light and I fell, landing in some woods somewhere." Mulder had sat up and was now eating as he recounted his memories. The food was simply prepared and delicious and he was ravenous. "I suppose it'll be the same when you send me back." His hunger satisfied for now, he sat back and washed the meal down with a large cup of fresh cow's milk. It was his first proper meal since Samarrah fed him when he was in the holding cellar.

Morten's silence and his reluctance to meet his eye set alarm bells ringing in Mulder's brain.

"You are going to send me back, aren't you? I mean this was just a prank, some sort of magic spell gone wrong? Trying to impress your mistress? Show what a clever little slave boy you can be?" Mulder didn't like the desperation that had crept into his voice, but he hated the bitterness more. *He's a slave. He was following his mistress' orders.* He reasoned. * Yeah, that's what the Nazi's said at the Nuremberg Trials.* "Your place in her bed is quite safe. I'm not interested in jail-bait. So it's really in both of our best interests to just send me home."

"I can't do that. She would have me flogged again or worse." Fear flooded his voice. The new slave's uncanny insight made him realize just how much he craved her attention, wanted her approval. All those nights that she fucked him, satisfying her own needs and then leaving him on the brink of orgasm, a rock-hard erection that was more painful than any whipping. To even think of doing something he knew would mean being banished again to be worked to exhaustion in the fields or mines, left him shaking with fear. Not to mention the thought of never seeing Fox again, never knowing the pleasure of being in his arms, of waking up next to Fox, of making love to him, of showing him the beauty of Carteria and its many peace-loving people. To convince the older man that animals like Imram were few. Besides, the world that Fox would return to was just as brutal and violent as this one. At least here, he would be protected by Kaneesha from any further abuse.

Morten finally spoke, but he kept his eyes averted, looking everywhere but at Mulder. "It was a sort of spell and it did go wrong. You were supposed to arrive at the casting chamber in the castle but the storm interrupted the ritual."

"So we wait for fine weather and then you can send me home."

"When are you going to accept that I can't—I WON'T- send you home?! Another flogging? Maybe a night or two in the pit, without food, without water, a pit that the guards are fond of using to piss and shit in?" Morten was towering over Mulder, his face red with rage, eyes wide and blazing, a coil of rope in one quivering hand, ready to strike, to beat understanding into the fool at his feet. *Please, don't make me hurt you, Fox. Don't ever give anyone cause to punish you. It tears me apart to see you in pain, to share your pain.* he wanted to shout but couldn't.

Mulder shrunk back in reflex and in fear, his eyes focused on the rope *whip*, the remembered smell of smoke so real it irritated his throat and made his eyes water. He could feel the fire's heat on his skin and the wagon spokes against his face and chest, the lash cutting deep gouges in his back, ripping his flesh to shreds. He could hear the women and children screaming as they were roasted alive.

"NO! No more!" he screamed, reaching up and grabbing the rope out of Morten's fist and tossing it across the room. He picked up whatever his hands came in contact with, bowls and plates, half eaten pieces of fruit and was throwing them at Morten, at the walls. He had had enough of being treated like an animal. He was a human being, not something to be bought and sold and beaten. They could kill him, would probably kill him and hurry to do it, but he would go as defiantly as possible.

Morten retreated out of range of Mulder's fury. Some sleeping-water was still in a bowl by the door. He quickly soaked a rag in it, and without thought for his own safety, managed to get close enough to hold the cloth over Mulder's nose and mouth, feeling him buck and writhe as he inhaled the vapors. It took a while for the fists that pummeled him to die down and finally cease. He kept the cloth in place a little longer as he probed Mulder's mind for any sign that he was faking sleep. Eventually he was satisfied, and removing the cloth, he collapsed to his knees.

He hated having to tie Fox's arms to the bed after his reaction to the rope, but he had no other choice. He hadn't slept more than a hour or two at a time since Fox's arrival and his body was screaming for rest. If Mulder were to awake enraged while he slept, then he would surely alert guards and soldiers to the hut. Luckily most of them were out with Lord Gareth and his noble friends on a hunt and wouldn't return until dark.

He took rope and cloth to protect still bruised flesh and secured him to the bed. He couldn't resist placing a lingering kiss on the sleeping man's full lips, lips that parted slightly at his touch, enabling his probing tongue to slip inside for just an instant, but it was an instant that Morten would treasure forever. As he replaced the blanket over Fox's legs, he noticed Fox's cock, ever so slightly swollen. His own responded simultaneously, even though he knew the sleeping-water had a small aphrodisiac effect. He needed all his self-control to avoid touching the aroused organ as he settled the blanket over Fox's nude, sweaty body. He quickly tidied the mess and curled up on the pile of furs in the corner. Kaneesha had said Fox was her dream come true. This was one dream he was glad he shared with her and he hoped it would never end. He was asleep before his head touched the bundle of rags he used as a pillow.

END OF HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO 2: A Dream Come True

TO BE CONTINUED