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Title: The Stallion Rides
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: Kingdom of Heaven, Nasir/Balian, Nasir/Saladin
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Has nothing to do with historical anything, and is only vaguely based on characters in a movie that has only some things to do with historical anything. But you’re free to picture events using whatever inspiration you desire.
Note: I was wracking my brain trying to come up with some plausible reason Balian would
a) sleep with Sybilla
b) refuse to marry her when even the king thought it was a good idea
c) leave Jerusalem when there were so many hot men being left behind.
Here’s my take on it, which can be squeezed into canon with a touch of lube and a bit of mindful foreplay.
The Stallion Rides
The early evening sun, slanting through high slits in the chamber’s walls, gave a dull gleam to the intricately carved chess pieces.
Balian did not move the pieces; the game was long over.
He stared at the board, trying to recreate the game. How could the pieces have come to rest in those positions? It was obvious, from the goblet on the black side of the board, that King Baldwin had been playing white. The King had never indulged during a game, or when any other was in the room. He had never removed his mask unless absolutely alone.
Who had his opponent been? Tiberius, most likely. It could have been Balian, if Balian had been present that last night Baldwin took ill, but he had not been at the palace.
No one had moved a thing from the table since the King’s death. Guy had shunned this room, ordering the door locked. He’d used a larger, even more opulent chamber to receive his guests. The queen had ordered the rooms cleaned regularly, and they were remarkably dust-free, but none of the servants could muster the courage, or the coldness, to disturb this, their beloved King’s final game.
Balian touched the white queen hesitantly. This meeting concerned her fate, Sybilla’s fate. That was all he knew.
That, and that he dreaded meeting Saladin again, for this meeting, unlike their last, which had been in the open and observed by all, would be private.
Balian was unsure of how to act in the presence of the Saracen ruler, his conqueror. Saladin, surely, owned Balian’s fate. Balian was helpless before him.
Balian would have to be respectful and deferential. He was obliged to acknowledge Saladin’s power over him in some fashion, and yet the idea of being subject to another chafed him. He had tried, once he found a worthy king, to be a worthy and loyal subject. He’d served King Baldwin to the best of his ability, and it had not ended well.
Had Balian obeyed accepted an order to denounce Guy and marry Sybilla, the city would still be in the hands of the Christians, but Baldwin had issued no such command. Baldwin’s refusal to force Balian’s compliance had reinforced Balian’s respect and love for the king, but had led to the fall of Jerusalem.
Now he had a new master, at least until he left these lands.
It would be much easier to obey Saladin than it had been to obey Baldwin. Whether the orders were phrased as a demand or a request, Saladin’s desires would be irresistible; such was Saladin’s majesty and natural authority. It had been difficult for Balian not to kneel before him on the battlefield. He had never felt the urge to genuflect, not even as a humble blacksmith. Now he was the commander of Jerusalem’s army, and yet his first urge was to surrender.
He had resisted the urge, of course, and negotiated a settlement, fair to his people, humane in nature, and which would lead to the end of the killings. That was his duty, to God, to his people, to the memory of King Baldwin. But now, it seemed, Saladin wanted more.
Saladin had yet to take full possession of the city. Tomorrow morning he would move into the palace. Balian wondered why these negotiations could not take place then. He waited, outwardly calm, standing by the chess table, with no more time to dwell on these questions. Saladin had arrived. Now the answers would become apparent.
Balian was taken aback to see not Saladin but his faithful aide and advisor Nasir enter quietly through the heavy, carved door. His surprise must have shown on his face, despite his efforts to remain impassive in the face of Nasir’s intimidating master. Nasir rushed to Balian's side and held his arm.
“Do not fret, my friend,” Nasir said soothingly. “I do not come to warn you of danger. I come to prepare you.”
“Prepare me for what?”
“My lord will arrive shortly. He wishes to discuss a matter of utmost importance…”
“I know,” Balian interrupted. “The fate of the queen.”
Nasir smiled. It was such a warm expression, genuine and heartfelt, Balian found himself momentarily thrown off guard. “Yes, the queen. You would do well to see to her safety. Full cooperation is advised.”
Balian stared into the dark eyes of his companion from the desert. He had not had the opportunity to speak with Nasir at length when they’d met at Kerak. Balian was still confused about their time together during their journey to Jerusalem. Nasir had guided him, found food and shelter, served him humbly yet with dignity. In the cold of the night, Nasir had kept him warm, and for that he would always be grateful. And in the darkest hour of the night, Nasir had given him a pleasure he still did not understand.
Never before had Balian felt such satisfaction. He had been with his wife many times, and the emotion and sensations had seemed, at the time, to be the pinnacle of earthly bliss. In the desert, though, with their lives held in the balance, threatened by a hostile environment, Nasir had shown him something far more fulfilling.
Balian had thought on this often. At first, he assumed the dangers of the moment had added to the pleasure. The illicitness of the acts, the barely contained frenzy in which Balian had found himself once Nasir laid hands on his skin, seemed to have taken place outside the natural world. That was what he believed had made that night so beguiling, but he knew now it was more than that. He wished, in his weaker moments, to experience that thrill again.
In his weakest moment, he’d attempted to recreate the sensations with the sister of the king. It had been a betrayal of unthinkable proportions. And he had failed to achieve the euphoria of the desert night. Sybilla had seemed to find those heights easily. While Balian had physically responded, it had been more a relief than a peak. He felt great shame for his actions.
A lifetime alone seemed preferable to a lifetime of unfulfilled promise. He had felt so empty as he watched her ride away. Again, he assigned a benign cause for his reactions, his guilt for taking another man’s wife, his sorrow for betraying his dead wife, his disappointment for something that could not be. But when offered the chance to make it be, for Sybilla to be his new wife and for his dead wife to be laid to rest, he’d refused, in part because did not wish to endlessly repeat that night of disappointment.
Now he understood the real reason. Nasir once more stirred those long-denied feelings within his breast. Nasir’s hands on his shoulders, kneading and reassuring him, were a comfort. Nasir’s breath on his cheek as he embraced Balian warmly was a balm. Nasir’s body, strong and lean, pressing against him, heated him. Nasir’s hand sliding down to his waist in an intimate touch made him want so much more.
“What are you doing?” Balian asked, somewhat alarmed. His arousal would soon become quite evident.
“My lord will prefer you like this,” Nasir explained calmly, too calmly. “A little breathless, a little flushed.” He plucked at the fastenings of Balian’s heavily embroidered robe. “You suit our garb well, my friend. The rich colours, the heavy materials, they drape over your frame in a most comely fashion. Perhaps, some skin. Yes, my lord should see more skin.
“You are bronzed now, not the pale, sunless youth of the past, but a golden man in his prime.”
Balian jerked back, but Nasir’s hand on his waist would not allow him to move far. Balian could have physically overwhelmed Nasir, but it would not have been prudent under the circumstances. He submitted to the touch reluctantly. “Why do you do this?”
“Balian, my lord wishes to confer with you.”
“And just what does this conference entail?”
“Surrender,” Nasir whispered. “Surrender of the most exquisite kind.”
Balian tried to push Nasir away. “Never!”
“Balian,” Nasir said in the simple tones one uses with a child. “One does not deny Saladin. I warn you; do not force him to threaten the queen. It would be indecorous.”
Balian closed his eyes. He’d known the agreement on the battlefield had been too easily reached.
“Trust me, my friend. It will be no hardship. He is both skilled and mindful. And he aches for you. Submit with grace, and he will give you anything you desire.”
Balian opened his eyes.
“Except Jerusalem,” Nasir clarified.
They both were startled by the opening of the door.
Saladin had swathed himself in the dark cloak of a holy man, face shadowed by a deep hood, slender body hidden under thick, flowing robes. He slid the hood from his face and dropped the robe, standing before them in a simple, black, ankle-length tunic. “Balian,” he said in a low voice that made Balian shiver, “it is an honour to meet once more.”
“My lord,” Balian replied with a bow. Not too low, but deep enough to avoid insult. “You wish to discuss the queen’s fate?”
“I wish nothing of the sort. I wish for the queen to leave this city and never return. But I do wish to… discuss. With you Saladin stepped forward and reached a hand just shy of Balian’s chest, as if he expected Balian to flee, startled.
Balian was determined not to fail the queen again. He had caused her enough grief, enough disappointment. He took a step forward, until Saladin’s hand pressed against his chest. “I am yours to command.”
Even to his own ears, Balian’s voice sounded stiff and insincere. He tried to relax his shoulders, but they were set in a defiant pose, and his chin jutted rebelliously forward of its own accord.
Saladin’s smile was knowing and superior, yet gentle. “Ah, my stallion, you chafe at the bit even as you submit. It is invigorating.”
“What do you wish of me?” Balian asked abruptly. He would comply, but he would be as brisk and businesslike as possible.
Saladin would have none of that. “I wish to sit with you and talk. Nasir, ice?”
“It is by the door, my lord. I shall retrieve it at once.”
Balian found himself seated on floor cushions with a goblet of ice and sweet, pure water.
“The siege was most unfortunate. Most difficult for all involved. Too many lives were lost, and for what? An outcome that was all but inevitable. You put up an admirable resistance, though, and I respect you for that. I could use a military commander such as you in my army.”
Balian sputtered.
“Fear not,” Saladin laughed heartily. “I am not here to recruit you. Not for my army. Drink, please, and be at peace,” Saladin said.
Balian did as he was told. The water was spectacular, compared to the stale, musty rations he’d been enduring. It reminded him of snowfalls at home. Where Saladin had found ice in the middle of the desert heat bewildered and dazzled him.
“Your beauty astounds me,” Saladin announced abruptly.
Balian choked on his ice water.
“A true treasure, you are.”
Balian wiped the moisture from his chin. “You find me…” He could not complete the thought.
He’d thought of this as some sort of Saracen torture, thought himself one of the spoils of war, and this meeting as his punishment for his failure on the field of battle. He’d assumed would be used most heinously as penance for his sins, piling sin upon sin to complete his fall.
But Saladin’s eyes glittered with something Balian had seen before, in Nasir’s eyes, in the eyes of men on the ship as he travelled across the sea. Balian was inexperienced, but not ignorant. He knew what it meant. He could plainly see it was genuine.
It simply had not occurred to him that this warrior king would actual desire him.
Balian struggled for some way to respond. Saladin’s eyes bore into him, raked his body. He remembered his open tunic, the skin of his chest exposed. He must have looked as if he wanted the attention. “I…” He lifted his hand to close his tunic.
Saladin batted it away and took hold of the cloth. “More,” he said in a gruff voice. “I want to see more.”
Balian took that as the command it was. His hands tangled in the intricate clasps. He was shocked when Nasir’s competent fingers loosened his garments and drew the tunic off. It was appalling, that Nasir would witness this humiliation.
Saladin moaned softly when Nasir’s hands returned to Balian’s naked chest.
“Peace,” Nasir whispered in his ear. “It will be pleasing; I promise you.”
Balian allowed himself to be pushed against the cushions. He tried to tilt his head back, so Saladin could not see his face, but Nasir moved a pillow under his neck with a hiss. He was to be observed everywhere, spared no indignity. He could bear that. He would bear anything for the good of his people and his queen. He raised his head even further and returned Saladin’s gaze with what he hoped were steady eyes.
Nasir was removing his leggings. Balian raised his hips in aid. Soon he was naked on the pillows, surrounded by silk-covered pillows and rich brocades. Saladin drank in Balian’s golden skin with his eyes.
The king moved forward gracefully. If Balian had not seen his legs move, he would have sworn Saladin had floated across the room, such was his elegance. Balian closed his eyes at the feel of Saladin’s tongue on his shoulder.
“You taste of the desert,” Saladin said gruffly. “You have become one of us in your time here.”
Balian knew enough to know a reply was not expected.
The slick hot tongue on his belly made him shiver. He was being tasted, as the fallen beast is tasted by the lion before the kill.
He loved it.
He wanted that tongue everywhere on his body. He wanted to be bathed by it. He let his desire be known with a low moan, and the tilting of his hips. He felt heavy between his legs, thick with longing, filled with need.
In the desert, Nasir had coaxed the seed from him with his hands and mouth, licked it from Balian’s quivering belly. He could not imagine Saladin doing such a thing, but there was a mouth on him, swallowing him.
Balian looked down and saw Nasir.
Saladin stretched on the cushions beside Balian. Those were Saladin’s fingers idly toying with Balian’s nipples, Saladin’s tongue lapping at his shoulder; it was Nasir’s familiar mouth devouring him below. Saladin licked Balian’s arm, nudged it with his cheek, nuzzled beneath Balian’s arm and sighed, tugged the dark hair with his teeth.
Should Balian not be serving his new lord? He moved his hand to touch Saladin’s arm. Saladin raised his head and looked back at him, with the lazy, hungry stare of a lion.
Balian tried to speak, but at that moment Nasir’s tongue swirled around him and made him gasp. He steeled himself and focused on Saladin’s sharp face. “I want to please you, my lord,” he said breathlessly.
“You are most pleasing, I assure you,” Saladin said. “Let my pet drink of you, and then you may do the same of me.”
Balian shuddered.
“And then you may please Nasir, for my enjoyment.”
Balian jerked and moaned. Nasir’s mouth was speeding him to his peak. His eyes opened wide and Saladin lunged forward to capture his lips, plunging his tongue inside Balian’s mouth. The taste of honey and spice filled Balian, and he would forever associate it with this moment, this feeling of tumbling off a cliff, of soaring in the air.
Saladin cradled Balian’s face in his hands, nipping at his lips between words. “So beautiful, so dutiful. Now, let me see you let go that restraint. I want to see your desire as naked as your body.”
Balian could barely move. He could groan and feel himself shrink in Nasir’s gently sucking mouth. He could rub his face across Saladin’s beard and feel the prickles against his cheekbone. He could make only small, mewling sounds, until he felt the desire to serve stir within his breast.
As suddenly as he had released his seed, he swooped down Saladin’s body. He would do more than obey. He would show Saladin a truer desire than the king had ever seen. For now a barrier had come crashing down with as much force as the gates of Jerusalem, and all of Balian, even his mouth, his tongue, desired.
He pushed Nasir’s hands away. He would not accept help. It was not that difficult to push away the layers of soft black and the undergarments. He opened the robe wide, pulled cloth aside until he could see everything he desired. He drank in the sight of solid, lean belly, of tender skin and the hard, almost cruel-looking staff that rose from the curling black hairs.
The first taste burned his tongue. Too much desire, perhaps, too much raw need. He slowed his licking, savouring instead of consuming. It was sheer delight, to feel this hot, hard staff between his lips, to taste and smell the warrior king, to hear the controlled but still deep moans. He sucked, gently, mindful of his teeth on tender skin, considering every twitch of stomach muscle and analysing every shift of leg, until he was sure he could do no better.
Saladin’s hands clutched at his hair roughly, and Balian feared he would be forced until choked, but Saladin was holding him back as much as he was encouraging him.
Nasir’s hands kneaded Balian’s back and buttocks, stroked his thighs, accompanied by a soft whisper. “Very good, my stallion. You learn quickly and you please my lord greatly.”
Saladin growled low and arched into Balian’s warm mouth with a roar. He erupted, and Balian struggled to keep the seed in his mouth. He swallowed, and a path warmed its way to his belly. Saladin gripped Balian’s hair ever tighter and issued a stream of words Balian did not understand. Nasir murmured in agreement and slid up Balian’s body.
Balian tried to shake him off, but Nasir was stronger than Balian judged at first. “Hush, hush, stallion. Time to be filled. Move up here, yes, up on your hands and knees. That’s it. Put your knees on either side of my lord’s waist. Lean up a bit…”
This brought Balian face-to-face with Saladin. Balian looked into those dark eyes and saw raw power and lust.
“Nasir, my pet, prepare our stallion,” Saladin murmured and lifted his head to lick the corner of Balian’s mouth. “I wish to see you mounted, to feel your body strain against me. Lower your chest.”
Balian did as he was told. He planted his elbows on the cushions and bent down until his face was next to Saladin’s and his hard shaft brushed against Saladin’s sated member.
Balian jumped at the feel of warm wetness on his lower back. Dear God, these were heathens. His salvation was in dire danger.
Nasir’s tongue burned a course down Balian’s backside. When the slick tongue began to probe, Balian clutched at the sheets and gasped. It was, at once, nothing he’d ever thought of and everything he’d ever dreamt of. Saladin petted his hair and stroked his back.
“Easy, young one. Open yourself to him. Open yourself and be at peace.”
And Balian was. Once he stopped fighting the invasion, he felt his entire being, his entire soul, blossom, expand to fill the room, the city, the sky. Mouth left him, a hard shaft dragged across his tender opening, warm oil slithered in his most intimate places, Nasir slid into him easily. Only then did Balian realise what was happening. He struggled for a second, perhaps two, until Saladin took his head between his hands and covered his mouth with his lips. Balian began to rock in time with Nasir’s thrusts.
Saladin’s breath grew hard on his skin, teeth sharp on his ear. “That is it. Feel how you revive my desire. Feel how much you are needed. This is what need is.” Saladin thrust his hips to drive his renewing hardness up into Balian’s belly. Balian struggled to bring their two shafts into more contact. More was all he could think.
Saladin grazed his teeth against Balian’s shoulder. “Nasir!” he warned.
Nasir sped his movements and brought himself to his peak. Balian arched his back and accepted the final deep thrust, the throb deep inside. Desperate to feel that throb in his own loins, he moaned, barely noticing when Nasir slid out of him and guided him forward.
“Ah, yes, my beautiful,” Saladin murmured.
Balian had to grit his teeth as Saladin penetrated him. Stretched and slick, Balian was, but still not inured to the invasion. Saladin pushed at Balian’s heaving chest until he sat upright, legs bent on either side of Saladin, shaft rising proudly between them.
Nasir dragged himself up off the ground and pressed his body against Balian’s back. Balian could feel Nasir’s softened length, his sweat-slicked chest, the coarse body hairs and harsh breaths on Balian’s shoulder.
“Gaze upon your merciful king,” he said solemnly, but not without a slight pant. “Gaze on your king and be thankful.”
Balian opened his eyes and saw Saladin’s heavy eyes. He felt the might of the Saracen warrior within him.
He rode.
Rocking gently at first, forward and back, adjusting to this new feeling. So full, so open. He raised up, and down. Saladin’s hands gripped his thighs and squeezed, urging him to move faster, harder. Balian closed his fists around Saladin’s wrists and held those long fingers against his skin. He spiralled upward, newly hard, newly aching.
It was Nasir who gave Balian relief. He reached around, stroked and soothed. “That is perfect,” Nasir whispered. “You are perfection.”
And that perfection, or so Nasir claimed, was the cause of Balian’s banishment. For as much as Balian might wish, plead, beg to be allowed to stay in Jerusalem the next morning, Nasir would refuse him, kindly but firmly, with ‘You would be too much of a distraction.’ From his kingly duties, or from Nasir, Nasir would not say, but Balian’s banishment from Jerusalem was enforced by a letter from Saladin, in simple Latin, ordering Balian to return to his homeland and seek a new life. ‘Thrive in your own land,’ it read. ‘Be at peace, and feel my approving gaze always.’
Balian could not have conceived of such a dismissal as he rode his king. His hair tumbled back to entwine with Nasir’s. Nasir’s hands guided him in a primal rhythm. His whole body shook with pleasure as night fell like a velvet curtain around them. Upward, upward, to the edge of the peak, slowing with deep breaths and soothing words, and back again they journeyed. Saladin seemed loath to allow Balian’s release, and Balian did what he could to slow the king’s completion as well, for if this were to last only night, Balian wanted it to be a night that lasted a thousand years, and if it were possible for the night to last a thousand years, Balian wished to secure that destiny.
Saladin’s hands touched him possessively. Slender but brutally strong fingers wove into his hair, joined him to Nasir, whose teeth sank into his shoulder from behind. Saladin made noises that may have been words, words that were the most beautiful noises Balian had ever heard, and finally, after the room had long been plunged into a night, and was lit only by a few lamps and a glow that emanated from somewhere behind Balian’s eyes, Saladin commanded “It is done!”
Balian fell back, hoping Nasir would catch him, but Nasir had twined around him to capture Balian’s seed in his mouth once more. Filled by the sword of the Saracen, engulfed by his pet, exhausted from his efforts, Balian slid sideways to the cushions.
Saladin followed, rolling atop and thrusting thrice more before he clutched at Balian’s arms and moaned. Balian groaned and lifted his legs until Saladin could sink in no further, to deposit his seed deep within.
Nasir fetched clean water and towels. Balian had the sensation of being washed and cared for, but he was only dimly aware of the reality. A callused, dry palm soothed his brow. Long, silky curls brushed his cheek, and gentle lips kissed his eyebrows.
If only he could have understood what was said.
“He must go. I cannot have that sort of temptation close at hand.”
“As you wish, my lord. Although it would be well within your rights as the conqueror…”
“Do not tempt me, Nasir. We would have many such nights, and where would my kingdom be then? We have a holy task ahead, not something to be trifled with.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“I would want nothing else. I would have no ambition. I would be… satisfied.”
“It is a pity. I can think of many other ways we could enjoy him.”
“No more. The decision is final.”
Balian woke to the sun. A servant girl offered him fresh clothes and water, cheeks reddened and eyes widened by Balian’s state.
What had he done?
He rose, shaking, fell against the table in despair. He would plead his case with Nasir. He barely noticed his dishevelled state, the tumbling of the chess pieces to the board in disarray, the thud of a heavy cross dislodged from its resting place as his robes swept about him in his hurry.
Some things cannot be undone.
Nasir was kind, but firm. He placed a parchment in Balian’s hands and bid him farewell, under the pretext of delivering a horse to Balian’s custody.
Balian read the letter and prayed he would be able to forget the night.
He faced a long journey home, and regretful longing for the place he was leaving would make it all the more arduous.
End.
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