The Hunger

Morcant stood. He sat. He crawled, he kneeled, he even lay prone, but nothing helped. He shouted, he whispered. He cursed.

And he prayed.

His hand missed the feel of his sword. He missed the weight of the weapon, the leather-wrapped pommel, and the way the blade sounded when he swung it. The sword was his pride and joy, it was the only thing that meant anything to him other than the men he considered brothers – Stefan, Ronan, and Daman.

Where were they? Had the gypsy killed them? Perhaps she threw them in a prison like him. Saints, he hoped that wasn’t the case. He didn’t know how long he had been in the darkness, but he knew it was a considerable amount of time. Or perhaps it had only been a blink in time.

The fact he didn’t need to eat or sleep worried him at first. That was soon forgotten as he realized the one thing that he couldn’t relieve or ignore was his cock. He was in a constant state of arousal, and if he touched himself, it only made the need double.

Was this his punishment for sleeping with the lovely Denisa? She’d said she wasn’t a virgin, but Morcant knew he would’ve likely taken her even if she had been honest. He had wanted a woman, and she was beautiful and willing.

He fell to his knee and closed his eyes as he concentrated on remembering what it felt like to hold his sword. He fisted his hand, just to spread his fingers wide and fist his hand again and again and again.

His balls tightened, and his cock jumped as a swell of desire shot through him. In his mind, he recalled how it felt to sink into the warm, wet flesh of a woman’s sex, to have her legs wrap around him.

Sweat broke out over him as he fought not to grab his cock and attempt to ease the devastating, engulfing hunger of his body. He fell to one knee and braced himself with his left hand, his fingers splayed upon the ground.

Not once in all his years before had he denied himself sex. The act allowed him pleasure, as well as the chance to lose himself for a few moments before he realized just how devoid his life truly was.

Morcant didn’t know how long he remained in that position until he was able to think past the need clawing through him. When he could take a deep breath, he had the sensation that he was being watched.

He opened his eyes and slowly turned his head, but he saw nothing. Nothing but black as far as he could see. What he wouldn’t do to see some color, even if it were the gray skies that could last for weeks in his beloved Scotland.

As dark as it was, Morcant could see himself when he looked down, but if there were anything or anyone else in the cursed place, he couldn’t see or hear them.

He clenched his teeth. Morcant tried to remember Denisa’s face and body, tried to recall how it had felt when he had lain with her, but he couldn’t remember anything about her. There had even been a few occasions where he forgot her name.

When that happened, he would go through everyone he knew and recount their names as well as what they looked like because his fear was that he would lose himself in the blackness.

Perhaps he already had. His friends might be trying to wake him up, and he didn’t even know it.

Or he could be dead and this was Hell.

He wouldn’t claim to be a saint, but neither had he done enough to have his soul condemned to Hell. It could be purgatory, or it could be nothing. How many times had Morcant gone over this in his head? How many times had he talked out loud, hoping that something might make more sense if he heard it?

He was losing his mind. Bit by bit, little by little, the longer he remained in this wretched place, the more of him was taken.

He fought against it, but it did no good. The gypsy had seen to that.