Chapter Text
Scrolls and candelabras clattered to the ground, swept off the heavy oak table by an arm trembling with fury. The sharp jumble of noise was amplified by the sleek stone walls of the Orthanc tower, loud in the sudden hush of the room.
General Targg stood wordlessly at the edge of the chamber, his broad back against the wall and strategically out of sight. And in front of him was Wulf, raging at one of the Dunlending captains who had come back empty-handed from an unsuccessful incursion. From the torrent of colorful language pouring from his Lord, one would have thought the man spat on his father’s grave and then his mother’s. The lines on the old General’s face gradually deepened as he watched Wulf nearly throttle the poor man before sending him fleeing the room like his pants had been set alight.
This uncharacteristic behavior from the normally composed young Wulf had been escalating at an alarming rate as of late, and frankly, it was quite unbecoming for the future King of Rohan. The men would talk, they were talking already, and that would cause dissent. Targg could feel the growing tensions in camp, the weight of it settling over him like a heavy bearskin coat.
Whatever was going on with Wulf, it needed to be resolved. And rather swiftly, Targg supposed, before he caused a mutiny and the whole thing would go up in flames.
But for once the stoic General didn’t know what to do. These minor setbacks, if they could even be called that, were normal and very much expected. Not every venture would return supplies, gold, or slaves, the same way not every endeavor would yield success. That could only be the foolish fantasy of some inexperienced, blue-blooded boy who knew nothing of the world, and Wulf should know much more than just something. Or so Targg had thought.
And it wasn’t just this one incident, he knew, and had heard from his lieutenants in suppressed whispers when Wulf was not around to overhear.
From the consistency of his morning porridge to the volume of the guards’ voices, there always seemed to be some issue or another for Wulf to pick at these past few weeks, though everything had been going relatively smoothly according to their plans. There should have been nothing for him to scowl at, especially considering their recent securement of fealty from another sizeable tribe from Northern Dunland.
He watched as Wulf spat out a dismissal to the two sentries by the door, who seemed more than eager to leave, and sat down in his chair with a barely repressed sigh. The lines of his shoulders were tense like a bowstring pulled taunt and Targg felt a surge of pity for the boy, who had lost his father and his home, and now carried the weight of command. But it left as quickly as it had come; this was no time to indulge in the conduct of a spoiled brat who had never been taken to the knee.
So he took a step forward, towards the hunched form of his Lord. Wulf seemed oblivious to him, as if he’d forgotten Targg was there. His suspicions were confirmed when Wulf startled at the sound of his voice, swirling around to fix him with a stare that was almost wary.
“Sire, perhaps it would be wise to curb your anger in front of the men,” Targg began carefully, conscious of keeping his tone measured and even. “I understand that you’ve-”
“You understand nothing!” Wulf cut him off, and Targg had to restrain himself from retorting when all he wanted to do was grab him by the shoulders and shake him until whatever lunacy that had overcome the damn fool had fallen away.
“If these halfwits cannot complete simple tasks, then what use do I have of them?” Wulf continued, and Targg could sense that he was teetering on the verge of another outburst, though he had yet to direct his anger at the General. But with the way this conversation was going, it was only a matter of time.
“Yes…” Targg agreed evenly, though there was an undercurrent of tension in his tone. “However, I believe it may be beneficial to take a more…subtle approach when it comes to their failures.”
Wulf’s glare could’ve withered roses. “You, of all people, wish for me to be more gentle?”
“I was not implying-”
“Have you grown mad, or incompetent?” The irony was not lost on Targg. His fingers twitched against his sides with the effort of maintaining decorum. Though Freca for all his shortcomings could often be stubborn or calloused, not once did he speak to his advisor in this way. There was still much for Wulf to learn, Targg realized. For one thing, not driving his entire army into madness with him.
“Have patience my Lord,” Targg placated. “These matters take time. I can personally lead the next raid if it would settle your mind.”
“Time? Have I not waited long enough?” Wulf snarled. “Five years, Targg. Five long years while we toil here in this barren wasteland, that bastard King grows fat and content in his throne.”
“We are not ready.” Targg stated flatly, patience fraying at the edges. “And we will not be ready for some time yet.”
Something in Wulf snapped. He leapt from his chair, the speed of which surprising even the General as Wulf forced him back into the wall with a vicious shove. Targg barely managed to keep his head from cracking painfully against the stone, his hand reflexively going to his blade before he was able to stop himself. A look of shock crossed his features, breaking the usual fortitude that masked his face.
Wulf crowded against him, pressing him into the wall with his weight though Targg could have easily broken free. His body stiffened at the feeling, and once again he was at a loss for what to do. Wulf had never been keen on physical contact, especially when it came to other men, and the only time they normally touched was to exchange blows during training nearly a decade ago. But now Wulf was nearly plastered to him, in what he initially assumed to be an assertion of dominance. At this distance, he could feel Wulf’s hot breath against his neck, the scent of ale and his lunchtime meal washing over him. It was intimate in a way that seemed improper for the situation.
One of Wulf’s hands was twisted in his white fur cape, as if to keep him trapped there or perhaps to ground himself.
“I cannot wait much longer.” Wulf rasped, and Targg looked down at him in confusion. Wulf had waited as patiently as any man could for five years, a trait Targg liked to think had rubbed off from him. So why was he now reacting explosively?
“Can you not understand, Targg?” Wulf’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet and as he shifted, Targg could feel an unexpected hardness pressing against his hip. A firmness that was definitely not his sword.
Then it all clicked, and the realization hit him like a charging Mûmakil.
Targg now recognized that the fury that had overtaken his Lord had not been borne of the expectedly slow progress or by the pressure of exile and vengeance, but something more primal, more carnal.
He felt a fool for not seeing it earlier, though he still couldn’t help the lingering sense of irritation at Wulf’s prolonged bad behavior. He was still a man, after all.
But there were no females anywhere near this dark place, and as far as Targg could guess Wulf was not particularly interested in any of the males outside, half of which were of no beauty or wit at all. For a brief moment Targg wondered if he should have brought some concubines or women from the pillaged settlements, but they were not worth the trouble of keeping and far too much of a distraction. And besides the red-headed princess, Wulf had shown no interest in anyone to the extent of Targg’s memory.
Until now.
Though Targg doubted that it was him in particular that Wulf was…attracted to, when laid out bluntly. At more than double Wulf’s age, he was sure that the handsome prince had much more vivacious partners to court, though he didn’t consider himself unappealing as a suitor. He simply didn’t dwell on these sorts of affairs, and even less did he anticipate being the one to have to do something about it.
In hindsight, Targg should have been able to predict such an outcome. But the secrecy and scheming of the last few years have overshadowed what he had forgotten as human instinct. Wulf was twenty-five now and had never taken a lover to ease the burden of manhood. That he was certain of, as he and Wulf spend most of their days in the general proximity of each other. (Willingly or unwillingly.)
So it was unsurprising, when viewed from this new perspective, that Wulf would approach him in this regard. Though it was unclear whether the Lord himself knew what he was even asking, no, pleading for.
It was evident to Targg, however, that there could be nothing to be done on this subject matter, from outside the boundary of the stronghold at least. But perhaps from within…
Well, at least there were far worse Lords to serve. Wulf was for all his faults, very striking in both the face (which was pretty in a rugged sort of way) and body. If his father had come to him in such a manner, he supposed he would be far less predisposed to accommodate his needs.
Wulf was still quivering imperceptibly against him. Something sharp dug into his back, pointed enough to be felt through the layers of hide and cotton. This position was really becoming uncomfortable now.
Hesitantly, Targg raised his hands to grab Wulf by the biceps, still stunned into silence at this bizarre turn of events. He needed to broach this topic delicately, before Wulf wreaked more havoc in camp.
“My Lord…” he began, but Wulf jolted away as if burned, broken from whatever stupor that had driven him into the unwitting arms of his General.
He whisked away, a blanket of dark hair falling like a curtain across the side of his face, shielding him from whatever embarrassment or clarity that might have overtaken him. He turned away from Targg, white-knuckling the table as if battling some internal struggle.
“I would like the be alone now,” Wulf muttered, so quietly Targg could scarcely hear him.
His lips parted as he sought the words fitting to soothe his Lord, but found that no words came. Instead, all he could do was straighten out his cloak, which still had the vague imprint of Wulf’s tensity and make his way to the door.
He hesitated for but a second, as if contemplating what to do before ultimately leaving, his absence engulfing the place with an oppressive stillness.
Wulf remained at the desk, back still rigid as he silently willed the evidence of his arousal to go down.
In the hallway, the role of the impassive commander was once again at the front.
Targg trudged away from the room, nodding stolidly at the passing soldiers who greeted him. But a thousand thoughts flitted through his head, a whirlstorm of confusion and lucidity that warred with each other like rabid dogs, and none of it was satisfactory.
He wanted to punch a wall.
Targg stopped as he came upon a small alcove, facing the window in a pretense of measured contemplation.
He allowed himself a deep exhale when the corridor was empty, staring out the splintered glass but not quite looking at anything.
This whole operation had grown complex in ways no one had foreseen, and every choice that presented itself to him seemed beyond the decades of combat expertise which shaped his counsel.
A horde of foreign invaders? Predictable.
Roaming bandits and half-cocked mercenaries? Elementary.
But this? This was something else entirely.
The thought of relieving the young Lord of his…issue was not something that disgusted him as he would have originally presumed.
Isengard was not known for its hospitality, and understandably companionship was lonely in the cold, black tower. And something had awoken in Targg that he thought long dead, for at least a decennium. Of course, like most of the other warriors grinding away outside, he had grown accustomed to the comfort of his own hand, on nights which grew too bitter or too demanding. (For some, Targg knew, it was not enough and they would creep off to do unsavory things in the dark. But it was not his business and he would say nothing as long as they fulfilled their duties.)
Traitorously, the warmth of Wulf’s solid body against his still lingered, bleeding through his armor and stirring a primitive desire inside him. It was highly inappropriate and not to mention unwise, but Wulf had already burned that bridge for him.
How he hated this turmoil, but was helpless against it. It strangled the words in his throat and made it hard to think. It was almost as if Wulf had passed some of his mania over to him in that brief confrontation, and if he was feeling frustrated after just a few minutes of contact, then whatever Wulf was experiencing must have been torturous.
His reflection frowned back at him, mute, distant, and unhelpful.
This place really had taken its toll on everybody, uncaring whether the victims wore crowns or rags.
Moreover, he didn’t even know how to convince Wulf to allow his help. He was much too proud, and from the display earlier, likely conflicted by his own urges. For a man who’d already tasted blood and death on the battlefield, he was astonishingly naïve in some ways of the world.
There was no choice but to improvise, and cautiously, lest he push Wulf further away. This uncertainty was what bothered him the most.
Soon, the distinct sounds of footsteps and conversation floated closer from down the passage, forcing him out of his reprieve.
He sighed, turning away from the window and schooling his features back into neutrality. At this point he’d much rather face down a furious Snow Troll than deal with the mess Wulf had dragged him into, but alas.
Regardless of whatever may come, however, Targg knew something needed to change and quickly, before they both lost their heads.