It was perhaps the first night in a long while where Hansl went to sleep again so long before the coming of the dawn. It was a night begun in Paris and ended in London... in someone else's bed... for the first time in decades...
     Perhaps longer than imaginable.
     And through the dawn, and through the day, there has been peace. Where does he go when he sleeps? He doesn't know... he does not dream, this day. He simply remains in the bed, as still as a stone. Unmoving. Unwaking. Unbreathing.
     When a heart does not beat -
     When a breath need not be taken -
     How do we measure existence?
     Shortly after sunset, there is the sudden flicker of his eyelashes. Where am I...
     He lies still, curled on his side, taking inventory of his Self. Oh yes, that's right. The exact moment of awareness, recollection is made plain; it is painted suddenly on his face, faint streaks of pink appearing, knowledge moving into the not-yet-frozen blue of his eyes. "Sehr gut?", Hansl murmurs, lifting a hand to rub at his face. And then - slowly - he looks around to see if he is alone - what immediate expectations might be placed on him. He has, after all, overslept.

     "Good evening."
     The voice comes from over to the side, at a small desk where Greydon sits, his hair mussed and seeming to indicate that he has not been up for very long. He's wearing a thin robe of a deep, dark blue; it looks soft, even from a distance. Cashmere.
     The book is set aside, and Greydon tilts to the side to regard the young man, a faint smile touching his lips.
     Curled, so soft on bed...Ahh, longing already?
     "Did you sleep well? There are those who do not find my bed very comfortable-- I prefer a firmer mattress then most." He tilts his head to the side, eyes quite obviously roaming over everything seen...
     "Mmmn..." and that is all.

     "Gut nicht," comes the rather automatic response. Hansl sits up slowly, bracing his palms to either side of himself as he blinks. He is awake; but his thoughts are lagging, just a trifle, on the acuity to which he is accustomed. The sheet is draped over his lap out of instinctive modesty, legs spreading on front of himself. "I ... slept well, ja. I do not remember sleeping."
     One leg slips off to the side, and the German tries to be discreet in looking around for his clothes - well. His trousers. They and he parted ways at some point the previous night and haven't been seen together since. "I am accustomed to a firm mattress, my lord. I enjoy luxury, but was reared to believe it a trap for the unwary, save in specific aspects." A hand lifts, scrubbing through the short, fair strands of gold, then slides down to absently scratch at the scar on his cheek. Morning habits. He is moving gingerly, not yet rising from the bed. "I ... have no quarrel with your bed. Or with its owner."
     Bold words, for him. The blue eyes lift, and Hansl regards the Brujah elder for a long, long moment before his lips part again in quietness. "I will do my utmost to be a proper and pleasing guest for as long as I am welcome, mein herr."

     A proper and pleasant guest? Certain images flash through Greydon's mind, and although a number of them are pleasing, he has to shake his head with a faint smile. "You are a guest." he repeats, "And this means you are not in my debt; and it means that the demands of hospitality mean I must see that you are comfortable, and your needs met."
     He rises up from the chair, adjusting his robe to tie the belt a bit more securely and approach. As for Hansl's clothes? They are nowhere to be seen.
     "You are welcome; you may remain here as long as you wish during your stay, or you may return to your own lodging... but you were not invited here to my home to be shackled and to have the weight of some imagined debt hanging over your head..."
     He chuckles softly, and a hand comes out to mimic Hansl's motion, fingers through soft gold... "But I do insist that if you wake up naked in my bed, you will at least call me Greydon until you manage to find your pants."

     He starts slightly at the touch, so unused to such random gestures of affection. It shows for a moment in his eyes, the uncertainty, and something akin to relief. Gratitude. Slowly, he rises from the bed, pressing up with one knee as he wraps the sheet awkwardly around his waist.
     "I have not made lasting arrangements for my stay in England," Hansl admits carefully, tipping his head forward against that touch, closing his eyes. Like a bloody cat or dog - pet me, the movement seems to suggest. Touch me... "I shall need to look to make such arrangements. I do not wish to inconvenience you, after all, beyond all endurance."
     Nor do I wish to - presume...
     He straightens, turning so that his cheek brushes Greydon's hand, eyes half-closed as he places a hand lightly on the other man's robed chest. "Does it bother you to have me call you my lord? If it does, I will try not to do so."
     So earnest, he is, and yet - there is a new note to the German's voice, his gaze going to where his hand touches the cashmere. He strokes the robe absently, petting it and watching how the fabric stirs at the touch. "I could say many things. I still remember the urgency of life, mein herr - perhaps too much so. That immediacy, of things needing to be said, done, now - now, and not later. Und zo - and so, I say nothing, or I say everything. I promised not to lie to you... but I do hesitate to make myself so transparent."
     He lets his knee slip from the mattress, both feet on the floor now, one hand holding the sheet in place as he looks up. His expression is so perfectly sober, so completely serious, and yet - relaxed. The earnestness does not make him tense up, not for now...

     The face that is turned against Greydon's hand is caressed softly, as the elder's other hand comes down to the young man's shoulder. There he kneads ever so softly, more a hint of a massage then anything else.
     "It doesn't bother me to have you call me your Lord; but you are not as opaque as you would wish... Upon that evening when I first came over to your house, you held up Lord and Treveylan as a defense-- a way to hold me at bay. Has that changed?" He quirks his lips into a faint grin, his hand sliding over the boy's shoulder to tease up his neck.
     "There is the possibility that you use the word now to demonstrate what you want."
     Greydon watches the young man with his deep green eyes, pursing his lips for a moment before he finally says, "I do not allow inconvenience; so you can rest assured that is not a danger. Remain here if you wish; or keep some place for you to flee to when you grow overwhelmed... This choice I will not make for you."

     I expected to be so much more afraid...
     Why is it that I am not?
     "For fifty years, I was deemed a squire," Hansl's voice remains quiet, his palm sliding slowly back up along the cashmere folds until it halts over where Greydon's heart would be. "And my sire was my lord in all things. I respected him, and loved him as a child does his father. And in time, that love became desire... but he did not desire me in return."
     There is no anger, no hurt in his voice. This is what was. "But before we parted ways, I had many years in which to consider certain topics. Honour. Loyalty. Respect. Obedience. Duty. And, ja - Art. I know that my desire will and does shape these things, mein herr; meeting you? I desired you."
     He takes a deep breath; the last three words were more difficult than all which presaged them. Hansl smiles, a faint, gentle quirk of his lips, and he leans forward against the solid frame he faces. "I ... cannot be a soldier easily. If a war comes and in it I must fight, then there are swords; there are weapons. But wars need artists as well as warriors, mein herr. I have learned to stand on my own two feet. It is not that I cannot. It may be that someday I will wish for isolation - to withdraw from longing. From this weakness that draws me to you. But if I were to come to you... and tell you that I wished to be your artist, your lover, yours, would you be surprised?"
     "I do not call you 'my lord' to hold you at a distance, Greydon Trevelyan. But out of desire for your lordship..."
     Hansl finishes his little speech, looking to those green eyes. Unconsciously, he has slid into that 'at attention' posture; now, finished with words, he deliberately relaxes his stance again, his hand slipping slowly, so slowly away from the cashmere again. His eyes remain open, watching for reaction - if it is negative, he will still need to watch, no matter how stoically.
     This, then, is Art...

     "I suspected that might be the case."
     Greydon's hands slip down from Hansl's neck, and suddenly that sheet which he held up is snatched away and tossed aside, one hand slippin about the boy's waist to tug him against his cashmere clothed form. Evidently he does enjoy luxury as well, even if he prefers a hard bed.
     "For that reason, you may call me Lord, knowing the risk-- knowing the danger-- knowing the price. It is one thing to enter my home as a guest; and it is another to step within my lair and place yourself at my mercy."
     He leans down towards the young man's face, allowing his cheek to faintly brush over the other's, and murmuring, "It would not surprise me, these words; and I can not pretend that the words are not pleasing... after all, have I not whispered of your soul and its beauty that I see glimpses of-- and is this not the artist? And have you not felt the depth of passion that you inspire in my body-- is this not the lover? Having glimpsed these..."
     The hand at Hansl's waist slips down, sliding ever so slowly over his ass, but he does not take a hold.. He simply caresses in a slow motion before venturing up once again.
     "I am a creature born to possess; I long to take, to hold, and to study."

     Ah, there is the return of fear, of uncertainty. He knew the path - had had time to study the path, consider his footsteps and where he would stand, where he would so delicately place himself; up until this point. This precipice. If his heart could beat, it would pick up its pace; but he is dead.
     I am dead...
     Why, then, do I feel as if I were alive?
     "I do not think that you are looking for a squire," Hansl answers with almost a laugh, his uncertainty audible in the sound, the voice, the almost apology present. Pulled close as he is, there is suddenly no distance from which he can speak; it is immediate, intimate, or it is not at all. "...I do not think that you are needing a squire."
     That slow brush of skin on skin has him closing his eyes, lips parted as if in anticipation of words, anticipation of a kiss, of a benediction; the body of Christ slipped between those questioning, accepting lips, awaiting the word of God. "It is strange," the German artist says finally, so quietly, taking a deep breath and letting half of the air out at once. "I have known for some time that only a man would move me. You, Greydon, have moved me; to you, I respond. Your words hold me spellbound, and your touch enslaves me. As an individual, removed from my sense of self, I wish to study under you; with you, as the object of my study and as my instructor. I wish to work with you. As a man..."
     It costs him much, to speak these words so coolly, so removed from emotion, from passion, from desire. Now his hunger moves into his voice, colours his words, warms the blue ice with that hint of sunrise reflected. "As a man," Hansl says quietly, "I desire your touch. Your grasping hold upon me; your embrace. I wish to stand within your reach, and know that you wish to take possession of me; to taste you and be tasted. And I am a Toreador, Greydon; young, yet. My emotions, they carry me ahead of myself, and so I wage battle within myself... because I do not know what of me you would find unacceptable."
     There is so much that has been deemed unacceptable before...

     So close.. so firmly held.. soft and hard all at the same time; willing and yet possessing a sense of challenge to it, but a challenge that begs for dominion... Greydon touches his lips faintly to the boy's forehead, ad then tilts his head down to gaze into the young man's eyes.
     Hands claim more firmly to the boy, and though the fabric of his robe separates them, it does not mask the rising desire that these words bring forth. "There are many battles in life, Hansl... The battle between enemies, and the battle between hearts... The battle within you is perhaps the most important. You whisper and the wind catches your words, the wind swirls around me and surges into me; it makes blood that is cold burn again, and makes flesh that is dead quicken with desire... It stokes the flames of passion that burn so hotly, and they flare."
     "Will you be consumed by the fire that you ask for? A dangerous thing, for a vampire; fire... Even fire of the spiritual nature, of passion and strength, that too is dangerous... There is steel within you. Will it be tempered, or will it be shattered?"
     He pulls away slightly, so he can let his eyes trace down over Hansl's naked form, a small smile touching his lips, "Would it surprise you if I said I wanted you to be my artist, my lover, mine? You will stay here, in my home. You may come and go as you wish, but I will expect you to return to me at night. I will have you in my bed." This is no longer a request; no longer a whisper, a seduction. This is a demand.
     "And you will open yourself up, and let your soul flare; you will capture me on canvas, and I will look upon your work and judge you as you say you can not. Do you accept my terms?"

     He who has ears to hear, let him listen...
     "I have never taken a lover."
     The boy looks at Greydon's eyes with a solemn, stoic expression, the seriousness in his own blue eyes a weight upon waves. "I have had intercourse - contact - with many, my lord Grey; most often in the name of Art or Food, though sometimes simply to relieve an itch; allow for a moment old mortal habits to gain their hold upon my slack and chilled flesh. To feel warmth, however stolen, however bittersweet. In those, I was the aggressor; I took what I wished, what I needed, and then I was away. There were those at court for whom I was a curiosity. It was ... expected ... that I would to them submit; and at times, it was most expedient for me to do so."
     Politics. Survival. Of all things, Hansl has that as his creed. What I must do, I do to survive...
     "But never have my heart and my flesh gone hand in hand. Where I desired a touch, I had food; where I was desired, I was a pawn. Where I desired a heart, I was sent away," Hansl finishes softly, so softly, his eyes lowering to the cashmere, to the sight of his own nakedness. His hands lift to Greydon's shoulders, and with them, so lifts his gaze as well. "If I am good German steel, then let me be refined; reshaped to fit my purpose. I have been without a purpose all of my existence. I thought it was to serve my country, as a good son and soldier. Then I thought it was to serve God, as my sire did say, and I still wished to be a good son and good soldier. Now? Now I have only Art; and Art, though it compels me, it leaves me longing. It is a longing that has been nameless, mein herr. Until you found me - rescued me - and touched me, ja?"
     The demand forces him to draw his gaze back up to those green eyes, the slow slide of fangs making their presence known against his lower lip. He can feel it, but he can do nothing about it; it is as beyond his control at the moment as the arousal below. "I want to be that," he admits, accent thickening. "It ... is strange to me, this wanting. This desire, this need. But ja - I want to be yours, Greydon. If I am to be anything as an artist - if I am to make anything of myself in this existence - I do not want it to be alone, in isolation. My being would be the poorer for it. But!"
     That was sudden; it is blurted out, and he slides one hand down, reaching for one of the Brujah's hands, still looking intently to that faint smile on the other's lips. "I wish to be able to be of worth to you. It would be easy," Hansl whispers, "so very easy to throw myself upon your mercy - to be kept by you, as some sort of modern catamite, ja? I would be more, if I may, than that. If ... you are willing."
     "I do not care if others think less of me... but I would be more..."

     "Ah, my Hansl."
     The word is said with a deep rumbling within Greydon's throat, one of his hands coming up to slip around the young man's neck lightly, thumb rubbing over where his jugular would be. If this was a human, the grip would be alarming, perhaps-- it is strong, the hold undeniable.
     "I do not want a pet, someone to warm my bed and bend to me. You would not be here if that were the case; I would have taken you and left you in Paris and never extended an invitation to return. You would not be welcomed here in my home, save for those hours of passion before being sent away."
     He leans down, brushing his lips over Hansl's, his lips parting and his fangs suddenly striking lightly against the boy's lips. A taste of blood, no more, before it is licked away. A taste of blood; rich, ancient blood which ignites within him this powerful urge, an almost overpowering desire.. Hands cling tightly to the boy... A dangerous desire, a dangerous game, that taste... Held carefully in check... but the longing is there.
     In a husky voice, he murmurs softly, "You are an artist, and I would have you be my artist; I would have you grow, to explore the depths of yourself and your world. I would be disappointed in you if you floundered and were nothing more. Will you disappoint me, Hansl?"
     A hand tugs at his robe, pulling open, and their bodies press together; skin to skin, desire to desire.

     "I have desired you."
     So serious, sweetly said, but with that solemnity to his gaze, still. The sobriety of the very young. Not in mortal years, but nonetheless...
     The touch to his neck has him sighing, the strength - it does not alarm him. It is, and he finds it good. There is that kiss, and Hansl gasps, a quiet sound as his eyes flick open. His lips are parted; it is impossible for him not to be moved by that, arousal moving in his eyes as a shadow against the water. Slowly, he licks his lips, one hand coming up to with sudden impulse lightly touch Greydon's cheek. He sucks in his lower lip, scraping a fang over the tender skin, letting the blood well up again to colour his mouth with crimson and scarlet.
     "I would be your lover if given the choice, the opportunity," he murmurs, tipping his head back, letting golden locks flop against his forehead. He is speaking boldly, for him, so directly, that droplet of blood creeping to fill the corner of his mouth, just beginning to trickle down from there. "I wish to be in your bed. I do not object to being petted by you, my lord. In bed, I may take many shapes and many roles, ja?"
     He leans into that press, a soft groan escaping him as his flesh suddenly finds itself against other flesh. And his hands go up to the elder's shoulders, fingers hooking onto the strength, the curve of muscle. "I will not disappoint you, my lord Grey," Hansl whispers, leaning in to rest his forehead against the Englishman's chest. "I will not fail you. This ... is my prayer, and my hope."

     There is a shrug, and Greydon's robe falls off of him, and then Hansl is pushed back against the bed. The sun set how long ago? Not so long, and yet once again they find themselves within the bed, with Greydon pressing down against the boy.
     "You are watched." he whispers, and then there is a kiss. Fierce and hungry, the faint taste of blood driving him on, an almost bestial dominance in his every touch. No wound made by fangs can survive the healing powers of the saliva shared there, and so the blood is surely just a taste.
     Hands grip to Hansl's waist, holding him securely even as his own hips grind against the boys. The kiss is finally broken, and he says in a deep, low voice, "Your blood is powerful; your lineage held in the deepest respect by the highest levels. Surely you know this. This will come to touch any decisions you make."
     He lets his lips trail along over the young man's jaw, teeth drawing upon it roughly before his lips come to his ear, to whisper, "If I thought you would be a disappointment, you would not be here. I want to see what you see; you are a book that I would open, and read to fulfillment. Upon your soul are written beautiful poetry, whispered by your every word, your every glance-- and I would know you fully. Open yourself to me, Hansl."

     It is a mutual desire; one which leaves him gasping, falling to the bed as if struck, his hands moving to clasp at the hard figure that has fallen onto him. And a kiss drives away everything on a sea of madness and incoherence and pleasurable lust. He is aware of himself, and of his surroundings - but for once? Hansl ... simply does not care.
     "I have made my first decision," Hansl says evenly, once he can speak again, his hands exploring Greydon's back with slow caresses, fingertips tingling with the urge to Create; to meddle in another's energy, draw it around himself. This, then, is Art. "And my first decision was that I would leave Paris, mein Grau kommandant. That I would come to England, and seek you."
     If all things are, in the end, proven in blood...
     Then, was this foreordained? Nein - we make our own fate. I must believe in that. My blood may lend to my passions, to my nature, but it is not in itself my nature. I am I, and no other...
     He squirms, a slight, subtle shifting of his body beneath his elder's, a pressing up against where he is pressed down upon, his hands trailing along the nobleman's spine. Hansl's eyes are clear; he is touched by desire, but his thoughts, his mind, are suddenly and coldly rational, even as he smiles so slowly, sweetly. It is the farmer's son that smiles, the artist. Nowhere in that smile is the soldier, the squire.
     "My soul is yours to find and read, my lord. All that I am - and I am not so very complex - you may read at your leisure. I fear I am no more than a small novella at best - but I will do my utmost to add new chapters, so that you may never reach the end of my story, Greydon. Mein Starke."
     My strength...

     Men, women, what are the difference? Either can serve as food, either can serve as distraction... But there is something about men that Greydon craves deeply, for there is the firm strength in their bodies, and yet when subject to his own power, it melts as clay before him.
     "You are a beautiful creature; your very nature calls and demands nothing less then my absolute passion, it demands that I pour into you and fill you all that there is to give." Hands glide over Hansl's hips, stroking upon his thighs caressing him, "You have found me, and you are captured here; trapped within a web, or bound to stone, or perhaps contained in steel.. But you are held by me, and I would possess you. I warned you of this.. I am a creature who is born and bred to find and take, to possess, to give into no compromise when faced with what i want."
     There is another kiss, this one no less fierce then the last, his body pressing against Hansl with purpose to it, the young man's legs moved and hips lifted to set him into a position of vulnerability, body open before the elder.
     It breaks, and a hand comes up to rub over Hansl's lips roughly, before he spits into his hand, making himself ready below. "What do you want? Tell me."

     Mein gott...
     The words hold him as much as those powerful arms, the seductive caress. And again, Hansl is lost - lost, with no desire of finding an exit. There is a hint of hesitation in his eyes - of caution, wariness. Fear of that which he does not know, has not experienced, a worry which puckers his lips and creases his forehead in consternation.
     But the thawed blue of his eyes remains clear, constant, affixed to those intense green eyes that seem to bore into him, to find and pick apart the heart of him, riddling out his soul. With gaze still locked, he licks his lips, preparing to speak.
     It is not easy to summon up words, when his flesh leaps at every demand, when he is being made so open, so vulnerable. It is not so easy, to relax. Relaxation has never been his normal state; and yet, there is nothing ordinary about this. A deep breath is taken, and the words he speaks are uttered with conviction that shakes the air.
     "Beautiful death," Hansl whispers the words, a hand falling next to his head, "if you break me, I ask only that you remember me for all time as one who gave you his all. If you were less the conqueror, I would not seek to take shelter under your flag; I would not now be within your fortress. If I did not wish to be conquered - then I would be a fool to be here. Am I a fool, then, my lord?"
     His hands reach to his lover, caressing where he can reach. "I entrust you with myself. Time will tell me if I am a fool... if I am worth the having... ja?" And what can he do, in so vulnerable, so fragile a position? He reclines against the bedclothes, staring up at Greydon, gaze open, crystalline - and yet, not without its hint of demand, of defiance, of challenge.

     It is slow, the conquest. Greydon never loses those eyes, their crystalline depth; he gazes into them as he feels Hansl's body give way to his strength, to open up before him and envelope him.
     There is no need to breath, and yet when calling back to the primal vitality, there is the instinct to gasp. Full buried within, he pins the young man there against the bed, a low growl escaping from within his throat. "Your sire was a fool to deny you." he whispers, his voice intent, husky. Only then, when the boy is so prone, would Greydon speak against the blood that bore Hansl into eternity and who he so loved. But then, the Lord Treveylan's own mind is lost to sensation and passion.
     Before there can be a response, he leans in for another kiss, feeling the flesh and passion of it and accepting nothing short of absolute devotion to that moment. A flash of fangs, the faintest hint of coppery blood-- so rich-- and then it is sealed again, that dangerous taste.
     "My handsome Hansl."

     He has never been this vulnerable before.
     Not when he was young, so mortal, filled with fragile hopes and dreams; not when the great Wehrmacht swept him up as so many others in its belly, in its insatiable need to feed. He was strangled in that beast's belly, his youth set fire to, chained to innumerable Herculean labors of which he could by no means ever acquit himself with honour; he, with his artist's sensitive hands, his artist's sensitive eyes. As vulnerable as he was then...
     As vulnerable as he was upon the night of his death, with seven centuries of terrible separation from God and unswerving iron will bending over him...
     Both demanded his utter surrender. Both required of him unfathomable tasks and endless devotion. And neither counted upon the unmeasurable heart...
     It is difficult to subdue the urge to struggle; the urge to resist, no matter how eager his passion, how ardent his desire. There is still that urge, that instinct, and he must subdue his own will before laying himself open. Greydon can feel it; the tension within the youthful frame, the effort to which he puts himself, and then, with a breathless sigh, the moment when the struggle is won and lost and Hansl relaxes; his flesh no longer taut in that resistance, the small, choked sob that escapes the German's throat. It is a victory for the Englishman; to speak against his sire, in such straits, it makes him lose himself a little more. "Bitte..."
     His hands settle clumsily on his lover, his captor's shoulders. Every movement is trembling, awkward; every touch suddenly shy, furtive. Fled is the confidence with which he had spoken, as if so briefly he lives again, years rolled back to a spring in Germany some eighty years before. The bloodied kiss is greeted with another low sound, only the sharpened predatory thorns to prove that this is not that golden-haired farmboy, laid so vulnerably before a new master.
     Sealed in blood...
     And in conquest...

     It is a storm unleashed; a force of nature beyond mortal comprehension that is let go, and pours itself into the young man beneath him. Greydon has before been a creature of passion and desire, but now? Now he is so much more.
     Greydon moves within the boy, bodies merged in pleasure, in sensation. He, the mercurial Lord, the master who lays in wait to conquer, he is as much lost to it as the boy who gives himself up. There is a certain vulnerability to letting go and giving all that one can give, even if that is a conquest that will brook no denials. Flesh strikes to flesh, soft for moments but unrelenting in its tempo, soon the force of Greydon's strength pouring into the young man, driving them farther up on the bed until the elder's hands grab to his lover and hold him in place with the hardiness of steel.
     There is a hand between them after a time, the touch silken soft and gentle and bringing the boy along with the waves that spread out from Greydon into and over him, and in time... Greydon lets out a deep cry, filling the young man with such force that a human would be broken beneath it.
     And then, Greydon is lost.. lost.. his body collapsing over Hansl's, curling against him, the conquerer subsumed in the bliss of conquest,...
     "Hansl..." he whispers, a soft kiss against the boy's neck, so very gentle i the touch.
     "Hansl." is said again. What other words can he make? For now... one.

     He starts out trying to suppress the soft sounds he makes, but they rapidly become anything but soft; anything but silent. He is shuddering, breathing rapid and noisy as his flesh is so filled, so readily mastered. And it is more than he has ever felt in his time on this earth.
     If he were alive, it could kill him...
     Oh, but what a way to go?
     There can be no denying that passion. There can be no denying his own; as overwhelming as it is, as thoroughly he is ravished, his cries are insistent, his movements timed to his lover's as he finds himself spreading wide, opening himself, being opened. And then, that touch...
     It's almost too good; almost too painful. He finds himself needy and desperate in that need, his pleasure incomprehensible. It is there; in his eyes, written upon his skin. In the arch of his back and the roll of hips, the parted curve of his lips. He cannot speak; there are snippets, fragments of words, torn gobbets of German that float, that break from him, pulled out and drifting away...
     "Bitte..."
     "Ich benotige Sie..."
     "Mein Ritter..."
     When he finds his release, it is nothing short of destructive. Muscles lock, his back arches with a curve to his spine. The serpent Kundalini, striking through his flesh and spirit as one; it is a moment of pure energy, blinding enlightenment.
     So this, too, is Art...
     This, then, is need...
     There is no room for coherent thought in moments such as these...
     Slowly, so slowly, Hansl emerges from that pristine state, his lover atop him, still so deeply inside him. Oh, he will be feeling this later. He feels it now; but as before, he cannot find it within his blissful state to care. His arms go so slowly around the English lord, the warmth of spring still in his blue eyes, his lips parted as if to take breaths of which he has no need.
     "Greydon Trevelyan," Hansl murmurs slowly, lingering upon the syllables. "My lord... my lover. Mine."
     By right of conquest...
     As conqueror, or as conquered, is the result not in the end the same?

Posted by rowan at February 28, 2006 07:37 PM