You were shown to the fourth floor, to wide and spacious quarters fit for a prince. Your apartments include a bedroom, a sitting room, a large private bathing area, and even a music room, complete with all sorts of fantastic instruments.
No doubt there is more in all of that than meets the eye...
Your sitting room contains its own bar, a collection of rarified fairy and elf concoctions, more of the rosemary and lavender brandy, as well as other tinctures and philters. You were shown the kitchens as well, there on the ground floor of the manse. The kitchen could easily service two manses of its size.
And then the general left you, a clasp upon your shoulder that ended at your upper arm. Go where you will, he murmured to you then. And he left your side with a slight smile.
By the time his work was done, the supper hour had come and gone - you were left to your own devices - but a servant appeared before dinner, after the fall of twilight into darkness. He bore a white card with the note that simply read: Join me.
On the other side of the fourth floor, in chambers that dominate one half of it as surely as yours do the other, is the private apartments of General Ramanthus. The doors have all been painted a silvery-blue, with mithril knobs formed into swirls to operate them. One night, he may show you how the two halves of the apartments are actually interlinked, but for now you must enter as the servants do...through the main door.
Inside you will find chambers very similar to your own. You enter upon a sitting room, filled with fine furnishings, furs and carpets on the floor, a view of the ocean instead of a view of the rolling hills and mountains, and several doors that lead off.
The chamber is dimly lit, that is to say it lacks the glare of the material realm's false lighting. It is lit by several candles. A table has not been set formally speaking. There are several low tables, similar to Arabian tea tables, with pillows for seats - the pillows made from the fur of fantastic creatures, wolves and foxes and others, all silver and mixtures of greys.
The food. It is covered by two platinum domes like the domes of Kubla Kahn. Yet, from them emits the wonderful scent of spiced meats, warm breads, and cool mead. Yes, the refinement of the lower chambers has been subtly traded for something more hearty. Of northern lands where fires must always be kept lit.
He has prowled; but only around the confines of his new quarters. He has done very little otherwise, no searching, no dramatic crawling around on the roof (though he was very tempted, until he remembered that you are both an elf and a general and as such, your roof is likely not the safest place to prowl, particularly in broad daylight). And he was distracted. There was a void within him, gaping, in which turbulent winds blew and howled, his midsection aching from interminable tension.
For that, he withdrew to the bath, pulling off his clothing in a great hurry as the water ran. The dark grey diamond at the small of his back pulsing as he slipped into deep waters, beneath them, eyes closed against the pressure. Here under your roof, it is the first time in two years that he has not felt lost - if only because you have presented him with something of significance with which to distract him.
Bathing led to redressing, to a brief (very brief) wandering through the silver and white and blue of your halls. He is, at least, a picturesque contrast within your home; red-gold hair and black and red clothes, he has about as much chance of being overlooked here as a pig on a wedding cake. But, as he would ordinarily be the first to crack, at least he's a handsome-looking pig...
Eventually, he returned to the room, throwing himself on the bed. And then there was a need to ease some of this tension; however temporarily. He found no great release in clasping himself, and frustration led to rest until the delivery of the note. With that note, tension returned as a whirl of bats inside of him, a deep breath taken to calm the bats (along with a slug of brandy), and then - what else? He went.
He taps at the door politely, making a horrible grimace at them before slipping inside, as if to take some comfort in the role of student attending teacher once more. Gwilym slips inside, the door closed quietly behind him; everything is noted, everything is observed. And he makes his way on feet stealthy despite the black boots he wears. To the table, where the smell of the food brings a growl to his stomach, echoed with a reluctant chuckle by his lips. "...Hello? If you're not here, I'm going to eat all your food without you."
When in doubt, slip into a role...
An elf's hearing is an extraordinary thing. Perhaps he heard your early conflict as well as saw it. It is extra-sensory, like fingers that can reach out and pad the air, discovering things unseen, yet unheard and prickling the senses.
Ramanthus is coming out of a room to the right, the door left ajar as he moves through it. He has changed, his hair has been further braided out of his way (the better to keep it out of his plate) and he is now barefooted. His clothing is far more relaxed, though he was not in uniform when you first saw him. He has bathed and dried and his clothes hang on him with the careful presentation that it took to look this relaxed. The shirt is that spiderweb silk, his skin showing beneath when he passes before a row of candles. The trousers are simple loose leggings.
"Make yourself comfortable, go ahead and take what you wish. Brandy?" he offers, he is already reaching for a bottle. This time as he uncaps it you might detect the scent of basil and blueberry. Again, duality. Sweet and herbal. "There is pheasant and venison, apples and the obligatory biscuits."
The old general (and just how old, who knows - he's an elf) settles upon the fur pillows, crossing his legs in a lotus position. He removes the platinum domes, setting them aside to let the smell of the meats and vegetables have their due.
"And you need never to knock, Gwilym. This chamber is as much yours as it is mine," Ramanthus speaks. His tone is yet soft, but it is less formal here. Something given to you, perhaps, in answer to your own vulnerabilities shown and shared.
He goes still for a moment as you come out of the room, unmoving save for his eyes. Those follow you as you pass through the room, watching your passage past candles and to the table. "Thank you," Gwilym manages, "some brandy'd be lovely." He is almost channeling his mother, at the moment.
Fine-fingered hands descend to catch himself as he settles on the pillows. He does not mimic your position, instead folding one leg under him with the other slightly bent, hands together against his thighs as you pour, as you uncover all the food. Suddenly, as starving as he is, he is in danger of forgetting his appetite.
What is this, that when I am with you, I feel all the awkwardness of when I was a student under you? No; not under you. That was my brother's role. I want something from you - not what I wanted then. Then, I just wanted to escape. I was never good enough, interested enough, I rebelled. Now, I find myself wanting ... what?
A hand stretches out. He is trying to be patient, to let things unfold, and he is not succeeding; not at all. "Your cooks are excellent. Did you raid my mother's palace for them?" The joke brings a grin to his face; his expression lights up when he smiles like that, apple trees sparkling in his eyes. That would be funny, to him; he can almost imagine your servants raiding the royal kitchens. It leads to other mental images, and he blinks, looking back at the food suddenly.
He is too much his father's son, his mother's son, his grandfather's grandson. Genetics has doomed him, along with youthful energy and essence. Gwilym leans forward a little; even here, he is wrestling with his mother's impulsiveness. "Thank you for your hospitality."
Duw... I want and I want, and I go on wanting. Io, if ever I could hate you for falling for a man, now's the time. What would you think, to see me here, to know what thoughts are going through my mind? I don't dare put them into words, not even to myself.
The idea of raiding the queen's kitchen of her staff does seem to tickle him. His mouth holds the curve of a smile as he pours two brandies, the glasses wide-bodied for generous portions, and his light grey eyes lift to you. In the low light of this chamber they glint with silver when he is amused. "The spoils of war," he says quietly. He leaves the rest to your imagination.
The tables are quite small. A slight leaning in by either of you puts you in the other's space. The lack of formality suddenly quite palpable when you do so. He leans in this time, his tri-braided hair behind his back. He does not stop you as you reach out to take whatever you want. It is here for you, as he has said.
Tapping his glass to yours again, he smiles through the chime it makes, soft but clear. "Welcome," he says. The first glass is toasted to you, the first swallow is mighty. The brandy burns within him, you see his pale complexion go momentarily roseate with the energy. He picks up an adamantine knife and a large fork, slicing through the venison and presenting it to you.
"I killed this myself," he notes, "...in your honor." He smiles a touch. "There is that word again." As if to chide himself. He eats a little, but soon Ramanthus is half-reclining back, one leg resting relaxed against the floor, his other foot on the surface of the cushions. His glass is curled against his chest, and he watches you.
Lashes lift and lower at the notion of hospitality, his fingers finishing that slight, dismissive gesture. Of course. "It helped me focus during the course of my afternoon business. I do hope it wasn't one of your father's deer." He does have a sense of humor, after all. And this is not the classroom.
His imagination was already going there, needing no help. Your words only keep his focus on such thoughts - whether or not that was your intention. Now he is stuck imagining such a war, and what it might be like to be such a spoil, so chosen by such an ... accomplished ... general.
Such thoughts are broken by the tapping of the glass, and Gwilym looks up, a sudden movement. "I've had people kill in my dishonor, so may as well experience life on the other side of the fence," he says easily. Wealths of meaning to that; the apple green of his eyes is stirred by it, a fickle breeze of unintended revelation. He leans forward, just a little, towards your fork, hesitating; and then he seizes the meat between his teeth and pulls away with it.
You watch him, and he watches you, as if sensing some sort of détente. A stalemate of opposites. He chews slowly, his glass held against his thigh, not answering with his mouth full; if he remains here long, you'll get to see that, when something excites him too much for him to wait, either speaking mind to mind or around whatever he's shoved into his mouth. For now - he is still on his guard. At least a little.
"Da's enough deer that he's not going to miss one or two. I've jacked a few in my time." Of course he has. Stealing from his father used to be one of his greatest thrills; thief against thief. But his father is a world away, with the rest of his family; you are here, and have his complete attention, more even than he'd like to admit to himself. "What business occupied you? If it's not going to violate state secrets to tell me."
Small talk. He is interested in what you have to say. He is more interested in watching how you say it. This, Gwilym is realizing, is not who you were when you were teaching him. This ... person ... hid under his nose, unnoticed.
It changes everything...
He watches you in everything you do. As you eat and how you eat, the youthful gusto of it, the mixture of patience and impatience that makes you the duality you are. A duality you cannot help but have. He laughed quietly -- it seemed more the figment of a laugh, did he actually do it? -- a laughter that seemed part of your imagination. But no it was real, it lingers over his expression.
Ramanthus lifts his glass and drinks, another swallow for your health. And your handsomeness. This prince... incomparable. "It is no state secret," not from you. "We are fortifying the outlying forests formerly owned by the Oak Queen, which we have slowly but surely taken for your mother. Inch by inch, foot by foot. Soon we will have it all. But fortifications must be planned along with conquest, or the conquest will mean nothing. A general's life in peace may be summarized by one word," he smiles as he offers you another slice of the venison: "Meetings."
He smiles with his eyes. "The deer was a pleasant distraction to my day. But this...this is much better..." Reclining back once more, he returns to watching you. He drinks his brandy, he smiles while sipping.
He is calm, a calmness brought by age certainly, by the passing of Time. He has a strength, an assurance to him, a contentment. When his hair is braided, it seems to youthen him -- not that he looks as ancient as he is. But there are some lines at the corners of his eyes. Some sign of age after all this time.
He watches you and you watch him and he watches you watching him. It's like one of those mirror tricks; how far down can things echo before the details are lost, before the mind can't cope any longer? His mind is playing tricks on him. His last refuge; his last defense, and it's playing games with him.
Or is that you?
"I hope mother appreciates your work," Gwilym cracks wise, as he always does; had he been in class with more than just his brother, he would have been the cut-up. As it was, even when reluctant grins were tugged from his twin, there was no doubt just as much annoyance. 'Not now, Gwi, I'm trying to pay attention. Knock it off, brawd...' "Sounds painstaking and difficult, duw, glad it's not my job."
His own tasks, self-appointed though they are - they are just as painstaking. Plots within plots. Wheels within wheels. You know. You see. The careless demeanor is in fact anything but the truth. No wonder some very few might ponder whether there's any truth in him at all.
And yet, he's faithful to his mother. His father. His grandfather. And his brother, who he looks up to and resents, loves and hates, supports and demands of. Dualities... again with the dualities. And chaos is again rising in his eyes, wind whipping the tops of green apple trees as he forces himself to lie back against the pillows. It takes considerable effort, restraining himself this much. He, who ordinarily throws himself headlong along a course, into an idea; if he is not passionate about an idea, can it be borne?
"What," Gwilym wonders suddenly, "must you think of us? My family. My mother; her two husbands. Us." He does want to know, but with all the confusion of a young man, he is asking more. What do you think - of where I come from. Of who we are. Of who I am.
Who am I...
"A good training ground for you in navigating the complexities of Life," Ramanthus murmurs. He looks to you as you recline. There is some distance between you, but not much. And too much. Again with the dualities. "The notion of intertwined relationships isn't new, nor specific to your family. Where I am from... such relationships are quite common. Brothers who are more than brothers. Mothers and fathers who, too, have their complicated relationships. I think they are quite a bit more common here than on the material plane, but even there...throughout history... there have been families such as yours."
The general sits up, the spiderweb-thin silk bending with his body. He is quite strong, well-formed, broad for his kind, and the silk shows off the better part of war, the physique it has lent him. Leaning in toward you, he pours another round for you both. His eyes lift to yours as he does. "I admire your father and your grandfather, and of course your mother. I have not met her so frequently, but she has proven to be quite formidable." He does not mention Iowerth. Not when he is with you. He does not wish to make, nor seem to make, comparisons. "How do you feel about your family, Gwilym? Does it bother you, how the threads of it are interwoven?"
After the glasses are filled, he remains close to you, turning to recline upon his side. "Your eyes," he suddenly remarks. He stills for a moment and then he smiles slimly. "The apples of Avalon, your inheritance. The green is quite vibrant. My eyes... are almost clear. My mother told me when I was very young," can you ever imagine him being young? "... that I was born in a blinding snowstorm. She said she could see it in my eyes, that snowstorm still raging."
Sometimes it is the most minute details that say the most, reveal the most. "All families, Gwilym, are complicated." His snifter balanced upon the cushion and against his chest, he reaches out for you. Will you come to him, he wonders.
He listens to you without comment, far more attentive than ever when you talked about battles of ages gone by, of flanking maneuvers, of the great military men and women of the past. And for all that his eyes remain on you, he has trouble thinking straight. Was this what it was like for Iowerth? He has to wonder. How did that transpire?
It's wise of you not to make him wonder any more than he does, than he must, as to comparisons...
"...It's not usual for us. That level of interrelationship. Of doing things in threes, or with relations." Which does not tell you what he thinks. He doesn't know what he thinks - not entirely. The apple green, jade green eyes flicker to his newly refilled glass, and it is lifted. Sniffed. Tipped back for a lengthy swallow. And set down again.
"Mother made her relationship to da and papa known at their wedding over there," Gwilym remarks to you, watching ou for a moment. "It ... I understand, but I don't understand it. I ... can ..." It trails off, and he looks down for a moment. This being patient, of dissecting threads - something he ordinarily is so good at, it isn't working for him tonight. There is this haze which fills his mind. And you are closer than you were. The words fall to fragments, dissolve like ash on the tongue, with a faint bitter taste behind them.
And you are speaking again, and he looks at you, with that wary hesitation. Chaos, flickering and running through him like a lightning storm, shivering and distorting things - and yet it's in the flash of light that things are seen most clearly in otherwise darkness. You speak of his eyes, you reach out to him, and there is that moment where action and confusion are perfectly in balance in his hesitance.
Carefully, carefully his glass is set aside. He is falling apart. Gwilym swallows, tongue running over his teeth to chase the taste of brandy and herbs and berries. Why he suddenly feels so much younger than he even he is, he doesn't know. He is to others so fully in command of himself. Even when he loses - when he has difficulties - he is in 'control', driving himself before his own lash, maddeningly cheerful, maddeningly humored, a crack to be made at every interval. And now... now he isn't.
Gwilym looks to your hand, then to your face. He shakes his head back and forth, and it is he who is maddened, like a bull teased endlessly by a fly. He rolls onto his side towards you, hands becoming fists which do no damage, landing lightly against the pillows and your side, face buried all of a sudden in against your chest. He takes a deep breath and holds it. His heart beats, but very fast, a rapid, running rhythm, frightened and impatient footsteps echoing along his blood.
His arms enfold you. He holds you where you lie, one arm around you, a hand resting lightly upon your head. He is quite solid -- he does not feel like a figment of your imagination. Perhaps figments are only ever solid with one another. Ramanthus does nothing but hold you for a time, his fingers curling against your scalp.
Closing his eyes, he can hear your heart beating, he can hear it rushing to your fingertips, your toes, your mouth. Like a spirited horse, caught midway between bravery and terror. And like an experienced handler, he holds very still, is very gentle, a soft sound emitting from his chest.
"Gwilym," he whispers...
It is neither warning nor chiding. It is simply the sound of your name from his lips. Soft that sound, voiced as if he has been waiting to whisper it between you. Perhaps he has. He does not question why you have come to him -- it is as complex as the other complexities around you both. Ramanthus simply holds you, and his hand touches your face, lifting it to look at him.
Lifting it so that he may touch it, taste it. Do not be afraid, his eyes echo in their soothing lightness. Each fingertip upon your jaw and cheek press lightly, leading your mouth to his own. Venison, basil and blueberry, beneath this rosemary and lavender echo against one another. Joined lips wear masks as well -- the flavors tasted, varietals sipped, secrets contained and not yet whispered, or moaned.
What does the kiss reveal? What is learned from your mouth, from his? Male mouths are still soft, male tongues still warm and clasping, male breath still flavored as any other. His is expert, experienced, having in his long age kissed so many. But he is not teaching now, though perhaps you would have paid more attention had he ended his discussion of the Hellenic Wars with this...
It took courage to make that move. But once made, it cannot be taken back - not without betraying himself. And that is the one thing he dares not do. He shudders for the feeling of your fingers in his hair. It is different, this. It is not like being with any woman he has ever touched. Him, with his eyes full of sunlight, smile full of mischief, cocky and assured to the last - no, this is not like that.
It is somehow more real. And that both excites him and terrifies him, all at once. You say his name, and he responds, face lifted with question in his eyes, as if on the tip of his tongue. But no - there is no question. Having come this far, it is not a question.
You have seen it before, haven't you? With Iowerth, every step is measured and determined. Every inch the captain. With this one, he moves forward with chaos his banner, but where he goes, chaos is spun into order.
He is like his mother in that...
You kiss him, and his eyes close as your hand guides his mouth against yours. You kiss him, and threads are unraveled rapidly, and he pours himself into the kiss. A match lit, when touched to paper, it goes up so quickly. And so too does Gwilym; he can't help himself.
When he wants, what he wants, he wants completely or else he doesn't care, does he? And for all the chaotic uncertainty of his almost adolescent soul, he is where he wants to be. Whether or not you intend to teach, he is learning things - things which he hasn't the attention to discern now (how like the past in that) but things which are immediately important.
Fists uncurl. One hand goes to your waist, fingers feather-light and then grasping as breath rushes out of him. Gwilym opens his eyes, and there is a flood of green there, of all the apple trees in all of Avalon. He stares at you, lips still almost to yours, chest rising and then falling. He swallows hard, then tells you...
"I want to stay with you."
Patient impatience. If you are able to be patient long enough, more things may be revealed in time. But that is always up to Time and Uncertainty to sort out. The present moment is the one that matters most. Your mouth dissolves in fire at his own. He is not surprised by your passion (he remembers your arguments). Beneath your fire, that sudden sparking against him that burns you both, there is his calm and consistent glow. The sun that never sets in the kingdoms of the north.
Ramanthus' hand touches to your cheek again, the soft stroke of fingers there becomes a cradling, and he looks at you with that same fastening, focused look -- seeming all the brighter in this low light. The candles' glow illuminates his smile. Closing his eyes, he places a kiss upon your forehead. His mouth returns to your mouth. "And I want you to stay," the general murmurs in reply.
You touch his waist and the spiderweb silk all but dissolves. The cloth separates you, it still exists, but it magically reveals what is beneath it. Hardened flesh lies below, formed by years (centuries) of warfare. His mouth is not overly full, not overly thin. His cheeks are smooth, as if he has never in his life had a beard.
Rolling, Ramanthus presses you to the pillows of fur, stuffed fully with feathers. Do you feel like you are floating? Though he is strong, and no doubt bears a weight equal if not greater than you, his body is distributed, the weight present but not crushing. You feel him, you learn him as he kisses you again.
Perhaps he is the embodiment of a snowstorm. His own passion, when stirred, is mighty. Who knows how long he has thought of this, or if he had thought of it before he first touched you? But he kisses you now as if he has waited years to do so. He explores you, experiences you, tastes you and needs no further sustenance.
You feel his hands on your fists, his fingers prying them gently open, putting them at the spiderweb silk to curl there, to pull the fabric from him. He gives that choice to you. Shall you rip it free or simply press it to him. Grey eyes glint with silver, watching.
The way you are holding him, touching his face - it makes him feel more exposed and more vulnerable than he has been since the cradle, perhaps. You tell him that you want him to stay; has it ever affected him this way? He doesn't remember. He doesn't think so.
He has slept with so many women that he couldn't count them; lost count years ago (he has never had an interest in notching his headboard) and this? It affects him. He aches with it. You press down against him, and for a moment, he wonders what it would be like to take your full weight.
The thought brings the colour to his face. He could kick himself, curse himself - but for your kiss. And now he is wondering things he has never thought to wonder before...
Did you know that one of the questions he held back, even from himself, when he was challenging and accusing you upon his arrival was brought from jealousy? Why Iowerth, why not him? What does his brother have that he does not? Green eyes he has; wounded pride and hurt are dangerous things.
Gwilym swallows again as you unfold his hands, and he looks up at you through layers of meaning, layers of emotions that conspire to muddle his thinking. And he does neither thing you expect. Deft fingers curl at the fabric, then steal their way underneath. Neither tearing nor pressing it in against you; merely displacing it as his hands find your skin. Words are drifting through his mind, things he'd say if only he could bring himself to - but he says so little, lying back like this, feeling your skin, your warmth.
His lips part with an echoing sigh. "And part of me," Gwi murmurs, his humour shaky, "still half expects you to lean me over a desk for a good caning..."
Posted by rowan at July 05, 2006 06:27 PM
