Such decadence as even he, thief prince though he is, has never experienced...
     Gwilym had to rest, after that. As resilient as he is in his youth, this has him overwhelmed in more ways than one. More ways than just the physical. Even now, his stomach is tying itself into knots again. Even now, his mind is ticking into over-clocked syncopation.
     He has risen from the bed, slowly, lord, so slowly - half-crawled to the bathroom to tend to his business, to find a mirror, peer at himself to see if the change is outwards reflected. For he has changed; he's sure of it. How can something affect him so deeply and not show?
     It's where he spoke, to mother and brother, mind distracted by a million and one thoughts. Even just reaching across that gauntlet to the material plane has chaos crowding back into his head, maddening him. He can't think. It is insane. "Am I," Gwilym wonders aloud to his reflection, "a lunatic? Madman, lunatic, lover, poet... fuck." He snorts, splashing cold water on his face, eyes tightly closed.
     "I don't write poetry..."
     Will I ever look at women the same way again? Will I ever want to be with one again? Nymphs and timeless houris, their curves unveiled - it means so little to me, right now, when instead I think of a curtain of platinum hair, of pointed ears and a body strong enough to beat mine into submission.
     He looks down; things are stirring. Oes... I seem to like that, don't I. Reluctant, his grin. Rueful, his sigh.
     Do I have the courage to go back out there, and face another dizzying, whirlwind adventure? Do I have the stamina? Do I have the willpower not to, when my belly tells me it's what I want, more than anything?
     Magic summons him a shirt, and snug trousers. The shirt is of thin muslin, almost transparent white; the trousers, snug and dark brown, lacing up over the sides, riding down a little on his hips. A test, then. Of myself, more than him, but a test, all the same. He seems to know my desires so much even before I do.
     Gwilym runs a hand back through his hair, leaving it in rumpled disarray. He grins to himself, lopsided, not that usual smooth self-assuredness. He tugs open the door, returning to your bedchamber; the chamber of the general and the thief. They are both you. And he wants you, he knows, in both your faces. All your masks. As he imagined you claiming him as a spoil of war; as he was under you with you picking his locks.
     Let's see what happens next...

     The schedule of a general is by nature regimented. He must wake early, when thieves have barely stopped humming their last gold-coined lullaby, and review the lists for the day, the day's activities for those regiments not in service, reports of those who are. He must review battle plans with the other generals, centaurs and pixies alike, formulate any new plans and send them out via messengers.
     Sometimes this can swallow the whole of a day and a night...
     The elven armies under his command are not so stretched currently, not since joining the other armies under Queen Fiona's banner. Still, when you woke, you woke to an empty bed and a short note -- he is not long on words when written: Meetings, I will return shortly.
     You have the moment to prepare yourself, to return to the bed and to prepare that as well as you see fit. The chamber has not been tidied by his servants. No one has entered since his departure, though fresh fruit and drinks have been carted into the sitting room beyond.
     On the field, he stood in all his regalia, the troops presented for his review. His sharp gaze passed over each soldier, though his mind drifted to the previous evening... and to a far more distant past, when the thief took up the sword over the death of a paladin and became a paladin himself.
     It is perhaps an hour after your rising, cleansing and dressing -- and perhaps feeding -- that the household begins to shift into action with the arrival of the lord of the manor. The chariot driver was dismissed, the chariot sent back to the campus, and the general entered.
     I stood over the body of my lover, my friend. I took up his sword and killed his own slayer. I put on another mask, a mask that required my fingers in their deftness to turn their attention toward strength, opportunism to honor. I completed that journey, leading the remains of our force. That was... twelve hundred years ago...
     The door to the bedchamber opens after another few moments, a general stepping through it. A new mask you see -- not the general-teacher, or the thief-lover, but the general-warrior. He is clad in elven armor, with plates on shoulders, breastplate, arms and shins. The armor seems Trojan, with a metal helmet cock's comb of horsehair (pure white from elven steeds), the metal brilliant mithril, and a Trojan, even Roman-styled skirted tunic. It leaves his legs free, they are armored separately. Better for maneuverability. The eyes are silver bright where they peer past the helmet, brightly on either side of the nose-guard...

     The note was found, read. Hrmed over. Not dismissed, as such; examined again, and finally, set aside in favour of breakfast. Suddenly, he's starving. He even goes so far as to tidy the bed, though otherwise the room is left largely untouched. Largely. Not entirely. He's a spy as well as a thief, and ... you have him most curious, lord general...
     There was prying done. You expected it, didn't you? The other rooms examined; the third floor, cautiously peered at. But not for too long. He didn't have that much time. Soon, the sound of your chariot was heard by sharp thieving ears (not so sharp as elven ears, but sharp all the same) and your lover returned to your chambers - returned, and settled to await you.
     He feels well rewarded. Green eyes widen when he sees you, and for a moment, Gwilym finds he has no voice. The chaos in his brain is running in a thousand directions at once at the sight of you in your armour, as much because of the armour as because of you. Finally, he finds words; he rises from the edge of your bed, drifting towards you on silent feet.
     "Lord General Ramanthus." Gwilym bows to you, a quicksilver grin sliding across his face. A flush rises into his cheeks, and he tilts his head to the side. "You've caught me red-handed. I lingered too long." And his mind is revisiting those images you'd planted. Spoils of war, taken from his mother's palace. Oh, he tries to beat the images down; do you see them reflected?
     He straightens, lightheaded already. "How were your meetings? Mother planning another war? Can I," his glance goes across you, "help you with your armour?"

     He removes his helmet, tucking it under his arm so he can see you unobstructed. His hair has been tucked in multiple braids, each one then braided to the next to create an intricate series of plaits - it creates a kind of chainmail affect. It keeps it out of his way, and out of the way of potential enemies.
     "You wanted to be caught," General Ramanthus quietly observes, and then his smile begins. "That is hardly fair. Did you find anything of interest in your searches?" A platinum eyebrow lifts, and he seems quite amused.
     Actually, he is pleased. Pleased to see you...
     A silvery blink is your first answer regarding his armor. Tossing his helmet onto the bed, it chimes there -- and you can see the helmet had a backing of mithril chain to protect the back of his neck -- he opens his arms, spreading them to allow you to do so. "More meetings, yes. Inspections. Drills. The most exciting part was the chariot ride," he whispers that admittance to you. A general's secret.
     Beneath the armor, which is latched into place quite intricately, is a silk tunic with those billowing Trojan like sleeves. Piece by piece as the armored plates are removed you see how the pieces were constructed especially for him. They conform to his body, his musculature.
     Tipping his chin up, Ramanthus closes his eyes. "Prince Gwilym, the chariot ride, no matter how enjoyable, pales to this. Should I fire my valet?"

     "Oes," Gwilym agrees softly, looking at you. "I wanted it." I still want it. It warms me inside; frightens me, exhilarates me. This desire, this need. I look at you and wonder how long this will last, how long it can last. And you? You seem to anticipate me at every turn. And that, I find I like. Disturbing, isn't it?
     "Fire your valet," Gwilym agrees absently. He paces around you, looking at the pieces, looking at how they fit together. "We'll see how long it takes me to figure this out, or if I reach for the can opener."
     And then he is in front of you again, his hands on the front of your armour, as he looks up at you. He draws one fine-fingered hand down along the front of your armour. "Though this has possibilities," he murmurs, the green glinting emerald in his gaze for a moment. "Oes, possibilities, my general." He smiles slyly. How frustrating for you. How frustrating for him. You make him wait, or he makes you wait.
     He has completely and utterly forgotten about women.
     His hand lifts to touch your face, drawing along your cheek. How close he feels to you right now. This is seducing him all over again. "Here," Gwilym finally says, "I'll get started, if you tell me where to begin."

     "If I were a treasure in a locked chest, where would you begin?" he wonders lightly, his eyes opening and eyebrows arching upward, visible question marks. "I will give you a hint," he continues, "... each plate is attached separately and has at least one latch."
     And presumably, unlike a treasure chest, he won't be booby-trapped...
     Presumably...
     Arms still spread, the general waits for you to figure out the lock, figure him out. The silk hangs airily from his arms and he waits, patiently waits. Eyes closing again, Ramanthus smiles, confident that you will figure it out.
     Figuring it out is half the fun...
     "Start at the shoulders," he whispers. He grins, finding he wants to give you hints, he wants to be undressed. The general suddenly chuckles. "No more hints, Gwilym... you are now on your own..."

     Clever fingers move, feeling around at the plates. Hands move to your shoulders, that glimmering glance given to your face with a sudden, widening grin. He has not grinned like that in years, it feels like. But he is now...
     He listens, carefully, applying pressure to the plates. If I were a maker of armour, how would I do this? Ah; press down, shift the pressure; in two places at once, not one, so a lucky blow can't undo a plate. Twist a little, and it unlocks. And then ... lift off.
     They are all interconnected. But he is taking his time. Fingers delve and slip within to touch you wherever he can, his expression of pure, unadulterated mischief turned upon you. This he gets from both sides of his family, you see. "No more hints?", the prince whispers against your ear. "Ah, I see. You wish me to slow down. Very well." Bit by bit, you are being unraveled. "My general, what must you think of me," Gwilym tells you, each piece lifted away, put to the side. Out of harm's way. "So slow a valet - tsk. I can only plead my inexperience."

     "You plead inexperience upon an innocent voice," the general speaks, his eyes remaining closed. As you whispered at his ear, he turned his head slightly. An attempt to kiss you perhaps, to graze your cheek with his own.
     "But you unlock the latches with the fingers of a professional. An angel," Ramanthus grins, "... on the surface, with the fingers of a devil." He opens his eyes slowly, his gaze flickering down to where you unbuckle him next. "I will be sure to keep my valet on the payroll. Besides, I do not wish to be your employer..."
     Piece by piece. You lift the armor away, revealing more of the silk tunic beneath. The metal and steel skirt piece is still intact. He looks like the elven Achilles. "It may go faster, thief, if you close your eyes. Listen to the metal. They will tell you where the latches are, they will slip quickly off your fingertips."
     But to an elf thief, the first rule is always to listen... listen, and the locks will unlock themselves...

     "I leave my eyes open," Gwilym remarks, "because I want to see you. I am in too much of a hurry, perhaps; too eager to see the treasure to take my eyes away from the box. Even though I know the real trap is the treasure, not the chest in which it is contained..."
     He closes his eyes, nonetheless. More obedient than ever he was in your classroom, when he is in your bedroom, it seems, he is yours to command - to a point. Sensitive fingertips brush teasingly along your chest, down to the rim of the skirt, that slight, sly smile on his face. His hair is in his eyes, unnoticed. Unseen, save by you.
     "I have never wanted anyone like this," Gwilym whispers to you. With his eyes closed, he can say this; blind to your expressions, blind to your reactions. He can pretend he speaks to a statue - to a stranger - to himself. "Noone has ever made me feel this way. I feel like a silly girl, saying these things."
     He presses lightly on the metal, feeling pieces shift. Which way? There is always an element of luck in these things. "Seeing you, I," he hesitates, eyes still closed, "there was a knot in my stomach. The threads moving over and around and under each other." A click; a piece unlocking. "I was half wild, yesterday, wanting to be in your arms then. I just could not let myself know it."
     Another click. Pieces sliding out of place, even as he whispers to you some of his secrets. Not too many secrets; not all at once. He is more cautious than that, more wily; more teasing. "I don't know how long it's been in me," Gwilym murmurs, a beguiling confession as his lips brush your shoulder. "I only know that it came out last night."

     The silvery eyes open, a soft dove grey, the silver abated for now. He is calm, relaxed. Your unlocking him puts him in a nearly meditative state. A platinum eyebrow lifts as you make your quiet confessions. "When you repress a part of yourself, it only serves to make it stronger. Perhaps your brother, in his way, gave you permission to have the feelings you had already had."
     He does not psychoanalyze much. You can perhaps see he is not emotionally invested in his answer. Perhaps it was this way, perhaps not. Ultimately, it does not matter.
     As you continue with his armor, his hands go behind his back, behind his neck and begin unknotting his hair. It will take hours for it all to be unraveled, and when it does, it will fall in fantastic curls. "The knot in your stomach. You should not swallow your desires, Gwilym, stuff them down your throat so you do not have to taste them. You will choke on them." He looks to you, the separate plaits, small and large starting to come undone from one another. He will then have to undo each separate braid. It took his valet over an hour to get them that way.
     "That said," the general smiles, "... I was happy to be your revelation. You... are a joy, a pure and impure delight all in one form." Now the silver begins to return, mercurial flickers as his focus is piqued. "Strong, handsome, not afraid of a challenge, mental or otherwise."

     Color rises into his face. He does not know how to deal with your compliments. Any girl, he could handle it; ignore it, more likely. The skirt is added to the armour, and bit by bit, you are undone. You are undressed. "You make me want to cheat," Gwilym tells you accusingly, quietly. He could cheat. A snap of his fingers and braids could come undone, curling and slowly unwinding to straightness. You can see the temptation in his eyes.
     He sighs, slowly moving around you. Piece by piece is unlocked; pulled away, set aside. "And I used to think that women went through hell to get ready in the morning," he cracks. "But this..."
     You speak of the knot in his stomach, and his hands go still; they slide down against your silk, and he looks at you, his smile slowly fading. "I'm a prince," Gwilym says simply, "and my father's son and my grandfather's grandson. I can't do anything but swallow my desires."

     He chuckles softly. "You can beat heredity. With force of will. Be who you are, Gwilym. Learn the art of not swallowing your desires." It is a challenge for you, perhaps greater than the toughest lock on the most remote and full safe. Ramanthus opens his eyes again, looking to you as his armor is removed.
     There is a sigh of relief for that...
     With his multitudes of braids, he has an odd modern cast. Strange for one who has never set foot on the material plane...or at least not for the past two millennium. With the silk floating off of his skin, he grins, nodding for you to step aside. He will handle the shin guards.
     "Yes, well... ceremony sometimes demands elaborate appearance. It is not my..." He pauses a moment and his mouth cants sideways as he catches himself in a lie. "Let me just say it is not for everyday wear, but looks mighty impressive in a chariot pulled by white stallions. Sometimes a battle is won by appearance alone..."
     He lifts a hand to your face, he brings your lips to his own. "Cheating is also an art, and a very valuable one. If you were to cheat, what would you do?" A brush of his mouth, a kiss, and then he frees you, heading to the bedside to remove the shin guards and boots. "An hour to get on, an hour to get off. It is a wonder anything gets done," he breathes to himself...

     He sighs for the kiss. He has been waiting for it. Denying himself it. He could have kissed you, it's true; stolen it. But he chose to wait. (You are rubbing off on him already.) Eyes closed again, he murmurs against your mouth, "It's easier to show you than to tell you."
     He steps aside obediently - so obediently, he scarcely recognizes himself. He will undoubtedly fight you at times, but right now, he doesn't want to. He is finding a pleasure in doing as you wish. He finds himself wanting to; to get on with it, rather than prolonging it. Contrasts and conflict.
     "What I would do." It is magic, inherited from his mother; a flare in the green eyes, and he moves to you again, behind you, running his fingers through your braids. An almost silent whistle, and the braids he touches untwine; ends untuck, plaits unravel, leaving your hair in gleaming silver coils which he gathers up in both his hands, bringing to his face. He inhales deeply, eyes again closed.
     I love your hair. Gwilym sends it to you, silent, thought to thought, mind to mind. I could get lost in it. Mountains of snow and ice I could wrap around myself, and be lost in, never to see the world again.
     There is always that temptation to the adventurer, the thief; losing one's way in labyrinths not of one's own creation. General Ramanthus... Yggsdrasil... Ashe. Three names, and I wonder how deep I could go...

     He tips his head back slightly, then turns it to look over his shoulder and to the sight of you in his hair. The sight stills him, touches him in ways so deep he couldn't possibly explain them to you and so he does not bother to speak. But those words, in his mind simply appearing. He does not have the gift of telepathy himself, but thoughts? Those he does have.
     Take a string of it, he thinks, and if you get lost, like Prince Theseus you may find your way out again. I do not wish to be a prison, keeping you and hoarding you. His hair is curled from a day of being plaited. Coils of it wrap around your fingers, tangling in their sudden freedom. If you wish to walk the labyrinth of my memories and names, you may, he thinks. Just do not lose yourself in the process, Prince Gwilym. I do like you, for you...
     His hair slides from your grasp like so much silk as half clothed the general strides away. He walks to his closet, removing the shin guards and stacking them to the side. The metaled skirt of the armor is likewise removed. For a moment, he stands naked, the silk shirt off and hung.
     A silken robe is removed. It is a long, quite formal robe, such that a cardinal or high priest might wear, but he leaves it open. Both covered and uncovered, he cuts a regal... and decadent...figure. "An unexamined life is one not worth living, as they say," Ramanthus murmurs, his stride carrying him back to the bed and to you. He is on fantastic display...

     You pull away, and he lets you go. Desolate for the moment, watching you. But there is a bittersweet pleasure in watching.
     I am addicted. So soon, so fast. So head over heels. I lead with my heart the way with someone with a glass jaw leads with their chin, with you. You could ruin me so easily.
     And I don't care...
     "I can wait," Gwilym says aloud, his gaze scanning over you. Suddenly he is having trouble thinking clearly. Suddenly all he can think of is his own lewd and wicked imagination. Slowly, he sits down on the edge of the bed, thighs spreading, hands braced to either side as he watches you with widened eyes. "Are you hungry, my general?"

     "I am," the general answers easily, softly. "Something you can feed me with your own fingers," he suggests as he comes to stand before you, between your spreading legs. "Food without your skin is hardly worth eating," he murmurs. Bending, the elf lord kisses you not with the teasing brush of earlier conversation but with the full, open-mouthed enjoyment of a lover in the heat of entanglement.
     It moves through him. The unbound robe shows you that. Loudly, his mouth pulls from you, his teeth tugging your lower lip as he straightens. A hand touches your head in a benediction, then brushes against your cheek.
     "We should eat... have a drink. I think the lavender and rosemary," he smiles. His slight smile says so much. His body showing the effects of his own desire, Ramanthus turns, heading to a cabinet on the other side of the room. A bar here...of course. Where else?

     "I will starve if you keep doing that." Gwilym stares at you as you pull away from him, open-mouthed and looks wild-eyed in the moment. You replace one appetite with another. What is he to do?
     His fingers slide from you, trailing with a ghostly whisper against the silk of your robe. And suddenly his trousers feel too tight. The air feels too tight; too constricting. Too confining. He pulls himself to his feet restlessly, eyes still following you.
     Shall I pluck food from my shadow larders, opening onto so many places, so many worlds... shall I seek to impress you, will you be impressed, I wonder? You, who have lived so long, seen so much - or will it make me seem all the more callow for my efforts?
     But it is in me, in who I am, that those I love and those I care for receive my braggadocio as much as they do my protection. And you, you have no need for my protection, do you? You, who could overwhelm me with but a look...
     He murmurs, "Then, my lord general, I shall make smooth your way." Gwilym turns, moving to the table where burn candles, flickers of light and shadow intertwined. He focuses himself there, forcing himself to all but forget you. It is difficult, at first. But as paper catches against a match, his attention is quickly consumed, and deftly he reaches forward to pluck as if pulling on a cord, spinning shadow between his hands and pulling it up as a rope.
     Shadow coils and pools between his hands - something more solid than liquid, but softer than clay, like beaten egg whites or the soft foam that sits on top of waves. he presses and shapes it until it is a spinning bowl, dipping a hand in; and from its mouth he pulls such things. Jewel-like fruits, first of all, pomegranates from the other side of the sea, apples from his father's kingdom and quinces from somewhere else. Hazelnuts from an English garden, cheeses from Wales and from the red and white cows of his mother's herds. Pastries from a tray that fell from sunlight into shadow; meat pies from a cocktail party somewhere in Belgium. He pulls these, one after another, with the skill and flourish of a prestidigitator, a child's birthday party performer, setting it all upon a tray and arranging it with an artistic eye.
     And then shadows are banished; the spun rope of his power dissipates like smoke, like fog, drifting between pinched fingers and without a sigh, breaking apart as if a candle casting shadow's been blown out.
     "Your dinner, my lord general," Gwilym turns, lifting the tray and holding it out for your perusal, for your approval, trying not to be too taken with his own cleverness and nonetheless giving you that grin of his which is both so cocky and so hopeful. "Where shall we dine?"

     "There are few who command the shadows so well," he remarks softly. He watches you call it forth, reach into it, and proffer from its darkness things from far off places. He never mastered shadows such as this. His skills, his gifts were of a different nature, he was a different thief. You, you are something quite extraordinary.
     Do you realize it, he wonders.
     "You are a child of the Lord of the Hunt, it seems. You call the shadows to you, pluck them like strings, and play a tune -- whatever is to your liking. Will you one night cloak yourself thusly and become invisible to all?" He smiles a little, quizzically. Not confused by your gifts but so curious.
     As to the nature...
     As to the cost...
     As to the possible uses...
     The general inclines his head then gestures toward the sitting room, living room for all intents and purposes. The silver eyes are glinting, and in his interest, physical signs of lust begin to abate. There are other things at hand. That can wait.
     Belting the robe with chain, the general follows you to the outer area and continues to the bar. "How did you first learn to do this? You shall indeed be the King of All Thieves if you are able to manipulate the very darkness that hides and binds them all..."

     "Noone knows that I can do this," Gwilym tells you, voice hushed as he comes over to you, following you with the tray. "Not even my brother. I've told noone... noone except now, you."
     He sets the food down, picking up a pomegranate and cracking it between his palms. The pulp is torn apart by fingers as strong as they are nimble, the scarlet jeweled seeds revealed within. He looks at you for a moment, eyes shading from brilliant apples to shadowed jade, and his face is half in shadow. "When I was seventeen," he says finally, "I had explored mother's city so that there was, I thought, nothing left hidden. Nothing left to discover. So I went and in my most typical fashion, I did something stupid."
     A seed is placed upon his tongue, and the remaining fruit set down. His hands go to his waist, tugging the muslin cloth free of his trousers, then hauled off over his head with a disruption of copper and gold strands of hair. It falls in his eyes; his gaze is half-hidden as he straightens, the folds of cloth sliding slowly from his hands to drape across a chair and then slide to the floor. "You've seen my brother, oes? You know how he is marked. I have not been given such responsibilities. Such burdens. So I went, and I sought out my own."
     Pale his skin, smooth and unmarked by scar or tattoo. He is not smiling, now, mouth set in stubborn, purposeful lines at the recollection. Slowly, the prince turns until his back is to you, He says nothing. He awaits your attention, your gaze; he knows your grey eyes see that which is not apparent. You will surely see what is right in front of you - better, perhaps, than he himself could, or had.
     There, upon the small of his back, there rests a grey diamond. The nether tip situations above the curve of his buttocks, unhidden by the covering of dun-colored pants. The top rests above his spine. The lines are not straight; instead, curving, crooked lines wind around one another, knotting and tangling in chaos and discord. Straight from a distance; orderly from a distance only. Within and without that writhing diamond, the pallor of his skin, of Welsh and English flesh.
     Gwilym locks his hands together behind his head, on the nape of his neck. "It is a struggle. But I learn; I have learned much, in the three years since I took this mark," the prince says steadily. "And it has been my secret. My burden to bear. My responsibility. Those who dwell in shadow are almost always alone."

     He had noticed the mark during your lovemaking. To have meaning put to it, and such meaning, he now looks to you. "And the price for such knowledge? Every mark bears a responsibility, and each one has its own price. Your brother... has paid a high price for his own."
     He pours two snifters of the rosemary and lavender brandy, saying nothing during the duration of that pouring. He considers the mark, and your story, in silence. He carries the drinks to you. As you set the food aside, he hands a glass to you.
     He is not immediately concerned. "We make all manners of bargains in the course of a long life," he notes. There is a little twinge of a smile: "What may seem foolish now, may in fifty years seem like prophetic fortune." The general slowly lowers himself to the cushions. "You are wise to keep it to yourself. But also wise to have told me."
     Lifting the glass for a swallow, Ramanthus then sets the snifter aside upon one of the low-sitting tables. He takes up some of the cheese, a bit of the quince. "Solitude then... a cost," he softly says. "What have you learned to do? I should think... obsfucation, subteneration, subterfuge... is there a travel component? I should think, looking at the wide array of fruits and cheeses," he notes with an approving nod to the plate of delights.

     "I spent a night in the arms of death." It is poetic, isn't it? He takes the glass, green eyes going to yours and then drifting away. "I gambled with her. The entire night, I spent in one contest or another; dice. Cards. Games of chance, of fortune. Double or nothing, she said - and in the end, I won not only what I wagered back for myself, but I won a piece of her own power away. She has never forgiven me," Gwilym adds with a low chuckle, a glint to his eyes, his smile.
     What is there without danger? But he knew, when he left, what peril he had been in, as he had not known when he entered. He sinks, sitting not on a chair but on the floor, pulling his shirt up and around his waist, twining himself there with a low sigh.
     "She hates me, but by her own oath, can do me no harm, nor the ones I love. We bargain from time to time. She serves me as do most who dwell in shadow - reluctantly, for a price, for her own gain. She does as we all do: as we must."
     Your lover looks up at you, and there is the quirk of a grin. How much he enjoys showing off for you, despite himself. "I can only use it in the presence of shadow; that half-light, half-darkness of the world. But where there is shadow, I can spin shadow; I can go to where I wish that there is shadow. I can listen, I can watch, or I can go there myself, or summon from shadow to my presence. And, if I wish, I can bar others from shadow - passing through shadow will lead them only where I wish, or nowhere at all, so that they return always to where they began."

     "Master of shadows," Ramanthus mulls, his hand moving the glass, swirling the brandy to unleash its flavors on the air. He half reclines, sitting back and looking at you. "It seems ...fitting that you control the whirlpools of shadows -- of Night Itself -- and your brother the depths of the sea. Not so different, oddly enough." It quirks his curiosity. Twins on divergent paths, but whose roads run parallel.
     "Interesting," he says again, and now he is grinning. "And you... to tempt Death's Daughter... and win. Double or nothing odds. Remind me not to play cards with you." He shakes his head a little, "So much achieved... so quickly. It is no wonder you are seeking more, seeking who you are. Shadows... can be... difficult playmates," Ramanthus whispers.
     He will not tell you to 'Be Careful'. It would be pointless, even if it were possible. But such a life -- a careful life -- is not a thief's life, and certainly not yours. "You do have a way of negotiating," he chuckles. The elf lord sits up, taking more morsels of the food and swirling the brandy once more.
     He listens to you, watches you as you speak. So quiet, so calm -- there are a great many things he learns simply by being still. "Silence... stillness... these have been to me what your shadows are to you. The absolute stillness and oppressive quiet one finds in a blizzard. I could move without sound, then. Without so much as a whisper..."

     "I cheated." Gwilym's grin is sudden and reckless, as is his glance to you. "There were no stipulations made against it. She knows I cheated; she can do nothing about it. I won, and in the end, winning is what I needed."
     To keep his life, his soul, his freedom. But it has had a cost. The cost hollows his smile by degrees from within, until it crumbles, fades away. You are left with his gaze upon you, listening as if suddenly enchanted; Endymion, were his eyes closed. He has that look to him. Moonstruck.
     "What should I be negotiating for?" Slowly, Gwilym rises, moves to hands and knees; moves next to your chair, and leans up against it. He folds his arms along the arm of your chair, and drops his cheek there, eyes closed. "I have only been in two blizzards in my life. Once, when I was younger, and my brother and I were out playing in the snow. It came up suddenly, and all was white; there was no way of knowing which way was which. I do not remember how I got home; I remember finding myself at home in front of the fire. As if I blinked, and it was. The other blizzard was you."

     "Come, join me up here," he whispers, his hands moving through your hair. "You, master of shadows, sit at the foot of no man's chair, certainly not at mine." His hand leaves your hair, opening the way for you to join him by piling on his lap, or to join him in the chair beside him.
     "Cheating at cards... a novel concept. It is the only way I know how to play cards." Is there another way? Ramanthus takes a swallow of the brandy, his grey eyes, silver-flecked, lifting to you. There are snow storms there still, icicles in the glinting of his eyes. "Dark and Snow," he murmurs. "Companions difficult to conquer." There is a slight smile for that. "The snows can come suddenly, without warning. Just as I still do, but in battle now, not in the solitary night. So removed from me, that life, I watch my memories as if they are dreams of things read, not lived."
     "Some night," Ramanthus murmurs, "I should like to ... journey into the shadows with you. You, to guide me. I want to know them... I want to experience that solitary stillness. That communion between the thief and the moon..."

     He unfolds, elongates, as if rising from the shadows he commands. His gaze is intent upon you, his attention wholly yours. Delicately his hands land on your shoulders, and he leans in for a tearing kiss. In a moment, the thief will subside, but you have called it up; he steals, takes what is on his mind. Only then does he sink down upon you, draping himself across your lap, curling his upper body in towards you.
     "Some people - such as my brother, and his lover, they don't cheat at cards except possibly when playing for fun. I say cheating at cards is the only way to make sure the stakes are high enough." Gwilym sighs, lips trailing against your cheek, the side of your neck, an arm slipping around your waist to hold himself there. "You have traded shadows for snow, but you still know about stakes and risk. Your battle is more open than mine, that is all."
     His other hand comes up to touch your face; as if to map it, learn its contours, its features as if he's blinded. Memorizing with sensitive fingertips, making it all known again. "I would be grateful to have you with me," he whispers against your ear. "Not tonight; tonight I ... need you too much. I need your stillness, your power. To beat back my darkness, in favour of your own welcoming vast spaces."

     You revive the thief in him as well. Perhaps that was one of the things, once he knew your path, that he was drawn to you. Drawn to you, to his past, to himself. You find yourself in him -- he finds himself in you. He watches it happen, as it happens, and is amazed by it.
     You steal his mouth, you still the kiss of his mouth, and he gives himself to it. His mouth, the prize. Tonight, shadow-walker, I will be yours. Ramanthus tilts his neck with a soft exhalation as your lips wander his skin. "This vast, snowy plain is yours, my prince," he murmurs.
     He sets his glass and the remaining brandy aside. There is only a swallow left, but the taste of it, the intoxication of it remains upon his mouth and tongue. He lifts, parting his mouth to you, kissing and seducing a kiss to follow. His mouth beguiles as it welcomes your own, his hands slipping between you, unfastening the chainmail belt that kept his robe gathered to him.
     The material falls away, sliding silken against the chair. As his mouth pulls upon your own, his tongue sliding against yours, his legs are on the move. Those strong thighs, so flexible, hook over the arms of the chair, opening himself to you... and anything you should wish of him...

     Perhaps there can only be this comprehension, this understanding, between two people who have walked the same road. In you, he finds something he has wanted; needed. So alone he's been, for who can a thief trust? Certainly none of the warring shadow lords who send their novices and acolytes in attempts to seduce, sway or assassinate...
     "I have never wanted to give myself to anyone before." You know this; but he puts it into difficult words, speaks the words aloud. Sometimes secrets need to be spoken. "I've never wanted anyone to see me as I really am. Except, of course, all the time, I've wanted to find someone who could."
     Find me...
     Hiding in plain sight, your purloined letter, your secreted thief. He slides on your lap, straddling you so that his bared chest is firm against yours. His mouth seeks to yours again; a gliding dance and insinuating duel of lips and tongue, the tip of which traces down to your jaw, along the line of it to your ear.
     "I am not my brother," Gwilym whispers to you; and his hands trace over your ribs with sudden determination, stroking against your skin with intent. "He sought learning; sometimes for its own sake. My general, my thief, I want your snowstorm. I want to be the one in the middle of it, clothed by you, cloaked by you so none can find me there - but there all the same."
     He begins to slide from your lap by degrees, lips trailing against your skin. That silvery ring is tugged at your nipple, twisted with gently mocking lips. Was I there all along, Yggsdrasil? Did you know I would come to this, come to you? Is yours the gift of foresight, an intuition, an inkling? Am I wrong for wishing that it were that? Does not every thief, in some small way, hope to lose ...
     He grazes his teeth against the ring in your navel; his palms slide along your inner thighs. It's the penalties which make the games worth playing. Tell me what I risk, and the more my risk - the more drawn to you I am. I want your marks upon my skin. I want you wearing the marks of our conjoined passion, lord general and thief.

     There is a hum in his ears, the coming of snow. With your teeth tugging on the nipple ring, he can hear the wind howling. His long hair moving, tossed about like the arms of a blizzard. Moving without footprints, between the falling flakes, blending into the scenery. That is how I moved invisibly upon this world.
     Invisible until now...
     Suddenly, I am seen. Your mouth upon that diamond, that diamond that is at the center of my body, that represents the center of the storm, I am known. As your tongue moves over me, I become visible, shivering into this world as if the snow were at my back.
     What do you risk, my prince? You risk everything. You risk your heart...
     His arms lift, a brushing touch to your head as your hands slide along his inner thighs. He lifts his arms, putting them behind his head. "Take this belt," he murmurs, "...and bind my hands. Let the metal mark me as I grasp at it, as you move on me." His eyes open, they keenly set upon your face. Though he submits, his words form a soft command.

     He looks at you keenly, feeling your words as if you have written them on his skin. If the pen-tip cuts, if he bleeds, what of it? What is a little blood, in pursuit of a worthy prize?
     You are that prize...
     The belt is taken, slid between his hands as he looks to you; there is that buzzing in his own ears; the sound that all this time, he has attributed to chaos. To disorder. To his own self-deception, as it turns out. Cool metal slides against heated flesh, and no flesh more heated than the flushed cheeks of your lover as he moves to obey you.
     I can seek to bind you, but only if you wish to be bound will it be so, my general. Even now, as I wind this fashioned metal around your skin, tying your hands, it is I who am tied. I who obey you, willingly, gladly - I am lost in the tendrils of your hair, in the storm in your eyes. I need no other calm than this, no other fall but this. Yours is the only gravity which draws me in this manner.
     He tests his work, tugging gently at the chain, seeing how your hands do and do not move. "It is done," Gwilym says softly, and his hands drift again down, touching here, touching there, impatient and hesitating to make his impatience too deeply known. A palm grazes your thighs and what is between them; his mouth, your ear as teeth seize the lobe in a light tug.
     "How would you have me move, commander, rogue? Within you or upon you; tease you with my mouth as my words, my hands lighting upon your flesh as butterflies seeking to sweet decay? Shall I slide my shoulders up under your knees and bend you, even as you torment me so delightfully, so wickedly?" Gwilym sighs, fingertips moving in slow circles - whirlpools as you have said, driving onwards, dragging upon your flesh. "It isn't fair, you know. You are so tempting..."

     "I leave myself in your hands," Yggsdrasil whispers. You have called him by his name, and he answers you. It is not the general now, not the commander of your mother's infantries. It is the thief facing himself, the lover facing you. "O master of the shadows," the mouth cants to the side, and silver glints, "... you've captured me." A platinum eyebrow quirks upward. "Now what?"
     He twists against the bonding you have made, trapping him to the chair. His legs thrown over the arms of the chair, they are hooked and bound as well. Between his thighs, his length lifts, hardening against his thigh.
     Yggsdrasil stretches against the bonds again, testing them as a thief would. His eyes are sharp, they are focused on you. I will pick these locks, thief. Here is your window. What will you do with it?
     Pick my lock...
     Free my hands...
     Yourself and I...

Posted by rowan at July 07, 2006 12:04 AM