"We will need secure transport of goods. Call for the engineers, have them begin a road through the wilderness. The more Order we can bring, the less effective the resistance will be."
     "Yes, general..."
     "Send word to General Ixyll. We will need his pixies in the woods and flats. We need to curry the favor of those wilderness villages. We need spies, watchful eyes, cooperation..."
     "Yes, general..."
     "I mentioned reinforcements. I will need you to procure a messenger for me..."
     So goes the dictation on a busy, busy night. At the borders of the corrupted kingdom lies a great and untamed wilderness. No kingdoms or queendoms hold sway here, but the loose confederation of subjugated villages, villages that now suddenly find themselves free of their dark burden.
     A series of large tents have been erected. Suddenly a city has grown here overnight! There are fires, hanging oil lamps, construction. A fort will be erected in two nights; a wall will be erected not long after. Trees of this wilderness are felled, drawn in by the heavy draft centaurs recently called up to the action.
     The battles rage on further into the guts of the fallen kingdom. Though smaller in scope, they are no less intensely fought. Desperation has begun in the elite forces of the corrupted queen, but their queen is dead. Soon they will lose heart, it is hoped. Such is planned. And all of the planning happens here in these headquarters.
     The elves are masters of both time and efficiency. Their tents stand upon this field as if they have always done so. the guards stand at perimeters, and at the entrance of each large tent -- each one housing commanders and planners. The largest tent is inhabited by the general himself, General Ramanthus.
     He stands there in his eleventh hour. The hour is late indeed. His eyes are red from the oil lamp smoke and with the sleepless night prior. He is absent of armor now, simply wearing the wrappings and trappings of what lay beneath that armor. The shirt is an elaborate wrapping of that spiderweb silk (thin, but quite formidable. It is another kind of armor), tied at his waist. The leggings follow his legs closely but not too close. His feet are yet encased in armored boots.
     The furnishings of the general's tent are quiet comfortable. They show both his rank and his prestige to be thus nicely appointed. There is a large and thick cushion for a bed, the comforters of dark silks. Carpets soften the dirt floor, and tables stand here and there both for the holding of food and battle plans. There is a curtain that may be pulled between the bed and the remainder of the space for some privacy. Not much, but a treasured moment or two at least. There are other cushions for others to sit and rest, though none but himself and his adjutant are here now.
     General Ramanthus sets down the pitcher of water, lifting the silver cup for a long drink. "... I will need possible reinforcements to be ready, depending on the level of the resistance. I need all elves on the move in support of the trade lines, supplies and of course to offer themselves to our aid should it come to it. I believe that is all for now, Braxus. You may go..."
     Braxus, a decorated soldier himself, bows, his long brown braid swinging. "Yes, general." Turning with his orders, his moves the tent flap aside and exits between the shoulders of two keen-eyed and severe-faced elf guards...

     Your adjutant leaves, and your lover arrives. Not by the tent, but by shadows; one moment nothing and the next moment there. Gwilym is dressed in soft black leather from head to toe. Only his head is free of it, red-gold hair slightly curling as it falls across one eye. He is crouched on one knee, forearm draped across the other. General.
     There is that thieving smile, then, slow and wandering as he looks to you, then to the tent flap. He speaks quietly, his mind to yours, with a glance to the tent flap. He is unseen, save by you. He chose his position for that reason. Keen as the ears of elves may be, they are not keen enough to hear that which makes no noise, surely?
     I have been wandering in shadows, the prince continues, and finding many ... interesting things. Some you should have knowledge of already. Some, a silent shrug, you may not know. But I thought I'd drop in and see how busy you might be.
     Apple-green are his eyes right now, turned upon you with all of his concentration; all of his focus. Do I dare to make myself known, or will so doing result in an armed entry by your guards?

     There is a smile and the general turns, his grey eyes lit with both the fires of his concentration and the sudden humor found at the edges of your words. He opens his mind to you: They will not enter unless I call them. Please, have a drink. He motions to one of the cushions in what amounts to the living room of his tent. Have a seat and tell me what you have found.
     There is water to drink, but there is also that elven brandy, infused with herbs and spices. There is one you have not had before: apple infused with cinnamon and quince. The general lifts this bottle, and he pours two glasses. His grey eyes find you and settle their attention there. I have sent my adjutant to deliver the evening's news and orders. Unless we hear reports, I likely have until dawn before I will have to make additional adjustments to the strategy and orders.
     He offers the glass to you, a silver cup this, shaped with vine and grapes in fine sterling. He crosses over to one of the large cushions fashioning from it a kind of easy chair. He exhales, relaxing. It is the first time he has had a seat since leaving his horse at the end of last night's battle.
     There is no reason to remain hidden, his eyes say, his mind giving each word up like a tree its leaves in the autumn. They drift for you to catch, you to collect. No need to remain cloaked on my account, my thief.

     He straightens up, moving quietly (though no longer silently) to have the seat you offer. You offer him brandy, and he accepts it, giving you the full weight of his gaze, of his smile. I've missed you.
     Simply said; simply spoken. He could have been taking lessons from Tiernan, with that. Gwilym sighs, sinking onto the cushion, settling back, then adds with mischief intent in his gaze, Though I would prefer your lap.
     The brandy is sniffed, and his eyes widen. There is a moment of indecision in his eyes, and he holds the cup, looking to you with a moment of indecision. Long legs unfold, and he sprawls back, giving his weight to your floor. "I have been a merry wanderer of the night," he murmurs to you, a hand lifted to you and then falling to his lap. "I've been uncovering all of the late and unlamented queen's secrets, as best I can. Do you remember the caves beneath the palace? Hers, I mean; not my mother's." For the moment, he does not drink...

     The general's drink rests balanced upon his thigh, held balanced there by a lightly grasping hand. It appears that the glass could roll from his light touch at any moment. His other arm rests over his forehead as he relaxes, slumping in the gentle embrace of the cushion. He smiles at your stray thought of missing him, and of you on his lap.
     It is tempting...
     His arm moves away from his forehead, no longer obstructing his view of you, and he lifts an eyebrow. "Yes... the walls shimmered black ink as if they had just been carved. I thought for a moment that I was standing in the bowels of some horrible creature." The smell was quite foul to his nose. "What did you find there?"
     He is really quite interested. His eyes are alert no matter the weariness of his body. General Ramanthus lifts his glass, sipping at the apple brandy. He listens intently, though a part of him (several, in fact) wish you and he were in a secreted chamber far from this headquarters, far from this battle. Soon enough, he tells himself. Maybe you can hear it. Soon enough I will be able to hold him again.

     "She was sacrificing victims, but for the most part, not killing them; torturing them slowly, over a span of years. Some people she killed right off, but there's evidence to suggest that most of the inner members of her court were either victims of hers, or willing partners in her corruption." Gwilym tells you this quietly, his gaze going inwards with the memory.
     I have seen shadows and darkness. I am not easily moved - but this... this goes beyond anything casual. I suppose I should not have been surprised, with what I had already learned. But I was.
     "I did find some prisoners - some better-treated than others. I took these individually to your men, for treatment or interrogation as necessary. I also found a few hidden stores of weapons; too many for me to carry easily, but I can give the locations to your men. I," Gwilym smiles, "sabotaged the traps there; attempting to disarm them will now cause them to activate, should her infernal queenship's men try anything further."
     And the brandy remains untouched, still. He looks to you, the glimmer held in his eyes. You make me want to be so trapped, my general. So held. Soon... but not soon /enough/, unless you mean five minutes from now, Yggsdrasil. I lack your patience...

     The general nods as you speak, his mind absorbing the information. He will likely read some of the results on that in tomorrow morning's reports. "Excellent. I would like you to meet with the few elf scouts," his euphemistic term for elf lock-pickers and safecrackers, "... describe the place and I will send with them a small company to retrieve the items. Thank you, my prince."
     There is a small smile, the barest of upturns of the corner of his mouth. Do not mistake tiredness from patience, my thief prince. Those words hover there as his mouth spreads. He chuckles once, softly. But you can see it there, in the sudden shine of eyes, in the way his smile fades. He wants to kiss you.
     He lifts his glass for another swallow then looks to yours not yet tasted. "You do not like the brandy?" he murmurs. "If you wish something else... there is the juniper whisky." His chin tips as he nods over to the small bar area. "I tend to drink brandy. I find its warmth comforting."
     "Thank you for the news, my prince," my love. "I will be sure to follow up with the commanders tomorrow regarding those prisoners of war. We may be able to use them to break the loose alliance of malcontents..."

     "I would be happy to help, my general," Gwilym murmurs, running a fingertip along the lip of his goblet. "There are three such caches I've found. I will gladly guide them, or describe them. There need be no thanks; I am," he grins, "more than happy to do my mother this service. Even if she would prefer I did not."
     The desire is mutual; it shows in his eyes, in the suddenly wry cant of his mouth, that almost pucker. "The brandy is undoubtedly excellent. It is made with some of the finest apples to be found anywhere; I recognise them by smell." And ... I cannot drink it for that reason...
     The apples of Avalon are of my father's kingdom; they have been entrusted to my mother's care. When I was a child, I ate them all the time, but when I began to come of age, my mother forbade me to eat them anymore; I and my brother both. She never explained why. But ... watching her with my father and grandfather, I think I know why. It is tempting, my general. As tempting as you. But without knowing what effect they might have? Without more privacy than your tent provides?
     Gwilym rises slowly, moving to where you sit, goblet still held. His hand goes to your head, fingers touching your hair gently. If we were alone...

     The general smiles, your meaning understood immediately. He holds out his hand, for you to return the goblet to him. This is no time to lose our heads, his thoughts are given, held so you can see them, read them, hear them. However it is you do that. "I find apples refreshing, better than water. Though, perhaps brandied apples are slightly less thirst-quenching." His mouth slides.
     For a moment as you touch his hair, Ramanthus closes his eyes. (Ramanthus, a name taken, as so many others throughout history and time. What do any of them mean?) If we were alone. That thought drubs upon his pulse like the war drums of the infantry. If we were alone. The battle could truly be completed. There will be no sense of closure, no sense of finality until he is able to release in a final thrusting all of the energy that he has called up for battle.
     The general turns his head, opening his eyes, and he places a kiss upon your hand. It is not enough. "I will get you a drink," he quietly speaks, rising after another moment. He takes your goblet, setting it aside. He will likely drink it later or toss it out of the tent at dawn. Taking another bottle from his small collection, he pours something that smells of honey. Mead. It is lighter. It would not do for you to get drunk. You and he both have work to do yet.
     As Ramanthus turns to return to you, new goblet in hand, of the same kind but filled with a much different drink, he lets you see behind the general's mask, behind that keen look of concentration and thought, and in that thought somewhat distant, to see the sharp need and great affection that exist beneath. His hand touches your hand as the goblet is passed.
     And he bends, not speaking, not thinking, but kissing you silently. He holds his breath, so that not even a moan may pass between you. He opens your mouth beneath his own, his tongue tasting your lips, covering your own breath and taking it soundlessly.
     And then he ends it, abruptly, his hand squeezing your own around the goblet's stem. His mouth at your ear, Ramanthus mouths the words he will not speak: I love you.

     The goblet is given to you slowly; it is a potent temptation, oes. As potent as you. I touch your hair and wish that I could undo your braids again; wish that I could summon up magic enough to roll back these cares, taking you with me to another place. Where we could be alone, without these pressing concerns.
     But that will have to wait...
     "Thank you," Gwilym murmurs to your offer of a drink. He lets you go; does not release you, but lets you go, lets you slip from his touch.
     The new goblet is taken, and his hand clasps yours. The silent kiss ends only just before a sound would have been necessary, his lips parted for it as if he would sigh, and on that expiring sigh, pour all the words he knows.
     Is that what this is...
     Is this love...
     What my mother warned us about and praised to us, what she and I warned my brother of, is that what this is?
     This ... need ... so consumptive, that all I can do is think of you ...
     How it feels, the rightness of it...
     Is this, then, the emotion which has launched a million bad power ballads...
     Or something more genuine? I do not know to put a name to it. I only know ...
     I need you more than life itself...

Posted by rowan at July 12, 2006 10:41 AM