After three weeks, the reign of the corrupt Queen of Winter Diamonds had come to an end, with the final defeat of her remaining elite guard (and their complete decimation) and the signing of a peace accord between the Queen of the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree and the neighboring villages. The road that had been constructed for strategic purposes will now become a throughway allowing more trade to enter the interior and to bring relief to villages made to starve under previous rule.
It is an auspicious beginning...
The fourth week since the inception of the invasion saw the return of the generals and the bulk of the armed forces. The heretofore secret winged arm of the elven army had been a major success, and now griffons were earning well-deserved rest in the paddocks designed especially for their needs. The next spring will see the breeding program in full swing.
With the return of the generals and army, life in the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree is beginning to return to normal. Once again the docks and villages are loud with laughter, celebration and a carefree toss of coins. Once again the suburbs on the outskirts of the village and city have settled into serenity, tranquility.
But even amid this blossoming exuberance and all this serene tranquility, there is for at least one an intensity of purpose. Armor had been surrendered thankfully to his valets. With a sigh of gratitude, he let the duty slip from his figure. It was midday by the time General Ramanthus was able to settle into the steaming waters of the large bath.
The master bath is quite elaborate. There are sofas and chairs, rugs and tables, food and elixirs that surround a giant raised pool of marble. The pool is some four feet deep at least, with steps that lead up and then into the water. The water is always kept near the top and smoke curls from its surface, bearing the scent of herbs such as rosemary and verbena.
Ramanthus closes his eyes, letting his body float. His undone hair spills out to all sides, floating and shimmering on the water. His fingers glance over the skin of the liquid, as if by their touch to divine the arrival of his lover.
His own return has coincided with a need on his part to duck his loving mother; she has far too many questions for him (to say nothing of abuse). This worked for all of twelve hours, upon which the second-born prince learned anew what he and his brother both used to know :
It is difficult to duck Fiona for long, and impossible to hide from her in her own kingdom when she really wants you found.
Gwilym submitted himself to be hugged, hit, cried over and hugged again; his mother is pregnant again, after all, and such things must be endured. There was the promise and threat of a talking-to to be done later. Saved by the bell; and moreover, by Fiona's need to remain off this plane as much as possible.
He's not off the hook yet; he knows it. There will be a reckoning to be had. But in the meantime, his other business has been languishing, and there has been time taken to set things to right. Everything put in order - so that he can ignore it for a little while.
There is something for which he is going to want that time.
Now he has returned to your estate; quietly entered, gone to his own quarters to change. Gone are the combat leathers; gone, too, the magical armour for skulking about his mother's city. Instead, he has gone shopping (in the most loosely held sense of shopping) for a new outfit...
A white linen tunic is loose in the sleeves but tight over the chest, hanging to mid-thigh. Pale mustard cross stitch hems the cuffs; it laces loosely at the throat, open a bit in reverse keyhole pattern, the sort of tunic a prince might wear when home and not intending to go to court. There is something of decadence to the way it hangs.
His trousers are not so loose; white also, with cords to lace them up along the sides (and in front, along the groin; the precursor to zippers). Without the tunic, it leaves little to the imagination; with the tunic, things are hinted at, occasionally revealed.
He is taking his time; taking care. His hair is brushed, and a diadem of red gold seat with a moonstone is carefully lifted; placed on his head. The gold all but blends into his hair, leaving the moonstone to appear almost suspended of its own accord. A trick of the eye. A trick of the light. Green eyes regard himself as he selects from an assortment brought with him; an emerald ring, slipped onto one clever finger. He looks at himself, and nods; it is enough. More would be overdone, and he is not trying for overdone.
Turning, Gwilym Gwyn Garu slips from his own quarters on sandal-shod feet, makes his way to your half of the floor; lets himself in quietly. He can hear the sound of water. It draws him, as you do - to where you are. Where you bathe. Into the bath, and halfway from the doorway to the water's edge. And he stops to look at you.
Again, my heart is in my throat. As if for the first time; as if I find myself somewhere uninvited. I feel again the schoolboy, looking at you. But that is part of the attraction, isn't it...
"Good afternoon, General," Gwilym says the words softly, respectfully, the colour rising into his face. Suddenly, he does not know what to do with his hands. His eyes stay on you - hungrily, unaware of how they must look. "I hope that I am not late. Or interrupting."
This is how he wished you to find him, relaxed (mostly) in the clear, heated waters of the bath, his hair undone and going in all directions. It floats ethereal, as if he were a male siren and this his temptation. The diamond at his navel sparkles beneath the water, and it casts reflected shimmers on the walls and ceiling. His body is distorted by water, the waves making it hard to make out though you can surely remember what it is like.
As you speak, his eyes remained closed but he smiles. He hears you. Lifting his head, his hair floating as its own organism, General Ramanthus looks to you. "Good afternoon, my prince. I would apologize for my appearance," he murmurs, his smile a keen gleam in those eyes. "But I intended to greet you from the bath. Please... join me..."
Reaching up, his hands smooth over his platinum hair, now a rich champagne fully drenched. He squeezes the length of it, removing excess water and oils, and moving it to sweep over one broad shoulder. "There is food," he gestures to a silver plate upon the pool's edge. "And drink," of course. But he is looking at you as if none of that matters. You, and only you are the focus of the whole of his attention.
"After such battles, such exertion, I find bathing... wading... refreshing. Stimulating." This is yet another mask. It is neither general nor thief, but the elven Casanova. Offering you all the sweet delectations the world has to offer. It is all within your grasp. "Come... we have been too long parted, my prince..."
All of the blood is rushing from his brain. You will not find him enthralling to talk to, right now. He barely remembers any language skills, right now. Gwilym stares, and goes on staring.
You are...
He swallows noticeably. Suddenly, he is the teenaged boy being invited into the houri's bedroom. Slowly, he moves to the edge of the pool, sinking upon one of the couches (it's really miraculous that it's actually where he's sitting, as he didn't look at all) and he reaches for something to drink.
I need a drink...
"I'd climb in with you, but I think my clothes would shrink," Gwilym murmurs. He has not yet stopped staring at you. He slips from couch to the very edge of the pool, where that silver plate sits. "I mean." Is there a drug in this scent? Or is it just you...
"You look relaxed," Gwilym adds helpfully. "And... stuff."
"I am, I suppose, rather meditative..." His voice is airy, though deep in tone. "You should try the new brandy," he suggests, his eyes directing you to its location, not far from your hand. "It is an infusion of apricot and cinnamon." Ramanthus does not leave the pool. Rather, he floats once more in the water, giving himself over to it.
"The idea, my prince, is for you to leave your clothes behind," again that airy tone rises. "Though I do suppose it is a shame. You look quite handsome in the golds and whites. Your hair burnished as the swords of heaven." He continues to swim, his body rolling within the liquid arms of the bath until he comes to float on his back. His hands move against the water, move over himself.
It has been a torturous month. With such action upon the field, the bed that had been previously so crowded with you and he was suddenly so empty. His heart ached, his body ached.
Hands smooth their way over him and then the water once more. Ramanthus says nothing for moments, many moments. He simply fills the space with silence, fills it with the thousand and one things he says without uttering a single phrase. Approaching the stairs of the bath, he again smoothes his hands over his hair, squeezing the water from it, and he emerges naked from the water. A thing of beauty. For you.
Naked still he walks, not to you -- that would be too easy -- but down from the bath and to a robe that lies over one of the sofas. He pulls it on, covering the body that was previously displayed in its glory for you. Now it is hidden, masked -- revealed only in moments as he moves to sit upon one of the gathered chairs.
"Is this not the most amazing bath you have ever seen? I spend more time in here than I care to mention. It is my little secret," he grins, "...hmm... I have so few when I am around you. I wonder why that is, my prince. And so, the hero has returned," he speaks of you. "I cannot believe it has been a week since I have seen you.
He allows himself to be seen again. Only indications given, however, of what is now mostly concealed by the robe. Ramanthus opens out his arms, resting them on the back of the sofa. "Would you mind pouring us both a drink, my prince? I am suddenly... quite thirsty."
The brandy is looked at; it takes effort, energy for him to
take his gaze from you. Looked at, then picked up slowly. "It sounds good," Gwilym murmurs, holding the goblet as if it is his anchor; as if it weighs him down, tethers him to his place. You are floating, and he - is sinking. Your words and the sound of your voice do nothing to recollect him to the fact that there is a world beyond your doors.
World? What world? What worth could such a world have? He is rapidly losing a battle which he was unaware of fighting. Apple green eyes follow the movements of your hands along yourself, across yourself, and abruptly, the prince bites on his lower lip with an air
of almost sitting on his hands.
He is aching already, and having difficulty knowing what he wants more - you under him, or himself under you. And he is feeling much more the schoolboy than he is used to feeling, even with you. His head turns to follow you as you walk to the sofa, watching you with eyes slightly widened as you put on the robe. There comes a sigh he remains unaware of uttering, and discreetly, he shifts position; rearranges himself. "I do not think that any of your secrets are little, lord," Gwilym murmurs, and he lifts the apricot and cinnamon brandy to chase away hoarseness from his throat. "But I am honored that you choose to share them with me."
This is a new side of you. I have not seen this before; hinted, once, perhaps, but not more. I do not know this face's name. It is neither the general Ramanthus nor the thief Yggsdrasil...
"Of course." You ask, and he is quick to obey. Even when you are beneath him, he finds himself so quick to obey you; it unnerves him, at times, spooks him so that you must handle him like a frightened horse; but he likes that. And so, it seems, do you. He is startled by it again, startled by his own lack of resentment as he finishes the small amount in his own glass and begins pouring for himself and for you. The goblets are secured; lifted. And he approaches you slowly, with one glass of brandy held in either hand.
One hand is lowered to you, goblet still held; held out for you to take if you wish. Red and gold are the colours of the lock which drops to cover one eye, and Gwilym looks at you with cheeks reminiscent of the first blush of apples. "How should I address you?", he murmurs. "You have so many faces." What role do you play tonight...
I do not know how to define it, nor myself in reaction...
His stomach has seldom been so knotted, not even the very first time he came to you in this fashion - duw, was it only about a month ago? Time has flown, and his world changed altogether in that flight.
His hand reaches up to take the goblet. But he does not yet remove it from your grasp. His hand lightly upon your arm, Ramanthus rises. Tall. Beautiful. He lifts not one but both goblets from your grasp. "You should refer to me as you wish to refer to me, your majesty. Please," he motions to the sofa, "... sit. Make yourself comfortable. It is I who wish to serve you today. All night." His voice is soft, calm and in that serenity, alluring.
He sets the goblets upon the small table at the sofa's side. There is such ritual to his motions. "You served the United Kingdoms so very well, you deserve all the wealth and riches that can be offered to you. Today...tonight... that is everything I have to offer you." He lifts his hand to your face, brushing it lightly, and he smiles. His hand withdraws and he moves to the side of the enormous bath once more.
He lifts the plates of fruit, of sweets, patries. They rest upon a silver tray that he bears forth. There is ritual in how his steps, so silent, fall. How he bends, the robe parting to reveal his skin and form beneath. How he looks to you as he rises, the tray set upon the other nearby table. Now, all is within your reach.
Ramanthus turns to you, his hand drawing the robe shut, and he waits for you to sit upon the sofa. He does not speak, he simply looks at you, waiting so calmly. He shimmers, in his quiet stance glimmering. His hair, still damp, begins to curl where is drapes over his shoulders. There is a paddle brush on the sofa. Perhaps you would wish to comb it out before it tangles.
He is in danger of losing his balance. Him. The sure-footed thief prince, who's been known to run along a handrail in a cape storm. Who has always seemed so oblivious to the ground so far below. Why, now, is there this whistling in his ears...
It is like struggling through tapioca. There is this resistance to every thought, every movement, slowing him down in your wake. Gwilym's eyes never turn from you; there is that flush of colour as you touch his face, a single blink, and then, slowly, he moves to the sofa. He takes up the brush; he is in need of a prop, right now.
Noone would believe it of him, but he has no idea what to do. It is as if you found the button marked 'BRAIN OFF' and not only pushed it, but taped it down, so that his brain is cycling endlessly between on and off.
He rubs his thumb over the bristles, swallowing past the knot that's moved up from his stomach into his throat. "...Join me, won't you?" Jade green eyes are still locked on you; caught between hunter and prey. "I ... know what I would like to do, I think."
Posted by rowan at July 14, 2006 04:24 PM
