How many blackbirds baked into the pie this time, o lord? How many? I've lost count of what I'm doing; somewhere, in between the losing of my heart and the losing of my future throne, I have decided to be content with what I can have and stop reaching for more. Deus...
He's settled in at one of the more upscale brothels in the red light district, in one of the little salons in the back. Here, men and women come and go; not just men visit this brothel, and not just women work in it. The salons are a discreet place to engage in harmless chitchat before engaging in the more dangerous sort of intercourse. At present, Tiernan has not worked up the energy or appetite for more than some polite discussion.
"So you think that within the next decade, things will change?" A somewhat drunk young man is asking this of Tiernan, who is nursing a goblet of spiced wine. "Change how?"
"Everything changes," Tiernan answers quietly, lounging back in his seat. There is a fairy nymph with violet wings and eyes settled upon the arm of his chair; she combs her fingers through his hair and is for the moment, at least, ignored. "This kingdom is only scarcely more than a quarter of a century. What has changed in that time? It's expanded, has it not? And so it goes, sir. I'm sorry; I don't believe I'd caught your name."
The only constant in the universe is change...
The times they are a-changin...
... And so on ...
It is well after the dinner hour when the prince, in his midnight velvet and leather unchanged, emerges from the palace. He does not ride into town or take any transport other than himself. When one has access to a retinue of possible (and impossible) creatures to be, why should one ever take a carriage or horse? He flies on starling wings, dotted white like the star-pocked Night Itself and wends his way from tower to rooftop.
My love, where are you hiding? The ship says you have gone ashore.
The voice in your mind and beneath your skin comes with the insinuation of dark sea currents, drifting in, coursing along your blood. It thrubs and throbs with power, ever growing, ever deepening.
Are you drinking, are you dining, are you with some ladies pining? Tell me... and I will join you. We've been too long parted. Even the full length of an entire day. That comes with cackling laughter befitting the magpie's cousin.
He responds to you ever so swiftly; he cannot help himself. His blood leaps, a quiet leap but a leap nonetheless. You have drawn him, called upon him, since first he laid eyes upon you; you, in your captain's coat, he in princely regalia.
Those days seem so far, now. I am ashore. Tiernan has to distract himself from his conversation; a sip of his mulled wine, a flicker of dark eyelashes serves to cover his lack of immediate response to this eager young man. His insinuations are apparent; and ignored, as if the prince were simply oblivious. I am drinking, and pining for you. Do you compel me to such honesty? I am missing you, it's true. Wine is making my head heavy with unwanted philosophy.
Tiernan sits up a little, answering a question put to him. "His highness? I believe he may be by tonight. I don't know; he's meeting with one of the potential brides, or was. He may now be longing to slake his flesh upon something female and less hands-off, you're quite right."
I am setting the stage for you, my prince, my liege, my love. Tell me what you would have, and I will arrange it. Is that not what I do? The arranger of ways. I am better with toys, alas.
There is a rise of energy upon your last words; a striking wave that moves first through him and then through you. It is a seadragon's tail, whipping with delight against your blood. He swims in you and it is by the current of your own blood that he finds you. A bird lands upon the brothel's sign then drops, and it is a crown prince who brushes an errant leaf off of his shoulder.
The midnight velvet holds him well, yet unbuttoned as it was before. He has removed the garment that was beneath it, however. Where the heavy material parts, only his seadragons clothe him. But they do so most brilliantly. Swimming and writhing in wondrous midnight colors, they show their power to any who looks. Insinuating, coiling.
Choose the loveliest in your eyes, but only one for us to share. I will feel you through her, and you me... through her. I will get the drinks. His voice is so audible with his presence that you can smell the sea and feel the breath of his words against your ear.
The prince enters the establishment, a wonder of midnight velvet, midnight leather and midnight tattoos. Those symbols of a man becoming a king. And swirling energy, like the coiling of sea-serpents all together in a pile follow him. It will be no wonder if the brothel itself shudders.
Each brothel in the village has its own public house, its own bar and rooms to lent or even rent for those who can afford it. The brothel mistress smiles and when his majesty enters in all his midnight, all she can see is GREEN. "Your highness," she purrs, "... a room for you tonight?" And she looks at him, and looking already knows the answer to her question. Coins (gold) are set within her palm, pressed there as Iowerth smiles. "The finest tonight. I am feeling... regal."
She nearly titters with glee...
"Right away, your highness," breathily she grins. "I will see to it that it is ready. A drink in the salon while you wait?" Of course there will be drinks. Periwinkle eyes shimmer in his own amusement. "At least one," Iowerth drolls and he steps into the salon.
One hopes he did not greet his future bride in this manner. He is blush-inspiring and scandal-causing as he enters. The sapphires sparkle at his collar, the lavender in his eyes. Red hair, fiery as true flames, sticks up in its thickness and from his flight. Iowerth purchases a bottle of brandy and procures three bowled glasses. All three he holds in one hand, strong fingers balancing the delicate bowls with the finesse of touch befitting royalty.
The energy makes him flush; he has to drop his gaze, look upon his wine, to cover it. If it is your wish, of course, Tiernan responds to you, making a sign to one of the merry maids serving drinks. He rises to his feet without haste as his glass is taken away, and he smoothes himself down. The blue of his eyes is distant; he looks around the room without favour, good or ill.
His thoughts are not of the men and women he sees here; but all such thoughts must be put away for later, for another time. His hands go together, caressing the cuffs of his sleeves absently as he turns this way and that. "My lady."
Polite; he is ever polite, isn't he? Save when he is groaning beneath or above you, his manners are so exquisite. The girl he's chosen is pretty enough to star in a Bizet opera, without any of the tragedy in the present to her. Shapely, well-fed without being plump, flowing dark ringlets and dark eyes and a beguilingly pink and moist mouth. She wears a white shift with purple and gold skirts, gold necklace and rings and earrings chiming with her movements.
"Your company is desired this evening," Tiernan tells her with a casual air, gaze raking her up and down. "I would be most obliged if you were ... willing ... to attend." Now he is just this side of insolent, regarding her as if he presented her with a challenge. She has been sought after; she has been desired by many. And she has turned many away, though not all; the night is still young. She can afford to be choosy. But he is handsome, well-turned out, and - if rumor has it correctly - well-connected. Closely connected, in fact, to the crown prince. And what whore does not dreams of being selected - does not have hopes of being the prince's, the king's 'regular' mistress? She does not delay long before her choice is made.
It is this that you see, highness, upon your entry to the salon. A Spanish-like, gypsy-like girl taking your lover's hand, his gaze going past her to the doorway - to you. He seems not so deeply in his cups; his garments, if they err, they err on the side of propriety. Where you spark with flame, he is as the solid earth, braced calmly, rooted solidly. At least in appearance.
The rumors appear to be true, for it is the crown prince himself that enters, smiling to his future Chamberlain. Three glasses he has, and what luck... you and the gypsy girl and he make three. He is sparking fire and drowning ocean both. Dark and bright; slithering and still. He does not say which suite he purchased, or how the evening shall progress. To you and to the girl there is a look, shared knowledge, shared understanding. And the pulling of a slow, smoldering smile.
Pivoting, the prince returns to the salon door, brandy and glasses in hand. The whore's fate is known. She'll be reserved all night, no doubt. It is good to be the Not Quite King. The brothel madame is beaming as the prince shows his face again. And calculating delight lights her eyes as she sees whom the crown prince and what must be his associate have contracted. Her price is very dear -- and so shall be the madame's commission. "Your suite is ready, your majesty." And with a soft touch, she passes him the key.
The whore is given a look. Book as much time as you can. Who knows when we shall have his attention again. She smiles sweetly then to the departing men. "Enjoy your evening."
The suite the prince has purchased is the finest in this very fine brothel. It has a sitting room where a gentleman (or royal) may entertain a game of cards, even visitors should he choose, with a separate bedroom for other purchased activities. The furnishings are as fine as those that might be found in the guest rooms of a palace. There are sofas and chairs and tables, fine rugs.
The door to the bedchamber has been opened. Cleaned and freshened, with newly washed and dried sheets (this brothel employs talented chambermaids as well as whores -- in fact, the chambermaids receive training to one day become the high-priced courtesans that this brothel offers). The bed is large, formidable construction. The sheets are red and gold, of striped linen and silk. Scarves and rugs soften every surface. One never knows what a gentleman will prefer.
She is led, a hand at the small of her back; Tiernan has sailed with you enough that by now he knows the rudiments of steering. Behind you and she and himself, the door is closed. Quietly; securely. "My lord."
It is murmured, and you receive a brief, sloe-eyes glance. Two, in fact, for there's one for her as well as for him. He is quiet, in attendance; she, by contrast, is calculating. Considering. What will you have of her? Are you to watch, while he enacts? The other way around? Her catty little mind is considering of the possibilities. However, she must make a move, and so she does; bare feet are soft and soundless against the thick rugs, bells chiming from around one ankle. "Your majesty," she coos to you. "Allow me to ask how I might sweeten your night, hm? I am Rosalia."
Not one of your mother's, then. They are all easily spotted, if one knows what to look for. Tiernan closes his eyes for a moment, and then moves forward to take from you the glasses, setting them out of harm's way. One is taken for himself, sipped, set down. I am sure she will be most eager to please, most beloved prince.
They are always eager when there is sufficient coin to be made. His tone within you is as droll as it would have been had he spoken it aloud. His eyes are on the gypsy girl as you take the glasses and pour the drinks. He surrenders each piece to you, glasses and bottle alike, with the grace that comes from much practice. "Rosalia," Iowerth grins it out. "What sort of king would I be if I did not have a ...royal taster?" he posits, his voice deep and soft, the tone almost blithe. "My future Chamberlain," his periwinkle eyes lead to Tiernan, "... has my trust in all things. Delight him, and you shall delight me." Turning, the crown prince takes up a glass for himself. "And then you will have us both. It promises to be a very full evening..."
He takes a swallow of the brandy and holds the glass loosely in his left hand. His right busies itself in the gypsy's hair as he comes to stand behind her. Where he stands, Tiernan, he can focus his attention on you as much as he likes. It is not so unusual, men sharing a woman, certainly not among the more adventurous fairykind. With his free hand, he lets loose of her black tendrils, his hand smoothing over a shoulder, Iowerth slips his fingers against the skin of her neck, over her shoulder and begins untying her shift.
I will undress her for you... she will be my gift to you tonight. Iowerth looks from you to the gypsy girl as his hand closes over a breast, fingers finding and then teasing, squeezing the nipple. "Double the pleasure, double the price, hmm? You will be ours... all night, Rosalia." His mouth teases against her ear but does not kiss it. He lets her hear his breathing, feel his skin but not yet know his mouth. He will let his chamberlain have the first taste.
Rolling her breast in his palm, Iowerth removes it from the shelter of her shift. He switches the brandy to his other hand, her breast revealed to you, as he begins to roll and squeeze her other breast, pulling it from the shift that now lies around her hips, blending with her skirts. Iowerth finishes his brandy with a swallow. And with the encouragement of his hips against her rear, he moves her further into the chamber, to the sofa with the nearby table and chair.
The glass is set aside, and he presses her breasts together, presenting them to you lewdly. Come, Chamberlain. Take the first taste. I think you will find her most delightful. Iowerth smiles to you, Tiernan, as he bends his head, his lips nearly brushing (but not) the side of Rosalia's neck.
He is so quiet. If he were not so handsome, so beautiful, he would fade into the backdrop entirely, he makes so little noise, so little sign of his presence. The brandy is poured with a rolling of skilled fingers, his gaze focused on that. And he looks up at you, over her, at you again.
No. It is said simply, and the blue gaze is open, regarding you steadily. I am sorry, my lord prince. I know you mean to honour me, and I appreciate the sentiment, but I have no stomach for this. Not tonight; perhaps not at all, I don't know.
The bottle is stoppered, the glass plucked to his lips in a waiting hand. Appearances must be maintained. He moves to where you hold her ready for him, and his free hand comes up to trail through her ringlets, lifting her chin then and tipping the glass to her lips. "A banquet," Tiernan says idly, "sitting waiting to be tasted. But you will have to pardon me, I pray; before I may give myself over to my desires, there are other demands upon my flesh." He allows his gaze to drift to the washroom, then back, and he detaches himself, brandy set aside.
I am sorry, Io. But this ... I can't do this, not even for you. Please ... do what you wish, and enjoy yourself. I'll return to the ship, or if you prefer, the palace, or somewhere else. His words are sent to you, granted, but he does not look at you, now as he turns away. Whatever you wish.
Had he imagined, truly, that you would not wish it, he would not have pressed it. But now that she is here, naked, presented to you and you leave, now he must turn once more to politics. Lifting his head, his hands lowering from the gypsy's breasts, he looks to her. "It seems my taster requires more time," he says to her, his eyes following you.
Had I thought for a moment it would displease you...
I would not have done this...
Do not go to the ship, do not leave. I will... send her away ...
The woman is released and Iowerth turns her toward him. "I think too much drink on an empty stomach will mean too little enjoyment of you. Go downstairs, take this," he presses a silver coin into her palm. "Order food and drink, for yourself as well. Return here with it." Order given, the crown prince steps away from the unclothed whore, his hands taking up the bottle of brandy and his empty glass, refilling it to a healthy half-bowl.
I will have someone come for us, and then there will be nothing to discuss. Simply another night where the crown prince was taken from his pleasures for some ...matter of state. Then we will both return to the ship. And I will hold you...which is what I truly wish to do, love. Please... do not worry... it was not meant to be. Perhaps it will never. It is what it is, oes?
I am not angry with you. His voice sounds quietly against your skin. If I am angry, it is with myself. But this ... I am sorry. I did not know it would be like this.
The blue eyes seek out your own once before he slips from the room. The door is closed behind him, quietly. I am sorry, Io. I know, ignorance is a poor excuse. He is prone to blame himself. But there is little for him to say, even to share with you; it is what it is, as you have said. Tiernan is silent, letting the air between you radiate with what is...
And with what is not...
It is so difficult, the life of a prince. He is in such demand (oh, yes) that he may scarcely finish undressing a single whore. Before the gypsy girl could return with the food, two messengers from the palace arrived and the prince and his chamberlain were called downstairs. With a sigh, the prince paid for the room, the whore's base rate and asked that the meal be shared among the patrons. Sadly, the message was urgent and he and his chamberlain were needed by the queen.
Once out of the bounds of the brothel, the two of you parted ways with the messenger and the guard and returned to the ship. Little passed between you and he, just errant thoughts, quiet assurances. But once you and he stepped below deck and into the captain's quarters, the captain's arms came around you, pulling you in for a firm and warm embrace. The rocking of his body with you in his arms was seconded by the gentle rocking of the ship in dock waters.
A hand to your face, Iowerth parts from the hug to look at you, one arm still around you. "Don't be upset with yourself," he murmurs. Leaning in, he kisses you tenderly. With you, he can be tender. With you, he has to be tender. Exhaling there, Iowerth closes his eyes. "It is alright, hmm...? It is better than alright. I am here with you, love."
How strong the waters of his allure have become, a riptide of their own, with currents that pull and sway even where his arms do not. "I have missed you," he whispers as he feels it himself. Oh, but I must remember not to drown you. The comet that streaks against his groin, up from the whirlpools of the Charybdal abyss, burns him when he lusts, reminds him of his need, his power, and his danger.
"You need no excuse, Tiernan. Never with me. It was...unfair of me to force you... to try to force it on you. It is I who should be apologizing. Do you forgive me?" Will you forgive me later, when I cannot get enough of you, when you call out for me to stop and I cannot?
How quiet he is. So silent. More than ever before, he is quiet, as if he simply lacks the energy (or the desire) to be anything but. When you and he are alone, truly alone, he turns to you; leans into your embrace, eyes closed. "I am not upset with you," Tiernan murmurs. "I just ... I felt distaste. A fastidiousness I did not expect in myself - I am sorry, Io. I know it is something that you wanted."
There is regret there. There is emotion, and he kisses you softly, an open-mouthed caress that is gentle more than sensual. I did not want to disappoint you.
And you are holding him, and he can tell himself it is alright. Tell himself, but not necessarily believe in what he says to himself. He looks up at you again, his hands moving through your hair, tugging gently - he is gentle, in some ways. "You didn't force me," Tiernan murmurs. "You suggested, I listened, and ... couldn't do what you wanted. I don't know; maybe I'm coming down with something. Maybe I'm just not in the mood." Maybe, maybe, maybe; he is irritating himself. One of his hands tugs at yours, and he shakes his head, closes his eyes. "I've missed you, too," he says softly. He sounds almost surprised. "I didn't mean to, but I did, Io. Let's - move on from this halfways topic. How has it ... been?"
"Frustrating," he answers softly, "...busy. And my thoughts have been on you. I worry sometimes," he softly admits, "... that it is more upsetting than you are letting on. But maybe that is only my own fear just projected onto your face. Hmm? That I am making you unhappy." He closes his eyes when you tug on his hair, he follows you when you tug on his hand. Strolling beside you, he leads you to the bedchamber. This is a conversation that requires being horizontal, he can tell already.
"You're not coming down with something, Tiernan," he notes, with an exhale the oil lamps dim as if his very breath blew some of the flames out. That is not, of course, the case; each lamp burns still. "You are just not into women, at least not that situation. So... yes... another topic." He leans in toward you, kissing your cheek. "Do you want to hear of my meetings so far?" He asks first. Perhaps this whole 'wife' business is bothering you. If so, he will not mention them further.
At the bed, he holds you still, turning to face you. Iowerth's gaze is still intense (his need announces itself there first), but there is a loving look, emotional. Unlike other occasions where he unclothes you and throws you onto his bed, he begins removing his own clothes. The heavy midnight velvet falls to his elbows with a shrug. He slowly removes it and lays it carefully at the foot of the bed.
"I ... know... that I am a hard thing to love," Iowerth says softly, his hands unfastening the midnight leathers, more tattoos revealed with every garment undone and removed. "I know... it is not easy. I am demanding. Our situation is demanding. I am gone sometimes. If I do not say it enough, then I am a first rate cad. I love you, and you are so important to me... you ... you are my compass, Tiernan. I know I am going the right way only when I look in your eyes."
"I am fine," Tiernan protests, voice nonetheless quiet. Soft. As if you and he might be overheard. As if he is tired, still. He allows himself to be led without protest or complaint, allows himself to be held. Careful fingers familiar with intricate work (one of his likenesses to your other male lover) touch to your face here and there. "I think I am just ... tired, Io."
It is a tiredness within as much as without. You undress yourself, and automatically, he begins to loosen his own clothes. It is done without thinking; with no conscious decision needing to be made. And he looks to you, and you receive a small smile.
"I love you," Tiernan says softly, looking to your eyes. "I don't count the cost, Io. I don't think, is this a hard thing or an easy thing. I met you, and I fell in love. And I've let that lead me ever since." His clothes fall away, and with a sigh, he sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back without self-consciousness to look at you. "I feel terrible whenever there is something I cannot do for you. You are my prince as well as my love, as well as my lover; if I cannot serve you aptly, then of what good am I, Io? Of what good is all this sacrifice and all this strife that I have brought to your life."
A hand plays along the bedclothes, thumb rubbing over fine stitches, and he exhales loudly. "...Sometimes I think you would have been better off. Happier. If I hadn't walked into your library, into your life," he admits. "You say that I am your compass, but if that's so, then we're doomed to go in circles. I'm following you, Io. In a dance, someone's got to lead."
"A prince's life is never easy," he says. His hand goes to your hair as you sit. He draws you to him and kisses you gently. "My life is better for you being here. I am better for you being with me. You ... bring out all that is best in my character. What a wretch I might be, were it not for your presence in my life. I am bad enough as it is," he drolls, "...even with your gentling touch. And you may think your steps are lost, prince, but you are the touchstone to my heart. I know where I stand with you, I know you will be truthful with me in all things. I will look to you for the rest of my life, for you to show my heart the direction it should go."
You do not ask of his meetings, and so he does not tell you, will not tell you unless you ask.
Iowerth releases you, his hands removing the leather now more freely. The comet (you have seen it, and have experienced first-hand the price and the pleasure it exacts) shimmers, the star taking on a twinkling glow in the chamber's low light. "I promise to lead in the dancing, however. I'm not sure I know how to follow," he quips. Winking at you, he motions for you to lie down, to get between the sheets as he plops down and removes the rest of the leathers and the boots beneath.
His arousal was stirred, and may be stirred again, but for now the lowering of the leathers simply reveals the beauty beneath, the picture show of his tattoos old and new. Blood flushes partways, as if his body is trying to decide whether to suffer the slings and arrows of what erection will mean, or to take refuge and rest to love another night.
"I don't want you to wish yourself out of my life, Tiernan," Iowerth says, finally moving beneath the covers, sliding there against silk and linen to join you. His arms wrap around you and he holds you gently. "You serve me very well," he murmurs against your ear. "I want you to continue to serve me. None shall serve me half as well as you." He cannot help it. His mouth parts at the skin of your shoulder, kissing, tasting you. Spooning is always so dangerous, but how is he ever to learn restraint if he is not tested? "You are so sweet, so good," Iowerth whispers at your ear. "My treasure. My beautiful Tiernan."
"I love you. That is all that I need to know." Tiernan smiles wryly at you, his hands lifting to touch your skin as you join him upon the bed. "I have never run from you. I am content - perhaps too easily made content. My present state ... it is no fault of yours, Io. Really," he whispers it, sliding to wrap your arms around him, "don't worry too much about me."
He has never been quite the same since his mother's death, it's true. He is not off of what he used to be - but there is a flagging, a quietude, since then. More silences where there used to be laughter. More work where there used to be play. He is seeking - but does not himself know what.
"I do not need to be greedy," Tiernan tells you softly. He stretches a little, then leans back against you. "I want you always, Io. But I am content with what I may have. I am worried that you will harm yourself in trying to keep a balance, though. You have many claims upon your time, and more claims coming; upon time, upon heart, upon energy." His hands rummage between his thighs, reaching down to touch to your own, then withdraw. "You are strong, my prince, but not invulnerable..."
"Yes, I know," he murmurs at your ear. Closing his eyes at your touch, his arms tighten around you. A hug. An unspoken understanding. "My vulnerability is my heart, as it is with every man. But you have your space in it, Tiernan, a chamber just for you." Iowerth kisses you there, just beneath your ear and then upon the edge of your ear. "I need you with me, my chamberlain, wise chamberlain, to help me keep my balance. You... always know when I am stretched too far. You understand me... as few do."
And you fit so well against me...
The thought bubbles up before he can halt it. He sighs against your neck, tasting your skin but little else. No, I want to hold you. I just want to hold you. You can almost hear his thoughts, though they are not projected. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, your prince simply breathes. His arms warm and tight around you, he closes his eyes to still himself, that energy that has gripped him for the past weeks: since the arrival of the new mark. Blessed and cursed mark that it is.
He slips a strong thigh between your own, his hands moving in light circles against your stomach. "I love you, that is all I need to know. And you, oes?" he whispers after a moment. Iowerth kisses from your neck to your shoulder and back, light, haphazard endearments. "You are so beautiful. If only the world could know how lucky I count myself that this beautiful prince is in my bed and in my arms, in my heart."
His top most hand lifts, gently guiding your face toward him as he lifts, adjusting so that he might kiss you. "It has been a while since we have gotten to have relaxing pillow talk time." Nuzzling your lips with his own, he kisses you again then relaxes back. "I am usually so anxious to see you, fuck you," he chuckles, "... that the rest gets left behind. I forget we used to have quiet time like this. Just you and me."
Your touches are having an arousing effect on him, as you can well imagine. He smiles a little, his eyes closing to feel you, the warmth of you, the warmth of your embrace. "I miss you when we aren't together," Tiernan admits softly, unconscious of the words. "I wasn't really paying attention. I don't, you know - feelings are so overrated, aren't they?"
He rolls towards you, now, a hand going to your face as you kiss him, as he kisses you in turn. He tastes your mouth slowly, unhurriedly, with a luxury enjoyed in simply being with you.
"I will be here for as long as you like," Tiernan murmurs, "but ... I do not want to overstay my welcome, Io. I do not want to become one of the strains upon your life. You have little time, you worry about me - and that worry will do more to convince me that this is where I should not be, you see?" His hands drift down against your chest, touching your dragons with gentle familiarity, touching the star cautiously. It is new. It may bite. "My heart is my own to dispose of where I see fit, love. I won't stay past its time. Even leaves eventually fall from the trees..."
The touches are arousing, but your words still him. He does not want to think about his life without you. He kisses you lightly, then exhales. So long as you speak of leaving him, he cannot rouse even his body to action. "Are you saying you... want out of our relationship? Our arrangement?" With another breath freed, loudly, Iowerth rolls over to lie on his back. "It is like you are ...preparing me for your not being here. If something is inevitable, I should rather face it than to convince myself it will never happen."
All thoughts of arousal are gone now. His body does not lie. Foot to the surface of the bed, knee lifted and bent, Iowerth rocks his leg slowly back and forth in his thoughts. Things have not been the same. Am I forcing it to be? Did it end when your mother died? How ironic.
Iowerth sits up suddenly and he reaches for the bottle left on the nightstand. Uncorking it, he pours brandy into the goblet left last night. He pours the glass full. He could use a pipe, too. The crutches of a prince...
"No." Tiernan says it simply. "I am not leaving you. Not as your assistant, not as your lover." You free yourself from him, and he does not struggle to hold you; he lets you go, and sits himself up on the bed, a hand placed there to brace himself. "The future ... I can't predict the future, Io. But somewhere along the way, I lost all confidence in myself. And that isn't a good thing for you. You can't take the time to constantly reassure me like some weak and simpering woman. And for your seneschal, you need someone capable of making decisions and following through on them. If I can't do that, then tying yourself to me will only harm yourself, harm your future. You would be compelled to act, then, no matter what your feelings. Regret might be in the picture, then, but ... I prefer to be realistic."
He turns away, seated on the edge of the bed opposite you. "I have not made anything or anyone new since ... the news came," he says softly. "Leon has little to say to me; he does not prefer my company anymore. What little I had achieved, accomplished, it is gone, Io. It may be temporary. I don't know. But ... I am not doing well. I am going through the motions, that is all."
Now he stands, moving to the other side of the room, letting his arms hang limply at his sides. "Leaving you? No, Io. That would mean I am doing something, wouldn't it? Tell me, what was the last thing I achieved? I don't care if what I do is in your shadow or not, if it is a part of your rule or not; but I need to be doing something other than marking time or there is no point to my existence. I am more than just your lover, just as you are more than just mine. And if the only thing I am actively doing is making love to you... then we'll both grow bored with me faster than not. Can you really look at me and tell me that you like me like this? That you aren't just holding the image of who and what I was when we first met over what I am becoming?"
"You have been under tremendous strain," Iowerth notes. "I'm not blind. I know you are... tired, listless, upset. I have given you ... all I can think of to give you, Tiernan. My heart, a job, a title, a promise of wealth and opportunities. I have led you to the water, but it is you who must drink it, prince. I can only show you what there is I have to offer, to offer it freely. But you have to be the one to take it up. For what you have done? You helped with the plans for the kingdom... you have started looking at the contracts. I know you have not yet taken them on completely..."
Settling back against the pillows with his goblet of brandy, the prince looks down to the spectacle of his naked body, the stories etched there, and to the liquid in his goblet. "You are different. That is to be expected after... all that has happened. I just don't know how to help you anymore than I have already. I don't know what more I can do. It is up to you now."
Periwinkle eyes lift to you. He looks at you, he studies you. "What is it that you want? Do you want time to sort yourself out? Time... on your own? My offering you job after job doesn't seem to do the trick. If it's not something you want to do, then...yes...what's the point?" The corners of his mouth turn downward and he takes a large swallow of brandy. The burn is ignored as he looks back to you.
"I do love you... but you are right... I can't hold you up and balance the rest of the kingdom. As much as I would like to. My energy is pulled in a thousand different directions right now. I can't imagine that will decrease over time. You are right to ... be a realist. Again, you show your trustworthiness, even though... we would both prefer not to look at it."
He nods to his own thoughts and then he looks to you. "I think you need to do some soul searching. You need to figure out who you are. What you want. Only you can answer those questions, Tiernan. I think... you should be free to seek yourself. You will not be happy, and we will have no chance to be, unless you do."
"I don't expect you to do more than what you have," Tiernan says quietly. "I just know that right now, I am useless to you, and that which is useless is worse than useless, because it will pull you down."
He sighs, exhaling greatly, then moves to the bed; he spreads himself upon it, on his back, his eyes closed and an arm draped against them. "I love you, Io. Never doubt that. But ... yes, I guess I need to - go somewhere. Be a hermit somewhere other than in your ship, until I get myself together."
It was different, once. I had things to fight against - things to do. Double and even treble lives, and I understood things. I could be myself. Now? Now I am finding myself to be useless to everyone and everything I once held so dear...
"I'll go pack," he says quietly, pulling his arm away from his eyes. "But I will miss you."
He doesn't say anything. He finishes his brandy and sets the goblet aside. He listens. And he does more than listen -- he goes quiet. "I will miss you too," he says finally. "Tonight... I think I will head to the palace. You can... pack... do what you need to do." And that way I won't have to say goodbye to you. That, I cannot bear. "Without me being in the way. Or worse still... trying to stop you doing what you need to do."
Rising from the bed, Iowerth heads to his master closet. When he emerges a moment later, he is clothed again. He is clothed simply, in midnight leather (another, less fitted pair) and a short-sleeved pullover, also dark blue. "Take whatever you might need. Whatever is mine, is yours. I want you to be safe, Tiernan... to be well. And... when you feel up to it, if you feel up to it... I want you to write me."
Iowerth looks at you a moment and then he turns to go. Nothing else is said. What more remains to be said? He loves you, you love him, you are leaving. And he needs some air. He heads up the stairs to the deck and then out. Upon the deck he does not halt, nor even stand.
A starling wings against the night air, heading from the tall and sleeping ship to the coastline and its darkened caves.
Posted by rowan at August 11, 2006 05:29 PM
