I have been wandering in strange places throughout my dreams. I have lain here in body and in spirit, I have traveled across far reaches. I have peered into the cracks of the mountain and seen through the darkness, the heavy weight of my cloak curling about my shoulders as I lean forward to do so. I have trod with warlike footsteps upon the sunset plain, my army hidden from sight in fog and shadows behind me. I have ridden the King's road on horseback, and I alone hear the silent hoof beats of the Hunt behind me.
     I have been wandering in strange dreams...
     He wakes with a start, alertness flooding into him suddenly where he has knelt all the night through in kingly vigil. Somewhere, the sun is rising, though its rays will never penetrate to this chamber. It has never known daylight, and shall not know it now. Gwilym's eyes open, then narrow as if against the blinding light which is in fact not in evidence; and slowly, he pushes himself up to his feet.
     You are there, still sprawled upon the altar table. For the moment, he ignores you, reaching through shadow for a bottle. He has in mind hair of the dog which bit him...
     ...and his hand passes through shadow harmlessly, without coming away with anything in hand. It is enough to make him pause. He stands there, naked and with his hair sticking up and looking a bit grumpy and perhaps paranoid, examining his hand for the bottle which he'd intended to swipe from Italy. It persists in not being present. Oh, now...!
     Gwilym grumbles at the patent unfairness of it all, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand, the other slack down at his thigh. He almost does not catch it when the bottle he wants so suddenly appears in it without his reaching for it, almost drops it. A muttered oath and he is striding for the hallway, to better light. And it begins to dawn on him.
     What the fuck did I agree to...

     And all without so much as a handshake...
     Unconsciousness transformed to sleep. A body taxed by sacrifice and sex collapsed as easily upon silk-covered stone as it would have upon pillows of down. Day. Night. There is no such separation here. There is waking and there is not-waking. In many ways, it is like Life and Death.
     There is stirring, the soft sound of a sigh released, a breath. No more. And the sleeping, angelic face of the light-haired Spaniard turns toward you in his sleep, his hazel-brown eyes softly shut. He has had dreams, stirring dreams. As he turns, sighing in his body's discomfiture, his excitement is revealed, persistent in the face of such adversity.
     How beautiful this priest, this sacrifice. He does not seem like a fallen angel. His face is unspoiled, his body -- though marked in scratches and even a couple of bruises -- a paragon of youth. He is only just twenty, and he looks it so suddenly -- the picture of Innocence.
     But looks are so deceiving...
     Romero de los Santos stirs again, his hips moving in his dream, his dream waking him -- or maybe it was the sound of you moving in the chamber -- and he opens his eyes. The soft cinnamon brown color, intermixed with a dash of green, is gently unfocused, still partially asleep though he is looking at you. His full mouth puckers with wicked realization as his body screams to him all its aches and pains, particularly at his thighs and rear.
     He dares not roll over.
     Turning to lie upon his stomach once more, Romero sighs, "...buenos dias," he whispers. Good morning in his language. "Mi Rey." My king. He must clean himself. That is the first thing on his mind. Slowly he begins to lift himself. His sweet face makes the sweetest of all winces as his legs move, and he must sit, first, in order to stand. "I must bathe," he murmurs. "Is there... somewhere...?" Here in your magic palace of shadows and mirrors.

     The wine is brought to his lips, drunk straight from the bottle before it falls and Gwilym sighs gustily. And you are awake. What am I going to do with you? "Oes," he answers without turning, "there are baths. One moment." He lifts the bottle and pours wine over his head, eyes screwed shut as it runs in red rivulets down through his hair and across his naked skin. The black diamond at the base of his spine has vanished; it is gone as if it never was. Instead, around each bicep the holly and the ivy wind their way against his pale skin.
     He turns to you, discarding the empty bottle to nothing and nowhere, beckoning to you with one open hand. "Come with me," the Holly King tells you, wine running like blood down through his hair and dripping from his mouth. "I will guide you and show you the way."

     It takes him a moment to stand, but standing is better than sitting. He moves stiffly, his normally graceful glide turned coltish by sore legs and sore gluteus. He is not astonished to see you bleed with wine -- it somehow suits you and suits the moment -- but it is a surprise all the same as you poor it over yourself. Waking eyes linger here and there, following the rivulets down, and though he is no virgin now, still he blushes as red as the wine to find himself staring.
     And he notices your arms...
     "You are painted," he whispers, his voice holding a reverence as he gives you his hand, lying it gently within your command. Now he is astonished -- the detail in the plants, the colors on your skin, are shockingly vivid. They are wondrous and he would stare even if you weren't completely naked. "Gracias," Romero murmurs again. For your guidance, for your allowance.
     His skin is electric as he touches you. It is as if he were charged, provided your frequency, grounded to all save you. He moves slowly, and he glances to you, his full lips making much of a slight smile. It slants more than any righteous smile should. "Every muscle aches, but the pain is a pleasure to me. It reminds me of the sacrifice and the sacrament."
     Romero moves as you move him, goes as you lead him. To touch you is to be in a ritual. He can all but smell the smoke.

     He was rampant upon waking, and flesh has been given no time to slacken. He pauses to let you touch him, but he is already detached from himself, wrapped in enigma and mystery, peering out as if from behind a mask with a faint and immaculate Byzantine smile.
     He does not wait for long; he turns, and he leads, knowing without knowing how he knows that you will follow. Perhaps if it were his brother or his lover who was here in your stead, he would react differently; but you have been placed in this role. You are the high priest to the Holly King, and where you worship, he assumes the position of godhead.
     You are led down a long and winding corridor with nothing to indicate to you where you are going. Up or down, east or west, north or south - all directions become meaningless when there is no sun or moon. You are within the earth, as much as if in the land of the dead; as Persephone, unrestored save by the king of that dark realm's wishes.
     And he leads you to a vast Roman bath, a sunken pool with colored mosaics beneath the pale blue waters. Recesses in the walls hold a multitude of candles, whose light shines against the darkness, rendering shadows where pitch black would otherwise hold sway. "Do you wish attendants," Gwilym wonders, "or would you wish privacy? Tell me your desire."
     Emerald eyes are upon you, at that, regarding you with that enigma. He is the king of the dark half of the year, and of the desires which come of that darkness.

     He assumes his role as easily as you assume yours. He falls in step behind you, but with a growing sense of presence, of place. He feels your own, and he swims in it, connected to it. He is as rampant as you, despite his odd walk, despite the soreness and stiffness of his limbs. Romeo del Santos breathes in time to the steps, unconsciously centering himself to better feel your own energy, your own power, much as a priest might meditate before speaking with the Almighty.
     "No servants just now," Romero whispers. "I should rather... pray to you in private, your majesty." Mysteries are what your eyes hold; mysteries are what feeds his own soul. He does not wither in the face of them, but rather celebrates them by not trying to unravel them all at once with unseemly and ungraceful hands or looks or words.
     "I want only to clean your altar, my body," his smile wanders, lascivious, as he meets your gaze. He flushes all the same, turning crimson from his cheeks to the risen, aroused flesh. "And to ...give praise." His words drift off into a pleasured sigh as he comes to the bath and its mosaics. The water promises comfort and cleanliness.
     His fingers slowly slide against your own, starting to unwind as he dips a toe into the water to test the temperature. It is neither hot nor cold - neither extreme. Satisfied, Romero turns to you, his free hand wandering over his own excitement. He has desires, acute desires that you have stirred. He is no shrinking violet, no. He has blossomed from your touch. "What shall my lesson be today, my king... else...how shall I please you?"

     He listens to you without speaking, observes you in your changeability, accepts you simply as you are. His presence fills the room and feels as if it could keep on going; as if the world could perhaps be insufficient. His hand lifts and your face is cupped, wordlessly as he regards you as if from a million miles away.
     "Clean yourself. This before all else; make yourself whole so that you know that you offer me the fullest that you may."
     It could be a commandment, given from on high to Moses for the wandering tribes, but there is no thunder, no anger, no judgment. Gwilym says it, and allows his hand to fall. "Do this first. The rest will follow in its time."
     Wine drips from him and it disappears, vanishing so that there is no trace of his passing. It goes on dripping, long after a single bottle of wine's contents should be gone, drying and becoming sticky on his skin. Instead, it seems to run onwards, until it begins to evaporate, leaving the air scented with ferment and cloves, and his skin glowing as if he had bathed, not in Italian grape juice, but in the purest of spring water.

Posted by rowan at November 16, 2007 02:19 PM