Home again, but absolutely no bloody jigging. Gwilym remanifests from the Between places, from the pocketed nodules of shadow which border upon even dreams. Duw, I don't remember the last time I was this tired.
     He remanifests in his armor, which shows the dents and scratches of battle. It was not a battle with a conventional foe, perhaps, but the beasts of shadow will feed upon whatever convenient prey they may find, given half a chance. He had to do his part to convince them that he was neither prey nor convenient.
     He wanders from the gaming room, with its piles of coins and abandoned foodstuffs, down the corridor to the Holly King's bedroom. He is limping, not with injury but with exhaustion, shambling as he leaves a trail of armor behind him. He removes his sword and dagger with limp, nearly numb and lifeless fingers, hands coming up to mop at his face with a quiet groan. I could not do this for another night, Gwilym sighs it to himself. He closes his eyes and slumps against a wall. Duw... I don't even know if I need sleep or food or a bath...

     You cannot spend yourself into nothing...
     The voice sounds in the secret chambers of your ear canals. You will have food and bath and sleep. I am not above insurrection, if I must.
     In the large bath -- the bath more a series of heated pools and a stone shower next to the Holly King's bedchamber -- servants are already stirring. The soft and unhurried steps of a priest barely whisper there, as quiet as his commands to his own beauteous attendants. On your knees...
     Energy is already stirring through the Center of All Things. It strums on the air, bidding sighs like the music from strings. It is in this strumming echo that Aeron walks, emerging soundlessly from shadows and into the hallway. "Your bath is being prepared, and there are more delights in your chamber, Brother King, than in the many worlds combined." Bending slightly, Aeron offers his shoulder. Lean, he commands.
     His normally bland expression, typically interrupted by only the slightest emotional ripples, shows his evident concern. "You will be sure to inform me," he drolls in lofty tones, "...when your sacrifice begins to bear fruit..."

     He laughs, because it is better to laugh than it is to despair. You will be the death of me, Aeron. Gwilym smiles, and despite being still in his silks, he moves to you, close as you are. Where would I be without you...
     His hand comes up to your cheek, stroking against it, his other hand lifting yours to kiss your palm with parted lips before he then - and it is with an air of tolerating something unneeded - leans against you. But his lean is heavy and uninterrupted, and his eyelids close as heavily as if they might not part.
     "It will take time," Gwilym mutters from his lean. He is in no hurry to walk. He is comfortable where he is. "He is still learning. We are progressing, Aeron, but ... it does take time, oes." He sighs. "Did you really need to get everyone in a ruckus just because I'm home?"

     The narcotic of erotic energy begins to permeate the stone and air, easing its way into the Holly King's chamber and even down the hall, where the King and raven walk. "If it will take Time, Brother King, then you will need to pace yourself." The tone off his voice is as dark and as silken as Gwilym's vestments. He would carry his lover-brother-king to his bed, but for the issue of Royal Dignity.
     There are voices, singing, sighing from the bath. It is the opening hymns of Romero's high holies...
     The chamber is full of delights -- of the masticating, not masturbating kind. The foods are chosen specifically for the health and energy of the king. There are figs and dates, honey and hazelnuts, there is salmon and venison. The breads are oat and barley, infused with honey, and the drinks are plentiful: mead and spiced wine.
     Aeron guides you to the bed, letting you sit or lie there to your own pleasure. A plate with a selection of everything appears at your side, and a full cup of spiced wine appears upon the night table. He does not glance toward the sounds of the priest's concubines moaning or the water splashing from the bath. You are not yet ready for the bath. First... there will be food. Aeron shrugs off the shadows that clothe his upper body. His tattoos are all that cover him now, covering completely the left side of his body from his neck to his wrists, down his torso, disappearing in the dark trousers.
     No, my Brother-King, not the death of you. Only the Life. I am the drink that makes you whole. But... start with the wine.

     He sinks onto the bed when you are no longer supporting him, and the weight of his body is heavy. The bed is itself a siren; it lulls him, dragging him down to make of heavy flesh an even weightier matter, so that he can barely keep his eyes open. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, he is drowning, seen as if beneath a sheeting layer of water, a river running through the worlds.
     He sighs gustily, opening his eyes wearily as he reaches limply for a strip of venison, bringing it to his lips with bare fingers. "Oes, oes, I will pace myself, Aeron. Don't be an old woman." Gwilym grins at you, despite his energy being at so low an ebb. It is a pale imitation of his usual energy, and he falls silent, almost broodingly so, as he puts the strip of meat between his lips and begins to chew.
     I am the hunter and I am the hunt. I am the White Stag that falls that others may live, Aeron. I give because I give. It is who and what I am as much as anything else. You who see through so many of my Mysteries, to know who I really am, don't you know this already? I am...
     You are undressing, and it gets a brief look, less of lustful interest than a spark of semisweet recognition. The meat is done; he takes up wine in both hands. Are you going to do a little dance and turn yourself around?

     There is a look. The look consists of an entirely blank slate of a face, terrible in its sudden blank beauty and the uplifting of a single eyebrow. And nothing is said, not even intimated beyond that look. He watches you eat a moment, before a cup materializes in his own hand. The fortifying wine of the fig.
     ... And figs are tasted and enjoyed in the other room as well... a young man's orgasmic cry is muffled by the pillow of a woman's parted thighs. The voices now are three...
     Yes, I know. You are the Price and the Sacrifice. You empty yourself, your blood on the land. The blood of the holly berry, the white of semen mistletoe. Do you not trust my understanding? Do you not understand my concern? It is my job, as the raven on your antlers, to warn you of frost and wolves, my king. I am doing my duty.
     His duty, and his love. He seldom speaks of love or emotion. There are none in this world or any other who would believe it. But it is in the minutia of his every motion. What is prepared, and how. What is started, and when.
     Aeron inclines his head, his look one of tolerant amusement. "I do not dance." No, not in the traditional sense. He looks up, his eyes drifting in the direction of the bath. Things are quieting. Quieting but not ending. Partners are found, exchanged. And multiple mouths bring the priest once more to his altar. All of this can be heard, can be felt. Felt well enough to be seen, having seen it enough.
     The bed feels the added weight as Aeron joins you. A benediction is given to your stomach, his arms winding around your hips. I give because I give because you need it. It is who and what I am as much as anything. Don't you know this already?

     You are the only one who sees through me, and sees me in my entirety. One hand lifts from the cup to ruck against the bedclothes, eyes hooded as he slouches back and takes a drink from his cup, his other hand falling to your head. You are the one who sees me in my weakness, and knows when to take advantage of it and when to leave it where it falls.
     Gwilym closes his eyes to narrowed slits, the energy in the other room driving a flush through his skin, though he still does not lift from the bed, still does not stir. The emerald eyes close, one visible and one invisible, one to see through the world of the living and one through the world of the dead; he runs his fingers through your hair with idleness and lack of intent. You are my heart's hope, Aeron. Do you not know this already?
     The energy is being raised, and whether or not he wishes to, it has its effect on him as well. He groans, drinking deep from the cup again before he sets it aside, and he rubs his hands over his face again. "You will not allow me rest until I have risen,"Gwilym mutters. It is a statement of fact, not merely an accusation, and he resigns himself to it. This, too, is part of the Holly King's Processional. His fingers draw through your hair, then grasp, tugging, commanding you to lift to his lips for a kiss.
     My brother, my raven, my lover. My three-in-one, who gives me what I need before I can have what I want. Tell me what I need. I want to hear it from your lips...

     For one as solid as he, as broad as he, when your fingers lightly tug, he is easily moved. Though he covers you, his weight is distributed so that the bed feels it more than you. And though you pull him to a kiss, he stops just short, just short, the kiss not yet given. His black eyes, rimmed with a corona of emerald, fix upon your own. "Faith," he answers quietly, a hush between. "What you need tonight is faith. And so... I will give it to you."
     The skepticism. The doubt. The hostility and recrimination. Aeron lays them down before your feet in a silent sacrifice. What will fortify you now is for your work not to be in vain. The energy you require is my own sacrifice. My own surrender. And so I give it.
     The aura of emerald around his eyes wavers like a green star in eclipse. And then you have his kiss, his weight, the earth of his body, a solid thing no matter how ethereal.

     And, despite himself, despite even the exhaustion that is his present burden, he is moved; his features soften, and he says nothing at all. You give and he takes, and his lips part even as he sends himself back against the pillows, his arms engulfing you to pull you with him.
     To anything else, I could answer, my raven, the Holly King murmurs where only you will hear. That I cannot answer. Even now, I cannot speak...
     He closes his eyes, and opens his heart. He is tired, but there is gratitude there. You have my love, brawd. And more. Gwilym sighs, soundless as thighs spread beneath weight, as his arms wrap around you the more closely, holding you to his chest. You have my trust.

Posted by rowan at April 18, 2009 01:08 AM