She has just begun classes at the academy. Too, she is still sorting out her notes for her master's thesis; making the changes requested of her while patting into shape the great lump of clay which is her doctoral thesis. She wants to have it ready to go by the time her master's is done, so that she can then spend the next year on wedding plans while occasionally massaging the thesis (and her advisors' egos) with a deft hand.
This of course, is on top of her social calendar and the various tutoring she's receiving in matters historical, epicuniary and courtly; no wonder at the moment she's in the shower scrubbing herself. Oh, wait, no. That's because of this morning's workout. Gillian climbs out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around herself as she goes to pull on a pair of dove grey slacks and a tailored white blouse. Her strawberry-blonde curls, still damp and more than damp, are tied back and up with a length of soft cloth, and she grabs her glasses and shoves them into place heedlessly. "Let's see." She turns for the mirror. "Makeup or no makeup? A touch of lipstick, I think." She bends in towards her reflection. "Mwah. There. Perfect."
And she turns to scoop up her low-heeled sandals, pondering today's jewelry, now that she might finally be venturing forth to be seen by someone who isn't directly working for her. "Hmmhmm, walkin' on sun-shiiiine..."
There is a knock at the door which causes a halt to the morning's cleaning. Breakfast has been removed, Gavin is off running the business of the Princess in quarters she is unable to attend just now because of her busy schedule, and in the office the secretary is responding to correspondence. Yes, she wills; Regrettably, she may nots; and Although she would like tos are each answered with a professional demeanor and hand. It is Mahasti that answers the door. "Salam," she says with a bow. "Shoma chetur hastin?" she may be overheard to ask.
"Man khoobam," but that voice -- that voice you know. It has the warmth of tremendous affection, of ease. It is honey smooth, with a poetic lilt. "Va shoma?" You do not need Mahasti to appear to you to tell you who has arrived, though she does. "My Lady, King Balthazar is here to see you..."
He remains in the living room of your chambers, standing and waiting as any suitor should. He is dressed in jeans and hardy shoes, with a fitted white t-shirt, made of silk and cotton. It falls slack at his waist and stomach, the fabric partially tucked behind his belt buckle, a golden sun. His amber-golden hair and its thick layers and half waves, curls this way and that, and his summer-sun eyes beam down upon the evidence of his morning delivery -- the flowers that stand on your tables and your balcony. Balthazar bends near a selection of golden irises near the grand windows, and he smiles as he breathes in the subtle scent.
She turns at the sound of your voice, and there is already pink in her cheeks and a slight electrifying of her manner. "Thank you, Mahasti," Gillian answers, although she is already looking past her, to find you. There's a certain - eagerness, which she can't hide, doesn't want to.
She grabs her jacket; it's a cute little matador jacket, gold with black trim, and doesn't even come down to her waist. "Hi," Gillian offers, with a little grin. She's looking at you, and she's suddenly blushing again. "Whatcha up to?"
"Taking you away with me," he answers you with a smile as he straightens. There is electricity and humidity. There are no distances. Whatever air exists between you becomes bounteously filled. Balthazar bends, kissing you as politely as he is able -- since Mahasti is watching. "You look beautiful as ever," he whispers at her ear. "I like this. Sort of like a summer cloud. So," Balthazar murmurs as he straightens again, his arms coming around you, "...do you feel up to a bit of adventure? There's something I'd like you to see..."
Mahasti doesn't veto it. Nor does she ask to accompany you. The Most Dutiful Aunt withdraws to make herself some tea. So frequently that happens when the Sun King is visiting.
His mouth spreads warmly, smoothly as his aunt gives them their space. Balthazar kisses your touch of lipstick with that smile, holding it there for a moment of pure enjoyment. "Just you and I," he says to you, straightening again. And his arms slip around you. "What do you say to that?"
She blushes again, but she doesn't pull away, and her arms slip around you, too. "Oh, really? I should check my schedule," Gillian murmurs, voice a little bit breathy despite the politeness of the kiss. "But I suppose we can put a little adventure in there, as long as I'm with you."
She doesn't want to pull away. So she doesn't, leaning in against you for a moment and closing her eyes, enjoying the warmth and the frisson of electricity the contact garners. "...Will there be something to drink when we get there? Or is this a dry sort of adventure?" Gillian opens her eyes to peek up at you. "I missed you, you know that? Even though we see each other just about every day."
He radiates warmth that is more than personality. It surrounds you as you enter the orbit of his arms and rest against the solidity of his chest. Balthazar grins. "I think a little lunch and something to drink can be arranged. Mahasti..." he says to the room at-large.
"Yes, Esteemed Nephew?"
"Please book a two-hour lunch block, if there is not one already. So long as she's not missing an education appointment," he grins to you as he commands gently to her, "I am going to commandeer the middle of my heart's day. We will be back before late afternoon..."
There is a moment of quiet as Mahasti withdraws to speak with the secretary. When she does, the kiss he bestows is not as polite. His lips upon your lips sip, suckling as if on an orange or peach. "I missed you too," he murmurs. Balthazar smiles, the kiss parted just in time.
"The changes have been made, Your Majesty..."
"Thank you," Balthazar says, his eyes lifting momentarily to look at his aunt. But those golden eyes have only one true home for their adoration. They must always go to where the orbit of his heart pulls him: to your face. And though he promises adventure, he remains standing right where he is, his strong arms around you, holding you to him. It is his wings that make the first motion, unfurling grandly, gilded. Each one is embossed by symbols of the sun and each one is edged with fragrant fire. His brother may be the Peacock, promising Opulence of Dreams, but he is the Phoenix of Hope and Desire, always renewing itself.
"Hold on," he murmurs to you, his arms and hands securing you against him.
She is blushing, and when you kiss her again, she finds herself leaning up against you heavily. Her legs are a bit weak all of a sudden. She must've worked out too much. Quickly, she straightens, hoping it's in time, blushing so visibly. "Thank you, Mahasti," Gillian murmurs, remembering her manners. "I, uh, I'll be back later."
And then you tell her to hold on, and her eyes widen, and she gives a fleeting maidenly glance to the chaperone in the room before following your example. When did he start robbing me of the ability to think? With a little sigh, Gillian leans in again, snuggling in against your shirt. "Okay, Superman," she whispers to you. "You're cleared for takeoff."
His uncle, the Holly King, can splice the air and slip away on Shadows, along the power that exists between things, behind masks and motivations. He doesn't have that power. But he -- and just now, by extension, you -- can follow each ray of light to wheresoever it might land.
The arching of his wings, the lifting from the floor of your chamber, opens a singularity of brightness within your chamber. As soon as it appears, it fades and with it, you and your lover disappear from his father's palace.
As soon as that brilliance fades, you are mid-air and in his arms, hovering over the southern oceans. Below you, and nearing in his steady approach for landing, are seven islands in a semi-circle, with small outcroppings of reef that form something of a sun's ray pattern. Four of the islands have white sand beaches. Another has black quartz, another blue basalt, and another with pink quartz sand.
The largest island boasts both white sand beaches as well as a heart-shaped curved cape (the Cape of Hope) that extends from it. It looks like New England has been recreated on that cape, with a rocky coastline and beach pine that transitions to date palms and almond trees further inland.
As you near the rocky cape, the rocks that from a distance seemed quite ordinary, just like any that might be found off the northeast American coast, reveal themselves to be of agate and geodes that capture the imagination as much as the sun.
And in the distance, on the highest point of the largest island, you catch sight of a grand basilica, as grand as St. Mark's of Venice. It is an enormous cathedral palazzo, constructed in the greeting kiss of East meeting West.
Scooping you up in his arms, Balthazar touches down for the landing, the agate and geode quartz sand shifting beneath his feet. He tucks his wings in place for a moment, setting you gently upon your own feet. He takes a quick survey, his arms sliding slowly, making sure you have your bearings before they draw away. "Welcome to our future home," he grins.
She clings to you, leans into you, and for the moment, allows herself the luxury of enjoying it; of inhaling your scent, of the feeling of your muscles (separated by the layers of your t-shirt and her blouse and her underwear) against her breasts. She shifts her weight a little; not squirming, but generating another frisson of pleasurable electricity, and quietly she sighs, turning to kiss your ear.
When she looks back, there is plenty to see; her eyes go round with it, and she hugs you all the tighter. It's almost disappointing when you pull back, or it would be, if she didn't have so much to look at and to consider. "Okay, so how exactly did you do this?" Gillian demands to know. "Because you know, I know there hasn't been enough time to build all this. Or was it here already?" Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sparkling, and her glasses have slid down a ridiculous extent. She pushes them up quickly, then grabs you by a belt loop and tugs herself closer to you. "C'mere, you."
Orange and honey and cinnamon lift from his skin in your clinging hold, in your sigh, in your kiss. Explanations are on his tongue, in his golden gaze, and stretching pleasurably upon the spreading of a smile, but the tugging of his belt loop, and your come hither, halts it. Between you is the sunburst and sizzle of a summer storm. This time, clouds do not form overhead. But there is the tickling of a sudden breeze, solar energies shifting in his kiss.
Balthazar lifts you off the sand, your legs left to cinch around his waist. He smiles. "It all started in the kiss. Every stone, every grain of sand, every feature from the beach to the palazzo was created out of my desire for you. I redirected all of that energy," his mouth slants, "...rechanneled it, to create this. I have to do something with all of my pent up desire," he chuckles. "And," he murmurs more seriously, kissing you, "I listened to your wishes and I incorporated as much of them as I could. You will know," his mouth parts yours again as he walks with you, holding you, toward a beach path, "...you will always know how much I love you and want you every time you look around..."
...The palace sits high upon a plateau above the sea wall, marble stairs curving downward, leading toward the quartz beach. Steps of marble become steps of wood, just as you mentioned. "There are steps that go from the palace to the beach," he says, even as he begins to crest them. "Did I get the trees right? I've never been to the beach in New England." Balthazar looks to you, his golden eyes glancing to the steps as he climbs the slow and winding rise. "I might need to amend them a bit after our trip. Do you mind me carrying you all the way up there?" he grins suddenly. For however much he adores holding you -- and you are so light!... and so soft...and so warm -- he does know you are an independent, American woman. After all.
She rubs her cheek against your shoulder, kissing you in return. "You got it right," Gillian answers you, without even looking at the trees. She is busy looking at you instead, and she's never seen a tree which compares. Well - maybe the occasional California redwood. "I love you, too..."
You ask about carrying her, and she grins at you. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't." Hold the presses. Gillian Ariadne West is flirting. Her eyes are dancing, and she grabs off her glasses, stuffing them into her jacket pocket. "You should be the one wearing the glasses, you know, Superman."
He looks at you as he carries you, his wings unfurling again. "I will be adding to it tonight, I'm sure," he murmurs. "It's what I do, when I think of you." Super or not -- to that he cannot say. His complexion deepens a little in the praise. Quietly, he marvels in it, basks in it really -- praise from Gillian Ariadne West. "Hold on," he murmurs again.
But he is holding onto you quite securely. You holding him is more for his benefit than yours. With a flap of his great phoenix wings he lifts from the path, taking the shortcut that air provides up over the beach pine and cedar, and over the forests and orchards of almond, date palm and orange trees. Your palace comes closer into view. Steps from the beach lead into garden and orchard terraces (like Powis only larger) with fountains and controlled waterfalls. Heavy, pendulous red fruit and orange propagate within exterior and interior gardens and grottos. Grand arched windows, alternating between the high peaks of Gothic architecture and that of Alhambra and Morocco bejewel the white stone, giving ever station of the sun its due. At the highest point, the glass is stained, painting the white stone in vivid tones with every reflection. It is toward the stained glass that he leads you in gentle flight.
Like his father's palace, there is rooftop access for the King and Queen to be. Here it is a grotto of exotic flowers and fruit trees, fountains and shady palms. Balthazar lands gently, setting you down again. "I thought we could have lunch in our future room," he murmurs. "It's not furnished. You have to have some fun and part in all this. But I think I can whip up a couple of cushions for lunch anyway."
His arms slide to your waist, clasping at your hips before lifting to cradle your face. Balthazar's mouth is warm, honied as it kisses you, spreading you. "And," he breathes there, his eyes closing as his mouth drifts to your ear and neck, "...I want you to name it..."
She snuggles in against you, holding on as you direct, and she rests her cheek again upon your shoulder. "It's beautiful," she sighs, smiling at you and then grinning and kissing your cheek. "You're so thoughtful. You really do think of me a lot, don't you?" To know that she would enjoy wrestling over prices and household goods.
Her fingers move through your hair, and she kisses you when you kiss her, and there is the spark of magic as well as solar heat and electricity in her eyes, in her kiss. How could I have been blind like that? But here we are now, and I guess...
I guess that's what matters...
She never feels more feminine than when she is with you...
You and she part, but only just enough for speech, and she shivers with anticipation and arousal. "Oh," Gillian whispers; it's not a moan, but it could pass for one in certain places. "A name? I'll try." But she kisses you, and she licks her lips after, and she smiles. "The Vineyard of Zion's Rejoicing," she suggests, her fingers moving through your hair again. "The Shulamite's Rest."
"The Shulamite's Rest," he breathes at your neck. "I like that. And the ... Vineyard of Zion's Rejoicing. I think you should name every garden." His breath catches and upon his own exhale is a sweet sound in response. Lightning dances across his skin, little static strikes, as your fingers move through his hair. Flames slide and spark against the tresses as his mouth sweetly, hotly covers your own.
Lightning strike and fires ignite, but only on your skin and his, in mouths combining, in hearts lifting and in the flush and rush of blood. It is a kiss that tests his resolve. But he ends it with a sweet suckle upon your lips and a Champion's smile, his golden eyes shimmering with flame. "I will be building again tonight," he speaks quietly between you. "Thinking of that and you. Come inside," he says with a sudden, warm smile, "...and tell me what is missing."
The entire top floor of the palazzo will be yours and his. You step from the rooftop through a stained glass window doorway and into a bright white space. Tall windows, floor to ceiling, alternating between Eastern and Western styles stretch wherever possible. "This is the living room, I am thinking," he says, his hand in yours. He draws you close to him, so that you walk joined to the hips. Balthazar bends, looking from you to the space to the east, through grand archways. "To the east, empty apartments. Libraries, nurseries. To the west," he looks to other way, to the other grand archway. "That is our bedroom and our bath. A private music salon and a private library for all of your favorite books. The bath is on the corner, so we have a lot of windows to look out as we are soaking. And we have a pool there too. The bath is bigger than the bedroom, actually."
Balthazar walks slowly with you toward that room. "I thought, better to have our bedroom on the western wall, so ... we can watch the sunset together." Bending, he places a kiss upon your red-gold hair. "And there are private, grand balconies, a colonnade that goes all the way around, with hanging gardens. We can sit out there, and you can read your favorite books to me, and I can sing to you," he grins.
She sighs, wanting nothing more than to go on kissing you; but she knows that this way danger lies, no less than do you. "Oh, pretty," Gillian murmurs, looking around, smile growing wider again. "It's gorgeous, you know that?" She slides her arms around your waist as she walks with you. "It's fantastic. I don't know how you do these things."
Her hand lifts to ruffle your hair again, playfully, and then she forces herself to pull away a bit, folding her arms over her breasts. She is a bit flushed, blushing. "Maybe we should eat soon."
His hair reacts to the static as he bends. "I'm glad you like it." And in what shall be the center of your bedroom, there appear two large floor cushions, a blanket, and a spread of Mediterranean delights and tea. Balthazar exhales, drawing you in for an enveloping hug.
He cradles your face in his hands again, his thumbs brushing at your cheeks. Golden eyes look from your eyes to your lips, lifting and lowering before he enters into another kiss. How can one ever be strong or brave if one is not tempted by danger? Such danger. "I love you," he breathes at your mouth, his lips, the warmth of his mouth teasing at your own. "So much."
And he wants you to know how much you move him. You move him to make palazzi and islands, grand structures down to the smallest, most intricate fountain. All from the desire that crackles from his skin to your skin, that pops upon the air between you. His t-shirt clings to his form from the static as he parts from you, the kiss parted, and then the hugs, the last crackle snapping loudly as his hand sets yours free. Balthazar smiles, "There's salad and diet coke as well as rosewater and dolmas and the little watercress sandwiches and vegetables with just a little vinaigrette." He's been paying attention. "And tea, of course."
He waits for you to sit before he does, his expression both heated and fond. You, Gillian Ariadne West, are desired and adored. "I wanted to show you so... you knew where I would be. Most of my days will be spent here for the next while, after the coronation. I'll be leaving my apartments and coming here. Question... about your beach party... how would you feel about ...having it on one of these islands? The weather here will likely be warmer than in the Capitol. I don't know if it would be too soon or if you'd want those you invited to see it so quickly but... it might be advantageous to have it in the next hot spot." He smiles, "...so to speak. And... things are still okay, yes? For a quick visit to Cape Cod... for a couple of three days after that?"
You draw her down, and she goes with you, sighing and snuggling into your embrace with eyes closed. "I love you, too. It scares me a little bit," Gillian whispers. She draws herself along you, and her breath catches in her throat; she sits up rather in a hurry, cheeks going pink. "I've never been in love before."
And that is simple and true; she has never let herself love like this, never let herself risk this much, to fall this deep. The vulnerability of it, and her own awareness of it, shows in her eyes, with no glasses between her and you. "I think I'd rather not have it at one of the islands," she says distractedly. She forces herself to focus, shaking her head to clear it. "If we have it there before we're officially engaged, it's just going to make the politics worse, and right now, I'd rather sail under my own flag, so to speak. It's just too soon in a lot of ways, and besides, the sooner you start letting people come here, the sooner we lose it as a spot we can be alone in together. And ... we might kinda want that."
She doesn't specify why; her blush specifies it for her. Gillian helps herself to one of the little sandwiches, even while she looks hungrily at the dolmas. One piece of food at a time, Gilly. "Yeah, sure, we're still okay for Cape Cod. I'm looking forward to it!"
"Very good points," the Sun King says easily and with a smile of admiration as much as affection. "I will ...definitely want to have one spot in either world where we can be alone together. It's nice, not having everyone around," he notes quietly, dolmas in hand. The olive-oil brushed grape leaf is stuffed with more olive oil and walnuts and couscous and rice. He finishes two before most people can blink.
Balthazar smiles to the dolmas and then to you. He says nothing to your blushing. He simply loves you (and enjoys it). "I've never loved anyone the way I love you," he admits. "Never as deeply or as completely. You ... make me want to make palaces and gardens, write music, be a king and a champion. To want more, to want to make more. To create, and to be the best man that I can be. All of it, or none of it, just to see you smile. I will take very good care of your heart, Gillian. I promise you that."
He leans over the food to kiss you again, tasting of olive oil and honey. "I have spoken with the Future King about Cape Cod," he smiles. "We will have Gavin and Parvati and whomever else you wish to come. But... we only need to bring Mahasti if you really want her to be there. The only rules... that apply there are ones you and I decide to follow. I can't wait," he says.
He looks to you with love everywhere in that look. It is hard not to tip the hand when one is holding so many cards. Balthazar smiles. "I will have my first real clam chowder with my cardigan girl."
She is blushing, and she smiles at you in return. "If I were honest, I'd say I want it to be just the two of us," Gillian retorts. "But ... no, Par and Gavin should be enough. We can have it be a sort of couples thing. I think they're dating now, did you know?" She giggles, helping herself to a dolmas.
She looks at you, and she rises onto her knees, and she leans in to kiss you, eyes closed so that she bumps your chin first and then finds her way to your lips. "It's hard," Gillian admits quietly. "Being patient. It's never been this hard before." And she isn't even making a double entendre. "But I think it'll be worth it, Balthazar. Because this is how much I love you - and as I value myself, I promise to value you just as much. And that's a promise I wouldn't make to just anyone."
"I love you..."
His mouth is full and warm. It nuzzles its way into your kiss and tangles. "It will be," Balthazar whispers. He opens his eyes, his mouth slanting. No, he makes no comment other than: "And it is an honor, a promise, that is worth keeping. We... are making this pledge together. It's not for you. It's...for us. It is hard," he smiles, "being patient." He chuckles -- he can't help it -- and his gold eyes widen with emphasis. "Trust me. So," his laughter warms into a smile, "...how many palaces do you think we need?"
Grinning, his mouth plucks at your own. And downstairs, in the courtyard, there are fountains that begin to trickle and spout with silver-clear water...
Posted by rowan at April 18, 2010 07:47 PM
