The ship is in motion, but who can count the circuits it has made in the bay in the hours that have come and gone? Who, indeed, could count the hours? Did it not seem like years? That with every wave of water crossed, a year was stripped away, until you and your king were boys again...
     He lies upon his stomach, his legs tangled with you and the sheets, and an arm across your body in royal ownership. He claimed that land, and that, and those bits too -- a royal conquest that covered your entire body though, in truth, his flags were planted there long ago.
     Burnished streaks in the bronze of his hair catches fire in the lamplight, nearly bright enough to cast their own reflection, those hairs. And his face is turned upon the pillow to face you, his eyes closed in relaxation and reflection.
     Oh where have I been these several years and more...
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig does not sleep, he does not dream -- he is listening to you, to the sound of the ship in motion, to heartbeats and hissing lamps. His arms shifts slightly, giving you a gentle -- and how you need that -- embrace, and the warmth of his mouth finds your shoulder.

     The ship is in motion; and all but you know that there is a purpose to its destination. The bay by now has been left behind; the open waters have found and embraced the ship, push it ever onwards. Your lover is limp; boneless, he lies in your arms, eyes closed with those dark lashes gentle on his cheeks. He is almost asleep, sheathed in sweat that only now is being given the chance to dry.
     There are still the tell-tale signs to show that he is still as old as he ever was, the silver in his hair, the body that of a man and not a boy; but his expression in his almost slumber is relaxed, smoothing away the lines that have begun to form at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He is almost young in sight. An eye opens as your mouth moves against his shoulder, and there is a gentle smile turned upon you.
     It is something of triumph in the smile, nonetheless...
     "My king," Tiernan greets you quietly. He shifts slightly, then holds still again, taking measure of himself. He then makes the decision to sit up in your arms, a hand lifting to tangle in your hair, admiring how the light catches it. "We should break our fast, yes? Before," he smiles, "we are caught up in one another again." His other hand lands on your thigh, giving it a squeeze. "Besides... I have a surprise for you, beloved king and husband."

     He looks the same -- the sun of his youth and its reflections off the water he sailed forged those lines at the corners of his eyes. But like your own, there has been a kind of softening of time with the uplifting of emotion and several hours of uninterrupted lovemaking. It has been twenty years since hours could be spent thus.
     Long bronze lashes lift and periwinkle eyes sparkle in the look. It is pure adoration as you speak and as you come into his arms. He enfolds you easily, holding you against him and he flush to you. He smiles to what you say; it is The Truth. His mouth close to your ear, he kisses your neck and murmurs: "A surprise? Is this not it? It is not my birthday or our anniversary," he notes with a tease in his voice. "What could be better than this already?" His arms squeeze and he kisses you; he cannot help it. "Will we try to feed one another, as on Pashmina's?"
     As he speaks, the side tables are stacked with naans and curries, yams and butter, and lamb and beef. Iowerth chuckles, remembering fondly that day -- and night. "Hmm...so... what is this surprise?" His arms hold you, not withdrawing for the food. Though he is starving, he is reluctant to let you go. "You feel so good, right here," he murmurs again. "I don't want to move. How I love you," Iowerth says seriously, his gaze earnest, his touch everywhere. The kiss that follows is gentle, simply. It is a pure expression of his emotion.
     And then the plates and trays that were on the tables suddenly appear on the bed, surrounding you both. There, that will make it easier. And now that it is closer, he realizes: I'm starving.
     "Would you like some naan, yams and lamb, or the beef curry?"

     "Naan," your lover answers you. There is that patient expression of his, his smile answering you with the tolerance of long-held love and affection, paired with a sudden shiver. Even with hours of lovemaking, there is reaction to your touch - perhaps because of it, especially. He is, in a word, sensitive - and that sensitivity makes him responsive, even more than he is accustomed to being. Tiernan catches your hand, winding his fingers through yours, and your gentle kiss is answered with a kiss of his own; slow and languid, with all the patience for which you know him, paired with the faithfulness of decades.
     He pulls back, a little; not from your arms but from the kiss, turning to brush against you and slide his arm around your waist. "You will get us started again, if you are not careful," Tiernan murmurs. He is a trifle bemused; he would not have thought it possible. Twice already, and no mandrake or apples in sight. He slides his palm up along your spine, then down again, reveling in that simple touch. "Let us eat - but you will need to let me up long enough to go to the cabinet for my gift to you, beloved. You cannot summon all things, you know."

     "Is there not a better way than you leaving my arms?" The droll tone of the price who became king rides high upon those words. Iowerth grins, arching his back as you slide your hand up his spine, the center of all power. He sighs, and in that sigh is held a purr, and muscles tighten in the stretch that follows, his arms coiling around you close. "I let you go, only under protest," he notes softly with a smile. And...gently!... not just for the sake of your sensitivity but for all of the piled plates, Iowerth rolls against you for a final embrace, a kiss for you to take across the room in remembrance of what has already been between you. "I will have your naan waiting," he whispers.
     It is as if you were talking about going to work, not walking across the room.
     He does want you, that much is abundantly clear. It is in his look to you as he lies back to watch you leave. It is in his smile, proud and loving and delighted.
     As you rise to tend to this surprise, Iowerth sits up finally, rearranging the pillows to prop you both up upon your return, and he unpacks the naan, unfolding it and setting a few pieces on a plate for you. All the while, his pastel-colored eyes glance to you, stealing looks of want and curiosity. What have you been planning, he wonders. He smiles warmly to watch it, like the naan, unfold.

     The kiss is savored, his hand for a moment in your hair, his other hand to your cheek, your chin. He is surprised, himself, at how great his own need for you has become. Old needs restored, the further away the ship gets from your throne, o king. Tiernan rolls from your embrace with reluctance, his fingers trailing down your cheek, your shoulder, and he turns to head across the room with bare feet that have been accustomed to the rolling of ships for twenty years.
     He is not going far. He goes to the cupboard and unlocks it with a touch. Such is the skill that you have brought into your family - though Gwilym would snort, pointing out that he could do that. The difference is that the one has built the lock, while the other would merely circumvent its proper operation...
     From within, he takes two vials; not bottles, but vials, each in their own velvet case. One is in black velvet; the other, burgundy. The cabinet is closed and locked, and he returns to you, to the edge of the bed, as laden with its platters and dishes as it is, a case in either hand. He looks at you, standing, looking as relaxed as the captain of a ship ever may, and he smiles. "I should inform you," Tiernan tells you in his calm, quiet voice, "King Iowerth, High King of the Isles and Beyond, that you are my prisoner, and shall not return to your home and kingdom and throne until it please me best."
     With any other man, being naked would somehow ruin the impact of the words. With Tiernan, it is perhaps less in the nakedness but the smile, and the calm surety with which he speaks, that removes any playfulness from his words. He holds the two cases up, one in either hand. "I recommend we eat. You will want to keep up your strength. After our meal... I will give you your choice of which of these terrible fates first awaits."

     What a vision...
     For a moment, the only sound from the bed is a sigh. He sits relaxed, he legs stretched out long amid the plates and trays. For his own plate, there is yam and lamb and naan. He is stuffing his face with youthful enthusiasm as you turn, his eyebrows drifting skyward and his expression openly curious.
     As you make your pronouncement, he smiles and swallows. And his skin, flushed from recent activity, takes on a deeper hue. The King nearly raises his voice, but the King's voice is squashed in the back of the king's own brain, as his smile slants and he wipes his mouth with one of the linen napkins. "Why, Prince Tiernan, from the tone in your voice one might be led to believe that I've been kidnapped..."
     The idea tickles him. He chuckles at it, and then all attention goes to the vials you hold. Now, you and he are well acquainted with vials. Which fates could these be? Delight or More Delight? Iowerth is intrigued and enraptured by such thoughts, and by the vision of you there, naked, with his fate in the palm of your hands.
     "Come back to bed. We will feed one another and ... then I will be happy to stare Fate in the face with you." He lifts the sheet for you to return, his plate balanced on his lap. And it has begun already, the surging of returned Want.

     The cases are set aside with care, and he smiles. His voice, however, holds the same serenity as before. "That assessment is correct, your majesty; you have been kidnapped, and must choose how you will ransom yourself. You need not fear for the cares and concerns of your kingdom; I have ensured that matters are in hand." Tiernan moves to rest a knee on the edge of the bed, leaning in towards you, a hand sliding under the lifted sheet to grasp you by the root with a squeeze for emphasis. Well in hand indeed.
     He joins you, pulls himself up next to you so as not to disturb your plate, and he brings his mouth to yours with open, ardent kiss. Food is perilously in danger of being forgotten.

     There is a flush of excitement from his earlobes to his toes that culminates in the heat you feel in your hands. He turns his head toward your kiss, his mouth flavored in sweet and spicy notes: cinnamon and cardamom and curry. As his body turns toward you, his hands coming to your face, your hair, the magicked food disappears from the bed, reappearing anew on tabletops.
     You have kidnapped me and you have rescued me. His eyes look to your eyes as he pulls from the kiss, not completely but in tugging, suckling clasps, each one threatening to boil over into all out fire. I love you. I have missed you! Though you have been with him every day, he himself has been sublimated. He is risen now, in aspect as well as flesh.
     You are consumed by arms and by his mouth, pulled into the Deeps of the bed. There has been a price to Kingship; and it has not been realized until now. Iowerth pulls from the kiss with an audible breath, his face buried against your neck where his mouth pulls and sucks the salty-sweetness of sweat from your skin. Blindly, he reaches out for a plate, and as he covers you, he brings the sweetness of naan with his fingers to your lips.
     He is desperate -- as if he had not seen you at all for the past twenty years and more of his reign. Perhaps one is possessed by the crown as much as one possesses it. Iowerth smiles down to you, the smile tempered by his own intensity. "I am in your hand, completely," he husks in lowered voice. He parts his mouth at your chin, suckling as you eat. It is like London all over again. When he topped you while feeding you, unable to stop, even for lunch.

     He is as affected as you; easily so. Even without the aids of mandrake and apple, he feels himself pulled in by the power, seduced by it; held by it, as much its captive as you are his. More; you could break free if you chose. He cannot. Each partial kiss has him gasping, falling back as you roll him in your arms, a small moan escaping him as his hands move against your skin.
     Deus, what have I done...
     There is no regret. Not yet. No panic, just an edge of wonder, of genuine surprise. He had thought these days had gone. His thighs press against yours, rubbing, nudging, parting even as his lips part to take food from your fingers. He chews, eyes closed, swallowing with the desperation of a man who is drowning. No - starving. Food may not pass this way again.
     His fingers are not still. Tiernan's fingers continue to encircle you, his thumb rubbing in patterns all along your girth as he holds you fast. Tempting you; torturing you, coaxing every ounce of energy up to the surface that he can. Even as he sends the High King to sleep, lulled beneath the hull of the ship, he works to raise the Sea King, his oceanic majesty, the Prince he once knew. It is not conscious - it is instinctive. And it is wanted. "You may be in my hand," he whispers, tongue swathed against your fingers between words to steal every crumb of sweetness from them, "but I am in your grasp, my love. Where it is to be wondered which of us is captive, for I cannot escape this longing. For you."

     The mandrake and the apple may not be needed. The vials, like the food, may sit lonely at the edges of this bed before long. Eyes masted in intensity as your fingers work against his skin, calling him up from the root of his being, Iowerth fumbles for more food, taking whatever he can first reach with his fingers. It is yams now, offered to your mouth and then his own. There are no mannerly pauses. It is ravenous and wanting.
     Beneath your touch, galaxies shift, stars collide, and what were the markings of universal power transform. They are stars still, and nebulae too -- but now in the bodies of sea-dragons. They all but coil around your fingers, licking you back with comet-flicks of their tongues.
     "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me," he whispers, his body moving against you. "How I have needed you. How I have needed to be free with you. To be free with myself..."

Posted by rowan at February 01, 2009 08:40 PM